The Soil Girl by Amy Bharucha
A woman gives birth to a twig. Bewildered, she pots it and cares for it as though it were a daughter. Soon enough, a bud starts to form, a girl grows underneath the soil, curled up, foetal. The years pass and the soil-girl grows, ever so surely, into a young maiden. As young maidens so often do, the soil- girl comes to be dissatisfied with the monotony of her existence. She begins to tire of plant food, of being caked and cramped in the heavy peat. So she starts to emerge, only at night, only to feed. She suckles on bread soaked in milk, fingerfuls of honey.
One day, a lost (and very dashing, it must be said) traveller arrives. He asks the woman if he may stay the night. He is confused and weary and simply must find somewhere to rest his head. Reluctantly, the woman obliges, and prepares a bed for the traveller.
That night, the soil-girl emerges, on schedule, to commence her nightly feast. This time, however, she can sense something different. The house does not smell the way she is used to. There is something metallic, something sharp in the air. The soil-girl follows the new, peculiar smell to the traveller’s room. She has never seen a man before, but the maiden recognises the feeling that now overtakes her. A want she has felt all too many times. A tension deep inside the belly which churns and demands to be felt. A furious thump in the heart, a sweet fluttery headiness.
The traveller wakes, and is surprised to find a girl crouched at the foot of his bed. She has tangled, damp hair and smells ever so slightly of earth. She wants to get a good look at him, so she crawls a little closer, still shielding all but her eyes behind the bed. A few minutes pass in this way, both parties observing, trying to make sense of each other. Satisfied, the soil-girl slowly stands up. The traveller notices, suddenly, the creamy lustre of her skin and the soft pink of her rosebud lips. They do not exchange a word. Indeed, it would be futile to try, for the maiden cannot speak the language of men, and the traveller is deaf to the language of flowers.
Neither one has made love before, but the motions come easily to them. They finish, and the traveller falls into a deep sleep, his hands grasping the soil-girl’s cold flesh.
When he wakes, she is gone. He wonders whether it was merely a dream, but he cannot explain the soil crusted under his fingernails, the scent that lingers on his pillow. Unsettled, the traveller gathers his things as fast as possible, blurts a garbled thanks to his hostess, and, fed up with travelling, makes for home.
As he hurries through the garden and swings the gate shut, he does not notice the heavy-headed flower that was not there yesterday. He does not notice how it turns to watch him disappear into the woods. Most of all, he does not notice the pair of lips in the centre, gently parted, waiting to be kissed again.
Amy Bharucha is an English Literature student currently living in Sevenoaks, UK.
Tags: