“What is it?” I asked.
Will turned to me, his face stunned, “Grasshoppers. Hundreds of them.”
“Where did they come from?” Rachel said.
“Out of the sky,” Thomas told her.
William had returned to his place at the window. “They’re in the garden, in the fucking corn!” He turned to me. “They’ll eat everything!”
It was like being hit in the chest with a lump of ice. That was our entire future growing out there. Every shoot, every slowly growing ear was needed to pay for our winter supplies.
“Get sacks,” I said, gesturing for Rachel to go through the supply chest. “We’ll cover the garden.”
“Cover the well too. Boy, load up the tub with chips and any wood that’s left. We’ll smoke them off.”
Leaving Beth inside with Nora we ran out into the fall of grasshoppers. The ground was already covered in them and as more fell they bounced off of our shoulders, scrabbled on our backs, getting caught in our hair. Rachel screamed and I squealed despite myself. Under my feet the insects turned to green-brown sludge, I could feel them crunching under my boots.
The well cover was a handful of planks nailed together, but I lifted it over the hole in the ground and weighted it with stones. Rachel and I threw our sacks over the small plants and tried to shield them from the clicking, leaping insects. It was no use, the grasshoppers were too fast, there were too many. I could see the green sprouts being eaten up before my eyes. Everywhere their shiny eyes bulged, their jaws worked and the sounds of their chewing, of their hopping only grew louder.
Rachel started to wail, and I saw that she had several of the things, each as long as my forefinger and twice as thick, tangled in her hair. I scooped her up, hurrying back to the soddie. With shudders running down my spine I pulled the grasshoppers from her hair and threw them down on the ground, then pushed her inside and slammed the door.
There were grasshoppers in my skirts, and my underskirts. I pulled each one off and threw them into the stove, where they smoked and popped in the flames.
“I don’t want to go out again Ma.” There were tears on Rachel’s face.
“I won’t make you, there’s no point.” I rubbed my hands over my face, then looked at them, they were stained with juice, like tobacco spit. I screwed my nose up. There were brown stains on my clothes and Rachel’s too.
The smell of smoke crept into the soddie. I peered through the window to see a fire at the edge of the corn field. There were more grasshoppers than there was bare earth, the whole ground was crawling with them. I watched between the shutters as they continued to land, tumbling over each other in their search for food.
William and Thomas ran through the door a little while later, both streaked with sooty smuts and grasshopper blood. I helped beat the insects from their clothes, threw them into the stove.
“There’s nothing to do,” Will said, scrubbing his smoke reddened eyes with one hand, “Too many to keep them off the corn. They’re eating it right down to the ground.” He cast about him, looked at me - we both knew we were ruined.
He sank into a chair and put his head in his hands.
Rachel was holding her sister like a doll and we all looked about us, listening to the march of the army outside. We all knew there was nothing we could do.
I had Thomas play cards with the girls, read them what he could from the Bible, just so they wouldn’t be too frightened. Myself, I was terrified. Without the corn and wheat, there’d be no supplies to get us through winter. Without the grass, without the turnips, what would we feed the oxen? Our money was being eaten out of the ground, every last cent.
The only times that the grim cloud on us let up was when a grasshopper squeezed under the door, or through the window shutters. Then Thomas would run to snatch it up and burn it before it could hide under a tick, or between the chest and the wall.
William went out into them to fetch back a bucket of well water at noon. We had to fish nine of the insects out of it, but it was clean, so there was that to be thankful for.
That night I lay awake to the sounds of grasshoppers everywhere. It felt like we’d been dropped straight into hell.
*
With the invasion outside, work came to a standstill. I was restricted to what little fuel we had in the house, so we ate corn mush made quickly over a tiny fire and potatoes baked in the ashes. For three days I tiptoed around William, feeling his mood gather and darken like a storm on the horizon.
I worried for Cecelia, alone and without experience. She had no well of her own, and I knew that since she’d built her home she’d been relying on snow and rain water. She had some kind of water barrel, but how long would that last? How was she coping, alone with the sound of the insects? We had no idea how Jamison and Hattie were fairing. Their crops, planted so late, were probably in better shape than ours. The grasshoppers couldn’t eat what hadn’t sprouted yet.
On the morning of the fourth day William snapped. I’d just cooked up some mush for breakfast, as I was stirring the salt into it a grasshopper fell from the ceiling and plopped into the thickened corn. I spooned it out, looking at its claggy body for moment, before William grabbed the spoon and flicked the insect into the fire.
“God fucking damn it!” he threw the spoon down on the table, making Beth jump. Rachel took hold of her sister’s hand and shushed her. Like me they’d been waiting for him to go off. Thomas watched his father from his seat on the tick beside Stick, who whined.
William kicked the leg of the table, the whole thing tipped sideways. Beth started to cry, choking on her own sobs in an effort to keep quiet. I went to her and picked her up, ushering Rachel away from the table with my other hand.
“Fucking grasshoppers. This. Fucking. Place!” He grabbed the empty water jug from a shelf and threw it at the wall, a shower of dirt hit the floor. I jumped, clutched Beth tighter, pushed Rachel behind me.
“Will, please.”
He stopped, chest heaving as he drew breath, his face mottled with rage. He was sweating, and dropped into a chair and covered his face with his hands.
“There’ll be nothing left,” he said, finally.
I put Beth down beside Thomas. “We’ll manage, somehow.”
“We’ll starve,” Will spat, “every single one of us. There’s nothing we can do. Nothing.”
I said nothing. He was right. By the time the grasshoppers left, if they ever intended to, there would be nothing left of our crop.
“I’ll get the water,” I said. “You shouldn’t have to go out there every day.”
William didn’t respond, just sat and glared at the rough wood of the broken table.
Outside, the clicking, humming sound of the grasshoppers was far louder, like a thousand mouths chewing tobacco and sharing gossip. Almost at once I felt the insects hopping against my skirts, dropping onto my shoulders from the roof of the soddie. I walked quickly, shaking my body slightly to rid myself of them.
All the grass was gone, some brown wisps blew here and there over the soil like hair on an otherwise bald pate. The new green of the garden had been eaten up, leaving only sticks that I’d put in for the vines to grow up. Even those had been chewed. The turf on the soddie had been gnawed bare.
Pulling aside the well cover, I tried to keep the grasshoppers out of the water below. It was an impossible task, as they’d already eaten holes through the cover itself. When I hauled up a bucket of water it was tinged brown. The bodies of grasshoppers floated in it. I fished them out. It was the only water we had.
Hauling the bucket back to the house, I looked out towards Cecelia’s soddie and saw only a dull brown brick against the parched dirt of the prairie. There was no time to linger outside.
Back in the soddie I shook out and burnt a handful of insects that had clung to my clothes. The water tasted foul, even after I’d boiled it, but we drank it anyway.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Cecelia
I’d thought that I’d experienced the ve
ry worst of what Indian Territory had to offer, from wolves at my door to howling snowstorms, blistering heat and crushing loneliness. What else could the prairie have in its arsenal of unpleasant tricks? It was only when the grasshoppers fell from the sky that I realised how stupid I’d been to tempt fate, to make plans. I felt as though I was being punished for thinking that I could have a new life, after running away from my old one.
Punished for everything I’d felt and done since meeting Laura.
They ate everything. Not just the crops and the grass, but the sacks I’d put over parts of the field, trying to save it. They ate the bristles from my broom, the boards of the smoke house and the paint from my schooner. When I battled my way through the thick layer of grasshoppers to get to the barn, I found the remains of the shirt I’d put out to dry; barely more than a collar and some buttons clinging to a frayed piece of shirtfront.
The worst thing was the thirst. The barrel I’d set up for catching water in the winter was less than half full by that time. I had to ration out the stagnant water, one cupful at a time. One cup at breakfast, one at dinner. I couldn’t mix up mush or cornbread because I didn’t have the water to spare, and there was so little around to burn in the stove anyway. I ate smoked venison in strips, which only made me thirstier. When those ran out I chewed dry meal mixed with a little preserve.
The mustangs got a cup each, morning, noon and night. Missy was thirsty too, and I gave her one cup a day of water to drink. She still whined for more and lay by her bowl with glazed eyes, staring at nothing.
I waited for rain, waited so long that I thought I’d go mad; weeks passed but none came. I thought of going to Deene, to his well, but he’d been so enraged when he last came to my door. I thought he might shoot me on sight. I watched my water running out, too hungry to think straight, knowing I would die if it didn’t rain soon, fearing I would be killed if I crossed the prairie to beg for help. I worried about Laura a great deal, but I knew William was made of harder stuff than me. He was cruel, but he would see to it that she survived.
A week passed and the grasshoppers showed no signs of leaving. The dirt outside started to swirl in the wind, too dry to stay packed down with no grass to keep it there. The wind swept the grasshoppers too, piling them against the side of the soddie up to two feet deep. The level of water in the barrel dropped day by day, until there was barely any left.
I didn’t have enough water in me to cry, even when I carried Missy’s limp form outside, laid her on the ground. Screwing up my eyes I hit her in the head with the stock of the rifle. She made no noise, but blood ran out over the parched ground. I would have stayed by her body, but the grasshoppers were already swarming.
There was no way to bury her, the dirt was light but under it the soil was baked to a brick. It was the grasshoppers that picked her clean, leaving only bones and a few strips of furry hide, weathered to a no-colour under the sun.
Twelve days after the grasshoppers came, I walked into the barn and stroked the dry noses of the mustangs.
“Hey, shhh now,” I said, as one snorted and stamped. They were thirsty, hungry. The grasshoppers kept getting into the barn and eating what was left of the fodder. There was no grass outside for them to eat. Grasshoppers leapt at their legs and onto their backs and they twitched all over, ears rotating to take in the relentless chirruping whirr of the grasshoppers’ noise.
Leading them out into the sunlight for some exercise, I felt my legs shake. Their eyes were big and scared in their thin faces, and we’d taken but a few steps when the smaller of the two, my private favourite, stumbled and fell to the ground. Grasshoppers were crushed by her flailing body and others jumped onto her twitching hide. She screamed and rolled in the dirt.
I couldn’t do anything, backed away and covered my mouth with my hand. The noise was terrible. The other mustang shied from the body of its partner and whinnied, sidestepping on its weak legs. My body ran with cold sweat as I went to the house and fetched out the rifle.
I didn’t do it right. The mustang whinnied shrilly, eyes big and white. Blood gushed into the parched soil from her neck, seeping away almost immediately to leave a black stain. I shot again, and this time her body went limp, save for a twitch in one hind leg. Most of her soft face was gone, fragments of bone and pulped brain speckled the dirt.
I stood and retched, but nothing came up.
The other mustang was rolling its eyes to the whites, pulling on the tether that held it to the edge of the barn. I was scared to go near her, and just stood under the hot sun, looking at the bloody dust. When I led her back into the barn, she was quiet and laid down immediately, exhausted.
With nothing else around for them to feast on, the grasshoppers swarmed over the mustang’s body and the bloody dirt around it. I had no food left. It had been days since I’d last eaten, and I had only a little water. I took a knife to the body, carved off pieces to cook over my stove. Broken wood from my empty smoke house made a good fire, it was drier than hay. I could hardly wait for it to be cooked and ate some bits bloody. I cooked and ate as much as I could, knowing the rest would quickly rot in the heat.
The next day I heard rifle shots from the Deene farm. Looking from my window I saw the small form of Laura standing by the brown shapes of the fallen oxen. I wanted to go to her, to them, and beg for water, but my legs were almost too weak to hold me up. As it was I could barely stand at the window.
My legs were so weak, I sank to the floor and crawled to my tick, lying with my face turned into the rough sacking material. All around the grasshoppers whirred and clicked. The water had run out. I wasn’t strong enough to go and get more.
I was going to die.
I’d been so stupid to put off going for help. So Deene may have had it in him to shoot me; nothing would be worse than thirsting to death, I knew that now, but I couldn’t bring myself to get up. My body might as well have been dead already.
It grew dark, then light again, I couldn’t keep track of the days. I slept for parts of them, not sure if the light I woke to was the same day I’d closed my eyes on. All the time the grasshoppers made their din. I half-slept, cried with dry eyes and no sound. It got harder to think, harder to find words to think in. My tongue was swollen and dry, my eyes sore. I started to wish for it to be over.
At one point I heard knocking. Frantic little taps at the door, my name, my real name. I tried to sit up, when that failed I tried to call out, but my voice was gone. A tiny sob came out through my nose, was someone there? Laura? It sounded like her, her voice rougher and cracked. I looked up at the door, which I’d bolted from habit out of the fear that wolves might come upon me as I slept. It swam before me.
There was a thumping at the door, scraping at the shutters. I tried to move even my fingers, but they hardly twitched. My lips were cracked and blood a welcome wetness on my tongue. I mouthed her name but couldn’t make a sound, heard hoarse sobs and footsteps stumbling away.
Silence came and swallowed me up.
I tried with everything to make some sound, to lift myself, but however long it’d been since I lay down, several days at least, my body had given up. I couldn’t even stay awake. I closed my eyes for an instant to the bright light and opened them to total darkness. The world was already moving on without me. Day to night, night to day. I couldn’t stop them rushing past.
Then the voice came back, saying a word that I didn’t immediately recognise as my name. Please let it be her, even if it was only an illusion, it would be better than nothing at all, than the blankness and the grasshoppers.
I realised it was a man’s voice, felt a soul deep rush of fear. Charles had come at last to punish me. Why hadn’t I died already? Was God really that cruel?
“Cecelia?”
I saw the wink of sun on a knife blade slid between the door and the frame. The latch lifted.
I was dead. It wasn’t real. The face above me was claimed by a black cloud, streaking in from the distance until it swallowed everything.
*<
br />
I woke up on my tick. For a moment it seemed that the whole thing had been a fevered dream, but when I opened my eyes he was still there.
Franklyn was above me, spooning water to my lips. When he saw that I was awake he sat back on his heels.
“Cecelia?” he had on travelling clothes, trousers in a hard wearing black fabric. “What have you been doing out here?”
I tried to sit up, grabbed for the wall as my strength failed me. Franklyn leapt forward and helped me to lean against the sod. He took a flask from beside my bed and held it up.
“Drink. Don’t worry, I brought plenty out with me. You’re lucky I thought to buy a wagon to sleep in. I think the poor people in town were selling it off in a hurry. I felt quite bad over the price, though I didn’t haggle, and they threw in quite a lot of dry goods to get a few more cents out of me.”
It was water, not cold and certainly not fresh, but the best that had passed my lips in days. I gulped it down.
“Christ,” I heard him murmur, “Cecelia…”
I put down the empty flask and wiped my mouth with my hand. “There’s no water here.”
“I know. There’s nothing here. Only those insects, over everything. I’ve got another flask here. Drink all of that. Do you even have food in this place?”
I shook my head. “All gone.”
“I’ve got some.” I saw for the first time the two bundles on the floor. “I’ll get you some and then you can tell me what on earth brought you here.”
“A stage,” I said, “then a wagon…and then me. I walked.”
“Very funny. You know what I mean.” He went and opened one of the bundles, pulled out brown paper parcels and made a disgusted sound. “I’ve been out here almost a month now and this is all they’ve been giving me to eat. Mush. Beans. Cornbread. Has no one here heard of pastry?”
Night Fires in the Distance Page 21