In his black cabinet under the ground he feels himself jump. His body twitches, not sharply, but in a long slow undulation like a fish moving just under the surface of a dark pond. The snake coiled in his elbow rustles and the stubby rattle purrs. A couple of scorpions nestled against his chest probe with their claws. Centipedes feather their dry legs. “Yi lord,” he says softly. He can sense himself about to fly.
On the fourth night as he lies on his back resting, not so tired, the dog slunk back for now into its cave, he watches as the lid of his cabinet begins slowly to creak upward. He thinks for a second it is the sky itself tipping away and almost hollers out. But it is only Bill Francis, a convict machinist from Carmichael, Louisiana, raising the door. The door was locked with a nail stuck through the hasp.
Delvin hears the whistle of breath. “My God, what a stink,” a whispering voice says.
Moonlight shines into the hole. The lid drops and is caught. “Sweet Jesus,” another voice says.
“Come out,” the first voice says, like King Darius calling to Daniel, calling to the subterranean one.
Delvin tries his voice. It still works though it croaks and rasps. “Let me say my farewells,” he whispers.
“Yall step back,” Bill Francis says.
Delvin detaches himself carefully from his companions of the pit. It takes a short while but he moves steadily until he can get to his knees and then to his feet. It is difficult but not impossible to climb the eight steps. The air rich with cleaned-off life. The bosky smell of the trees. The undergirded reek of the fields. A freshly birthed world. It makes him modest.
“Come on, boon,” Bill says, taking him by the wrist. The man gives him a long look. “We thought you might be swole up and bit by now, but you got a special way.”
What are they doing here, these convicts? They are all convicts. It is too complicated to ask. They’re raising me, he thinks. Gon do some running? I expect so.
