Book One in the Descendants of the Dragon series
The
Mud Gullumpers
By
E. L. Purnell
With illustrations by Io Kovach
The Mud Gullumpers
Text copyright 2011 E. L. Purnell
Illustrations copyright 2011 Io Kovach
Smashwords edition
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Summary: Ryan’s crazy stories about creatures living in the neighborhood creek have entertained Bits for months, but once she discovers the creatures are real, and suffering, she has to help them escape, even though that means sending away her brother’s best friend.
In memory of
Aaron Hawkins
January 12, 1970 - September 3, 2004
Dedicated to brothers and sisters everywhere.
PLEASE NOTE: On some devices, this text will look better on a rotated screen.
Chapter 1
My brother was twelve when he disclosed,
in confidence, while quite composed,
of Mud Gullumpers down by the stream
who stole kids’ boots, and made them scream.
It was 6:32, and no one was speaking.
A banging back door tipped off someone was sneaking,
for that someone didn't remember the spring
on the back door was wound as tight as a string.
So when that spring snapped the back door shut,
thoroughly betrayed, my brother ‘fessed up.
"I'm late for dinner. Yes, I know it!
But the reason is plain. See my clothes? They show it!"
And one look indeed is all that it took.
He was cloaked head to toe in the grossest of gook.
He spoke with conviction over what he’d just triumphed.
How he’d save us from sure death, should it or they find us.
Then he squinted his eyes, while his hand slowly swirled,
and he revealed his concern for the fate of this world.
Mud-streaked blond hair crowned gray eyes filled with dread.
Each word hissed through white teeth much too large for his head.
But that awkward look flickered, as if on the verge
of revealing the handsome young man to emerge.
Physically on the cusp of young adulthood,
his mental agility had matured as it should.
Now his tales had grown from unbelievable stories
to detailed legends of fantastic glory.
But I, younger by a year or two,
was cynical in my review
of theories on the fate of men.
(Though I lapsed from reason now and then.)
For me, the world was black and white.
Things were either wrong or they were right.
And my brother’s tales of heroic reprieve
were way too far-fetched for me to believe.
Yet I was blond, just like my brother.
This shocked my freckled, redhead mother.
Strangers would ask if we were twins
when we were young and brown-berry skinned.
But as we got older, we grew worlds apart.
Ryan’s make-believe stories tugged hard at Mom’s heart,
and she told him he spent too much time in his dreams,
instead of connecting with other preteens.
As my father sat listening, his anger emerged,
not through his expression, nor any harsh words,
but through raps of his fingers on the kitchen table,
punctuating poor Ryan’s developing fable.
This latest tale, told to avoid trouble,
involved some kind of freak that attacked from the water.
Yet whatever it was (or they were) I can't say.
For a distraction distracted me in the most awful way.
Behind Mom and Dad, prancing quite cavalierly,
(my peripheral vision detected it clearly),
I saw something lunge and smear across the floor.
All that lunging and smearing was hard to ignore,
especially when you’re a curious kid
-you just have to look! So that’s just what I did.
It froze near our dog’s dish, its eyes all-askew,
a glistening, slimy, quivering statue.
Its eyes cocked to the left, and then winced to the right,
as it searched desperately for a path to take flight.
When it found one, it raced away, leaving a trail
of sludge-smeared floor tiles to the darkened back stairs.
But there wasn’t just one, I’m sorry to say.
I saw several more deftly dashing away,
while my parents still focused on my brother’s face,
spinning stories as arachnids link intricate lace.
My knitted brow softened, my cheeks slowly relaxed,
as my brain pieced together each event and new fact
that had just interrupted our Friday night meal.
What I realized was spooky and oddly surreal:
The mud footprints my brother had most liberally placed,
up the stairway, ‘round the back door, in any free space,
had started to move, had started to congress,
had started to tug at little Gracie’s white dress!
But Grace didn’t notice, for she was just four.
Perched on telephone books, her dress hem kissed the floor
as she ate her food slowly, throughout Ryan’s tirade,
contentedly slurping her pink lemonade.
Her curly brown locks kept on tickling her nose.
She swiped at them aimlessly, with faint-hearted blows,
until finally Samantha tucked them behind her ears,
empathetic and wise beyond her six years.
Sam was in first grade and looked out for Grace.
Long, mousy hair curtains framed her small face.
She showed scant emotion, tending to her sis.
So far, only I saw that things were amiss.
But tiny Sam had one most curious habit.
A peek under the table would quickly reveal it:
her left foot hung down in a sock badly stained,
while her right foot was snug in a scuffed Mary Jane.
As of late, when Sam played, she would lose her left shoe.
Several pairs later, mother had not a clue.
A closet full of right shoes, but no matching lefts!
It’s highly unlikely she’s a victim of theft.
But this habit was costly, and my folks acted stressed
every morning when they told that wee girl to get dressed.
With each thrust of his finger, each claim of his innocence,
one more wet, stinky gob took its lying-boy-given-chance
to fly toward the counter, to head under the table,
to spread ‘cross the room, to stick wherever it was able!
That mud kept on moving. It scooted up walls,
and clung to the dishwasher like fresh, moist spitballs.
Dodging my dad’s feet and their impatient beat,
mud slid under the back door as flat as a sheet.
Brother loudly proclaimed that Washington Falls,
known for good schools and shopping malls,
would soon be known for the muddy pit
that concealed Mud Gullumpers deep inside it.
Flamboyant, yet stern, his heroics most certain,
he gestured with pronouncements that flung mud on the curtain.
Greta lay near the sink. Her ears rose in surprise
as each gob of gook fled, flying fast past her eyes.
Then that dog snapped awake from her full-belly slumber,
briskly shaking her head once to disencumber
her keen senses away from the world of her dreams
to perceive this engaging and frightening new scene.
Had my mother or father been in a good mood,
they'd have noticed the odd little guests that I viewed!
But my father’s brow furrowed as he heard Ryan deliver
a tall tale so scary that each word made me shiver.
Ryan warned that the things in the dead-end creek
were in fact slimy, fetid, space alien freaks.
And any kid dumb enough to approach their dark lair
had better believe in the power of prayer.
For underneath that calm surface of warm water and frog belly
-waited sinister incarnate! Waited monster! Waited smelly!
If that kid, so determined to make his way across,
might step on some stones or some green fishy moss,
or perchance he should slip and step into their sludge,
then his boots, snared so tightly, would no longer budge.
And no matter how hard that child strained, tugged or yanked,
the Mud Gullumpers pulled harder and the boots slowly sank
‘til the child screamed in fear, and by clinging to rocks,
freed his feet and ran home in his wet, soiled socks.
My dad rolled his eyes - rest his fork on his plate.
But we girls stared in rapture, with our pink mouths agape.
We knew that mud’s deep by the creek where we stroll,
but we’d never imagined it would swallow us whole!
My mother served second helpings of the veggies,
while questioning Sam in a voice that was edgy,
“Is that where I should go to find all of your shoes?
I could save a few bucks plucking them from the ooze.”
Sam smiled, lips parted as wide as was able,
prompting Mom to quip, “No ‘see’-food at the table.”
"But I wasn’t there! I had nothing to do with it!
Playing in the creek?” Ryan gasped, “I'm through with it!
I was minding my own business! I wasn't even near the mud!
I was gathering apples when they attacked in cold-blood!"
Well, that last part got to me, and I couldn’t deny
that a part of me wondered if this was really a lie.
With the mud all a-scattering wherever he flicked ‘em,
maybe he wasn’t a goof, but instead, a victim!
Now he thinks he escaped from those monsters back there,
and he’s telling this tale totally unaware
that when he returned muddy from the place where he roamed,
he actually brought the dang Mud Gullumpers home!
Then some black stinky gook, as of yet undiscovered,
formed a small lump and headed straight for the cupboard!
Our dog Greta went nuts! She sat up and she howled!
Then she lunged toward the cupboard, and baring fangs, growled.
“Throw her out of the house!” my dad yelled in frustration.
I leapt out of my chair with great trepidation,
because if they attacked Ryan (which is just what he claimed),
then they may have larger battle plans all arranged.
And if that is the case, then all this mud that I see
may in fact be a Mud Gullumper infantry.
And if that is true, then things really looked dire.
We’d need a great plan to escape this quagmire.
Someone needs to confront this imminent threat!
Even if that means getting all muddy and wet.
“Here girl!” I beckoned, walking to the back door.
“Greta, come!” I grew angry, summoning her once more.
My sisters hopped up, before Dad again hollered.
Gracie pushed Greta’s rump. Samantha pulled on her collar.
Greta whined and she barked as we flung her outside.
We shut the door quickly, and then turning wide-eyed,
we saw mud racing toward us at the greatest of speed.
We were trapped in a frightening Mud Gullumper stampede!
“What the hay?” muttered Sam, tracking with puzzled eyes.
Little Gracie yelped, “BUGS!” stiffening with surprise.
We all huddled together at the base of the stairs,
while my brother continued his defense with great flair.
“I high-tailed it out of there!” We heard Ryan shriek.
Our mouths hung wide open, but we just couldn’t speak.
My open eyes dried, but with mud looming near,
I just couldn’t risk blinking for the sake of a tear.
My sisters and I saw but one place to flee.
We fended off mud tracks that forced us three
to walk up the stairs backward to the dark second floor,
and we realized quite quickly as we rounded the door,
the situation had placed us near books thankfully.
We began whomping gooks with the biggest books we could free.
We whacked them and thwacked them with all of our might.
The mud squished like a pancake if you hit it just right.
Then it snapped in two pieces like stretched, old bubble gum,
and two darted away, where before there was one.
“Stop the whacking!” I yelled. “To the bathroom! Retreat!”
We sprinted to the bathroom just as fast as our feet
could carry our bodies all the way down the hall.
Grace tripped on the runner, but avoided a fall.
We ran in the bathroom and turned on a light.
Then we slammed the door shut, sealing it really tight.
Sam closed the windows. I threw towels on the floor,
and jammed them in any gaps under the door.
Grace wadded some tissue and plugged the keyhole,
standing up on the seat of our pink toilet bowl.
We successfully plugged every hole, crack, and cranny.
Then Grace stood up triumphant –with gook on her fanny!
I warned, “Don’t be scared Gracie; there’s more whacking to do.
Some gook snuck in here slyly by clinging to you!”
So I picked up a book and stepped forward to beat her.
She jumped off the toilet and backed toward the heater.
And that’s when we heard a most peculiar sound.
The gook dried from the heat, and fell “clink” to the ground.
We all circled in closer as it lay on the floor steaming.
The house was quieter since we three stopped our screaming.
Sam poked it gently with a pencil she found,
but the gook just lay hard and still on the warm ground.
“It’s just mud,” Sam crooned calmly in a quizzical tone.
“Don’t like bugs,” Gracie scowled in a faint whimpered groan.
“This gook Ryan brought home is some very odd stuff!
But it needs to stay moist!” I claimed, acting real tough.
“We have found out its weakness, so we’re one step ahead.
Now let’s go help the others. Gosh, I hope they’re not dead!”
We opened the window to the fire escape
and tossed out that hardened amorphous shape
while we snuck down the ladder and ran to the back door.
We went through; the door banged, as it had done before.
“Now what?” Dad groaned loudly, interrupting my brother,
who was steadfast in his attempt to win him over.
“That’s enough!” yelled my father, “now just sit down and eat!”
“Wash your hands,” urged my mother. “Girls, please take your seats.”
Grace clung to me tightly as our eyes scanned the room
looking for gobs of gook or an impending doom.
But the kitchen was tidy.
“Huh!” my brother exclaimed,
“I’m cleaner than I thought! That’s very strange.”
And he was cleaner now than when he first came in,
interrupting our dinner, with mud on his chin.
Now all that remained was a speck on his nose
and some dried, light brown smears on his arms and his clothes.
He walked to the sink with a smile and a shrug.
Having exhausted my father, he was looking quite smug.
At the sink, he saw mud crusted on his ring finger.
He splashed it with water, and he let his gaze linger
long enough to witness the dried gook on his nail
moisten up, jump right off, and leave without a trail.
His hand held up high, spread in front of his face,
hid the moon through the window I’d seen from my place.
He stared at his hand, weeping with water drips,
and the moon made light shine from his fingertips.
My brother’s back stiffened as he stood near the sink.
So I knew he’d seen something that made him rethink
what he thought he had conquered down there by the brook,
but he just came to the table with a complacent look.
My sisters and I swiftly snuck in our chairs.
My eyes fixed on my brother with a determined stare,
as I tried hard to tell him with telepathy
that I knew of the gook (and so did Gracie.)
But he just sat, looking down, eating buttery peas.
One by one, he spooned them slowly up to his teeth,
and he gingerly bit one ‘til the soft inside squished out.
Then he curled up his lips and sucked it into his mouth.
And he did it again and again –how he ate!
He sucked up all the peas off his darn tootin’ plate!
Then without gazing up, he switched to his potatoes,
finishing his supper like someone who knows
that there’s no neat solution to the mess we are in,
so there’s plenty of time to enjoy your din din.
Chapter 2
As I contemplated the wisdom of his ways,
my eyes saw some gook in its dry, dormant phase.
It was on Ryan’s elbow, like a dry, bloody scab.
If it stayed dry a while, it’d be easy to grab.
But his elbow, pressed firmly on the top of the table,
was close to some water, which if touched, would enable
that dried gook to grow moist and escape like the rest.
My mind raced as I schemed how best to catch our guest.
My mother and father took their plates to the sink.
Ryan reached for his glass to take another drink,
and some orange juice splashed down on the way to his lips.
When his elbow returned, it would land in the drips!
So I grabbed my own glass and I furiously slurped
until my glass was empty and I could put it to work
in the most brilliant invention any 10-year-old can master:
my vile-stinky-gobs-of-gook Mud Gullumper catcher!
All my muscles were tense, primed to work at great speed.
For I had to be quick to catch gook once it’s freed.
My eyes scanned back and forth, between elbow and face,
as I tried to predict the right time and right place
my brother would plop his elbow in the drips.
(And it would surely be soon if he’d stop taking sips!)
Then a droplet of orange juice, on the rim of his glass,
slid down to his hand, and it slowly went past
his thumb knuckle wrinkles, now sticky and ginger,
slithering down his arm, horror’s moist harbinger.
The drip reached his elbow. The gook sucked it right up.
The gook leapt to the table, and I slammed down my cup!
“Are you OK?” called my mother, rinsing soap off a plate.
“Oh sure,” I smiled calmly, “Hey, dinner was great!”
But I wasn’t “OK” – I had gook in my cup!
The glass magnified him, so I could see him close up!
A yellow-brown mound, with a tinge of dark green
on the surface that gave it a powerful sheen,
from oily-type film glistening on the goop.
It kind of resembled a squirming dog poop.
But its eyes were like saucers as it twisted around
The poor thing was in a terrified panic deep down!
‘cause it knew it was trapped, but it didn’t know how.
It kept lunging forward as it had done up ‘til now.
It splotched to the top, then fell down in a mass,
leaving faint prints of its struggle all over the glass.
My sisters and Ryan slowly gathered around
gawking at the cup that I fought to keep down.
But that gook was so feisty, I had to use both hands,
and still it wobbled and shook underneath my command!
Each time it lunged forward, it dragged me a bit.
It kept lurching toward Sam ‘til I could no longer sit
in my chair anymore, so I held it down standing.
My puckered face revealed this task was demanding
–but no one would help me! I clenched my teeth tightly.
Sam and Grace bounced away startled-bunny-like-sprightly.
The sound of chairs moving signaled running away
to my mom at the sink, so she piped up to say,
“Please bring me your dishes, if you’re done with your meal.”
My cup tipped; the gook fled. Gracie let out a squeal.
“Oh no!” shrieked my mother, “do we have mice again?
Those traps are just worthless! I set down over ten!”
“A mouse?” my dad glanced, turning ‘round from his place.
“That’s what set Greta barking,” he spoke with a blank face.
But even when blank, his forehead was etched
with deep wrinkly lines only children can sketch.
He pounded on flaxseed in a mortar and pestle,
“Eat Mom’s peaches for dessert, if you’re not yet full.”
I hung my arms down and sunk in my seat
defeated, exhausted, and thoroughly beat.
I was so disappointed that the gook got away.
I just frowned at my sisters, with nothing to say.
Ryan left quickly, after cleaning his plate,
and he ran up the stairs in a very quick gait,
two steps at a time, with the greatest of haste
as if he believed that he was being chased.
“He’s too old for this, Jules. When’s it going to stop?”
Dad griped, filling his mug from the coffeepot.
He winced from the heat, when he took a small sip.
Mom replied, staring off, gently biting her lip.
“He’s a twelve-year-old boy with a great imagination.
So what if his life is filled with animation?
I won’t be the one who insists that it ends.
The pressure will eventually come from his friends.”
My sisters and I cocked our heads to the side,
scrunched up our noses, confused and surprised.
Did they really not see the mud scoot ‘cross the floor?
It was such a commotion, how could they just ignore
that the mud Ryan brought home just raced ‘round the room
climbing up to the highest place it could assume.
It chased us upstairs! It clung to the curtains!
These things aren’t imagined. I knew it for certain.
Chapter 3
Once the house was settled, after my nightly chores,
I kissed my folks goodnight and climbed upstairs once more.
When I checked on my sisters, safely tucked in their bed,
little Sam’s hand beckoned above her bedspread.
“What is it, Sam? It’s past your bedtime.”
“I’m trying to figure out how that mud climbs
up the stairs when it’s wet. I can’t figure it out.
But I’m sure it’s something I’ll have nightmares about.”
“Think about something else in your dreams tonight.
Perhaps our eyes were tricked by the sparkling light
of the brightly lit moon shining through our windows.
Sometimes our brains animate complex shadows.”
“In your cup!” Sam retorted, “you had one in your cup!”
“I don’t know what I had. I was so wound up
after Ryan’s story, maybe it was a delusion.
I’ll have to think more before I make a conclusion.
But go to sleep now, the house has settled down
I’m going to bed too, once I don my nightgown.”
After calming this sibling, then off to another.
I decided to have a brief chat with my brother
about this gook that ran rampant until it was dried.
I’d a hunch they were worse than what he had implied.
Ryan dashed to the bathroom and flicked on the light.
I barged in behind him and shut the door tight.
“I’m peeing!” he squealed, re-zipping his pants.
“Can’t you hold it?” I whispered. “Just give me a chance.
The Mud Gullumpers,” I started, “from where do they come?
Did they really emerge from the smelly pond scum?
Does this odd little animal, or creature, as it were,
threaten our lives, or pose us danger?”
“Oh Bits,” he laughed softly, “all of that is for cover.
Were it not for the drama, I’d get in big trouble
for coming home late, night after night.
Mom and Dad would start yelling; we’d get in a fight.
So I start the theatrics to distract them a bit.
Don’t worry your poor little head over it.”
“What?” I barked bluntly. “You’ve got to be kidding!
I saw by the sink when that ugly brown thing
escaped with great haste as you washed your own hands.
It was clear you saw something you did not understand.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he consoled tenderly.
“It sounds like I scared you with this fantasy.
But I assure you I was just escaping Dad’s wrath.
Now just run off to bed so I can take my bath.”
“You’re a liar!” I seethed through a tightly clenched jaw.
“I fought them in here, so I know what you saw.
You brought home some creature that raced down the halls!
It dashed under furniture and can climb up the walls.
Not resting until it can go no higher.
I might be frightened, but I know you’re the liar.”
“You’re obviously tired!” chided my brother.
“Brush your teeth. Go to bed. When you wake, you’ll feel better.”
And he turned off the light without answering my plea.
“They’re all over the house!” I whispered quickly.
He paused for a moment, his eyes scanning the hall.
Then he urged, “Go to sleep. Get your rest. Please don’t stall.”
He slipped into his room, softly closing the door,
leaving me all alone in the hallway once more.
The house was so quiet, as I lingered a bit.
I heard mother’s long needles clinking as she knit.
But I was sure Ryan was up to mysterious stuff.
He had turned off his light and stayed quiet long enough.
Plus, I knew he was dirty, so he wasn’t asleep.
Ryan clearly had secrets he wanted to keep.
So I went back downstairs as quick as a flash.
I told Mom I’d forgotten to take out the trash
And without looking up, she mumbled,
“Mmm…hmm, sure.”
I scooted past her and out the front door.
“Ah rats!” a voice rang through the warm autumn air.
I peered down the dim street to see who was there.
Ryan’s friend Jon dragged a trash can out.
On the curb, the can tipped, so he let out a shout.
He sprinted after trash eddying down the street,
stopping small bits of paper with each stomp of his feet.
I watched him a while, since his movements looked silly.
Lots about him and his family seemed odd to me really.
They had moved here from China early last spring
-six thousand seven hundred eighty miles, from Beijing.
And people who come from so far away
should be unlike us here in the USA.
Because even my cousins, who live north, sixty miles,
have some diverse words and odd clothing styles.
So if you think about that, then it’s easy to see
Jon’s at least 113 times different than me.
Some of those differences are quite apparent,
like his dark hair, and eye shape, and those things inherent.
But other things are subtler, and you just have to wait
‘til an opportunity arises to reveal the odd trait.
I snuck ‘round the back of the house, and then stood
looking up at my brother, surely up to no good.
He sat near the window, all alone in his room,
with a unusual interest in the almost-full moon.
I hid near the bushes for a better sight
of my brother’s odd gaze, so prolonged in the night.
He was looking straight up, yet his expression was such
that I don’t think he was using his eyes very much.
The sourwood tree underneath his window
reflected his light as a red autumn glow,
and the crinkling leaves of a dry maple tree
filled the air with an eerie anxiety.
About ten minutes passed, he was silent and still,
his hands resting palm-up on his windowsill.
Then his gaze floated down from the moon toward the stream,
eyes intense - penetrating the dead-end scene.
That look in his eyes, I could not comprehend,
as if he’d been betrayed by his very best friend.
Now I’d been out too long, so I turned to go back,
dissatisfied with the few measly facts
I had managed to find on this oddest of nights
when the Mud Gullumpers’ existence had come to light.
As I walked to the front, along the side path,
a small paper scrap glistened in our bird bath.
I picked it out, shook it moist, and smoothed out to read
some small symbols in red ink that had started to bleed.
I figured the symbols were probably Chinese.
Though languages were hardly my expertise,
I was so intrigued by the exotic scripts
used in Russian, Egyptian, and even Sanskrit.
A book of mine had over a hundred pages
about writing systems and their approximate ages.
I’d copy words down in a special notepad,
and I don’t mean to brag, but I’m really not bad!
For my birthday this year, Dad gave me ten dollars.
I used it to buy new ink pens in twelve colors.
I knew one of those would match the red ink here.
So I pressed the scrap dry to keep the mark clear.
A light flicked on next door, in my friend Pam’s room.
Must be late, if she’s ready for bed, I assumed.
I tossed pebbles gently up toward her window.
They clinked slightly louder with each measured throw.
Through the curtain appeared a small, dark shadow.
Pam opened the window, and inquired, “Hello?”
The moonlight cast shadows that allowed me to trace
the pale features that made up her freckly face.
Her quizzical brow slid to round, healthy cheeks.
Braces glistened through lips as they parted to speak.
Her brown hair looked black in the dim evening light.
She looked kind of creepy, much to my delight.
Pam was a tomboy, though less so than me.
One year older, and taller, but more prone to flee.
When the going got tough, she would not stand her ground,
she was always the one who got pushed around.
She might walk away, even if she was right!
Pam would do anything to avoid a fight.
“Hey Pam,” I whispered, “it’s just me over here.”
She leaned out of her window ‘til her smile was clear.
“What are you doing?”
“Spying on my brother.
But I have to go in, or I’ll scare my mother.
I’ve something to tell you, so don’t go to bed.
Once I get inside, hose-a-phone me instead!”
The hose-a-phone was like a phone. It was a private line
that we had hung quite carefully between her room and mine.
It started a few months ago, during school vacation.
Playing in the pool one day, we came up with our creation.
I stood in the low end, a garden hose end to my ear.
Pam talked in the other end and I could clearly hear!
We thought this just amazing, to talk from far away,
while everyone else in the pool could swim around and play
above our twisted garden hose, snaking all along the bottom.
Pam whispered many secrets, and I still always got ‘em.
Toward the end of summer, we decided to design
a hose-a-phone that really was a permanent phone line.
We dug a trench deep in the ground between our two windows,
then strung the hose from room to room and let it droop below.
We topped the hose with clumps of grass we had dug up before,
and twisted vines around the part up to my second floor.
Pam’s side was much simpler because she had a tree.
We tucked the hose along the trunk and it hid it skillfully.
Most every night since then, after we are in our beds.
We lie down on our pillows, a garden hose up to our heads.
We laugh about the crazy things that happened recently,
and if we have a problem, aim to solve it decently.
Once upstairs, teeth brushed, and my folks kissed goodnight,
I rushed under my bed sheets and turned off my light.
Pam saw my signal, and within seconds, a moan
came gurgling out of my own hose-a-phone.
I sunk in my pillow, sheets up to my nose,
and told Pam to hold on to her end of the hose.
“Put it up to your ear, and I’ll do the talking.
Just wait ‘til you hear of the creatures I’m stalking!”
I told Pam that Ryan brought Mud Gullumpers home,
and they zip to the highest places they can roam.
My sisters and I found they dry out in heat,
and once dry, they are harmless and easy to beat.
“I caught one in my cup, and held it for a bit.
I told Ryan we saw them, but he just denies it!
But I’m on to him, Pam! So before it’s too late,
let’s head to the creek to investigate.
Let’s do it tomorrow,” I implored urgently.
“If we go when it’s hottest, we’ll explore it safely.
The fate of the world surely rests in our hands!”
Eleven grim syllables shattered my plans.
“I’m off to my grandma’s first thing tomorrow.
I’ll be back Sunday night, but Monday we can go!”
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!
I don’t think all of us should be fooling around.
A group of us kids should go down to the creek
to meet with the gobs of gook and try to speak
with them, if they are able to converse at all.
We’re coming in peace, so there’s no need to stall.
Let’s do it right now! Raise your hand if you’ll come.
The rest can stay here until the fire is done.”
“I won’t go,” Ryan whispered, sitting very still.
“You won’t go ‘cause you’re scared,” he added with a chill.
We all looked at each other, a little surprised
by the dark cloud of doubt dimming Ryan’s gray eyes.
“I’m going,” piped up Pam. “I’m too curious
about this gook or this mud that you say’s around us.”
“I dare you,” Cyd snickered, with a smirk on his face.
“Double dare you,” hissed Eileen, pushing him out of place,
while she pulled her stick slowly out from the hot coals,
blew the flaming tip out with steady control
and then aimed it at Pam’s face, smoking and orange-tipped,
making Pam lean back in fear, biting her lip.
“Well, I’m going,” I countered, “so at least we have two
brave enough to save the world from this stinky, foul goo.”
“Double-dog dare you,” Ryan raised the stakes higher.
A silence was broken by a crack from the fire.
Greta tucked her nose deeply underneath her front paw
as if hiding from wicked visions she foresaw.
The sun burned above; the fire burned below.
We stared each other down ‘tween the warmth of their glow.
Chapter 5½
“Hi Jules, this is Liv,” began Pam’s mother.
“Hi Liv, how are you? Did Bitsy come over?”
“Oh yeah, all the kids went down to the dead end.
From here, I see them and the fire that they tend.”
“The fire?” my mom chirped. “Did I hear you right?”
Pam’s mom confirmed, “I see smoke and the light.
I feel bad to go yell, since they built it just right.
They cleared all the leaves and weeds that might ignite.”
“Just like we taught them in scouts,” Mom lamented.
“Our class on fire safety was misrepresented.”
“Well, should we all go?”
“Wait, let me call Kat,
because she’ll want to come. I’ll call you right back.”
“Hi Kat, this is Jules. Glance out your window
toward the dead end –do you see something glow?”
“Well, those little stinkers! Did they build a fire?”
“They did,” stated my mom, “but Liv caught it in time.
We’re heading down there just to have a talk.
Would you like to join us for our little walk?”
“No, wait!” Kat exclaimed, “With your consent,
I think we should call up the fire department.
We’ll explain what’s happened, and have them send a truck.
That should scare them all straight, with any luck.”
“Oh! That’s a great plan!” My mom grinned through the phone.
“You call them, I’ll call Liv, and we’ll all watch from her home.”
Chapter 6
“Stop the meeting!” barked Emmy. “I have to pee.”
Eileen dragged her behind a large cluster of weeds.
While the rest of us waited, the rustle of leaves
filled our ears as the apple tree swayed in the breeze.
Now why she peed there, I can’t really say.
It’s not like our houses were so far away.
Yet whenever we played down here at the dead end,
reinacting true life, or just fun pretend,
it seemed like the rest of the world disappears
and all that exists is our game and our peers.
At least, that’s how intense it was always for me,
but I guess I can’t speak for everybody.
The faint sound of sirens came over the hill.
Cyd stared at the fire, mesmerized and quite still.
The cubed embers glowed hot sparkles from within
like angry, ochre flashing octopus skin.
Danny scratched Greta behind each of her ears
and she curled up her mouth in a satisfied sneer.
Her back leg scratched earth in the staccato thumps
of a skipping stone glancing off water crest bumps.
Ryan poked a stick in the heart of the flame.
Pam & I chanted words from our favorite clap game
of that curious misfit named Miss Mary Mack,
who wore silver buttons all down her black back,
beseeching her mother enough currency
to see sights so wondrous, they seemed otherworldly.
Greta pawed at a stick, pulled closer for chewing.
Then she cocked her head, and stopped what she was doing.
She let out a howl that woke us from our daze
and marched back and forth, in some eager displays.
Fire trucks flew past on Old Devil’s Hill Road.
At the top of the hill, they then suddenly slowed.
We sat up straight when they turned onto Nor Lane.
“Someone’s house is on fire!” Cyd stood and exclaimed.
We watched the trucks come zooming fast down the street.
They turned onto Tich Drive; Pam went white as a sheet.
“Put it out!” shrieked Eileen from the weeds where she came.
“Run for it!” screamed Danny.
Pam threw dirt on the flames.
Now the odd thing about that particular spot,
is it’s really just a big, old vacant lot.
There’s no close place to hide, where you won’t be found.
The crab apple tree is the only thing around.
So that’s where we went - all eight of us kids.
We ran to the tree and, like monkeys, climbed limbs.
Then Danny and Cyd hoisted Ryan up fast.
He scaled the bark quickly, despite his new cast.
Ryan and I clambered high as the tree would allow,
while the rest huddled tight on a strong u-shaped bough.
We all tried to hold still, and not make a sound,
as our smoldering fire coughed up smoke from the ground.
Greta swiftly circled the base of the tree,
to protect us, that good dog, but barking wildly.
So it was no mystery where we kids were hiding.
Plus, the trunk was littered with the bikes we’d been riding!
The trucks screeched to a stop once they reached the dead end.
Two men dragged a hose down the path behind them.
Flattening the grasses, swerving ‘round the briar,
the hose sprayed with great force ‘til it put out our fire.
We peered through the leaves at the chaos below,
“Oh my…” gasped my brother.
“Oh my,” I echoed.
My brother and I turned our focus away
from the turmoil below to a brand new foray.
“Mud Gullumpers,” I whispered, “they are everywhere!”
The brown gobs of gook had dried in the hot air.
Dried on every leaf, every branch, and every stem,
now small, hard statues of the gook they had been.
Some of the bigger clumps weren’t completely dried.
A thin crust held the hardening goop deep inside.
These wobbled and shook like armored gelatin;
or crispy cicada exoskeletons.
“Here comes Mom,” Eileen scowled. “We’re in for it this time.”
“All the moms are coming,” Pam hushed. “You know that I’m
already in big trouble for fighting with Quinn.
This will be even worse when I’m grounded with him.”
When I looked past the branches toward where the street stops,
More frightening than Mom, was stuff on the housetops!
It looked like a huge, muddy, wet dog had shook,
splattering every roof in the neighborhood.
Mud stuck up from rooftops like great termite mounds,
claiming soot-darkened chimneys as high burial grounds.
Mud clung to the poles and the telephone wires.
Some stretched up from streetlights like little church spires.
When the firemen extinguished our fire completely,
they all gathered around underneath the crab tree.
They called up to us,
“Come on down. It’s ok!”
But we all feared the punishment coming our way.
“We’re surrounded,” I whispered. “They’re not just in the creek.
They’ve positioned themselves on every high peak.
Ryan, why are they doing this? What do they want?
What else do you know that makes you nonchalant?”
Now that the fire had stopped smoking below,
I could smell the faint odor of mud with my nose.
Brushing ‘gainst my forehead, like a soft piece of fuzz,
I was slowly aware of a very loud buzz.
On my left, hung an apple, swarming with bees
engrossed in its sweet nectar, sucking hungrily.
“Yikes!” I screamed abruptly, descending from the tree.
My shriek scared the others, and they started to flee.
One by one, we dropped as the panic expanded,
with loud thudding pounds, on the dry earth we landed.
Ryan perched on his limb throughout all the ado
and stretched his hand out to a Mud Gullumper statue.
Prying one of them off from a branch near his socks,
he tucked it away in his mother’s matchbox.
Then, admiring the view from his fruit roost atop,
His face raised to the planets, he mouthed the word ‘YOPP!’
“How’d you get up there, with your arm in a cast?”
asked a fireman in shock when Ryan went past.
Later, back at our house, out on the front porch,
the firemen showed us just how quickly things torch,
burning one of Cyd’s shirts and some of Eileen’s hair.
We watched each of these things vanish into thin air.
Jon stood and watched too, though he wasn’t in trouble.
The commotion had made him come out on the double.
I’m sure he was glad he had homework that day
that made him go home a bit early from play.
But at the same time, you could sense his lament
that he missed out on this neighborhood event.
While some kids hung their heads in horrible shame,
I made no attempt to deflect the blame.
We had needed a fire as our main protection
to prevent a Mud Gullumper resurrection.
Now our chances of seeing Mud Gullumpers were bleak,
since we were all grounded for the rest of the week.
Chapter 7
Those days passed quickly, and by Saturday
the grounding was lifted, so we came out to play
in the hottest of falls anyone could remember.
No drenching rain fell in the month of September.
We zipped past on bikes, swerving free down the road.
Cyd leapt off of his, though he had barely slowed,
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