Tamarind

Written by David Greygoose

"When you make the finding yourself - even if you're the last person on Earth to see the light - you'll never forget it."

— Carl Sagan

Early morning in the city square, just as the sun slanted low, an old woman would come each day and scatter bread around the fountain. Soon as she did so, the birds would come, sparrows and starlings, pigeons and crows, swooping and squabbling, fluttering and squawking, picking and pecking for every last crumb.

Some mornings children would be there too, waiting for the woman to come scurrying along, then they'd tug at her coat, begging for the bread before the birds could even arrive. And she would smile and break the crusts and share them out between the clamouring hands.

But the birds would come all the same, pouncing for the crumbs till the children chased them, flapping their arms like they were birds themselves, then leaping into the fountain, laughing and shrieking as the tumbling water soaked through their raggedy clothes.

When they were gone and the birds were gone and the old woman had tottered away, pulling her shawl around her shoulders, then the silence would return.

And through the silence the doctor would come with his heavy black bag. The doctor would come and slip his hand absent-mindedly into his pocket and pull out a coin, always shiny. And he would leave it there on the wall round the edge of the fountain, which was still slippery with water from where the children had played.

And then he would walk away. Sometimes a child would return and grab the coin. And sometimes a shadowy figure scurrying from the alleyway. But most times a jackdaw would swoop down and pluck it up and carry it to a window high in the corner of the square.

Tamarind sat at the window each day, watching the street below, watching the woman who left the bread, watching the children come and go. Watching the birds which swooped and swirled. Waiting for the jackdaw to land on her ledge and drop one bright coin into her outstretched hand. And then she would turn back into the shadows of the room and place the coin in a jar on the table.

After a moment she would return to her board, propped up in the corner. All day long she painted pictures of dancers in a village wearing bright robes streaked with scarlet and saffron, their faces hidden by masks shaped like owls.

As each picture was finished she hung it on the wall till the room itself seemed to be dancing. And then Tamarind lay on her bed and watched the colours swirl and imagined that she was back in the village again, just as she had been when she was a girl.

But she never went out. Never left the room. She grew flowers in her window box and filled vases with the blooms and would sit there on her bed and watch the bees come and go, bringing the pollen, seeking out the sweet nectar.

As Tamarind drifted and dreamed, there came a knock at the door. She gathered her robe around herself and rose to let in a tall man, the doctor carrying his heavy black bag which he placed on the table and opened.

Tamarind smiled as he brought out a bowl of food which he set before her, and watched in silence while she ate. Then he moved carefully about the room, lighting scented candles which filled the air with a sweet heavy smoke. He produced a bottle of tincture and slipped one silver spoonful into Tamarind's waiting mouth.

They sat a while, looking at each other and then not looking at all as Tamarind slipped from her robe and lay down upon the bed. The doctor slowly took off his clothes and lay still beside her. They did not touch but lay side by side and watched the purple smoke drift about the room. Tamarind stared at her paintings and imagined again she was dancing, back in the village which had been home.

Shadows slid across the windowsill as the sound of muffled voices drifted up from the street below. A single bee floated into the room and touched the petals of an orchid. Then Tamarind sat up and the doctor too.

"Did you find the doll to bring me?" she asked.

The doctor shook his head.

Tamarind turned away.

"Every day I am weary. My body has no strength. I sit on my bed with no will to go out and when dusk falls my limbs shiver and ache. I will not be well until I find the doll," she whispered.

The doctor was buttoning his shirt. He moved towards the door.

"Wait," said Tamarind, "I have not paid you."

And she took one coin from the jar on the table. The doctor slipped it into his pocket, picked up his bag and left.

The doctor did not come on his appointed day. Another day passed and another day more. Tamarind watched for him from her window. She watched the old woman feeding the birds. She watched the children fighting for crusts. She waited for the jackdaw who brought her coins from the fountain, but he did not come. And there was no sign of the doctor at all.

Tamarind whispered to the birds on the ledge:

"Bring me food. I am hungry. See what you can find for me..."

But all they ever brought was crumbs and Tamarind was more hungry than she ever knew. And still the doctor did not come. At dusk her limbs began to shake and she ached for the balm of his medicine. She imagined she could still smell the incense he would bring, wafting around the room. She even cast her robe aside and lay down on the bed, just as she would do when he was here. But it was not the same.

She fell to staring at her pictures which hung all about the walls. The garish colours, the dark jagged lines, swirling round and around. And the doll. She painted pictures of the doll she had lost. Its long bright robe, its twisted owl mask. The doll which slept with her every night when she was a child. The doll which shared her every dream. She dreamt of it now as she lay on the bed.

At first she cradled it like a baby. But then it took her hand and led her away to a clear flowing stream where they dipped their toes in the water.

Then along a path through the forest. And then they came to a cave. Tamarind shivered but the doll led her inside. And there in the shadows stood a man.

The man was the doctor. Tamarind sat up with a start. Dusk had fallen. She looked all about as she pulled her robe around her shoulders. But there was nobody there.

Still the doctor had not come. She had no food. She had no medicine, though she could taste it in her mouth. Cantaloupe, jezebel and comfrey. It made her body feel alive. But the doctor had not come.

She was hungry. She was cold. She pulled her robe close about her and gathered up a fistful of coins from the jar then quietly opened the door. The well of the stairway swam darkly below her. She touched her toe to each step in turn as she clutched the bannister rail.

In the street the colours seemed brighter than she remembered. The screeching of children chasing a ball. The baying of a dog in the alleyway. The clatter of market traders closing up their stalls.

Tamarind rushed from one to another, her hands outstretched.

"Food..." she implored.

They turned away, thinking she was a beggar come out at dusk. She thrust a hand in the pocket of her flowing green robe and produced the bright shining coins. One man looked at her kindly as he stacked his empty baskets.

"I have nothing left," he said. Then peered closer at the coins she was offering.

He shook his head.

"I could not take these anyway. Nobody will take them."

Tamarind stared at the glinting coins.

"They are not of this region," the man explained.

Tamarind looked puzzled.

"But they are from my region," she said.

"Where did you get them?" the man asked, tossing a broken basket onto his cart.

Tamarind looked all around, suddenly frightened. And hungrier still.

"A jackdaw brought them," she said at last, then turned and ran with her head down till she lost herself in the shadows.

She came to a house filled with candles at the end of a long silent street. She stood outside, peering through the open windows. Light spilled out all around and she could see the guests wearing long robes streaked with scarlet and saffron, their faces covered with owl masks. They danced slowly, without speaking, swaying to gentle music played on long bamboo pipes.

Tamarind was drawn towards the music. It was her music, the music she remembered from the village long ago. She climbed the steps and slipped inside, mingling with the dancers who took no notice of her, even though she wore no mask. She edged her way into the main room where the musicians squatted in the corner. On low tables, bowls of rice were set next to the flickering candles.

Tamarind's body curved to the rhythms and she slipped back and forth between the dancers, her eyes closed now - remembering how she danced like this at dusk back in the village. But not like this, she realised as she bumped into one graceful dancer then another, stumbling between them, knocking into a vase. Not like this at all, she realised. It had been so many years. She had forgotten the steps.

The musicians glanced at each other, then began to play faster. Tamarind spun around, trying to keep up. But then slow again, and slower still. Two dancers moved in on her, gesturing. Suddenly everyone could see that she wore no mask, that her robe was green not brightly streaked.

They made a lunge at her as the music played on, faster now and louder. But Tamarind slipped past them, dodging their outstretched hands. And seized up a bowl of rice as she went, scurrying out of the door. And away.

Back down the silent grey street. After a while she slowed and turned around. Nobody followed. At the end of the street the house stood tall, the candles blazing brighter than ever before. The music swirling louder. And laughter now and cheering. But nobody came. And Tamarind continued on her way, carefully clutching the bowl of white rice so as not to spill a single grain.

She climbed the narrow stairs to her attic room. When she reached the top she saw that the door stood open. She thought nothing of it, remembering that she had left in such a hurry, and walked inside to place the bowl on the table.

And then she saw, sitting in her chair, a woman who looked much like her. Hair long and dark, spilling over a flowing green robe. In her lap, the doll. The doll wearing an owl mask and dressed in cloth streaked saffron and scarlet. The doll that Tamarind lost when she was a child.

The woman looked up, carefully clutching the bowl of white rice so as not to spill a single grain.

Tamarind stared at her.

"Ulula," she said at last. "You are Ulula."

The woman smiled.

“You remember me,” she replied. “We played together in the village. We hid in the trees and made pies in the mud then threw them all at the boys..."

But Tamarind was staring at the doll.

Ulula smiled.

"Yes," she said, "it was me who took it. The night you made eyes at my brother and twined flowers in his hair. He led you away, I remember, to the cave by the waterfall. I thought you had found what you wanted. I thought you were done with dolls."

Tamarind looked at her and her eyes filled with sadness.

"Your brother was soon done with me," she said. "We walked hand-in-hand down the path to the cave. But then when we got there, my own sister was waiting, with her pretty mouth and her pretty fingers which pulled him away from me. He told me to go home then. So I walked back alone, all along the path by the light of the sorrowing moon. I knew I had lost your brother, but when I got home... I found that my doll was gone too."

The two women stared at each other.

Ulula held out the doll.

"But now I have brought it back," she said gently.

Tamarind leapt forward and snatched it from her.

"Now I can be well again!" she shrieked as she ran from the room and away down the stairs. "Now I must find the doctor and tell him. I won't need his medicine anymore. Now I will be cured!"

Ulula shrugged. The room was filled with shadows. She settled down in Tamarind's chair and began to pick at the rice in the bowl. She peered through the window, sitting with her back to the door. She watched the masked dancers pass by in their robes, beating drums and tambourines, ringing high-pitched bells and scattering petals as they went.

Then Ulula slept where she was in the chair. She did not see the doctor standing at the open door. She did not see him pause, then slowly enter the room. She did not wake as he moved about, placing a tincture bottle on the table, lighting the candles which he always lit and filling the room with the fragrance of incense and a haze of purple smoke.

Then she woke and turned. The doctor was standing, watching her. His face was puzzled, staring at her face as if it was not the face he expected to see. And yet the same as ever before, as she sat in her long green robe in her chair by the window.

The doctor sat down on the bed and slowly removed his clothes, folding them neatly on the floor. He stretched out quietly on the sheets, beckoning her to join him.

Ulula smiled and cast off her robe then lay there beside him, barely touching. She watched for a moment as the purple smoke drifted about the room. And then she reached out and touched his thigh and pulled him slowly to her. She was strong and supple and the candlelight whispered about the walls as a warm breeze kissed the shadows. Then they lay side by side again.

The doctor smiled and spoke softly:

"I have waited so long for this to happen. Now I know that you are cured. You did not need the doll."

Ulula sat up and looked confused.

"But the doll was never mine," she said as the doctor quickly dressed again.

"It is the medicine that has worked," he continued, as he placed the bottle back in his bag and walked out through the door.

Outside in the street he stopped and looked back at the open window. The woman stood there waving. The doctor waved back then strolled away, leaving a coin by the fountain. Dawn was just breaking and Ulula watched as the old woman returned, sweeping away the petals that the dancers had strewn. She paused by the fountain to pick up the coin and tucked it into her apron. Then she threw the last handful of bread as the birds they came flocking, at first sparrows and starlings, then pigeons and crows.

Ulula stepped away from the window, back into the room. She straightened the rumpled sheets on the bed then turned to stare at the pictures which Tamarind had hung on the walls. One by one she took them down and stacked them in the corner. Then she lay back on the bed. The walls were bare now, painted green.

She gazed at the sunlight as it shifted across the ceiling and did not see that outside Tamarind came to the fountain with the jackdaw perched on her shoulder. She trailed her hand in the water, looked up once at the window then slowly walked away.

Ulula rose and stretched. She picked at a little of the rice that was left at the bottom of the bowl before going again to the window. She looked down at the fountain and there she saw one of the children reaching over to try to catch the doll with its robe of saffron and scarlet which was floating, just out of reach, face down in the water.

About The Author:

DAVID WARD was born in Northampton. He is co-founder of The Windows Project, running creative writing workshops in community venues on Merseyside since 1976; and editor of Smoke magazine.

He has toured to Singapore, Hong Kong and Harbin (Northern China) and broadcast on BBC TV and radio.

Poems in over 200 magazines and anthologies, including Poetry Review, Abridged, Ambit and Poetry Wales. Collections Tracts and On the Edge of Rain (Headland). Jambo (Riot Stories Ltd and Impact) Inside Pale Eyes (Hawkwood) Visiting Writer-in-Residence Nanyang University, Singapore. Honorary Fellow in Creative Writing, Liverpool Hope University.

Writing as David Greygoose: folkloric tales Brunt Boggart (Hawkwood 2015; Pushkin 2018); Mandrake Petals and Scattered Feathers (Hawkwood 2021).