Sugar

Mother-moon floated across the night sky, her white blanket tucked over the sleeping Haitian village. She held the huts and sand beaches in her nurturing bosom. The village and the moon had embraced each other thus since the beginning; their histories intertwined. The villagers were children of the moon, or so their elder’s stories told. Her neon light reflected off the dense palms and wild colorful orchids across the serene beachscape. Nature’s streetlight, she provided a false sense of security for the village inhabitants. The ebb and flow of the rhythmic Atlantic Ocean’s tropical waves was the only noise heard across the quiet, ebullient night. Nestled in their hand-made thatched huts, the children of the moon slumbered on full bellies of fruit, berries, and roasted wild pig. They had just celebrated Bastille Day, the July 14th French holiday, still held in Haiti, a former French colony. Children lay under the protective arms of their parents on mats spread across the hut’s dirt floor. A full day of playing in the tropical forest and beaches, had left them exhausted and in a deep slumber. Entire families huddled together without selfish wants, resting in each other’s arms, living in the moment, bathed in love. Huts were only ample enough for small families to stretch out across their caned mats. As the moon-children slumbered, dreams of lives unlived and hopes unrealized danced across their minds and through their souls. Peace is permanent with the simple man and only fleeting, if at all, in the modern world. But tonight, their peace would be shattered. In the distance, an ominous growl from the forest echoed across the beaches, but failed to wake the sleeping families. Terrifying, hollow yellow eyes bounced up and down, joined by more from the dark and distant palms. An army of creatures wove through the forest. Tearing across the underbrush; they crushed everything in their path. Small animals living in the palms and shrubs ran for their lives. These terrible creatures bounded onto the pristine beach from the tropical forest, machines set on a course for destruction. Progress ripped through simple serenity and was bound to deliver his promise. He came to take, stealing more than he could ever return. Jill Louis-Jean sat up from his mat, his deep blue eyes wide open. He turned his shaved head towards the oncoming yellow lights and growling beasts. The yellow glimmer from the approaching machines ripped through the cracks in his cane-hut and pelted his chocolate, wrinkled skin, dancing off his worried face. His heart throbbed now, about to leap from his chest. Adrenaline burst into his body launched by his terrified mind. “Se reveiller! Se reveiller!” he snapped, urging his family to wake up. He had heard the stories. He remembered the stories. The elders passed them on to their children and so on for hundreds of years. Those awful stories were alive this night. He remembered an old man from long ago, long gray hair, carrying a carved wooden cane, telling the story of evil creatures who come in the night. Jill remembered, as a young boy, being huddled next to his friends around the fire, mesmerized by the sorrowful tale. This old man told of entire families being snatched away. They were carried off into the palms by dark, evil men. These men had a name. As the grinding of several of these powerful beasts came to a halt at his hut he now knew these were no longer stories. “Qu’est-ce que?” his wife Arnaude asked. Her long brown hair flowed like a waterfall around her smooth, coffee face. She raised her delicate long fingers to block the rays of the beasts, shielding her dark emerald eyes. “Se procurer enfants!” Jill yelled, standing inside the hut. He looked around for a weapon, a stick, anything, but there was nothing. There was never a need for weapons in their civilization, except for the hunt. There was no war, no crime and the community lived together in harmony, existing to support and carry on, not for individual desires, but for all. Jill ran out of his thatched hut to see for himself. What he saw buckled his strong knees and sent him to the ground. Beasts! Large steel beasts with glowing yellow eyes moved like sharks across his beach as several stopped in front of his hut; a seemingly endless line of them continued. They were undeterred by the deep sand, as their rounded legs spewed at the soft earth, propelling themselves forward, onward towards the village, toward their prey. Mother-Moon watched her children like a wounded whale on top of a gentle sea as the sharks swarmed and devoured her whole. Some of the other villagers had already run out of their huts. All just stood and watched the monsters descend upon their defenseless community. They were now surrounded. There was no escape. It was as the old man had told. “Buscones!” He heard one man shout. “Buscones!” others yelled in a macabre chorus. This was the name. The Buscones were the evil men. Fear realized may be Man’s greatest sting. He gasped for air and prayed to his Mother Moon as she helplessly watched from above. Evil had arrived. The Buscones were treacherous thieves, pirates of his world. Their booty was humanity. This treacherous eclipse was upon the village. “Bouger!” Jill heard from the loudspeaker of the trucks. They were here; there was no where to run. Fate now owned the village. Arnaude sprang from the hut with their two children, Brigitte, just ten, and Yves, now fourteen. “El buscones. Je suis desole,” Jill muttered his apologies to his wife, as he kneeled helplessly in front of her, in front of their home. Brigitte ran to her father and hugged him tightly. Yves stood behind them, placing his young hand on his father’s shoulder for support. Brigitte was looking for comfort, but there was none to give. Arnaud began to weep holding her hand to her quivering lips. She knew what the arrival of the Buscones meant. She clung to her husband and daughter as Yves placed his other hand on her shoulder and tried to comfort her. Yves was strong. The Louis-Jean family clung to each other with arms intertwined. Many other children and women from the village were screaming and running, but Jill knew there was nowhere to run. He looked up at his beloved wife and she peered into his eyes. Tears of helplessness now flowed down his dark skin. Arnaud never remembered seeing her brave husband cry. The trucks idled, surrounding the village. A loud horn sounded and then the monsters released hundreds of men dressed in black, like spider-babies descending from their mother. These Buscones wore black pants, shirts and scarves over their faces. All carried rifles or machetes. A Buscone approached Jill’s family. Yves watched his father and mother weeping as his arms held them protectively. He heard Brigitte’s muffled cry as she clung to Jill. Yves was now a man. He had killed his first wild pig yesterday and tasted its blood, as nature gave him what was his. He clenched his parents’ shoulders as rage now coursed through his slender body. Home and family were all he had. Both were being taken. Yves could not watch. A solider pranced by the family and sneered at his captured victims. Like a caged, hungry tiger, Yves lunged at the man before there was time to stop him. There was only one word Jill could think as he watched Yves run at the Buscone. “No!” Jill yelled trying to hold on to his son. Yves grabbed the Buscone and tried to throw him to the ground. As the two struggled the soldier drew his pistol. Jill stood. He began to move towards them, to wrestle his son away, but it was too late. The trigger was pulled and the damage done. One of the moon-children was coming home. Yves eyes popped wide open. An innocent and terrified expression shone on his innocent face as he slowly was absorbed by the sandy earth. Jill crawled to the boy trembling. Arnaud screamed viciously at the soldier.