Make Pia Pia

By Salvus Roe 

The droning pulled her closer to the gleam. She dimly heard them calling for her, but her curiosity, well, if she had been a cat, she would be dead by now. Plus, someone always seemed to be calling her, telling her, molding her, moving her. The pink granite paving stones lined with perfectly trimmed lilac hedges chided her for being wayward. But, as soon as the stones shifted into hard-packed grey nondescript earth, right after the left she took at the Pan statue, she felt she could breathe again. She slipped off her bejeweled sandals and hid them behind a ratty rosemary bush, the piney-citrusy scent filling the air and covering. . . what was that other scent? She felt safe on the hard-packed dirt and barely acknowledged the imagined whispered condemnation of her fiancé’s maids, who would sigh in mock horror at the dirt and callouses that would surely encase her feet. She wandered toward the glinting silver gleam. She hoped something exotic, something new and wonderful awaited her around the bend. The curve of the hill almost hid what turned out to be cages, and the thought that this might have been done on purpose briefly flashed. She moved closer, breathless from the walk or perhaps from holding her breath.  

She ducked behind a large moss-covered rock that had fallen from the hill above so long ago it had forgotten, as young laborers, with gloves to the elbows and masks around their necks decorated with the colors of the House, came around a different bend, laughing and joking. They jostled and ribbed each other about some failed pick-up the night before. She had no reason to hide, she thought, but there she was, her most ancient of nerves warning her out of sight. The group spread out, one per cage. They opened the cage doors, reached in to pull a package closer to the door. The cages, it turns out, were not filled with some animal of vibrant plumage or eccentrically wondrous shape. Instead, each cage contained a bundle. She saw no fighting or even squirming as the harvesters, for that was the only name she could think of for these boy-men, pulled the bundles towards them with a wire hook, faces covered with their masks to keep out the droning flies and hide the smell of feces and urine and something else that sheltered the air. They used delicate, serrated spoons and scraped the small sacs from the front of the bundles, catching the oblong shapes in white sterilized dishes. Her brain, struggling to process, found a memory of a grapefruit spoon used to scrape the last juicy pink membrane from its resting place. With sacs removed, what appeared to be eyes that had been sealed shut could now open, and blue-green orbs looked at her, flashing a moment of recognition. Did she hear a murmur? Did she see movement in the sealed cocoon? 

The men worked rapidly through 20 or so cages, each with the same unresisting host for feasting larva pulled close, scraped, and then returned. While deft at their work, the speed with which they worked meant serrated edges caught on the delicate eyelid line, leaving a thin trail of blood. Each set of blood-painted eyes turned to her in one last look before vision was blurred by buzzing. She recognized the other smell; it was unwashed bodies filled with emptiness, edged by sighs and murmurs.  

“Take the green ones, you lot! What part of that is hard to understand!” The guttural voice rang out above her. One of the harvesters quickly withdrew his hand from the cage festooned with a yellow streamer and slammed shut the door. Shouts rang down the path as four man-boys dragged a small mewling child around the corner. She thought she recognized him from earlier in the day. A single drop of clear water condensation on the otherwise spotless tablecloth over which she placed her napkin as the quivering servant moved her glass filled her vision for just a moment.  

One of the handlers picked up a strip of cloth and began wrapping the child in thick white fabric. It, for she was no longer sure if it was a he, was covered from neck down, wrists tied, and the fabric at the foot end sewn together — a square piece of Mer tail. A slightly less thick swaddling covered hair, ears, mouth, and nose, leaving just the eyes. The papoose was tossed into an empty cage, and a red tag tied to the door. She watched as the gnats descended. Tiny round bodies hurtled themselves at the eyes, alighting, and hurtled themselves away. Tiny scouts waiting to be swatted, having evolved with humans and knowing the back of their hand. The bodies flew into focus, then out, then back in again until finally, recognizing hospitable lands, they alighted, believing themselves safe as their tiny throats gulped down the salt from the now free-flowing tears. Slowly, exposed white globes began to ooze a thick yellow-green membrane. By the time they recognized the need to escape and began frantically flapping and buzzing, it was too late. Each tiny creature lay in its own opaque tomb, the weight lowering the lids until the mucus sealed them shut, with only the rheum flowing, capturing, and sealing. She, shaking, crept from her hide. 

“Darling,” her fiancé said in his affected voice dripping with a paucity of wisdom and wealth of confidence. “Darling, do try this delightful caviar. So far from the sea and yet, so delicious and fresh.”  

“Yes,” the mayor agreed. “You must! We harvest it here ourselves. Family tradition from generations back.”  

“Such a treat,” murmured one guest dressed all in maroon, spooning the oblong yellow-white morsels into their mouth.  

She stared at the arranged public official on her left, willing him to choke on his cravat, but with no other choice, her curiosity fleeting and her primal nerve asking her to once again run, she picked up the mother-of-pearl spoon, crafted so as to ensure no offending or alien taste would interfere with the precious cargo that sat upon it. An outsider might comment on the woman’s delicate demeanor and impeccable manners as she slowly and carefully, elegantly it would seem, reached into the tiny dish at her side and delicately scooped one opaque oblong piece, placing it on her demure tongue. An insider would feel or maybe hear the slight pop of the outer membrane as teeth bit down, and the gentle, sweet-salty ooze that laced the tongue and trickled down the throat.  

“See,” her fiancé offered, “so delightful it brings tears to one’s eyes.”