Authors: Wendy Orr
Dragonfly Song (2 page)
ANOTHER SPRING, FOUR YEARS LATER
Night is warmth of Mama
snores of Dada
goat-rug softness
hearth-smoke smell
glowing coals.
Now night is screaming
Zufi bursting through door
gasping, âRaiders!'
Aissa waking,
and the nightmare staying.
Brave Zufi out watching the goats,
guarding against wolves
and lions
with his slingshot and rocks,
all by himself, the very first time.
When Aissa is big
she can do that too,
brave like Zufi.
Now Zufi has left goats to run,
has forgotten wolves waiting
to eat young kids.
âI heard a noise, up from the sea
and the moon showed me:
a band of men
climbing the cliffs.'
âHide!' cries Mama, fear-eyes staring
at her home,
her family,
her Aissa.
âFight!' says Dada. âThey'll not take what's ours.'
âFight!' says Gaggie. âI'm too old to run.'
Poppa grabs his wood-cutting axe
with the heavy stone head
and Tattie picks up her knife,
the sharp shining blade
that Aissa mustn't touch.
But Mama wraps Aissa tight in her rug
and runs,
panting up the hill
far from the house
to tuck Aissa in a hollow
under the sharp-scented, grey-green bush
where Spot Goat's kid
was born yesterday.
âDon't make a sound,' says Mama,
brushing her fingers over Aissa's lips.
âNo matter what you see,
no matter what you hear,
you stay quiet,
still as stone till I come back.'
Mama makes her sign that keeps Aissa safe
and runs
back down to home.
Aissa sees her
because the moon is shining
bright and round
and Aissa's eyes are open â
a tiny seeing slit â
even though Mama said, âClose them.'
Then the screaming starts.
Aissa wiggles further
under the sharp-scented bush,
curls tight as a finger-poked bug,
squeezes her eyes good-girl shut
and tries not to hear.
Still as stone while the goats bleat and run
up the mountain, in the night
away from fire,
away from screams.
Flames lighting the sky,
higher than home;
screams tearing the night,
screams in Aissa's head.
Aissa's legs want to run with the goats
but Mama's sleeping spell
holds them tight to the ground
through the long red night,
Aissa cold
and all, all alone.
When the screaming stops
Aissa's heart cries loud for Mama
though her voice stays quiet, still as stone.
Mama doesn't come
but Spot Goat does.
Spot Goat bleats and nuzzles
at cold toes in morning dew
till Aissa wriggles, snake-silent,
drinks from Spot Goat like a baby kid
because Spot Goat's kid is gone,
like Mama.
Morning, not morning, with no warm Mama bed
smoke in the sky
stinking stronger than the grey-green bush
and her rug piss-wet and cold.
Waiting through that long fear-morning,
waiting quiet and still as stone.
Spot Goat waits too â
but Spot Goat doesn't know what Mama said
so she bleats
till the man finds them.
It's the third time this year that raiders have attacked the island. When the flames of the burning homestead light the sky, distant goatherds call the alarm. Twelve men gather from the farms, but long before they get there, the silence tells them that they're too late.
They trudge on, dreading what they might find. It's as bad as they could have imagined.
The house and farm buildings were made of stone, but their roofs were thatched straw. The thatch flamed
quickly when the raiders lit it, and the burning roofs collapsed, destroying everything underneath. The rock walls stand like chimneys, smoke pouring from the smouldering mess inside. The husband, grandparents and dog lie dead in front of the door.
There's no sign of the two women or children.
The men search hopelessly. All they find is a pool of blood at the gate.
âLet's hope that's a raider's,' one man says viciously.
It probably is, because a bronze dagger is lying under a bush nearby. The owner wouldn't have left it unless he was too wounded to notice.
It's a small sort of payment for the dead, and the women and children taken into slavery.
The dagger is a murdering weapon and it needs to be cleaned of blood and cleansed of evil, but the boy who picks it up can't help coveting it. Metal is expensive. His grandmother loves reminding the family that she'd paid six kids and a vat of olives for their one short and plain bronze knife. This one is very fine. Its blade is engraved, and the hilt is carved with the head of a horned beast.
âIt's the sign of the Bull King,' says the oldest man. âIf he's behind these raids, the island is in big trouble.'
âI'll take the dagger to the Lady,' the boy decides. If he can't keep it, at least he can be first with the news. He whistles his dog and starts across the hills to town.
Three men stay to sing the dead to peace before their burial; the others go out with their own dogs
and whistles to round up the straying flock. Which is how one man discovers Aissa, cold, wet and terrified, sheltering under a nanny goat.
âWhat's your name, little one?' he asks.
She doesn't answer.
He calls the others; they're so relieved to find one survivor that for a moment they're almost happy. The man who finds her is a hero.
Except that now he has to go to the orphaned child's aunt, the husband's sister, and tell her that her brother is dead, and that she has a new child to care for.
The man with a crying face
carries Aissa off the mountain
past home,
because home has fire and no roof,
no Mama or Dada
or Gaggie or Poppa
or doves or Brown Dog
or Zufi or Tattie.
Turning Aissa's face against his shoulder,
so she can't see
what's there
and what's not.
But her eyes peek
and screams stay in her head,
going down the mountain
with Spot Goat bleating behind.
Staying quiet, quiet,
small, small
waiting still for Mama
when the man leaves her far away
with Fox Lady.
Fox Lady has a sharp pointed face,
sharp pointed voice;
she asks questions
that Aissa can't answer.
Fox Lady doesn't know that Mama said
âStay quiet, still as stone, till I come back.'
And Mama's not back.
Fox Lady calls her ill-luck child,
cursed child, child that brings evil,
no child of my brother, that's for sure.
Aissa doesn't know all the words
but she knows what they mean
and she is quieter, stiller, smaller.
Fox Lady's eyes are hard like rock
and her voice sharp as a knife.
So dark early morning,
silent as a secret
Fox Lady carries Aissa
out and away from the sleeping house.
Spot Goat bleats and Aissa holds out her arms,
calling with her mind.
Spot Goat comes,
trot, trot, trot,
her nose reaching for Aissa's hand.
But Fox Lady slaps
Spot Goat's soft nose,
Aissa's waiting arms,
and hurries out the gate
leaving Spot Goat behind.
âWalk!' says Fox Lady, dumping Aissa down,
grabbing her hand to pull her along,
Aissa's feet stumbling,
loose rocks hitting toes.
But the hand tugs and her feet hurry.
Up the path, climb another hill,
another path,
wide and smooth under Aissa's feet,
the sky glimmering wake-up time;
a grey shimmering below
like the pond at home
but going on forever.
Fox Lady's hand snakes out
while Aissa stares.
Fingers grab the mama stone â
the stone that's hung from Aissa's neck
always and forever
with the sign of her name â
but the cord doesn't break
and Aissa bites the hand.
Slap go the fingers on Aissa's cheek.
âKeep it then,' says Fox Lady.
âThey'll still not bring you back to me.'
She grabs Aissa's hand again,
tugging hard, tugging hurt,
climbing the road
winding further up the hill.
Darker shapes in the grey,
houses jumbled up the slope,
side by side like sleeping pups;
the mountain above them,
and a giant's wall
like a goat pen for gods.
Now people, people all around.
Aissa smaller, silent as stone
but she can't be still
because Fox Lady tugs her
through the darkness of nearly morning
through the people:
the mamas and dadas,
the gaggies and poppas,
Zufies and tatties â
none of them are hers.
The sky turns pink over the mountain.
The people stop, like goats in a pen.
Fox Lady lets go of Aissa's hand.
âLet the little one see,' says a gaggie
and hands push her through the forest of legs
till Aissa stands with more Aissas and Zufies
pressing faces to a gate,
wooden bars against her cheek
as the sun rises over the mountain
and out of the darkness
a lady comes singing.
The Lady is dark but her voice is bright,
singing not-songs â
not mama songs or sleeping songs
or weaving songs or goat songs â
but a sound that lifts Aissa tall,
lifts her high from small still stone;
lifts, âOh!' from the people
and âPraise!' and âThank you, Mother!'
From a pot at the Lady's feet
the song lifts a snake,
coiling up, standing high.
The Lady bends, reaching out
like Aissa to Spot Goat
and the snake slides up her arm,
up to her neck and down again,
till the new sun is in the sky
and the snake back in its pot.
Bright and golden,
the Lady stands in front
of the dark cave door,
while all around Aissa,
the mamas and dadas,
gaggies and poppas,
put hands on hearts
like Mama talking to little fat goddess
by the hearth where the house snake hides.
Aissa does too,
because if Aissa is good, Mama will come back.
Aissa closes eyes to see Mama better,
to call louder in her quiet still head,
so Mama will be there
when she opens her eyes.
Eyes tiny-crack-open
like watching home from bed
when Mama says sleep.
Mama's not there.
Eyes open wide and still no Mama.
No singing Lady.
No legs all around.
No Fox Lady.
But a tall man, opening the gate,
pries Aissa's fingers off wooden bars.
âWhere's your mama?'
But Aissa stays quiet, still as stone,
as he carries her inside
the singing Lady's walls.
âKelya!' calls Tall Man.
A gaggie comes, crooked like Poppa,
wart on her chin
kindness in her eyes,
takes Aissa from his arms.
âAlone?' she says.
âMaybe lost,' says the man.
Kelya lady carries Aissa
on her hip just like Mama
away from Tall Man,
to the wall of the Lady's house,
puts her down on a low stone bench
squats in front of her,
holding Aissa's hands,
rubbing thumbs over Aissa's wrists,
finding white moon scars that are Aissa's own.
And she looks at the mama stone
but doesn't touch.
âLittle one!' says Kelya, kissing the scars,
looking around fast,
then squeezing Aissa tight,
arms like Gaggie's
but not Gaggie.
âNo one must know!' says Kelya
and Aissa stays quiet,
still as stone.
It's a small island: even people who've lived all their lives inside the walled town, under the shelter of the chief's hall and the Lady's sanctuary, know someone from outside who knows someone else, till in the end everyone is connected to everywhere. They all know that the little girl has come from the raided farm.
People who've met her aunt aren't surprised that she's dumped the child at the gates. The girl is not the first orphan to be left there. She'll be raised in the Hall with the other unfortunates and the servants' children: a space on the kitchen floor to sleep, food to eat when everyone else is done, and chores as soon as she's old enough to do them.
âShe'll talk when she's ready,' says Kelya. âShe just needs time and kindness.'
But it's a busy place. There's not much time or kindness for a child who would rather hide than play with the other children, who bites if anyone tries to read the name-sign on her amulet.
And though the last thing Kelya wants is for Aissa to say her name out loud, where the Lady could hear, she does want her to be accepted. She sits on the stone bench with Aissa on her knees, smoothing olive oil into
the black curls to comb out the twigs and tangles. Sharp tugs bring tears to the child's eyes but she never cries, not the tiniest squeak.
If I hadn't seen her tongue myself, Kelya thinks, I'd swear the raiders had cut it out. She finishes combing, and plaits Aissa's hair into two long tails. âLovely!' she says, kissing the girl on the tip of her nose.