Will Do Magic for Small Change by Hairston Andrea

Author:Hairston, Andrea [Hairston, Andrea]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Science Fiction, dramatic arts--fiction, Feminist Science Fiction, LGBT teenagers--fiction, African-American family histories--fiction
Publisher: Aqueduct Press
Published: 2016-04-23T04:00:00+00:00

CHRONICLES 17: Ariel and Abla

Dear Guardians,

I toss flesh for the crows to eat. The flock waits for a fellow traveler to trust wings and fly again. The crow sulks in the purse perch. I understand. Like my once-wounded companion, I am afraid of myself, of the aje, of flying, falling, and scattering. Somso regularly scolded me in her Igbo language: Anaghi eji mgbagbu ghalu ogu.

A person does not bolt from a fight for fear that someone might get shot.

The air is cold, and my hands won’t stop shaking. Winter is not the season of my spirit. But, good news, I have proof. Scattering is as real as my coming together in a spirit cave ninety-five years ago in Dahomey. Battered shards of memory return. I write quickly before they flit away.

Wanderers have no fixed, eternal essence. Flux powers our spirits. Death is another transformation. Scattering is the Wanderers’ greatest fear. A few legends speak of Wanderers who, with the aid of powerful guardians and stillpoints, drew as many as six selves back together. I can’t imagine such a return. Why be one when you can be many? The first sign of scattering is many minds, and then you are splitting into two beings instead of becoming someone new. Sometimes, these beings refuse to remember one another or recall the shared past. Amnesia can be a blessing as well as a curse. From two, imagine breaking into so many pieces that all the king’s horses and all the queen’s women couldn’t put you back together again. English does a beautiful rhyme on biology and the arrow of time.

Tonight, dear Guardians, braving killer snow from an inland sea, proof cruised right in front of my nose on a ten-speed bicycle. Beautiful to behold, dressed in elegant robes — Yoruba or Fon finery —proof skidded into my cart near the old industrial plant perched above the Monongahela River. It’s a culture house these days, doing masquerades. Actors called my scattered-self “Ariel” and praised last year’s midsummer night dream. In winter it’s good to dream of summer’s return. Now there were tempests to tame. Ariel swerved onto the sidewalk to avoid reckless drivers and didn’t see me. We collided. Ariel wasn’t wearing a helmet. Impact on the hard ground stole consciousness. I did what I could — my powers are greatly reduced. Ariel came ’round quickly though and jumped up.

“Thank you.” Ariel brushed blood and snow from guarded eyes.

Energy sparked between us. “Do you recognize me?”

“Should I?” Ariel checked the bike for damage. “Did we do a play together in New York? Chicago?”

Marveling at our similar magnetic signatures, I didn’t know what to do or say.

“Are you a fan? What’d you see — For Colored Girls? Midsummer? That Alice Childress one — Trouble in Mind?”

“I saw you disappear on stage in every one.” I smiled. “You’re amazing.”

“I’m not the characters I’ve played.” Ariel balanced on the seat, put a foot in a pedal.

“Of course you are. Each character changes you.”

“I can’t even remember all the characters I’ve played.

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