The Myth and The Guardian

Officer Charlie Jones was driving along Willcutt Road during his routine patrol when he saw the boy, a little boy, no older than nine or ten years in age, walking along the road in nothing but a pair of shorts. He pulled over beside the boy and noticed the scratches all over his body from the thorns in the bushes.

“He must be a runaway from the orphanage about two miles up the road”, the policeman thought to himself.

As the standard issued police patrol car pulled off of the road, the boy began slowly walking towards the car. This struck the officer as sort of strange because most runaways lived up to their titles after seeing a cop and ran the other way.

The August night was cool and still, as the aroma of freshly cut grass unfurled throughout the air vents of the police patrol car. The moon was completely visible and illuminated the beautiful dark sky; however, the glow from the moon appeared a bit brighter than usual. The enhanced shine could not be detected by those who never paid much attention, but there was something different about the moon on this night. The routine mixture of white and faint yellow was replaced by a vivid mystical glow which made the moon resemble an enormous pearl. The enchantment of the scene made the moon appear as a mere decoration or perhaps a reminder of the special moments, things, and people that are sometimes shared with the rest of the world for reasons that remain unknown.

The policeman, a tall and rather healthy weighted man with black hair, exited the car and walked over to the kid hoping the boy would not run away as a delayed reaction. Instead the boy just stared at the officer for a moment, cleared his throat and said:

“You would not happen to have any clothes in your car, would you?”

The policeman just stared at the boy and nodded after a few moments of intense thought. He motioned for the boy to follow him to his patrol car, and the boy followed the instructions after a few seconds of hesitation. He then presented the boy with his old Pittsburgh Steelers sweatshirt that he happened to have in the car. The boy quickly put the sweatshirt on that seemed to swallow his little body whole.

“It’s nice and warm in the car,” said the Officer.

The unidentified boy slowly walked to the backdoor of the vehicle.

“You have no reason to sit back there yet, son” said the officer in a friendly voice.

The boy slowly moved to the passenger door of the patrol car.

“Son?” asked the boy. “Are you my father?” he added cautiously.

The policeman was looking at the boy in hopes of detecting some sign that this kid was being a smartass, but the look on the boy’s face showed that it was a legitimate question. The cop knew he was not the boy’s father, but he did not know how to fully answer the question because of the boy’s condition. He could only assume that the boy was suffering from memory loss or a mental disability.

“No, I am not your father. I just used the term ‘son’ to show that you had nothing to worry about from me. I am one of the good guys.” said the friendly policeman.

The boy nodded that he understood and quickly got inside of the warm vehicle. Once they were both inside of the car, the boy looked over at the cop and asked,

“Jail is for the bad guys, right?”

The officer smiled at the boy and nodded to the affirmative. The boy thought for a moment and then said,

“Well, I would not like for you to take me there, son.”

The officer looked at the boy and let him know to address him as Officer Jones. The boy told him that he could see the name on the badge but he was merely calling him “son” also to let it be known that he was one of the good guys. The police officer laughed out loud at the innocent wit of the mysterious little boy. The boy reminded the officer of his own son when he was a little kid. The two of them rode the rest of the way in the comfort of each other’s company.

Once they were at the Davis Orphanage, an older building that should have been rebuilt but was in decent condition, Officer Jones found out that the boy was unfamiliar to everyone there. The head foster mom was a kind old lady, but she did not recognize the boy at all. The rules stated that a child had to be placed into the child services system before he or she could be assigned a room or bunk. The boy did not know anything about himself that could give the adults any sign that he was under foster care anywhere else. Officer Jones had no choice but to take the boy down to police holding cell until someone identified him.

Upon hearing this news, the mysterious kid begged and pleaded to be allowed to stay at the foster home to avoid going to the police station. He explained to them that he was tired and just wanted to sleep. The kind old lady could not bear to see a child at the point of tears and desperation. Finally, she proposed that the boy sleep on the couch in the foster home until the next morning. She said they would give him a good night’s rest and hearty breakfasts in hopes of helping the boy regain some of his memory. Officer Jones knew he was breaking protocol, but he did not have the heart to refuse the offer.

The boy hugged the officer as he agreed to wait until the next day to take him to the station for pictures and questioning. Officer Jones finally got a good look at the young boy by the light of the foster home. The boy was very skinny, but his young body gave the impression that it would be rather muscular once the boy was older. His hair was a very dirty blond, teeth were clean, face was cute and would eventually grow to be a handsome, but his eyes were a beautiful blue color. The policeman could swear that the boy’s eyes had been a darker color when he first saw him. Finally he assumed that the excitement must have been getting to him and causing mind tricks of some sort. The officer said his goodbyes, returned to the car, and forced himself to leave the boy in the care of the orphanage.

Mrs. Davis, the foster mom, was a very large woman with plenty of color in her face. She looked like how someone would describe Santa’s wife. Her large body, white hair, and chubby face made her look very caring and kind. She welcomed the boy into the foster home and gave him bedding for the living room sofa. The boy thanked the woman and settled comfortably on the sofa before the woman left the room. He did not know who he was, where he was, or where he was from, but he felt safe for the moment. As he listened to the peaceful silence of the night, the boy closed his eyes and drifted to sleep without a thought in his mind.

The next morning was bright and beautiful as the boy woke to the smell of cooking food. He got up and used the bathroom located in the hallway and returned to a large plate of food on the living room table. Mrs. Davis made a plate of food for herself and joined the boy for breakfast in the living room. The two of them did not talk or even look at one another as each ate their fill of bacon, eggs, and toast. Once the boy finished his food, Mrs. Davis picked up his plate and took it to the kitchen with the rest of the dishes. She returned to the living room to find the boy and the clothes she had left him gone.

Policemen searched all over town for the missing child, but the boy was nowhere to be found. Officer Jones blamed himself for not taking the boy to the station as he should have done. Mrs. Davis blamed herself as well for not keeping a better watch on the boy. The only step left to take was to put out a bulletin for a missing boy around the age of nine or ten. They had nothing that would help identify the boy other than the clothes he wore. They all assumed that he would find new clothes somehow to keep from being noticed. Every mind that knew about the boy wondered why he was running and what or who was chasing him. The boy seemed so respectful and disciplined that nobody expected him to run. Why would a child run from people who wanted to help him? The question was there, but not one answer made sense to anyone at all.

The boy was missing an entire week before Officer Jones found him again. He was wearing the blue jeans and light blue t-shirt that were given to him on the day he ran away. The boy was found in the same spot along the road with absolutely no memory of the previous week. Officer Jones tried persistently to help him remember the night they first came in contact with one another, but his efforts were not enough. This time the police officer immediately took the boy to the police station and into a holding cell. The boy obeyed every instruction and cooperated with everything the police officers asked of him. After repeated failure at helping the boy regain any part of his memory, the police had to seek the assistance of Dr. Wells, a psychiatrist with a subspecialty in children’s psychology.

Dr. Wells could only spare a couple of hours of her time before having to leave, but she made plans on returning the following day.

“What does this picture make you think of?” she asked, holding up a picture of an ink spot. He stared at the ink for a moment and then answered.

“It reminds me of what I think the world was meant to be: A clear untainted canvas with only a few dark experiences that are designed to help us value the beauty of normalcy which most people grow weary of in time.” He spoke these deep words matter-of-factly and slowly as he focused more on the spot. Dr. Wells showed him more pictures and kept getting similar responses from the child. She made a few notes on her clipboard and decided to try something extreme.

“I am going to try something called hypnosis on you. I am going to see if your subconscious remembers anything at all about your identity.” she said hoping he understood the general idea of what she was trying to explain. “Imagine the most peaceful sound that you have ever heard and let it fill your mind. Now, turn the sound down until you hear nothing but the sound of my voice. Focus on my voice and my voice alone. I am going to count backwards from ten, and I want you to allow your thoughts to flow freely,” she said in a soothing tone of voice.

The child listened to each instruction carefully and obeyed.

“Ten, nine, eight, seven, six...” She counted softly and slowly. His thoughts were as free as birds as neither seemed to linger. “Three, two, one. What does your mother look like?” she asked with the same smooth tone.

The mysterious young boy was silent as he focused on that one thought.

“What is your most powerful memory?” she asked when the boy did not answer. His eyes suddenly opened, and he looked at her as if he had done something wrong.

“I am sorry, but this does not seem to be working. Perhaps my brain is not normal,” he said feeling guilty about not being hypnotized. “I guess something is wrong inside of me,” he added as his head sank down to his chest.

She explained to the police officers that the conventional methods were not proving successful at helping with any of the boy’s memory.

“He has no idea of his name, parents, address, favorite color, favorite food, or anything that could be useful at this point, but his mind is stronger than any child his age I have ever encountered,” the woman explained with a confused look on her face. The boy again begged not to stay in the jail, but the officers had to refuse his plea due to his last runaway. Instead, they made him sleep in the holding cell on a sleeping bag with different officers keeping an eye on him at all times. The boy cried most of the night but eventually gave up and fell soundly asleep.

The following day was just as unproductive as the previous day. The officers bought the boy breakfast and watched him closely, but all he did was sit in the holding cell. Occasionally he would ask for something to drink, but mostly he sat in the cell staring at the wall. Dr. Wells had to cancel her appointment due to a family emergency that needed her immediate attention. She would have to leave town a few days and would not be able to help them with the boy. The officers were in a bind because they could not keep the boy in jail, but nobody knew who he was or where to take him.

Later that day, Mrs. Davis came down to the station to check for new information on the boy. She was surprised when they informed her that he was there. After hours and hours of reasoning with the police, she convinced them that they had no choice but to place the boy in foster care. They filled out all of the paper work that they could, and the boy was in the custody of Mrs. Davis before nightfall. The police did not feel comfortable about the decision, but they did not know what else to do. Before the two of them left, Officer Jones walked up to the boy.

“If you run away again you will have to stay here for a long time, little guy. This is a nice woman, and she is going to take good care of you.”

The look on the boy’s face assured them all that he would not run again.

The car ride to the orphanage was very quiet because the boy had no answers to the questions in Mrs. Davis’ mind. She turned on the radio to a gospel radio station and began to sing along. The boy looked and listened at the nice old woman. He even chuckled as she tried and failed to hit a few of the higher notes the singer was singing. She laughed with the boy when she realized how she was singing as if she were in the car alone. The boy had no idea what was going on or why he could not remember anything, but he knew that this woman made him feel safe. Mrs. Davis stared at the boy for a few seconds and could not believe the attachment she felt for the child. She took care of many children, but she had never felt a strong bond so early after meeting a child. Perhaps it was the extra attention that the boy would need due to his memory loss. No matter the reason for the connection she felt with the young boy, she was happy that he was not hurt.

The next few days at the orphanage were full of mystery as everyone tried to figure out the new boy. He was extremely weird compared to the other children, but he did not seem to care about the difference. He ate everything with his hands except for soup, slept in his bed backwards to stare at the wall at night, and never spoke to anyone but Mrs. Davis. Even when the other children tried their best to be friendly, the boy maintained his silence and kept to himself. Finally, everyone accepted the fact that the boy just wanted to be left alone. They gave the boy his space, but the adults kept a close eye on him. They did not let him outside of the orphanage for the first couple of days. The boy did not seem to mind being denied the chance to play outside with the other children. Instead, he would sleep often and mumble to himself when he thought nobody could hear him.

He would listen to the conversations between the children and the adults, but he still refused to talk to them. He talked Mrs. Davis into getting him a notebook, crayons, and a pencil for drawing. She agreed to the boy’s request in hopes of him writing or drawing something that would help with his condition. He would sit under the big tree in front of the orphanage, watch, and write while the other children played. He never showed anyone what he was writing, but most people assumed he was drawing doodles like a normal child. Sometimes he would laugh aloud when he appeared to figure something out or get an idea.

Everything about the boy worried the people who worked at the orphanage and the children that lived there. They all assumed that the boy was planning to run away as soon as the opportunity presented itself. When the children were allowed to play outside, they boy would just sit under that old oak tree and watch the others. They felt pity for the boy and his difficult situation. Although nobody reported any missing children, the boy’s parents could be searching for him. His parents could have abandoned him, or they could be dead. Nobody could even imagine the emotional damage of not knowing anything about their own identity. It was as if the boy just came out of nowhere and now had to create an existence.

Four days after the boy had been at the foster home, Dr. Wells finally had time to come and speak to him. She rearranged her schedule to give him three hours out of every day. She noticed within the first hour that the boy seemed more comfortable around her than the night at the police station. She talked to him about how he liked staying in the foster home, but the boy would never get into a discussion. He would give on short, yes or no answers to everything that she asked. She spent the next hour trying to help the boy regain his memory, but he just could not remember anything at all. In a last attempt to make some progress, she asked him about his favorite colors, sports, and foods. He was still not able to recall anything before the night he was found. The only “good” information was that the boy had chosen a name for himself. He looked at Dr. Wells when their first session was almost over and said:

“Jonathan, the boy with the glasses, told me he had a younger brother named Austin. I do not know why, but I like the name and wish to be called by it.”

Dr. Wells tried to make a connection with the name Austin and why the boy liked it so much, but the overall conclusion was that it simply sounded like a nice name to him. She then talked about the fear that Austin must be feeling. Austin looked confused about the “fear” in question.

“What am I supposed to be afraid of?” He asked.

Dr. Wells explained to him that he had no memory at all and no reason for memory loss. The doctors he had seen after the police station did not find any indication of head trauma. He did not exhibit any typical signs of a child who had been abused or witnessed a traumatic event that he would want to forget.

“There is no logical reason for you not remembering anything at all about yourself, but here you sit without a memory. None of this frightens you?” Dr. Wells asked sincerely.

Austin looked at the woman and replied in a calm voice,

“None of it frightens me at all; if I cannot remember anything, then there must be a reason that we do not understand. I think my memory loss is like a puzzle that needs to be solved. I personally choose to believe that my amnesia is trivial in comparison to how remarkable certain people are proving to be.” Austin answered casually.

The boy’s new name was catching on quickly. The next day when Dr. Wells came to visit, all of the children and employees of the foster home were calling him Austin. They called him by the name, and he responded as if his name had always been Austin. Dr. Wells was surprised at the natural way he had accepted this as his identity. She soon discovered that he gave them no choice but to call him Austin. After their session the previous day, he would not respond until someone said the name Austin. She thought the fact that he made them accept his name was very clever, but the attachment to it is what made her wonder. She began to discuss that name again, but Austin gave her something much more interesting to focus on.

“I believe that your attachment to the name Austin can help us find out more about yourself...” Dr. Wells began.

“No, I am done discussing the true origins of my name. I would rather talk about something that you have not noticed in the two times we have spoken.” He replied.

Dr. Wells picked up her notebook and readied herself to listen to what Austin had to say.

“It is true that I lack memory of any recorded information about myself that could be of use to you in solving the mystery of my identity, but I have noticed one significant detail that you have overlooked. You have talked to me twice, and you have not yet mentioned how I speak differently from any other nine or ten year old child. I am sure you are aware that I choose not to participate in games with the other children. Instead, I sit and watch them interact with one another while writing in my notebook. This is done to help prove a theory that I developed my first night here. It is my belief that I am different than the rest of these children in a way that should have caught your attention by now, Dr. Wells. Children go missing all the time, and that is truly a tragic fact. However, how many children do you meet who speak as I do and understand the concept of psychology as well or if not better than you do. I am aware that none of your conventional methods work on me, and you are running out of options. The first sign should have been the failed attempt at hypnosis which tends to happen while dealing with advanced minds that possess complex thinking patterns. I have to ask now if you have considered the possibility that the reason these “conventional” methods, which I have extrapolated that conventional is another word for modern or normal, do not work on me is because I am indeed abnormal?” Austin said looking at the woman as if he were the adult and she were the child.

Dr. Wells put down her notebook, took a moment to process what had just happened, and looked at Austin as if she had just hit the jackpot on a slot machine.

“Austin. Could you repeat what you just said?” Dr. Wells asked in an excited voice.

Austin looked at the woman, understanding her excitement of the realization of his intelligence.

“Of course I could, but I would rather not. I know what you need confirmation on, and I will give you the confirmation if you are ready.” Austin added calmly.

Dr. Wells was about to burst with excitement as she became more fascinated with Austin. She took a few deep breaths and finally replied that she was ready.

“My notebook is filled with social experiments, theories, and facts that I have researched and confirmed between myself and the other children. I also wrote a few thoughts down about English and literature which came to me a few nights after I arrived here. I understand most of the concepts of philosophy. I suppose my math and science skills are what most people would consider “normal” for someone three times my age, and I seem not to understand something one moment and then a minute later it is as if I have studied it for years. I cannot help but to surmise that this is not normal, but neither is what I am about to tell you.” Austin spoke casually. “As of yesterday, I remember the first night that Officer Jones found me, and I can recall reading the name on his badge, but the second time he found me I did not even know the alphabet. I have these dreams that are intense enough to wake me up at night, but I cannot remember them. Still, every day I wake up and every few hours I seem to get smarter and smarter without any reason. One night I have the mind of a newborn and, with all due respect Dr. Wells, now I am just as smart as you for the next fifty eight minutes, and forty seven seconds. After this amount of time, I assume I will be significantly more intelligent than you are right now due to the speed in which my mind has been evolving lately. So, if you do not need more confirmation, feel free to agree with me in the logical assumption that I am or may be what people consider a genius.” Austin said this with the seriousness of a college professor.

Dr. Wells removed her glasses, put down her notebook, looked at Austin intensely for a few moments, and smiled at him with the impressed look a teacher gives her star student.