Will Do Magic for Small Change

by Andrea Hairston

  “Eat.” I spoke Yoruba too. “He’s our host. We’re no better than he is.”

  “He is civilized.” Kehinde grinned. “I don’t wish to be.”

  “He is the New World you dream of.”

  “Eshu torments me.” She shoveled a hunk of pie into her mouth.

  “The pie is good,” I said. “Kehinde wonders why you stay in the Old World.”

  “I messed up my ankle doing a death stomp and got a fever. Ship left without me.” He jumped, twisted, and, favoring one leg, fell at Kehinde’s feet. She laughed. “I’m only funny when I don’t mean to be.” Kehinde pulled him to standing. “You’re strong.”

  “She’s not hokum, like you,” Liam said.

  Kehinde leaned into Raymond with English, “I know warrior dances of death.”

  Raymond looked hopeful. “Can you teach me?”

  Kehinde plucked an axe handle from by the fireplace and thrust it at him. When he reached for it, she danced to the side, spun around, and landed a blow against his broad shoulders that would have taken his head off.

  Raymond almost matched her moves with his long limbs. “Do it again.”

  She did. Liam watched them, burning up inside.

  Kehinde beckoned him. “Irishman, do a death dance with me.”

  How could Liam resist?

  Kehinde was indefatigable, relentless. Raymond and Liam received many cracks on their backs. Sagging and dripping sweat, they never landed a hit on her. It was pitch dark outside when Raymond finally spun on the balls of his feet and hit Liam’s shoulder. Spitting Irish curses, Liam snatched the handle and held it to Raymond’s neck.

  “Perfect,” Kehinde declared. Her mood had sweetened. “This is what I will show the New World!”

  Bob staggered in the door. His lungs labored against a sweat drenched shirt. Gasping the foul air, he doubled over. “We better do this now.”

  CHRONICLES 18e: Paris Fables —

  River Pirates

  Bob’s Eshu plan was a scenario for a derring-do masquerade. They wrapped me in herb-scented cloth, as if I were cheese, cured meat, or a tasty delight for first-class passengers. Melinga clung to my nose and babbled half-words from the torrent of languages she’d heard. When they pulled her away, she fussed in Somso’s arms. The box they laid me in was bigger than a coffin. Pressing my fingers on the lid, I could pry it up easily; holes on the sides offered air and a strange perspective on the world.

  “What if you die in that box, demon?” Somso said.

  “Eshu rides the Wanderer,” Kehinde said. I hoped that was true.

  Raymond said a box-transport adventure would be boring, but my heart pounded, and my breath was short. My ordeal would be nothing compared to Uncle Jared’s, who had mailed himself four hundred miles to freedom. My friends would be close. I had provisions: fruits, bread, water, and the useless French-doctor medicines that Bob secreted to me. The streets were deserted. The horses’ hooves echoed on damp cobblestones as we clomped toward the river. The wagon swayed between the wheels, and I was lulled to shallow sleep. We came to a jerky halt. Bob and Liam argued above me. Spying some dastardly fellow, Bob wanted to abort. Liam insisted it was too late for second thoughts.

  I peeked out a hole into gaslight dimness. A train of wagons was lined up at the docks with provisions for many boats. Powerful hands lifted me. As my shoulder crashed into the corner of the box, I wished for even closer quarters. Frenchmen joked with one another. The aroma of their exertion was as strong as the garlic, rum, and fish they consumed. Shouting insults, they dumped me. My back bounced against wood, and pain shot through my body. For a moment I saw stars. When vision cleared, it was too dark to see. The workmen had departed with their lanterns. I tasted blood in my mouth. I had bitten my tongue.

  Waiting hours in pitch black terror must have been the boring part of the Freedmen’s stories that spectators wouldn’t tolerate. I was surrounded by footsteps and curses. Boxes jostled against mine. Horses emptied their bowels. Foul odors jolted my nerves. Even flies buzzing close set my heart to thudding. What would Luigi do if he found a sick warrior smuggled in with his salt pork, pickled onions, and French wine? Would he punish Bob and Liam? Leave Kehinde and Somso stranded in a Paris jail? Perhaps this was a capital offense. Criminals in Paris faced a guillotine death. I thought of Abla’s bloated head and gagged. Luckily I was too depleted for sustained worry. I tumbled into a healing slumber.

  “Merde!”

  Bright starlight trickled into my box with oily river air. I needed to urinate, but persuaded my bladder to expand. Something heavy and hard clattered to the ground.

  “Sacre bleu!” Luigi swore in French, not far off.

  I wanted to leap out, confess my crimes, and beg for his mercy.

  “It’s all shit!” Luigi yelled in English now. He smacked his wooden stick against the cobblestones. “Son of a bitch!”

  Someone gave a soft reply, a deep unfamiliar voice.

  “Do you know how much I paid for a boatload of shit?” Luigi raged on.

  Another large object crashed to the ground and exploded. Splinters of wood hit my box. Luigi and his companion were close.

  “River Pirates,” the man with the deep voice said.

  “I can’t afford delay. We must leave Paris tomorrow at the latest!”

  Through a hole in my box, I spied Luigi’s favorite coat, vest, and black stovepipe hat. His beard was streaked with sawdust. He brandished a wooden walking stick. A crowbar levered open a box across from me. It was filled with dirt and refuse.

  “Prick-sucking bastards,” he shouted. “I’ll make them eat this shit.”

  Luigi shoved the refuse into my stack. I squelched a yelp as my box tumbled several feet to the ground. On impact, water and medicine flasks shattered, urine almost bubbled out of me, and the lid jiggled loose. I reached up to hold it in place, but sleepy nerves fired erratically and arm muscles cramped. Direct starlight made me squint. A man’s head covered the home star as he peered in at me. My discoverer had a broken nose that had healed into a crooked line. His lips drooped at the sides under prominent cheeks. A black and silver mélange of stringy hair tumbled down to his waist. I held his dark-eyed gaze, not flinching or blinking. I thought of Raymond’s brave Uncle Jared and tears flowed. The man swallowed his emotions then looked me up and down.

  “A box of rags,” he said and shoved the lid down. I was stunned.

  “I’ll kill those fuckers!” Luigi stomped off with his companion.

  I waited until only water birds and unfamiliar humans chattered around me. Morning on the docks was noisy. Horses, boats, nearby trains, wagons, and workers banged about. I needed to vomit as well as urinate. My box rested on its side. Sharp pains burned through my shoulder. I pushed the lid off and rolled onto cold stone. I drenched the fabric wrapped around me with a gush of urine. The urge to throw up passed as I edged away from the filth in the open crates.

  Bob’s plan had failed. I had no idea what the future held. Too dehydrated for tears, I slithered into the road, spooking a horse hauling a wagon. The driver yelped and swerved his vehicle around me. Unwinding from the cloth made me too dizzy to stand. I crawled, scraping skin from hands and knees. Splinters wedged deep into my palms as I struggled to the edge of the docks. Vomit forced its way out of my dry throat into the river. Abla’s head floated in rancid water, white eyes like boiled eggs bobbing in crumbling eye sockets. I had never seen Abla by day. She grinned as I dangled over the lip of rotten pilings, and fire bubbled up my esophagus into my nostrils. Immediately I felt strong and clear. To escape, I needed only to become aje.

  Workers gawked at a savage ready to dive into La Seine — hostile? curious? concerned? They made no move to intervene. Abla nodded her head. The aje wanted to blast her from the water. Folly. The living dead are immune to pyrotechnics. Abla hoped to trick me. If I embraced the aje now, I risked losing the Taiwo-self and the world I tried to love.

  “You love me — that is why I return to you.” Abla gurgled bubble
s of river scum. “Love betrays you again and again.”

  “You don’t understand love, Abla.” I didn’t either.

  “Luigi will take them away.” Abla’s egg eyes gleamed. “You’ll never find them again. You’ll never know if they love you, if they would face death for your story.”

  I clamped the aje down and groped for the mojo bag around my neck.

  Eshu knows how easy it is to lose the way.

  Secret Society Pact

  Huddled together on Sekou’s bed, Cinnamon, Klaus, and Marie trembled at the adventure, romance, and horror of The Chronicles. Still, the Wanderer had yet to explain the weird from another dimension swallowing Marie’s hand. After “River Pirates,” the pages had a rippling, milky surface, but no blurry images or illegible writing. Cinnamon didn’t know what to make of that.

  “We have to find Griot Joe.” She closed The Chronicles and laid it on Sekou’s galaxy pillow. “Joe can explain the weird from another dimension, and he needs us.”

  Klaus’s chin wobbled. “What do we actually do for Joe?”

  “He was up on a bridge, ready to jump,” Cinnamon said, “but he didn’t because somebody listened, because we believe.”

  “We’re better than a bridge to nowhere,” Klaus said, “still —”

  “It’s freaking impossible to believe — ,” Marie contemplated her hand — “that Joe was messing around in Dahomey and France almost a hundred years ago and right now he’s some homeless dude pushing a shopping cart in Pittsburgh.”

  “Dude?” Klaus narrowed his eyes. “Did Taiwo scatter into different sexes? I mean into Ariel, a she, and Joe, a he, or…?”

  “Good question,” Cinnamon said. “See, Klaus believes, don’t you?

  “I didn’t say that.” Klaus worked a hangdog frown. “I’m am —, ambi —”

  “Ambivalent? Why?” Desperation gripped Cinnamon.

  “Gender is slippery on Joe and Ariel,” Marie observed, “so homeless person, OK?”

  “From another dimension though?” Klaus shook his head. “Joe could be some weird, queer person without all the cups in the cupboard.”

  “Is that German mumbo jumbo?” Cinnamon groaned. “Sekou said everybody is queer. But powerful wizards cast mega-cloaking spells so we no longer know who we are. We think we’re who the wizards say we are. Consensus Delusion.” Oops. Cinnamon had to watch quoting Sekou on this topic.

  “Consensus Delusion.” Marie nodded. “I’ll buy that.”

  “Oh, you will?” Cinnamon tried not to snarl. “Well, damn. Thank you.”

  “It means everybody lives in the same illusion, yes?” Klaus asked.

  Cinnamon punched his shoulder. “Do you just front like you understand English?”

  “No!” Klaus insisted. “No way.”

  “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.” Marie quoted Hamlet’s mother.

  Cinnamon curled her lip. “Who the hell would side with that bitch?”

  “You two are sounding more and more Snow White.” Klaus looked wounded.

  “I was standing up for you,” Cinnamon said.

  “I need a moment to put English together sometimes,” Klaus said. “I’m not stupid.”

  Marie cocked her head at him. “Who said you were stupid? No, don’t tell me. I already hate him.” She sighed. “Here’s my problem. Joe looks like a queer carnival bum, not an alien traveler from another dimension.”

  “Exactly,” Klaus agreed.

  “Oh, you both know people from other dimensions besides Joe and Ariel?”

  “I thought the alien invasion was going to be a planet-to-planet thing,” Klaus said.

  Marie howled then caught herself. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  Klaus squirmed. “Have you read Contact by Carl Sagan?”

  “I have.” Cinnamon glared at Marie.

  “Sorry. I’ll read Contact too, eventually.” Marie jiggled the orca’s loose teeth.

  “Quit picking.” Cinnamon grabbed the knapsack. “We don’t have to get mean.”

  “Yeah.” Klaus looked miserable.

  “We want to believe, but Joe could be scamming us, a bunch of naïve, gullible kids.” She held back tears.

  “Ain’t nobody gonna put anything over on you. For real.” Cinnamon wanted to hug Marie and kiss her nose, make her laugh. It was a friendly urge, not the other kind. But Cinnamon was too chicken-shit. While she pretended to re-attach the orca’s tooth, Klaus slipped his head past waves of dark hair and nuzzled Marie’s cheek, as if it were no big deal. Cinnamon mimicked the move on the other cheek. Marie tried to pretend she didn’t appreciate the attention but finally gave in.

  Marie stroked Cinnamon’s hair and Klaus’s too. “What if Joe’s a pervert or —”

  “Pervert?” Acid fear bubbled in Cinnamon’s throat. “Naw. He or she —”

  “Could be writing sci-fi snuff porn,” Marie talked over her. “Or putting psychotropic drugs in the paper, or, I don’t know.”

  “That’s why I didn’t tell you guys my theory right off.” Cinnamon edged off the bed. “I didn’t tell anybody.” She threw open a window, let in a blast of March, and shut it quickly. “I didn’t even tell Miz Redwood, Granddaddy Aidan, or Aunt Iris.”

  Marie snorted. “I wouldn’t tell anybody either. I mean, not grown-up people.”

  Cinnamon buried The Chronicles in the orca, “I like to tell them hard things.”

  “Caution is probably a good idea.” Klaus nodded. “Although, theories get always better when you have to bounce them around other people. That’s how science works.”

  “Proof. That’s what we need,” Marie said.

  “Now you’re talking sense.” Cinnamon was thrilled, but played cool. “We can track down clues, interrogate the witnesses, get real proof.”

  Blood drained from Klaus’s cheeks. “You mean, check out the scene of the crime? I suck at —”

  “With two languages you’ve got double vision,” Cinnamon said.

  “I don’t see in German!”

  “Yes you can,” Marie said. “Scene of what crime?” Curiosity dripped from a smirk.

  “December 27, 1982, at the Rainforest Bar,” Cinnamon said; “11:17 PM. My father was shot in the head. He threw himself in front of a bullet meant for two ladies and smashed his watch falling down. Griot Joe was there. Sekou and Lexy were hanging with them and Star Deer too.” Why hadn’t Opal been there?

  “Scene of that crime.” Marie hugged herself.

  “Star Deer saw the whole deal. We could sign up for her advanced contact workshop. Get our show together while hunting clues.” Cinnamon scrambled for something persuasive. “Star is Cherokee and even keeps to some of the old ways.”

  “I hate history,” Marie said.

  “Really?” Klaus sighed relief. “I also hate history.”

  “Star’s an urban Indian too.” Cinnamon cringed at this ploy. Klaus and Marie exchanged glances, as if dreaded history was something they shared. Opal railed against dredging up a past that was better off buried. What about the good times — the Nations holding together, coming through for the great events right now? “How can you hate history? It’s way too big to hate.”

  Klaus pointed at the Buckaroo Banzai poster. “I prefer to look to the future.”

  “Yeah.” Marie gave off a spooky, reckless vibe, like before she stuck her hand into the spaces between things. “Don’t you just want to jump ahead into the next minute?”

  Cinnamon shook her braids. “Time is an illusion. Now is all there is.”

  Marie rolled her eyes at physics. “I know. But we live in illusions.”

  “A proof is just something that convinces other mathematicians,” Klaus said.

  “Are we quoting Vati?” Marie snorted.

  “I’m saying, there is no absolute reality,” Klaus said.

  Cinnamon threw up her hands. “We’re not arguing. Look, if Joe’s a scam artist or an alien adventurer, we’ll track him/her down and get to a truth we three agree on. The future nee
ds truth as much as the past does.”

  “It needs many truths,” Klaus said. “Like Paris.”

  “I love Paris,” Marie declared. “I’ve been there, down the boulevards, over to the Left Bank. I went up the iron lady.”

  “Me too.” Klaus shrugged. “I was little though.”

  “You two got me there.” Cinnamon hadn’t been anywhere, except on stage, in books, and at the movies. She refused to feel bad about this. “Who cares? You’re Prince Charming. You’re a brave Glamazon. You can’t chicken out on our Mod Squad. Together, we can handle Joe. Don’t dis the crew.”

  “Yeah.” Klaus’s shields tumbled. “We swore a secret society oath. That has to count.”

  Cinnamon stretched out her hands, palms up. “Are we all on board?”

  “Logisch.” Klaus took one hand.

  Nothing like logic. Marie grabbed Cinnamon’s other hand and Klaus’s too. They leaned into one another, bumped heads, and muttered, “Logisch.”

  Downstairs Aidan tuned his banjo. Opal claimed a banjo sounds like a bunch of tin cans falling down the stairs. Cinnamon had to agree with her this evening. The banjo didn’t want to tune. It complained about damp March cold. Aidan cussed at moody strings and a wandering bridge. The aroma of cherries, peaches, nutmeg, cloves, and honey wafted up with the finger exercises. Cinnamon had told Iris that friends would be stopping by. Iris had her infamous cobbler ready to throw in the oven before the elders went off to see Opal at the hospital. Cinnamon had visited her mom alone before school. At first seeing Opal had been a big relief; now Cinnamon hated sitting there while machines beeped and Opal coughed in a restless, drug sleep, a Sunday New York Times puzzle balled up in a fist. Cinnamon fell out at the crack ass of dawn to poke through the neighbor’s garbage for nothing. When Opal came to, she didn’t explain the secrets she’d kept from Cinnamon or regret the trash she’d talked to Sekou. All she said was, Damn, baby, you finally lost some weight. As if Cinnamon not having any appetite was good, because she looked so cute starving to death.