Winter, Freshman Year
The Sleins don't send their children to school, instead teaching them at home. With only six and half hours of academics per day required by the state, this way the children have significantly more time for chores. Though Dan would normally be indifferent to this change, he's disappointed once he discovers the woefully lacking educational resources the Sleins offer. Beyond the Bible and various scholastic primers, there are no books to be found within the household.
While Dan has little time for reading between school and farm labor, and is exhausted by both to the degree that he would lack the energy to even focus on reading, he desperately wishes for some method of escape. Even his copies of The Lord of the Rings trilogy have mysteriously vanished, no doubt confiscated by the Sleins in an attempt to protect him from heathenism.
Christmas with the Sleins is almost as austere as everyday living; they view the whimsical modern version of the holiday as laden with ostentatious frippery. Beyond a change of menu, longer hours of prayer, and slight increase of dinner portions on Christmas Day, the entire season passes with nary a mention or indication of celebration.
January is concluding when Dan receives a letter in the mail from the military, containing the message that his father is dead, killed during an overseas SEALs mission.
"I don't know what to do," Dan tells Mr. and Mrs. Slein in regard to the letter.
Initially, the two of them seem very taken aback by his statement, too much so to speak. The Sleins are firm believers that children should be seen and not heard; dialogue rarely takes place within the household beyond prayer or essential discussion about the farm and its tasks. Meals are mostly silent beyond the parents instructing the children on the necessary chores and the clinking of cutlery against the china. At times, days pass without anyone speaking to Dan or him speaking to anyone else, simply because no one engaged him in conversation
Finally, though, Mrs. Slein responds. "Pray," she suggests. "Pray, and God will show you the answer."
A pause ensues as Dan searches their unsympathetic expressions and forms his response accordingly. "What I mean," he says haltingly, "is that I'm not sure what action is needed for this situation. Should I be making funeral arrangements? Should I buy a headstone? There's no body to bury, so I really don't know how to continue, or what my next step should be . . ." His voice trails off as the Sleins stare unblinkingly at him without a hint of compassion, or even interest.
"Pray," Mr. Slein tells him. "God will give you all the answers you need."
Turning his back on the two of them and walking out the front door, Dan roams the property until he finds the highest hill in the vicinity, and climbs to the top. He remains there, gazing out over the farm's fallow fields, until long after night falls.
On February fourteenth, Dan turns fourteen. For a present, his recently located uncle visits him to discuss the possibility of taking custody.
His name is William Regan—Dan's mother mentioned him occasionally, only ever referring to him as "Liam." He's well-built, tall and broad with obvious muscle, and he has the same copper red hair, malachite green eyes, and freckled face as Dan's mother did.
One feature in common with his sister than he lacks, however, is her smile. When she was alive, Daniella Mangan laughed often and easily, a smile always ready on her features. Liam Regan's face remains perpetually set in a grim, stony expression.
"Here's how it goes," Liam informs him tersely. "I've asked a friend of mine, a gamekeeper named Elijah Maypenny, to allow you to live in his house in exchange for you helping on the Wheeler game preserve. You'll be working part time, since you'll also be attending the local high school. Got it?" He fixes Dan with an icy stare.
An uncommon sliver of self-consciousness pricks Dan at the irritability directed towards him. Suddenly, he's hyper aware that his jeans are ultra tight due to being several sizes too small, and his sweater is overly large, with the neck stretched to one side and exposing one of his shoulders. He probably looks like a street urchin. This situation is not what he expected; though he had no fantasies about being welcomed into someone's home rather than forced upon them by the state, he didn't predict quite the level of hostility Liam is projecting.
"Not to pry, Liam," Dan drawls, "but is there any particular reason I can't go to live with you?"
A muscle in Liam's jaw twitches, and his mouth, already set in a thin line, thins even further. "First, these days it's Bill, and most of the time, I'm just called Regan. Second, my employer has children, as do several families around the neighborhood. And I don't think they'd want their children exposed to a delinquent such as yourself. I have to consider what's best for my job before I think about you."
With that, he turns on his heel and exits the room, possibly on his way to speak to Dan's latest social worker.
"That's arguably fair, I guess," Dan says to the empty room. In the back of his mind, it occurs to him that he should send a letter to Luth to update him on his situation.
The gamekeeper Dan's going to be living with seems nice enough.
"Call me Elijah," he says, shaking Dan's hand with a strong grip. "No need for formalities if we're going to be stuck under the same roof."
The cabin is surprisingly modern, not only outfitted with electricity and a refrigerator, but also a dishwasher and microwave, though neither appear frequently utilized. The floor plan on the first level is semi-open and most of the surfaces are polished hardwood, the various lamps of the well-lit area reflected in the shine. The floor is covered by sizeable crocheted rugs, and the walls are lined with intricately patterned quilts that hang like tapestries. The entirety of the decoration appears to be handmade. Momentarily curious, Dan lifts up a corner of one of the quilts to find the back of it embroidered with the message, "To Elijah, Love Junia." Suddenly overcome with guilt at the prospect of intruding on another person's private memories, he lets the cloth drop from his hand.
One particular aspect of the kitchen catches Dan's eye. Fixed to the wall beside the refrigerator is an eighteen inch by eighteen inch metal sheet with various small canisters attached to it, somehow remaining lengthwise parallel to the floor. The center of the canister lids are translucent, and each one is labelled as a different spice. Experimentally, Dan lifts one of the containers off of the metal sheet and finds that each has a magnet on the bottom.
The setup seems very contemporary for a hermit who lives alone in the wood, and suddenly, Dan wonders about the modern utilities of the cabin. Elijah Maypenny may live alone now, but Dan is willing to bet money that he didn't always.
His suspicions only increase when Elijah tells him to pick out a room upstairs.
"You'll have the floor to yourself," he says, stirring a pot on the stove. "My bedroom is on the first floor, at the back of the house."
The U-shaped staircase takes Dan to the second floor, through an open loft area with a doorway. Once past the door, Dan finds himself in a hallway that contains three bedrooms.
The first bedroom is decorated in yellow and the second in red; never a fan of bright colors, Dan decides to try the third before making any final decisions. Sure enough, the third room suits his tastes much more than either of the other two.
The room is bright and clean, with the walls paneled in a burnished hardwood that is pale, almost white. The floor and furnishings are of similar material, maybe a shade or two darker, but not by much. The frame of the double bed has the traditional square headboard and footboard with low posts.
Decoration is sparse. Carolina blue curtains, of the typical country style, frame both of the two windows. The quilt on the bed has a carpenter's color wheel pattern of ivory, dark blue, and medium blue. A large oval crocheted rug of matching colors is settled on the floor in the very center of the room. Other than the bed, the only other furniture is a beautifully carved desk, a tall chest of drawers, and a floor to ceiling bookcase. The desk is in the middle of the same wall as the door, while against the adjacent wall is a bureau, and at the far end, the closet. On the opposite wall are the two windows, with the bookcase in between, and in the center of the left wall is the bed.
Walking closer, Dan finds the bookcase is filled with classics such as Slaughterhouse-Five , The Great Gatsby , and The Sound and Fury . Several anthologies by famous authors such as Edgar Allen Poe, Katherine Porter, and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow are also present.
For the first time in a long time, Dan smiles. Maybe these books are a sign that it may be all right to call this cabin 'home,' after all.
Moving to unpack, he opens one of the bureau drawers, only to find it already contains several sweaters. Quizzically, Dan withdraws one with a Fair Isle pattern, twisting the slim knit in his fingers. Looks like he was right, then, and Elijah did once have a family.
For several seconds, he merely contemplates the sweater, then sets it back in the drawer and goes to question Elijah about the confusing situation.
"There are a bunch of clothes in the bureau of the blue room," he informs Elijah.
"The blue room, eh? So that's the one you chose." For a moment, the man's expression is almost pensive, but then he turns away, back to the stove. "Well, anything you find in there, you're free to use. It's not doing anybody any good, just sitting and waiting up there like it is right now."
The unexpected generosity catches Dan by surprise. "Thank you," he manages, glad to remember basic gratitude despite being taken aback.
""Don't mention it." Elijah ladles a heaping portion of stew into a large bowl and thrusts it at Dan. "Sit down and eat. You look like a strong breeze would blow you away."
Everywhere Dan looks, there's trees. Around the house, lining the road, beside the forest paths. Branches bare beyond any icicles or lingering snow, thousands of limbs stretch toward the pale sky as if desperately trying to seek out warmth and sunlight.
Delaware has trees, that's for sure. But Dan was trapped at the farm for what in hindsight seems like an eternity, stuck working the crop fields or the livestock without ever being able to leave the property. Anything beyond what was he saw there every day stopped being real to him, instead become nothing more substantial than a barely-recalled dream. Till now, he's forgotten that the woods exist in actual life, not just in theory.
Elijah Maypenny walks up from behind Dan as he stands in wonder, gazing out at the winter-ravaged forest before him.
"Don't tell me you've never seen trees before," the old man says in a jocular tone. "I don't believe that for a moment, even if you are from New York City."
Several beats pass before it occurs to Dan that he's the one being addressed. "Oh," he says, realizing Elijah is speaking to him. "Well, I'm not sure what Regan told you, but I'm from Paterson, New Jersey. I've lived in New York, and also Delaware, though."
Resuming his concentration on the forest, Dan notices that the sun is setting. Fiery orange light refracts through the dangling icicles on the tree branches, giving the illusion of the forest aflame with a golden glow. The sight is beautiful. Peaceful.
Elijah claps Dan on the shoulder. "Son, I'm going to go inside and put some hot chocolate on the stove. Come on in when it gets too cold out here."
"Thanks," Dan responds with a smile, and goes back to looking at the trees. Or he tries, at least. Right now, the sun's rays are too bright to so much as even look in that direction.