A Jigsaw of Fire and Stars

by Yaba Badoe

  Tears streaming down her face, Scarlett freezes, then begins to tremble, a petrified deer blinded by headlights.

  ‘I’m listening…’

  ‘Stop it, Cat!’ I cry. ‘Can’t you see what you’re doing to her?’

  A strand of red hair falls like a lick of night over Scarlett’s face. Shadows play across her freckles and in front of our very eyes, from one moment to the next, the redhead changes yet again.

  ‘You’re listening, are you, Cat? Well, listen good. You’re always telling me that everyone has a special talent, aren’t you?’

  Cat nods. ‘Yes, that’s what Mama Rose says. Everyone has a special gift.’

  ‘Everyone, including me?’

  Cat nods again: ‘Everyone, Scarlett.’

  Scarlett trails her tongue over her lips. Makes ’em shine bright as rubies, then smiles a sly, secret smile that makes my skin crawl. Cobra’s too, I reckon, for I sense him flinch beside me.

  Scarlett shakes out her hair, circles her face with a finger: ‘My special gift, Cat, is my face, my eyes. What you see here.’

  She lays her hand on Cat’s. Leans closer, so close that tendrils of red hair tickle Cat’s cheek. ‘When you’ve seen what I’ve seen,’ she says, ‘you learn to use everything you’ve got to survive.’

  ‘Everything?’ says Cat.

  ‘Wouldn’t be alive, if I didn’t,’ Scarlett replies.

  The scars in her run deep, far deeper than any of us imagined. Even Cat. A tear wells in her eye. Cat places Scarlett’s hand on her cheek: ‘Did you love him very much?’

  ‘I thought he would make everything better,’ she says.

  ‘Did you love him?’ Cat persists.

  Scarlett nods. ‘I loved him enough to think that, maybe, if I loved him more, I could do what he wanted me to do. But I couldn’t, Cat. I can’t.’

  Scarlett starts rocking again. Even so, Cat can’t help but ask, a plaintive meow in her voice: ‘Do you…? Did you…? Do you love me at all?’

  ‘Can’t you see, Cat? She’s too far gone, she can’t hear you now!’

  Cat points a finger at me: ‘You stay out of this! You too, Cobra.’

  Cobra shakes his head and as he does so, waves Mamadou’s mended flute in the air. Curled around it, tongues flicking in and out, are Bella and Scales. Diverted for an instant by the strange sight of a flickering, writhing flute, Cat peers. A second is all the time it takes to dart behind her, crouch beside Scarlett, and draw her into my arms.

  What else am I supposed to do? Saved her from drowning, didn’t I? Welcomed her into our circus family, so, whether I like her or not, whether she’s scary, good, bad or in-between, a downright liar or a vixen, wily as a thief, she’s partly my responsibility.

  I stroke Scarlett as I would a chick with a broken wing. Stroke her, as Cobra says: ‘You’re pushing your girl too hard, Cat. You’re going to lose her, if you go on like this.’

  ‘Hush now,’ I say, voice soft and low, like when I’m soothing Taj Mahal by whispering in his ear. ‘It’s going to be fine, Scarlett. You wait and see.’

  I do my best to steady her, reassure her. Cradle and rock her until Cat, relenting, joins me. And together we keep Scarlett warm as the storm rages outside.

  22

  The moment Scarlett falls asleep, her head nestled on Cat’s lap, the storm hits its stride. Thunder creaks across the dusky sky, lightning streaks it, brightening the brickwork of the house. Rain lashes at the windows and when the sky lights up again, stark silhouettes of trees glimmer in the downpour. The storm clamours, and a curious sensation creeps into the pigeonnier, rising from the floorboards like sudden gusts of air.

  I listen to the changes taking place: Scarlett’s shallow breathing slows, Cat’s suspicion eases, while Cobra paces the length of the room with Bella and Scales around his neck. There’s an angry turbulence in the air. I smell it, absorb the weight of anxiety smouldering within it, and sense – distinct as an itch that refuses to go away – familiar phantoms increasing, pressing in on us.

  Silent as a snake, Cobra turns, face grim. ‘Time we worked out what to do next,’ he says. ‘Time we decided if we’re going to take her with us or leave her here with Carlos.’ He nods at Scarlett.

  Cat covers her with a blanket. ‘She needs to rest. We all do. As Mama Rose is always saying, once we’ve had a good night’s sleep, everything will fall into place. We’ll know what to do, how to do it, and whether Scarlett will be a help or a hindrance.’

  ‘A hindrance most likely.’ Cobra caresses the heads of the reptiles adorning him. ‘The girl’s slipping and sliding, sinking deeper into crazy. She’s trouble all right and will weigh us down like a ton of bricks.’

  ‘May be so,’ I reply, ‘but let’s sleep on it, like Cat says, and see how Scarlett is tomorrow.’

  That’s what I say, but what I really mean is: I wish Mama Rose and Mimi were here to talk to, Redwood and Midget Man as well. ’Cause the way I’m feeling, I need ’em more than ever before. I’m missing the Old Ones – their voices, their quirks, their cracked, doom-mongering ways. Unless I’m mistaken, Cat is too.

  A girl with the mighty heart of a lioness shouldn’t be thinking this, I know, but cross my heart and hope to die, I’d give away everything I have – all my heirlooms, even Mamadou’s flute – if the Old Ones would only knock on the door and help us clear up the mess we’re in. In fact, I wouldn’t mind one little bit if at the end of it all, Mama Rose sits me down and says: ‘Told you so! Told you you were too young to cope on your own. And I was right, wasn’t I?’

  Could be she’s going to make me eat huge helpings of humble pie for the rest of my life. Could be, if I was able to turn the clock back, I wouldn’t do what I’ve done, but this I know for a fact: leaving Scarlett with Carlos would be a mistake. ‘We can’t just dump her on him, Cobra. It’s not fair. Poor man’s done enough for us as it is, and we’re going to need all the help we can get to call out the Captain and destroy him.’

  Cobra shrugs and says: ‘All the more reason not to take Scarlett with us. Girl’s a liability, plain and simple.’

  Even Cat, who’s stroking Scarlett’s hair as she tosses and turns in her sleep, nods in agreement. I usually go along with the two of ’em but this time I hesitate as an idea whispers in my ear. Can hardly hear it till it hollers at me in such a way that I can’t imagine why I didn’t think of it before. Every once in a while the very worst of liabilities creates infinite possibilities.

  ‘Wait a minute.’ I rootle about in my rucksack and as I do so, I see him as clearly as if he were standing in front of me: the black-booted policeman on the beach. Bent over, catching his breath, dripping salt water on to sand. The black-boot who helped me drag Scarlett on to dry land. I retrieve the note he gave her, the note she dropped that I picked up and stashed away. It’s creased and soiled, but I can still read the name on it: Federico Angel de Menendez.

  I say his name out loud. ‘He told Scarlett to contact him if she needed help. More or less said the same thing to me too.’

  I hand the paper to Cat. She looks at it and sniffs. Sniffs it a second time, as if her senses are so acute she’s able to get a measure of the man from his scrawl and the paper he uses. Pick up his scent and glean whether he’s trustworthy or not.

  ‘Scarlett says…’ Cat glances at her and corrects herself. ‘She said all the black-boots in Cádiz work for the Captain. They know everything about his racket and keep quiet about it ’cause he pays ’em off.’

  ‘That may be so,’ I say. ‘But you never know. They can’t all be crooked. Can’t all be getting a cut of the Captain’s game, can they?’

  Cobra stops pacing and faces me: ‘We should ask Carlos for advice. Bet you he knows who can be trusted and who to steer clear of.’

  A curved beak taps at the windowpane and at that very moment the golden bangle on my wrist begins to burn and throb. I shake my hand as a scorching sensation sears my bones. I twist it, try to take it off, but then again Priss’s insistence grow
s, and I’m torn between the bangle and my bird, pain and relief.

  Tap, tap, tap. Double tap. Priss’s beak raps a sharp tattoo from the ledge outside. Taps urgently, begging for help the only way she can. Taps and yelps like a fledging about to be swept away by the storm.

  I clamber on to the windowsill. Tug and pull at the latch, even as the golden gift on my wrist sizzles and my insides flame.

  Cobra stretches to help me, touches my hand, recoils: ‘You’re burning up, Sante. What’s going on?’

  He looks outside and senses that something’s there. Priss’s rap becomes a thwack and her impatience tips into frenzy.

  ‘Quick, Cobra! Help me!’

  For the first time ever, he avoids grazing my skin as we prise the window open.

  Priss hops inside. Flies from one end of the pigeonnier to the other. I follow the swoop and spread of her wings, inhale the dank odour of her feathers in the hope that if I can only concentrate hard enough, the fire raging within me will abate. And that what Cobra grasped but I saw outside will disappear, scattered by the storm.

  I focus on Priss, though with each breath I take I know that they’re out there waiting for me, and that something fundamental has changed. Instead of waiting for me to call ’em, they’re out in the stable yard summoning me with all their might; dragging me into their orbit. And with every whisper of magic they possess, they’re reeling me in as surely as a fisherman draws in his catch.

  I try, once again, to take the bangle off my wrist. It tightens, pulses with heat, and I shriek. Priss shudders. So do I.

  Cobra hovers. The love-shine in him claims me as his eyes tell me to stay close to him. But we both know he can’t keep me from ’em. ’Cause if he tries to restrain me, he’ll burn up too.

  Antennae twitching, Cat gets up from beside Scarlett. ‘Cobra, Sante? What’s the matter?’

  Scarlett stirs. Turns over. Is about to settle again when she sits up, pupils dilated midnight-black. Silky with sleep, moving as if half in a dream, she trails fingers through her hair. Smiles, then stares past me through the window into the darkness beyond. The window creaks battered by wind and rain.

  ‘Tell me what’s going on,’ says Cat.

  Scarlett sighs and in a heartbeat replies: ‘They’re here aren’t they, Sante? They’ve come for you.’

  I nod, gather my wits before they fry up completely. Cobra and Cat circle to corral me: ‘You’ve got to let me go. Can’t take this much longer…’

  ‘Fetch water, Cat,’ Cobra says. ‘Douse her with water.’

  I run for the door. Cobra blocks my path. All I have to do is touch him and the intensity of the fire raging inside me, the thump-thump-thump of my bangle will clear my way. I hesitate, wishing I could turn back time and touch Cobra like I used to, feel the snap and crackle of the spark between us, instead of the throbbing of my father’s gift.

  ‘Are you leaving me, Sante?’ Cobra asks.

  ‘Never!’ I cry. ‘Not in a thousand years. You’ve got to let me go, Cobra. Those spooks can’t hurt me any more than they’re hurting me already. And they don’t mean to, I’m sure of that.’

  He remains where he is.

  Unable to contain the red-hot heat forcing me outside, I moan: ‘Cobra, if you won’t let me go, you might as well take one of Cat’s daggers and be done with me now!’

  At last, Cobra moves, and I step into the stable yard.

  23

  Slowly, deliberately, I walk to the throng of ghosts. Walk; don’t run. Too scared to run. Walk as fat drops of rain splash my face and drench my clothes, soothing the fever on my skin. I stick out my tongue and the rain cools it, healing the blistering pain in my mouth.

  The closer I get to ’em, the calmer I feel. Could be Midget Man’s whispering in my ear, ’cause what I’m hearing is: ‘This moment is meant, Sante. From time immemorial it was ordained.’ Whether it’s Midget Man or my deepest self talking, I know that before I was even thought of and conceived in my mother’s womb, before my parents got on that boat and surrendered me to the sea, something somewhere decided that this place, of all the places in the world was where I’m supposed to be right now.

  The flames in my belly dwindle. The sizzling on my wrist fades. The golden bangle returns to its former state and I’m in front of ’em: a gloaming, restless mass of spirits marooned on a circle of dry land.

  Rain leaps and dances about us and, in a twinkling, a whirlpool of light swallows me. Light flickers, a frenzy of fireflies. Voices murmur, and as the ghosts warm themselves on my breath, I detect the vague outline of faces: the nub of a nose, the curve of what might have once been a mouth. Shapes shift, merging one moment, then a heartbeat later, prompted perhaps by an invisible thread of memory, contours reassemble into what passes for a face. My mother’s. My father? A hint of mango with an undertow of cedarwood tugs at my nose. I hear a trace of my mother’s lullaby and even though I can’t see them, I realise they’re within and about me.

  My eyes gradually adjust and I glimpse Mamadou in their midst, beside him the elderly man. Soon as I recognise him, Mamadou sighs with relief, lifts his finger, reaches to me and brushes my forehead with a touch that shakes me to the core.

  As plain as day follows night and daylight is brighter by far than moonlight, my mind clears and a sequence of pictures, vivid as a waking dream, forms. It’s all there. Every little bit. One scene after the other: everything we have to do in the next forty-eight hours to call out the Captain and set the others free. And at the heart of the plot, the key that will unlock the bolts that secure the Captain’s door, is Isaka.

  Headlights dazzle the stable yard.

  Brakes squeal. A truck horn blasts and the cargo of lost souls scatters.

  Another honk, and suddenly there they are in all their noise and glory: Mama Rose and the remnants of our family circus.

  *

  ‘Good grief, Sante, what are you doing out in the rain? Quickly. This way.’

  Mama Rose hustles me through the stable yard to the house. Carlos, Tortilla barking beside him, lets us in. After rustling up a towel, Bizzie Lizzie wraps her arms around me. ‘Almost gave us a heart attack seeing you out there. Almost ran you right over.’

  She strips off my clothes, dabs my face dry. When she’s satisfied that I’m no longer wet, Lizzie drags me to the sitting room where Mama Rose is building a fire.

  Of all the lessons Redwood has taught me, the one that can most make a difference between survival and lingering death, is how to keep warm in the cold. May sound crazy, but running barefoot in the snow warms the soles of the feet a treat. Showed us how to rub sticks to spark a flame. Can take for ever. So when you’re shivering, icy cold, the easiest way to warm up is to build a fire with kindling, matches, fire-lighters if you have ’em, though a leaf of newspaper will do just as well.

  Teeth chattering, heart pounding at the enormous risk in the task still ahead of me, I watch Mama Rose go through the motions. Bundles kindling in a stone hearth, lights it, then blows until it catches and roars. Watch her as Lizzie, all arms and legs, cherry-pink hair bobbing above her head, plonks me down. Goes back to the truck to fetch dry clothes. Tut-tuts and fusses, while in the kitchen the rest of our crew and Carlos heat up a casserole.

  Mama Rose piles on logs. Flames lick ’em and as sparks shimmy up the chimney, Cobra and Cat and Scarlett slip in. ‘My babies,’ Mama Rose crows. ‘Thank heavens you’re safe! Come and give your old mama a hug.’

  Cobra obeys while Cat, greens hard as emeralds, waits her turn. When Mama Rose embraces her, Cat stiffens. Might as well hiss and spit like the creature she’s named after. A single gesture at the right time can say more than a thousand words. Mama Rose takes in Cat’s brazen stare and fondles her cheek nonetheless. Hugs Scarlett and then scarpers with Lizzie to the kitchen.

  ‘Are you all right, Sante?’ Cobra asks.

  I nod, squeeze my eyes to say I’ll fill him in later. He may not know it yet, but we have a plan to discuss and act on. Cobra slides his hand beneath
mine and by mutual consent we don’t speak. None of us Young Ones do. Hold our tongues in place to eavesdrop on the Old Ones in the kitchen.

  Carlos’s baritone plays tag with Midget Man’s tenor; dances between Tortilla’s yelps and barks as snatches of conversation drift down the corridor.

  ‘Well, I never,’ says Lizzie

  ‘I knew it! I knew something like this would happen.’ Mimi.

  Redwood rumbles in reply, then Mama Rose hushes and silences ’em all. A heartbeat later, Carlos is talking again.

  From the dribs and drabs I piece together, Carlos is filling ’em in on our story. I smile at Scarlett. She lays her head on Cat’s shoulder. Cat folds her into her arms as Cobra’s hand, held in mine, tightens around my wrist. He warms my fingers but, as I start to play with the golden bangle on my other wrist, he frowns.

  We listen in. And without discussing anything further, we glean from the banter of our eyes – those glances and winks we use to communicate in the ring – what we’re going to do next: wait for the Old Ones to come to us and then ask ’em a whole heap of questions, such as: ‘Who are you, Redwood? What’s your real name? And what’s yours, Mama Rose? And while we’re on the subject, Midget Man, why did you stop calling yourself Elvis? And you, Mimi! Is Mimi your proper name? Is Bizzie Lizzie yours?’

  I’ve a million questions piled on my tongue and when the time comes, true as the whites of my eyes, I shall be the one asking ’em. I know, ’cause since I was knee-high to a grasshopper, Cobra and Cat have smuggled questions they daren’t ask into my mouth.

  The Old Ones stop talking. We hear the clatter of plates stacked on a tray, the heave-haul of kitchenware, whisper of voices conspiring and then, all at once, in they troop, noisy as nestlings about to be fed: Mama Rose at the helm with a platter of food, Redwood bringing up the rear, a bottle of wine in each hand.

  The moment I see them, I get a whiff of how they intend to play the cards they’ve been dealt: as if nothing whatsoever has changed and everything’s as it was before I opened my sea-chest cradle. Before Grey Eyes and Isaka stumbled on me, and led us to Miguel and those others. If they’re going to pretend everything’s the same, I swear to every god there is that for as long as I draw breath, I’ll never get my head around Old Ones!