Locust Girl: A Lovesong

by Merlinda Bobis

  Inige sighed. ‘I saw my own father and he did not recognise me.’

  ‘Because you’re a ‘green tree’ — all the fathers must have taken care of you,’ Gurimar sneered. ‘So how much were you paid to open your legs?’

  ‘I’m a father and I will never forget my son,’ Grandfather Opi cried. ‘Did you see him, oh did you see a man with clear eyes and a limp?’

  ‘And what about the mothers?’ Hara-haran asked, fearful now.

  Inige closed her eyes as if she could not bear to see her next story. ‘Among more trees called woods, the mothers are suckling newborn animals whose own mothers were killed by hunters for their silken fur. The mothers suckle the orphans with their blood, because there’s no milk in their breasts. Soon these orphans are also killed for their fur. The mothers bury little bloody mounds. Some feed on them secretly. The hunters ask the mothers to wash afterwards. The woods have endless water called rivers flowing into each other. The hunters take the mothers deeper into the woods. Their breasts are bared to bait more orphans. The mothers do the task of suckling and burial again. Their breasts dry up like their eyes.’

  Hara-haran acted first. She lunged for Inige’s neck, screaming, ‘Liar!’ Gurimar raised his staff. The twins joined in the beating. Grandfather Opi and Rirean pleaded with the storyteller to recant. Padumana chanted, ‘Leave it alone, leave it alone!’

  Shining Lumi looked on, but she could not leave it alone in her head. She had never left her tent where she saw only humble supplicants huddled together for comfort. She had never seen despair this ugly, just unbearably painful for the eyes. Sometimes it made her whisper the skull’s promises in colour: mothers and fathers and sons and daughters and all loved ones are well under blue skies, among green trees and red flowers and orange birds that sing of homecomings soon, soon.

  ‘How could you spread rotten rumours? Who are you trying to fool? Were you paid by the Five Kingdoms? What woods, what rivers, what towering trees? How can our fathers forget us? How can our mothers have blood in their hands? How can you mock us?’

  The supplicants had thrust the skull towards Inige’s face. The gaping mouth seemed to be asking the questions. I kept screaming for them to stop, but I could barely hear myself. The tapping spoons had begun again. Outside the men were to-ing and fro-ing under the stars.

  ‘How beautiful is hope’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Inige cried.

  ‘How deadly a beauty’

  The skull stared as if it understood.

  ‘We are in the border’

  Karitase crept in to offer her water.

  ‘Before we even get there?’

  My brow sang on. For once, it sounded unsure.

  They turned to me again and saw. I could no longer hide it. The sight of the creature on my brow stopped the beating. Everyone shrank away. I crept towards Inige and tried to raise her. I feared she was dead. Now in the tent, Karitase brought her jug to the victim’s mouth. My brow began singing again in the voices of the lost ones. Instinctively everyone took a step towards us then shrank away again. Have they killed her? Will they be punished now with that plague? Quickly they retrieved their offered payments, their eyes on the locust singing in my brow.

  Shining Lumi could not leave it alone any longer. She took a jug of her oil and began soothing Inige’s fresh bruises. I remembered the man with the blue stone around his neck.

  All the supplicants gathered around our ritual of making better. Shining Lumi ministered with her oil, Karitase, with her water. Shining Lumi glowed with her lights, Karitase kept to the shadows. Shining Lumi had known trust, Karitase, only revulsion. They did not want to like each other, but — they refused to think about it. They refused to think at all as they cared for Inige who did not seem to mind the sores on the hands that washed the blood from her brow. Everyone else was afflicted with ambivalence. The fear of the plague and the hope for the lost ones argued against each other. But they were certain of one thing. They wanted the ‘green tree’ alive.

  Still barely conscious, Inige traced my brow with a finger, querying the form of the plague, then the sores on Karitase’s hand. I heard a shudder from the circle of onlookers who kept their distance. Then someone cleared her throat, followed by another, then another. I thought of the remorseful sounds from Just-me-uhm. Even Shining Lumi cleared her throat, awkwardly apologising for the act. ‘It’s the ill wind and the sand it carries, you know. Hurts the throat.’

  Their breathing was as desperate as the rhythm of spoons rippling the other tents, just as the wind rippled the dunes further away. I heard them, I heard hope to-ing and fro-ing under the stars. The wind picked up these rumours and carried them through a huddle of tents, through the sand dunes and to the ruins, to the ears of Just-me-uhm and his men. The wind is a faithful messenger for all. Something in my bones told me I had to warn this village about it or about something that rode on its tail. Something more than sand.

  ‘The wind knows no border

  The wind takes no sides

  The wind betrays none

  The wind betrays all’

  An ill wind could only bring ill rumours. Back in the ruins, Just-me-uhm heard and dreaded them. They led to one bad turn after another. He knew that from the past. Since the rations began, he had cleared his throat with painful constancy at each meal. His men soon picked up his habit. Quxik, his lackey, cleared his throat louder than the others.

  I heard them then, did I not? Their conspiracy of throats was also carried back by the wind to our tent?

  Short, squat and without a neck, Quxik was built like a fighter. He thought like a fighter. He was quick with his head and quicker with his hands. Did he not slap that silly whisperer before she had convinced the others to escape? But his sillier chief had to soothe her cheek — hypocrite! Quxik scorned Just-me-uhm’s waverings, his contrite clearing of the throat, which he himself could not get rid of now.

  Quxik was also a bastard of the Five Kingdoms, but unlike Just-me-uhm, he had not severed ties with his own father, the Minister of Arms. Quxik was the minister’s most valued spy. He told all to his father. He had already told him about the ill rumours many dunes away, even if Just-me-uhm had begged him to sit these out this time. Because the ill wind will pass — what stupidity! The truth was his chief was terrified of the ‘bad turns of fate.’

  Quxik hated his chief’s father most. The Minister of Mouths had airs — hah, he was nothing but a voice, a pretentious mouth! Quxik was convinced that the singing minister scorned his father, the Minister of Arms, because he did not have the gift of tongue. No glib poise, he didn’t need it. His father worked silently but with precision. ‘What would the Five Kingdoms be without a fine man to protect us all?’ Did the Honourable Head not say this of his father at one public dinner? But the Minister of Mouths had to sing the Missions over that praise, and of course all turned to him again even if it was no longer fashionable to sing the Missions at the table. No one could resist that voice.

  Quxik cleared his head as much as his throat. He will not let petty stories get in the way. He has a duty to the Five Kingdoms. He had sent a message to his father about the ill wind from a village of strays: They’re walking again and there’s even some singing. The border is under threat. The Five Kingdoms are under threat. We are under threat, so unleash the peace fire. Let the ill wind fan it beyond the dunes.

  He made sure the Minister of Mouths heard the message too. Let him lose his glib poise at the thought that the lowly folk, those strays, have infiltrated his singing domain. Let his voice croak as it always does in anger. Let him go off-key.

  In the tent, Grandfather Opi cleared his throat with no hint of apology. ‘My throat’s not hurting, my throat’s getting ready — just getting ready to sing, and so are all of you. We’re just clearing it down there, you know. Because there’s too much dust or too much sand down there, like an old grave.’

  Grave. I remembered how it sounded like a nothing word the first time I heard it from Beenabe. ‘T
his is no longer your home Beena, this is a grave.’

  ‘Dig up that grave, stop the Five Kingdoms from burying our lives, from burying us alive. I’m a very old man, I won’t have long to live, my life should not be cut shorter by burying all that went before it — ’ and the old man started wheezing so hard that he doubled over on the ground. He kept pounding his chest with his stumps to wake up the wind in there.

  His granddaughters came to the rescue, chiding him. ‘Grandfather, you shouldn’t have come, you should go home and rest.’

  ‘Home and rest — are these all that an old man is good for?’ In between wheezes, he waved his stumps while gulping for air. ‘I won’t be buried alive and the oldest story won’t be buried with me.’

  The twins retrieved their water payment and made him drink it. They rubbed his chest with oils until the wheezing stopped. All of us waited for it to stop. We waited to hear the oldest story. Even Inige sat up to hear it better. Grandfather Opi had heard it from his father who heard it from his father, who heard it from his father. In their own time, they did not have to clear their throats to tell this story.

  ‘Once upon a time, there were countries with their own fields of grain and seeds to plant for each season, and endless waters and animals that drank in them, and oils gushing from wells, and beautiful colours not only in dreams. And children, there were plenty of children then. But each of the countries secretly wished to control all grains and seeds, all waters and animals, all oils, all colours, even all dreams, so they fought each other with great fires. So there was much devastation and despair. So the bigger countries embraced each other to become the biggest and strongest country with the greatest fire. Soon the biggest country directed the greatest fire towards the smaller countries to end all petty fires. The Minister of Arms took care of the sky and the air. He made new winds as he waved his powerful limbs. It all became very confusing especially for the earth. It began to dry up and all the countries dried up, but not the biggest one, because the Minister of Mouths began singing to clear the confusion. His songs directed the grains and the seeds and the waters and the oils and the animals and the colours and the dreams towards the biggest country, to preserve them for the future. Then the Minister of Legs began to direct the lost peoples from the lost countries to their new homes. The lucky ones found their way to the biggest country where they were re-settled as dutiful carers of the earth. Some were given villages of huts or tents, but the others have been walking the dry earth for the rest of their lives to find a home. To avoid any more confusion, the Honourable Head drew a clear line between the biggest country and the rest of the earth. He promised that this line would save the human race. So now we have the border keeping us from the last remaining country, the last green home on earth: the Five Kingdoms. The Kingdom of Waters, the Kingdom of Seeds, the Kingdom of Oils, the Kingdom of Colours, the Kingdom of Fires.’

  Grandfather Opi’s story rode on his wheezing lungs, so the telling sounded like a strange singing. I remembered Cho-choli’s stories riding on her sighs and tears.

  When Inige began breathing evenly again, Grandfather Opi’s lungs filled with fresh air from a green field long ago. He remembered older rhythms: the rise and fall of notes akin to the rise and fall of breath. He began to really sing. He sang about how it was before the big dry. He sang the colours vividly. He sang the taste of fresh water from the springs, and golden grains, and meat from the animals that grazed among the green. He sang of his father and mother, and how it was to have two hands as a boy. He sang of his wedding with his childhood sweetheart, the birth of their son and that of his twin granddaughters, and the red beads with which he joyfully bound their wrists after they left their mother’s womb. He sang how he found the beads and many more beautiful stones. He sang the colours underground, how they glowed even in the darkness of the mines. He sang how he lost his hands, but began to wheeze again, to lose air, so his granddaughters picked up his tune and remembered how their father used to kiss them goodnight, how the kiss was a whisper of ‘green’, ‘blue’, ‘red’ on their brows so they could dream in colour, how he added new colours before he left for the border, but at this note, the twins’ voices broke, so Padumana repaired their song with her own memory about the birth of her sons at the time when she thought she had dried up like the earth, how her sons grew up on daily hunger and thirst and how they joined the village in beating her because of her rumours of hope, and here Padumana’s song faltered, she could not go on, not with Hara-haran’s cry against the blood in the hands of mothers who buried dead animals in the woods, but her brother Gurimar muffled her cry with the story of only one mother putting on a necklace of seeds and pushing down her wrap to reveal half of her dry bosom, and primping up what remained of her hair, while telling her son to go home, promising she would follow soon and bring plenty of seeds and water and oil, and maybe some meat which he had never seen before, and she kept walking and smiling towards a group of men on their way to the border, her shoulders thrown back and her hips with a peculiar sway, how Gurimar loved her then as much as he hated her, but Rirean quickly censured his memory, remembering her own mother who left to find a wedding present for her sister after she had blessed her womb already heavy with child, saying the ill wind was maybe turning now and the dry spell was breaking, but the wedding was tomorrow and still her mother hasn’t returned, so Rirean slept with her sister’s groom to pay for half a pouch of oil to pay for the skull to sing about her mother and where she is now, while secretly wishing she owned her sister’s womb, then finally Inige’s secret ended the communal song, and she sang of dreams turning into nightmares, of stories turning inside out and words changing meanings to break the heart.

  It was the longest song after a very long time of silence.

  By now the tapping spoons had long faded in the other tents. The stars had begun hiding. The walking men were returning to their tents. But their ears picked up something never heard before from our tent in the outskirts of the village — was it a new wind? It made them stop. It made them remember how to clear their throats. It made them remember how to sing.

  Back in the ruins, Just-me-uhm worried about how to keep the ill wind from the border. He needed to fortify it, not so much in his head but in his heart that was fluttering uncertainly, as if the ill wind was already lurking there. So he thought long thoughts —

  Faraway, in the last green place on earth, lives a harmony of all colours. They love and respect the purity of natural things, which they guard with their lives (so honourable). They believe these are dangerous times and they could lose the very scarce gifts of the earth: water, food, oil and even clean air. Thus they built a border between the carers and the wasters (so wise). To keep life simple, countries were dismantled and the basic gifts were given to everyone according to everyone’s capacity to care for them. The world is a more equal village now (I’m grateful). Rewards are given where rewards are due. Because of their wisdom and caring values, the carers can live freely with the gifts and trade in them. The wasters have to be ‘managed’: cared for and rationed. They must be protected from themselves, as history dictates. They are profligate and dangerous, as history proves (I studied history as a child). The wasters are always plotting to waste more, or, worse, to steal what the carers worked so hard to preserve. The Five Kingdoms even preserved the history of our poor earth in their books, but refuse to invoke it now. All must move on and contend with the present. The present is about protecting the border.

  Just-me-uhm’s thoughts were gathered from the Five Kingdoms. They sounded strange in his head, as if spoken in another tongue, but he thought them anyway. His throat hurt with each thought, so he had to clear it, just as he had to clear his head with little asides.

  All colours are respected in the Five Kingdoms (that’s equality). They trade with each other, make friends, and even sing together in their own tongues at public rituals, but they keep their beds pure (that’s wisdom). There is harmony in purity and purity in harmony. White is as white a
s driven snow; black is as ebony fine as the night. Brown is the vigour of mountains; yellow is the royal hue of the sun. And red is the pride of blood and bloodline. This is how the Kingdoms see and speak of themselves: in natural terms (natural is good). But they try not to speak too much of colour. They worry about using the wrong inflections on this or that colour. They worry about offending the ear. Carers are careful people; they check themselves and each other all the time (so they should). For reasons of safety and preservation, they check more rigorously those who live at the other side of the border (so we should).

  These long thoughts made Just-me-uhm nervous and unsure. They made him ask: What side of the border am I? He worked in ruins and wretched deserts outside the Kingdoms. His mother was of this wasteland. But when he went through the border for his earned rest from rationing, when he lazed under the bluest skies of the Five Kingdoms and ate of their fruit, the question was quickly forgotten. When he thought of how his father made him chief of rationing, he felt ashamed of the question. When he remembered how the Minister of Mouths sang him lullabies as a child, he recovered his trust: indeed he belonged to the right side of the border.

  In the tent, my brow continued the song of the supplicants. It sang in all tongues harmonising together. Different cadences conspired. Different inflections counterpointed perfectly.

  ‘The wind in the lungs

  Is the only wind to trust

  It is what turns the sand

  It is what turns the tide’

  The walking men never returned to their tents. The women and their handful of children never went to sleep. They gathered in our tent. When day finally broke, we trusted the wind in our lungs. For three days, we sang our stories.

  Back in the ration camp, the rumour of singing was too much to bear for Just-me-uhm. It was his turn to to scour the earth. He had to stop another bad turn of fate, having seen too many in his time. For three days, he crossed the desert to find us.