Any Sign of Blue

(by Julian Yeates)

They arrived today. All dressed in blue with charcoal faces. They scattered themselves around the grassy island embedded between the Hilltop residences. Their weapons of choice were peculiar: spades, shovels and pick axes, all pilled upon each other in a wonky wheelbarrow. Mighty beasts accompanied them, these brutes were sickeningly yellow. These four wheeled machines scraped at the road to grip them on their slow ascent up the Hill. Their metal jaws oozed out unmixed concrete, dirt and sand, a concoction that when blown into your eyes, blinded you. Some of the creatures had their mouths upturned and a menacing claw about to grab the next unsuspecting victim. Assembling around the island, they gave a last grunt and growl before falling asleep. The soldiers and their machines had arrived and who knew for how long they would stay?

I ploughed on through the heat; up the Hill and down the Hill, then up again. I was practically melting when I walked past the blue soldiers. Beads of sweat glinted off their crinkled faces. They glowed at me. The whites of their eyes stared me down; no, they looked through me. They stood tall and strong. A wave of blue ready to attack. Shovels sharpened and beasts waiting to feed.

A yellow monster churned the ammunition in its yellow belly.  One blue, however, leaned on his weapon, disarming himself. His gangly limbs swaying like the dried grass beneath his feet. A straw hat perched itself atop his head. A gust of wind could surely topple him over.  He looked like he was melting too. I shamelessly revelled in this fact. I left the blues and the lonely scarecrow for another day.

The next time I saw the blue men they were in the back of a bakkie. Beetling their way up the Hill, their raucous laughter trailed along with the dust caught in the tires. It is a strange sight—muscled men giggling. That afternoon, their beasts were stirring up the stinging sand. The dirt collected on their sculpted bodies, ingraining their every move. Even the blue scarecrow was embedded with dust.

But, this grimy sight didn’t seem to deter a visitor. There she stood, a sunflower dressed in cook’s clothing, waving to the men and the sun. Her soft face beamed at the sweating soldiers, her swollen fingers clutched bottles of water. She walked like a saviour towards the men. The blue soldiers turned into sand statues in her presence.

After distributing the water, she approached the scrawny scarecrow. She took his hat from his head and plopped it onto her afro. I was surprised that he didn’t turn to dust right then. Her new crown balanced precariously on her head. Instead of letting her rejoice in her steal, the stickman snatched it right back, her haughtiness. After he wagged his finger and clicked his tongue at her, she retreated back to her empty bottles. Her laughter bubbled under the surface and her bare head held high, with hopes of returning another day.

Their singing woke me up the next morning. Soulful sounds only strugglers would know. A piano in one man’s throat and a trumpet in another, mixed together to drown out their monster’s groans. They worked in unison, blurring into a smudge of dirty blue on an island, but the tallest man still stood out. He billowed in the wind, his whistle catching the breath of air to my window. The maiden exited her kitchen, answering the whistle too. She carried her pride on her hips and rhythm in her feet. She danced them away from their digging. A devil in a doek.

The soldiers couldn’t help but cheer and jeer and wipe the morning dew from their brows. The scarecrow kept the beat for her to perform and kept his eyes on her lips, which seemed to carry a hue of red. Peculiar…but- the sergeant from the bakkie- whipped them back into working. His transparent skin and snow beard shunned them. His thick accent enhanced his anger. And so, the soldiers hunched over, hiding their shameful eyes and swallowing their resistance. The dancing lady disappeared as magically as she had arrived.

The island began to take form, a fort for battle; a brick house with a steel fence. I liked how it looked before, normal. This unnatural scene unfolding made me turn to the soldiers for solace. They slept on the grass, heaps of blue clothes burdened with souls. The blue scarecrow was the only one awake, and for good reason—the girl had returned. She looked at him quizzically as he tried to lean on his spade while talking. Needless to say, he slowly began to sink into the soil, becoming level height with her smile. This stick with a hat and this saviour with a smile were inseparable. She took control of the conversation and painted an intricate scene with her hand movements and quick tongue. He nodded. Not listening. They departed at dusk, one returning to the battlefield and dust, the other to the dishes and dust.

The structure grew like an obscene heap of garbage while the amount of soldiers lessened. Were they buried beneath? Shackled to the wire? Were they reduced to shards of blue stuck between the bricks? Their monsters stopped returning too. Their footprints slowly removed by time. The soldiers who remained were slow. Their shade of blue becoming tight around their muscular bodies, dog-eared and dirty. Their wrinkles becoming permanent, not even the sweat could wash it away. But the scarecrow’s hat remained intact. The blues ambled around like lost children, picking up oddities and trying to piece them together. Their distractions soon disintegrated and they were left to observe their surroundings. To observe me. The afro attached to a lady would occasionally wander up to greet her hat attached to a man. They would smile shyly at one another and entwine fingers secretively. The days dragged, but the pair didn’t seem to mind. The sun limped to bed as the two separated. He waved with his hat as the bakkie stole him, and the last of the blues, away from the sunflower who was shivering in the wind. Suddenly, the skinny soldier’s straw hat slipped from his fingers and sifted into the sand. The onlooker rushed to save it. She clutched it tightly and squinted at the swirl of dust receding from her.

Today, I found her waiting by the bricked building. The fallen crown in her hand. She touched its frayed edges tentatively. She faced the sun, waiting for the soldiers’ and the scarecrow’s return. Today, they didn’t return. Today, she waited. She still waits on the porch of her workplace with her cook’s clothing and untamed afro. The stranger’s sun hat as her only companion while she waits for any sign of him, any sign of yellow monsters, or bakkies, or singing, or soldiers with weapons or beads of sweat. She waits for any sign of blue.