Excerpt from The Prophets by Robert Jones Jr., plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Winter came and Ruth gave birth, a girl she named Adeline. She brought the child—pale and discontent—into the kitchen and said to Maggie: "Here. I'll help you unfasten your dress."

Maggie had seen other women submit to this and had feared this day for herself. Only with a great deal of restraint could she act as a cow for this child. It had dull eyes and eyelashes so close to the color of its own skin that it might as well not have had any at all. Maggie detested the feel of its probing lips on her breast. She forced herself to smile just to keep from smashing its frail body to the ground. What kind of people won't even feed their own babies? Deny their offspring the blessing of their very own milk? Even animals knew better.

From then on, all children disturbed Maggie, including her own. She judged harshly all people who had the audacity to give birth: men who had the nerve to leave it inside; women who didn't at least attempt, by hook or by crook, to end it. She regarded them all with great suspicion. Giving birth on Empty was a deliberate act of cruelty and she couldn't forgive herself for accomplishing it on three out of six occasions. And who knew where the first or the second were now. See? Cruelty.

Chirrun, as she called them, didn't even have the grace to know what they were, and neither did many of the adults, but that was on purpose: ignorance wasn't bliss, but degradation could be better endured if you pretended you were worthy of it. The youngins ran around the plantation, in and out of the stables, hiding in the cotton field, busy as manure flies. Their darting, knotty heads were unaware of the special hell tailored for each of them. They were foolish, helpless, and unlovable, but whatever loathing she felt for them was mitigated by what she knew they would one day endure.

Toubab children, however, would be what their parents made them. She could do nothing to intervene. No matter what kindly tricks she employed, they would be the same dreary, covetous creatures they were destined to be, a blight their humorless god encouraged. For them, she could only muster pity, and pity only served to magnify her disgust.

It had occurred to her early on to rub nightshade petals on her nipples just before being forced to suckle. Against her skin, purple was disguised. It worked. Adeline died for what appeared to be inexplicable reasons. She foamed at the mouth. But this arose no suspicion because Ruth had miscarried once and had a stillborn child just prior.

The fourth child, Timothy, however, had a will to survive nearly as strong as Maggie's own. Grown now. Handsome, for one of them. Kinder than she would have imagined he could be given what he was. What was he doing now? she wondered. Painting, probably. He had a talent for such things.

She didn't spare the adults. She knew her attempts would be puny, insignificant rootwork that was more dangerous to her than to her targets. But miniscule power was still power. Therefore, when she was able, when not under surveillance, which was rare but not impossible, after she believed she had gained a modicum of their trust, she would seek all manner of things to add to her recipes. Slowly, patiently, a few drops of snake venom in the sweet tea. A tiny bit of heel-ground glass dust in the hominy grits. Never feces or urine because that was too personal. Not even a hair on her head, which is why the head-wrap was so important. She wouldn't allow them the pleasure, the privilege, of having any part of her freely given. And beyond that, it was simply insulting; it would only grant them even greater mastery over her. As with any good magic, she topped it off with a gentle humming that listeners often mistook for an ode to some far-off trickster in the sky. At the very least, if she couldn't kill them, she could make them uncomfortable. Cantankerous bellies and the rare bloody stool were pleasant, reassuring results. But she remembered that she mustn't raise suspicion. She didn't put anything in the biscuits this time. She recently received a warning in her dreams. Typically, she dreamed only of darkness. Sleep of the dead, they called it, and she suffered at Paul's hands for it more than once. So when her mother came to her whispering, dressed in white with a veil over her face, Maggie recognized all the signs for danger and knew that she would have to be particularly cautious. Just bread for now. The dogs were back, fussing and whimpering at the back door, aroused by the scent of the pork she started frying in the pan. She stepped out onto the back porch and into the dark morning. The sky had just begun to get pallid at the edges, but the sun was nowhere to be found. She kissed the air out loud in the hopes of getting the dogs attention, get the pack of them to hush. For a moment, they quieted. Then, they started up again. She stepped down into the field and picked up a stick. She shook it at them and then threw it as far as she could into the brush. They gave chase.

Excerpted from The Prophets by Robert Jones, Jr.. Copyright © 2021 by Robert Jones, Jr.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.