Northern_Lights_2021

42 I should be glad I can even make it to Ayati, even if it means pillaging the abandoned stores to keep her and her oilseeds alive. After entering the store, I carefully navigated the island of trash that had coagulated in the center. Some bread, a jug of water, a floating container of rice cakes, moldy yellow corn. Taking the most edible scraps off of the dry part of the island, I put them into the small burlap sack at my side. The soft slopping of the water echoed off the walls as I waded back to my boat. Remembering its chill, I yanked on the metallic handle of the door quickly. I hear a light crunch and rip my hand away from the door. I froze, my mind catching up to my sensations. I flipped my hand over and saw what I feared. The yellow shell of a bug stood out on my skin, only halfway masked by the sea-blue blood oozing from its shattered surface. I dropped everything; the burlap bag splashed in the abyss of the flood. My boat, not ready for my panic, slid out from under my weight. I barely noticed and scrambled in anyway, rocking the vessel into the flowing street. It didn’t make sense. I hadn’t seen one locust, yellow or otherwise, anywhere. I thought I had a few days at least, but my hopes melted into the flood as I saw it hovering over the church, hanging in the east. An enormous swarm, the color of bile and pus, floating under the sun. The center was dark but glowed in the evening sunset. The edges blazed with heat and purulence. In the middle of the street, I could see the first raindrop fall. I couldn’t stare, I needed to row. Ayati’s windows remained unboarded and her oilseeds uncovered. Winning was impossible. A raindrop cannot outrun a rain cloud. Ayati was where I left her. She stood like a useless sentinel over her garden. The locusts descended minutes before I got there, carving their way through her home. The boards of the house creaked and clattered under the pressure of wings and legs and teeth. Every inch the flies touched rotted with their smell. My bare arms reeked insects and rain. Ayati was already yellow to the core; her midnight blue skin seemed withered with flaxen flies. “Ayati!” was all I could say as I splashed through the needles of rain to her porch. Grabbing her by both arms, I forced her through the screen door of what used to be her home. It was the locusts’ now, at least the outside was. I had left boards in her basement along with nails and a hammer. I clawed my way to each window and nailed it shut, board over board, until even the rain couldn’t get in. Running from end to end, I slammed each door shut, making sure to lock them against the tapping on the other side. Tap, tap, tap, tap, like the drumming of fingernails on a table. The swarm threw itself on the house again and again. After every door was sealed, I stood panting in the entryway, trapped by the sound of the plague. I could no longer see into the front yard, but I didn’t need to. I knew the oilseeds that Ayati loved, the ones she stayed back for, fighting the flood and the solitude, were gone. There would be no leaf, no healthy root, no green color left. Ayati’s blue-green life turned flaxen-black in a night. Not even . . . an hour . . . maybe even twenty minutes. Ayati had fallen to the floor after I pulled her through the door. She was silent and still. I dropped the hammer from my waist and helped her up. She would not raise her head. It would be dark soon. I led her to her room, the farthest room from the front window. I left her lying on her bed. After closing the door, I could barely hear her say to the house: zarē mata t’iru ḥilimochi yelumi…weyimi nege No good dreams tonight. Or tomorrow.