The Reeds Snapped

Grandfather once said reeds were the voice of the Swamp, writing seasons as they approached. In spring, they sang of new life; in autumn, they whispered rest but the year the giants invaded, their song was different. That season reeds snapped in agitation, their tassels colliding in a frantic dance as the giants approached. The  reed valley sent a warning wave rippling across the floor. But the warning was not received. Reed Singers—mosquitoes tasked with that duty had  slumbered in their watch towers, as the  enemy descended with  knapsacks clinging on their backs, goggles concealing their eyes and  muffled hisses under their masks.

“Take cover under the bunkers, take cover under the bunkers!” a warning siren pierced through the Swamp repeatedly as the giants’ boots plowed through.

The bunkers—discarded tin cans hidden at the muddy edges of the Swamp were to be safe havens in times of great peril. But with no vicious threats the bunkers had stood still and forgotten—our forefathers' stories of   invasions having been reduced to myths.

But as the giants stood, stretched far to the sky, the Swamp woke to the truth of a danger far worse than the attack of the Dragonflies.  Their  shadows darkened our home into night. It had been day, but the sun had  shrunk into them. Trudging through the swamp, the ground sagged with their weight. The dirty waters rising in tidal waves destroying homes built below.

 I was writing an epic tale of espionage between toads and fish when the warning reached me, first as an echo, then as a trumpet.  Quickly I tucked my writing underarm and dashed home as showers of murky waters rose and fell.

“ZZZack, ZZZack?” I heard Mother buzzing in terror, a cloth covering her mouth and nosehiding  from  the fumes emanating from knapsacks.

“Zzzere, Mum, Mum, I am right here. Right here, Mum.”

“ZZZack? I cannot see you. Where are you?” Mum’s voice rose in panic.  I saw her as she stood by a reed near our home. I rushed to her just as more of the liquid descended.

Thump, spray. Thump, spray.

The Swamp echoed with the hiss of a thousand knapsacks as the liquid descended soaking everything with death. “Zzzzzzno!” Some mosquitoes who had hidden between the reeds tumbled down to their deaths into the murky waters. Others clung to  life. 

Thump, spray. Thump, spray.

As the misty liquid drenched the Swamp, the air thickened and  grew heavier, rendering  flight difficult. “Hurry, hurry to the bunkers,” a siren shrieked again. Groups of mosquitoes formed clouds as they coordinated their escape.

Thump. Spray.

“Wait, Mum, where is Grandma?” I asked as we drifted with the tide of mosquitoes towards the bunkers.

“What did you say, I cannot hear you?”

“I SAID WHERE IS GRANDMA?” I shouted in her ear.

Mum’s wings missed a beat and dipped towards the murky water, her eyes widening in horror. Then I realized she had forgotten her in the chaos. Grandma was Mum’s mother. She lived with us. She was deaf. Mum looked after her. The thought of her wrinkled body tossed in the chaos somewhere assaulted my mind.

“Mum, go on. I am going back to look for her,” I shouted in her ear, releasing her warm steady hand from my grasp. "I will return.” I assured her.

 She did not respond as a current of mosquitoes flying to the bunkers swept her inside.

As I flew against the current, a thousand vibrating wings threw a heatwave against my skin, turning my breath to steam and drenching me in sweat.  I battered the air, shoving through the hum until my muscles mirrored the vibration of the swarm.

“Zzwatch it!” “Zzouch!” “Zzfool!” “Where are you going?” were the insults that lashed me, but I had promised Grandfather before he passed “I was going to watch over Grandma.”

Our home had been reduced to a mass, disheveled reeds toppled upon each other. Desperate, I tore through the wreckage in all corners of our home. Her chair lay broken, her knitting basket unrecognizable. While these inconsequential items remained, Grandma was not in the midst of the chaos.

Discouraged, I retreated back to the bunkers for safety, weaving words I would console Mum with. As I flew through the chaos, the Swamp stood clouded with mist from the giant knapsacks. The Swamp, once alive, lay mired in poison, its luster dull. It had taken centuries to weave and to build our homes—but now—nothing.

I descended upon the bunkers. Most sat sealed shut, save for a few holding their doors open for stranglers.

“Hurry, hurry,” one of the mosquitoes anchored by the door whispered with urgency.

 I landed in the middle of the bunker with an uncomfortable ‘wham’ force as my abdomen scraped against the cold metal floor. I flinched in pain, the pain a hot iron against my back. No words of consolation were offered as the door was soon bolted with a metal pin, a click sound sealing us shut from the chaos. Only streaks of light that sipped through the seams of the door illuminated it. The cold air seemed to have anchored itself inside.

 It leapt from the wall like a frog then creeped into my body causing me to shiver uncontrollably.  I lowered myself into a corner, my back leaning against. Enveloping my body with my hands, I let out a long breath of relief as then wiped sweat from my face and wings.  The bunker had become a quantum of solace  from the assault of the giants.

As streaks of light slanted through the seams of the door silhouettes of mosquitoes could be seen huddled together, warming themselves from the cold within.  Others comforted each other in buzz sounds, their faces withdrawn.

Then — there was a scraaaape.

The bunker shook. Boots thudded closer.

"They're collecting the cans," someone buzzed.

Too late. The metal bunker tilted, lifted upward by a force that defied gravity and darkness swallowed us whole.