The Fruit

By Kalpita Mukherjee

Calcutta International School 

The olive tree by which I first met him has started to age. Our olive tree. 

There used to be more of the same kind- tall and sturdy. The roughness of the bark would scathe my delicate fingers every time I would childishly play around the tree. It would further branch out into hundreds, if not thousands of separate fingers, as we’d call them. Fingers that bore green leaves and fleshy fruits. The sun has always been friendly with our family, smiling down at the palace, leaving behind fragments of her joy till the last ray of dusk. It’s the same even today. 

Even if the world changes, water is mistaken for fire and wind no longer blows, Sicada would remain the same. That is what we grew up hearing and learning, at day school and in old folk tales. There was no particular reason for me to come back here, except for the one that I refuse to address. Over the past quarter century, I have spent travelling all the continents far from home, swallowing the most bitter of grape wines and building a habit of eating the grainiest of breads, and I have made a promise to never utter the names of those who have caused me fatal pain. But in reality, there are no names. Just one. 

I hear a distant rumbling coming from a few miles away. I decide not to let my curiosity win and stay put in front of our olive tree. The sun has now travelled to the opposite side and she almost blinds me with her brightness. A familiar warmth coats my bones. A man of heavy build walks towards me, and the walk quickly transforms into a jog, a smile spread across his face. He lifts me up and holds me in his arms, his beard prickling my forehead once he puts me down. We stand, holding each other, as if letting go will result in either, if not the both of us, falling. 

‘You made it.’, Icar says with tears in his eyes. Of course I made it. How could I have not when my own dear brother sends for me? 

‘What did you expect?’I bend my neck to look up at him. I might have underestimated how fast Troyans grow. But on the other hand, it had been twenty five long years. Hence, it was foolish of me to expect him to still be my small little brother. 

‘Do you plan on spending the entirety of your visit by the water?’, he asks, and I’m not sure if that’s a joke or an ignorant comment. 

‘Is it really necessary to face the Master?’ 

‘It’s home.’ 

He wasn’t entirely wrong. But that doesn’t mean he was entirely right either. Home was the easy word because for most people home is where they grow up. For Icar, the palace of Sicada is home. Father isn’t the villain in his story, and Mother is dead in his as well. She isn’t there to

hold his head down in a bath of ice for returning home in a torn robe and olive leaves stuck to his hair. Father applauds him just for being able to run in the races and ride the horses. However, I’ve never been jealous or spiteful of my brother. I’ve loved him more than anyone in this palace. 

‘They killed a pig last hunt, just for you.’, he takes my hand in his and leads the way, through the sand and towards the mansion. 

‘They should’ve waited for me. I would’ve used my cultic powers to take the poor animal’s life.’ Icar laughs. I finally realise how much I’ve missed him all this while and the feeling sits on my chest like an elephant. 

‘They don’t hate you that much, now.’ 

I purse my lips, reminding myself of the etiquette class we were forced to take where they taught us that women should never cackle or laugh loudly when they’re in the palace or around it. That was probably the reason why I only came back to the palace at night to sleep, Icar concluded. 

We have almost reached the top stair when I freeze. 

‘Maya?’, Icar stops with me. 

‘I did not come here to visit the palace or Father. I do not even want to, in the slightest. I am here for a day. Let me spend it with you. Just you.’ 

He contemplates for longer than a moment. I feel proud of myself for finally speaking up when it comes to the palace, but also worried to have hurt my boyish brother. He opens his mouth to say something but stops before uttering the words. 

‘Say it.’ 

‘What?’, he sits down on the sun dried mud brick, beads of sweat collecting on his forehead. I follow him. 

‘What you were about to say.’ I try to occupy myself by tearing a piece of cloth out of my robe to wipe both our sweaty faces with. 

‘It’s been over twenty years. You were a child back then, he understands I’m sure.’ 

I know my brother is grown, but I may have forgotten that beneath the huge build, he is still a little boy. He was a child when Father exiled me from Sicada, and he has always idolised the man. Icar’s memories are blurred and can be easily manipulated. I choose to do anything but that. 

‘He banished me, Icar.’, my voice faints away by the end of the sentence. He doesn’t say anything. ‘Do you know why?’ 

‘You were going to elope.’ 

I let out a laugh this time, instead of pursing my lips. 

The sun has changed sides again, this time directly hitting me with its light. The low tide will soon end, and the high tide will begin after dusk. Our olive tree still stands, refusing to ever accept that it’s ageing, and its life might give out in the near future.

‘Were you not, Maya? Going to elope?’ Icar’s voice pulls me out of my trance. ‘I fell in love with a siren, Icar.’ 

A silence, one that is comfortable and tense at the same time, envelopes us. 

‘So…it is true?’ He breathes out the words. 

‘Yes.’ 

‘But Troyans, they despise them.’ 

‘They do.’ 

‘So you weren’t going to elope?’ 

‘Not exactly.’ 

Icar stands up and starts pacing down the steps. I follow him yet again. The sand sticks to the sweat under my feet this time. Icar takes massive steps towards the sea, and I struggle to keep up with him. He moves farther and farther away from me, as though he’s sand now, falling through the gaps between my fingers. My brother has meant the world to me. He’s been my warrior and I’ve been his saviour. The part of myself that I’d hidden from him and his Troyan blood lay open in front of him today, like many of his wounds that would lay open in front of me, some of which I chose to stitch up. 

‘You fell in love with a siren.’, Icar yells as water washes over his feet. He’s far enough from the palace to not be heard, but Troyans are known for the way their voices echo when they scream, in anger or out of fear. They are known for their strength that can move mountains, and speed that can defeat light. I stand there, dumb and hurt. 

I run near him and tears well in my eyes. Perhaps it is true, what they say about love killing. Love kills, not only the person left behind, but also other loves. Loves that cannot accept, loves that cannot fathom. Love isn’t like our olive tree. It cannot sustain a hundred and seventy storms and fifty wars. It does not last for five centuries. It’s small and vincible. 

Icar walks towards me, water touching both of our legs now. ‘Be gone by the morning.’ That’s all he says before walking back to the palace, not looking back even once. At the end of the day, there were two choices in front of him- to either be a brother or a Troyan. And I think he knew that a family can only have one black sheep after all. 

Dusk seems to come earlier today. I do not remember falling asleep under the olive tree but I wake up under it, as the high tide begins. I bid farewell to the Sicada sun. I look down from the

sky, at the sea that carries so much waste and memories. I wished for the ground to engulf me then and there. What did I even have to live for? With my brother reminding me of Father’s eyes all those years back when he found out. He truly is his son. There has never been a doubt about that. But I’ve never really been my Father’s daughter or my Mother’s. I’ve just been Maya, Icar’s sister, the siren lover, the black sheep of the Troyans. 

A lump on the sea draws me to it. I crawl towards the body of water, unaware of the actual person waiting there. Blue. He camouflages with the blue of the water, even today. 

‘Caelus?’ I start walking on the sand, unbothered about the grainy texture under my feet. ‘Caelus, is that you?’ 

I expect to feel something grand that overwhelms my being, but I feel calm. The sun has set, the wind is steady, and I feel the calmest I’ve felt since the first time I met Caelus. That one night in July, when I was trying to climb our tree to pick more olives for the necklace I was making, Caelus caught me in the act. It wasn’t only his blue skin that attracted me to him at first. His golden green eyes and raspberry red lips that looked like they would burst at any moment. Tails and fins were not a surprising sight for I had grown up in Sicada, where my Mother was a wind child and my Father was the Supreme, leader of the legacy of superhumans. 

Water gets splashed onto my robe as I get closer to the being. The thumps in my chest start to grow gradually. I hear a familiar hum, a song impossible to replicate. Caelus’ song. 

‘Maya?’ 

The previous lump in my throat seems to dissolve as a new one forms. It is him. I hesitate to let my emotions control me. I hesitate to let the tears roll down my cheeks and to run into his arms. Into the water. 

‘What are you doing here?’ His voice is fragile. 

‘Icar wrote to me.’ My voice weakens itself to match his now. ‘He wanted to see me.’ Caelus lifts himself up now, balancing himself on his tail. I stand in front of his beauty, unaware of how to react. He looks the same, as if he is the embodiment of Sicada. 

‘It has been twenty five years, May.’ 

‘I know.’ 

His daunting eyes move from my head to toe, trying to decipher every part of me that he thinks is new after all these years, and perhaps trying to remember the secrets from when we were younger. 

‘I didn’t use my song on you.’, his voice trembles trying to explain something I didn’t ask for.

‘I know.’ I fall to my knees, scared to hold his face or his hands or any part of him and discovering that it’s all a dream. Caelus extends his long fingers towards mine. I let myself go. 

I weep like a child who’s just witnessed her mother getting killed. The water seeps through the fabric of my robe and Caelus lets me cry into his bare skin, his icy cold fingers wrapping around me. His breath, as cold as it can be, falls on my forehead. And for that moment, Sicada dies, our olive tree dies, the sea is empty. It’s just the siren and his lover. 

My body jerks with respect to my violent sobs and just then, I feel an unexplainable pang on my neck. I look up at Caelus, this time my eyes demanding an explanation for the pain and throbbing. His red lips look like they finally burst, blood all around them. His eyes look hungry and sad at the same time. I touch the aching spot and my fingers get stained red. I try to breathe, to scream, to run. 

Unfortunately, water starts filling my nostrils.

By Kalpita Mukherjee