Cicadas

At this time of year the crickets take over the nightly chorus from the cicadas. I think I prefer their song, but I am reminded of a piece I wrote about cicadas back in 1988 - when there were a lot more of them around here than there are now.

CICADAS IN THE KITCHEN.

Cicadas have been part of late spring ever since we moved here in 1977.  A great dinning noise, precisely regulated by temperature, sets the boundaries of our over-planted garden - and the table for the neighbourhood birds.  They must be exceptionally delicious.  Wattle birds, blackbirds, thrushes, honey-eaters, sparrows, mynahs, starlings all forsake their usual diet in the cicada season.  The only ones that seem to resist are the doves.

The first cicada I saw up close was at the mercy of a determinedly pecking sparrow, hardly bigger than itself.  War raged all over the garden.  Little armies dived and swooped for possession of the hapless creature.  Birds that normally co-exist in casual disregard of each other fought fiercely and noisily for the communal meal.  The Dalmation waited impatiently under a tree for one to be dropped.  She knows how to chew them so the stiff wings drop out either side of her mouth.

Indifferent Nature leaves the cicada disembowelled, but chirping, often still capable of flight.  Even so, it seems easier to be sentimental about trees than insects.  Reluctantly sacrificed, the big Spotted Gum never looked so beautiful as the day it lay across our tiny patch of lawn, washed with the rain all day.

All week the kids had been gathering the fragile brown skins abandoned just above ground level.  Perfect in every detail except for the wings, they cling with beguiling tenacity to T-shirts and bathroom towels.  When she heard the chirping in the leaves, the four-year-old was adamant she wanted some 'real-live "kasadas" all for her very own' - so in they came, the colour of new honeysuckle leaves.  Her older sister gathered leaves, decorated the clear plastic container, and solemnly pierced the 'Gladwrap'.  

The placid creatures sat.  We looked into their three big 'eyes' and wondered if they were 'boy and girl'.  Somewhere near midnight one of them chirped plaintively, but the great cicada chorus had been dimmed that year by all the rain and grey clouds.  Creatures of warmth and sun, a lone cicada makes a mere shadow of sound, bereft of echoing shrillness.  Only the males 'sing' -- a sort of competitive 'come and find me' song.  He who sings the loudest and longest gets the female.  Ours was privileged!

All day they pretend to be leaves, but towards late afternoon their energy rises.  In slow motion they lurched around the twigs and leaves and the next day we found them locked in embrace.  Not facing away from each other as in the book, but face to face, clasped.  For several hours they stayed that way, high on the kitchen counter before retiring to opposite corners to sit motionless for another twenty-four hours.

Now we knew who was 'he' and who was 'she'!  The whole house was electric with interest -- just like the moment when you realise that the caterpillar is about to spin a cocoon .  'Perhaps if we get just the right sort of twig, she will lay her eggs and then we can watch the little cicadas hatch.  Then we'll put them back outside to dig down into the ground.'  Perhaps.  Cicadas are harder to feed than caterpillars - they needed living sap.  I began to suspect they also needed  space and light and height.  Their childhood is spent underground; adults seem driven by an imperative to move ever upward. 

He barely moved.  She was a captive pacing the walls of her cell.  His part in the scheme of things was complete; hers was developing inside her.  The female it seems must seek the male and having found him find the place for her eggs.  It could not be found inside a plastic container despite the bunches of tasty new branches put there each day.  Round and round the edge she went pushing at the "Gladwrap", grasping at the tiny air holes.  As always in these matters, I wanted to let her go.  But I was intensely curious too.  The children regarded her as a pet. 

We went away for the weekend.  I was not surprised to find him dead in the box, but where was she?  Only after gingerly removing all the leaves did I think to look around.  There she was, glistening on a 'strainer'.  She had escaped.  Her persistent pushing at the 'Gladwrap' rewarded.  We found a large box, filled it with bigger, juicier branches.  We put air holes all around the bottom to increase the circulation of fresh air.  She disappeared into the lush greenery, but soon she was patrolling round and round the top edge of the box pushing her front legs and head against the shiny, tight covering.  New leaves made no difference. 

The next morning she was out again.  We found her on the waste-paper basket.  'We must let her out,' I said, 'I can't bear to watch it any longer.  She needs real trees.'  I felt cruel, criminal.  I imagined myself caged -- freedom was worth all the attendant risks.  She had worked so hard at escape, how could I play God and put her back in the box, but there were floods of tears.  'No, no the birds will eat her.  I don't want the birds to eat my "kasada".'  I relented.  She was weak and tired.  The fresh honeysuckle branches must have offered some comfort.

Peering into the shadows of the box, I wondered if her eyes were capable of sufficient discrimination to discern my presence.  What was she aware of?  Late the next evening, near midnight I returned to the darkened kitchen.  There was the familiar scratching.  As I stood and watched I noticed a succulent plant near the box.  I lifted the cover and offered the green leaves.  She lumbered out with arthritic slowness, settled herself, leaf-like, and pierced the soft stem with her tiny drinking tube.  She was still there in the morning. 

Perhaps that was the solution.  Let her out onto the plant each night.  This only renewed her energy to escape again.  I did not want this conflict.  How could I return this insect to nature's indifferent cycle of birth and death?  How could I relieve myself of obligation?  The drive and persistence, the power of instinct was unnerving.  If it had not been for the children I would never have brought her inside, and nearly two weeks later I felt sure she would not lay her eggs for our convenience. 

The end was worse than I could have imagined.  She escaped again and crawled half way up the long passage.  Near midnight, did she sense the soft warm rain outside?  I knew the moment I felt the slight crunch.  In the morning there were tears, but I doubt they understood the wrenching pain of that moment.  She deserved her soaring Spotted Gum -- the tallest tree in the garden.