Though Mountains Fall

by Dale Cramer

  Grinning from ear to ear, Emma gave her a spontaneous hug, then leaned back and looked down. “I’ll let you in on a secret. I’m pretty sure our family’s going to be growing soon, too.”

  “No! Emma, really? That’s wonderful! I pray it goes better this time.”

  Emma had miscarried twice since Will was born. “It will,” she said. “I have a good feeling about this one.”

  “Have you told Levi?”

  “No, I don’t want him to worry. It took me forever to convince him the miscarriages were not Gott’s judgment against us. This baby is fine, and Levi will be, too.”

  “Life is good,” Miriam said, “but it’s never easy.”

  ———

  It was an unseasonably warm day, and the children were still outside playing after supper when Emma and Miriam went to load the dishes in the buggy.

  “Did you ever find that other bowl?” Miriam asked.

  “No, I can’t imagine what happened—”

  But then she saw it. The bowl. Her eldest child, Mose, was sitting spraddle-legged in the dirt near Kyra’s barn with the bowl on the ground between his legs. His younger sister, Clara, stood stock-still, not ten feet from him, staring.

  Emma squinted, not sure exactly what she was seeing at first. There were two dark shapes, one beside each of Mose’s legs, and in the tricky, slanting evening sunlight the two shapes appeared for all the world to be coiled snakes. Then one of them moved, and a slender head inched toward Mose’s leg.

  Emma ran wailing to rescue her child, but before she could reach him she heard footsteps and Domingo caught up with her. He grabbed her by the arms and stopped her in her tracks.

  “Wait!” he said.

  Emma struggled to break free, single-mindedly fighting to save her baby from danger.

  “WAIT!” Domingo repeated, holding tight. “They’re not poisonous. It’s all right.”

  “But—”

  “Trust me. Just watch.”

  Levi appeared at her elbow, and Miriam peeked around Domingo, holding Will. They all watched in silent, breathless amazement.

  The bowl between Mose’s legs was half full of soup, left over from supper. Oblivious to the adults standing right there watching him, Mose dipped a spoon into the soup and held it out to the snake on his right. The snake’s head moved closer, and it appeared to Emma that his tongue actually flicked at the spoon. Shivering with fright, she started again to bolt after her child, but this time it was Levi who stopped her.

  “Shhh,” he said. “It’s okay. Domingo’s right—they’re not poisonous.”

  Above the pounding of her own heart Emma could hear Mose’s little voice.

  “One for you,” he said, holding the spoon out slowly, carefully, to the snake on his left. The snake’s head moved almost imperceptibly toward the spoon, and his tongue flickered. It looked for all the world as if the snake was eating from the spoon, neither child nor snake showing the slightest sign of apprehension. Mose dipped the spoon again, holding it out to the other one. “And one for you.” This one, too, appeared to crane his neck and sip.

  Mose returned the spoon to the bowl, but the snake he had just fed followed it, his head poised above the boy’s leg in anticipation.

  “It’s not your turn,” Mose said, and gave the snake a casual bop on top of his head with the spoon.

  Unfazed, the snake retreated, suitably admonished, and waited his turn while Mose fed the other one.

  Miriam’s mouth hung open. In a soft voice tinged with awe she said, “I have never in my life seen anything like that.”

  “Neither have I,” Domingo said, “but I have heard stories.”

  Emma glanced up at Domingo. “You’ve heard of something like this?”

  “Only in old people’s tales. There’s an ancient Nahua myth about a boy who charmed snakes. Remember this,” he said. “Remember it well. If there’s anything to the old legends, this one will grow into a very wise man someday—a man others will listen to and respect.”

  There was a riveting gravity in Domingo’s words. His voice dropped almost to a whisper as he looked Emma in the eyes and added, “He will be a peacemaker.”

  Chapter 27

  A deepening gloom hung over all the Amish as harvest drew to an end. November was normally a time of feasting and celebration, a time when all the sweat and toil and uncertainty was behind them for the year, the means for surviving another winter safely stored away in barns and cribs. Late fall was a time when farmers could finally relax and smile and enjoy the fruits of their labor.

  But not this year. As soon as harvest was done they hauled entire crops to Saltillo and sold them for whatever they could get, sometimes selling by the wagonload. This year the end of harvest meant loss and defeat, the end of their community and the abandonment of all they had built. It meant parting, and a long journey to a whole new set of problems.

  Ira Shrock led the first caravan. The Yutzys and Yoders went with him, after long and tearful goodbyes. Caleb stood in his yard, a terrible sadness settling on him as he watched the odd procession of heavily laden wagons and buggies ferrying children and farm implements and furniture slowly down the road and out of sight around the end of the ridge. The Bylers and Roman J. Millers parted the next day, leaving only the Benders and the Hershbergers.

  Miriam and Domingo went to mass that Sunday morning dressed in their wedding clothes, the only fancy clothes they owned. Miriam pinned a small black scarf to her head because Catholic rules said her head had to be covered in church. It often struck her that the Catholics had nearly as many rules as the Amish—they just drew the lines in different places. She lit three candles when she came in: one for safe passage for the Amish who had already left, one for her family, and one for her unborn child.

  The old warehouse where they worshiped had dirt floors and crudely made benches. Parishioners brought little rugs and towels for kneeling, to keep their knees out of the dust. Miriam was used to it. She had worshiped in barns all her life, though the services had always been held on the second level, the rough wooden floor scrubbed spotless. Nevertheless, the old warehouse made her a little homesick. Especially the light.

  There were no windows. The only daylight came through the peak vents way up high. Father Noceda had nailed up shelves for lanterns and oil lamps, lending a comforting golden glow to mass. When Miriam was teaching school she found the lack of windows actually helped. A window, particularly on a bright fall day, was an irresistible distraction for most school-age boys.

  But on this particular Sunday the absence of windows kept them from seeing the federales coming until it was too late. Miriam and Domingo only heard the hoofbeats at the last second, right before the barn doors burst open and Captain Soto trotted a standard-bred gelding right up the center aisle.

  Father Noceda was standing up front, delivering his liturgy when Soto barged in. The sight of the federale captain trotting his horse up the center aisle sent everyone into a panic. Women screamed, and men herded their families toward the walls, knocking over benches and tripping over one another.

  Father Noceda stood his ground behind the Communion table, hands clasped in front of him. He didn’t move an inch, drawing himself perfectly erect and stoic, a commanding presence in his full cassock. His eyes remained on the captain, fierce and searing, as the horse trotted right up to the Communion table.

  Another wail went up from the people as the captain’s horse pranced sideways and Soto’s booted foot shot out, kicking over the Communion table. Bread scattered, and wine splashed as high as Father Noceda’s face when the table slammed down at his feet.

  He never flinched.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Noceda said, his fiery eyes conveying much more than his tone of voice. Red wine trickled down his forehead.

  Domingo, who up to now had been shielding Miriam, turned to her and whispered, “Get to the door and get out. Hurry!”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I can’t let him kill himself,�
� he said, turning away.

  Miriam started toward the open door, pushing people in front of her and relaying Domingo’s words—“Get out! Get to the door!”

  Behind her, Domingo scrambled over upturned benches, against the tide of the fleeing crowd, heading toward the priest. In front of her she saw a dozen armed federales file quickly in and spread themselves across the back. But the people ignored them, surging into the open center aisle and running for the exit.

  She paused in the aisle near the door, watching the scene up front as frightened parishioners shoved their way past her.

  Captain Soto leaned down from his saddle, glaring at the priest. “Article twenty-four of our constitution expressly forbids worship anywhere except in the confines of a church building,” he said, and she knew from his voice that he was wearing that little evil grin.

  “This IS a church!” Noceda roared, on the verge of losing control.

  Soto’s horse pranced in a full circle while the captain’s eyes scanned the upper reaches of the old wooden structure. He turned back to Noceda.

  “No, Padre. You told me yourself, it is a warehouse. You cannot have it both ways.”

  Most of the people had made it outside. Only a few elderly people now hobbled past Miriam. The federales fanned out around the walls and watched their captain, clearly waiting for some kind of signal.

  Soto turned his back to the priest, and his grinning lips calmly uttered one short command to his men. “Quemarla.” Burn it.

  Even from the back of the warehouse Miriam saw Father Noceda’s smoldering rage burst into flame. He planted a foot on the edge of the overturned Communion table and hurled himself through the air. He would have speared Soto flush in the back had it not been for her husband.

  Domingo saw it coming. With a running start he flashed through the air and intercepted Noceda, tackling him to the floor.

  The captain’s back was turned and he didn’t see what happened. He was watching his men snatch the lanterns and oil lamps from the shelves and smash them against the walls. Kerosene and lamp oil exploded into great rolling clouds of flame, instantly engulfing the dry wooden timbers.

  Before Domingo could right himself the captain was gone, charging down the center aisle on his horse, nearly trampling Miriam as he galloped out the back door. His men bolted out right behind him, arms up, shielding themselves from the intense heat.

  Flames climbed the walls, licked at the rafters. Black smoke rolled across the floor, blocking Miriam’s view.

  Over the rumble of the flames Miriam screamed, “DOMINGO!” Before she could draw breath to scream again, Domingo burst through the wall of smoke, running, stumbling, coughing, with Father Noceda slung limp over his shoulder.

  It felt as though the three of them were shoved out the door by a roaring gust of smoke and heat, the dry old warehouse going up like paper.

  Outside, in the bright sunlight, the scene was pure bedlam. Some people were running away as fast as they could, herding their children from harm, while others attacked the soldiers as they tried to get to their horses, flailing at them with whatever they could find, cursing and shouting.

  Captain Soto, the only one already mounted, drew his pistol and fired several shots into the air, scattering the angry mob. Taking advantage of the smoke and chaos, Domingo mingled with the escaping crowd, whisking the priest away before the federales spotted him.

  When Miriam looked back she saw black smoke pouring from the roof vents and flames lapping around the eaves.

  ———

  Twenty minutes later Father Noceda sat at Miriam’s kitchen table with a cup of coffee in front of him, rubbing his jaw and glaring at Domingo.

  “It is a sin to strike a priest,” he grumbled.

  Domingo shrugged, suppressing a grin. “I chose the lesser of two evils, preventing a greater sin.”

  Miriam hadn’t seen any punching. “Domingo, did you hit him?”

  A cheerful nod. “Sí. He tried to get up and go after Captain Soto. It seems our gentle padre has a fire in his belly.”

  “I would have beaten that little . . . What greater sin?” Noceda demanded.

  “Suicide. He would have shot you.”

  Miriam gave a nod, eyebrows raised. “He’s right, Father. The soldiers would have killed you.”

  “Or, if you were lucky, put you in jail for the rest of your life,” Domingo added.

  “Maybe it would have been for the best,” the priest said. “I cannot live like this.”

  Miriam sat next to him, rubbed his shoulder. “It was only a building, Father.”

  “Sí, but the only one we had. And you have lost your school, too.”

  “But I didn’t lose the children. A building can be replaced.”

  “This was the replacement. Something must be done. If this Calles and his minions are allowed to rule much longer, there will be no church at all in this country.”

  “What is the church doing?” Domingo asked.

  “Nothing! The archbishop does not support insurrection, but it is coming whether he likes it or not. It is time for me to choose between the church and my conscience.”

  Noceda sat up straight, and Miriam saw a new and terrible resolve in his eyes.

  “I have seen enough,” he said. “There is no longer any choice to make.”

  “What are you going to do?” Domingo asked.

  “Fight.”

  “Fight? By yourself, with no weapons?”

  “They are raising a rebel army in Jalisco, in the hills south of Guadalajara—even without the support of Rome. They call themselves the Cristeros. The commander’s name is Vega—Father José Reyes Vega.”

  “I have heard of him,” Domingo said. “They say he is a born general, a brilliant tactician.”

  “A genius,” Noceda said, nodding.

  “Father Vega?” Miriam said. “You mean he’s a priest?”

  “Sí. There are many ways to defend the faith, child. Father Vega will put the fear of God into the federales, and teach them humility.”

  “But you know nothing of fighting,” Miriam said. “You’re a priest.”

  “I wasn’t always. I was a soldier once, and now it looks like I will be again. I’m tired of being persecuted by the federales. Sooner or later someone has to take a stand against this madness. If Vega will have me in his rebel army, I will fight.”

  “Then so will I,” Domingo said quietly. “Someone has to watch your back.”

  “Domingo, you can’t be serious!” Miriam cried, and her hand dropped almost unconsciously to her belly. “War is never the answer! Your father died fighting, and your sister’s husband. Don’t you think there are enough fatherless children in this family?”

  He reached across the table, laid his hand on hers and looked her in the eye. “Miriam, from the very first I have never made a secret of the fact that I am a warrior. It is in my blood. You did not complain when I fought bandits to save your sister, or when I fought them to save you. Father Noceda is right—it is time to take a stand against these people. There is a time for every purpose, Miriam. A time for peace and a time for war, and if there has ever been a time for war, this is it. It is coming. It is inevitable. Good men are going to fight and die to free us from these monsters. How will I live with myself if I hide from the fight and let others die in my place?”

  She couldn’t look at him, because in her heart she knew he was right. He’d told her he was a warrior from the very beginning. On top of that she’d been taught from birth that a woman must obey her husband, and this was her husband. Her pacifist upbringing railed and cried and screamed warnings from the deepest corner of her soul, but she couldn’t let herself listen to them.

  This was her husband.

  She pressed a knuckle hard against her upper lip for a long moment, willing herself not to cry. When she finally looked up her eyes were clear. She took a deep breath, let it out.

  “When will you go?”

  There would be no school the next day, nor any day un
til Miriam could find another place to meet. After breakfast Domingo went off with Father Noceda to “talk to some men about where to find this rebel army.”

  He was really going to do this. She had tried her best when they were alone in the night, but she couldn’t persuade him and she would never ever try to force him. Now, more than ever, Miriam missed her family. She’d lived her whole life in the close company of a bevy of sisters, and times like this—times of deep personal crisis—showed her just how badly she needed them.

  As soon as the men left, Miriam wrapped a serape about her against the chill of the November morning and went out to saddle Domingo’s horse.

  Riding down the main road through the middle of Paradise Valley she saw the men of her family—her father and Harvey, her brothers-in-law Ezra and Levi and Jake—up near the barn, loading a planter on the hay wagon. Her mother and sisters would be in the house, packing.

  She rode on for another quarter mile and turned into Emma’s lane. Emma was outside in the bright morning light, hanging laundry on the line.

  “You’re washing clothes on the day before you are to leave?” Miriam asked as she swung down from the horse.

  Emma shrugged, took clothespins from her mouth. “It’s Monday. Anyway, we’ll need clean clothes for the trip.” But when she saw Miriam’s face she dropped the clothespins into the basket and came to her. “What’s wrong?”

  Miriam broke down and cried in Emma’s arms. She had not cried in front of Domingo. Not once.

  “Domingo is going off to fight,” she wailed.

  “Oh, child. I’m so sorry.”

  Amish never fought, so all their experience of such a thing was secondhand. Back home, English men from Millersburg and Berlin and Walnut Creek had gone off to fight in the Great War, and it seemed the only news of them that ever circulated into Amish circles after that was when one of them was killed. Amish children grew up with the matter-of-fact conviction that men who went off to war always came home in a box.

  In the deepest part of Miriam’s mind it was a foregone conclusion, no matter what Domingo said. He was going to die.