Swedenborg - Chapter 2

                           Chapter 2

     It was always the same.

     Every time Frank McMann made the trip from Bluff Hills to Carthage, he

thought of his Uncle Bob - even though the old man had died 20 years before.

     ``You know what they did to children in old Carthage,'' Uncle Bob would begin, sitting legless in the easy chair that served as his throne much of the day.

     ``They'd kill 'em and burn 'em for their god,'' the old man would say

in an ominous tone.

     ``The Romans destroyed old Carthage, but we've got a new one,” he'd

continue. ``They almost got me up there,'' he'd invariably add, patting the

empty places where his legs should have been, ``but I got away.”

     Even as a child, Frank knew it was really something called diabetes that took the legs. But his uncle's talk had still frightened him.

     ``Maybe they'll get you,'' Uncle Bob would conclude, smiling the same way he did when he told jokes that made Frank's father laugh and Frank's mother reprimand, ``Hush, the boy is here.”

     As a child, all Frank remembered of shopping trips to Carthage was an

undercurrent of terror.

     Even as an adult, Frank still felt unease every time he crested the hill at the south end of Carthage Valley.

     The feeling was still there that June morning as Frank's car nosed down the highway heading down into the valley - and the swamp.

     The south end of the valley was dominated by the swamp. The remnants of a still-born lake, it was a wild, eirie place, filled with black pools of rank water.

     The kind of place that produced legends of children and hunters who dared its depths, never to be seen again.

     The kind of place even the fierce Seneca Indians who had controlled this section of Western New York spoke of with respect. But the word they often mentioned in conjunction with it was Hanîsse:'ono – The Devil.

     As the City of Carthage encroached upon the swamp, the fetid marsh seemed to compress like a spring just waiting to erupt.

    Frank drove cautiously on the stretch of highway passing through the middle of the swamp. He knew from experience that one could never tell when some animal would break from the brush and run across the road, almost as if playing chicken.

    That morning, though, no animal dared its luck with Frank's car. Soon, he was out of the swamp. And almost as suddenly, he was surrounded by the suburbs of Carthage. Then the city itself.

    As he drove into Carthage, Frank noticed the street lights were on even though it was 10 a.m. The overcast skies cast a pall of night-like darkness over the city.

     He came to a stop at an intersection. Ahead, a man staggered out into the road, approaching the stopped cars. Pan handling, Frank thought. He checked his door to make sure it was locked.

     The man stopped at the car directly in front of Frank's. Frank studied the light. When is it going to change, he thought. He tried to imagine it would change color by his sheer willpower.

    Suddenly, his car shook as the man stumbled against it. The man wore a stained gray oversized overcoat hung about him like a robe. His wild hair circled his head like a dirty gray halo and his long, unkempt beard covered his throat. In a flash of memory, Frank recalled the picture of John the Baptist from his children's Bible.

    The man leaned against Frank's window. Change light, Frank commanded.

    Their eyes met. Frank felt a burning pain in his chest. And suddenly, he somehow knew the man was not going to beg. The man placed his hand on the window.

   “We're all going to die,” the man rasped.

   At that moment, the light changed. The cars ahead of him roared off, but Frank couldn't move with the man leaning against the car. The drivers behind began blaring their horns.

    The man narrowed his eyes, blinked as if coming out of a trance. A look of pain flashed across his face.

    ``The dead are always with us,'' he said hoarsely. Frank realized that for a moment the man wasn't ranting.

    It was as if he was warning.

    Him.

    But just a suddenly as it had disappeared, the wildness returned to the man's eyes.

    ``We're all going to die,'' the man screamed.

    He tottered back, away from the car, and howled, “Die!”

    Frank gunned the engine. His tires screeched as he pulled away.

    He glanced in his rear view mirror. The man stood in the street, staring in Frank's direction. Mouthing words. Soon Frank could no longer see the man.  But a smudge remained on the window where his hand had touched. Frank kept turning to look at it. Finally, he pulled into a gas station.

    As he sat in his car, Frank realized his heart was racing. He saw the man's eyes again. Although he'd never seen insanity before, he felt sure that he had seen it in those eyes.

   Except in that flash of pain.

   Frank took a deep breath. He got out of the car and grabbed some paper towels at the full service island.

    He rubbed the sticky smudge on his window. Curious, he smelled the paper towel.

    Honey.

Pax et bonum