Is this a fever dream, a hallucination, or a premonition?
“You need to fight for your child, Zinzi.”River Mumma is suddenly in my thoughts.
“You’re right,”I reply.“I must fight to survive with every ounce of my strength. I have so much to live for.”
“Zinzi, Zinzi, hold on. We’re coming for you.”
I hear their voices and try to follow their guidance, but I’m losing my grip. The tree roots and the cluster of limestone stuck in the mud can’t support me. I am sinking.
They will have to save me again.
They do, and when I get out, it’s because of Othella. She climbs down into the sinkhole until she’s beneath me and pushes me up while Vivian Jean pulls and pulls.
But the sinkhole’s walls are collapsing beneath my fingers.
Finally, they give way as Othella falls out of our reach, tumbling deeper and deeper.
Vivian Jean stares into the sinkhole, her eyes filled with dread and determination. “Hurry, Zinzi! We have to get her out.”
“Yes. I have an idea.”
I’ve never realized how much I remember from the countless trips I took with my father along that path. He spoke of trees, orchids, silk cotton, pimento, hardwood, bamboo, and the strength of the vines.
Vivian Jean’s eyes shine. “It will work.”
“We just have to try.”
CHAPTER 48
OTHELLA
The Cockpit Jungle, St. Elizabeth Parish
Madness inspires madness.
These words are borrowed from my mother and never truly belonged to me. I use them as a crutch to get by, to push through, and to excuse the things I’ve done that I shouldn’t have or should have stopped doing. Now, I see the other side. Good people are there: friends like Miss Vivian Jean, Zinzi, and my best friend, Robbie. All the wrong people are gone, leaving only the good. I’m on that path, a road for the good. I cling to the muddy walls as dirt and sand clog my nostrils and lodge between my fingers and toes. I’ve shed a thousand tears, but the silence in my head screams. I should have expected this. Did I kill Perry and Jerry or did I protect myself from them? Either way, if I hadn’t been there or if I were some other kind of girl, none of this would have happened to me.
I should have sensed the danger weeks or months ago. Perhaps I never should have left Chicago. But with my stubbornness, naïveté, and nature, it took me a while to accept what lingered before me—plain as day, dark as night—withits tortured gaze, sweat-drenched cheeks, and large white teeth in a dazzling smile.
I can’t catch my breath. I can’t breathe and my chest hurts.
Why didn’t I notice it before? Why did it evade me for so long? What did the Obeah woman say?
This is where the false gods dwell. Beware, or you will miss the one true God when She comes.
Or was it something I thought she said or wished for?
A rush of wind brushes against my cheek like a gentle breeze, and the sky isn’t black. The moon shines brightly above. It’s amazing.
Peace envelops me, calming my racing thoughts. I try to lift myself up. A hand reaches for mine, but I can’t hold on. I’m falling down, down, down into the pit. As I descend, I have a clear, unburdened thought: The old woman was mistaken.
There are no false gods here.
EPILOGUE
VIVIAN JEAN
Hartfield House, Bronzeville, Chicago, A Year Later
