Chapter Text
As Gansey steps out of the treeline, the sun is waning. Walking through the dense oak and elm forests of western Virginia without following any marked trails, it’s easy to lose track of time, something Gansey isn’t good at keeping track of anyway. Now, he’s too focused on the map and compass in his hands to notice what he’s walking into isn’t just another meadow or glen. These occur frequently enough on his rambles through the Blue Ridge and Appalachian Mountains and they’re no longer the type of thing that phases him. This ramble, he’s following the march of Major General John C. Frémont’s Mountain Department in the lead up the Battle of Cross Keys, walking his way down the Shenandoah Valley from Strasberg, attempting to reach the battlefield in time to mark it’s sesquicentennial. It’s the fourth time Gansey has walked the path of Frémont’s army, following the various spurs of their Shenandoah campaign, camping where the army camped, trying to use the navigation techniques they used, attempting to stick to their culinary preparation habits and cuisine.
Gansey is following a route he’s carefully planned from primary resources provided by acquaintances at the University of Virginia and the Shenandoah Valley Civil War Museum, walking through the same woods, beside the same rivers, and over the same hills the Union Army trod one hundred fifty years ago. His current coordinates place him just north of Harrisonburg, and his attention on his map has him aware he’s approaching the location of a former encampment where he’s intending to pitch his tent for the night. That same focus has Gansey completely unaware he’s walking into a spanse of farmland tucked into foothills of the Allegheny Mountains, an offshoot of the Appalachians to the west.
It’s only when he walks into a fence post, part of an enclosure lining a cow pasture, that Gansey’s pulled from the wrinkled and creased map in his hand. Looking up, he gives pause, because what spans in front of him looks like a pastoral ideal Winslow Homer would have captured on canvas in the late nineteenth century.
Beyond the cow pasture, fields gradually slope downward towards a long, winding dirt driveway that cleaves the property in two. Gansey can make out knee-high corn in one field, tomatoes in another, the rest of the growth too fresh to be of any discernible variety. On the other side of the drive, the ground rises again, speckled with something resembling a kitchen garden rather than crops for profit, each plot of the terraced garden rimmed with rose bushes and dotted with what Gansey thinks are wandering chickens, though his poor eyesight, even through wire-rimmed glasses, won’t let him claim that for certain.
Everything is verdant and green and lush and alive, and sitting pretty above it all, at the top of the rise, is the quintessential farmhouse, white-washed with red shutters, a red roof, a brick chimney. A wrap-around porch completes the picture, and two rocking chairs sit nestled under the porch’s overhang. The only semblance of modernity is the line of solar panels on the roof. Gansey has never seen something so simple and so beautiful. So perfect.
He takes everything in for more than a few minutes as he works through whether to leave these people in peace and continue on his trek or to press for their hospitality. Gansey notes on his map that this farm isn’t marked, there’s no property boundaries traced out in dotted lines, and he half wonders if this is all a figment of his imagination. But then the front door of the farmhouse is opened by some invisible hand and a motley group of dogs darts across the front porch, and in that moment, Gansey makes an unconscious decision that he’ll ask the occupants of the farmhouse if he can camp on their land for the night, because his feet start carrying him towards the house and Gansey doesn’t recall telling them to move.
Gansey skirts the fence of the cow pasture, then cuts down the grass path between the crop fields. The dogs sense his presence as he nears the farmhouse and Gansey watches as they all fall still to assess his intrusion before they burst into a cacophony of barks and start charging towards Gansey. A Great Dane takes the lead and a Daschund mix brings up the rear, the space in between made up by any number of breeds. The dogs are still barking but docile when they reach him, pressing wet noses into his hands. They make it increasingly difficult to walk, so much so that Gansey has to stop, crouch, and distribute scratches and pets about twenty feet from the steps of the farmhouse.
Gansey is in the middle of this distribution of affection when he hears a door falling shut and then a gruff, baritone voice stating, “This is private property.”
When Gansey looks up, there’s a rifle pointed at the center of his chest. At the other end of the gun is a man of a tall and sturdy build who has a head full of dark curls pushed back from his face and a look that reflects he’s not afraid to pull the trigger.
Raising his hands in a gesture of surrender, Gansey slowly stands, the gun staying levelled on his sternum as he does so. “I apologize for the intrusion, but your farm’s not on the survey map I’ve been using to hike the route of Frémont’s army through the Shenandoah. I’d have asked for permission but--”
“Is there something about private property that you don’t understand?” the man asks.
“Ronan, what’re the dogs--” The screen door opens and another man joins the one on the porch, the new man fairer and slimmer than the rifle-toting man. Ronan, Gansey notes. The new arrival stops when he sees Gansey, glances at the rifle, then at Ronan, and the two men share a look before the fair-haired man puts his hand on Ronan’s arm and pushes on it until Ronan lowers the gun.
“What? It’s not loaded,” Ronan complains, his thick, dark eyebrows knitting together.
The other man gives Ronan another look, this one a cocked eyebrow and a set mouth, before he folds his arms over his chest and turns back to Gansey. “Can we help you?”
Lowering his hands, Gansey reaches into his pocket and withdraws his map, unfolding it as he hesitantly approaches the porch. “I’ve been following Frémont’s route while his army was marching down the Shenandoah, and their march took them right through your farm. I didn’t mean to trespass, but the map I used doesn’t reflect your property lines.”
“Which is the way we prefer it,” Ronan says shortly and he’s cut off by another hand placed gently on his arm.
“That doesn’t answer how we can help you,” the other man asserts, leaving his hand on Ronan’s arm in what Gansey realizes is a calming and placating gesture.
“May I?” Gansey waves towards the porch and takes another step closer when he receives a nod in response. He extends the map to the fair-haired man, who takes it and looks it over as Gansey continues. “I used primary sources, soldiers’ letters and diaries, regimental maps, some other records, and plotted the course Frémont’s troops took leading up to the Battle of Cross Keys. The Union Army came right through your land, and per records, I think they had an encampment here. I was planning on setting up my tent where they camped in the essence of authenticity, but I respect your privacy and understand if you would like me to leave.”
Another look is exchanged between the two men on the porch, then some words sotto voce. If Gansey isn’t mistaken, he even catches a few words in Latin. The fair man, seemingly their spokesperson, finally says, “We’re alright with you camping here. Just mind the dogs. And the chickens. If you build a fire, make sure it’s contained and banked at the end of the night.”
“I’ll make sure you don’t regret your hospitality,” Gansey says seriously, taking back the map when it’s extended to him and tucking it back into the pocket of his cargo shorts. Then he mounts a foot on the bottom of the porch steps so he can extend a hand towards his hosts. “I’m Gansey. Well, Richard Campbell Gansey, III, but I’m just Gansey.”
“Adam Parrish.” The fair man reaches out and shakes Gansey’s hand, briefly but cordially. “The asshole with the gun’s Ronan Lynch.”
“I can introduce myself, thank you.” Ronan cuts a look at Adam, who just rolls his eyes in a way that seems long-suffering. Then Ronan turns his sharp blue eyes back to Gansey and they narrow just slightly. “You said Gansey? Did you go to Aglionby?”
“I did, in fact.” Gansey looks up at the two men on the porch, mind going through his mental catalog of names and faces from his high school days until he finds one similar to Ronan’s, light where Ronan’s dark, but unmistakably alike. “You’re one of Matthew’s older brothers. He and I did crew together. You were, what, a Senior when we were Freshmen?”
“Seems about right.” Ronan nods.
“And then Adam Parrish." Gansey turns to Adam. “Only Aglionby student to get a full ride to Harvard. At least last time I checked. You’re not someone I would have expected to see back in Virginia, not thirty miles from Aglionby.”
Adam shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly and Gansey doesn’t miss the sideways glance Adam makes towards Ronan out of the corner of his eye. “Found something worth coming back for.”
The Rolodex of Gansey’s mind produces something he’d all but forgotten until now. A scene from the lunchroom at Aglionby, late in the spring of his Freshman year. A tray of food being dumped over someone’s head, Adam’s head, milk soaking his fair hair and dripping onto the shoulders of his uniform sweater. Someone, Ronan, hair buzzed short then, punching the boy who’d dumped the tray and leaving him with a bloody nose. Shouts of slurs, taunts of bringing AIDS to Aglionby. Gansey remembers staring at Adam as lunch monitors carted Ronan off towards the Dean’s office. He remembers Adam still seated at his lunch table with his chin up, shoulders square, marinara sauce from chicken parmesan smeared across one high cheekbone, a resolute, unfocused look in his eyes as he stared across the cafeteria.
And here those two boys were, over twenty-five years later. Still together, while Gansey’s great romance with his high school sweetheart has fizzled from existence, seemingly content, and there’s a brief pang in Gansey’s chest that he covers up with an award-winning smile. “What a magnificent surprise. After I get my tent situated, I would love to catch up.”
There’s another shared look between Adam and Ronan, and Adam, still designated spokesman, speaks, “Just come knock when you’re settled. One of us will let you in.”
As Gansey turns away to find a place to set up camp at the far end of the kitchen garden, Ronan calls for the dogs and they stampede past Gansey to stream back into the farmhouse. The screen door bangs shut behind Adam and Ronan as they follow their dogs, but they leave the front door open, welcoming Gansey whenever he’s ready.
Gansey intends to spend one night but ends up staying three. That first night, he, Adam, and Ronan are up past midnight in the farmhouse’s kitchen, dogs sleeping sprawled around the floor and in laps. They start with reminiscing about Aglionby, though Adam’s and Ronan’s recollections seem thoroughly edited for content. Adam tells Gansey about Harvard, Gansey tells Adam about Yale, and Ronan listens, stroking the ears of the Daschund mix settled in his lap.
The next day, as Gansey is about to break down his tent, Adam comes down from the house with a small box in his hands, offering it to Gansey. “Just some things we found when we were digging up the garden a few years back. Thought you might like them.”
Gansey thanks him and opens the box, reveling in the contents. Musket balls, an old uniform button, half a tin cup with its handle still attached. Gansey’s eyes are wide as he looks back up at Adam. “And you found these all here?”
Adam smiles, a contained thing that brings out the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, and he waves a hand at the steppe-like setup of the kitchen garden. “Mostly in that area, but a few we’ve just found while out walking or digging new irrigation ditches. There were some French-Indian War conflicts near here, too. And prisoner of war camps during the Revolutionary War, but I think those were more to the east of the Blue Ridge, not this far west.”
“Would you mind if I used a metal detector? I won’t dig without permission, but I’d love to know if there’s anything else where these came from.” Gansey lifts the box.
“Feel free to dig. You can't do worse than the dogs.” Adam smiles again, less contained this time so not just crow’s feet but laugh lines show, and Gansey sees a shade of the boy he knew in passing in high school.
By day three, Gansey has scanned nearly all of the garden with his metal detector and portable ground penetrating radar. Through careful maneuvering of a leant hand spade, he manages to dig up a handful of musket balls and a few more buttons from among rosemary bushes and vines of butternut squash. It’s only when he takes pictures of his findings and wants to share them with a friend teaching at William & Mary that Gansey realizes he doesn’t have cellular service, and likely hasn’t for days. Normally in the habit of being continually connected, he’s been too enthralled with the farm to notice the lack of messages and calls. The Barns, as he learned the farm is called, it’s moniker from the various white structures built around the property, has a way of making the outside world feel unimportant.
So Gansey climbs the front steps of the house, knocking on the screen door. It’s Ronan who appears from the sitting room off the first floor’s main hall, and he holds the screen door open for Gansey. “You don’t need to knock. You can just come in and find us.”
“I don’t want to interrupt,” Gansey explains, then holds up his phone. “Do you have an area where you get service? Or do you have WiFi I can connect to?”
Ronan looks at Gansey as if he’s talking a foreign language then bursts into a short fit of laughter, hand resting on a stomach that’s starting to show signs of softening from middle age. “You’d have to go up to the main road and go north a few miles to get cell service. And we don’t have internet, just a satellite phone for emergencies. Adam has a cell phone he uses when we go into town, but we’re pretty self contained.”
“Self contained?” Gansey furrows his brow.
“Off the grid,” Ronan tells him, and this makes Gansey even more fascinated with this idyllic homestead these two men have built for themselves. He’d noticed the solar panels on his initial approach towards the farmhouse, but hadn’t considered the home wasn’t attached to any outside power sources.
“I can wait.” Gansey smiles as he tucks his phone into the side pocket of his cargo shorts. “It’s not imperative.”
At every opportunity after their first interaction, Adam and Ronan have gone out of their way to make Gansey feel at home at the Barns. But that doesn’t negate Gansey’s desire to not feel like he’s overstaying his welcome. So after his third night of camping by the Barns’ kitchen garden, Gansey wakes up, breaks down his tent, and packs his things into his metal framed backpack. Then he mounts the steps of the farmhouse, knocking on the screen door out of habit.
“Come in, Gansey,” Ronan yells from somewhere in the depths of the house.
Mentally berating himself, Gansey sets his backpack down on the porch before entering the farmhouse. He wanders down the hall and finds both Adam and Ronan engrossed in what is apparently breakfast for their five dogs. Gansey’s favorite, a one-eyed terrier mix named Polyphemus, peels himself away from his food bowl to trot across the kitchen to Gansey and Adam scoops the deserted bowl off the floor before another canine can descend upon it. Gansey crouches, scratching Polyphemus behind the ears as he looks up at Adam and Ronan. “I think I’m going to continue on my way today. It’s a few days until the anniversary of the Battle of Cross Keys and I’d like to make it there in time. It’s been wonderful staying with you.”
It surprises Gansey that it’s Ronan, the definite rougher of the two, who says, “It’s been good having you.”
Giving Polyphemus one last pat on the head, Gansey stands and pauses a beat before he speaks, “I would love to come back sometime, explore more of the farm, see what else I can dig up.”
Adam offers him a full smile, elastic and amiable. “You’re welcome back anytime, Gansey.”