Little Herbert loved the jarflies. The buzzing of the cicadas soothed and comforted the boy. An only child, he found the odd insects to be fascinating ... and friendly too. Not like the soft kittens in the haymow, or the family dog, but they peered up at him with huge alien eyes, and allowed him to tote them around on his thin shoulders as if enjoying his company.

The trees this particular year were covered with the muddy-colored shells that incubated the creatures, and Herbert would sometimes discover a baby cicada so new it was still opaque green and unable to fly--or make the strange whirring sound. He would smuggle them inside his bedroom until they were strong and beginning to buzz.

Herbert slept well on the nights his mother didn't find his jarflies, but on evenings she threw them unceremoniously out the back door, he would toss and turn with discontent and twist his sheets in hot, sweaty knots. He soon learned to let them crawl beneath his covers, where they would quiet, as if the closeness somehow stifled their wings.


A quickened breeze fluttered the curtains of the boy's room and he jerked awake, squinting into the sharp red-gold rays of sunlight. He turned away, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and felt the fullness of his bladder urging him to exit the tiny trundle bed that had once belonged to his father. There were no jarflies in his room and he ate his Cheerios quickly.

"How come I can't have jarflies in my room, Mama?" He slurped the milk down, legs swinging, the question hanging in the air like an unwanted banner.

"Herbert, you know why. They're bugs. Bugs are not allowed inside; besides, they're better off up in the trees. Just like the cats are better off in the barn ... and old Willie in his doghouse. We all got our places, Herbert. Now, go play. And leave the cicadas outside. I mean it." She resumed the dishes, the rollers in her hair sticking up like something from outer-space. One hung down, unwilling to do its duty, a small tubular traitor to Mrs. Greene's hair.

"But Mama, they're my friends. Some of them are babies. You always say we have to take care of the babies in the world."

"Baby bugs don't count, Herbert. God child, you ask the darndest questions. Now get! Go play before the summer's over. Remember, you start school this year. You better enjoy your freedom, kid."

Herbert darted out the door before his mother remembered about brushing teeth. He hated the gritty toothpaste and avoided it at all costs. He envied the jarflies their absence of teeth ... and their ability to fly too. He sometimes wished he could be a jarfly--then he could learn how to make the peculiar buzzing sound.

"Herbert! Come back in here! Come on! You gotta brush your teeth! NOW!" The screen door slammed, a final proclamation of duty and obedience. He turned and trudged back up the steps to doom, wondering if school would be fun, and if the teachers would make him brush his teeth.


Summer rains ceased--the air was as dry as a murdered bone in a desert, and out across the whole of the mid-west a pocket of high pressure ruled the skies. The corn shriveled in it's silks and the soy beans could not grow. August proved a misery as the pastures and hayfields burned. Herbert lost interest in his outdoor adventures, and he developed a dry, hacking cough that would not be cured. His parents put him to bed, promising themselves they'd call the doctor if he didn't come around soon.

Outside, the only things to prosper were the weeds; only the insects seemed to thrive in the dusty heat. Herbert asked about his jarflies, but the parents shushed him and doled out meager cups of precious water, all the while watching the clear skies for signs of coming storms.

Soon they joined Herbert in poor health. His parents turned lethargic and pale as all hope of income was lost. The forecast called for more drought; more high pressure systems and blue skies. There would be no garden to put up for winter, and the fields became a liability. There was no sense in maintaining the tractors. No sense in wasting money on fuel for them. Mr. Greene decided to look for work in town, even if it meant pumping gas. He had a family to look after.

The red line of the temperature gauge inched up every day and with each added degree, the incessant buzzing of the jarflies increased as if the heat spurred them on. Herbert tried to listen to them calling him. He tried to rise from his small bed, but the fever weakened and felled him back onto his wet pillow as the cicadas converged on the openings of the house, their tiny feet scratching and clawing ... their weight pulling, dragging. They were thirsty. The cicadas would be satisfied.

The child loved the jarflies. He didn't see the dark behind the bulging eyes, and finally made his way to the burgeoning screen. He would help them, save them. His fingers quivered as he opened the window ... and the horde converged. The child didn't mind; he showed no fear as he gave sustenance. And made no sounds in the face of his destiny.

****

The frail body lay, shrunken and dried out on the cracked linoleum floor. Sucked of life, the child's dark and bloodless eyes stared up at the ceiling, as if imploring the lovingly painted clouds to carry him away.