Autumnal Tales, page 26
*
Matthew felt the comforting click of the latch as he closed the parlor doors and peered nervously through the gauzy curtains back toward the garden gate. Try as he might, he could not keep his imagination in check, seeing in his mind’s eye what must be happening across the Neck in Salem. Lifting his gaze to the starless sky, he managed to force aside his disturbing thoughts and turn back to face those in the room.
“Well, how was it out there?” asked Isaac.
“Bad, worse than I ever thought it would be,” said Matthew. “I guess in the back of my mind, I thought either Worthy was wrong and nothing would come of his mumbo jumbo or if it did, no one would be hurt...”
“Matt, those screams, the fires...”
“It’s okay Carl, believe it or not, I think Worthy was right when he said we’d be safe in here.”
“You’re saying that it’s all true, that all the evil in the world is loose right outside our doorstep?” demanded Isaac.
“I don’t know!” Matthew shouted, suddenly impatient. “I’ve never been an especially religious man...heck, maybe if I was, I’d be able to handle this better. All I know is there are horrible things going on out there. And they’re happening to everyone, the good and the bad alike and that maybe we better see about stopping things now before they get out of hand.”
“Go upstairs and see Dad?”
“Yeah; yeah, I guess so. I can’t help feeling that maybe having sin and evil or whatever in the world is the way it’s supposed to be. That we have to have some bad so we can know what good is. Maybe we even need the evil side of our personalities to stay sane, who knows? All I know is, this isn’t the way it ought to be, or at least not the way things ought to be fixed. If it needs to be fixed, it’s God’s work, not Worthy’s.” Matthew turned to Carla, pleading in his voice. “Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”
“Yes.” Carla had known it. She had always known it. That her father had spent all too many years carrying the guilt of the family’s ancestry, cherishing it in his soul and bending his mind toward its expiation. What he was trying to do was wrong; it was not up to a person’s descendants to make up for deeds done by long dead ancestors. They alone could be guilty of what they had done and history would be their judge. “We need to stop him.”
With that, they left the parlor and began climbing the stairs to the distant attic, each burdened with their own thoughts. Now that a decision had been reached, their minds seemed to grow lighter and the oppressive atmosphere that had seemed to hover all about them lifted. At length, reaching the final landing above the third floor of the house, they found themselves facing a small door on the opposite side of which was the west wing attic area.
Matthew opened the door and steered Carla into a darkened recess situated behind the great chimney that rose up through the center of the house. With the closing of the door, the passage behind the chimney was thrown into a semi-gloom. As their eyes grew accustomed to the dark, they were able to make out a dim light from beyond the turn in the passage.
Moving into the main part of the garret area, Carla heard her father’s voice lifted in prayer. She knew without looking that he knelt at the prie-dieu that stood in the far corner of the attic. The familiar litany struck nostalgic chords in Carla’s soul as she recognized the words she herself had been taught by her mother so long ago. Hearing them now coming from her father, endeared him to her and she longed to hold him and kiss his cheeks like she used to when she was a child; but she was not a child any more and Matthew had begun to speak.
“Worthy, have you looked out the window?”
Worthy looked up from his tightly clasped hands and the aura of familiarity Carla had sensed vanished as her father’s face grew dark and his brow creased in displeasure.
“What are you doing up here? I told you that I cannot be disturbed while the process is in flux,” said Worthy, his head nodding toward a table stationed in the center of the room.
Carla could see that atop the table rested a leather pouch with its cover flap open. At once, she knew it to be Pandora’s Box, but the only thing that made it fit the description of a box, was the hardened corners of the container which alone gave it a sense of shape. Otherwise, it resembled nothing more than a floppy hand bag.
At first it seemed to merely sit on the table quite undisturbed and undisturbing. Where she had expected violent winds, loud noises, wailings, objects flying through the air, Carla saw only calm and quiet. Where she expected fire and brimstone, there was only her father silently praying. But as she looked more carefully, she saw that something was happening. She took a tentative step or two closer to the box, bending slightly at the waist, cocking her head now this way, now that way. There seemed to be a slight shimmering sensation over the mouth of the box, like the shimmer of the air over a hot radiator, or like the mirage that forms over hot tarmac on summer days. Then, as her eyes found the anomaly, they were able to follow its dim trail across the room to the round window in the eastern gable as it stood open to the outside.
The apparition had stopped Matthew for a moment as his eyes too followed the eerie trail and in that time the two became conscious of a vague, oppressive atmosphere in the enclosed garret. Was it only the heat and resulting stuffiness of the attic room, or something less definable, something more elusive and subtle?
“So now you’ve seen the box,” Worthy said. “Do you still want me to waste time looking from my window when clearly prayer is now tantamount?”
It took Matthew some moments to drag his attention from the uncanny display about the box, but when he finally succeeded, he only repeated what he had said earlier. “Have you looked out the window in the last few minutes?” Even as he said it, he knew that the question had lost much of its urgency. With the display over the box now plain before him, much of the conviction that had compelled him to confront his father-in-law had ebbed.
In reply, Worthy rose from his knees and said, “I knew there would be some minor affectations of suffering in the vicinity of the house, that’s why I had you all stay indoors for the past few weeks. Nevertheless, I had expected that the actual time of the re-gathering would be compressed making for little or no real suffering.”
“The key word here is ‘relative;’ how much needless suffering by innocent people are you willing to allow in order to succeed?”
So saying, Matthew crossed the room, passed beneath the flux of trailing evil as it wound toward the open box and burst out onto the small widow’s walk set against the sloping roof of the house. As the others followed him, he took hold of a small telescope that had been mounted on the railing and pointed it across the Neck Looking into it, he adjusted the focus and invited Worthy to have a look.
As her father stooped to peer through the glass, Matthew directed Carla’s gaze toward the opposite coastline of Marblehead Neck.
Carla gasped when she saw the horizon, made visible now in the unnatural dark by a reddish glow which seemed to pulse in the still air and that silhouetted the treetops forming the jagged spine of the coastline.
“Salem is burning,” Worthy observed.
Suddenly, before another word could be spoken, there was a loud noise, like a colossal snap and for an instant, a great, invisible burden seemed to have been lifted from them. All anxiety passed. All mistakes were forgotten. All wrongs were made right. For that fraction of an instant, the world became bright and new, as it must have seemed in Eden. And then with instinctive regret by all who felt it, the indescribable feeling passed.
It was Carla who spoke first; “What happened? Dad, what was all that?”
Worthy did not make an immediate reply, instead, he stepped back into the garret room. There, the box still stood, but now the shimmering trail was gone.
“The spell has been completed,” said Worthy unnecessarily. “The last evil has been sucked into the box. And if tradition is to be believed, the last evil to be confined was the first evil to be loosed: the sin of Pride.” As he spoke, his busied himself by securing the leather flap of the box.
“Is that it? The world is a paradise now?” asked Matthew insensitively, not knowing what to think.
“Yes. You both heard the distinctive sound, all the evils of the world are now bound. The better natures of men, the God-like potential that the Lord has placed in all of us, is now free of the oppressive desires borne of original sin. All men are now and forever free to live as God intended Adam and Eve to live. Truly, the world is now Eden reborn.”
Matthew shook his head. “I don’t know...I’d like it all to be true, but...I still find it hard to believe. The whole thing is just too impossible. But if that’s so, I’m still doubting. Why can’t I believe you? If everything is as you say, cleansed of evil, none of us would have the ability to lie. I should believe you without question just as you should only be able to tell me the absolute truth.” He shook his head again. “No, if you’re right, then these feelings of confusion I’m having don’t make sense.”
“I admit there seems to be a paradox here,” said Worthy. “Let’s go down and see the others.”
No one spoke as they made their descent through the house, each keeping their own thoughts. Was the world cleansed of sin? Were the blights of disease and famine gone forever? If so, why was there only that fleeting moment of euphoria back in the garret? Was it only coincidence that it was terminated with the sound from the box? And why did they now feel this increasing sense of doubt? Surely, if all was as Worthy had said, doubt would be among the first evils to be banished? It was doubt that incapacitated a man in any endeavor; that set him against his fellows in every instance. Doubt was the eternal foe of trust, without trust, there could be no love; without love, no paradise.
At last, they reached the parlor where Isaac was trying to quiet a still drunken Herbert. The meaning of the simple scene was not lost on anyone.
Matthew cleared his throat nervously. “I’m sorry Worthy.”
“Oh Dad...”
“No, it’s all right,” said Worthy, settling himself in a nearby chair. “I should have known it couldn’t be done. The information was there all along. I was just so desperate to believe...no, I was so desperate to make up for the excesses of my ancestor at the witch trials that I was willing to overlook even the most obvious of facts. Facts any first year divinity student should know.”
When it did not seem as he if would continue, Isaac asked, “What facts, Worthy?”
Worthy looked out one of the windows at the clearing gloom. “That evil does not exist by itself in space. Though the Devil may sorely tempt us at times, it is ultimately our own choice whether we live with evil or not. We are all stained with original sin. No power on earth, no number of Pandora’s Boxes can change that. Only One has that power, and only faith in Him can banish evil.”
“But what about what we felt upstairs?” asked Carla.
“Carla, the spell did work; but only for the twinkling of an eye. All the evils of the world had been drawn into the box. In fact, they reside there still. But because of the presence of original sin in every man’s heart, evil was again created almost instantaneously from every person’s desires, fears and doubts. God has given us free will, the capacity to choose between good and evil and it’s up to us to decide. Certainly as long as that’s true, the box can attract indefinitely all the evils in the world and trap them forever, but because of the existence of original sin and the capacity of human beings to choose for themselves to do right or wrong, new legions of evil are created almost instantly, directly on the heels of those being entrapped. Thus, the euphoria we experienced was the result of the ‘gap’ between the old, retreating evils and the new ones created instantaneously by billons of people making the wrong decisions, as many have throughout the ages and will continue to do If men are to be good, they must do it on their own without shortcuts or artificial aid. In effect, I could repeat the spell over and over, entrapping all the evils in the world with every attempt, but it would only be a waste of time.”
They were all quiet for a while, even the drunken Herbert who could sense the importance of the moment through his blunted senses.
“Then it was all for nothing,” said Matthew at last.
Worthy nodded resignedly. “Yes.”
“No,” insisted Carla suddenly. “It wasn’t for nothing. Don’t you see? For one, fleeting moment, everyone on earth was cleansed of their fears and doubts. Shouldn’t that experience be enough for anyone? Isn’t it possible that many of those people will remember and try to recapture that moment? If enough of them make the effort, the world can still be changed for the better and if that happens, whey then, you will have succeeded Dad.”
Worthy smiled. “If only a single person at least tries, I think it will have been worth it.”
“Then why don’t we let it begin with ourselves?” said Isaac flinging open the doors and letting the sunlight in.
Import Duties
Jeffrey Mannor walked slowly down Ward Street along the long row of stone and brick tenements that bordered the splintering sidewalk. The afternoon sun shown blisteringly from a cloudless sky as the occasional Spanish harangue drifted distantly from among the old houses across the street. Puerto Rican teenagers leaned against the high mortar basements at the corner of the street, eyeing him curiously. He ignored their looks as he examined the passing windows of the tenements to his right, boarded up against the summer sunlight; the higher ones gaped, their old panes long since smashed, like missing teeth. Graffiti snaked along the variously-colored bricks, too close to be read. Unreadable in any case since Mannor could not read Spanish. A symbol he did understand loomed large over the double doors of the main entrance to the largest block. Mannor craned his neck, squinting at the sun as he inspected the edge of the high roof. Strange, shapeless visages looked down at him, made inscrutable by the harsh New England weather. Shrugging his shoulders, Mannor mounted the three steps from the sidewalk to the doors, inserted a key and pushed, halving the huge swastika that guarded the entrance like some impossible ward.
The sunlight cut the interior darkness scattering rats in a scurrying rush, their tiny claws scratching out a message to their cousins deeper in the building’s recesses. Recesses Mannor had come to investigate. Why couldn’t he have been as lucky as his classmates at the University of Lowell and had post-graduate connections all lined up when his degree program ended? Instead, he was forced to accept a position with the Salem City Public Works Department, a low paying junior engineering job that naturally pulled in all kinds of dirty work.
In this instance, inspecting the basements of these old tenements for blasting purposes.
At the moment, Salem was in the midst of a revitalization program that designated the city as a national historic site. With millions of dollars in state and federal aid available, it had begun a ten year program that would see the entire inner city rebuilt to resemble what it had looked like two centuries ago. One of the most recently
His patient had gone to pieces.
completed projects was that of the rebuilt Pickering Wharf area of Salem Harbor not a quarter of a mile from these crumbling tenements. As a result of that modernization effort, all of the real estate around the wharf area had dramatically increased in worth. Hence, the city was planning to raze this whole city-block of slums and replace them with a new high-rent condominium complex with a view of the harbor. Mannor’s job was to inspect the old buildings’ foundation supports for demolition purposes.
His eyes having adjusted to the gloom, and seeing that the building held no unwanted tenants, Mannor closed the door behind him and locked it. Thin knife-edges of light that pierced the clouds of disturbed dust shone from between ill-fitted boards blocking the windows. Walls mostly stripped of covering, stood naked, their innards exposed, with heaps of whitish substance at their base the only evidence that they had ever been plastered. Gaping holes in the walls and flooring opened to other areas of the building. A beam lay angled across the ruined foyer as Mannor stepped cautiously over it, heading for a door that hung loosely on its rusting hinges. Peering into the gloom beyond its threshold, he saw a rickety flight of stairs begin to wind down into the bowels of the tenement. Mannor coughed dryly and fished out a folded xerox of a blueprint from the rear pocket of his jeans; a small hand flashlight from another. Fumbling the blueprint open, he squinted at the diagrammed paper and up again at the now recognizable cellar door.
Returning the papers to his pocket, he held out the flashlight and leaned carefully into the doorframe. The sounds of scattering rats drifted up from the darkness as the heavy odor of dankness and mustiness assaulted his senses. Pointing the inadequate beam of light to the stairs, Mannor inspected the weak looking planking closely before easing his weight onto the topmost step. Finding it resisted his weight, he lifted the beam and lowered himself still further into the stairwell, his free hand tracing the rough contours of the stone wall. Dust and fragments of stone sifted to the stairs bringing the sound of faraway squeaks from deep in the cellar. Presently, he reached the first landing and started down the lower set of stairs.
An uneven dirt floor and absolute silence met his arrival some seconds later as he swept the basement with his flashlight. A thin forest of termite-ridden support beams intermittently punctuated the light. Nothing new here, thought Mannor, until he noticed a black electrical cord tacked across the basement ceiling. Following it with the beam of his flashlight, his attention was arrested by something in the distant darkness. He focused the beam toward the rear of the basement but his vision was obscured by a rise in the earthen floor that sloped up to within a few feet of the ceiling. On an impulse, he switched off the beam, and in the slow adjustment of his eyes from light to darkness he saw that a dim source of light emanated from the far side of the hillock.
Switching on his light again, Mannor scrambled over the earthen rise on hands and knees bumping his head on one of the low beams and breathing in the stench of countless years of rat droppings. But those things were soon forgotten as he half slid down the opposite face of the mound and saw that the level of the floor fell at least another ten feet below that of the rest of the cellar. Squatting at the foot of the earthen mound that now loomed over his head, Mannor shone his light across the gloomy expanse of basement, finding the electrical cord again and following it until it passed through a large opening in the foundation wall that the building shared with the tenement next door. Raising himself slowly, he realized that the source of light he’d noticed earlier originated from the adjoining cellar. Switching off his flashlight, he found that the new source was stronger than he had at first imagined.
