Читать книгу Energy Warriors - Bob Ellal - Страница 13

CHAPTER 3

THE MARK OF CAIN

…The monster who lived in darkness suffered when he heard the music ringing, day after day, from the great Hall of Men. They were happy! They were chosen by God to walk freely in the light—he was condemned to roam the marshes and moors by night in rage and pain… Why? The monster was born of monsters, whose ancestors, the descendants of Cain, were damned by God for an ancient crime. It didn’t make much sense, even to the monster….

You squat on a damp log by the water’s edge, splintering a bone with your canines, staring at the untroubled face of the lake. Suddenly the moon emerges from the dark racing clouds to reveal the huge caricature of a human face: elongated jaw, heavy brow ridge, immense nostrils with virtually no nasal bridge, and fur, not hair, covering all but the tiny eyes. Instantly the splintered femur, oozing marrow, leaps from your talons to shatter the face of the water and annihilate the reflection of the intruder moon.

Monster, I understand your rage every time I lapse mentally and look in the mirror. Why is my face a bloated caricature of not only itself, but of a human face? Why me? Was this disease programmed into my genetic code from the instant of conception? Am I genetically damned? Why do they look at me, then look away—it’s not my fault!

I venture into the Big Y supermarket, inadequately disguised with a baseball cap. Shoppers meander by me, pushing their carts as I push mine. They look at me, puzzled, then a dawn of recognition breaks upon their faces. Quickly they look away, scrutinizing the labels of cans of peas or jars of pickled beets on the shelves.

Staring straight ahead I push my cart. Most of them cannot resist a furtive, sidelong glance as I pass. The really frightened ones refuse to look at all.

The odd thing is, almost everyone has had their lives touched by cancer: a father, mother, son, daughter, brother, sister, friend who has fought the disease. You would think compassion would reign, but instead, fear rules. You would think your phone would be ringing off the hook with people offering their support. It doesn’t.

If it happened to him, it could happen to me. Who can stand the thought of death insinuating itself into the mundane routine of daily existence? Who wants to admit that we are all a single drifting piece of arterial plaque away from dropping the jar of pickled beets and collapsing to the tile floor?

Who can stomach the idea that the smashing of the glass would be the last sound we hear? The stench of the vinegar the last smell we detect? The last bitter sight the image of a bloated hairless figure, stained with the mark of Cain, pushing a shopping cart, as the greasy plug of cholesterol clogs a coronary artery and our heart withers and dies, starved of oxygen, in a grocery store of all places? Never mind bloody cancer.

Monster, I understand your predicament. It’s their fear that keeps you ranging the blasted moors and ravaged valleys at night, away from the sight of them.

RALLYING THE TROOPS

“Listen, guys… I want you to know I’m going to be pretty sick.” My sons sat on the edge of the bed and looked away as I spoke. I bit the inside of my lip to help maintain my composure. I didn’t want to cry and upset them.