Little Cricket by Jackie Brown Prologue Twelve-year-old Kia Vang stooped down and studied the tiny seeds nestled in the narrow dirt furrow. If she squeezed her eyes tightly shut until little sunbursts of yellow danced behind her lids, she could imagine herself back in her mountain village in Laos. Gone was the apartment building she lived in now with Grandfather and her fourteen-year-old brother, Xigi, and its ugly, dirty windows that looked like unblinking eyes watching her every move. If she tried hard enough, even the never-ending drone of car tires on the busy street in front of their building disappeared. In her mind Kia heard the soft snuffle of pigs and the self-important cluck of chickens pecking in the dirt around the bamboo hut. And, best of all, she was no longer alone. The sparkling laughter of her cousins rang in the clear mountain air as they helped the women drop rice seeds in the holes. She smiled when she remembered the speckled chicken that insisted upon sitting on her mother's shoulder as she worked, its round, feathered body swaying with each swing of her mother's strong, brown arms. As unwelcome as a pinch on the arm, the shrill bleat of a car horn startled Kia, and her eyes snapped open. Across the street two girls were scratching the concrete sidewalk with a sharp stone, then hopping on one foot. They lived in the building next to Kia. Whenever Kia passed them they would giggle and whisper words Kia did not understand. Sometimes, when she was watching them from her upstairs living-room window, she would see the sun glint off their shining hair as they jumped, and she would smile and pretend they were waiting for her to come and play with them. But after a few minutes the smile would slip away because she knew they were not really waiting for her. She knew it was just make-believe. 1 Kia spread her sticky arms and legs out on her sleeping mat to catch the slight breeze that puffed through the open doorway of the hut. Already a thin film of sweat covered them. She listened to the chatter of the morning birds and wondered why the jungle humidity never made them tired as it did people. They always found something to gossip about. Maybe, she thought, shoving her black hair off her forehead with the back of her hand, it was cooler to be covered in feathers and flit among the branches of the trees than to be cooped up in huts where the heat sat on your chest like a ripe melon. Without opening her eyes, she knew her mother was making egg rolls and spicy meat today. The tangy smell made the back of her mouth water and her nose tingle. It was a treat to have them anytime other than the Hmong New Year because usually Kia's mother was far too busy to make these delicacies. But the weather had been fine, and planting had gone well this year. The harvest was in and the weeds had not yet had time to flourish, so many women of the village had more time to cook and make items to sell at the village market. Kia rolled off her mat, washed her face and hands in a bucket of water, and sat by her mother as she finished mixing the ingredients for the meat. Grandmother sat just outside the hut, nimble fingers weaving the tough grasses Kia helped her gather to make baskets. Since she was a girl, Kia's grandmother had made baskets woven from grasses and bamboo to sell at the market. These strong baskets could be used for many years to carry corn and vegetables at harvest time. Even people from other villages came to buy them because they were made so well. Grandmother said she was able to make such good baskets because each time she cut down grasses or bamboo she asked the spirits to guide her hands as she made them. She told Kia that if one were thankful and humble, the spirits would be kind and helpful, but if the spirits were forgotten or ignored, they would think the person who cut them proud and vain. Kia's mother handed Kia one of Grandmother's sturdy baskets. "When you go with Grandfather this morning, get me some tauj so I can make more brooms before the next market day." After a hasty breakfast of rice noodles and dried fish, Kia went to find her grandfather. She found him outside gazing up at the wispy trails of clouds that would soon burn off in the jungle heat. Kia loved the early mornings. Her eyes traveled over the distant pink mountaintops and shadowed valleys. Behind her, the cows plodded about the village streets and people wound their way down the path to the sluggish river. Children giggled and chased one another while the speckled chicken spread itself to rest in the dust behind their hut. The smoke from the morning cooking fires melted into the air. "You and I need to race the sun up the mountain, Little Cricket. There are many plants I need to gather before the sun bakes them." In the cool of the morning Kia and her grandfather walked hand in hand as they searched the lush mountaintop for the herbs Grandfather used as medicine. He would cut them into thin slices and dry them in a net that hung from the ceiling of their hut. Nearly every day someone came to him for advice on when to plant crops or where to build a house or how to cure an itchy rash that wouldn't go away. When sickness came, Grandfather would choose the right plant to make the sick person well. Sometimes the person had to chew the leaves; sometimes the herb was cooked with a chicken. She watched him walk slowly ahead of her, carefully searching under leaves and grasses, then placing the plants in a small basket. "May I go visit Aunt Zoua for a little while?" Kia asked. Aunt Zoua lived in a rickety hut that clung to the mountainside like a gnat to the side of a water buffalo. The old hut creaked and groaned a little more with each strong wind. Aunt Zoua was not really Kia's aunt, but the whole village called her this because she was so old and had no family left to care for her. Her only son had died when he was an infant. Many times people had tried to persuade her to move off the mountainside into the village where she would be safer, but Aunt Zoua stubbornly insisted on living in the leaky hut that nearly washed down into the valley each rainy season. Everyone loved the old woman, and there wasn't a child in the village that hadn't been bounced upon her knee or rocked in her thin, ropy arms. The old woman couldn't see well anymore, and Kia often stopped to help her. "Yes, but only for a short while," replied Grandfather, straightening up and stretching his back. "We have much to do today." The old woman's face broke into a broad, toothless smile when she saw Kia skipping down the steep dirt path toward the hut. The basket slung across Kia's back slapped happily up and down. Aunt Zoua was trying to pound rice with a pestle to make flour, but Kia could see she was not strong enough anymore to crack the husk from the rice grain. The rice just skittered around and around in the earthen bowl like fleas on a dog. "Would you like me to do that for you?" Kia asked. Aunt Zoua gratefully handed Kia the bowl and pestle and seemed content to just sit and gaze down the mountain into the valley below, her faded eyes hardly more than slits in her wrinkled, brown face. After a long silence, Aunt Zoua looked up at Kia and asked, "Is your grandfather on the mountain?" Kia's arm was getting tired, but she looked with satisfaction at the husked rice. "Yes. He is looking for plant medicine today as always." Mashing her gums together and nodding, the old woman said, "He knows much about making people well. We are lucky to have such a good shaman in our village." As she spoke, Aunt Zoua pointed to her right ankle where, the year before, a venomous snake had bitten her. A villager had stopped by to visit and had found her unconscious on the floor of the hut, her leg purple and swollen to the size of a tree trunk. Kia's grandfather had been quickly summoned to perform the Hmong healing ceremony. Grandfather had said Aunt Zoua was sick because one of her souls had been frightened away by the snake poison and had to be coaxed back into the body to make it whole again. Many villagers had crowded into Aunt Zoua's hut to watch Grandfather perform the hu plig. For nearly an hour, Grandfather had talked to the spirits and had gone into a deep trance where he trembled so much that Kia thought the old hut would surely tumble down the mountainside. As he talked to the spirits, Grandfather shook a large, circular rattle to help the soul return to Aunt Zoua's body. He tied strings around Aunt Zoua's wrists to keep her recaptured soul in her body so it would not run away and make her sick again. Then he lit two big, smoky torches that lit up the inside of the hut as if the sun had been brought indoors. By the next day Aunt Zoua's leg was better and she was hobbling around, telling all who would listen of the great powers of Kia's grandfather. At last, Kia finished pounding the rice and placed the bowl in Aunt Zoua's lap. Clutching Kia's brown hand, Aunt Zoua lifted her old face up to Kia and whispered, "Tell your grandfather to ask the good spirits to make this war go away so our people do not have to move again." Kia did not know what war was or how to make it go away, but surely Grandfather would know. She slipped her hand from Aunt Zoua's grasp. "I will tell him what you said," Kia promised the old woman. "Now, I must go." On the way back up the mountain, Kia stopped to admire a magnificent, glistening web spun among the rough grasses. As she put out a finger to touch the silky thread, a fat-bodied brown spider disappeared behind a leaf. "You've been working on this a long time, haven't you?" Kia said softly to the spider. "If ever you get tired of your home here, I will bring you home." Kia believed that if a spider spun a web inside a hut it meant good luck. Behind her, near the top of the slope, Kia could hear Grandfather humming softly. A feeling of safety and contentment filled her because she knew that when Grandfather hummed he was happy. She stood up, stepped gingerly over the web, and began climbing to the top of the mountain. "Grandfather, Aunt Zoua says you must ask the spirits to make this war go away. But Grandfather, I don't understand what is happening. Why do we have to keep moving? Father, Uncle Lue, and Aunt Zoua all talk of war and people who want to take over the world to make other people do as they say. But why do they want to do this?" Overhead a soaring bird, looking for its first meal of the day, cast a giant shadow over the steaming ground just as the sun came out. Grandfather reached under a massive palm tree and pulled up a small plant, roots and all. Gently he tapped it against his leg until a small shower of black dirt left the delicate roots exposed. A sharp, tangy smell drifted up to Kia as he carefully placed the herb in his basket. "Little Cricket, you should not be worrying about such things." He called Kia this because she often stood on one skinny, brown leg and rubbed the other behind it, like a cricket. Seeing that his granddaughter was not satisfied with his answer, he continued, "Wars are always about the strong taking from the weak." Kia wrinkled her forehead in confusion. "Then it is bad to be strong?" "Only if strength is misused," replied Grandfather. "To be strong is a wonderful thing, but it should be used to help others, not to hurt them." Kia still did not understand, but before she could ask another question, her grandfather said, "I must collect several more plants yet before the sun finds them. Perhaps you should make use of that basket on your back to collect the tauj your mother needs. Cut no more than you can carry. When you are finished, return here and we will go home together." Up and up Kia climbed until she was where the grasses grew tall as the roof of a hut. From around her waist she unsheathed a sharp knife and began cutting the tough bushes that her mother used to make brooms to sell at the market. The sun was quickly burning off the fog, and Kia stopped for a moment to look across the rippling valleys that were still shrouded in white mist. Sweat stung her eyes as she gently packed the tauj in her basket. With great care, she put the knife back in its case. It was razor sharp and could easily cut through bone. When Kia and Grandfather walked back home, a beautiful orange-and-black butterfly floated beside them for much of the way, then zoomed off toward Aunt Zoua's hut. Kia knew that when a butterfly appeared, it was the soul of a dead person soaring through the sky. "Grandfather, do you know who I think that butterfly is? I think it is Aunt Zoua's baby come to see if she is all right, since he cannot be here to take care of her himself. Don't you think that, too, Grandfather?" The old man looked with tenderness at his granddaughter. "That very well might be, and I think he will be very happy to know his mother has such friends as you."