PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” Megan said, spitting the words into the face of the boy who towered above her, blocking the sun from her eyes, and shading where she crouched. “Then I'll just have to use sticks and stones, Nigger.” He growled the words contemptuously, his brutish face twisted into a scornful sneer. Abruptly, his hand shot out and grabbed a handful of her shirt front, and hauled her to her feet, one fist drawn back to deliver a blow. She flinched away from the strike that never came, before cautiously opening her eyes, wondering why the fated pain never came. Another boy, a black boy, bigger than the white bully who tormented her, held his wrist, a black look on his face, blacker than the color of his skin. He wore strange clothes, a dingy brown shirt and trousers that weren't like any she'd seen. “Let her go.” he said, very precisely, and the bully obeyed, carefully, gently put her down. Just as carefully, her rescuer let go of the boy's wrist. “Good.” he murmured, flashing a friendly smile that belied the way he stood, tense like a spring. He would release that coiled energy if the white boy so much as stepped wrong. He spoke the word again, “Good,” almost as if he were praising a mule. The bully started away, then, stumbling from Megan and her hero as if they were diseased. He turned, a little way away, trotting back for a pace or two. “Nigger filth!”, he snarled, face heavy with contempt, “We don't want your kind here in Jackson Bay, just remember that.” He turned back when he almost tripped again, and broke into a clumsy run. The boy at her side smiled at the sight, and chuckled a little, under his breath. Megan looked after the white boy, a slight smile on her lips. His words stung, but that pain was quickly ebbing, and he didn't seem like so much anymore. She turned back to the boy who stood at her side, and he spoke softly. “His words can't hurt you, and I'll be here to protect you from anything else.” He smiled, his eyes sparkling with genuine amusement. She nodded, smiling a little, words of thanks forming on her lips. She stopped, before the words flew from her lips. He suddenly wasn't there. She looked around, confused, wondering where he'd gone. There was no one there, and no clue as to where he'd gone. Or even if he'd been there in the first place. But her tormentor was gone... chased away. He must have been here. She felt faintly chilled as she looked around another minute, and still there was no sign of him. She started back on her way home, breaking into a run as she drew further away from the clearing in the forest where the boy had been.



She wove through the small streets of the small town, more of a village really, trying to remember the way to her and her Mother's new home. She ducked and weaved through the crowd that gathered on the small streets of the town. Dust rose beneath her feet from the water-parched land, and all around her was the dry heat of the afternoon, with everyone surrounding her exuding an air of tiredness, of drooping, as if the heat wilted them like the plants that lined the gardens. She took a left, then hung a sharp right, almost running out onto the road where a car swung around the corner, honking its horn at her and her lack of car. The sharp sound seemed to ring out over the dull murmur of the people passing by, splitting the air of the town, but only a few curious people looked over at her. They averted their eyes quickly when they saw the black girl standing by the side of the road, panting, shiny faced, with dingy jeans and a grubby t-shirt. She waited only for the car to pass, then started running again, her pace barely slowed to a trot, as she looked around, lost, trying to find where her house was. She thought she found a way that looked familiar, with drooping houses that seemed more welcoming than the others, and trees that had familiar twists and knots in the trunk and branches.



Eventually, after a few exploration wrong turnings she found the road she was looking for, and went down the street that led to her and her Momma's new house. The houses on this street were different. They were infinitively more friendly, in an old dog kind of way, with carefully applied paint that hid dilapidated walls, dingy whitewashed fences that stood at an angle, sometimes not all of them even bowing the same way, and tidy, if not beautiful front gardens. There were older cars in the driveways, dingy green models that sparkled as if they were new. The people who lived here were proud of the small things that they had, and here, Megan felt comfortable. She slowed to a walk, as a few people waved to her, sitting on front porches and sipping cold drinks in the stifling heat. A pair of black children were playing in the front garden, a game of touch and tag, and their laughter rang out over the dozing street. Megan smiled slightly, running up the twisting garden path to her own welcoming home. It was still stiff and formal, not comfortable with its new inhabitants, just as its people weren't quite comfortable with it. Megan shut the door carefully behind her, not letting it bang shut as she had at her last home. She looked around once, and, seeing her Mother's keys on the hallway table, called out. “Mom?” From the kitchen, a voice answered. “Here, Honey.” After spending all their time alone together, Megan and her Mom were close. Megan walked towards the voice, running exploring fingers along the wall as she made her way deeper into the house. She poked her head around the door, and smiled at the sight of her mother in dusty, paint speckled overalls, hands on hips, staring at a dutifully painted wall. She didn't even turn around as her daughter entered the room. “What do you think, Megs?” Megan shrugged. “It's cool.” Then her Mother turned around, put the paintbrush down, and smiled at Megan. “How was your day? How's the school? Is sixth grade any harder?” The questions kept coming, clamouring, tumbling over themselves with girlish excitement. Megan smiled, answered the questions she asked, and then told her about her day. By the time she'd nearly finished, her Mother was holding her in her arms, and tears were flowing down Megan's face. “Baby... baby...” she murmured, stroking her forehead, as tales of teasing and bullying came tumbling out, and then the tale of her encounter with the other bully on the road back. Her Mother stayed almost silent through it all, murmuring words of comfort, but not interrupting. When Megan had finished her tale, and calmed down a little, she wiped her eyes of tears, and looked up at her Mom. “What... What were they calling me? Nigger?” Her Mother's face tightened. “It's a hateful word. But only ignorant, selfish people use it. And they can't hurt you.” Even as she spoke she was remembering the bullies that had come so close to hurting her baby. She didn't say anything else, just gave a reassuring smile, and hugged her daughter again.



Later, as Megan yawned wide in the dim light thrown by her night light, her Mother sat down on the end of the bed, watching Megan as her eyes started to drift closed. “Momma...” She murmured, sleepily, “The boy... the one who rescued me... Was he a ghost?” Her Mother smiled slightly. With Megan's tales of the disappearing rescuer, she had a feeling that she was exaggerating, or she just hadn't seen... or something. Ghosts didn't exist, after all. “No Honey.” She said, her tone peaceful, in a soothing cadence, trying to soothe the child to sleep. “He was just busy. He had to go. You'll probably see him again tomorrow.” Megan only nodded, the movement barely visible, before she drifted off, her eyes closing as she sank through the layers of sleep. Her Mom got up slowly and quietly, and made her silent way out of the room.



“And she thinks she was rescued by a ghost!” Briana laughed, the tale of her daughter emerging surrounded by chuckling laughter, amused, not mocking. The women she spoke to, though, didn't make a sound. They exchanged uneasy glances, their eyes whiter by comparison to their rich black skins. Briana looked curiously at the women, one graceful eyebrow delicately raised. “What? What did I say?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. One of the women, Caroline, she remembered, got to her feet, bending over, starting to clear away the coffee cups and biscuit crumbs their meeting had left on the glass coffee table. “Well...” She stood straight again, a slightly strange look in her eyes. “The boy... did she describe him?” Briana nodded, a puzzled look in her eyes. “Yes, she said he was tall, and skinny, and wore strange clothes... with short hair... and... uh....” She trailed off, trying to remember more, but the women were nodding. “It was Jack,” one of them said with a slight smile. Briana raised another eyebrow, this time inquisitive. “Jack O'Leary.” Caroline supplied unhelpfully. “It's a... belief around here, among the Negro community, that Ol' Jack O'Leary watches over us.” She sounded slightly unsure of how this was going to be received. “He... uh... protects the children. From the bullies and the like. He disappears as soon as he's through with the bullies... but he's always there, in that grove... off the road on the way from school.” Briana gave a start. She hadn't mentioned where it had happened. Caroline nodded, a slightly wry smile on her lips. “See?” She put the coffee cups down again, and sat down, leaning forward as she told the tale. Jack O'Leary was the first free black man to come and live in the town. It was 1870s, the peak of the Ku Klux Klan's influence, and it was a dangerous decision. He was barely twenty, and not long from leaving his Pa's farm. He was looking for work as a farmhand or a stable boy, anything. He'd made a few good friends, a few bad ones, but the upshot of it was that, when a farmer accused him of theft, the whole town ganged together, and he was lynched. Here, she paused. “In that grove.” The silence when she finished her tale was one of amazement. Slowly, Briana nodded. Then, while Briana still thought of what she'd been told, the conversation moved on.



Megan swung slowly on the old wooden seat that hung from the bow of the tree. The ropes that held it were worn and frayed, with grooves in the ropes were countless children had clung to them, tighter and tighter, as their feet sailed up towards the sky, and the grove echoed with silent shadows of laughter, and the excited squeals and giggles of happy children. But now, the grove was silent, and Megan was alone, and waiting. A soft scud of feet in dead and dying leaves was all the warning she had. He didn't announce himself. She looked up, her gaze clear and innocent as she looked up at the Negro boy who towered above her. She stood, her head still tilted back, and smiled. He smiled back. “Thank you.” She said softly, and held out a hand. He took it, and his hand was as soft as velvet, and quite substantial. He didn't say anything. He seemed lost for words, though his expression was still friendly. He let go of her hand, and moved around her to the back of the swing. She nodded, and sat back down, and carefully, he started to swing her, seeming to indulge in the normality of the play. She laughed, and chattered, and barely seemed to notice that he didn't even say a word.



Briana frowned slightly, a little puzzled at the tale that her daughter told. Brushing the knots from Megan's long black hair until it shined, it seemed barely believable. Thoughts of pedophiles and child kidnappers ran through her head, nightmare thoughts that she tried hard not to believe. She clung to the thought that in such a small town there wouldn't be any such people, but coming straight from the city, it was hard to calm herself. As Megan kept talking, though, the tale of Tom O'Leary seemed to fit. She couldn't help but wonder that she was so readily believing this tale, but she'd always had a predilection for the otherworldly, and this was something she could believe, she supposed. She smiled then, returning her thoughts to her daughter, and the chattering tale. She was happy, and Briana didn't want to take that away. So, she listened, as she brushed her baby's hair, and smiled. Her daughter had found a friend.



The weeks went by, and Megan grew more comfortable, and confident. She wasn't afraid of the bullies and the people that called her names anymore. Their words couldn't hurt her, and Tom made sure that none of them could harm her physically. Her Mother, immersed in her new job, still made time for Megan, to listen to the tales she told, and take joy from her laughter. Then, when the bullies came to realize they couldn't hurt Megan anymore, they began to leave her alone. More and more, the days came when she wasn't tormented, when they left her alone, and more and more, the days came when Tom wasn't there. When three weeks had gone by, with neither bully, nor Tom, Megan realized that her friend wasn't going to come anymore. She told her Mom, crying, and her Mother made time for her, again, just holding her, rocking her, and listening to her. The next day came, and went, leaving a crudely scratched word in the wood of the tree that was Tom's link to the grove, and the children he protected, and the lesson he taught. 'Thank you.'