Redwood and Wildfire

by Andrea Hairston

  “The whole street could go.” Aidan grasped Redwood’s storm hand and pulled her close. She shoved against him and then gave in to a bit of comfort. “A lot of colored businesses, ain’t it?”

  “What difference does that make?” Redwood said.

  “That’s why they set it on fire. That’s why they’re shooting,” the Irish fireman said.

  “I was ’fraid of that,” Aidan said. Redwood wouldn’t look at him.

  “Somebody called us before the fire. We got here as it started. Otherwise…” The fireman wiped a runny nose. “Damn fools could burn the whole city down.”

  “Fire don’t care ’bout color, don’t care ’bout nothing.” The colored volunteer wrapped a wet handkerchief over his mouth. “Poor white folk living ’round back. Fire’ll eat them too.”

  He and the Irish fireman ran to the abandoned pump. They banged and cajoled it into working again. Water gushed into the Dry Cleaning, and the fire died back. A fourth and fifth pump belched water too. The fire cringed and spit, smoked and fizzled. Aidan wished they could dump the whole of Lake Michigan on it.

  “Why did George run back in there?” Clarissa huddled on the ground behind a motorcar. Mr. McGregor sat with her. Milton lifted his head from her lap and hacked his insides into the gutter as Aidan and Redwood stumbled toward them. “It’s not George’s fault. He didn’t set this fire.” Clarissa pounded Mr. McGregor. “Why do they do us this way?”

  “She’s out of her mind. Help me,” Mr. McGregor said, stepping aside.

  Redwood bent down and stroked Clarissa’s face and hair. “George ain’t dead yet.”

  “Are you sure?” Clarissa calmed down at Redwood’s touch. “You’re a conjure woman seeing underneath things, right? Do you see George alive?”

  Redwood nodded and took Milton’s hands, pulling his pain. Milton groaned relief.

  “Look,” Aidan put an arm ’round Clarissa, “they’re getting this fire under control.”

  Clarissa glowered at thin streams of water grazing bright banners of heat.

  “Beat it back enough, a rescue unit can go in,” Aidan said.

  Smoke billowed and steam hissed. “It’s almost under control,” McGregor said.

  Aidan watched the flames retreat, ’fraid to hope, ’fraid not to.

  Clarissa wiped Milton’s face. “Can you speak, Mr. O’Reilly? Please, tell us what you know. Anything.”

  McGregor handed him a flask of something strong. Milton took a swig and coughed up black smoke. “A gang of white men, roughnecks, I’d never seen before.”

  McGregor exchanged glances with Aidan. “Go on,” Aidan said to Milton.

  “They were drunk and fighting with George and Eddie about some bad business — Reginald Jones’s grocery getting torched. They said they didn’t know who did that and then I don’t recall what…Fire and glass flying.” He drank another swig. “George can hold his own with fisticuffs, but arson? They had torches, and I don’t think they realized what an inferno they were setting. One white fellow burnt himself up…I tried to get out, but they were shooting anybody who stepped out the front door. Folks pushed me back inside, a stampede. Hooligans knocked Eddie on the head, got me in the gut. I couldn’t breathe. George pulled me out. He said he had to go get Eddie…”

  “Eddie? George went back for Eddie?” Clarissa sounded disgusted.

  “Your husband’s an honorable man,” Aidan said.

  Milton nodded. “He saved my life.”

  “George do what he think is right.” Aidan squeezed Clarissa. “He’s a brave man.”

  “I know.” Clarissa would have preferred a coward this night.

  Redwood stood up from Milton. “Did you see Iris in there?” she asked.

  Aidan gasped. “Iris?” Felt like somebody jabbed a hot poker through his heart.

  “I don’t know.” Milton’s eyes darted ’round his face. “I couldn’t really see anything after the fire started.” A fire engine pump rattled to a halt. Its geyser of water fizzled. “These firemen aren’t trying to fight this fire, they figure, let it burn.” He was crying.

  “Iris was cross-tempered all day and hounding George.” Aidan searched Redwood’s face. “You and her speaking heart to heart?” A rumbling explosion sent new plumes of flame into the inky sky. “What you know?”

  “They running out of water.” Redwood’s eyes were silver slits.

  Aidan couldn’t think straight. “Not Iris.”

  Chemicals from the storage room exploded in a fireworks display of reds, blues, and greens. “Who’s going to live through that?” Milton said.

  “Isn’t there something we can do?” Clarissa hissed.

  “They don’t want us to get ahead,” Milton said. “They’ll murder us all —”

  “I don’t care about advancing the race right now, Mr. O’Reilly. I just want my George alive.” Clarissa clutched Redwood. “Your sister too, if she’s in there.”

  “She is.” Redwood declared.

  Aidan watched the fire coming back to life like he was dry wood burning, like he was a dead man. He sank onto hard cobblestone, not sure how he’d ever get up again.

  “If you can do all those things you say,” Clarissa dug her fingernails in Redwood’s flesh, “if you can fly and blow the breath of life into a little baby, can’t you do something to save my ornery George and your sweet Iris?”

  “I’m goin’ try.” Redwood stuffed her hair under an old cap of Aidan’s. She squeezed her red mojo bag and spoke Sea Island Gullah words, sounding like Miz Garnett. She traced a cross on the ground, spoke to each direction, and strode by two firemen, too busy wrassling with leaky hoses to pay her no mind.

  Aidan scrambled up beside her. “You fixing to walk into that firestorm?”

  Redwood cut her eyes at him. “Don’t know what else to do. Gotta improvise.”

  “I’m coming too.” Aidan held out the orchid. It was still warm.

  Redwood put her hand on top of his.

  Even when good raconteurs tell a tall tale, folks don’t believe everything happened quite like they say — unless of course they were there when the wild story happened. Still, crazy events might feel like a waking dream. That’s how walking into the firestorm was for Redwood, and Aidan too. Gripping hands, they prayed to the Master of Breath, to the spirit in everything. They offered all the treasures they had in the world. They offered their lives in exchange. For Iris and for George.

  Something popped, like a banjo string breaking in the middle of furious plucking and picking. Aidan and Redwood groaned at the painful sound cracking in their ears, and then they heard nothing else. It was as if they’d gone deaf. Clarissa talked on to Milton and McGregor, but the sound was lost. The screeching crowd and rattling engines were also silent. Even the roaring of the fire was gone, and the blaze itself slowed down ’til it was stock still, a red and yellow flag caught in a north wind.

  The fire-haint that Nicolai claimed as camera magic busted through a cloud of dusky ashes drifting over the street. This time Redwood got a good look. The haint’s hands were balls of fire. Strands of smoke trailed from its head like a comet’s tail. Silver sparks pulsed from an iron heart. Ruby eyes glistened as the haint swooped out of hot, dead air. Long legs, graceful moves, a woman’s form, someone dead, but not gone charged right at them.

  “Mama?” Redwood said, shaken to her bones.

  “Yes, indeed. Miz Garnett,” Aidan said.

  They could hear each other and see the haint plain as day.

  Garnett Phipps was shades of black and white, like the photo from the Chicago Fair, like how Redwood might look in ten years or after she was dead and come back as spirit. Garnett plucked the orchid from their hands and stuck it in her swamp grass hair. She smiled polished stone teeth and sauntered toward the fire. Her dress was foamy rapids on a muddy river, racing from her neck to bare feet and back up again. She sported turtles under her feet — fancy high heel slippers, swimming her ’cross the cobblestones. Lightning bolt earrings flashed at the t
rolley line. A necklace of stars pulsed against dark velvet skin. Pale riders galloped past her into the Dry Cleaning. The horses screamed and hollered. A tall figure rode a sweaty black stallion — Jerome? Before Redwood could be sure, he’d disappeared.

  “Demons on their last ride!” Garnett said. She beckoned to Redwood and Aidan and glided by firemen into the burning store. Damp ground sparkled where she’d walked so easily. Moving against the moment, against time gone still, took great effort for Redwood and Aidan. Each step was a mountain to climb, a bad dream to scale. Their lungs labored as if breathing mud. Two turkey buzzards flew to the busted doorjamb, lazily folded long wings against their backs, and eyed them.

  “Ain’t rotting yet!” She and Aidan spoke together.

  Miz Garnett was an unexpected answer to their prayers. Nothing to do but follow her, so they stepped into the ruins. The Dry Cleaning could have been an enchanted land caught in the spell of a powerful sorcerer. Aidan passed his hands through fragments of burning cloth, shattered glass, and exploding dust suspended in the air. Redwood touched plumes of smoke tangled over a charred body. The heat had left the paralyzed fire — everything was cool to the touch, cold even. The light was pale as moonbeams. A patron, worker, or firebug had been a few steps from escape when flames seared him. From his grim, twisted form, agony in death was clear; however, it was impossible to tell exactly who was walking the stars to greet his ancestors. A shudder passed from Redwood to Aidan.

  “Don’t linger!” Garnett called out, “this way.” Her voice was wind and hissing steam. “Alive, you die. You go through the gates, beyond good and evil. You look for the life that follows death.” Hoodoo logic to puzzle on later. Garnett’s turtle shoes gushed swamp water as she strode toward the boneyard baron. He flashed diamond teeth. Blood dripped from smoky eyes as he tap-danced on shards of metal. Garnett jigged by him and slipped so quickly through the enchanted ruins she was a blur. “Hurry!” she called.

  “Yes.” The baron waved his diamond-tipped cane at Redwood and Aidan. “Hurry! You ain’t got all night — just a few stolen heartbeats.”

  Aidan and Redwood tried to keep pace with Garnett. They picked their way ’round blackened vats and stooped under ceilings fixing to fall. They scrambled over gaping holes in the floor that dripped fire to the basement. Sidestepping blown-out windows and a cloud of glass, they headed for the back of the building. The baron’s tap-dancing faded. They lost sight of Garnett and would’ve been frantic but her wet trail glistened. Swamp grass clung to burning splinters. Foamy river mud splattered broken glass. They paused for a labored breath by a bullet crashing into a pillar. Showers of blood reached for the walls from a body hidden under the rubble.

  “No time yet to mourn the dead.” Garnett circled an overturned claw-foot tub. “I’d give anything to turn this world right side ’round.” Turtles at her feet snapped.

  “We’re over here,” Iris said, near Garnett, though out of sight.

  A surge of E-LEC-TRI-CITY pulsed through Redwood to Aidan. They wrenched sluggish muscles into a run. Iris’s voice was thin and scratchy, filled with smoke and strain, but such a relief.

  “Where are you?” Redwood shouted. “Is George with you?”

  “We’re coming, honey bun,” Aidan shouted too.

  The tub leaned against a wall of rigid blue flames. A split beam was wedged against its claw feet and half the ceiling had fallen on its sturdy back.

  “I can’t lift it up,” Iris said.

  “You goin’ be all right,” Aidan said, as they lurched over jagged debris.

  “I knew you’d come. I knew it.” Iris’s lips were swollen and split. Sooty hair, singed silver at the tips, puffed out a topknot braid. The cast-iron tub had shielded her from fire, but trapped her too. Redwood gently clasped her bruised hands and covered her face with kisses as Aidan tried to pull her leg free.

  “What you doing, running into fire?” Redwood scolded. “Scaring us to death?”

  George and Eddie lay beside Iris, unconscious and also pinned under the back lip of the tub. A thin layer of ash cloaked them. Trickles of blood oozed from George’s nose and mouth. Redwood put a finger to his lips and then to Eddie’s too. Still breathing, the men lay just beyond cold tendrils of fire and smoke.

  “I’d give anything at all, everything.” Color flooded Garnett’s cheeks. Her smoky eyes and swamp grass hair turned rich brown. She smelled of hickory and magnolia. Her river dress was still and clear. She opened her stone teeth to speak again and Redwood whispered with her. “Y’all watch over each other.” Garnett smiled and vanished.

  “She is a good spirit,” Iris said. “I followed her the way I do sometimes, to here.”

  “Are you hurt?” Redwood probed Iris gently.

  “No. I’m just stuck.”

  Aidan strained, but Iris’s leg was wedged cruelly between a cross brace from the beam and the side lip of the tub.

  “Brother tipped it over, trying to save us, but —”

  “We’ll get you out.” Aidan wiped his eyes and heaved brittle rubble off the beam. Redwood clawed at it too. They cleared what they could. Wood caught turning to a lick of fire, shattered on the floor like glass.

  “Miz Garnett’s gone now. She can’t bargain with me no more.” The baron chuckled. “Save yourselves if you can.” His voice came from nowhere in particular.

  “Let’s lift it,” Aidan said.

  “All right.” Redwood wiped stinging sweat from both their eyes with the river of silk at her waist. Squatting underneath the splintered wood, with much groaning and grunting, they lifted one end of the massive beam onto their shoulders. It rose half an inch above the claw feet.

  “Get out of there, honey bun,” Aidan said.

  “I still can’t move. Something’s caught,” Iris said.

  “I’ll hold this,” Aidan said to Redwood. “Don’t argue. Get her out.”

  Redwood slipped from under the beam. A blood vessel busted in Aidan’s eye, turning it purple as Redwood stooped down, untangled Iris’s leg, and pulled her free. She quickly shouldered the beam again. “Let’s shove it to the side.”

  “It’s a good foot ’til it’s clear,” Aidan muttered and then added, “sure.”

  Iris kicked at rubble in their way. Aidan was blinking blood and puffing ash. Shaking something fierce, he and Redwood inched the beam away from the tub. Iris shoved it as well, ’til they cleared the tub’s back claw. Aidan howled “HEADS,” like in a theatre. They all let go at once and jumped away as the beam clattered to the floor. It bounced onto shifting rubble, slid down a hole, and disappeared into darkness.

  Aidan’s arms hung funny from his shoulders, a rag-doll man. Blood dripped down Redwood’s sleeves. Iris wobbled on a bruised leg, but stayed upright.

  “We did it,” Iris said.

  “Yes,” Redwood and Aidan said.

  They laughed for no good reason, ’cept they were happy to be alive together.

  “Tub looks heavy,” Redwood said.

  “All three of us?” Iris whispered.

  “Let’s do it ’fore I pass out,” Aidan said, “and you ladies would have three strapping fellows to haul out.” His gallows humor lifted their spirits.

  As if doing a dance routine from the moving picture show, they each gripped a leg or a lip of the tub and on the same beat, lifted the back of the cast-iron behemoth off of George and Eddie. It weighed nothing compared to the beam. With surprising ease, they let it tumble to the floor. While Aidan and Redwood caught their breath, Iris leaned down to George. “Spirit wanted me to warn you, but I called the fire company first, so I got to you too late,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “He’s still breathing, ain’t he?” Redwood said. “Don’t be sorry yet.” She touched each man at the crown of his head, trying to call them to their senses, but for the moment, George and Eddie had slipped beyond her weary reach.

  Aidan lost his balance and grazed a flame, which, although slow as swamp current, was moving again. He drew away quickly, a
welt rising on his arm.

  Redwood tested the flame. “It’s getting hot again. We gotta move.” She appraised the unconscious men. “You carry Eddie, he’s heavier. Iris and me will take George.”

  “All that way?” Aidan said. They squinted down the hall toward the front door. It seemed miles and miles to go.

  “Isn’t there a back door?” Redwood said.

  Aidan heaved Eddie onto his battered shoulder. Iris gripped George’s legs; Redwood reached under his arms. They lifted him, then faltered. George was a big man who enjoyed the good life. His hefty legs slipped from Iris’s bruised hands and thudded on the ground. Redwood fell down on her behind, cradling George in her lap.

  “I can’t hold him.” Iris fought tears.

  “That’s all right.” Aidan leaned Eddie carefully against the tub. “Help me put George on Red’s shoulder. Easier to carry that way.”

  “That’s right. We can do that,” Redwood said.

  “Okay, okay,” Iris mumbled. She and Aidan gripped George and heaved him, belly down, onto Redwood’s shoulder. She staggered under the weight, but held him. Iris clutched his legs from behind, taking enough weight for Redwood to walk.

  As fire crept ’cross the ceiling, crossbeams listed and burnt wood sagged. Aidan wrangled Eddie over his shoulder again. “Let’s get going.” He sagged at the first step.

  “Watch out for that hole!” Redwood yelled. Too late.

  Aidan tottered at a fiery drop to the basement. A wave of shimmery heat smacked his face. Eddie slid forward on his shoulder and stole his balance. Redwood reached for Eddie’s leg and missed. Aidan strained against gravity to no avail. He and Eddie were falling toward blackness. Iris shrieked as a beam toppled. Aidan’s shoulder slammed into hot wood that broke his fall. Redwood gripped Eddie’s leg and tugged them back.