Locust Girl: A Lovesong

by Merlinda Bobis

  But inside there was only a strange black and round animal spinning while its one arm scratched its face. The men are singing inside it, it’s eaten the men! Beenabe and I backed away but we could not leave. We were held by this spinning thing. It kept singing to me, to us, then it sighed a real sigh, perhaps wanting to prove that not all sighs are unhappy. ‘Aa-ahh — ’ then the sigh went on, ‘Ahh-ahh-ahh-ahh-ahh …’ until a body rushed past us and quickly grabbed the animal’s arm from its spinning face, and all singing stopped.

  Beenabe and I backed off even further.

  ‘It’s not what you think, it’s not what you think it is,’ the tiny man or woman, for we could not tell, pleaded, hugging the animal to its chest and making ready to run away, but we were the first to reach the door and for a while we halted — the creature was scared of us!

  It had long white strands sprouting from its head and shrunken face. This was hair that Beenabe’s village knew before the ochre rain. The creature was very pale and smaller than me with gnarled, spindly limbs. It wore a brown wrap around its hips. Its pleading confused us.

  ‘This isn’t mine, I just found it, I burned mine once upon a time according to the law, I believe in purity too, no singing together, and each one has a definite place so no mixing up, I never did any mixing up, not then not now, I’m alone now and pure, so please don’t tell on me to the masters, not to them please, not to them!’

  ‘Who are you?’ Trust Beenabe to ask the usual question.

  ‘I’m going to burn this if you wish, just don’t tell on me!’ the creature slumped to his knees, cowering.

  ‘Your animal ate the men.’

  ‘Animal? Which animal — ah, this,’ and here, the creature shook his head. ‘No, no, it’s a record — ’

  ‘How could you let it?’

  ‘A record and a phonograph, can’t you see?’

  ‘The men are in there singing, eaten by your spinning animal — and what are they singing, huh?’

  ‘They’re singing about love, and they’re in here and not in here,’ he kept on. ‘Because it’s a record, you understand? It’s not an animal but men singing about the love that you — that you and I, and anyone takes — ’

  ‘I don’t take love,’ Beenabe retorted. ‘Because I’ve never been given it.’

  The creature fell silent. Then it lifted the black thing and tenderly raised it to the light and it shimmered like a black sun. ‘Look,’ the creature said, ‘It’s the most beautiful thing, a most beautiful song by famous men once upon a time, but I kept it when I found it among the rubble, I couldn’t burn it, because even now it keeps me believing that — that maybe — maybe we can give love as much as we take it. You see, that’s what it’s singing about, the taking and giving of love.’

  ‘Humph, it’s an animal singing a lie!’ And she grabbed it from him.

  ‘Please, please, be gentle with it, it’s no animal, it’s a record and it might break, so please — may I have it back?’

  Beenabe did not break it, as I too feared. She stared at it, turned it this way and that, shook it, held it close to her ear.

  ‘Why,’ the creature whispered, perplexed, ‘You’ve never seen a record before?’

  Beenabe shook her head, then to my surprise carefully handed this thing back, murmuring, ‘A lie but … it’s beautiful. Can it — can it sing again?’

  The creature finally smiled.

  I loved copying it: simple stretching of the face, then parting of the lips.

  Was it a dream? Especially when it fed us a handful of dry black seeds, while making the thing that was no animal spin and spin again, as we listened? Then the door opened and another creature walked in with a jar.

  ‘So you’re alone?’ Beenabe sneered.

  Our host grew nervous but the newcomer walked calmly towards us and said, ‘Our neighbour told me about you,’ then offered us the jar. Water! Quickly Beenabe grabbed it and began to drink, but not beyond a sip. ‘I know this taste,’ she said, slowly licking her lips. ‘Salty.’

  ‘Of course,’ the jar bearer said.

  ‘Yes, I know this taste. The woman in the cave — ’

  A hand was waved as if to say, no more interruptions, then the creature turned to me. ‘Now who are you, little one, and what happened to your face?’

  How strange that it should call me ‘little one’ when it was smaller than I. Very long white hair wrapped around its neck to make sure it did not get in the way. It was as gnarled as the other creature, but of darker skin, and it was dressed like Beenabe. At least I could see its eyes, a shade that made me think of the bowl I found some days ago.

  ‘She’s Beena after my name Beenabe, because I found her, and nothing happened to her face, I found it like that. So who are you?’

  The creature frowned but answered anyway. ‘Espra, and this is my husband Daninen.’

  ‘And you said you’re pure and don’t do any mixing,’ Beenabe snapped at Daninen. ‘But your wife’s a different colour!’

  ‘Purity — hah! So, girl, they’ve filled your head with crazy ideas too?’ Espra pushed Beenabe away and sat me down, undoing part of her wrap, which she dipped into the jug. Her movements were frugal and precise. She wiped my face, rubbing off the earth that Beenabe had applied. She stared at it. Daninen also stared. Thoughtfully they rubbed it between their fingers, then they stared at each other. I heard Daninen’s cry of wonder as Espra took my face in her hands.

  ‘Not sand, not dry … this is blessed earth,’ she whispered. ‘Ah, Daninen, perhaps it can be green again.’

  They confused me even more. I remembered the strange men intoning ‘blessed’ amid so many lights and the weeping woman’s green village once upon a time, but all I could say was, ‘G-green.’

  ‘Ah, beautiful child, you have come to us with blessings,’ Espra said and fed me more seeds.

  Saying it was like smiling. ‘Green.’ My cheeks felt cool in her hands.

  Trees are green. Trees are tall and proud and beautiful. Someone told me the same thing once upon a time.

  As Espra wiped off the earth from my whole body and Daninen caught it with my brown wrap, they talked about trees. He had reluctantly set his silent animal aside and asked Beenabe not to touch it. Earlier she was hovering around it, frowning at it then at me. I sensed she resented the couple’s censure or perhaps their awed affection towards me. Or Espra feeding me more. Or calling me ‘beautiful.’

  Was I? They gaped at my scarred body, while filling my ears with the rumour of trees. I was exposed and enthralled.

  ‘You can’t take off all of it. It’s not earth, it’s not blessed, it’s skin — it’s her, both light and dark. She is impure,’ Beenabe said with such distaste, I felt I had lost a friend. ‘And see that mark on her brow? Wait till it starts making funny sounds.’

  My locust had been so quiet throughout this new encounter.

  But Daninen was not listening. He was lost in his trees. ‘Ah, Espra, how I miss the trees. Tell us, what trees grow in your village, Beena, and will you take us there?’

  Beenabe laughed. ‘What trees? Her village is gone.’

  The couple looked at each other then at the gathered earth on my wrap. ‘We lost our village too,’ Daninen said. ‘Before that, our trees. For the masters’ houses, tables, beds, chairs, even their spoons. Ah, the hunger for trees, for the natural, for things pure. So the floods came and the cold, then this dryness and heat. I’ve lived this long for my eyes so they can see trees again. Take me to them, little foundling.’

  ‘Daninen, Daninen!’ Espra nudged him, suddenly agitated. ‘The black — it won’t come off.’ She was eyeing me strangely now, as if she did not know whether to still like me.

  ‘Told you,’ Beenabe said.

  Everyone stared. My nakedness had betrayed them. They examined my body with a disapproving sadness. Quickly I picked up my wrap and covered myself again, and all the earth I’d shed fell on the sand floor. They did not touch it now. I turned to Beenabe who had given me half of h
er clothing and had held me in her sleep, then I heard the first query from my mouth. ‘W-why?’

  Beenabe stared at her toes. ‘Tell me about trees, Daninen.’ For the first time she had our hosts’ full attention.

  It was a flat, thin thing, partly faded, which Daninen took from under the bed. There was something familiar about it, my eyes felt hot and watery.

  ‘Come,’ he beckoned to Beenabe who soon gathered with our hosts around this thing. ‘This is the case of the record, of the song that you heard. This case protects the record from breaking. And on it, look, there’s a picture of something that was once upon a time,’ I heard him explain. I peeked over their heads to make sure I had seen right, that I had remembered right.

  ‘Blue,’ I said. ‘Blue sky.’

  ‘She’s right, you know,’ Espra said, pointing at the blue part of the picture. ‘And these, Beenabe, these are trees. Blue sky, green trees, but they’re not as blue and green as they really are, they’re faded. And here, four men walking, also faded and torn, I think someone tore them out, but you can’t miss them, they’re walking in a line, one after another — ’

  ‘But I can only see their legs, their feet — how sure are you that they’re men?’ Beenabe countered the explanation.

  ‘I just know that they’re men, important men once upon a time.’

  Beenabe examined the picture closely. ‘Are they from the Kingdoms, or are they strays?’ She frowned, trying to make sense of it all. ‘Look, all these feet are wearing shoes, except one pair, so maybe he’s a stray on bare feet, like us. Uhmm … walking to cross the border, like us. But they’re not walking on desert — ’

  ‘No, they’re crossing a road — that’s a road,’ Daninen explained. ‘A famous road called Abeeh, or Abah maybe, can’t remember, such a long time ago.’

  ‘Road — towards the horizon?’ Beenabe asked.

  ‘Beyond it,’ Espra whispered.

  ‘Where there are trees and the sky is not brown like here,’ Daninen sighed.

  ‘Where we can sing about love again,’ Espra sighed too. ‘Love that’s green like the trees, blue like the sky, ah, Daninen, I miss them.’

  Their circle was so intimate, it was not right to intrude, but my brow thought otherwise. It began to whirr, then sing. First the rhythmic tapping, then the chorus of singers assuring us — or warning us about how we take or give love? Then, the drawn-out sigh.

  The circle broke up quickly and Daninen rushed to his animal — was it singing? But it was quiet and still. How come? He looked perplexed as he gingerly lifted the round, black thing, making sure not to touch its face.

  ‘Told you. It’s that mark singing on her brow!’ Beenabe sniggered. ‘It copies all sounds, so you better beware.’

  Espra seemed even more unsure whether to like me or not, but Daninen was not looking at me now. He was slipping his singing animal into the picture of four men walking under the sky and the trees, towards the horizon.

  Again the circle. Again I was outside it. I could hear their whispering. Then warmly our hosts hugged Beenabe goodbye but kept their distance from me. I did not miss their sad, curious glances. I wondered if Beenabe told them my story. But did she not say to leave our tracks behind and not look back? The horizon was our only cause for walking. Walking to it was our only story.

  We walked for five more days with Beenabe leading the way. I noticed her renewed energy, her purposeful strides, as if she knew where to go. We walked in patterns. I don’t know how I came to notice them. Maybe because Beenabe had grown so distant and, feeling alone, I saw more. Sometimes we drew large circles with our tracks, then squares, then triangles that soon went around slim boulders of sand standing like frail sentinels. There was a smell about them. Beenabe sniffed the air and nodded to herself.

  Nights were colder. Beenabe had stopped holding me in her sleep. On one of these nights, I saw her secretly munching the black seeds from Espra. I wanted to tell her she is beautiful, but my tongue could not yet wrap itself around the word.

  ‘It’s time to eat alone

  The seeds are so few

  It’s time to sleep alone

  The limbs are so tired’

  He would have none of Beenabe’s interruptions, even when she said that Daninen and Espra had sent us so he could lead us home. Fa-us was his name and we were sent to him to listen. At least, that was what he said.

  We had walked into the tallest boulder as if it were porous and our bodies were air. In a circle of light, the old man sat. He looked like Daninen, but his hair was dark and we could see his eyes. They were the colour of the sky and the trees.

  ‘Ah, children,’ he greeted us. ‘You will lead us out of this desert.’

  Fa-us smelled like the boulders of sand, something both gritty and aromatic. It made us want to stand to attention and swoon at the same time. He raised a finger as if to warn us not to give in to the weakness of our knees. Then he beckoned to Beenabe who advanced in purposeful strides. She was sure this was her chance for deliverance. The old man wanted only her ear. I would never know what secrets he told her. I can only repeat what I heard for myself when my turn came.

  First he rubbed my right ear, then the skin beneath it, murmuring, ‘There was something here before, something written in blue … uhmm … but it’s gone.’

  ‘Blue … gone …’ I murmured back, trying to remember what it was that had disappeared beneath my ear.

  Then he whispered into it, his message slow. Each word seemed to be weighed first in his mouth that reeked with his perfume, before it was uttered.

  ‘Child, remember this: we are held ransom by rumours. Rumours of water, colours, earth and trees. Even songs. All blessed rumours. Careful, you might think your life is also a rumour. You might think your life is not blessed. Lives are not rumours. They must be told openly. Lives are stories. They must be sung openly. Among all peoples, in small huts, in big halls, on the ground, up in the towers, for the old and the young, the able and the cripple. Plague them with songs, Child, not rumours. Rumours are not stories, are not songs. Rumours are in the air and we only catch and copy them, but songs are in the lungs and the throat even when they come up for air. And stories are lived in the bones.’

  I imagined the bones where I came from as he ran his hands over my face, afflicting me with his perfume. My feet were firmly grounded but my knees grew even weaker and my cheeks felt warm. I thought they had grown smooth under his thorough hands. They sought every corner of my face. Then it dawned on me: his hands were his eyes. He was blind.

  For a long time he touched my brow, with his lips. Then he smiled. ‘Child, you will plague us, you will deliver us.’

  My locust turned in my brow but silently.

  ‘Go now. At last I can stop dreaming about you. At last I can wake up.’

  Then the light went out and we were back among the thin boulders. We were still walking but not in patterns any more. Just one straight line now, as if our feet knew that we were on our way home.

  There is beauty in certainty. She began to recognise the sand, the stones, even the rock that looked like a squatting woman, which she kissed. Her smile grew and so did mine. How I wished I could say the word, which I heard clearly in my head. How I wished I could call it out to her: beautiful.

  Her arms opened to embrace her home, yes, it was out there, and I thought she’d lift herself into the air.

  Ah, my beautiful Beenabe!

  Then the brown sky lit up. She froze in her tracks. Lights, lights! We saw them, heard them in quick bursts. Lights, roaring lights! They afflicted our eyes, our ears, our tongues, our noses with their fire. Lights, blinding lights!

  She began running towards them and I was so afraid.

  In the fog my first thought was her village smells familiar.

  After a while I saw the black bodies.

  A charred man was dragging himself on one leg. I wanted to ask him a question, but I could not open my mouth.

  Behind him was a woman with arms curved like a
cradle, but it was empty.

  They disappeared into the fog.

  I saw a few more, walking silently as if the lights had burned out their voices. My brow itched like my throat as my lungs heaved and I remembered a name. ‘Abarama, Abarama,’ I heard myself whisper. Something was happening to my eyes and cheeks. It was so familiar.

  ‘Fathers who do not speak

  Make me speak

  Mothers who do not weep

  Make me weep’

  SINGING

  Three years later

  The stars were out. I wondered if I would ever recover from the shock of seeing them again. The first time they began to appear to light my journey, I heard the percussion of spoons but could not remember more. Always I heard songs, names, little refrains from the past, quickly driven away by flashes of light and a girl opening her arms to a conflagration.

  I missed Beenabe, sometimes unbearably. In my head, she was my only story, my only sorrow. How could I know that all my old sorrows had been collected into her story? How could I know I was missing the old sorrows even more?

  My face, except for my brow, was almost clear by then. Tears had washed away my scars. After I left Beenabe’s burning village, I went back to Cho-choli’s cave to weep with her for three long years. She taught me the rudiments of sighing and the rhythms of the tide in the eyes. She had wept them out, leaving empty sockets, but not the memory of weeping. Or the memory of those once upon a times from her own time, her mother’s, her grandmother’s and all the women who had wept out their stories about the drying up of water and the earth, of trees and daily fare, even of colours. Because all these blessings were wasted or taken far away. Because of stupid wars. Because of great fires that fell from the sky or sprouted from the earth and dried up their insides, their wombs then their hearts. That dried up even the love among lovers.