Lucifer's Pride

by G. P. Ching

  “Open,” he says.

  I obey, drinking in the spoonful of broth he brings to my lips.

  “Good girl.” Jeremiah drops the spoon into the bowl and sets the lot down on the bedside table. Then he leans over me. With a hand propped on the bed on either side of my chest, he accepts my eye contact as he would an outstretched hand. I relax into the down pillow. The sight of him hovering over me fills me with intense joy and a sense of security. If we had time alone, if we shared an uninterrupted kiss, would I feel for Jeremiah what a wife feels for her husband?

  “Please, Lydia. Just this once, do as I say. Come with me. I want you to be the one I experience the world with. We’re seventeen years old. A few months—just until your father has recovered—and then we’ll come home.”

  The way he says home, his breath brushing my face, sends a shiver across my skin and makes my heart skip against my breastbone. He says home like the word is intimate: our home.

  “Besides,” he continues in a whisper, suddenly intent on my mouth. “Until old Frank is home, I have no one to ask to court you. And I will court you, Lydia, whether the English way, the Amish way, or both.”

  A curl of his blond hair falls across his forehead. I sweep it aside and caress his cheek with my knuckles.

  Some decisions are carefully constructed towers of logic framed in lists of pros and cons, shingled in trusted advice. As I throw my arms around Jeremiah, pressing the apron of my dress against his vest, the choice I make is based on none of those things. It springs straight from my heart to my lips.

  “Yes, Jeremiah. I’ll come with you. I’ll go on rumspringa.”

  The smile he gives me is as much a reward as the embrace that leaves me longing for more and anxious to begin.

  3

  Bishop Kauffman agrees to my rumspringa request with little concern. In fact, the way he claps me on the shoulder suggests he expected the turn of events. Literally, rumspringa means “running around,” the only time in Amish life when the Ordnung overlooks transgressions. The Amish only baptize adults, so as a teenager I’m not bound to church law, but at seventeen, I’m considered old enough to make my own decisions. That means between now and the time I choose to be baptized, I am free of all expectations except those of my conscience.

  But my conscience has a loud voice. My father has made sure of that.

  “Lydia,” Bishop Kauffman says, placing a calloused hand on mine, “where you are going, they don’t have rules like we do. The reason we’ve come to this, living behind this wall, is because they chose a life without limits, without conscience, and we chose to preserve ours. I want you to go and experience that life so that you know what it is you’re giving up, the good and the bad. But remember your roots. Remember who you are. You may walk through the valley of darkness, but remember you come from the light.”

  I smile and nod. “I won’t let their world change me.” As the words leave my mouth, I truly believe them.

  His eyebrows dart toward the ceiling. “Oh, child, that’s not what I’m saying at all. You should let it change you. When you leave here, there is no halfway. You will live, dress, and speak the English way. There’s something wrong if living that life doesn’t change you.”

  “Oh,” I say. I knit my eyebrows.

  He gives my shoulder a gentle shake. “It should make you more committed to our way of life.”

  I bob my chin. “Okay.” My stomach twists with my impending reality. I will have to live English. All of my lessons, my schooling, it was all for this moment—so I could walk among them if I had to.

  “Then, go. We’ll take care of your father’s farm while you’re gone. I will miss you.”

  Tossing my arms around his neck, I squeeze hard enough for the hug to last until I return.

  Balanced between reluctance and excitement, I pack my father’s small brown suitcase. I start with a kapp to cover my head and the box of pins I use every morning to bun my hair under it. Will they make me cut my hair? Winding a loose tress around my finger, I watch the honey brown tighten like a noose against my pale skin. I bite my lip. I don’t want to change my hair.

  Head shaking, I resolve not to worry about a problem that hasn’t even happened. Keep busy, I tell myself. The modest gray dress I pack is without zippers or decoration, and the tights I’ve sewn myself. Leather shoes made by an Amish neighbor go in next. It all fits easily. I won’t be able to wear this clothing once I’m on the outside, but I want a change of clothes for the trip home. Plus, it feels good to bring something of my life with me into the void.

  I clean my house spotless and turn off the gas that powers the lamps and refrigerator at the tank. Both run on methane collected from heating pig dung—an Amish invention. The Yoders will use our pigs’ chips while I’m away. As for the water, I turn that off too and empty the pipes, in case I’m not back before the first freeze.

  Everything is prepared, but I startle anyway when Jeremiah knocks. I scurry to the door, a mess of jittery limbs.

  His smile melts when he sees me. “Are you all right?” He takes my waist as if he expects I might fall over at any moment. “You look pale.”

  “Just nervous,” I answer.

  “Do you need to sit down? Some water?”

  “No, I’m fine.” I turn to grab my suitcase. “Besides, I shut the water off.”

  “Just as well. I have a surprise for you in the buggy.”

  Through the door, I notice the Amish buggy in front of the house. Huh? “I thought we would be going in a car. Won’t someone see us in that?”

  “Baby steps, Lydia. Baby steps.” He lifts the suitcase from my hand and leads me out the door. “The safe house is in Willow’s Province, just outside the gate. The only neighbors are Doc Nelson and Bradford and Hillary Adams. No one will see.”

  It sounds risky, but I trust in his plan. Besides, the familiarity sets me at ease.

  Jeremiah’s horse, Abe, swats flies with his tail, the jingle of metal against leather mixing with the songs of sparrows in the summer wheat. It’s all the encouragement I need. I climb into the cab and wait as he loads my suitcase. He takes the bench next to me and scoops up the reins. With a cluck of his tongue, Jeremiah spurs Abe into the road, where he quickens to a rhythmic trot.

  “So, what is this surprise?”

  Jeremiah raises an eyebrow. “Patience is a virtue.”

  “And so is initiative. Should I look for it myself?”

  “No need. It’s there.” He motions behind me with his head.

  I pull the covered pail that rests next to Jeremiah’s suitcase toward the bench. When I lift the lid, the most glorious scent fills the cab. Two soft drinks are wedged next to a large, colorful paper bag with the Ready Bell Express logo.

  “You brought fast food from the English world?”

  He flashes me a conspiratorial grin. “Jacob met me last night to make arrangements and brought it. I thought you might like lunch. Reheated it this morning myself. Cheeseburgers, French fries, nuggets, and something called a pie that looks nothing like one. And soda, still cold from the fridge.”

  “You are my favorite person in the world right now.” I kiss his cheek, then pull the drink from the pail. The ice-cold cola bubbles up the straw, courses down my throat. After the last swallow, I burp appreciatively.

  I’ve only had soda pop once before, when Mary returned from rumspringa with a case of it. It was just a small taste because we all had to share. I slurp on the straw again, anxious to have my fill. Wedging the cup between my feet, I unwrap a cheeseburger, offering the first bite to Jeremiah, since he’s holding the reins and can’t feed himself properly. He wraps his lips around half the burger, only thwarted by the ridge of paper I’m holding.

  “I see that large mouth of yours is gut for something, Jeremiah.” I use the German pronunciation for emphasis, like a mother scolding her child. “Did ya leave any for me?”

  “Not gut, Lydia. Good. From here on out, you have to speak like an Englisher. We can’t slip into German, eve
r.”

  “Gooood,” I drawl.

  Waving a finger, he says, “When in the English world, act English. Always. Have you been looking through your book?”

  He’s talking about the book each of us is given with pictures of new technologies so that we don’t embarrass ourselves the first time we see a dish sanitizer or an irradiator. Of course I’ve reviewed mine. As if the eight years of English culture we had to take in school weren’t enough.

  “How’s this for acting English?” I shove the entire other half of the burger into my mouth until my cheeks bulge.

  Laughing, he shakes his head. “There’s more in there, you know. Please don’t choke on my account.”

  I shift the half-chewed mass to my cheek. “It tastes funny. Mushy and bland. Is this beef?”

  “I think so.” Jeremiah glances toward the bag.

  “So, how far is it?” I swallow and reach for another burger.

  “Just a few miles past Bradford Adams’s place. Jacob is coming home to be baptized. He’s going to drive the buggy back for me.”

  “I guess the tar didn’t stick,” I say, looking out over the fields of crops that line both sides of the road. I can almost hear my father talking about Jacob. Like a lily-white lamb dipped in a tar bath. Is that what Dad will think of me when all this is over?

  “I guess not.” Jeremiah’s quiet chuckle brings me back into the moment.

  Abe’s rhythmic clip-clop provides background music. This is how it is with Jeremiah. I’m not compelled to speak to fill the quiet. The miles skip by. Fields give way to hickory and birch trees and then the road melds into two dirt ruts. This isn’t the fastest way to the wall, but it’s the only way to the gate.

  Hemlock Hollow borders the Outlands, territory ravaged by radiation during the war. Most Englishers won’t live anywhere near the Outlands because of the radiation levels. There are rumors that certain animals have mutated. Dangerously large rats and bears with two heads are said to make their homes near the remains of the reactor. Once the wall went up, a bunch of men from Hemlock Hollow knocked a hole in the concrete, at the part deepest within the Outlands, and built a wooden gate. I don’t know why the English didn’t think we’d do that. Amish are talented builders and our faith makes us brave. If I were to guess, I’d say it was because they underestimated us and assumed we’d go quickly into death.

  I think the rumors about the continued impact of the radiation are made up. While it’s true, I’ve been told, that many people died that first year after the war from the sickness, people in Hemlock Hollow live long and happy lives now. For as long as I’ve been alive, no one has ever seen anything like a bear with two heads. Our homes are built as far away from the Outlands as possible, within the bounds of our walled existence. I don’t really understand what radiation is or why the English are so afraid of it. All I know is, it doesn’t seem to bother us any. Not anymore.

  We reach the wall, and Jeremiah jumps out of the cab and swings the gate open. I take up the reins, guiding Abe through. He closes and locks it behind us. The forest is dark here, thick with trees that twist and tangle together. I scan both sides of the path for two-headed bears, then giggle at the ridiculous thought. Jeremiah climbs back in, and Abe breaks into a trot again.

  “Why do you think Bradford and Hillary Adams choose to live so close to the Outlands?” I ask.

  “My father says the houses are cheaper in Willow’s Province. Plus, it’s the place you live when you want the government out of your business. The Province is rural and keeps poor records. I’m guessing they aren’t big fans of the Green Republic and decided to take their chances with the radiation.”

  “That makes sense. I think the radiation is hogwash anyway. Some invisible force that makes you sick? I don’t believe it.”

  Jeremiah shrugs and laughs through his nose.

  The forest opens up and Abe’s feet clip-clop on paved road again. We pass the Adamses’ small stone cottage. By the time Jeremiah guides Abe up a long driveway toward a sweet-looking yellow house with a white wraparound porch, I regret eating the second burger.

  “Please tell me this is it. I think my stomach is rejecting the fast food.” I blow my cheeks out as a wave of nausea washes over me.

  “This is it, Lydia. Fifty-four Lakehurst Drive. Your temporary English home.”

  He pulls the buggy up next to a corroded blue hatchback and reins in Abe. Hopping out first, Jeremiah offers his hand to help me down.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  On the surface, the house looks similar to the ones in Hemlock Hollow, but there are subtle differences. A glass cage over the door houses an electric lightbulb. There’s no knocker. Instead, the button on the frame is an electric doorbell. I’ve never used one, and I decide in advance that I won’t push it. I’ll knock on the wood with my knuckles. A string of party lights in the shape of chili peppers wrap around the porch railing. It’s late afternoon, so they aren’t lit, but I can picture what they must look like glowing in the darkness.

  An Amish home would never have such decoration, not because of the electricity required to run them, but because it would be considered a form of vanity. It would be viewed as an attempt to make a house look better than its neighbor. An Amish community is grounded in sameness and humility. It’s virtuous to hold others above self.

  Still, they are beautiful; my eye is drawn again and again to the cherry red plastic hanging like ripe fruit from an electric vine. They seem harmless in this setting, where they can be enjoyed without judgment.

  “Are you ready to go in?” Jeremiah nudges my elbow, his hands filled with our luggage.

  “I’m sorry. Let me help you carry that.” I reach for my suitcase, but Jeremiah shakes his head.

  “No, I’ve got it. Can you knock on the door?”

  I climb the two steps to the porch and pound my knuckles twice against the wood. The door whips open before I can make contact the third time. A boy in a T-shirt and cap holds his hands out toward me.

  “They’re here! Everyone, come see. The newbies are here,” the boy yells.

  I don’t recognize the face in front of me, but I do recognize the voice.

  “Caleb? Is that you?” I ask.

  “In the flesh.” He removes his cap to reveal a headful of spiky brown hair.

  “We never heard what happened to you,” I say.

  “Well, I decided not to go back. I’m not surprised Hemlock Hollow didn’t advertise my refusal of baptism. I’m the custodian here now.”

  “Oh.” I balk at the permanence he puts behind the words and glance toward Jeremiah, who’s joined me on the porch.

  “Come on in, you two.”

  I follow Caleb through a sparsely decorated living room. A plain boy stands next to the sofa, hat in hands.

  “Jacob!” I throw my arms around his neck for a quick hug then retreat a proper distance. Jeremiah ducks between us to shake Jacob’s hand. “You look…exactly the same!”

  The boy shakes his dark mop of hair and smiles. “Well, I didn’t yesterday, but I’m ready to go home.”

  “Living English hasn’t changed you, then?” I ask.

  There is an awkward pause while Jacob studies the floor; the smile fades from his face. “Yes, Lydia. Living English has changed me. The people here don’t value each other the way we do back home. People are tools here.”

  “Hey, that’s your opinion, man,” Caleb interjects.

  “Yes,” Jacob states. “That is my opinion.” The smile returns to its proper place on his face. “Lydia, Jeremiah, gut to see ya again. I’ll take Abe back for ya. Hope to see you both again soon.” Without even a glance at Caleb, Jacob bounds to the front door.

  I wave goodbye as he glances back and nods in my direction. What was that all about? He’s lived here for months and not even a handshake for his host? I want to ask but it’s none of my business. Still, tension hangs thick in the air as the door closes and Caleb doesn’t acknowledge Jacob’s leaving. Moments later, Abe’s rhythmic clip-cl
op grows soft with distance.

  After an awkward moment of silence, Caleb claps his hands together as if he means the sound to clear the heavy mood. “Let me give you guys the tour.”

  I exchange glances with Jeremiah. He shrugs.

  Caleb holds his hands out toward a faded blue sofa with worn edges, a matching chair, coffee table, and end tables. “This is the family room.”

  “It’s plain,” Jeremiah says. He means it as a compliment.

  “Glad you like it, because it’s where we spend most of our time when we’re home.” Caleb turns around and points into an arched doorway. “That is the kitchen.”

  I step forward and peek in. The refrigerator is gigantic and strangely quiet compared to our gas-powered one. I recognize the irradiator and the dish sanitizer, but something is missing. “Where’s the stove?”

  “We don’t use them anymore,” Caleb says. “The new irradiator cooks the food while it sanitizes it.”

  “Oh.” I run my fingers over the smooth silver top of the device, wondering if it will be difficult to use.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll show you how it works later. Gotta warn you, the food tastes like crap.”

  I glance at Jeremiah, but he’s opening and shutting the irradiator experimentally. Caleb does not expound on the quality of the food.

  We follow Caleb back through the family room to a hall near the rear of the house. He points into a small rectangular room with a well-used twin bed and dresser. “It’s not paradise, but it will have to do,” he says to me.

  “It’s perfect.” The quality of the furniture isn’t important to me. I didn’t come here to sleep, and I hope to spend as little time as possible in here anyway.

  Jeremiah sets my suitcase down on the bed. I walk to the only window and look out. Fields of corn go on and on, as far as I can see. I guess the English world isn’t so different after all. If I wasn’t so excited to be here, I’d be disappointed. “Looks like Hemlock Hollow,” I say.