Do I terrify you?

Do I disgust, horrify you? Do you realize what you see? No, you do not.

You have discovered my secret, seen what should not have been seen. You do not understand it. Not unless I explain it; it will remain a vexing enigma to you.

I offer a trade for your silence – I shall explain my … affliction, you could say.

Perhaps I have desired to speak of what happened; perhaps I revealed my secret subconsciously. For what could you do to me? Who could you tell of what you have seen? Who would believe you?

It defies logic, it defies the natural order. It intrigues you, I know it does, admit it.

Sit, remain quiet and I shall tell you how it came to be …

Years ago, I was a freelance journalist. I traveled the world, always looking for the story that would get me my Pulitzer, my Holy Grail. With that, I would obtain the glory and fame I craved.

Look you, over on that shelf. Yes, I gained my Pulitzers. See that they have gathered dust. It is interesting how one’s priorities can change; what was before treasured now becomes meaningless, empty, void.

No matter. That is only one part of my story. My journalism drew me to the Amazon rainforest, the rampant destruction to produce more farmland. At the time, I had no personal interest in environmentalism. You are surprised, knowing of me as you do? As I said, things change, priorities shift.

What I did know was that the environmentalism craze was popular – but popular among journalists as well, cashing in on the latest fad. What I needed was something the others could not provide. I took foolish risks that my peers dared not; at the time I sneered at their lack of dedication to the story, their cautious reticence. For myself, there was only the story, a burning need that required quenching.

I went deep into the jungles, lead by native guides through to the hidden beauties of the Amazon. I took pictures of such things as well as the tribal communities sequestered within the emerald jungle. My story would be an inspiring entreaty to the world to stop the destruction of these simple tribes, these natural wonders.

You know I succeeded. You have probably read that article; if not, you know of it. You probably know I obtained my first Pulitzer for it and with that, worldwide acclaim.

None know, except you, soon enough, what price I paid for that story. Ahh, you look at the secret you discovered and connect the dots? Yes, you see more of the greater picture, but not the whole of it.

I was careless, one jungle hike. Perhaps the rope was not properly secured, perhaps the ever-present humidity rotted and weakened the fibres but I slept and fell into the gorge below. My luck had finally run out, I landed on the rusting wreck of a jeep; the shattered metal tore into my side with the impact. Collapsing into the water next to the jeep I yelled for help from my guides, dully watching my blood mingle with the algae-green liquid.

The fall had hurt, but the open wound was my Sword of Damocles, my impending doom. In a jungle environment, the land is rife with life, including all forms of microbiologicals like diseases, viruses and parasites, air-borne and water-borne. In the middle of the Amazon, there was no way I could receive medical attention for my injuries in time. Even as my guides attempted to staunch the bleeding, the infection would kill me far quicker.

I cursed, I pleaded, I cajoled, I threatened; my guides consulted with each other and the one that spoke the best English approached me.

“What will give for life?” he asked.

“Anything!” I said, because I had they could loot from my corpse in any case.

He looked deeply into my eyes and I knew then he wasn’t talking about any Earthly currency. Was he asking me for my soul? I do not know, perhaps later I will find out, perhaps soon enough.

“Anything.” I croaked again and that was good enough for them. The four of them lifted me on my cobbled-together stretcher and marched off deeper into the jungle, not following any path I could discern. They were none too gentle with me, sacrificing care for speed; I could my blood seeping out again from my makeshift bandages.

My four guides-cum-paramedics stopped when they heard a great hissing from all around. At first I thought they were trying to dodge one of the many snakes that call the Amazon home. Out of the undergrowth squirmed two tall, whip-thin creatures, covered in golden-yellow scales.

Yes, you have connected another piece of the puzzle; scales just like the ones you saw on my body, my secret exposed.

My guides passed my litter to the serpent-people and showing a strength belying their slender frames, two easily carried me. They carried me through a very primitive settlement populated with more of their kind, their flat reptile eyes noticing but not reacting to my presence.

In the centre of the settlement was a raised mound of earth with many holes bored into its surface, where my scaled bearers dropped me roughly. I cried out and then screamed as one of the serpent-people ripped off my crude bandage. I could feel my blood spurt out again and the wound was already black, the skin around it dead-looking and grey. As I feared, infection had already taken a hold of me. With the bandage removed, perhaps exsanguination would kill me first.

Perhaps attracted by my cries, a small golden yellow snake slithered out from one of the holes in the mound. Its forked tongue tasted the air and it approached me. In a flash of motion the snake darted to my side; even through the burning infection and the growing deadness in my flesh I could feel its tiny fangs strike home.

Did my native guides hand me over to the serpent-people for euthanasia? A quick death by poison instead of a drawn-out and lingering death from disease?

But no, as the poison flooded my system, the fire of the infection died, the fever relenting; there was a crisp cool that spread across my body, the chill of a fine winter morning.

The little snake languidly slid back into its mound and I put my hand to my side, my wound was healed – but there was something different there now. Looking down, where my wound had been, the area was covered in tiny golden-yellow scales.

I hadn’t noticed in my delirium but many of the serpent-people had gathered around to witness the little snake’s performance. I felt that I had been the focus of something reverential, something sacred and holy to the scaled ones. This little snake wasn’t some pet of theirs, it was their god. It had given me a miracle, the gift of new life.

The Bible mentions that the Israelites looked upon a “serpent of brass” that cured their ills. Was this that brazen serpent written of in that book? Was there more than one? What was the chance of me being near it when I had been so grievously injured?

Who knows how many brazen serpents were hiding in the jungle, protected by their serpent-people guardians?

I left the settlements and rejoined my guides with a little encouragement and direction from some serpent-people. The natives greeted me with whoops and the one guide who had offered me my life back raised a brow – I lifted my blood-soaked shirt and showed him my scaled flesh. He smiled, pulled up one leg of his ragged shorts to show a similar patch of brazen scales. Putting a finger to his lips, he gestured for me to continue our hike.

You can be assured that from then on, I was very careful to check the ropes.

I shared out almost all my money with my four guides; their actions had saved my life. Perhaps even given me new life for now the Amazon rainforest meant something more to me than just a good story. With my remaining money I got back to the closest airport, furiously rewriting my story from a new, impassioned perspective; ultimately more personal than my prior emotionally manipulative piece.

By the time I returned home, I had my story. The magazines and newspapers could not disguise their hunger for it, the black hearts of the big editors were not moved by it but they knew their readers’ hearts would be. I sold it and resold it and resold it – the money and the fame didn’t even matter any more – it was the message that counted.

I continued to write more and more towards protecting the rainforests, I became quite the activist and the media moguls loved it when I tore into the greedy corporations and laid their operations bare. The media can be likened to carrion-birds or vultures, delighted to pick over and strip the flesh off the stricken carcass of ailing corporations. Anything for a story, anything to sell more newspapers and magazines!

Yes, that is where the other Pulitzers came from. Those little neglected trophies. How I despise journalism now; the public has begged me to write more articles but I have not.

Do you know, the patch of scales has grown over the years? When I was hurt, it was only a small patch; as you have personally have seen, it now has covered most of my abdomen. I am changing, I have strange dreams; sometimes I dream of the Amazon, sometimes I dream of the little snake, the brazen serpent looking deep into me, calling me back to the jungle.

I think I shall return to the Amazon, I have done all I can here in the Western world. Something tells me you will not keep my secret, something tells me you will expose the mystery of the brazen serpent to the world. No one will believe you without proof.

Perhaps this is what I needed, to return, to shed the shackles of my material life and embrace my destiny. For, you see, I have divined the price I must pay, the scales will continue to spread, the gift of the brazen serpent; eventually I shall transform into one of the scaled ones to guard my little master until the end of my days.

Thank you for listening, I take my leave of you. Do as you wish with this knowledge. No one will ever believe you.

Goodbye.