Song of the Shank

You might as well appeal against the thunderstorm as against these terrible but necessary hardships, Deacon Double says.

They need light and instruction, Ruggles says. So either give it to them, or let them all starve.

I thought you were going to protect them, Tabbs wants to say.

It’ll take them time to learn, Wire says. Them chains is hard on a man. Hard.

Amen.

Many a morning as Tabbs drifts into town he notices Deacon Double moving with a look of reserve and obstinacy on his face. Though he walks with his head down, many locals will recognize him and stop to greet him, and he will glance up and smile a reply as he hurries on with the swiftness of a man who feels both humiliation and danger in recognition. He is as tall as Tabbs but thick and strong, muscled up perfectly, his threatening frame always amenable in immaculate dress, his eyes — a fleeting exchange of glances — his most noticeably attractive feature, green. The pace of those days was such that Tabbs was never able to talk to him at length, in any intimacy. He would do so today. He sees the Deacon approaching, ready to enter his office. As he unlocks the door, he turns his face toward Tabbs but not his body. He knows that I don’t like him, Tabbs tells himself. He knows that I think he is a son of a bitch. They greet one another.

I’m surprised to see you here, the Deacon says, something unnaturally deliberate in the way he utters the words.

Have a moment?

A questioning look.

He swallows dry breath, strays itching in his memory. They enter the Deacon’s office. Tabbs strives to get his bearings, for every time he visits the deacon’s office he finds that the positions of the furniture and decorations have changed. He swears that this is an actual physical fact — like some bizarre variation of musical chairs — and not simply a failing of memory explained by his few visits and the separation of time between each. He’ll make a mental map and later sketch on paper what he remembers seeing, then will use the actual drawn map to verify his suspicions upon his next visit.

He decides to be direct. I don’t know who’s in charge.

We all are. The committee.

Tabbs is absolved. He goes to the meetings not simply because he has time to kill or because he wants to study their beliefs, but because he wants to be there when they step back into the world of order.

You don’t approve?

No, it’s not that. I’m just trying to get my bearings. Tabbs sees Double clearly on the other side of the table, his handsome features, green eyes, the startling colors of his shirt. Double indicates that Tabbs should sit and he does, but Double remains standing.

Do you pray?

He takes in a grand vista of bookcases that reach the ceiling, three walls, a tall line of rifles inside each case, a fence of armaments. A window set in the front wall, where Double stands in morning light, pistols on the long table between them. Tabbs knows there is intimacy in what he is seeing. I do, but perhaps not enough.

Yes. You must ask yourself, Why did God give us this situation?

He can smell soaps on the other man’s body.

And you should know the answer without any doubt. Divine power operates far beyond the limitations of what my human awareness can grasp or my five senses can detect. His voice is exact, crystal clear. If we live and move and have our being in Him, God also lives and moves and has His being in us. Double plants and unplants his feet until they are perfectly poised. That’s why we must pray. “Whatever you ask for in prayer with faith, you will receive.” Matthew 21:22. What I know is not based on what I see.

I am not unaware of your point of view.

But I can see that my words fall on deaf ears.

I don’t see any need for fomenting violence.

Double waves the suggestion away. We are fomenting nothing. Mr. Gross, if I set before you a cup of hot water and a portion of tea, would you call it a cup of tea?

I must place the hot water to the tea.

Exactly.

Tabbs watches Double, understanding what kind of God is behind his stare.

What an opportunity we all have now, Mr. Gross. The war has given us a new world. We can turn the page and begin afresh. The work to be done is not to be a reproduction of what we see in the Anglo-Saxon’s country. It is not to be a healing up of an old sore, but the unfolding of a new bud, an evolution, the development of a new side of God’s character and a new phase of humanity. As in every form of the inorganic universe we see some noble variation of God’s thought and beauty, so in each separate man, in each separate race, something of the absolute is incarnated. For the special work of each race the prophets arise among the people themselves.

Prophets? Tabbs sees in Double’s gaze something of that amused expression with which General Bethune had observed him many years ago.