The Blue Moon Review

The Unblinking Eye of God

an excerpt from The Conjure Man
by Peter Damian Bellis

A young man squatted stiffly in the damp grass in front of a small, canvas tent, the flap of the tent tied back and the just-rising sun flashing against the exposed corner of a small woodencot, and a pair of roughed, brown workboots underneath the cot. There was a strange stillness about the camp this morning, a waiting kind of silence which filled the air like wind-blown ash, making it difficult to breathe, and which suggested, among other things, the unblinking vigilance of God.
The young man's name was Thaddeus Jacobs, and he was thinking about the past few days and a young girl he'd only just come to know, only now he was wishing he hadn't, and all the while he was thinking his grayish-blue eyes were flashing about, impatiently, aggressively, like fish flashing about in the cool of a river. Hell, maybe he shouldn't have gone to her tent. But there wasn't a reason not to. But maybe he should have checked to see who was waiting in line. That's one thing you don't think about when you see a pair of legs wide open. How in the hell could he have thought past those legs? Then he thought of a few other things he should've done or should've thought and he became angry and his mouth filled with a bitter, coppery taste, and then a few minutes later the taste was gone. He did not see the older man approach, stand to one side of the small, canvas tent, elbows hanging at odd angles, and a prayerful uncertainty etched in a thin, weather-worn, oblong face. He did not hear the words angling down, quiet words, almost subdued in the morning blue, lingering.
"Thaddeus, hey Thaddeus, you okay? They're ready for you. They're up in the tent. Come on Thaddeus, you know aint nothing else you can do, come on."
The young man said nothing. And the older man, having delivered his message, smacked his lips together, a look now of almost prayerful anticipation spreading across this thin, oblong face, then stuffed a wad of tobacco into his mouth and chewed, chewed, looked to the young man and chewed some more, and then headed back across the field through the wet, wet grass, the young Thaddeus watching, thinking, watching, remembering,
(the revival meeting a couple of nights before and the sheriff and the main tent collapsing and him and her ignoring the commotion and heading to the other side of the camp and the hazy, lamp-lit quiet of her tent, of course he'd been watching her for a month or more, ever since she came down with her visiting Reverend father, watching the way she sat up in the front of the wagon with a red-letter bible plopped in her lap and her father on the one side and the good Reverend Jacobs on the other, but all Thaddeus could look at was the brownish-pink color of her face, and every now and then a flash of something white when her skirt caught up above her knee, but he never thought they'd get to talking, she troubled him too much for that, every time he got near her he couldn't seem to get his mouth to work right, but then just like that she came up and started talking to him, and then after that they'd gone off to her tent, the girl first, slipping out of her dress, her soft lace girdle, the pink of her skin budding up and the arc of her hips flashing in the lamp light, and then she was stretched out on the cot, her clothes scattered about the ground, motioning for him to join her, which he had done, losing himself in the emotion of the moment and the nakedness of both of them, like losing his entire soul, he had thought, which was all right by him, but then the flap of the tent had blown open suddenly, or been thrust open, and the two of them had looked up to see what it was, the warm dark shell of the night exposed, a warm wind then blowing through the opening, and there they saw the Reverend Jacobs himself in the dark of the opening, a large black hat on his perspiring, balding head, an oil lamp in his hand, the yellowish, oily light mixing with the light of the other oil lamp, the light too much now, the girl and the young man blinking in the sudden glare, but as the good Reverend stepped into the tent he was unaware of the two on the cot, or so it seemed, the canvas flap still flap flap flapping with the wind of his presence and the Reverend trying to grab hold and pull it shut but unable to and then setting his lantern on the ground and getting a firmer grip and then tying the flap securely, and still unaware, for he wasn't looking directly at the cot even then but past it to the heap of the girl's clothing on the ground, the girl herself only half-recognized in her nakedness, and the young man seeming a part of the girl, the Reverend flinging his own coat onto the pile, then loosening his tie, his shirt, his pants, and all the while the Reverend's mouth was flap flap flapping also, how he knew it was late, he'd have been there sooner but the tent was down on account of that blithering, bumbling fool of a young sheriff, still down as it turned out, but he'd given up on it for the night,)
Then the memory faded and Thaddeus put on his boots and followed the other, older man across the sunny, dew-grassy, tent-dotted field towards the waiting reverends, towards a long, black table and a narrow white tent. He could almost see them. The Reverend Jacobs and two other ministers of the camp walking slowly towards the long white tent, the day just breaking, the good Reverend mumbling to himself about wagging tongues, the other two a step or so behind, their tongues wagging in agreement, and then they would be through the white canvas flap and inside, the interior strangely dark with the sudden morning blue breaking full across the field outside, and within the dark dark tent the smell of brushed leather and Castile soap, and then the Reverend Jacobs sitting down behind a long, black table, the other two following, still a step or so behind, lighting the lanterns on either side of the table and then sitting down also, and the darkness inside somehow darkening in the lamp light, deepening, the three talking amongst themselves for a moment then stopping, looking up at the open flap, the brightening triangle of morning blue outside but not entering this place of the long long table, the three waiting reverends, each rigid in his silence, each burning with the self-righteous infallibility of men who see with the eyes of God.

"Thaddeus, I'm not blaming you for what you did, only God knows I've a right... All I ask is that you repent of your sinful ways."

Thaddeus walked into the tent and was instructed to kneel, which he did, his body swaying slightly on the uneven earth, and then he looked up at the waiting reverends, at the light of infallibility shining from the shadows. He asked the good Reverend and the others what it was he had done that they wanted to see him. The others looked to the Reverend, and the Reverend said he knew the moment he'd laid eyes on the boy, from the moment Thaddeus first came into his care, he'd known the boy was no good, but he had turned a blind eye, so to speak, in the fragile hope he could mold the boy, tear him loose from the rigid, inexorable grip of the devil, but to no avail, he could see that clearly now, there is no excuse for your behavior, such a wild and utter disregard for the sanctity of the laws we live by, I will not tolerate it any more, I will not tolerate such moral turpitude, what did you think you were doing with this girl, good Lord, son, to shame her so beneath the umbrella of my care, the umbrella of this ministry, my ministry, and her father, the good Reverend Fillmore, a witness to this shame, what you have done Thaddeus, you have committed an unspeakable, an unpardonable sin, and I am sorry for you, I truly am, but I suspected all along this day would come, and here it is, I have no choice now but to see that you never set foot in this camp again.
On and on he went, his words flickering in the tentshadow like the yellowish, gloomy light of the oil lamps, and every now and then the other two would nod in instinctive, tacit, simultaneous agreement, particularly the girl's father, the good Reverend Martin Fillmore. And the young man heard the words, or so it seemed, but they had little effect. He was beyond the angry incoherence of this man who was not his father. Him thinking again, remembering again,
(how the good Reverend had moved towards the cot and then stopped, a black shadow against the light of two lanterns, the blackness deepening with rage, and then a moment of inarticulate, gurgling sounds, as of someone being strangled, and then a rush of anger, you harlot, you harlot, the words rushing also, the young girl squirming out from beneath the young man and then up from the cot, screaming, then running past the shadow, past the words, struggling with the flap then into the night, and the young man after the girl, but the shadow grappling with him, grip of the devil it seemed, then the young man breaking the grip, the rage, you harlot, you harlot, then the shadow stumbling into the side of the tent and the tent falling and the lanterns falling also and the fire scattering upon the ground, spreading, the canvas beginning to smoke, and the young man looked to the fire and then to the shadow of the Reverend, which was not moving, then to the fire again, the fire speaking, leave him be he belongs to me his bone his flesh his soul are mine they are not yours you do not need him alive you do not want him alive to save him would be a mistake you know that you must know that he will not thank you so go and leave him to me go and the girl is yours no one will ever know, then the fire burst into laughter, a taunting, eviscerating laughter, the flames becoming brighter and brighter, but in spite of the warning, the young man grabbed hold of the Reverend's arms and pulled him free of the burning tent, the glint of the fire showing itself on the dry dry grass and the two of them there and no one else, not even the girl, and him thinking why, why had he done it, why had he pulled him out, maybe he could put him back, but the moment had already passed and the next thing he knew a crowd of men and women stood in a ragged half-circle behind him, behind the Reverend, the tent fire burning just a few yards away and the cinders showing themselves orange against the sky, and then the men and women moved closer, wondering at the young man's nakedness, wondering at the heavy, unmoving heap of the Reverend, also naked but seeming clothed, the impenetrable shadow of righteousness blurring the line between faith and reality, or so it seemed, and then slowly, even painfully, with an almost theatrical flourish, the Reverend opened his eyes and looked at the wondering men and women, some of the men shaking their heads and slipping off into the crowd, but the rest crowding closer and offering the Reverend a chew of tobacco or a snort from a jug, and the women crowded around too, pushing the men aside and sneering at their offerings and wiping the Reverend's brow with aprons or scarves and their voices piping up with awe and indignation, what happened, was he all right, how did the fire start, was it Thaddeus, what's the matter with that boy, no wonder you was in shock Reverend, here let me get you something, Lord a mercy, what got into that boy's head do you think, and as the voices merged with the cinder-filled dark, the Reverend turned his eyes from the crowd to the young man, the eyes of the crowd following, then falling upon his naked young skin, and Thaddeus looked first at the grim-standing crowd assembled there, the yellowish glow of the fire showing itself on their faces, and then he looked into the face of the silent, raging, recuperating Reverend, the fire showing itself there also, but only in the eyes, for the Reverend's face was strangely obscured by shadow, and in that instant, the young man knew that the fire had spoken the truth, )
Again the memory faded, the Reverend still speaking, the others still nodding, have you nothing to say, your actions alone are reprehensible, but that you have nothing to say is surely cause for concern, the devil himself could boast no greater apathy for good than you, Thaddeus, are showing now by your silence, well I am done with you, I've done my best, but it is no use. Then he stopped speaking, sat back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, and he stared at the young man from the glinting shadows, the young man nodding now, but indifferently.

Then the other two leaned forward, a head on either side of the good Reverend Jacobs. They looked to the young man and then spoke, quietly, almost inaudibly, first one, the good Reverend Fillmore, having returned from Jasper county the evening before and only then finding out about his daughter, first the Reverend Fillmore, and then the other filling in.
"Thaddeus, I'm not blaming you for what you did, only God knows I've a right. She is, after all, my only daughter. But I am not a vengeful man. What's done is done. All I ask is that you repent of your sinful ways."
"Yes, Thaddeus. Repent."
"Do not mistake me, son. Think on this carefully. It is not too late. Though you may no longer remain here, and I agree with your father, the Reverend, on this, it is not too late to save your immortal soul."
"Yes, Thaddeus. We are all concerned with your salvation. Your father most of all. But listen now to what the good Reverend Fillmore has to say. Who better to instruct you than the father of the very girl you have tried to corrupt?"
Then the voices stopped a moment, waited for the young man to respond, and the young man looked up at the men who were speaking to him, the dim, dark, heavy light of the lamps burning on either side of the table but now the light was not shining beyond even the glass, or so it seemed, the waiting reverend faces obscured by the darkening darkness of the tent, and all the young man could think was he is not my father, this one, you have mixed it up, and so he said nothing.
Then the voices continued.
"Do you think he understands what is happening here?"
"Yes, Martin. I think he does."
"Then there is nothing more we can do. Is there?"
"There is nothing."
So the voices stopped again, and the two men sat back in their chairs and folded their arms and stared out from the shadows. Still Thaddeus said nothing. There was nothing to say. Always he has been against this one who was not his father, but up until the last few days it had been an unexpressed, groping sort of opposition, something felt but not known, as a small child feels, but now he knew, they both knew, sure, he'd been in the girl's tent, but so what, what about the Reverend, he hadn't been reading from any Bible he ever heard of, what the hell was the matter with these people, couldn't they see, he wasn't but three feet in front of them, but no, of course they couldn't see, you couldn't say nothing against the man, not so anyone would believe you, so why would they believe their own eyes, and then the young man looked up at the unblinking face of this one who was not his father, could not really see the face in the oily gleaming obscurity of the lamp light, but he could have tried to make them see the truth, yes, he could have, but then he hadnt, and then the young man was filled with a rage and a longing and an emptiness all at once, but still he said nothing.
Then the meeting was over, and Thaddeus walked from the tent of his banishment and he was thinking of nothing in particular, not even where he might like to go. The strange, watchful silence from before had given way to the shock of a morning already there, the men and women now stumbling from their tents, the grumble of put-upon voices, a "where's the wood" and a "hurry up with that there water there's coffee needs making," and the cookfires smoking with the smell of side meat and bread. But Thaddeus was not hungry. And he had nothing to pack.
So he left.