L'histoire de Baptiste Turcot

Over the spire of Notre Dame du Cap,

the half moon hangs straight up and down.

Baptiste Turcot sings a ballad of love.

His horse picks his way through elm and oak.

He’d dined that night in a Québécois home

met Marie Madeleine Duteau DuTaut.

He’s riding easy, lulled by his hopes,

when he spots glowering golden eyes.

With a snarl the beast leaps to attack.

His horse rears high to escape horror’s bite;

Baptiste quick with his knife spills the blood

of the Devil’s own Wolf, the Loup-garou.

True to French legend, he becomes one too:

A man by day but useless and ill,

a monster at sundown driven to kill.

For one hundred and one demented days,

keep the secret to break the spell

or forever be damned an Unholy Wolf.

Baptiste swears to hide deep in the woods,

survive through the days and nights all alone,

fight his own evil through the dreadful time,

tear only animal flesh, spare human kind.

Late, this same night, in Trois Riviéres
as the half-moon hangs straight up and down

young Marie Madeleine Duteau Dutaut,
slips out to the garden for tender May air.

The rose silk of her gown dances, rustles.

A light wind carries the song she trills

from her father’s house to the dangerous forest

where the new Loup-garou hears her and howls.

With uncanny speed he climbs a great cliff,

spies the glimmer of pearls sewn onto the bodice

of the mademoiselle’s first Parisian gown,

scents lavender soap come by ship from Provence.

During cruel months of spell-bound lust for blood,

Baptiste hides from the hunters he could easily kill,

fights the sickness each day, the Devil each night,

endures, finally triumphs to reclaim his soul.

His first day of freedom in red maple October,
he rides at full gallop to the farm of Dutaut,

speaks to the father of his love for the daughter,

and at Christmas they marry, trembling hand in hand.

Eight of their children survive past five.

The Turcot farm prospers on the Île d'Orléans.

But if he’s alone in the forest, Baptiste will growl,

and he dreams every night he’s the Wolf, Loup-garou.

A Story from When They Lived on Staten Island: Nonnie and the Garage Monster

Nonnie followed her brother Peter all the way to a house she'd never been to before. Not next door. Far away. Peter said she could come with him. Peter was bigger. All the kids were going. Nonnie walked very fast to keep up, but they got way ahead. Mommy stayed at home. Did Mommy know that Nonnie was going all this way?

All the little kids stopped in front of an old red house with a big porch. Nonnie's much bigger brother, Bobby, was there with his friends. Bobby was in the fourth grade. Peter and Nonnie didn't even go to school yet.

Bobby shouted,"Come on! It's around back of the house. In the garage. Come on!"

Peter turned around and looked for Nonnie. She smiled at him. He looked around at his friends, too. Peter looked worried. Bobby was laughing.

All the kids went with Bobby and the other big boys to the back of the house. There was a garage back there and the door was open. Nonnie's house didn't have a garage. She couldn't see what was in there but she knew it was bad because Peter and his friends yelled and took off running fast.

They were gone! But Bobby was still there. Nonnie looked.

In the big dark of the garage there was a monster in the way back. A monster with only a red and green and yellow head. Just the head and black all around it.  Nonnie screamed and ran to Bobby. He picked her up right away and carried her to the safe front of the monster's house. Then he carried Nonnie all the way home. She cried and cried.

Mommy was mad. Peter had told all about everything.

Bobby got yelled at a lot.  Nonnie didn't want Mommy to stand there yelling at Bobby. She wanted her to hurry up and kill the monster up the street.

"It was only a mask, Mom." Bobby said. "Tommy said his Dad said it came from Africa and was important but his Mom said she didn't want it in the house because it looked too mean so Tommy said his Dad put it up in the garage and we put Billy's flashlight under it and the little kids got scared but it was a joke."

Mommy gave Bobby another piece of her mind, then Bobby got sent to his room. Peter and Nonnie got to make cookies with Mommy. Bobby didn't get any till Mommy cooled off.

I'm not a witch...either.

But I wrote a poem about one.

THE WITCH’S GRACE

In her painted cave I lay
on panther pelts, my cold
blood warmed by fire,
my mind revived
by the brush strokes
on her stone walls.

Wearing a shawl
patterned all with green,
crimson, and saffron moons,
silver figures carousing down
her gown’s black depth,
she whispered ancient words
and fed me Witch’s Stew.

The storm sped boulders flung
by the Tyrant of Blight Mountain
against her rocky door.
The monster raged at me,
an arrogant fool who,
with near deadly misperception
of my strength, my wit, had scaled
the high granite steps that slowly
led to his gates of sculpted bone.
Thinking I’d the stuff of heroes,
I’d stalked him there alone.

This Highland Witch schooled the Brute
with black steely grace, and rescued
my full-shamed, half-dead self.
Healing here in her cave, I’ll try to learn
heroic Magic, earn honorable love,
and value her onyx, endless courage.