WILLODEAN (THE CUPITOR CHRONICLES Book 1) (6 page)

“I hear voices inside me Maw Sue. Inside the house, in the rooms. Is that normal?” It was th
e first time I ever told anyone about the voices. 
She didn’t bat an eyelash. She had been waiting for this
very conversation, and thank God. 
I was relieved.
  Not so alone anymore. 
Come to find out, all Cupitors
have a house inside them. I sighed loudly in relief like a long held breathe I could never release but didn’t know why.  This house was called the
Dumas of Umbra, in Latin, the old language of our people and meant House of Shadows. Inside the house is many rooms, many voices, at first it’s mostly our ancestors and their stories, passed down in our blood, but as we grow, more rooms are added on, depending on
circumstances, and what happens in our lives over time and place.  Some rooms we build ourselves and other rooms are added without our co
ntrol, unavoidable as life is unavoidable.  

I am pondering life on the limbs of wondering tree, inside my whimsical house when the prisms of light jerk me back to the porch. My gift is suddenly activated—my ears alert and my vision sharp,
intense
.
I hear a zip noise that is deafening and for a second I react by closing my eyes, but when I open them, I am not on the porch.  My vision is altered.  I’m not sure. 
Where am I?
  I see large walls of brittle skin and crackled surfaces but I can see Maw Sue’s porch through it—and then I realize I am inside the crackle.  My insides rattle and snap as if the house inside me is building a room exactly like the crackle shell.  I feel an emptiness unlike ever before.  I see a woman on the outside, lost and hopeless and wandering.  And it’s me.  I am the woman, the grown up e
mpty cadaver of idiocy, babble and melancholy mess ups. I feel her calamity as my own, a chilling escapades into the
outskirts of hades. 

It’s a premoniti
on, I’m certain.  A warning, and one more reason not to grow up. 
I see every misguided attempt at life as a horrible tragedy, a life set ablaze like Tara in Gone with the Wind.  I ran and beat on the transparent walls of my cursed plantation, the walls of
my horrible mind while I frantically beat the amber skin, trying to poke holes through it to reach her, douse her with water, set her free, warn her of the horrible, terrible. 
But it was too late. My namesake did what it was born to do and I saw my whole life pass in a vision, right before me, child to adult,
adult to child and long before it ever had a chance to begin.  My life as a kid was
perfect and sublime and then adulthood
tossed a match and up in flames. 
This stark reality set me
on edge. 
I couldn’t bear to be doomed to a mindless
existence, and screwed up like the rest of the adult population, no way.  I must have screamed inside the crackle shell room forever,
until I heard
my bones crushing.  I was sure it was over and I prepared to meet my maker at once, but no.  I could not be so lucky. 
I awoke to square panels, white and stained and strewn about them were abandoned wasp nests and a weave of spider webs. When I move, I hear the a
wful crunches of my bones but feel no pain.  I jerk up quickly to get it over with but realize my shoebox army is flat as a pancake.  I take the lid off and the crackle reinforcements are now in fragments. 
I glance over at the lone survivor sitting on the rail where I left it before
I saw my future go up in indigo flames. 
You are lucky.
  And then I had an idea. 
Maybe, just maybe it wasn't too late. I tossed the shoebox in the trash, saluted them for their service and ran inside. I whizzed by Maw Sue who was a haze of pastel flowers and smoke. I collapsed at the three tiered bookcase in the
dark slider corner of the living room.  I could hear the slipping gurgles of things unseen. 
Lesser light, my foot.
  I grabbed the books I came for and ran to the center of the room where the light was the brightest. 
I spent the next hour pouring over encyclopedias and National Geographic magazines, page after page, looki
ng pass the naked tribal people.  I was
searching for explicit information about this Cicada aka Crackle. I had to know its habitat, its purpose, its journey. I don't know why exactly, but for the most part, it gave meaning to my own purpose, which sounded dorky when you really think about it but at the time, it just seemed like the thing to do.

To my amazement, and utmost disappointment, crackles d
on’t have much of a life at all.  The thing is
—
they don’t get a choice.
 
This baffled me and yet gave insight to my situation. 
Crackles or cicadas live the life they were given as God’s creatures always do. A crackle doesn’t try to be a beetle or a bird, they just are what they are. Simple as that. I also discovered the reason Mag and I find ga
zillions of them.  Crackles h
ave the life span of a lightning strike.  One day here. Next day—
gone.
 The only remnant of their existence is a shell left behind and clinging to some tree bark or wooden post. How tragic. 
Nothing passed on—nothing learned—nothing given.
 I
t must be a message or some warning.  I did not want to end up like that. 
Something in my heart had to live for a purpose, a calling, a deep seated psyche of human nee
d.  Overall, the day wasn’t a total loss,
I did discover one amaz
ing factoid. It was brilliant.  Just reading it made me green with envy. 
A crackle spends the majority of their life as a kid. 
A bug-child. 
What could be better than that? 
 
Inside my child forever heart, a revolution was forming. 
I read and read. I had to know more. Crackles stay underground digging out tunnels, playing in dirt and sucking tree root.  
Seriously?
Can life get any better? 
And we have to go to school?
Go figure.  I can think of nothing better than playing in the dirt all day and I’d try at least once, to suck root, it couldn’t hurt nothing, I reckon.  I read another page and felt my heart plummet. 

The ending is tragic. Horrible, epic, bad news. Crackles eventually have to molt, which is just a polite way of saying 
grow up sucker.
 
Then end is near.
 Then, they, uhhhh, I can barely say it, they, they, they, they
, okay FINE! They have sex and DIE
! 
A bile plug of something lurched inside my throat and I feel as if I might hurl on the book pages, which would be a better ending, in my opinion. 
 I am mortified by this tidbit of information and could have lived a whole ‘nother lifetime, fine and dandy without
hearing any of it. 
Why don’t they get a choice?
 Can’t they say, “No thanks, I really don’t feel like growing up today, or like
, never.
 Have fun being an adult. Go on and have your sex. I’ll just stay here and suck root. Thank you very much.”

I bet the farewell ceremony is an all-out blubber fest.  I can see it now. The trembling crackles dig their last tunnel, pack their bags, and eat their last supper of
root.  Before they leave, they pray in the garden as Jesus did, hoping for a last dish attempt at getting out of it. 
“God, please let this cup pass from me. Not thy will but
yours.” And then God says, “No.” like thunder.  “
Be gone you bug peasant. Go and be who I made you to be. Go forth and multiple.” 

Having no other choice, they cry big bug tears and wave goodbye to family. Then they dig, and dig, and dig. Finally they emerge from the world of dirt tunnels into the light of
this bitter, frightening world and they want to be stabbed with a thousand bee stingers in the eyes for what they see before them, but they don’t have a choice, so they reluctantly continue on. 
Once their eyes adjust to the disturbing reality of things, they sling off the dirt, wash their tiny claws, indulge in one last cruel, crying hissy fit, exacerbate a loud sigh and then search for a mate. And then comes…you know, that sex thing. Needless to say, I had a meltdown in the living room. I figured I had a good ten years before I molted into a legal full-fledged, licensed driver, crazed adult like the rest of population. I threw the book back on the
shelf and streaked past Maw Sue, bells clanging behind me until I got to the porch. 
I delicately picked up the lone crackle and sat down on the steps. For a few unstable minutes I basically hyperventilated, but then, an effigy of fate, of something unseen, yet deeply felt—
inside the house, inside me.
 The crackle room, a reminder of what could be, of myself now existed inside the house, nail by nail, board by board, made for me, of me, yet beyond me.
Maw Sue always told me the heart was a source of great wealth and richness in spirit if we listened to what it said without letting our heads interfere with logic. 
My heart was screaming and telling me to make a solemn vow.
And do it now.  So I took a few deep breathes and followed the path of the universe. 

I made a vow to my heart, to myself, to the universe. 
I would never, ever grow up, under any circumstances. I had no idea how I was going to
accomplish this impossible feat of imagination, but I had to try.  Just a glimpse of that crazed adult woman outside the walls of the crackle was enough to send me underground for the rest of my life.  I vowed if
for any reason, I end up lost, or a lunatic adult—I would have a backup plan, a guided pathway to get me on the right track, a reminder to show me the way, a light in the 
lesser light.
For starters, I’d keep the crackle shell as a reminder. Being a kid had its ups and downs and whelp makers but it beat the shit outta being an adult.
That’s for sure. 

I took the crackle cadaver and we celebrated our vows of enlightenment by playing outside long after the sun dropped beneath the slender pines and the lanky shadows of the lesser light moved across the yard
which made me glance up every few seconds and the hair on my neck stand up. 
Before the day ended, we hit every patch of dirt, sand and mud puddle we could find. I was a basically a dirtball with hair, teeth and eyes, a constell
ation of earth infused madness.  We
were in mud puddle thirteen when I heard Lena’s third scream warp into a Code 3, which was a low monotone growl that escalated into a piercing eardrum yell. This was more threes than I
wanted to deal with. 

Maw Sue told me a story once about a mamma crow kicking one of its babies out of the nest because it couldn’t feed
or care for all of them so in order for a few to survive, one would get the swoop, which is called the fledging, which basically, gets kicked out of the nest, survival on its own.  Good luck, adios amigo, find your own worms or something like that.  I high tailed it home, in fear I’d get the swoop from Lena if she had to scream one more time. Not only that, but L
ena Hart opposed soil conservation, especially in her living room. I had just plopped down on the floor to take in some TV when chunks of conservation fell on her precious rope rug she bought at the green stamps store. Her eyes expanded like two blue moons at H
arvest time and she went tee-total ballistic. 
She way laid me with the damp dishrag which felt like a hundred fire ants stings, then drug me outside and sprayed me with a water hose like a common house dog. If that wasn’t bad enough, she drug me into the bathroom, handed me a bar of soap and threatened to beat every speck of dirt off me and then some.
My face twitched and my mouth drew up in snarls. 
 

“Act like a lady sometimes, will you?” She said all high and mighty, plus her level of screaming was unnecessary. I was only two foot away. “You are seven years old.  Act like it.” 

Well, hells bells.
 I thought I WAS acting like an eight year old but evidently it wasn’t like Lena Hart’s idea of an eight year old. “For God’s sake”, she said wiping the dirt off her forehead, “Grow up Willodean.”

My ears burned and I felt hot inside. 
Aww Naww…
Oh.
No. She. Didn’t. Just. Go. There. When your ears burn you are not responsible for your actions.

“I will not.”
My voice was hard and permanent. 
I droppe
d the soap and sat on the floor.  I was an
Indian squaw on the prairie taking my stand. “I like dirt.
That’s why I play in it. 
And I’m not growing up either. I don’t have too.”

I crossed my arms for the full Apache
Squaw stance, since they were the meanest of all Indian tribes.   Going up against Lena, it was necessary.  Evidently, she
wasn't scared of Indians. She was holding a Johnson’s and Johnson’s shampoo bottle when
this little Indians world, spun out of focus.  A dull thud rang out when she swat me across the thigh with the empty shampoo bottle. 
Is that all you got?
A hardy rebellious laugh came from my lips. 
A plastic shampoo bottle had nothing on the whelp maker.
 
It was like slapping me with a feather.
Sensing she was not gaining g
round, Lena went code 10 on me.  Uh-oh.  Code 10 is
repetitious Bible belt methodology—Jesus, Joseph and Mary shit. When it came to codes, this was the limit, the mother lode of mothers.
Double Uh-oh. 
She jerked me by the arm, kicked off her black flats, leaped over the tub like a graceful gazelle and pulled me in with her, all the while stripping me down like a banana. I screamed and tried to escape but she sprouted octopus arms. Her shifty tentacles were all over the place, turning the water on full blast, emptying the
bubble bath, and popping me on the head, thighs, arms, where ever she could reach.  A cleaning brigade of soap plumes rose up and the second it
touched my dirt skin, I went into a Martin Luther King rally cry. 
Defender of dirt, minister of mud, crackle crusader.
I reckon that’s when it all started or maybe it was a combination of things, my namesake, the Dumas of Umbra, the porch crackle, lost adults everywhere I look and little girls who never want to grow up.