The Premiere, Chicago, 1913
The Magic Lantern 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 lightbulbs 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 onstage, 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, till 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 through 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 in 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 had given 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 recognize.
“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 till 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 onstage.
“Are we goin’ do this?” Aidan asked.
“Why not?”
Aidan leaned away from her and tuned his banjo. The melody he played was close to Abbaseh’s, but his finger worked magic on the strings, pulling pain and tears and fear right out of her. He played swamp currents, lightning flashes, snow in May, the El jumping the track and streaking ’cross the stars. His music was the ancestors’ voices whispering on the wind, the hustle and bustle of great grandchildren yet to come. When she was ’bout to bust, he started singing. Redwood set her voice close to his:
The water is cold, the water is deep
Before I’m old, before the long sleep
Into someone’s heart, I’ll set sail
And find what’s lost, write a brand-new tale
Aidan set down the instrument. Redwood was trembling all over. With such a skimpy scenario, she didn’t know how to feel or what to do. Acting meant reaching for truth, conjuring a world for yourself and your audience. Acting wasn’t the same as lying, although you could lie while you acted. She didn’t want to think on that too much.
“You always were a conjure man with that banjo, but that is the best music I ever heard.”
Still blindfolded, she reached out and found Aidan’s face. She undid the cloth over his eyes and ran her hands ’cross the ridge of his jaw and through the soft hairs of a beard that never came. She paused at his mouth and touched the warmth of his breath, the bumpy wetness of his tongue. His lower lip was slippery and smooth and made her sigh. The feel of him raced up and down her spine. Aidan gripped her wrist, startling her. He undid her blindfold. His watery eyes caught all the light. She could see clear through him, back to his ancestors, back to the beginning of everything and up to now. He was looking all the way through her too.
“You all right?” he asked. “You breathing funny.”
What could she say? With him looking into her and her blood moving so fast, she was dizzy and prickly everywhere. “I want to be all right. You?”
He breathed a warm swamp breeze onto her cheek and shook his head.
“Clarissa, Iris, and them trying to take the trick off my body.”
“Uh-huh.” He ran his fingers down her face to the bead at the cleft in her neck. She almost couldn’t stand it. “Is it working?” he whispered.
“I don’t know.” She rested her face against his arm. “I thought of acting with you.”
“Acting? What you mean?”
“If well … if I didn’t feel,” she gestured, “if I started disappearing on myself.”
“Tonight ain’t the only night. We got however long it takes.” He tried to pull away but she held on to him.
“No. We can’t let any more time go by.” She wasn’t feeling dull or blank, just on edge. “This is the moment we got! Let me make you feel good.”
“I’m not goin’ run away from you,” Aidan said. “Even if we don’t—”
“In our next moving picture, I want to fall in love with you.” She opened his shirt and stroked his chest. The hair under his arm tickled her. She tickled him back with her tongue. “Do a scene like this.”
“Like what?”
“A love scene.” She kissed the gooseflesh rising on him. “Let’s try it.”
Aidan cut his eyes at her.
Redwood put her storm hand over his heart and felt it beating underneath the bones. And then her own heart was throbbing between her legs. “When I was a young gal, sixteen or seventeen, I imagined you kissing me, touching my secret spots.” She pulled off his shirt. “I imagined touching you, too.” Getting him out of the pants was a feat—she was fumbling at buttons, and he seemed clumsy as all get-out. After freeing his left leg, she left a tangle of black wool bunched from his right knee to his feet. “I had you hollering how Daddy did, when Mama got him good and couldn’t get him to shush ’cause she was so busy hollering too.”
“In a picture show?” Aidan laughed. “With cameras running?”
She kissed the scar on his knee, where the nightrider’s gun had burned him to the bone. “I felt bold and brazen, imagining you inside of me. Did you know that?”
“No.”
Redwood held the weighty stones of his manhood till he groaned, and then lifted her arms. Aidan undid her belt and beads easily. He hesitated and then tugged on her blouse. Silk slid over her skin like river water. Since she hated corsets, her belly and tiddies were quickly exposed. He considered her in the flickering light. It had been dark that other time they were intimate. He touched the lion scars on her shoulder and ribs.
“My brave Sikwayi.” Something come over him, fog rolling over the moon. “I ain’t done this for a while. I ain’t used to touching soft anymore.”
Redwood laughed. It hadn’t occurred to her that he might be as scared as her. “We ain’t done this ever. We’re making it up as we go.”
Aidan laughed some of his tension away too. “I know how you like to rehearse.”
“We can do this scene over and over again.”
Aidan kissed the scars on her ribs. He ran his lips and tongue ’cross her tiddies, over both her nipples to the other smooth ribs, enjoying her shivers and squeals. Then his tongue was in the cleft of her neck stroking down to her navel.
“Making a crossroads sign, huh?” she said. “A good-loving spell.” As he did it again, she didn’t fight the sweet ache that was spilling all over her.
He set a purple orchid in her hair. “Miz Garnett gave that to me a long time ago, but it ain’t wilted,” he said softly. “You still with me?”
“Yes. You feel much better than I imagined.” She rubbed her lips against the inside of his thigh, making her own sign. His muscles were taut; the skin was smooth; dark hair was silky and curled near his swelling manhood. He tasted salty and earthy, like thunder root.
“So where are these secret spots?” he said.
“Why should I tell you? You got to search. You might find something I don’t even know ’bout!”
Aidan kissed her storm hand. His lips were hot on her cool palm. He found quite a few spots that she’d never known of and got her to hollering. Of course she was hoodooing him too, with every touch, so he wasn’t one bit quiet hisself.
“Free people,” she said. “How do the Seminole call it?”
But she remembered and they spoke the words together.
“Istî siminolî.”