“What’s wrong?”

“You know, sometimes I feel like I am the devil to wear four faces. A face for the Frannies, a face for civilizado, a face for Ayachero village people, a face for the Tatinga, over.”

He began to cry. I’d seen so few men cry, it terrified and confused me.

“You know, Lily, I am afraid I will die this way, a man who does not honor his own ca’ah. I am feeling the biggest, loneliest weight in my heart and I cannot lift it. The weight of a thousand ceiba trees. I am too many things, so I am nothing, over.”

“But you have to come back to us. We need you, and I’ll make your suit . . .”

For God’s Sake pulled a knife from his belt, reached up to his neck, and sliced off the leather cord that held the cumbersome tin cross. He tossed it out the open window. “I am tired of this dead white man, Jesus Christ. He means nothing to me. He is not the spirits of the plants, of the river, of the trees, of the four corners of the earth. He is someone else’s God. It’s okay to bring the Frannies the cans of beans, of pickled eggs, of coffee, but they want my soul, too. They want the souls of my family, the souls of the Tatinga, to have the souls of all the tribal people would be just fine with them, and why should that be?” He paused, a look of disgust passing over his face. “But For God’s Sake says yes, okay, I will do it, For God’s Sake always says yes. I bring the shiny toys and pretty things, so they give me money for my family to live, over.”

“I would do the same thing.”

“Well, you are just a young girl who thinks childish thoughts, but I am a grown man who will one day go to my own gods, and what will I say to them, over?” He wiped his eyes and continued. “A while ago, before you came, there was a young Tatinga boy at the Frances camp. He was twelve, or maybe thirteen, and he was trying make a fire to smoke some fish for the Frannies. He was doing it the way of the Tatinga and all the tribes: two sticks with a rock under a pile of kapok fibers, and he was rubbing and rubbing. For a lot of minutes. There was a little smoke, even, the fire was going to come, but I became my impatient self, and took out a match and struck it and lit up the little pile of seed pod fluff. And then do you wonder what happened after that, over?”

“Yes . . .”

“The boy became full of shame. He took the matches from me and kicked away his little pile of sticks and rocks, and swore he would never light a fire in that way again. He said he would rather starve, for the shame of doing things the old way when the new is so much better. So much faster! And he took that seed of shame back with him to the Tatinga, among all the other seeds of shame. Here is a poison that spreads, and soon no one remembers anything. No one remembers the plant that cures a stomachache, or fever, or joint pains, or the vine that cures grief. He will not teach his son how to light a fire the old way, or his son’s son, and it all dies. No one can do anything without a match. The jungle becomes useless, over.”