A Blade of Grass

by Lewis Desoto

  “The wind has stopped. The smell from last night is gone, at least.”

  “I think there is a storm coming.”

  “But there are no clouds.”

  Tembi points to the layer of yellow haze low in the distance. “Did you see that?”

  “What is it?”

  Tembi massages her face with both hands, sighing wearily. “I think we should bring in as much of the fruit today as we can. We must gather in what we can. And the vegetables. I have a strange feeling.”

  “What kind of feeling? A bad storm? Hail?”

  With a shake of her head Tembi goes back into the house.

  The women work slowly because of the heat, pulling the peaches and apricots from the branches in the orchard and piling them into baskets. When the baskets are full, Märit loads them into a wheelbarrow and carries the load to the sheds. Here she lays out the fruit on wooden shelves, leaving a small distance between them so that they do not touch. Otherwise they will rot, Tembi has told her.

  Every so often Tembi pauses in her labor and looks to the east. There is a suspension in the air that precedes a storm in the country, a pregnant hush, as if all the earth were holding its breath, waiting for some event to unfold. Yet there are no clouds, only an uncanny light that seems to flow out of the dark smudge on the horizon.

  Märit looks up at the sky and says, “I don’t think rain is coming. There are no clouds. Maybe it’s a bushfire.”

  “Maybe. I’m going to climb up the windmill and have a look.”

  Märit waits at the bottom as Tembi clambers up the rungs in the center of the structure. The blades of the windmill are not moving, their usual creak and whirr stilled in the oppressive atmosphere. From the small platform beneath the blades Tembi peers out across the veldt.

  In the distance she can make out a house, the van Staden farm, the road to Klipspring, and the river winding beneath the trees that line its banks, showing as a green path in the brown veldt. But there is no movement anywhere, and when she turns to survey the other directions there are only the koppies and the gullies and the acacia trees and no sign of human life.

  The smudge on the horizon has changed, is moving, expanding, trailing ragged edges as it rises, the way rain clouds do when seen from afar. But the color of this cloud is not the color of rain, it is that of yellow mud, like the clay that is sometimes found along the riverbanks. And in the center of the cloud is a darkness.

  As she clings to her perch high above the deserted country, Tembi sees a ripple flutter across the grass and the trees as a wind moves across the veldt from the east, from the direction of the obscured horizon, and the wind reaches her, the hot wind, bringing with it the odor of decay.

  Something flits past her in the air, like a leaf, then another. A grasshopper lands on her dress, clinging for a moment before she flicks it away into the wind, its wings making a quick papery sound. The windmill blades above her give a slow turn.

  “Tembi! Come down. It’s dangerous up there,” Märit cries from the ground.

  With a last glance at the cloud, which seems to have spread and moved closer, the darkness at its center expanding, Tembi hurries down the ladder.

  There are more grasshoppers down here, flitting through the air. Märit is brushing them away as they try to settle on her dress and arms. “What did you see? Where are all these grasshoppers coming from?”

  “The wind is bringing them. I don’t know what it is.”

  The light changes suddenly, the mud-colored cloud obscuring the sun. A large grasshopper lands on Tembi’s arm with a rattle of papery wings and she shakes it off quickly. The insect falls onto its back, wings quivering.

  “These are locusts!” Tembi exclaims. She stamps her bare heel onto the insect and a yellowish ooze leaks from the crushed body, and the smell rises, the smell of decay that is also in the wind.

  “We have to close the shed doors and get into the house! Come on!” She grabs Märit’s hand and pulls her along. “It’s a swarm of locusts.”

  The cloud is almost upon them and the air is full of khaki shapes fluttering past their heads. In the center of the cloud the darkness seethes with turbulence.

  The women reach the shed ahead of the swarm and bolt the doors, then start towards the house. Tembi suddenly stops and turns in the opposite direction. “Go into the house and shut all the windows!”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Go in the house! I’ll meet you there.” She sets off at a run towards the kraal.

  And then the swarm is upon the farm, blotting out the light.

  The moment that the swarm appeared Tembi knew what was happening. She has heard the stories from the old people, how a yellow cloud appears suddenly from the east, before the harvest, a cloud made up of thousands of insects that cover the surface of the land. And the plague consumes everything in its path, every blade of grass, every leaf, every stalk.

  Her first thought is to try to save the fruit and maize that is in the other sheds. She runs to fasten the doors. Then she remembers her garden, her five small plants, and she races desperately towards the koppie. She can bear to lose almost anything—but not her garden! Her fear gives her strength and speed as she runs towards the koppie. Insects flash past her head, descending upon anything that is green, some of them even lighting on her shoulders, on her hair, but she does not pause to brush them away.

  The swarm has not yet reached the koppie, but some individual locusts have already found her plants; already their hungry jaws are upon the tender shoots.

  Too late, she thinks, too late.

  Without heed for the barrier that protects the garden, Tembi pushes her way through the thorny branches, her fingers pulling the locusts from the plants, crushing the insects, flinging them aside. Her eyes fall upon the plastic water bucket and she upends it, settling it over the plants as a cover. With her bare hands she scrapes pebbles and soil up around the edges of the bucket, sealing it so that no insect can enter.

  By then the air is thick with the locusts, but still she takes the time to find some heavy stones to weigh down the bucket. She wants to stay here, to protect her garden, but the swarm is too heavy. Locusts are crawling on her neck and arms, down the front of her dress, across the face.

  She runs back towards the house, which she cannot even see now through the yellow cloud. Everywhere the air is choked with whirring insects. The steps and veranda are slick underfoot, the door is covered with locusts. But the handle is locked. With the side of her palm Tembi wipes away a space and pounds on the door.

  “Märit! Märit!”

  There is no response and she thumps both hands on the door. “Märit, let me in!”

  INSIDE THE HOUSE, Märit runs from room to room, slamming windows and doors shut. There are locusts in the kitchen already, where the back door is ajar. Grabbing a dishtowel Märit flails at the insects, but it is useless, so she bangs the door shut.

  In the living room the air is thick with insects, their bodies squashing beneath her feet. Where are they coming from? Then she sees the stream of locusts pouring from the fireplace.

  There are matches in her pocket, there is kindling and paper in the grate. Quickly she bends to the fireplace and touches a flame to the paper. Smoke rises as the kindling catches, and the stream of insects parts to avoid the flame. Those in the grate sizzle and crackle in the heat.

  A solid mass of insects pours down the chimney and the sheer weight of their numbers extinguishes the flames.

  Märit scurries on her hands and knees for the cushions from the couch, which she stuffs into the fireplace. But it is not enough. Insects stream down. In a near panic, she bundles up the rug and forces it into the opening, but wherever there is a gap, locusts struggle through. Märit grabs sheets of newspaper from the box next to the hearth and pushes the crumpled pages into all the gaps until at last the fireplace is sealed.

  Inside the room locusts buzz frantically from wall to wall. The windows are crawling with insects, blocking the light; the ro
om is dark as twilight. There are locusts on her arms and legs, on her head, on her face. The smell of decay chokes her.

  Märit cowers under the weight of the locusts. She feels the weight of the swarm pressing on the windows, pressing on the doors, pressing on the roof. In a moment they will force the roof beams to sag, will force the doors to buckle, will shatter the glass in the windows. In a moment the swarm will suffocate her. Already she can hear the groaning of their weight upon the house, the thudding against the front door.

  The banging at the door is loud in her ears, rapid, insistent. Märit cowers in a corner. She hears a thin, high sound. Her name.

  Tembi! Oh God, Tembi! Tembi is still out there!

  Märit shakes herself free of her panic and springs towards the door, rattling the bolt free. Tembi stumbles into the room, a rush of locusts entering around her before Märit has time to slam the door shut again.

  Tembi beats wildly at her clothes, trying to shake free the insects that cling to her.

  “They’re in here too,” Märit wails. “What should we do?”

  “Into the bedroom! Quick.”

  Because the windows are closed, the locusts have not managed to enter the bedroom and the women find shelter. They brush away the insects from their clothes and stamp them underfoot.

  Exhausted, Märit slumps down on the corner of the bed and clutches her arms around her torso.

  “What is happening?” she whispers, her eyes fixed upon the crawling mass of insects on the other side of the window. “Will we ever be able to get out again?”

  Tembi draws the curtain shut and flicks at the light switch, then remembers that the generator has failed. She finds matches on the bedside table and strikes one. The flare of the match is bright in the gloom. Lifting the lid of the paraffin lamp she holds the flame to the wick, but it will not catch.

  “There’s no paraffin,” Märit says. “I forgot to fill the lamp.”

  Tembi extinguishes the burning match.

  “Will they be able to get in?”

  “No,” Tembi answers.

  They listen, breathing softly.

  “I think there are some candles in the cupboard,” Märit says quietly, as if the sound of her voice might alert the locusts to her presence. “On the top shelf.”

  Tembi crosses to the cupboard on the opposite wall and fumbles along the top shelf. Her fingers touch the glass of a bottle, then the slim shapes of two candles. She lights one, holding it tilted until the wax softens in the heat, then drips the hot wax onto the lid of a cosmetic jar and sets the candle upright. When she reaches for the second candle on the shelf her fingers again touch the bottle, and she brings it down into the light, the amber liquid revealing that the contents are brandy.

  Tembi lights the second candle and sets it on the dresser. The glow is meager, but comforting. She sits down again next to Märit and unscrews the lid of the bottle. When she tips it up to her lips and swallows a small amount, Tembi notices how much her hands are trembling.

  “What is happening out there?” Märit says. “Where do they come from?” Her face is haggard, the lines of strain exaggerated in the candle’s light.

  “Drink some of this,” Tembi says, handing the bottle to Märit, who has begun to shiver. “It will warm you.”

  She drinks, coughs, sips again, then holds the bottle clenched between her thighs.

  “Where do they come from?” Märit says again.

  “They just come.”

  “But why? Why here?”

  Tembi glances up at the rustling thatch. “I have heard stories from the old people. Some years too many eggs hatch at the same time, and there is not enough food, so the locusts fly off to look for food in another place. And because there are so many of them, when they find a place that has food, like this farm, they eat everything.”

  “What do you mean ‘everything’?”

  “They will eat all the flowers, and the leaves, the grass, the fruit.”

  “Our gardens? The orchard, the maize? All our food?” Märit holds her head in her hands. Now there will be nothing to eat, it will be a desert, they will finally have to leave the farm. “But will the locusts stay here?”

  “No, they will go when there is nothing left to eat. They are always hungry, so they will go somewhere else. The swarm will move on, some will die, some will be eaten by birds, some will be blown away by winds, some will drown in rivers and dams. But they will lay their eggs, and in another year, somewhere else, there will be a swarm like this one, falling on some other farm.”

  Turning her glance to the window, Märit asks, “Is there nothing we can do? It’s so awful.”

  “We can only wait. For tomorrow, and what it will bring.”

  Märit takes another sip of the brandy. “I felt I was going to be eaten alive. They were all over me, under my clothes, in my hair, nibbling at my skin.” She shudders and brushes at her lap. “I feel dirty, like they’ve left their eggs on me.” She clasps her hands together as they begin to tremble.

  “I will run a bath for you,” Tembi says. “It will make you feel better.”

  When the bath has been filled, Märit undresses and sinks into the water. Tembi shuts the door softly.

  “Tembi, leave the door open,” Märit calls.

  She lies in the bath, weeping quietly, and the tears roll down her cheeks into the scented water, and when at last she gets up, she finds Tembi fast asleep. Märit climbs under the quilt and folds herself against Tembi’s warm back. Finally, she sleeps.

  Märit wakes to a pattering against the window. She hears the gurgling sound of water pouring from a gutter. She slips out from beneath the quilt, careful not to wake Tembi, and draws the edge of the curtains open. It is night still, darkness beyond the window panes. She listens again, then opens the window carefully, just a minute crack. A thin stream of fresh moist air blows across her face and the sound of falling water is louder. Rain.

  Opening the window another couple of inches, Märit stretches her hand outside. The clean cold air blows across her face and she tastes the sweetness upon her lips. The locusts have gone.

  Leaving the window open, Märit returns to bed, curving her body again next to Tembi, pressing her cheek against the sleeping warmth.

  This is how she used to sleep with Ben, against the solid comfort of his back. The memory of it brings a pang of loneliness. It has been so long since she felt the touch of another hand, since she was embraced. She knows that a part of her spirit is withering from the lack of touch.

  She presses herself closer in against Tembi, who murmurs a question in her sleep.

  “It is raining,” Märit whispers.

  41

  AT FIRST LIGHT the two women creep out of the bedroom and down the corridor to the front door.

  “Ugh, it smells bad in here,” Tembi exclaims, covering her mouth against the lingering odor of rot and burned cloth. She steps delicately, trying to avoid the bodies of the locusts littering the floor, some of them still wriggling with life.

  Märit, who has put on a pair of sandals, unbolts the front door and pushes it wide open to let in the clean morning air. The first thing she sees on the veranda are the bare stalks of the potted geraniums—every leaf, every petal has been stripped from the stalks of the plants, leaving them like winter skeletons.

  The sky is overcast and gray and a thin fog hangs over the fields. From the misty distance near the river a plover calls gently, and a moment later, from the opposite direction, a second bird answers. Märit’s eyes move across to the lawn, the flower garden, the vegetable patch. She gasps.

  “They’ve eaten everything! Everything! Oh, Tembi, look what they’ve done!”

  Märit and Tembi walk out into the devastation. A swath has been cut across the land, as if some strange machine has swept over the farm in the night and left ruin in its wake. Trees denuded of leaves, showing bare branches against the sky, maize plants that are nothing more than scraggly stalks with a few bare cobs, a once green lawn that is now bare e
arth, muddy and slippery underfoot.

  Tembi pauses at the remnants of the vegetable garden and shakes her head in disbelief. “Every single plant,” she says with despair in her voice. “The beans, the tomatoes, the squash.” Crouching down she fingers the few stalks remaining. “Nothing left. All our food—gone!”

  The locusts have devoured everything in the vegetable garden, stripped the maize fields, the flower beds, the potted plants on the veranda, the trees around the house, the lawn, the hydrangea bushes against the walls.

  Märit stands in front of the flower garden, staring at the destruction, at the wantonness of it, at the thoroughness of it. Ben had worked so hard to build this garden and the lawn surrounding the beds, and she and Tembi had struggled to maintain the flowers, to have something colorful in this land of brown and ochre.

  But perhaps the whole thing was too artificial to survive. These imported flowers, the roses, the snapdragons. Like me, she thinks, something artificial imported here.

  She notices a locust crawling in the soil and she raises her foot, then brings it down hard on the insect, crushing and grinding the body into the earth with the sole of her sandal.

  Tembi sees the pain on Märit’s face as she surveys the damage, and the anger as she raises her foot and stamps it on the ground.

  “Don’t worry, Märit, things will grow again here. It is good soil.”

  “Is God trying to destroy us, Tembi? Does God hate us?”

  Tembi shakes her head. “Look, the mulberry trees are untouched. God has spared us. You are too harsh in your thoughts.”

  Märit looks down at the soil, at the crushed insect, and then raises her eyes to survey the damage done by the swarm. “Once, a long time ago, I was on the other side of the fence, there beyond the koppie, when a kudu came right up to me, so close that I could feel its breath on my fingers, and I had the thought that nature is good, that animals are good, that there is an order and a harmony to nature. But now…” She shakes her head. “Now when I see what nature has done I wonder if there is any goodness or harmony in anything.”