From the journal of Elliott Limb, a bashful prognosticator…
The White Clothed Oarsmen
Green water lapped against the side of the canoe. The murky, warm liquid slopped and splashed into the boat soaking the pale, smooth-shaven legs and feet of the men sitting in the worn, wooden craft. There were seats for twelve rowers and one coxswain, but only eleven oared as the twelfth spot was reserved for a bag of provisions. A provoking sack of food and water lauding in the faces of these uncomfortable and sunburned men, who grimaced as river water mixed with sweat and stung at open sores adorning their shinbones. They were cuts, which appeared after endless hours of paddling down the midst of this silent, dead river in the middle of Alabama. The gashes couldn’t be explained. Random and numerous, they’d heal into pink scars and remain a symbol of their toil. For now, blood dribbled and painted their toenails.
The river’s empty banks didn’t provide consolation to the paddlers. No fishermen, no storks, no turtles basking in the sun’s warm embrace, there existed only these men and their hoarse groans. They were eleven white-clothed oarsmen in open toed sandals driven by the preaching, the swearing and the coaxing of a man who didn’t swivel with the weight of a maple oar. He sat and he wore white, but his oversized straw hat protected his brow from the sun and it was pulled far enough below his eyebrows to hide his dancing, uncontrollable eyes. It couldn’t shade his mouth though. It couldn’t conceal his pleasurable smile as he rejoiced in the oarsmen’s unrequited efforts to glide the river as they slapped at their necks once or twice every minute.
Mosquitoes buzzed and sucked at the ribcages of these driven men. One by one, the parasites tasted the eleven’s blood and flew off dissatisfied. It was malnourished and dehydrated. No water, no food for the duration of the paddling event and still not one of these men was desperate enough to touch their lips to the diseased river’s water. As the men oared, they would look to their right and to their left and see the leftovers of unfortunate creatures to have ignored their instincts.
To the right, a half rotted white tail deer sticking headfirst into the black waters and to the left, nothing more but the same type of unpleasantness. A catfish would plop above the surface of the stale water and disappear underneath. The men pondered how anything could survive under this river’s surface. They also wondered how they’d survive above it as their tormentor sat in front of them not allowing them quitting time. His sweat wasn’t from hard work, only the heat and he slyly grinned while watching the men suffer. Reverend Beat demanded such things from his followers. He called them to misery. They obliged his requirement.
Sinister yet jovial actions from a man consumed with an uninhibited shade of evil not yet to impose its full wrath on the paddlers wearing white. The men were skilled however. They could paddle ten miles in forty-five minutes. They were sleek, the men, and their canoe’s line was straight as an arrow like their morality. It never swayed to the left or veered to the right. It was perfect. If the men were to have ventured into the realm of adulterous thoughts, their paddle’s stroke would coerce their boat’s path to a course treacherous to the oarsmen’s success. They kept their actions simple and monotonous and maintained excellent Christian behavior. Moral sons of bitch paddlers and adulating Christian cult believers, they’d have rather jumped in the river and drowned in its diseased waters than think of the devil and all the pleasure his ways provided. They were lost. Reverend Beat urged his team forward by leading them in a rendition of Onward Christian Soldier or the recitation of an inspiring Horace Walpole quote. The reverend found this to motivate his oarsmen to battle through the pain of a cramping calf muscle or stomach or shoulder blade. Devotees, all of them: they loved Reverend Beat and believed this type of labor an exercise best for them. The white clothed oarsmen were at perfect peace as they presided in the presence of their master pleasuring in their blind suffering. If a man succumbed to heat exhaustion and dehydration and the smell of vomit consumed the inside of their oversized kayak, the others kept going. They didn’t slow their pace. Instead, they hastened it. Only Reverend Beat could save the man’s life. He held the power, gallons of water in the ice chest. He wouldn’t budge. The men would glance at him with pleading eyes to save their suffering comrade. Nevertheless, they knew to keep going despite their unspoken moral protest. If they were to stop, they’d never reach their goal. Therefore, the man’s life wouldn’t be saved.
Reverend Beat taught them. He made them know it’s best to do as he wished. The goal wasn’t to think of others, but to think of him. As soon as the men realized this, then he’d save the dying man’s life. Their faith in him is the only consequential thing. They had to believe he’d save their friend’s life. He always did and when Rev. Beat revived a fallen oarsman and he opened his eyes and he embraced Rev. Beat with both arms as if he was rescued from the devil and his consuming fire, the men saw how Rev. Beat cared for each of them. He would never let them die. He was their provider. The lives they’d led before falling into Reverend Beat’s entrancing love was meaningless and not a memory from their past mattered. Purpose is what Rev. Beat told them it was. In their case, it was to paddle for hours in the dead of an unbearable Alabaman summer afternoon. Their hearts were content to slave for him and they abided with loyal adulation.
On this afternoon, it wasn’t one of them who’d need saving, it was the lifeless body of a man who’d fallen on a beautiful barmaid. His head was cushioned between her bosoms. He was still alive, but the poor giant breasted woman with creamy smooth skin was dead. They’d both taken quite the tumble from thirty feet above the river. The oarsmen and Reverend Beat could hear the drunken howling of a bar’s customers. They could smell the alcohol on the breath of the dying man. He was quite the sight. Beaten beyond recognition, his shirt was torn at the shoulders. Teeth were missing. They had to save him. The man needed Reverend Beat.
The Reverend was apt to saving him. Another follower to pull from the depths, he’d wrench this imperfect man from his grim destiny. He would try anyway. So, the oarsmen crammed him in Rev. Beat’s canoe and went about their business. They left the sweet golden haired angel to the elements. She began sinking into the water. It swallowed her head and encompassed her once life giving chest and it moved toward her stomach and it crawled over her pelvis. It covered her thighs and concealed her toes and the once beautiful barmaid sweetheart was gone altogether. She was the embodiment of a dishonest society. Glow in sin and be the lust of all men’s hearts, but lose this alluring beauty with nothing left, except one foregone conclusion: a surefire disappearance into the murkiness of the devil’s waters.
