Wild
Officer Cash knew next to nothing about the Bailey case when he pulled up to the tiny house at the end of the gravel road. The social worker was already there, a thirtyish woman almost as tall as he was, with straw-colored hair pulled into a sensible ponytail. Knowing CPS folk were invariably overworked, jaded, and hated to waste time, Cash didn't want to make her repeat herself. He took quick notes on his phone as she gave him a rundown of the case.
Owen Bailey was not quite three years old. His mother, Kara Lee Bailey, was still a teenager. Tansy Bailey, a grandmother at 35, was considered the legal guardian. Both women were known to police, and CPS had been building a file on Owen since he was born in the backseat of a 1989 Corolla out behind Liquor Larry's. Premature, undersized, and showing signs of partial FAS, the infant was destined for assorted developmental delays and disabilities, but Kara Lee, well known in the community as a "party girl", had nonetheless decided she wanted to keep him, and, with her mother's support, nothing could stop her from doing so.
Reports from neighbors and acquaintances suggested that Tansy Bailey was not sufficiently present in the home, and that Kara Lee was not responsible enough to look after a small child, particularly one that might have special needs. There were reports that Owen was left alone with the family dog for hours at a time from the age of two, and that he was often filthy and bruised. Other reports claimed Owen was left to wander the neighborhood with the dog. It seemed a clear case of neglect, and Jill Mullins, the CPS representative, was anxious to intervene before Owen was seriously injured or went missing.
Cash could tell that Mullins was a fearsomely determined lady, and her principal reason for requesting a police presence for today's visit was not for her own protection, but to give her potential legal grounds to take the child out of the home immediately. Normally a court order would be necessary to seize a child, but, according to Mullins, that would take "too damn long", and she trusted Cash would back her up with an exigent circumstances report. She was aware her actions today could put her at risk of a lawsuit from the family, but there was no hesitation in her step as she slogged through the unmown grass toward the front door, stepping over beer cans and dog shit on the way.
A disheveled young man in rumpled boxers opened the door a few inches, squinting at the late morning sun.
"What's this about?" he demanded in a weak, hoarse voice. "We're not making noise, and we're not doing drugs."
"Sir, I need to speak with Tansy or Kara Lee. Are either of them home?"
The man glanced over the woman who addressed him. "You're not a cop," he realized.
"No, I'm with Child Protective Services," Mullins replied.
The man's guarded expression weakened. He glanced back over his shoulder before dropping his head and slinking out onto the front stoop to join them. "This is about Owen," he mumbled. His eyes flicked up, cutting between the social worker and the cop. "Look, Kara's not going to win any Mom of the Year awards, but she's not a monster. I know you're probably gonna take him away from her, and please don't tell her I said this, but it's for the best. Just don't arrest her, okay? She's got her problems, but that kid... there's something seriously freaky about that kid."
"Sorry, who are you?" Mullins demanded. "The boyfriend?"
Rubbing the back of his neck, the young man once more dropped his head, avoiding their gazes. "Well, sort... uh, yeah, I've been seeing Kara. I'm not Owen's dad, if you were wondering. It's not real serious. We argue a lot. About Owen. I'm James. James Rucker."
As Cash continued to record information, Mullins scrutinized the young man. "Did you call in a report to CPS, Mr. Rucker? I have a record of an anonymous tip from a male caller making claims of some pretty worrisome circumstances within this household. This individual would have had to be in the home observe these circumstances."
Rucker's face and neck flushed nearly crimson. "Fuck. If Kara knew..."
"She doesn't have to know," Mullins assured him.
"Thank you!" Rucker exhaled, and raised his eyes once more. "They're not abusive, Kara and her mom. Yeah, they're not watching him 24/7, but what parent can even manage that? I swear, there's something seriously wrong with this kid. I said when I called that he eats and drinks out of the dog dishes, but don't take that to mean he doesn't get fed or whatever. He goes around with the dog and does what he wants to do. You can talk to him, and he hears, but it's like he refuses to acknowledge people exist. He's just off in his own world. Dog world. But not just dogs, either. He brings all these critters inside."
Mullins paused to glance over some paperwork, and then narrowed her eyes at the young man. "There's mention in the report of a coyote having been in the house at some point. Are you sure it wasn't just one of the neighborhood dogs?"
"Lady, I know it sounds like bullshit, but I used to work for Animal Control. I know the difference between a dog and a coyote. It doesn't make any sense according to coyote behavior, but I got up one morning and there they were--Owen, the dog, and this fucking coyote, running around the living room like three puppies. This coyote looks up at me for a sec, and dashes out the backdoor. It wasn't crazed, or rabid. It was just... playing. I told Kara, but she acted like it was nothing weirder than a raccoon passing through the backyard."
The front door swung open to reveal a teenage girl with mussed, bleach blonde hair and dark hollows around her sleepy, bloodshot eyes. She wore nothing but an oversized tee-shirt, and had obviously been wearing makeup yesterday that hadn't been washed off. "What's in the yard...?" she slurred, the final word transitioning into a loud yawn. When she noticed the visitors, and specifically Jill Mullins, her eyes widened with recognition. Much more alert now, she took a step back from the doorway and turned to go back into the house, yelling, "Owen! Bucky!"
Rucker hurried in after her, followed by Mullins and Cash. They converged in the living room, where no one was watching a nature program playing on the television. Kara Lee turned it off and once more screamed for Owen and for Bucky, who Cash assumed was the family dog.
"The fucking backdoor is open," Rucker pointed out, flopping down onto the sofa with a sigh. "They've wandered off again."
The girl wrung her hands and looked up at the social worker and the cop, her mouth working to form syllables. "I swear to God, he was just here!" she exclaimed, breaking off with a sob.
"Kara, look at me," Mullins said in a clear, authoritative voice, standing directly in front of the crying teenager and attempting to make eye contact. "Are you under the influence of anything right now?"
"No, I swear!" the girl burst out between heaving sobs. "We had a few drinks last night, and I'm hung over, that's all. Why do you always think I'm a fucking crack whore or something?"
"I don't think that," Mullins replied, keeping her tone calm and steady. "We have spoken several times about the necessity of keeping a close eye on your son, but your mother is his legal guardian. Where is she now? Working?"
"Yeah," Kara Lee said in a thick, husky voice as she wiped her eyes, smearing yesterday's makeup. "She gives him his cereal in the morning, and puts on Animal Planet for him. Then she wakes me up and I watch him while she's at work. I must've fallen back asleep."
"And how long ago would that have been?"
"Like, just before eight."
Cash winced and glanced at his watch. "That's more than three hours ago. I'm gonna go look for the kid while you guys talk."
Mullins nodded her approval, and Rucker offered to help once he was dressed. Cash walked a circuit around the small house, and then poked around the backyard until the young man emerged fully dressed.
"Do you have any idea where he's likely to go?" Cash asked him.
"Sometimes he goes to neighbors' houses, and sometimes he goes a little ways into the woods."
Cash studied the remains of a fence that was mostly blown down, and looked like it had been that way for years. The kid could have gone in any number of directions, and he was considering going to visit the neighbors and sending Rucker to check the wooded area behind the house, but as he gazed out toward the trees, he spotted a flash of white.
"What's that?" he wondered, hopping over a tangle of fallen fence posts and jogging over to the object.
It was a recently discarded diaper.
"Goddamn," Rucker sighed. "Kid hates to say dressed."
The pair split up, taking different routes through the woods and staying within earshot of one another as they called for Owen and whistled for Bucky.
Cash was analyzing the situation in his mind, trying to work out how much ground a naked toddler could cover in three hours, when he heard Rucker's call:
"Over here! I think I see him! There's Bucky, and...."
Cash broke into a sprint, leaping over roots and fallen branches. Rucker's abrupt, mid-sentence silence had unsettled him, causing his heart to quicken. "Is he okay? Where are you?"
"Here!" Rucker called, and, a moment later added, "Holy shit!"
The hysterical tone of the exclamation tightened Cash's innards into painful knots. He increased his pace until he'd burst through a knot of ferns and into a clearing, where Rucker was standing frozen. Cash slid to a halt, nearly losing his balance and grabbing hold of the other man's shoulder for purchase.
"What...?" he gasped, and stopped when he pointed his eyes in the direction Rucker was staring. As he caught his breath, the steady humming noise reached his ears.
At first, all he saw was bees. They swarmed around a half rotted stump that was lined inside with honeycomb. The dog, some sort of spaniel mutt, appeared from behind the stump and romped in cheerful circles, chasing the bees and showing no sign of acknowledging the men's presence. Cash blinked several times, studying a shape next to the hive, something that looked like a small shadow at first. When it moved, the shape became clearer. It was a naked baby, covered head to toe in honey bees.
"Holy shit," Cash whispered. The words trembled as they came out. He felt as if he'd just had a bucket of ice water poured over his head.
"Yup," Rucker agreed.
Deciding he had no option, Cash took a step forward.
"Are you crazy?" Rucker hissed. "That many bees could kill you!"
"I'm a little more concerned about the kid right now," Cash muttered. He moved forward with slow, cautious steps. "Owen? Can you hear me? I'm a policeman, and I'm here to keep you safe. Owen... move very slowly, and come this way."
"He's not gonna listen to you," Rucker objected.
Cash ignored him, and continued approaching the boy. The humming of the bees set his nerves on edge, and he felt phantom tickles all over his body, imagining the tiny, sticky legs of honey bees crawling across his skin, but not a single one had touched him. As he approached the hive, Cash saw the boy more clearly. He was small for an almost-three-year-old. His head was crowned with a mess of auburn curls that had never been cut. One chubby hand was reaching into the hive with a careful delicacy unusual in a toddler. Instead of grabbing at the golden comb, Owen gathered a droplet of honey on a tiny fingertip, and licked it.
"Owen," Cash exhaled. Shivers crept across his body in all directions as a few bees landed on him. He stopped moving. "Owen... it's very dangerous here and you need to come with me."
Silent and tranquil, ignoring the police officer, the toddler reached for more honey. The hundreds of bees crawling across his vulnerable baby flesh seemed likewise untroubled. Bucky, meanwhile, had come over to flop out at Owen's bare feet.
Cash stood paralyzed with disbelief as the boy squatted down to pat the dog's head. As he did so, the bees, in near perfect synchronicity, rose into the air and swarmed back to the hive. Moments later, it was as if they had never been there at all.
Taking his opportunity, Cash dropped to one knee next to the boy, looking him over. He didn't appear to have a single sting on him, although he had a few minor scratches and was in need of a bath. He reached out to take the toddler's arm and tried to turn the boy to face him. "Owen, look at me," he whispered. "Are you okay?"
The toddler's hazel eyes were bright, yet did not appear entirely focused. He looked off into the distance, avoiding Cash's gaze as he tugged feebly to free his arm from the man's grasp.
"I'm a policeman," Cash reiterated, though it was obvious that Rucker had been correct about the boy not listening. "I just want to make sure you're safe. I'm going to pick you up now."
Owen uttered a tiny grunt of protest, but did not cry out when he was gathered into the officer's arms. The dog leaped up and circled around Cash's feet, whining. Cash struggled not to trip over him as he walked over to where Rucker still stood, and together, they returned to the house.
Cash hadn't had the opportunity to hold many children, and therefore could not have identified "normal" behavior with any surety. Nonetheless, he immediately sensed there was something not right about this one. Owen did not relax in his arms, nor did he exactly struggle. Not once did the boy try to look at who was holding him. He was preoccupied with his surroundings, sometimes looking at the trees above, but otherwise looking down, reaching out for Bucky, who loped along at the officer's side, watching the child.
Mullins hurried out into the yard as they arrived, and took Owen from Cash, giving him a lookover. "Well done. Where was he?"
"Out in the woods, raiding a beehive," Cash explained, pulling out his phone and stylus with trembling hands to take more notes. "Covered in bees, and not one sting."
Mullins quirked an eyebrow, concerned, though not quite surprised.
Inside, Rucker comforted his girlfriend as she sat weeping on the sofa.
"Please don't judge me!" she wailed. "You don't know how hard it is! I tried. I fucking tried. My own kid hates me. Maybe it's my fault? I didn't even know I was knocked up until seven months! Oh god, I'm so sorry! I thought I wanted to be a mom, but it's been a nightmare. I try to love him, but he doesn't love me back. He doesn't love anyone but the fucking dog! He won't even look at me!"
Mullins and Cash made no response, allowing her to say her piece while they cleaned the worst of the dirt off of Owen and got him dressed. The silent, detached child was now putting Cash in mind of a windup toy. He didn't make a struggle, yet was ready to crawl away the moment they let go of him, as if on autopilot. For a minute, Mullins let him go, and they watched him hurry over to the dog. The child had an unusual, loping gait, not walking perfectly upright but partially on all fours, chimplike.
"What do you think is wrong with him?" Cash wondered.
"If I were to guess, some severe form of autism," Mullins suggested. "Possibly reactive attachment disorder. So, are you agreed we've got a case for immediate removal?"
Cash sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "Well, 'exigent circumstances' would have to involve imminent danger of serious bodily injury to the child, and based on what I saw out in those woods, especially with the foreknowledge that this sort of thing has been a regular occurrence... yeah. Absolutely. This kid's been damn lucky, and I wouldn't risk the time it'd take to get a court order."
"That's all I need to know."
The boy's mother had calmed by the time they were ready to leave. She stood by, tears still streaming down her flushed, makeup-smeared cheeks, but she looked resigned. Cash watched Mullins cradle the boy and try unsuccessfully to make eye contact.
When Bucky tried to follow them out the front door, Rucker grabbed him by the collar to hold him back. It was only then that Owen made any noise. He stiffened in Mullins's arms and released a piercing scream, reaching out both of his little arms for his pet. Rucker wrestled with Bucky, who had begun to cry like Cash had never heard a dog cry before. It was an eerie, high-pitched noise that gave him the same cold dread he'd felt at the sight of the boy with bees crawling all over him. Rucker's earlier words echoed in his head.
There's something seriously freaky about that kid.
"You have to let him take Bucky!" Kara Lee screamed, sobbing again as she wrestled the dog away from her boyfriend. "He'll be fine without me, but he needs the dog! Can't you see he needs him?"
Released, the dog streaked after Mullins and leaped at the shrieking boy, trying to lick him between urgent yelps. Mullins appeared uncertain, but did not protest. She strapped Owen into a carseat in the back of her vehicle, and as soon as Bucky was allowed to leap in and settle beside him, both were quiet. The toddler's arms wrapped around the dog's neck, and in moments, both looked ready for a peaceful nap.
* * *
Jeff Goring hated his foster brother. They were the same age, fifteen, and he knew mom and dad expected him to be kind and helpful, but the guy was mentally challenged, and even more than that, he was freaky. It had been nearly six months, and Jeff still got teased at school over the "creepy retard" his parents had taken in. Owen had come from some kind of institution, and he didn't do regular school. He got some tutoring, but mostly worked with dad at the vet clinic. Dad said Owen was "gifted", and while Jeff could admit the guy was good with animals--freakishly good--"gifted" seemed overly generous considering he was totally vacant and didn't even talk to people.
It was Jeff's friend Carl who came up with the idea of making good use of the weirdo. Carl had aspirations of becoming a great trophy hunter, and what he wanted more than anything was to bag a bobcat. Bobcats were known to inhabit the wilderness on the outskirts of town, though they were rarely seen anywhere near civilization.
On a warm Saturday morning, Jeff and Carl packed up a few things and trailed Owen up into the hills where he spent a lot of his time when he wasn't working with Dr. Goring. He wore only an old pair of shorts, and his auburn hair was long and trailed wildly down his back.
"Who does he think he is, Tarzan?" Carl whispered.
Jeff shrugged. "Hey, Owen! Wait up!"
The two boys jogged to catch up with Owen, who paused his steps but did not look at them.
"We need you to help us, Owen," Jeff said slowly. "Like you help dad. This is my friend Carl. We're doing a project for school. A photography project, and it's for, like, wildlife conservation. You understand what that means?"
Owen's eyes shifted to the bundle of equipment Carl had slung over his shoulder.
"This is my photography equipment," Carl said, smirking. "We want to take pictures. Of a bobcat. Do you know bobcats around here?"
"Yeah," Jeff added, "we want to photograph the biggest, most beautiful bobcat, so everyone in town will see what cool wildlife we have, and want to help them. You want to help, right, bro? Can you bring us to one?"
Owen paused a while, as if thinking, but Jeff wasn't sure "thinking" was something the freak did much of. Abruptly, Owen took off into the trees. Excited, the two other boys hurried after him.
After a couple of hours of brisk hiking, Owen stopped and stood still. Jeff and Carl froze behind him, panting. Unlike the two boys, Owen didn't seem at all winded. He was lean and rangy, as any young man might be who spent as much time running, swimming, and climbing as Owen did.
"Oh my god," Jeff whispered.
Ahead of them, there was shadowy movement between the trees. A shape became distinct as the shadow emerged, padding toward them in perfect silence on large, furry paws. Owen squatted, holding out a hand to the cat, which was about half the size of a mountain lion, but to the other two boys, accustomed to house cats, it was enormous. Golden in color with dark spots, russet highlights, and a pale underbelly, the cat was striking, and looked upon them curiously with wide amber eyes. It struck a stately pose several paces ahead of them, as if inviting appreciation of its beauty. Consumed with need to possess it, Carl was already unpacking his rifle.
Jeff cut his eyes between the bobcat and Owen, praying the boy wouldn't turn around. He pushed his fingers into his ears in anticipation of the gunshot. It did little to dampen the noise, and when Carl pulled the trigger, Jeff was nearly as startled as Owen was.
From there everything happened so quickly, and with so much screaming, that Jeff could not even put together what exactly had occurred until later, in the hospital, after he'd had some time to think things over.
Carl was in surgery. They said he had lost an eye. Jeff was heavily bandaged and had needed plenty of stitches, but wasn't nearly as badly wounded as Carl was. He told the story as best he could to his parents and the police officer who had showed up at his bedside.
"The first shot didn't kill it," he whispered, and was ashamed to find that he was crying. Tears soaked into the bandages wrapped around half of his face. "Owen just went... berserk. As if he was the one who got shot. I thought I'd go deaf with the way he was screaming, and I just told Carl 'shoot again, you have to kill it, you have to kill it!' So he shot the cat dead... and everything was quiet for a second... and then like, out of nowhere, there was the bird."
"Bird?" the police officer repeated, leaning closer to the boy in the hospital bed. "You're sure it was a bird that attacked you?"
"I think it was a hawk," Jeff said hoarsely. "A fucking huge one. Huge talons. Like razors. It grabbed onto Carl's face, and he was just screaming, and there was so much blood. Then it came at me, and...." He broke off with a sob, and a hiccup. His mother squeezed his shaking hand.
"It sounds crazy, but I know he did it," Jeff sobbed. "Owen. He made it happen."
* * *
Sergeant Cash had never forgotten Owen Bailey, though it had been over a decade since the day he'd helped remove the toddler from his mother's home. He'd seen pieces in the news about Owen now and then. There were pictures on the Internet of the boy at various ages, covered with birds, surrounded by deer, and even one of him playing with a pair of black bear cubs while mama bear looked placidly on. Most people who saw and shared those pictures cried "bullshit", but Cash remembered the bees, and knew better.
He was visiting the Goring house now, where Owen had been locked in his bedroom by his foster father. Cash had a long talk with Dr. Goring, who was torn in the wake of the incident. He'd cared deeply about Owen even though the boy had never shown any sign of attachment to other human beings. He had tried to understand Owen's special needs, and to nurture his gifts. Although there was very little Goring could honestly say he understood after six months of trying to parent the boy, he'd at least been sure that Owen wouldn't hurt a fly. Now he wasn't so sure that Owen wouldn't hurt a person.
When Cash entered the bedroom, he found Owen curled into a fetal ball on his bed. The boy's bare back was to him, every knob of his spine visible.
"Hello, Owen," Cash whispered. "I'm Sergeant Cash. I remember you, from a long time ago. I'm going to sit down next to you now."
He sat. Owen made no movements.
"I remember the bees. Do you remember that? You weren't even three years old. You were all by yourself with your dog, Bucky." Cash winced inwardly, regretting mentioning Bucky at all. Certainly enough time had passed that the dog had to have passed on.
Cash noticed a book, something like a small photograph album, lying on Owen's bedside table. Dr. Goring had told him about a "communication book" Owen had, of the sort used by people with speech impairments and other disorders that affected their ability to vocalize. Supposedly Owen wasn't nearly as "retarded" as people assumed, but he only communicated when and how he chose. Cash flipped open the front cover of the book. It was a small binder packed with laminated pages. The first proclaimed, "MY NAME IS OWEN BAILEY. I HAVE A DISABILITY."
Other pages detailed where he lived, and who to contact in an emergency. There were pages of common phrases, and one that was just letters and numbers. Most pages were covered with pictograms paired with words.
Cash was startled when Owen grabbed the book out of his hands. He hadn't noticed the boy sitting up. Owen's overgrown hair formed a screen around his face, obscuring Cash's view of his expression, but he saw a few clear droplets spatter across the laminated pages of the book, and knew Owen was crying
"Can we talk about what happened in the woods?" Cash whispered.
Owen flipped pages, and tapped the word "YES" with one knuckle.
"Did those boys lie to you?"
Again Owen tapped, "YES", and then flipped to the pictograms until he'd found a picture of a camera.
"That's right. They told you they wanted to take pictures of the bobcat, yeah? But that wasn't really what they wanted to do."
Owen rocked back and forth a few times, tense with anxiety. He flipped more pages, and tapped his knuckle against a pictogram showing various weapons.
"Yeah," Cash sighed. "Owen, tell me something. Did you want to hurt those boys?"
Owen rocked, and more tears dripped onto his book. At last, he indicated, "YES", and then, even more vehemently, "I'M SORRY", which he rapped several times. Cash was unsure what to make of this situation. No court would implicate a handicapped kid in a bird attack. He wasn't even sure why he was here, but, as when the kid was being removed from his mother's home, he knew he had some responsibility to intervene, to do what might be best for the boy as well as the family.
Owen was flipping pages again. He gestured to the phrase, "I DON'T UNDERSTAND", followed by the pictogram for "people".
"Me neither, buddy," Cash admitted.
After a brief phone chat with CPS, Cash once more found himself removing Owen Bailey from his home. He was to be returned to the institution where he'd spent most of his childhood. Cash had gleaned enough from his time with Owen to know that being locked up in an institution was the last thing the boy wanted. He felt like a monster, shutting the silently crying boy in the back of his cruiser.
After a few minutes of driving, Cash pulled over to the side of a deserted road, alongside the woods where Owen preferred to spend time. He turned around to look at the anxiously rocking boy in the backseat.
"Owen," he said, "I always wondered whether I'd done the right thing, taking you away from your mom. Maybe I did, but I think I did it for the wrong reasons. When I saw you with those bees, I saw you as a child in imminent danger. Now, I think you might have been the only one of us who wasn't in any danger."
Cash sat in silence for a few minutes, thinking about doing something he knew was likely to get him into some very big trouble.
Making his decision, he got out of the car, glanced up and down the road, and pulled open the rear door, gesturing Owen to exit. Owen scrambled out, still dressed in nothing but his shorts. He looked up into the hills, and then down at the officer's boots, hesitating.
"Go," Cash whispered. "Be where you belong. I'm going to have to report you missing, but I'll give you as much of a head start as I can. Run fast, and run far."
Owen raised his head. The messy strings of auburn hair fell back, and for the first time, two brilliantly alive hazel eyes locked on the man's. The contact only lasted a moment before Owen streaked off, quick as a rabbit, and disappeared. It was all the thanks Cash could have wished for.
Throwback Thursday: Robert Louis Stevenson
Robert Louis Stevenson was born November 13, 1850. A Scottish essayist, travel writer, poet, and novelist, his most illustrious creations include Treasure Island and The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
Stevenson’s family was in the lighthouse design business. He thus studied engineering to inherit this enterprise, but swiftly found that discipline boring, so instead opted to study law. The silver lining to his abandoned engineering venture probably was meeting Charles Baxter, who later became Stevenson’s agent. Back then, literary agents were rare and radical. Now, they suck.
While studying law, Stevenson vacationed in France numerous times and befriended many artists, namely painters and writers. He graduated law school in a voraciously Bohemian mindset and decided not to practice, as Stevenson’s destiny was being a writer. Almost ironically, he was a late reader and didn’t learn how to read until the age of eight. Stevenson started writing in his adolescence, which impressed his father and impelled him to finance the printing of his first work at the ripe age of 16.
Despite feeling loyal to his family and their livelihood, Stevenson left their business in 1871, remarking, 16 years later,
Say not of me that weakly I declined
The labours of my sires, and fled the sea,
The towers we founded and the lamps we lit,
To play at home with paper like a child.
But rather say: In the afternoon of time
A strenuous family dusted from its hands
The sand of granite, and beholding far
Along the sounding coast its pyramids
And tall memorials catch the dying sun,
Smiled well content, and to this childish task
Around the fire addressed its evening hours.
Seven years after leaving the family business, in 1878, Stevenson published his first volume. He entered the literary limelight when his 12-year-old stepson inspired him to think of Treasure Island, which was initially serialized in a boys’ magazine called Young Folks between 1881 and 1882, and then released as a book in 1883. The book was Stevenson’s big break as an artist.
During this time, Stevenson also wrote many short stories, and brought the trending tradition to Britain, whereas previously it was exclusively prevalent in Russia, France, and America. His short story niche genre? Adventure fiction, of course.
In 1886, Stevenson published The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, adding some adult edge to complement and diversify his existing wordmix. This book quickly became internationally renowned and since, has influenced dozens of stage productions and films.
Stevenson struggled with his health. In 1888, he and his family departed San Francisco and made way for the Pacific Islands. He frequently docked at the Hawaiian Islands and befriended King Kalākaua. A year later, they moved to and settled in Samoa, where he would die five years later, on December 3, 1894.
Stevenson insisted his work, “Requiem,” be inscribed on his tomb. Tragically and comically, to whatever extents, however, the work is misquoted on his own tomb.
Under the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me:
Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.
Now go read Chapter 1 of Treasure Island.
Until next time, Prosers,
Prose.
