Locust Girl: A Lovesong

by Merlinda Bobis

  Just-me-uhm’s departure pleased Quxik immensely. It was his turn to be chief. It was his father’s turn to be proud. In three days, all will come to pass.

  On the third day, we sang at the wedding of Rirean’s sister. We marvelled at the bride’s ripe belly. We thought she was beautiful.

  Before the vows, the wind began brewing up a storm. Decked in garlands of seeds and brows glowing with oil, the bride and groom held on to each other lest they were blown away. We all held on to each other. We shut our mouths tightly to keep the sand out. We ended our songs. But our spirits were up. Grandfather Opi kept whispering, ‘Better a sandstorm than the fires of war, you know … we can forgive the wind, the sand …’

  The wind howled. The pregnant Trapsta billowed even bigger in the arms of her groom Silam. This child will be the first after ten years of dryness in the clan. It will bear the name of the bride’s lost mother: Unre.

  On the dunes’ endlessly changing shape, Just-me-uhm saw a crowd of bodies swaying with the wind. His eyes picked up the bride and groom. He picked up her swollen belly and his throat hurt. Then the first ball of fire hit the wedding party. He would never be able to clear his throat again after that. He found himself running towards the screaming crowd running from the conflagration. ‘I lost sight of the bride, I lost sight of the bride,’ was all he could hear in his head, until a song rose from the fires.

  ‘Beloved, forgive me

  Love is clumsy because

  It has so many hands

  It has so many hands’

  LOVE

  And then

  Arms snatched me out of the fire, and I remembered Beenabe running towards a conflagration, then the howling, louder than the wind’s, then the smell of charred bodies, until finally in the furthest corner of my skull, I found the story hidden for thirteen years. The night the stars went out over five hundred tents. The night my father walked towards the horizon and never returned.

  ‘I’m Amedea, daughter of Abarama and I want my father, I want my father.’ My head was bursting with my want, even as a voice soothed me, even as arms tightened around me, shielding me from the heat and the howling, oh that most horrific song.

  ‘I’m 425a, daughter of 425, it’s on his neck, beneath the ear, the blue number — ’

  ‘Hush, hush,’ the strong arms crooned. Then the pounding, a heart about to leap out of the chest, but it wasn’t mine. Are you my father? Did you come home from your walk under the stars to save me? Have you digested your dinner? Are the stars burning? Will they burn out and leave me in the dark? ‘You won’t leave me, say you won’t leave me — ’

  ‘No, child, I’m taking you to a safe place.’

  ‘Is it green with trees?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘With blue skies above?’

  ‘It’s all colours.’

  ‘Oh father, how beautiful. Not like me.’

  ‘Go away, leave us alone,’ my father said, but they continued to stalk us. The shafts of darkness hovered like long arms ready to snatch me away and the beams of light flashed about as if to expose this abduction. Or maybe they needed to witness it, because I was unable to do so now. My eyes had shut, but his voice left me a window into the world of the living.

  ‘She’s mine, you can’t have her,’ he said, addressing the shadow and light.

  I am his, I am my father’s child.

  ‘It was not me, I was only doing my job, I took care of all of you.’

  You scoured the desert for locusts, you fed me.

  ‘I can’t take care of all of you now.’

  It’s all right, father.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that. Of course, I can walk away from this, I’m walking away from this.’

  The wind had returned to its lair, but the light and shadow continued to loom over us silently. They entered my lids and my mouth that had so much to say. It wanted to answer his query even if it didn’t know how.

  ‘Is it possible, my change of heart?’

  Everything is possible, father. Everything.

  I will never know how long we walked with me in his arms. But I knew I was fed with seeds and water and soothed with oils, and that the trail of light and shadow never left us. We walked to his mutterings in different voices and tongues. Even women’s voices? There were moments when I thought it was the creature in my brow up to its old trick but not in song this time.

  ‘Give me more seeds — ’

  ‘I can’t, the child needs them.’

  ‘Have some of my water — ’

  ‘I can’t — ’

  ‘Because you’re afraid you’ll catch her affliction.’

  ‘I’m not afraid.’

  ‘Or that you’ll catch the plague. But the plague is already in your arms, or didn’t you know?’

  He can’t see the mark on my brow? Was it burned out of me?

  ‘Shhh … let her sleep.’

  ‘As if the plague sleeps.’

  ‘She has a name, or didn’t you hear?’

  ‘Of course. She is the Locust Girl.’

  ‘I’m sure we all have names — I am Verompe.’

  Not Abarama? Where is my father? But how could I ask? My mouth had also shut by then.

  ‘I’m Karitase, and this is Shining Lumi — let the child have some of my water, please.’

  They’re alive, my friends are alive!

  Of course, Shining Lumi never left her tent for anything, not even a wedding, and Karitase was banned from it lest the bride and groom were cursed by her affliction. So they were saved. But Trapsta, Silam, Gurimar, Hara-haran, Inige, Padumana, Rirean or the twins and their grandfather … somewhere in a far corner of my skull, I was back at the wedding, in the belly of the great fire.

  ‘No, leave her face alone, Verompe, sir. Let the child cry.’

  Karitase, dear Karitase, I know now. Not one of them was saved, not one of them.

  ‘Looks worse than before — you think she’ll live?’

  Ah, Shining Lumi with her uncertain concern.

  ‘Of course, she’ll live,’ and Verompe held me tighter. He had strong arms and gentle hands. They were generous with the oils. His chest smelled both gritty and aromatic. Maybe he even oiled his heart.

  Squeaky clean and flexible. Is this how a heart should be? Not the anguished pounding earlier or this creaking against my cheek. Ah, the heart’s rusty, that’s why he oils his chest, that’s why I’m swooning even in my sleep. I love this sweet embrace and I won’t let his mutterings bother me.

  ‘This is for all the children who were turned away, for all the children …’

  I did not doubt it. Verompe was speaking to me, but Shining Lumi took it upon herself to respond. ‘What children? There are hardly any these days?’

  ‘Because they were turned away, but I can’t tell you more, my throat hurts.’

  ‘Here, sir, drink some of my water.’

  But I knew hardly anyone drank from Karitase’s jug.

  ‘Where are you from anyway? I’ve never seen you before.’

  ‘Best not to ask, Shining Lumi,’ he answered.

  ‘Where are you taking us, sir?’

  ‘I’m only taking her, Karitase,’ and Verompe quickly shifted away. I imagined Karitase had crawled to us in a suppliant gesture. I felt the moistness of her sores against my skin. It cooled my burnt flesh.

  ‘If you take her, you take us too. We’re her kin.’ Shining Lumi never missed a beat with her inventions.

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘We’re her aunties — ’

  ‘No, we’re her friends,’ Karitase protested.

  I wanted to say, of course, I drank from your jug and my locust sang to you, and you didn’t run away, and strange, I understand you now, Karitase, I understand all of you. The fire has tuned my ear to all tongues.

  ‘She’s her friend but I’m her auntie, the youngest sister of her mother who moved to another village when my niece was born. We only caught up a few days ago when she visited me in my tent, so I can
’t just let her go, can I? You have to take me with you,’ Shining Lumi insisted.

  My mother was a tall and proud tree, her name was Alkesta and she smelled of wind and sand — and she has a sister who wears lights on her ample body? That’s a nice lie or a kind rumour that I still belong to someone in the world of the living.

  ‘As an auntie, I can’t let a stranger take my niece without me, of course.’

  Who said I was asleep? I simply could not open my eyes. But I heard them clearly. I heard the secret flexing of their hearts.

  Why don’t you sing the sound of feet? Why don’t you multiply them like you did with the dripping water? But no one answered up there. I was convinced the creature in my brow had died, burned out of me in that fire. Suddenly I felt I was only half of my old self with so little to add to the steps on the sand. So few, so few. I wanted to leave his arms and add my own. I wanted a multitude of walking feet. I wanted more than five hundred skulls and bones to put themselves together again and walk out of the fire and the desert. I wanted all the ration lines to take the trail. Even the dragging feet will leave this wretchedness. Even the legless will reach the green border. I wanted to say all these to the women behind us, especially to Shining Lumi who kept complaining that her feet hurt and how long will this walking go for anyway.

  ‘Here, Lumi, take my hand.’

  ‘Keep away, Karitase.’

  ‘Your legs are not strong, you’ve stayed too long in that tent.’

  ‘It was my duty as it was my mother’s and her own mother’s. We stayed put while others walked, so they’d have a place to come home to for hope. I come from the promise line and I’m proud of it.’

  ‘Yes, the promise of homecoming of their maybe dead,’ Karitase sighed.

  ‘It’s what they lived for — ’

  ‘And died for.’

  And you traded on their hope, I wanted to add, but there was no more room for unkindness then. The desert was unkind enough. I tried to imagine Shining Lumi taking Karitase’s hand, and the light and shadow finally bonded like the twins with their red beads. And indeed under my lids, I dreamt I saw Martireses and Nartireses following in even strides with Grandfather Opi at their heels. Then Padumana and Inige with their scars, and then Rirean leading Gurimar with Hara-haran on his back, and behind them the wedding party leading the longest ration line leading five hundred families, the fathers with their lights, the mothers with their spoons tapping on bowls as steadfast as their pulse, and following them, all the strays since the beginning of time, from wherever their home that was lost, all of us walking in despair and hope towards the border.

  I was sure we were walking together under the stars. Then my saviour and I were lifted up — who knows when those winking lights landed with a giant locust whirring ‘blessed, blessed’? But a voice argued in my head: ‘Not a locust but a plane, Beena.’ I wanted to argue back as we flew. Why are we leaving everyone behind? Are we the only blessed ones? But no sound came from my mouth. Soon the brown of the sky faded. When I woke up, I thought maybe the sky was never brown at all.

  Blue can blind but green can make you see again. Blue fire assaulted my eyes, I had to shut them tight. Had I not seen that brilliant blue before? But not this close. I felt the strong arms lay me down, I heard receding steps. When I opened my eyes again, I felt as if they were just being born. They opened wider and wider to this thing above me that seemed to open even my chest, so my heart could share the feast. I started crying with my first vision of a green tree.

  A tree. Thus my saviour explained while thoughtfully rubbing the blue stone around his neck, then it all came back to me. I saw everything again as clearly as the green canopy. The blue stone for seeds. The whipping of the whisperers. The soothing of Inige’s cheek and Grandfather Opi’s battered head. The stone winking blue fire on the night of the rations and the voice that turned children away. But I had to pretend ignorance. Even if now I was all of twenty-two, to his eyes I was a child and I was at his mercy.

  ‘Breathtaking, isn’t it? I used to cry too each time I saw a tree after months in the desert.’ The last words were barely audible, as if he did not want me to hear them. This close, how beautiful he looked and he glowed — his hair, his skin, especially his eyes as blue as the stone around his neck. ‘Up there are the leaves and branches, the leaves are green, the branches brown, and this is the trunk, it’s brown too — breathtakingly beautiful.’

  Like my mother Alkesta. Tall and proud as a tree. But I had no time to dwell on the thought. I checked for his whip. He did not have it around his waist. I wanted to plead, don’t hurt me, but could not find my voice. Suddenly from a distance, an unfamiliar sound. He followed my fearful eyes with his own as I took in rows of trees overwhelming in their greenness, but no movement there. He could see I was hearing something. Then it was gone. I turned to him again. He looked relieved as he whispered, ‘I brought you fruit.’

  I flinched. The ball shone on his hand. I waited for it to hit me. Surely he caught me spying in the ruins or did I just imagine it? Will he remember?

  ‘It’s for eating, it’s an apple — you’ve never seen one?’ He sighed at my lack of response. When he spoke again, his voice was thick with apology. ‘Of course, not.’ He touched his throat and swallowed painfully.

  ‘Here,’ he said, pushing the shining ball close to my mouth which I clamped tight. I tried to rise, but he pushed me down. He must have seen the panic in my eyes. ‘I won’t hurt you, you’re safe. Just-me will take care of you, I promise,’ then he bit into the ball. ‘It’s food, a red apple, you’ll like it.’

  Red. What comes out of you if you prick yourself.

  Tenderly he fed me with the bit from his mouth. An apple. I remembered another saviour handing me a seed. ‘Chew it, it will make you feel better,’ because she felt better by making me feel better, like this man who smiled as I chewed and swallowed through my tears.

  Did you hear that? I forced myself to sit up despite his protests. I could see he heard nothing, but there it was again. A warning from long ago, like whisperings from the ruins or a whirring from the grave. Instinctively I touched my brow. Was it still alive? But my brow felt smooth under my fingers now.

  Then, another sound and something hit me, and I saw the red stain on my chest, as bright as the apple that had rolled out of my hand. Quickly he gathered me and broke into a run. Behind us I saw something covered in the same stain and in agony on the ground also green, and then the trees were a blur as he ran, whispering, ‘It’s not you, it’s not you, it’s an amber guri, shot with an arrow.’

  Amber. Guri. Arrow. Apple. Too much to take in and too little time.

  How we got up the thickest tree, I couldn’t tell. From up there, we watched as the guri was skinned by a woman in bright clothes. Then the amber fur was thrown into a pouch and the carcass was buried, but only after she had eaten most of it. Inige’s story. The mothers with blood on their hands.

  He turned my face away from the sight below towards the vision of the last green haven on earth. Shock and repulsion did not have a chance to settle in. My eyes feasted. There were green trees everywhere and other colours, which, I learned later, were fields of grain and fruit and flowers — and water! Like the endless water of Cho-choli, but this one sparkled and flowed peacefully, promising sweetness under the blue sky. Then there were the towers that a long time ago my father had promised I would see when I was ready. When I had grown up big and strong and good.

  Amidst this plenty was a large circle of trees where people in bright clothes were beginning to gather, forming shapes around a single tree, the biggest and tallest of them all. The shapes were the colour of the clothes sorted into groups, as the man who held me explained: a red circle, a blue square, a green triangle repeated here and there. I remembered the shapes that Beenabe and I drew with our feet as we walked around a thin boulder of sand, but our shapes were brown and drab.

  I felt my head swim. Here they were, rumours of colour confirmed and jostling my heart t
owards many directions. My chest ached, my breath could not keep up with my wonder. Any moment my heart would protest and stop. How could anyone live with too much beauty and plenty, and not feel like dying?

  Then I heard again the whisperings. Only, I was wrong about the source of the sound. This was the crowd’s multitude of tongues, which grew louder and which now I understood so well, perhaps because I knew the thought so well:

  ‘Lest we forget —

  There is only one story

  There is only one song

  That we take home’

  Then the words rose as a song, but in just one voice and in that same tune from the blue box in the ruins. But the one story was different.

  ‘Peace. Purity. Piety. Preservation.’ The chant of the multitude made my brow itch, made my cheeks tingle. Their words rose with their arms towards the tallest, oldest tree on earth.

  His arms tightened around me. Just-me-uhm was weeping, Verompe was weeping (How should I call him now?). He had not heard his father sing that song since he was six, or was it five, except from boxes.

  Amid the chant, three children circled the tree. Later I would find out that they were not children but the ancient and shrunken ministers sprinkling some powder on the roots of the tree. To bless it and preserve its life. To make it grow big and strong and good. Then there was a minute’s silence after which the Minister of Mouths sang the Missions, ending with much rejoicing.

  ‘You are ours

  You are part of Kingdom building’

  My saviour wept even more. Later he told me that the following speech never failed to make everyone weep in this yearly festival. The Honourable Head always spoke with graciousness and no one could help the flow of tears.

  ‘My fellow Kingdom builders,’ the Head began, addressing everyone as equals. ‘There is peace if the border is protected. There is purity if all keep to their own place under their own sky. And piety comes with the strict observance of caring values that preserve the human race and its home: the Five Kingdoms. And lest we forget, the gifts of the Kingdoms are preserved for the carers of the natural world. The wasters have no place in this new order, those breeders who consumed and dried up nature with their profligate ways long ago. Those who wasted even each other so cruelly and foolishly. But out of the goodness of our hearts, out of our love for justice and everyone’s equal right to be free to enjoy the blessed earth, a right equal only to the caring effort contributed, we care even for the wasters.’