by Maggie Allen
“Yes, aunties.” Leafheart tried to look sheepish. But as soon as the women moved out of earshot, she turned to the twigs with a smile. “I’ll be back soon.”
Early the next morning, Leafheart and her sister, Subin, headed to the well, clay pots on their heads. Being small, Leafheart carried only a short, fat pot. But Subin was a tall young woman. Her water jug was tall and curvy, just like she was.
Halfway to the well, they passed the weird brush pile. Some blackbirds stood on top, pecking for insects.
“Wait!” Leafheart set down her pot. Rushing toward the twigs, she flailed her arms and shouted, “Shoo! Get off! Fly away!” She even threw a stone, being careful not to hit the pile. Finally the pesky birds flew off.
Subin’s face looked pained. “Leave the birds alone and let’s go. These pots are heavy, and they don’t even have water in them yet.”
Leafheart hurried back to the road. Once they reached the well, her sister gossiped with other teen girls. Leafheart wandered in a big circle, bored and restless.
“Hey, Leafheart,” someone called.
She turned to see Damdoum smiling and waving. One of his hands gripped the handle of a wheelbarrow. Leafheart’s father and Damdoum had been soldiers together. Now Damdoum walked with a lurching limp and lived on odd jobs. He was always kind to Leafheart.
“Blessings, Damdoum,” she greeted him. “Where are you taking your barrow?”
“Old lady Babnousa needs kindling for the baking kiln,” he said. “I saw a big pile of twigs next to the Northern Road.”
“No!” Leafheart scrambled for a reason Damdoum couldn’t use her special twigs. “Those twigs smell strange. They’ll ruin Babnousa’s bread.”
Damdoum chased a fly off his neck. “Oh, Leafy girl, you speak good wisdom. Old Damdoum will find his kindling elsewhere. Blessings to your mama.” Leafheart breathed in relief as she watched him wheel his barrow around and head in the other direction.
Finally Subin called out, “Time to go home.” She helped Leafheart balance her small jug, now heavy with water, on a reed mat on top of her head. “No funny business on the way home,” she said, stepping onto the road.
When they were halfway home, Subin said, “Mama’s not well.”
“I know,” said Leafheart. “She’s so sad about Papa, it’s making her sick.”
“Yes. And now she won’t let me marry Mahmoud.”
“Why?” Leafheart liked the idea of spreading out into Subin’s space in their tukul. “Mahmoud’s hut and weaving looms are only five minutes away. Mama would still see you every day.”
Subin sighed. “I think she’s afraid of the future. She’s afraid of everything now. She’s worried I’ll have babies, and we won’t be able to protect them. So please, Harra. Be a good girl and obey Mama. Then maybe she’ll feel better and let me get married.”
Even if I’m the most perfect daughter, it still won’t help. Leafheart did not say what she was thinking. Instead, she trudged along silently, looking for flowers among the stones. The afternoon birdsong made Leafheart’s spirits lighter. But the sun made her load heavier.
“Oh, there’s Mahmoud now.” Subin sped up, her long legs bearing her at a pace Leafheart couldn’t match.
Grumbling, she searched for shade to rest in. Up ahead, her pile of twigs cast an inviting shadow. One of the neighborhood’s many stray dogs skulked into view. The mangy brown mutt trotted toward the brush pile, sniffing the ground in a lazy zigzag.
Just as Leafheart figured out the dog’s intention, it lifted its leg at the base of the brush pile. “Hey!” Leafheart shouted, lunging forward. The only thing in her mind was protecting those twigs. Too late she realized something awful: Her pot lay cracked in three pieces by the side of the road. Every drop of water had already sunk into the parched dirt. Now Mama will never get better, she thought miserably.
Leafheart let no one near her twigs. She chased away kids who tried to play Daggers and Spears.
“Those aren’t yours,” she told a woman trying to put some twigs in her basket. “They belong to a friend.”
The woman sniffed doubtfully, but went on her way.
Every day was the same story. Leafheart went to visit her special twigs morning, afternoon, and night. She protected them from greedy birds, beasts, and — greediest of all — people. She stopped watching the gum tree’s blossoms turn to white fluff to carry the seeds away. She stopped measuring the fat trunks of the baobab trees. All she cared about were the twigs, which she believed were trying to tell her something.
Her reward for all this vigilance? She got to watch them change. Soon they looked like something not of this world. Their gray-brown bark hardened and darkened. The knots along their surface sprouted new growth. At first Leafheart thought the sprouts were tiny leaves. A close inspection proved her wrong.
“You have tiny arms!” she said with a wondering sigh. “Are you lizards? But where are your heads?”
Leafheart watched them even more closely, trying to figure out whether they were plants or animals.
Mama’s mood turned gloomier than usual, and her sister was downright grouchy. “You should be helping with the household,” Subin scolded. “You should pound the grain, go to market, carry the water, milk the goat. You should…”
“You should stay in the center of the village and not wander over by the Northern Road.” Struggling at the effort, Mama stood up. She looked Leafheart straight in the eye, which she’d rarely done since Papa was killed.
Having her mother’s full attention alarmed Leafheart instead of comforting her.
“There is no place in this world for dreamers,” Mama said.
Leafheart glanced at her sister for guidance, but Subin had her arms wrapped around herself and wore a confused frown on her face.
“What do you mean, Mama?” Leafheart asked. “I can’t stay in the center of the village. I can’t stay in Deraheib at all.”
“Harra!” Subin warned.
Leafheart didn’t care. “In a few years, I will go to Khartoum and study plants at the university.”
Mama raised herself up on her elbows. “How can you think about leaving? The world is not safe. Not even Deraheib is safe. War is coming. No longer will our boys and men have to wander off into the hills to be killed by the war. Soon, we will all be in danger. We must huddle together in the center of our village.”
Fear and sadness twisted around Leafheart like a tornado of thorns. “It’s not true!” She shouted the words, tasting salt from her tears. “The war will never come here!”
“Harra, wait!” her sister said, but Leafheart pushed past her and slipped out the door of the hut.
Sobbing with each pounding breath, she ran across the village. She wanted to see her lizard sticks, watch them wiggle their little arms, protect them from the birds. They might not talk, but they seemed more like her family than Mama and Subin did.
“Are you all right?” She stopped fast when the skinny boy, Taban, called out. He stepped toward her, twisting the hem of his t-shirt around his fingers. “I just, I mean, you look like you’re crying. Wondered if you’re upset, Leafheart. Sorry, I mean Harra.”
Looking hard into Taban’s face, she knew he had a good heart. He cared that she was sad. She wasn’t in the mood to chat with him, but he deserved a little bit of truth for his friendship. “I like the name Leafheart. And I’ll be fine. Thank you for asking. Now I have to go see about some plants.” With that, she took off along the dirt road. She ran all the way to the Northern Road.
“Harra, my child,” a familiar voice called before Leafheart could cross the road to the meadow. Old Minoo stood in her doorway. Her yellow-wrapped feet straddled under her wide hips. Not even a tornado of thorns would have dared knock her down. “Why do you cry?” She asked, beckoning.
When Leafheart took a few hesitant steps toward the hut, the old woman said, “You tell auntie your troubles. There is nothing these ancient eyes have not seen, either in the spirit world or the world of men.”
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Leafheart decided to trust Minoo’s wisdom. “Those twigs,” Leafheart said, pointing across the road, “aren’t twigs. They are something special, and...”
“Special like you,” Minoo tapped her finger against her temple. “It takes special to know special.”
Like sun-warmed water, pride and pleasure flooded up Leafheart’s neck and face. “You believe me?” she asked.
“Words of truth have a different color and texture from words of lies. So, Harra, how do these special twigs-not-twigs bring you sadness?”
“No one else believes me.” Tears formed in Leafheart’s eyes. “People are always trying to take the twigs. Or they tease me for chasing away birds and dogs. My sister is angry because I’m not helping with chores.” With her hands out, palms up, Leafheart urged Minoo to understand. “I have to watch the lizard sticks. Someone must protect them.”
Minoo nodded, pushing out her lower lip. “And what else, child? I think there’s one more thing.”
Worried that her tears would spill over if she raised her eyes, Leafheart spoke to Minoo’s yellow wrapped feet. “Mama is scared of everything. She wants me to stay home because she says… she says war is coming to the village.”
For a long time Minoo stood silent. Then, placing her calloused hands on Leafheart’s head, she spoke in a low voice, almost singing. “The words of difficult, painful truth have a color all their own. You do not weep for any twigs, Harra. You weep for your mama’s fear.”
Leafheart let Minoo pull her into a soft embrace. Her eyelids squeezed out tears like juice from a grapefruit, leaving a damp stain on the old woman’s blue cotton dress. While Minoo stroked Leafheart’s hair, she whispered, “Your mama is right. War is coming.” She took Leafheart by the shoulder and held her at arm’s length. “She has lost so much. Make her feel that you are safe. Sometimes the bravest thing is to go home.”
Drying her eyes with the back of her hand, Leafheart said, “You’re right. Mama needs me.” She touched her heart in thanks and walked away from the hut, ready to go home and look after Mama. She even considered apologizing to Subin for not doing her share of the chores.
She’d made it about twenty steps when a strange sound stopped her, like the clicking of a million locusts. She turned to look at the meadow. The brush pile was gone. A wave of clicking swelled again. The lizard sticks squirmed all over the golden grass.
“You jumped off your pile!” She squatted for a closer look. They still had no heads, but each lizard stick had ten or twelve tiny jointed legs, situated all the way around them. They crawled by rolling from leg to leg.
“Amazing! By tomorrow maybe you’ll sprout wings and start to fly.” Leafheart realized all the lizard sticks were rolling toward the center of the meadow. And they came not just from the road. From the casava fields to the south and from the Red Sea Hills to the northeast, lizard sticks rolled in. The meadow grasses shook and bent under the invasion.
“Where did you all come from?” The clicking grew so loud, she had to shout. “And where are you going?”
A new, larger pile of lizard sticks began to form. Soon it was taller than any hut in the village. It blocked Leafheart’s view of the hills. Curiosity lassoed her imagination, pulling her toward the squirming mountain.
“Leafheart! Come back!”
“Stay away from them, child!”
When she turned toward the voices, she found half the village gathered on the roadway. The people clutched each other’s hands, pointed, craned their necks, whispered. Only Leafheart dared to step out into the meadow. She was not afraid. As she neared the huge pile, she saw that each tiny leg was linked to the leg of the next lizard stick.
The pile started to balloon out into a huge sphere, forcing Leafheart to back up. “You’re making a building,” she guessed.
The sphere deflated and widened, making the pile look like a rugby ball. But an entire sports team could have fit inside it. The lizard stick ball began to vibrate and roar. The villagers on the road screamed. Leafheart kneeled down to watch. One pointy end of the ball lifted off the ground. Up, up the ball rose, clicking and roaring, until it reached the clouds and disappeared. Leafheart waited. And waited. She stood there, looking up until her neck hurt. The lizard sticks did not come back down.
Leafheart hadn’t known that clouds could look so empty.
Weeks went by. Leafheart visited the meadow every day. All she found were normal grasses and shrubs. No mysterious twigs or lizard sticks.
The signs of war couldn’t be ignored, and soon even Leafheart knew she should stay away from the edge of the village. One day it happened.
“Rebels to the north!” Someone cried. The words echoed around the village. “Rebels to the north!”
Leafheart ran from the hut, ignoring Mama’s pleas to stay indoors. Near the public ovens, stood a pile of stones children used for playing “king.” When Leafheart clambered to the top, she saw the danger: a phalanx of rebel soldiers on horseback lined the nearest crest of the Red Sea Hills. Leafheart didn’t hesitate. Her footfalls pounding, her lungs heaving, she tore across the village to the meadow.
“Come in here,” Minoo called. “Don’t let the soldiers see you.”
But Leafheart would not stop. As she ran across the road, she started to pray out loud, addressing the skies. “Lizard sticks? Can you hear? It’s me, Leafheart, who protected you when you visited our world. Now bad people want to destroy my home. Please, lizard sticks, protect us!”
The rebels were riding forward, closing in on the village. Leafheart heard their crazed shouts and whoops. The sun gleamed off the blades of their machetes. With tears rolling down her cheeks, Leafheart reached both hands to the heavens. “Please! Please help us!”
Suddenly, a shadow blocked the sun. On the mountainside, horses reared back in terror. The riders shrieked, tumbling to the ground. The airship made of lizard sticks sank down into the center of the meadow, narrowly missing Leafheart.
“You’re here,” she gasped.
Leafheart expected the huge balloon to burst apart. She thought all those thousands of creatures would head toward the hills and attack the invaders. Or at least scare them off.
Instead, the balloon shifted its shape. A million clicks popped in Leafheart’s ears as the lizards unlinked and relinked legs. They formed meandering curves that stretched from where Leafheart stood to the nearer half of the casava field.
The lizard sticks had turned themselves into a giant snake!
“Good!” she cried. “That will terrify them. Can you eat them? Or smash them?” She glanced over at the rebels. Many were back up on their horses. Soon they would charge on the village. “Hurry!” she urged the giant stick snake.
The snake flattened the end near her into a ramp.
“Yes,” Leafheart said, “I’ll come along.” She climbed up the ramp on all fours. The lizard sticks buzzed slightly when she grabbed them for support. Their big joints poked into her palms and the balls of her feet. With every breath, their spicy-sweet scent filled her heart with courage.
Once she was on top of one, the ramp dissolved into the rest of the creature. Grabbing a cluster of twigs with one hand, she raised the other fist. “Attack! Attack!”
But the snake did not move toward the horsemen on the hill. Instead it slithered around so Leafheart faced the other direction. Right away, she saw why. “Oh no, more soldiers!” The far end of the casava field swarmed with men. They had no horses, but they did have long, black guns strapped across their backs.
“We can’t fight them all,” she sobbed. “What do we do?”
Every lizard stick vibrated, as if waiting for instructions. She knew they would do anything she asked. Closing her eyes and leaning forward, Leafheart whispered to her many friends. “Go to the village. Wrap this snake around my people. Don’t let the evil men through.”
The moment Leafheart said those words, the snake stirred into action. It swept like a windstorm toward the village, turning just in time to miss crashin
g into the graveyard at the northeast edge. With Leafheart hanging on desperately, the snake turned right, following the outer border of the village. Whenever Leafheart managed to open an eye, she saw something familiar, blurred by her speed: the mosque, the public ovens, the well, women stretching dyed cloth on the ground. There was Subin, holding an armful of eucalyptus. There was a group of boys, the ones who teased her, and friendly Taban, shouting and waving at her. For a second she thought she saw the green paper garland on the thatched roof of her own tukul.
“I’m here, Mama,” Leafheart called. “I’m keeping everyone safe.”
The snake she rode turned right again. Its own tail came into view. Leafheart’s end rushed toward the tail end, merging with it. The lizard sticks made an unbroken ring around Deraheib. Just as the rebels on horseback crossed the road, the snake changed shape again, rising into a high wall that completely encircled the village.
Leafheart saw the confusion of horses and men crashing into a wall they weren’t expecting. Machetes sliced at the lizard sticks, but couldn’t harm them. The last thing Leafheart saw before she fell off the top of the wall was the other band of soldiers running away.
The fall backward took forever, as if it happened in the dream. Leafheart felt herself being caught in a jumble of loving arms. Familiar faces looked down on her. There was Damdoum, Papa’s old friend. There was wise old Minoo. Subin knelt over her, praying. And best of all, Mama was there. Outside, crying for joy.
“My precious Harra.” She stroked Leafheart’s head.
Other villagers gathered. “Such a brave girl,” said one.
“She saved us all,” said another. “Those rebels won’t mess with us now.”
“Hooray for Leafheart!”
“Hooray!” everyone shouted.
The sound of a million clicks drowned out their celebration. The wall rose slowly off the ground. It held its shape until it was well above the village. Then it rolled up into a ball and puffed out into its airship form. While the villagers waved, the craft shot up into the sunlight, until it was just a dot. Then it was gone.
