Heroes of Perpetua

by Brian Clopper

  The critter screeched, but since it was on the back of his head, Hugo could only catch snatches of its webbed wings.

  So a bat. That freaked him out. Bats carried rabies. And if they were messed up enough to attack, wasn’t that a sign they had the disease?

  Hugo ducked and spun around as he hit away at his assailant. The bat’s claws pulled at his hair as it fought to stay attached. “Get off me!” He threw himself on his back and started driving the back of his head into the ground.

  The creature shrieked when he landed a hard blow. He bucked up and then flopped his head down hard, hoping there weren’t any large rocks amid the tall grass.

  Two more times he knocked the bat into the ground. Finally, it let go and fell off.

  He brushed its flopping wings away as he hopped to his feet and spun about. Foolishly, he stuck a martial-arts pose, with his arms jutting out as if he was about to administer a karate chop if the bat flew up at him again.

  The bat crawled around in the grass, its right wing kinked funny. It hissed at Hugo and glared at him through yellow slits.

  Hugo’d had enough. He brought his foot down, driving the bat into the ground. He slammed down three more times, each blow more intense than the last. In fact, his final blow was so hard it reverberated up his entire leg and made him worry he’d kicked his hip bone out of its socket. He stumbled backwards, favoring the leg that didn’t feel like thousands of tiny icicles were stabbing into its entire length.

  The bat lay mashed into the ground, the grass around it smushed down. Oddly, there was no sign of any blood.

  He rubbed at his thigh, massaging feeling back into the leg.

  Hugo approached his attacker. “Not so tough.”

  He studied it, watching its torso for a long time before admitting it hadn’t taken a breath in over a minute. He nudged the damaged right wing with his sneaker.

  The bat didn’t jump up and clamp down on his foot.

  He felt bad he’d killed it. It was just an innocent animal. It had likely panicked and flown into his hair. Once its claws had gotten twisted up in his many curls, it had freaked out. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. It hadn’t been trying to get to him. It certainly hadn’t sensed him inside and rammed the window to try and get in and bite him. That notion made no sense. Bats didn’t operate like that.

  His dad walked out onto the deck in his robe and pajama pants. “Hugo, what are you doing out here?”

  He saw his mom hanging back inside the house with a broom in her hand, ready to sweep away any criminal types that might lurk outside.

  Both his parents looked disturbed and on edge. If he confessed to killing a bat, his mom would be hysterical. She had a huge fear of birds and an even lower opinion of bats. She’d have a pest control company out to check their attic in no time flat.

  And Hugo really thought it was a one-off affair.

  “Hugo, what’s wrong?” his mom said.

  “I heard a mouse outside the playroom. It sounded in pain. I came out to see if I could help it, but the poor thing was dead by the time I found it.”

  “Oh, okay,” she replied.

  Mice she could be compassionate about.

  “Leave it, and I’ll bury it tomorrow.” His dad was already heading inside.

  “Actually, can I bury it? I don’t want some owl to swoop down and get a free meal out of my furry friend.” He cringed. Was he overdoing it?

  His father disappeared inside. His mom talked to him too low for Hugo to hear.

  A minute later, his dad brought out a shovel, walked it down the steps, and propped it against the handrail. He pointed to his bare feet. “Left my slippers upstairs. Think you can bury it yourself?”

  Hugo nodded and raced over to fetch the shovel.

  They went inside. His dad stuck his head out. “Be quick and lock up when you come in. And it’s bedtime now, okay? No more video games. You have a busy morning of gardening ahead of you.”

  “Okay,” Hugo said.

  He tentatively slid the shovel under the carcass. When it still didn’t spring to life, he relaxed. It really was dead.

  Way to go, you stone-cold killer. He scrunched up his face, fighting back the tears. He didn’t like himself much right now.

  He carried the bat over to the mulch bed farthest from the house and opted to bury it as far away as possible from the bird feeder his mom filled regularly. He placed it on the mulch and dug a somewhat deep grave beside it.

  When he dropped the bat into the hole, he noticed something off about it. He bent closer and nudged at its rump. The flying creature had a thick tail as long as a small charger cord. He didn’t think that was normal.

  Great, he’d murdered a rare animal. Point me to your albino bats next, please. I take on any and all rare critters, apparently. Who’s next? This time, he cried.

  He wiped away the tears and buried the animal. He covered the small mound with mulch and stuck a long piece of bark upright to mark the grave. That way, if his dad asked where he’d buried it, he could find it that much easier.

  Hugo went inside, locked the back door, returned the shovel to the garage, shut down his game, and went upstairs to bed.

  After fending off a crazed bat attack, all he wanted to do was curl up in bed and try not to think about ‘a new social opportunity.’ He was not looking forward to a morning spent with losers.

  Chapter 3

  Nelson Endures Garden Trespassers

  Nelson’s mom pulled up to the bus loop. She handed him his backpack. After detaching his seat belt, he slid on his pack, snugging both shoulder straps.

  “Ready for the checklist?” he said.

  She put the car in park and slung her box braids over the shoulder closest to him right on cue. He appreciated that she knew his rituals so well. Both his adoptive parents got who he was. Nina and Jeremy Rivers were a good fit for him. Everything in life was a puzzle. Everything slotted into place just so. He fit with the Rivers. They knew what he needed, more often than not.

  She smiled. “Phone?”

  “Check.” He moved one braid off her shoulder, stroking it lightly. While he had never given either parent a hug in the six years of being their son, the braid ritual was the one point of contact he allowed. It seemed to make his mom happy.

  She giggled under her breath.

  “Sketchbook?”

  “Check.” He slung another braid, again stroking it, this time mostly near the end.

  “Sunscreen?”

  “Preapplied.” Another braid. “And check.”

  “Two water bottles, one frozen and the other chilled?” She playfully rolled her eyes, her way of casting judgment on his precise nature.

  “Check and check.” Braid stroked.

  “Band-aids and Advil?”

  “Check and check.” Braid #5 relocated. “And please don’t double up. That’s a breach of protocol.”

  She playfully pounded her fist into her open palm. “Got your protocol right here.”

  “Continue. You’re going to make me not early.”

  “Book?” she said.

  “Check.” Braid #6.

  “And we’re to the end with just one left.” She paused and threatened to do a drumroll on the dash. He shook his head.

  She withdrew her ready-to-strum fingers. “Sparkling personality and can-do spirit?” She pursed her lips and scrunched up her shoulders as if ready to dodge a projectile.

  “Those are not on the list.” This was how she always ended their checklists. It was two different character traits each time. So far, she’d repeated the same pairs eighteen times since they’d started the ritual.

  He made the fingers and thumb on one hand into a bird’s beak and tapped at his chest. “In here.”

  “Then you’re ready to roll.” She unlocked the doors with the push of a button. “Go on, scram. Momma’s got a free morning.”

  He hauled himself out of the car and closed the door. He rapped on the window two times. It rolled down.
>
  He completed their scripted exchange. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  “You bet, sweetie. Have fun with your friends.”

  He turned around and strolled toward Pine Branch Middle’s front entrance. Halfway there, his mom pulled out. He counted in his head. When he got to twelve, he turned around to see if he was right. Sure enough, she pulled to a stop at the entrance and waved.

  He waved back and then resumed walking.

  He slowed when he saw the out-of-place item sitting in front of the handicap access door. What on earth?

  He scampered closer.

  A statue standing as tall as the door’s push bar blocked his entrance. It was humanoid but not the figure of a child. It was rather boxy and angular, as if the sculptor had been resistant to outright curves. Its head was more of an upright cylinder that bowed outward in the middle. It was medium gray with flecks of brown. Its eyes had a black half-moon that framed the upper eyelid like eyeshadow. Under each eye, a narrow black triangle pointed downward, ending an inch away from its open mouth. It almost looked like a mask. No nose, although its face did pucker outward where a nose would go.

  The statue had a slight potbelly. A simple pair of pants was the only clothing the sculptor had carved. Each foot featured a big toe, and then one blunt flipper took up the space where the rest of its toes should be. It basically looked like the statue wore mittens on its feet. Both hands had a thumb and three fingers that were pointed forward and cupped as if each palm could be filled with a small reserve of water.

  “What’s that?” a voice he recognized called out from behind him.

  He didn’t turn around. “A statue.”

  Lou walked up, blowing a big bubble. She leaned in between Nelson and the statue to show off her elastic creation. The bubble popped, and she took a second to clean the gum residue that clung to her lips and stuffed it all back in her mouth.

  “You know you’re chomping on the same material used to produce inner tubes?”

  “Yes, as you’ve said to me many times.” Lou rolled her eyes. “I don’t care if I’m chewing poly-butter-rain just as long as it tastes yummy and can make the big bubbles.”

  “Polyisobutylene.” He knew she mispronounced it differently each time they had this discussion.

  “Yeah, that.” She knocked on the top of the statue’s head two times. “Your gift for the garden?”

  He shook his head. “No, it was here when I arrived.”

  Nelson tolerated very few people in his life and made room for even fewer. There weren’t that many empty puzzle slots for new acquaintances. Two years ago, he’d decided to let Lou fill the void of friend in his puzzle.

  At first, he’d worried she was too pretty. With her long black hair and blue eyes that always blinked in the most beautiful lazy way, he had almost not invited her in. He knew that her prettiness would bring others: boys who wanted to be her boyfriend; girls that wanted to associate because they thought her prettiness would rub off on them. He’d said as much to his mom when at the end of fourth grade she’d asked him why he had refused to go camping with Lou’s family. She’d lectured him pretty hard on not stereotyping people, especially blasting him for his shallow take on girls being fixated on appearance. He’d apologized to her and let Lou in his life.

  Camping was something he both loved and hated. It brought him closer to nature, but it was all so flimsy and discombobulating, from staying in paper-thin tents to settling for sleeping bags that were not even close to the comfort level of his own mattress.

  Lou wasn’t aware of any of this. He knew, from how his mom had reacted, that telling Lou he deemed her worthy of assuming a role in his life was not good. And saying such might even land him a knuckle sandwich, a lunch special that Lou offered up to anyone who insulted her or those around her. Not that he’d ever seen her punch anyone. But because Lou’s tall, lanky build towered over all the boys in fifth and sixth grade, no one had tested her enough to see if she had a breaking point.

  Mikey Johnson had gotten the closest by making some comment about her speeding ahead to reach puberty first, an analogy that Nelson found ill-thought out. Was he comparing her to a race car? Hadn’t he paid attention to their life science unit at the end of fifth grade, which they’d had to do with the boys and girls in separate classrooms? Why learning about the pituitary gland and its major effects on their changing bodies was so giggle-inspiring, he’d yet to figure out. Mostly, because Lou changed the subject whenever he’d circled back to it.

  This morning, he knew, at least, that discussing puberty wasn’t on the list. Figuring out the strange statue was more conversationally appropriate.

  Lou sucked her next bubble into her mouth and popped it by dropping her teeth down with casual ceremony. “Maybe Ms. Deavours knows. She just pulled in.” She nodded at the staff parking lot. Ms. Deavours parked right next to the county maintenance man’s white van. They both knew why. The teacher and Mr. Reynolds liked each other. The man always came by on a Saturday to fix something, which Lou had told him was just an excuse to spend time with Ms. Deavours. They ended up chatting at least once or twice during each two-hour gardening session.

  “I hope Mr. Reynolds doesn’t come out and join us like he did last time.” Lou tracked the teacher getting out of her car and traveling along the sidewalk toward them. “All they did was make lovey-dovey eyes at each other, and we practically had to trim those holly bushes ourselves.”

  “That’s not true. Mr. Reynolds assisted me when the trimmer jammed. And he filled two of the four yard waste bags with the trimmings.” Even Nelson knew the two grown-ups liked each other. Mostly because they held hands and that was an important dating step. His parents did that all the time. “Did your parents not hold hands?”

  She gave him a scowl. “Where’d that come from?”

  He decided not to elaborate. Something about how she’d stiffened told him to back off.

  Also, Ms. Deavours saved him from replying. The teacher’s eyes landed on the two of them and then skirted over to the statue.

  “Hey, guys. Who’s your friend?” she said.

  Lou shrugged.

  Nelson replied, “It was here when I arrived. We thought you might know why.”

  She inspected the stone figure. “Well, it could be from the PTA. I’ve been asking them to fund more flower purchases. Maybe one of them dropped this off as a surprise. Is there a note?” She looked around the back of the statue to find nothing.

  “Maybe it’s a bird bath,” Nelson offered. “See how its hands can hold some water? Not a lot of water, so maybe it’s not much use for the bigger ones, but hummingbirds and chickadees would do just fine.”

  Lou bent down. “I can carry it out to the garden. It can be a water feature. The plot we’re working on needs something to make it pop, right?” She hoisted it out of the way and stepped back enough so the door could swing open.

  Ms. Deavours swiped her ID badge and opened the door. “Splendid. I’ll get the wheelbarrow and check in with Don. He texted me that he was working on the cafeteria freezers today, and I just want to pop in and say hi.”

  Lou looked at Nelson with a strained expression. “No worries. Take your time. We’ll find a good spot for short, gray, and majorly heavy.”

  Nelson walked past and headed down the fifth-grade wing.

  Lou set down the statue and yelled after him, “You totally didn’t catch that, you dope.”

  “Catch what? Did you throw something at me?” Nelson backtracked until he was alongside her.

  “I was hinting at you to help me lug this thing through the school. It weighs a ton.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Just grab its funky feet and keep your literal replies to yourself.”

  “Okay.” He grabbed the statue by its heels and made sure to lift at the same time as Lou raised its head. He was considerate that way.

  They duckwaddled down the hall and out the back doors.

  ****

  Lou leaned a
gainst the statue’s head. “I’m thinking it should have a name.”

  It had taken them just a few minutes to decide where to put it. The garden had a bird blind where noisy middle-schoolers peered through its dozens of holes drilled into the tall observational fencing for their unit on birds. They could get quite rowdy, and Nelson never understood why his classmates couldn’t be quiet and appreciate the antics of birds.

  They decided it shouldn’t be too close to that, as the birds might not splash about in the statue’s palms. They put it dead center in the garden, right next to the half-finished stone path they were expected to complete today. Three stacks of the flat stones sat against the brick wall of the school, ready to be hauled over.

  Lou dropped her backpack in the middle of the garden on a big patch of weeds and strode over to the stacks. Nelson deposited his on the observation bench and removed the water bottle that was not frozen. He set it next to his pack, wiping off on his jeans the slight condensation that had gotten on his hands.

  They walked the flat stones over, dropped them from a height of just a few inches, and rocked them into the ground until they were level before marching back to the stacks to retrieve the next.

  They worked in silence. Nelson found the repetitive task relaxing. Lou always got out of his way, and he always slipped aside for her. When he was grabbing a stone from the stack, she was dropping hers into the garden. He paced himself so those exact actions kept lining up.

  At the same time, he listened to the morning sounds all around. While many birds had already started their migration, some as early as August in the case of several hawks, there were still quite a few holdouts. Their parents were long gone, but juvenile warblers, flycatchers, and thrushes often waited until October to leave. He listened to a chorus of warblers now. Goshawks and golden eagles didn’t fly to warmer climes until November, but Nelson had never spotted either near the school. A robin announced itself with persistence. The bird flew close to Nelson and alighted on a gutter. He knew not all robins migrated, as their geographic movements were tied more to food scarcity than temperature change. His favorite non-predatory bird, the ruby-throated hummingbird, was long gone, having left in September to make the trek to South America. He admired the little guy’s endurance and tenacity, two traits his mom often heaped on him.