The grub

The first time Unga had sex, the man turned into a witchetty grub. She was shocked at first, but after some contemplation, she realized she was in fact hungry, and she dined on him for breakfast, washing the fattiness down with some cold water and a few sour lilli pillis that she liked to keep on hand to feed the familiar beast of hunger. It was a slightly unusual start to her day, but she was relatively unconcerned. She’d heard of stranger things happening.

When she was done, she walked down to the nearest stream and used a piece of flat rock to dig a chunk of soft, white clay from the waterbed, before placing it into a small woven bowl she’d brought from her hut. She was an artist, the only one of her tribe, and she was working on a large fresco on the limestone rocks a few miles away.

Once she arrived at the rockface, she carefully added a few small cylindrical shapes, noticing how the hot midday sun dried the clay near instantly. She added a few human figures, before blowing the dust off and standing back to observe her work. She felt proud, and clean. She was a generally unremarkable woman, but her painting was precious to her, and made her feel special.

*

The next time Unga had sex, the man, again, turned into a witchetty grub. Again, Unga ate the grub, enjoying the yolky taste and taking care to avoid the head, which was brittle, and sharp once broken. She delighted in the feeling of pleasure and contentment when she felt the fresh meat hit her belly. But this time, she felt a small tug of something else. These were good men from her village, and her neighbours would miss them. She didn’t want to cause a scene, but she’d felt strong when parting her thighs, and even stronger when biting into the grub’s meatiness afterwards.

Out of a sense of duty and loyalty to her tribe, she waited as long as she could before committing the act again. She really did try.

*

Unga had sex for the third time exactly twelve days later. This time, something unusual happened.

It was a quick experience, a parting of the legs, three humps and a grunt. Unga was disappointed. As soon as the man lifted himself clumsily off her, she wriggled out from underneath and grabbed a possum cloak to cover her nudity. She had her lilli pillis ready on a little stool next to the straw mattress, but as she reached for them, she noticed a peculiar feeling in the atmosphere, as if it was becoming thicker. A cloying, bodily smell rose to the mud roof.

She looked at the man, expecting the usual witchetty grub in his place, and noticed an odd wobbling sensation around the edges of his body. Unga watched him carefully from the corner of her eye. His broad, meaty hands and dirty fingernails had begun to twitch, ever so slightly, to an offbeat tune.

Next, his skin began to stretch and glimmer, and she watched as the colour slowly drained until the skin was the pale, reflective colour of washed bone. Soon, predictably enough, there next to her lay a witchetty grub. But this one was different to the others. This one was magnificent. This one was the same size as Unga.

Unga turned towards it – him – and was strangely overcome with a rush of affection. She felt a warmth rising in her cheeks and a shy flutter in her nether region. This was different to the first two times. Something had changed. Where before she had felt hunger and indifference, now she felt desire.

My darling – she cried, wrapping her strong arms tightly around the grub’s wide, sectioned body. Where his head once was, there was now a dark orange shell-like structure, sprouting two long antennae that waved feebly. As she held her soft lover, they reached furtively out, caressing Unga’s freckled skin affectionately. Her round belly, soft with downy hair, pressed gently against the grub’s ribbed midriff. He was a grub, so he could not speak, but they communicated in other ways.

Unga had never experienced such feelings of tenderness before, and she looked carefully into the grub’s small face, searching for answers. He was not a particularly handsome grub, by any standards. He was wide at the belly, his skin translucent, almost reflective. He smelt like the earth, fresh earth dampened by the rain. It was a pleasant smell. His eyes were soft and welcoming, and they whispered to her heart.

They spent some time in bed together after that. Becoming acquainted, learning each other’s thoughts and desires. Caressing the folds of each other’s skin until the light outside the hut began to darken. The other women of the tribe had not returned yet and they were expecting them to be out for the remainder of the day. They had been hunting since dawn.

The flying foxes came out as the sun went down and began circling the camp, screaming at each other and crashing into the branches of the yellow wattle trees outside. Unga looked through her doorway. She could see the dried eucalyptus leaves shifting across the dusty red earth. The fallen wattle created a honey like glow surrounding the edges of the hut. The women would be back soon.

She turned towards the grub and whispered – I wish we could stay here forever.

He waved his antenna gently in response.

*

It was a custom within their tribe for the women to hunt. The were faster than the men, who had freakishly broad shoulders and small feet, which made them completely ill-equipped for running long or even short distances. But the women had large feet, round bellies and long legs. They were fast, clever and usually good at what they did.

As the temperature dropped and the cane toads began their mournful croaking, the women returned, flushed and angry. They’d been unsuccessful. This was rare for them, and frustration ripened in the air.

Unga and the grub were still wrapped in each other’s arms, curled around one another in a warm, sticky embrace. The grub’s newly grown antenna twitched reflexively at the sound of gum leaves crunching underfoot and the women fussing over the little food they could find in their huts.

I wish we could stay here forever – Unga whispered again, into the grub’s ear – a deep hole in the side of his phallic body. He writhed in commiseration. Both were urgently aware that their communion would not be well received by the others. The grub began to shake as he heard the pots and pans clacking together in preparation for dinner. He was a delicacy, and he knew it. Unga knew it too, and she held her breath in anticipation. Blood rose to her cheeks as she realized her predicament.

When the women came to check on Unga, they realized immediately what had happened. They saw the trickle of sweat on her brow, they saw the oversized grub spread ungainly beside her, a thin trail of pale liquid slowly leaving his body. They remembered a similar case a few months before, and the consequences. They wouldn’t be so slow this time.

They grabbed Unga by the arms and the grub by each doughy end and brought them to the campfire, the blue flames licking hungrily in anticipation of a hearty meal. The grub’s skin was radiant in this light – purples, yellows, blues reflecting into Unga’s eyes, who watched him with dread.

*

The women ate well that night, licking each drop of fat and chewing on each piece of marrow until their dishes were clean. Two days later, the rains came, washing Unga’s fresco from the walls until the limestone was clean again.