Locust Girl: A Lovesong

by Merlinda Bobis

  Cho-choli taught me how to think as deeply as her pool of tears and how to speak with words that could rise to the sky. Then she taught me how to query all thought and speech, even her stories, as we wept and drank our tears, as we flooded the cave. We had to keep moving to higher ground, so we would not drown, and we kept on asking why. The creature in my brow chastised me silently, singing ditties against my indulgence, but only in my head. At first it sang aloud songs of commiseration and comfort for the weepers, then it grew tired and bored. It turned endlessly in my brow, urging me to leave. Cho-choli wound a piece of cloth around it before she let me go amid her sorrowful protests. She said the locust could betray me.

  So in this strange place, stars again. Stars as early as dusk, when the trading began in whispers. An old man had his mouth close to the ear of a younger one who was as tall as the remaining wall. The old man had to tiptoe on a pile of rubble to reach him. Both were hiding in a corner cramped with debris, but I could tell the tall one was watching me throughout the transaction. He slipped two handfuls of seeds into the old man’s bag in exchange for what looked like a shining stone. He took this out from the bag himself, because the old man had no hands.

  They traded with seriousness and avoided each other’s eyes. No one smiled. My face missed the gesture. It was a cold place on a cold dusk. The traders hugged brown blankets around themselves. Everywhere the ritual was silent: mouth to ear then the furtive exchange. Brown beads for a jug of water. Two earthen bowls for seeds. The woman who received the jug took one small sip, then stopped guiltily before the second. Quickly the jug disappeared under her blanket, as she did behind the rubble. The one who gave up her bowls took longer to slip away as if she wanted to change her mind. I saw how she had fondled the bowls tenderly, perhaps her last crockery. Where to serve this handful of seeds now.

  I barely caught sight of a face. They slipped in and out of the ruins quickly, silently. I had stopped for shelter here last night and like ghosts they had begun coming and leaving in haste before my second night. Hands clutched old possessions, then the measly purchase. I did not know if they spoke my tongue.

  Behind the wreckage, I eavesdropped. I caught the occasional click of a tongue, the hiss between teeth. I edged close to the remains of a window. I made out a line of shadows. Men or women? All heads were cleanly shaven and linked by mouth to ear and mouth to ear as if they were trading in rumours, or a chain of secrets. I heard a cry, instantly hushed, but it echoed. Quickly I pressed my bandaged brow. Hush, I whispered in my own head. It’s not polite to mimic despair, not polite to spy. But my brow did not even stir. I abandoned the window. Perhaps I will sleep here for one more night. But another cry, louder this time, brought me back to my feet. The shadows were now rocking themselves, until the cry faded to a whimper. What was this transaction? For a while, I imagined their only business was silence.

  Then I lost them. Someone had covered the window with his back. It was the tall man trading earlier. I heard him clear his throat and that was all. I heard no more, I saw no more. Until the ruins began to sing.

  ‘Lest we forget —

  There is only one story

  There is only one song

  That we take home’

  A song that assaults everything in its way often settles in the bones. You believe it, because you have no choice. This was what I thought of the clean rise and fall of words, which I readily understood. So these traders speak my tongue? Had I come home to my own kind?

  Underneath my feet, the ravaged floor vibrated. The song was rising from its pores, or so I felt. I tightened the bandage around my head. My brow was gearing up for a response, which I could not allow. Then I heard them.

  ‘One story. One song.’ A meek echo from the line of shadows, but not whispered together. Each had to say it alone with that careful enunciation reserved for wishes.

  I peeked again. The tall man had left the window and was breaking up the chain of shadows with what looked like a whip. He was doing it wordlessly and the shadows were rushing out of the ruins also mutely. The silent violence was unnerving. My feet almost rushed out with them as if the whip were also after me. Then I saw the culprit: a box the size of the man’s head. Blue! My heart skipped a beat. I sensed older songs. No one should look … No one should walk … I closed my eyes, I stopped my feet.

  When the blue box had exhausted its singing, I sneaked out of the ruins. I made sure even my blanket was securely gathered into silence.

  For a while I was torn between contemplating the sky and following the chain of shadows, for they had sneaked back into the ruins. I ended up stumbling after them. I had to know what passed between mouth and ear, my brow had to know. This lone companion in my wanderings always led me to its intimate occupation: sound or its possibility, even its absence. Always it wanted to hear why or why not. These days, it listened more than it sang and it argued with me. It even mocked me.

  Soon I found myself descending into a hole. I’m used to this, I told myself, but still my throat and lungs longed for more air, more air. Somewhere below, I heard the clicking of tongues and the hiss between teeth moving further away. Then the heavy footsteps above, very close to my hand hanging on to a ledge for support with little confidence. Ah, I had been out in the open for too long, my brow mocked me.

  Someone up there was pacing, trying to decide whether to descend or not. I held my breath. The pacing multiplied. More footsteps had arrived, slow and heavier, as if this newcomer were weighed down by some burden. Just then, my grip on the ledge began slipping. Instinctively my other hand reached out to steady myself. It was inevitable. The blanket I was clutching fell and quickly I followed.

  Sound saves as much as it betrays. Up there the newcomer was just setting down the burden too loudly, so my fall was disguised. Then I heard the pouring of seeds, quite unmistakable, followed by water. It had to be water gurgling into smaller jugs. What else could it be? Before I would reach the Five Kingdoms, I would know only basic fare. It would not occur to me that there was something else beyond this.

  When my eyes had adjusted to the pitch black, I found myself surrounded by tunnels. No, more like doorways with intricate awnings. They threw patterns on the tunnel walls after the first glimmer of light from one of the doorways. I did not enter here, though, even when the light grew warm and welcoming. Instead I crept into the next tunnel, for I realised it had cracks that I could peek through. The tunnel walls felt uneven, shifting slightly under my hands, which I quickly withdrew.

  I saw them again, their shaven heads still, their eyes closed. Before them was a blue vial of light which looked familiar. Light and shadow played on the finely formed skulls. All beautiful, features exquisitely sculpted. My breast felt tight, it hurt to breathe. I imagined Beenabe among them.

  It was not long before the whispers grew audible. There were six of them, trading in rumours. Only rumours. For how else could they have known this much in a landscape of mostly drab brown?

  ‘Red,’ the first mouth whispered to the second ear, who whispered back, ‘Red flowers,’ and then passed on the next colour to the third in line: ‘Orange.’

  ‘Orange birds,’ the third mouth whispered back and, to the fourth, passed on: ‘Blue.’

  ‘Blue sky,’ the fourth mouth whispered back and, to the fifth, passed on: ‘Yellow.’

  ‘Yellow fields,’ the fifth mouth whispered back and, to the last, whispered: ‘Green.’

  All grew silent.

  ‘Green trees,’ someone eventually answered and all opened their eyes. Fearfully they looked around. Then ‘steal’ and ‘dreams’ floated in the air like disembodied words as if no mouth had spoken them. Then the light was discreetly extinguished.

  My brow kept listening to what remained unsaid.

  When the footsteps began descending, the conjurers urgently resumed trade. Their rumours rushed into stories all whispered in song. Orange birds began to fly through blue skies and over red flowers and yellow fields lined with green trees. In the da
rk I had a lesson in colour until the stories came to a halt. A short man, but heavily built, had just descended. He slapped the most earnest storyteller into silence. Someone punched him in turn. It was the man as tall as the wall who then began soothing the slapped cheek with some oil from a pouch. I caught a whiff of something both gritty and aromatic but only momentarily.

  The other whisperers kept their heads bowed. They could not bear to look at the injured one. When the men arrived, she had been conjuring the blue ocean and how they could sail away on it.

  The men had their own vial of light. It flickered and cast shadows. The tall one looked even taller, even if he was on his knees. He brought the light close to the bruised cheek. A young girl, or maybe a boy? He shut the victim’s eyes while he ministered to the bruise, as if he could not bear the injured stare. I was perplexed. Such kindness from someone who held the whip earlier? He kept clearing his throat as he ran his fingers over the bruise again and again, trying to erase it, I thought. The other man looked on but kept his hands to himself. It was he who would later herd the youths back to the ruins above, while his tall companion lit the way.

  I woke up to noise and the first voices that refused to whisper. I thought they were speaking another tongue. My brow demanded I close my eyes to hear better. Soon I tuned in to the words, their strange rhythm.

  ‘Give me that, Gurimar — I have the pouch.’

  ‘But I have the two hands.’

  ‘Of course. Why do you always treat me like a cripple?’

  Laughter from both as if the question was a very funny joke. Then again the noise, like someone pounding or breaking something. I peeked through one of the holes, but the next tunnel was empty except for what seemed to be mounds of rubbish. I realised my tunnel wall was also a mound of rubbish that rose to the roof.

  ‘Oh, look, Hara-haran, so many of them. Aren’t we lucky?’

  ‘Lucky, yeah, they’re old but still with drops in them — go on, do the pouring with those two hands,’ she sniggered.

  I heard no pouring, only something dragging around. I shut my eyes to hear better. I had woken up to what looked like rubbish everywhere, visible through bits of light streaming from holes in the roof. The uneven tunnel walls were piles of little boxes burnt black. There were also vials and what looked like more burnt rubble. Last night’s intricate awnings were nothing but ancient cobwebs. I had slept in an underground dump.

  ‘Stop playing with them, Hara-haran.’

  ‘I think they’re pretty.’

  Slowly I crawled towards the voices, avoiding the shafts of light, keeping myself hidden. Among the rubbish were a boy and a girl and a stack of the boxes, each fist-sized. She was trying to balance them precariously with one hand, which was all she had. Then she dragged herself around her handiwork, admiring it. Her lower limbs ended at her knees.

  ‘See, a tower, Gurimar. Oh, I’m smart.’

  ‘C’mon, let’s finish up,’ the boy said, scavenging among the rubbish, picking up a box or a vial, shaking it against his ear or breaking it with a twisted metal staff. ‘Might be more here.’

  Both wore long shirts, torn and almost as black as the rubbish. Hair stuck out from their scalps like petrified clumps.

  ‘See this, Hara-haran? Still half full — someone must have dropped it.’

  ‘Still smells too, don’t you think?’

  ‘Uhmm … hardly. But looks okay.’

  It was the vial of light of the whisperers. Gone black as if it had burnt out. The boy had broken it and was pouring its remaining oil into the girl’s pouch. Their faces were radiant. It was the most precious find of the day.

  ‘Are you spying on us?’ The boy was ready to deliver a blow with his staff. I did not hear him creep behind me until it was too late.

  ‘Who are you and who sent you?’ The girl had pulled the blanket off me and was wrapping it around herself. ‘Isn’t she an ugly thing?’ she taunted me, eyes on my scarred arms and legs.

  ‘Answer her,’ the boy demanded. He was hopping around me now, staff on the ready. He had only one leg.

  ‘Answer, quick!’ The girl pounded the ground with a fist to egg him on. Her eyes told me she wanted the staff to land.

  The children were a bold and angry pair, perhaps both my height if they had all of their limbs. ‘Whose spy are you?’ they asked.

  ‘Beena, I’m Beena, and no one sent me.’

  ‘What kind of a name is that?’ the boy asked.

  ‘Because I’m from somewhere else, but I’m not spying.’

  This angered the girl even more. Her fist was making a dent on the ground. She pointed at my bandaged brow. ‘And what’s that? What do you have under that brown thing?’ To my surprise, it had begun to whirr. It had been sulking quietly for a year. No songs at all, just mocking asides silently planted into my thoughts. I had missed even the itching.

  ‘You’re hiding something.’ The boy stepped back, dragging the girl with him. Both were suddenly unsure when the whirring became a tune, which I had never heard before. ‘What is it?’

  What could I say?

  As the tune grew into a full song, the children moved away, whispering arguments into each other’s ear. They could not agree. I thought they would hit each other with those waving fists.

  It was the girl who calmed down first. She dragged herself away from the boy, face buried on her one hand. Then she asked me, ‘How come you know that song?’

  The boy protested against his sister’s betrayal. They had promised each other not to tell anyone about that song. His mouth remained tightly shut as if he would never speak again.

  It was too early for a lullaby but my brow rocked us to sleep.

  ‘You want a story?

  But with no silences

  You want a song?

  To sing the silences’

  Each query dangled in the air, as if the song had already ended or as if silence were indeed being sung before the next line. Maybe lullabies have gaps that sing our dreams. Before my eyes shut, I saw the girl snuggle close to her brother with my blanket.

  ‘Mother sang that beautifully, remember?’

  Silence from Gurimar

  ‘Did she sing the silences too, before she left?’

  Her questions hung in the air. He was sleeping.

  ‘No pushing, no pushing, let’s get on with it — listen now, I’m warning you!’

  The order could not subdue the din above, which woke the children first. They went wild. ‘Ration time, ration time!’ They raced each other up the hole without even a look at me.

  It was pitch dark again. My third night now and I had lost my blanket, Cho-choli’s going away gift offered with caution about the chill of faraway places. I was shivering, exposed to the cold and later to the colder stares. I felt my scars. I am not beautiful. So was it safe to go up? My thirst and hunger answered. I need the rations. Here the sand was not the fine sort that was kind to the stomach. Anyway there was the kindness of the dark. I could keep to the shadows.

  A long line of noisy shadows bisected the desert, pestered by the strays trying to push into the line. All were waving about some flickering light. These were my first visions from a smashed window. And within the ruins, sacks, barrels and jars were being checked by silent men, two of whom I recognised. The tall man and his shorter lackey were dressed in the usual drab brown, without the cumbersome blankets but with their own lights around their necks. The little vial.

  Suddenly the lackey began beating one of the sacks, cursing under his breath. The sack was moving and crying out. By the time it was thrown out of the ruins, its knot had come undone, and among the spilled seeds I saw the old man who had paid with a shining stone the night before. The tall man was quickly on his knees to soothe the bloody head with oil from one of the jars, clearing his throat all the while.

  Ah, that gritty and aromatic smell. Of course, Fa-us’s perfumed hands! I remembered the scent and felt the same weakening of my knees while wishing to stand to attention. I leaned out of the w
indow, filling my lungs with the night air and my eyes with the stars, trying to restore balance. But even out there, the smell wafted from a long, long line of flickering lights. They were like agitated stars jostling each other at ground level. I saw the old man crawl out of the sack and disappear among the crowd.

  ‘No pushing, no pushing, get to the end of the line, you, and you too!’ the tall man ordered the strays, cracking his whip on the wall. A shining stone hung from his neck. A deep blue stone that burned brighter than the light beside it. Ah, the stone from the old man without hands; it was held together by a necklace of brown seeds. Food and fire, I thought.

  The strays were still trying to push in, arguing under their breaths.

  ‘Did you hear me? Back, back — to the end of the line! Jump the queue and you won’t get anything tonight — I’m warning you.’

  Tonight? How will they ever get to the end of that line?

  It would take at least six nights, only the nights, to finish the task. The days were for sleeping, for hiding. Each time the sun appeared, all crept under their blankets and slept. The day brought a sharper chill around my heart. It was like seeing a line of brown corpses stretched towards the horizon. Indeed the dark was kinder.

  Scalps without hair, sockets without eyes, shoulders or elbows without arms, arms without hands, knees without legs, even a face missing both ears. Later I would hear it was because of the fires that still sprouted from the earth, though they had been planted there once upon a time. Everywhere I looked no body was complete. Their vials of light exposed them, but the scent from the burning oils softened this betrayal. I even felt at ease with my own scars, but not with my shock at this wretchedness, which was soon jostled out of me. In the gritty and aromatic chill, I was dragged by the strays towards the end of the line, until about halfway through when a hand grabbed my arm and pulled me under a blanket. I was now in the line. Someone grumbled then yelped in pain. Gurimar had jabbed the protestor with an elbow.