THE LIVING DAYLIGHTS

Once, on a hot summer's day as I reclined in the shade of a tree, near a wood, I heard a soiree of magpies swapping a rather interesting tale from one to the other. Myself, being the curious sort and enjoying a good tale as well as the next fellow, I bent an ear towards the raucous conversation and the words that follow are a loose translation of the dialog that unfolded within the branches above me.

"Is that him?" asked a magpie of his neighbor, motioning down to where I lay in supposed slumber.
"Nope, That isn't him. This lad is tall and gangly. The one I speak of was much younger and they say he could scare the daylights out of you."

"I don't see anything scary about this individual," added another magpie. "As a matter of fact he looks quite harmless."

"Don't underestimate him," warns the first magpie. "It was a lad much like him who caused the great crow massacre of '76. Six-hundred crows were struck down in the blink of an eye. The feathers of the poor innocents who survived that massacre were turned whiter than the sands along the shores of the sea?"

"Did one boy do all that," asked one of the magpies.

"You bet he did," piped up another magpie. "I met one of them albino crows myself. Not only were his feathers drained of color but he lost his voice as well. This albino crow told me the entire story and he claims not a single one of them has been able to utter a syllable since that fateful day.

In no time at all those magpies had stirred up quite a ruckus in them branches, discussing the whereto's and why for's, and how come you to know so blasted much, and how come you to know so little, and how come no one can tell the straight of a story, and just how does one get rid of that offensive beak odor? Eventually one of their number announced he knew the truth of the matter and if the others would just hush up he'd narrate the entire story.

Well, if you have ever seen a flock of magpies grouped together to discuss a matter that weighs on all their minds, you probably know how difficult it is for them to hold their tongues and speak out one at a time. Nevertheless, this group of magpies made a brave effort to keep their beaks shut and listen.

"I got this story from the mouth of a blind wood beetle who happened to be clinging to the trunk of the very tree under which this incident transpired," said the magpie. "He shared this story in the hopes that it would build a bond between us and perhaps I would pity him and therefore not eat him. Let me admit I am beholding to that beetle for telling me such a wonderful tale, but I must express my deep sorrow that he is no longer with us and cannot tell you the story himself."

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"It happened on a hot summer's day much like this one," began the magpie. "This wood beetle was enjoying the shade beneath a large oak tree when young Benjamin came stumbling across an open field carrying a watermelon as large as his own self. He was perspiring heavily and was quite out of breath, so it was a relief when he finally reached the shade of the large oak tree.

Being exhausted, he dropped down so suddenly that the big watermelon busted open as cleanly as if it had been sliced with a pocket knife. "Oh my goodness!" Exclaimed he. "I cannot let this melon go to waste." And he promptly set into eating it with his hands and I must say I have seen a Florida Rooter show better table manners than that boy used as he gutted out the heart of that melon.

He had a tremendous thirst from his exertions in hauling the large melon across the field and soon he had devoured all but the empty shell. His stomach was stretched tighter than a yeast roll in a warm oven and his kidneys were manning the pumps like two sailers with a bucket in a hurricane. No sooner had he finished than he throwed his hands out by his sides and fell back on a blanket of leaves and slept.

As he lay there with his shirt soaked in melon juice and his face and hands stained as well, there comes onto the scene two crows who alight on a branch. Now these crows are sharp-eyed and do not overlook this fellow lying under the tree. They sit quietly for a spell, turning their heads first one way then the other, bobbing their heads up and down and from side to side, but always keeping one baleful eye attuned to the sleeping boy. Finally they are unable to keep quiet any longer and begin to speak:

"You reckon he's dead?"
"T'aint likely he's dead."
"I think he's dead."
"He isn't dead."
"He is dead."
"No he isn't. He's only sleeping."
"Then you go down and wake him up."
"Not likely."
"Then you is yeller."
"I am not yeller."
"Then you is ugly."
"I know I am, but you are repulsive."

"That child is dead as a rock."
"And you are stupid. The boy is merely sleeping."
"That child has give up the ghost. He is food for worms. He is swelled up like a sun-ripened watermelon. Any minute he's liable to bust out all over the place."
"You are an imbecile."
"Thank You! I am purty smart at that."
"Your mommy was a booby hatch," resumes the other. "You is tetched, bereft of reason, unbalanced, unhinged, running amuck, daft, scatterbrained, and mad as a march hare."
"Hush yore mouth before I blush," replied the first. "I wasn't always the intellectual I is today. I had home schooling."
"Why do I sit and listen to this," asks the other. "The sunlight has parched your brain cells. Close your eyes, my boy, and let them bats in your bell tower get some sleep."

"Looky," says the first crow. "Here comes Bob, Ted, Bill, Hank, and Richard. They will help sort this mystery out.

There is a subsequent influx of wings as five crows join the two in the tree. The wood beetle had hid himself inside a knot hole to avoid detection, but he couldn't resist the temptation to peek out and listen to the conversation.
"Hello guys," shouts Bob, Ted, Bill, Hank, and Richard in unison. "What's up?"
"It's this slow-witted, bug-eating, bandy-legged, half blind pecker wood," vociferates the first crow. "He won't listen to reason. He thinks that child down there is dead. I argue he is only sleeping. You fellows are a common assortment of blockheads. Tell us whether he is man or ghost."

"I must agree with Willie," says Ted. "That boy is dead."
"Naw he isn't," insists Bill. "That boy might be in a dead slumber but he hasn't relinquished his hold on this here world yet."
"Now we hear the sound of reason," shouts Joe. "I told you the child is asleep."
"I ain't so sure I would agree with you," interrupts Hank. "He does look awfully bloated, and he smells bad, or at least something around here does."
"I say he is asleep," adds Robert. "What do you think, Richard?"
"I dunno," states Richard. "I cannot tell from this perspective. What I'd suggest is for one of us to go down there and peel back an eyelid and see if the child is alive."

Well that hushed them birds up. Then Theodore speaks: "Bob is right. One of us must do just as he suggests. We should select one of our number to go down there and see if the boy lives and I will start things off right away by nominating myself as a member of the nominating committee."
"Me too," quickly adds Bill.
"Likewise," shout Willie, Joe, Hank and Richard in unison.
"I move the nominations be closed," interrupts theodore. "Do I hear a second?"
"Second!" Shouts Bill, Willie, Joe, Hank and Richard.
"Then as chairman of the nominating committee," continues Theodore. "I see only one outstanding candidate for the job. Do we put it to a vote?"
"AYE!" "AYE!" "AYE!" "AYE!" " "AYE!" "AYE!"
"Do I hear any dissenting votes," speaks the chairman.
"NAY!" shouts Robert.
"The AYES have it," proclaims the chairman. "Robert it is."
"I protest," argues Robert. "I was railroaded. I demand a recount."
"I proclaim these proceedings closed," says the chairman. "Do I get a second?"
"SECOND!" Shout the others.
"I protest," hollers Robert. "I'll not take the job. You cannot make me accept it. I will not be railroaded. Why, I'm a Democrat. It ain't natural that I should win an election."

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Robert leans carefully over the face of the sleeping child. His own heart is pounding like a runaway locomotive. "He doesn't appear to be breathing," he whispers. The other crows have alighted in a group and watch from a safe distance.
"Feel for a heartbeat," offers Joe.
Robert lays his head gently against the boys breast, but the pounding of his own heart drowns out anything he might hear. "I think he is dead," he whispers. "I cannot hear a heartbeat."
"Don't be hasty," warns Joe. "Peel back an eyelid and see if it has any life in it."
Robert gingerly peels back an eyelid and peers closely at the polished orb. What he sees is his own reflection staring back at him. But he doesn't know that is what it is. "AWK!" He squawks. He leaps backwards, fanning the air with his wings. "There is a devil in his eye." The entire flock of crows take to wing and flee to another tree a township away.

The afternoon progresses but the curiosity of them crows has not been appeased. They raucously circle the Township, gathering up kinfolk, and friends, and friends of kinfolk, and kinfolk of friends until such an influx of crows had gathered that the entire woodlands echo with their chatter and the sky is darkened with their numbers. Eventually they approach the tree where sleeps the boy and they alight on the branches of the tree, in neighboring trees, and on the ground, and on the brush and fencerows. They are joined by a armadillo, a hedgehog, and a Hide-Behind who had snuck up to see what all the commotion was about.

Six hundred crows are congregated to examine the body. They sit quietly for a spell, turning their heads first one way then the other, bobbing their heads up and down and from side to side, but always keeping one baleful eye attuned to the sleeping boy, until one of them speaks up: "There isn't anybody who can lay there this long without he is a corpse," says he. "The only remaining question is how long will it take for him to soften up enough for us to eat him." "He looks pretty ripe to me," speaks another. "I don't believe, however, there is enough of him to go around for such a large gathering."

"Don't mind me," says the Hide-Behind. "I like to eat my meals while they are fresh and this dinner plate has gotten cold. I am only here to pay my respects to the deceased." The Hide-Behind then bows his head and wipes at a tear: "I knew this boy," he resumes in a sobbing voice. " Many has been the time I have tried to catch him out in the woods at night and make a meal of him. It has been my lifelong ambition to eventually succeed in the endeavor. You cannot imagine the deep sorrow I feel knowing I will never again get to chase him through the woods and will never again feel the horrible blows he has dealt upon my person when I have tried to grab him. That boy was a real fighter and I will miss him dearly. If you fellows don't mind, I will stand over here and quietly grieve for my dear lost friend. SOB! SNIFFLE! SNIFFLE!"

The armadillo and hedgehog decline the invitation to join in the festivities. "We'll just stand aside and tidy up after you folks have finished," say they.
"Then he is all ours," shouts a crow. "He ought to make 600 mouthfuls aplenty."
"NOT SO FAST BOYS," quips a gruff voice from the back of the crowd. A large lumbering Turkey Buzzard shoves his way to the front of the throng. "I do believe that you fellows are forgetting that, in the natural order of things, I outrank you all. No one touches the food until I have eaten."

'Aw Shoot! We ain't going to get anything to eat now," whines one among the multitude. "That buzzard is a hog."
"Move slow up there," advises Joe Crow to the buzzard. "We aren't certain if the lad is dead or alive."
"You aren't sure," asks the buzzard.
"Nope," says Joe. "It's a mystery."
"Well, then," chuckles the buzzard, "I am just the person to solve this mystery. For a fact I am an expert on this sort of phenomena. I have flown all over the Southeast solving this type of mystery every day of my life."
"Just be careful of his eyeballs," whispers Robert. "I saw a devil in one of them. It jumped out at me and tried to grab me."
"Did it now," chuckled the buzzard. "That is an interesting phenomenon. I have examined lots of corpses and this is the first I have ever heard of a devil living in the eyeballs. I will have to check it out for my own self, however."

The buzzard leans over the sleeping boy and gingerly peels back an eyelid. Leaning close he suddenly jerks his head back sharply. The crows hold their breaths. The buzzard smiles knowingly to himself and places his own eye up close to that of the boy, moving his head in a circular motion as if searching the depths of the orb for the alleged demon. "Uh Hum!" he mumbles. "Uh Hum! There isn't no devil; in that eye, Ol' son. The only thing staring back at me is my own reflection."

"Your reflection," mutters Robert. "That explains why it appeared such a ugly devil."
"Perhaps!" Exclaims the buzzard. "But we must now proceed with our preparations. The work that I do is scientifical. There is a certain aura that persists when the food is properly seasoned. There is an aroma that only an experienced food connoisseur such as myself can detect. He raises his nose into the air and shuffles a slow dance around the sleeping boy. "I have concluded," he resumes, "that only one portion of him has properly seasoned as of yet. His feet."

"Now observe as I delicately peel back this tough skin to expose the tasty flesh beneath. A skill I acquired while on safari in the hobo jungle." The buzzard then proceeds to expertly peel back the sole of the shoe, exposing the lad's five dirty toes that protrude from the hole in the end of his smelly sock. "Ahhh! Ahhh!" Exclaims the buzzard. "Such a titillating smell .... such fragrance. Mmmm! Come closer fellows and enjoy this aroma."

However, several crows on the forefront are swooning already from the permeating foot odor. The wood beetle is knocked momentarily unconscious and falls from his knot-hole, but is unnoticed. A number of leaves close their stomata and curl up on the branches.
The buzzard quickly and expertly removes the other shoe, then bows his head and speaks: "Let us now say grace." Six hundred crows, a turkey vulture, a Hide-Behind, a armadillo, and a hedgehog lower their heads and share a moment of silence. Meanwhile, the young fellow sleeps on.

Elsewhere, an army of fire ants are viewing the proceedings. "Our scouts have informed us the young fellow is not dead," addresses an officer to his squadron. "However the situation has obviously changed. Yonder buzzard would not be feeding on a live subject. Let us advance and claim the field."
"HAIL CAESAR!" Shouts the column. The ranks advance. Banners fly. Spear points are raised and glisten in the sunlight. And the wood beetle climbs quickly to his sanctuary within the knothole on the tree.

As the buzzard is tying a bib about his neck a crow bravely inquires of him: "While you are eating his toes, can I be pecking at his eyeballs. They are so plump and delicious looking that they remind me of two ripe muscadines swinging on a trellis."
"Well, I guess that will be alright," agrees the buzzard. "But don't any of you go near his tongue. There is nothing I prize more than tongue. I once landed a tongue down in the hobo jungle that stretched six feet before I got it yanked loose. I do enjoy the sport. I do."

"Look at that stomach," squawks another brave crow. "It is stretched tighter than the film on a bubble. It looks juicier than a ripened tomater. Suppose, while you are dining on toes and tugging on tongues, the rest of us crows try opening her up for you."

"You are a greedy lot, aren't you?" quips the buzzard. "I give you my permission. Open him up. I'll be joining you shortly."

Meanwhile, an entire fleet of fire ants are scaling the boy's legs beneath his jeans. "THE FIELD IS OURS," shouts their leader. A cheer goes up within their ranks. "TO THE VICTOR GO THE SPOILS," continues their leader. Another cheer arises. "NOW, LET US FORTIFY OUR POSITIONS," he commands. "DIG IN, MEN! DIG IN!"

The tension mounts. The buzzard, poised, primed, and hungry clamps his beak down onto a big brown toe. A crow has peeled back an eyelid and is peering suspiciously at his own reflection. Another crow is searching the ear canal, fancying it to be a good hiding place for beetles. Six crows perch on the swollen stomach and prepare to open 'er up. Several crows are pulling at finger bones. The remaining crows crowd closely around, bobbing their heads up and down, and from side to side, but at all times keeping a baleful eye on the proceedings. A Hide-behind, a armadillo, a hedgehog, and a wood beetle stand aside and watch as three thousand fire ants dig two-thousand fox holes, sink sixteen oil shafts and four ammunition bunkers somewhere south of the Mason-Dixon line.

It should not surprise you that such occurrences awakened the sleeping boy. He let out a WHOOP and leaped to his feet hollering like a bull bat on a down swoop. His movement was so sudden it took everyone by surprise. You might say, it scared the living daylights out of them.

The Turkey Buzzard keels over dead. Six-hundred crows take to the wing reactively, only the shock to their systems is too great and they drop like flies back to earth, dead, dying, stunned, blinded and bewildered. An entire garrison of fire ants roll from the britches legs of the youth like so many grains of sand. The armadillo jumps out of his shell and skedaddles back to Texas. The hedgehog and the Hide-Behind vanish in their tracks. The wood beetle stumbles from his knothole, blinded by the scare.

No one is more confused than the youth, Benjamin. Now wide awake, he rubs at the tender ant bites and examines his ruined shoes and naked feet. He surveys his surroundings and is confronted with the horror of the dead and dying birds. "This is disgusting," says he. "I cannot believe I have just eaten a watermelon in the middle of all these afflicted birds. I think I am going to be sick." He then spills the contents of his stomach all over his toes. Carefully, stepping over the slain and crippled bodies, he makes his way home, reeling and retching.

The survivors of the holocaust eventually stagger and stumble away. Blind and daft they scatter into the far reaches of the world in mute testimony of the calamity that had befallen them. Their once glossy black feathers are now turned white like the driven snow.

The freshly blinded wood beetle remained in his knot-hole, and never ventured forth into the world again. Some time later, after the buzzard and other carcasses had turned to dust, a coyote stumbled upon a pile of putrid vomit beneath the tree and it made him sick near to death. He staggered away, retching and reeling."

"And that is the story the blind wood beetle shared with me moments before I ate him," concluded the magpie.

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"I think it is rediculous," said a magpie. "I just do not understand how anyone could get scared so easily."

"It wasn't the scare that struck them crows down," offered a third magpie. "It was the devil. I think Bob Crow was correct. There was a devil hiding in that boy's eyeball, and when the lid was lifted it leapt out and grabbed them all up and swiped away their souls."

"Maybe the boy was the devil," vociferated another magpie, "and who is to say that isn't him down there below us right now. And he is only awaiting his chance to scare the living daylights out of us."

There was a long lengthy pause as the magpies considered what had been said. They sat quietly for a long spell, turning their heads first one way then the other, bobbing their heads up and down and from side to side, but always keeping one baleful eye attuned to where I lay.

I could sense that those magpies were nervous. They had spooked themselves by their own talk. Why, if things progressed they would soon scare the daylights out of their own selves. It didn't have to wait long before a magpie suggested what I had been waiting to hear:

"Why don't we elect someone to go down there and open his eyelid and see if he is a man or a ghost?"

I was so overcome by the comedy of the moment that my funny bone was promptly jostled by the reverberations of shackled laughter slamming against my rib cage. I could not contain myself. I laughed out loud. "HAW!" And them magpies lit out of that tree like a gunshy dog let loose in an electrical storm. I was chortling uncontrollably as I made my merry way towards home. It was then that I stepped in some sort of putrid-looking vomit and it made me sick near to death.

THE END