9 Tales From Elsewhere 8

by 9 Tales From Elsewhere

  “If humans can do it, so can I,” he declared.

  “Don’t be stupid,” I snapped. “Humans are much larger than stone crabs of any size.”

  We lived in a rosebush by the sea; Musk had insisted it had a good spot by a mangrove forest, where the little crabs grew with baby fish. I helped spear the little ones on needles and roast them on hot coals. At times I played several notes on my flute, the language of the wind and the waves, and charmed stubborn crabs onto the spears.

  Musk that night didn’t listen to me; I could have tweaked his nose for that. He saw crabs skittering across the concrete road, while we were sweeping stray leaves off our rosebush, dressed in his leaf and charged before I could grab his ear. A pink crab hoisted him in the air and tore him in half. He squeaked.

  Crabs do not nibble. They don’t even wipe the slits that they have for mouths. They merely stare with beady black eyes, pinch, and swallow. I know this because I watched, for a few minutes, my mouth open. My flute hung from my waist, hollow and cold.

  The crabs approached me, hesitant. My husband’s blood still smeared one’s lips. My fingers found the flute, pressed it to my lips. I played. The song of anger and vengeance came out, of grief.

  I have read in some human books that crabs do not have proper ears. Even so, they turned on each other and started to fight. The longer I played, the more vicious their jabs and tears became. They did not squeak, but their black eyes glazed over. Soon a pile of dead crabs, mixed with my husband’s remains, littered the pavement.

  “Musk, you idiot!” I shouted at the blood smears. “I could have caught adult crabs without charging at them! Why do you men all have to be fools?!”

  That night, I packed my tiny bag of bulbs; flutes, spare needle and thread, and took off before anyone could hear me keen. My insides have hardened so that I can no longer cry, but my heart was soft as jelly mush and I knew I had to leave before I threw myself to the seagulls that arrived every dawn.

  #

  Before my husband died, I didn't notice humans the way he did. Our kind lets time wash over us like waves on a rock, so that we only erode at the edges. At the time, however, time seemed to yank me around in circles, so that I saw my husband squeak over and over again as I walked.

  When I saw a different rosebush, I noticed its lopsided stems, the red pot rooted to the ground, the yellow-green buds drying out. My feet, lumpy and grey, poked at the filthy pot. It moved an inch. The roots didn't tear, however; the pot would not abandon that.

  This will suit me fine, I told myself.

  I heard footsteps, big ones. That sound made me jump into the pot, cover myself in soil, and hold still. My breath came out in tiny gasps.

  Metal pincers cut through the soil, ripping out leafy stems that shed cheap blossoms. A pincer scraped my big toe; I grunted. No pain felt at all.

  A large human stood. The ones with long hair and fruit-shaped bodies tend to be female, and this longhaired human resembled a pear hung upside down. She had thick pink and white gloves caked with dirt, and each glove clenched a fistful of dirt and plants. She tossed the plants to the side as if they were trash, and picked up a strange can that sloshed with liquid.

  Water rained down; I spluttered but remained still. This girl didn't notice. She watered, and then set the can down.

  "Alba!" Someone called. "Did you get the mail?"

  The female turned. Her expression twisted until it resembled rotten fruit.

  "Yes, Mom!" she called. “There wasn’t much!”

  She moved the half-full can so that it stood by the bush, squatting on knees as large as oranges, and then ran off. The grass under her feet sprung up almost as soon as she ran over it. She wore plastic black shoes with holes over the toes that slipped and slid on the grass.

  I crawled out of the soaked soil, sputtering a bit since some water had gone up my nose. Then I looked up. There was a large planter above the bush, whose edges were coated in dirt. The bush itself had lost several dried out rosebuds, and they littered the grass. I picked them up and clucked at the brown, crunchy buds.

  “Someone does care for the bush,” I said to myself. “Not very well, but that Alba girl tries.”

  #

  The Alba girl did more than tend the rosebush. She also cleared out vines and planted tiny seeds, watering them and adding pellets of foul-smelling plant food. The flowers took months to bloom, but when they did she eagerly checked them, and kept looking to the bees that buzzed around the yard. She brought out books with pictures of butterflies, and read them by the rosebush and planter. I sometimes peered from my hiding spot at the colored pictures, not understanding the letters.

  She wants the bees and butterflies to come to the flowers, I realized with surprise one day. Why doesn’t she just ask them?

  I took out my flute, and started to play. The language of the wind blew out of the hollow grass reeds, and brushed against crackling palm leaves. Each trembling breeze whistled into the nearest trees, and spoke of flowers dripping with golden nectar.

  The morning after, Alba came to weed the garden and water her flowers. Bees, birds and butterflies swarmed around her garden. She started with surprise as a hummingbird settled on her shoulder and flew off to sip from a stray foxglove. Slowly, a smile crept on her face as the bees bathed in the sun and rubbed pollen all over their black eyes.

  “Now there’s a smile,” I said aloud after she went inside the house. “Does you good, Alba girl.”

  Sometimes a male human accompanied Alba, on the days that a car wasn’t in the driveway. I had learned that Alba’s mother drove the car, while Alba rode a bike to and from places. Alba complained about it to the male human, whom she called Austin. Austin had a gold bob in his ear, and a beard that outlined his chin. He often smelled like grease and ocean garbage; Alba must have liked that smell because she kept sniffing his hair.

  My insides twinged every time I saw Alba sniffing Austin and talking to him. Musk and I had once talked like the humans did; every day I kept waiting for him to walk beside me, dressed in a fresh leaf.

  Humans who lived in the house next door were not as kind to Alba as Austin was. They were as large as she was, with crablike hands, and they often climbed the fence with metal irons or cans of paint. I heard the swish sound of them spraying red and yellow paint on her garage, words I did not understand but which made her knees shake. Several times I considered taking out my flute and making them dance to death, but then I remembered the crabs’ torn body parts and Musk’s blood stinking by our old rosebush, and I put my flute away.

  One evening, the car that belonged to Alba’s mother did not return but the lights were on in her windows. The house next door boomed and burst with sounds that for humans was apparently “music”. No matter how hard I played on my flute, I could not drown out the impertinent racket. The bees and birds flew away, unwilling to listen.

  Austin’s bike stood in the middle of the driveway. He had knocked on her door with a vase of blood-red roses and a shiny pink box that smelled of plastic and sugar. Alba had hugged him, sniffed the flowers, and kissed him on the mouth as I would have kissed Musk. Then they had stayed indoors for a good long while, while my head ached from the music and I wandered around the yard grumbling. Eventually I came to sit atop the planter with the butterfly and bee flowers, rubbing the nectar on my stony forehead.

  After a while, when the clouds had covered the round moon, Austin came out, stumbling. He strapped on his bicycle helmet and pinned a rose, one of the roses from my bush, to his collared shirt. I could smell bitter grapes on him, and also a tang of happiness.

  He wheeled his bike to the driveway, mounted it, and prepared for the long ride home. Neither of us hear the roar of the car as it swerved off the road and crashed into him, but I sure heard the smack and the tires screeching. And I definitely heard the giggling.

  A light came on from Alba’s house. A face pressed to the window, although I could not make out the details.

  Austin lay in a heap, crump
led under his bike. It twisted around him like a mangled bear trap. The humans who lived next door got out of the car and crowded around him, some holding green glass bottles.

  “Oh shit, we killed someone!”

  “It’s the dude that she was banging.”

  “What do we do? He’s not breathing.”

  “What do ya think, stupid?”

  They stood around for a few minutes, whispering. The few streetlights made them resemble northern ghouls. One of the humans peeled away and went to his house. He returned with a shiny black bag, which he opened up with a rude shaking sound. After it was open, they shoved Austin inside, folding up his limbs. He may have twitched, but it was hard to tell. The bag had a red tie. They shoved the bike into another bag, and it twisted the plastic as they tied a large knot. Then, opening the trunk to their car, they shoved both bags in, slammed the door, and drove away.

  The house’s front door opened and slammed. Alba, dressed in a thin white nightgown, slipped into flat black sandals and froze. Her lips moved and a low whine escaped her throat. Her knees shook, and her eyes were as large as dinner plates.

  She walked to the space where Austin had lain in a heap, and knelt down. There was no blood, no metal, and no sign of an impact. Another whine came from her.

  I would have gone to comfort her, except I knew that no comfort could ease the blow to her insides. Nothing had comforted mine.

  #

  I waited for music to die down. Alba went inside, eventually. She hugged herself and walked in a daze.

  Musk ran into battle, I told myself. Austin was attacked from behind. There was no justice in that.

  The minute the bad humans’ house silenced, and the horizon lightened to a pale green, I took out my flute and started to play. A different tune emerged, where the notes stretched and drooped in mourning. I added chords of anger, and grief, of the beer that the humans were drinking, the color of the car that they were driving. The palm leaves cracked as they carried my message to the beehives, to the roosting birds, and to the jasmine hedges.

  The girl has given you food, and all the plants you could wish, I told the wind. She deserves blood for her lover.

  The wind carried on the dissonant music and my cry for Alba. Then the wind responded, and told me what the birds, bees and jasmine planned. Through the whistling refrains, I could see the large car driving away, with the humans inside, and hear their delirious joy. I could hear the flapping of the birds and the buzz of bees that swooped below, and entered the square hole in the roof, the screams of the humans as the animals pecked and stung at their glee. The grass rustled with anticipation when the car swerved onto it, before growing and curling around the tires. The car gave awful screeches as the grass strangled it in a green pasture, with jasmine stems poking through the glass, smashing it, and lashing out at the humans.

  Strangle them, I ordered, making my flute notes high-pitched and triumphant. Envelope them in your deadly embrace, and only reveal them to justice.

  The bees only attacked once, for the soldiers perished after they stung human flesh. The birds kept on pecking and attacking, and the humans could not elude them while trapped in the car. They screamed and writhed, as Austin might have writhed if they had given him the chance.

  Yes, make them writhe. I ended on a high, sour note. Make them beg for their lives like pathetic little worms in the mud.

  When more humans arrived, in other cars, the birds retreated despite my song, but the plants remained. Jasmine and grass tethered the bad humans in the car, and wrapped around the bags that held Austin and his bike, ripping them open. The other humans, the ones who weren’t in the car, screamed when they saw his crooked neck and staring eyes.

  Thank you, I told the birds, bees and jasmine.

  I retreated to my rosebush, lying down in the soil. After a few hours, I felt well rested and got up. Her mother’s car did not arrive until early the next morning, and several black and white cars had arrived as well with flashing red lights. Alba, wrapped in a blanket, told the larger men and her disapproving mother what happened. She didn’t make eye contact with them as she spoke. They handed her a steaming brown drink in a white ceramic cup; she sipped it and winced.

  Alba’s mother tried to be reproachful. A few words of remonstrance passed between them, of Alba letting a boy into their house, but her mother’s voice held no bite. Alba let the words bounce off her.

  She spent her morning staring at the horizon, long after the police had left. Her mother came out, and let her cry; I could hear Alba’s sobs against the older woman’s shoulders. The comfort wasn’t enough, however. Alba stayed outside, letting the sun cook her flesh.

  This would not do, I thought, and I took out my flute. A different tune, one of understanding and love, came out of my instrument.

  Alba’s ears pricked up. She heard the melody, because this time it was aimed at her. There was she, still in her nightgown that had grass and dirt stains from kneeling on the road.

  The roses around me curled with pleasure. A bit of light entered Alba’s eyes, like the break of dawn against a gloomy horizon.

  THE END.

  BRIDGEWORK by Judith Field

  What’s the first thing you see when you meet people? My mate Karen says that the first thing she notices, about men anyway, is their left hand because she has a crafty look at it to see if they are wearing a ring. And she says the first thing she notices about women is their backside, she sneaks a peek at that so she can suss out the competition. My mum clocks their eyes, or clothes.

  But I don’t. I notice teeth. Good ones, I don’t remember after the first meeting. But bad ones? A deal breaker for me, especially when it comes to men. Well, would you want to kiss someone knowing there were a load of crowded discoloured stumps in there? Not to mention the breath.

  So it was only natural that when I left school I’d end up working in dentistry. I didn’t fancy saddling myself with five years’ worth of student debt, so I got a job as a trainee nurse, with dentist Natalie, otherwise trading as “Non-judgmental Gentle Dental Care Ltd.”. Although, I’m not quite sure the first word’s really me - I can tell you, I couldn’t fancy any of our customers Most of them looked like they were strangers to a toothbrush, with teeth all different sizes crammed in one behind the other like crowds pushing to get into the sales.

  I don’t listen when people make silly comments about needles, drills and all that. Dentistry is fascinating. It’s just like detective work, you can tell a lot about someone’s lifestyle from their teeth. Of course, it’s obvious when they eat a lot of sweets, but you know if someone’s fond of booze, if they smoke, even if they drink a lot of tea. There’s no hiding – your dentist will find you out.

  Natalie was chuffed to get the contract with Star Lodge residential care home. So was I, I think old people are cute. They seem so cheerful, somehow. Just like granddads and nanas.

  Most of the residents came to us for treatment, but for those who weren’t mobile we went there with a portable drill and a box of tools. One rainy afternoon just before Easter we visited to do some try-ins for a couple of bridges. We’d done all the impressions and stuff in the surgery but there was no need to drag the patients and the nurses out just for a first fitting.

  We went into the nurses’ office, hung up our coats and brollies and put on our white overalls. They were the usual high-necked dentist job, but I’d got mum to take mine in, so at least anyone who bothered to look could tell I had a waist. A nurse came in.

  “You can’t use the usual room today, we’ve got the decorators in. But nobody needs anything urgent, so just do Stanley’s and Mrs. Wright’s bridges for now. I’ve put them in the small lounge. Hope that’s OK.” A shrilling alarm sounded and she dashed back out again before we could answer.

  We washed our hands and pulled on thin rubber gloves. Picking up our bags, we walked down the corridor till we found the lounge. Nat stopped in the doorway and wagged a finger at me. “Now, Amy, I’m just going to have a word with
the manager. Until I get back, I’m tasking you with being proactive when you interact with the clients. Bridge the synergy gap between client and provider. Engage with them.”

  I rolled my eyes. “But I always chat to them. You don’t need to tell me.”

  “Empower them,” she went on, as though she hadn’t heard me. “Make sure they don’t feel marginalised.”

  Nat is full of that sort of talk. I think she must have been on a course some time because I can’t believe she’d always done it. I smiled to myself, imagining her telling her nursery teacher she was working smarter not harder. I wouldn't have been the slightest bit surprised just now if she’d told me to run one of the bridges up a flagpole and see who saluted. But she didn't, she gave me the two new bridges to look after and went off to engage with the manager (now I’m doing it too, must be catching).

  I went into the lounge. The walls were painted pale yellow, hung with a mismatch of hand-sewn tapestry pictures of biblical scenes and spindly-legged knights on horseback. A forty-inch flat screen TV on a table in the far left hand corner blared out Celebrity Antiques Road Trip to nobody. In the opposite corner a man wearing overalls held a tape measure against the wall. He turned and leered at me and I saw he had a gold crown covering his left upper central (that’s one of the two front teeth that people sing about wanting for Christmas). As if that wasn’t bad enough, it was inset with a great lump of crystal bling that was nearly as big as the crown. I gave him a smirk and put my bag down next to one of the arm chairs lining the walls, all different heights and widths like teeth with a misaligned bite.

  Two people waited to see us, sitting in the middle of the room. One was an old lady with dark pink hair, sitting in a recliner chair. She wore a flowery sack-like dress, white tights and pink fluffy mules. Her mouth was all pursed up like a cat’s bum smeared in pink shiny lipstick. That was Mrs Wright, she was the exception to the cute rule and God help you if you called her Vera. The other was Stanley, wearing a short sleeved shirt and a grey woolen tank top. He sat in a wheelchair with a crocheted multicoloured blanket covering the gap where his legs should have been. He was slim, with twinkly eyes. Old people always seem to have enormous ears, I read somewhere that they don’t stop growing. But Stanley’s were a bit pointed as well. It gave him a sort of otherworldly look.