I am Flowers of the Delta Clan Flowers and the Line of O. Killens.

I am Mythmaker. Master of Fa. Babagriot of the hoodoo way.

Attend me Lord Legba. It is I Rickydoc Rootdoctor tell the tale. Of a people a prophet a way.

It is I, Rickydoc Trickmaster. Tell the tale as told to me.

Once upon a time there was an Angel. And a Conjureman.
     
 
I am known by many names. In the delta I am the Conqueror. In the delta I am known by the horses I choose. The delta has been fertile ground and it is altogether fitting that in Memphis a conjuror awaits. On the banks of Yemaya oldest water, a slow and muddied thing. As yet he defies me. My horses have always been a challenge. As much my Fa as I am theirs. I regret what must be done. It is not easy. To be the Horse of the Conqueror. First you must be broken.
 
     
   
A lowslung man, thickbodied, built to take punishment, a burly bearded blackman, a bluegum redeye twohead man what lived in a frugal manner in a little house perched high on stilts in a riverside park alongside the Mississippi. He often seen walking the streets of the little colored community that sprawl alongside the river, Riverside it is called and inordinately proud of its local Conjureman, feel like he give them a flavor not too many hoods can claim  
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Live out there in the woods like a wildman, Ms Gertrude Turbee tell visitors from less blessed areas of the city, uninformed cousins and the like. Ms Turbee your classic neighborhood busybody live right there at the mouth of the Park in a charming little gingerbread house next to the Riverside Baptist Church. In the warm months you see her on her front porch watching that little bridge connect the Park to the city. I see him most everyday she say. Truly she nod, been there since he came home from the war, no baby no, Vietnam, grew up over on Fay Street, Corrina Highjohn firstborn, come back from Vietnam whole to the eye but he move out there into that Park and been there ever since. Some of the more gullible folk around here tell you he been there since the Civil War but then some folk believe anything they hear, you want to know the truth you come to me. Truly she say. Look right along there she say. Between the trees there. That light right there. Thats where the hoodooman stay. In a house on stilts. So he can see
 
Jubilation Tucept Highjohn well aware what the good folk of Riverside got to say about him. Be a rather poor conjureman who wasnt. Colored folk own the river in Memphis, specially South Memphis where they live on the bluff and high above its whims. Jubilation T. Highjohn actually do live in the park itself and high on the bluff, a sturdy little house sitting treetop tall on stilts dug deep in delta mud. Neighborhood folk call it a treehouse, a tight little box of gray wood as weathered as the trees that surround it and barely visible in the bright months of sanctuary. He had been two weeks hardtime out of Vietnam when he found himself drawn to the leafy solitude of the park he had roamed growing up. It had been a jungle then, before the expressway and the developments ate at it, and when he went to ground he claimed the Park he had known as a child and his uncles strange little house on stilts. Claimed it, made it home and secured it with a defensive perimeter of cowbells on concertina wire, with slingtraps and dreadfalls, still out there, rotted with years and neglect.
 
Conjureman sitting still as a mountains heart. Building and destroying worlds in his mind. Twisted roots fall into a small brass bowl and the board unfolds within. Tell me conjureman, what do you see. Erase the frown and throw again. Not a good time for unclear sign. No, not a good time at all.

Not too many folk kno w the conjureman what suppose to live in the Park same same storyteller Jubilation T. Highjohn. Members of the Riverside Baptist Church, heavy with Ase, point him out walking the neighborhood like he do. There go the Conjureman say the preachers wife, the one what live in the park she say, no no, thats the Storyteller say the choir soloist, I seen him at the Hole in the Wall last Wednesday. The Deacon Jones shake his gleaming head, a Poet he say, something like that and what, might I ask, were you doing at the Hole in the Wall Miss Clorinda. Getting my praise on she say.
 

The Church sit on the corner of Riverside and Person where the bridge span the expressway separate the Park from the City. On this particular corner is the Riverside Baptist Church, the Riverside Branch Library and the neighborhood jook, all called Riverside after the mile or so of thickly wooded bluff that run along the river there.

This fertile mixture of jook, church and library was not lost upon the congregation and is the subject of one of the Right Most Reverend David Earl Jacksons better received sermons. The jook got some official name faded across its front facade but everybody call it The Hole in the Wall.

During the day folk come to eat from all over Memphis, but come the evening deep delta rhyme rule, some jazz and hiphop but mostly blues, all weekend and Tuesdays toos, cause the owner, Elder Fred Hudson, say he cant get through the whole week without no blues. Wednesdays belonged to the Word.

 
Well you tell me. He pretty good, he claim competent. He do alright considering the problematic constraint of a geas demand he speak truth always. He do a fair to middling Shine. A better than average Monkey. Decent Brer Rabbit. Some originals he like to think getting old gracefully. A little harp. A little kalimba. A circuit he made regular, Tennessee, Arkansas, Mississippi and Louisiana; the Seven Sisters of the South - Memphis and New Orleans, Atlanta, Birmingham, St. Louis, Nashville and Natchez; colleges and the chitlin circuit, festivals, community dothingies, a ritual here, a ceremony there, altars, roots, spells, hands and consultations. He got by.  

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Consider our favorite conjureman getting with customary relief off a little bitty propplane in a little bitty regional airport in Alabama. He jingle when he walk you know. Ankle bells he tell the curious, in my bag. A tall composed woman, stiff like a statue, wait for him at the gate, wellcut pants suit, black hair cut short to the side, he can tell she is his contact by the hopeful way she looks at the only black on the plane. He walk up to her, he nod and he smile, his professional best


Jubilation Highjohn he say, and you. She introduce herself, Dean Carwell, my name she laugh and flush freckles out from under her from makeup, not my title.

He nod, shake her hand, swear this time the thankyou note for sure, Dean he remind himself, her name not her title. He touch her hand, he feel her. She got pain..

Do you have more bags she ask him. He shake his head, dont travel with no more than he can carry.

She hustle him over to a lowslung campus car. Wont have any downtime she say, your performance is in about an hour.

 

 

She ask him if Highjohn his givenname or a stagename. He murmur respect. Family name he say. Lott of name to carry she say. Tell me about it he say, I do a fair to middling John de Conquer. The way Zora Neale did it.

He figure she know the Conquer she know Zora. They drive through a modest little suburban campus. Didnt look like it could generate a decent crowd, but you never know. Dean point out where he performing. New Performing Arts Center, just built, just opened, youre the first.

They stop at the campus Holiday Inn so he can freshen up and transform his traveling bag into a bag of tricks. He come back down to the lobby she up and pacing. He cool calm collected now. Its showtime.

He give her a twisted root. Tell her its good for what ails her. Carry it when you need to. Feed it when you can.

 

  

 

They late but the party dont start till he get there. Nice little auditorium, decent crowd, black teachers and students scattered amongst them That was a relief, a sea of expectant white faces make you feel like a minstrel, made Hancock Rux say no black male show today, no, not today. In spite of knowing better Highjohn start counting the years. It had been fun once. Putting an audience in the palm of your hand. Trying to move the people. To save the race. To awaken de sleeper, protect de weak and guide de strong. Now its just a gig.

He give the nod at blackfolk awaiting tribal acknowledgement, then he drape himself in 101 talismans, a jaded professional perhaps but still a professional, showtime he like to say, an attitude he stole from All That Jazz. Cause art dont ask.

Dean winding down. He wrap de bell around he ankle. He was here last year, Dean say, and people are still talking. This used to be fun. I want you to welcome Jubilation Highjohn. A babagriot of the hoodoo way. Then Baba Highjohn jangle up, raise he conchhorn to he lip.

 
 


For a longtime Highjohn de Conqueror was just the name of a plant that grew wild in the marshland. It was dug and dried and carried in the hand or worn about the neck to ward off haints, disease and nightmares. The power root. Break any obstacle. Cause any problem to fall.

After awhile that plant became so powerful it began to walk like a natural man. Now Highjohn the human kept out of the sight of folk. Live Legba child in the swamp somewhere.

But whenever you in trouble you whisper his name and you can feel the Conqueror as he pass you in the breeze, listen good you hear him whisper in the trees. Zora claim the Conqueror must walk on the wind, cause he move so fast. Say maybe he in Mississippi when the lash fall on a slave in the Sudan, but before the blood dry on the back the Conqueror is there. Beating the unbeatable and superior to the whole mess a sorrow. Claim this our day. Claim to know the way.

 
 


Zora say its the Conquerors voice come through clearest on Sunday morning. Say its the Conqueror whose worksong sustain you in the field. Say wherever the work the hardest the Conqueror is there. Lifting the hoe higher than anybody else and still have time to wipe the sweat from your brow. To give you a cool drink of water.

Zora say he the sweetness in an apple pie and the quick cunning of breh rabbit. The cool breeze on a hot summer night and the wetness of a sweet summer rain. He the hopebringer. The burden bearer. The battlefighter. The jackpot winner. He a mighty force. An ultimate power. When you whisper his name, that bee dont sting. That sqeeter dont bite. That snake dont strike.
Zora claim the conqueror help the slaves get free by tricking old massa. Say after the slaves was free, the soul of the conqueror went into the Highjohn de Conquer root. Waiting to return whenever there is a need. Say you call him and he be there before you finish saying his name. Highjohn de Conqueror. The Mighty Conqueroo.

   
Thats what Zora Neale said. Ask her yourself if you dont believe me.