Chuck-a-Bucka

Let us have a journey back to the age of 4-5 years, when an afternoon nap was part of my duty.

The time when a self-proclaimed nightmare which had left a rather deep impression, kept on following me in my childish dreams with a fairly constant frequency. In its own perception, it was very realistic, albeit in black and white.

It usually started like this: I open my eyes, get out of the nursery looking at my own hands while the first-person view changes to the third. While heading towards my grandmother's bedroom I hear the rattling sounds and indistinguishable whispers coming out from there. I step over the threshold of a room smelling of bee venom (Propolis), where there is a sink in the middle with water warbling in it. The light is dimly reflected in dead tiles and it seems as if hundreds of eyes are watching me right now.

Then, the door behind slams shut with a resonating bang and immediately clumps of darkness lurking in corners like swarming worms, pulsating and multiplying, crawl right into the center of the room, forming the mouth of a huge black funnel.

I turn around with an intention to run, run as fast as I can, away from this place, but I can't! Every movement takes a great effort, the body refuses to obey, while the old green rug on which I’m standing, slowly and inexorably pulls me into the abyss of the resulting darkness, imbibing all what’s left of my screams and cries.

From a black funnel in the middle of the room, the silhouette of a bipedal upright creature fluidly materializes itself in front of me. Intertwined with edgy twists it slowly approaches itself in my direction, hissing: Chakha-Bakha!

Chuck-a-Bucka! And even behind my back I can feel his razor-sharp, blunt stare.

Abruptly, the expanding volumes of void inflate into the eternity of darkness. I fall to the ground to crawl away, like in slow motion. I feel as if someone, or something with more like stabbing blows, first grabs me by the legs, the body, shoulders and arms. Each such thrusting "touch" throws a fever leaving notch …

It always woke me up in cold sweat in the dead of the night.

What happened next? Nothing special, just every month the dream repeated itself exactly to the last breath. Parents were not particularly intrigued by my stories. You know, children say a lot of things for the most part no one listens to. Usually, my moans were followed by compassionate replies, as such: “Yeah, sweety, okay, everything will be fine, honey, it's just a dream, it's not real.”

Well, guess what? It didn't seem so unreal to me then... being all alone in the apartment, somewhere from the depths of beyond I kept on hearing a rattling mumbling whisper and the fear of being paralyzed, just like in that ill-fated dream kept me bound to this reality. So, I sang, or talked to myself as to avoid the repetition of those sensations in every way possible. After six, or eight such cycles, I spilled everything to my grandmother.

Baba Mania is gracious and godlike. I remember her in a gaudy calico dress with chaotic drop-shaped patterns, resembling Paramecium caudatum. Her silver-gray hair stuffed with hairpins forms curls on her head covered with a blue synthetic babushka with red ornaments. On her pale face rest brown horn-rimmed glasses and a large mole on her left cheek looks like a blueberry. She holds a carved polished cane. Her legs hurt a lot and sometimes her memory disappears. Shuffling pace can be heard either in the kitchen, on the balcony, or in the corridor. She speaks Ukrainian vernacular, helps around the house and looks after me. One day, waking up late at night, when my parents and sister were asleep, for some reason I went to Grandma's bedroom.

It was a bright, moonlit, calm night. Outside the window, disturbed by a slight breeze, the trees rustled with foliage. The light of the yellow, full moon in the sky fell on the sofa on which my grandmother was sitting. To my surprise, she wasn't sleeping either.

- You no sleep… why? - she asked.
- I can't. – I replied and sat down on the floor, leaning against the wall.
- Me too. - she sighed and smiled at me.
 
We sat in the dark and I told her about my fears. I told her everything as convincing as the speech of a 4-5-year-old kid could allow to. A wise old woman listened carefully, looking straight in my eyes and said without a shade of irony: "You need to look your fear in the eye, do not run away from the inevitable forever...»
 
I spent the whole next day thinking about that. Deep in my heart I was very frightened, but I trusted grandma more than my own fears.
 
After returning home from kindergarten, I even counted a distance from my crib to the entrance of the room – then there were eleven steps.

On the same night, as expected, everything happened by itself. Once again, I open my eyes, get out of the nursery. I look at my hands. Damn black and white movie! Again I walk out of the living room into the narrow hallway, past the linen closet. The floorboard creaked -5 steps. Past an old closet with a mirror -7. Same as many times before, a slightly bitter smell of propolis is felt in the air, to the bedroom where distant whispers and squawking can be heard behind the closed door. All what’s left is to turn left and cross the threshold of the point of no return.

Wait!!! Urgently to the kitchen!!! There is a huge knife in the table, the white plastic rectangular handle fits right in the palm of my hand. The narrow long blade glitters coldly in the light. I hide Caliburn behind my back, heading towards grandmother's room to open the door, where I can already see the sink with the darkness gathering around it. Ten steps. The walls of the room dimly shine with dirty tiles and the whisper of water is barely audible. Eleven. I hear the door slam behind me. The atmosphere heats up while the room begins to vibrate. The picture is shaking and blinking, and the green rug is creeping treacherously into the gaping black hole. Strong gusts of hot wind in my face. Before my eyes, the room expands to an incredible size and I feel a tear run down my cheek.

Behold! From the mouth of a funnel in the middle of an endless desert in black and brown tones, materializes a hybrid of a hound and a lizard with tufts of red rolled hair sticking out from under the dilapidated scraps of an old suede jumpsuit, very similar to the one Tim and Pifka were once wearing. The big toys, without which I could not once fall asleep. Above its shoulders -elongated, snapping jaws of a toy crocodile, dotted with sharp fangs. The doll's pale eyes are in the sockets. One of them has rolled up and trembling. In the flickering light, I see the creature circles the space around itself with a meaningless gaze and turns in my direction. It opens its arms wide and makes a beckoning gesture. Chuck-a-Bucka!!!

Do you know what it means to be in the crosshair of fate? The time loop tightens into a knot. I accelerate with all my strength and stab it in a jump. The blade dives into the chest of the monster, ripping and tearing out pieces of sintepon. The creature wheezes and falls backwards. With sharp moves I grab it first by the legs, the body, shoulders and arms and beat him again and again with my sword. After each attack, I give my fears no slack…



When I came to my senses, the first thing I realized that was that I was lying in the middle of the room with its usual entourage in black and white. The door is open and there is no sink and tiles.

Is that really all? Did I win? I was leaving the room admiring the simple pattern of the carpet, and passing by the mirror I occasionally glanced at my own reflection in it. A hybrid of a huge canine-reptile was staring at me intently. Tufts of ginger, rolled-up hair peeked out from under patches of an old, suede jumpsuit. Elongated, clacking jaws wheezing and squawking. Faded doll eyeballs in the sockets, one of them has rolled and trembling. Chuck-a-Bucka... I am the Chuck-a-Bucka!!!

It was the last time we saw each other in person, but I know and feel that you are still here, my old gloomy friend. We have matured and become more cunning, and perhaps, we have fully paid our own tribute to each other. By dedicating my song and a story to you, I introduce you to your new audience in whose minds and hearts you will grow and spred your roots.

Rule and divide, Chuck-a-Bucka!!!