Master of Poisons

by Andrea Hairston

  “Of course.” Awa puts the treasures in the small bag and winks at Kyrie. Djola and Awa press hands against the gates Kenu and Father have wrought. “I sense Hezram,” Awa says.

  “He doesn’t matter,” Samina replies.

  “You do the dance, speak the change-spell,” Kyrie says. Her heart is a lightning storm.

  Samina plays an ice-harp and Djola and Awa dance Xhalan Xhala. “We imagine the world we want.” Awa’s and Djola’s voices echo through the leaves. “I have crossed over. I conjure Dream Gates. All that remains of me rides the wind, drizzles down with the dew, sparks between the tree roots. I’m the lightning strike, the snow melting, the fire crackling. I dance in the horse’s nicker. I’m the avalanche rolling down Mama Zamba, and the earth tugging my skin tight. I am me and I am you. Do not mourn with blame or guilt. I lost the way, wandered in the void, and found a bridge. We are all lost souls. Never give up looking for one another.”

  Awa swoons, Kyrie and Djola hug her as she fades back to the everyday. “No, no, no,” Awa cries. “I give my life, not you.”

  Hearing Awa’s distress, Soot leaves Hezram’s trail before catching up to him to meet Awa when she comes back to herself in the everyday.

  “With our thoughts we make a world.” Djola, Samina, and Kyrie chant as they walk a road nobody has walked before, to a new region in Jumbajabbaland. Other haints gather behind them—Mother, Tessa, Quint, and many, many others. They sing, “Xhalan Xhala, Basawili, Abelzowadyo. A reckoning fire comes, but this is not your last breath, so change, change, change.”

  18

  Dream Gates

  Awa returned from Smokeland to a citadel room that smelled of herbs, wet dog, and spark torches. She was buried in cushions on a bed big enough for two. Her skin tingled, her heart was heavy, and her head ached from dancing Xhalan Xhala.

  Bal hugged her so hard she almost passed out. “You’ve been gone a week.”

  Awa rubbed her face and stared at her hands. “I shouldn’t be here.”

  “Nonsense,” Bal declared. “The gates are glorious! The new year starts well. A week without storms, Samina’s crystals suck up the void.”

  “I was going to—”

  “Sacrifice yourself without telling me.” Bal’s cheer cracked. “Djola left a scroll telling me what you and Kyrie didn’t.”

  Awa’s head throbbed. Djola and Kyrie must be dead to this world. How would she stand it? “Why am I alive? They tricked me.”

  “Did you think Kyrie and Djola would let you throw yourself away in a gate-spell?”

  “Why throw themselves away?” Grief gripped Awa’s stomach. “What good am I?”

  Bal stomped from the sumptuous bed to a window looking out to Mount Eidhou. “How could you just leave me like that, without a word?”

  “I’m sorry.” Awa staggered over and hugged vie. “Looking at you, saying anything, I wouldn’t have been able to—” Bright light spilled in the window. Awa had never expected to see the sun rise another day or hear the river gurgling secrets to the sea. She never expected to hold Bal in her arms again. Miracles.

  Bal held up Kyrie’s conjure book and Djola’s small bag. “We keep their spirits alive.”

  Grief tightened its grip on Awa’s stomach. “Do they haunt the gates?”

  “Nobody knows. We hoped you’d tell us.” Bal put a scroll in Awa’s hand. “Djola left you a letter.”

  Awa pressed his words to her heart. “What does it say?”

  “I didn’t read it.” Bal splashed water in her face. “Council is in an hour.”

  “What?” Awa fell on carpet as soft as the cushions.

  “You dance Xhalan Xhala.” Bal sank down to her. “Azizi needs you. He’s given you a chair at the flying-jackal table—they meet outside now.”

  “But I have to get used to being alive.”

  “Yes. You do.” Bal laughed and cried and kissed her.

  Vie helped her pull on Elder tunic and pants and wrapped her hair in Aido cloth: many maps for the same territory, a map of maps. More tears flowed and they clutched each other. Bal slipped a cloud-silk robe over Awa’s head then tied a sash and Aido bag around her waist. Awa put Djola’s scroll in the bag with his heart wheel and Lahesh crystal. Something of him to look forward to.

  “If this was the best plan, why not tell me instead of treat me like a Sprite?”

  “They wanted you to believe in yourself.” Bal stroked the snake mark on her forehead. “You were ready to die for the world you loved, why not live for it?”

  Awa painted silver snowflakes under one eye and over the other. She’d get tattoos later. “For Samina.” She groaned as memories flooded her. “I saw Jod put a sword through Rokiat and Meera. I would hear harsh truth now rather than later.”

  “Rokiat and Meera lost a lot of blood. Lilot doesn’t know if they’ll make it or not.”

  Awa wanted to hear dead or not dead, not maybe dead or maybe pulling through. “Can I see them?”

  “I thought you’d ask that.” Bal thrust berry bread in Awa’s mouth as they marched out of the door. Awa tumbled over Soot. He jumped up, put paws on her shoulders, and drooled in her face. Bal scratched his head. “That mangy old wolf whined and paced and drove me wild all day.”

  “Maybe Soot loves me more than you.” Awa hugged him.

  “He knows the way to Meera and to Council.”

  Awa buried her head in Soot’s fur. “You know all the secret passageways.”

  * * *

  The sick rooms were in Lilot’s realm, not far from the kitchen. The medicine smell burned Awa’s eyes. Meera and Rokiat lay next to one another, wrapped in bandages by the window. A fountain gurgled outside, a soothing melody. Bal paced among the other patients. Awa resisted asking who else was wounded, who else had died. Tomorrow. Soot whined and licked Meera’s hand. Awa stroked her friend’s face. “We did it,” she whispered in Meera’s ear. “Come back to me.” She let Bal pull her out of the room.

  “Council meets in the courtyard.” Bal hurried after Soot.

  He led them through halls and corridors for half an hour. Awa was certain she’d never find her way back. Bal talked politics. So many power plays and cutthroat deals made Awa’s head spin. Dream Gates hadn’t put an end to intrigue. Whatever would she do on Council?

  “If I’m to have a chair, why not you?” Awa poked Bal.

  “Council has changed. I’m there. I can speak, but you and Kenu are heroes.”

  Awa frowned. “What did Kenu do?”

  “Besides take credit for the Dream Gates, nothing, as far as I can tell.” Bal grimaced.

  “Kenu held the gates open for your music, for the haints. I remember that.” Awa sighed. “He learned from Father.”

  “You’ll have to explain later.”

  They came outside into a garden with several other doorways leading off into the dark. Potted plants were in bloom, showy fragrant things unfamiliar to Awa. Water sputtered from a fountain. Arms greeted them. Wrapped in bandages, he looked stiff and sore as he ushered Awa to the flying-jackal table.

  “You’re the last of us,” he said gruffly and patted Soot’s head. Soot caught a scent and growled. He raced across the courtyard and down a murky corridor. “That wild dog knows the maze better than anybody.” Arms chuckled. “He saved my life twice. Ripped a man’s throat who was coming for me and Azizi.”

  “Soot likes who he likes.” Awa looked around the table.

  Boto and Grain stopped their conversation and offered a welcome. Iyalawo Tembe smiled. She sat on a stool eating mango. “Tembe’s drummers fought off void-addled acolytes and helped Lilot.” Bal used Ishba hand-talk. The chair beside Tembe was empty, a blue sea monster.

  Awa choked. “Hezram still has a seat. You didn’t tell me.”

  “Would you have come?” Bal took her hand. “Tembe claimed Ernold and rogues like Jod mounted the attack.”

  Awa rubbed her face. “Azizi believed her?”

  “He’s a politician. No one saw Hezram kill anybody. Jo
d, Ernold, and Money are dead. Water escaped.”

  “I don’t believe it.” Awa wanted to bolt. How could they expect her to sit with Hezram?

  “Welcome!” Azizi perched in the Lahesh waterwheel throne at the jackal’s tail. He gestured at the chair beside him—an elaborate nest, with carvings of animal-people: jackals bounding over bushes, birds taking flight, fish leaping at the moon. “You are the Master of Weeds and Wild Things.” He saluted her. On the other side of Awa’s chair, a big-boned woman with skinny gray braids and dagger teeth sat on an Iyalawo monkey stool. She played a twenty-one stringed kora harp and wore an Aido bag.

  “Vandana is from across Mama Zamba and speaks for Mount Eidhou.” Bal walked Awa to her place. “Tembe wanted the monkey stool, but Azizi gave her the giraffe.” Bal stepped behind Awa next to Arms.

  “Djola told me about you.” Awa sat between Azizi and Vandana.

  “You will tell about yourself,” Vandana said.

  Azizi leaned into Awa. “Vandana has agreed to take Kyrie’s place.”

  “Who can do that? Not me,” Vandana said. “To Kyrie and Djola.” She poured wine on the ground. “Some of my people want to destroy your warriors and steal your land. I say no. Conquered people and slaves mean rebellions, unrest.”

  Azizi laughed. “I hear people beyond the maps are afraid of floating-city pirates and that’s why you don’t attack.” He piled food on Awa’s plate. “Let’s eat.”

  Awa stared at Hezram’s sea monster chair and forced herself to swallow the rich food. After being hungry for so long, it was strange to have no appetite. An Anawanama chief praised the ancestors and the unborn. Masters introduced themselves. Lilot brought more food, then sat down next to Queen Urzula. Azizi’s children were also introduced—the pirate captain and her brother. The shapeshifter clown, flanked by the Zamanzi twins, represented the rebels.

  Kenu represented craftspeople. “I did not forget you,” he said.

  “I remember you too.” Awa had yet to figure out what else to say to her brother. Tomorrow or the next day.

  “Council has changed,” Azizi said. “More women, northlanders, barbarians, and floating city folks. Everyone ready to work.” He looked pleased with himself for being a grand host.

  “We should find a different word, a new name for what we do.” Awa blurted this before thinking.

  “An ancient word perhaps or invent a new one, to set us in the right direction?” Boto nodded at Awa, enthusiastic. “I will help you find this word.”

  “Where is Hezram?” Tembe spoke Awa’s worry out loud and looked around.

  “He drank too much,” Arms said. “He makes water in the trees.”

  “That was an hour ago.” Grain glanced at the woods.

  “He should be back.” Tembe sent a drummer to look for him.

  Soot padded in. He licked his chops and huffed at Awa, dropping his big head in her lap. “Ew. What have you been nosing through?” Awa wiped mud and offal from his snout. Red flecks clung to his whiskers. “Were you in the kitchen?” Soot sneezed and spit blue fabric in her hand. Awa stared at the bloody scrap of an eye patch, her heart pounding in her mouth.

  “We can’t wait any longer for Hezram,” Azizi declared. Soot growled at the name.

  Tembe’s breath was short. “Something has happened to Hezram. I feel it.”

  Awa felt nothing of Hezram. He was gone. Trembling, she tossed the blue scrap into candle fire. “Thank you.” She hugged Soot.

  “When Hezram comes, we tell what he missed,” Vandana said.

  Bal drummed thanks to the crossroads gods for all who sat at the table and all who’d given their lives. Awa shivered and looked from oasis trees to the citadel Dream Gates. Djola was a chilly edge to the wind, Kyrie an echo against the rocks. Yari was the upbeats and overtones.

  “Thanks to Kenu and Awa, we have a few moments before the void swallows us.” Azizi looked excited. “Where do we begin?”

  Everyone talked over each other—spouting good ideas and stupid ones.

  “Water,” Awa interjected, “and enough food for everyone. Northlanders have seeds for drought and deluge. Grass to hold a mountain and trees to call the rain. Northland wisdom is where we start. And then freedom, of course.”

  “What do you mean?” Boto asked.

  The piebald crow and a companion flew onto a ledge above the courtyard, building an enormous nest. They had to be pregnant. Adult crows didn’t bother with nests otherwise. A crown of quiescent bees flew in sideways from Jumbajabbaland and settled in Awa’s hair. After Council, she’d wake them in the oasis garden to build a hive there.

  “Yes. Tell us. Freedom? What are you thinking?” Azizi asked.

  Awa sang:

  We belong to ourselves

  Or maybe to the bees

  GLOSSARY

  These words may have meaning in other realms and cultures.

  Here is what they mean in this world.

  Abelzowadyo     Zamanzi, change, shapeshifter, many beings at once

  Aido     Lahesh cloth, disappears in the light

  Anawanama     a people from the north

  Babalawo     floating-city wise man, called witchdoctors in the Empire

  barbarians     what Empire citizens call southern people

  bark-paper     Anawanama paper made from Mount Eidhou’s fig trees

  Basawili     Anawanama, not yet the last breath

  crack-cruck     stopgap or slapdash procedure

  djembe     large goblet drum made from hardwood, goatskin, and tuned with ropes

  Dochsi     Lahesh, disagreeing with a negative statement

  Eishne     Anawanama, woven from the same threads, strangers who are family

  Fatazz     curse

  griot     storyteller, mapmaker, historian, praise singer, negotiator

  Ishba     a northern people aligned with the Anawanama

  Iyalawo     floating-city wise woman, called witch woman in the Empire

  jumba jabba     mumbo jumbo

  Kahoe     a northern people aligned with the Anawanama

  kora     a large calabash harp with twenty-one strings

  Kurakao     praise to the gods

  Lahesh     a people from the north

  Mama Zamba     Lahesh, mother’s backbone, mountains at Empire’s edge

  Smokeland     a realm of vision and spirits, of possibilities and maybe-nots,

  Sorit     a northern people aligned with the Anawanama

  Tschupatzi     a Holy City curse

  veson     Anawanama word for being, neither male nor female

  Vévé     a sacred sign that calls down the power of the gods

  vie     Anawanama pronoun for veson

  whayoa     whoa

  wim-wom     gadget, trinket, device

  Xhalan Xhala     Lahesh, reckoning fire

  Yidohwedo     Lahesh, rainbow serpent who made world from dung and water

  Zamanzi     a people from the north

  Zst     curse, Empire vernacular

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I pour libation to Eshu and the deities of the crossroads, to the Water Protectors, Animal-People, and all my Green Elders.

  Thanks to my Ellis High School history teachers who let me research Nigeria, China, and the Cherokee Nation. This set me on a journey at fourteen that led to this novel.

  In December 2014, I had just read that football-field swaths of Mississippi Delta wetlands disappeared every hour. People were talking about climate dystopia as inevitable. I was wondering how I could possibly respond to this without drowning in despair. Carl Engle-Laird at Tor.com Publishing invited me to write a novella, a fantasy. Thanks to Carl and my editor Ruoxi Chen who believed in the epic novel I wrote i
nstead. Thanks to Lee Harris for making it happen the way it should. Thanks also to Pan Morigan for drawing the map of my wild visions.

  At Smith College, Daphne Lamothe and Kevin Quashie and everybody in Africana Studies provided me with much-needed reality checks. My writing students and students in Shamans, Shapeshifters, and the Magic IF challenged my craft, offered me hope, and kept me sharp. Smith College’s fund for faculty development supported research trips and writing retreats.

  All praises to the Smithsonian Institute, particularly the Museum of the American Indian and the Museum of African American History and Culture, for access to material culture and inspiration for the future. Grace Dillon and the folks in the Indigenous Nations Studies Program at Portland State University welcomed me and Pan Morigan into their hearts and showed us marvels.

  Thanks to Bobby, Mary, and Theo Welland for giving me a home away from home in Seattle. Wolfgang and Beate Schmidhuber and the whole Schmidhuber clan offered me good food, good times, and the rest needed to create. Bill Oram read a hundred hundred drafts of this book or close to it and always typed his careful and generous responses. Paula Burkhard, Kiki Gounaridou, John Hellweg, Kathleen Mosely, Daniel José Older, Micala Sidore, and Susan Stinson cheered me on through difficult moments.

  The Beyond ‘Dusa Wild Sapelonians: Pan Morigan, Ama Patterson, Liz Roberts, and Sheree R. Thomas supported my spirit, made me laugh at myself, and kept me writing the way out of no way.

  Blessings on Pan Morigan, James Emery, and my agent, Kris O’Higgins, for believing I could work miracles.

  ALSO BY ANDREA HAIRSTON

  NOVELS

  Will Do Magic for Small Change

  Redwood and Wildfire

  Mindscape

  COLLECTIONS

  Lonely Stardust

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Andrea Hairston is a novelist, essayist, playwright, and the artistic director of Chrysalis Theatre. She is the author of Redwood and Wildfire, winner of the 2011 James Tiptree Jr. Award and the Carl Brandon Society Award, and Mindscape, short-listed for the Phillip K. Dick and James Tiptree Jr. Awards and winner of the Carl Brandon Parallax Award. In her spare time, she is the Louise Wolff Kahn 1931 Professor of Theatre and Africana Studies at Smith College. She has received the International Association for the Fantastic in the Arts Distinguished Scholarship Award for outstanding contributions to the criticism of the fantastic. She bikes at night year-round, meeting bears, multilegged creatures of light and breath, and the occasional shooting star. You can sign up for email updates here.