Chapter 4

The Serpent's Fruit

“Thou mayest rule over [sin]” -Genesis 4:7

(1)

Will O'Shea carried himself on a current of belief. He was, by all accounts, a master of faith. Not just in God but in all things. From the tiniest endeavor to the most daunting of challenges, he never wavered in his assertion that all would be well. For the most part, he was right. Perhaps it was luck, perhaps it was God, or perhaps it was simply his inspirational nature, but he was a natural success. He never questioned his success, nor anything for that matter. All that was was the way of the world. Unchangeable. Pure.

All who knew Will as a child never doubted his ability to rise to greatness in adulthood, though none could have guessed of what sort. He studied night and day. He was the first of his family to attend college. He volunteered at his local church. He cared for his family once he was assigned his first teaching job. He captured every girl's heart. He put a smile on everyone's face and everyone who met him could not remember life without.

He was 22 when the market plummeted. Standing in his dimly lit kitchen, his mother and father in bed, he quietly finished the dishes from the evening's meal. His parents were quickly aging and he found himself doing more and more of the household chores. Something he was glad to do. There was naught but love in Will's heart and his powerful faith in life would carry him onward atop a cloud of blissful hope.

He had no radio. He rarely read the paper. The news of the crash was out of reach. And yet, on the Friday after Richard Whitney had tried so boldly to put to rest the fears of investors, the day journalists across the country hammered away on the terrifying front page story of the demise of the stock market, the day life would be forever altered in America, something happened in Will O'Shea. Something changed.

His hands gently massaged away the particles and bits of food that had been spattered about the plates and bowls and forks and knives. Doing dishes, like many household chores, is an activity in which the mind may wander. It requires little focus and so, Will was prancing about inside his head. He thought of the lessons he would teach the children on Monday, the silliness of some of them (All were respectful of Mr. O'Shea. He was a handsome teacher and none could resist his charm.) He thought of Patricia Gafferty. She was beautiful. Long dark brown hair. Hazel eyes that penetrated his thoughts, only to make him smile. Precious little nose. Unusually pouty lips. She was another teacher at the school. He smiled at the thought of her. He could smile all night. He slowly made each dish sparkle. It was his way when it was late to indulge in mindless chores for perhaps this very purpose. That is, to think of these things. Especially Patricia. “Ms. Gafferty.” His smile widened. His eyes brightened.

He was drying the last dish when something snapped a hold of his heart. The pain shook the plate free from his hand as he buckled over the sink. It crashed to the floor and his face burned. He slumped over the counter as the wind was wrenched from his lungs. His legs began to quiver and at last, gave out under his own weight, letting it thud on the kitchen floor. He coughed and sputtered. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and closed and his heart stopped. He lost contact with this world. He was dead...

His blood trickled from his nose, his ears, his lips, his fingertips. All that he was inked the floor around him. His body lay silent and heavy. There was no more quivering. No more buckling. No more resistance. Only cold defeat. His skin was pale. It had lost its glow, its beauty. All that remained was a pile of meat and bone ensconced in a pool of blood.

And yet...he arose. His eyes reopened. His limbs twinged with energy not his own. His heart pumped blood that was not there. His lungs filled with air that was not of this world. He stood. He did not hesitate. No thought was needed. Only action. Only instinct.

He did not say goodbye. He did not leave a note. He did not finish the dishes or clean the mess on the floor. He did not smile nor did he frown. He merely turned and, without so much consideration as to even close it, walked calmly through the door and into the night. His family, his friends, his school, his Patricia Gafferty, his life, never heard from him again. He vanished forever. He was no longer Will O'Shea. He was no longer a teacher, nor a friend, son, or crush. He was someone else. He was something else.

(2)

On this same night, the cold glare of a babe entered the world. An ancient stare. The parents were wary, despite not knowing what it was they had created. The fruit of their loins was good. Yet, it was evil. It was all, yet nothing. Past, yet future. Tiny, yet vast. It did not cry. It did not scream. It simply appraised its existence and that of those around it. It knew it was naked. It knew of shame. It was locked in a prison of understanding.

The parents cared for it the way any would. They would play but it would only blankly stare back. They would scold and it would ignore. There were days when they would secretly pray for even a scowl but it never came. Only the placid expression of complete and unchanging wisdom. A yin and yang trapped in eternal opposition. Immovable. Flat and cold.

It was not that great things lay in his future. It was that the future lay in his great hands. And God help any who would dissent from his will.

(3)

Henry's Narrative

When I was thirteen, I knew a boy named Jimmy Norman. He had dark, lightly greased hair, that flopped roughly to one side of his head. His nose was big and his ears were bigger. He didn't smile much and he said even less. Lunch time, he was alone, tucked away and nibbling mouse-like at his mother prepared sandwiches. The other children were merciless with his looks. Chiding him and calling Jimmy “Noseman” (with respect to his large nose) were common pass times for them. Jimmy just took it.

I was never alongside the other children in their abuse. I never thought it was right. It wasn't how my mother raised me and I always felt a little different from them. Kinder.

One day after school, I was walking home. The sun was especially hot, scorching the gravel of the road and drying out the grass, turning it a sandy yellow. Summer was on its way and everyone was in high spirits. Almost everyone, that is. On my walk, I saw Jimmy's house.

His family was poor. They lived in squalor. Even the poor tidied their home in those days, but Jimmy's family was different. The house was decrepit. It used to be a blue house, but the bare wood showed through the paint flakes that slowly peeled away. The gutter swung from a few nails and if someone tapped it right, it would fall off into a dry mud near the porch. There were holes in the floor boards of the stoop and the steps didn't look like they could hold much weight either.

I didn't like looking at Jimmy's house and I always felt bad for him. I don't know what compelled me to walk up to his house then. Maybe I was just curious, but I think I wanted to help Jimmy somehow.

When I reached the steps, I heard a loud crash. I heard the back door tear open and a barrage of hollering. I sneaked up to the back corner and peered around. I saw Jimmy's mother on the ground with her feet tucked beneath her butt. There was a little blood on her nostrils and tears in her eyes. Jimmy's father stood over her with his fists ready to swing. He popped her in the top of her head and she squealed as she fell over.

“How many times, I gotta tell you, woman?! It don't make no sense!”

I didn't stay long enough to hear what the one-sided argument was about. I ran all the way to the sheriff's office and told them what I saw. They rode out to Jimmy's and had a talk with his father. I don't know what they said but apparently they said it hard, because I saw Jimmy's father with a few bruises and a busted lip on him a few days later in town and the sheriff never needed to make another trip out to there.

I went and talked to Jimmy a week later during lunch.

“Everything okay at your house, Jimmy?”

“Was it you that told on m' pa?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks, Henry. He's still got hot blood in him but he don't hurt my mom no more. Sheriff said he'd do worse than knock him around next time.”

We didn't look at each other. We just sat in silence.

“My nose ain't so big, is it,” he asked.

I laughed and turned to him. “Naw, it ain't so big.” I sat in silence for a little while more and finally said, “Feel like playin' marbles?”

“Ain't got any.”

“I'll let you use mine, just can't play for keeps.”

“Alright.”

We became good friends. When people made fun of him, I stood in his defense. His family life was safely secret with me and I felt it was my duty to protect him from anyone who would give him any more trouble than he already had. I didn't graduate high school, because I was meant to be a farmer, but Jimmy did. He moved out of his parent's house and out to California. He worked and saved and he made some business deals. He ended up going to college and became very successful. Every year I got a letter from him thanking me for doing right by him and a tiny bit of money, which I always sent back. It's a man's obligation to do what's right when he knows a thing is wrong. And I think both Jimmy and I were better for it.

And yet, I was reluctant and baffled when posed with confronting the boy about Billy's death. I will admit that there was fear in me, mixed in the slew of confusion and disgust for the story the sheriff had related. There was a large part of me that wished to simply disbelieve all of it and go on with my life. Yet there was a smaller part, and though small, was strong and persistent, that cried for action. I thought it best to bide my time. The sheriff informed me that he would give me a day to investigate. After that, he would get involved, something he said would be an ordeal for everyone.

After the sheriff left, I took my wife aside and told her all but what was said of the boy. With her confusion at the sheriff's visit put to rest, I set my thoughts to broaching the matter. I knew nothing good would come of it, but I had no choice.

I offered to put the boy to bed when dinner was finished and Laura-Lee started on the dishes. I followed him to his room. The flicker of the single lantern that lit his room violently tossed our shadows about the wall as the air was sucked out by my closing the door behind us. He stripped to his nightwear and climbed slowly into bed. He brought the covers up to his chest and turned to me. He stared silently and without expression.

I stared back. He seemed to know that I was struggling with an approach to the subject. He seemed to enjoy my internal squirming. I half expected him to broach the subject first but when he simply stared on, I began.

“What did you do when we went to town?”

He stared back, as though waiting for me to answer the question myself. I was instantly frustrated. I felt his silence hang over me in condescension. The fact that he was a boy grabbed hold of me and stood me up. I walked over to him and asked him again.

“What did you do when we went to town?”

He remained silent.

“What did you do when we went to town, boy?!”

No response.

“What have you done?! Answer the question!”

“No,” he said plainly. “You ask for this knowledge with another's purpose. I will wait until you ask not out of protection, but greed. You will and so I wait.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

He went silent again.

I stared into his eyes. There was war inside them. An ancient war, so evenly matched, that neither side may ever gain ground. Pomum seemed to hold each soldier, each battlement, each weapon, all the good and all the evil of it, inside of himself. He seemed to hold me somewhere in his war, though he was undecided where I fit, like a seemingly inconsequential pawn whose color will decide the victor of his internal game of chess.

It was rare that there was violence in me. But for the sake of Laura-Lee and for the sake of putting to rest the fears that were surely working their way through the town as Harry the butcher spread the news of the mysterious circumstances surrounding Billy's tragedy, I had to take action. The voice that cried for action grew louder and more persistent. My blood started pumping harder. I started to shake with anger and I could feel my hands clenching up.

“I don't wanna hurt ya, Pom. But dammit, I need an answer and I need it now.”

He didn't acknowledge, merely continued to stare into my eyes.

I awkwardly lifted my hand above my head and brought it down toward his face in the form of a slap. Yet, something stopped me. Some force stopped my hand an inch away from his head. I could feel this same force envelop my body and lift me from the ground. It shot me crashing into the wall and when I hit the floor, my arm knocked over the lantern. There was a gust of wind and the light was gone.

“Even you, like all of your kind, will beg for sin, ape-beast! You are no different! You shall see hell!”

Laura-Lee burst in, letting the light from the living room peak in and onto my beat-up face.

“What's the commotion,” she asked worriedly. She saw that I was sprawled out on the floor and she ran to me. “What's happened?”

“The boy,” I muttered incoherently.

“Where is he,” she asked.

“He's in the...,” I stopped myself. As my eyes raised to where the boy had been laying, I saw only messed bedding.

“Sonofabitch!” I stood and shook off the fall. I didn't have time to think about what had happened. I ran out of the room and out on to my porch. I scanned the field. It was vast and empty. Not even the crickets chirped. Only a soft wind stirred the grass and I knew he was gone. Somehow, he was gone and with him, my life as I knew it and that of my wife and soon, the whole town.