Topic: "Terre Bonne" (6)
Frodo has quite an imagination. He now imagines himself as an Indian Warrior, standing helplessly as smallpox ravages his tribe, accepting the inevitable. The analogy to a Hobbit peering upon the Gulf of Mexico, knowing that the petrochemical poisons come closer with every change of tide, weighs heavily on his mind.
The Indian Warrior is able to cradle a small head in his hands, and to offer some comfort to one who dies too young. Frodo watches the best of us as they clean the wings and cage the surviving innocents for transit to land unsullied.
The Indian Warrior will dance and pray to Manitou in a vain effort to halt the evil spirits that bring pestilence to those who committed no crime. Frodo sees the untiring effort of fishermen, soldiers, inmates, among us all who seek to clear the surface waters while prayers pass to the wind.
The Indian Warrior will long ignore the pustules that develop on his own body, but he, too, will succumb to the irritation upon his skin. His life's blood will soon ooze and fall in droplets beneath his feet. Frodo can almost smell the burnt aroma of the tar that gathers on the hazmat suits which cannot be washed away. It coats the land which was formed by the land, and carried to meet the tide beneath the feet of those labor in this spot.
Fresh in Frodo's memory is the tragedy that last struck the City of Orleans, when the suffering was greatest among those born of servitude and raised in the solace of their own. For now it is that those of pale complexion, who reside in lands closed to those from outside, must bear the weight of an end to life as they have known it. It is as if there is a balance therein, and scales level the catastrophe from one to another.
The Indian Warrior and the Hobbit are not alone. Others, before, have walked on this good earth, and surely, others will follow. It is Terrebonne Parish upon which the plague descends, the good earth.