He saw the beach after a three-hour walk and collapsed at the root of an old sea grape, sheltering beneath its skirt of leaves. He took off his boots and shirt and went for a wade in the water, which was deep and rough. Boys were kicking a football on the shore. Some older men were steaming fish and fixing their nets beneath a shed. He asked them for Shiloh after he finished his soak. One man pointed to the hills in the distance—he lived up so. The yellowtail snappers were simmering in a butter sauce fragrant with garlic and tomatoes. How much for the fish? he asked. If you going to see Shiloh, one of the men replied, you not suppose to eat … everybody know dat. Hurry up, the man added. When night come nobody cyaah see you and car might lick you down. How long will it take to get there? he asked. The man said about four hours. Most of it was uphill. Y’have any water? The man pointed to the sea. Fuck, I-nelik had told him not to bring any money.

There was a small hotel down the beach. He could go there and call someone collect. He thanked the men, who gave him directions, then gathered his things. His stomach grumbled. His tongue was a strip of leather. It not far, one of the men said from behind him. You know how far man did haffe walk inna de days of slavery? True dat. He went into the hotel lobby and walked out again. What was his load compared to the burdens of his forefathers? Those men who would have seen in this place the savannas where they’d been trapped like antelopes. Do you remember the days of slavery? He began to hear Burning Spear in his head. Heard the bass and the horns, the marshaling of the troops, and he began to march from the beach to the road, which he followed all the way to the top of the hill. There, in a clearing among some acacia trees, was a wattle-and-daub hut. Below him, night was coloring the plain like ink dispersed in a glass of water. He ambled forward on burning feet and called out hello. No one answered. The place seemed deserted. He walked around the hut and peered through a window. There was no one there. What would he do now? It was eighteen miles to Black River. And he was tired and hungry. And broke. And dizzy. He slumped down against the side of the hut and opened his bag, hoping to see something he hadn’t packed there. He could eat a little toothpaste, but that would only increase his thirst. No, not the soap. Not the soap. Do you remember the days of slavery? He began to sing in his mind again. Do you? Do you? Do you? Black River was a clump of lights to the left. The others he was sure were fireflies in the nearground. In his mind he saw tall ships in the estuary, unloading men in chains. Men like Marcus Garvey and Bob Marley and Michael Manley and Harry Belafonte and Colin Powell and Claude McKay and Peter Tosh. Do you remember the days of slavery? This was hard, he thought. But he would overcome. For he was descended from kings.