Naomi's Hope

by Jan Drexler

  Jed chuckled and bit off another chunk of tobacco. “No. Never did make it. The chief’s daughter . . .” Jed stared off into the trees. “She was a pretty one, she was.” He looked at Cap. “You ever been in love, boy?”

  Cap nodded, the pain of losing Martha fresh once more with Jed’s words, but just as quickly the memory of Naomi’s smile eased the hurt.

  “Then you know why I never went any farther than these woods. I married the girl. The chief and that Catholic priest living in the town insisted on that. But I was never sorry.” Jed shuffled one foot in the leaf litter. “My Jenny’s ma was lovely. So lovely. But she’s gone now. Died one hard winter when Jenny was still a little girl.”

  Lost in his own memories, Cap didn’t respond. The only sound was the constant spring birdsong.

  Finally, Jed sighed. “My wife’s tribe wasn’t sent west with the rest of the Indians back in thirty-eight. Her uncle comes around here sometimes, just to spend some time along the river, visiting his old haunts.” The old man stood up and Cap rose too. “He’s supposed to stay on the reservation the government gave them, but every winter he shows up around here. He told me he found one of your boys a couple weeks back, floating down the river.”

  “Ja, he saved our Davey. We owe him much.”

  “Well, he’s got some people spooked.”

  “Spooked?”

  “Yeah. People who lived through Black Hawk’s War don’t want to see it happen again. When they see an Indian, all they think is that there’s going to be trouble.” He looked sideways at Cap. “They wouldn’t be happy to know about Crow Flies being here, so if anyone asks, you’ve never seen him. Just to keep the peace, you understand.”

  Cap rubbed at the stock of his rifle with his thumb. He might not understand English as well as he could, but he understood when someone was asking him to lie.

  “Crow Flies, is he in danger?”

  Jed’s narrow gaze bored into him. “He’s always in danger. Those bandits I told you fellas about wouldn’t think twice of taking his scalp, just because he’s an Indian. I don’t want to see the old man hurt or killed.”

  Cap nodded. “I will do what I can.”

  Jed nodded in return. “Good hunting.”

  He walked back through the bushes and Cap was alone again. But he had lost his taste for hunting after the news Jed had told him. The thought that anyone would kill another turned his stomach, and that it could happen to that kindly old man who had saved Davey was something he didn’t want to think about.

  But could he lie, even if it would save Crow Flies’s life? Lying would mean breaking the Ordnung. The Good Book didn’t permit Christians to lie. There was no getting around it.

  As he picked his way through the wetlands toward home, all he could think about was what he would say if a stranger asked him about the old Indian. He had promised Jed he would do what he could, but what could he do? He could say that Crow Flies had been in the area. That he had seen him. That he wasn’t here any longer.

  And then they would ask where the old man had gone. He knew. Davey had told everyone that day when Crow Flies left that he had gone to Michigan. If he said he didn’t know, he would be lying. If he said that Crow Flies never told him . . . that might work.

  That wouldn’t be lying. At least, not too much.

  By the time he left the bogs and reached higher ground, he gave up. He couldn’t talk himself into believing that hiding the information he knew wouldn’t be lying. It wasn’t what he did that counted, it was what was in his heart. In this case, his heart knew he would be lying. God would know. There was no getting around it. He had to obey the Ordnung to keep on God’s good side, and if he lied, he would be going against everything the church taught. If anyone came looking for Crow Flies, he would have to tell them what he knew.

  As he approached his clearing, a familiar sound reached his ears. A horse’s comfortable grunt, the sound Blau made when he gave him a handful of grain after a long day’s work. Cap broke into a trot, then stopped when he caught sight of his horses standing in front of the cabin. He walked up to them slowly. If they were loose, he didn’t want to risk spooking them. But as he got closer, he saw that the young Amish man from the gang was holding their lead ropes.

  “Hallo.” Cap spoke softly, in Deitsch. He stroked Betza’s sleek neck.

  “I brought your horses back.” The young man, more of a boy, didn’t look at him.

  “Denki.” Cap cupped Betza’s cheek as she nuzzled his neck with her whiskery nose. “What’s your name?”

  “Johnny . . .” The boy’s voice trailed off. “I didn’t want to take your horses, but Bill was there. I don’t dare cross him.”

  “But you brought them back.”

  “Ja. I’m supposed to take them to Fort Wayne to sell them, but I felt bad. These are good horses, and I knew you would miss them.”

  Cap patted Betza’s neck. “They are good horses. What will Bill do if you go back without the money you would have gotten when you sold them?”

  Johnny shrugged. “I’ve got money. I’ll give him that.”

  “Would you like something to eat? I’m about ready to make my supper.” He held up the one squirrel he had shot. “Stew.”

  The boy handed the lead ropes to Cap. “I can’t. I have to get back to the camp. I’ve been gone long enough already.” He glanced at Cap’s face, then away again. “It took me a while to decide to bring these two back. I didn’t know what you’d say.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged again. “My daed, he would have taken me to the sheriff. Or beaten me.”

  Cap frowned. “That doesn’t sound like the way an Amish man would treat his son, or even a stranger.”

  Johnny lifted his hat and ran dirty fingers through his hair. “Ja, well, not all Amish are like you.” He scanned the clearing. “I need to get on my way.”

  “You don’t have to go back to the gang. You can stay here.”

  Johnny shifted his eyes up, and then to the ground. “Ne. I can’t. I can’t come back.”

  “Are you worried about the gang?”

  The boy shook his head. “I turned my back on the church. There’s no going home for me.”

  He set off down the road, toward the wetlands and the wilderness.

  Annalise leaned her forearms on the loom, resting for a minute after rolling the woven inches onto the cloth beam so that she could reach the unwoven warp threads. The windows in the weaving room brought the world into her lap as she spent her afternoons at her loom. From here she could gaze across the yard where dishcloths swung on the clothesline to the pasture where the cow grazed in the soft grass. Stumps from the trees Christian had cleared still remained there, but he had spent long summers removing them from the fields beyond the river that he now plowed every spring.

  Before she started on the weaving again, she went to the kitchen to make Christian’s tea. When Crow Flies had told her to give it to Christian, she thought that it couldn’t be any worse than Dr. Samples’s patent medicine, but as the days passed, it appeared that it was helping.

  As she walked into the bedroom with the tea in a cup, Christian smiled at her. A true smile, and not lopsided, the way it had been after his seizure.

  “I brought your tea.” She set the cup on the side table and helped Christian scoot to a sitting position.

  “Denki.” He took the cup in his right hand, finally strong enough to hold it without help.

  “How are you feeling this afternoon?”

  He looked at her over the rim of his cup.

  “That’s right, I just asked you that at dinner.” Annalise leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You seem to be getting better.”

  He lifted his left arm. “Not this hand.”

  The words slurred together, but she could understand him.

  “But you look so much better. Your coloring is almost normal, and you act like you have more strength.”

  “No headache.”

  “That’s good.”

 
Christian gave her the empty cup, then grasped her wrist, looking into her eyes. Willing her to understand. “Peace.”

  Annalise took his hand as tears welled in her eyes. Peace had been missing from their home for months before Christian’s seizure, but his illness had crept up on them so quietly that she hadn’t noticed the tension until now, when it had slipped away again. Christian’s face was peaceful. Whatever had been eating at him before was gone now.

  “Peace is good.” She squeezed his hand. “I am so glad you feel better.”

  He leaned back against the pillows. “Still tired.”

  “I’ll let you sleep. Lydia brought some rich chicken broth for your supper.”

  His eyes closed. “Good. Good.”

  Annalise ran her fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead, and let her hand trail down his cheek. Crow Flies had said Christian should drink some of the haw tree tea every day. She would need to send someone out to gather more flowers before they all disappeared. She could dry them so that she could make the tea all through the year until the trees bloomed again next year.

  On her way back to the weaving room, she paused at the bottom of the stairway to listen for any noise from the bedrooms above. She had moved Gideon and Rachael to the bedrooms upstairs when Christian was so ill after his seizure, and they had taken to the move as if they had been ready to make that step toward growing up all along. After three years, it appeared that they would be her last babies. She was only forty-one, and her mamm had her last child when she was nearly fifty. But the years passed so quickly, and no new baby had made itself known.

  Clasping her arms around her middle, Annalise leaned against the post at the bottom of the stairs. She could never think of her little ones growing older without remembering the ones who would never grow old. Losing Hansli, Fanny, and Catherine thirteen years earlier had been a bitter time, followed by years of dark grief. And then when they lost Liesbet . . . such a sad end to her Liesbetli’s life. She let her head rest against the post. What would this house be like if all of those children had survived?

  No matter how much time passed, she would never forget her sweet children.

  She sat at her bench again, picked up the shuttle, and started the rhythm once more. She swayed from side to side with each pass of the shuttle, pulling the beater to tighten the threads after each pass. Then she switched the foot levers and passed the shuttle through the threads again.

  With each pass of the shuttle, Annalise scolded herself.

  “You should be happy that Christian is getting better,” she said, shoving the shuttle through the threads to her left hand. The thump of the beater and the clatter of the reeds changing as she pressed the foot peddle. “But you act like you’re afraid he’s going to melt away.” Thump, clatter. “He does seem to be getting better.” Thump, clatter. “But what if . . .”

  The loom was still as Annalise looked over the fields to the green woods beyond. “What if he never gets better?”

  That was the question she must face.

  She sent the shuttle through again. Swish. Thump. Clatter. Swish, thump, clatter. Swish, thump, clatter.

  Catching the shuttle in her right hand, she straightened two threads that had twisted. Just like their lives had gotten twisted. Christian was confined to his bed. She cared for his every need, ran the household, and cared for the children. Jacob, Josef, and the neighbors took care of the farm work, but how long could they keep neglecting their own farms to help out? If Christian survived, but was crippled . . . lying in his bed day after day . . .

  Annalise straightened and sent the shuttle through again. She had cried enough tears. This life . . . this was the life God had given them. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away . . . The tears rolled down her cheeks unchecked.

  “Blessed . . .” She clenched her fists. She must believe, even in this dark hour. “Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

  12

  Davey ran to the chicken house and hid behind it. He stood with his back pressed against the wall for a long minute, his breaths coming in gasps. No call from Memmi or Grossmutti, so they hadn’t seen him. He peered around the corner of the coop. No one was in sight.

  He leaned against the chicken house again, letting his breathing settle to normal. Indians were silent and skillful in the woods. If he was going to learn to be an Indian, he needed to be quiet.

  Davey scanned the yard between the house and the barn again. Unless Memmi happened to look out the kitchen door, he was safe. He could head through the woods to Cap’s house, and no one would know.

  His stomach turned with a sick feeling. That would be wrong. Memmi worried so when she didn’t know where he was, and he had gotten into a lot of trouble the last time he went someplace without her knowing.

  He kicked at a dandelion with his toe. He should tell Memmi that he wanted to visit Cap. She had let him go to Jacob’s every day this week, but Cap was different. Memmi didn’t want to visit Cap like she used to. Davey had to know why, and Cap would tell him.

  Heavy footsteps crossed the porch and Davey risked looking to see who had come out of the house. Uncle Henry, on his way to the barn.

  When he got close to the chicken coop, Davey tossed a stone so that it bounced in front of him. Henry stopped like Davey knew he would.

  “Uncle Henry, I need to ask you something.”

  Henry glanced back at the house, and then at the barn, and came to Davey’s hiding place. “What are you doing back here?”

  Henry was tall but not as old as Memmi and Grossdatti. He understood what Davey meant. Sometimes.

  “I want to go see Cap, but Memmi doesn’t want me to go anywhere without telling her.”

  “So why don’t you tell her?” Henry crouched down to Davey’s height, sitting on his heels.

  “She won’t let me go.”

  “Then you shouldn’t go.”

  “But I want to. If I tell you, then I’ve told somebody, and Memmi will be happy.”

  Henry picked a tall stem of grass and chewed on the soft, sweet end. “If you know your mamm doesn’t want you to go to Cap’s, you need to obey her.”

  Davey kicked at the dandelion again. Henry was acting like a grown-up. “I want to talk to him.” His eyes prickled like he was going to cry. He couldn’t cry in front of Henry. He blinked fast. “I know he wants to see me too.”

  Henry watched him for a minute, chewing on the grass stem. “All right, I’ll tell your mamm. But don’t go anywhere else, and come home by dinnertime.”

  Davey grinned. “I promise.”

  Henry stood up, tousling Davey’s hair. “You better keep that promise. Don’t forget.”

  Davey ran toward the woods before Henry could change his mind. “I won’t.”

  The trail was smooth and cool under his feet. He hopped over the roots that showed through the dark, dusty surface of the dirt path before he remembered. He stopped. Indians were silent. He took a step, resting on the ball of his foot the way Crow Flies taught him. No sound. He took another, and another, always landing on the ball of his foot. Halfway to Cap’s clearing, the trail took a jog around a big oak tree. Davey’s steps slowed. Silent and skillful. When an Indian couldn’t see the trail ahead, he went forward with caution.

  Around the tree, standing in the middle of the trail, looking straight at him, was a deer. Davey froze. The deer stared. Davey lifted his hand as if he carried a bow and drew the arrow back. He let it fly as the deer bounded off into the bushes under the trees. If he had a real bow and arrow, he could have brought the deer to Cap and they would have eaten it for dinner.

  Cap. Davey forgot about being an Indian and ran the rest of the way to the clearing.

  His friend was digging a hole as Davey ran up to him.

  “Hallo.” Davey remembered to step back as Cap lifted a shovelful of dirt. The hole was narrow, and so was the shovel.

  Cap straightened and pulled a handkerchief out of his waistband. “Hey, Davey.” He wiped the cloth over his face and
tucked it away again, looking beyond Davey to the woods. “Does your mamm know you’re here?”

  “Ja, for sure.” Davey grinned. “I told Henry, and he told Memmi.”

  “That’s good.”

  Cap thrust the shovel into the hole with a grunt and lifted another bit of dirt.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Digging a hole for a fence post.”

  Cap gestured toward the line of fence posts behind him. They looked like funny stumps along the edge of the clearing.

  “What are you building a fence for?”

  “To make a pasture for the horses.” Cap grunted again. It was a funny sound.

  “So they don’t run away?”

  Cap leaned on his shovel and wiped his face again. “So they don’t run away.” He frowned at Davey.

  “I didn’t run away. I got lost.”

  Then he smiled. “Maybe we should build a fence to keep you in.”

  “I could climb over it.”

  “Not if we built it high enough.” Cap dug out some more dirt, then stuck the shovel in the ground at the side with another grunt. He picked up a fence post and dropped it into the hole. He looked at Davey again. “Do you want to help me?”

  Help Cap? For sure! “What do I need to do?”

  “Hold the post just like this while I put dirt in the hole around it.”

  Cap didn’t grunt as much as he shoveled the loose dirt back into the hole.

  “If you hadn’t made the hole so big, then you wouldn’t have to work so hard to put the dirt back in.”

  “You think so?”

  “So why didn’t you make it smaller?”

  Cap finished tamping the loose dirt around the pole with the end of the shovel, then sat on a stump, wiping his face again. “When you dig a hole, you have to make it a little bit bigger.”

  “Why?”

  Cap looked at him, then at the fence pole, and then back at him. “I don’t know why. That’s just the way you do it.”

  “That’s what Memmi says. Whenever I ask why I can’t wear leather clothes like Jed Smith, or why we have to walk to church, or why Grossdatti talks so long during the kneeling prayers after we eat, Memmi says that it’s because it’s the way we do things.”