Cicada Song

Even long after the air turned cool the smooth rock bench kept its heat. It had been soaking up the sun all day, a stone-solid heat sponge, now insulated by the limp and lumpy blanket I must have been.
Eyes closed, I couldn't see the sunset but I could hear the night-shift of critters and creatures roll in like a wildlife documentary in surround sound. And the red inside my eyelids slowly turned a purpley black that swirled messily as my mind continued to tinker.

I listened to the insect symphony. The whole park, from tree to turf, was alive with musical bugs. Soon the bats would take the night’s mantra to its climax as they fought over the mangoes. Until then the cicadas had the spotlight.
Self conscious to begin with, they tested the acoustics and made sure there weren't too many listeners. Initially suspicious of me, they quickly discerned that even though the new lump on the bench looked like a human, even dressed rather nicely and with a shock of black hair at one end, it was not as noisy or fidgety as most of the humans that had stepped on them and therefore must have been some cleverly disguised breed of moss. Satisfied with their reasoning they went on with a sly crescendo.
As the light waned further and the symphony faded into its second movement I tried to analyse the parts. I decided which animals played which instruments. Then I went deeper and wondered what all their names were, what had brought them to the music industry and if we'd get on if I met them. I might have been dreaming. I might have gone insane. Either way I was tranquil.

The cicadas were just starting to enjoy themselves when they were pulled quite suddenly out of their musical reverie and into a sheepish buzz by the sound of feet strolling down the path.
This was not what I wanted. They'd come along and they'd notice me and they'd ask me questions and I'd have to explain why I was there, either lying and smiling and then hating them and myself as they walked away or I'd tell them the truth and confuse them.
The feet slowed and stopped.
“Are you going to offer me a seat or am I going to have to sit on you?”
Life and feeling came flooding back to my body as I realised who it was.
I opened my eyes, filled them with her features and, smirking, replied, “Whichever you prefer.”
My joke for the day. It wasn’t much but it made her smile. Remembering how to move my legs, I slipped them off the bench and sat up, much to the cicadas' alarm.
With a “thank you,” and a smile she stepped up onto the stone and stood there for a second, making sure it was a comfy seat. Then she turned and sat cross legged, sideways on the bench so she could look at me when she spoke.
“You tired?”
She knew the answer, but it was a conversation starter. I nodded. I wanted to say why, even though she knew that too. I sighed and tried to work up a sentence.
“Things are stacking up,” was all I could manage.
“I know,” she agreed, so calm. I envied her. “People are looking for you. It's harder to get away than you'd hoped.”
“It's going to get harder,” I told her. “I'm nowhere near the end of all this.”
“I know,” she repeated.
“And you don't want to be here when things get worse.”
“I don't even want you here when things get worse.” In her eyes her calm was slipping. “This shouldn't be how it works.”
“No, but it's how they work.” My voice was shaking. “And they're in charge...”
I'd been trying to avoid it, but I guess if there was anyone it was safe to weep with it was her. I cried, thinking maybe they were right. Thinking how puny and useless that would make me.
“I can't do this on my own, Asha.”
It sounded like a line from a pulp romance novel. But it was the truth.

And then I felt her hand on my cheek. She had the same warmth as the sun-filled stone. Infinitely softer. Infinitely stronger.
But she was crying along with me.
“I know,” she said.
Mutual need. It was comforting. We held each other, kissed all fear and doubt away.
The cicadas were silent. There was no wind. Time had frozen so we could dry each other’s tears.
The park and the bench were cold by then. I hadn't noticed.
Eventually time unstuck itself and went on its way, grumbling about the hold up. We remained oblivious until we were ready to go.
“We’re right, you know,” she told me as we disappeared together. “We’re irrational, but we’re right.”
Optimistic at last, I smiled. I revelled in our strength and relished what she’d said:

"We are right.”

“Well then. Shall we save the world?”
“Oh, do let’s.”

A yellow half moon had risen. It grinned like the Cheshire Cat.

In the grass below the bench one cicada whispered, “You don't think they heard us do you? I mean the symphony's nowhere near performance standard yet. What if they were critics?”




By Daniel Grey,  March 2005...