I burned the Meadow a couple weeks ago. At first it looked like nothing but charred ashes and dirt, with a few scorched green patches, and I was afraid I'd done something terrible. But then the sprouts emerged. Tender new leaves swarming the soil.
My brother and I were outside after dark the other day, to see if any lightning bugs would emerge yet. We had been working on digging the pond. That old soggy spot in the middle of the yard that we called "poor drainage," that always splattered mud over our legs when we ran across it as children—it isn't a failed lawn, and it never was.
Oh, we tried to fill in the mud puddles, even rented heavy machinery and graded the whole thing out, but the little wetland still remembered. God bless those indomitable puddles and wetlands and weeds, that in spite of our efforts to flatten out the differences that make each square meter of land unique from another, still declare themselves over and over to be what they are.
So we've been digging a hole. A wide, shallow hole, with an island in the middle.
And steadily, I've been transplanting in vegetation. At school there is a soggy field that sadly is mowed like any old field. The only pools where a frog could lay eggs are tire ruts. From this field I dig up big clumps of rushes and sedges, and nobody pays me any mind when I smuggle them home.
I pulled a little stick of shrubby willow from some cracked pavement near a creek, and planted it nearby. From a ditch on the side of the road beside a corn field, I dug up cattail rhizomes. Everywhere, tiny bits of wilderness, holding on.
I gathered up rotting logs small enough to carry and made a log pile beside the pond. At another corner is a rock pile. I planted some old branches upright in the ground to make a good place for birds and dragonflies to perch.
And there are so many birds! Mourning doves, robins, cardinals and grackles come here in much bigger numbers, and many, many finches and sparrows. I always hear woodpeckers, even a Pileated Woodpecker here and there. A pair of bluebirds lives here. There are three tree swallows, a barn swallow also, tons of chickadees, and there's always six or seven blue jays screaming and making a commotion. And the goldfinches! Yesterday I watched three brilliant yellow males frolic among the tall dandelions. They would hover above the grass and then drop down. One landed on a dandelion stem and it flopped over. There are several bright orange birds too. I think a couple of them are orioles, but there's definitely also a Summer Tanager. There's a pair of Canada Geese that always fly by overhead around the same time in the evening. It's like their daily commute.
The other day, as I watched, I saw a Cooper's Hawk swoop down and carry off a robin. This was horrifying news for the robin individually, but great news for the ecosystem. The food chain can support more links now.
There are two garter snakes instead of one, both of them fat from being good at snaking. I wonder if there will be babies?
But the biggest change this year is the bugs. It's too early for the lightning bugs, but all the same the yard is full of life.
It's like remembering something I didn't know I forgot. Oh. This is how it's supposed to be. I can't glance in any direction without seeing the movement of bugs. Fat crickets and earwigs scuttle underneath my rock piles, wasps flit about and visit the pond's shore, an unbelievable variety of flies and bees visit the flowers, millipedes and centipedes hide under the logs. Butterflies, moths, and beetles big and small are everywhere.
I can't even describe it in terms of individual encounters; they're just everywhere, hopping and fluttering away with every step. There are so many kinds of ants. I sometimes stare really closely at the ground to watch the activities of the ants. Sometimes they are in long lines, with two lanes of ants going back and forth, touching antennae whenever two ants traveling in opposite directions meet. Sometimes I see ants fighting each other, as though ant war is happening. Sometimes the ants are carrying the curled-up bodies of dead ants—their fallen comrades?
My neighbor gave me all of their fallen leaves (twelve bags!) and it turns out that piling leaves on top of a rock and log pile in a wet area summons an unbelievable amount of snails.
I always heard of snails as pests, but I have learned better. Snails move calcium through the food chain. Birds eat snails and use the calcium in their shells to make egg shells. In this way, snails lead to baby birds. I never would have known this if I hadn't set out to learn about snails.
In the golden hour of evening, bugs drift across the sky like golden motes of dust, whirling and dancing together in the grand dramas of their tiny lives. I think about how complicated their worlds are. After interacting with bees and wasps so much for so long, I'm amazed by how intelligent and polite they are. Bumble bees will hover in front of me, swaying side to side, or circle slowly around me several times, clearly perceiving some kind of information...but what? It seems like bees and wasps can figure out if you are a threat, or if you are peaceful, and act accordingly.
I came to a realization about wasps: when they dart at your head so you hear them buzzing close by your ears, they're announcing their presence. The proper response is to freeze and duck down a bit. It seems like wasps can recognize if you're being polite; for what it's worth, I've never been stung by a wasp.
As night falls, bats emerge and start looping and darting around in the sky above. If the yard seems full of bugs in the day, it is nothing compared to the night.
I'm aware that what I'm about to describe, to an entomophobe, sounds like a horror movie: when i walk to the back yard, the trees are audibly crackling and whirring with the activity of insects. Beetles hover among the branches of the trees. When we look up at the sky, moths of all sizes are flying hither and thither across it. A large, very striking white moth flies past low to the ground.
Last year, seeing a moth against the darkening sky was only occasional. Now there's so many of them.
I consider it in my mind:
When roads and houses are built and land is turned over to various human uses, potentially hundreds of native plant species are extirpated from that small area. But all of the Eastern USA has been heavily altered and destroyed.
Some plants come back easily, like wild blackberry, daisy fleabane, and common violets. But many of them do not. Some plants need fire to sprout, some need Bison or large birds to spread them, some need humans to harvest and care for them, some live in habitats that are frequently treated with contempt, some cannot bear to be grazed by cattle, some are suffocated beneath invasive Tall Fescue, Kentucky bluegrass, honeysuckle or Bradford pears, and some don't like being mowed or bushhogged.
Look at the landscape...hundreds and hundreds of acres of suburbs, pastures, corn fields, pavement, mowed verges and edges of roads.
Yes, you see milkweed now and then, a few plants on the edge of the road, but when you consider the total area of space covered by milkweed, it is so little it is nearly negligible. Imagine how many milkweed plants could grow in a single acre that was caretaken for their prosperity—enough to equal fifty roadsides put together!
Then I consider how many bugs are specialists, that can only feed upon a particular plant. Every kind of plant has its own bugs. When plant diversity is replaced by Plant Sameness, the bug population decreases dramatically.
Plant sameness has taken over the world, and the insect apocalypse is a result.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
“So what’re ya thinkin’ fer supper?” asks Quyt into Akiya’s shoulder. Still in their work clothes, they’re snuggled up safely in their shared cot. Even without the security a door provides, it’s comfortable enough in the ladies’ bunkhouse. Shapes flicker like shadow puppets across the thin privacy curtain as other workers pass by, on their way to and from their own shifts. The evening is young, and there’s still plenty of money to be made, rubes to be had.
“Zaofu.”
“We’re better off savin’ up.”
“The monorail’s free while we’re in town. S’what I heard.”
“Hrmph…”
“C'mon! Zaofu has real food! Not just food; cuisine!” Akiya reaches up toward the ceiling with one hand, as if beseeching the heavens, and clenches her fist. “I swear, if I have one more deep-fried cabbage-on-a-stick, I'll barf myself to death.”
Quyt pushes herself up onto an elbow and smirks. “Fellas’d probably pay t’see that, actually.”
Akiya clenches her jaw to suppress a grimace. She doesn't do sideshows. Girls are always expected to get their tits out for extra cash, and hers have an exclusive engagement. Even shill work beats the sideshows. Before the ticket booth gig, her main job was tending the circus animals between sets. It was messy but straightforward, and none of the hog-monkeys ever asked her to take her shirt off.
“We can afford a night out. Look,” says Akiya, sitting up. She reaches into her jacket and pulls a tightly folded paper envelope from an inner pocket. As soon as it’s free, it pops open, sending loose change tumbling all over the cot. “Dangit!”
“Where’d ya get all that? Knock over a candy stand?”
Akiya snatches up a coin before it can roll off the edge and drops it back into the envelope. “Walk money, mostly. Not bad for a day’s work.”
“Mostly?”
“I found some of it on the ground.”
Quyt sits up and narrows her eyes.
“Hey, it’s not like I’m shortchanging anybody! If townies wanna leave a little cash lying around, it goes in my pocket, is all,” says Akiya. “Like a tip,” she adds with a shrug.
“Not so high ‘n’ mighty now, are ya?”
Akiya rolls her eyes. “I never said fortunetelling was wrong. I’d just feel weird lying to people like that.”
“You think that’s what I do all day?”
“You mean, what you do all day in the tent with the signs all over it proclaiming magical knowledge of the future?”
“That’s just some spooky showmanship. Gettin’ in their heads. Lettin’ their guards down.” Quyt cups her hands in front of her. “You think I’d get any customers if I walked up to ‘em holdin’ a bowl o’ oily water?”
“I dunno. I’d be curious.”
“Tell ya a secret,” says Quyt, leaning closer. Her big, turquoise eyes manage to gleam in the paltry light of their bunk. “The water’s the thing. The trick is gettin’ ‘em lookin’ at the shapes while I lookit them. You c’n tell a whole helluva lot about a fella if he doesn’t know he’s bein’ watched.” With a smirk, she leans back against the bunkhouse wall, and Akiya relishes the way her hair rustles like soft hay. “I tell ‘em what I see. Throw in a few educated guesses so they don’t feel cheated. They like it. They expect it.”
Akiya joins her girlfriend against the wall, shifting her weight carefully to avoid hurling loose coins off of the cot. “I seem to remember you telling that jerk-ass he was gonna have three kids. If that was an educated guess, then I’m a Dai Lee secret agent.”
Quyt giggles. “That was an outlier an’ shouldn’t be counted.”
the creators struggle of "yes I absolutely made this for myself and I should absolutely appreciate that I made this thing that turned out amazing and be proud of it on that merit alone" vs "man it'd be cool if everyone liked this thing I made as much as I do"
the default way for things to taste is good. we know this because "tasty" means something tastes good. conversely, from the words "smelly" and "noisy" we can conclude that the default way for things to smell and sound is bad. interestingly there are no corresponding adjectives for the senses of sight and touch. the inescapable conclusion is that the most ordinary object possible is invisible and intangible, produces a hideous cacophony, smells terrible, but tastes delicious. and yet this description matches no object or phenomenon known to science or human experience. so what the fuck
As friends of convenience go, Heng and Solongo are alright. They buddied up in Bumi’s class just this week, a trio of misfits. Heng, the ex-Terra Triad bruiser. Solongo, the aging Zaofu socialite. And plain ol’ Hana.
It reminds her of elementary school, when every student just socialized with the classmates they sat closest to. But her two fellow novitiates are friendly and close enough to her age to have a decent conversation. Her only complaint is Heng and Solongo’s flirting, which has really ramped up the past couple of days. She’s played the third wheel enough times to know it’s not for her.
The three of them are leaving the dining hall one evening when Bum-Ju appears right in front of them, which is normal behavior for most spirits but not for him. Solongo’s busy giggling at something Heng just said, so Hana’s the first one to notice the spirit’s frantic gesturing.
“Something wrong?” Bum-Ju nods, followed by a series of chirps and trills. He stops when she holds her hands up. “Look, I’m sorry. I don’t understand. Can you just—” And off he goes, a cyan streak down a nearby footpath. Without a word, Hana follows, using her gust-skipping technique to pick up speed.
It’s as dark as the bottom of a well when she catches up, at a spot on the path far away from any lamps and beneath trees that block the moonlight. With only Bum-Ju’s gentle glow to rely on, she doesn’t see Bumi at first. He yelps when she bumps into him.
“Oh, sorry!”
“Whozzat?” As her eyes adjust, she sees him doubled over, hands braced on his knees with his butt in the air. It’d be hilarious, if not for the pain he’s obviously in. His legs are trembling with it.
“It’s, uh, Hana.” She hears two sets of footsteps close behind. “Solongo and Heng should be here in a sec.” She’d worry about them tripping in the dark, but unsurprisingly, most airbenders are good at avoiding that.
“Aw, c-crap.”
She crouches down, close enough to make out his clenched jaw and sweaty brow. “Are you hurt?”
“M’back.”
“Chirrrup!”
“Not helping, Bum-Ju,” he snarls through gritted teeth.
“Oh, what’s happened?” asks Solongo as she steps into the light.
“Was pettin’ a baby lemur,” explains Bumi, miserably. “Threw my b-back out.”
“Wow, a baby?!” says Hana, like an idiot.
“It ran away.”
“Oh.”
Hana stands back up as Heng steps forward. He takes one of Bumi’s hands and says, “Okay, teach, let’s go.”
“N-n-no, not not not— Ssss!”
“You’re hurting him!” says Solongo.
“I’m helping! We can’t just leave him here.”
Hana places a hand on Bumi’s lower back and understands. Whatever the problem’s root cause may be, the muscles there are spasming something fierce. Trying to walk him to safety will be torture if he can’t relax. “It’s okay,” she reassures him, moving her hand lower. She pokes her thumb and forefinger into a pair of pressure points near the base of his spine. There’s a subtle click, like releasing a clasp.
Bumi groans and eases himself upright, to Heng and Solongo’s surprise. After his miraculous recovery, he protests as they all escort him to the dining hall, but they still do it. Anyway, it’s not like they can see where they’re going without Bum-Ju.
“Well, you can say you rescued an old man for your nightly chores, if anybody asks,” says Bumi as he eases onto an outdoor bench. Bum-Ju immediately settles on his lap. As Hana and Solongo sit to either side of him, he scoops the little spirit up in one arm and cradles him, rubbing his fuzzy little belly with a thumb. “Thanks for the reinforcements, buddy,” he whispers. Bum-Ju purrs back, which Hana finds both adorable and slightly uncanny.
“Oh, but helping you isn’t a chore,” says Solongo.
“Yeah, and you’re not old,” adds Hana.
Heng gives a little huff. “Don’t argue with the man.” Standing over them with his arms crossed, he exudes a macho confidence that reminds Hana of her dad, and she likes him a lot less all of a sudden.
Bumi squints up at him and says, “It’s fine, Heng. We’re all friends here.” Then he turns to Hana. “And you’re sweet, kid, but I know what I am.”
While she has no intention to argue, Hana can’t bring herself to think of Bumi as old in the “elderly” sense. He’s much older than she is, obviously, but she’s never met anyone else even half as full of life. In the brief time she’s known him, he’s always approached every day as a shiny new opportunity, like a little boy. How could such an exuberant, happy-go-lucky person ever get old?
“Y’know, when I was a young man, I never got sick or tired or hurt, aside from some scrapes and bruises,” says Bumi. “Maybe it’s all finally catchin’ up to me.” He scratches a sideburn, and Hana watches his expression go soft and wistful. “Did you guys ever hear about the time I trained to be a commando in the United Forces?”
All three of them shake their heads, and Hana grins because it’s about to be Bumi Story Time.
“Well, this was when I was maybe 21. Lemme tell ya, I was a piss poor soldier. Sloppy. Mouthy. A little crazy. Probably the main reason I didn’t get discharged is a couple of my stunts made my squad look real good. And I could make the staff sergeant laugh. That guy loved some slapstick.”
“So you were, what, the mascot?” asks Hana. Then she covers her mouth, suddenly sure that was a very rude thing to say.
Bumi just smiles. “Heh. Not far off.”
Solongo chimes in, “Would they really have discharged the Avatar’s son?”
Heng shifts his weight impatiently, but keeps his thoughts to himself.
“Avatar’s son? Who, me? Nah, I was some nobody named Bato Watermoon.”
Hana snorts into her hand. “Wait, wait,” she can’t help but interject, “you lied to the military?”
“Hey, I didn’t want any special treatment!” Bumi flutters his free hand for emphasis, bending a tiny gust that ruffles his hair. “Anyway, the commando thing. I heard about it from this one gal in another squad, since she was applying. Thought it could be my calling, or something I could at least be good at. There was some… other stuff, too. Not important. But getting away from my old squad sounded pretty sweet.”
Hana makes a mental note to ask about the other stuff sometime.
“Gave me a physical as part of the application. I’d had normal check-ups every year, but this was something else. They were really insistent on checking my butt for some reason. Must’ve liked what they saw, since I passed with flying colors. I think it got me fast-tracked ‘cuz I was outta there in a couple of weeks. Got sent to this special training camp that made boot camp look like a tickle party. Barely had time to think between the psych tests, teamwork exercises, contests, physical trials, and more medical check-ups. Over a month of that, just to see if we were up to snuff. Only half of us made it to orientation, and then Hell in a Handbasket.”
“Wh—” Hana shakes her head, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, what? Handbasket?”
“S’what we called it. The real training. Everybody who made it through orientation got shipped to another, specialer camp and put in units. It was just, ugh… months of the most grueling crap, with a team of psychos chewin’ us out the whole time.” Bumi grimaces at the memory, then perks back up. “But I kicked ass! I really went for it, just to see if I could. I maybe wasn’t so good at memorizing protocol, but I got top marks in every practice run. By the end, they had us running on a few hours of sleep a night. There was a lotta mindless marathoning. Swimming, jogging, rock climbing, y’know. All in full uniform. But we executed full mock missions, too. I don’t actually remember a lot of it… Pretty sure if I tried it now, I’d just keel over and die. One guy almost did!”
Bumi pauses for dramatic effect, glancing around at the three novitiates hanging on his every word. Hana’s sure she sees his eyes actually twinkle.
“Yeah, this guy Vo. He was in a different unit, but we were doing the same trial that day. Deep sea diving. Water colder than milk from a witch’s tit! Hah! I’d finished, so I was taking a breather when he came up. He was barely moving, so they had to drag him to shore. I watched him throw up what must’ve been a gallon of bloody phlegm. A full gallon, at least! I swear!”
“That’s simply awful,” says Solongo.
“Yeah. It was. Yeah. It got everywhere.” He shudders. “Everywhere.”
“But he was okay?” asks Hana.
“He didn’t die.” Bumi shrugs. “But he was dropped from the program. And so… for the next swimming trial, I swallowed a buncha seawater, bit the inside of my cheek open, and got myself dropped, too.” He sticks his tongue in his cheek and swirls it around, waiting for their reaction.
“You took a dive,” says Hana flatly.
“Ah, wordplay! I like it. 17 points.”
“You quit?” asks Heng. He looks genuinely confused. “But you were the best.”
“Yeah? And it turned me into a miserable asshole. I got so focused on being on top that I didn’t care about everyone else struggling to keep up. I had to see a guy almost die to understand how bad it actually was. No, I got scooped up by the rangers instead. Good thing, too.”
“You could’ve been a great commando, though.”
“I, uh… dunno about that. By that point, I’d figured out I wasn’t a killer. Could never work up a bloodlust, or go in cold, even. ‘Cuz that’s what a commando does. When they get sent in, it’s because someone up top decided it was time for bad people to die.”
“So you never killed anyone?” asks Heng in a tone bordering on the incredulous. Hana almost tells him to shut up, but she’s curious, too.
Bumi’s expression doesn’t actually change, but the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth seem to deepen. Maybe it’s just the moonlight.
“…Not on purpose.”
Lying awake that night in her hard, hard bed, Hana plays the scene back in her mind again and again. Maybe she’s looking for something, some precious clue in the story or the way he told it. But a clue to what?
Had things gone a little differently, that strange man she’s become so fond of could’ve made a career as a killer. Instead, he chose peace. Whatever darker things he may have seen and done in his life, that’s still worth something.
“Your dad must’ve been so proud of you,” she whispers, wishing she’d said it to him for real.
stormborns
theartofmadeline
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