by Linda Byler
“Well, aren’t you going to answer?”
Feigning innocence, Sarah muttered, “Why are you asking?”
“Well, you looked different. Sort of shook up.”
Should she confide in Rosanna? Should she tell an eighth-grade pupil that her whole world was spinning off its axis, thrusting her into outer space where she wasn’t completely positive who Sarah Beiler really was?
No, she couldn’t confide in Rosanna.
“Oh, now, why would you say that? I didn’t feel different.”
“You looked different.”
Ah, the social graces of a thirteen-year-old!
Sarah tried to change the subject, but Rosanna maneuvered right back to what was wrong with her teacher.
“I bet you anything that Matthew Stoltzfus came back to visit his parents.”
A streak of lightning could not have shocked her more. As it was, she stared open mouthed at the guileless face of her student, studying the blue eyes intently. How could she know?
“Yeah, well, if you’re not going to answer, then I guess I’ll know he came to see you. You know he really made a mess of my sister’s life—Barbie Ann. She’s married now. Thank goodness she had the nerve to step out of his clutches. He said he wanted her, but, well, bottom line, he didn’t.”
Rosanna sprayed far too much Windex on a window, vigorously pumping the sprayer, the painful memory of her jilted sister lending her strength.
“Whoops! Too much Windex.”
Rosanna shrugged her shoulders and set to work, mopping up the excess window cleaner, saying, “You know every girl this side of Harrisburg wanted him.”
Sarah nodded agreement, her face averted.
“Did you hear me?”
“I heard you.”
“You know you’re much too nice to waste your time on Matthew. My mother doesn’t let us say certain words, but I could use one to describe him.”
Sarah smiled but said nothing. Rosanna was always pushing against her mother’s restrictions, which were few and far between as it was.
Sarah decided to conceal any further information she gleaned, cocooning it away to be safely brought out later in the privacy of her room.
She and Rosanna shared a cupcake someone had left in the cloakroom and drank cold water from a cup by the water faucet. They admired the shining clean windows and did not speak of Matthew.
Sarah did learn, however, that Lee Glick and Omar Esh had driven a pair of Belgians to the sales stables in New Holland, and it was the top selling team of the month.
Rosanna giggled and rolled her eyes and said she didn’t know how old Lee Glick was, but she wished she wasn’t only thirteen.
Sarah listened and smiled and thought of Matthew and wondered why the afternoon took on a dull quality.
When Rosanna left, Sarah sat alone behind the desk as a grayness descended, obscuring the yellow sunshine and puffy white clouds. It stilled the meadowlarks and the chirping sparrows and the warm brown branches of the budding trees, turning them black and gothic and frightening.
Outside the small, one-room schoolhouse, everything went on as before—the sun’s brilliance, the moving white clouds, the birdsongs—but in Sarah’s heart, a certain sense of despondency took over, a weight of discouragement.
Was it only Rosanna’s prattle? What did she know?
Nothing. It was only Rosanna voicing opinions of her own concoction.
But what if Rosanna was right? What if God sent people like this girl to warn her? And what if she held herself in high esteem and pooh-poohed the warnings of one so young?
She would talk to a more mature friend, the Widow Lydia, the most fair person on earth.
CHAPTER 2
LEVI DIDN’T WANT HIS CHICKEN AND DUMPLINGS that evening and became quite ill later, so Sarah knew it was not a good time to visit with her friend Lydia.
Mam was busy making Levi as comfortable as possible, so Sarah washed dishes, straightened the house, and sat down with her schoolwork afterward.
It was a quiet evening, and even Dat seemed preoccupied, hiding behind an opened Lancaster newspaper, the Intelligencer Journal. Suzie went to bed early, and Priscilla sprawled on the rug beside the stove with another magazine.
When Sarah heard the rustling of Dat’s paper, she looked up, her mind telling her before she actually saw Dat’s hooded eyes and his concerned expression.
“Sarah.”
“Yes?”
Still she could not meet his eyes.
“I guess Matthew was visiting here last evening.”
“He was.”
“How is he?”
“Good.”
The old clock on the mantle ticked too loudly. Priscilla coughed, cleared her throat, and positioned both elbows so her hands fit over her ears.
“I guess we can trust you, Sarah.”
“Yes.”
“Did he . . . mention your past?”
“Yes.”
At this, Dat sat up, carefully folded the newspaper, and deliberately put it on the sewing machine beside his chair. He rose like an old man, painfully, unfolding his length as if each joint protested its support of him.
When he came to stand at the kitchen table, one large, calloused hand resting on the back of a chair, she could not look up. Blindly, she made a few red check marks, without seeing the fine black numbers on the page of an arithmetic workbook.
“I just want you to know that we are praying you won’t be led astray. I know Matthew is a powerful influence in your life, but consider the promise you made to God the day you were baptized.”
That was all he said, but his words were seared into her conscience, as red hot and painful as a branding iron.
She saw her father, old, bent, with white hair, years down the road, a silver stream of tears coursing deep ridges of pain in his wrinkled face. Our Sarah, he would say. Our Sarah left us. She stands im bann (in the ban, shunned).
Without rebellion, this was going to be impossible.
Sarah left the Widow Lydia a message on her voice mail and then waited to walk past Elam Stoltzfus’s till it was fully dark. She did not want Hannah to catch sight of her, furtively scuttling past to dump all her fears and frustrations on the widow who likely had more than enough of her own.
She was cowardly, maybe, but this night she had to talk to Lydia.
It was Wednesday, an ordinary weekday, which was good. She did not want her cousin Melvin to see her either. He never admitted to courting Lydia, although he spent every spare minute within decency at her house, fixing doors or planting shrubs and doing other necessary little duties. He wouldn’t be there on a Wednesday.
She tried walking as far off the road as possible, the headlights of oncoming cars an unwelcome intrusion. She did not want to be seen, so she half walked, half ran the whole way, speeding up as she passed Matthew’s house.
She was welcomed warmly at Lydia’s door and scolded sincerely for staying away so long.
A tray of fruit and dip, cheese and crackers, and a pan of Reese’s peanut butter bars stood temptingly on the gingham tablecloth covering kitchen table, and a pot of tea steamed on the wood stove.
Little Aaron lifted his arms to be held, and Sarah eagerly scooped him into her arms. He was dressed in green camouflage flannel pajamas and informed Sarah immediately that he was an English man and he was going hunting.
Lydia laughed with Sarah, then shook her head. “I shouldn’t let him wear them, but Melvin gave them to him.”
The girls welcomed Sarah as warmly as their mother had, and she smiled back with sincerity and promised to come more often.
After nine o’clock, the children were put to bed, Lydia poured tea, and they settled comfortably by the kitchen table.
Sarah began to talk, her speech nurtured with the encouraging manner Lydia possessed, unfolding her story, bit by bit, leaving nothing hidden.
Somewhere during the course of the conversation, the exterior door to the kesslehaus (wash house) opened, and there was a
great clattering, laughter, and talking heard through the closed door.
“Omar,” Lydia said quickly.
“Who is with him?”
Averting her eyes, Lydia adjusted the tablecloth.
“It’s Lee.”
“Lee?”
Lydia nodded and sipped her tea.
There was no chance to get away, nowhere to hide, before they burst into the kitchen, their faces alight, flushed with success.
“She did it, Mam!” Omar burst out. “Penny had her colt! It’s a filly! A little girl!”
Lydia leaped to her feet, and for a moment, it seemed as though Lee was going to hug her, but he didn’t.
What he did do was catch sight of Sarah.
Slowly the elation left his face as he struggled to regain the former feeling of success, but he was clearly caught off guard.
“Sarah.”
That was all he said. Not “How are you?” or “Hello” or anything.
She didn’t answer, except for a small, frightened smile.
When Omar yelled up the stairs, a great commotion followed—a mad, headlong dash through the kitchen, out the kesslehaus door, and down the slope to the new horse barn. Sarah followed along, carrying Aaron a bit clumsily and then stopped to let Lee take him, his hand leaving a trail of awareness where he touched her as he took the small boy from her.
Together, they all huddled by the heavy timbers forming the box stall, as Omar held the LED battery lamp high, illuminating every corner.
Cries of awe went up as the blonde, spindly little creature wobbled around on new, unsteady legs. The great Belgian mare nuzzled her newborn, batting her eyelashes as if to remind the small group of people that she had accomplished this miracle all by herself, and they had better use the proper discretion—they were dealing with royalty here.
She was truly magnificent, and so was her colt.
“She’s so huge!” Sarah said.
“She’s a Belgian!” Omar crowed.
Aaron yelled that he was going to ride her as soon as he had breakfast the next morning, and Sarah looked at him, held high in Lee’s arms, and smiled, her eyes shining.
Later, Lee would remember every perfect contour of her face, the beautiful green eyes, the generous mouth, and the hair that never quite succumbed to the efforts of a comb, hairspray, or hairpins.
Eventually, the children slowly returned to their beds after glasses of milk and large squares of the chocolatey peanut butter bars. Lee declined an invitation to join them, and Sarah was caught by surprise by the strong feeling of loss when he moved off across the driveway, riding his best horse through the night.
It wasn’t safe, Lydia said, but Omar assured her Lee would ride in fields and along fence rows most of the time.
It was a bit after eleven o’clock when the propane tank ran empty, casting the kitchen into a steadily receding lamplight.
“Ach,” Lydia said.
“I’ll go,” Sarah assured her.
“Please don’t, Sarah. I still haven’t told you everything.”
Sarah laughed.
“Just light a kerosene lamp. Here, I’ll get the one in the bathroom.”
Sarah carried it out and set the small lamp with its cozy orange glow in the middle of the table, as Lydia replenished their tea.
“What I haven’t told you is kind of hard now. I feel guilty, being so happy, when you are so obviously tormented with indecision,” Lydia said, sighing.
“Just tell me.”
“Melvin asked me to be his wife.”
She said the words softly, as if they would not hurt Sarah if she spoke as lightly as possible.
Sarah gasped, the words filling her with surprise.
“Oh, Lydia. I am so happy for you. Congratulations!”
Lydia smiled and lowered her eyes, the humility that was so much a part of her so evident now.
They continued their conversation, both of them aghast when they noticed the clock’s hands had moved another two hours.
“I’ll walk home with you, Sarah,” Lydia offered.
“Of course not. I’ll be fine. No one’s out at this hour.”
They parted with a long hug. There were tears in Lydia’s eyes as she promised to pray on Sarah’s behalf.
“God does not want us to live in unhappiness or indecision, Sarah. You know, if we are a willing sacrifice, we are able to discern His perfect will.”
But when the kesslehaus door closed and Sarah slipped out into the frost-tipped spring night, Lydia stood in the middle of her kitchen and clenched her fists. Then she picked up a small, square pillow and threw it against the wall with all her strength. Then she stamped one foot and growled a very unladylike growl and thought she had never wanted to shake some sense into anyone as much as she wanted to shake Sarah until her teeth rattled.
Sarah walked down the sloping sidewalk to the gate, opened it, and let herself out, then walked on down the driveway, the gravel crunching under her feet.
She waited in the shadow of the new barn, allowing a car to pass. She did not want to be caught alone in the middle of the night.
She shivered, stopped to button her sweater securely, and walked on. Lifting her face, she enjoyed the sight of the velvety night sky alive with the stars twinkling, winking down at her the way they always did, a reminder that God was up there in the heavens, the same as He always was, and things would be okay somehow.
Exactly what made her turn her head in the direction of the horse barn, she would never know. She did, however, and caught sight of an orange glow in the small window—the one under the eaves.
Surprisingly, at first, she was very calm. Reasoning, even. The moon was about half, maybe two thirds full. It had to be the glow of an orange moon.
Or perhaps her mind refused to accept what her instincts knew.
Not the Widow Lydia. Please, dear God. If You have to allow another fire, please, not her.
Is a prayer a thought, or a thought a prayer? Can anybody pray when monstrous knowledge slams into them with the force of a sledgehammer?
When the orange glow flickered, Sarah was immobilized. She was frozen to the macadam, as wave after wave of nausea attacked her.
She was only one person, a weak young girl, and who could blame her if she fled to the safety of her father’s arms?
As she stood, her gaze riveted to the small second story window, the orange glow became decidedly brighter.
Then she remembered Penny and the newborn filly. She remembered Lydia’s humility. This would beat her down so badly, she might never recover. Something had to be done.
Her feet unlocked as anger coursed through her veins. She did not utter a sound. She had no tears. She just clenched her fists and ran. She ran past the house, her only thoughts of Penny and her colt. She had to get them out.
She tore open the main entrance door, groped her way along one wall, trying to remember where Omar had taken the battery lamp. As she entered the row of stalls, there was an alarming roar overhead, gaining momentum by the second.
All her common sense told her to go to the house, but she knew every horse would be lost if she did.
Did she scream, or was it the horses?
She remembered Dat’s words. Horses want to stay in their familiar home, no matter how terrified they become.
She whipped off her sweater, called Penny’s name, opened the massive gate, called again, cajoled, coaxed, begged. Then, mercifully, her fingers caught the part of Penny’s halter below her chin, and she tugged with every ounce of strength.
“Come on, girl. Good. Easy!”
Talking, she coaxed the horse as the crashing sound of hooves against heavy boards increased. She was so intent on coaxing Penny that the intensity of the flames overhead became lost on her.
Sarah was tall, but Penny was enormous, her head lifting repeatedly as Sarah tried to cover the horse’s eyes with her sweater, only to have it slide down around Penny’s nose.
Desperate now, Sarah slowly coaxed the great horse
to the water trough and clambered up to balance precariously on its rim. With renewed effort, she threw the sweater over the great head, hanging on when Penny lifted her head and shook it.
The hours-old filly bounced awkwardly, its legs splayed out ungracefully like a baby giraffe.
Again, Sarah talked to the great horse, pulled with all her strength on the chain that opened the door facing the house, and with one final heart-stopping leap, they made it through.
Sarah was crying now, her relief was so great. Opening the gate to the pasture, she turned them loose, peeling the black sweater off as the panicked horse shot through the opening to safety, the squealing little filly cavorting along as best it could.
The barn was fully engulfed, although it was contained to the upper level.
Sarah raced up the driveway, through the gate, and pounded on the house door with all her strength, crying hoarsely now, then resorting to an otherworldly scream of fear.
When Lydia came to the door, it was as Sarah had feared. The defeat in Lydia’s eyes was already evident.
She turned and ran back down the slope, leaving the gate swinging drunkenly on its hinges, aware of only one purpose, to save the horses.
Behind her, she heard Omar cry out, warning her, but she ran, crashed through the door, yanked open the door to the stables, her black sweater clutched in one hand, her chest heaving, her breath coming in great, tearful gasps.
The horse stable was strangely quiet, except for a lone whinny at the far end. One horse remained. It must be the great stallion. They had likely turned the rest of them out to pasture.
She was aware of another presence.
“Sarah!” Omar screamed her name, again warning her.
Silently, she handed him the black sweater, then stood back, as he worked swiftly, efficiently, covering the massive head with her sweater, as the crackling roar overhead became a raging inferno.
Should she go? No, she’d stay. She wanted to be certain Omar and the stallion made it out safely.
“Get out!” he screamed, as the stallion plunged past, dragging him along.
Turning, she took one last look around, making sure there was nothing in the box stalls, as the roar overhead shut out all other senses.
