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Imagine that by some miracle of dread or reverence they lowered their spyglasses, turned, set their riggings, sailed on. The grace of our good intentions made me feel wise, blessed, and safe from snakes. But I am a lame gallimaufry and she remains perfect. Oh, dear Lord. Well, we were a family all right, and my father is steady as a stump. In addition to papism, the Reverend Genesis 75 probably suspected this noisy creature of latent femaleness.
Well, they were sure easier to stuff in our pockets than whole vegetables would have been, but I doubted if God took any real interest in travel difficulties. I was exactly fourteen and a half that month, and still getting used to the embarrassment of having the monthly visits.
I believe in God with all my might, but have been thinking lately that most of the details seem pretty much beneath His dignity. He tested the heft and strength of his hoe handle and studied me.
He is very imposing, my father, with broad shoulders and unusually large hands. If only I could ever bring forth all that I knew quickly enough to suit Father. He refolded the handkerchief and returned it to his pocket.
Then he handed me the hoe and held his hands out from his sides, palms up, to illustrate the heavenly balancing act. Then he rubbed his hands together, finished with the lesson and with me. Someday perhaps I shall demonstrate to all of Africa how to grow crops!
Without complaint I fetched bucket after bucket of water from the big galvanized tub on the porch, so he could douse the plot a little at a time ahead of his hoe, to hold down the awful dust. The red mud dried on his khakis like the blood of a slain beast. I walked behind him and found the severed heads of many small, bright orange orchids. I held one close to my eye. It was delicate and extraordinary, with a bulbous yellow tongue and maroon-spotted throat.
Nobody had ever planted these flowers, I felt sure, nor harvested them either; these were works that the Lord had gone ahead and finished on His own. Mama Bekwa Tataba stood watching us—a little jetblack woman. Her elbows stuck out like wings, and a huge white enameled tub occupied the space above her head, somewhat miraculously holding steady while her head moved in quick jerks to the right and left.
Mama Tataba and a parrot named Methuselah. Both had been trained by him in the English language and evidently a good deal else, for Brother Fowles left some mystery in his wake. I gathered through overhearing my parents that Brother Fowles had entered into unconventional alliances with the local people, and too he was a Yankee.
I heard them saying he was New York Irish, which tells you a lot, as they are notorious for being papist Catholics. Father explained to us that he had gone plumb crazy, consorting with the inhabitants of the land.
But no one else volunteered for the Kilanga post, and the Underdowns had requested that it be taken by someone steady, with a family. Well, we were a family all right, and my father is steady as a stump. Still, the Underdowns insisted that our mission last no more than one year—not enough time for going plumb crazy but only partway, I guess, even if things went poorly. Genesis 47 Brother Fowles had been in Kilanga six years, which really when you think about it is long enough for about any kind of backsliding you could name.
There was no telling how he might have influenced Mama Tataba. But we needed her help. She carried all our water up from the river and cleaned and lit the kerosene lamps and split wood and built the fire in the cookstove and threw buckets of ash down the hole in the outhouse and paused to kill snakes more or less as a distraction between heavier jobs. My sisters and I stood in awe of Mama Tataba, but were not quite used to her yet. She had a blind eye. It looked like an egg whose yolk had been broken and stirred just once.
As she stood there by our garden, I stared at her bad eye, while her good eye stared at my father. Worm grub? White sap oozed from the torn bark.
My father wiped his hands on his trousers. My father mopped his brow again and launched into the parable of the one mustard seed falling on a barren place, and the other one on good soil. I thought The Poisonwood Bible 48 of the bright pointy-nosed mustard bottles we used in abundance at church wiener suppers—a world apart from anything Mama Tataba had ever seen. Father had the job of his life cut out for him, bringing the Word to a place like this. I wanted to throw my arms around his weary neck and pat down his rumpled hair.
Mama Tataba seemed not to be listening. She pointed again at the red dirt. A film of red dust on his hair and eyebrows and the tip of his strong chin gave him a fiendish look untrue to his nature.
He ran his large, freckled hand across the side of his head, where his hair was shaved close, and then through the tousled crown, where Mother lets it grow longer. All this while inspecting Mama Tataba with Christian tolerance, taking his time to formulate the message. Mama Tataba kicked the dirt with her flat, naked sole and looked disgusted.
I was shocked. My father woke up the next morning with a horrible rash on his hands and arms, presumably wounded by the plant that bites. Yellow pus ran like sap from his welted flesh. He bellowed when Mother tried to apply the salve. Great God almighty, Orleanna.
Mother chased him with bandages but he batted her roughly away and went outside to pace the porch.
In the long run, though, he had to come back in and let her tend to him. She had to bind his hands in clean rags before he could even pick up a fork, or the Bible. Right after prayers I went out to check the progress of our garden, and was stunned to see what Mama Tataba had meant by hills: She had reshaped our garden overnight into eight neat burial mounds.
My father by then was in a paroxysm of exasperation. He squinted long and hard with his bad eye, to make out the fix our garden was in. Then the two of us to- The Poisonwood Bible 50 gether, without a word passing between us, leveled it out again as flat as the Great Plains. I did all the hoeing myself, to spare his afflicted hands.
With my forefinger I ran long, straight furrows and we folded into them more of our precious seeds. We stuck the bright seed packets on sticks at the ends of the rows—squash, beans, Halloween pumpkins—to remind us what to expect. There was such a thing as native customs, he said.
We would need the patience of Job. This is what I most admire about Father: Some people find him overly stern and frightening, but that is only because he was gifted with such keen judgment and purity of heart. He has been singled out for a life of trial, as Jesus was. Being always the first to spot flaws and transgressions, it falls upon Father to deliver penance. And his wisdom is great. He was never one of those backwoods ministers who urge the taking up of copperhead snakes, baby-flinging, or the shrieking of nonsense syllables.
My father believes in enlightenment. As a boy he taught himself to read parts of the Bible in Hebrew, and before we came to Genesis 51 Africa he made us all sit down and study French, for the furtherance of our mission. He has already been so many places, including another jungle overseas, in the Philippine Islands, where he was a wounded hero in the Second World War. No white gloves, it goes without saying. And no primping, because the only mirror we have in the house is my faux-ivory hand mirror brought from home, which we all have to share.
Mother set it on the desk in the living room, propped against the wall, and every time Mama Tataba walks by it she yelps like a snake bit her. Children dressed up in the ragbags of Baptist charity or else nothing at all. Color N The Poisonwood Bible 52 coordination is not a strong point. Grown men and women seem to think a red plaid and a pink floral print are complementary colors. The women wear a sarong made of one fabric, with another big square of a different fabric wrapped over the top of it.
Never jeans or trousers—not on your life. Bosoms may wave in the breeze, mind you, but legs must be strictly hidden, top secret. When Mother steps foot out of the house in her black Capri pants, why, they all just gawk and stare. Women are expected to wear just the one style of garment and no other. But the men, now that is a course of a different color. They dress up every different way in the world: Others wear American-style buttoned shirts and shorts in drab, stained colors.
A few of the smaller men even go gallivanting around in little undershirts decorated with childish prints, and nobody seems to notice the joke. The one that knocked his tooth out has got himself a purple, steel-buttoned outfit that looks like a cast-off janitor uniform.
As for the accessories, I hardly know where to begin. Sandals made of car tires are popular. So are antique wing tips curling up at the toes, black rubber galoshes unbuckled and flapping open, or bright pink plastic thongs, or bare feet—any of these can go with any of the before-mentioned outfits.
Sunglasses, plain glasses, hats, no hats, likewise. The attitude toward clothing seems to be: Some men go about their daily business prepared for the unexpected tropical snowstorm, it seems, while others wear shockingly little—a pair of shorts only. When you look around, it appears that every man here was fixing to go to a different party, and then suddenly they all got plunked here together. So that is how Easter Sunday looked in our church. Well, anyhow it was hardly the church for crinolines and patent leather.
The walls were wide open. Birds could swoop in and get your hair for their nest if they felt like it. Father had put up an altar made of palm leaves in front, which looked presentable in a rustic way, but you could still see black char and stains on the floor from the fire they made on our first night here, for the welcome feast.
It was an unpleasant reminder of Sodom, Gomorrah, and so forth. I could still choke on the memory of goat meat if I thought about it. I never swallowed it. I carried one bite in my mouth all evening and spat it out behind the outhouse when we went home. So all right, no new dresses. But I was hardly allowed to complain about that because, guess what. We arrived smack dab in the middle of summer, far from the nearest holy day. Father was disappointed about the timing, until he made the shocking jet-age discovery that days and months do not matter one way or another to people in this village.
They just count to five, have their market day, and start over. One of the men in the congregation confided to Father that having The Poisonwood Bible 54 church just every old now and then, as it seems to them, instead of on market day, has always bamfuzzled everybody about the Christians.
That sure gave us a hoot! So Father had nothing to lose by announcing his own calendar and placing upon it Easter on the Fourth of July. Why not? He said he needed a focal point to get the church geared up.
Our great event for counterfeit Easter Sunday was a pageant, organized by Father and whoever else could drum up the enthusiasm. So far, for our first few weeks in Kilanga, attendance in church had been marked by almost total absence. So Father saw this pageant as a splectacular mark of things being on the upswing. Four men, including the one in the janitor uniform and another with only one leg, performed the roles of soldiers and carried real spears.
At first the men wanted to have someone play out the role of Jesus and raise up from the dead, but Father opposed that on principle. But here, of course, with everyplace being their part of town. Plus, these men in the pageant were just carrying it to the hilt. They wore steel bracelets on their black arms, and Genesis 55 loose, flapping cloths tucked half hazardly around their waists.
Even the peg leg one! They came running or hopping into the church, carrying the same heavy spears they would use later in the week to slew the animals.
We knew they did it. Their wives came to our door daily with whole, dripping legs of something not ten minutes dead. Before the great adventure is all over, Father expects his children to eat rhinoceros, I suppose. Antelope is more or less our daily bread. They started bringing us that the very first week. Even, once, a monkey. Mama Tataba would haggle with the women at the door, and finally turn to us with her scrawny arms raised up like a boxing champ, holding up our dinner.
She is handy at cooking anything living or dead, but heaven be praised, Mother rejected the monkey, with its little dead grin. She told Mama Tataba we could get by on things that looked less like kinfolk.
He had envisioned a baptism. The whole point of Easter in July was supposed to be an altar call, followed by a joyful procession down to the river with children dressed all in white getting saved. Father would stand waist deep out there like the Baptist Saint John and hold up one hand, and in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost he would dunk them under, one by one. The river would be jam-packed with purified souls.
I could see exactly how he meant the ceremony to go. It could have been, really, a pretty sight. But the men said no, that was not to be.
The women were so opposed to getting dunked in the river, even on hearsay, they all kept their children extra far from the church that day. Afterwards, instead of the baptism, Father lured people down as near as he could get them to the river by means of the age-old method of a church supper. We had a picnic down on the bank of the Kwilu, which has the delightful odor of mud and dead fish.
Naturally, since we brought most of the food. They seem to think we are Santa Claus, the way the children come around begging us for food and things every single day—and us as poor as church mice! One woman who came trying to sell us her handmade baskets looked in our door and spied our scissors and asked right flat out if she could have them! Imagine having the nerve.
Genesis 57 So they all came grandly down to the picnic: In a certain way they seemed naked irregardless. Some of the women had newborn babies too, teeny fawn-colored frowning things, which the mothers wrap up in great big bundles of cloths and blankets and even little woolly caps, in all this heat! Just to show how prized they are, I guess. Of course, everyone kept staring at me, as they always do here.
I am the most extreme blonde imaginable. I have sapphire-blue eyes, white eyelashes, and platinum blonde hair that falls to my waist. On their own initiative the Congolese seem unable to produce much in the way of hair—half of them are bald as a bug, even the girls. It is a disturbing sight to see a goodsized little girl in a ruffly dress, and not a hair on her head.
Consequently they are all so envious of mine they frequently walk up boldly and give it a yank. Then parental laxity is the rule of the day. The riverbank, though it looks attractive from a distance, is not so lovely once you get there: The River Kwilu is not like the River Jordan, chilly and wide.
It is a lazy, rolling river as warm as bathwater, where crocodiles are said to roll around like logs. No milk and honey on the other side, either, but just more stinking jungle laying low in the haze, as far, far away as the memory of picnics in Georgia.
I closed my eyes and dreamed of real soda pop in convenient throwaway cans. We all ate fried chicken that Mother had cooked, southern style, starting from scratch with killing them and lopping off their heads. These were the self-same chickens Ruth May had chased around the house that very morning before church.
My sisters moped somewhat, but I nibbled my drumstick happily! Considering my whole situation, I was not about to be bothered by the spectrum of death at our picnic. I was just grateful for a crispy taste of something that connected this creepy, buzzing heat with real summertime.
The chickens had been another surprise for us, like Mama Tataba. There was just the biggest flock of black-and-white-checkered hens here waiting for us when we arrived. People in the village had thought of helping us out by eating a few before Genesis 59 we got here, but Mama Tataba, I guess, kept them warded off with a stick.
It was Mother who decided to contribute most of the flock for feeding the village, like a peace offering.
On the morning of the picnic she had to start in at the very crack of dawn, to get all those hens killed and fried up. At the picnic she walked through the crowd passing out thighs and drumsticks to the little children, who acted just as pleased as punch, licking their fingers and singing out hymns.
His mind was two million miles away. He just mostly stared out at the river, where no one was fixing to get dunked that day, whatsoever.
I was sore at Father all right, for us having to be there in the first place. But it was plain to see he was put out, too, something fierce. It was nothing, in terms of redemption. The children are named Tumba, Bangwa, Mazuzi, Nsimba, and those things. He has a big old round belly with his belly button sticking out like a black marble. They all have those. I thought they were all fat, but Father said no.
And still God makes them look fat. One of them is a girl, because of her dress. She has shoes too. Anything that ever was white is not white here. That is not a color you see.
Even a white flower opening up on a bush just looks doomed for this world. I only got to bring me two toys: The monkey-sock monkey has done gone already. I left him out on the veranda and come the next morning, he was gone.
One of those little children stole, which is a bad sin. Father says to forgive them for they know not what they do. But I sure got mad and had a fit. I accidentally peed in my britches. My monkey-sock monkey was named Saint Matthew. Genesis 61 The grown-up Congo men are all named Tata Something. That one, name of Tata Undo, he is the chief.
He wears a whole outfit, cat skins and everything and a hat. Father had to go see Tata Undo to pay the Devil his do. Like Mama Tataba, our cooking lady. Rachel calls her Mama Tater Tots. I wish she would. One time her roof caught on fire and fell on her and burnt up her legs but not the rest of her. That happened way back years ago. Mama Tataba told Mama about it in the kitchen house and I was listening.
Mama Tataba hangs the whole big family of bananas up in the corner all together, so the tarantula spiders that use it for their house can just move on out when they take a notion. I sat real still on the floor and peeled my one banana like Saint Matthew would if he was a real monkey and not gone, and I heard them talking about the woman that got burned up. The roofs burn up because they are all made out of sticks and hay like the Three Little Pigs. The wolf could huff and puff and blow your house down.
Even ours. She has to scoot around on her hands. Her hand bottoms look like feet bottoms, only with fingers. I went over there and had me a good look at The Poisonwood Bible 62 her and her little girls with no clothes on. She was nice and gave me a piece of orange to suck on. Mama Mwanza almost got burnt plumb to death when it happened but then she got better.
To all the other Congo people, too. Nobody bats their eye when she scoots by on her hands and goes on down to her field or the river to wash clothes with the other ladies that work down there every day. She carries all her things in a basket on top of her head. When she scoots down the road, not a one of them falls out.
All the other ladies have big baskets on their heads too, so nobody stares at Mama Mwanza one way or another. What they do is, they all stare at us. They look at Rachel the worst. First Mama and Father were thinking it might do Rachel some good to be cranked down a notch or two. Father said to Mama: I told it to Leah and she laughed out loud. I am blonde too but not as much as a white rabbit.
Strawberry blonde, Mama says. I like strawberries about better than anything. You can keep a rabbit for a pet or you can eat it. Poor Rachel. Everwhen she Genesis 63 goes out, whole bunches of little Congo children run after her on the road a-reaching and a-yanking on her long white hair to see if they can get it to come off. Sometimes even the grownups do too. Rachel gets her the worst sunburns, too. I get burnt but not like her. Father says it is the lot of every young woman to learn humility and God plots for each her chosen way.
Used to be, Adah was the only one of us in our family with something wrong with her. When you take a look out the door, why, there goes somebody with something missing off of them and not even embarrassed of it. At first Mama got after us for staring and pointing at people. But Mama has this certain voice sometimes. Not exactly sassing back, but just about nearly. That is just my observation. It appears to me their bodies just get worn out, about the same way as our worldly goods do.
She calls him sir the way she calls us Sugar and Hon, trying to be nice. But still. He was debating about it. He stood there in the front doorway with the sun just squeaking by him on all sides.
He is so big he near about filled up the whole doorway. His head almost touched. And Mama Genesis 65 was just sitting down short at the table, so she went back to sewing. If that was me, oh, boy. That razor strop burns so bad, after you go to bed your legs still feel stripedy like a zebra horse. You can see white threads in the shape of a bottom. And nobody but him did it, either.
He sits there of an evening and reads and reads. Once in a while he reads to us out loud when we have our scripture stories. Sometimes I get to picking my scabs and think about cartoons instead of Jesus, and He sees me doing that. But Jesus loves me and this I know: So feel I. Living in the Congo shakes open the prison house of my disposition and lets all the wicked hoodoo Adahs run forth. To amuse my depraved Adah self during homework time I wrote down that quote from memory on a small triangular piece of paper and passed it to Leah, with the query: Star Pupil: Lipup Rats.
Miss Rat-pup read the quote, nodding solemnly, and wrote underneath, The book of Luke. I can laugh very hard without even smiling on the outside. The quote is from The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, which I have read many times. I have a strong sympathy for Dr. I am fond of Mr. Poe and his telltale Raven: Erom Reven! Mother is the one who notices, and tells naught.
She started it all, reading the Psalms and various Family Classics aloud to Leah and me. When we entered the first grade, we were examined by the spinster principal of Bethlehem Elementary, Miss Leep, who announced that we were gifted: Leah, on account of her nonchalant dazzling scores on reading-comprehension tests, and myself by association, as I am presumed to have the same brain insofar as the intact parts go.
Sun o put o not upon us! My earliest Mother memories lie laughing blue-eyed in the grass, child herself, rolling side to side as Rachel and Leah decorated her all over with purple-clover jewelry. Once Leah and I were gifted, though, everything changed.
Mother seemed The Poisonwood Bible 68 sobered by this news from our teachers, as if she had earned a special punishment from God. She became secretive and efficient. She reined in our nature walks and settled down to business with a library card. She need not have troubled with secrecy, for all Our Father noticed. Overjoyed, null and void, Mongoloid. I still have a fellow feeling for that almond-tasting word. Oh, but it did unsettle the matrons of Bethlehem to see the poor thing boosted into a class ahead of their own children, there to become dazzling slick-quick at mathematics.
In third grade I began to sum up our grocery bill in my head, silently write it down and hand it over, faster than Delma Royce could total it on her cash register. This became a famous event and never failed to draw a crowd. I had no idea why. I merely felt drawn in by those rattling, loose numbers Genesis 69 needing their call to order.
No one seemed to realize calculating sums requires only the most basic machinery and good concentration. Poetry is far more difficult. And palindromes, with their perfect, satisfying taste: Draw a level award! Yet it is always the thin gray grocery sums that make an impression.
My hobby is to ignore the awards and excel when I choose. My sisters seem not to have slowed down long enough to learn French. When I finish reading a book from front to back, I read it back to front. It is a different book, back to front, and you can learn new things from it. It from things new learn can you and front to back book different a is it?
You can agree or not, as you like.
This is another way to read it, although I am told a normal brain will not grasp it: Ti morf sgniht wen nrael nac uoy dna tnorf ot kcab koob tnereffid a si ti. The normal, I understand, can see words my way only if they are adequately poetic: Poor Dan is in a droop. My own name, as I am accustomed to think of it, is Ecirp Nelle Hada. Sometimes I write it this way without thinking, and people turn up startled.
To them I am only Adah or, to my sisters sometimes, the drear monosyllabic Ade, lemonade, Band-Aid, frayed blockade, switchblade renegade, call a spade a spade. I prefer Adah, as it goes either way, like me. I am a perfect palindrome. Damn mad! Across the cover of my notebook I have written as a warning to others: The Congo is a fine place to learn how to read the same book many times.
When the rain pours down especially, we have long hours of captivity, in which my sisters determinedly grow bored. But are there books, books there are! Rattling words on the page calling my eyes to dance with them. Everyone else will finish with the singular plowing through, and Ada still has discoveries ahead and behind. When the rainy season fell on us in Kilanga, it fell like a plague. We were warned to expect rain in October, but at the close of July—surprising no one in Kilanga but ourselves—the serene heavens above began to dump buckets.
Stekcub pmud! It rained pitchforks, as Mother says. It rained cats and dogs frogs bogs then it rained snakes and lizards. A pestilence of rain we received, the likes of which we had never seen or dreamed about in Georgia.
Under the eave of the porch our charge Methuselah screamed like a drowning man in his cage. He resides in a remarkable bamboo cage as tall as Ruth May. His perch is a section of a sturdy oldfashioned yardstick, triangular in cross-section. Long ago someone broke off the inches nineteen through thirty-six and assigned these to Methuselah for the conduct of his affairs. Methuselah may or may not have heard about this, for he mumbles badly.
He mumbles to himself all day long like Grandfather Wharton. Mostly he says incomprehensible things in Kikongo but also speaks like Mr. On the first day of rain, he raised his head and screeched through the roar of the storm his best two phrases in our language: Wake up, Brothah Fowels!
Other lucky children might merely be thrashed for their sins, but we Price girls are castigated with the Holy Bible. Jeremiah Then say ye good-bye to sunshine or the Hardy Boys for an afternoon as you, poor sinner, must labor with a pencil in your good left hand to copy out Jeremiah One hundred full verses exactly copied out in longhand, because it is the final one that reveals your crime.
In the case of Jeremiah I am against you, O Insolence! Although you might well have predicted it. He sometimes has us copy from Old King James, but prefers to use the American Translation that includes his peculiarly beloved Apocrypha. I have wondered, incidentally: Or does he sit up nights searching out a Verse for every potential infraction, and store this ammunition at the ready for his daughters?
Either way, it is as impressive as my grocery sums in the Piggly Wiggly. We all, especially Rachel, live in terror of the cursed Verse. But in the case of the cursing parrot that first long rainy day, Methuselah could not be made to copy the Bible. Methuselah was a sly little representative of Africa itself, living openly in our household. One might argue, even, that he was here first. Genesis 73 We listened to parrot prattle and sat confined, uncomfortably close to Our Father. For five solid hours of downpour we watched small red frogs with immense, cartoonlike toes squeeze in around the windows and hop steadily up the walls.
Our all-weather coats hung on their six pegs; possibly they were meant for all weather but this. Our house is made of mud-battered walls and palm thatch, but is different from all other houses in Kilanga. The kitchen is a separate hut, behind the main house. In the clearing beyond stands our latrine, unashamed, despite the vile curses rained upon it daily by Rachel.
The chicken house is back there too. All other houses have floors of dirt. Curt, subvert, overexert. We see village women constantly sweeping their huts and the barren clearings in front of their homes with palm-frond brooms, and Rachel with her usual shrewdness points out you could sweep a floor like that plumb to China and never get it clean. By the grace of God and cement our family has been spared that frustration.
In the front room our dining table looks to have come off a wrecked ship, and there is an immense rolltop desk possibly from the same ship used by Our Father for writing his sermons.
All brought by other brave Baptists before us, though it is hard to see quite how, unless one envisions a time when other means of travel were allowed, and more than forty-four pounds. We also have a dining table and a rough handmade cupboard, containing a jumble-sale assortment of glass and plastic dishes and cups, one too few of everything, so we sisters have to bargain knives for forks while we eat.
Louis, Missouri, and a plastic cup bearing the nose and ears of a mouse. And in the midst of this rabble, serene as the Virgin Mother in her barnful of shepherds and scabby livestock, one amazing, beautiful thing: Its origin is unfathomable.
If we forgot ourselves we might worship it. Outdoors we have a long shady porch our mother in her Mississippi-born way calls a veranda. My sisters and I love to lounge there in the hammocks, and we longed for refuge there even on the day of our first downpour. But the storm lashed sideways, battering the walls and poor Methuselah.
When his screaming got too pathetic to bear, our grim-faced mother brought in his cage and set it on the floor by the window, where Methuselah continued his loud, random commentary.
In addition to papism, the Reverend Genesis 75 probably suspected this noisy creature of latent femaleness. The deluge finally stopped just before sunset. The world looked stepped on and drenched, but my sisters ran out squealing like the first free pigs off the ark, eager to see what the flood had left us.
A low cloud in the air turned out to be tiny flying antlike creatures by the millions. They hovered just above the ground, making a long, low hum that stretched to the end of the world. Their bodies made clicking sounds as we swatted them away from us. This forest obscures our view of the river, and any other distance. Though we watch Mama Tataba vanish that way and return again, intact, with her water buckets full, our mother did not yet trust the path to swallow and deliver her children.
So we turned and tromped back up the hill toward the pair of flowery round hibiscus bushes that flank the steps to our porch. What a landing party we were as we stalked about, identically dressed in saddle oxfords, long-tailed shirts, and pastel cotton pants, but all so different.
Leah went first as always, Goddess of the Hunt, her weaselcolored pixie haircut springing with energy, her muscles working together like parts of a clock. Then came the rest of us: Ruth May with pigtails flying behind The Poisonwood Bible 76 her, hurrying mightily because she is youngest and believes the last shall be first.
Queen Rachel drifted along several paces behind, looking elsewhere. She was almost sixteen and above it all, yet still unwilling for us to find something good without her. This is our permanent order: Leah, Ruth May, Rachel, Adah. Neither chronological nor alphabetical but it rarely varies, unless Ruth May gets distracted and falls out of line.
At the foot of the hibiscus bush we discovered a fallen nest of baby birds, all drowned. My sisters were thrilled by the little naked, winged bodies like storybook griffins, and by the horrible fact they were dead. Then we found the garden. Rachel screamed triumphantly that it was ruined once and for all. The torrent had swamped the flat bed and the seeds rushed out like runaway boats.
We found them everywhere in caches in the tall grass at the edge of the patch. Leah walked along on her knees, gathering up sprouts in her shirttail, as she probably imagined Sacajaweah would have done in the same situation.
Genesis 77 Later Our Father came out to survey the damage, and Leah helped him sort out the seeds by kind. He declared he would make them grow, in the name of God, or he would plant again the Reverend, like any prophet worth his salt, had held some seeds in reserve if only the sun would ever come out and dry up this accursed mire.
Even at sunset, the two of them did not come in for supper. She watched him steadily out the window, smiling her peculiar downturned smile, and made satisfied clicks with her tongue against her teeth. We set ourselves to the task of eating her cooking, fried plantain and the luxury of some canned meat. Finally he sent Leah in, but long after dinner we could still hear the Reverend out there beating the ground with his hoe, revising the earth. No one can say he does not learn his lesson, though it might take a deluge, and though he might never admit in this lifetime that it was not his own idea in the first place.
Nevertheless, Our Father had been influenced by Africa. He was out there pushing his garden up into rectangular, flood-proof embankments, exactly the length and width of burial mounds.
Leah I in hot weather for a Kentucky Wonder bean to gather up its vegetable willpower and germinate. That was all we thought we needed. He loved to stand out there just watching things grow, he said, and you could believe it. They reached out for the branches of nearby trees and twined up into the canopy. The pumpkin vines also took on the personality of jungle plants. My father witnessed the progress of every new leaf and fat flower bud.
I walked behind him, careful not to trample the vines. I helped him construct a sturdy stick barricade around the periphery so the jungle animals and village goats would not come in and wreck our tender vegetables when they came.
His devotion to its progress, like his devotion to the church, was the anchoring force in my life throughout this past summer. I knew my father could taste those Kentucky Wonder beans as surely as any pure soul can taste heaven. Normal cake production proved out of the question. To begin with, our stove is an iron contraption with a firebox so immense a person could climb right in if they felt like it. Mother yanked Ruth May out by the arm, pretty hard, when she found her in there; she dreaded that Mama Tataba in one of her energetic fits might stoke up the stove with the baby inside.
It was a sensible concern. In fact, it looks less like a stove than a machine hammered together out of some other machine. Rachel says it was part of a locomotive train, but she is famous for making things up out of thin air and stating them in a high, knowing tone. She picked up the box and banged it hard against the The Poisonwood Bible 80 iron stove, just once, to show me.
It clanged like a hammer on a bell. We brought all the wrong things. Mother excused herself and went in the house.
Rachel, Adah, and I were left on the porch, and he looked at each one of us in turn. I felt sick to my stomach.
None of us spoke. And truthfully, if any of us was disposed to use curse words, it would be Adah, who could not care less about sin and salvation. And Ruth May is plain too little. He imitates not just words, but the voices of people that spoke them.
We could also recognize Mama Tataba, and ourselves. Shut the door! Oftentimes he studies us, copying our movements, and he seems to know which words will provoke us to laugh or talk back to him, or be shocked. We already understood what was now dawning on my father: Methuselah could betray our secrets. Louis at sixty-five miles per hour. I peeped up from my book.
Oh, dear Lord. He was staring directly at me. My heart palpitated fiercely. The damage is done. We held our breath as he paused on the steps and looked back, right in my eyes. I burned with shame. The thought of spending the rest of the day copying out the tedious Book of Numbers sobered me deeply as I watched my father go.
He directed his stride toward the river. He was scouting out baptismal sites. I already knew how Numbers The hundredth verse winds up at It was hard, accepting his accusations by keeping silent. But none of us could let him in on that awful secret. Once in a great while we just have to protect her. Sight Thy blessed father holy. And all of us with our closed eyes smelled the frangipani blossoms in the big rectangles of open wall, flowers so sweet they conjure up sin or heaven, depending on which way you are headed.
When the Spirit passed through him he groaned, throwing body and soul into this weekly purge. My palindrome for the Reverend. Her stiffness reminded me of all the fish lying curved and stiff on the riverbanks, flaking in the sun like old white bars of soap. All because of the modern style of fishing Our Father dreamed up. He ordered men to go out in canoes and pitch dynamite in the river, stupefying everything within earshot. Shot ears. Now, where did he get dynamite?
Certainly none of us carried it over here in our drawers. So from Eeben Axelroot, I have to think, for a large sum of money. This is not the regular Baptist stipend; Our Father is a renegade who came without the entire blessing of the Mission League, and bullied or finagled his way into this lesser stipend. Even so, it is a lot of Congolese francs and would be a Congolese fortune if that were that, but it is not.
The money comes in an envelope on the plane, brought by Eeben Axelroot and to Eeben Axelroot it mostly returns. Feed the belly first, he announced at dinner one night, seized with his brilliant plan. Feed the belly and the soul will come.
Not having noticed, for a wife is beneath notice, that this is exactly what our mother did when she killed all the chickens. But after the underwater thunder, what came was not souls but fish.
They came rolling to the surface with mouths opened wide by that shocking boom. Round shocked bubbles for eyes. The whole village feasted all day, ate, ate till we felt bug-eyed and belly-up ourselves.
He performed a backward version of the loaves and fishes, trying to stuff ten thousand fish into fifty mouths, did the Reverend Price. Slogging up and down the riverbank in trousers wet to the knees, his Bible in one hand and another stickful of fire-blackened fish in the other, he waved his bounty in a threatening manner.
Thousands more fish jerked in the sun and went bad along the riverbanks.
Our village was blessed for weeks with the The Poisonwood Bible 86 smell of putrefaction. Instead of abundance it was a holiday of waste. No ice. Our Father forgot, for fishing in the style of modern redneck Georgia you need your ice. He would merely give out the communion with the usual disturbing allusions to eating flesh and drinking blood.
Perhaps this perked up congregational interest, but we Price girls all listened with half an ear between us. And Adah with her half a brain. The church service lasts twice as long now because the Reverend has to say it once in English, and then the schoolteacher Tata Anatole repeats it all in Kikongo.
Our Father finally caught on, nobody was understanding his horrible stabs at French or Kikongo, either one. Law less ness! He paced, paused, spoke, and paced behind his palm-leaf altar, giving every impression he was inventing his Biblical parables on the spot. This morning he was spinning the tale of Susanna, beautiful and pious wife of the rich man Joakim.
Annasus ho! They leaped from the bushes and demanded that she lie down with them. Poor Susanna. If she refused they would bear false witness against her, claiming they caught her in the garden with a man. Naturally the righteous Susanna refused them, even Genesis 87 though this meant she would be accused and stoned for adultery.
Stoning moaning owning deboning. We were not supposed to wonder what kind of husband was this Joakim, who would kill his own lovely wife rather than listen to her side of the story. No doubt the Babylonians were already out scouting around for their favorite rocks. The Reverend paused, resting one hand flat on the altar.
The rest of his body rocked almost imperceptibly inside his white shirt, marking time, keeping his rhythm. There were eleven or twelve new faces now, a regular stampede to glory. Estimated delivery business days. Format Paperback. Condition Brand New. Description A revered classic of American design delights anew with the freshness and ingenuity of its approach. A revered classic of American design delights anew with the freshness and ingenuity of its approach Bradbury Thompson remains one of the most admired and influential graphic designers of the twentieth century, having trained a generation of design students while on the faculty of the Yale School of Art for more than thirty years.
The art director of Mademoiselle and design director of Art News and Art News Annual in the decades after World War II, Thompson was also a distinguished designer of limited-edition books, postage stamps, rationalized alphabets, corporate identification programs, trademarks, and sacred works most notably the Washburn College Bible.
Thompson also designed more than sixty issues of Westvaco Inspirations, a magazine that was published by the Westvaco Corporation and distributed to thousands of printers, designers, and teachers to show the range and versatility of printing papers. Thompson was especially revered for his ability to adapt classic typography for the modern world. Bradbury Thompson: The Art of Graphic Design is a landmark in the history of fine bookmaking.
First published by Yale University Press in and designed by Thompson himself, it was praised by the New York Times as a book in which "art and design are gloriously and daringly mixed. Carter Brown, Alvin Eisenman, and Steven Heller, explore Thompson's methods and design philosophy, and a newly commissioned afterword by Jessica Helfand attests to the enduring importance of his work. Both a retrospective and a manifesto, the book surveys Thompson's timeless contributions to American graphic design, including his experimental work and his work in magazines, typography, books, simplified alphabets, and contemporary postage stamps.
Published for the first time in paperback, this classic text is now available for a new generation of designers and students. Bradbury Thompson served on the faculty of the Yale School of Art for over thirty years and received widespread recognition for his influential designs for books, magazines, and postage stamps.