Chapter 2: Grandpa Bates Who Lives in the Mountains
At the foot of a vast mountain range lay a picturesque little town. The towering peaks stretched endlessly, and the serene valleys exuded a quiet charm. A narrow path extended from the back of the town, winding up the mountain. As they walked, the lush greenery gradually filled their view, and the nameless wildflowers scattered across the fields made the air feel fresher. The scent of blooming flowers carried from the fertile pastures, filling the air with a refreshing fragrance.
Deacon Thorn walked ahead, holding Loren's hand in one hand and carrying a bundle in the other. "Your grandfather, Mr. Bates, lives on a mountain pasture. He raises sheep with the townspeople and grows wheat on his own. You'll have a comfortable life here."
Loren nodded and lowered his head, trying to catch his breath. He was dressed in two layers of robes and wore thick, heavy hobnail boots—precious belongings brought from the orphanage. Sister Joyce had insisted he take them, refusing to let him leave without them.
The scorching sunlight burned his cheeks red, and he panted heavily as he climbed the mountain, feeling increasingly dizzy.
Years had passed since he arrived in this world, yet his body was still too small and undeveloped, making it difficult for his brain and physical form to support any grand ambitions.
1980s Britain was not a friendly place for an orphaned child. The streets were riddled with drug dealers, thieves, unemployed youth, and skinheads. A child like him couldn't afford even the smallest misstep. Right now, there was no difference between him and an ordinary five-year-old—his ambitions had no place to unfold.
As the two of them made their way up the mountain, the townspeople watched with uneasy expressions, whispering among themselves. However, neither Loren nor Thorn paid them any mind.
Away from the town, Loren finally couldn't bear the heat any longer.
He pulled his hand away from Deacon Thorn and stripped off the outer robe, leaving only his inner layer of clothing. He took off his hobnail boots, wrapped them in the robe, and carried them in his arms. He stomped his bare feet a few times on the ground—there were plenty of smooth stones on the path, and he felt it would be fine to walk without shoes.
"Let's go, Mr. Thorn, I can keep up now," Loren said, feeling much lighter.
Deacon Thorn smiled and continued walking ahead, still reaching out to help Loren when they encountered steep slopes.
After about an hour, they finally arrived at the mountain pasture. Three small thatched cottages stood on a highland by the roadside. Although exposed to the wind on all sides, the cottages basked in the warm sunlight, offering a breathtaking panoramic view of the valley below.
Beside one of the cottages, a rough wooden bench was nailed together from planks. An old man sat there, smoking a pipe, watching as the two of them approached. He had a long beard, gray-white eyebrows, and deep wrinkles carved into his forehead.
Deacon Thorn stepped forward, extending his hand. "Hello, Mr. Bates, I'm Thorn."
"Hello, sir," the old man replied in a gruff voice as he shook hands, studying the two visitors. His gaze lingered on the small child before him—sunlight glowed on the boy's fine eyelashes, casting shadows over his sky-blue eyes. Something about him made the old man feel a little soft-hearted.
Loren sensed that the old man's focus was more on him, so he took the initiative to speak. "Hello, Grandpa."
He only wanted to live a peaceful life until he could stand on his own—nothing else really mattered.
Deacon Thorn then asked Loren to rest with his bundle nearby while he spoke with Mr. Bates.
Loren placed his belongings on a wooden stand beside the cottage and took a moment to take in his surroundings. The sunshine was warm, the air was filled with the scent of grass and trees—it truly was a beautiful place.
Not long after, Deacon Thorn made his way back down the mountain. It seemed the handover had been completed.
"Come inside. If you're going to live here, we need to tidy up a bit," the old man called from the door.
Loren ran inside. The cottage had only one room. At the far end was a small bed, next to it a table with a few chairs, a cupboard against the wall, and a stove in the corner with a large pot on top. Another side of the room had wooden planks forming a ladder that led to a loft.
After stuffing his bundle and outer robe into the cupboard, Loren saw that the old man had already laid out coarse linen bedding in the loft, with a quilt filled with cotton padding. It was simple, but for summer, it was enough.
"I'll make you some proper furniture later, but this will have to do for now."
That night, at the wooden dining table in the cottage, dinner was served.
Wheat had been boiled in sheep's milk, filling the air with a rich aroma. The porridge had a perfect blend of wheat and dairy flavors. The smoked lamb was salty and savory, pairing well with the milk. There was also a plate of wild berries of unknown variety—some were sour, some were sweet. Loren copied the old man and grabbed a handful, tossing them all into his mouth at once, enjoying the mix of tartness and sweetness.
Compared to the endless cycle of mashed potatoes, roasted potatoes, potato chunks, and potato-based dishes at the orphanage, this meal was heaven.
After dinner, Loren wanted to help clean up.
"Kid, just focus on living here. There are some things we'll talk about when you're older."
Bates stopped him and carried the dishes outside to the water trough, washing them himself.
"Alright, Grandpa," Loren replied. Compared to life in the orphanage, even this rural setting felt far more comfortable.
That night, as Loren lay in the loft, he could smell the fresh scent of the open plains. He felt as though he was gliding with the wind, soaring through valleys, skimming over creeks, perching in trees, floating among the clouds, and standing on cliff edges. His dizziness was completely gone.
The next morning, sunlight poured into the loft. For a moment, Loren almost forgot where he was.
Bates planned to build a wooden bedframe in the loft and clear out some old clutter, so he sent Loren to spend the day with the local shepherd.
During the day, a boy named Peter from the town would drive the townspeople's sheep up the mountain to graze alongside the few sheep that Bates owned.
Peter, only about ten years old, hated being alone with the dumb sheep all day.
Hearing that Loren would be tagging along, Peter excitedly accepted the task.
They followed the winding mountain paths, let the sheep roam freely to graze, then ran off to play. They rolled down soft grassy slopes, watched eagles drop rabbits onto rocks, and picked bright-colored berries.
Loren was completely absorbed in the joy of the wild. In the orphanage, he had never been so free—there were always concerns about safety and restrictions. But here, none of that mattered.
At sunset, Peter used his whip to herd the sheep back down the mountain. Bates, holding a handful of salt, led his own sheep into the pen.
When they reached the town, Peter blew his whistle to gather the children, each of whom took their own family's sheep home. Life in the mountains was poor and simple, yet it carried a sense of peace and natural harmony.
Loren settled into his new home and gradually got to know the townspeople. Their gazes toward him were always laced with an odd sense of pity, as if he had suffered some great misfortune. But when Bates appeared, their expressions turned into fearful respect, and they kept their distance.
Curious, Loren asked Peter about it. Peter told him that the village was full of wild rumors—that Bates had killed someone, made a deal with the devil, and would bring misfortune. But none of it was believable.
One thing was true, however. Every full moon, Bates would go into the mountains alone. He would return the next morning, looking pale and weak, avoiding heavy labor for several days.
When Loren asked him about it, Bates simply said he had been checking on his fruit trees and was taking a few days off to let his old bones rest. But he never once took Loren with him into the mountains.