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.
Notes
1 What God has joined, let no man rend asunder.
About the Author
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.