Work Text:
1884
Opening the window was easy enough, he had done it many times before. The hinges were usually well-oiled, the housekeeper made sure of that, and today was no different. Not that it mattered much – the snoring of the boys in the bunk beds behind him would have drowned out any sound the window could have possibly made. Eli half pulled, half pushed himself up onto the window sill and looked back: the shadowed outlines of twenty-four beds, one of them empty, and three more boys on mats on the floor. He wouldn’t miss a single one of them and highly suspected the feeling was mutual.
It was too dark to check his pocket watch, but he estimated sunrise would be in about three or four hours, and just as long until they would find his bed abandoned. Plenty of time to disappear into the woods.
With a thud he jumped to the ground. Instinctively, he looked up, before he remembered that last night it had been a new moon, so he couldn’t count on the silvery light to help him. It was fine either way, he knew his way around the property and he knew where he wanted to go.
Quietly, he began to walk. It wasn’t long until the familiar brick wall came into sight. It reminded him of Ada, of their antics almost a year ago, and for a moment he turned around again: the house loomed huge and dark. Somewhere inside was Ada. Yesterday, his fourteenth birthday, they had fought and at some point had both stormed off in opposite directions, how silly, when now he couldn’t even remember what the fight had been about. Millie? Ada’s future? An oatcake?
With the way she had glared at him, it was clear she wouldn’t miss him either. As for Millie, he wasn’t even sure she remembered they were siblings; they had seen less and less of each other over the years, with the only thing connecting them being Ada, and she had begun to grow tired of her job as the mediator. All of this considered, the decision to leave had been an easy one.
Inhaling sharply, he scaled the wall and looked ahead, into the darkness.
The forest was bursting with life during this time of the night, but the rustling and bustling didn’t scare him. Or maybe it did, but he couldn’t let this get through to him now. He was a man. He wouldn’t get lost because he had no destination. He was tall for his age, would find work easily, but first he would have to walk, to bring some distance between him and the past, three hours was more than enough to build up a decent lead.
He’d always been a good walker, but he was also aware that if he wanted to get away, to really get away, sooner or later he would need a horse or a mule, and with two dollars in his pocket (and his mother's silver dollar, but he would rather starve than spend it), this suddenly felt like a bigger problem than it had in his bed two hours ago. So he needed employment first. Or he could steal, but stealing a horse seemed slightly more intimidating than letting an apple slide into his pocket at the market.
How much did a horse cost anyway? In case he’d only have to work a week or two for it, he’d much prefer going the morally sound route.
It had rained these past few days, had only stopped yesterday afternoon, and the ground was still soggy. Muddy water soon penetrated his worn-out shoes, making them heavy and cold on his already hurting feet, but this was no reason to stop. A pause would only make the feeling worse and his feet even colder.
It was only when he reached the little pond he had shown Ada last summer that he knew he was on the right track. From here, things should be fairly easy – the plan was to follow the stream that drained from the pond until he reached a farm, a town, or, because he could still hear its call, the sea. Foolproof, the water would guide him, and as a bonus he wouldn’t die of thirst.
He walked past the pond without stopping, only quickly glancing at it, desperate to not let last summer’s images break through the surface of his memory. He had been unhappy then too, but he’d had Ada and the restlessness had felt more bearable.
No, he couldn’t have stayed. It was wrong, he was wrong, half a foot taller than the rest of the boys, and who had ever heard of a fourteen-year-old living at an orphanage? It would have been embarrassing, and he was glad he spared his sisters the shame.
The sound of his footsteps on the wet leaves seemed deafening to him now, his ears were hot despite the cool night air on his face, and he regretted having put on all of the clothes he owned, just so he wouldn’t have to carry any baggage: two union suits (both too small), two pairs of socks, one pair of pants, three shirts and a canvas jacket, as well as a threadbare scarf.
He removed the scarf and tied it around his waist, and when the breeze hit his neck, a shiver ran down his spine. His legs were cold, too. The socks kept sliding down and between them and the hem of the pants he had long outgrown was a gap of about two inches. Between his frigid ankles and sweat-drenched back, he kept wishing for another body, or at least one that was fully grown, broader shoulders and stronger thighs, something less angular, but this was cruel thinking, he should be grateful his legs carried him the way they did.
The stream meandered and he followed its gurgling, realizing he had never been this free. Not expected anywhere, not yet missed, it was as if he didn’t exist at all. The feeling was intoxicating.
He belched loudly to remind himself he was still here and then he stopped for the first time to drink something. The water tasted earthy and a little bitter. He knew it wouldn’t kill him, his story couldn’t end like this, not when he was feeling more alive than he had in years.
He was free!
He could let his hair grow again, and if the few stray hairs above his upper lip and under his chin meant anything, maybe even a beard, and he would be unrecognizable. There was a buzzing in his chest and he wanted to squeal, a euphoria so earnest and true that it was incomprehensible how he had ever felt down.
His whole life, he had always made a point of leaving as quietly as possible, and this was the grand finale. After this, he would never have to leave again. No, he would finally find a place where he belonged, and if that place was the open road, so be it – there was an entire country to see.
The image of a doe crossed his mind, one empty eye facing the sky, the neck an open wound, it was the dead doe Ada had found last year somewhere around here and still he didn’t know what had killed it. And was it still around?
No use worrying about this now. He wouldn’t go back, that much was certain, because despite the many little freedoms he had carved out for himself, that place had been a prison, and no regular meals and no freshly washed bed linen could embellish that. When he thought about it now, home had been a kind of prison too, less oppressive maybe, but even back then he’d always felt the urge to run, to call for Sammy and be gone.
Funny, how he did not think very often about his parents anymore, but every day about that dumb old dog. Was it any wonder? Sammy had never slapped him, never berated him, the dog had only followed him wherever he went, looking up to him with sad eyes, tail wagging, and sometimes he’d barked to scare the neighbor’s children, and Eli always got a kick out of that.
When he thought about home, he saw a coffin. Not just because of the countless coffins they had meticulously crafted, but because there was sadness, there was restriction as well as honest work, there was death just as much as the scent of freshly cut wood. And he was being unfair. There had been love, too. Long evenings by the fireplace, entire summer days spent playing by the creek with Ada, and mouth-watering christmas dinners. There had been love, and Sammy. Neither of these at the orphanage.
All this walking wasn’t good for him, it made him brood. He tried not to think of anything for a few minutes, but failed miserably, and then he focused on thinking about the future instead of dwelling on the past. The future was so foggy and the past so crystal clear that he felt he had to close his eyes in order to successfully picture the next few days or weeks, and when he did just that, he immediately tripped over a tree root and almost stumbled headfirst into the rivulet.
As soon as he found his footing again, he took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, pausing for a moment to look at his surroundings. It was still far from sunrise, but he was almost sure he could make out the faintest glow of dawn somewhere behind the trees and reflected in the water. It was very quiet now, his cursing when he’d tripped and the light from the cigarette had probably spooked most animals.
The wind had died down and his own breathing rang incredibly loud in his ears. He had five cigarettes left, not including the one he was smoking. And given his finances, they would have to last him for a while. He inhaled and tried to savor the taste, but focused on it too hard and suddenly found it rank and foul.
Ada would still be asleep and clueless. Would the headmistress take her aside and tell her before breakfast what had happened, or would she have to notice his empty chair and ask by herself where he was? He wasn’t sure which version he preferred. She would be angry either way and maybe she’d even go and look for him, she was the only one who knew about the dent in the wall and the pond, and he could imagine she would want to check the little shelter they’d built together. If only to throw some insults at his head. She wouldn’t find him there, of course, he’d walked in the opposite direction for the past hour or so, and he’d walked fast. That was the advantage when you didn’t know where you were going – you needn’t waste any time on orientation.
The cigarette had curbed the vague feeling of hunger in his belly, and after he’d put it out on some wet moss, he let the butt drop into his pocket again.
He continued his march without worrying too much. No end to the forest was in sight, and he was glad of it, glad of the protection the trees provided, he felt very secure in a way, despite never having been more alone.
The more light made its way through the treetops, the colder the air seemed to grow, and this confused him at first, but it was still April after all, and morning frost not unheard of. And only his face and ankles felt cold, the rest of him was still hidden away comfortably under several layers of fabric.
He walked without another break until the stream crossed a clearing, and it was only as he stepped out of the shadows of the trees that he realized morning had really broken now. The sky was pale, almost colorless, but the sun shone with newborn force and the meadow before him seemed alight with the glistening of thousands of dew drops clinging to the straw-colored grass.
He took a deep breath. The air burned in his lungs and he felt that he was tired. Somewhere ahead a jay cawed, and as he looked for it, he was distracted by another movement close to the ground, a whitetail doe, and she hadn’t spotted him yet. He didn’t dare to move, only watched her as he plucked leaves from a bush, straining her long neck, exposing the soft, light throat. Every now and then, she scanned the area nervously, but it was as if they didn’t exist in the same universe, the same small clearing. She looked sick, he thought, until he realized the raggedy appearance likely came from shedding her winter coat, preparing for the long, hot summer ahead.
Constantly feeding, the animal slowly moved along the edge of the forest and allowed him to watch her, the play of her muscles under the skin, the deliberate movements, legs so skinny he feared they must break, although of course he knew they wouldn’t.
Ten minutes, maybe fifteen, then she disappeared into the underbrush and Eli dared to move again. He searched his pockets for the apple he had taken from the kitchen a few days ago and bit into it, once, twice, until the juice ran down his chin and soaked into his lapel. He ate the entire fruit, core and all, and felt much better afterwards, as if the weight of the stolen fruit had actually weighed him down. He no longer noticed how wet his feet were. His muscles had only just warmed up, he had the whole day ahead of him and he’d already gone further than ever before.
He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, eyed the forest ahead, and then he ran.
He felt the cool grass against his legs and little else until he reached the tree line and the grass turned into bouncy, pine needle-covered forest floor again, which was much more pleasant for running, and so he didn’t stop. Always following the water, he jumped over roots and rocks, ducked under low-hanging branches until his lungs screamed and he was certain he could feel every single muscle and sinew in his feet and thighs, and as much as he gasped for, it never seemed to be enough.
And even then, he kept on running, all that mattered was distance and speed, they would never find him and he would never have to answer their questions, as long as he kept moving.