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

"Thank goodness," she said.

She gazed into the darkness, the same direction toward which the dogs ran. Whatever was in those woods, and beyond, was sure to be better than here, she thought, certainly couldn't be no worse. When she was younger, she let herself think about what could be behind the clusters of trees. Another river, surely. Maybe a town with people who almost looked like her. Perhaps a giant hole where creatures lived. Or a mass grave where people were thrown when they were no longer useful.

Or maybe the toubab were right and there wasn't a single thing beyond the woods but the edge of the world and those who ventured there were doomed to be swallowed up by nothingness. Nothingness seemed as good a choice as any, though. She stared and stared, but didn't move. She didn't admit it, not even to herself, but she was broken. Her years on Empty had succeeded in hollowing her like its name promised. From friend to rag doll to cattle to cook, and not a one with her permission. Wouldn't that bust anyone up? So yes, she was broken. But she wasn't shattered. She could keep passing her misery back on to its source. Maybe that could be a mending.

Essie, who helped Maggie in the house sometimes, would be up by now. Surely, tending to that crying burden of hers; the one that nearly killed her coming into the world.

"Mag, I don't know what I'm gon' do. He look at me with those glassy eyes and scare me so," Essie said to her once. Maggie looked at her: Essie's hair was disheveled, her dress torn, her face ashy with tear stains. She had only seen Essie like this once before. Both times, it annoyed her.

"Woman, ain't nothing you can do now. What's done is done. That baby your'n. If it's the eyes that scare you so bad, close yours. Or hand him off to Be Auntie, who love that color more than her own," Maggie replied with more sharpness than she had intended. She paused and rubbed Essie's shoulder.

"Maybe," Maggie then said softly, "Maybe, I could come by every now and again to help." She forced a smile. "And we can get Amos to pitch in; I don't care what he say about it—'specially now that y'all done took the broom leap."

Maggie didn't really care what Amos said about most things. She remembered when, some time back, he walked into the study with Paul Halifax and emerged transformed into something unrecognizable; more beautiful to some, but to Maggie, every glint in his eye and click of his tongue was deception. Yet, he was so proud. People liked pride. Mistook it for purpose.

"Good morning," Amos would say with a smile too earnest to be honest. Maggie would nod in return as she walked by him and then cut her eyes the moment she was clear of him. She did, however, understand what Essie saw in him when Paul sent him in to her. It was nice to be asked rather than taken, to be held close rather than held down. Nevertheless, a snake was still a snake and its bite hurt whether it was poisonous or not.

Sometimes, when Maggie watched Amos closely—the gait of his walk, the upward tilt of his nose, how his habbage rode his back—she laughed. She knew what he was trying to do, who he was attempting to imitate, and she knew why. She had no contempt for him, but had no warmth either. He had a kind face, though sorrowful, the latter connected him to their people and this place. He was as black as virgin soil even if his loyalties seemed to lie elsewhere, where the potential for backfire was imminent. He would learn that if he learned nothing else, and when he did, it would crush him.

Maggie shook her head and put her hands on her hips.

"Just plain foolish," she said to no one.

She turned to walk back into the kitchen and saw that the sky had begun to lighten a bit and she could make out the shape of the barn amongst the shadows. That was where Samuel and Isaiah spent most of their time working, tending to the animals, breathing, sleeping, and other things. Those poor boys: The Two of Them. They learned, and learned early, that a whip was only as loathsome as the person wielding it. Sometimes, they made it even harder for themselves by being so damn stubborn. But never had stubbornness been so enchanting.

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.