Draxton Welles first Montego Bay encounter:

. . . Draxton waved as the iceman and his woman drove off. Then he crossed Glouchester Street to find the place where the iceman said he could smoke in peace. But he heard someone call out. He turned to see a tall, lean young man crossing from the Far Bar patio. He walked with a lazy grace, like a Masai warrior. When he got close, he showed a gentle smile. Ites, mon.

Ites, Draxton replied, recognizing the greeting. He held out a hand and the youth shook it diffidently, as if the act was alien.

I man name JJ. Jus come fi tell you, mus tek care, mon. Not everyone can trus, yunno.

Draxton chuckled self-consciously. Yeah, I guess that was a little bold. But the iceman seemed cool. He chuckled again at his choice of words, acutely aware of language all of a sudden. Im Draxton.

Your firs time here? asked the youth. Draxton nodded. The fellow indicated toward a set of old stone steps. Come satta, mon. Some ting me can tell you bout de place. InI can reason here, de icemon right about dat. But check itJamaica city full a deception, yunno. Mus trod wi caution.

Okay, Ill remember that. He pulled out his last joint of Humboldt bud. What does JJ stand for?

Jon Jacob.

I thought it might be after that TV character they call Dy-no-mite.

JJ smiled. Ya mon, me hear dat some. Him an artiste, too, like de I.

Youre an artist?

JJ shrugged. Paint some tings.

You sell your work?

Now an den, roun about.

Draxton felt it propitious that the first guy he should meet in Jamaica would be an artist. He told JJ he was one too. He lit his joint, and passed it. . . .



Draxtons moment of conversion: (Please make Bold)

After the Melody Makers rocked through their set, their mother, Rita Marley herself, came on with Judy Mowatt and Marcia Griffithsthe I-Threes, who had backed up the Wailers in Bobs last eloquent years. In ankle-length native gowns and multi-colored headdresses, they were the picture of compassionate but indomitable African femininity.

. . . Draxton saw Julie staring, and wondered what she was thinking. He could not know her very conception of womanhood was being transformed right there, before her ears and eyes. The things he had shared about the I-Threes from his readings, including the tribulations they had been through in the last years of Marleys life, had had little impact on her. Now she saw for herself, in Ritas, Judys and Marcias faces, a majesty and strength of belief that filled her with awe and envy. How could they be such great artists and devoted mothers and abiding wives? Through their undaunted devotion and inborn firmness of character, forged in the yards of Kingston, she was shown the spiritual paucity of bourgeois values. She could feel now why Draxton would wish to be born in the shantytowns of an obscure island instead of an American suburb. Whos environment was more stifling to creativity? he had asked. What forces, what values fostered true greatness of spirit? No makeup bought at Macys could paint that look she saw on Ritas face. No Saks or Nordstroms could replicate the aura surrounding her raiments. It was faith and faith alone, an assurance born of great struggle. That faith emanated from these women like a sunrise.

. . . Draxton had always wanted to express himself in music, and now he believed he had found the key. He knew, right there, standing in the vibrating earth of that centuries-tormented island, that he had to try. He loved this music too much to just listen to ithe had to be inside it. Because it was inside him. He felt it pushing to get out, pushing so hard it hurt. It felt like it had always been there, and only now had grown too big to be contained in a corporeal body. It was the only way he could express his feeling of creation, to ever hope to know why he existed. . . .

But the greatest moment of all, the moment of Draxtons final transformation, came at dawn. That was when Hagian Foss stepped onto the stage. The one the people called the High Fortressa phrase taken from the Book of Isaiah. . . . As if by cosmic design, though slated to close the festival the night before, it was not until dawn that Foss could take his place at the mike. The indomitable, unchartable, but instinctively insightful reggae journeyman recognized it as a special time, a time when souls would be vulnerable, exhausted, nearly spent . . .and thus wide open. . . . He knew his placethe stage and the responsibility of the torch being passed to him, from his dead brethren prince, Robert Nesta Marley. . . . He knew the biblical tradition of singers and players of instruments, and why he was there that morning. He overstood that placehis role, and the power of the moment. . . .

Just then, the suns rays broke over the eastern mountains and struck the stage like fire. At that instant, the awesome master of his chosen element swept his hand over the band, and with the precision of an atomic clock they combusted like fire as well. And the Fortress fed the hungry their due. . . .


Draxtons second trip to MoBay, as Draxie Dread: (Please make bold)


. . . Eight kilometers northeast on The Queens Drive, a car suddenly came around a curve. It had not been the first to seem to demand the whole road; but like the others, at the last second it swerved. This time, however, this one flashed its brights when it passed.