Will Do Magic for Small Change

Home > Science > Will Do Magic for Small Change > Page 7
Will Do Magic for Small Change Page 7

by Andrea Hairston


  “Come!” Kehinde shouted.

  I ripped myself apart to reach her.

  “Tell me of your brother.” I fell at her feet, clutching a burbling wound in my side. “Why have you never told me before?”

  “Only a fool trusts a stranger.”

  “Am I a fool for trusting you?”

  She shrugged, then dripped blood from her wounds into a skull. “Will you swear never to betray me?”

  “I will swear.”

  The skull grinned at her as she spurted blood from my wound into it. “This man was a French spy. He raped a palace guard while a cousin from my village pinned me down and made me watch. My cousin called me traitor and planned to rape me too. The palace guard was a Fon woman who had shown me kindness. We’d sworn to die for one another. I had no weapon. She flung a hidden knife in my cousin’s eye, saving me instead of herself. The Frenchman crushed her neck before I took his head. No good solution. Hers was the best plan to save one of us.”

  “No good solution,” I murmured. This grim logic made me dizzy.

  Kehinde added gunpowder, palm wine, and fragrant leaves to the blood. “After you swear, I’ll tell you Taiwo’s story.” She poured a few drops in the dust and called on the master of the crossroads as witness:

  Eshu Elegba!

  Who used his penis for a bridge

  Penis broke in two, and travelers toppled into cold water

  Eshu the road maker!

  Who changes trees into warriors and makes paths into dead ends

  Eshu Elegba!

  Who threw a stone yesterday and killed a bird today

  Witness our sacrifice

  Hold us to our oath

  We are one spirit now

  “I will never betray you.” She drank the bloody mixture then thrust the skull at me. “Speak the oath in your own tongue.”

  “You ask me to face death.” To speak my language was to become no one in particular and broadcast my experiences between the wavelengths of this place. I might lose my Taiwo-self for hours, days, possibly forever. “Doing such an oath could scatter a Wanderer into many beings. I might get lost in the spaces between things.”

  She nodded. “Everyone dies. I’ve sworn to let go of one self to become another. Only Eshu knows our destiny.” She trembled in front of me. “Life or death, I face tomorrow with you, unafraid.”

  I gripped her waist. “You must watch over me until I return to this self.”

  “Explain.” She squinted, as if less light would clarify my meaning.

  “Stay with this body, no matter what it says or does.”

  “I have sworn. Do you doubt my oath?” She pushed the skull to my lips.

  I drank the bloody brew in one gulp, took a last swallow of air, and promised never to betray her to Wanderers near and far. The ground lurched under my feet. Trees and vines danced across a silvery sky. In my dissolving eyes, ten thousand iterations of her calm face blotted out exploding stars. I collapsed.

  Several weeks passed before I was this Taiwo-self again. Meanwhile French soldiers discovered our hiding place as Béhanzin’s scouts came seeking a traitor ahosi. They fought each other. Although Kehinde worried I had gone on to dance with my ancestors, she threw my body over her shoulder and ran into the forest.

  In the deep repose of formless Wanderers, tethered to a fragile human form, I wondered if I could keep my oath to her. Never is a very long time.

  Mojo Working

  Cinnamon spit the taste of fire out of her mouth and tried to wake up. She was held captive in a bad dream where the house was on fire. Opal jumped around, squealing about the insurance money they’d collect and the bills she could pay. Cinnamon clutched The Chronicles, dictionaries, and scrapbooks she’d rescued from Sekou’s side of their room, just her room now. A fist of flame snatched the heavy volumes from her hand without burning her; a cloud of smoke sucked thoughts out of her mind. She reached for her treasures and screamed at Opal. “The fire’s stealing memories of Sekou and Daddy too.”

  Raven Cooper, tall and spooky, with smoky eyes and silky dreads twisting ’round a crooked grin, waved his arms in front of a gunman, as two warrior women tasted tongues below a stained glass Jesus. An image on paper, it melted in blue flame.

  “Cinnamon doesn’t need to read more faggot fantasies.” Opal talked to the fire, egging it to burn higher, hotter, as if she didn’t notice Daddy burning up, as if Cinnamon wasn’t even there. “She’s lying all the time, living in a fantasy world.”

  Cinnamon bolted up, awake.

  Opal was ranting at somebody right now. “I threw out that other mojo mess you gave her.”

  “I didn’t lose it.” Cinnamon hissed and balled her fists.

  “Why take her to church?” Redwood’s voice boomed. “For Jesus walking on water and coming back from the dead like a zombie? Huh?”

  “Stupid optimist.”

  “She’s twelve,” a soft, low voice insisted. Great Aunt Iris?

  Cinnamon sniffled. Real smoke made her sneeze. Gray dawn light snuck under the shades and softened the darkness. The bookshelves were dancing shadows. Her Brother from Another Planet poster hung crooked against Starman, and The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension was missing a tack at the bottom. Something wasn’t right. She’d fallen asleep in street clothes, reading, with the lamp on, no flashlight under the comforter. The Chronicles had been clutched to her heart. The dead man was Kehinde’s brother, her twin even. On the back of a picture of Taiwo tossed over Kehinde’s shoulder, the Wanderer had painted Raven Cooper leaping in the air to catch a bullet with his teeth. The bar, street, and crowd were a blur except for two hands entwined and Sekou’s dark brown eyes. Or was that only a picture in a stupid-optimist dream?

  Cinnamon groped the floor. Dust devils danced up her fingers. The Chronicles was gone. She sneezed into the sleeve of the pink princess PJ’s she hated and clutched her throat. The blue mojo bag Aidan had given her was also gone. Panic closed her throat and nose. A third sneeze exploded inside her head. The Walkman, headphones, and an almost empty knapsack sat neatly on Sekou’s cluttered desk. Opal must have come in the night and taken The Chronicles and her mojo bag when she was dead to the world.

  Cinnamon put her fist to her mouth and clamped down on a scream. She peered under the bed. Sekou’s stash of secret things hunkered with the dust bunnies behind her sneakers. Counting twelve dictionaries still sitting proud on the bookshelf, she peeked into the Oxford English Dictionary resting on its stand/altar under a warped mirror. Sekou had stashed photos of Raven in with his favorite words. Determining that they were safe, she ran to the window and wrestled it all the way open.

  “It’s our job to spoil her,” Aidan said.

  “You will not take her to see her father.” Opal spit in the fire.

  The window looked out on a rocky patch of dirt (that the realtor pretended was a yard) that separated the house from a steep drop to the alleyway behind them. Opal, dressed in a ratty yellow bathrobe, marched around a garbage barrel, emptying a cardboard box into orange flames. Redwood, in billowy pants and robes, moved opposite her as if they were dancing an angry Tango duet. The blue scarf at Redwood’s waist could have been the Ohio River raging after a storm. Aidan tugged at Redwood’s arm, his long white hair trailing in the wind. He looked like an old Indian medicine man for sure, trying to get his hoodoo witch woman into a dark wool coat. Iris was halfway ’round the corner on the staircase up to the street, her head down, her chest heaving. She had on sensible shoes and iridescent raincoat, and she carried the bag with their overnight things. They were leaving. Iris also clutched a book or something under her arm.

  Opal shouted. “Raven was crazy wild like you all and —”

  “You loved him for it,” Redwood said.

  A few tears slipped past Opal’s defenses. “I’m not losing anybody else.”

  “Raven ain’t all the way gone yet,” Aidan said.

  “Might as well be dead!” Opal snarled.

  Redwo
od hugged Opal and her raggedy tears.

  “Aidan’s already got one foot in the grave.” Opal squirmed free. “When you’re gone, I’ll be left with the mess.” She tossed an envelope in the barrel. The cardboard box was empty. She tossed that too. The fire flared up, spitting ash and sparks into the patchy pink dawn. Redwood eyed the high-reaching fingers of heat that poked in the open window.

  “What’s to stop Cinnamon from —” Opal sounded wrong.

  “Everybody’s doing the best they can,” Redwood said. “Sekou blamed hisself for Raven getting shot, like he pulled the trigger that sent Raven to a coma.”

  “It tore the boy up inside,” Aidan said.

  Cinnamon skipped a breath. Sekou never told her that. Didn’t he trust her? How could Sekou believe a lie like that? Daddy in a coma was no way his fault.

  “If you’re going, go on before she wakes up and begs me to let you stay till Christmas.” Opal sounded hollowed out.

  Redwood let Aidan put the coat on her shoulders and tug her away. Opal lit a cigarette in the tower of flames and glared at the ground. Marching around the house, the elders glanced up at Cinnamon’s window and even managed to smile. A car pulled away in the front, probably Aunt Becca’s Kevin taking them to the train station. Aidan wouldn’t fly. He had one foot in the grave. One wrong step and Falling out the sky ain’t how I plan to go. Cinnamon couldn’t stop an image of Aidan from plummeting into dark earth. Dirt filled his ears, eyes, and mouth. She was choking too, trying to stop a flood of tears. What if she never saw any of them again? Never — like Sekou! No. She’d hitchhike up to New England if she had to —

  “Shit,” someone screeched. “Watch it!”

  Opal sprayed a hose of freezing water on the burning trash. A cyclist, no helmet, no lights in patchy dawn, pushed a ten-speed up the hill and cursed the rain of slush. She had a death wish, biking Pittsburgh hills in winter.

  “What’s wrong with you?” The cyclist brushed wet ash off her boyish figure.

  “Me? What the hell’s wrong with you?” Opal replied.

  “I’m an actor. My bike ride is emotional research.”

  “Well, I ain’t studying you.” Opal slumped into the house.

  Cinnamon closed the window, raced to lock the bedroom door, then climbed back under the comforter. Crying made it hard to breathe. Opal had sent the elders packing. She was burning The Chronicles, a special book, magic, a book to see a person through tough times, a book with a picture of Daddy in it! Cinnamon hadn’t gotten to memorize or even read much of it. You weren’t supposed to throw the truth away. That gave evil a chance to ruin your life. Cinnamon remembered what Armageddon was: a battle of good and evil at the end of time. Sekou said Armageddon was coming, and she’d let him down, let the Wanderer down too. She punched the pillow. Something hard inside bruised her knuckle. She swallowed a whimper.

  “I know you’re not asleep.” Opal tried to open the door. “I hear you crying. Stop that and let me in.”

  “How could you?” Cinnamon muttered. As she wiped away tears, blood from her knuckles dripped onto the pillow.

  Opal rattled the knob.

  “It wasn’t your book. Sekou entrusted it to me. I’m the Guardian.” She poked the hard thing in the pillow. “You burned Daddy’s paintings too and now —”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Burn your own life, not mine,” Cinnamon yelled.

  Opal pounded. “We can’t be living in the past.”

  “Sekou said the past doesn’t go anywhere. We always got a foot in yesterday.”

  “He did not say that nonsense. You’re making that up.”

  “It’s sorta what he said.” Cinnamon sniffled. “Just leave me alone!”

  After a few heartbeats, Opal walked back down the hall.

  Inside the pillow, Cinnamon found a carved wooden box wrapped in Redwood’s river silk. The liquid blue fabric flowed like cool water over Cinnamon’s wounded hand and pulled the pain away. The box was shaped like a comet with a tail of silver threads and violet feathers from a Georgia swamp bird. Aidan’s handiwork, it smelled of lily of the valley, black licorice, and rosemary oil. Aidan sucked licorice to soothe a cranky stomach. Cinnamon slid the top open. Inside was a yellow mosaic bead on a slim chain, her blue mojo bag from Aidan, a fat letter from Iris rolled like a scroll, and the shells and eagle feather that Redwood always wore. Always. Cinnamon’s hands trembled.

  That was something. That was more than something.

  She’d have to figure out a hiding place that Opal couldn’t find.

  Letter from Iris Phipps, December 1984

  Dear Heart,

  Don’t be angry with your mom.

  Opal thinks walking ’round the Tree of Forgetfulness will save you from being haunted by a past you can’t do anything about.

  Maybe she’s right.

  Opal loves you and wants the best for you. She loves Sekou too — no hiding that.

  Raven Cooper was her whirlwind, kindred spirit. They met in the desert —in a flashflood cloudburst — and promised to hold on to one another.

  Opal’s heart is breaking.

  Didn’t Sekou say we had to look out for her? I know you promised him, so hunt down your generous spirit and forgive her in the hard days to come.

  We offer you these keepsakes to remember us by:

  Aidan’s folks found one shell on Enotah, a sacred mountain in Cherokeeland (Georgia); another shell is from the Sea Islands and your Great Grandmother, Garnett Phipps. The feather is from a Lakota war bonnet. Aidan and Redwood found it at the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair along with the yellow bead from Dahomey. I hope you don’t mind us hiding powerful hoodoo magic under your pillow. Guard these treasures well.

  Aidan says he’s going to set your praise song for Sekou to music as soon as we get home. He also wrote you a song. He says, please excuse the rhyme. Don’t mind him. That’s an old music-man’s modesty. Get him to play both songs on the banjo for you next time we come down:

  Nobody can burn

  What you’re holding in your heart

  Nobody can turn

  The truth riding on your breath

  To ash and smoke, to pain and regret

  How much you want to bet

  Nobody can set

  The spirit on fire, except with love

  Nobody can set

  The spirit on fire, except with love

  Redwood sends you a hoodoo spell to make you a theatre person, like her and Aidan:

  1: Walk down by the river. Watch it flow, until you feel it flowing in you.

  2: Flow with the river whenever you want or need its power.

  3: Read a book everyday, and you’ll find secret lines, written just for you.

  4: Copy your secrets in a special journal.

  5: Improvise your own magic words to conjure the world you want.

  6: Find a friend or two, and share secrets and magic out loud.

  7: When you want to scream at Opal, tell her how much you love her and why.

  8: Go on and say why you’re mad too.

  9: Go where you’ve never been before — an aisle in the library, a corner of Kennywood Park, a museum or picture house, a bridge over troubled water or calm, a building downtown, a block in a strange neighborhood, a secret forest — and watch it flow, until you feel it flowing in you.

  You are the light of our lives shining on.

  Write and say how you’re doing. We can’t wait to see you grown into yourself,

  Love,

  Aunt Iris, Granddaddy Aidan, and Miz Redwood

  P.S. Aidan slipped The Chronicles out of your room while Opal got you into those sweet PJ’s. Redwood put him up to it, saying, “Take the book for safekeeping. Opal be in a fire-breathing, dragon temper. When her spirit cools, we don’t want nasty regret laying her low.”

  I’ve read a bit further. A drawing from the end of Chronicles 5 and these new chapters came loose. I took it as a sign and passed them on to you.

  Magic indeed
.

  Notes (#2) to the Current Edition of the Earth Chronicles, December 1984

  Trusting in words, in the stories of others can be dangerous. Dahomey is beyond the words I have written. Kehinde slips from my grasp, even as I try to write her down.

  Eshu laughs at me.

  I scoffed at books and writing, but it was learn to read and write or lose my head. Still I swore that I’d never waste precious time writing what could be spoken, danced, sung.

  Dear Guardians, beware of promises you can’t keep.

  After Kehinde’s death I write words to generous strangers I may never know, who trust me at least while they read. I seek the pattern, the story we made — a sacred task done in honor of Kehinde. What you remember makes you whole.

  I am writing for my life, while I wait for love to come back in style.

  Eshu laughs at us all.

  CHRONICLES 6: Dahomey, West Africa, 1893 —

  Return

  Having sworn to Wanderers far and near never to betray Kehinde, I came back to the Taiwo-self in a smelly room a few miles south of Ouidah, close enough to the sea to spit in the waves. It was a hot night. Kehinde dripped sweat in my eyes. The usually tight plaits across her head had unraveled, loosening tuffs of hair streaked with dust and grit. Her rich, dark skin had gone ashy. Her breasts and long legs were covered by rough brown cloth, the same rough cloth that irritated my skin from ankle to neck. I squirmed against a rash on my hips. Deep-throated creatures howled an alarm outside. I shuddered at the noise and stink of a hungry predator.

  Kehinde searched my face, uncertain. “Taiwo?”

  We were crammed with too many people in a dilapidated hut where the Fon had once held captives before shipping them to the Americas. The rank air offended my tongue. I didn’t mind the unwashed bodies, but the rampant despair nauseated me. I turned from Kehinde to vomit in a corner. A few foul drops came up. A woman with a big belly scooted away from me. She pulled a veil tight against her face.

 

‹ Prev