The Bugs of Bucklebee

Heat and bugs. A summer all too familiar to many people around the world, but none more so than the citizens of Bucklebee, Virginia. The sound of hundreds of cicadas hits them every few years with brood after brood. Their cast-off shells litter the walls and streets of Bucklebee, perfect copies of the cicadas left behind for their new lives. Shells that would fascinate a young boy like Jonah Frankford.

It would take Jonah roughly eleven minutes to walk to his grandma’s house on a summer’s day. Grandma was grandma in name only. She spoiled Jonah, but had no right doing so. Still, he was fond of her. If Jonah’s papa knew of their relationship though, he would surely not approve; grandma’s gumdrops were nothing but a waste of good pig hooves.

Josiah Frankford had purchased the house by the creek running past Bucklebee, maybe a dozen miles north of the town. There, right on the edge of the trickling creek, Josiah built an effigy. A totem really. Made of river-mud, sticks, and dry grass.

Every day at the crack of dawn, Josiah brought Jonah down to the creek and forced him to his knees.

“Pray to god for your sins, boy.”

Josiah’s daily command. Like a good son, Jonah would do as he was told. He’d kneel in the mud by the poorly crafted figure and wait. Josiah would join. Every morning this routine would go on and every day it would end with Josiah’s blood-curdling screams as if he were being cut from gut to gullet. He would cry and cry, with no care for what his son might be thinking. For the scars he was creating. For what stirred inside. Once Josiah stopped screaming, Jonah would go about his day trying to pretend this ritual didn’t bother him.  

The winter days were tough. Bitter and sharp. But the praying never stopped. The cold air made Josiah’s cries just that bit more potent. From time to time, Jonah found himself wishing his father would freeze to the ground, or maybe an icicle might fall down his throat. It was childish thinking, he’d later decide. Something like that wouldn’t just happen on its own. Bucklebee hardly even saw any snow.

The summer days, on the other hand, were something special. At least, in Jonah’s eyes. For a couple weeks out of the year, Jonah and Josiah would kneel at the foot of their effigy and pray as they always would. The incessant chirping of millions of cicadas barraged the pair as they were on their knees. If their voices weren’t distracting enough, the Frankfords were under constant bombardment from the bodies of these unwavering creatures. Bodies as big as Jonah’s thumb. They’d crash into their faces and try desperately to climb into their mouths with not a single second of rest from their screeching, no matter the time of day.

For some, this could be considered a personal hell. Not for Jonah. These two weeks were his days of rest. His long sabbath. Nothing changed from his routine. Every morning, he and his father would fall to their knees under their crumbling effigy, pray, and finish with the shrieking cries of Josiah. Yet, these days felt different. Where the winter could magnify even the breathing of Josiah, this chorus of cicadas would deafen the harshest of bellows Jonah’s father had to offer.

It was beautiful, Jonah would often think.

There was a silence he found in the screams of these creatures.

The year of Jonah’s ninth birthday was one the town of Bucklebee would talk about for decades to come. It was the largest crossover of cicada broods to occur on record. The citizens of Bucklebee couldn’t take a single step without the sound of cicada shells crunching under their feet, occupied or not.

But for Jonah, it was special for another reason. He and grandma shared a day of that summer together, watching the swarms of cicadas cling to her windows while they shared a bowl of gumdrops. She hardly spoke most days, a trait Jonah was fond of, but that specific day she seemed to have something on her mind.

“You’re a good boy, Jonah. You deserve better than that father of yours, given what he’s done. He clearly doesn’t know how to take care of you. I doubt he even wants to. You need someone that wants you.”

That was all that was said. More gumdrops were had, along with some unidentifiable meat stew. Then, Jonah went home. That night grandma’s words repeated in his head. He fell asleep to them and the nearby buzzing of millions of cicadas.

The next morning felt different. Jonah and Josiah shared a breakfast, which they rarely did. Bacon and eggs, an even rarer treat. Yet Josiah seemed different. Not the high spirits this special breakfast would indicate. No, the complete opposite. Almost scared. Like he had something important to do but was doing everything in his power to avoid doing it.

Still, even with his change in mood, like clockwork the pair went to pray. Josiah’s walk down to the effigy was slower than normal. More purposeful. Or perhaps, more hesitant. His intent wasn’t to avoid the dozens of cicadas that squelched under his worn-out shoes, although Jonah was unable to tell what fuelled his father’s reluctance.

As they prayed, dozens of insects found a resting place on their skin. Neither Frankford brushed off the bugs. They continued their prayers. Time passed slowly. The screeching of the cicadas was especially loud today, for one reason only. They had nothing to drown out. Unlike every single day before, Josiah kneeled beside his son without a single tear in his eye. He didn’t make a peep, or even bow his head, instead looking straight out towards the creek as he watched the swarms blind his view of a beautiful countryside.

Hours passed. They were kneeled at the effigy far longer than usual. Jonah didn’t feel the need to leave. Today, he didn’t want to run. The swarms only grew. Curtains of cicadas crashed into trees in the distance. Their screeching was completely overshadowed by the fluttering of their locust-like behaviour.

“It’s time,” said Josiah. He was mournful. Sombre but not sad. Jonah only just heard him.

“Time for what?”

“You know.”

There was little place for metal in the Frankford’s house, with the exception of a good frying pan. It made the sudden taste of metal in the air that much more extraordinary. First the taste. Then the smell. Both senses were overwhelmed by the sharp wailing of Josiah. His tears had returned along with his cries.

Gut to gullet, that was the path. The gash. It felt easy. There was no resistance. Blood spilled from the body, showering hundreds of cicadas. Only a few caught Josiah’s tears.

“I’m sorry,” said Josiah. “May god forgive us.”

Those were the last words Josiah would speak to his son. Talking became especially hard for Josiah as the gash ran up his throat.

Jonah was washed with relief. Cleansed in blood. He watched as the tears in his father’s eyes stopped. Cicada swarmed him, unnaturally so, and climbed across Josiah’s eyes. He didn’t blink. With a gentle shove, Jonah watched his father crash to the floor and become swallowed by the swarms of insects. These bugs covered his body until not even a droplet of blood was visible. Josiah Frankford no longer existed.

“Onto the next shell.”