Canaan's Tongue (37 page)
“It’s
Miss
Parson, Corporal. I’m as yet unwed.”
IF THE CORPORAL GIVES AN ANSWER I no longer hear it. I’m above Delamare’s sick-room suddenly, above the house altogether, spiraling like a dandelion-seed on a cushion of summer air. A vast plain of water lies below me, as though the river were in flood—; Geburah floats upon it like scum upon the surface of a pond. The grid that so enraptured me lies plain to see, but it holds no mystery any longer. The only mystery is on high.
An enormous slate-gray cloud is gathering above me, winding silently about itself like flax upon a spool. The little black ball, my namesake, has appeared at some point without my noticing—: it hovers at my left ear now, chirruping and squeaking, ferrying me upwards. The other shapes—the stars, the cups, the fiery wheels—are nowhere to be seen. I’m free of them at last.
On this, the ball’s third visit, I feel no sense of bewilderment. It’s familiar to me, an old acquaintance, more genuine already than my memories of the Trade—: realer than Parson, realer than Delamare, realer than Morelle. Realer, even, than my Clementine. I reach toward the ball but it whirls playfully away, whistling heavenward like a shell levered from a rifle.
In the blink of an eye it’s gone, swallowed by the cloud.
As the cloud lowers to receive me it grants, by way of welcome, one last vision of the future. The vision is brief, no more than a flicker across my sight—; but what little I see makes me cry aloud in awe.
The future of the Trade is the size of the world exactly. The world will fit into it perfectly, discretely, like a crawfish into its shell. The future of the Trade is made of quartz and salt-peter and burning oil. It will hide where belief hides—in language and in thought—and both will warp and buckle to accommodate it. The visible, tangible, culpable Trade will wither away, and the world will imagine itself cured. The Trade, however, will flourish—: as ever-present as language is, and as unnoticed.
The cloud is parting now into two equal halves, like a gate of wrought-iron, and I rise solemnly between them to meet with my reward. The ball waits above me, spinning giddily in place. It comes gradually to rest, and I see that it’s not truly ball-shaped at all—; I begin, as it slows further, to make out a human form. An instant later I’ve recognized it and let out a gasp of happiness.
It’s the child from the battle-field at Shiloh.
The child has matured since then, but it’s still no bigger than a fist. Its hair has lightened to the color of new copper and its skin is a deep chestnut-brown. Trist would say it’s come too close to heaven’s oven, and no doubt it has. Its eyes are white, not like my own poor eye, but white as the driest, coldest snow is white. It takes a gentle hold of my left hand. The touch of its mouse-like fingers calms and saddens me.
The cloud swings shut beneath us now and Geburah is blotted out like a curse-word under a drop of ink. I feel no regret at its passing, no sense of victory, no relief.
The child begins to speak into my ear, softly but with authority, a jumble of jarring notes and sibilants that resolve, as I listen, into a kind of melody. To my astonishment I find that I can understand it. Slowly, easefully, I begin to weep. I am speaking Canaan’s tongue at last.
“This was America, Virgil Ball,” the child says, passing a forgiving hand over my eyes.
1
What God has joined, let no man rend asunder.
JOHN WRAY
CANAAN’S TONGUE
John Wray was born in Washington, D.C., and has since lived in Texas, Alaska, Chile, and New York. His first novel,
The Right Hand of Sleep
, was a
New York Times
Notable Book and a
Los Angeles Times
Best Book of the Year. Wray is the recipient of a Whiting Writers’ Award. He currently lives in Brooklyn, New York.
ALSO BY JOHN WRAY
The Right Hand of Sleep
FIRST VINTAGE BOOKS EDITION, AUGUST 2006
Copyright © 2005 by John Wray
Vintage and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the Knopf edition as follows:
Wray, John, [date].
Canaan’s tongue / John Wray.—1st ed.
p. cm.
1. United States—History—Civil War, 1861–1865—Fiction.
2. Fugitives from justice—Fiction. 3. Slave trade—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3573.R365C36 2005
813’.6—dc22
2004064902
eISBN: 978-0-307-42515-7
v3.0