“Fire, I’m not saying that some rough shit never reach her, y’know. But who says these things actually cause her to be this way? I know nuff people who grow up poor and never turned out so. So wha dat tell you?”

“That we still can’t judge her so soon.”

“You’re making excuses for her, man.”

“These are not excuses, I-nelik. They are facts we must consider.”

“Sylvia has been away from Jamaica too long, Fire. She doesn’t understand how to share anymore. America is a selfish fucking place.”

“Isn’t that self-righteous?”

“No.”

“What is it, then?”

“Facts.”

“I see.”

“Listen to me, Fire. Have I ever steered you wrong before? Forget both Blanche and Sylvia and start afresh with someone new.”

“Come on, I-nelik, it’s not that simple. Is like she inside me. She’s like a part of the muscle fibers now. I can’t separate myself from her that easily. Trust me, if ah coulda do it ah woulda do it.”

“You can do it, Fire. You mind weak right now. You need to purge it then feed it again. Your body too. You should go on a retreat. Spend some time in the bush, man, and fast and cogitate and take long walks and come back to yourself.”

“You think so?”

“That’s the only way, really. Otherwise, you’ll go mad.”

“So a retreat then …”

“Yeah, man. Is not me say so y’know. Is Jah the Father. The one that sitteth on the holy throne of Mount Zion. I am just a messenger.”

He began to laugh … and sing: “Jah send me come / Jah send me come, come.” And suddenly lightning burst from the sky, raining down in white-hot sheets that burned away the darkness. Then there was thunder. And battling winds crisscrossed the rain like broken bicycle spokes.

“Jah!” the dread exclaimed. “Rastafari! King of Kings and Lord of Lords, the Conquering Lion of the Tribe of Judah, the Elect of God, Ever Living God, Earth’s Rightful Ruler, Negust Negast. Jah! Rastafari!”

The next morning Fire hitchhiked to St. Elizabeth, a gin-dry parish in the south. He shouldn’t drive, I-nelik had said. And he shouldn’t take more than a knapsack and whatever he needed for hygiene. For he was going back to nature. To himself. So he needed to leave the world behind and trust in the wisdom and goodness of God. Go to Black River, I-nelik had said, and no matter what time you get there, walk to Treasure Beach. When you reach, ask for Shiloh. He will know that you are coming.

How?

Cause there’s a natural mystic blowing through the air.

He arrived in Black River in the late afternoon, riding in the back of a flatbed truck, his fourth ride of the journey, whose long gaps between stages had given him lots of time to think. In work boots, T-shirt, and cut-off jeans, he walked in the middle of the asphalt road. Fifteen or twenty minutes would pass before he heard the sound of traffic, and sound traveled far and quickly in this place, which was flat like the Serengeti. The trees were low. The grass had been burned to a golden brown like wheat. The dirt was red, and brittle. Even the cry of a bird would stir the dust, coating everything: the gingerbread houses, the cows so lean they looked like horses. Even the people, it seemed. Their skin was coppery, like dust had clogged their pores, preventing sweat from washing away the base from which they were made, the form to which they would return.