Call of Fire

by Beth Cato

  Lee seemed bouncy and bright in a way he hadn’t been in days. They left the port and walked through a high gate bearing the name swan island. A paved walkway took them along a neck of land to reach a bus stop along the frontage road.

  A few other men idled in wait as well, older men with the heavy bodies and deep scowls that Ingrid associated with dockworkers. They didn’t cast Lee a second glance; with his head held high and yellow armband absent, he was nondescript. Just another Japanese boy. Their study of Ingrid was not so discreet. She kept her posture prim as she fidgeted with the lip of her dress pocket.

  Ingrid hadn’t been on land for two days. When they left Olema, a blue miasma of unleashed energy had still covered the ground. She hadn’t been able to bear contact with the surface for long, as her fatigued body would have continued to pull in energy and made her even more ill.

  It was almost eerie to be on regular earth. No blue sheen. No warm energy lapping her ankles in a tide only she could see. Portland was seismically active, true, but there were a few geomancers stationed here to balance and harvest the energy flow. She blinked back tears of relief. She felt safe here; a misleading feeling, she knew, with Blum after her, but at least the earth didn’t threaten to quake right now. That was one less threat to contend with.

  A rusty and rumbling bus arrived in a matter of minutes. Ingrid and Lee sat side by side as the transport roared south. It was easy to spy downtown Portland across the river. Smoke trailed to the heavens like a banner.

  “It’s nice to sit like this,” murmured Lee, fingers brushing the worn leather seat. She could tell he was making a concerted effort to play his part; his vigilance was more subtle than hers, and he kept his gaze up, not on the floor, as was appropriate for subservient Chinese.

  “I wish that kind of freedom wasn’t so extraordinary,” Ingrid muttered. She acted out her own role as she kept her posture both attentive and meek. His knuckles tapped the side of her knee in a silent apology. Her skin color and gender would never allow for such liberty. “Did you decide where we should go first, Master Sato?” They had agreed on the common Japanese name for Lee to use for this trip.

  “I want to see what happened to their Chinatown.” He made no effort to lower his voice. “It looks like a lot of smoke.”

  One of the other passengers leaned closer. “Not enough in my opinion. Fire stopped all too soon. Didn’t burn out all the rats.”

  “Well, they could hardly let all of downtown burn,” said his companion. “You know how these fires get. One woman burns an egg for breakfast, and suddenly half the town is gone.”

  Lee faced forward, his outward expression one of excitement. Only Ingrid noticed how his hands clenched together as if to strangle someone.

  “That fire is the last place we need to go,” Ingrid said. “It’s not an appropriate place for you.”

  “A woman would say that!” One of the men leaned against their seat. “You want to see what burned? We can take you there. Give you a proper tour of the town.” His buddy chortled.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Ingrid said, her voice like ice. That made the men laugh even more. “You’ve seen this kind of thing before in San Francisco,” she whispered to Lee. “You know what you’ll see. You know the kind of people who will congregate there.”

  Photographers. Looters. Men cheering and toasting the destruction. Lee offered her a small nod, his demeanor now more Chinese than Japanese.

  “Then where should we go?” he muttered.

  “I can’t believe they locked up all the Chinese. Heaven forbid the residents here wash their own clothes or cook their own food. All of civilization would collapse.” At that, Lee snorted. “We’ll wander about as tourists do. We’ll find someone to talk to.”

  The bus followed the river and passed a massive rail yard and, after a few miles, finally crossed the Willamette River and into downtown. In the time it took for them to leave Swan Island, clouds had swept over the sky. The air carried a distinct scent of rain, though it was different than in San Francisco. It didn’t bring along the briny odor of the ocean.

  “We need coats,” Lee muttered. He sat taller, fully assuming his role again. “I wish I’d thought to grab some in San Francisco.”

  “I’m glad you managed to grab me clothes and boots at all or I’d be walking around like a newfangled nudist,” she whispered. She wore a westernized take on a kimono, the fabric deep purple. The sleeves puffed out at the elbow and tapered at the cuff. An obi-style cloth belt accentuated the waist of her thick hourglass figure. The dress overall was a bit baggy, like the others Lee had grabbed for her, but she couldn’t gripe.

  Most important, the dress included pockets. Ingrid had taken care to bring a handful of empty kermanite from their stash on the ship. If an earthquake struck, she needed the rocks handy to take in excess energy so that her lingering power sickness didn’t worsen.

  Lee glanced at Ingrid with an arched eyebrow. “I’m sure Cy would have lent you clothes again.”

  She muffled a laugh. “Yes, that would have made a good impression in Portland.”

  A few minutes later, they disembarked and stood beneath an awning for a moment to gain their bearings. The business district bustled on a Friday morning; paved roadways hosted autocars, horse-drawn vehicles, and bicycles aplenty. Brick buildings stood two and three floors in height, the architecture blending stark American fronts with Japanese-style curved roofs. Flags flanked entrance doors, the forty-five stars on the American flag set just higher than the Japanese rising sun. Others had affixed a third flag, the diagonal blend of the Unified Pacific.

  Ingrid wondered aloud where Mr. Roosevelt might be in the area, if he was still here at all. She purchased a newspaper and handed it to Lee, as was appropriate for her subservient role, and waited impatiently as he scanned the headlines. The whole front page was devoted to the devastation in San Francisco and the hunt for the villainous Chinese who had somehow committed the deed. Lee quickly skipped several pages forward.

  “Yes, there’s mention of T.R. He’s in negotiations with some trade organizations here through tomorrow.”

  “Does it mention if he’ll meet with the public?” He often did so in San Francisco.

  “No . . . yes. Not today. By appointment only, it says. Few time slots available. Sign up at a police station on Front Street on Saturday. Front is that way.” He motioned back toward the river. A slow drizzle began to fall, and he held the paper overhead.

  Front Street! Papa had mentioned it in his correspondence to Mr. Sakaguchi. Excitement surged in her veins.

  The rain fell harder. “Master Sato, that newspaper won’t be useful for long. There’s a haberdasher across the way,” she said respectfully, keeping up their charade.

  “Hai!” He led the way, a swagger to his step.

  The smell of smoke tainted the air. It put her in mind of San Francisco as she last saw it: those crosshatched lines that demarcated block after block of charred and crumbled masonry, the skyscrapers afire like torches held toward heaven. She grimaced and pushed the thoughts away. Portland was not San Francisco.

  She welcomed the chance to step inside the shop and out of the rain. The chemical sharpness of starched clothes and sachets of lavender cleansed her senses. A cheery piano tune rang from a Marconi on a back table.

  A few minutes later, Lee wore a lined oil slicker and a tweed flat cap that accentuated his youth. They continued down the street to a shop that catered to women of modest means. Lee made a show of treating his beloved nanny for her birthday, which delighted the older women who ran the store. Ingrid left adorned in a black hooded slicker of her own and a few headbands, and Lee had been provided with a handful of candied plums as if he were an adorable toddler, not fifteen years of age.

  “Don’t enjoy your acting gig too much,” Ingrid murmured.

  “Who knows when I’ll get to play the benevolent master again?” He paused to bow to an elderly Japanese man in natty attire. “Ohayou gozaimasu.”

 
She felt a pang in her heart to see Lee walk down the street with such freedom and confidence. It didn’t seem right or fair that it was only possible as part of a masquerade.

  She glanced around. No one walked close to them. She could chance asking Lee the questions that had been on her mind ever since she discovered his real identity. “Lee, I’ve been wondering about Uncle Moon. He’s not related to you by blood, is he?”

  “No. It’s like how you call Mr. Sakaguchi your ojisan. ‘Uncle’ is an honorific.”

  “Why is he called Moon? It seems odd for someone so . . . traditional to use an English name.” Speaking in Chinese was illegal, but names were commonly regarded as exceptions to the rule.

  Lee casually looked around before answering, his voice low. “He came to America a long time ago and became fully westernized as he taught lingqi. I once saw a picture of him from back then. He had a normal head of hair and wore a seersucker suit.” He shook his head, still in disbelief. “He changed his name to something that was easier for white people to say. Lingqi is believed to be part of yin nature, which is connected to the moon. Hence that name.”

  Ingrid nodded for him to continue.

  “When the war started . . .” Lee sighed. “He kept the English name the way someone keeps a scar uncovered for all the world to see, Ing. He’s said he’ll only answer to his old name when China belongs to the Chinese again.”

  She wasn’t sure what to say to that. Rain thrummed on the sidewalk canopies. Above the increased noise and bustle of street traffic, she heard a beautiful bell-like sound that made her think of the wind chimes that Mama made from scrap and hung in their yard years ago. Ingrid smiled and looked around to find the source of the noise. As she did, she was startled by a flash of gold a block away and across the street. Along with it, she felt a tingle of magic—strange magic. In Mr. Sakaguchi’s backyard, pixies in close proximity had caused a vaguely similar sensation, but this one carried with it a profound sense of coziness, the relief that came with being in sight of home after a long day of work at the auxiliary.

  Ingrid shook herself from the reverie and grabbed Lee’s arm. “Did you see that?”

  “See what? Ing?”

  She dodged pedestrians and paused at the corner. The policeman-operated traffic light almost instantly let them cross.

  “What did you see?” Lee kept pace alongside her.

  “I don’t know.” She stopped where she had seen the flash. Through the window, a Japanese shopkeeper bowed and spoke with customers. Ingrid whirled around to get her bearings.

  The tintinnabulation rang in her ears again, haunting and sweet at the same time. This time, the ensuing rush of magic smelled ever so faintly like the French cologne that Mr. Sakaguchi wore for special occasions. Grief froze her for a moment, and then she took off in pursuit of the sound. She heard Lee’s surprised cry behind her, but she didn’t slow. As she rounded the corner, she saw the glimmer again some distance up the street.

  Then the presence of magic was gone, again. Panting for breath, she leaned on a wooden post. A white couple cast her an odd look as they pushed by her and into a shop.

  “Do you mind telling me what’s going on?” Lee caught up to her, a scowl on his face. “I thought we weren’t going to come to the burned part of town.”

  Ingrid turned on her heel. Sure enough, the full square block beyond them had been reduced to bricks and rubble, while other nearby buildings looked well scorched. Lee moved closer. The rain had quenched the smoke. Chinese men and women wandered through the destruction with long boards or rakes in hand. Curious folks, mostly whites, hovered at the edges of the street. A few policemen in distinct caps stood back as overseers. No Unified Pacific soldiers were present.

  “We shouldn’t be here,” Ingrid murmured.

  “I know that! You led us straight here. What were you chasing?”

  She opened and closed her mouth without any sound escaping. A flash of light? The sound of bells? “I don’t know,” she said finally. “We need to be especially cautious.”

  “Since we’re here, I’m going to make a friend,” Lee whispered, and ambled directly toward a policeman. Ingrid started to yank him back by the arm but stopped herself. Frowning beneath her hood, she followed him. What part of be especially cautious had he not understood?

  “Ohayou gozaimasu.” Lee deeply bowed to the white policeman.

  “Ohayou,” the red-haired policeman replied with a short bow. He was older, his Japanese clumsy.

  “I just landed in Portland. I heard part of Chinatown burned but I wanted to see it for myself. What happened? Did anyone die?”

  Water dripped in a steady stream from the officer’s brim. “Not that we’ve found so far, lad. Lot of injuries, though.”

  “Burns?” Lee’s eyes were wide with innocent wonder.

  “No. Injuries didn’t come from the fire. A mob awaited the Chinese as they escaped the building. A few were shot, most of ’em were well beaten. Folks here made it quite clear how welcome the Chinese are in the city of Portland.”

  Ingrid pressed her arms against her torso as she tried to contain her horror. Lee’s acting was worthy of the stage as he continued to feign eagerness for news. Or maybe the officer’s revelation simply didn’t surprise him.

  Lee motioned toward the haggard figures in the rubble. They wore no raincoats. Their sodden and stained cotton work clothes drowned their slim bodies.

  “I thought all the chankoro were locked up?” Lee asked. Ingrid had to stop herself from flinching at the foul epithet he so casually used.

  “Most are. Folks in town were worried that traps might be set up in the buildings, though. It’s the sort of thing they do in China. These volunteers are walking through in a grid pattern to make sure it’s safe. If they find some gaps to the basement, better for them to fall through than any of our people. We’ll clean up the block soon as we know it’s safe, build something proper there.”

  Lee’s smile slipped ever so slightly, but he caught himself. “Interesting.”

  A clutch of white women attired in black approached the officer. Two figures at the back held aloft tall umbrellas.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said an elderly woman, “I’m Miriam Bonhoff—”

  “Oh. Yes. You’re the Quakers.” The policeman sounded bored. “I was told you might show up.”

  “It’s lunchtime. We brought some food and blankets—”

  “Certainly, certainly.” He motioned to another officer. “Call the Chinese out.”

  A whistle split the air.

  The drenched Chinese—mostly women and old men—dropped rags to mark their spots and hobbled toward the street at a glacial pace. Their faces, pale and bared to the chilly spring rain, bore dark bruises and fresh red cuts. The Quaker women waved them over. A few white men hauled steaming kettles closer.

  Ingrid had known that groups like the Quakers had helped black slaves escape to freedom decades before on the Underground Railroad. But she hadn’t seen with her own eyes the good work that they were doing now. She wanted to hug these kind people, thank them, but knew that if she did, there was too much danger involved, for her and for them.

  “Damned Lincoln lovers!” someone shouted. Lincoln had devoted his late-life work to securing rights and safe havens for Chinese refugees.

  “What’s with them pigtails getting free food?” called one of the white men playing audience. “Half the canneries are shut! Help the people who deserve it!” Other men grunted agreement.

  “Oh, shut it,” snapped the red-haired officer. “Half your money goes to Billy’s Bar.” At that, others burst out in laughter.

  “This is my chance,” Lee murmured, his gaze on the Chinese people in line for soup, his voice so tight Ingrid barely understood him.

  “They might give you away,” she whispered. She suddenly wished she did hold a smidgen of earth energy in order to act in their defense. She also worried at her endurance if she and Lee needed to run.

  “I have to try.” He walked tow
ard an older Chinese woman standing off by herself. Two of the Quakers approached him as if to defend the woman, but she waved them back to confront Lee on her own.

  Ingrid’s head snapped up as she heard the chime again, so soft that it was almost lost amid the clamor of the crowd. She glanced around, trying to spot where it was coming from. She was ready this time when the golden flare appeared on the far side of the rubble. The presence of magic was faint, like the scent of cooked rice from a kitchen window. Her mouth watered in response, leaving her genuinely discomfited by her own reaction.

  She wanted out of here; if she had her druthers, she’d haul Lee back to the Bug straightaway. But he was close to getting the answers they so desperately needed. And now—she also wanted to know what the hell was going on with this magical presence.

  Slowly, she walked around the periphery of the burned building while keeping an eye on Lee. The rain lightened but continued to fall. Beyond the ruins, mud and random debris created a swamp where once there had been a garden with thick heads of cabbage and tangled beds of strawberries. A gnarled pine tree curled to one side like an overgrown bonsai. She gingerly stepped over a plank fence that had been knocked flat and partially burned. The garden smelled of greenery and fresh mud. Her heart racing, she looked around, though she half expected the sound of chimes to lure her onward again.

  Heat prickled against her skin.

  She stood straighter. This wasn’t the heat of earth magic. And it wasn’t what she had felt from the flash that had guided her here. All the hair on the back of her neck stood up as she moved toward the gnarled pine, feeling the intensity of the magic grow stronger with every step.

  The earth at the tree’s roots was particularly muddy, as if it had been freshly turned. She moved without thinking, reaching for a charred piece of plank.

  Mud slurped and slid away as she dug; she tried to appear nonchalant, a bored nanny killing time as she waited for her charge—but she knew she didn’t have much time before someone became suspicious.

  About a foot down, the wood struck something solid. She worked the plank to one side and pried at the object. With an obscene sucking sound, the mystery item came loose and poked to the top of the muddy puddle. Quick as a wyvern, she grabbed it. The thing was almost the length and breadth of her forearm and in a leather bag. Whatever it was, it absolutely radiated power. She instantly was reminded of how it had felt to stand before the two-headed snake in Olema, the Hidden One.