I panicked and sweated a useless hot fury,
for I couldn’t go seeking my lusus naturae
without an accomplice to save me in case
those beasts dragged me into their dank, mucky place.
We agreed to go Monday, and hung up our phones.
I tossed and turned in my bed, with aches in my bones.
I scanned the room for any sneaky mud clumps.
And although I saw none, my arms still had goose bumps.
The evening was nice, so Pam’s folks sat outside,
listening to an opera from speakers inside.
The haunting, soft voice of a young female muse
lulled me into sleep with her Sadko berceuse.
That voice stroked my brain as I slipped off to sleep,
pressed into my mattress to a snooze very deep
in my usual pose, lying flat on my back
with my legs crossed and pinky toes linking, but slack,
and my hands gently folded, rested on my heart
pinkies crossed, thumb tips close, but slightly apart.
I’ve slept in this posture long as I remember.
It’s the pose my body seems to naturally prefer.
I drifted off into my recurrent dream,
where I doze not on mattress, but on a light beam.
I float a few inches over the warm bed.
Instead of a pillow, light cradles my head.
But Pam couldn’t snooze after all I had told her!
Huddled under covers, flashlight on her shoulder,
she drew pictures of Mud Gullumpers’ white, massive eyes,
and more of Mud Gullumpers zipping to new highs.
Double-checking her windows, to be sure they were closed,
she didn’t want her sleeping body exposed
to these sneaky creatures I had told her about.
If I said they exist, she’d no reason to doubt.
Chapter 4
Trying to read Saturday, my thoughts were consumed
with each drip from the faucet in the hall bathroom.
Each ‘plip’ marked off seconds that Pam was away,
so I played with my sisters for the rest of the day.
After dinner, my mom walked all of us to the park,
where we frolicked as much as we could before dark.
“Look at me!” Ryan yelled, cresting high on the swing.
“I can’t go any higher!” He yelled through a wide grin.
The metal rings groaned with each pull and each pump,
then went lax at the top, making Ryan’s swing jump.
My sisters and I took our turns down the slide,
gazing up at our brother on his highest of rides.
My mother sat calmly at the base of the hill,
on a bench, bundled up for the pre-evening chill.
A soft wave of rain unfolded from the sky,
misting Gracie’s curls, scintillating the slide.
My arm was soon covered with small lollipops
-stiff, goose-bumped blond hairs - water droplets on top.
My brother just relished the new stimulus.
Pumping harder and faster, he flew high ‘bove the grass.
He pumped with a purpose, or some higher calling
that shielded him from any fear of falling.
He called out, “Watch me, Mom! I’m going to climb
right up those raindrops as if they were vines!”
Then he leapt off the swing before she could react,
grasping each small raindrop as if in fact
he really believed that the raindrops could hold
the sheer weight of a healthy young twelve-year-old.
And he did seem to rise, to my sisters and me.
He swam through the rain and up rose his body
in a slow, curving arc, and my sisters and I
were so pleased to see Ryan rise up in the sky.
“There he goes!” giggled Gracie.
“Up! Up! And away!” Sam yelled in response to this boldest display.
“Ryan! No!” My mom screamed, leaping up from her seat.
At that screech, Ryan pointed down both of his feet,
and flailing, he plummeted down to the ground.
His body met earth with a dull, thudding sound.
After that great thud, it was quiet again,
but for pittering pats of the weakening rain
on the cold metal slide my sisters crouched under,
staring out at my brother in awe and wonder.
His body was still in an odd, crumpled heap.
His chest heaved in small jerks as he started to weep
the saddest of weeps my ears had ever heard.
Mother ran up the hill muttering some curse words.
The sploshing of Mom’s footsteps abruptly stopped
when she reached Ryan’s side, crossed herself, and then dropped
to her knees and comforted,
“Please don’t move, take it slow.
Tell me where does it hurt?”
Ryan raised his elbow.
“Why’d you do that?” he moaned, beneath his arm.
“Do what?” asked my mother, now slightly alarmed.
“You made me come down, when I was doing just fine!
Why’d you shriek out my name when I started to climb?
I wasn’t going far, and I planned to come down.
You scared me when you yelled, and I fell to the ground!”
Mother did not respond to his little tirade,
confused by his thoughts and a little afraid.
“Can you get up?” my mom pushed, beckoning him to stand.
“Think so,” he groaned quietly, offering his hand.
She pulled him up straight, steady on his two feet
and walked him slowly down toward the concrete.
“Let’s go home,” Mom dictated, herding us on.
I held Gracie’s hand; Ryan leaned on Mom’s arm.
One by one, silent plod, down the path to the street,
where the afternoon stored its residual heat.
The rain vaporized to the hazy street light,
directing my eyes to an intriguing sight.
In the dark, evening sprinkle, it seemed sure enough
that some of those raindrops were falling straight up!
Lightning flashed in the distance, and I saw clearly
that something was rising up out from the trees.
But unlike my brother, these things rose lump by lump
and they didn’t come down with a loud, solid thump.
“Mud Gullumpers?” I mouthed, but not quite out loud,
as I watched one go zipping right up to the clouds.
I looked at my brother, and there’s no denying
that I think I’d just realized why he had tried flying.
Chapter 4½
In the emergency room, my brother just moaned
of the throbbing discomfort in his arm bone.
My mother sat meekly in a corner chair
explaining the events that had led us all there.
Jotting notes, the doc called in a specialist
to fix Ryan’s arm and put it in a cast.
“He’ll heal fine,” gibed the doctor, and added wryly,
“From now on, I advise you stop him from flying.”
This dig at her parenting was unexpected,
and cocky young doctors need to be corrected.
“I’ll push him to fly for the rest of his life.
He just clearly needs better theories of flight.”
Mother felt that was all that she needed to say.
The young doctor just smirked as he walked away.
Suddenly confident to take things in stride,
Once Ryan was ready, Mother rushed us outside
to get us away from these dull physicians
who know little about raising healthy children.
And it seemed like my mother just skipped out the door.
Any unease or embarrassment from moments before
was suddenly lifted, and instead of decrying,
my mom liked Ryan’s cast; it proved her kid was trying!
When we got to the car, my mom dug in her purse,
looking for a good pen, so she could be the first
to sign Ryan’s cast. She squinted her eyes,
and twisted her mouth, trying hard to decide
what to write on the arm of her damaged young son.
She knew he’d be fine, but his pain was her own.
Since all this resulted from a leap off a swing,
she wrote in her neat, blue cursive: “Broken wing.”
Chapter 4 ¾
On Sunday, we all took our earned day of rest.
I swallowed my Mud Gullumper nervousness,
My father lamented, we needed more rain
to soften the garden, and ease the earth’s pain.
Chapter 5
Monday afternoon, after school had let out,
kids descended on the dead-end to run and shout
beneath the crab apple tree, a few feet past
where the dirt path yields to dandelions and tall grass.
All the neighborhood kids came out that bright day.
Pam and I saw our privacy dwindle away.
Kids swarmed around Ryan to sign his new cast.
I just wanted to form a search group at long last.
I decided to warn of the Mud Gullumpers’ moor,
but I needed to know that we would be secure.
So I told everyone, “Before we talk a bit,
for our own safety, we should build a fire pit.
The heat from the fire will protect all of us
from the horrid creatures we’re about to discuss.”
That brief mention of the Mud Gullumper faction
was enough to spring everyone into action.
It took scant precious goading to inspire
elementary school kids to build a huge fire.
We knew just what to do since we were all scouts.
We’d been camping before, where we learned all about
making fires from twigs and logs found in the woods,
how to arrange rocks, and clear brush, as you should.
We girls pulled our hair back in tight ponytails
with yanked honeysuckle vine from the pond trail.
We peeled sheets of birch bark, stacked twigs to be lit.
The boys rubbed sticks together in a fierce fit,
Emmy scooped up dirt in an old coffee can
-just one part of our thorough fire safety plan.
Despite all the friction, no one lit a flame,
no spark, no puff of smoke, and all arms hung lame.
“We need matches,” said Ryan, rising from a sit.
“I know where Mom keeps them - be back lickity-split!”
The boys put their sticks down, as he ran down the path.
I lay back on the dirt. Pam chewed on some sweet grass.
I crinkled my nose at her new food of choice.
“Jon said I could eat it,” she said in a meek voice.
The dust Ryan kicked up as he ran away
softly swirled and then sank through the sun’s setting rays.
“Greta, stay!” I yelled firmly, when she dashed for his tracks.
“Here girl,” I called sweetly, just to make her trot back.
I threw high in the sky a stick we’d been using.
Greta sprinted toward it with a fervor amusing.
We giggled and chortled as she ran for the stick
as if her whole doggie life depended on it.
She sprang in the sky, caught the stick in her jaws,
landing in a large heap of rump, back, then paws.
Then yipping loudly, she took off for the creek,
dust contrails behind her in billowing streaks.
“Your dog’s really stupid,” declared good ol’ Cyd,
scribbling in the dirt with the point of his stick.
Cyd was kind of a jerk; that much, I’ll grant.
But when you know one your whole life, you’re more tolerant.
With four older sisters who beat him up often,
his aggression toward girls was quite hard to soften.
We were the same age, even in the same class,
but I’d been round him so long, I was hard to harass.
He’d take a few jabs, and see I just ignored him,
or yawn in his face like I suffered from boredom.
Cyd’s busy stick blurred when I focused on Jon,
crouched down to see something he’d happened upon.
In a large, empty space, trodden pebbles and silt,
stood a small goldenrod, trying hard not to wilt
from the afternoon sun that beat down on its leaves
making its petals curl like a mouth when it grieves.
To see life standing tall in such deprivation
was a very inspiring aberration.
Its will to survive was certainly awesome.
So I rose to go look at that bright, little blossom.
I squatted by Jon and wiped sweat off my brow.
He slumped down from the crouch he had held up ‘til now.
“Nature does nothing, and yet everything’s done.”
In silence, I rocked, contemplating that one.
It just made no sense, and I could not ascertain
why such thoughts didn’t fit in my black and white brain.
Jon’s brain produced zingers like that all the time!
Short and sweet little phrases with word choice sublime
that made you consider and question your worth.
Brow-baked, I drooped down to the toasty, warm earth.
“I have too much homework, so I cannot stay.
But please tell me what happens some other day.”
Jon grabbed his blue bike from the base of the tree
and turning around, nodded “bye” back to me.
He wobbled a bit, slowly pedaling away,
with the rocky, tan trail clearly pointing the way.
A contented traveler, with minimal striving,
focusing on the journey and not the arriving.
We watched Ryan running again down the street.
“Got ‘em,” he panted, hunkering down on his feet
up close to the pit, and he struck a match briskly
and touched it to the birch bark, which lit up quite quickly.
With our campfire now blazing, we all reconvened
and I told everyone of the stuff I had seen.
Ryan was surprised by the topic that day.
He tried shutting me up four or five different ways.
But I was persistent, and the other kids’ pleas
made him sit back and frown, with his hands on his knees.
I spoke of the mud and how it zooms around,
while Ryan sat silent, looking down at the ground.
I claimed, “Ryan says the gook hails from the creek,
and if you go down there, it’s boots that they seek.”
“I’ve lost boots there before,” Quinn agreed with a shrug.
“They wouldn’t come out no matter how hard I tugged.”
“Me too!” offered Emmy, “My boots were so deep
that I had to run home with just socks on my feet!”
Because they were seven, I knew they’d believe
any scary story my brother conceived.
Allowed in the dead end the first time this year
‘cause they both have big sisters to watch them down here.
Quinn is Pam’s brother. He’s in second grade.
He always seems sad and a little afraid.
That’s probably because in all of his
classes
the school kids make fun of his coke bottle glasses.
We don’t laugh at him here, ‘cause he’s one of the gang.
Most days after school, this is where we all hang
out together, so it pays to get along.
If you live on these streets, you always belong.
Emmy was a pretty and delicate girl.
She liked to dress up and have her hair in curls.
Her mom made her sister take her everywhere,
which to a teenager, is completely unfair.
So that makes Eileen the oldest one of us.
Her goal is to quarrel and to fake disgust
at our babyish games and young naiveté.
We all tolerate her to the nth degree.
“It’s just mud!” Eileen sneered. “There’s no need to contrive
a big, gooey monster that’s really alive.”
Smacking logs with her stick to accent her remarks,
she unleashed a thousand bright orange fire sparks,
which swirled up in a funnel and then slowly thinned,
like fireflies fleeing a thunderstorm wind.
“It’d be dumb,” agreed Danny, “if we all pretend
we believe in your stupid Mud Gullumper friends.”
Danny and Ryan were both in the sixth grade,
but Danny was the easiest kid to persuade.
If someone older spoke first, he would just agree.
It seemed he wanted to be with the big kids to me.
“Ryan, tell them,” I pleaded, “I’m not making this up.
Tell them I briefly caught one in my cup!”
Ryan sat still, his face oddly aloof.
He didn’t want to bear the burden of proof.
Now the line was drawn between old kids and young,
he had to decide which side he would be on.
Ryan stared, looking down, ignoring my pleas.
His silence fed a growing sense of unease
that crept ‘round the campfire from kid to kid.
So I just pressed on, and entered my bid.
“Well, I think this is something to investigate
because things will get worse if we procrastinate.
If the gook keeps spreading, it’ll take over the town!
The Mud Gullumpers Page 3