THE TALISMAN
A Charlie Glass Short Story

CHAPTER 1
Rural Virginia, 1995
Charlie sat, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at the old wooden table. Her blonde hair, cut into a bob, framed her pretty face, which was adorned with bronzed freckles, a testament to her time spent basking in the glow of endless summer days. Her eyes, the deepest shade of blue, held a spark of excitement as she anticipated the day’s adventure. Today was her sixteenth birthday. She had a particular adventure lined up: a fishing expedition with her father, Pop, to their favorite spot in the woods.
Pop, a roly-poly man with a thick, bushy mustache, stood nearby at the old cast-iron stove. The rich, earthy scent of a freshly brewed pot of char mingled with the sweet aroma of maple syrup, creating an intoxicating perfume. The flapjacks emitted a tantalizing sizzle as the occasional pop of a bursting bubble filled the air. Charlie’s mouth watered as she inhaled deeply, the promise of a delicious breakfast teasing her taste buds. It was a comforting symphony of scents and sounds that signaled the start of another soon-to-be memorable day.
The pair’s laughter echoed around the cozy cabin. It was a scene of pure familial bliss, a snapshot of the unbreakable bond between a father and his daughter. As they devoured their fish, Pop recounted stories of previous fishing escapades, focusing almost entirely on the sizes of the fish he had caught over the years. Charlie laughed at the lengths Pop went to with his tall stories.
After breakfast, they gathered their fishing gear, each item telling a story of past expeditions. Their fishing rods, well-worn and weathered, leaned against the cabin wall. The frayed edges of the fishing rods were a testament to the countless battles they had waged against feisty fish. Old handles, smooth from years of use, fitted perfectly in their hands, an extension of themselves. The tackle box, a wicker relic of a bygone era, held an assortment of colorful flies, each with its own history and purpose. Out of sight from Pop, Charlie opened the basket.
The gentle scent of leather, as Pop carefully opened the box, mingled with the faint aroma of dried fish scales that clung to the flies and line. It was a unique blend of scents that transported her back in time, to moments of excitement and anticipation by the river’s edge. She had spent the last day tying new flies. Today was the day she was going into battle with her latest design, a black feather with just a hint of red fluff, the black butcher.
Pop hauled on his favorite weathered tweed jacket, a trusty companion on countless expeditions into the wild. He insisted on wearing his lucky fishing hat, a tattered old cap that looked as if it had seen more days in the water than on it. It bore the stains of countless encounters with nature and held an air of superstition that he couldn’t quite shake. Charlie watched as he placed it on his head with a determined air, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
The two adventurers stepped outside into the brilliant Virginia morning, the sunlight filtering through the towering trees, casting dappled shadows on the forest floor. It was a warm and tranquil day that enveloped the log cabin in a comforting embrace. The sun peeked over the horizon, casting a soft, golden hue upon the world. A chorus of birdsong serenaded them as they made their way into the woods. The birdsong, a cacophony of chirps and melodies, was a reminder of the vibrant life that thrived in the forest. Each bird had its own tune, its own story to tell, and they shared them all with Charlie and Pop as they ventured deeper into the woods. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves, and the distant murmur of a nearby stream added to the morning’s mellow soundtrack.
The path they walked had been well-trodden by years of exploration. Each step was a reminder of the countless adventures they had shared in this pristine wilderness. The earthy scent of the forest floor, a mix of damp soil and decaying leaves, rose to greet them with every footfall. Their destination was a weathered crag overlooking a meandering river, a place that held a special place in their hearts. The crag, smoothed by years of exposure to the elements, offered a perfect vantage point. Charlie’s heart raced with excitement as they approached their favorite spot, a place where they had shared moments of triumph and defeat, laughter, and contemplation.
At the river’s edge, they prepared their fishing lines. Charlie meticulously tied her secret weapon, the black butcher, to her line, her fingers moving with the grace and precision that came from years of practice.
Pop watched his daughter’s preparations with a mixture of pride and nostalgia as he expertly handled his own fishing gear.
“Here we go, Pop!” Keen to get ahead, Charlie was first to cast her line upstream. The fly landed with elegance on the water’s surface. She resisted the urge to fidget with her rod and reel, allowing the current to take the fly where it needed to go. It was a moment of anticipation— a moment of truth, as they liked to call it.
“Patience, Charlie,” Pop reminded her, his voice a gentle murmur in the forest’s stillness.
The fly danced on the surface, inching closer to Old Roger’s elusive hiding spot. Charlie’s heart pounded with excitement as she watched, her nerves tingling with anticipation. It was a moment she cherished, the thrill of the chase, the uncertainty of what lay beneath the water’s surface.
Suddenly, a commotion disrupted the tranquility of the moment. A stumbling figure blundered into Charlie’s line of sight, startling her. With a mixture of surprise and frustration, she watched as her father toppled headlong into the river, the water swallowing him whole. With a triumphant “Tadah!” and a mutton-chop grin that stretched across his face, Pop emerged from the water, a drenched and bedraggled figure. Charlie couldn’t contain her laughter at the sight of her father, who now resembled a soggy, bearded walrus scrabbling for an elusive prize.
The tranquil fishing expedition had taken an unexpected turn, and Charlie’s laughter echoed through the woods as she watched her father struggle to retrieve his rod and reel from the water. Eventually, after much honking and splashing, Pop made his way back to the bank, his rod held high as if in triumph. The performance had ended.
The wily old fish had eluded them once again.
Once beached on the riverbank, Pop playfully chased after his daughter, his frame still dripping with river water. Shrieks of delight and playful growls rang through the breezy leaves as he enveloped her in a bear hug. The bond between them was undeniable, a connection that transcended words and filled their hearts with warmth.
“We’ll get him next time.” Promised Pop.
Preferring to the thrill of the chase more than the glory of success, Charlie smiled. “I doubt that very much.” Charlie squinted. “What’s that?” A glistening crevice between a nearby boulder caught her eye. She narrowed both gaze and brow but could produce no definitive answer. Her bond with her father broke when she raced to investigate. Never one to spoil her fun or curtail her adventures, Pop let her go.
Down at the rock face, almost obscured, Charlie made out the form of a mottled bauble. She flicked and picked at the object, but her fingers were too weak to pry the item from nature’s grasp. When it shifted, her heart jolted. Treasure. She darted to her wicker tackle box and tugged its distressed leather strap through a tarnished buckle. The vintage lid opened with a dried creak.
“Scissors? Scissors? Scissors? Aha!”
In a flash, she returned to the site and started digging like a crazed Klondiker. Midway through the frenzied attack, the mystery object broke free and skittered off down the rock face. Charlie followed in hot pursuit. A desperate lunge led to its capture.
Perplexed Pop looked on. Although soaked and shivering, his head shook more. His incredulous, admiring smile widened with every breath. Charlie pulled the trinket close and squinted in the sunlight. Mild disappointment washed over her. It looked to be an old black bauble with a buckled shank. It wasn’t the magical treasure she’d hoped for, but it seemed worthy of a place in her secret trinket box. She gripped it between thumb and middle finger, squatted down by the side of the stream, and washed her new totem in the freshwater. She handed over her talisman with equal amounts of pomp and pride.
“What do you think?”
Pop twisted his face to prepare for the disdain that would surely follow.
“Not much—” His face stiffened. His elbow bent and straightened, bringing the piece closer, then further away, as he sought the perfect distance to bring it into focus. A flicker of intrigue escaped the corner of Pop’s eye as he fumbled under the flap of his breast pocket. As part of the inspection process, he retrieved and donned his wire-rimmed spectacles.
Charlie bounced from one foot to the other many times over. “What is it?” she inquired.
“Old brass. It’s probably nothing. Patience.”
Charlie beamed, impressed that her find had induced such excitement in her reserved father. “Don’t you always say patience is a card game?”
Pop rasped the button across his tousled tweeds. Even through the stubborn tarnish, the button told tales.
“What do you see?
“An eagle with spread wings and a shield on its chest. Intricate, almost imperial.”
Pop turned the item over and cast his eyes around the bent shank at the back of the button. In frustration at not being able to read the lettering, he reluctantly handed Charlie the button with an accompanying humph.
“What does that say?”
It was now Pop’s turn to bob from foot to foot. Charlie lifted the piece to her bright eyes and slowly twisted the angle of the button to bring the wording into focus. She vocalized each letter as they slowly came into view.
“W-A-T-E-R-B-U-R-Y.”
Pop blurted. “Manufacturing? Does it say Scoville?”
“Hang on.”
She lifted her head in puzzlement. “Scoville Manufacturing. Waterbury.”
“Wahooooo!” With a childish yell, Pop snatched the button back.
“Do you know what this is?”
Charlie rolled a sarcastic eye. “Duh, a button?”
“A Civil War button, from a Union General. Scoville made all their buttons.”
Charlie threw a skeptical glare. “How could you possibly know all this?”
“A lifetime of studying and teaching the Civil War.” Pop’s time as a custodian within the Smithsonian allowed him unprecedented access to the array of artifacts held within its museums and archives.
The scrub intensified. “Have you seen one of these before?”
“No. But I’ve heard of them. Who hasn’t?”
“Er, every other person in the world?”
Pop ignored the jibe, too distracted by the new find. He surveyed the scene. “It must have fallen here as they drove the ford. They skirmished around these parts for most of the war. It would have been a great place to set up camp. Easily defended, has multiple escape routes, and is difficult to find. Grant came this way during the Battle of the Wilderness. It could be his.” “Battle of the Wilderness?”
“The first battle of the 1864 Virginia Overland Campaign.
Goodness, do they not teach you anything at that school of yours?” Even at her young age, Charlie had already inherited her father’s skeptical streak. He had taught her well. “Aren’t you getting carried away?
They laughed at the tenuous possibilities as Pop lifted the glinting button into view. “This deserves to be in the museum.”
Charlie playfully snatched the button back. “You deserve to be in a museum.” She seized a spare spool of fly line from the confines of her wicker basket. She neatly and quickly cut the dark line to the exact length. A sheet knot ensnared the shank of the button with seamless efficiency. Pop gawked in questioning disbelief when Charlie threw the fresh loop around her neck.
Under Pop’s incredulous gaze, Charlie explained the rationale: “If I find out it’s genuine, you will weasel me ‘round to giving it away, and I’ll probably never wear it. If it’s not real, I will be sad. It’s best that I don’t know.”
“The biggest lies in our lives are the ones we tell ourselves,” Pop protested.
“Who said that?”
“I did.”
Pop seemed transfixed by the button, but the look on Charlie’s face amplified her determination. With a smirk and a shrug, she threw the trinket down the front of her shirt. Pop tossed his palms open in resignation. “Okay, you win. I am heading back up to the cabin. I am stinking.”
“Starting to stink?” laughed Charlie.
Her father offered a loving nod and moved to drag her close.
Charlie broke free and darted on ahead.
“Race you!”
Excited yells clattered through the leafy enclave as Charlie made her escape. Pop trudged off through the undergrowth, well off the pace. Thorny Briars snared his tangled breeches, as if reluctant to let him go. Crashes and curses accompanied his undignified retreat as he plowed an alternative furrow through the snaggy brushwood. By the time he had loosened his breeches from one overly clingy briar, Charlie had long disappeared.
Back at the log cabin, Charlie bounded into her room, slamming the latching door behind her. Dropping to her tiny knees, she pulled back the threadbare rug before tussling with a loose floorboard. After yanking the tired lumber to one side, she retrieved a dilapidated cigar box. Despite its small size, the box looked lived in. With impressive ceremony, she laid the talisman inside the box alongside all the mementos from a life yet to be lived: a faded photograph of her departed mother, letters from a friend, postcards from afar, seashells, trinkets, and findings from adventures gone by. The burned button took its place within her memory chest.
Little did she know that one day that tiny trinket would save her life.

ARTICLES
This is an excerpt from Charlie’s life. It is designed to add color and context to the high-impact feature-length novels within the Charlie Glass Crime Thriller Series. This piece is a work of fiction. All incidents, dialogue, and all characters, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life locales, articles, or incidents may appear, the situations, events, and dialogues concerning those entities are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.
For more information or to book an event, please contact the author at www.jj-carson.com.
