‘How do you know? Why do you know? Are you in this with her?’
‘No, no!’
‘Do the Kingdoms not take care of you? Do you care for the border? Do you care for the Kingdoms’ preservation? Are you not part of Kingdom building? Whose side are you in?’
‘I am a Kingdom builder!’
Resentment rose from the crowd. No Kingdom builder is impure.
‘Do you know the accused?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who is she?’
Silence, then softly, ‘The Locust Girl.’
‘The plague?’
Silence.
‘From the evil fires across the border?’ Silence.
‘Like you, of course — ’
‘No!’
Evil fires. The air crackled with it. The crowd’s resentment deepened into something else that left me breathless. It moved towards us, towards her.
‘You are from the side of the evil fires — ’
‘I’m not, I’m one of you — ’
‘You came to spy on us, and we clothed you, fed you, gave you refuge!’
‘No, no! I’m on your side, I work for you!’
I tried to reach out, to put myself between her and the crowd, but they swept her away. Her cries kept ringing in the furthest corner of my skull.
I stared at her, at her brightness. But it was only much later that I understood orange. And the link between the word and the colour. The orange box that she had lost in my graveyard of bones. The orange clothes of the mothers at the border. Not as bright as red but it burned my eyes. Beenabe’s dress was orange, now turning red and torn. When the crowd stepped back, all I recognised was her breast because of the winking star.
‘Peel your eyes off me
I am not beautiful’
Who was singing? Was it the dead? Only I could hear it, though.
The men and women in blue stared at their hands in shock. They knew charred bodies but not blood. They were convinced they had never known blood in their hands. Further back, someone was pushing from the crowd. I heard a murmur, I saw a blue hem. I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up. His face was a blur. He picked up what he could of Beenabe. He walked towards the ancient tree. I followed the trail of red and orange on the grass. Then I heard him, the same voice that always cleared its throat before speaking but could not do so now.
‘How do we plead?’
His query hung in the air.
‘You are not in the position to ask that question.’ The Honourable Head sounded shaky but set on restoring order.
‘How do we all plead?’
‘You’re not to address me like that.’
‘I am addressing my father.’
The Minister of Mouths cleared his throat repeatedly, as if whatever was lodged in there would not go away. ‘Put that down, idiot! You’ve caused enough trouble.’
‘All my life, I did everything you asked of me, even if you refused to see me again. I did everything that the Kingdoms asked of me, even if they refused to let me stay because I am not pure. I have crossed and re-crossed the border. My blood runs from both sides. I am contaminated. I fed the strays, I reined them in, I used and cheated them, I expelled and abused their children, as I had been expelled long ago. Father, I learned the trade from you: expel those who are unlike us, because they threaten our caring values, our way of life. Better still, exterminate them to preserve our peace. Does the other side have no right to their peace? No. Because their peace threatens our own and more legitimate peace?’
‘Shut up!’ the Minister of Mouths was choking with rage.
‘I’m sorry. I should not be speaking in terms of our or we — I never belonged to you. You are born of these Kingdoms, you are pure, grand, heroic and sadly, mortally afraid. Your fear of the other side inspires your heroic acts — your ruthless songs, your terrifying fires.’
‘Fire is not my department and you know that, you fool, you utter fool!’ The Minister’s rage was spilling into distress.
The son turned away and walked among the crowd, holding out Beenabe’s body. Everyone shrank from it, hushed.
‘I saw villages burn in my mother’s desert, I knew strays who blew themselves up in my father’s Kingdoms, I read all the books of devastation, I know the terror and tiredness in the hidden rooms, I saw fires that we planted sprout in the desert, I know the maimed bodies of children, the very few ones left, oh so well — oh how I used them so well. So who started the first fire? And whose is the devastation? Whose is the terror, whose is the hate? Does it matter now? A burning is a burning and a charred body has no face. And blood? Blood is red on both sides of the border. I am witness and victim and culprit, so I ask, how do we all plead?’
‘I think we do not plead, Verompe. We offer, we love.’
I must have said that. Strange how we say things that we don’t even understand at the time of uttering.
A trial must proceed. Prosecutors must return to their original villain. Finally the Minister of Mouths recovered his composure. ‘Don’t stall the proceedings, you idiot! I have gone through enough trouble to save you from yourself.’
The Minister of Arms chuckled. ‘Too much trouble indeed. You have put duty on the line, Minister Wilidimus. You have known about your son smuggling strays through the border. You have compromised the safety of the Kingdoms.’ He could not hide his satisfaction. Father and son had just owned up to corruption in public. ‘How do you plead?’
‘Don’t muddy the waters, dear man. The Locust Girl is our case, or have you forgotten? We agreed to bring her in, to know why your little concoctions have lost their potency — why this girl remembers even the stories from once upon a time and why she sings those songs of revolt — why she survived the fires in the first place.’
‘Listen, Ministers, there is a time for everything,’ the Head pleaded.
‘She can sing, she can remember,’ the Minister of Mouths railed. ‘She is proof that your forgetting seeds and your fires no longer work, Minister Xuqik. Your arms are useless! So how do you plead yourself? Who bungled his duty?’
‘I said, there is another time for this,’ the Head snapped at the men, but the Minister of Arms had already leapt onto the table and grabbed his rival’s neck. ‘You do not question my arms or my duty, loud mouth.’
‘Fools, fools!’ cried the Minister of Legs. The men were now locked in a full-blown fight. She could not prise them apart.
Verompe laid Beenabe at my feet. The crowd milled about, confused. Most were backing away from us, wanting to return to the comfort of the rooms. Some had collapsed on their knees from sheer exhaustion. All had hands on their hearts.
Suddenly a crackle, or was it a whisper? Did it start with the leaves, or was it only the grass? Whatever it was, it stopped the fight. It was ferried by a soft wind. Words, they were sang words.
‘Please … fear … hand … ’
For once, we were one in listening. The words were coming from the border. The Head and his ministers jumped to their feet. Xuqik had only one thought — the border caretakers! They were singing? His son was already rushing to find out.
‘Seed … song … oil … ’
Then more words in more voices singing together.
‘Please have no fear and
Take this offered hand’
I recognised it — the song about Karitase and her jug of water! I felt for movement in my head. Nothing. Who is singing? A
seed for a song, my dear
And oil to grease the throat’
The other song that exposed Shining Lumi’s trade! Where’s it coming from? All checked their neighbour’s mouth, all were suspect. Meanwhile the two songs rose like an argument, each line parrying the other.
‘Please have no fear and —
A seed for a song, my dear —
Take this offered hand —
And oil to grease the throat — ’
The argument went on, echoed by the crowd also arguing now with each other, hurling accusat
ions. You’re singing! No, I’m not! You’re from the other side! No, I’m with you! Hands clutched at hearts and throats, confirming innocence. All silent in here, they protested to themselves, even as the songs woke up a familiar cadence in their lungs.
I could not help it. I had to sing. I had to end all arguments.
The crowd turned to me, relieved. They had found their culprit. The unseen songs had found a body, a host.
I gathered all the unseen voices in my throat. It swelled with many more voices. Even my eyes, cheeks, chest, belly swelled, hosting voices from everywhere and everyone in all tongues. I sang a multitude.
‘Please have no fear and
Take this offered hand
Your thirst, your thirst
Is my only affliction’
I was afflicted with song that would not stop.
‘A seed for a song, my dear
And oil to grease the throat
Where I will find you safe
Breathing yet, breathing yet’
My body grew, pushed to accommodate all voices from all sides of the border, both desert and green haven, and I couldn’t contain them. I couldn’t bear the strain. I burst and caught fire.
I saw them watch my charred remains. I saw their horror, their fascination. They felt their bodies. Safe. They queried their neighbours. Safe. Then the trees. Safe. I saw their relief. The fire had claimed only one body. I saw them make their way back to their rooms, their rest and their dreams.
But how can I see when I am no more?
When all had left, the wind picked up and began lifting bits of my remains. It was then that I heard the faint whirring. Wind eddied around the site of the burning, as if to dig it up. It cooled me, and my back quivered. Fluttered. Then slowly it opened, spread itself, and suddenly I was airborne, risen from my charred flesh and bones.
Wings? I have wings!
So what am I now?
Who am I?
I began to answer, to assure myself, but all that spilled from my mouth was the whirring, then words, halting at first, then a song parrying the whirring and the wind, then rising above them in a melody never heard before.
‘I am Amedea, daughter of Alkesta and Abarama
I am Beena, beloved of Beenabe
I am Locust Girl, kin to Cho-choli, Daninen, Espra
Fau-us, Gurimar, Hara-haran, Inige, Just-me-uhm
Karitase, Lumi, Martireses, Nartireses, Opi, Padumana
Quxik, Rirean, Silam, Trapsta, Unre, Verompe
Wilidimus, Xuqik, Ycasa, Zacarem’
Oh how sweet it is — how sweet to remember all who have touched us!
It was hard to leave. I went from one tree to another. I visited the fruit and the flowers and the biggest water. I hovered over the fields of grain, afraid to land. I memorised the colours, afraid I’d forget them.
Earlier, after my resurrection I basked in the sweetest song of my history even as apprehension then fear crept in. So what am I now? A locust with the heart and voice of a girl? Will I feast on these fields and raze them to the ground?
I flew into each Kingdom, each tower. I saw the glut of water, oils and grains. I saw the fires and what they did. I saw the remains of their own feast. How white those skulls and bones. How white the powder that poured into barrels marked ‘blessed.’
When night fell, I visited them one last time in their rooms. They were turning in their dreams of a hand offering them a jug of water. How dry their throats, but the hand was afflicted with sores so they could not drink. They could remain dry like kindling and implode.
I flew over each one of them, lightly roosting on their rest, their dreams.
Suddenly a whirring began waking up in each of their brittle hearts and bones. It afflicted their eyes, their ears, their tongues, their noses, their skin. It fluttered into melody. It was no longer safe and snug and hidden.
‘What greater plague is there
Than what we do to each other
What greater love is there
Than what we do for each other’
The melody was smooth, the texture of oil, but the words took longer to form. Soon the song spilled into their secret places, learning how to spread its wings. It wished to be known, and to know its sleeping host that did not know what it had hosted since the beginning of time. But knowing is slow, and it must grow in you.
‘So, do you know now?’
Who is asking?
‘And what is knowing but simply learning how to sing.’
Who is speaking?
Maybe it’s the wind.
How they tossed and turned with this possibility of knowing, but only in their dreams — will they remember when they wake up? Who they are, what they are?
I visited the Kingdom of Oils one last time. Where I saw Beenabe crying and singing before she sheltered me in her room. I wanted to remember, to commit her song and tears to memory.
Tonight the Kingdom and its garden were lit by flowers of all colours. I saw again the blue furry creatures prowling on three legs and crying out their oils. All were lined up, a blue line trooping deeper into the garden and into what looked like its innermost chamber hidden by the tallest grasses and flowers heady with all fragrances. But one fragrance lorded over them. Aromatic grit so strong, it made me almost sick. As I flew in, I understood why.
In the middle of the chamber was the largest white bowl I’d ever seen, filled with oil to the brim that was encircled by a glistening blue. And afloat on it was Zacarem.
The Honourable Head sleeping in a bowl of oil.
I hovered, flying low.
The Head wore the saddest look.
Was he dreaming the saddest dream that no glut of oil could salve to rest?
Then I saw why the circle was a glistening blue. Seated on the rim around the bowl were the blue creatures quietly crying out their oils, filling it. My chest tightened, welled up, as I surveyed this saddest silence.
I came closer, very close to the rise and fall of Zacarem’s chest. Exposed like the chest of the palest child. An open flower, with the ribs so defined underneath, like petals curved into himself.
I landed and began to cry, fluttering my wings, beating them against my body, against his body. Then something fluttered in response inside his chest. Like me, it whirred, no longer snug and hidden.
The Head shuddered, opened his eyes, and caught me in his hand.
In his terror-filled eyes, I saw what I had become. Tiny and winged with a locust mouth, but with the eyes of Amedea, of Abarama, of Alkesta, and the body of a girl crying on his chest, his hands, and into his eyes, as we stared at each other.
I cried into his dream.
Then just as suddenly as he opened his eyes, he closed them again and I flew out.
It was a good wind that night as I flew through the wall of trees. Just outside were the border caretakers who had left their posts. They looked peaceful. They were feasting on seeds and water, and rubbing each other with oils. Perhaps the seeds of forgetting were potent again, because the crowd was singing, they seemed happy. Perhaps with no memory of the fires from once upon a time. Such comfort in the loss of history. I felt both sorrow and relief. But my friends were not relieved of their tasks. Karitase was still offering her water. Shining Lumi was still showing off her skull. I hovered over their shadow and light hovering over what looked like bits of orange and red, with a winking star. Karitase was washing them with water, Lumi was salving them with oil. And the skull looked on, guarding the remains of my beloved Beenabe.
No one noticed me land on the winking star. Where her breast was, where her heart used to be. I sang to it her favourite song, but now our own.
Now the lovesong is sung, so the throat is as clear as the thought. But are you still listening, in your own chamber, your own ribcage, wherever you are?
Can you hear that little flutter?
It’s an insect heart.
Too close for you?
Ah, in you.
Now you know what we’ve always s
hared.
No border can deny it.
It’s small and snug, and not quite hidden.
Don’t despair, it will settle. In you.
It will settle. Like the wind.
The wind is kind. It leads me home.
Look, a strange sprawl. No longer black and white as Beenabe spied when she looked beyond the horizon. The bones and skulls are gone. I feel the push and pull between finding and missing. It wrenches me apart. I remember the skull turned into white powder. I think of the barrels of whiteness that make trees grow.
Home, now a green stubble as far as the eyes can see. Ah, dear Beenabe’s barley seed three years ago. It’s early days, but already I feel the urge to feed. I know our nature, I know our history. How we plague, how we love. How frail the heart, yet how enduring. I know because I landed on a winking star where her heart used to be, and it made me sing a new song.
I sing it to you now. Because it’s such a long flight across the border.
‘The love you take home
Is all my love, my dearest’
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Locust Girl: A Lovesong Page 15
