Wild Magic

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The Jang was at the end of Verakay Lane, a vaguely circular tract of wasteland beyond the last tumbledown shacks and hovels of the Edge-a few patches of tough short grass, stretches of dusty hardpan beaten into something like-concrete by the feet of generations of youths, rustling clutches of stunted trees rising from the firethorn scrub growing round the rim of the open space. It was the unofficial meeting ground for those out of school but not yet nailed down to their life work, for outcasts and castoffs and for those who never had a-place to be thrown out of. A dance floor, an assignation house without walls or roof, a place to get high on anything cheap. Or fight-there were screaming hair-pulls, knife duels, gang bashes and, one night in ten, bloody riots. All three girls were forbidden to go anywhere near the place. They’d been talking about going there for weeks now.

An immense bonfire roared in the middle of the Jang, dark figures jagged back and forth, clots of them melding and breaking apart, flowing between the three improvised stages scattered around the periphery where street singers and their bands were working out. The bands came to the Jang to sing things they wouldn’t dare in the street, to try modes besides the saccharine sentimental wails that brought the money from sailors and merchants, or the wordless Kalele jams; they came for the wildness, the sex and the drugs and always for the coin they could pick up there.

Titillated by fear and uncertainty, giggling nervously,

Faan and her friends drifted along the fringes of the groups, using the music to shield them from attention they weren’t sure they wanted.

Two drummers tapped and caressed a triune beat from their skins. A double reed horn moaned and shrieked. An erhu keened over and around them, the player perched on a weathered box, fingers trembling as they slid up and down the two strings while he worked the arched bow delicately between them. The singer stamped and belted out his words, three light syllables and a long warbling one that lasted another three beats.

Doin me BA A AD Saippin m’ PR I IDE Suckin m’ LI I IFE Making me MA A AD Hey ey I SA A AY

Kiss m’ ba ACK SI IDE

Hey ey I SA A AY Suck m’ kni I I IFE Hey ey I SA A AY Doin me BA A AD Doin me BAD

Gozi the Ramp elbowed his way close behind Faan.

She knew he was there, gave him an absent smile over her shoulder and went on swinging her body and clicking her fingers.

He rubbed his thumb along her neck.

She let him for a minute or two, then shied away; she didn’t want him touching her any more.

“Wanna dance?”

She looked round, raising her brows, having heard only the rumble of his voice. “Huh?”

He leaned closer, shouted in her ear, “Dance. Y’ wanna dance?”

She hesitated a minute, she didn’t know what she wanted.

He got impatient and gave her buttock a squeeze.

She yelped and flew away from him, bounced off a half-drunk porter, wriggled away from him as he grabbed at her. When she had her breath again, she’d lost Ma’teesee and Dossan, though Ailiki was still trotting close to her ankle. The people around her were shadows and strangers, busy with their own affairs and not interested in her, so she relaxed and followed her ears over to Mama Kubaza’s band.

They’d been stretching and drinking, exchanging friendly insults with the shadows standing round them, now they got into a new set, a fiddle, an erhu and a horn, with clog dancers for the beat. A man in black with an eyepatch sang in falsetto and. Mama Kubaza, a big solid woman twice his size, belted out her responses in a voice so deep she was almost a basso.

Gonna gonna gonna GET YA, he sang.

Gonna gonna gonna GET YA, she sang.

Gonna gonna gonna get ya, the shadowy listeners sang, fighting with musicians to control the night.

That an’t new. Nayo Nay O,he sang. NAYO NAY O, she sang.

Nayo Nay O, the shadows sang.

Nayo Nay so I say, they sang together.

Gonna gonna kick n’ scratch, she sang. An’t gonna catch me ee

Gonna gonna kick n’ scratch, he sang. An’t gonna catch me ee.

An’t gonna catch me ee, the shadows sang.

Gonna see gonna see ee, they sang together.

Gonna be free.

Free ee Free ee Free ee, the shadows sang. THAT’S RIGHT!

The dancers and musicians joined the singers for that last powerful shout…

The tension ran out of the group and they shifted to an aimless milling while the listeners snapped their fingers and whistled their approval. Mama Kubaza leaned over, took a bottle from someone Faan couldn’t see, tilted her head back, and began draining it. Faan watched fascinated as her throat moved and she leaned back farther and farther until it seemed she’d strangle or fall flat if it went on any longer.

Mama brought the bottle down. “Aaah,” she said hoarsely, “Real, real.” Then she laughed, her laughter booming louder than the clogs had. “Real rot-your-gut, what’d you do, shunkh, piss in the thing?”

Someone pinched Faan’s arm; she recoiled, ready to run again.

Ma’teesee giggled. “Dossan had ‘n idee. Wanna hear?”

“Dossy or you?”

“Dossy this time, all by herself.”

“What idee?”

“You know the potz her Mum put her with last month?”

“Nayo. How come you didn’t tell me?”

“Shuh! Why talk ‘bout it? Gonna happen to me soon enough, you, too, come to think. Well, he’s a Woodman with a paintshop on the side. She sweeps up, that kind of thing. Boooring, but at least he don’t bother her.”

“So?”

“Come on.” Ma’teesee linked arms with her. “Dossy is waitin for us down the lane.” She tugged

Faan along through the crowd. “He painted the jail roof last month, you know, Midsummer comin’ up, got a bucket of red left over. And since you showed us how you can peel anything clean…”

Faan pulled loose, danced in a circle, ran toward Dossan who was standing in the middle of the lane, light, from the Wounded Moon glowing on her fine pale hair. “Red, red, red,” Faan sang. “Wascra. Wascra.” She slapped hands with Dossan, wheeled and slapped hands with Ma’teesee.

They linked arms and went giggling off down Verakay Lane heading for the shop of Bamampah the Woodman.