From Away - Chapter 1: Obligation
There are places in Maine that were just born old. And Stagwell was one of them.
There are places in Maine that were just born old. And Stagwell was one of them. It lay hidden among a knot of hills thirty miles inland from the coast. And surrounded itself by forest so thick the sun rarely seemed to shine.
The town was founded by loggers in the previous century. Men who came chasing timber money. And stayed because the woods would not let them go. When the sawmills closed and the trains stopped passing through, Stagwell withered and faded.
Neighbors married neighbors. The church doors warped in the rain. And the graveyard grew larger than the town square. Even the war had passed it by. No factories to feed it. No soldiers to return home. Only silence settling deeper.
By the fall of 1925, there was nothing left to bring a stranger here except obligation.
Elliot Wickham followed the road that wound through those hills until it narrowed into dirt. He had left Boston before dawn in a hired Ford. He drove with purpose. When the telegram arrived unexpectedly, several weeks after his mother’s funeral, it stated that in addition to attending a reading of her will, he was to come to Stagwell to oversee the estate. Until further arrangements could be made. Elliot felt neither sorrow nor relief. Only a pressure that gathered in him until it forced him into the truck.
Her telegram lay open on the passenger seat. Its ink faded by his handling. For the past six years Elliot had worked as a clerk in a shipping office near the harbor. It was a job that suited him. And demanded very little.
He lived alone in a boarding house room with a view of the river. And spent most evenings with the company of a glass of rye. It was a quiet existence. Thin and serviceable, much like himself.
He had been drafted near the end of the war. They sent him to a camp in Virginia. To file papers. Count supplies. A clerk among soldiers. He’d done what was asked of him. Sometimes he felt as though the real war had passed him by. And left him behind in its shadow.
The road entered Stagwell through a break in the trees. From the ridge he could see the town crouched in the valley. Smoke rose in narrow threads from a handful of chimneys. And the steeple of Saint Mary’s Church stood crooked at the center. Its white paint the only thing that caught the light. Beyond it lay the cemetery. A pale scatter of stones against dark earth. And was edged with the muted colors of late October.
The sight of it struck him with memories. He had played there as a boy. He wove between the graves while his grandfather worked. He remembered the sound of the shovel. Of the crows.
And the closer he came, the more the air thinned. Scent of peat and ash. Beneath that was something older. Like water left standing too long. And all the houses leaned inward. Like the trees had been pushing against them for years. Their windows reflected nothing.
Elliot stopped at the small general store to fill the tank and stretch his legs. A handpainted sign in the window read “Closing Soon for the Season”. And a single, rusted gas pump sat at the edge of the lot. The attendant said little. A wrinkled old man who stared too much.
Elliot stepped away, stretching his legs while the man worked. The buildings were grim and tall across the square. A woman stood near the curb. Bundled against the cold wind. She hurried along, dragging behind three small children. Dressed poorly and looking unwell.
Her gaze flicked up to Elliot. She did not smile. And neither did her kids.
He paid the attendant and climbed back in. Parked near the square. And stared out through the windshield. The afternoon was already fading. The first flakes of snow drifted across the glass. The place had the look of a body waiting to be buried. In the silence he could hear the distant toll of the church bell.
He thought of Clancy Wickham. Caretaker there. A man of habit and authority. Elliot remembered his grandfather’s hands. He recalled the faint trace of smoke that clung to his coat. He could see the lines in his face. The sharp set of his mouth.
Elliot lifted his eyes toward Cedar Hill.
The first rise in the hills beyond the town. Where the land began to climb toward the distant mountains. The Wickham house could not be seen from here. It was hidden by folds of forest and shadow. But he remembered it clearly in his mind. Perched somewhere on that slope. And behind it, further still, the lake.
Just beyond sight.
He shifted the Ford into gear and eased onto the muddy road that led away from the square. Clay gripped the tires. And it forced him to steer with care as the pale blue truck sank into each rut. The wind blew heavy. Tossing wet leaves across the path.
And as Stagwell fell behind him, Elliot felt the weight of the years he had spent away. He felt the pull of the place he had once called home.
The road narrowed and steepened. Flanked by birch trees whose branches had turned grey and brittle. Elliot cranked the window open. And the chilly air rushed into the cab.
In the mirror, a small cyclone of orange leaves spun lazily behind the truck. They were caught in the wake of the tires. It reminded him of his mother.
His parents had moved to Rockport when he was very young. They sought the harbor. The sea. And a fresh start.
His father had worked as a fisherman. And in the cannery. His mother taught at the school. Elliot had grown up there. He was surrounded by salt and wind. But the guilt of leaving Stagwell behind always gnawed at him for some reason. After his father died, leaving his mother alone, that same guilt followed him through his service.
And later to Boston.
Elliot had always struggled to recall the town. The house. And his grandfather. Something about the way his mother spoke of him. Clipped and sharp. Though he could not recall exactly why. Life had rushed past too quickly for him to ask. And the questions remained unspoken. Visits had been rare. Words had been few. The tension between them hovered in his mind. Like a shadow whose edges he could not make out.
He had always assumed the rift centered on their family name.
Elliot’s father had been poor. Clancy had demanded the Wickham line be preserved through his mother’s marriage. And they had outwardly accepted the condition when they were young. But Elliot felt certain his mother had always carried some shame of having to force her husband to surrender his namesake. Simply to satisfy her father’s obsession with his legacy.
She had wanted them to take a new name entirely. One that cut ties with both their pasts. But even that small rebellion was denied.
Now, driving through the trees that hid the old hills, Elliot’s thoughts returned to the telegram. Why, after so many weeks, would the will be read here? In a place she had always spoken poorly of. So many questions pressed down on him.
Then without warning, the truck lurched. And a front tire slid into the ditch.
The Ford tilted and came to rest at an uneasy angle. And sputtered once before dying. For a moment Elliot stayed still. His hands fixed on the wheel. He listened to the slow tick of the cooling engine. And the faint hiss of wind in the birches.
He tried once. The tires spun uselessly. Throwing mud across the wooden bed. The truck rocked forward and then just settled deeper into the clay.
Elliot muttered a curse under his breath. Turned off the ignition, and stepped out. The ground squelched beneath his boots. Gripped each step like it meant to keep him there.
He caught his footing. And looked back the way he had come. The narrow road wound down the hill between the trees until it vanished around a bend. And ahead, the road climbed toward the ridge. A line of pale mud and even more dead leaves. There would be no freeing the truck before dark.
He reached inside for his coat. His leather case. And the folded telegram still resting on the seat. A long breath escaped him as he straightened. He stared for a moment. At the trees that lined the road. White banded trunks. Tops shivering in the wind.
In his frustration, he slammed the door harder than intended. The sound cracked through the stillness. And sent a handful of crows bursting from overhead. Their caws faded into the darkening hills. Elliot watched them fly for a long while until they disappeared.
“It isn’t far,” he said to himself. As if the words could steady him. He could walk the rest of the way. Use the telephone to call for a tow. Or maybe a mechanic in the morning.
He adjusted the strap of his case across his shoulder and started along the muddy road. Behind him, the Ford sat. Sunken. Motionless. And its windshield caught the last thin slant of light before the forest closed in around it.
As he walked, he took note of the line of weathered telephone poles. Appearing along the verge. Adorned with pale green glass insulators. Some leaned under their own weight. The wires hung loose between them like tired arms. A sagging web of wire. Connecting nowhere to nowhere.
He heard the sound of an engine long before he saw the car. A growing thrum approaching from down the hill. Then it appeared. It was a small, boxy maroon sedan with an older man gripping the wheel. His severe-looking wife beside him. In the back, two twins pressed their chubby faces against the glass. Their freckles smeared flat.
They were staring.
Elliot raised his hand. The sound of the engine instantly spiked. And their sour faces flew by without a single wave.
The scent of their exhaust lingered. Frustration felt like a rock in Elliot’s throat. He did not blame them. He was a strange man. He was alone. They had kids. It wasn’t safe to stop.
The road continued to wind upward. The birches thinned into pines. Their needles whispered against one another. And his breath came in small clouds that drifted past his eyes and vanished.
Now and then he heard the sharp snap of a branch somewhere off in the trees. Though when he paused to listen, there was nothing.
Elliot had not walked this far in years. But with each mile, his legs began to ache in a way that felt familiar. It reminded him of the long drills across the fort grounds in Virginia.
Boots cutting blisters into his skin. The dull throb that just became part of his body. He had almost forgotten what it felt like. His new life in Boston had made him soft. It dulled him with routines. And the weightless work of pushing papers.
As the road finally began to open, he could smell the lake before he even saw it. It was a cold, mineral odor. Like iron and rain. The trees thinned. And beyond them the land fell away into a wide slope. The hazy outline just barely visible in the mist.
Sebastimoor Lake.
Elliot paused. He knew this place. The shape of the shoreline. The way the trees leaned inward. As though bowing to the water. And the sight of the lake stirred something in him he could not name.
The house stood on the nearest side. Perched on a stony outcrop, far above the waterline. A three story timber frame. The wood was darkened with age. And the gabled roof now completely covered in a thick blanket of moss.
Smoke curled faintly from a few narrow stone chimneys. Even from a distance, the building had the look of something that had lived far longer than it was meant to.
Elliot’s steps grew slower as the mud turned to gravel. He stopped for a moment at the edge of the yard. The house sat crooked on its foundation. Paint long gone. Windows dull. Unwelcoming. And a dangling set of wires hung loose from a cracked insulator before disappearing into the crook of the eave.
The yard was scattered with debris. Remnants of tools. Unkempt. A rusted wheelbarrow was tipped over on its side. And behind, the lake widened. Swallowing the horizon.
In the center of the yard stood a tree. Or what remained of one. Its trunk was thick and grey. The bark split and curled like old paper. Its crown had fallen away years prior. And left only a twisted open maw at the top. The tree had no right to still be standing. It was leafless and lifeless.
Not unlike the house it guarded.
Elliot tore his gaze away. He had just stepped up to the door and reached for the worn brass bell pull when he caught the sound of voices inside. They were raised and tense. But the words were lost to him.
He hesitated only a moment. And not wanting to seem like an eavesdropper. He gave the rope a firm tug. From within came a slow, hollow chime. The voices went silent at once.
And the door opened with a creak. It stopped partway. A young blonde woman appeared in the gap. Her expression softened as she met his eyes. And she forced a small, polite smile.
“You look just like him,” she said, tilting her head. Blue eyes narrowing. “The spitting image of Clancy.”
Elliot’s brow lifted. “I can’t say I’ve heard that before.” He adjusted his coat. “Elliot Wickham. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
The woman stepped fully into view. Letting the door swing open behind her. “Katrina Ellsworth. Come in, please. We were beginning to worry that the road had held you up.”
Elliot hesitated at the threshold. The warmth of the house spilling out against the chill of the evening. Inside was the scent of wood smoke. He stepped in. Boots thudding against worn floorboards.
Elliot nodded, still shaking the cold from his hands. “Nearly did. My truck’s in a ditch a few miles back.”
“Oh, Mr. Wickham, I am sorry to hear that. We can help get that sorted for you. But please, you need warming up. And a drink.” She looked toward the hearth. “I’m here to help your grandfather. To keep the house running. Mostly. The news of your mother’s passing reached us here, of course.”
Beyond her lay a long, high-ceilinged room. The fire in the hearth burned with a dull red glow. And painted the walls in an uneven color. Heavy beams, ornate furniture, and thick threadbare rugs filled the space. A long table stood beneath a single brass kerosene lamp. Upon it sat a half empty decanter of moonshine. And a telegram not unlike the one Elliot carried.
Katrina poured a measure, and handed it to Elliot. Her fingers brushing his briefly as she kept a second glass for herself. “Clancy will be down shortly,” she said. “He tires easily these days. But he insisted on greeting you himself.”
Elliot looked toward the staircase that rose from the far end of the room. Its curled banister vanishing into shadow. A faint creaking came from the floorboards above. And it drew Elliot’s eyes.
“Her reading is set for tomorrow. At the church,” she said, tilting her glass gently. “Clancy has insisted that you stay here, of course. It wouldn’t do for a Wickham to sleep at the boardinghouse after such a journey.”
The thought of being confined in a house with a man he barely remembered did not soothe him. But practicality dictated his reply.
“I imagine I don’t have much choice but to accept your hospitality.” He offered a dry smile. “It’s kind of him to insist, nonetheless.”
“It’s simply proper,” Katrina replied. “The reading is set for mid-morning. You’ll have time to settle in tonight, and tomorrow we can arrange for someone to help with the truck.”
Their conversation was cut short by a single, harsh buzzing sound. It was abrupt and mechanical. Briefly activated and then cut off sharply.
“That will be him.” She placed her glass down.
Elliot watched as she moved past the hearth and toward a far corner. Where the wall was broken by an ornate doorway framed in dark, carved wood. The doorway led to a small elevator shaft. Bolted to the wall beside it was an iron handcrank.
Katrina grasped the handle and began to turn. The mechanism groaned. A heavy grinding sound of the platform’s descent.
The elevator finally reached the ground floor. It stopped with a dull thud. And seated on the wooden platform was Clancy Wickham.
Elliot’s expectations of an aging man were instantly undone. The grandfather he vaguely remembered, a man of imposing height and authority, was gone. In his place was a frail figure. Slumped in a wheeled chair. His frame swallowed by a thick wool blanket. His face a map of deep wrinkles. And his skin had the yellowish tint of something long kept from the sun.
Clancy’s head lolled slightly to one side. He lifted a hand, trembling. And pointed a crooked finger at the glass Elliot held. A muffled, indistinct sound escaped his lips. Almost a moan. Katrina immediately bent low. Pressing her ear close to his mouth until the mumbling stopped.
Straightening, she translated, her voice level. “He says he hopes you haven’t started drinking his liquor without permission, Elliot.”
Clancy’s face was a mask of slack skin. And it unexpectedly creased into a smirk. It was a dry joke. But one delivered with the authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed.
Before Elliot could respond, Clancy emitted another indistinct whisper. Katrina bent low, listening once again. When she stood, her eyes were on Elliot.
“Dinner awaits us in the dining room. He asks that you make yourself at home in the guest room for the evening. It’s just down the hallway.”
Clancy then lifted his hand with a weary gesture toward Katrina.
Without waiting, she moved his chair off the elevator platform and began to push it toward a wide carved archway adjacent to the hearth. The heavy wheels rumbled across the floorboards as she guided Clancy through. Placing him at the head of a dark dining table.
Katrina returned and retrieved her glass. A faint sigh escaped her.
“If you’ll follow me. I can show you to your room before dinner.”
Elliot adjusted the strap of his leather case and followed. Katrina moved with an unhurried grace. Holding her half empty glass loosely in her hand as she led the way down the narrow hallway. The light outside was fading. Absorbed by the dark walls. And forcing Elliot’s eyes to linger on her silhouette.
Her outfit was professional and fit her well. The pale fabric was pressed neatly. And a high waisted belt was drawn above the curve of her hips. The hallway ended abruptly.
Katrina set her glass on a nearby shelf and turned the knob.
“Here we are.”
Elliot stepped past her and into the room. The air was still. Carrying the faint scent of mold and linen. Sealed away for years. The room was large. Dominated by a four poster bed draped in a dark coverlet. And a grey layer of dust coated every surface.
Placing his belongings down, he turned back. Intending to thank Katrina, but she was gone. The quiet settled entirely around him. He did not linger. Quickly adjusting his collar in a dirty mirror. And joined his hosts at the table.
The heavy china was already set.
They ate quickly. Katrina moved between her seat and the sideboard. Serving in silence. The dinner was cold from sitting out. And unremarkable. Beef and boiled vegetables. Undercooked. Conversation was scarce. And the sound of chewing filling the room.
It wasn’t until the plates were cleared and coffee poured that anyone spoke again. Katrina’s voice broke the stillness. Translating for Clancy.
“I truly admired Evelyn. She was tenacious.”
It felt like a much longer time since Elliot had heard his mother’s name aloud.
“That she was.”
“I blame myself for letting so much time pass without insisting she visit.” Clancy’s dark eyes blinked slowly across the dim room. Katrina continued. “But I suppose that’s something I can’t change now.”
Elliot held Clancy’s attention. “I can understand that.”
The old man’s lips moved again. The words trapped in a rasp. Katrina leaned close, listening. When she stood, her eyes were on Elliot.
“He says it brings him comfort knowing you came. He wasn’t sure you would.”
Elliot took a sip of his coffee. Bitter in his throat. “I wasn’t sure either.”
Katrina’s eyes flicked toward him. Just briefly. And then back to Clancy. The old man’s fingers trembled against the rim of his cup.
“He says you favor her. In the eyes. Perhaps more than you know.”
Elliot looked down at his plate. “I don’t remember much about how things were before we left for Rockport. I must’ve been seven, maybe eight.”
Clancy’s eyes squinted. The corners of his mouth curled. “He remembers you,” Katrina said softly. “Says you used to follow him about when he worked the church grounds. You carried the tools. Or tried to.”
Elliot let out a breath. Surprised by the sudden warmth. “I think I do remember that. You had a row of maples along the fence. I used to climb the trees.”
Katrina smiled. Her gaze drifting toward the window as though she could see it herself. “You were always out there. The lake trails. The woods. You’d come back covered in mud and leaves. But never once complain. Just like your mother.”
“What made her so tenacious, do you think?”
“It was her nature to challenge him. Even when she was small. She would argue until she won. Or thought she had.”
Elliot smiled at that. “That sounds like her.”
“It took him nearly a year to convince her to keep the Wickham name. She wanted no part of it at first.”
Elliot’s smile faltered. A small draft moved through the room. And shadows seemed to bend across the walls.
“He says he’s proud she never changed it. Even after she left.” Katrina paused. “She always understood where she came from. And she knew better than to forget it.”
The warmth drained from the room then. As if drawn away by the words. The fire still burned. But its light felt distant.
Elliot lifted his cup, though he wasn’t thirsty. “That sounds like her too.”
Clancy gave a trembling wave to Katrina. Fingers shaking in the lamplight. She rose. Smoothing her apron. “It’s near time for bed anyhow,” she said, her voice gentle. Tired.
Clancy’s chair creaked. The wheels grated against the floorboards as he rolled toward Elliot. And when he stopped, his knees brushed Elliot’s chair.
Elliot hesitated. Then bent forward. The old man’s breath was hot. And foul from the coffee.
“Rest well tonight. Things feel strange when you first come back. But it won’t take long before you feel at home again.”
Elliot nodded. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Mr. Wickham.”
The sound of the elevator began to groan. Elliot walked back down the hallway to the guest room. The house creaked around him. The thick door moaned when he closed it.
And he turned the lock without thinking.
Elliot’s story in Stagwell continues in Chapter 2. Coming soon. Want to know what happens next? Subscribe to get the rest delivered straight to your inbox.
And thank you so much for reading.