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Stories from the Verse
Con Version
Chapter 166: Brown 343
Table of Contents
Previous chapter: Takano 135
Derek looked out over a multi-racial crowd that was just as segregated sitting in the same room together as they would have been had they all been holding parties with their own friends in their own homes. Pulling out a grin from somewhere, he had no idea what to say. So he began with what he knew.
“The devil wants this City. I think we need unity to beat him.” That just threw it right out there. A door practically hidden in the dark wood on the far side of the room opened, and Mister Misery, in his card sharp clothing, stepped in, and closed the door behind him.
“I do, Protector. I do. And I’m going to take this City too. You’re too little, too late.” Derek looked about, but no one had turned their head to see the devil standing among them. It was not a frozen moment like in the street outside Thomy Lafon Schoolhouse People still moved, but none seemed to see the devil or hear his words other than Derek.
“I do not want to be rude, sir,” said an older White gentleman. “But to my ears, I hear a Yankee accent. Not even a Mid-Westerner. Not even a New Yorker, for they tried to stay out of the Late Unpleasantness.” The words were slow, clearly spoken, and quietly accusatory.
“I was born in the northeast, and I’m told that the Mason-Dixon line would have passed a few blocks north of my home had it not been bent to follow state boundaries along the seaboard. However, until less than a year ago I had never visited any of the states that formed the Confederate States of America.” Derek figured being on a different planet with Parakeets or on the outsized goliath planet of Throne World did not count in this discussion.
“Just so, sir.” the slow voiced man replied. “I appreciate, I truly do, the honesty, but you’re a Yankee.”
“I came to this city, and part of me thought I knew better.”
Derek stood there. He had no idea what else to say. The only thing he knew how to do was listen and be honest and kind. So he stood there, and everyone rustled and waited, and the devil mocked him.
The older White gentleman spoke, and it had become clear that he had some status.
“A Yankee at a loss for words. A sign of the coming Apocalypse.” He chuckled, not meanly, and others softly laughed as well. Derek joined in, and shrugged. “I see you and your friends in the Living Colors Band, and although I’ve never heard you play, I have heard you are quite good. I see how you might think that everyone can get along because a few friends can. Thing is, and I do apologize, but I’m going to be blunt here. We Whites run this city. If we let the Blacks do it, why, they’d destroy the place. Also, those in the North decry lynching, but it keeps the peace. And before you say how horrible it is, what of the West where not too long ago a cattle rustler or a man who was rude to a woman could meet the rope? Or even, sir, your own history with running bad politicians out of town on a rail?”
“I never ran a man out of town on a rail.” Derek replied.
“Oh, its a cruel thing, sir. Strip a man naked, pour hot oil over him, and feathers, and put him astride a wooden rail and carry him out of town. One might say a quick hanging is more dignified and less painful of a way to kill a man.”
“The rail would not kill a man.”
“Maybe, maybe not. I know myself at my advanced age, I’d rather a bullet or a rope than hot oil.”
Derek wanted to tell them their fears were nonsense, but in looking in the eyes of the White men in the room he did not see insanity, but calm and sober analysis. Still not sure what to say to that, he remained quiet.
“And what of my cousin Jerome?” a loud large Black man in a fine black coat said. His eyes were angry. “He was lynched past two years, and everyone knows he was innocent because he was out of town the weekend that White girl was murdered.”
“That was Jessamine Tyler. Not some anonymous White girl!” someone shouted on the far side, and Derek saw the Devil whispering words into the angry White man’s ears on the far side of the room.
“Peace. There will be peace.”
“Yeah, you’re going to make us?” shouted Black and White voices on both sides of the room. Derek hated to do it, but he thought two words: Michael Gabriel.
Suddenly ten feet tall and glowing with white feathers and a laser rifle in his hand, he spoke again in a quiet yet booming voice. “Yes.” Behind him he heard his bandmates drawing their weapons as well. Shocked faces looked at him, and more than a few fell to their knees, or crossed themselves.
He saw the Devil bending over to whisper to another man, and just knew what the devil was going to say: he’s a demon in disguise. Before that could happen, he thought again, Derek Jacob Brown, and he was in his human form. “I am not an angel of God, but I am the divinely appointed protector of the city. There will be peace in this room.”
Several men, all of them leaders, spoke as well emphasizing the need to put down their weapons. The older White gent and the large Black man were among them.
“You can agree,” he appealed to them.
“Well, yes, ah, sir, we all agree on the need to not start a war in the City. Black, Creole, Cajun, Chinese, White, no one wants to see the City streets running with blood,” the older White gent spoke again.
“I do,” the Devil said with a huge spike toothed grin, but no one but Derek heard him.
The large Black man nodded. “My people are afraid of the Whites. They might start a riot, go around killing us in the streets, almost did with that Chauncy fellow, which we are glad was put a stop to.”
“What else?”
“The way they use their confusing laws against us. We remember slavery, too.”
Zoe looked pleadingly at him, but he found he had nothing. He could tell them that their fears were stupid. He could tell the Whites, as Yankees were prone to do, to give over their fears and just trust more. But looking at the eyes of the men in the room, mostly calm, a few angry, he saw the despair. They knew they were in a trap, and they did not know how to get out. Looking at the Blacks, he saw the same thing. If you trusted, well, you had good reason based on distant and recent history to fear what danger you might bring not just on yourself, but on your house, and your people. Telling them to trust, browbeating them to trust, would just be a lie.
He did not know what to do. So he did what he did in those cases, and prayed.
Words like a bolt of lightning hammered into his mind, a dreadful and awesome eagerness as if the King had been desperately waiting for this moment.
Fear not.
That made little sense to him. The King was saying not to be afraid, but being afraid was rational.
Fear not.
The words were even more impatient. The King was Reason Himself, so he could not be telling them to be irrational. Oh. Scales fell from his internal eyes, and he began to see. One did not fear because as the King had said ‘The Raptor may rise against you, and so may his many armies, and his clever tongued liars, and his deadly men with spears, but I am all around you, and you shall not be afraid for I am stronger than all who might dare come against you.’
“Fear not,” Derek said. Everyone stared at him puzzled. “You are right to fear each other. The Black man can hit a White man in the head with a hoe, even if the White man is his master. The White man can rouse a lynch mob and take a Black man to his final tree, even if the Black man is innocent. There are enough weapons in this room, even if we don’t count breaking apart chairs, to beat each other, to paint the walls red. You fear your social compact being broken, or it being misused to damage you, and you are right to fear. For it can happen.”
He breathed in deeply, and no one spoke, but all listened, except for the Devil who had his hands over his ears. That being was glaring at Derek with hate.
“God said, Fear not. We trust him with our immortal souls. We trust Him with the health of our children. Trust Him with the safety of your life from the dread Other with all the evil he can do to you.”
“Sir, that sounds fine, but I’m not opening the door to my house and letting them at my table, even as guests,” the older White gent said.
“I’m not asking you to.”
“Well then, what are you asking?” another asked.
“I heard Bishop Stephens mention faith like the grain of a mustard seed. Seems it’s really, really tiny. Ask the King of Kings what tiny thing he wants you to do that you will trust Him to protect you for. Over time, as He does, your faith will grow.”
No one said anything as the words began to soak in, and then the older White gent spoke.
“Hubert, Mister Hubert, do you mind if I sit at your table with your family?” Seeing the large Black man’s eyes bulge in surprise almost made Derek laugh, but he kept it in, and was pleased to hear a reply.
“Shorely, Mister Walker, we’d be right pleased to have you join us.”
With that, tiny grains of faith, not in their fellow man but in their Creator, were planted all about the room. People started talking to each other, and Zoe gave Derek a triumphant grin. The Devil howled.
“It's not over yet, Brown! This town will be mine!” And he turned to thirteen crows and with thundering wings flew out of the room.
The band played Pat-A-Pan, then retreated to the balcony to watch the all-White Krewes with their fabulous floats drawn by cars or horses or even the Krewe members themselves with one of the Krewe playing at being a slave master with a whip. The crowds oohed, and cheered, and Derek enjoyed the moment of peace after a battle. But time was short, and he soon gathered everyone in the band. To his amusement, he saw Pierre had some lipstick on his cheekbone, and near his lip. With that, they rushed to get to Hannah’s place for the lunch gig.
They were twenty minutes late, despite meeting up with the Rambler at a pre-planned location. Hannah waved her metal spoon at them when they entered. Quickly, they set up and began to play. Afterwards, as the prayer service was about to begin, Derek tooted his trumpet to get everyone’s attention.
“I have a tale, and a suggestion.” With everyone listening, he told them of the meeting at Zoe’s place, from his perspective. This brought cheers, and jumping up and down. He put up his hands, and quieted them.
“My suggestion, and I don’t have a message telling me to do it but it seems sensible to me, is for each and every one of you to go forth into the City today. Like mustard seeds. You see someone needs help. Ask to help them. Tell them the King sent you. Tell them he promised to protect you from harm, and so that’s why you’re brave enough to offer help.”
“And what if they say ‘no’?” a curious voice shouted from the lunch crowd.
“Wish them a good day, and walk on.” Derek called back. It seemed simple enough to him, but he was seeing the problems a manager of hundreds might have. There is always one or two or more well meaning but kind of clueless people in the crowd. A few minutes of prayer on the new mission, and the room emptied with several hundred Mustard Seeds spreading out across the city. Some of them went to other Black churches, which were having prayer meetings too, and spread the idea, and more mustard seeds were tossed into the wind.
Exhausted, Derek collapsed into a chair. It was only one-forty in the afternoon, and he was already beat. Hannah came and put out ham and grits for him, and ‘proper food’ for the rest of the band. Then she sat down at the table with her own proper food.
“I feel like something big is coming,” she said. “I look out the window, and I’d swear there was a hurricane in the sky, but the wind is calm, and the rain has not come. But I had dreams last night. Dreams of a cruel laughter and a mighty wind.” She shrugged. “Eat up. Whatever happens, you’re going to need your strength.”
Everyone dug in while the waiters and waitresses cleaned the nearly empty room.
There is a behind-the-writings look at the thoughts, influences, and ideas of this chapter, along with eleven other sequential chapters of this novel, in mark Joseph "young" web log entry #518: Versers Plan. Given a moment, this link should take you directly to the section relevant to this chapter. It may contain spoilers of upcoming chapters.
As to the old stories that have long been here:
