Susurrus

1

Full of ancient mysteries, her dark amber eyes. Her soul light shines clear and strong, a beacon of sad desire.2

I lie in night’s humid grip, waiting for her touch.3

Wanting her words.4

That affirmation.5

Silently though, she steps forward, moving her outstretched hand away from my face to indicate the worktable on my other side.6

I know what she has come for.7

Sensing a presence, I woke minutes ago in complete darkness. All I heard were shrill choirs of jungle frogs and night insects. I lay tensed in the hammock, primed to react at the first hint of a stalking or slithering down the taut ropes.8

Across the clearing, embers settled in the main fire by the rest of the camp. A sudden flame spread a dim orange hue through the thick fog that had settled. Flickering light barely illuminated the area where I’d set up, intentionally apart from the others.9

In the subdued flare, I saw her.10

Cautious, she takes another step, eyes pleading.11

The flame and its suffused glow are fading. Not looking away from her, I slowly reach to the table. She opens her mouth and I hear an excited murmuring, a sound like dancing light, like dragonflies’ flight made music.12

She’s quickly silent again when she sees me feel for the torch up-ended on the corner of the table. I press it on. A glimmer leaks around its bottom edge, but then I move my hand down and slide the rubber shaft up until the internal lamp casts just enough light not to dazzle.13

Keeping my hand on the table, I steady myself, easing my body upright and turning to sit in the low-slung hammock, almost looking her straight in the eye. I see her better now.14

She’s only a metre tall. Naked, her coppered body is covered with fine hair, the colour of cedar. Her physique is normally proportioned except for slightly long arms. Her development – the breasts more than buds, the filling hips – shows late adolescence. Her facial features are flattened, like the skulls. And then there are her eyes, their amber luminous now, instantly belying any suggestion that she – her kind – is not human.15

The old farmer led our team through seemingly trackless forest to the limestone cave. He knew the land intimately, telling us he’d trapped specimens years before when the fauna was still legally marketable – and more numerous. The remote cave, he said, was where his grandfather had helped to drive away the ebu gogo, the little people, after they’d stolen a human infant. That was the last time the islanders had seen the mythical creatures.16

The cave floor was undisturbed. We were excited – as much as staid anthropologists can be – when our first investigation revealed an abundant surface layer. We’d expected another tedious excavation, sifting through strata, and hoped to discover remains to equal the first homo floresiensis find from the now world famous Liang Bua cave. I was shocked, too, by the violent scattering of bones on the cave floor. I could have been looking at a small, more recent, killing field.17

The project progressed, the team coolly collecting, cleaning and cataloguing, measuring, sketching and packing. My own work focussed on an alcove that proved to be rich in floresiensis artefacts.18

At the end of every day as we sorted our finds for later academic study, the old farmer appeared in a starched white shirt, his skin like pitted mahogany a stark contrast. He said he came to give respect to his ancestors. Odd, that, but he would say no more.19

Earlier today – yesterday? – he stood by my worktable as I arranged a new set of small stone tools, all crafted with an unexpected degree of sophistication, and all sized as if for a child’s hand.20

But the article I placed in the middle of these points and blades made him gasp. He hurried off into the jungle, looking back once, his eyes lit with a rapture that wasn’t born of any missionary-placed zeal.21

And that artefact has somehow brought her. It’s why she now stands so bravely, so brazenly within my arm’s reach.22

She gestures for it, reaching out further. Her small breasts sway with a gentle undulation. She notices my quick glance. The hint of a smile plays at the corners of her mouth, and she speaks – sings – again. I detect a shift in tone. Her timid pleading has disappeared, replaced by a bolder teasing. Her eyes, too, are now coy and playful. I don’t know what she’s saying, but my body’s unwilling arousal recognises her timeless sounds. Primeval memories unlock, triggered by this subconscious stimulus.23

Moving closer, still speaking – still entreating, still seducing – she places her small hands on my free arm, lightly caressing, and leans into my thigh, softly rubbing herself against me. I can smell her now, a haunting musk infused with ripe papaya.24

With my hand on the table I pick up the artefact, and, cradling its nesting bird shape in my palm, bring it between us. We sway together as the hammock moves. Her warmth presses my side, but she’s oblivious. She looks at the bird with a silent awe, as if beholding a holy relic. Then she picks it up, and plays: the ocarina sounds like a lost nightbird, like her speech. The tune weaves threads of time into the night.25

I didn’t show the rest of the team, wanting time for my own appraisal, to confirm another groundbreaking discovery. My intuition and initial analysis told me this tiny instrument was far older than the surface layer where it had lain, hardly contemporary with the bones my colleagues hunched over. The bird’s ancient clay surface had a shiny, worn patina, suggesting frequent – and recent – use.26

This addendum to the still-unfolding story of homo floresiensis, this incontrovertible proof of their musical capability, would even further shake the old foundations of the Drs. Jacobs, those critics and sceptics of this newly discovered species. But I hardly expected that its members’ survival, and their use of language, that touchstone of humanness, would easily influence any fundamental change of theory.27

And if they – if even the species’ proponents – were actually presented with the living, speaking, warm, human flesh and spirit? Could I take that responsibility? Could I bear the consequences for my visitor? Or could I delay – prevent – the revelation?28

She stops playing. An echoing susurrus in the fog sustains the melody, and I realise I am hearing more voices in her language, carrying the song among the trees, faint but distinct among the ceaseless forest choirs. I feel I am listening to a benediction. What are they telling their deity?29

Night’s damp chills my skin as she steps back. The joy filling her eyes is tinged with sadness, regret. As she moves away she stops within the soft circle of my lamp’s light and looks back, the ocarina clutched to her heart.30

She beckons with her free hand, then turns to leave.31

I rise, following into the fog, into the dark.32

- o -33

All rights reserved, © Colin Crombie, 2004, -o- AyeWright Productions. Copying without permission for non-personal use is forbidden.34

visit www.ayewright.com35