Den of the Ender is the sequel to Thunder-Boy and Behind the Sunset Veil. Since each of these novels is written to also stand alone, entire chapters are being skipped throughout this free serial presentation of Den of The Ender in order not to give away the narrative of those two previous books. This serial is essentially an introduction to each of the characters and their circumstances.

You will, however, get most of Brant's story, as his narrative is unfortunately a highly contained one.

Brant stood with his back to the school gate. He turned, as was his habit, and looked back behind him to the red brick school building in the distance. He could not exactly recall today’s lessons. When he thought back to his times in the school a flood of images washed over his mind’s eye; English history being taught by Mister Carraclough; handwriting taught by Miss Strooble; shop class taught by Mister Perry; and Gym Class by Mister Stauffer the former German Olympian in gymnastics. The memories filled him and he felt whole and self-assured; except…shouldn’t I be better able to recall today’s lesson?

And why do I always leave alone instead of with the other kids?

Why can’t I leave with Joey Ward?

Why is Joey Ward my only friend?

Is there something the matter with me, something the grownups are hiding?

No sense asking Mom and Dad.

Suppose that is it? Perhaps I am sick and can’t leave the cottage?

But if my old Mom and Dad really loved me how could they have left?

Dad loves me, much more than Old Dad at least.

And Mom is just as nice as Old Mom, and so pretty—Dad will never, ever leave her!

First, some years ago, Dad had disappeared—never come home from work. Then, after a time, a new Dad came to live with Mom. Then, in her turn, on a snowy day, Mom had not returned from the market. His new Dad had been very loving—more so than his Old Dad. And, in due course, Dad had come home from work with a new Mom, a loving Mom, who always hugged and kissed Brant and was glamorously good looking.

I’m so glad I have Mom and Dad!

Although his parental situation had been hectic, his new parents were an improvement. A boy’s life was not, however, all about the parents. There had been three other constants in Brant’s life: school; the walk home by the fence where Lassie would greet him; and home, their cottage in Yorkshire. Now, he knew a lot about Yorkshire but only knew two people besides Mom and Dad and the teachers: Joey Ward and Mrs. Grundy.

I wonder what toy Joey will bring today.

There was always Joey Ward, who came to visit him with his toys every day. Joey liked playing with his American GI Joe military dolls. He always brought GI Joe and some good guys and bad guys, and one other toy. Joey might be a poor American kid but he had a lot of swell toys. Joey had taught Brant a lot of cool American terms like ‘cool’, ‘gross’, ‘cruddy’, ‘junky’ and ‘swell’, to supplement his stodgy school-learning so valued by Mrs. Grundy. Probably, the fact that something was the matter with Brant and that Joey was an American was the sole reason why they were even friends. Brant and Joey had been friends since they were little, and they were ten now, so that was quite a long time ago. But, there was just something untrustworthy about Joey Ward.

He looks at Mom funny, like he sees her at the market but doesn’t tell anyone.

Why does Mom never take me to the market?

Old Mom did—or, well I remember she did, I think?

The other person in Brant’s life was his one true constant, the only person he can remember knowing since he was little, Mrs. Grundy, his Nurse.

Of course you are a sick boy. Why else would your babysitter and Mom’s housekeeper be a nurse?

It had been Mrs. Grundy who had brought Joey over to play at some point in Brant’s early childhood. Joey was a poor American boy who liked dogs, and admired Lassie greatly.

Brant would have to say that he loved Lassie the most; that she was the biggest part of his life, even though she had been sold years ago. His first Dad had sold Lassie to Mister Hynes—a mysterious man Brant had never met—when he was eight. Lassie would come to him still, to the fence that hemmed in the sidewalk from school to the cottage. She would lick his fingers through the fence and whine and then follow him home through the countryside, whining all the while.

I miss you Lassie, I wish you would come home.

And there she was, standing by the fence, waiting for him, whining! He walked over to her and she licked his fingers through the fence. Something was wrong!

This is not my Lassie!

It must be Lassie. She came to greet me, and is whining for me.

“Hey girl, let’s go home. Forget old Mister Hynes.”

Sure enough ‘new’ Lassie understood and walked home with him. After a few minutes across the rolling lawn between the school and the house, during which he admired the people working, and strolling and playing in the distance, the tall wire fence ended at the white picket fence that surrounded the cottage, and ‘new’ Lassie accompanied Brant through the front door, even as Mister Hynes—who Brant never did seemed to get a glimpse of—could be heard hollering in his cockney accent in the distance.

“There you go girl, just walk on in.”

“You must be a friend of Lassie, another pretty runaway dog who doesn’t like mean Mister Hynes.”

He scratched behind her ears and rubbed her sleek shoulders as he opened the door and let her in. ‘New Lassie’ went right over to the oval braid rug before the fireplace and curled up before the fire, which Mrs. Grundy kept stoked with decorative logs, even when it was summertime out. Mrs. Grundy then came from the kitchen wiping her hands on her apron and ‘tisking’ as she shook her head. Then, as Mister Hynes’ voice could be heard edging closer she walked over to the window, peeked out through the curtain, and repeated one of her regular phrases, for Mrs. Grundy was not very inventive with her words, “Dogs, dogs, dogs! Mister Hynes ‘ill be here soon. As soon as she’s fed back she goes.”

Brant noticed ‘new’ Lassie paying close attention to Mrs. Grundy’s words, as if they knew each other.

This is strange. This new Lassie already seems to know Mrs. Grundy.

While Brant petted the new dog, wondering what happened to his old Lassie all the while, Mrs. Grundy gave some meat to Lassie and then whisked the dog off, before Brant even got to lay down next to the fireplace with her.

I think something is wrong with Mrs. Grundy, not me.

Then, as always seemed the case in these instances, which were almost daily, Mrs. Grundy left with Lassie, shouting for the still distant Mister Hynes to ‘shut his yap.’

As Brant often did, as he was used to being alone in the afternoons, he spoke out loud to himself, or in this case, to his lost dog, “Where are you Lassie? Will you ever come home?”

Then, even as he rebelled against his seeming need to be accepted by and accepting of Mrs. Grundy, he suddenly wished for Dad, to hug Dad and to tell him that he wanted him to tell off Mister Hynes once and for all and to get Lassie back where she belonged; the real Old Lassie, not this new confused poor dog that had also recently escaped from the cruel man.

Dad will know what to do. He really loves me.

Can he stand up to Mister Hynes?

If Dad can have a wife as beautiful as Mom he can stand up to any man. Dad must be very convincing.

Dad will know what to do.

Brant then rushed up to the bathroom and brushed his teeth.

Why does my mouth always taste so bad after school?

I don’t know.

What did I have today for lunch?

As he was musing over his forgotten lunch he began to get sleepy, as often happened when he brushed his teeth. Mrs. Grundy though had always assured him that it was imperative that he brush his teeth after coming home from school.

He put down his tooth brush and wiped off his mouth, then staggered sleepily into his bedroom. There he curled up with his jam-eating stuffed bear and fell deep into a dreamy sleep, a comforting sleep filled with thoughts of Lassie nuzzling him as he dozed, and then curling up around him to keep him warm on the living room floor as the fire burned low into the evening.

He yawned wide and his eyes watered, “Old Lass…”