Faith in Science (standard:Psychological fiction, 3024 words)
Author: G.H. Hadden	Added: May 02 2005	Views/Reads: 3683/2529	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
"Oh no." I say, "I'm not going to fall for any of that hocus-pocus!" There's got to be a rational explanation somewhere. "Well then my friend," God replies with a devilish grin. "Have I ever got a trick for you."

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

involuntary spasms from side to side like Rain Man! 

"What's this all about?" I shout, not because I'm mad exactly but
because I'm scared to death. "What's all this shit about witches and 
curses?  What did you guys smoke?   Are you on crank or ex?" 

Adam makes no sense at all.  His mop of brown hair looks like thickly
matted fur and his face is puffed up red in the cheeks.  He'll probably 
faint any time now; he looks pretty unstable on his feet.  His best 
friend in the whole world: Dave, here an older and slightly more jaded 
punk version of that sweet eight-year-old boy who spontaneously ran 
over to hug Adam at the funeral—is standing a few feet behind him.  His 
jaw has dropped open and his more natural blue-gray eyes are staring as 
wide and vacant as those of any horror movie zombie I've ever seen. He 
won't answer me—or can't! 

My son is in shock I decide, gone feral from a reaction to whatever he
took.  Call 911 I think fast, just as any rational, sensible father 
would.  I'm certain you're thinking the same, but before I can take a 
single step to the house Adam shows me something that freezes me in my 
tracks.   He strips off that Green Day t-shirt he's wearing and hops up 
on the picnic table, pointing out two fang marks just above the tight 
ripple of his abs.  Clearly, skateboarding is great exercise. "Here's 
where it bit me!" he bawls.  "Can't you see the marks?"  I'm not 
listening to the rest of it, some shit about when the moon rises he'll 
become a monster. He'll become his totem?  What's that supposed to 
mean?   I'm wondering what kind of asshole keeps a poisonous snake for 
a pet. 

"Dad!" he cries out again between hysterical hitches.  He's wailing like
a small child wandering aimless in the aftermath of a great cataclysm— 
like he was eight again.  "What's happening to me?"  My head HURTS SO 
MUCH!!!" 

At this point I can't contain myself.  I rush over to him, wondering if
in such a traumatic state he even knows who I am, where he is, or what 
I'm doing.  He lets me clamp a hand on his cold shoulder and lean in to 
inspect the bite closer.  He's trembling, sweating profusely.  It is 
not the light scent of a young boy just come in from competitive 
sports, nor is it that peculiar smell of raging hormones that I know 
all too well from my days as a gym teacher.  No, there is a rank odor 
in that sweat, something dour and musky. 

"Listen!  Listen to me!"  I'm looking into those dark eyes as the tears
run down his cheeks like downhill skiers competing in slalom.   I'm 
yelling into Adam's face, but he doesn't seem to be listening at all.  
He's still prattling on about some Haitian voodoo spell or other, and 
all this time Dave has not moved a muscle. He looks half-past dead 
himself.  "Listen to me!  What kind of snake bit you?" 

"Tarantula." he gasps out, not a snake but a spider.  Those fangs left a
ring of discolored bruising around them.  His muscles are pulsing in 
his arms and chest with some kind of ulceration beginning to develop on 
the skin around them.  "I'm going to call for an ambulance." Calmly as 
I can: "Hold on!"  To Dave now, as useless and stupid as he looks to me 
I shout: "Watch him!  Make sure he keeps breathing!"  I don't know why 
I said this; it's unlikely he would know what to do if Adam did go into 
cardiac arrest. 

I hug him again tightly in my arms, my grownup boy who's always so
embarrassed by any display of my affection—and I feel the racing 
thrum-pump of his heart and the fever in his forehead.  As I run my 
fingers through the tangled knots of his hair I feel two sharp 
somethings hard as bone.  He screams, and I can only hold him closer, 
burying his head in my arms.  His teeth are chattering— as are mine now 
I think!  We're both shivering, and then I see for myself why Dave's 
eyes are frozen in that goggle of disbelief.   Mine are too now I'm 
sure. My heart stops, my world stops, and my brain races in time with 
Adam's pulse. My mind's voice screams my catechism and there is time 
for all of it before the next stroke. 

I believe that one plus one equals two—my own fingers tell me so.  I
believe in gravity—Sir Isaac Newton tells me so.  I believe the Earth 
is round—Neil Armstrong tells me so.  I believe A squared plus B 
squared equals H squared— Pythagoras tells me so.  I believe in 
microscopic bacteria—Sir Fredrick Banting tells me so.  I believe in 
global warming—Dr. David Suzuki tells me so.  I believe in atoms and 
protons and neutrons—Robert Oppenheimer tells me so.  I believe in the 
conscious and unconscious mind—Dr. Sigmond Freud tells me so.  I 
believe in genetic mutation and survival of the fittest—Sir Charles 
Darwin tells me so.  I believe in stem cell manipulation and the Human 
Genome—Dolly-the- Sheep tells me so.  I believe in an ever-expanding 
universe of infinite stars— Stephan Hawking tells me so. 

I imagine we make our own Heaven or Hell on Earth.  John Lennon tells me
so. We make our own fate, we live and then we die—Dead forever and 
ever.  Amen. 

Those protrusions of bone sticking out through the tangles of his hair
are horns, or maybe the beginnings of a stag's antlers!  They're 
growing at an alarming rate from behind his ears!  I feel a soft mat of 
hairs standing up on his back where there should only be smooth skin, 
and in the next rending stroke of my own heart-thrump a terrible 
understanding rushes forth with terminal velocity... 

I do not believe in magicians. Those derelict three-card Monte
tricksters distract the eye with smoke, mirrors, and dancing harlots as 
they pull a rabbit from their Hollywood top hats.   I do not believe in 
alchemy.  There exists no singular Philosopher's Stone that can change 
base metals into gold.  I do not believe in werewolves.  Those poor 
unfortunates have an allergic reaction to Vitamin D in sunlight and 
their condition is called lycanthrope.  I do not believe in witches. 
Green-skinned pointy-hat broomstick riders are for Halloween and Salem 
and Harry Potter.  I do not believe in ghosts.  Phantoms and night 
terrors are a manifestation of guilt weighing down upon one's 
conscience, best saved for misers on Christmas Eve.  I do not believe 
in shamans.  They are false prophets that cure illness with sex orgies, 
bleeding evil spirits from their flock as they dance around a bonfire 
in feathers and war paint.  I do not believe in demons. Such are a 
disease of the mind or an addiction to a controlled substance. 

But yes, I do believe in God, the Father almighty, maker of Heaven and
Earth, and of all things seen and unseen—Our Father who art in Heaven, 
hallowed be thy name!  Hallelujah!!  Do you not see? 

I see now why his friend is so dumbfounded—As his face is surly a
reflection of my own, because his comfortable world of knowledge—that 
is to say, my own comfortable world that followed the laws of physics 
has suddenly collapsed before my very eyes!  It is blown apart like a 
wall demolished by a charge of C4 explosive.  The bricks and mortar of 
my own sanity lie cast in chaotic ruin: Biology, Chemistry, 
Mathematics, General Science, and everything I have been taught and 
know to be true is gone.  It all seems to be swirling down some great 
drain into the pit of my stomach, spiraling down ever deeper and taking 
me with it 

I feel dizzy, and I can't breathe... 

I do not believe in shape-shifters. These fairytale creatures can only
live in medieval legends and really bad episodes of Star Trek!  And yet 
here it is happening before my very eyes, with neither smoke nor 
mirrors nor harlots.  He is changing—No:  morphing, into a creature 
that in time will become a white- tailed dear!  His will soon be the 
trophy head hanging on the back wall in the dining room at the country 
club. 

I must be strong for my son.  I tell myself this even as the pit of my
stomach is light as on the downward rush of a roller coaster, and there 
is a heavy lump in my throat, the presage to a fit of vomiting.  I 
cannot afford that luxury now, nor the instant relief of a dead away 
faint.  So, I begin with the Lord's Prayer under my breath and fight to 
keep my eyes open, my ears alert, and my mind sharp.  "Our Father, who 
art in heaven.  Hallowed be thy name." 

Adam's fear is palpable, but his remarkable courage breaks through the
sobs. The inflection in his young voice (Not that of a child, nor yet 
the final product of post pubescence, but somewhere in between.) is a 
comfort to me.  I know he will somehow make it through.  He is a 
survivor, much tougher than me.  He isn't screaming now, he isn't 
wailing, he's crying because we won't be able to talk to each other 
when the transformation is complete.  "Yes we will." I say to him 
tenderly.  "Surely we'll understand each other.  We'll find a way.  
There's always a way."  I'm rocking him in my arms, and we both know 
this is true.  We must have faith. 

His friend has fled.  Gone for help perhaps; but probably just gone. 
And, quite honestly, who could blame him?   I should be calling 911!  
Should there be a cure or any measure of comfort a hospital and doctors 
can give that I cannot, then of course, I should not deny him that.  
But I can't leave him—I just can't! 

"Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done; on Earth as it is in Heaven."  I
understand why David ran, just as I know why he stood frozen and stupid 
in the face of my frantic questioning.  Some things are just too 
painful to watch happen to those that are close to you.  It was tearing 
his heart out just as it is tearing my own apart to see Adam suffering 
this way, and to be so totally helpless to do anything for him.  It is 
like being in the palliative care ward all over again holding onto 
Angie's cold clammy hand as she lay doped up to Heaven and tied to the 
machines that made her lungs pump shallow, stale breath.  She mumbled 
unsolvable riddle phrases in a low dreamy voice.  Her eyes were closed 
and the once silky smooth skin of her face stretched dry and aged, 
emaciated and baggy from the treatments.  She weighed less than thirty 
kilos, barely a ghost form of her former self in the blue hospital 
covers.  I could smell the impending failure of her kidneys. It is at 
that point that I admit defeat and sign the doctor's damned 
do-not-resuscitate forms because the disease has won, and so all I can 
do is kiss her goodbye and wait for the inevitable.  She was only 
thirty-eight, much too young to go.   "Give us this day our daily 
bread."  I swear!  No more perks washed down with a swig of Jack to 
take the edge off at night!  No more meds of any kind! 

The call came at 8:47 that fateful evening with Adam home in bed and the
babysitter on my couch munching pizza, watching some mindless Fox 
reality show.  I did not find out until eleven though.  I was 
distracted, seeking solace in the gentle caress of a young mistress who 
only wished me relief from my grief and manly urges.  Both of us were 
married: she to a man who paid little attention to her and I to Angie 
for a few months more.  The affair ended shortly after Angie's passing 
with no one the wiser. 

"Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against
us." I have not spoken these words in three years, the last time being 
Christmas Eve when Adam and I went to a church downtown with Dave and 
his family.  By then I was sick of the hypocrisy of it all.  Adam too 
I'm sure; because he made no complaint when I told them we were too 
busy to go the following year.  "And lead us not into temptation, but 
deliver us from evil."  I think I 'm finished with those late nights at 
the office (the ones that inevitably end up in a cheap motel room with 
a call girl I hire from in the back of those subway station rag-mags).  
Yet I may still have some faith in empirical science; the means to 
extract an eye for an eye—The price this witchdoctor must pay for my 
boy.  Tell me, if "Thou shalt not kill"' Lord, then why does Thou not 
lead by example?  I shall pray on it as it preys upon me. 

"For Thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory; for ever and ever. 
Amen." 

Don't it always seem to go, you don't know what you've got till it's
gone.  Joni Mitchell tells me so.  God knows I'm paying attention now. 


Tweet