The Slat and the Tallow

In the autumn of 1998, I was twenty-one and still bunking in the converted sunroom of my grandmother’s farmhouse. The house was a creaking bones of a place, with warped floors that sloped toward the center like a tired old beast. My grandmother, Vera, had a room at the back, and my cousin, who helped with the chores, had taken the small attic room. I slept on a pull-out couch that had seen better days—its springs poked through the fabric, and the mattress smelled of dust and mothballs. Most nights, I ended up on the floor cushions, which were no better. When my grandmother went to visit her sister in the city, she’d let me use her room, with its high bed and feather quilt. Those were the only nights I slept without waking up stiff and sore.

That autumn, I had become obsessed with a radio preacher who talked about ‘seed faith’—the idea that if you thanked God for something you wanted as if you already had it, the universe would bend to your will. I was desperate for a change, for any sign that my life wasn’t just a slow rot. So I began a ritual: every night, I’d kneel by the couch, close my eyes, and whisper gratitudes for the money I didn’t have, the love I hadn’t found, the room I didn’t own. I thanked God for the cool sheets and the heavy blanket, even as the springs dug into my back. I did this for a week, and on the seventh night, something shifted.

The house settled around me, a low groan that I ignored. But then came a sound I’d never heard before: a soft, rhythmic brushing from the hallway, like a broom sweeping the floor. I sat up, heart hammering. The hallway was pitch black, but the sound drew closer, and I caught a whiff of something sweet and sickly, like tallow and old lavender. I called out for my grandmother, but she was away. The sound stopped at the door of the sunroom, and I saw a shape—a man, tall and thin, wearing a dark apron over his clothes. His face was in shadow, but he held a long-handled brush in one hand, and with the other, he gestured to me, as if to say ‘come.’ I didn’t move. I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed for protection, quoting scripture from memory.

When I opened my eyes, the hallway was empty. I told myself it was a dream, a side effect of the mold in the walls. But the next night, I again gave thanks, and again the sound came. This time, the figure stood right at the foot of the couch, and he spoke in a voice that was both inside and outside my head: ‘You thank me for what is not yet given. I will give you a gift, but you must receive it properly.’ I was drenched in sweat, unable to move. He reached out a hand, and in it was a small wooden bowl, filled with a thick, white paste. He said, ‘Rub this on your feet, like the teacher did for his disciples, and you will know the truth of your faith.’

I refused, but my hand moved on its own, taking the bowl. The paste was warm and smelled of the farmhouse’s old cellar. I rubbed it on my feet, and it soaked into my skin like water into sand. The figure dissolved, and I felt a wave of exhaustion and sank into the deepest sleep I’d had in years. In the morning, my feet felt strange—tingling, as if they had fallen asleep. I looked at them, and the soles were smooth and pale, like they had never touched the ground. I was afraid, but I was also thrilled. I thought this was the answer to my prayers, proof that my faith was real.

The phenomenon only grew. Each night, the figure returned, and he would apply more of the paste, now spreading it up to my ankles, then my calves, always whispering, ‘Receive the gift. Believe.’ My legs grew numb, and I lost feeling in them up to the knees. I couldn’t walk properly, and I had to crawl to the bathroom. My grandmother returned and was horrified, but I insisted I was fine, that this was a miracle. She took me to a doctor, who found nothing physically wrong. But the numbness spread, and I began to have dreams of a vast, dark room filled with chairs, and I was seated at a long table, and the tall man was at the head, pouring tallow into a basin.

One night, the man didn’t come. Instead, I woke to find my bed soaked in water that smelled like the farm pond. My legs were gone—not amputated, but absent, as if they had never been. I was a torso on the mattress, screaming, but no sound came out. My grandmother ran in, and she saw my legs, and she fainted. The doctor said it was a psychotic break, but I knew it was real. I had thanked God for a body without pain, and I had received it—a body without lower limbs, a body that ended at the hips.

I moved to a wheelchair, and I lived in the sunroom, which now felt like a cage. The numbness never left my mind. I tried to pray, but I could only thank God for what I had lost. The tall man visited me one last time, when I was alone. He stood by the window, holding a bowl of that white paste, and he said, ‘You asked for a blessing. You received it. But you did not ask for the feet to be whole. The gift is always exactly what you thank for.’ I understood then that my faith had been hollow, a transaction with a force that took me literally. I had thanked God for a new bed, for a room of my own, but I had also thanked him for comfort, for an end to pain. And that force, whatever it was, had given me the only thing I truly believed I deserved: an absence.

Now, I sit by the window, watching the farmhouse driveway, and I see the tall man sometimes, sweeping the path. He looks up at me and nods. I have learned to be careful with my gratitude. When my grandmother brings me a meal, I thank her, but I don’t thank the dark. I don’t thank the house. And yet, each night, I still hear the brush against the floorboards, and I know that the gift is patient, waiting for me to ask for something more. But I have nothing left to ask for. I have received everything I ever thanked for, and I will never thank again.