The Sound of Building Coffins

First sound I heard in days. And my mind still clear enough that I recognize that sound.

Chango talkin’. Thunder.

Then more thunder, more shakin’ and joltin’. After a spell, the weight of the dead is shifting around on me, pressing my bones. More sema-tree dirt sprinkling on my tongue, dusting my throat. The weight is getting heavier. Heavier still. Then I feel a dripping at my cheek. A drop in my eye. Mouth filling up with water. Throat filling. Wanting to cough. Can’t cough. Muscles in my throat still too frozen with hoodoo poison to oblige a cough.

I start to feel a cold panic as the grave begin filling with water. The water creeping up to my shoulders, filling my ears. Water in my ears. Coming up, up, up. Into my mouth and the bitten hole of my nose. Filling my mouth. Turning the dirt in my eyes and mouth into mud. Sticky mud. Wanting to push the mud out with my tongue. Tongue won’t move. My body still but my mind is racing:

In New Orleans, bodies come up in the rain.

I’m praying to Jesus that my breathing stay slow enough to keep me from drowning. I’m praying the extra weight of mud and the water on the bodies don’t crush my ribs. And, for the first time in history- I’m prayin’ that bodies come up and come up quick in the City of New Orleans.

Now I’m under water. Soft, warm water. Before too long, the mud and the dead start to moving; sliding and pressing against my cheek and my hands and my stomach and my legs. Bodies shifting. Pressure on my ribs getting lighter. Then lighter still.

In New Orleans, bodies come up in the rain.

Thunder louder now. Crashing and shakin’. Booming like dynamite. Hurting my ears. The pain is good, there’s a comfort in it. Bodies shifting fast over toppa me. Something like a spider slipping in my mouth. But ain’t a spider. Touching my tongue. Pushing mud in my throat, keeping the water from seeping in my lungs. My mind works to decipher the thing in my mouth. Fingers. Tiny fingers. A baby’s hand. Tickling my tongue through the mud and water.

I am found.

I know the hand is my son’s hand. My little baby. I’m wondering now if he was ever really dead. Maybe that evil Malvina gave him the same poison I got. Put him in a sleep like the dead, but not dead. Maybe he looking for me in the dirt like I’s looking for him. The hand slides out.

I am lost.

Bodies shifting. Hard n’ fast. Moving ’round. Pressure getting lighter alla time. A shoe kick me in the jaw. A body passing by. Pressure gone. A murky light, hurting my eyes. The pain is good. The ground does not touch my back. I’m underwater, but I’m coming up. Praise Jesus.

My face touches air. Cool air, lawd-a-mighty. Water washing over my eyes. I can see the moon and the stars. Mud packed tight in my throat from that little hand; soft and cool, and holding firm.

Little waves pushing me along the ground. Sometimes I’m on my back, sometimes on my side, sometimes face down. Sometimes head first-sometimes feet or side. The rain is beating hard all around, like the sound of horses running. The ground beneath me sometimes soft with mud, sometimes hard with brick and stone. I am movin’ with the little waves and the current of the storm. My clothes are being torn from me. I am surrounded by horses it seems.

***

I am gliding in the streets. Gliding with the dead. I am looking for my son. Looking for my Coffee Maria. I am gliding.

I hear water rushing. Loud and glorious. Roaring like an angry bear. Thunder crash. It a magic sound, the sound of Jesus laughing, Legba the savior, setting me free from the grave. I hear the menfolk shouting. I hear the ladies screaming. I see their boots as they wade past. Their voices are tired but filled with terror; it is a wonderful sound. It is the sound of the living. My dead brethren push and bump against me. They are gliding with me. They have become like family to me. We have been through a lot together, me and the dead. There is a joy in their touch. We have no clothes. We are not wading. We do not scream.

I am gliding.

Now there is nothing but water. No mud, no brick and stone. Just water.

I am in the river.

Face down, drifting. Moving with the current. My eyes are used to the dark so I can see good. Catfish swimming. Different shades of brown and black. Sniffing at the bodies that float at the surface. Curious. Moving on. The water and catfish are dreamlike and soothing. I fall asleep. I am dreaming. The catfish are moving slower. A pretty little catfish come right up to me-sniffing at my eye. Funny lookin’ fish. Tan with pale eyes. Des yeaux goueres. Wrapped in a perfect white blanket. Caress my cheek, a tickle of whiskers. Bringing comfort to my tired mind. Then there are more fish like the funny one. Wrapped in white blankets. Protected by miracles. Swimming beneath the drifting dead. Looking up. Curious. Moving on. They smile at me. The babies leave me. I am content. My sleep is dreamless and peaceful now.

Gliding. Silken water. Caress and tickle. Deep. Warm. Cool. Perfect. Tears. Motion. Life. Sacred.

Blackness.

***

When I awake I am not lying down. I am walking.

I wake to the sound of singing. The voice is unfamiliar. It is my voice. It don’t sound right because I have no nose. It takes me a while to figure this out. So, as my brain coming around, I listen to the words of the song:

Jesus, I’m troubled about my soul

Ride on, Jesus, come this way

I troubled ’bout my soul

Old Satan is mad and I am glad

He missed one soul that he thought he had.

Troubled ’bout my soul

Then I pay attention to what my eyes is seeing. There is water and a shore. Flatboats with men shouting off yonder. Bodies floating on the water. Bodies on the sand. Bodies ’neath my feet. I look down at my feet. They are bloody. I been walking long.

My mind is clearing now. Clearing fast. I remember.

Troubled ’bout my soul

I look to the living men in the distance, the ones on the flatboats shouting. On the land side there’s a thick, black smoke pouring into the sky. Burning bodies. Ashes in the air, floating up to heaven where they belong. Praise God.

I ’spect I am not too pretty, me. I am nekkid. I am bloody. I have no nose. I come up from amongst the dead. I should be dead, too. I walk on two legs, wave at the living. I am a sight. Sho, sho.

I walk on. I am careful not to step on my dead brethren. I look at the faces of the dead as I pass. They don’t look glad to see me. I don’t see my boy. Maria neither. I cross over sand and climb the levee. Comin’ down the dock just as I am, nekkid and bleeding. Some folks point. Some ladies scream. Some run. Some drop down cold. No one laugh. They know me. They know I should be dead. They leave me be. Be crazy not to, I guess. This is where the lies start up. Crazy talk about a dead man walking the streets of New Orleans. Folks like to have their fun. Folks like a good story. But I ain’t dead now and never was. Sharpen up that pencil and get it right, young fella.