And the whole body of the man did seem
Like one whom I had met with in a dream
Or like a man from some far region sent
To give me human strength…
to give me human strength…
to give me human strength…
by apt admonishment.
“Daddy?”
When he turns, Hope is standing, tentative, in the checkered light that falls from the old trees.
“Hey, Pete.”
“Are you leaving?”
“In a bit.”
“Forever?”
Ransom kneels and stares into her solemn, worried eyes. “No, sweetie, just for a few days. I’m still a little sick now, but I’m getting better, and in a week or so, I’m going to take you and Charlie with me to Alafia, where Shanté lives.”
“You promise?”
Ransom smiles and draws an X across his heart. “I promise, Hope. And I’ll always come back for you and Charlie. Always.”
“And Mommy—is she coming, too?”
Ransom holds the little agony of understanding in his daughter’s eyes. “I don’t think so, Hope,” he answers, gently brushing back a lock of fallen dandelion hair. “Mommy and I aren’t going to be together anymore. I’m very sad about it. But it’s going to be okay.”
“How, Daddy?”
“I don’t know. I only know we’re going to make it be.”
She considers. “Do you have time to push us in the swing before you go?”
“Yes, I have time.”
“Higher, Daddy! High as the morning sky!” Hope cries.
“Not today, Zurg!” Charlie says.
No, not today, thinks Ransom as he pushes them. It was not that day after all. Not the day he thought it was…Or maybe it was. And when he cried out of the wilderness, when I called out from the belly of the whale, did He not answer me?
Perhaps, perhaps. Or maybe it was just the words of an old song. That chapter, too, already fading. And Ransom Hill, like all of us, will know the answers before long.
And as he pushes them and listens to them laugh, the last verse comes:
But I must go now, Nemo’s calling for me.
And having had my say, I’m ready to go back.
Because for me at last there is no mortal satisfaction
Beyond the beautiful wild rush of his attack.
And so the song is done, and maybe it is Nemo talking to Ran now—as the Odyssey pulls down the white sand road and disappears where the lines of trees converge in the allée—maybe it’s that other, better man he’d always wanted to become but never actually was, maybe, once again, it’s just the little voice that in the morning helps you choose between the blue shirt and the red, or maybe it is simply Ransom talking to himself, wide awake now, saying, Hold it, boy, don’t run, hold the bitter wonder of the world, close your eyes and lift your face toward the sun, love it all you can and listen to the children cry with plaintive appetite, “Again! Again! Again!”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This note is to thank the many friends and strangers who contributed to this work, both the living, who reached out in person, and the dead, whose spirits touched mine through the ancient spell we sometimes take for granted—words on the page.
First, the people.
I’m grateful, above all, to my wife and children for their love, support, and forbearance through the five-year writing of this book; to my mother and father (the artist formerly known as Quid Nunc); to my brothers, George A. and Bennett; to Bob Richardson, whose library was my phoneless, e-mail-less sanctuary, the place I retreated each day to write and came to think of as my whaling ship; to Joel El Endoqui, who challenged me to deeper seriousness, and without whom I could not have written the Palo sections; to Bob Schofield, owner of Hasty Point plantation, who shared his real garden spot with me and showed me the old map where I found the name for my imaginary one; to Don Dixon, whose soliloquies kept me entertained as they instructed me on the fine points of rock musicology; to Tina Bennett, my brilliant, kind, unflappable agent; to my three editors: Gary Brozek, who encouraged the green shoot; Meaghan Dowling, who lavished such passionate attention on the sapling; and Jennifer Brehl, who oversaw the pruning that made the thing a tree; to the writers who spoke up for it: Lee Smith, Craig Nova, Randall Kenan, Annie Dillard, Pat Conroy; to R and S, who listened to me maunder on about the title and feigned interest, and whose good cheer and bad influence were as reliable as their friendship; to Bob and Terry and the Wednesday warriors, who helped with the instruction manual; and, not least, to the nfumbi of my line.
I would also like to thank Rich Aquan, Seale Ballenger, Pinckney Benedict, Rachel Bressler, Jamie and Marcia W. Constance, Pam Durban, Bill Emory, Lil Fenn, David Ferriero, Lisa Gallagher, Sarah Gubkin, Angela Haigler, Robin Hanes, Allan Harley, Richard Howorth, Frank Hunter, Svetlana Katz, Barbara Levine, Kim Lewis, Peter (“Pistol Pete”) London, Adriana Martinez, Madge McKeithen, Roland Merullo, Kate Nintzel, Nancy Olson, Harris Payne, Dr. Louis A. Perez, Jr., Carol Peters, Ron Rash, Mark Reed, Mary Gay Shipley, Sherry Thomas, Katharine Walton, Dr. M. W. Wester, Jr., Fran Whitman, Joyce Wong, and John H. Zollicoffer, Jr.
The books.
On Palo Mayombe: above all, the great ethnographic works of Lydia Cabrera: La Regla Kimbisa del Santo Cristo del Buen Viaje, Reglas de Congo and El Monte. (Their unavailability in English is an impoverishment that I hope the current copyright holders will soon address.) Also, the works of Robert Ferris Thompson, and The Book on Palo by Raul Canizares.
On Hoodoo/Conjure: above all, Hoodoo in Theory and Practice, Catherine Yronwode’s work in progress, published on her learned and fascinating website, luckymojo.com. Also, the works of Harry Middleton Hyatt, Zora Neale Hurston, Maya Deren, Ras Michael Brown, and, also on the web, Inquiceweb.com.
On contemporary Kongo belief: above all, Death and the Invisible Powers by Simon Bockie.
On Cuba: above all, Cecilia Valdés by Cirilo Villaverde, in the Sidney Gest translation, invaluable to me for nineteenth-century Cuban idiom and general period
