The bright moonlight illuminated Old Roy’s body as it lay splattered across the two-lane country highway. The car had not even slowed. It struck him without consequence and left him lying on the pavement. A pickup truck, following closely, hit him again—skin, bone, and hair pasted to the road. Only his scaly tail remained recognizable. Neither vehicle took notice of the prominent, unambiguous signpost: “Opossum Crossing.”

I slipped under the barbed wire fence, waddled across the field, and into the wood with a heavy heart, dreading the prospect of breaking the news to Henrietta and her joeys. Not a week went by without the community being hard hit by a fatality or two. Mostly, the very young or very old fell victim to the speeding machines, their blinding headlights making escape nearly impossible.

Henrietta lived in a burrow beneath a decaying tobacco barn, unused by humans for many years. The forest had grown up around it, rendering it practically invisible. I squeezed through the entrance and found her in the first chamber with seven joeys clinging to her back. She took the news hard, wailing loudly.

She would heal. All of us had learned to live with the specter of sudden loss. I promised to speak to Atticus about the situation. Most of the community blandly accepted his weak leadership, but many of the youngsters had begun to chafe at his lack of decisiveness.  He wasn’t likely to take any action. However, I did convince him to call an emergency meeting of the clans.

***

“My fellow marsupials,” Atticus intoned, “I am outraged at the wanton recklessness regularly displayed by motor vehicles passing through our domain.” Murmurings of agreement rippled through the passel. “So, I am restricting access to the highway.” The assembly groaned at Atticus’s submissive, but not unexpected, pronouncement.  A collective sense of resignation settled over the gathering.

Next to me, Jasper let out a big sigh. I turned my head away. His breath always stank, and that’s saying something for an opossum. He would eat anything. Omnivore didn’t even begin to describe his diet.

“I object,” squeaked young Tater from his place in the rear of the pack. The passel opened a path for him. He moved quickly, relatively speaking, to the forefront. “Atticus, sir, it’s time to take some action in regard to these infernal machines.”

“What do you propose?” Atticus asked. “We are not aggressive animals. After all, our chief defense mechanism is playing dead.”

Tater answered with youthful passion, “I want to live, not die on the highway.”

“Of course, as we all do. So, stay on this side, and you’ll live to a ripe old age.” Behind me, voices grumbled softly. I didn’t catch words.

“Atticus, sir,” pleaded Tater. “Let me and my friends put a stop to the deaths.”

“How, young joey?”

“I’m not a joey.” Tater reared up on his haunches and spat back, “I’m full grown. I’m entitled to speak here.”

“I suppose so, but if you want to be heard, you have to make more sense. You’ve had your say. This meeting is adjourned.”

“Wait,” cried Tater, but the assembly had already begun to disband.

The elders shook their heads at the youngster’s impertinence. Tater’s peers bristled with resentment of the old guard. The seeds of rebellion had been planted. I hoped, like Atticus, that conflict could be avoided, though the way forward remained unclear.

I moved away from Jasper, thankful to escape the stench of his breath. Henrietta trod slowly toward home with her joeys clinging to her back. I cast a glance at Tater, already deep in conference with his friends. Their plotting made an ominous coda to the meeting.

***

A couple of nights later, I lumbered across the field and took a seat on an old stump by the highway. Occasionally a car breezed by. Old Roy’s body had vanished, consumed by ravenous buzzards. A greasy smear marked the site of his demise. I hated those damn, scavenging birds, though I knew that fate awaited us all. That is, unless the coyotes got us.

I wondered why humans loved their machines and speed. Slow and steady seemed much better. And why were they so enamored with pavement? They spread it everywhere. Its blight crisscrossed the countryside like a spider web in the moonlight. Their civilization produced only one good thing—trash cans. In those receptacles, they discarded delicious treasures, but when they caught one of us recycling those riches, out came the shotguns.

“Doc,” a voice whispered from behind me. I turned and found Tater sidling toward me. The young opossum’s eyes glowed in the moonlit night. “My friends and I want to challenge Atticus at the next meeting of the clans.”

I slid off the stump and looked him in the eye. “How so?”

“You see, Atticus and the other elders are … well, too elderly. They don’t take us seriously. We need help from … uh, someone who can share our concerns.”

“You need an old opossum, right?”

“Yes … I guess so.”

“Like me?” Tater nodded, and I continued. “You’ll need more than me, but you have a point. Have you asked Beauregard? Everyone respects him.”

“But he always sleeps through the meetings. He’s probably unaware of the problem.”

“He’s not always asleep when his eyes are closed.”

“But Doc, we’ve chosen you to be our spokesperson. The passel will listen to you. We don’t need Beauregard.”

“Okay, I’ll try, but I don’t know if I can make a difference.”

Despite Tater’s misgivings about Beauregard, I decided to pay him a call. He was the oldest of our clan, and wisdom does come with age, contrary to what the young think. The morning sun had begun to slant its rays through the foliage when I found him sleeping in his hollow log by the lake.

“Wake up, Beauregard.” I gave him a shove. He snorted and rolled over without waking. I raised my voice. “Wake up now.”  He grunted and slowly opened his eyes. It took a few moments for him to focus. Finally, he managed a gruff response. “Why are you waking me up at this time of day?”

“Sorry to disturb your sleep, but with due respect, there is an issue we need to discuss.”

“Better be important, Doc.”

“It concerns the danger of the highway.”

Beauregard sighed with impatience. “That’s not a new concern.” He stretched and began to curl up.

“Wait, sir,” I implored. “Young Tater and some of the others are plotting to take action.”

Beauregard lifted his head and snorted again. “He’ll grow out of it.”

“I don’t think so, sir. He’s awfully determined.”

“Most youngsters are, but Tater’s a bright one. He’ll come around.” With that, Beauregard coiled his body again and drifted back to sleep.

I shambled away. Perhaps Beauregard was right. With our short life span, maybe it didn’t make much difference whether a car got us this season, a predator the next, or old age the summer after that. Of course, Tater and his friends expected to live forever. They would learn. You can’t cheat destiny.

Several nights later, I found myself by the highway again. Since Atticus banned access to the road, its draw pulled stronger than ever. Was it the lure of the forbidden, or simply the sweet grapes growing on the other side, or the delicious crayfish in the creek just beyond? As I lingered, fighting temptation, the glimmer of two eyes across the roadway caught my attention. Tater sat there, a bunch of grapes between his paws. I called to him. He acknowledged my greeting and started across.

Down the road, a pair of headlights cut through the night. I motioned for him to hurry, but he paused to retrieve a dropped grape. The car accelerated, oblivious to the young opossum. Tater glanced up. The lights neared, and he began to scurry, but it was too late. The sickening thud of impact stunned me. I stood there, dazed, as a lone grape rolled toward me, coming to rest on the shoulder of the road.  The car zoomed by and disappeared around a bend.

Tater’s broken body lay mangled on the asphalt. Deep sadness welled up within me. With nothing to be done, I made my way toward home. Atticus’s caution had been justified. It was not our place to compete with the humans. But as I shuffled along, a change came over me. My despair morphed into emptiness, and then slowly anger began to fill the void.

I encountered Henrietta at the edge of the woods. She shook her head with grief at the news and then returned her attention to the joeys scrambling around her feet. Tater’s parents had fallen victim to coyotes several months ago. I sought out his younger sibling, Lillian, who first hung her head and squeaked with anguish, but then lifted her gaze and hissed out a bitter condemnation of Atticus. I had to confront him, but I needed an ally—time to prod Beauregard again.

I found him by the pond. The elderly opossum munched slowly on a field mouse, smacking loudly enough to nearly drown out the nightly chorus of crickets and katydids. He grunted an acknowledgment without looking up.

“Beauregard, sir,” I began. He continued eating, a tiny mouse leg dangling from the corner of his mouth. I raised my voice. “Sir, please.” He brushed back his whiskers and finally gave me his attention. “Sir, Tater’s been killed.” The old creature seemed stunned. “A car … on the highway.”

“That’s bad. That’s real bad,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “He was so … so bright.” He dropped the remainder of his rodent and lapsed into thoughtful reflection, or perhaps confusion. I couldn’t tell.

“Sir, can’t we do something?”

“I … I don’t know,” he muttered. “Tater? He’s gone, you say?”

Did he understand? I wasn’t sure. “That’s right, sir. He’s gone. What can we do?”

“Can’t bring him back, Doc.”

“Yes, I know, but can we keep it from happening to other young opossums?”

“Don’t see how,” he said, in a slow voice, full of sorrow. “Must keep off the highway.”

“But every season the highways take more of our domain. Soon the whole passel will be confined to living under that barn with Henrietta. We have to do something.”

“Something …” His voice faded. “Yes … something. Let me think.”

Beauregard lapsed into silence. Discouraged, I turned away, realizing the task was mine and mine alone.

That evening, my mind drifted, lamenting the loss of Tater and Old Roy and thinking of the sorrow I felt for Henrietta, Lillian, and the others who had lost loved ones. I vowed to speak up at the next gathering of the passel, but a proper plan eluded me.

***

On the night of the next full moon, the clans gathered for council. Atticus huffed and puffed his way through a few announcements. As usual, I found myself beside Jasper, his rancid breath filling the air around me. When Atticus asked for new business, I spoke up.

“I’ve been thinking about Old Roy, Tater, and the others who have died.” A rustling shuddered around the circle. “We cannot let the deaths continue. The time has come for action. Atticus, sir, I respectfully request a strategy.”

“Our strategy is to avoid the highway,” stated Atticus in a measured tone. “It’s a simple and complete solution.”

“The temptation is too great. Tater died for a taste of sweet grapes.”

“The young are tempted. The adults have learned.”

“Not so, Atticus,” I responded with vigor.  Surprise buzzed through the passel. “Old Roy was no youngster.”

Atticus hissed under his breath. “So, Doc, what’s your grand plan? How are we to stop the raging machines from claiming our young?”

“Not only our young,” I replied. “Old Roy …”

“Yes, yes. Old Roy … but where are the grownups to lead this adventure? And what is your plan?”

Without a viable option in mind, I turned hopefully toward Beauregard. The entire assembly followed my gaze. The ancient creature slowly opened his eyes, gathered himself as if for an epic journey, and came forward with great effort. He stood silently for a few moments and then spoke.

“I don’t sleep as much as many of you have supposed. Being old of body doesn’t mean being old of mind.” He looked around the circle. “Doc and the youngsters are right. I have devised a plan. Come closer and listen.”

***

Two nights later, Lillian and I, along with a dozen or so of Tater’s friends, made the trek across the field and slid under the barbed wire to the edge of the highway. The entire passel followed, settling down in the field to watch. Lillian looked both ways before crossing the road. No sooner than she had reached the opposite shoulder, a car zipped by with reckless abandon. When I saw her safely across, I breathed a sigh of relief. The youngsters and I took up a spot a little further down the road.

Lillian went to work, digging furiously at the base of the “Opossum Crossing” sign. When it began to teeter, she gave the signal. The youngsters and I got behind a large, rounded stone, twice our height and many times our weight. We rolled it with great effort to the edge of the roadway and settled down, fighting back our anticipation. We didn’t have to wait long.

The headlights of a car swung into view far down the road. As it approached, Lillian leaned against the signpost. It began to tilt. Then at the last moment, she pushed, and it fell across the highway.

The car swerved, and at that instant, the youngsters and I gave the stone a mighty shove. It caught on a pebble. For a heartbeat, I thought our plan had failed. Then Jasper appeared beside me and leaned into the stone with all his strength. In the nick of time, it came free and rolled out onto the pavement. The car struck it, spun out of control, and plowed into the ditch. The driver stumbled from the vehicle and staggered into the barbed wire.

A few of the youngsters reached him before he freed himself. One of the joeys sank his teeth deep into the man’s calf. Howling with the pain he shook loose, the barbed wire ripping his skin. He raced down the road screaming.

The man would live, but we had taken down the car. That was the first, but it wouldn’t be the last. Behind me in the field, a great cry of triumph went up. The rebellion was on!

– Ken Wetherington

Note: This piece was originally published by Perspectives Magazine in June of 2018.