Little Boy Lost

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. The light was very faint, flickering timidly, but the Boy extinguished it quickly, almost as soon as the tiny flame flared to life. He'd been very naughty to light the candle in the first place, but sometimes the night was so vast and dark, and he felt so small and alone. He wondered for the thousandth time where Father had gone and when he would return. He had no way to mark the passage of time but the rising and setting of the sun, and it seemed to him that a great many days had passed.

Still, Father had left clear instructions-when to eat, when to sleep, when to say his prayers. Father's commandments included a long list of what not to do. Chief among those prohibitions was don't attract attention.

A light in the window might attract attention, might alert someone to the fact that the cabin was not abandoned. Then there would be questions, and questions meant pain. Pain and blood.

The Boy had learned early on that questions were forbidden.

He sat in his small chair beside the empty fireplace and looked around the cold, dark cabin. Pale moonlight shone in through the windows, but the dark splatters of blood on the walls and floors seemed to absorb it and reflect darkness back at him. He shivered and wrapped his arms around himself, pulling the sleeves of his sweater down over his hands. It would be time for bed soon. Then he could crawl into bed and bury himself under the threadbare quilt. Until then, he would amuse himself with Pretending. It was a game he played in his head, one of the few secrets he had from Father, who somehow seemed to know everything the Boy did, or even thought of doing.

One of his favourite things to Pretend was that it was summer and Father, in one of his rare good moods, allowed the Boy to lie for hours in the warm sun on the bank of the creek that ran behind their cabin. Usually, Father and the Boy worked tirelessly from sunup to sundown. They gathered food, chopped wood, made repairs to the cabin or their tools. As the Boy had gotten older, he had been given more responsibility, and he was proud that he was no longer fit only to gather kindling or forage for nuts and berries. Now he was allowed to go fishing for the trout that leaped in the creek and chop the logs that would keep them warm through the long, frozen winter.

Father had promised that when he returned, he would bring the Boy a surprise-a little brother, who would help with the chores.

The Boy's thoughts turned in a darker direction, Remembering instead of Pretending, and he shivered as he thought of the early days in the cabin. He'd been much smaller then, and he hadn't understood all of Father's rules yet. Father had to punish him often back then.

Punishment also meant pain and blood.

The Boy pushed the memory away. Remembering was dangerous.

The problem was that it had become harder lately to tell the difference between Remembering and Pretending. Sometimes he dreamed about clean sheets and a woman who tucked him in at night, but he wasn't sure if it was a memory of life before Father or only something he'd imagined. Father said women were nothing but a temptation and a trial, and God put them on Earth to test men's faith. But the Boy thought maybe there were some good women out there, somewhere. Maybe even...mothers.

The thought filled him with longing and dread all at once. The last time he'd gone to the creek, he'd thought he heard a woman's voice in the distance, calling to him. She told him things that would have infuriated Father if he'd heard. Things about freedom and memory and-

A fly buzzed past his face and the Boy slapped it away impatiently. He glanced over at the pile of meat Father had left, scowling as he breathed shallowly through his nose. It was well and good that Father had left food for the Boy while he was off having adventures and finding little brothers, but the Boy was the one who had to choke down raw meat in light of Father's command not to light a fire or leave the cabin.

Despite the advanced state of decay the meat was in, the Boy's stomach growled and clenched painfully. He hadn't eaten any of the meat since maggots had hatched and begun crawling over it like a conquering army, but he'd exhausted the meagre supply of dry goods in the cabin two days ago. He glanced at the door uncertainly. Should he go out in search of more food? But what if Father came back and found him gone? The punishment he'd face then was far worse than the gnawing emptiness of his stomach.

Father doesn't need to know, the mother-voice whispered in his ear.

The Boy cocked his head, thinking. Maybe she was right. Surely there was no harm in going to the creek and back. Saliva flooded his mouth at the thought of fresh trout and cold, clear water. The bucket of water Father had provided still had a scant inch in the bottom, but it was stale and, like everything else in the cabin, it smelled of blood and offal and waste.

It would be so good to breathe fresh air again.

The boy stood suddenly, before he could change his mind. The chair toppled over behind him and he flinched, anticipating a blow. But Mother's voice soothed him. He isn't here to punish you. Don't worry, I'll look after you.

He nodded. Mother was right. Father was the head of the household, but in his absence, Mother was in charge.

"I-I won't be long," the Boy said tentatively. His voice sounded small. He couldn't remember the last time he'd spoken aloud.

When Father was home, the Boy didn't speak unless spoken to.

You can do it, Mother encouraged.

The Boy took a deep breath as he re-lit the candle and carried it to the door. He reached out with a trembling hand and undid the many locks Father had installed when they first came to the cabin in the woods.

Growing boys need to eat, Mother reminded him when he froze with a hand on the latch.

The Boy nodded, glad for her presence, and pushed the door open. He froze on the threshold, eyes flitting from left to right. The candle shook in his hand, the flame dancing.

One step at a time.

Mother's voice calmed him. He could do this. One foot in front of the other. He walked to the creek on the balls of his feet, skittish as the white-tailed deer who came to drink in the early morning. When the clean, clear scent of the water filled his nostrils, he fell to his knees to scoop up handfuls of water and slurped them noisily.

When he couldn't gulp down any more, Mother spoke again. Wade across, then keep walking. You don't have to stay here anymore.

No! He shook his head violently. No, he couldn't. Father would be furious. He would-

You can do it, Mother insisted. I'll keep you safe.

The Boy's head swivelled as he tried to look in every direction at once. What if Father came home at this exact moment? What if he was hiding in the woods, waiting and watching to see what the Boy did in his absence? What if Father was testing him? He rubbed a hand over the scars on his wrists. When they'd first come to live in the cabin, Father had kept the boy tied up until he understood the rules.

It had taken a long time for the Boy to learn them all-and Father's lessons always hurt.

GO NOW

The Boy started, frightened now by Mother's tone, but he was well-trained to obey. He stepped into the creek, bare toes clenching to keep his balance on the rocky creek bed. He took one cautious step, then another, and another. He was soaked and shivering when he reached the other side, but he didn't stop there. He broke into a run, gasping and choking for air, stopping only when the cramps in his gut became too painful to keep going. Then he walked. He walked and walked, through the sunrise and into the next day, until he reached a black ribbon of pavement.

He stopped at the edge of the road, swaying with exhaustion, and gripped a tree branch to keep from falling onto it face first. Was this where Mother had meant for him to go? He wished she would say something, encourage him or guide him. But she'd stopped speaking hours ago, when he'd grown too tired to do anything but put one foot in front of the other.

The Boy let go of the branch and staggered out into the road. His toe caught on something-a pebble, a nick in the pavement, he was too tired to care what-and he fell to his knees. He let out a whimper at the impact, but the pain was no worse than any of the other injuries and insults his small body had endured. He fell forward onto his hands and knees, then slumped over to lie on his side.

The road was warm from the sun.

The Boy closed his eyes, his breath shallow and even. The asphalt was rough against his cheek as he dreamed of taking the axe from the woodpile and burying it in Father's back. He hacked at the body until it was unrecognizable as the man who had taken him from his bed in the night. There would be no little brother to suffer Father's lessons. There would be no more boys in the cabin.

He sighed and wondered if Mother would come back for him. After all, he'd done everything she'd told him.

If she didn't come back, maybe someone else would come along who might look after him. Lying was a sin, but the Boy knew instinctively it would be better not to tell the whole truth if he was found and rescued by a woman with soft hands and a kind voice. Mothers were sensitive. They might not understand that sometimes you had to lie to survive, even to yourself.

He smiled as he slept. He dreamed of mothers and the taste of raw meat.