Redwood and Wildfire

by Andrea Hairston

  Aidan wanted to scoop Redwood up and carry her away, but just standing and holding his own bones up hurt like hell. “Tell her —”

  “I will.” Clarissa laughed, bottles tinkling in the breeze. She stretched her long neck toward him, swaying sultry hips this way and that. She was a woman used to getting what she wanted out of ornery men, out of everybody.

  “What?” Aidan said. “What you got up in your sleeve?”

  “Don’t worry,” Clarissa whispered. “You haven’t lost her.” She opened the door for him. “I called Mr. McGregor. It won’t do for you to bang around in the trolley again.” She helped Walter sit Aidan down in the automobile. “I don’t want to see you abroad again until you’re well.” She smoothed his hair and boldly kissed his forehead. George was a very lucky man. “Do I have your word?”

  “Yes Ma’am.”

  Mr. McGregor drove off at a moderate pace ’til George’s house was out of sight. Clarissa wasn’t fond of anybody speeding.

  “Did you hear?” Aidan grinned at Walter. “I haven’t lost her.”

  And then Aidan couldn’t tell you what happened for several days.

  George had an easy recovery. Every time Redwood lifted heavy eyelids for a second, he was sitting by her bed, dragon wings unfurled, hot eyes filled with tears. Indeed, he sat with Redwood through the night and into the next day, ’til she opened her eyes all the way and rasped a few words ’bout the sun hurting her head. George kissed her cheek with dry lips and was out the door like a shot.

  Clarissa closed the curtains at the window seat. “Is that better?”

  “Yes.” Redwood’s voice was rusty and the sound surprised her. She frowned.

  “Don’t be mad at George,” Clarissa said.

  “I ain’t mad at him.”

  “He feels terrible about what happened.”

  “He can’t tell me that?” Each word came a little easier to Redwood.

  “He’s blaming himself, so hard…”

  “That gang of hooligans come spoiling to burn George out.” Redwood pushed up on her elbows. “Chicago ain’t no place to be a man…or a woman.”

  Clarissa lost half her color. “Why are you talking George’s line?”

  “No, I mean, we got to fight for that place, make it up as we go.”

  Clarissa sighed, relieved. “Granddaddy said freedom will take everything you got and then some more.”

  Redwood tasted Miz Subie’s medicine in the corners of her mouth. “Iris did a cure.”

  “I can’t hardly get her to school, can’t get her to sleep, she’s so busy fussing over you.”

  “Aidan was here.” Redwood looked under the bed. His Maskókî hunting knife was lying beneath her, cutting through pain.

  “I didn’t see him leave that,” Clarissa said.

  Redwood blinked. “Everything’s all right, isn’t it?”

  “Hmm hmm,” Clarissa said softly. “Almost everything.”

  “Don’t worry on me. I feel grand.”

  “Still the time of your life?”

  “Yes. The very best time.”

  Clarissa stroked Redwood’s hand and glanced at the boxes of books, the bare walls, and the bound stacks of letters and papers. “Whatever will we use this back parlor for?”

  “What’ll I do with no good friend such as you?” Redwood hugged her fiercely.

  Clarissa gasped and dabbed her eyes. “Save your strength.”

  “How will I bear it?” Exhausted, Redwood fell back into the bed. “Will you miss me too?”

  “You will be a very good correspondent, writing with excellent grammar, and you will visit whenever you can. When my children are grown, I will visit you, wherever that may be.” Clarissa wiped Redwood’s damp face. “I won’t scold you or Iris about wearing men’s clothes. You’ll bring fat babies into this world, maybe even one or two of your own. There must be a sister club out in the wilds of California or Oregon, and you’ll persuade them to poetry. You’ll make more moving pictures or something magical. You will think of me and I of you whenever we minister to those less fortunate.” Clarissa sighed. “And you’ll love Aidan like a good woman should.”

  Twenty-seven

  The Premiere, Chicago, 1913

  The Magic Theatre was all fixed up, restored to its former glory inside and out. Clean walls, comfortable seats, and new velvet curtains put the audience in a good mood. A heavy chandelier with a thousand light bulbs and twice as many dangling crystals flickered up and down. The fiddle player tuned to the piano. The show would start shortly. Even so, waiting was driving Aidan wild. ’Stead of sitting with everybody else in fancy box seats that were practically on stage, he paced in the wings and itched the back of his neck. The thick white screen, perched at the edge of the orchestra pit, quivered in the commotion everybody was making backstage and in the audience. He hated watching hisself in a motion picture. It wasn’t the same as playing a song and feeling the crowd with you or not. Nothing to do if the audience turned sour, if you lost their hearts — the film would just keep on rolling.

  Waiting to hold Redwood in his arms afterward, that was murder too. Aidan hadn’t made love to a woman for too long. He felt clumsy, rusty, out of practice. Course he never loved anyone how he loved Redwood, and she wanted him the way he wanted her. He could feel that, even with that trick on her body. So no matter what demons were still haunting them, no matter what alcohol spooks or stray nightriders were trying to get under their skin, they were goin’ fly west to make a bright destiny together, ’til they walked the stars to Glory.

  Aidan slipped out the stage door and took a breath of air. The chill of fall nipped him, and he pulled his Seminole patchwork coat tight. Posters for The Pirate and the Schoolteacher were plastered on the outside wall. A line of mostly colored and Indian patrons (though some white folk too) went clear ’round the block — a lot of people he knew, and a lot more he didn’t.

  “I’ll be damned.” Aidan blinked and rubbed his eyes. Doc Johnson and Clarence Edwards hurried through the heavy doors behind Mambo Dupree. “Those rascals!”

  George and Clarissa stepped out of Mr. McGregor’s motorcar. Clarissa wore an oriental gown of Redwood’s — as scandalous as she’d ever get. George sported a flashy dress suit and carried a bouquet of roses. An angry wound wriggled ’cross his cheek.

  “Good evening,” Clarissa said before Aidan could escape them.

  “How do.” Aidan took off his hat to her.

  “Clarissa tells me, you and Red be taking off after the show,” George said. “Iris too.”

  “Can’t be a burden on you forever,” Aidan replied mildly.

  “You know, it ain’t better out west. California’s no promised land,” George said.

  “Redwood don’t like roses much.” Aidan shook his head at the flowers.

  “I’ll see you inside, George.” Clarissa squeezed her husband and patted Aidan’s shoulder. They watched her enter the crowded theatre. Aidan refrained from telling George his wife was a beautiful woman.

  “Ain’t nowhere different for colored.” George turned to Aidan. “They string you up and burn you out in Georgia, in Chicago, in —”

  “Your sisters saved you.” Aidan stepped close to George. “They loved you through fire. Can’t stop a man who got folks like that on his side.”

  “Ha! A bullet, a torch, stop anybody.”

  “Well, not this time, huh?”

  George groaned. “I don’t know why, but she love you. Love her back, or else…”

  Aidan held out his hand. George shook it quickly and entered the theatre.

  Pirate Saeed gathered teacher Redwood in his arms. The fiddle player and piano man struck their last chord. The chandelier showered light on the dark room. In the wings at the edge of the curtain, Aidan held his breath.

  “That was the Ace of Spades show times a million!” Iris sprinkled him with rose petals and danced, happy and bright as a shower of shooting stars. Fifteen and going on forever, she was an old soul and a brash young colt.
He grinned at her, busting with pride. Iris shouted something else to him. The audience was clapping and hollering back and forth so loud, Aidan didn’t catch what she said.

  “They liked it, I guess, and arguing over it too. Red will be pleased.” He ducked into the shadows as Prince Anoushiravan, Abbaseh, Farah, and Akhtar marched by. They’d come all the way from Persia to see the moving picture and were probably hunting him down. Everybody would be trying to grab him or Redwood for a word, a slap on the back, a bouquet of flowers. The stage was strewn with every color of rose.

  Aidan had an orchid for Redwood.

  “Where’s your sister hiding?” he asked Iris. “I haven’t seen her since —”

  “I’m right behind you,” Redwood said.

  “Y’all should keep better track of each other.” Iris ran off.

  “Isn’t it grand?” Redwood smiled at the stage and the new crowd pouring in. “Some folks are just goin’ turn ’round and see it again.”

  “I can’t tell you how proud I am,” Aidan said. “We ain’t settling for anything. We’re doing a spell to make the world we want.”

  Redwood flushed at him bringing up childish dreams, but she didn’t deny what he said. Aidan looked her up and down, letting his eyes feast on her wild woman, scandalous style. She wore silk pants that come in at the ankles and billowed ’round her full hips. An embroidered belt rode high on her waist, playing up her strong shoulders and full tiddies. Chains of silver and glass beads were slung below her waist, accompanying each move, each breath with a jingle-jangle. Embroidery circled the flowing sleeves of her silk blouse and purple turban. Her hair was dark storm clouds framing her face. The yellow mosaic bead from the Dahomeyan women dangled on a slim chain in the hollow of her neck. Nobody but Redwood was dressed as a Persian gentleman and an African queen all at once. Lest his nature rise too much, Aidan swallowed slowly and drew cool air through his nostrils.

  “You smell like a spring rainstorm. What’s that you putting in your hair?”

  “You like that?” She leaned in close. “Abbaseh brought it to me from Persia. S’posed to drive a man wild.”

  “You don’t need no oil to do that.” He kissed the back of her neck. She shivered at his boldness. “You got your own sweet scent.” He slid his hands through silk to bare skin at her waist. They stood a good while taking measure of one another with the theatre humming behind them. “Come with me to the lake,” he said. “Sprinkle some goober dust. Iris got something planned for us later.” Aidan pulled Redwood out the stage door.

  The sun was setting on Lake Michigan. The sky and water were purple violet, the air warm and sultry — all sign of fall had been banished.

  “Indian Summer,” Aidan said. “A warm sigh from the Master of Breath to let us know he has not forgotten us.”

  Sitting in the canoe, if he slit his eyes, for a moment they slipped back to Georgia and were riding dark water through the Okefenokee Swamp. He opened his alligator pouch and sprinkled dirt into Redwood’s hands. She clutched it tight. He emptied the last of it in his own hand. It was cool and made his palm tingle. Glassy meteorites sparkled.

  “Miz Subie say, if I want to really play my banjo —” his hair fluttered ’round his face as the wind picked up — “if I really want to make good music, I gotta spread the last of this with you.”

  Redwood’s eyes had taken on the purple of sunset. Her skin looked golden. “Well, all right then.” She held out her hand with his. “You got to play for me tonight.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  They blew the goober dust to the four directions. The wind carried it far ’cross frothy waves. The Master of Breath carried the dust out to the stars.

  Redwood hurried with Aidan through the cavernous train station, done up for a party more than for travel. Iris had told them to arrive three hours before their departure. She had insisted on fancy dress and high spirits. Redwood had no idea what scenario Baby Sister was conjuring, but she and Aidan indulged her. Folks coming and going from the world over cussed and gawked and smiled at them. Redwood lapped up the barrage of languages, the sweet smells and foul sweat, the coppery taste of blood and the sour tang of wine. She beamed at eager arrivals to the promised land, at despairing refugees and hopeless drifters, at wide-eyed seekers of adventures just like themselves.

  “We’re show people,” Redwood explained to curious faces as she and Aidan strutted and swirled their way though the bustling crowd. Redwood hummed the song they’d rehearsed for Iris. Aidan had slung his banjo ’cross his back, and it buzzed and twanged in tune with his laughter and her singing. Battered soldiers and bone-tired laborers brightened at entertainment gracing their path. A little girl applauded their act and did some fancy footwork. Dusty travelers tipped their hats and offered snappy steps too. For a delicious instant, the station crowd turned into swooping osprey, elegant buzzards, and playful otters. Hardly nobody really believed what was happening to them. And after Aidan and Redwood passed, folk just settled back down to coming and going. Yet every once and a while in the days to come, these good people would hop or soar and feel as if they could just get up and do anything.

  She took Aidan’s arm. “A bright-destiny spell!”

  When they reached the Prince’s private train coach, no one was there to greet them. Redwood hopped up the steps, peeked in the door and, holding a finger to her lips, beckoned to Aidan to look in as well.

  In candlelight, spicy-colored fabrics and lavish cushions glowed like an autumn sunset. Iris wore flowing Persian pants and strands of beads over a Creek top Rose gave her. On the floor, she drew a heart with a sword through it, pierced but unbroken — a vèvé to Erzulie, Loa of love. With eyes closed and arms stretched out, she sat down cross-legged on an azure Persian rug. An arabesque of voluptuous blossoms, prancing horses, and swooping birds surrounded her. At each corner of the rug, a red candle burned, dripping wax on rose petals and orange peels. Aunt Elisa’s sweetgrass basket presided at the head of the rug. It was filled with Prairie Smoke, spiderwort, and rattlesnake master. White seashells — one that Aislinn O’Casey gave Aidan on Mount Enotah and one that Garnett Phipps had carried from Sapelo Island — were nestled in a brown feather.

  Iris whispered Sea Island Gullah words that Redwood couldn’t make out. The rug floated up a few inches off the ground and hovered, rippling in an unseen current. The candles spilled fire that didn’t burn. Redwood gasped and Aidan let his mouth hang open too. The rug sank to the ground and Iris laughed. “They shall never become blue.”

  “Did you tell her ’bout Cherokee good fortune?” Aidan whispered.

  “I didn’t think you’d mind. Sister gotta carry our stories too.” Redwood grinned. Baby Sister would fly aeroplanes, meet a delegation from Mars, and discover secret places in the heart. A Bright Destiny indeed.

  Redwood pulled Aidan back down to the platform. The Prince and his three wives, Saeed and Milton, Walter and Rose, and Clarissa marched in their direction. Everyone in fancy dress, such a splendid parade — it was a shame Nicolai wasn’t there with his camera. “Oh my.” The back of Redwood’s throat tightened. She squeezed Aidan’s hand. Their family and friends would probably never be all together this way again.

  “What is it?” Abbaseh held up a red pouch to Clarissa. “Can you explain this?” Her English was as precise and sharp as cut glass. Clarissa sputtered and tugged at her collar. Farah and Akhtar leaned in for an answer.

  “Mojo, a prayer in a bag.” Milton rescued a good Christian woman.

  “A medicine bag, holding you to a promise.” Rose pointed at Aidan and Redwood. “They’re here!”

  “How’d you all arrive before us?” Clarissa hurried now. She, Rose, and Abbaseh grabbed Redwood and tied a dark cloth over her eyes. Walter, Saeed, and the Prince did the same to Aidan.

  “I got the door,” Milton said, as they led the blindfolded couple up the steps and into the coach. Abbaseh sang a haunting melody, and Farah and Akhtar accompanied her on stringed instruments Redwood didn’t recogni
ze.

  “What are you doing to us?” Redwood said. She bumped Aidan’s shoulder. “Do you know what’s going on?” Aidan only shrugged.

  “Together we have plenty magic,” Clarissa quoted Mambo Dupree.

  “I’ve unleashed the carpet’s talent,” Iris said, solemn as a Baptist preacher.

  “What talent?” Redwood asked as Aidan, the Prince, and his wives laughed.

  “Hush, we’re working a traveling spell.” Iris patted Redwood’s shoulder. “You’ve stepped onto a flying carpet. It’ll take you to your heart’s desire.” And then she whispered in Redwood’s ear. “Don’t worry. Clarissa didn’t tell nobody your secret. They just want to send you off right.”

  Iris guided Redwood and Aidan onto the rug and had them kneel opposite one another. Milton joined Abbaseh’s song and it sounded familiar. Iris pressed Redwood’s forehead against Aidan’s as everyone circled them, all singing now.

  “Go n-eírí an bóthar leat,” Iris said in Irish. “May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind always be at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face and rains fall soft upon your fields. And until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of His hand.”

  Hands brushed Redwood’s back and shoulders ’til the song ended. Each person whispered some secret spell and then headed out the door and down the steps. The coach was full of good conjure.

  “Sing the song, then play a scene from a romance,” Iris said. “And don’t laugh. This is serious. Acting is powerful juju.”

  The door shut, and she was gone too.

  “Baby Sister is something else!” Redwood’s heart pounded like before a show. She was breathless and every bit of skin was alive. She swallowed on a dry throat. This was good. Actors needed a bit of nerves, otherwise they didn’t care ’bout their routines and didn’t really show up on stage.

  “Are we goin’ do this?” Aidan asked.