PUPA

by

Julia Ravenscroft

Your tree's dead easy to climb, even for a girl. Keith was right; it was. The branches of our mulberry tree stretched invitingly to the ground, sturdy arms to gather you up, set you shoulder-high and let you see the whole world.

I'd scramble up and ease my way through leaves the size of my father's hand. All around me dangled the mulberries - glossy, swollen leech-berries. I'd pick one, squeeze it between finger and thumb and watch the magenta juice trickle down my wrist. Beneath bruised fruit flesh a pale hard core.

It's such a shame to waste all those mulberries, but they're only good for jam. My mother always meant to make jam, but she never did. Each summer the tight pale berries swelled through shades of red until they were bloated, almost black and oozing juice. By the time I went back to school they were plopping softly to the ground, bloodying the earth at the foot of the tree.

The cocoon spun by the caterpillar of the moth Bombyx mori is made of silk, Claire. Do you know the only thing silkworms eat? Mulberry leaves. My father told me all sorts of wonders. When I asked him what cottonworms ate, he just laughed. It didn't matter because I didn't want to catch any cottonworms - all my dresses were made of cotton anyway. My mother had a silk dress. I loved to run my fingertips over the skirt, so smooth and cool. Surely there had to be silkworms in our tree. I thought I could catch some, keep them like I'd kept the grasshopper, in a shoebox, but this time I'd punch air holes in the lid. If I fed them the most tender mulberry leaves I could find, they would spin for me. Spin and spin an endless silken thread, from which I would weave a dress as diaphanous as a dragonfly's wing. I'd straddle the scaly branches, examining the underside of leaves for silkworms, but I never found any, only wasps, floating drunkenly on the fermented air.

For goodness' sake, Claire, you're giving me a headache. How can I concentrate on my crossword with you running about? Go outside and play. My mother banished me from the house most days, grumbling under her breath that the summer vacation was ridiculously long. Exiled to the garden, I'd cocoon myself in the tree where I'd sit swinging my legs and listening for the boys.

That day sounds of Indians on the warpath drifted over the garden wall. I parted the leaves, the silkworms' salad, and squinted into the piercing sunlight. In the distance the braves, Mark and Keith, were whooping and scalping and dancing the rain dance along the lane to the woods.

And I don't want you playing in the woods with those little ruffians. It's time you started acting like a young lady. My mother would send me to play with soppy Sarah and her dolls, but I'd sneak away because boys were much more exciting than Barbies.

I shuffled along the branch that overhung the wall and dropped to the ground. But the braves had already gone haring off in pursuit of cowboys, hapless settlers or a rival tribe.

In the woods there are zombies and monsters and ghosts waiting to jump out and get you. I didn't really believe Keith, at least not any more, but it was still a bit scary in the woods, unless you were with the boys of course; they weren't afraid of anything. That afternoon, the only things lying wait for me were brambles that whipped out to snag my dress.

Rat-a-tat-tat! Machinegun fire. I'd been ambushed.

Mark's tousled blond head appeared from behind a laurel bush.

- Can I play, Mark?

- All right, but you'll have to be the Japs. Keith and me are the commandos.

Dodging bullets and mortars, I stumbled shrieking over the shattered bodies of my comrades littering the battlefield and leapt, mortally wounded, into my trench. Naturally inferior in firepower and bravery, I was doomed from the start. Pursued by Colonel Keith and Captain Mark, brothers in arms, I was slaughtered unmercifully only to be reincarnated as an ally for the next challenge.

Girls can't climb the wall, only easy things like Claire's tree. I had to remain at base camp, said Keith; only boys were allowed to climb Mount Everest. I was secretly glad, not relishing the scraped knees and cut hands, the danger inherent in being a boy. Shouting encouragement I sat cross-legged on the grass. Mark, lithe and athletic, reached the summit first and perched gingerly on the spiky, flint-topped peak, his feet dangling over the precipice. Keith, knees scabbed and bloodied, not content to sit, stood erect with arms outstretched and shouted to Simon riding his bike down the track on the other side of the Himalayas. When Mark and Keith grew weary of the rarified atmosphere they made the perilous descent back to base camp for our next adventure.

A ferocious dragon, the fires of Hell burning in his belly, lurked in the forest, waiting for maidens to devour. This was my favorite of all Keith's games. Gorgeous in my bejeweled silks, dreaming maidenly dreams of princes, I cantered through the forbidden forest on my chestnut horse. The dragon, aroused by the sweet scent of maiden's blood, swooped down in a burst of steam and grabbed me in its razor claws. In a flap of scaly wings I was whisked off to his misty mountaintop lair. Sir Keith the Courageous and Sir Mark the Mighty valiantly charged into the fetid cave, crunching underfoot the charred bones of less fortunate maidens. Brandishing their broadswords, they casually minced up the maiden-eating monster. But without even asking for my hand in marriage, Sir Mark the Mighty said:

- We're going, Claire. See you.

- Can I come too?

A shrug in reply from Mark, from Keith a scowl.

- No. No girls. Come on, Mark.

- Why not?

- 'Cause we're going to be blood brothers.

They ran off into the woods, imitating the beat of war drums, Indian braves once more. I was wounded, really this time and I felt my cheeks flush hot. I didn't understand. Before I'd been tolerated if not welcomed. The boys were always in need of someone to play an enemy or a maiden in distress.

I crept after the flashes of color, Keith's red t-shirt and Mark's blue, as the boys plunged through the fecund growth of summer. Sticky-sharp grasses lashed my bare legs and nettles stung my sandaled feet, but I didn't care. I knew where the boys were going: the circle of five trees.

At the edge of the clearing where we had often played together, I stopped, crouched behind a bush and watched, feeling the resentment of the uninitiated.

Keith pulled a penknife from his pocket, unsheathed the blade and calmly etched a fine red line across his wrist. Mark, pale-faced, no longer a brave, stared at the outstretched hand offering the ritual knife. He hesitated. Keith laughed, pushed the knife towards him. Mark shook his head. Keith began to march around him, chanting. No words, only rhythm. He broke into a run, now whooping and yelling, tracing ever-tighter circles until, only inches from Mark, he stopped. The woods still echoed with his shouts as the boys faced each other. Mark took the knife and, without a word, nicked his wrist. Keith clamped it to his own bloodied wrist with a piece of string he took from his pocket. Thus bound, brothers forever, their blood mingling, they hurtled madly around the circle.

At the fifth tree they saw me.

- What's she doing here? Spying on us, I bet.

- Leave her alone, Keith. Come on, Let's go.

- No. She has to do it too. The spy's scared, aren't you, Claire?

I shook my head.

He cut the string binding him to Mark, grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the circle.

- Here. I dare you.

He handed me the knife, its blade edge tinged with red.

- I'll do it if I can be Mark's blood brother.

- Sure, I don't care.

I pressed the blade to my wrist. I dared not look at the blood, my blood, so I shut my eyes. It didn't hurt much. I held out my hand for Mark, but felt no cool skin press mine, no potent boy's blood pulse through my veins. There was only laughter. I opened my eyes. Keith's mocking face was right against mine. He pointed to my wrist. No blood, just a faint, girly-pink impression.

- God, girls are so stupid! Here, I'll do it for you.

He caught my hand and held the knife against a slender turquoise vein.

- No!

I jerked my arm away and backed up. Keith and Mark just stood there, staring. I wondered what was wrong with them.

On the heel of my hand a shiny red bead was forming where the knifepoint had punctured my skin. It was wonderful. I raised my arm; at last an equal, an initiate.

- You said you would, Mark. You said we'd be blood brothers.

Mark didn't move. Something like fear glimmered in his eyes. I did not understand. Boys were never afraid of anything.

- What's the matter, Mark? You did say…Make him, Keith.

But Keith, the fearless adventurer, now looked anything but. Amazingly he began to back away - from me.

- God, that's freaky! Mark, come on. Don't touch her.

- You promised I could be a blood brother too if I did it, and look, blood, my blood.

I took a step towards Keith. He turned and shot out of the circle, crashing through the undergrowth to the path.

Mark remained, as I knew he would. I offered him my hand. Slowly he extended his arm, but before we could touch he pulled back and sprinted after Keith.

- Wait! I don't want to play this game. We haven't finished the blood brother one yet. Come back!

But they didn't and I was alone amongst the silver trees. No sound but the hum of insects. My blood-bead, never to be threaded with Mark's, was hardening. As I stood there a laser-focused sunray penetrated the leafy membrane above. I looked down, blinking sunspots from my eyes. The mossy ground was aglow with an unbearably intense neon-lit green such as I had never seen before. The radiance lasted a mere moment before its potency was expended and I saw what the boys had seen: between my feet crimson drops soaking into the spongy earth.

§ § §

Julia Ravenscroft spends far too much time writing and seriously neglects her husband, teenage sons and two cats. She has just finished her first novel, a light-hearted mystery set in her native Great Britain. This is her first published story.

You can reach Julia at: jravenscroft@chartermi.net .

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