A Basketful of Figs

 ~*~

 Cass,

 I am so grateful that you wrote. I feel as if I am living in a vacuum. We have been having daily bomb raids and I am actually quite surprised that the electricity supply is still working. I think they are trying to make us afraid. You know, make us submit and such.

 Why is there a border dispute? We should be civilized citizens of the 24th century. But no, politicans are politicians.

 Argh. I am sorry if I sounded angry. I am. At the whole situation. I hope you are well. Send my love to your family.

  Ash.

 ~*~

 A loud rumble, like thunder, shakes me awake early in the morning. Except that the thunder vibrates from ground up and causes everything to wobble on shelves and tables. Then there is the strong smell of burning and I am out of the bed, joining the rest of my family stumbling out of our respective rooms. Mother and Father clutch at each other as they make their way to the family bunker, leading us there, trying hard not to show fear.

 The burning smell and the rumbling are the most startling and vivid outside, and I dart a frightened glance at the fig tree. It is standing firm, unwavering. I take heart from the sight of its resilient trunk and heart-like leaves, and scoop my littlest sister into my embrace as we navigate through the dawn darkness.

 Morning brings relief and horror. The words coming forth from my parents’ mouth taste of ash and sharp iron nails. The bombs have destroyed a few houses down our street and we can hear the wail of sirens and people in shock. I clamp my hands over my ears, trying to shut the noise out. My sisters and brothers are sobbing. Do sad words taste like salty tears?

 While the family tries to recuperate with How dare they? and Are we all okay?, I find myself huddling down, knees tucked to my chest, under the fig tree. It is almost summer now and there is promise of fruit in the tree. I play with some unripe ones beside me, enjoying their waxy texture with my fingers. They must have fallen during the bomb raid.

 I am nineteen and suddenly deathly afraid of the outside world. I wonder how the Alien races would perceive us, like the sanctimonious Teveri in their lofty United Nations And Planets Council seats.

 ~*~

 Ash,

 They bombed our street! The Lees have their house destroyed overnight and they are now staying with us. Mother and Father are kind enough to take them in. I see a constant stream of people coming to our house for some hot plain congee and pickled cabbage hearts. Some of them simply sit under the tree and stare into space, holding their cups of hot tea. It is heartbreaking to watch and we are just in the early days of the war?skirmish?border dispute?

 I can’t write for long. We are using generators here. So much for 24th century technology!  Father keeps on saying that he is going to use the solar panels…

 Take care. Remember to write (if you have time and the electricity).

 Hurriedly,

Cass

 ~*~

 Somehow or rather, our family house has become an important “base”. I roll the word in my mouth: concrete, tasteless. Awful. Refugees turn up at our doorstep and Mother takes them in. Soldiers from the Army decide to set up a communications center, right smack in the middle of the courtyard, under the fig tree. They are sweet enough not to move their bulky metallic equipment around too much. The whole place reminds me of a marketplace. A sad marketplace, with no wares to be sold and with only stricken expressions, accompanied with jerky and pained body language, as people try to comprehend what is happening to them and around them. The words I hear are not delicious or savory words. I try to ignore them, but I end up tasting them, remembering them. It is pungent like the bitter dark herbal teas, composed of bark, root and other plant parts, that Mother makes all the time to alleviate disharmony and imbalance in bodily yin or yang. And as children, we always remember the bitterness most keenly.