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peachbloom

The Strange Mt.Faraman

I hate the sound of a ringing phone. I hate it most when it rings in the morning. Morning phone calls are never good news. Good new waits for the sun to shine, but trouble is an early riser.

I am in the middle of my morning shave when the phone rings. I am listing to the "today" show on the television. Katie Couric tells me what day it is; though I do not like that she tells me today is Friday the 13th.im not superstitious about Friday the thirteenth, but many people are. We all have out superstitions, do we not? I, for example, always wear my baptismal cross. I have worn it ever day of my life, even though I no longer believe in God. I also put pennies in my shoes. This is a vary old superstition. I learned it from my grandmother, who had many such superstitions that she lived by. She would put one penny in each of my shoes when I was growing up. 'for good luck'; she would say. I have had pennies in my shoes for so long now I have a callus on each heel. I do not believe in it, but I still do it. I do not believe in Friday the thirteenths; either; but  for those who do, it will be a vary bad day.

How is it that phones always know when to ring? My  is wet with shaving cream, and I have just lit my first cigarette of the day. I should not pick it up. It will be bad news, I know. "good morning. Professor Paulus?" The voice says. "yes, this is Professor Paulus," I answer. This is Sheriff Clayton Delarouge. I'm sorry to call you so early this morning. I didn't wake you did I? "See? I knew it was bad news. "No, no. not at all. I was already up, thank you." "well; that's good. I'm glad I didn't wake you. I was hoping to catch you before you got to busy today. There's something I was hoping that you might be able to help me with." He pauses.

"Umm…Of course, Sheriff. I'll be glad to give you any assistance I can. What is this about?" "Do you have some time to spare this morning? I was hoping we could get together  to talk about it." "certainly. That would be no problem. Whenever you would like."  "Good. I can pick you up in about forty minutes, if that's all right with you." "Umm, yes; of course. That will be fine." "Good. Thank you. I'll see you then."

He hangs up. I did not need to give him directions. Mystery Springs is a vary small town. I wonder what this could be about. My schedule is not a problem. I am on sabbatical from the university, writing another book. Forty minutes later, I am dressed and have finished morning coffee. I drink my coffee from a large, plastic mug, because I get it refilled cheaply at the 7-11 store across the street from the motel where I rent my room. I do not wear a suit. I wear a light, short-sleeved dress shirt slacks, and Rockport shoes. The Florida sun is too hot for suits. Even though is it early morning, the sun already hangs large and yellow in the sky, like one of the fat grapefruit they grow in this state. Soon it will be vary hot, and I will be sweating. The sheriff arrives right on time.

We are driving towards the center of town. I am wondering what it is this sheriff wants my advice on. I realize I am something of a celebrity in this town. Everyone here knows I am doing research for my new book. I have already  had three best sellers. : I want to thank you again for taking time out of your day, Professor; I realize that you are a busy man." He is vary polite. That is a fact I appreciate, although it does not surprise me. As sheriff, he is a vary important man in this town; and politeness is still important in the south.  "I assure you sheriff, it is no problem at all. So, please tell me, how is it I may be of help to you?" it is really no problem. In fact I am intrigued, and glad for a little excitement. My research is not going well. "I understand you're an anthropologist' is that correct?" "yes, I am an anthropologist." Technically, I hold to degrees-one in anthropology, and one in sociology, I teach both at the university where I work. But that is not what I am famous for. " I want you to have a look at someone we have in custody. I want you to help me figure out where he comes from." "oh? An indigenous person?" I ask.

The sheriff hesitates. I can see he is not comfortable. He seems to be sorting thought his thoughts, trying to decide how he wants to phrase his next question. "look; I want you to understand something I'm not the sort of guy who buys into any of those…pie-in- the-sky- theories. I don't believe in any of that JFK conspiracy crap, and I'm reasonably certain Elvis is dead." The sheriff certainly  doesn't look like the kind of man who spends a lot of the time reading tabloids, I think. He appears to be slightly younger then I am. Perhaps forty years old, and in vary good shape. Strong looking, with a square jaw and wide shoulders, I would guess that he plated football when he was young. Woman would find him 'ruggedly handsome'. The only thing that mars his good looks is a flat, boxer's nose. I suspect that is part of the price he must have paid while working his way up the law enforcement ladder. Looking tough and speaking politely would not be enough in the south. Here, they often do things the hard way. Sooner or later, a man would have to prove himself. "yes, yes; I understand. Go on." I say to encourage him. "well, this guy is different. Weird. And… I don't know. When you meet him. I just want you to keep and open mind, O.K.?" "Hmm."  I say; I have learned being noncommittal I a vary useful tool, "so tell me about him." "we arrested him on Wednesday, Down at Gypsy Red's. are you familiar with the place?" I tell him I have heard of it. It is a bad place, a place people go if they cannot afford to travel to Miami to feed their vices. "it was a roust; we picked up everyone in the place. We close the place down a couple times a year, like it makes any difference. Everyone else has already made bail; paid their fines or set a court date; ect; ect.' The usual police business."

"we hung onto this guy because he wasn't carrying any identification and has no known address; he might be a vagrant or an illegal. He gave us a bogus name; told us his name was Nobel Faraman, which is pure B.S. Noble was sort of a town father around here; owned the grocery store, the hardware store, and a lot of other property. Sat on the city council, president of the rotary, that sort of thing, passed away a few years ago at the age of 86. You can see his headstone from the road that goes past the cemetery to Gypsy Red's; so we figure that's where our guy came up with his name." "He's black; talks with an accent, maybe Haitian or Jamaican, I'm not sure; maybe that's something you can figure out; so there may be some immigration issues."

"we asked some of the people we busted about him. He's showed up there a couple of times in the past. He likes the girls they run there. He always pays  them with some kind of old gold coin, usually gold. This time he paid them in gold doubloons. He was wearing one around his neck on a gold chain when we picked him up. Pocket was full of foreign coins, too." " it doesn't fit, becausehe dresses like he's poor, and I mean dirt poor. We're investigating to find out where he got the coins-trying to see if they match up with any stolen collections that have been reported stolen." " anyway, that's the official stuff; but that's not really what bothers me about this guy. I've been a cop all my grown up life and there's something about this guy that's just plain wrong"

He pauses for a moment, so I ask him to explain. "for starters, he has six fingers on each hand. Doesn't have any body hair, either. And his teeth…this guy's walking around with gold coins hanging around his neck and he needs to learn what a toothbrush and dental floss are used for," I ask him anything else. He hesitates before answering. "well yah; there is one other thing the girls say...well, let's just say this guy doesn't need any Viagra, O.K? When comes in, he hires four or five of them for the whole night. He'll buy a few bottles of sourmash take them and the girls o his room, and party all night; and I mean all night. Drinks like a fish and breeds like a rabbit! The girls say he doesn't stop ever not even to rest."

"anyway when you add it all up…well, it just doesn't add  up if you ask me." So that is it, I ask myself. I am a little disappointed. A small town cop craving some excitement. Too many nights alone on patrol, listing to the Art Bell show. An intelligent man with to little to occupy his mind. I understand his situation he can't keep holding this person for no reason. There is no law against having six fingers no hair and being extraordinarily virile. So he wants the Great Expert  from out of town to tell him if he has captured an alien. Or some such thing. Speaking of the Art Bell show I need to call them back. I have been a frequent guest on the program, and mike siegal; the gentlemen who has taken over the coast-to-coast AM show" now that Art has retired; wants to interview me. Somehow, he has gotten wind that I am down here in Florida, and he wants to know what my impressions are regarding the recently discovered Miami Circle. That's why I am here, living in a cheap rented bungalow in a small town at the edge of a Florida swamp. I am trying to discover if there is a connection between the Brickell site and the explorations  of Juan ponce de Leon. Could the Miami Circle be what Ponce de Leon was looking for? Could it have something to do with the fountain of youth? Is there a connection the Circle and the Mayan Indians? Between the Mayans and an alien civilization? That is the sort of thing I write about.

Things that 'inquiring minds want to know. I have been in Mystery Springs following up the local legends about Ponce de Leon, hoping  to get lucky. But, so far, my research  has turned up little of interest. The Mayan theory, unfortunately, has been already disproved. I can find little to support the de Leon rumors. Mystery Springs has been one more dead end. I tell myself that the sheriff seems a practical man. I will go along with him, and see what develops. We arrive at the Sheriff's Office. It is attached to the City Hall. The jail is in the basement I am amused that the City Hall keeps its criminals and its politicians in the same building. I expect to see jail cells with steal bars and a slat board benches, facing a wooden bench with  a sleepy deputy sitting behind it, like in the Andy Griffith Show. I am surprised by what I find. The cells are neat and tidy, behind thick walls of Plexiglas. Everything else seems to be made of stainless steal; vary sanitary, and I am somehow reminded of a hospital. We go to see the prisoner, he is the only one they have in this jail now. Technically, these are holding cells, not really a jail. But think that to a prisoner, it can not make much of a difference. He is skinny, vary skinny. He reminds me of a black scarecrow, something a Vodun priest might design to guard a Jamaican sugar plantation. This springs to my mind mostly becuse of the way he is dressed.  His pants are worn so thin you can practicly see through them. They are cut of below the knee, with fryed edges, and held up with a rope belt. His shirt has no sleeves or collar, and is made of corse fiber material more suitable for slacking then clothing. It is vary stained and unclean. He wears worn out sandals with dilapidated socks, and i am slightly suprised. I would have exspected him to be barefoot. Perhaps he is trying to conceal an extra toe. I am told he was wearing a wise brimmed straw hat, such as the fruit pickers wear, when he was arrested. Again, the image of a scarecrow jumps to my mind. The sheriff tells me he has not spoken since he was placed in his cell after being "booked". He sits with his knees pulled up to his chin and his overly long arms wrapped around them, staring at the far cell wall. Although he dose not look at me directly, i sence hi is keenly aware of my precence. "Good morning, Mr. Faraman," the sheriff says to him. His voice is mocking, superior; it is the tone that all policemen use when speaking to those in their custody. Bad cop, i think to myself. That means i am supposed to play the 'good cop'. "I've brought someone here to meet you. I   hope you'll be a little more polite with him then you have been with me. Mr. Faraman, meet Professor Paulus; Mr. Paulus, this is Mr. Faraman."              

"Good morning," iI say to him. He dose not even look my direction, but keeps staring at the far wall. "Perhaps you would like to tell me a little about yourself." I try." Perhaps i can be of help to you." This time he suffers me a sarcastic glare, and i am taken back a little. He has no hair whatsoever, not even eyebrows. it is very eerie looking at a person with no eyebrows. It gives the human face a serpentine look, and i am glad when he turns away again. He says nothing. We sit there in silence, and i am uncomfotable. Perhaps he dose not understand me , I try speaking in French then Spanish. He answers with silence. In disgust, I try asking him about Ponce de Leon in the language of the Seminole Indian. Perhaps i am showing off a little, trying to maintain my elevated status in the eyes of the sheriff. The prisoner remains silent, unintrested. I do not know what else to say or to do. Finally i give up.

The sheriff remain nonplussed. Apparently he did not really expect the prisoner to respond to me. We stand in the hall just outside of the prisoner's cell where we can still see him. I still have the feeling he is watching me. although he dose not appear to be doing so. There is a soft drink dispenser in the hall. I am thirsty. and reach into my pocket for change. I do not find any. I extract a doller bill. well crumpled. but the machine dose not accept the paper currency. The sheriff asks me what i think of the prisoner, and i honestly do not know what to tell him. I understand why would think he has an alien monstosity in his custody. There is something eerie, something preternatual about the man. "woman gives birth to Alligator Baby." The tabloids would say or something like that. I know. My grandmother used to hold me on her lap and read such stoies to me when i was vary small. Thats is how i learned to read. Perhaps that is why i write the things i do. The sheriff notices me fishing in my pocket for the change I do not have, and politely perchases us both a drink. I am doubly embarrased, for he was also speaking to me while my thoughts rambeld elsewhere, and i do not know what it is that he said. It is a vary bad habit of mine.

I was not listing but the prisoner was. I think the sheriff was saying something about haveing a doctor or maybe a dentist cone to visit the jail. I do not hear or see him move, but suddenly the prisoner has turned in his cell. and sits stareing stait at me. His eyes have a disturbing intensity. Then his mouth begins to move, working meticulosly, as though speach itself is something foregin to him. I am shocked when i realize the language he is speaking. He is talking to me in Classic Greek. Although i am Greek, it is not my native language. I was raised in this country and learned to speak English first, although I speak it with an accent. My grandfather came to this country from the Old World, and i was raised in a home with a Large, ectended family. He stictly forbade anyone to speak Greek in the home. Of course, this rule was largely ignored, particualrly by my grandmother. with the help of an old Septuagint bible, she taught me to speaj abd read my ancestral tongue. I automaticlly begin to translate his words literally "Απελευθερώστε μου από τον Άδη, ο δάσκαλός μου, και εγώ θα απαντήσω σε όλες σας ρωτήσω"-"Liberate me from hades, my teacher, and i will respond to all you inquire"  oh. Get me the hell out of here, Professer, and all your questions will be answred. I stare at him, dumbfounded. "what did he just sat, professer?" The sheriff asks. I put on my poker face, and indicate we should talk privately. The sheriff takes me to his office upstairs. "So what did he say?" the sheriff asks. I think he is ready to talk to me. under the right conditions." I reply. "Meaning what?" he asks, but i think he already knows. "Sheriff let me ask you this.How much longer will you be able to keep him here?"

He sighs, and says: "Thata's why i brought you here. I can't leaglly hold him for more then firty-eight hours without filing charges on him. And i don't know what to charge him with. Soliciting a prostitute, probably, but i don't know if i can actually make it stick. We caught him leaveing the joint, not actually in the act." "I can turn him over to I.N.S. and see if they can come up with something, but it's a long shot. There's no real evidence that he's in this country illegally." I interrupt him. "Can you release him to me? Perhaps I can get him to talk, get him to trust me." The sheriff looks at me for a long time, as if he is trying to make up his mind. Of course he must accept my offer. His only alterniative is to simply relase his prisoner, without any form of control, tomorrow morning. It is easy to make a decision when you have only one choice, But you can always make a show of decideing. "Áll right. Seems I don't have much choice. But i don't like it, not one bit."

"Thank you." I say. "I will report everything i learn to you immediately," I tell him. I want him to feel good about the decision he has been forced into. The sheriff gives me a stern look," I want you to be careful, really carefull, with this guy. He hasn't done anything violent, but i have a bad feeling about him. I think he may be dangerous. you understand?" Of course I understand, and i promise the sheriff I will do nothing foolish. For his part, he pretents to be reassured I sign papers, and I am now reponsible for the strange Mr. Faraman.

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The sheriff arranges for one of the deputies to drive me to my hotel, so that i may return with my own vehicle. i smoke a cigarette on my way back. It is a nasty habit, but one i cannot brake. I chide myself for getting involed with this small town mystery. Really, it is not worth my time and effort, and i am foolish to place myself at risk by involving myself with a criminal. I have a vary expencive car and many credit cards; I worry about being robbed. Still i cannot help myself. My curiosity is too great. What did he mean, "all my questions would be answered?" Was he referring to questions about himself, or did he understand my question about Ponce de Leon'. Has this mystery man discoverd it? What is his story? Could he be the key that i need to unlock the secrets of Florida's past, or could he be the start of some new mystery, perhaps the focus of my necy book?. We stand outside the City Hall. The sun has risen only slightly in the sky, and already my shirt is sticking to me. People pay great money to retire here in Flordia, but i do not see why. The odd little man is silent. I do not know what i expect him to say. I do not know how i expected him to behave; either; i guess i thought he would be vary humble and thankful for my charity; instead. he acts as though i am of no importance to him at all. "So," I ask him, as we approch my car, "Do you speak English, or must we converse in Greek?" He pauses, works his mouth in that strange way again and abruptly expectorates a tooth. i am appaled as i watch it disapper neatly down a storm drain. "My English is excellent." He replies, his voice thick with Island accent. No, i can not identify its exact origins; I am an anthropologist, not an linguist. He dose not seem at all dismayed over the sudden loss of his tooth. "Ah... vary well then." I say trying to recover my composure. "You indicated you would be willing to discuss..." "Tke me to my boat." "Excuse me?" I reply, offended by his abrupt manner.

"You will take me to my boat. I will answer your questions there." I stare at him for a moment, flabbergasted by his manner. But, i cannot think of anything to say, so i simply open the car door for him. he pauses,looking at the car as though with suspicion. Suddenly he turns to me. "This is yours? You will take me to my boat in this?" He asks pointing to my BMW. "Yes of course!" I reply. Did he exspect us to walk? "I must pay you." Again i am shocked. "No, there is no need to pay me. Don't be silly..." I begin. "I must pay you. It is tradition. Vary bad luck if i do not pay you." He reaches into his pocket and begins rummageing through his coins. I notice that the sheriff was correct, he has collected coins from all over the world. While he is looking, i am wondering about the tradition to which he referred. I hae made vary extensive study of tradition and superstition. I read Sir James Frazer's The Golden Bough for the first time when i was only fifteen. that began my love affair with anthropology. In fact, the vary first book i wrote was titeld The Relevence of Myth & Superstition in Modern Corporate Amarica. It did not sell vary well. It wasevery bit as dull as the title. Yrt in spite of my extensive studies, I do not recall ever hearing of this tradition before. He produces two coins and hands them to me. They are Greek Drachma. The smug look on his face tells me he is quite pleased with himself. I place the coins in my shirt pocket, and we get into the car.

It is a long drive to the docks, and he is silent the entire trip. The only words he speaks are " Suit yourself" when i ask him if he minds if i smoke. "Yes i know it's a bad habbit" He ignores all my attemtps to initiate a conversation. instead, he simply rolls the window down, leans out into the breeze, and stares at the passing scenery, much like a dog woulf do. We arrive at the docks, and i instantly dispise the location, This is the entrance to the swamp. This is where local legend has it that Juan Ponce de Leon once tramped about in search of his Fountain. It is too hot here; it is always to hot in florida; but here the heat clings to you like an unwanted lover. The water is a sickly green color, with obscene looking clumps of algae floating in it. Mosquiteos and their ilk buzz hungrily, hiding just out of sight while waiting to bite. A pale mist hangs like a veil over the water; obscuring, but not quite hiding, the outline of cypress trees in the distance.

His boat is exactly what i exect. Low to the water, it is a wooden rowboat with a small outboard motor attached to the stern. A pair of oars is stowed under the flat seats; a batterd gas can and a few tools in a coffee can reside near the motor; nothing else is on board. Without ceremony, he begins undoing the lines that bind the boat to the dock. His large hands are quick and agile with the ropes. He dose not much as suffer me a glance as he dose this. Dose he think i will simply let him hop into the boat and leave? Iam responsible for him, and it is time to remind him of this. "Exscuse me i think we have some unfinished business to discuss." His head snaps in my direction, reptile quick, and fixes me with challenging stare. his eyes gleam with menace. "You want to know about Ponce de Leon, don't you? Do you want to know what that arrogant Spaniard found in this swamp? Do you want to know about his cherrished Fountian? Are you really intrested in the secret he learned about ever lasting life and youth?" He pauses, and i do not immediately answer, for i am taken back by the force and the venom in behind his words. "Well Professor, the answers to your questions lie out there, not here. I made you a promise. If you truely want the answers to your precious questions, get in the boat. I will take you."

He gets in the boat i hesitate, then start to follow him. After all, i really only have one choice, do i not? But he stops me just as i start to step into the boat. He holds out his hand, and i remeber i must pay him. Automaticly, I reach into my pants pocket, and pull out my crumpled dollor bill. He shakes his head. Apperently paper currency is not honored here, either. I think for a moment, then reach into my pocket for the two Drachma he gave me earlier, He nods his head solemnly as i hand him the coins. Perhaps to  others it would appear silly, giveing the same two coins back and forth, but it dose not seems so to me. Traditions are important, even if i am unfamiler with this one. They give us roots, provide us with security and give structure to our universe. The human mind needs to belive in something greater then itself, so the cultures from which we sprang developed various cosmologies to explain the universe. These cosmololgies were reinforced by legend and became myths. These mythological belief systems form the rootstock of all the world's organized religions. Our superstitions provide us with control over the underlying cosmoslogies upon belief systens rest; and therefore give us control over our fate. thus, religion is superstition. So i do not feel at all silly by honoring his tradition. He allows me into the boat, and i take a seat. He steps to the stern and, turning his back to me, rummages among his tools. he turns around, and i see he is holding a fisherman's knife in a worn leather sheath. He unties the rope he uses for a belt, and slips it through the loop on the sheath. He dose not look directly at me while he dose this, but i know he is watching my reaction, anyway. He ties the belt and looks at me smugly. I try to show no reaction but he can tell i am frightend of the knife. Somehow, deep inside, i know it must be vary sharp, indeed. He starts the little motor and we pull away from the dock. He revs the engine as we leave the dock and the bow lifts slightly above the water. He seems completely in his element as he handles the boat aiming it towards the mists in the distance.

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Fetid. That is the word i would use to describe the swamp if i where to write about it. it defines the word fetid. The sun hangs like a sickly orange ball in the sky, giving off more heat then light. My shirt sticks to me every place it contacts my skin. we pass through swarms of little insects, all of whome take the opportunity to nibble on me as we pass. How vary conenient for them. My companion seems unfazed by the heat and the bugs. Buddha could not be more dispassioate then his is. He squats at the stern of the boat, one hand controlling the motor. There is a place where he could sit, but he disdains the seat, and instead he squats. I am told that is the most natual and healthy positin for man's anatomy. all primitive peoples squat rather then sit. sitting is a western custom, a white man's convention. Europeans sit, the third world man squats. I sit, and try to make myself comfortable, but the wooden seat is vary hard on my soft western rump. I know we have traved for some hours, but the sun hangs unmoving, like a diseased fruit in the middle of the sky. How can i describe what this boat ride is like? The scenery changes so much that it never seems to change; it is swamp, swamp, and more swamp. Here there are trees, there, there is grassl but aways it is the same swamp. Sometimes i hear reptilian things slither into or out of the swamp, but i never quite seem to see them. frogs plop into the brackish water as we pass. Turtles slide noisily from logs. I expect to see alligatiors lurking, their yellow eyes just protruding above the waterline, but for whatever reason, i have not spied any, and i am thankful for that. My shirt has become one with my body, and at this point i find i do not care. I will be glad to emove it when we return; in fact i plan to discard it. it will be impossible to remove the sweat stains from it. I have smoked several cigarettes, and my host dose not seem to care. he sits impassively at his end of the boat, and i sit silently at mine. We leave each other to our own thoughts. I wonder what he may be thinking. In fact, I question his intelligance, for obviously he possesses that quality. What i mean is; is his mind engaged in the actual thought process at all right now?

He appears to be a creature of the swamp itself, simply reacting yo his environment on an instinctive level, as an animal dose. a man cogitates; processes his thoughts in words, analyzes his surroundings; weighs the consequences of his actions. My host seems more primal than that. He is a part of the boat; the boat is a part of the swamp; the swamp is a part of the primordial ooze from which we all evolved eons ago. Right now i wish i were more like him. I could use fewer thoughts right about now. I jolt awake. I do not recall nodding off. The steady putt-putting of the motor is extreamely hypnotic. The heat is stifling. I look up at the sun; it is a dull orange red. Disgusting color, It reminds me of a canker sore in the sky. it remains centered in the sky, and i wonder what time it is. I forgot to put my watch on this morning, surely as a result of the interrupion to my early morning routine. Dam the sheriff for dragging me into this!! Irealize i am hungry; therefore it must be past noon. I wish i had thought to bring a lunch. No, that is ridiculous. How should i have expected to find myself in this perdicament? I certainly did not plan to spend my day riding a boat through this godforsaken swamp.

Look at Mr. Faraman! He just squats there, placid as could be. Timeless, ageless like this swamp. He is an archtype, no longer an individual person. he could be the montagnard guide, talking Michael Douglas down a brown jungle river in Apocalypse Now; or he could be a nameless African guide taking Jhon Hanning Speke through the Congo, looking for the source of the Nile. But instead, he is my guide, taking me through this miserable swamp to god knows where. He sees me staring at him but chooses to ignore me. He works his mouth, and spits. Another tooth. I am disgusted. I try to ignore him, as he dose me. I settle back into my seat. I think i will nod off again. Frankly, i hope so. Indeed, I do fall asleep again. Not for as long, this time, I think. My buttocks are are aching; oh, how i hate this wooden seat! I try shifting my position, but there is no relief. Where could we be going? How long until we get there? I should simply demand an explanation from my...what should i call him? Oh Captain my Captian? Oh, that is funny. My captor is more correct, and he is aupposed to me my prisoner! how could i be such a fool to get into this mess? We are deep within this swamp, and i am completely dependent upon him. I do not know where we are going, and have no idea how to return, I shoot him a miserable look. I desperately need to urinate. Pull over at the next service station, please! Ha, ha. Not vary likely, out here. Indeed, as far as my eyes can see, there is not even a dry place to stand. I can only think of one thing to do. Rising to my knees, Iopen my fly, and relieve myself over the side of the boat. My companion ignores me, thank god, but i have come to expect no less.

I do not mean to be rude, but i discove i have been staring at Mr. Faraman for some time. It is not deliberate on my part, I am sitting at the bow and he at the stern, and we are faceing one another, My eyes must point somewhere, must they not? My eyes were not focused on him and i really wasn't paying attention, untill he did it again. Spit out another tooth, that is. He is no more mindful of his action then you or i might be if we were to cast an unwanted seed or kernel from our mouths. He sees the look on my face-I am appalled and make no effort to conceal that fact-and shoots me a toothless grin. It is neither a friendly gesture nor a self-effacing one; it is vary obviously ment to demonstrate that he has no teeth left. It suddenly occures to me how unwell Mr.Faraman looks. His gums ate thick, red, and swollen. Scurvy, I postulate. His skin appears sallow and dull, and is peeling in some places as well. is that a symptom of scurvy, too, or something else? I notice his eyes have a slightly yellow hue to them. Haundice; perhaps, he has that appearance. It is a wonder is did not notice it before, On closer observation, i notice his breathing is fast and shallow. that combined with his emanciation; conjers the image of a lizard panting in the heat. I almost expect his tongue to dart out. No, that is most unfair of me. My companion is most definitly  ill, I am ashamed of myself, I have been so wrapped up in my own misery that i have been oblivious to his condition all this time. I suddenly feel vary sorry for Mr.Faraman. poor, abnormal in apperance, and living in this swamp isolated from other people; i begin to wonder how many diseases this poor man may actually be suffering from? With his penchant for prostitiutes, he is probably suffering from some social diseases as well... Suddenly, i recall something. Something about vampire legends among early colonists... .Yes; that's it, exactly! everything suddenly fits together. Consumtion! we call it tuberculosis now, of course. The symptoms of this disease confused the early coloinal settlers of this country. People suffering from tuberculosis grow thin, but are none the less capable of sudden serges of violent emotion coupled with feats of unbelievble strength. Their feverish eyes posses an unnatural, animal-like glow. Also, victims of the disease commonly experience an increase in their sex drive; many times participating in- for lack of a better term - sexual marathons. Doc Holiday was notorious for his sexual voracity; that is whay his ' travelling companion' in his last days was a prostitute.

The early settlers of this country;  being superstitious folk; mistook the symptoms of tuberculosis for vampirism. Recently researchers have discoverd many graves from that era, which where disterbed shortly after burial. the cadavers where dismemberd and the femur bones were placed in this source of the infamous " skull and crossbones" commonly associated with pirates; but it was actually ment to pravent a vampire from raising from the grave. I read about this while researching my  book about the lost colony of Roanoke. Yes it makes sence now. There is aways a rational explanation for things, including Mr. Faraman's appearance. his ectra fingers are simply a minor birth defect, not all that unusual. His hairlessness is probably caused by medical treatment; cancer patients undergoing chemotherapy lose all their body hair don't they? Perhaps he is undergoing some similar procedure, Mr.Faraman is simply a sick man, that is all.

He shoots me another look, this time with out a grin It is almost as if he is reading my thoughts. Of course that is just my imagination. Still, there is something enimagtic and sinister about Mr.Faraman Ilook at his eyes. In the shadows of the cypress trees, they seem to glow. For such a sick man, he moves with remarkable grace and ease, I recall that people suffering from consumption are prone to fits of violent rage and possess incredible strength. I ponder the knife at his hip, and am afraid again. Yes, there is something about Mr.Faraman that the rational mind wants to reject. That other part of the mind however; that part that makes you hesitate when a black cat crosses your path, or causes you to throw spilled salt over your shoulder even thought you know better; that part of the mind has a place for Mr.Faraman. In spite of the heat, a cold chill passes through me. My throat is parched, my ass feels like it is on fire, and my stomach is now rumbling ceaselessly. The unbearable weight of the heat and humidity continue to make me exhausted and drowsy. I reach into my pocket, and discover i have only one cigarette left My God! How many have i smoked? How long have i been on this interminable boat ride from hell? I try to think back to this morning. Was this a fresh pack, ir not? I am not sure, If i could figure out how many cigarettes I've smoked, perhaps i could gain some sense of time. Surely a mere few hours. even in this swamp, could not make one person so miserable as i am. I rub my chin and feel course stubble. Being Greek, I am prone to heavy five o' clock shadow. I look for the sun, but it is impossible to see; a blanket of cypress leaves and spanish moss conceals the sky from view. Even the implacable Mr.Faraman dose not seem so serene now. In some subtle way his mood seems to have changed. I notice he has been picking and cratching at himself for some time now.

Perhaps he is not so immune to the mosquitoes after all. Speaking of mosquitoes, I  suddenly realize the background noise of chirping birds and buzzing incects, which have been our constant companion, is strangely missing. Perhaps there is a current here which drives them away. I look, and notice the water has changed as well. Here it is an odd color, sort of blue green, and i suspect is pulluted in some way instictively, I loathe to the thought of touching it. I not the hint of an odor, slightly sulfuric, is present. I find myself dozing off, wondering if there may be some sort of volcanic springs at work nearby. The last thing i notice before i nod off is Mr.Faraman flashing me  one of his mirthless smiles. I must be vary tired indeed. I thought i saw teeth.

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I am awake now, vary wide-awake. It was the overbearing smell of the sulfur gas burning my nostrils that woke me. But that is not what holds my attention now. The sun is red. It is not earth's sun, it cannot be. It flickers dimly like a decrepit evil eye staring from a crimson firmament. Plumes of sulfur and other vile gasses form inky rivers of cloud in the sky, There is a rumbleing in the distance; whether from storm or volcano i cannot tell. We are no longer in the swamp. The waters here are open and wide, and the boat rocks from the action of waves. The water is blue, a florescent shade of colbalt blue; which makes it strangely beautiful. But, it is an unnantural beauty, and some inborn instinct warns me to fear it. The boat has just negotiated a passage between two huge pillars of basalt. We pass beneath a jagged promontory, and it's shadow chills me. The waters here are rocky and treacherous. Dark columns of obsidian randomly jut from the water, thrusting their sharp, jagged edges from the depths  like fossilized finger bones of long dead giants. In spite of my dramatic sarroundings, it is Mr.Faraman that captures my attention.  I notice my position in the boat has changed. Somehow, while sleeping, I have been placed one seat nearer to him. He has changed. His slin; once dull; now shines, and why should it not i can see the old skin, peeled in layers. lying scattered at his feet/ He has shed it like a snake. His new skin is a true ebony, mottled with bumps. It reminds me of-no, it is identical to-the skin of a lizard. His eyes aren't human. The whites have become fully yellow; the pupils black slits. His lips have thinned out, streched, and hardened. He has become something inhuman. A reptile, not mammal. He looks like something that may have evoled from the dinosaurs, if ther had survived. If i was  afraid before, I am terrifide now. Most Holy Theotokos, pray for this sinner.... . I stop myself; prayers long forgotten from my orthodox youth now spring easily to my mind! I try to gather my wits and get my emotions under control. "What are you?" I ask, as calmly as i can. He...smiles...and I see new teeth. Pointed, eveny spaced, razor sharp teeth. teeth that belong in the mouth of a carnivore. This time he dose not work his mouth in that strange way before speaking. These are his natural teeth. "Igneri" He replies.

It is a Seminole word meaning "The Ancient Ones." The Navajo called them Ansazi, and still speak the name with dread. Their existence is rooted in the deepest recesses of the human collective conscience. Reseach any culture's mythology, and you will find mention of these ancient beings a;ways couched in the most dreadful terms. My own greek ancestors turned them into titans and hundred-armed monsters...Greek mythology. I should have seen it sooner. "what did you tell the sheriff when he asked your for your name?" "I t'ink you already know." "tell me ." i nearly whisper. He pronounces his answer vary carefully, exaggerating every syllable. "No-bell Fair-ee-mon." Noble Ferryman. Oh sweet jesus, perserve my soul! It is the name from a poem; a poem my grandmother used to read to me, though i was to young for such things it used to give me nightmares! I still remeber the first stanza:

 Ask no questions, and i'll tell no lies!

 Take two shiny pennies from the dead man's eyes!

A token they be, the price for your soul;

Quoth the Noble Ferryman,

"All who cross must pay my toll!"

"Charon." The Ferryman of Greek mythology son of Erebus. who carries the souls of the dead across the River Styx to the underworld. "I have many names." Yes, he dose. And so dose this place. I look toward the shore we are approching. it is a dark and barren beach, littlered with sharp shale and shards of volcanic glass. Rocky hills, shrouded in clouds of volcanic gas, loom in the background. The blood-red sun serves to cast uncanny shadows in every dip and across every angle. It is a world of darkness, chaos, and horror. This is not the hell described in such graphic detail by red-faced, pulpit-pounding Fundamentalist ministers, peopled with pitchfork-toting fallen angels who exist only to extract torment from unrepentant souls. Not quite. This is Gehenna; Hades; the valley of Wailing, the dark Underworld of pagan myth and legand; a place of forgotten souls and perpetual misery. And I think i fear it more then i would the other. Mr.Faraman; Charon; that is, speaks  His ancient eyes gleam with malice. "You wanted to know my secrets? Now you know!  you wanted to know about the Fountain of Youth? This is it. This is where i took that arrogant old Spaniard! Here, no one ages. Here, no one ever grows old. Do you want to live forever? Though many here beg for death's release, No one ever dies!" I cringe from the maleovence behind the words springing from his lipless mouth. "You can't bring me here!" I protest. "Why not?" He replies; "This is what you believe in!" "Becuse...I am not dead!" He fixes me with his evil stare, favoring me once again with his vile smile. He is baiting me. waiting for me to deduce something....

I pull back, away from him, ice-cold fear freezing my heart. As I withdraw, I feel something press against my back. Something that is cold, hard, and rounded at the end digs into the small of my back...There is blood on the floor of the boat. My feet are resting in a pool of blood. Slowly, I turn and look behind me. i see.... Me. I see me. I am sitting behind me; my throat cut from ear to ear, my head cocked back at ans obscene angle. and the front of my white shirt is soaked in blood. I want to scream,but like in the worst nightmares, my voice fails me and only a gasp comes out. At that moment, we hit the shore. I spin back towards Mr. Faraman. He is leaning towards me, baring his teeth in menace. His hand dangels near the butt of his fishing knife. He hisses a command.

"Now get out of my fucking boat!"

with mechanical motions, i obay. I stare at rocky soil beneath my feet. I lurch around like a robot, staring once more at the landscape that surrounds me. Everything has a dreamlike quality. It cannot be real; yet it is. I hear a splash behind me. i turn around and look as Mr.Faraman unceremoniously dumps my mortal body over the side of the boat. I gape as my own face, pale from the loss of blood and staring sightlessly towards me, slips beneath the cold blue water. I watch as Mr.Faraman begins poling his boat away from the shore, using an oar to push the hull away from the beach. When he starts the motor, something snaps inside of me. I am running, running as fast as my feet will carry me. I am not young, nor thin, nor athlectic, but i move with speed and agility, letting my fear propel me. I race uphill towards a protrusion of the shore. I remeber it. He must pass this way to navigate the passage through the pillars!  My breath is coming out in animal gasps; my heart is pounding as if it will explode. " funny how i am dead yet i have a heart and breath" pushing that thought aside as i reach the top of the promontory just in time. Mr. Faraman is passing underneath. Takeing a deep breath, Ileap towards the boat. Fear screams through my mind. I dare not touch the water! My body slams into the wooden boat, and for an instant i fear i will pass right through the bottom, causeing it to sink. The boat rocks madly, and Faraman leaps to his feet, clutching his oar like a weapon. I groan as i right myself. I am sure i have broken a rib. "What do you think you are doing!?" he demans of me, shouting. "You can;t leave me here!" i shout back in protest. He steps towards me, menacing me with the oar. I hold my position. "You have to take me back! I can pay you! if i pay you, you have to take me where i want, don't you?" It is a gamble, but it is all i have, and i pray i am right.

He replies in a malevolent hiss. "You can't pay me! You have no money!: Then i must be right. I remove my shoes, and turn them towards him, displaying the pennies imbedded in their insoles. That is the hidden reason for the superstition, I realize. Good luck, my ass. The pennies are there in case you die lost and alone, so you can pay the Ferryman. I am shaking with fear but i stand my ground. locking my gaze with his, It is a contest of wills, and i dare not give in. He finnaly resigns with a growl of frustration, and i know i have won. I sigh with relief. The last thing i see is the wide blade of the oar swinging towards my face.

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It is dark. I grow aware of a red pulsing light. Bright-dark. Bright-dark. Bright-dark Water laps softly against my body, splashing over my back. I hear voices. People are speaking, but i cannot make out what they are saying. Hands lift me and the water pours from my clothes. The hands set me down again. Straps are placed across my body, and i feel like i am floating. My eyelids flutter. Trees, I see trees. The sun is yellow, and it is high in a blue and cloudless sky. I hear seafulls, and see one float high overhead like an itinerant angel taking a joy ride on an errant breeze. I smeel the swamp-I recognize the place now; I am at the docks, where my journey began! I am on a stetcher, being carried toward an ambulance. The face of a young paramedic suddenly appears in my view. He speaks to me, but  but i can't quite make out the words. I hear a metallic rattle, and suddenly the stretcher converts to a gurney. We come to a stop just outside the ambulance doors, and somebody places a blanket on me. I grow more aware of my surroundings. There are several emergency vehicles parked about, doing...whatever it is they do. Suddenly a familar face looms over me. It is that of Sheriff Clayton Derlaroughe. He asks me how i feel. Hideous, I tell him. he flips an official looking notepad and leans against the ambulance door. "You're lucky to be alive," he tells me. I try to nod in agreement, but my head hurts too much. I notice it is heavily bandaged. "It looks like out Mr. Faraman hit you over the head, dumped you in the water, and took off in a boat . you're lucky he didn't cut your throat while he was at it." My throat!! Instantly i try to sit up, but the straps restrain me. My hand flies to my throat. i feel bandages there. Panic rises within me, and i start to hyperventilate... A hand reaches out and grasps my shoulder. "Whoa, take it easy, sir! settle down! You're all right!" It is the voice of the young paramedic. He has a smooth, southern drawl as he speaks. "Y'all got tangled up in some blackberry bushes along the shore there, thats all. Those are just scratches. We bandaged 'em up for you. You're going to be fine," he comforts me . I lay back down and slow my breathing. my movement knocked the blanket off, and the sheriff notices my feet  "Looks like he stole your shoes, as well," he says. "That's funny" he adds, "because he didn't take your wallet. I checked." "He was after the coins in my shoes," I reply. "Huh! Strange! Then they where pennyloafers, right?" He asks, making a note in in his book. "No but my next pair will be," I reply. The sheriff looks at me quizzicaly, then shakes his head. "So our guyhas a thing for coins. Never heard of a coin fetish before, but i guess anything is possible," he jokes. I am not amused. My mind is already elsewhere. I am looking at the sun. Sheriff, what time is it? how long have i been here?" I ask "Not much more then an hour. I was following you from the time you left the parking lot. Unfortunately, after you left town, ours where the  only two vehicles on the road. I didn't want Faraman to spot me, so i hung back. A little too far back, as it turned out. I missed it when you turned off towards the dock, and went down the wrong road. Eventualy i realized I'd lost you, and started backtracking. That's how i finnaly found you here, lying in the water."

Only an hour? How could that be? Of course. It all makes sence. There is aways a rational explanation for everything. Everything i thought i experienced was in my imagination. It was all a hallucination resulting from the blow to the head. While i was lying there, some part of me must have known i was near death. My fertile writer's imagination was already working overtime due to Mr. Faraman's odd apperance, wasn't it? His name; alias, actually must have pravoked memories of the poem from my youth, wakeing ancient nightmares from the depths of my subconscious mind. He stole my shoes, simply because his were worn out, and my mind filled in the other details. Then the berry bush tangled around my throat, completing the nightmare. As they load me into the ambulance, i burst out laughing in my relief. I am alive, sane, and the world is as it should be! Iwipe my hand across my bandaged brow in relife. My hand brushes down my face, wiping away sweat. as it dose it passes over my chin. I feel a full day's growth of beard. The ride to the hospital provides me with the opportunity to think. Ultimately, I do not know what i shall do. perhaps ill shall start attending church again, i am not sure. I know i eill start praying again. I feel the need to as i have not for many years. I will change my curriculum extensively. I think i will still write books, but they will be vary diffrent, I have a new message, now. I do not care if they become best sellers or not. I do know one thing for sure. There is no doubt about the vary first thing that i'm going to do when i get out of the hospital. As soon as the doctors release me, I'm getting change for this doctors bill!!

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                                                                                                       THE END
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