Redwood and Wildfire

by Andrea Hairston

“Hush now,” Aidan said.

  “Might I ask for your aid?” The foreigner held out a colorful playbill. “You look like a helpful chap.”

  The women’s eyes above their veils were dark and welcoming.

  “I’m new in town.” Aidan took off his hat. “But I’ll gladly give it a shot.”

  “We’re from further away than you,” the foreigner said.

  Iris stepped in front of Aidan, bold as a full moon rising. “We come all the way from Georgia. Where you folks come from, sir?”

  “Have you heard of Iran — of Persia — down in Georgia?”

  Iris nodded. The women smiled with their eyes.

  “We have?” Aidan said. “Now don’t you be telling tales.”

  “From the Bible and a book on ancient kingdoms Aunt Elisa gave me,” Iris said.

  “Persia is ancient and modern,” the foreigner said. “My younger brother’s an acrobat, performing across your great nation. I must find his theatre.” He handed Aidan a playbill for the Magic Lantern Theatre.

  Aidan grinned. “Well, after I sprinkle some dirt, we’re going the same place as you.”

  “A mighty coincidence like this means good luck, sir, where we come from.” Iris beamed at him.

  “Where we come from as well, little beauty.” The foreigner bowed to her.

  Iris blushed and bent down to the ground with Aidan. “Do you think he’s a prince?”

  Aidan opened the alligator pouch. “I don’t know, but the way you eyeing him, makes me think you falling in love again.”

  “He’s a spectacle all right and good luck too, but that ain’t in the same county with love,” Iris said in her grown-up voice.

  “Well, now tell me a thing or two, sweet pea.” Aidan scattered the goober dust on the crisscross of rail tracks. As it sparked under the iron wheels of a train, the three women bowed their heads like this was a holy moment for them too.

  The sun dipped low, setting wisps of clouds on fire. Payne was out another day’s wages. No more filming today. Redwood had danced the lioness almost back to the cage. Their motions blurred into one another, and Redwood felt heartache, for a time before this time, for fierce sisters, babies lounging in the heat, and a great bearded fellow rolling in the grass. Redwood peered with lonely lion eyes through bars at a barren landscape of circus tents and train boxcars. She turned her nose up at rotten meat covered in maggots and flies as each second stretched long and unbearable. Fire singed her whiskers, and she gulped a breath of smoke, coughed, and growled.

  The lioness batted a sore paw at Redwood, bringing her back to the smelly cage.

  “I can’t, damn it! Sequoia’s in the way,” someone shouted. Nobody dared get close enough for a clear shot.

  Redwood gently took hold of the swollen foot. The lioness laid her head against Redwood’s hip. Redwood pressed her cheek against a furry ear, drawing the pus and pulling the pain from one paw, then the other. With a rumbling chest, the lioness danced beyond reach to deep inside the cage where bars kept the leering and snarling people out. She sat on her haunches and licked her paws, eyes never leaving Redwood.

  A shot rang out. Stunned by the force of an impact, by skin and bone exploding, Redwood’s arms flew open. She stumbled and closed her eyes on a punctured lung and fatal heartache. A second shot whined by in the darkness and slammed through downy fur into soft flesh, and then Redwood could hear no more.

  Time was undone, bleeding away.

  Redwood opened her eyes. The lioness was twisting in the air. The second bullet had hit her belly and ripped her open. Guts poured out with blood. The White Hunter and African Savages stood behind a gunman, cheering and laughing. With fear standing in his eyes, Saeed ran into the cage.

  The dead weight of the big cat fell into Redwood. She hugged the animal to her. Claws dug at her ribs as they tumbled to the ground. Blood spurted onto Redwood: sticky, hot, smelling of copper and bile. The lioness’s tongue flapped against Redwood’s shoulder. Coarse as sandpaper, it scraped away skin. Puffs of bloody, fetid breath fogged the air. Golden eyes turned glassy and gray.

  Grimacing, Saeed rolled the lioness off of Redwood’s heaving chest and talked at her, but she couldn’t hear him or anything else. He looked concerned at her injured shoulder and the blood dripping down her side. As he checked her wounds, she pushed him aside with such force, he tumbled several feet and hit the ground hard. The wind was knocked from his chest. Saeed scrambled in the dust to regain his senses and came for her again.

  Redwood jumped over the lioness and charged at the gunman, running faster than Saeed, running with gale force rage. As she bounded toward them, the White Hunter and African Savages grew silent, motionless, and then backed away. The gunman lost his grin as he noted their retreat. Panicked, he aimed his weapon at Redwood and shouted something, but she charged on. He fumbled and stumbled and then pulled the trigger, at point-blank range.

  His rifle misfired, burning his fingers and dislocating his shoulder.

  Redwood smacked the gun from his hands and slammed into him. Terror and pain disfigured his face. She balled her storm hand into a fist. It took great effort not to punch him again. He fell down at her feet and clutched his chest, like an actor miming a broken heart. She turned away from him, walked past a frightened White Hunter and stunned African Savages, past Saeed even, and back into the cage.

  Redwood sat with the lioness’s head in her lap, staring through the bars. Saeed shrugged at everyone and sat next to her. Demon Nicolai cranked the last of his film. He nodded at Redwood, pleased it would seem with her bravura performance. Redwood took a choked breath. Sound returned, but she didn’t want to listen to the voices babbling at her and wished for the silence again.

  It did not come.

  Eighteen

  Lost and Found, Chicago, 1910

  After depositing banjo, shotgun, and their heavy bags in the Persian Prince’s railroad car, Aidan and Iris headed for the Magic Lantern Theatre. The Prince joined in this scouting expedition. They rode a horse-drawn trolley since the electric train lines were down. So many people were cutting the fool in the streets on account of Halley’s Comet, the Prince refused to let his wives come along on public transport. The women offered to watch over Iris while the men did the scouting, but Iris didn’t want to stay behind. Aidan didn’t want to leave her, so no argument there.

  The Magic Lantern Theatre was opening a big production tomorrow night, yet it seemed to Aidan the show needed another week. Actors in half-finished monkey suits dangled from ropes and got tangled in each other. One fellow, a walking tin can more than a knight-errant, limped by them, missing a tin shoe, hobbling after a woman toting a bushel of funny hats. A drawbridge slammed onto the stage floor, nowhere near its green silk moat. A lion-mask in a red union suit dodged tiny people practicing dance steps. A chorus of midgets sang off key. Nothing but white folk everywhere, and standing in the wings, shouting at riggers and carpenters, the harried manager claimed he’d never heard tell of Redwood Phipps.

  “Don’t know her, haven’t seen her.” He darted away from Aidan through flats and props. “How’d you people get back here?”

  Aidan licked dry lips. A drink wouldn’t help nobody remember, but he wanted one all the same. “Six feet tall, a real pretty colored lady.”

  “Redwood?” A stocky blond stagehand hung from the flies next to a farmhouse flat and rubbed at dust in his eyes. “You must mean Sequoia.”

  Aidan brightened at her Cherokee name.

  The stagehand scratched his neck. “She hasn’t worked the vaudeville review for several months. I bet she didn’t get your telegram.”

  Iris just ’bout fell over as a circle of dark clouds got hauled up with the farmhouse flat. The Prince admired the machinery.

  “Don’t know where Sequoia’s living, but I hear tell she’s making moving pictures.”

  “Why would she do that?” the Prince asked.

  The stagehand shimmied down a rope. “Colonel Selig and everybody’s brother is doing film
s. That’s where the money is, and show people always chase money.”

  Iris gazed into the flies. Lined up behind the farmhouse flat were castles, cornfields, a big green city lit up in the night, and a sky of flying critters. “Is this all for one show?”

  The stagehand leered at her. “You must be Sequoia’s kin. Or is that just how they grow ’em in Georgia?”

  Aidan bristled and Iris leaned into him. “What show you doing here, sir?” she said.

  “The Wizard of OZ.”

  “I read the book.” She grinned. “Twice.”

  “That acrobat buddy of Sequoia’s said I couldn’t get a house in a twister to land on the wicked witch. Watch me. HEADS!”

  Screeching like polecats in heat, dark clouds spiraled ’round the farmhouse flat as it headed for the stage floor. Iris was enchanted.

  “Acrobat?” the Prince said.

  “Somebody need to oil that contraption.” Aidan pointed to the noisy winch.

  “He and Sequoia are thick as thieves. Find him, you find her.”

  “And where might that be?” Aidan didn’t want to be jealous of no acrobat.

  “Don’t really know. Son of a gun still owes me five dollars too.”

  “My brother’s a bit of a rogue,” the Prince said when Iris told his wives of the debt. Aidan wasn’t sure how much English they understood, but they smiled and nodded.

  “Coming inside this railway coach is like we done stepped into another world, Mars or maybe Venus.” Iris admired the spicy colors, rich fabrics, and plush cushions. Fanciful creatures, cast in bronze and silver, frolicked over every surface. Aidan’s fingers itched to carve something after seeing them.

  “This place is a palace on wheels,” Aidan said.

  “Far from home, we have an oasis,” the Prince said.

  One of his wives poured tea into fancy cups and saucers. The second laid a low table with steaming meats, colorful vegetables, and flat breads. The third held onto Aidan’s banjo and stroked the neck, just enough to make the strings buzz.

  “We can’t trouble you no more.” Aidan tried to ease his banjo from her fingers, but she wouldn’t let go. “We’ll just take our things and —”

  “What trouble is that?” the Prince said. “Farah loves making tea. Akhtar could cook a man into heaven. Abbaseh wants to know of this instrument you play.”

  Iris pulled the map from Aidan’s bag. “Aunt Subie led us right to you.” She danced around, showing off a drawing of colorful folks in fancy dress at the train station. A Persian Prince in red balloon pants and an Indian man with a feathered hat were hard to miss.

  “On your map, why you do us honor,” the Prince said. His three women stood behind him, nodding. Even if they didn’t talk English, they seemed to get the drift of things.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Cooper.” Iris squeezed Aidan’s hand. “We goin’ find my sister. We just get us a good night’s sleep and catch her in the morning when we’re fresh.”

  “Listen to the little one. She is wise,” the Prince said. “You must stay. My wives do not argue with me over strange company. This too is miraculous.”

  Aidan wanted to turn down the Prince or whatever he was back in Persia for no good reason. “I don’t know.” Maybe he just didn’t like trusting a rich man’s whim, or maybe he didn’t like the odds, three wives to one husband. Abbaseh stroked the belly of the banjo, listening eagerly to faint vibrations, a musician for sure. “You ought not to be so neighborly,” Aidan said. “This United States of America is a wild country, and plenty of folk out there as soon rob you blind as look at you.”

  “I appreciate the warning. More reason for us to join forces. The food cools. We must eat soon.” The Prince ushered them to cushions round the low table. He was a man used to getting his way.

  “You offer fine hospitality, sir. I ain’t never seen the like.” Aidan crouched down and ran his fingers through a thick carpet. The colors had daylight in them. Flowers, branches, birds, and horses wove in and out of one another on a deep sea-blue. The dense pattern got him to thinking on the Okefenokee Swamp — homesick already.

  “Six hundred Persian knots to the square inch,” the Prince boasted.

  “Does it fly, sir? Does it have spirit power? Can it take you to your heart’s desire?” Iris asked.

  The women laughed in three-part harmony.

  The Prince smiled. “Carpets do not fly for me. Perhaps you will find a way to unleash this talent.”

  “I can try.” Iris was delighted by the enchanted coach and the mysterious beauties who talked only Persian. “Like one of Doc Johnson’s storybooks.”

  “These folks got their own story to tell,” Aidan said. “You ain’t read that in your book.”

  “Do tell.” Iris would’ve pestered the Prince and his ladies with a thousand questions if she hadn’t fallen asleep after the rich meal.

  The Prince sat on plump pillows; Farah and Akhtar sat behind him. After tucking Iris into soft bedding, Aidan sat on a cushion in front of him.

  “My wives wondered if you would grace us with song.”

  Abbaseh strummed once and placed the banjo in Aidan’s lap. His hands trembled over the strings, uncertain. He was playing better, but he wasn’t sure he’d gotten good.

  “I’m all tuckered out too,” Aidan said. “I promise a real show tomorrow.”

  The wives made a lavish bed on the magic carpet of scented pillows, fine blankets, and cushions, as if Aidan was also a prince. In the dark, when he was sure they were all off sleeping soundly, he got up from the forest of Persian knots and fell asleep on the bare ground next to Iris. Sleeping on the magic carpet seemed a sin and a shame to him.

  The back parlor of George and Clarissa’s house had been converted to Redwood’s room. Framed sheet music covers and theatre posters of colored plays and performers decorated the walls: Bert Williams and George Walker in Abyssinia and In Dahomey, and Aida Overton Walker in His Honor The Barber and Salome. Plays and books covered a writing table. Voluptuous white lilies filled plump vases and scented the air. Redwood was buried in sumptuous bedding, her shoulder and ribs bandaged. She clutched a beat-up music box in her right hand and, as the tinny version of “Way Down Upon the Suwannee River” played, she stared up at the painted ceiling. Mythical figures from a tale she didn’t know, drawn with a whimsical hand, chased each other ’round the room, warring, loving, cheating, dying, and saving each other over and over.

  Clarissa tiptoed through the doorway as the song wound down. She set a teapot on the nightstand, pulled a chair close to the bed, and took up Redwood’s left hand. “That old thing is so warped,” she said. “I know a shop where you can get a new one, with lovely music, show music that I know you’d appreciate just as much as that Stephen Foster song. Negroes have other things to sing about, besides missing the old plantation. I can’t believe you still listen to that.”

  “It was Mama’s box.” Speaking hurt, like Redwood had been screaming for hours.

  “Oh…I didn’t know.” Clarissa cleared her throat.

  They sat silently. Clarissa shifted as if the fat upholstered chair hurt her bottom. She worried the lace at her neck and peered in the teapot twice. Redwood wheezed and stared at a mythical beast with wings flying through a midnight Milky Way.

  “What are you reading?” Clarissa picked up an old Atlantic Magazine. “‘Why I am a Pagan by Zitkala-Sa — a Sioux Indian woman defends her religion.’ Oh my.” Clarissa set it down quickly and rubbed her hands on a clean handkerchief. “We all missed you at the poetry reading tonight,” she said. “The whole Club turned out to hear poems by Mr. Paul Lawrence Dunbar and our own Anna Warner. Dr. Jeffrey spoke on the advantages of polygamy — that’s many wives to one husband. How much more responsible it is in light of the social temperament of women and the male appetite — fewer children out of wedlock. He seemed surprised that we ladies all disagreed so vehemently with him. There should be an article in the Broad Ax on our discussion, and also a piece on industrial versus academic educat
ion for the Negroes coming up from Georgia and Mississippi. Mr. Booker T. Washington is right. So much refined thought is wasted on those poor souls who need work, a vocation so they can get ahead and feed their families. What good is Mr. Dunbar’s poetry to them? And all that singing and dancing. How will we uplift the race if they just want to cut the fool? I know you’d disagree, but even Dr. Dubois admits to…limits. Maybe you’ll come and speak to the Club and persuade us to your view.” She suddenly ran out of steam.

  “What?” Redwood croaked. “I’m listening.”

  “I’m just bibble-babbling at you, because you’re so quiet, it…scares me.” She looked in the teapot again. “Do you think this is ready?”

  Redwood nodded. “They didn’t have to shoot her,” she whispered. That hurt too.

  “Who?” Clarissa gripped the teapot. “The lioness? But you might have been killed.”

  “Yes, thank the stars that gunman had a lousy aim and a dirty rifle.”

  “You know what I mean.” Clarissa poured a dark brew through a strainer into a cup. “I hope I made this right.” She held it out to Redwood. “I followed your recipe. It’s amazing what you got growing out back. A pharmacopeia.”

  Redwood took the cup. “Some things won’t grow up north though.” She drank the brew and shuddered. It tasted bitter but soothed her insides.

  “Do you have a charm in your garden to trip up a wayward man?”

  “I don’t lay down tricks to cross folks. No good trying to hoodoo somebody into going the way you want if they ain’t, if they aren’t going that way.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t serious.” Clarissa laughed. “I’m a God-fearing Christian woman.” She sighed. “George loves me in his way, but sometimes —”

  “Brother’s selfish and —”

  “George Phipps charged into Chicago when my first husband’s laundry business was going under. My parents had invested in us and were about to lose everything too. If it wasn’t for George, I would have been out on the street, like those other poor women and with a baby to feed. My first husband coughed himself to death, and… George isn’t charming or refined. He’s a hard patch of dirt, but I love him for everything he did, for everything he still does.”