These
are the fruits of promises made. They bear the weight – so firm, feel it – of
sworn oaths and crossed hearts.
At dusk
they flourish, growing ripe and heavy and hot, like a new-born baby. They grow
off spindly branches, half withered, amidst weeds and lone bushes, out of
sight. Come sunset, it would be easy to
pluck them. Warm as skin and heavy as a pheasant, yet only the size of a human
palm, they snap clean off the branches without so much as a rustle.
You
would be surprised at how many there are. It often takes me the whole night to
pick my fill, and then some. People make promises too easily. And not too many
last, which I am happy with, seeing as how I have no use for the un-spoilt
fruits.
The bad
ones, you see, are the best kind. The kind that you can gorge on, all the
pleasure minus the guilt. Just one fruit alone, as big as a persimmon, could
fill you up so you could barely move.
The
beginning of the year is the best time for harvest. New Year resolutions, fresh starts and blank slates, all
of them waiting to be broken and sullied. Unfortunately, that is also the time
when competition is the toughest.
We are
scavengers. Parasites, if you must. Names don’t bother me; I see it as
Darwinism. We do what we must to survive, though there are those who think we
don’t deserve to exist.
Every
broken promise costs you your blood, whether you notice it or not. Often, you
don’t. You just feel a little light-headed at the thought of that little act of rebellion, of defying
expectations. That is when the fruits grow swollen with blood, so heavy they
bend the branches, staining the soil scarlet.
Tonight,
the branches will sag, the fruits ripe and oozing, ready for our taking.
Tonight we will race to harvest.
*
Sean:
My
brother was late. And the weather was snappy. The first observation annoyed me
more than the second. Wayne was late, when he specifically told me he wouldn’t
be. He even promised.
I had
just about worn out the pavement when I heard the sound of his sneakers
scuffing towards me. In my hand-me-downs, he looked, as always, like a kid
playing grown-up, but my little brother could never grow up, not when he was
this absent-minded.
I
folded my arms. “You’re late.”
He
flicked his too-long hair out of his eyes and stared up at me. “I’m sorry. I
got here as fast as I could.”
“If you
don’t want to come, just say so.” I was being tougher on him than I had to, but
he needed to know the importance of keeping promises or he’d end up like our
parents.
His
eyes widened. “I want to. Really. Come on, Sean.”
Wayne
seemed different than the last time I’d seen him, even though it was only last
week. He seemed to have grown more than I expected him to.
“Whatever.”
I gave him a light shove and he punched me back.
The
cemetery was deserted. Even the most valiant joggers had called it a day as the
storm pressed closer down on us. But Wayne was bent on this. Ever since I
showed him the fruit, the one stained with juice as sticky as blood, he had
been eager to look for them himself.
“I
don’t see it anywhere,” Wayne complained.
I took
him down a dirt path flanked by untrimmed rows of hedges. “It’s not in plain
sight.” Nothing was, on this island. Not tears or smiles or fruits. People here
were a private bunch.
The
clouds pressed down on us, making us quiet and breathless as we cut to the
heart of the cemetery. My brother’s hair went wild in the wind, but his eyes
were bright and focused.
It took
me a while of squinting in the dark to finally locate the fruits. But there
they were in the darkened bushes. Most of the leaves had fallen off, so the
branches were bare and bent from the weight of the fruits. The fruits, though,
with rivers of juice running down their sides, were fat and gleaming and red.
There were a lot fewer than the last time I’d seen them, so I supposed I wasn’t
the only who had discovered them.
“There.”
I pointed. “See it?”
Wayne
raced to the bush and pressed his face close to the fruit. The soil around his
feet was damp and stained red. Wayne reached to pluck one off. It broke off
from the branch easily.
He
stared closely at it sitting on his palm.
“Is it
edible?” he said.
“No.”
“How do
you know?”
“We’d
find them in the supermarket if it were.”
“Still,
that doesn’t mean it’s inedible.”
“Are
you going to risk it?”
Wayne
ignored me. He flung the fruit to the ground, so that it burst open at our
feet. Red juice splattered everywhere, staining our shoes and jeans, my
t-shirt, Wayne’s face, and the soil around it. Wayne laughed, then plucked
another fruit off the branch and smashed it against the floor. More juice
splattered. His sneakers looked like it was vomiting blood.
“Cut it
out, Wayne,” I said, leaping back. There was a strong metallic smell coming
from my stained t-shirt.
It was
a familiar smell. It reminded me of the last time Wayne and I had gone cycling
and I had suffered a nasty cut from skidding past a thorny bush. The cut had
been deep. It took ages for the bleeding to stop.
I
joined my brother, who had gathered a pile of those strange fruits and was
trying to stuff as many as he could into his backpack. His hands were stained
like a murderer’s hands.
“I
wonder if people will buy these blood fruits,” he said.
“Blood
fruits?” I picked out a particularly large one from the pile. It was heavy and
warm in my hand, almost like a live, breathing thing.
“I
mean, doesn’t this look like blood to you?” He showed me his palms.
It
looked too much like blood, and smelled like it too. I reached out to touch a
glistening pool of it on the ground.
There
was no doubt about it.
*
April:
The air
is prickly tonight, a snarling creature with its hackles raised. I tread slowly
but surely, my mind on the image of bloated fruits, my ears pricked for sounds
of competition. My vision is useless here, so I focus on how the wind shifts
around me, how the night creaks like a door loose on its hinges.
The
cemetery may be quiet, but I know better than to trust the silence. Darkness
breeds another world of monsters like us.
My
brother has decided to gain a
head-start and left before night settled in properly. As eager as I am to
harvest, I am not as foolhardy. The best fruits are meant for the fiercest
monsters.
I can
spot their tracks in the soil, at least a one-metre radius beyond the roots.
Sneakers. Boots. Regular footwear for creatures disguised as regular people.
A
squeak. I still. Here, the ground is wet almost all year round because of the
dense foliage. Apart from the noble kind, even the most fleet-footed find it hard to be stealthy.
Voices.
Not one of my ilk, then. Scavengers would know to be quiet. They have to be
Traders, the ones who think they have all the authority to be here picking
fruit.
But
most Traders will have gotten what they want by now. Few will linger to mingle
amongst the likes of us.
I
clutch the fruit in my hand. The weight of promises is comforting.
I am so
hungry. The fruits are harder to come by these days, as Traders offer more of
them to the noble kind. Soon, there will be nothing left for us.
From a distance comes a pair of voices - an older male
and a boy. I keep within the shadows, where the air is musky and is unaffected
by the imminent arrival of the storm.
"I can't promise you that, kid," the older
one is saying.
My ears prick at the magic word.
"Why not?" the boy asks. "You're old
enough to take me with you."
"It doesn't work that way. Dad's been given
custody of you. There's nothing I can do."
"I hate it at Dad's. He's never around."
"I know, kid. I know."
"But we'll all be together again, right? Dad says
we will. He promised."
The older boy snorts. "Unlike him, I don't make
promises I can't keep."
My stomach growls, so loudly I fear they must have
heard me. I tuck myself into the bushes and dive into the fruit.
Warm juice explodes in my mouth and smears all over my lips. I am seized with the
familiar rush of power, one that makes my body tremble and my head spin.
The
fruit tastes sharp and bittersweet, and I feel the prickle of all those
promises people failed to keep, the bite of disappointment and guilt. It fills
me up like no other food can.
At
times like this, it almost comforts me that I am not quite human.
*
Sean:
When I
saw the girl, crouched in the bushes, half-obscured by the branches, I thought
I had to be running low on
sleep. Ever since the relocation, there had just
been so many things to do that sleep was a luxury.
But the girl wasn't a product of my exhausted mind.
She was right there, fruit in hand and a couple of stray leaves tangled in her
hair. For the most part, though, she looked like a normal girl my age. Except
that her lips were stained with the juice of the fruit. She closed her eyes as
she licked her lips. Juice trailed down her hands in rivulets, and dripped onto
the soil and the front of her navy-blue blouse.
I felt like I had walked in on a private, naked moment.
She was about to dive in for another mouthful when her
gaze caught mine. The evening air hung like a sword above our heads. I lost
count of how long we stayed this way, her crouched on the ground and cradling
her fruit, and me in an awkward stance that I didn't dare to shift out of. I
couldn't look away. She looked almost inhuman, like those feral children I'd
seen on TV. Except she wasn't a child - her eyes revealed that much.
We had both frozen in that long drawn out moment. Her
hooded eyes on me, she seemed as incapable of movement as I was. She was
waiting, just as I was. For what, I had no idea. But the air was still and
buzzing, clear and foggy, all at once.
Then Wayne's voice cut through the muggy night,
startling both me and the girl.
"Sean!"
The girl's gaze snapped towards my brother, but mine
remained on her. She took one final look at me, then scurried away into the
browned bushes just as Wayne appeared next to me.
"Sean." He trailed my gaze and peered into
the bushes. "What are you looking at?"
I took a while to find my voice. "Nothing. Come
on, let's go home." I took in his pregnant backpack, stuffed full with
what we came to the cemetery for, and gave him a look. "Really?"
"Why not?"
I shook my head. There was so sense in rationalising
the things my brother did.
*
April:
I know what it is like to be hunted.
But this does not remind me of one. There is no rush
of wind at my feet, or the rustle of leaves or snap of twigs behind me. There
is only my rapid, shallow breathing that takes up a space of its own.
I stop. Somewhere along the way, I have dropped the
fruit. I am alone in the dark with my wild, thumping heart.
It feels almost disappointing, to be set up for a
pursuit when none comes, until I remember I am the one being pursued. I always
am.
A voice jolts me to attention. Michael says I startle
too easily, and I suppose he's right.
The voice I heard to my left, it sounds like him. But
that's impossible. The eastern corner of the cemetery is Traders' territory. My
brother would be stupid to venture near there, no matter how hungry he is.
But another cry makes me crash through the wizened
bushes.
Beyond the row of bushes is a clearing, an unkempt
patch of land that is meant to deter trespassers and thieves.
If I take one step further, I shall be one of the
trespassers.
After my feet crosses the line, I hold still for a
long moment before taking the next step. Nothing has beset me. My heartbeat is
a wild, rampant thing.
I press on.
There are fewer Traders than I expect. But that
shouldn’t be surprising. They have greater means to conceal themselves than we
do. The lone Trader I see is a lanky man with an equine nose and pebbly eyes
that gleam in the dark.
My brother sprawls on the ground in the middle of the
clearing. His long, messy hair is plastered against his clammy face. When he
spots me, his eyes widen.
He makes to call my name, but winces as though stunned
by an invisible rod.
It is too late to hide now.
"Another of your kind, I see," the Trader
says. "I recognise the stench."
“Let him go.” I can’t imagine how my voice is not
shaking, given how hard my entire body is. “Please.”
“No scavenger can be spared who trespasses on our
territory.” He points a finger at me. “You included. What more of this thief.”
His upper lip curls as he glances down at Michael. “A changeling, yet so
brazen.” He raises his hand.
“Wait!” I cry. “Let him go. I’ll give you whatever you
want. Please.”
Michael shoots me a look. “April. Shut up.”
But I can’t shut up. He is the only family I have
left.
The Trader throws his head back and laughs. “I have no
use for your meagre offerings.”
And he’s right. He is a Trader, one who serves the
fairies. What can I possibly give him that the fairies have not already given
him?
“A promise.”
“Again, what can you offer that I don’t already have?”
“A promise from someone who doesn’t make promises.” My
heart drums hard and fast, though not as fast as the words are emerging from my
mouth. “The fairies need never know.”
The Trader narrows his slit-like eyes at me. “I serve
the fairies.”
“You serve yourself, and we all know that.”
Michael’s brows rise. I am just as surprised as he is
at my audacity. The gloved hands of a Trader leave no room for second chances.
Finally he says, “One week.”
“One month.”
The Trader's lips thin. "Do not push your luck,
Scavenger. Two weeks. Or he dies." He throws another look down at Michael.
I blink, and they are gone. The crook of the cemetary
feels well and completely empty.
