Locust Girl: A Lovesong Read online

  She sang it like a mourning song. Her voice was unsteady and could not quite rise to the high notes. She was in one of her damp moments. But unlike the blue animal now purring with pleasure, she had no little vial under her eyes.

  They were silent and hidden. They were as green as the grass and they looked alike, those rows of little rooms. Late at night, Verompe sneaked me into one of them.

  Earlier I kept asking him about Beenabe and her ancient companion, but Verompe only hugged his throat protectively. He walked several paces ahead of me. He brought me to a small pool where he demanded I wash. He waved me away when it was his turn. I heard him scrubbing furiously. He only spoke again after we arrived in the hidden rooms. ‘For rest,’ he whispered with immense relief, then he was gone.

  It was too dark and I was too tired. Everything in the room felt soft and friendly, even the air. I closed my eyes for a long time.

  So, a tree could grow even in a room. This was my first thought when I woke up. The tree was small, but it looked imposing in the middle of five bodies lying down. The three women and two men were censuring me with their eyes. Their paleness screamed against their long blue smocks that were just like mine. All had hands locked on their chests as if to protect them.

  ‘I’m Amedea,’ I said, then as an afterthought, ‘I’m sorry.’ I meant for crowding their small room. I wondered if they spoke my tongue.

  They looked at me silently, my face, my hands, my feet, all parts of me that were not hidden by the blue smock. Then they closed their eyes again very slowly as if the act were a labour. Their brows knotted also as slowly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said again, hiding my burns and wishing I could hide my face.

  The room was lit by the tree’s only fruit. Round and bright but not quite red. It helped me spot the tiny flowers almost hidden by the deep green leaves that looked like half-opened hands, which quivered slightly, making their own air. The more I looked up, the lighter I felt. I imagined I was in the open fields.

  ‘If you look up, you’ll feel better,’ I told the others.

  Beside me, a pale mouth twitched. It was raring to respond, but it seemed the act might sap the life out of it.

  I felt something hit me on the cheek. Water? No, this was thick and dripping from the flowers above and it smelled familiar but not quite. This had no grit, it was all fragrance. Oil! It made the lying bodies move for once. Slowly, tiredly, they unlocked their hands from their chests. They released their hearts to catch each silent drop.

  I could not bear the silence. Inside my skull it twitched, tuned into the rhythm of the dripping. Then I heard an old song, in perfect time with each drop of oil.

  ‘So—soon—be—fore

  The— si—lence— broke’

  The silence broke further with the five hushing me and dragging their bodies far from where I lay. Hands clutched at hearts again and eyes opened to censure me even more. ‘I’m sorry, I won’t hurt you,’ I said, but all kept moving away from me and pushing against the wall, and I found myself slipping towards them. The room tilted with our weight and pushed the wall open into the next room where more bodies began pushing against the wall to get away from me and the song in my head. On we went, into room after opening room with its own dripping tree, with its bodies multiplying and slipping towards each other on the sickly fragrant floor.

  Hands now covered faces, leaving only a little gap for the mouth to link with the next ear. The mouth to ear attitude stretched deep into the length of the room. All the rooms had become one long room where bodies were finally able to sit up and crouch against each other. It was like back in the ruins, only this place was solidly built and too well lit. It was overbright with leaves, flowers and fruit sprouting from the walls. The room buzzed with whispers in many tongues, but with only one rumour.

  ‘Terror tired terror tired terror tired terror tired terror tired terror’ made the growing walls tremble.

  Why the tiredness? Why the terror? Is it me? I walked through the line of whisperers, apologising as I went. ‘I’m sorry, I won’t hurt you.’ But their ears were only hearing the lone rumour, which after a while shifted.

  ‘Border dream border dream border dream border dream border.’

  My heart swelled. Did you dream it too? Did you walk through it from a faraway place? Were you caught? Did you see the mothers’ bloody hands?

  I felt like I had come home. When I found the end of the line, I was ready to whisper my relief to the last ear, but the whirring in my head shut my mouth. Then the song —

  ‘Sing how lovely, how deadly

  Is your dream of the border’

  ‘Lovely?’ The whisperers rose as one. ‘Lovely?’ They were screaming now. Rage suddenly erased all tiredness and terror. Faces and hearts were bared, pushing me against the end wall.

  ‘You think our terror is lovely?’

  ‘You think our dreams are lovely?’

  ‘You think our dead are lovely?’

  ‘You think your song is lovely?’

  The questions were chanted in time with fists pounding the air.

  ‘No, I’m sorry, no, that’s not what I mean — and it’s not me, I didn’t sing, please it’s not me — ’

  ‘It’s not me, it’s not me,’ they echoed bitterly. ‘Children always say that.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You do — you know how to play with our hearts. You know how to play with our dreams — ’

  ‘I don’t — ’ I began, but could not say more. I was blinded with sudden light and moving colours.

  ‘Watch. First the fathers walked, then the mothers. Then they sent their children. The most painful betrayal.’

  ‘A plague on our border!’

  ‘A plague on our Kingdoms!’

  Their voices rose with unbridled hate. Then suddenly, an explosion that shook the room. Lights, roaring lights! Lights, blinding lights! I couldn’t see, I couldn’t see. I thought I was back in the tent in our village, I was nine, I was burning.

  ‘See? A child did that to us. How lovely.’

  Of course, I did not see. I was on the other side. I did not see what they saw from where they stood — the moving pictures that played on the wall and my body, blinding me, afflicting my skin. Pictures of men and women walking to their border of trees. And then a child sneaking into the Kingdoms and among a crowd of tree worshippers. Just as they raise their arms, the child lights up, shatters. A great fire burns and burns.

  ‘That’s lovely?’ the crowd spat out.

  The fire played over me. I felt as if I was burning all over again.

  ‘Lovely? Lovely? Lovely?’ they kept chanting and moving towards me, hands outstretched, ready to tear me apart.

  ‘We build fires to protect ourselves. We have done this since the beginning of time. Don’t you forget that.’

  ‘Father, do I ever forget anything you teach me?’

  ‘But remember, there are good fires and bad fires.’

  I wanted to tell about the fires that I had gone through to the two men conspiring before us. But hand clamped on my mouth, Verompe was as always strong and unbending. He had rescued me again, I don’t know how. Maybe that final wall was pushed open with my fear. Maybe Verompe never left. Maybe he was among the chanting crowd.

  ‘And there are good songs and bad songs.’

  ‘I know father, I know.’

  In the dark, the men’s voices grew faint as they walked towards where I came from. To find me, Verompe explained as he eased his hold on me. ‘Quxik and Xuqik. The son and the father. Quxik’s my right-hand man at the rations, and he’s a spy — as I found out — of his father Xuqik, the Minister of Arms. Ah, he’d wave those arms about and always have his way. But my father was not afraid of him, he sang and never let him win. That was a long time ago,’ he sighed and grew silent.

  I had a father too, a long time ago.

  ‘You see, Amedea —’ and he paused, unable to look at me — ‘all sons have had illusions about their fat
hers.’

  ‘Illusions?’

  ‘Good dreams, very good dreams. Sometimes, only rumours. But we believe they’re dreams, good ones, so we can sleep at night.’

  I remembered my dream of eating pink prawns with Abarama. ‘I thought — ’ I needed him to hear me too, with all my dreams. ‘I thought you were my father when you picked me up from the fires.’

  Verompe sighed, hugging his throat again. He seemed to be hurting even more.

  ‘Why do you keep saving me? Why the fires? Why Beenabe — and that old man? Why those rooms? Why their rage? Why the border? Why the desert and now these trees, flowers, fruit, oils and grains, so much of them? And none in the desert? Why you, why me? Why the children?’

  ‘Why is terrifying.’

  We had no answers, just some comfort in asking the same questions. I imagined he was also asking them in his head as we watched the stream of fires rising endlessly from distant towers. They looked like trees of light.

  ‘Terribly beautiful in this Kingdom of Fires,’ he breathed out. ‘They’re lit like that when everyone is safe in their rooms. Here the fear of fire is understandable, but no time to explain. We’ll wait. Soon she’ll take you to the safer rooms.’

  She? But he refused to explain. We looked up for a long time. The fires did not hurt the moon or the stars. Most of them were hiding, because they could not outshine so much light.

  I was handed over to my very first saviour. She wore a plain green dress and the winking star between her breasts. She was more beautiful without the other colours. I marvelled at her thick, black hair. I, of course, looked worse. I had gone through the fire the second time.

  ‘They hurt you even more,’ she sighed.

  ‘I missed you, Beenabe, I missed you so much, as a breast would miss its heart.’ It was all I could say.

  She held out a hand then withdrew it. It was all she could do.

  The rooms smelled of grass and trees, but none had trees standing inside. The ‘green trees’ were forever bathing, combing their hair (such beautiful hair!), rubbing their bodies with oils, or lying down with Kingdom builders who needed to rest. Here, whatever your colour was, it was called ‘green’, because you were fresh and supple. Whether you were a girl or a boy, your body was a pillow for dreaming away the cares of Kingdom building and all the labours that came with them. Only in these rooms could you dream with a colour different to your own. You could be joyful in impurity. It was allowed, but secretly and if it strictly preserved everyone’s colour, which meant no children. Dream together then walk away alone.

  Thus Beenabe explained her new home but without looking at me. ‘Verompe brought me here, he brought many of us here. He picked me up in time, before I walked into the fire — when — when I saw my village burn.’

  ‘But didn’t that fire come from here?’

  ‘What would you know — you don’t live here,’ she snapped at me. ‘The bad strays brought the bad fires here long ago and burned trees and flowers and grains and the Kingdom builders, that’s why they — we have to preserve our own fires. But these are good fires, our fires protect us.’ There was pride in her voice. She was of the Kingdoms now. ‘Here we live in natural beauty. We drink from the rivers, we eat from the fields, our colours are from the flowers and fruits, and also our oils. I can even sing now, but secretly, of course. My songs are not — the usual songs.’

  I wanted to ask about the blue furry balls and why she looked so sad among them. And why that struggle with her ancient friend among the flowers. I wanted to ask about the star between her breasts.

  She looked at me again. Her lips drooped a little. She asked me to turn around, examining my body. ‘You can never be a green tree, but I can hide you. This is a secret place only for those who can be impure and yet remain pure, but what would you know? And why do you have to know? All that matters, Beena, is you’re safe.’

  ‘I know … I am not beautiful.’

  She held out a hand, I believed to comfort me, then pulled it back, saying we should not be seen like this. I wanted to remind her that in the desert she held me close in her sleep, but she began to tell her story. She told me about the gifts of the Kingdoms. She raved about the sweet oils on her scalp, ah how precious. They gave her hair, look! Her spirits lifted. She was almost affectionate. She asked me if her hair curled all right. She preened. I had no chance to tell my own story or to say I am not Beena. There was a knock on the door. A Kingdom builder needed to dream in her arms. She hid me in a box full of clothes that were as soft as her skin. I was to sleep there. I did to the loud dreaming of the man on her bed. In the morning, the dreamer rose and arrested me.

  The room was almost bare and colourless, like water on its own. It had no doors or windows. The three ministers sat at a round table: Wilidimus, the Minister of Mouths; Xuqik, the Minister of Arms; and Ycasa, the Minister of Legs, a woman. A fourth chair was empty. I sat within a hole in the middle of the table. My chair went up and down and whirled, depending on how much the ministers wanted to see of me at any one time. Not that they had not seen me before or known of me. Minister Wilidimus had heard my songs years earlier. Minister Ycasa had known I was walking to the border. Minister Xuqik had arrested me after his night with Beenabe. He looked pleased with himself, rubbing his palms together in some secret delight. He had slept with his rival’s favourite.

  The ministers told me stories. All were hundreds of years old and proud of it. They were the oldest carers of the Kingdoms. They were the only ones who could manage peace and preservation, so they were bound to live forever. The Kingdoms could not allow them to die. Of course, there was so much to live for and to keep them alive forever.

  ‘What with your secret visits to those rooms?’ Minister Ycasa laughed and looked at the men with something between pity and affection.

  Minister Wilidimus leant towards her, chuckling. ‘Are you sure you’ve never walked to that part of the woods? Aren’t you privy to all routes, even of dreams?’

  But she only laughed some more, even as her cheeks grew red. ‘I don’t have to answer that,’ she countered the accusation.

  Minister Xuqik whirled his chair. Then they were all whirling their chairs as they thought long thoughts. They looked like ancient children. The weight of Kingdom building had shrunk them to my size and had whitened their hair. All wore it cropped short. Their shirts and trousers were colourless. They studied me with intense interest.

  Minister Wilidimus had the keenest eyes and he smiled sometimes or maybe his mouth was itching to break into song. I recognised him. He was Beenabe’s friend among the flowers. Did he know that I was also her friend and that I was arrested in her room? She was still sleeping when Minister Xuqik dragged me out. I could not wake her. His arms locked even my breath and he did this silently. Now he looked even grimmer beside Minister Ycasa who laughed all the time. She had the air of someone who wanted to play.

  ‘What were you doing in those rooms?’ she asked.

  ‘I was sleeping.’

  She laughed. ‘You sleep too much. You slept a long time. Do you know for how long?’

  She knows my story?

  ‘Not history, Minister Ycasa, but the present.’ The face of the Minister of Mouths lit up. ‘Let’s ask her to sing for us.’

  ‘I don’t sing, sir.’

  ‘Oh you do, you do — I’ve heard you many times before and wondered — so give us a song, girl.’

  They know my story.

  ‘That’s not why she’s here, Minister Wilidimus, and you know that.’ The Minister of Arms spoke slowly, making sure each word had equal weight, but the other man had no love for gravity.

  ‘But my dear, doubting Xuqik, the singing is why we brought her here, or have you forgotten?’ Wili retorted.

  The Minister of Arms sat up. His hand had curled into a fist. ‘Wilidimus, it was your boy who brought her here.’

  ‘Uhmm … I don’t recall that at all, dear Minister.’

  ‘Your bastard son brought you one of your
pet singing projects.’

  ‘Pet singing project? Aw, Xuqik, how dare you call it such? I am the Minister of Mouths, I know when a song is dangerous. Like the plague. Besides there are secrets in those songs only I can unlock.’

  ‘Are they by any chance also the secrets of your favourite green tree, Minister Wilidimus — in your favourite room? And do you know where I arrested the plague?’

  ‘Come now, dear, jealous Xuqik — ’

  ‘I am not your dear! And as you know, your favourite sings too — in secret.’

  ‘It’s not the singing but the walking that is the key concern, and that’s my turf, gentlemen,’ the Minister of Legs argued, all the while smiling indulgently at the men.

  ‘I have collaborated with you, Minister Ycasa, and successfully.’ The Minister of Arms smiled back at the woman beside him. ‘You have designed the border and the routes for walking and running, and I make sure they are meticulously observed. I make sure those walkers do not plague us. You and I know that the true plague is the fire that they carry in their bodies, and I make sure they never get anywhere near our border. But this man’s chief of rations, this man’s sprog had smuggled them through.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be peevish, Xuqik. Some strays are allowed in, the Kingdoms need them.’

  ‘Use them, you mean. For guarding our trees? Minister Wilidimus, I have always opposed that stupid strategy of co-opting the enemy, of teaching them our caring values, of making them like us so we can feel safer. Rehabilitating them — is that how you call it? Hah! But of course you talked this policy into place and I have to deal with the consequences.’ His fist was now pounding the air. ‘You even talked the system into having strays keep your bed warm.’

  ‘Only my bed?’

  ‘And having them shoot vermin guris with arrows — to be kind to the earth, as you say — when we can wipe them out efficiently.’

  ‘With the wicked little fires that you’ve concocted? Of course not, dear Xuqik. We do things naturally here, we live by the natural order. If you want to play with your fires, do it outside the border.’