Our Father Sees Every Sparrow Fall

“Don’t be late for lunch, Sheridan,” she called after the young lad, as the screen door squeaked and slammed shut.

“I won’t, Mom,” he replied, the door opening and closing again, exponentially quicker, and a body-wagging, bright eyed beagle came following the boy.

“Come on, Shane,” the boy said, “we don’t want to be late.”

The morning was bright, not a wisp of a cloud or streak of exhaust from a plane opaqued the sky. The air was dry and warm, the ground moist from steady rains the day before, the trees and flowers dripping the precipitation designedly toward their bases, their roots eager to be assuaged of the spring’s overall drought. The sun was strong, a beacon of heat, countered only by the slight, cool northerly breeze.

Church was just a couple of miles away, and being an avid lover of the Virginia countryside, Sheridan loved to take an old country road every Sunday. Shane didn’t care which way they took; Sheridan was his focus.

Twelve years old and a picture of health, Sheridan had started attending the church in Stephens just a few months before. His parents weren’t against his going, though they had no desire themselves to go. They lived a quiet, secluded life on a small farm, away from the racket of development they knew was steadily encroaching upon them. They wished to remain unharassed and free to enjoy the beauty of untouched, raw nature around them, the way it seemed God intended it.

Their boy was energetic, social, and much what they weren’t; but he also was a branch from their trunk: assiduous and ardent in all endeavors. When not in school, or studying, he was with his father, tending the everyday business of the farm, or assisting his mother in household chores, never with a complaint or sideways glance.

When Sheridan’s friend, Paul, invited him to church, his parents willingly allowed him to go, though with worries. But he had earned it, always doing his tasks and consistently rising earlier Sunday morning to keep up with his chores. And the smile he would bring to every Sunday lunch was their dessert. Though they only half-heartedly listened to the stories he brought back with him, his effervescent happiness was their satisfaction.

As Sheridan and Shane ambled down their lane to the road, the boy’s mother stood in the door, watching her son, her heart always worried, her intuition always dark until his return when his bright eyes would lighten her burden. This was all unbeknownst to the boy and his dog, the beautiful day and excitement of the destination pushing the pair forward.

Working on a hole in his fence near the road, the boy’s father called out, “Be safe, my boy. And don’t be late getting home---you know how much you love your mom’s roast chicken and stuffing.”

“Yes, sir, I do,” the boy grinned in return. “I won’t dawdle.”

“That’s my boy,” said his father, who then hammered a nail into place. He too watched the boy and dog as they grew smaller and smaller and disappeared over a hill a few hundred yards away. He stood alone at the fence, the chirping of the birds and the gentle motion of the breeze through his hair his only company. Quickly, he returned his attention to the fence, hammering away and whistling in counterpoint.

Down the road a little ways, the boy and dog were just where they needed to be in order to be on time. They zig-zagged around puddles, the beagle’s tail moving right when its body pivoted left, and vice versa in a humorous display of balancing.

All was peaceful in this deserted area. Most of the land on both sides had once been farmland, but tough times had forced the farmers out. Up ahead was dense forest on the east side of the road, a river not far away hidden inside. On the west side of the road was cleared land with browned long grass growing, somewhat patchy. The drought wasn’t as severe this year as it was the year before, but other than the trees and wildflowers, browned flora was predominantly in view.

The boy’s mind was filled with curiosity, wondering what he would learn that day, what he could tell his parents later at lunch. With all his heart, he believed they were listening and would someday come with him. He could see the day when he would tell Shane to stay under the large dogwood beside the church as he and his parents would ascend the steps, his mother’s arm wrapped through his father’s. He could see his father opening the door, a smile extended across his work-worn but befriending face. That day will come, he would keep telling himself.

Aroused from his daydream, the boy heard a loud rustling ahead in the long grass. Shane’s body perked up, his tail standing straight, every muscle in his body ready for whatever was to come. He sniffed the air and a barely audible whine permeated his muzzle.

Suddenly, a doe darted out of the field and skidded to a halt in the middle of the road. Stunned for a moment by the sight of the boy and the dog, the deer’s flittering ears and steady eyes acted as radar, and it regained its composure. Quickly it leapt away across the road toward the wilderness. As fast as it appeared, it was gone, only the sound of branches snapping and twigs being crushed a reminder of its presence.

Shane, lost in instinct, barked and ran toward where the deer entered the forest. The boy called loudly after the dog, but to no avail. Worried he would lose his usually steadfast companion, Sheridan entered the forest, nearly sprinting to keep up with his spry dog. They ran for what seemed like hundreds of yards, leaping over logs, juking around trees and thickets, the boy yelling to the dog incessantly to stop,

Finally, the dog gave up his pursuit, an obvious lost cause, and sat down panting hard. Sheridan caught up and bent over, panting himself, all the while looking at his dog. After regaining his breath, he scolded Shane, whose ears and tail fell as fast as an acorn.

Sheridan looked around and focused for a moment. Up ahead was another thick part of the forest. “Well, Shane,” he said gently, the dog looking down, still repentant, “I think there is a path on the other side of those trees. If you can control yourself, we might get to church on time.” HIs stern countenance changed to a smile, and he patted the disconsolate dog’s head. “Come on, buddy,” he said, the dog quickly forgetting the past and rising to follow his master.

After carefully picking their way through the dense vegetation, the boy being careful not to snag his Sunday shirt in the thorny thickets, the boy and dog reached a drop-off at an embankment. It wasn’t extremely steep, but it was still intimidating to the boy. He could hear the river below. He knew if he followed the edge of the hill he could get back to the road, the church being directly on the road, but on the west side.

The dog had no difficulty navigating the edge of the hill, but the boy kept losing his footing in the soft ground. Some places were steeper than others, but he didn’t want to go back into the forest and the thickets. He knew the hill-line would take him back to the road faster, albeit maybe not as safely.

A hundred feet or so further, they reached a large oak tree. Its trunk bespoke its old age, its root system like spider legs, large ones at that, grasping the ground. Shane went on the forest side of the tree, quickly circumnavigating it, but Sheridan liked the look of the roots going downhill, a gnarled, reverse-crown of the tree. He decided to climb over the roots, Shane whining a slight whimper, anxiously awaiting his master.

It was good fun for the boy, climbing through the roots, a muffled river’s rippling below interjecting between the boy’s shoes scraping wood and soil. But just as he was clearing the last root, an especially large jutting projection, the loop of his shoelaces caught, pulling his foot back slightly, and knocking him off balance. Shane watched intently as his master began to fall. The boy grabbed at some weeds and a dead, dangling root, but they broke, and he began to roll down the hill.

The drop was fairly steep here, the erosion of the hill being worse. The incline was rock studded, almost a hundred feet to the bottom. The boy’s head missed the rocks on the incline as he extended his arms to try to stop himself, but to no avail. The world was now just a quickening cycle of images as fear filled him.

Then, smack! he stopped, his head hitting a blunt rock, his forehead immediately releasing blood, his body going limp, and silence replacing the chaos.

He saw blackness, but could feel a feathery pillow beneath his head. He felt a warm blanket over him and could hear the crackling of wood popping in a fireplace. His mind was jumbled, his head hurting severely, still slightly dizzy. It occurred to him to open his eyes. To his amazement, in his room he lay, the light of the room pale and gray. His forehead was throbbing, but lifting his hand to it, he felt only smooth, unharmed skin. “ I heal very quickly,” he thought. He pulled the covers off him and put his feet on the floor. It was cold, but not hard like he remembered.

He slowly walked toward the door, feeling confused and unsure. “I know this is my home,” he thought, “but the door is taller, and the hallway is wider.” He shook the thought off as he turned the corner and moved down the hall toward the kitchen.

He could hear humming, the pleasant music he would hear during his household chores: his mother’s beautiful tones. So long, it seemed, since last he saw her. “She will be so glad to see me well,” but to his horror, his eyes gazed upon a much older woman, hair grayed, posture hunched prominently, face wrinkled. He could see every line, every strand. “That can’t be my mom---” but the doubt was erased when she looked at him, her soft green eyes unchanged.

“Would you set the table, sweetie, “ she requested, the same way she always had.

“Sure, Mom,” he replied, unsure of what was happening.

He went to the utensil drawer and opened it. A white blur to his right caught his attention. He looked at the shepherd mix dog in the doorway, its eyes eerily similar to Shane’s. They stared at each other forever, as it were, until the dog walked away, down the hall toward the sound of the fireplace.

Sheridan mindlessly followed. At the end of the hall was a window that seemed out of place. It was tall, stretching from knee-height to the ceiling. Almost blinded by the light reflecting off the vast, flat expanse of snow outside, Sheridan could hear a barking outside the door to his left, a door he knew was the front entrance, though it was so much different, but maybe not, he thought.

He went to the window to try to see what it was outside, but he couldn’t see around the corner where the door was. All he could see were perfectly straight tree lines in the distance, a sea of white separating him from them, the lighting outside just as dreary as it was bright.

A bark again, and Sheridan immediately recognized it as Shane’s. “I gotta let him in before he freezes,” he thought. The door seemed so much farther away than it had a moment before. He grabbed the knob and tried to turn it. It wouldn’t budge. His hands squeaked on the brass. He desperately tried harder and harder to turn it. “Why is there no latch or lock?” he almost yelled out, as the barking continued, sounding a bit more helpless every bark.

“Open! Open!” he cried, trying to pry the door loose at the jamb.  His face tensed, his hands cramped as he struggled and struggled without any effect.

“Shane! Shane!” he bellowed. The boy turned around, sliding against the door to the floor, weeping between his knees, helpless and weary. “I must sleep,” he sputtered through the tears. “I’m so tired.”

“My face feels so warm,” he thought. “The sun is so bright,” he said out loud, shielding his eyes as he slowly opened them. He was lying on his back, and rising slowly to his feet, he could feel the soft, warm sand on which he had lain. Adjusting to the light, he gazed around him. He was on a small, almost perfectly circular beach island in the middle of a large lake.

The water looked so cold and deep, the endless fields around the perimeter so brown and dead. But there was a small figure on shore, a lively, friendly, wagging figure.

“Shane!” called the boy to his loyal dog.

The dog barked in return, appearing almost unable to control his excitement.

“Come here, boy, swim to me, “ the boy commanded.

Obediently, the dog started to come, but when his paw touched the water, he whined and backed off.

“Come on, Shane!”

Again the dog tried, but again he whined, louder than before, and backed off.

The boy felt desperate, almost frantic, frustratingly urging the little dog to swim, but just as equally frustrated-looking, the dog kept trying, whining incessantly. Finally, he stopped and sat down. His and the boy’s gaze locked.

“It’s ok, boy,” the boy consoled. “I will come to you.” He didn’t know why he said it, as terrified as he was of the apparent deepness and frigidness of the lake, but he knew he must.

Timidly but determinedly, he stepped to the edge of the water. It was perfectly still, practically a mirror. He couldn’t see into the water. “It could go down a mile,” he thought. He looked up at his dog, who stared fervently back at him.

He stepped in, and immediately began to fall forward, his foot not finding any bottom.

“Help!---”

He awoke, as it were, from a dream. Shane was sitting directly in front of his face, a couple feet away. “I’m cold, Shane,” he whispered, fatigued and hurting all over, his eyes feeling swollen, his head throbbing.

Without another word, Shane curled up beside his master, his furry, soft, and warm head snug against Sheridan’s chin.

“I’m so cold, boy. I’m so glad you’re here with me.”

He couldn’t move his arms or legs, but he could feel his companion breathing. He could feel the warm sun on his face, and he could feel the extremely soft earth beneath him, as soft as duck’s down.

“Oh, it is my bed,” he rejoiced, “and these are my blankets.”

“Goodnight, Mom! Goodnight, Dad!” he smiled as he closed his eyes.

“Goodnight, son,” he heard in the darkness.

The whole town showed up for the funeral. The death of such youth and vitality attracted everyone. So unnatural, they thought, so unfair to such a good boy.

Tears were shed in rivers, the mother disconsolate, the father painfully subdued.

It rained again that night: the fresh, exposed soil mounded over the casket becoming muddy; the little beagle, soaked to the bone, lying in the mud watching over the mound.

When the gravestone was carried to the grave the next day, the burly men in its charge choked back tears at the sight of the little dog, stiff in death, its head still raised, eyes open, mouth shut, partially sunk into the grave.