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

The pounding in her chest subsided and she scratched her own cheek to stop from weeping. Was it memory or prophecy? She couldn't tell. Sometimes, there was no difference. She held onto herself regardless and put past and future things as far away as they would let her—as though that mattered. Visions had the keys to the cage and would let themselves out whenever they pleased. This condition had to be lived with. There was no other way.

The cage was unlocked when thinking about the Two of Them. And it was, then, no surprise to her that they chose each other above the other, more readily available options. It was unremarkable that they mostly didn't pay attention to a woman, not even when forced. Not even in July, when toubab women would wait for toubab men to render themselves unconscious from spirits. These women—who went on and on about what it meant to be a lady (a term Maggie thought foolish)—got down on barn floors, pulled their dresses up over their breasts, spread their legs from one corner to the other, and writhed for the men they publicly despised.

Isaiah and Samuel weren't moved in January either, when people sometimes huddled together for warmth. Thisclose to a woman—whose skin and hair was dark with readiness, whose breath comforted and agitated, whose nether-scent threatened to make the insides of men shatter from longing—and neither of The Two of Them so much as twitched a pinky finger. No, those boys risked more than was necessary searching each other's faces, again and again, for the thing that made rivers rush toward the sea. Always one smiling and always the other with his mouth angry and ajar. Reckless.

She looked out the window again at the barn and saw the sun peak its head through the eastern trees. The pork was almost done. She took a plate and wiped it with the edge of her dress and went to the dining room table.

She had set the table with unfathomable resentment. White table linen, sharp at the corners, napkin rings strangling, cutlery already its own kind of deadly. All living things smothered, even the picked-wildflower centerpiece. The dim candle lighting cast a brass shadow, making everything, even Maggie, appear appropriately solemn.

She had to arrange the table the same each day: Paul always at the head; Ruth always to his right; Timothy always to his left, and three extra settings for the occasional guests. She would stand around after she had set the table and listen to the family give, in unison, thanks to the long-haired man whose gaze always turned upward—probably because he couldn't bear to see the havoc wreaked in his name. Or maybe he just couldn't bother to look. Maggie only knew about this man because she let Essie talk her into going to one of Amos' sermons one Sunday.

They held court in the woods, in the circle of trees at the southern edge of the cotton field. The man whose name she couldn't speak for a reason was there with a few of his scraggly minions and she wanted to turn right around when she saw him. But Essie had begged her to stay. She seemed so proud—and something other than proud, but Maggie couldn't tell what.

Amos stood up on a tree stump. That was exactly what the clearing smelled like to her: dead trees and the things that hid underneath them—or in this case, stood on top of them. There were about thirty people in the crowd then, sitting on logs or on the ground. That was before people started to believe Amos.He opened his mouth and she sucked her teeth. He wasn't doing anything but repeating some bits and pieces she heard Paul discuss around the dinner table. She knew from experience that no good could come from folks spending so much time alone with the toubab.

She found it rather dreary. Amos did have a way of talking, though. More like singing than anything else. The tree stump showcased him in a new light. Sun rays came down through the leaves, giving his blackness a kind of golden hue, showering him, too, with the kind of jagged shadows that made men mysterious, which was another way of saying strong. And Essie seemed so pleased. That was what made Maggie promise Essie that she would come back and sit with her in the same shady spot Essie reserved just for them. Until it could be so no longer.

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.