by Jim Balzotti
He ran as an independent, which in itself had never been done successfully before, but he felt strongly he was an independent, and wanted to be the president for all the people.
He was swept into office with much hope and promise for change, garnering 72 percent of the popular vote, but quickly realized that the Congress and the Senate cared little about enacting policies and laws that would lead America to firmer ground and stability, but instead only cared for their own personal self-interests and petty grievances. Nero playing his fiddle while Rome burned. The massive debt threatened to destroy the country, but the lawmakers were unwilling to work together to prevent the stagecoach from plummeting off the cliff. Now it was too late.
The president sat back in his chair and ran his hand over his balding scalp. At the end of this day he thought he’d be lucky to have any hair left.
Fall 2028
Northern Maine
Matt opened the weathered, splintered brown door to his small, rustic wood cabin and stepped into the bright October sunshine. He put his arms behind his head to stretch and ease his cramped muscles in his back and shoulders. It’s true what they say he thought. It stinks to get old. Although it was still warm, even up here in northern Maine, he felt a chill shake him that made his bones rattle, so he pulled his old, well-worn grey cardigan sweater tighter around his large frame. Maine was basking in the unseasonable warmth of a late Indian summer, but Matt knew that frigid temperatures accompanied by heavy snowfall lay right around the corner. Just the thought of the impending cold caused him to shudder involuntarily. Matt silently admonished himself for being a procrastinator. He knew he had to seal the new cracks in the walls of his cabin before the snow fell, using a mixture of mud and pine needles covered with sap. The truth was, ever since he had that vision as a young boy, he never could get warm enough. Many, many years ago as a child, when his friends wore shorts and ran about bare-chested, he would always wear a light sweater and jeans whenever he went out to play. His mother, having lost Matt’s father to a heart attack while he was plowing the fields on the family farm, was not one to spend her limited income by running to a doctor every time Matt was sick or hurt. She just didn’t have the extra funds, period. Nevertheless, she grew concerned when Matt constantly complained of being cold, even asking for a blanket on the hottest summer nights. She considered the possibility that he might have a problem with his circulatory system, so she would reluctantly cover him with a down-filled comforter. His mother’s concern eventually turned to alarm when his complaints about feeling cold became persistent. He was surprised when she announced that they would be taking the long drive to Bangor. He vividly remembered driving down the coast to the hospital. His mom spent the day sitting in a hard pink plastic chair in the crowded waiting room, drinking acidic lukewarm coffee from the vending machines in the cafeteria while Matt underwent a series of tests. Finally the doctors came out and informed her that they could find nothing wrong with Matt, and suggested that quite possibly he would outgrow it. So home they went. He never did.
Matt picked up his fishing rod off the front porch; it was really nothing more than a sapling cut from a birch tree. He fastened a length of nylon string with a barbed hook attached to it and began to walk to the stream that meandered quietly beyond his cabin. He picked his way through the towering evergreens, mostly spruce and giant pines that were darker and a richer color green than the smaller leaf trees that struggled to get their share of the sun.
Above, a hawk soared around in lazy circles looking for prey, against an azure sky filled with billowy clouds gently pushing east. Matt stopped for a moment, watching the hawk and breathing in the sweet scent of the forest pines. He gave thanks to God for all the wondrous gifts He had given to mankind, and then contemplated the ingratitude of so many. Even before America was overthrown by China, we were using up our God-given natural resources at a breakneck speed. We built super fishing trawlers that depleted the oceans of fish faster than they could reproduce. When the second oil embargo was imposed by OPEC in 2018, we cut obscene cavernous pits in the earth to mine the black coal that lay beneath. The fracking was intensified. Natural gas companies drilled thousands and thousands of holes into the fragile ecosystem, filling them with a mixture of poisonous chemicals in order to release the natural gas that was buried below. The US government, reeling from large-scale protests as a result of the high cost of home heating fuel and gasoline, turned a blind eye toward this environmental nightmare. Congress went as far as scuttling the Clean Water Act passed years prior to stop this exact disaster from happening. Now, too late to correct the permanent damage done, vast tributaries of underground water which once ran sweet and clear were polluted to such a point they were unfit to drink. That, of course, spiked a run on clean water, a condition exploited by major corporations buying and controlling the remaining supply. The corporations first pollute the water supply and subsequently take over what was remaining of the clean water and sell it to the public, who had no choice but to buy it at a usurious rate. He would smile at the irony if it wasn’t so excruciatingly painful. Of course, now China controlled all of America’s natural resources, diminished as they were. So it was a moot point.
Matt walked along the broken shoreline and picked his way through the fallen branches and massive boulders strewn about to reach an ancient sunken pine tree, lying half in and half out of the water. This was his favorite fishing spot. He knew from growing up in Maine and fishing with his dad that fat speckled rainbow trout like to hide beneath the surface and pounce on any juicy bugs that might fall from the overhanging tree limbs into their domain.
While Matt put a fresh earthworm, twisting and turning, on his hook, he watched three painted box turtles, their shells dark and smooth with a faint orange stripe sunning themselves on a nearby rock. Green dragonflies, slender and elegant, lifted off effortlessly from a nearby lily pad. It was always here, being surrounded by the ever-present beauty and wonder of nature, that Matt felt closest to God. Somehow, being in a church, no matter how ornate it was or how melodious the pipe organ played, could not compare to the natural sounds God gave to His world. The songs of the sparrows, the wind whistling through the trees, even the croaking melody of the frogs—it made sense to him. After all, isn’t it true that man made the churches but God created the entire world?
Matt turned his face toward the sun, feeling its warmth. He tossed his line along the submerged tree where the summer insects were gathering and buzzing about. The water immediately exploded as a big trout took the worm in its mouth and then tried to dive under the submerged log for safety. Matt expertly allowed the trout to partially swallow the worm before he raised the tip of his pole, setting the hook firmly in its mouth. He coaxed it away from the log, and in one swift motion leaned down and firmly grasped the slippery fish in his hand. He deftly removed the hook and placed his catch in a brown wicker basket attached to his hip, a gift his father had given to him on his eighth birthday. The basket remained one of his most cherished possessions. He thought back to that day, which seemed so long ago, smiling inwardly at the coincidence that today would have marked the opening of fishing season in Maine, a special day he had once looked forward to sharing with his dad. Matt remembered how excited he was to climb into that old red truck and finally be able to go to his dad’s favorite fishing hole. He pictured his mother handing them a picnic lunch as Matt and his dad got into the family vehicle, a red four-wheel-drive Ford 150. A pickup truck was almost a necessity if you were going to live in northern Maine, with its tough winters and the mud season that followed. The F-150 was pushing nearly 200,000 miles. When Matt’s mom said they should start thinking about buying a new truck, Matt’s dad laughed and said it was just getting broken in.
Matt vividly recalled pulling out of the dirt driveway, giving a wave to his mom while changing the radio station from the Christian pop that his father favored to a new rock ‘n’ roll station out of Bangor. His father just shook his head with amusement.
On th
at day, his eighth birthday, Matt remembered the signpost peppered with bullet holes that marked the turnoff from the interstate in order to head west on Route 11 through the town of Medway. It was the last town they would pass before the asphalt road would turn to hard packed brown gravel. They were headed north into a remote region of the Allagash Wilderness, a place where no one lived and few people ever visited. A number of years ago companies mined quartz there, but that market dried up in the 1930s, and the area reverted back to a complete wilderness state. It was even too remote for most of the people who were native to Maine. There were no fire or police services, few roads, and instead of town names, there were only faded township numbers painted on a thin, white vertical post sticking out of the ground by the side of the road to indicate your location. Definitely not an area in which to break down or suffer a heart attack. Lacking cell towers, phoning for help in the event of an emergency would be impossible.
They drove slower down the dusty dirt road, hearing the small pebbles bouncing off the sides of the truck, for almost another twenty miles before they pulled into a cutoff in the forest which was almost invisible. Pine branches scraped the doors and windows as the truck meandered right and left, going further down the narrow path until they came to a break in the trees. Matt quickly unbuckled his seat belt and ran around to the bed of the pickup where the fishing rods were stored. He placed his dad’s rod against the side of the truck. Unable to control his excitement, he yelled, “I’ll meet you there, dad!” and bolted down the path to the lake. His dad smiled and collected his rod and picnic basket as the smell of his wife’s honey fried chicken and buttermilk biscuits made him think of things other than fishing.
He walked down the pathway to the lake just in time to watch Matt bait his hook and cast his line into the still water. His own dad, Matt’s grandfather, had found this hidden cove on Rainbow Lake when he was just a boy. It became a family secret. It was too far and too difficult to get to for most people. The city slickers would not want to get their shiny new pickups or station wagons scratched up on the branches driving through the trees, and the other locals had their own secret fishing holes.
By the time he put the wicker lunch basket on a branch, out of the reach of ants, and baited his line, Matt was squealing with excitement as his rod bent downward under the weight of the fish now on his hook. Although only eight, Matt was already becoming quite the outdoorsman. He could fish, hunt, start a fire, and build a shelter from the elements if need be. He was his father’s son, he thought proudly. Whenever he finished his chores, you could find him exploring in the nearby woods that surrounded the farm. While his father watched, Matt slowly waded into the water, knowing that a quick jerk of the line would usually mean the loss of his prize. He reached down and, using his net, landed a very respectable two-pound brown brook trout. Once safely back on the shore, he held the fish high for his dad to see. With a smile stretching across the lake, Matt christened his new birthday wicker basket by placing his catch in it.
After fishing for two hours, having caught their limit of three trout each, they broke for lunch before heading home. Father and son shared the contents of the picnic basket, eating all the fried chicken and biscuits between them. For dessert, his mom put two crisp apples picked from their own orchard. Matt, still excited over his fishing bounty, bit lustily into the apple, juice spurting down his chin. His dad laughed, wiping Matt’s chin with a paper napkin, remembering how his dad did this very same thing for him.
“Son, look around you. God gives us everything we could possibly want. The woods are filled with game to hunt, the streams and lakes teeming with fish to catch, meadows covered with blueberry bushes, fresh water to drink, and firewood to keep us warm. God has given us everything we could possibly need to sustain us, and even gives us the song of the bluebird to serenade us, and all He asks is that we remain faithful and be good stewards of His domain. He gives us simple rules in His Holy Book and words to live by.”
Now an adult, Matt had never forgotten those words—although he thought, sadly, the world surely had.
He remembered that fishing trip with his dad, oh so long ago, and the vision he had that day. They had just finished their picnic lunch. The sun was high overhead, and it was hot. His dad had stretched out on the ground, tipped his hat over his face, and told Matt he was going to rest his eyes for a bit. Matt knew what that meant—his dad would no doubt be snoring like a black bear in hibernation in no time. So Matt decided to hike along the lake and do some exploring. Before long he was getting pretty hot, so he decided he’d cool off and go swimming. His father really didn’t like him swimming so close to eating a meal, myth or not, but the still water beckoned to him, so he stripped down to his underwear and dived into the cool, blue-green water. He swam around a bit, seeing how far he could go underwater while holding his breath. When he got bored, he walked out of the water onto the shore, sat down, and began to pull on his shorts.
To this day, Matt can’t explain what happened next. He heard a voice, but it came from no singular direction. Although at first he couldn’t understand what it was saying, he eventually recognized his name. He was hearing “Matthew,” something his mother called him when she was really, really angry at him. He sat quietly, and the area immediately surrounding him grew bright with a shimmering white light that was so intense, so blinding, that it should have been hot, but it wasn’t.
The voice called out his name again, and he became very still. His body, rather than becoming tense with the fear of the unknown, became very relaxed, as if he went into a hypnotic state.
Matthew, you have been chosen to lead My people to safety upon the day I return. You must remember this place, for it is holy, and it is here you will lead My flock. When the time of the Apocalypse is near, I will give you a sign—the Son of Man will appear in the heavens and upon your body, and you will know as it is written, so shall it come to pass. And all of the tribes of the Earth will see the Son of Man and shall tremble as with great power He will cleanse the Earth of its wickedness.
Matt could hear the voice in his head, but it was unlike any sound he had heard before. The sound was soft but clear. It penetrated his consciousness but originated from within. A spiritual presence, wonderful and joyous, filled his body. He sat quietly listening, but at that moment became aware that while the voice was speaking to him, all other sounds of the woods had ceased. Everything became very still. Once the voice stopped, he could hear the sounds of a nearby brook babbling as it made its way into the lake, as well as all the other myriad sounds of the forest. He watched a gaggle of geese pass overhead, silhouetted against the cloudless blue sky. A summer rain appeared magically, sprinkling tiny drops over the petals of the wildflowers, and just as suddenly stopped, leaving the forest fresh and renewed.
At the time of the vision, Matt was overwhelmed with a terrible sense of futility, and at first sensed he was on the brink of death. His whole body ached with an inner cold that would plague him for many years. That feeling gave way to one of crystal clarity, a revelation and a deep understanding that God wanted him to be strong, and that He had a purpose for him.
Matt always attended church regularly with his parents. After Mass ended he enjoyed playing with the other kids and eating his fill of the fresh homemade pies and cakes the other mothers brought.
At home at night, either his mom or dad would read a verse from the Bible aloud. His dad would caution Matt that to want material things was perfectly normal, but to be careful of the trap that worldly goods, if you let them, will come to possess you. Some folks, he explained, try to use material objects in order to fill the emptiness in their lives, but only God can bring us contentment and fulfillment. Before putting him to bed, Matt’s parents always made sure he said his prayers and thanked God for all His blessings. When Matt and his family attended Mass on Sunday mornings, Father O’Mallory, the parish priest, spoke with his fiery Irish passion of God’s hand and the many miracles He created. So Matt believed in the greatness of God
and knew that somehow this day God had spoken to him and this moment was meant to be a preparation for something—for what, Matt didn’t know. What he did know was that he had felt God’s presence and gained a serenity far beyond his young years.
Mindlessly, still in a trancelike state, he slowly finished putting on his clothes, even pulling his jersey over his head as he suddenly felt the day lose its warmth, even though the sun was still in its midday position. It was a chill that would remain in his body throughout all his adult life.
He walked back to find his dad snoring on the bed of pine needles, exactly where he’d left him. He gently shook him awake and walked down to the water’s edge to retrieve the trout they had caught, now in the wicker basket keeping cool in the shallow water. Normally a little chatterbox, Matt quietly packed up the fishing rods, picnic basket, and trash, leaving only their footprints in the dirt when they left. On the ride home, he thought it best not to share what had happened to him at the lake, and if his father sensed anything was amiss, he never mentioned it. Matt knew he’d experienced a miracle, just like the kind Father O’Mallory talked about in church that happened to everyday folk like him, but Matt needed to think on it for a while before speaking about it to anyone.
A sharp tug on his fishing line brought Matt’s daydreaming mind firmly back into the present. He could see a second trout had taken the bait and was trying to avoid his fate. The fish dived for the submerged log and was able to wrap the fishing line around a thick branch, snapping it. Darn, Matt thought. A great loneliness washed over him. He suddenly felt weak and lightheaded. His chest tightened into a steel band, and his breath became shallow, so he sat down against a large pine tree, putting his back and head against it. Somewhere off in the distance he could hear a coyote howl, echoing through the trees and off the mountainside. Matt peered down into the lake and watched a stream of bubbles rise to the surface, then break apart, each bubble reminiscent of his fleeting memories, not all pleasant, some cutting deep and painfully.