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Stories from the Verse
Con Version
Chapter 168: Brown 344
Table of Contents
Previous chapter: Cooper 53
Vashti woke him, and Derek realized he had fallen asleep in the recliner. She offered him some grits that she had made, and said he probably wanted to get ready to go back out, as the day was not yet over.
He ate the grits more because she had made them than because he was hungry, but told himself that it would be better for him to do so. Then he gathered his gear. “Ready when you are.” She was geared up and next to him within a minute, and they headed out.
They had agreed to meet before sunset in the sidestreet by the cathedral. They hadn’t been more specific about the time because only Pierre had a watch, and he didn’t usually carry it with him because he didn’t usually wear a vest for it. They took trolleys, and got there with no difficulty, although they had to wait for Maurice, who said he had been praying over his shotgun shells and lost track of time. “Better than me,” Derek said. “I fell asleep.” Maurice looked embarrassed, but Derek didn’t press it. Hopefully he did pray over his ammunition before he fell asleep.
As they approached the square, Derek thought it didn’t sound right. He had several times made this approach during parties, and heard the revelry. This sounded different, angry, raucous.
As they entered the square, they found themselves behind lines of police. At two of the other roadways they had positioned something Derek recognized from another world--Gatling guns. Across from them was a crowd of Blacks, in the middle of which was a group dressed as a Tribe, and in front was Scratch in his identity as a Black man.
Maurice said, “Dem’s de Buffalo Stalkers.”
Derek remembered that the Buffalo Stalkers had placed first of the Tribes in the unofficial parade. What bothered him was the man who seemed to be stoking them up. He was obviously Black, the man he met on his way into the city, but he was wearing the same outfit and indeed had the same build and facial features as the White gambler at the music hall, and the apparition who harassed him at the party. “And that,” he said, “is Scratch.”
“I thought Scratch was white?” Pierre said.
Derek shook his head. “The devil isn’t a man, and never was. He can be any color he wants. He’s trying to incite the blacks against the whites, so he appears to them as one of them. But what is he telling them?”
The Devil had been anthracite-coal-skinned when they met at the crossroads outside the City. Other times when they had met he had been white, like when they had argued at the Tenth Street Music Hall with Mayor DeVault at the table. Just this afternoon, he had been creole. He had never seen the Devil as cajun, but he was mortal certain that was not for any limit. He had no doubt the devil chose his color for maximum effect in the moment. This time he was dark brown, not ebony, but stained chestnut wood. Whatever name you gave him, Mister Misery, or Scratch, or the Devil, or Morningstar, or the Crooked Man, he was the same rebel against Truth and Love. Whatever clothing he wore, he had the same wickedly malicious heart.
He knew how he could know what was being said. He closed his eyes, and said to Vashti, “Take care of my body,” and left it behind as his five senses moved away from him and rushed over to the crowd.
The voices were confused. It seemed that the core of it was that the Buffalo Stalkers thought it was unfair that they weren’t allowed to compete in the official parade. Scratch was telling them that as far as the city was concerned, winning the award for best Tribe was like kissing your sister, second best, less than the real winners. It was a prize that said, “You’re the best of the inferiors.” From that, it was spreading out to include that the Whites didn’t let them be part of the government, or go to the good schools, or get executive jobs in the banks and businesses in the city. There was a long list of grievances--legitimate grievances, but not things that could be resolved overnight. But the black Scratch was pointing at the police, and telling his audience that those people, the white people, are still treating them like slaves.
Glancing in the direction just indicated by his enemy, Derek was stunned for a moment. He saw the Mayor, and standing next to the mayor was the same Scratch, but that he was white. This was unfair; his enemy could be in two places at once.
His body took a deep breath; his sensory presence rushed over the crowds to get to the other incarnation of the devil, to hear what he was saying to the mayor. This devil was saying that the Blacks were fomenting rebellion, and that if action wasn’t taken quickly there would be a riot, and worse, that they would burn down a good part of the city and kill hundreds of White people in their hope to gain power, and to take it away from their betters. Don’t let it get out of hand, he was saying. As soon as they move, give the order to fire.
It was a clever ploy. It wasn’t really likely that the Blacks would riot in a way that would cause much damage to the city, but if the riot began the guns would fire, and scores would be killed, probably on both sides. That, though, wasn’t the desired outcome. Rather, the devil wanted the riot because it would be remembered for generations, what the Blacks did to the Whites, what the Whites did to the Blacks, and division and hatred would fester.
He had to do something.
He was not sure what.
He returned to his body, and as he got out his trumpet he said, “I’m not sure how we defuse this, but I think we start with Also Sprach Zarathustra.” The others were ready in seconds, and he gave the cue and began to play. The sound echoed out of the sidestreet into the square, and people started listening to the music, and not so much to the devil.
Coming out of the opener, Derek went right into Saints, the slow first verse continuing to echo. The devil shouted louder, but other trumpets joined in. Looking to the right, the next street over, he saw Mister Pierre Hunter playing along with several men in various kinds of antique clothing, with one of them having a tricorn hat with a feather in the hat and brass buttons on his heavy blue jacket with golden folded back sleeves and a musket hung over his shoulder.
In another street to the left crossing the roadway and marching forward, he saw a great mass of disciplined figures in battle array with banners and swords of flame who were herding twisting, mewling, cursing figures of darkest shadow forward. Lightning caged the demons drawn forth out of New Orleans. All through the crowd of angels stood others, trumpeters, banjo players, singers, hornmen of other kinds, drummers, spoon clackers, mandolin players, and fiddlers of the Human kind of all races, and they were playing ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’. At their head, a line of figures of light and fire with golden trumpets in their hands blew an undercourse to his that elevated it into something almost superhuman.
The others had hit their pause, and restarted following him. As he hit the change into the second verse, he started walking forward, accompanied by the band. Crowds parted, and they marched directly into the center between the guns and the Tribe. Shades of Custer’s Last Stand, he thought, but kept playing. The former Protectors of the City and the angel band and those with them unaware joined him, but from what he could see, no one but he, the devil, and each other could see the supernatural musicians--but all could hear the music of the spheres. From there they played Pat-a-pan, A Mighty Fortress, and Silent Night, and as they finished this fifth song the square was silent.
The angels brought down their trumpets to their waists.
One silvery voice spoke from one of the glaringly bright figures under the rapidly churning clouds.
“Make your plea, Fallen One.”
There was the sound of a cannon from the river. Nearly every head in the square turned, for the gun was not the boom of modern cannons of the Civil War, but more of a shrack noise with a boom.
“Lafitte! Lafitte! He comes to save us.” From the river, above the trees, they could see the tops of spectral masts, rope, and sail as the famed pirate came down the river again to defend his City. Cries from both sides rose into the air, asking for aid. Derek was reminded of soldiers of the First World War, or the Civil War, both praying to the same God for victory.
At five feet tall, Derek wasn’t a very commanding presence. He needed to get attention. Suddenly Michael Gabriel appeared, and in his powerful voice addressed the crowds.
“People of New Orleans! I hear Lafitte’s ship on the river, trying to protect you from yourselves. The Devil is among you, telling you that you can’t trust each other. Black people are afraid that White people are going to keep you oppressed forever; White people are afraid that Black people will take over and treat you as you have treated them. I am not asking you to trust each other. I am asking you to trust the King of Kings, and to treat each other as He would have you do. The world won’t change overnight, but it will change over time--but only if we follow the call to love and accept each other, each of us working to make the lives of the others, and particularly those who are most other, better. Only so can we achieve the peace, the brotherhood, of which we all dream.”
“I keep getting interrupted,” the Devil said waspishly. A soft, but terribly strong hand descended on Derek’s shoulder. It was the nearest angel, and even glancing his way was enough to almost blind Derek. “The agents of both sides must have free will. It is not our fault that the Black Keys and many of your other minions have fled the battlefield of the City.”
“The people must have free will. It is their choice to make, win or lose, Michael Gabriel.”
“OK,” the verser said nervously. For now, it was not just the guns aimed at him, but something more important at stake. If he could have thought of something to say, he would have, but as in knife fights, sometimes you had to let the other side make their move.
“I offer you pleasure unending. Let the good times roll, forever. I will be your God and you shall be my people.” The Black version of Scratch spoke even as the White one bent over to Mayor DeVault and whispered in his ear. Derek grabbed Vashti’s arm, and taking no time to speak, sent his five senses that way.
“--Look, Mayor, it is very simple. You took my blessing. Now fire the guns.”
“I never sold you my soul, Satan,” the Mayor snarled back. “I am not your slave.”
“Fool. When you built your second and then third mansion on the monies that were supposed to go to building the main dike to protect New Orleans, did you think I would not have your clerk make a copy for me? He, too, is my tool, even unwitting, for he thinks I am an honest man. I own you, Mayor DeVault. What will the people say tomorrow when the front pages of the Tribune show your thievery? Now order the guns fired, and we will arrange to blame that righteous nincompoop Assistant Mayor Pepidou for the order. My magics can spread that far.”
“You will protect me?”
“Yes. Besides it's only a bunch of illiterate Blacks. Kill them! You know you want to. You dream of it.”
“I do. I hate the monkeys pretending to be real men,” Mayor Devault said, licking his lips, and taking a step forward toward the closest captain of the guns.
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:
