Will Do Magic for Small Change

by Andrea Hairston

  “Why do you give this incredible mojo to me? I’m a stranger to you.”

  “I’ve been watching you, trying to figure if you’re one of the desperate liars pretending to be warriors to escape the war in Dahomey.”

  “What’s wrong with escaping war?”

  “Nothing.” Bob took my hand. “There are people where I come from, the Navajo, who say:

  I have been to the end of the earth.

  I have been to the end of the waters.

  I have been to the end of the sky.

  I have been to the end of the mountains.

  I have found none that are not my friends.

  “Like Ifa verses.” I was thrilled. “I hope to meet these Navajo someday.”

  “Navajo aren’t Ifa Africans, and a poet isn’t his people. Take care.” Bob’s sharp disapproval made me itch more than the mojo.

  “I apologize. We write ourselves onto strangers, then see only who we’ve imagined.”

  Bob nodded, pleased by my bit of wisdom. “Folks forget themselves and become the lies other people, power people, tell on them.” Had this gruesome fate befallen him?

  “Kehinde worries, but we don’t have to be the lies anybody tells!”

  Bob snorted. “You say this and head for Chicago town to put on a savage carnival?”

  I flinched. “We haven’t given all of who we are away.”

  “You’re soft-witted to believe that. They’ll make what they will of us.”

  “No one has such power.” I gripped his shoulders and shook him with the full force of my muscles. Startled, he stumbled backward. Momentum might have carried him over the railing. I leapt between his legs and gripped his waist. As his feet flew in the air, I dug in my heels, balancing him on the fulcrum of the railing. “You are a Guardian.” The power of this word encouraged me. “They are invaluable to Wanderers. You hold us to life.”

  Bob peered into the black water below him. “You’re a strange one.” He laughed a little. “Guardian? OK, for Taiwo, the Wanderer, I’ll do my best.” He set his feet firmly on deck. He was close enough to drink my breath. “Happy?”

  “Yes.” Hugging Bob to my heart, I recalled why I’d wandered to this planet: for dawn on the open sea, for Bob’s joy at my delight, for generous spirits and raging despair, for the woman, man, and aje in me roaring with desire.

  Whatever else has been lost, this clarity about Wanderers has never deserted me.

  “You haven’t yet told me a jot of your story.” Bob wagged a finger in my eyes. “What am I to guard? Who are you?”

  My throat closed, and I couldn’t answer. “OK. Don’t trouble yourself. Tell me later.”

  I touched my lips briefly to his. They tasted of rum. I disappeared before he could respond. It was our way, leaving at the height of intensity, before the full light of day revealed other selves.

  Roller Coaster Ride

  Klaus spoke the last words of Chronicles 13 like an actor so deep in a role he’d lost the here and now, and then he went silent.

  “Don’t stop,” Marie said.

  “There are more chapters.” Cinnamon squirmed. “What’s wrong?”

  The Audi bombed down a steep incline, maybe Negley Avenue, and took a sharp left onto black ice. The wheels skidded into a three hundred sixty degree whirligig. Mrs. Williams resisted braking, resisted spinning the tires. She turned into the skid, wore it down. Traffic on Fifth Avenue (Penn Avenue?) was mercifully sparse. Even a little snow turned hilly Pittsburgh into a disaster zone. This was a bona fide blizzard off the Great Lakes. The car spun to a halt, pointing in the right direction. Mrs. Beckenbauer sputtered a stream of German, dumm this, fantastisch that, and mist, mist, mist.

  “You won’t find a roller coaster ride like that at Kennywood Park.” Mrs. Williams exploded into laughter. “Safety inspector would close that bad boy down so fast, but suckers would still be lining up for a boogaloo with death.” Tension exposed her nappy roots as Aunt Becca would say. “How y’all doing?” She glanced into the rearview mirror. Glassy eyes reflected headlights coming up from behind, slow but sure.

  “Standing still is not a good idea.” Cinnamon peered out the rear windshield.

  Mrs. Williams shifted gears. “What’d the Playhouse put in the ginger ale?”

  They sprang forward, escaping slushy drifts with a whoosh, and drove toward Oakland. Mrs. Beckenbauer shook her head. She wasn’t feeling the black humor. Klaus and Marie squeezed closer to Cinnamon. Pathetic wipers scraped at windshields like broken wings flapping on an exhausted dragonfly. This afforded them only tunnel vision. Getting to Opal in the hospital was a real trick with snow-covered detour signs, disabled bridges, and one accident after another.

  Mrs. Williams eased the Audi around a steaming truck whose nose was buried in somebody’s hatchback. Two other cars had gone belly up in snowbanks. Snowmen hugged themselves beside the wrecks. Beating their bodies for warmth, they waited for rescue that might be a long time coming. Mrs. Williams drove onto the sidewalk. Mrs. Beckenbauer bounced her head on the ceiling as they went over the curb. Back in the street, Mrs. Williams blasted windshield wiper fluid. The view got marginally better. Mrs. Beckenbauer rubbed her head.

  “You three are too quiet. Story over?” Mrs. Williams yelled over the rattling heater. “I hope nobody minds music. It’ll give the adrenaline something to do.” She tuned the radio to an R&B station and pumped the volume on Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone.

  “Coincidental affinity.” Klaus sounded too much like Sekou.

  “This is like some kind of insane quest,” Cinnamon muttered.

  “Questing, we are questing.” Marie was happy. “A night of adventure.”

  Klaus’s cheeks were blotchy and hot. “We can drive in circles all night.”

  “Shit, that’s it.” Cinnamon wanted to punch herself. “I mean mist.”

  “Mist?” Marie snorted. “What am I missing?”

  “Mist means cow dung in German,” Klaus explained. “Mist is polite word for shit.”

  “I don’t want to get where I’m going,” Cinnamon said.

  “I could stay out all night.” Marie’s voice cracked. “My dad wouldn’t care. He says I’m too mature to act foolish.”

  “And your mom?” Klaus’s voice cracked too.

  “She doesn’t really count in our house.”

  Klaus grunted.

  “At every road block and detour,” Cinnamon said, “I pretend to be upset, but I’m relieved. Nobody can fool Eshu, though, master of fools and masquerades, guardian at the gate between life and death. Liar who speaks only truth, what is Eshu up to?”

  Klaus and Marie shrugged.

  “It’s not Abla tormenting the Wanderer. It’s Eshu,” Cinnamon said.

  “Well, that’s a relief,” Marie said.

  “Seriously.” Cinnamon said. “I know jack about reasoning with the master of fate.”

  “Master of fate?” Marie snorted then glanced at Klaus who looked miserable. “I’m sorry, who is that again?”

  “Eshu, trickster orisha riding the Wanderer.” Klaus had paid attention.

  “What does that mean?” Marie sneered. “Don’t act like you understand when you don’t. That’s not cute.”

  “Fine.” Klaus sneered too. “She’s worried about her mom, what she’ll find at the hospital, that kind of fate. Don’t get defensive when you don’t know everything.”

  “What’s any of that got to do with black ice?”

  “Stop.” Cinnamon was the calm force for once. “This isn’t about lethal weather at the crossroads. What am I or what are you or what is anybody going to do? Eshu favors smart choices. Who do you mean to be? That could be a line in an Eshu praise poem.”

  That’s good, Sis, Sekou said. A hoodoo light board operator faded him in on a ten count, right between Mrs. W and Mrs. B, who apparently didn’t notice.

  “Whoa.” Cinnamon had never seen Sekou’s ghost. Hunched over the gear shift, bouncing off the rearview mirror, he was backlit by a
florescent orange spot. Reaching for him, Cinnamon’s fingers passed through his knees, and a shock traveled up her arm. “What’s up, Bro?”

  Sekou’s cheeks were hollow. Ribbons of light twisted in his short dreadlocks, tingeing his walnut brown hair with silver and blue. A thunderbird flapped its wings on his favorite Indian Power tee-shirt (which last Cinnamon knew was rolled up safe from Opal’s purging mania under her bed). Raven had silkscreened that shirt for Sekou’s sixteenth birthday. Sekou wore it the night Raven got shot, and he never wore it again, until now. The whale in the thunderbird’s talon spit a stream of orange mist over the see-through fabric. Sekou’s skin, bones, and organs were see-through too. He was a ghost with a still heart, flat lungs, and dusty silver bones.

  Who do you mean to be? Sekou asked. Which direction you go take?

  Cinnamon gripped Klaus’s and Marie’s thighs to the bone. Klaus cleared his throat. Marie twisted in her seat. Stevie Wonder’s Superstition blared from the speakers.

  When you believe in things that you don’t understand

  Then you suffer

  Superstition ain’t the way

  Sekou sang along, on the beat, off the key — not a singer really, even dead.

  “Sekou’s right.” Cinnamon slipped her voice under Stevie Wonder’s throbbing bass. “He’s one of us, part of our posse.”

  “Uh huh,” Marie muttered.

  “A brother from another planet, you know?” Cinnamon eased her death grip. “Don’t get bent.”

  “Do we have any other options?” Klaus whispered. “I mean, do dead —” He eyed Mrs. W’s and Mrs. B’s bobbing heads and avoided the flashing orange between them. “Do half-brothers just waltz into your conversation uninvited?”

  Marie smiled at Klaus, totally in lust again. “Yes, how does this work exactly?”

  Cinnamon shrugged. Maybe three folks believing made Sekou come in stronger. “My granddaddy said ancestors ride the wind, speaking to us. We just have to listen in.”

  Marie chuckled. “My grandparents tell me nonsense too. From the old country. Feudal Japan, practically. I haven’t listened to them since forever ago.”

  “Granddaddy Aidan’s part Seminole.” That shut Marie down. Folks were more likely to believe noble-savage Indians than backward hoodoo-Negroes. “He says we’re getting tone deaf, can’t hear the spirit frequency. Hoodoo touches folks every day, but we deny it or don’t notice.” Out loud this sounded corny.

  Knowing your own power is dangerous, Sekou said. Most folks are fuckin’ cowards and be ignoring their unadulterated awesomeness.

  “Be cool, Bro,” Cinnamon said. “We got company.”

  The truth should have plenty fuckin’ company! Sekou’s lip curled. The thunderbird looked ready to take off. Folks get stuck on stupid. Or ignore. That’s the coward’s way. I took it, didn’t I? All the way to the last motherfuckin’ stop.

  “We’re company for your truth, aren’t we?” Klaus said.

  “Nobody’s got the god’s eye view,” Marie said.

  All right! Your crew ain’t turning to zombies at sustained contact with the undead.

  “Did your brother…How did he uhm?” Klaus gestured.

  Most people are cows, getting jacked up and herded into the wasteland. Mad Cows.

  Klaus stared at the fluorescent orange vision/mirage. “How’d you die, man? Cancer? Car crash? A bullet?” Rhetorical hollow questions. “What’s the coward’s way?”

  I shot up a lethal dose of smack. Going down to the exit rather than cracking up and out.

  Klaus furrowed his brow, blinked and blinked, as if he could make everything normal and clear again with the sweep of an eyelash.

  “OK, Sekou. They can handle you, but why get mean?” Cinnamon said.

  The truth is mean, not me. Sekou hit the beats with James Brown, revving up his rapper-nerd persona. Who you see out there, fully claiming their superpowers?

  Cinnamon never called ghost Sekou on his shit for fear he’d quit haunting her, but he was being ridiculous. “We don’t live in a comic book world.”

  “That’s the truth.” Marie backed her up.

  “I don’t know, maybe,” Klaus mumbled. “The last few hours could have been frames from —”

  “Don’t be such a guy.” Marie flipped her shiny black hair. “Even a big superhero dude with jet fuel in his veins couldn’t turn the whole tidal wave of history around.”

  If the shit going down is so foul that even a superhero can’t save us… Sekou’s audio and visual faded a bit. Only the grin blazed bright. We’re fucked. That’s why I checked out.

  “Instead of fighting back?” Cinnamon shook her braids, copying Marie. “Stupid.”

  “Was it?” Klaus and Sekou said in sync.

  “Yes,” Cinnamon and Marie replied.

  Yo, dude! The girls are ganging up on us. Watch out!

  “Maybe people together are like a superpower,” Cinnamon said.

  Papa ain’t got no brand new bag for that. Sekou hissed. Get Mom to quit treating you like a baby. She’s keeping shit from you still. Important Shit.

  “What important shit? Tell me!”

  OD’ing was my fault. Raven in the bar, my fault. It’s what I believed before she said a word. She don’t need to torture herself.

  “Daddy getting shot wasn’t your fault!”

  Klaus clutched his stomach and gagged, like he’d been kicked. He doubled over.

  “Flugzeuge zooming in your guts?” Cinnamon turned to him. “Airplanes or rockets?”

  “Talk to us, Klaus,” Marie said. “Use your words.”

  “I know about OD’ing and stuff,” Klaus muttered.

  Marie ground her teeth. “What stuff?”

  “You mean stuff with Vati. Your dad?” Cinnamon said. “He didn’t OD, did he?”

  “Not yet.” Klaus sat up and squelched a groan. “How do you know about him?”

  “Vati does it in the garage.” Cinnamon winced. “Your mom caught him.”

  “Yeah.” Klaus’s eyes were watery. Vati spooked him more than ghost Sekou.

  Marie leaned over Cinnamon to reach him. “Your dad does drugs, really?”

  “Shh!” Klaus hissed. He looked at the grown-ups.

  “Don’t worry,” Cinnamon pointed to bobbing heads. “They’re in oldie heaven.”

  As Martha and the Vandellas rocked Nowhere to run to baby, Nowhere to hide, another wave of pain knocked Klaus over. He gripped Cinnamon’s hand. Marie joined Martha with a loud, high harmony. She belted Motown R&B like a natural.

  “Where you from, girl?” Mrs. Williams shouted. “Sing it!”

  “Marie’s a shield.” Cinnamon whispered to Klaus. “They can’t hear behind her and the heater.” She massaged his shoulder. “We’re your Mod Squad secret society, your ghost posse. Don’t be such a guy, like Marie said.” She pressed harder. “I need a hammer and a chisel.”

  Klaus flinched away. “Owa. I didn’t ask you to —”

  “Your shoulders did.” Cinnamon stroked gently. Klaus sobbed out a breath. She hesitated. He leaned into her fingers, his back begging for more. She hoped he didn’t start bawling. Nobody needs to see that! “You done talking?” She spoke velvet tones instead of going off. “Come on, let it out.”

  Klaus chewed up words and tears and just about worked her last nerve.

  “It figures,” she muttered.

  Why you pouting? Sekou said. Don’t like the dark fantasy twist?

  It figures that she’d have freaky friends with messed up parents and lots of family drama. She snatched The Chronicles from Klaus’s lap and, rather than confirm her dead half-brother’s suspicions, she started to read.

  CHRONICLES 14: Atlantic Ocean, 1893 —

  Warrior Dances

  Captain Luigi was a seaman turned showman. In his troupe of Africans there was only one real ahosi warrior. Kehinde avoided the show-warriors and travelers from Europe — mostly mercenaries and cutthroats running from war-torn Dahomey. They were no different from Fon or Yor
uba raiders or the Senegalese thieves in Ouidah who tried to rob and rape us. Kehinde kept to herself, stayed below, hiding her turmoil from me and everyone. I didn’t want to argue over Chicago masquerades or speak of secret friends and Abla’s head, so I avoided her and roamed the deck day and night.

  Whenever the moon hid behind clouds or mist, Abla screamed at me, louder than the engines: “Abomination!”

  “I don’t believe in you.” Holding up Bob’s mojo bag, I chanted:

  Homage to Eshu, the one who owns the road

  Homage to Eshu, the one who holds Ashe

  Ashe — the power to make things be or not be!

  Abla faded away then. Bob always found me, staring at empty black water, clutching his mojo bag, and whispering prayers to Eshu. I leaned into his warmth, and he put an arm around my cold shoulders. I gathered a collection of soft cloths from him to hold acid tears or blood from the wound that wouldn’t heal. After dispatching Abla, I would shadow Bob as he prowled the ship on night watch. He spoke nonsense to restless caged beasts and passed treats through the bars. Gruff predators and hairy humanoids greeted him warmly, pressing a hand or paw through the bars. Was I one of his exotic pets? We shared the wonders of the dark. Faint shooting stars streaked through the upper atmosphere. Beasts the size of La Vérité shot geysers of water at the moon and sent booming sound waves to the ocean floor. Unblinking eyes reflected the lantern light on the bridge. We climbed down a ladder once, and a behemoth drew near enough to brush against my naked foot. Its skin was sleek and cold, full of fat and brine.

  “Nothing to fear,” Bob said. “Whales heading north.”

  “Will the water turn hard?” I asked. “How will they manage?”

  “They don’t mind a bit of ice,” he replied. “It’s the steamship crashing you should worry on. La Vérité on ice.”

  One afternoon, when the bones in our ears had made peace with the rolling deck, Kehinde rehearsed warrior ahosi moves for the masquerade in Chicago town. Spellbound sailors and cutthroats crowded the railings as she stabbed shadow hearts and severed phantom heads. Squatting in a thick circle of rope, I grunted at her easy conquests. Kehinde thrust a cutlass at me. The blade burned my fingers, and I dropped it quickly. Kehinde swung her blade at my head, and I dodged, rolling over the feet of squealing spectators. Kehinde’s blade sliced through the rope down to the filthy deck. With her free hand, she retrieved the weapon I disdained, twisted her hips, and let momentum carry her my direction — beautiful and deadly. I leapt around sweaty smokestacks and over yawl boats covered by rotten canvass. I slipped past caged animals who shivered and roared. Finally I flicked my fingers at our audience and stood still as an ancient iroko. Kehinde lunged. One blade halted at my heart; the other touched my cheek and drew a line of blood. A few in the crowd applauded. Horror and revulsion were easy to read on other faces. No one had ever looked disgusted watching the sailors engage in fisticuffs or wrestling.