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Ms. Mercure opines that even when faced by carnivorous
vegetation spiritual motivation is still to be had by a delicate turn of
phrase… By Bonnie Mercure Uncle Melvin referred to our family as warrior
poets. By day, we fought to defend our
land, and at night, by the crackle of the fireplace, Uncle Melvin read from the
tattered book titled Greatest Poets of all Time. The book was over two-hundred years old, the pages yellow and thin. They looked ready to crumble into oblivion
at the slightest touch, but my great grandfather, Ludwick Smith, had the pages
laminated before his death.
Nevertheless, the book was worse for wear. It was used a lot. Greatest
Poets of all time was the only book our family owned. We once had a Bible, the condensed edition,
but Granny Jules fed it to a creepy ten years ago, when one dug its way under
our fence and crept into our vegetable garden. Uncle Melvin, a grin on his dirt-smeared face, wiped his
grimy hands on the front of his shirt and said to me, “Walt, would you be so
kind and fetch the book?” “Of course, Uncle,” I said, already on my feet. I had expected his request even before he
spoke. We’d just finished our nightly
meal-- Mother’s specialty of boiled turnips and diced garden worms. It had been a special occasion; today, our
family had killed over a dozen madcons.
It would be a fine night for poetry. “I’d like to request a work by Whitman,” I heard my
brother John say as I slipped from the room.
“The night calls for Whitman, I think.” Mother was in the kitchen, humming as she used a sheet of
wax paper to roll the leftovers in. She
smiled as I strolled by. “You did well
today, killing two madcons.” She swung her arm through the air in an imitation of me
decapitating a madcon’s three heads. I nodded, pride swelling in my chest. “I saved the life of a human. A madcon was about to strike a man from the
village.” Mother kissed my cheeks.
I breathed in and inhaled her scent, a mixture of old sweat and fresh
earth. “You’re a true warrior poet.” I headed to the upstairs loft. Eleven mattresses lined the wall; ripped quilts neatly rested on
top of them. Four mattresses were
currently not in use--they had belonged to two of my older brothers, my cousin
and my aunt, all killed in battle.
Their names were on the far wall
by the window, carved carefully with Great Grandfather Ludwick’s pocketknife. The list of family members who’d died in
battle in the last two hundred years covered three-quarters of the wall. I reached beneath Uncle Melvin’s mattress and retrieved a
dented metal box. Nestled in a groove
in the wooden floor was a key, impossible to see unless you knew it was
there. The chatter of the rest of the
family rose between the floor boards. As I opened the box, I sensed their anticipation, a need that grew
in them every night--a hunger for beauty and purity after a day of
bloodshed. It was a hunger that could
only be filled by poetry. When I opened Uncle’s box, my heart rose to my throat. The book was gone. Unable to believe it, I tipped the box upside down. The picture Uncle Melvin kept of our
ancestors fluttered to the floor. I
picked it up and peered at the ancient faces; faces that were strange yet
hauntingly familiar. A man who looked a
little like Father stood with his arm around a woman who had my younger sister
Anna’s wild black hair. Only the woman
in the picture had her hair pulled back to reveal a flawless, pampered face. They stood on a lush carpet of green uninhibited
by metal wires and rusty chains to keep madcons and creepers out. Beside them stood our house, sturdy and
unspoiled, gleaming white under the sun.
Other than the shape and slope of the roof, I wouldn’t believe it was
the same eroded, crumbling house we lived in.
I peered at my ancestors smiling faces, at their foreign,
shameless happiness, and desperation stole over me. Where could Greatest Poets of all Time be? Uncle Melvin never moved it. No one was allowed to look at it by
themselves, only with the family unit. I put the old photograph back into the box and
stood. Fear settled heavy in my
stomach. Had a creeper sneaked in
here? I surveyed the room, expecting to
see a hairy tentacle inching across the floor, ready to curl around my ankle. But no.
It wasn’t in a creeper’s nature to hide. They craved human possessions--objects that were so cherished
they took on a life of their own--but they lacked the intelligence to conceal
themselves. “Walt!” Uncle Melvin yelled. “Did you get lost up there?” His voice was still light-hearted, but I heard an edge of
uneasiness. My skin prickled with
chills. How would my family live
without the book? “I’m coming,” I yelled, and started down the rickety
stairs. Perhaps there was a logical explanation--Uncle
would remember that he moved the book to a different spot, perhaps, or another
family member took it out without permission and forgot to put it back. There would be tender chastising, then we
would have a hearty laugh and go on with our nightly reading of Greatest
Poets of all time. Uncle Melvin and Father stood when I entered the room,
their meaty hands pressed against their hips.
Father’s gentle face wrinkled with anticipation; Uncle Melvin’s eyes
narrowed into slits. The rest of the
family stared at my empty hands. The
dying rays of sunlight filtering through the window made their faces appear
crude and distorted. “It’s not in the box,” I said softly. Uncle Melvin wiped beads of sweat from his brow. “Not in the box?” “Not in the box,” I answered. “Gone?” Father whispered. I nodded. “Gone.” Uncle Melvin opened his mouth to speak, but no words
came. Just a hiss of air that reminded
me of the sound the madcons make before they strike. “Melvin?” Father laid a hand on Uncle’s shoulder. Uncle Melvin emitted another hiss then, eyes rolling back
to reveal only white, passed out. *
* * The madcons came out of the forest in droves, their wispy
arms outstretched, clawing the air in front of them. Their forms were dark and slick, like oil, and they stood around
ten feet tall. They moved with a
strange grace: they seemed to glide through the field, their pole-like legs
barely moving at all. I turned to Uncle Melvin. His gaze was drawn to far off horizons, and not on the
approaching madcoms. A tear trickled
from the corner of his eye and smeared his dirty cheek. “Get ready,” I whispered. He nodded, though I could tell he wasn‘t listening. Since Greatest Poets of all time was
found to be missing last night he hadn’t spoken a word. Who had taken the book?
Surely it had been fed to a creeper, and no one would admit to it. Everyone suspected Granny Jules, but she
claimed she hadn’t seen a creeper in months.
The only other person home all day was my sister Anna, who was too young
to go into battle. The madcons’
sleek shadows played across the ground as they drew closer, and their three
heads sprouted like weeds from their shoulders. Their mouths, crammed with dagger-sharp teeth, opened wide to
greet the morning. I clenched my ax, and, as I always did before battle, I
recalled the words of my favorite poem by a man named Dylan Thomas. Do not go gentle into that good night... Every night the madcons sank into the ground, only to
rise again at the first light of day.
In order to destroy the madcons, the remaining human race would have to
torch the earth in the dead of night. But now we didn't fight for humankind. We fought for our village and our community. We fought with the hope the madcons would
move on to another village and leave us alone for a season. Old age should burn and rave at close of day... The madcons opened their mighty mouths wider and emitted
snake-like hisses. Uncle Melvin, in a poetic
mood, had once told us the madcons didn’t have any eyes because they lacked
souls. With that thought in mind, I
raised my ax, ready to strike. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. I sliced my ax through the air and split open the dark
belly of a madcon. The madcom screeched
and stumbled backward, a thick, black substance oozing from its middle. Father cried beside me.
I turned. He struggled on the
ground while two madcons hovered over him, their six necks craning to get at
the delicate flesh of his throat. I
raised my ax and swung at the head closest to my father while, simultaneously,
I raised my foot and kicked the other madcon in the midsection and watched as
it flew off Father. The head of the madcon rolled across the field. The remaining two heads shriveled like dried husks and the alien
crumpled to the ground. Father leapt to
his feet swinging his ax. There was no
time for thanks. Other madcons bore
down on us. Screams of villagers,
screeches of madcons, filled my ears. I
came to a place inside myself where nothing else existed but killing, and the
lines of my favorite poem. Do not go gentle into that good night... A woman’s head, half her face gnawed off, rolled by my
feet. I kicked it with impatience to
get to my next kill. I was a warrior
poet, and nothing else mattered. *** When twilight came and the madcons sank into the ground,
the creepers came. They waded through the
carnage, hairy tentacles grasping bits of flesh and bone. I sensed their hunger, their need for
emotion, for something tangible to fill them.
It was said that the madcons brought the creepers with them from space
to guard the earth while they slept. But that insatiable need within them...where
did that come from? They were easy enough to stomp and kill, as long as you
didn’t let a tentacle slip around your ankle so they could pull you down to
their level. Father and I made our way through the field, trudging
through the gore of blood and flesh, stomping on creepers without much
thought. We searched for the rest of
the family unit, as we did every evening, but this time fear tightened my
stomach and constricted my throat.
Uncle Melvin claimed that there were fewer of our family killed because
we possessed Greatest Poets of all time. The book was our good luck charm. And it had always seemed to be true. We had a lot to be thankful for. Our crops were plentiful,
and we had the largest remaining family unit left in the village. So it wasn’t much of a surprise when my brother John
found Uncle Melvin’s head nestled in the grass beside a trampled creeper. Father knelt and cradled Uncle Melvin’s head in his
arms. He whispered something into his
brother’s ear I couldn’t hear, then looked up at us. “The book. We need to
find it.” I nodded. My
brother helped Father to his feet and, our beloved uncle’s head in the crook of
Father’s arm, we made our way home. *** We buried Uncle Melvin’s remains in Granny Jules'
vegetable garden. Granny Jewel kissed
Uncle’s cheek before placing him into the shallow grave. Then we stood around the garden without
speaking, the night wind caressing our faces.
My younger sister Anna was the only one who openly
grieved. Her sobs tore at my
heart--raw, primordial cries that cut through the night. I held her close and
trailed my fingers through her wild black hair. “The end of warrior poets,” Father said softly. Anna trembled against me. I held her tighter, and suddenly I knew: she was responsible for
the lost book. I kissed the top of her head. “It’s okay, dear one.” She tightened her thin arms around me, moaning into the
night. “I know and it’s okay,” I whispered in her ear. She quieted and looked up at me, her face contorted in
pain. I smoothed down her hair and
thought about the picture of our ancestors, the woman’s smiling, pampered
face. I wished to see that look
on my sister’s face, even for a moment. “I took the book outside,” she said quietly, so no one
else could hear. “I don’t know what
made me do it. I just thought one time,
reading by myself in the sunlight, wouldn’t hurt anything. Then before I knew it a cold, hairy tentacle
wrapped around me. I don't know where it came
from. We haven’t seen a creeper around here
in months.” The other family members trailed inside, shoulders
slumped in defeat. Anna turned her head to watch
them and whispered, “Will you tell
them, Walt?” “I won’t.” “It’s my fault Uncle Melvin died.” She lowered her head. “And now...now... everyone will die because of me.
Our good luck has been shattered.
We’re no longer warrior poets.” I didn’t know what to say to that. All I could do was hold her close, rock her
gently back and forth and tell her I loved her. * * * The idea came to me later that night while I was upstairs
staring at the names on the wall. After we added Uncle Melvin’s name, the
others retreated downstairs. Even from
up here I sensed the profuse silence that hung over the family, the fear and
uneasiness that shadowed their sprits. I picked up Great Grandfather Ludwick’s knife, which we
had used to carve Uncle Melvin’s name on the wall. Uncle Melvin’s passion embedded deep in my heart, I headed
downstairs. I held the knife up for everyone to see. They all watched me with wide, uncertain
eyes. “Who remembers a favorite poem--committed it to memory?” Father
stood. “What’s this about?” I looked at Anna, smiled and said, “We can still be
warrior poets.” Gasps rippled across the room. A hopeful smile on his face, Father pressed his hands to his
heart and said, “You found the book?” “No, but I have a poem.”
I tapped my head. “In
here.” I tapped my heart. “And in here.” I went to the far wall and wiped the dust and grime off
of it with a shirt sleeve. Then, with
careful precision, I carved the words, Greatest Poets of all time. Underneath it, I carved In memory of Uncle Melvin. I wrote the poem from Dylan Thomas, each word a labor of
love. It took a good amount of time to
chisel each verse, but it was well worth the effort. The poem looked magnificent on our old, crumbling wall, more than
a tribute to the dead. It was a tribute
to life, to those left behind. When I was done I
wrote this: Warrior poets, we seek the truth Of those who came from space. Warrior poets, we seek the truth Of those who caused the demise of the human race. Warrior poets, we seek the truth So we give praise onto the night Give up our day to fight when it’s light. Warrior poets, we seek the truth But answers are not found. The only truth is that warrior poets will live on. Father rested his hand on my shoulder. “That’s beautiful, Walt.” I shook my head. It
was nothing like the poetry of two hundred years ago, but it was my own. It held beauty because it came from my
heart. I handed the knife to Father, but Anna stepped
forward. “May I go next?” “Of course,” Father said. I handed the knife to Anna. She smiled--a smile that bathed her face in a glow and touched
her eyes. It was the face in the picture, of our ancestor, and it
was beautiful.
Warrior Poets