Lucifer's Pride

by G. P. Ching

  “What the—?” Frank crouched for a better look.

  A newborn baby girl, in a worn pink T-shirt and wrapped in a plastic grocery bag, blinked at him from under the lip of the dumpster. Frank would have liked to think there was some compassion in the effort—that whoever left her meant for the thin sheath of plastic to keep her warm and dry, but under the abandonment law, it was legal to leave a newborn inside a public building. The fact that she wasn’t safely indoors was a testament to what type of scum had abandoned her.

  “Hi, sweetheart. Oh, you’re cold. Don’t worry, old Frank will take care of you.” He lifted her into the cradle of his arms and shuffled under the awning of the alley door. By the light of the moon, he wiped the raindrops off her face with one burly thumb. Cuddling her tiny body against his chest, he enjoyed the innocent shine of her eyes and her slight weight in his embrace.

  Frank’s atrophied spirit stirred from a long, deep sleep. He smiled. And smiles were hard to come by since the day a semitruck T-boned a Range Rover and turned Frank’s family into just Frank. One tiny hand wrapped around his pinky finger, and that was that. She might as well have handcuffed his soul.

  Shuffle-scrape. Shuffle-scrape. He searched the alley for the source of the sound. A sewer rat? Since the war, they grew as large as dogs. Better to be safe; consider the babe. He groped for the doorknob behind his hip.

  A deep voice rasped from the darkness, “Don’t! You’ve got to get her out of here.” From the shadows, a man stepped into the swash of moonlight; at least, Frank thought he was a man. The guy was a piece of raw meat with more bruise than face and open sores up both arms. Soaked to the bone, he wore bloody white hospital scrubs that clung like a second skin. The water sheeted off him, his breath a foggy reminder of the cold night air.

  “Who are you?” Frank asked, tightening his hold on the little girl.

  “Never mind that. They know we’re here. It’s just a matter of time. You’ve got to run. You’ve got to hide her.”

  “Hey, buddy, it’s legal to abandon a baby here. Why don’t we all go inside and warm up? There are places you can stay, get a hot meal.”

  “Listen to me,” the man implored. “Everything you need is with her.”

  Frank ran his hand around the newborn. Sure enough, under her back the corner of a thick envelope scraped his palm.

  “I’ll take care of her,” Frank said in his most reassuring tone. “We’ve got resources inside.”

  “No!” The man’s voice broke and his eyes widened. Large, wounded eyes. Desperate eyes. “You can’t tell anyone.”

  No stranger to desperation, Frank took pause. He’d been there once. The way the guy let the rain pound on him, with no attempt to move for the shelter of the awning, was a blatant cry for help.

  “What’s your name?” Frank asked.

  The man eyed the street with twitchy apprehension.

  “Come on inside,” he continued. “Let’s talk.”

  “They’re coming,” the stranger said, shaking his head. “We’re out of time.”

  Damn, the guy’s pale skin seemed to light up the alley. Or was he actually glowing? At first, Frank thought it was a trick of the moonlight, but the sky beyond the awning was no different than before. He closed his eyes, opened them again.

  The sizzle of electricity echoed off the brick wall of the fire station. Was the grid coming back up? No, the source of the sound was the stranger! With each crackle, neon blue veins wormed beneath the man’s translucent skin. Frank’s mouth gaped. That was not normal. It sure as hell wasn’t natural. He curled the baby closer and pressed into the door.

  “You’ve got to get grounded, and fast.” The man’s stare bore into Frank. “You’re a fireman. You know what happens when electricity and water mix. I can’t hold back much longer.”

  Heat bloomed from the stranger’s body, blue-white energy that extended a foot around his profile. The rain evaporated on contact, filling the alley with steam.

  How hot must his body be to do that? Eyes narrowed against the glare, Frank pressed into the wall, forced back by the iridescent heat.

  “Promise me you’ll take care of her,” the man begged.

  One look at the baby girl in his arms and there was only one answer Frank could give. “I promise.”

  The stranger nodded. “Go. It’s time.”

  If Frank had any ideas about handling the situation in an official capacity, those thoughts burnt up in the blue inferno that chased him from the alley. Hunched protectively over the babe, the blast singed his back just short of pain and infused the air with the acrid scent of scorched, flame-retardant fabric. Thank the Lord he’d put on his coat to take out the trash. Throat tight, he hurled himself behind the concrete wall of the covered parking garage bordering the fire station. Was the babe hurt? He peeled her away from his chest as he ran, relieved when she made a small mewing noise, like a good solid cry was coming on.

  His faithful antique pickup waited in its usual spot overlooking Fifth Street. He fished the key from his pocket to let himself in and cranked the heater as the babe cried in earnest. “Cold we can deal with, baby girl. If you’re hungry, you’re out of luck for now.”

  Through the windshield, Frank’s view was unobstructed as the stranger exited the alley, tendrils of steam heralding his blue glow. “Radioactive son-of-a bitch,” he murmured, his head buzzing with theories about the stranger’s condition. Toxic drugs, industrial exposure, alien DNA. Each as unlikely as the next.

  The stranger stopped beneath the dead traffic light and faced a street abandoned due to the storm and the time of night. Abandoned, until a fleet of black Humvees roared up Fifth and unloaded a barrage of gunfire in the stranger’s direction.

  “Holy God in heaven!” Frank threw the truck into reverse, peeling out of the parking space. His transmission groaned as he forced the vehicle into drive and raced for the exit. In the rearview mirror, he expected to see the stranger’s bloodied body in the street but slammed on the brakes at what he saw instead.

  The man wasn’t dead. He was a living lightbulb.

  Holding the baby, Frank craned his neck over his shoulder for a better view. Lightning flew from the man’s hand, igniting the first Humvee and catapulting another weighty vehicle into the air. A moment of flight and the fiery descent turned the jeep into a missile. The vehicle ripped through the advancing fleet, an oily, twisted mass of metal. Another lightning bolt flew, and then another. Like children’s toys, the military vehicles popped skyward and folded accordion style, rolled and rumpled in the stranger’s ire.

  The glowing man stepped around the wreckage and advanced toward the next wave of Humvees.

  Frank floored the accelerator, patting the now wailing baby as he exited on to Fourth Street at the back of the garage. He raced away from the flames and the rancor of burning rubber. Sirens blared from every direction but he did not stop. With nothing to lose, and no one who mattered to miss him, Frank ran.

  It would be a long time before he stopped running.

  1

  Lydia

  Seventeen years later…

  * * *

  Bishop Kauffman often preaches we are to be in the world but not of the world. I’ve never understood why he bothers. The only world I’ve ever known is Hemlock Hollow, and you can’t be more set apart than us.

  I press my cheek into Hildegard’s tawny belly, and she stomps her hooves in disapproval. She’s uncomfortable with my pace, but I don’t slow my milking. I can’t. I have my responsibilities, but there are also my priorities.

  “Sorry, girl,” I whisper. “We need to hurry.”

  I kick a clump of hay toward her head. The cow stretches her neck for a nibble, temporarily distracted from my tugging. The sky lightens beyond her hindquarters, distinct rays visible on the horizon. As planned, my bucket is full before the sun is up.

  To Hildegard’s relief, I set her to pasture and then return to the barn to get my bucket of milk. Mary Samuels arrives just as I’m leaving for home,
rubbing her eyes and yawning. Behind her, the cow she leads looks as tired as she does.

  “Already finished? Oh, to be a morning person like you, Lydia,” she says. She straightens her apron with one dark brown hand, darker than usual due to her work in the sun this time of year. I curse the vulnerability of my fair complexion. Any other time, I’d enjoy a long talk with Mary, my dearest girlfriend, weighing the benefits of our various gifts, dark skin versus a morning disposition, but not now. Not this morning.

  “Good to see you, Mary.” Arm bent to keep the bucket a safe distance from my side, I hurry past her toward the house. Inside, I dump the fresh milk into the stainless steel receptacle we keep in our one and only modern convenience, a methane-powered refrigerator. Quickly, I wash my pail out for tomorrow and check on breakfast. The risen dough is ready for the bread pan. I’ve already gathered the eggs. My father will be in the field for at least another hour, plenty of time.

  Without delay, I hasten toward the hay barn. Jeremiah sidles up to me, also finished with his chores. He wears the same black trousers and vest as all the other boys, but Jeremiah stands out to me. His eyes are the color of cornflowers and he’s always smiling, even when none of his teeth show.

  “Good morning, Lydia.” He straightens his straw hat. His steps quicken until his feet slap the gravel ahead of mine.

  “Good morning, Jeremiah.” I match him step for step.

  Lengthening his stride, he speeds up until he’s ahead again. “Are you going to do the wise thing this morning and start breakfast early?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I think I’ll be going to the haymow.” I elbow past him.

  “Yeah?” He smiles, breaking into a jog. “That’s where I’m going, too.”

  Race on.

  I launch into a full-out run, balling my long skirt in my hand. More of my tights show than is proper but I trust Jeremiah won’t tell. Anyway, the shape of my calf might distract him. I can’t allow him to beat me to the hay. Of all the mornings I’ve raced Jeremiah, he’s only won twice, and I’ve never lived down either of those times. If he wins, he’ll tell me with a quirky half-smile that maybe I’ve finally learned I’m a girl. He’ll offer twenty times a day to help me carry the eggs or knead the bread, because the race has proven he is more capable. Not again. Not if I can help it.

  My legs pump underneath me. I pant from the exertion, the air heavy with late summer heat and the smell of fresh hay. The pounding of Jeremiah’s feet beside mine pushes me harder, faster than I’ve ever run before. Lucky for me, I’m fast for a girl.

  We burst through the red and white doors of the hay barn at the same time and sprint past the mound of fresh hay to the worn oak ladder. I reach it first. With a smug grin, I skip rungs as I scramble up, Jeremiah nipping at my heels. His laughter behind me reminds me what I’ll face if he wins. I tumble over the top rung and onto the loft, eyeing the huge pile of fresh hay beyond the unobstructed edge. The mound calls to me, but my head swims with vertigo at the space between the precipice and its welcoming fluff.

  “You should still let me go first,” he calls from the ladder as he pitches over the edge and onto the loft.

  “Why? I beat you fair as feathers this time.”

  “To test the fall. A boy should jump first, just in case.”

  “Not a chance. You’ll have to play the chivalrous male for someone else. I’m going.” I shuffle to the far wall and bolt for the edge before he can stop me.

  “You’re going too fast,” he protests. “Slow down!”

  I don’t listen. I leap for the hay, stretching my body flat in the air. Wind rushes over my kapp. My stomach drops. The thrill and exhilaration catch in my throat. For a moment, I fear Jeremiah is right; I’ve jumped too far, too fast. Unable to gain control, I collide with the top of the hay and bounce across the pile, toward the edge. I dig my fingers into the bales and jut my leg out to the side to slow myself down. My momentum stops just in time, one arm and leg dangling.

  Slowly, I roll onto my back. Jeremiah stands at the edge of the loft, eyes wide and arms crossed over his chest.

  A self-satisfied grin creeps across my face. “I’m fine.” I laugh. No matter how many times I make the leap, the fall sets my heart fluttering in my chest. I don’t care if I do bounce off someday. I wouldn’t give up this feeling, the free-falling excitement, for anything.

  His lips part, and his tight, worried expression softens a little. “Thank the good Lord,” Jeremiah mumbles.

  “Well? Won’tchya jump, Jeremiah Yoder? Are you afraid?” I taunt him by lacing my fingers behind my head. Just resting in the hay. Not a care in the world.

  His face relaxes into a lopsided grin. He answers by removing his hat and throwing himself over. He lands with a rustle a few feet away from me, and then rolls flush against my side. Propped up on his elbow, his cheeks pink from the exertion of the run, I am reminded of when we were children and would spend our days playing by the river. Not much has changed in seventeen years. We’re simply taller and craftier than our younger selves.

  Still, Jeremiah embodies everything sweet and good in this world. Of that I am sure.

  “You could’ve let a man be a man, Lydia. What if we were courting? What about demut?”

  Demut means “submissiveness” in the old language, Pennsylvania German. We still go to German School on Saturdays, although the realities of Hemlock Hollow dictate speaking like an Englisher. When Jeremiah says demut, he’s referring to a wife’s role with her husband. It’s a way for him to tug at my heartstrings.

  “I was protecting you from hochmut, Jeremiah.” Hochmut means arrogance, about the worst trait an Amish can have. “And besides, by the time you choose to court me, you will have years of experience with my disposition and trust that I can leap just as far and as fast as you.” As long as he’s known me, I’ve been this way, a girl who likes to plow just as well as quilt and who has to win the race, every time. A risk-taker. Maybe being raised without a mother has cost me my femininity. I don’t miss it.

  He laughs in the deep baritone that reminds me of his father. Jeremiah is seventeen like me, but I can tell he will be a great man. He’s already an accomplished carpenter.

  “I brought something for you,” he says.

  “You did?”

  From his hat he pulls a shiny piece of folded paper. My heart skips a beat.

  “Eli brought it back with him.”

  Unfolding the slippery page, I examine a picture of a woman on a runway. If her skirt were any shorter it would be a belt, and the way her blouse sags off her shoulder makes me blush. In our Ordnung, our church law, we are taught to value simplicity. We strive to be plain. The woman’s dress is sinful and contrary to everything I believe. Still, as a seamstress, I am fascinated. I trace my finger along the perfect stitching, the sheath of lace that falls just below the hem. Orange. Bold and unapologetic. What would it be like to wear orange?

  “Do you think they all dress like this?” I ask. “Her shoes look painful.”

  “I don’t know. But we could find out. When will you ask your dad about rumspringa?”

  “Not this again. I’ve told you, there’s no way he’ll allow it.”

  “Come on, Lydia. Almost everyone in Hemlock Hollow lives outside the community as an Englisher before they commit to the Ordnung. They say it’s better in the long run, in case you have to go someday. What they teach us in school is barely enough to get by in their world. Even the bishop encourages the tradition.”

  “I hardly think living as an Englisher is necessary to a happy Amish life. Besides, everything I need is here.”

  Jeremiah rolls his eyes. “Everything you need is here because other folks bring it back for you from the English world. I don’t recall you spinning and weaving the cloth for that dress.”

  I shake my head. “You know my father. He lives the most modest life, and he hates the English world. There is no way he’ll agree.”

  “Did you ask? Did you speak to him about it?”

 
; “Not exactly. I know how he feels by hearing him talk about the others. Remember when Jacob left?”

  “Yes.”

  “My father said, ‘Such a waste of a good upbringing. It’s like dipping a lily-white lamb in a tar bath.’”

  “He did not!”

  “He did. Every chance he gets, he reminds me of how he lost my mother and brother in an automobile accident in the English world. ‘The world outside ain’t safe, Lydia,’ he says. ‘It’s the devil’s playground.’”

  Jeremiah lets out a deep sigh that blows strands of hay over my shoulder. “I’m not goin’ without you.”

  “Don’t be silly. If you want the experience, go. I’ll still be here when you get back.”

  His fingers hook into mine, and I stare up into his unbelievably bright eyes and clean-shaven face. What will he look like with the traditional beard of married Amish? Will his chin be as blond as his curls?

  “There are more important things than rumspringa, Lydia. But I hoped we could experience the English world together. An adventure to talk about later when we’re…”

  “When we’re what?” I flutter my lashes at him innocently, knowing full well what he means. We’ve been two peas in a pod since we could walk, and it’s long been accepted that we would court. I can’t help myself. I want him to say it. I want to hear the words.

  Jeremiah lifts a corner of his mouth and then opens it to respond.

  “Lydia? Lydia Troyer!” Katie Kauffman, the bishop’s wife, calls from outside the barn.

  Jeremiah rolls onto his back and flattens himself against the hay. Strictly speaking, we aren’t supposed to be alone together unchaperoned.

  I swing my head over the side. “Yeah?”

  “What are you doing in there, child? I thought you were milking?”

  “I finished. Having a rest.”

  “You must come. I’m sorry. It’s your father.”

  I toss my legs over and jump to the barn floor, a good six-foot drop. “What about my dad?”