Excerpt from "The Hoodoo Book of Flowers"
Arthur Flowers
7:43: hoodoo wordcraft
o queen mother morrison, be I worthy of the Craft
7:43:1: krik - the word - humanitys most powerful instrument, we communicate through the word, we respond to words, we define ourselves and our world through words, words cause people to act / do / be, each one an incantation, each one unto itself a work of art / spell and / or prayer, the word water cannot quench your thirst but the word mojo can feed your soul - krak,
7:43:2: when gathering folk around the sacred fire the telling itself is a blessing, transforming the writer in the writing, the reader in the reading, the listener in the moment, the teller in the tale - as the voice of a culture that has since its inception felt itself under siege, afroam lit is fundamentally shamanistic & vitally concerned with communal / cultural health and empowerment, creating the visions without which the people will perish and serving in its mythic heart its ageold griotic function of keeping the culture alive and viable, what we call working in the tradition,
7:43:3: in bambaraland initiates are called domas, the knowers, or donikebas, makers of knowledge - because they are intermediaries between this world and the spiritworld, the doma disciplines speech and does not utter it recklessly, a doma cannot tell a lie, but a griot is allowed to have two tongues - there is no thing as important as the Work can be - the power of narrative / nommo, a dogon word, the ability of words to forge new realities, the dinka masters of the fishing spear are defined by their power to make a thing so just be saying it is so, for masters of the fishing spear reality and the word must be in accord, for masters of the fishing spear words of power have influence only when they are true and pertinent, words of power must express what folk know to be true but are unable to articulate,
7:43:4: babajohn killens, the great griot master of brooklyn, considered the literary life a sacred calling and so do I - be I worthy of the Craft - conduct yourself as if you were in truth the great writer you aspire to be and you are, I once, in conversation with playwright, aishah rahman, said I wanted to be the greatest novelist ever lived, she said - no art, thats not what you want, you want to sing your song the best you can sing it, that way you can appreciate other folk singing theirs,
7:43:5: the way of the griot is a lifetime commitment to producing good, significant and beautiful works designed to evolve with time, wondrously multilinear works that grow with the interpretation of each generation, a force so immersed in the essence of the human condition that your every word is resonant with significance - o life! - said the druidic joyce - I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race,
7:43:6: if you would Works that grow with time instead of being diminished by it you must grapple with issues humanity considers essential, issues humanity engages generation after generation, it is the responsibility of you who would be griot to be productive, significant & of the righteous, at all times willing to grow, to master your Craft, to work hard, to pay your dues without whimpering, creating works designed to finesse the human condition / the human spirit and / historical circumstance, timeless works so powerful they cannot be denied,
7:43:7: there are times, fleeting moments, when you being strong / disciplined / productive, or youve written a really good piece / passage / sentence, that you are acutely aware of yourself as historical / epochal / history in the flesh, there are moments when you have positioned yourself so precisely in the historical continuums center of balance that you are aware of being godforce / a focal point of reality and illusion / a nexus of generational possibility / conjuring reality into being through the sheer force of your will, your work, your craft and your game –
if you pull it off, you and your works will be studied and modeled in the hearts and aspirations of generations to come - to the extent that your works relevant and significant to those generations, to that extent are you immortal,
immortal
demoja
EXCERPT FROM “REST FOR THE WEARY”
It was early morning 5th of August, translucent rivermist still hugging the ground, that Forrest come down on them. Man Cargo had just emerged from his Sibley tent, and was headed toward the smoky greenwood fire and his 1st mug of coffee when he hear the distinctive rattle of musketfire. Dont take him long to realize. The Devil is in the house. By the time the late risers coming out their tents half done, Ben Robinson and the 2nd embrasure open and ready for business. Soldiers and civilians come hurrying in, stumbling and slipping on the muddy path between the town and the fort. The soldiers from the 13th Tennessee crowd into the fort with the 6th Heavy Colored while the women and civilians are taken down the bluff and onto the New Era gunboat. By the time the New Era pull out into the river, the 2nd embrasure is locked and loaded.
Well, boys, Sgt Ben say, patting the cold barrel of the Parrott, look like Secesh out early this morning, that noise you hear, thats Forrest, and Forrest dont take no Negro prisoners, I believe that say everything need to be said.
First time they saw Fort Pillow silhouetted on the bluff, Ben Robinson shake his grizzled head. The Gladiator had just tied up at the bottom of the bluff and the 6th Heavy Colored Artillery just starting to disembark. They form up and trudge a graveled bluff pitted with trenches and rifle pods. The Tennessee volunteers they are supposed to share the fort with line the path up the bluff with jeers and grimaces. Ben Robinson dont pay them no mind. He still looking the Fort over with a jaundiced eye and it dont appear he like what he see. Top of the bluff they see the whole fort, a dirt berm, a wooden parapet and 4 canon. Ben spit over the parapet. This here aint no fort, he say disgustedly. Dont know what it is but it aint no fort.
Ben Robinson a squat down reddish man that was a driver for a plantation downriver. One of the Civil Wars earliest runaways, he had took to the army like he was born wearing Union blue. By the time Cargo join the 6th, Ben was the gunnery sergeant for gun crew 2 and proud of it, onliest colored gunnery in the 6th he will tell you, and got the best damn gunners in the whole damn army, white or colored, why you ask, because I trained them this way, make a Parrott gun do what I tell it to, same thing go for you, runaway, you do what I tell you, you do what I do.
Man Cargo had barely signed into the 6th back in Corinth before Ben Robinson up in his face. I see you, boy. You been armied before, aint you.
First formation and Cargo soldier straight in the midst of shambling fieldhands. Ben Robinson, red eyes all give in from too many years of too many rounds and too much gun powder, staring him down. Yeah, you good at this, aint you boy, done this before I reckon. You just a runaway aint you, a goddamn runaway, runaway from your master, runaway from your old unit, think you gon runaway from me too, when it suit your mercurial fancy dont you. Think again, runaway. You see what I got here, dont you. Robinson gesture at the soldiers mustering around them, just barely in line much less at attention. Aint no damn hoe you got there, boy, he snarl at the man next to Cargo, shifting the mans rifle deeper into the cleft of his shoulder.
Farmhands, he spit. How Im spose to turn farmhands into soldiers. Then he step up in Cargos face, and say so only he hear it. Aint a soldier in the bunch but you, runaway, so you gon help me keep them alive, you understand me, corporal runaway, are you following my logics, corporal, you dont run less I do.
In an attempt to keep them separate from the Tennessee partisans quartered in the little town that abut the fort, the blacks are tented along the back ridge of the camp. Once they tented, most of them settle in. Not Ben Robinson. Ben Robinson barely let them tent up before he drilling them on the Parrott. Lt. Jamison say no need, Sergeant, not tonight, let them rest, but Ben insist and when they complain he told them take your complaints to Forrest, you think Forrest gon care you tired, poor baby, you think Forrest gon care you weary. Dont know who told you there was rest for you here. Certainly wasnt me.
He look around the fort and shake his buzz red head. Goddamn killing ground, he mutter, and he slap the cold barrel of the Parrot so it ring out. Damn if Ima die here without a fight, my granddaddy was a Dinga warrior, captured in war and sold as a slave to the whiteman. Its cause of my warriors blood Im a goddamn slave in the 1st place and the onliest cowardly part in me is the white part. Aint no fucking Forrest gon slavemart Ben Robinson. Run that gun through again. Quicker this time. Act like you mean it.
That very first night he had them slope the ground under the gun so the barrel is depressed. When he finally let them go, they was too tired to grumble. The Fort almost settled down when Robinson and Man Cargo take a moment at the lip of the parapet. Looking off into the dark woods and the lights of the little settlement downwind, they could hear the ongoing festivities. The blacks had been told to stay away. One had already been stabbed in a dispute over a prostitute. Behind them they feel the river weaving sluggishly below the bluff.
I was sold in the Forrest Brothers Slave Mart on Adams, Ben blurt. Twice, he say. First time he sold off my mother, my brother and both my sisters, and finally he sold me. Cheap with a warning I wasnt sound. I was sickly then and young, but when I come back I was full grown and it was Forrest himself inspect me, swore he remembered me, judged me suitable for his purposes, sound enough I guess. Dont feel good about this one, runaway. These boys aint armied enough yet to stop Forrest. Man got to get whupped a couple of times to make a good soldier of him. Need to be a survivor. Look there. He point at woods worked out in shades of darkness.
Thats the highground, he say. Once the Rebs capture that they gon pin us down, and that town they dont allow us in, we should burn that fucker down, once the Secesh sharpshooters take it we through. See here. he slosh his hand over the wide parapet. Damn thing too thick to shoot over, not with sharpshooters on the highground. This thing built to withstand cannonballs, Forrest aint got no canon, couldnt pull it through these woods if he did. Fucking calvary. We the only ones with the canon, and they aimed too high to defend the wall. He look at the slope he had them build and shake his head, voice growling in disgust. I suspect the old he Devil take a lot of killing. Dont know who told Mr Lincoln there was a Fort here. This here aint nothing but a nigger trap. Aint feeling good about this runaway. If I dont make it you take care of Forrest for me.
When Forrest finally arrive, Man Cargo watch the figures in the gray mist solidify into soldiers and twinkling lights, fascinated with the barking explosions of musket fire in the mist. He got the strange sensation he has been here before.
Well hell runaway, Ben Robinson say, you on vacation this fine morning or do you plan to help us with this here gun. The musketfire rise up to a roar while Ben Robinson have them run out the Parrott, his gun crew falling into a routine so imbedded in them they dont have time to be unsteady. By the time the pickets from the Thirteenth have been driven in, they got her primed and ready. Got Lt Jamieson, nervous and underfoot, checking everything twice, but they got respect for him, chose to serve with a colored unit in spite of Confederate threats to summarily execute their white officers. I respect that but Ben Robinson ignore him, watching the perimeter with predatorial intensity as one by one blue figures solidify out of the fog. Every once in a while, one stop, turn and shoot, and every once in a while, one fall and die. Then come soldiers in gray, man sized shadows behind muzzle flashes in the mist. Its on. Bullets plicking the air and pocking folk left and right, but in embrasure #2 the routine of the gun take over.
Since they had got here, the gun crew of embrasure #2, Man Cargo, Eli and George Ransom, Henry Gibson and Charlie Jackson, been talking trash about what they gon do to Forrest if he should ever stumble across the nerve to show up here but now that he actually here they quietly going about their business and Ben Robinson is quite proud of them. Dont know about these other fellows but my boys is soldiers.
The Rebs are thrown back two, three times but when the mist rise sharpshooters got the highground and anybody raise their head above the parapet likely to get pocked. Major Booth, commander of the Fort, wasnt no more than a couple of yards from them when he got it, standing in the embrasure and looking out on the Rebs like he bulletproof.
Uh . . wouldnt do that, sir, Ben Robinson tell him, Secesh shooting pretty good this morning. Mayor Booth step over the tail of the gun, dismissing the idea of hiding from danger with the fatalism expected from officers of the era when he get pocked. Right through the chest. He look surprised and he fall over dead.
Shooting damn good, say Man Cargo. Rest of the day downhill. First the pickets are driven in, then the riflemen from the riflepits in front of the Fort. A unit is sent to fire the town but they dont make it, the town is captured intact and soon infested with sharpshooters. By now the Rebs are under the arc of the guns and the Parrotts are useless. So too, shooting blind from below the bluff, are the guns of the New Era gunboat, spewing everywhere but where they needed.
Robinsons depressed Parrott only one still doing business. That aint enough. Its during a lull that Man Cargo see Forrest sitting on his horse, outlined on the ridge and just begging to be pocked. Cargo wipe the sweat from his brow, pop up and down for a looksee before the sharpshooters clock him. Musket balls smack the top of the parapet over his head and splotch eruptions of dirt upon him while he consider the possibilities. He ease along the parapet to a new position and pop up again. Forrest still there. Sitting on his horse with the solidity of a monument on a pedestal. Lets see if we can penalize him for that. Cargo ease on back to his original position, check his rifle, pop up, take the shot, duck and roll away from Minnie balls pocking the parapet behind him. When he look up the other soldiers congratulating him. Damn good shooting, runaway, you got his horse. Damn his horse. He try again but this time they ready for him and damn near they pock him.
Forrests surrender demand came about 3:30. I demand the unconditional surrender of this garrison. You will all be treated as prisoners of war. Should my demand be refused, I cannot be responsible for the fate of your command. With the death of Booth, Major Bradford, inexperienced leader of the 13th Tennessee, is now in charge. While he consider the offer, Cargo watch the Rebs maneuvering into position. Ben look to the bluff and shake his frizzly red head.
Dont look good, runaway. Dont look good at all.
Major Bradford refuse Forrests demand to surrender. He is mindful that Forrest has made a habit of tricking Union commanders into surrendering to inferior forces. Expecting reinforcements by river, Bradford play for time while notes go back and forth. He telling the men how invulnerable the Fort is when the final attack start and Secesh pour into the ditch that surround them. Next thing you know Secesh scrambling up the dirt berm, 2nd wave climbing on the backs of the 1st. The big guns are useless now and anybody lean over the parapet to shoot into the ditch is express targeted by sharpshooters in the town and on the ridges. Still Cargo get two rounds off before Secesh over the top and up on them.
He bayoneting a bearded man with no front teeth through the gap in his mouth (#5) when he hear Bradford yell we done for boys, save yourself. That did it. The line break and its every man for himself, parapet crowded with Secesh firing point blank into the confused mass beneath them, Union lines buckling in a mad rush to the bluff. Ransom take a bayonet through his chest and a Minnie ball take off Henry Gibsons arm. Charlie Jackson try to surrender, falling to his knees and crying out that he is a good negro. A Reb damn near take his head off and say well you a better negro now.
Okay, Runaway. Time to go.
So. Ben and Man Cargo running for the bluff, folk dropping dead to either side of them. They join a horde of Union soldiers running slipping sliding falling down the side of the bluff into the river below, but soon as Ben and Man Cargo go over the lip, Ben Robinson pull him to the ground. The bluff already thick with corpses and, panicked at finding himself in a mess of blood and flesh, Cargo try to rise up out of them. Ben Robinson pull him back down, throw a body over him and snarl, stay there.
Then Ben himself commence to burrowing under corpses. Then Cargo see the rebels below, target shooting soldiers who made it to the river, nappy black heads dotting the surface of the river being pocked like they was at the state fair. A line of Rebs up on the bluff contribute, bullets boiling up the water like a jacked up beehive, a growing bloodslick staining muddy water muddy red far as you can see. Some Union soldiers turn around and climb back up the bluff, yelling I surrender, suh. They get pocked too. Some fall to their knees with a mercy suh, I just want to go back to work, suh. Pock, pock.
Cargo buried pretty deep in corpses when a Reb on the bluff, a beardless youngster, walk down the bluff in his eagerness to get a good shot and dibs on the plunder. He almost on top of Cargo when he yell this nigger here playing possum. The corpse lying next to Cargo lurch up babbling, I just resting, boss. He drop to his knees and say he ready to go back to work anytime you say, boss, good worker, boss. The side of his blue uniform is blood soaked red. The Reb use his rifle to prod him and he grimace, please suh, boss. You got any money, free nigger. Nawsuh, old Jimbo aint got no money, suh. Then what good are you, free nigger.
Then Johnny Reb shoot old Jimbo in the chest. Jimbo cry out and lurch to his feet. Please suh, dont kill old Jimbo. Johnny Reb reload and shoot him again and now Jimbo is pissed and stagger a step toward him. Johnny Reb step back in surprise. Damnation, free nigger, what it take. Old boy Reb pull a pistol and shoot Jimbo for the third time. Old Jimbo slap his thick neck and fall down dead. Old boy Reb reload again just in case and bend down to go through Jimbos pockets, muttering about how hard it is to kill a free nigger.
Shoot a slave nigger, he die right off. Free nigger, got to shoot him three, four, five times.
Reb so close Cargo smell him but old Cargo, he playing for dead, playing face down dead hard as he can, when Johnny Reb take a look at him and frown. Well I be damn, he say. He look closer and he snort snot. Well, aint you a tricky nigger, he say up in Cargos ear, pulling the barrel of his musket around when Big Ben Robinson rise up out of a stack of corpses and slit his throat.
A volley of musketfire take Ben off his feet, float him through the air and toss him into the river. Old Johnny Reb barely blink at Cargo when the blood spurt from his throat and he fall down dead. Cargo dont move. Cargo got the hang of this now. Cargo dont move, Cargo dont twitch. Even when a pair of brogans almost step on him he dont move. The nigger surely done for young Barnabas, say the Reb with the brogans.
What about this one, say another, nudging Cargo with his boot, is he full on dead. Naw, he aint dead, say the first, least he aint full on dead. He a trickster is what he is, one of them there nigra tricksters. A wad of tobacco splatter near Cargos face and he hear the voice say as if from a distance. If he aint dead, make him dead. General say put the fear of the South into these free niggers.
A bayonet prod his back and he flinch a little, just a little, cant help himself, just a little, but at least now he expecting it and he dont flinch, he dont make a sound, when that bayonet stab him through his back and pin him to the ground. Sheer heart that he dont cry out but funk down deep he whimpering thats it I quit Im through Im done. And he feel acute shame he did not die standing, facing his enemy, like a free man. He just glad Othella not here to see this.
Old boy still lying in the cut, still playing face down dead, but he twitch again when the bayonet is jerked out of his back and he hear them, those soft southern voices of his childhood, say as if from an even greater distance, best shoot him to make sure. So they did that, too.
Arthur Flowers, native of Memphis, is author of novels, nonfiction, and graphic texts including Another Good Loving Blues, Mojo Rising: Confessions of a 21 st Century Conjureman, I See The Promised Land, Brer Rabbit Retold (Tara Books, India) and The Hoodoo Book of Flowers. He has been Exec. Dir. of The Harlem Writers Guild and various nonprofits, and is a blues-based performance artist, a practitioner of literary hoodoo and Professor Emeritus, MFA Syracuse University.
