The Innocent

The Innocent



Life has a design, though sometimes it is hard to understand. If you consider that God is an author, and the world is the biggest novel ever written, then you realize that we are nothing more than supporting characters in one of billions of sub-plots.

My little Charlie was one of those stories: a boy of seven who sported thick blond hair cut and shaped into a bowl and carried the charming, cherubic features of only the young and innocent. I’d always thought that he was different from most boys his age, but it wasn’t until after his mother had died that I really began to see how different he was.

Charlie was close to his mother, woven together as tight as a tapestry. Their daily lives were filled with laughter, games, and never-ending stories of how things would be wonderful later on in life. Unfortunately, most of my time was spent away from home. I worked long hours, came home late, and then was off again by early morning. The company owned me, but my family benefited from the toils of my labor.

The accident occurred on April 12th when Joan and I were driving home from a dinner engagement with a potential client. A white van appeared out of nowhere, ran the red light, and broad-sided the passenger side of our car. My wife was killed instantly, yet I walked away from the crash with only a few minor scratches.

It was just one of those things, one of those stories you hear about but never quite believe it could happen to you. I tried my best to be strong when it did, because I had Charlie to think of. So swallowing my sorrow, I pushed Joan’s death into a deep pocket of my mind and tried to deal with it. But I soon discovered the seams of that pocket were easily unraveled, and I found myself more often than not staring off at nothing as if it were a question.

I remember when I first told Charlie what had happened. He looked at me as though I were lying. Then as it began to sink in, he made a cup of his hands poured his face into it, and sobbed. When I tried to console him he suddenly jumped up and ran to his room, slamming the door.

I was devastated by the loss of my wife, but I knew I was also failing my son as a father. Joan had always been the glue that held us together, and now we were falling to pieces. Regrettably, we were losing all the good pieces: the ones that believed God would never take away the only good thing we ever loved. Because when that was gone, there was nothing left but the bad.

When I tried to reach out to Charlie, and make contact, he would just pull away from me. “How could you let this happen?” he asked with an accusing stare. “You were supposed to protect us. That’s what your job should have been. It’s not fair!”

“I know it doesn’t make sense, son. It’s just one of those things. It’s not my fault.”

“Yes, it is! You let Mom die. It’s all your fault!”

“Please, Charlie, you’ve got to understand. We're still a family, we’ve still got each other. We can get through this.”

He looked at me with so much hate I thought that he was possessed. “Why couldn’t it have been you? Why Mom? Why didn’t you die?”

I was stunned. “Because Charlie, that’s not the way God, planned it.”

“Then I hate God. And I hate you!”

After that, Charlie just took to staying in his room. Day and night, he played video games: ‘shoot-em-ups’, the bloodier the better.

I knew I needed help. I was losing my boy.

“It is normal for a child to be moody or sad on occasion, Jack,” the psychiatrist told me. “And you are right to be concerned about Charlie's reaction to the death of his mother. But while there is no way to predict how he will react, or how this loss will affect him later, there are still factors that may increase the likelihood of him experiencing severe depression for many years.”

“I understand, Doctor Grant,” I said. “But I think it’s more than that. The boy has a genuine hatred for me. He blames me for what happened, says it was all my fault.”

“Might I suggest,” Grant said, “that you and Charlie get out of the house for a while. Take a long vacation together, someplace secluded, where there are no other influences in his life but you.”

“Well, I’ve always wanted to take him on a fishing trip,” I said. “You can’t get any more secluded than that.”

“I think that’s an excellent idea. Keep him occupied. Teach him about the wilderness, that kind of thing. Bond with your boy and become his best friend.”

“All right, Doc, I’ll try.”

Charlie and I drove most of that day through the High Sierras, stopping only for fast food, gas, and a rest stop now and then. When we finally arrived at Lake Mist the sun was setting in a blood-red sky. I drove around the lake looking for a good place to camp.

“You’ve passed all the campgrounds, Dad. Where do you think we’re going?”

“Someplace where we can’t be bothered by other campers,” I said. “Someplace secluded.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw an old four-wheel drive trail to the right of the highway. A rotting wood sign that read, NO TRESPASSING, blocked the entrance.

I stopped, hesitated for a moment, and then dropped the jeep into four-wheel drive and turned off the road. The sign was knocked over and crushed beneath the jeep’s tires.

“Uh, Dad, can’t you read?”

“That sign’s been there for ages. I’m sure no one lives around here anymore. It’s a public lake.”

“Gee, Dad, you’re a real roll-model.”

We followed the trail for another mile or so down toward the lake, and then I spotted a clearing pulled in under a large pine tree and stopped.

“This’ll do just fine,” I said. The lake was maybe fifty yards away. “Perfect.”

I unloaded the jeep as Charlie played on his hand-held Nintendo he brought with him. I pitched the tent, laid out the sleeping bags, and then gathered firewood for the coming night. Finally, I dug out a pit, surrounded it with large stones, and built the fire.

As I performed each task, I explained to Charlie why it was done that way, but he didn’t seem to care. He did show interest in the chipmunks, however, so I showed him how to coax them up close with a few salted peanuts. It wasn’t long before he had them eating out of his hand, which made him laugh. It was something I hadn’t heard in a while, and I thought that perhaps Dr. Grant’s idea was going to work after all. We were going to make it.

By the time nightfall hit we had eaten and were sitting around a cozy campfire while I explained the finer points of fishing.

“The fishing is best early in the morning,” I said. “So we’ll get up at the crack of dawn and see how our luck holds.”

“Great,” he said sarcastically. “I can hardly wait.”

“There ain’t nothing like fresh trout for breakfast. It’ll be great.”

“I hate the taste of fish,” he said.

“The mountain air will give you an appetite, you’ll see.”

In the dark, just outside of the firelight, something rustled through the bushes.

Charlie’s eyes got big. “What’s that?” he asked.

“Probably a small animal,” I said as I threw another log onto the fire for more light. “It could be a raccoon, or maybe even a deer coming down to drink at the lake.”

The snap of a dead branch turned me around in time to see a shadowed figure coming out of the darkness toward our campfire.

“Who’s there?” I shouted out even as I stood.

“Well, well, well,” said a graveled old voice, “just looky here, Bandit. We got's us some trespassers.”

A short man, about the size of a dwarf, came forward into the light of the fire. He wore a black cowboy hat with a band of silver metal around it that flickered with firelight. His long dreadlocks were matted and silver-white; his clothes were dirty, tattered, and thickly layered. He carried a walking stick in his right hand that stood taller than he was and appeared to have intricate carvings running up and down its length. He wore an unkempt beard with what looked like the bones of small animals entwined within it, and his skin was the color and texture of a raisin.

People just didn’t walk up on you at night in the middle of the woods without flashing a light or giving a holler of warning. This man had done neither, and I didn’t like that. As he approached, I instinctively found myself looking around for something I could use as a weapon.

“What duya want?” I asked suspiciously, my words being my only defense.

“Well, I might ask you the same thing, man, being that yer camping on my property.”

“You own this lake?”

“No, man, only this land where you standing.”

His eyes shot a glance at Charlie then and lit with pleasure. Ignoring me entirely, he pushed right passed and walked over to my son.

“Well, looky here, Bandit, look at what has come to see old Toby. Now ain’t life just full of sweet surprises?”

“Who’s Bandit?” Charlie asked, immediately taking a liking to the little old man.

“Why Bandit’s my bestest friend ever, fer sure.”

He pursed his lips and made a short whistling sound that brought a big old raccoon from behind the log that Charlie was sitting on. The creature climbed up on the log sat down on its back haunches and made a chitterling kind of sound.

“This here’s, Bandit, me only friend,” the old man said. “Now don’t be rude, you black-eyed critter, say hello to the nice folks here.”

The raccoon held out its little forepaw to Charlie as if it wanted to shake hands. Charlie carefully obliged. “Wow, a pet raccoon. How cool is that?”

“My name’s Tobias,” the man said cheerfully. “But people ‘round here just calls me, Toby.” He also proffered a small gnarled hand. Charlie didn’t hesitate, and reached out and grabbed it. They shook like old friends.

“Usually, when a man gives his name, it’s polite to do likewise.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “Charlie’s my name, Charlie Sowel.”

“Oh, no need for last names here,” Toby said. “Last names are filled with all kinds of ancestral power . . . the power of those that came here before ya.”

“My name’s, Jack,” I said sternly. “What can we do for you . . . Toby?”

“Do? Nothing I suppose, unless you deliberately ignored the NO TRESPASSING sign back out on the highway there. However, when I took a look, it did appear as if someone had run it flat down. So maybe you didn’t see it at all.” Toby reeked of unwholesome things: body odor, whiskey, cigarette smoke, and gum disease. He spoke with a kindly and happy expression, but it was so utterly unrelated to the mischief I saw in his eyes that the smile might as well have been painted on his face. Toby was a phony, a bum. I could spot them a mile away, and I wanted this one the hell out of my camp.

“I didn’t see any sign,” I lied and then saw Charlie give me a disgusted frown.

“No sign, huh?” An ironic laugh bubbled from Toby like gas from a swamp. “Well, I guess it’s just one of those cursed days that makes a man believe in bad mojo and the evil eye.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

“It means you owe me a big favor, man. I tell you this, I will let you and the boy stay here a few days, but when I come to ask you a favor in return, you will grant it, deal?”

I didn’t like the proposition, but disliked having to break camp and move to another location even more. “All right, then,” I said, “a favor for a favor.” I stuck out my hand to shake on it.

Toby spit in his palm and firmly clasped my hand. “We have a bargain then, mon,” he said, smiling an ugly grin filled with rotting teeth. “Come, Bandit, it is late, and we are all done fishing for now.” Then he walked out of the camp as quickly as he had come and disappeared into the night.

I didn’t grasp the meaning of what he had said, but was glad to see him go.

“Weird, huh?” I told Charlie.

“He seemed nice enough for an old man, plus he had a pet raccoon.”

“Filthy animals, full of fleas and rabies.” I realized then I could have been talking about either Toby or Bandit. They both fit the bill. “Come on, let’s go to bed.”

The next morning I roused Charlie for fishing.

“All right,” I said, “let’s go catch us a mess of fish.”

“Can I just watch?” Charlie asked. “I don’t feel much like fishing.”

“But you’ve never done it before. Besides, as soon as you feel that trout tugging on your line you’ll be hooked just like I was at your age.”

“I doubt it.”

“Come on, at least give it a try, sport. I’m sure your mom would have wanted you to.”

I tried to ruffle up his hair, but he pulled away from me scowling. “Why’d you bring her up? Are you going to do that every time I don’t do what you want?”

“No, of course not, Charlie. I didn’t mean it like that.”

He turned and walked away toward the lake. “Let’s just get this over with.”

The lake was a deep, blue-green, so clear you could see all the way to the bottom. As Charlie and I looked into it a large school of trout swam right by us.

“Look at that, Charlie. You see ‘em? There must be two dozen of them, and their all looking for food.”

As I hooked up our rigs, I showed Charlie how to put on a worm.

“Eww,” he said. “That’s gross.”

“It’s all part of the fun,” I said.

I cast his line out for him, sat him down on a big boulder, and then handed him the rod.

“When the bobber goes under the water, you got a fish on,” I explained. “Then you just turn the crank and reel him in, got it?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” he said.

“Good, I’m going to walk up and down the shoreline casting a lure. Maybe I can coax one to hit it. You just keep an eye on that bobber, and shout out when it goes under.”

“Sure, Dad, whatever.”

I started chucking and winding, working my way down the bank. It felt good to be away from my desk and out in the open fishing again. I forgot how much fun it was. I realized then I should have made this trip with Charlie years ago.

“Well, looky here. If’n it isn’t, young Charlie Sowel.”

Charlie spun around. “Hey, Toby, whatcha doing?”

“Well, I thought I’d come round and see how my new friends were doing.”

Charlie looked behind him. “Where’s Bandit?”

“Oh, he be a kind of night owl, Charlie. He’s a’sleeping back at the cabin the lazy thing. Where’s your Papa?”

“Fishing down that way somewhere.”

“You caught anything yet, boy?”

“Naw, I’m just sitting here waiting around.”

“Well, maybe ol’ Toby fix that for you then.” He bent down close to the water and then mumbled something into the lake. “That should do it, for sure.”

Just as he said it, Charlie’s bobber disappeared beneath the water and his line went tight.

“Holy smokes, something’s on there,” Charlie said, watching his fishing rod bend in half.

“Hold on then, Charlie,” said Toby. “You got a monster fish on the other end of that line. You better start a’reeling him in, mon.”

Charlie tried to turn the crank, but the fish kept stripping out more line. “What’ll I do? What’ll I do?”

“Get down there by the water, boy, and pull hard.”

Charlie worked his way off the boulder and down to the water’s edge. His tennis shoes were already stepping into the lake.

“Hang on, Charlie! Don’t let ‘im get away.”

Toby looked up and down the shoreline, but didn’t see anybody around. With the tip of his walking stick, he pushed Charlie into the lake.

The fish jumped clear of the water just as Charlie fell in.

The lake was deep and icy cold. Charlie floundered awhile in it before he got his bearings, and then started to dog-paddle toward the shore. Toby stood there, waiting.

As Charlie got close, Toby pushed him under with his walking stick and back out toward deeper water. The boy began to swallow water and his lips turned blue. Toby had to only push him one more time before Charlie stopped his feeble attempt at swimming and floated facedown on top of the water.

I had just landed my first trout. As I unhooked him I spun around to yell for Charlie and ran smack-dab into ol’ Toby.

“I’m thinking your boy Charlie needs ya, mon.”

A sudden fear gripped my guts like a ball of ice. “What? What have you done, where’s Charlie?”

“Yer boy needs you now, Jack.”

I dropped everything and ran.

As I came around the corner of the shoreline I didn’t see Charlie on the boulder where I had left him. “Charlie? Charlie!”

I knew Charlie was in the water. I didn’t know how I knew, I just knew.

Three feet from shore, I saw him floating on top of the water. I ran into the lake, and felt the chilling cold. In water, waist deep, I pulled my boy out of the lake.

Charlie’s skin looked blue. I set him gently on the ground and tried to give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

“That’ll duya no good, Jack. We need to get him up to my cabin. There I can help him, mon.”

“I screamed, “Get away from me you old coot! He’s my son!”

I rubbed Charlie’s body, and tried to wake him up.

“Listen to me, Jack. I can save yer boy, but we must hurry.”

“No! You’re crazy. Get away!”

Toby bent down and grabbed me by my arm. “There’s no other way, mon. Quickly now, before it’s too late. Pick up yer boy and follow me.”

I don’t know why I listened. I was desperate, but something told me I had no other choice. I scooped Charlie into my arms, and followed Toby through the woods and away from the lake.

We followed an invisible trail, and climbed a steep hill until we came to a shanty built partially within the side of a mountain. The whole time I was talking to Charlie, telling him not to die. Telling him how much I loved him.

Toby burst through the door and led the way to a dirty old cot next to a rock fireplace.

“Lay him here, strip off his wet clothes, and get the fire going. I must prepare myself.” Then he left the room.

I laid Charlie on the bed. His color was the same and he still wasn’t breathing. “Heat,” I told myself. I covered him in wool blanket and then built up a fire just as Toby came back into the room.

“Stand aside,” he said and pushed the tip of his walking stick into the fireplace. The fire roared a deep blue and then turned a bright orange. The warmth was blessed.

Toby stood dressed in a purple robe adorned with astrological symbols and ancient runes.

“I have to ask ya that favor now, Jack. The favor for a favor we agreed upon.”

“What are you talking about? Can’t you see my boy is dying? Just save him.”

“We made a pact.”

“For Christ's sake, what do you want from me?”

“I don’t want anything from you except the child. I want Charlie.”

Although not a dwarf, Toby was deformed in mind and spirit, which caused me to think of Rumpelstiltskin, who’d come to collect his end of the bargain.

“Yes, yes, whatever. Just save my boy!”

“You fret too much,” he said smiling. “Too much worry only makes the most-feared thing come true. Charlie is fine. The water is cold here, and he is only sleeping.”

“Sleeping? He’s not even breathing, you dumb sonofabitch!”

On his motionless face, tension stressed the shape of Toby’s mouth. His eyes shone like those of an animal. “Do you want to see your boy dead, mangled, his eyes torn out, his lips eaten off, his fingers bitten to the bone? Remember Jack, we have a deal and only I can save him.”

“Just do it, goddamnit. Do it!”

Toby turned toward the bed, raised his walking stick, and started chanting in a strange tongue. Then he began to sing softly. The melody was pure, and compelling, and he carried it well. The lines he sang were lilting, rhythmic chains of nonsensical words that were a mixture of French, English, Swahili, partly Jamaican, partly Haitian, and partly an African ju-ju chant. For over an hour, he sang while the wind howled outside, and then he looked down at Charlie.

The boy was breathing.

I was beside myself with joy. I rushed in a cradled Charlie’s head in the crook of my arm. “Charlie? Can you hear me, son? Charlie?”

His eyes fluttered and then opened. “Dad? Dad, I don’t feel so good. Can we go home now?”

I couldn’t stop the tears. I cried like a baby. “Sure, Charlie, we can go home now.”

“The boy is mine,” Toby said from behind me. “You may go, but he will stay with me.”

I slowly turned toward him, anger creeping in every part of my body. “Are you serious? You would try and take my son from me?”

“I brought him back. He would be dead if it hadn’t been for me.”

“Dad? It was Toby. Toby pushed me into the lake.”

At that moment I saw red. From a kneeling position by the side of the bed, I launched myself at Toby with all the force of a protective grizzly.

But he was ready for me and brought the flat of his walking stick across my back. The blow stole my breath away and dropped me to the dirt floor of the cabin squirming like a snake.

“I figured it would come to this. Now, Jack, you must die.” He lifted his staff for another blow.

“Toby, no,” Charlie coughed. “Please, don’t. I’ll . . . I’ll stay. Just don’t hurt my Dad.”

Toby lowered his stick; a smile began to spread across his face. “You’ll stay with me? Willingly?”

“Yes,” Charlie answered.

Toby sighed heavily and lowered his guard

Beside me lay the fireplace poker. In one move, I swept up the shaft and thrust it upward as hard as I could into Toby’s chest.

He staggered backward a few steps and then said, “Well, looky here, ol' Toby's finally going home.” Then he fell forward, dead.

Later, as Charlie and I finished packing our gear in the jeep, Bandit showed up.

"Well, looky here," Charlie said.

I stopped what I was doing. "What? What did you say?"

“It's Bandit, Dad!" he shouted. "Well, it's about time you showed up, you black-eyed critter." Then he stared up at me with an innocent look and asked, "Can I keep him, Dad? Can I?”

“Uh, sure, why not.”

Charlie pursed his lips and made a short whistling sound. “Come on, Bandit, come on, boy. Let’s go home.”

The raccoon raced to the jeep and hopped inside. Before we had made it back to the main highway, he was cuddled up in Charlie’s lap fast asleep.

As night approached, the darkness all around us seemed to be more than just an absence of light; it seemed to have a texture to it, as though billions of sooty spores were sifting out of the trees and following us home.