Third Prize Third Equal Prize Story Winner
2023 Short Story Competition 

CICADA’S SONG
By Nethmi Peiris

When I look over these orchards I am reminded of that summer’s day. The sultry heat that beat down from above, the cicadas song so raucous it drowned out everything until all you could hear was the blood rushing in your ears.

~

My uncle’s long weathered fingers peel an over ripe orange, dirt under his nails from toiling in the fields all day but I don’t mind, the dirt becomes a part of your life in the countryside. The sharp tang of citrus hangs heavy in the air, the juice dripping like nectar down his arm and onto the rickety old porch we sat on, my feet dangling over the edge, new bright green frog sandals gleaming in the sun.

“Here you are Bug”, he hands me a slice, I accept it gratefully, biting into the bittersweet flesh, letting the juice run down my face. He lets out a rumbling laugh at my contentment, putting his own slice in his mouth, lips puckering as the sour hits his tongue.

“I heard from your Nana that you’ve been busy, how many did you collect today?”, he asks, I lick the juice off my fingers and flash him a wide gap toothed grin.

“Guess.”

He pretends to think, stroking his stubbled chin in dramatic contemplation. “Eight”, he finally says with conviction, lifting his bushy brow and I shake my head, my unruly curls flailing as a small gleeful giggle escapes my lips.

“Fifteen.”

His jaw falls slack, mouth open in a wide “o”, I scoff at his mock disbelief digging into the pockets of my dungarees and pulling out a flimsy plastic bag full of crackling cicada shells and dumping them on the porch. “Fifteen, I counted them myself, there’s heaps on the trees by old man Harvey’s house.”

He chuckles, rubbing at the dirt on my nose, brushing aside the dust and the leaves that adorned my dungarees, “I don’t doubt it, don’t let your mama see you like this.”

I poke my tongue at him. “Don’t worry I wont.”

~

That was this noon, now I sit at Nana’s old farm table, clumsily slathering a generous dollop of cream on my scone, my cicada shell mission momentarily forgotten. Nothing good comes from working on an empty stomach, I think sagely as the cream mixes with my Nana’s homemade marmalade, forming a gooey concoction. There is chatter around me but I pay it no mind, more focused on my scone than what the grownups were discussing. Snippets of the conversation drift past me, my mama’s light laughter as she talks to my Nana about a new gown she had bought, my uncle’s deep tones usually laced with humour quite serious as he talks about the heat wave, the orchard and this year’s harvest with grandpa.

“It will be a struggle keeping the new seedlings alive in this heat.” he says, my grandpa grunts with agreement.

A piece of scone drops from my fingers and I gasp under my breath, reaching down under that table to try grab it off the worn wooden floorboards.

“All you do is talk about the crops these days Jay”, my mama’s voice, “the heat wave is here to stay, talking about it every second of everyday is not going to make it end sooner, or on that note make it rain.” She laughs, she has a pretty laugh, dainty, delicate and warm like a meadow buttercup.

Having given up my futile battle of trying to reach my piece of scone from my seat, I drop down and crawl under the chequered tablecloth. I make sure to avoid my bag of cicada shells I had tucked away near one of the table legs out of Nana’s sight. At the sound of mama’s laughter, I look towards where she’s sitting , next to Uncle Jay, his hand on her thigh. Uncle Jay, papa and mama have always been close, they grew up together since they were wee babes, so I am not surprised when I catch his gaze linger on her lips, or his hands graze her hair, her shoulders, her arms. Little things that showed his affection for her.

I didn’t know then that this love was wrong. That papa not being around much didn’t make it right. That there were lines that shouldn’t be crossed and why grandpa sold his beloved orchard instead of giving it to Uncle Jay, like he always said he would once he realised papa never wanted it.

Triumphantly I grab the piece of scone off the floor, blowing on it and stuffing it in my mouth before Nana sees and decides to scold me for eating food off the ground. Nana was always nagging, I wish she would be more like Uncle Jay who would probably eat the scone crumbs off the ground with me.

~

After tea, I go out looking for more cicada shells. Hunting for them is a full time job. A sheen of sweat coats my brow as I reach for the thin branch above me, huffing as my fingers graze it but don’t wrap around. I reach for it once more and a scream catches in my throat as I lose my footing and nearly tumble down from the tree. Steadying myself, I gingerly clamber the rest of the way down. My hands are trembling, the tips of my fingers an angry raw red where they hugged the bark. It hurts. My frog sandals are no longer gleaming. Tears well in my eyes and I sniffle, clenching my little fists in frustration. I wanted to show mama how many I collected, and the more the better but I don’t want to try my luck again. Brushing myself off and calming my thudding heart, I toss a withering glare at the thirty-second cicada shell perched so tantalising out of reach.

~

When I finally wander back home, my bag satisfyingly full and my feet sore, night has fallen. There are cuts on my hands and a bruise on my calf from my near tumble but I ignore them as I heave myself onto the porch, sitting beneath the lantern that glows softly in the darkness. Moths fly at the light only to have their powdery wings singed and fall softly to the ground. I can hear my mama’s voice drift from the open window of her bedroom, mingled with Uncle Jay’s rumbling laughter, soft murmurs and sighs, the sound of sheets rustling. I wonder what they are talking about, maybe it was about the orchards, that’s what all the grownups seemed to be talking about these days, that or the heat wave.

I keep counting the cicada shells. There were thirty-one in total, not bad for a hard day’s work, mama would be pleased and so would Uncle Jay. I wonder if he will lift me upside and swing me around the kitchen again as a reward. I smile thinking about it. Nana’s voice calls us for dinner, the smell of her stew hangs in the air and I swallow hungrily scooping the shells hastily into my plastic bag.

~

I ladle stew into my chipped bowl trying not to spill again, it’s my favourite bowl. There’s toadstools and frogs painted in a ring around it. I hear Nana go off to get mama and Uncle Jay, there is the sound of the door to mama’s room being slammed open, raised voices, angry voices. The ladle drops from my hand as I startle, hot stew spilling onto the floorboards

Everyone is screaming, there’s thudding footsteps that enter the kitchen. I am under the table once more reaching for the ladle worried sick that Nana was going to yell at me. I watch as my bag of cicada shells falls from the table onto the floor, scattering, being trampled beneath angry feet, all my hard work crushed, I wonder faintly how many are whole.

There is an ant trail beneath the table, carrying crumbs from my dropped scone from tea time earlier that day like they were the spoils of war. I watch it all unfold from underneath that table next to the marching ants, thick herby stew smeared across my lips, small sticky hands clutching the table cloth. There is the sound of plates crashing, things being thrown about my grandpa’s voice loud, angry, broken. He never raises his voice.

I flinch as Nana’s worried eyes peer from beneath the chequered cloth, her hands are rough when she grabs me from under the table, clutching me to her bosom. Old gnarled fingers cover my ears. She smells of honey, of herbs, the heady scent of summer and the faintest whisper of lavender soap.

It’s hot, the cicadas are gone, my fingers burn from the stew, it’s all so loud. I close my eyes and wrap my arms tighter around Nana, burying my face in her chest, and that’s when I hear it, deep inside her ribcage, drowning out the noise outside, the cicadas song humming in time to her hammering heart.