The Tribe Who Sang to Trees by Jackie French

Author:Jackie French
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ligature Pty Limited
Published: 2021-11-09T09:59:48+00:00

Chapter 8

Captive

She was at home. But somehow, even in her dream, Possum knew it wasn’t the House of a Hundred Animals. It was her old home. She was in her old bed at Three Jasmines, with Big Wattie in the kitchen.

There had to be a honey flow. The angopheras must be flowering, for the whole household smelt of honey, the hot, sweet smell that rose as the cappings were cut off with the wide hot knives (knives that were beaten thin and sharp at Iron Fist), heated on the fire in Three Jasmine’s kitchen. The comb was tossed into the cappings bucket for the honey to drip out. Cappings honey, sweet and thin. And then the real honey dripping, dripping, dripping, dotted with bees’ knees and bits of wax, into the giant pottery jars, cold as the flagged floor.

The household smelt of honey, a sweet, too sweet scent. The smell of honey everywhere, so she longed to escape, to climb the ridges and smell the wind, to leave the Valley, to be free …

‘Gheat!’ The voice was rough above her. ‘Gheat!’

‘What?’ Possum woke as a toe nudged her side. ‘Gheat!’ ordered the voice again.

It was one of the bee women. Her hair was shiny with wax, her face marked with strange tattoos. Bee markings, thought Possum blearily. Each different tattoo probably meant something to the tribe. She wondered if Gon’s face had been tattooed too and if the mud had hidden it. He must have covered himself in mud to protect himself against bee stings.

The woman put something on the floor. She gestured, then checked herself, as if she suddenly realised the newcomers wouldn’t understand. ‘Gheat,’ she insisted again, and left. The door shut behind her, cutting out the light.

‘What is it?’ whispered Possum, looking at the bowl on the floor.

‘Food,’ said Mopoke. He hadn’t slept, realised Possum. Even in the dim light she could see the shadows under his eyes. ‘That’s what she was saying—eat.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Gheat—eat. It’s the same word, it just sounds different. Like the Families of the Golden Plain sounded different, and the Tribes and the Metal Men. These Bee People use the same words too, they just say them differently.’

Possum sniffed at the bowl. It was made of woven grass like the hut, but finer and sealed with beeswax so it felt soapy to the touch. The food smelt sweet, but looked peculiar—a mash of many things.

Possum tasted it gingerly.

‘What’s it like?’

‘All right, I suppose. I think it’s just wild seeds and smoked wallaby, all boiled together with honey.’ She tasted a bit more. ‘It’s food anyway.’

‘You think it’s all right to eat it?’

‘I don’t think they’re going to poison us, if that’s what you mean. That’s not how bees kill their enemies.’

‘How do they kill them?’ asked Mopoke.

‘They suffocate them or they sting them to death,’ said Possum.

‘Oh,’ said Mopoke. He wasn’t sure he’d really wanted to know.

Possum held the dish over to him. ‘It’s not bad once you get used to it,’ she said.

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