The burst of applause made all the trees, even ours, tremble. The man who held me was trying to keep his own hands from clapping. His face shone with pride while I felt dumb. I could not follow the words of the Honourable Head. They were moving towards too many roads all at once.
‘So how do we uphold this ideal of preservation in our hearts? How do we keep the peace in our homes?’
The murmured response was too familiar.
‘No one should look
No one should walk beyond the horizon’
Again the words rose in a song of the single resonant voice that could no longer be left unacknowledged.
‘That’s my father singing, that’s my father!’ my saviour cried, declaring his heritage. I heard pride and longing all at once.
‘Long ago, he used to sing to me,’ he added.
I tried to remember whether my own father ever sang. The trying made my head ache, then itch and whirr, then echo the song to perfection.
‘You sing? You know the song too?’ he asked in wonder.
I touched my brow but it was not coming from there. The song was inside my skull now. Verompe put a finger to his lips then motioned towards the ground. More women in bright clothes were burying bloody mounds at the roots of trees. The leaves quivered even more in the hands of men polishing each leaf. Soon we realised that even our tree had its own caretaker. For a moment he stared at us, then turned away, resuming his silent task.
I heard a soft crackle but could not make out what it was. I was not yet familiar with the sound of trees. I did not know that the caretaker had secretly crushed a leaf in his hand and the gesture was echoed further away among the tree worshippers. A squat man, who was built like a fighter, was quick with his ears and hands. He heard the crackle. It was a signal. Discreetly he picked up a fallen leaf from the great tree and crushed it too. A few paces away, his father, the Minister of Arms, picked up the message: strays had crossed the border.
Crushing a leaf. Much later, I understood this gesture of warning. The tree caretakers were trained lookouts. Once they were strays themselves. They had walked from the desert to the border. Inige said they were looking for their children. Some, yes, but the truth was most were lured by the rumours of water and seeds and colours. Others were driven by queries about why the rations were drying up. Did they just dream up the promises of those who had built pipes into their wells to preserve their water and oil in a faraway place? Was it only a nightmare — how the fires had dried up their villages, their fields of grain, the wombs of their women? Or was it a rumour whispered from mouth to ear and mouth to ear through the hungry years?
Those years were over. Now they had their fill of the Kingdoms’ grains, though they were not allowed to touch any of the animals. Meat was only for those born in the Kingdoms, because these true carers can regulate their feeding according to the Minister of Mouths. This edict did not worry the guardians of the trees. At least their hunger was over. The more they fed, the more the queries and the rumours and the dreams were pushed from their hearts to make room for the love of trees. Here, they had been trained to labour faithfully. Each leaf shone. Each leaf became a mirror. It crackled signals with efficient certainty. Strays were caught with ease. The wall of trees, this green border, was always safe. The Five Kingdoms preserved its peace.
On this yearly festival of the adoration of the tree, the caretakers worked with more fervour. This was the chance to show off their skill and loyalty to the masters. To prove that they were part of Kingdom building. One day, they will belong. Maybe they will even be allowed to eat meat. They will grow roots. They will be home. Blessed are the peacekeepers for theirs are the Kingdoms.
Verompe. Just-me-uhm. The names kept changing places in my head as we walked, eating fruit that seemed to grow everywhere. He carried me away from that tree, saying we were no longer safe. We had been seen, we had to walk through the tall grasses. I was slowly gaining the use of my legs, but not my voice. I had so much to say and ask. As we stumbled into bits of fur and blood and fresh graves, I wondered if the mothers could ever wash the blood from their hands. I felt my chest. The stain was dry but seemed indelible.
When night fell, we found ourselves before the biggest water and a huge shining stone, half in the water, half in the sky.
‘No, it’s a full yellow moon rising from the water,’ he said. ‘It betrays everything. We should hide where the grass is thickest to pass the night. Trees are not safe here.’
He taught me how to cup my hands and drink in the Kingdom of Waters. We drank so much, I wondered whether we would also drink up the moon. Then he said he must clean my burns and wash off the stain on my chest. He must wash even the desert off me to avoid any detection.
Why are you doing this? Why did you save me? Why was I saved and not the others? Did the great fire spit me out? Could it not stomach my scarred body? And you — how could you bear touching an ugly stray? But of course I had no way to ask him yet. I had lost my speech. I let him take me into the water, washing me then himself. Lit by the moon, his naked body was even more beautiful. I stared. He caught my eye and plunged deeper. Then he went behind a tree where he dressed himself. For the first time, I noticed that the insides of his shirt were lined with pouches of oil and seeds, and even a long blue smock that he unfolded and made me wear. How fitting the colour. I wanted to tell him about my village of five hundred blue tents and the blue numbers beneath our ears that kept track of our walking, our living.
The bath made my whole body sting, but quickly it was soothed with oils. Was I healing so soon? His hands were tender though not as certain with their strokes. Was it because I had seen him naked? He was shaking slightly as he rubbed oil over my burns. Then he told me his name and I pretended to hear it for the first time. He told me about fishes and I wondered about pink prawns. He told me about the shy animals that came to drink only at night and I strained my ears to hear them. He told me about birds that were banished because their singing confused the songs of Kingdom building. He lay me down among the tall grasses and I wanted him to lie down with me. He stretched his body an arm’s length away and I wanted to snuggle close. Then he told me how this biggest water made trees and grasses green and I wondered if it made the apple red. He praised how the Kingdoms cared for this water as they cared for their own lives, and I wanted to ask how they called it. Was it riverrrr with a delicate roar, or ocean with a ssshh that hushed them to sleep at night? Then we watched the moon climb, leaving the water and losing its yellow sheen.
Deep into the night, the leaves continued to shine like mirrors. They caught our sleeping bodies in their tiny frames.
‘Where did you learn to sing? Why is it that you can’t speak but you can sing?’ He grabbed my shoulders, shook me. ‘Are you playing tricks on me?’
I wondered whether it sang through my sleep. I was grateful that his need to know was not bound with hate or despair, unlike Hara-haran when she insisted to hear the truth about a lullaby.
He let go of me, turned away. ‘But I — ’ there was a catch in his throat — ‘I cannot sing.’
I did not want to look at him. I did not want him sad. I was warm with the morning and something sweeter than his oils hovered over my face.
‘Lilyana. Purple lilies of the riverbanks, with little flecks of white in their hearts, look,’ he said. ‘Newly opened but only for an hour.’
I did not know what ‘hour’ meant.
‘Come, we must get to the rooms.’
Neither did I know what ‘rooms’ meant.
‘There you can hide and rest,’ he whispered, almost tender.
‘Hide’ I’ve always known. But not ‘rest’, never rest.
Eating and speaking are bound together. Eating unlocks the throat and the tongue.
‘Seeds,’ I murmured when he fed me a handful.
He clapped his brow, he clapped his hands. I thought he would not stop smiling. I thought I would not stop smiling. My first word: seeds. And in his language. So I could now
understand and speak other tongues? I thought, it must be from going through the fire the second time.
‘Seeds,’ I said again.
‘Yes, picked while you were asleep,’ he explained. ‘I’m so glad you can speak again —welcome to the Kingdom of Seeds, Amedea — Amedea, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, daughter of Abarama and Alkesta,’ I whispered. So he had heard my name, perhaps when I spoke it as he rescued me from the fires, and now he remembered. He knew me, he knew me.
‘These are the golden grains of wirra, meaning “from the sun”.’
They were not the dry seeds from the rations. They were bigger and had moist centres. After a while, I had a sweetish paste in my mouth. ‘Like eating and drinking at the same time,’ I said.
‘We’ll be walking through fields of wirra. Eat as much as you want, Amedea.’
The grains were a precious comfort, but not as comforting as seeing him not sad. Not as precious as hearing him call me by my real name.
The fields of wirra were golden, as if the sun itself had come down to earth. I fed shamelessly, after my life of hunger. How could any place have too much food lying idle? I ripped the stalks and grains with my hands and teeth. Quickly I cleared a row of wirra, then another and another. There was no time for talk. All that the shocked Verompe heard was my endless ripping and chewing, not the whirring.
Verompe had to drag me away from the grains. For the first time I saw a trace of repulsion on his face, but it did not bother me. At least it was no longer inspired by my cursed mark. My brow was clean and I was happy enough, and he was showing me more flowers and explaining their colours, but the overeating had made me sick. I threw up on the red flowers then the blue ones, then the yellows and the purples. They became a blur as I fell on a heap of colours. Above me was also a blur as bright, hanging from the trees: more fruit, I was to understand. It was then when I heard laughter and the song I knew by heart, but only half of it. Someone was singing it over and over again, as if in search of the other half.
‘The edge is a line, oh how lovely
It will stretch your eye — ’
Quickly Verompe dragged me towards the thick grasses and clamped my mouth as I began to retch again. Just in time. The singer and her companion were about to walk towards the flowers where I had fallen.
‘I love your voice, your mouth, but you shouldn’t be singing unauthorised songs, not to my face — ah, girl, you have such pluck.’
‘What’s that smell? What happened to these flowers?’
I know this voice, but it can’t be her! She has hair, short like a boy’s but thick. I stared, I bit Verompe’s hand. I wanted to call out to her who had risen from the grave.
Like me, Verompe could not believe what he saw. This can’t be him! He can’t be this grey and shrunken. Long ago he could lift and whirl him about in the air, so he used to believe he had reached the sky. He too wanted to call out to this man, but we should not be found out. He kept his hand clamped on my mouth.
‘Wili, I want the purple this time — but what happened to these flowers? They smell wrong.’
I saw her cover her nose. Her hands were decked with tiny red flowers blooming from her wrist to her slim fingers, until they twined with her red nails.
‘Yes, what strange and ugly smell, but don’t worry, dear girl. Let’s go where the flowers are thicker — ’
‘And where the fruits are sweeter,’ she giggled, stooping down towards him. He was half her size. He nuzzled her breasts barely covered by a green dress with sparkly bits that trailed among the flowers. He was ancient but very strong. He lifted her, she laughed and threw her arms in the air. I saw her tiny feet sticking out of her dress. They were painted red which was also the colour of her lips. Redder than apple.
He whirled her about until they reached the thick flowers and trees where the fruits hung low and heavy. He picked a purple fruit, rolled it around his thumb and bit into it, then painted her lips purple. Then his open mouth came very close to hers, as though he would eat her — no he’s singing, or was he? The song had no words. It was like the wind among the trees, the flowers, then it stopped as his mouth closed on hers for a long, long time. I wanted to see what Verompe thought of this, and if he heard the song at all, but I couldn’t turn with his hand clamped tightly on my mouth. I could hear and feel his own breathing, which was quite strange, as if he were distressed.
When his mouth finally left hers, I saw that it was purple, seeking her shoulder. Was he going to eat it too? Then his hand crept inside her dress, and she giggled and sighed, and with each sigh the flowers around them grew bigger, brighter, multiplying into a whirl of colour, and I couldn’t see them any more but I could hear ragged breathing then short gulps, as if they were dying. I wanted to scream but the hand on my mouth tightened even more, hurting me, and I could feel the pounding of his heart on my back and something else, something else, as the flowers trembled and I knew those two were dying and we couldn’t do anything to help.
Verompe was trembling too, perhaps with the shock, I thought, and sweating hard against my back, which grew all wet, and it seemed his hand would never leave my mouth.
The edge is a line, oh how sharp
It will cut your feet
In my head, I heard the second half of the song that she had begun earlier, and I wanted to sing it to her, at least before she died, but it was impossible now. The flowers had buried Beenabe and the Minister of Mouths, and everything had grown very still in the Kingdom of Colours.
I was convinced that the dead could rise giggling from the grave. Before us they emerged from the flowers and unlocked themselves from each other’s arms.
Her mouth wandered to his ear. ‘Did it please you?’
‘No, say it better, girl, say it like you mean it.’
‘It pleased me,’ and she giggled, stroking his cheeks as he gathered her waist. He barely reached it. Entwined, they looked like a strange tree.
‘Here,’ he said and laid a shiny drop of water on her palm. ‘Wear it on my favourite spot — and here, your pass for the oils.’ He gave her a red stone from his pocket. ‘Pick up a new scent, something not too sweet.’
She smothered him with kisses, which he warded off reluctantly. ‘I must rush to the Assembly.’
Her smile froze. ‘Who is it this time?’
‘Usual stray.’
‘Was he caught?’
‘She will be — it’s a girl, a fascinating case. She sings and wears a mark, an insect of sorts.’
She went pale. ‘Are you — are you sure?’
‘Well, that’s the rumour, but we’re very keen to know her better. We’ve been monitoring her for some time. A locust on the brow? Yes, must be just a rumour, but one never knows — though I never thought she’d get here.’
Her knees gave way, but he caught her in time, laughing. ‘Ah, I’ve pleased you too much, yes?’
‘Are you sure — I mean, that she’ll be caught?’
‘Well, she’s crossed the border, it seems — here, let me,’ he said, pushing the sparkling drop of water between her breasts where it winked like a star.
We followed her to the Kingdom of Oils, as if we could follow the end of that conversation. The building glistened, proclaiming the richness that it held. It rose to an inverted V, which held up the sky or maybe pushed it further up. A tower, just as my father had promised, though he failed to say that it gave off every scent imaginable, some so strong, we could see it wafting out of the little windows. The sprawling grounds smelled as intensely with flowers much bigger and brighter than the ones we saw. Most bowed towards a pool that kept changing colours, sometimes blue, sometimes yellow and even red. On closer look we saw that the flowers were dripping thick liquid into this pool, and those that were too far away had a little catchment, which trickled the juices towards the pool. There were also animals that prowled around like furry blue balls on three legs, but gracefully and without disturbing the efficient arrangement around. At first I thought they were
wearing yellow stones under their eyes, but I was wrong. These were vials catching the constantly dripping fluid. The animals were crying out their oils. And among all these were slender golden pipes sprouting from the earth like overgrown flowers or grasses. It was hard to tell how high they grew.
We saw Beenabe walk through this splendour and into the shining building. In her green dress and decked with flowers, she looked like the flower of flowers or the most unusual animal around. A glorious stray.
We waited for her to come out. We had not spoken since he released my mouth, which now felt bruised. My jaw ached. He avoided my eyes. He kept touching his throat, swallowing painfully. I wanted to ask him questions that I could not put together in my head. I wanted to wash again in the biggest water. My back felt sticky and I smelled strange. As he did. I imagined it was because of the flowers.
She had changed clothes, she had cleaned herself. She looked new as she walked out. Her steps were slow and heavy. She knelt before one of the furry balls. She stroked it, half crooning a complete song this time.
‘Oh to find a gift — is it really one?
Oh to believe in the find —
Is it worth the belief?
Oh to hold worth in the hand!’
Locust Girl: A Lovesong Page 11
