Locust Girl: A Lovesong Read online

  Someone took my hand. Beenabe! She was also dressed in a blue smock. She put a finger to her lips and pulled me to a corner where three men were still linked in that fearful mouth to ear chain. I was forced to sit next to the last man and listen to the whispered, ‘It’s the fires, it’s the fires.’ Then she led me to other rooms where the fists did not have as much anger left in them. They were more playful, throwing the remaining seeds on the walls that were moving with pictures of strays walking to the border but never reaching it, because they had stumbled on fires that sprouted from the sand. At each explosion, a sigh of relief went around the room — those are our fires outside the border. Our fires protect the border. Then the familiar song of caution rose from the walls, but sang with no trace of warning now. It had become a lullaby:

  ‘No one should look

  No one should walk towards the horizon’

  We had left the last room. We were crawling through the grass. Finally we could speak but only in whispers.

  ‘You found me,’ I said. I could not hide my elation. In my heart I knew she had searched for me. ‘You did not give up on me, just like in the desert.’

  This time she held my hand. We crouched together, taking in each other’s face. It was like the first time she found me. I asked, ‘What are they?’

  ‘They’re rooms for those who can’t recover from the fires that crossed the border,’ then on second thought, she added, ‘No one ever does, really.’

  I remembered how my village burned.

  My friend echoed my memory. ‘I never found our old hut. No trace.’

  ‘I saw Zacarem’s black wall, Beenabe, I saw all those burnt bodies — ’

  ‘Hah, the Honourable Head tells that well. That little orientation.’

  ‘In those rooms, they look so tired.’

  ‘With such terror and anger, how can they not be tired? But each year after the adoration of the trees, they rest. They’re fed those forgetting seeds.’

  ‘Like our rations in the desert?’

  ‘No. Our rations are more potent, Beena. Strays are meant to forget their own stories from once upon a time, for good. So they won’t attempt to walk to the border, oh it’s hard to explain, but it’s okay now, I’m okay now, see?’ and she fluffed up her hair.

  I wanted to argue that Cho-choli never forgot. But of course she never fed on rations because she never left her cave. And Daninen’s and Espra’s seeds were old and dry, potency gone, so they still remembered trees. Just as my father did, because our rations had stopped coming. But in Shining Lumi’s tent, did everyone not remember? Did everyone not sing? Maybe we never forget after all. For how can we live now without before? How can we live before without after? But whose before and after can be told and sung? And who is allowed to sing — and when? Is there also a border for singing? The questions were whirring in my head, and only I can hear.

  After a while, I asked about what confused me most. ‘Why must our kind forget?’

  ‘Safer for the Kingdoms.’

  ‘But the old stories can’t be forgotten. I saw walls of them, Beenabe. The Honourable Head showed me.’

  Beenabe sighed. I sensed a battle inside her — between her wishes and loyalties, between her before and after. She could not meet my eyes as she explained.

  ‘Those are their stories, their own devastation. All other stories and devastation must be forgotten, like they never happened. But not theirs, no, they never forget their own for good, even if they happened once upon a time. Here, they want only a momentary forgetting for rest. Because they’re fearful that they’ll forget and never remember, so they’ll stop guarding the border, and they’ll be unsafe again. It’s mad. They have long memories here, Beena. Those fires crossed the border hundreds of years ago, but the ministers keep them burning in their hearts, so they’re drying up, growing brittle with hate. They think the oils could help — or the new hearts.’

  ‘New hearts?’

  ‘From the other side, Beena.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘From the ration lines.’

  We were quiet for a while. We remembered it well: the harvest of body parts under the blankets. The price paid by the strays.

  ‘It’s mad here, Beena, beautiful and mad, but I need my comfort, the Kingdoms’ gifts, I deserve them,’ she said, fondling her hair and the winking star between her breasts, then silence. When she spoke again, I heard the desperation for lightness. ‘You won’t believe this, I know now how that song ends. Remember the song at Daninen’s and Espra’s hut? I own it now.’

  Our faces were so close. It was like sleeping together in the desert.

  ‘Listen,’ and she sang it to me. ‘Remember it?’

  I nodded, imagining the black, round animal spinning and spinning.

  ‘I own the record now — and I understand. I understand now what it means to take love, Beena, and I understand how that song ends too — ’ and her face lit up as she completed it in a voice that spun joy in the air, joy that put an ache in my heart.

  I listened long after her song had ended.

  So is this what love means to you, Beenabe? The love taken is equal to the love made? But must love be reciprocal, for it to be love? You can’t take it if you can’t make it? Must love follow the law of the market? Like in the ration lines? Your last crockery for a fistful of seeds? Your heart for a jug of water? Your kidney for a vial of oil? But I kept quiet. I did not have the heart to puncture her joy.

  ‘Ah, Beena, isn’t the song so — so wondrous? It’s like what the Kingdoms say. Justice. You have to care to enjoy the gifts. And I do, I do all the time, in the rooms, oh how I love them all, I love even the strangers. They leave me with a gift of oil each time, they love me back, well, in their own way … so my hair grew. And I so love my hair,’ she added, fondling again her most precious acquisition.

  Such earnest declaration of love. Dear Beenabe, I loved you bald then, I love you with hair now, I love you even if you don’t know my name.

  ‘You’ll hear all of it, the whole song, Beena, we’ll play it when we get home — ’ then she stopped, and finally sighed, ‘No, you can’t go home with me now.’

  ‘Home,’ I echoed.

  The blacks of her eyes were so large.

  ‘You love it here?’ I asked.

  ‘I need to survive, Beena, so I — we must hide you somewhere else, not in my room. You can’t be seen there any more, I can’t be seen with you, it’s dangerous. I know it sounds — ’

  ‘I understand … I am not beautiful.’ And I am not Beena, I wanted to add, but did this matter now?

  Tentatively she touched my cheek. ‘You do look better, though.’

  Love is clumsy, because it has so many hands — I wanted to sing this to her, but it would not have mattered now.

  She turned away. She had looked at my face enough, which mercifully no longer bore the cursed mark. Or maybe she was hiding her own face as she weighed this home in her heart. She fell silent again, then when she spoke, something else crept into her voice.

  Ah, love. It has so many hands.

  ‘But here, they blame — they blame everyone and everything outside the border. Their memories — they’re like — they’re joyless.’ She buried her face on the grass, as if she did not want me to hear, as if she was speaking to the ground. ‘Their memories are joyless and unforgiving, Beena. They plague me, even — even when they’re dreaming in my arms — when they love me for a night. Their cries of hate and terror mark my body, it’s so confusing,’ then she sat up, facing me, in earnest again. ‘But of course they have to keep their memories awake to keep the border safe. To keep out the strays, except of course for a few like me — and as for the unwanted strays — oh, Beena, I can’t let them do it to you, so we must hide you. Yes, that’s what I mean, that’s what I’m trying to say.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘No one does — look!’

  From a distance, the towers spitting fire. The trees of light.


  As the fires rose higher, the air grew a peculiar smell that made my stomach turn. I could not tell if I wanted to eat or retch.

  ‘It’s the worst time.’ Beenabe had covered her nose and was urging me to follow her deeper into the thick grasses. ‘I must hide you now.’

  But where can you hide the likes of me?

  Further away, the rows of rooms had suddenly lit up. The air smelled even more. We heard laughter. I looked at her, perplexed. What happened to the terror and anger? Are they better now?

  Beenabe grew more agitated. ‘After resting, they feast again. They’ll have more than seeds now. They’ll have meat, a rare treat, only once a year. That smell is from roasting animals — and — and people.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They burn them there,’ she whispered. ‘The unwanted strays and even their own who can’t abide by the seasons.’

  I felt cold even while the towers heated the air.

  ‘This smell, it’s meat.’ She nearly retched. ‘Those fires cook the animals and burn the condemned bodies. At the same time. They can’t be wasteful, especially with fire. An efficient arrangement, this dying and feeding.’

  ‘But you don’t feed on a grave.’

  ‘I don’t, it’s them!’

  We grew silent. Once I had fed among the skulls and bones and she hit me. ‘You said you don’t feed on a grave. You told me that in the desert.’

  ‘I never did, I never did — and they’re eating animals, not those bodies, I’m sure not those bodies!’ The winking star rose and fell with her ragged breathing. ‘It’s the worst time, the worst time.’

  What purity is there in time or in seasons, or in memory? This worst time evoked another and another. While sleeping together in the desert, my friend had mumbled in her sleep about another time when she had played truant, scavenging among burnt ruins. But her family forgave her. She always brought home condiments that made barley taste better. Once, the remains of a boy, though she never told them.

  A grim time, but the mood was festive. The sky was like day with the fires from the towers and the lights from the rooms.

  There is a season for settling scores. Quxik did not let us forget this. He knew the crackle of every leaf and every grass by heart. He heard every whisper. He was thorough. He had followed us from the rooms. He eavesdropped on our distress. He was quick with his hands. I remembered the whisperers in the ruins as the bruise quickly spread on Beenabe’s cheek. But he never touched me. I was his father’s business. For my kind, there was another season for reckoning.

  ‘Name the charges,’ the Minister of Arms demanded.

  The Minister of Mouths was more than willing. ‘One, walking to the border. Two, singing. Three, feasting in the wrong season. Four, looking where she should not be looking. Five, disturbing the rooms. Six, spreading ill rumours. Seven, inspiring revolt among the border caretakers. Eight, sleeping in the impure rooms. Nine, bringing in the plague. Ten, contaminating the Kingdoms.’

  The two ministers were not arguing now and the Minister of Legs was not laughing. The Honourable Head held himself proudly. They sat at the tallest table that I had ever seen, like a tower that rose almost as high as the ancient tree. Above them, the sky was an unstinting blue and the sun was warm.

  The applause echoed again from the multitude that surrounded me. All were still dressed in their long blue smocks but none looked tired or fearful or angry now. Their faces were flushed as they chanted:

  ‘What we work for is ours

  What we care for is ours

  What we protect is ours

  Rejoice, rejoice!’

  Here was joy claiming the sun, the sky, the trees, the waters, and even the ground where I stood. ‘But we never took what’s not ours,’ I said.

  ‘No one should look

  No one should walk beyond the horizon’

  The Honourable Head raised a hand to silence the crowd, then asked me, ‘How does the Locust Girl plead?’

  ‘I did not walk, I had no choice, I was taken to the border — ’

  ‘Border. Well then, let’s talk about the border.’ The Minister of Legs was in her elements. ‘It is the protection line, the survival line. It preserves the last green haven on earth, because it keeps the wasters out. It controls the consumption of the last waters, the last trees, the last seeds, the last animals and the last oils for our survival. It is our last chance to preserve the human race from extinction. The border is our most precious invention.’

  The following applause stirred the whirring in my head but only I could hear it. It could not compete with their rejoicing.

  ‘Answer the question: How do you plead, girl?’ the Honourable Head persisted.

  ‘Hungry — I was hungry and — ’

  The crowd drowned my voice with their protests.

  ‘Hunger. We can address hunger. I believe that subject is within my jurisdiction.’ The Minister of Mouths pursed and stretched his lips several times before he sang —

  ‘We are your keepers

  We will protect you

  We will care for you’

  Then he made his point. ‘The Kingdoms have taken care of hunger. We have managed ration lines for centuries. We have organised seasons for feasting. We have mechanisms for consumption and control. Hunger is a non-word now, except for those who wish to stir up resentment for their own vested interests — ’

  The Honourable Head raised his hand to arrest the minister’s full flight into another song. Then impatiently, he asked again, ‘Locust Girl, you know there’s only one answer to the question — how do you plead?’

  ‘I did not spread rumours, the fires are not rumours.’ I thrust out my face to the crowd, I held out my hands, I exposed my feet. ‘Look at me, I’m proof of the fires — twice I went through them.’

  The crowd was silenced. The tiredness, fear and anger sneaked back into their faces. Quickly the Minister of Arms found his most soothing voice. ‘Once upon a time, there were no fires and our forefathers were cold and vulnerable — then, in the darkness of one lonely night, the first spark was lit and our forefathers saw that it was good. Remember there are good fires and bad fires. So our forefathers gathered around the first spark and tended it until it grew into a fire that gave them warmth and safety to this day. Safety, protection, comfort. This is the good fire. This is what we build and keep in the Five Kingdoms to this day.’

  The crowd shifted on their feet. Their hands crept to their breasts. Fire had been spoken. No story of comfort could erase the word from the air.

  The Minister of Arms whispered something to the Minister of Legs who passed it on to the Honourable Head, who passed it on to the Minister of Mouths who shook his head in protest. The crowd grew more restless. The furtive exchange terrified them. They had never seen their protectors in this vulnerable mouth-to-ear gesture.

  The Honourable Head cleared his throat. ‘We need a witness to uphold due process of law.’

  The ministers cleared their throats in assent, except for Wilidimus who was rubbing his in obvious discomfort.

  From the trees further back, Quxik appeared. Behind him walked Beenabe now wearing the bright clothes of the mothers at the border. Arguments in different tongues erupted from the crowd. Is she another stray? No, she’s one of the ‘green trees.’ Are you sure?

  The ancient protectors of the Kingdoms raised their hands for silence and the Honourable Head said, ‘We do what we must do for the right reasons: Peace. Purity. Piety. Preservation.’ This calmed the crowd but only for a while.

  Beenabe was made to stand beside me. I reached out to her, but she stepped back. She refused to look at me. Her clothes were in sad disarray, her precious hair unkempt. Like me, she had been locked in solitary confinement for three days before this trial.

  The questions spilled in rapid succession. I could hardly follow who was asking them.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Beenabe.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘The … room
.’

  ‘Louder.’

  ‘The impure room.’

  ‘Do you know the accused?’

  Silence, then, ‘Not really.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I knew of her.’

  ‘Of course — and when was this?’

  ‘Once upon a time.’

  ‘Where?’

  Silence.

  ‘Where, girl?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Yes, you do. Where did you know the accused?’

  ‘The desert.’

  ‘Where are you from originally?’

  Silence, then, ‘The desert.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘For Kingdom building.’

  ‘Louder — why are you here?’

  ‘To help the kingdom builders dream.’

  ‘What is the name of the accused?’

  ‘I — I don’t know.’

  ‘You mean, you don’t know her?’

  ‘I knew … of her.’

  ‘Did you know that she walked in the desert?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Did she walk from the desert to the border?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why did she walk to the border?’

  ‘Because … I don’t know.’

  ‘Did you walk to the border?’

  ‘No — I was taken to — ’

  ‘Did she walk to the border?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘To hurt the Kingdoms?’

  ‘No!’