J. Lennon - Castle

We were standing on the sloping bank of a slight depression in the forest floor, with a patch of swampy ground at the bottom, bisected by a moss-covered fallen tree. I could neither see nor hear anything out of the ordinary. Ten feet ahead, Doctor Stiles lowered his hand and used it to reach into his pocket. He pulled out a small mason jar, unscrewed the lid, and removed what appeared to be a white handkerchief. Then he set the open jar down on the ground. As I looked on, he slowly turned and made his way toward me, on his face an expression of slightly amused alertness. I waited for him to address me.

Instead, he reached down and placed his free hand on the back of my head. The gesture was affectionate, even loving, and for a moment I wondered how I was expected to respond. But before I could, the Doctor brought up his other hand and pressed the handkerchief to my face.

His grip was strong, and I was unable to move. The handkerchief reeked of something acrid and antiseptic, and I gasped in spite of myself. My throat and nose burned, and I thought I could feel the burn rocket straight up through my sinuses and into my brain. I crumpled, insensible, to the ground.

When I woke, the day seemed later, the sun higher in the sky, the air more oppressive. My head ached, and sticks gouged my side where I lay. I was incredibly thirsty.

I reached down for my canteen and discovered that I was naked.

The realization motivated me to sit up straight, and I let out a yelp. I looked around me. There was no one and nothing. I had fallen somewhat farther down toward the center of the depression, and one of my heels rested in the pool of water at the bottom. Sunlight filtered through the trees, and my lungs burned as I drew breath after gasping breath.

Slowly I remembered what had happened — Doctor Stiles, I understood, must have knocked me unconscious. I began to lay out, in my mind, the possibilities. This act could indeed have been of sinister intent, but it was much more likely to be some kind of escalation in the Doctor’s testing regimen. The latter explanation gave me some comfort, but I was still a child, accustomed to the supervision of an adult, and still quite modest about my body. It occurred to me that Doctor Stiles must have been the one who undressed me. He had seen me naked! The thought disgusted and excited me — I tried to put out of my mind this strange and entirely unexpected transgression.

I stood up slowly, wary that I might be sick to my stomach. But it seemed that my head had cleared, and though I remained thirsty, I felt otherwise physically sound. I looked around, taking stock of my surroundings, wondering what I was supposed to do now, and where I was supposed to go. I had no compass, no rope or knife, not even any shoes. I was not terribly uncomfortable now, but I knew that, as soon as I began walking, my feet would be cut and scraped, and would likely become infected. The tasks and challenges the Doctor typically assigned to me always seemed to have some purpose — the strengthening of a vital survival skill, or the sharpening of my wits — so I struggled to understand what the point of this one might be. But after long minutes of contemplation, I was forced to admit to myself that I had no idea.

Of course, this might be the point — perhaps Doctor Stiles intended for me to realize that there was no point. Maybe I was supposed to be learning how to act with no goal in mind, and no viable option for proceeding. If so, I was failing, because all I felt was a growing despair and boredom, and a creeping fear. I had never been naked anywhere, let alone the woods; and though Doctor Stiles insisted that there were no wild animals here, the likelihood of attack seemed high. Surely the beasts of the forest could sense the presence of an unprotected human being. Were there bears here, or mountain cats? What about hawks and vultures — did they ever attack human beings? I looked down and found my genitals covered by both my hands, in an involuntary, instinctive, and futile gesture of protection, and I’m afraid I began to cry. Was the Doctor watching? Was he off somewhere in the trees, observing, noting my transgressions against his tutelage? What punishment would be meted out for my weaknesses? I must have stood there, intermittently thinking and blubbering, for at least fifteen minutes. Then, at last, bored and disgusted with myself, I took my first tentative steps out of the depression.

It must have taken me ten minutes to reach the lip and peer around the surrounding woods. Already my feet were tender, and everything looked exactly the same in every direction. I had no compass, of course, and above the forest canopy the clouds now blocked the sun, leaving its position unclear. I tried to remember what side of the trees the moss was supposed to grow on — I thought it might be the north — but when I examined my immediate surroundings, the moss seemed to be growing arbitrarily wherever there was room for it. I had the distinct, if foolish, impression that the landscape stretched identically in all directions, forever. My eyes stung and I choked back a sob.

With nothing else to do, I chose a direction and walked in it. The going was slow and painful. As I had predicted, my feet were poked and scratched, thorny branches kept swinging into my path and scraping my legs, and I was growing thirstier — and now hungrier — with every passing moment. Because I felt compelled to keep my hands over my genitals, my balance was poor, and I nearly fell several times. And though I stumbled through the trees for what seemed like hours, the position of the sun never appeared to change.

I did, however, have one conviction that kept me from complete despair, and that was the inevitability of my return to the house at sunset. At some point, Doctor Stiles would have to find me, return my clothes to me, and lead me back to the hilltop, where my father would be waiting in his truck. All I had to do was endure the day — and though I was certain that this tactic would not meet with the Doctor’s approval, I was already beyond caring. Whatever punishment he chose to administer, I would accept it. But I would not play his game.

My memory is unclear on the precise manner in which I passed the afternoon. I would imagine that I did a lot of wandering, and perhaps took a few naps. I remember very clearly one particular nap, because it was upon waking from it that I realized the hour had grown late, well past the time when Doctor Stiles and I generally began our trek out of the woods and back to the house. Indeed, judging from the filtered light of the forest, it was possible that my father was already waiting for me there.

I spoke for the first time in hours, breaking the cardinal rule of speaking only when asked to. I called out his name, first quietly, then more loudly, until I was fairly screaming it. I had not realized just how completely a dense wood could swallow up a person’s voice; I had the distinct impression that, even had Doctor Stiles been standing a mere twenty-five feet away, he still might not hear me.

I stood up and began to pace, straining my eyes to look more deeply into the forest, hoping to make out a figure there, or some evidence that I was, in fact, close to the hilltop after all. But the woods appeared just as inscrutable and frightening as ever. I called out until my voice grew hoarse, then called out some more, and as the sunlight leached away, my voice became weaker, and I could no longer deny the obvious fact that night was falling, and I had been abandoned to my fate in the dark woods.

For some minutes, I simply leaned against a tree and sobbed. I felt as though I had no other option, that I would starve or freeze — for the temperature had begun to drop — or be devoured by animals, and could only stand and wait for my fate. My thirst, however, which I had temporarily managed to forget, returned with almost unbearable force, and it motivated me to start moving again.