The Prayer of the Mantis

I am a human, much to my father’s dismay. Perhaps, had I been born with antennae and an exoskeleton, he could have mustered up enough love to pin me to a bit of cork too. My father was an entomologist, a bug man I used to say. He’d run the sloping shoulders of our land, childlike, butterfly net overhead. Daily my brother and I would run behind him, a different net in hand, attempting to catch his attention. Alas we only have two legs, two eyes—we are fleshy and earthbound. He had no time for such things.
His office, our home, fluttered with pinned-down beetles, bees, dragonflies and the like. I recall they frightened my mother and friends until each of them fluttered away. It’s hard to be bound to a bug man if you’re not pinned down. And at the microscopic age of thirteen, I too was pinned down. My house was full of bodies—embalmed, mounted to the wallpaper. The butterflies in boxes seemed to shuffle their wings; ladybugs winked as I walked by, roaches nodded a friendly welcome. My father was an artist. He gave these creatures life. Or so I used to think.
His work used to fascinate me. From the doorway I’d watch him pin the legs of spiders or slice open a beetle. And like clockwork I’d hear him sigh:
“Jack I absolutely cannot pay attention with your loud, human, breathing.” I never bothered apologizing to him anymore. If it couldn’t fit in the palm of his hand, it didn’t interest my father. After a while I stopped craving his attention.
I was left to raise my brother in this massive Victorian we called a house. It buzzed with life, laughed squeakily with every step, yet there was a creeping, crawling loneliness.
One particular morning—it was a Wednesday, and the great smiling sun yawned and stretched its arms around the world to wake me. I crawled out of bed and made a bit of breakfast for my father, brother and me. If I didn’t remind them, they often wouldn’t eat for days.
It was my brother Riven’s job to go around the gardens with a watering can, making sure they all got their breakfast as well. Father had a particular garden: the best buds to attract the best bugs! We had morning glory for the ladybugs, ivy for the wasps, tansy for the lacewings, and bee balms for the… well, bees. I can’t recall how many times Riven had been stung by all manner of creatures hiding in the leaves, but even so he was happy to help our father.
Riven was only five years old and not particularly bright. He had dazzling red apples at the corners of his smile and big black curious eyes. I always thought he looked a lot like our mother; then again she was never that bright either.
Riven trailed behind me like botflies and beetles trailed behind my father. Anything I did Riven did as well, even if he didn’t particularly like it. So in the heat of the 3:00PM sun he followed me up the oak tree in our backyard.
My mother loved this tree, for nothing else than its height. Perhaps that’s why she had fallen in love with my elevated father. She loved the towering nature of this tree, its authority and its safety. But Riven loved this oak for the bugs. He could easily find at least three bugs to carry inside to father who would place them in jars and often forget about them until they died.
“Jack?” He’d do his typical beam with his tiny front teeth resting on his bottom lip inquisitively. He was still at the roots of the tree, trying to scramble up to meet me at the top.
“Yeah Riv?” I perched on a sturdy branch, ready for the onslaught of questions.
“Jack where did the first oak tree come from?” He’d tilt his head to the side and smile again.
He always asked questions like this, things I couldn’t answer. Things I wouldn’t be able to answer for the rest of my life. I never quite knew what to say.
“The first oak tree came from an acorn.”
“And where did the first acorn come from?”
“Probably a mutation of some other seed.”
“Where did the first seed come from?”
“Riven how am I supposed to know that, I wasn’t there!”
“But you know lots of things, Jack.” He smiled, close mouthed, and let his eyes twinkle a while. I think he sensed I knew more stories.
“You want to know what Momma used to tell me, huh?”
He nodded and pulled himself onto the branch facing me.
“Lemme start by saying this: Momma was crazy. She wouldn’t know a horsefly from a hornet! She barely spoke to me if not to preach. But she did preach—she told me everything she knew.” I swallowed as my mouth had gone dry. “She would have said that the first oak tree was put here by God.”
“God.” Riven repeated me parrot-like.
“Yes. A big bearded son-of-a-gun sitting on a cloud up there.” I pointed my hand to the sky, to the heavens. Riven’s eyes followed. “He made the world. He made the first humans. He made the first oak tree. He made the first bugs.”
“Father must like him then! The man who made the bugs.”
“Ah no, Riv. Father hates God. Or the idea of him anyway.”
He furrowed his brow. “Hates him?”
“Well, doesn’t believe in him. But I don’t either. It’s just a nice story.”
“But Momma thought it was real?”
“She still thinks it’s real. She’s down south somewhere preaching on street corners and sleeping with a pastor’s son.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Riven pouted.
“No, no of course you don’t.” I leaned back on the tree.
Riven caught some kind of centipede, something wriggling with many legs. He stuffed it in his pocket and giggled whenever it moved around. I saw my father run from the house around 5:00, his net by his side. I could feel my feet turn to pin cushions dangling from the wooden limb, I squirmed around trying to get comfortable. Riven shouted out to Father but he ignored us as he always did.
“I love Dad.” Riven sighed as we gazed from our spot in the treetops.
“Uh huh.” I rolled my eyes and watched Father run the yard until the sun went down. Riven talked my ear off until then—it’s hard to not talk when you’re five. I remember. At least he had someone to talk to.
When the stars came out I showed Riven the new sky. He did his two-tooth smile, the apples of his cheeks rising when I told him that all the stars we could see were already dead. It made him laugh. That’s the funny thing about Riven, he’s never sad. When I first heard that all the stars I could see were merely memories I felt angry. The stars seemed less meaningful after that. But not to Riven.
“Jack, my legs have pins and needles and I can’t get down!”
“Hold on, let me get down and then I’ll help you.”
“No Jack, don’t leave me here!”
“I won’t.” I climbed to the branch below him, which wasn’t very high, and grabbed him around the waist. He clung to me like a burr, wrapping his legs around me in a clutch. I felt him yawn on my shoulder. I realized it must have grown late with the stars. I was happy to see him tired, perhaps he would sleep tonight.
I climbed the screeching stairs, a passenger on my back, passing the sleeping ticks and caterpillars. I passed my father in his office dissecting a chrysalis. I stood a moment watching him, Riven breathing deeply by my ear. He had fallen asleep and Father was startled by his youngest son’s breath. He turned around coldly. The rigid lines of his face had grown sharper over time, his pale skin had grown paler, the darkness of his eyes and hair only proved to darken. He had the height of a grasshopper pulled out to full stretch, the eyes of a malevolent fly, the locks of an eight-legged widow in mourning, an exoskeleton coating all sides. He seemed angry to be disturbed, interlacing his fingers and crossing one leg.
“Why is Riven so tired, Jack?”
“We were climbing trees, sir.”
“Did you discover anything?” At first I wasn’t sure what he meant, I thought somehow he knew about my pondering of the first oak. But then I remembered the centipede in Riven’s pocket, thought it was probably dead by now.
“Riven found you a centipede.” I looked around the room, he had plenty of centipedes. “But it crawled away from him.”
“Clumsy, clumsy. Letting a centipede outsmart you boys, can’t say I’m surprised.” The corner of his mouth pulled into a grin, it looked like it had been stitched there.
“It was an honest mistake.” Riven was growing heavy in my arms.
“Don’t waste your time with that tree unless it’s to find something useful.”
“Yes sir.”
“Put your brother to bed then come back to me. I have something to show you.”
“Yes sir.” I ran with Riven in my arms to his bedroom down the hall. I cursed the large Victorian for being so large. I tucked Riven into bed, pulled the corpse of the centipede from his pocket, and kissed him on the forehead.
I slowly made my way back to my father’s study. He never asked for me, never wanted to share things with me. I was rather excited.
“Jack.” He sighed. “You do know why your mother left us, don’t you?”
“I’ve got theories.”
“Would you like to know?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Then I’ll decide for you.” Father slowly blinked then squinted in my direction. “Come look at this bug.”
I looked through the magnifying glass onto a pale green bug. I had never seen anything quite like it before. I thought I had seen all the bugs in the world.
“What is it?”
“That, Jack, is a praying mantis.” Father had tweezers resting in his left hand; the mantis squirmed about in a glass box desperately running into the walls it couldn’t see. Its arms were up in front of its chest—it looked like a boxer about to fight a match.
“Is it really praying, father?”
“Who knows? Perhaps.” He breathed in a deep breath, twitched a little, then looked at me. “Do you want to know why your mother left us?”
I said nothing, but nodded. Father took the tweezers and plucked free the arms from the body of the mantis. It writhed in a panicked pain, clinking against the glass, falling to a heap at the bottom of the box.
“Your mother left us because prayer doesn’t work. She was a stupid, stupid woman.” He stared at me with spite. I swore I could see pincers growing where his mouth had once been. Perhaps he didn’t believe in God because he felt more powerful than him in a way. He had the authority to take life, to pluck wings, pull legs, and strip prayers. He was his own God.
“Okay. Goodnight Father.” I squeaked, frightened and shaking.
“Indeed.” He swiveled around to pin the arms of the mantis to the corkboard, another trophy taken off another life.
I could hear Riven breathing across the hall as I lay in bed that night. Loud, human, breathing. I was thankful for it.
The following morning my father had locked himself in his study. I made Riven a bowl of oatmeal.
“Jack, I don’t like oatmeal!”
“It’s good for you Riv, you need to eat it.”
“No!” He crossed his arms. “Tastes like glue!”
“Eat it or you’ll have nothing until lunch.”
He pushed it away from him and scowled at me.
“Jack, may I pleeeeease have some Cheerios?”
“No Riven, I made you this oatmeal and I need you to eat it.”
Riven frowned at my anger and solemnly ate the now-cold oatmeal. We spent the day pulling thorny weeds from father’s garden and watering his plants. Riven got a bee sting late in the afternoon. I pulled out the stinger and carried on. Riven asked me of God, of the first bug, how the world came to be. I hushed him quickly. I felt the watchful eyes of the Victorian, the hundreds of black buggy eyes all watching me. At dinner I still didn’t see my father, I was too nervous to bring him food. I wondered if perhaps he had managed his own meal upstairs: a meal of arms.
It grew dark, the dead stars hung above me. I eventually herded Riven upstairs, brushed his teeth, and tucked him in. I sat on the edge of his bed and pushed his raven hair behind his tiny ear.
“Tell me more about Momma.”
“I really shouldn’t, Riv.”
“Please Jack!”
“Alright, but this is the only time.” I sighed, eyeing the door as if it had my father’s ears. “I remember she used to smile all the time, she had the same rosy cheeks as you. She laughed often and hard. She loved God with all of her heart and she hated bugs. She’d pray and pray about anything that bothered her and nothing bothered her more than insects.” Riven gasped. “You’re a lot like her you know, filled with a relentless wonder.”
“I’m like Momma?”
“You sure are.”
“What did Momma look like?”
“She was small, very small, the world must have seemed big to her. She was fragile and thin, a wisp of air could have blown her to heaven. She had long strawberry hair and freckles crossing the bridge of her nose. She was very pretty for a mom.”
“I always thought she’d be pretty.”
“That’s how I remember her anyway.”
He was silent for a few moments, thinking. “How do you pray?”
I didn’t know what to tell him. I’d only ever seen one example of prayer and that was last night. I felt ominous thinking about the armless pest.
“Well, you kind of put your arms up in front of your face like this.” I mimicked the mantis, curling my arms awkwardly. “And wish for something.”
Riven put his arms up to his face and smiled. “I’m going to pray to meet Momma.”
“Okay, Riv. Good luck and goodnight.”
“Goodnight Jack! I love you.”
“I love you too.”
I couldn’t sleep that night, a darkness followed me. All the eyes pinned to my wall seemed to spy on me. I couldn’t stop thinking of my mother, about her obsession with God, about her dislike of my father.
I was eight years old when my mother left us, almost to the day. She packed her bags with a white heat intensity, throwing in all her trinkets and charms. She was an earthy human being, spiritual she liked to say. Father loved that about her once. The day she left, anger entered him like a plague of locusts. I remember that day, amongst other things:
“Graham! I can’t stand this house any longer! Everything is covered with bugs! Live bugs, dead bugs, preserved bugs! This is not how I pictured my life.”
“How did you picture your life, Laurel, hmm?
“I pictured a few less bugs!”
“This is what I do, Laurel, this is what I love.”
“It’s the only thing you love anymore! You don’t love me, you don’t love our children! You love things with fangs and fuzz.”
“You’re telling me you love our children? That you love me? Hah! You spend all your time on your knees at that stupid church of yours.”
“You know nothing of the church!”
“Am I wrong? You’ve gotten quite close with Father Riley’s son the past few months. I don’t know, maybe you two pray together!” My mother gave my father a firm slap across the face, I suppose she didn’t appreciate the euphemism. My father snarled, pincers snapping at the air. Therein lies the birth of his anger.
My mother jumped at his mood change, she started to back away as my father advanced toward her. “You don’t love me,” he spit “I doubt if you ever loved me. You love sunshine, you love that stupid son of a pastor, and you love God. I’ve never been big enough, holy enough, for you. Blessed be the righteous, cursed be those who sin!” His mouth smoked with hell fire, the house was heated by it.
“I never cheated on you!” She scurried around, darting her eyes as if she was cornered.
“Of course you wouldn’t! That’s a sin if I ever heard one! But you love someone else, you’ve always loved someone else. You’ll never love me as much as you love your holy idol. You’re godless, woman, you’re damned.”
“Shut up!”
“Shut up? You want me to shut up? Go ahead and make me, see if you can. In this house, I have the power. I decide what goes.”
My mother began to cry, falling to a heap on the floor
“Get out of here and never come back,” he spit.
“I’m taking the boys!”
“Like hell you are. I need someone around here to take care of things and that’ll be them. They’ll grow up soon enough.”
“You can’t do that, Graham!”
My father slunk to his knees so that his face was level with my mother’s. “I can do anything I choose. I say this in all seriousness: if you come back here, I will hurt you. If you come back for these boys, I will kill you.”
I remember the anger that followed my father like a storm cloud. I had seen it when my mother left, and I saw it again last night. I felt panicked, like that bug frantically searching for a way out of a glass box. Not knowing what else to do, I raised my arms like the prayer of the mantis and silently spoke to whomever was listening. I prayed that Riven would never feel my father’s fury, that he would be safe from all harm, that he would be untouchable. I slept poorly that night.
I woke to find my father outside in the garden the next day. He was throwing around dirt like an animal, perhaps looking for earwigs.
Riven sat at the table waiting for me to make him breakfast. I found a box of stale Cheerios and poured them in a bowl with milk. It made Riven happy. I ate a bit of toast to calm my nerves. The house seemed all a flutter with energy.
Father came in as I was finishing off my breakfast. He scrubbed his hands clean in the porcelain sink, not speaking to either of us.
“Good morning father!” Riven smiled.
Father whipped his head to me, pincers snapping violently, then turned back around. I suppose Riven hadn’t seen them, for he still had a wide two-toothed smile.
“Jack,” My father said, staring at his muddy hands. “I need you to go to the post office today.”
“Why?”
“A shipment of exotic bugs has just arrived live. Walk down there and get them. Don’t rush, I wouldn’t want you to kill any of them.”
“Okay, Riven and I will go after breakfast.”
“No. Riven will stay here and water the garden. You boys have done a sorry job keeping up with my flowers. Riven will have to work a bit extra today. Go on now, Jack.”
I saw my brother sigh and slump into his chair. I gave him a quick kiss on the forehead and ran off for the new bugs.
Every few weeks or so, father would order an illegal live shipment of poisonous or rare creatures and I would have to pick them up immediately so no one got suspicious. I got to know the old mailman rather well from my frequent visits, Ole’ Mr. Rookery he was called. He’d greet me with a similar wink every time and hand me the packages. I often had a feeling he knew about the whole thing.
“You doing alright, Jacky boy?” Mr. Rookery had a wide gap in his grin.
“I’m okay, how’re you doing?”
“Peachy keen, son! How’s that precious brother of yours?”
“He’s due to start school this September.”
“My oh my, how time flies! You’re growing tall as a tree now, Jack! You look like your father for sure! Hair dark as sin and eyes to match.”
I felt the packages buzzing underneath my arm. I waved goodbye to Mr. Rookery and walked the long way home to have a think about things. I resented the idea that I looked anything like my father.
I had a walk past the stream that ran the borders of our land, past old willows and pines. I saw a couple of prize bugs my father would have loved but I walked past them with my nose turned up. I bet they thanked me for that.
I entered the back door of the Victorian, it squeaked at my arrival. I placed the packages on the kitchen table and shouted for my brother.
“Riven! I’m here to help you with the gardens!” But I got no response. I ran to the bottom of the hill where the flower patch was, greeted by a dark storm cloud of fluttering mosquitoes, but no Riven.
As I climbed the hill back to the Victorian, I saw a sleeping body under the great oak. My heart fluttered rapidly. Riven was lying beneath the tree, his arms pinned behind him at unnatural angles, battered and bloody. I screamed for my father, in tears, in a panic. I ran into the Victorian, knocking bug portraits from the wall in my clumsy fear.
“Father!” I screamed.
He came calmly from the stairs. “Yes, Jack?”
“Riven is hurt!”
Father followed me to the oak, I could barely look at my brother. Blood poured from Riven’s nose like a stream, his skin going yellow and white like a daisy.
“Mmm. Indeed.” Father put two fingers to Riven’s neck. “Looks dead to me.”
And that was all he ever said on the matter.
Riven did indeed die that day. Father surmised it must have been from climbing the tree and falling. Father once suggested that perhaps if I hadn’t have encouraged him, he might still be alive. I couldn’t swallow that. I never really believed he fell from the tree at all.
The house is impossible to live in nowadays. The ladybugs that had once winked now scowl, roaches spit their warnings to run away, the butterflies batter about in glass prisons. A bug house is frightening in the dark of grief. Every night as I brave the laughing stairs alone I pass the angry, violent, rows of wasps and maggots. They shout jibs, they curse me, but mostly they curse my father.
We had a funeral for Riven several weeks later. The casket was horribly ajar, showing me the face of my brother and only friend. I looked in on him from above: the apples of his cheeks had gone rotten, and soon they would be eaten by worms.
My mother came to the funeral. She met my father with cold eyes. She stood across from me, across from the open grave into which they lowered Riven. She met my eyes with a human gaze. She seemed so natural and raw, so warm and alive. I felt the skeletal bones of my father beside me.
After the funeral, my father shook hands with distant relatives and strangers. He left me at the fresh gravesite alone. I felt a warm hand upon my shoulder.
“Jack.” My mother kissed my forehead.
“What do you want?” I snapped.
“Jack, I know I have done you wrong, I know I abandoned you. If you listen to nothing else I ever say, please listen to me now.” She swallowed back tears. “Your father has hundreds of children with thousands of legs and eyes. Riven was not one of them, you are not one of them, and you never will be. He doesn’t care for warm skin and beating hearts, Jack. He doesn’t want to hear you speak, hear you sing, hear you breathe. He doesn’t want you.” I felt her hands tightened around my arm. She stiffened up and stared at someone behind me.
“Laurel, how nice of you to come.”
“Graham.” She pursed her lips.
“I do believe you’ve got a plane to catch.”
“My flight isn’t for days!”
“Well, that’s too bad. Better go wait for it.” Out came the pincers, threatening, horrifying. “Don’t think I won’t keep my promise, Laurel.”
I saw a fear in my mother’s eyes that I had never seen before. I realized she did not want to leave me, but that she had to leave my father. She was frightened of him, of his pincers, of his anger. She was frightened of the bugs mounted on the wall, the bugs living in the floorboards, the bugs pinned to his heart. I realized prayers don’t work because my father doesn’t allow them to.
My mother furrowed her eyebrows in a silent apology as she turned her back on me. I forgave her, for I could see the open wounds at her sides where her praying arms used to be. I carried the same wounds mirrored on me. And in my father’s left hand, a pair of tweezers.