An Amish Harvest

by Beth Wiseman

  Ten minutes later they were all piled into Eli’s buggy.

  The depot was easy enough to find. Martha had walked by it a dozen times, and Eli . . . well, he claimed to have played there when he was a young boy and raced his buggy there when he was a teen.

  “There has to be something here,” Duncan said.

  They’d stomped around the entire train depot and found nothing. Martha’s thoughts were scattered. She found herself thinking of the sadness in her aenti’s eyes, the history of Shipshewana, Duncan’s enthusiasm, and the way mysteries—at least in books—often came together in a way quite different from what the readers expected. She felt a prickling along her scalp.

  History.

  Tears.

  Pots of gold.

  “The last clue . . .” Martha could barely contain her excitement. “What if, what if it’s not a pot of gold at all? What if that’s not what we’re looking for?”

  Duncan had been studying the map, now he brought it closer to his eyes and then held it at arm’s length. “What else could it be?”

  “What if it’s a vessel . . . something to hold a people’s tears?”

  “We’re supposed to find a vessel of tears to the northwest of this spot?”

  “Nein.” Martha stepped closer and peered down at the faint outline. “But we couldn’t think of anything northwest. Correct? And the map began with the statue of Chief Shipshewana.”

  Eli joined them. “Then it took us through the history of the town.”

  “And just maybe it ends where it began.”

  “With the lake.”

  “Where the tribe originally lived.”

  Duncan shook his head. “That can’t be right though. We can’t possibly search around an entire lake.”

  “If I’m right, we won’t have to.”

  Eli smiled at her.

  “You two know something I don’t.”

  “What year were the Potawatomie Indians forced to leave, Eli?”

  “If I remember correctly, it was 1837.”

  “And the Amish moved to the area in 1844. I remember the bishop mentioning that to me when I first arrived.”

  “What does this have to do with Chief Shipshewana?” Duncan asked.

  Eli was already moving back toward the buggy. “The chief and some of his relatives were allowed to return. In fact, legend says he was buried along the banks of the lake.”

  It was a two-mile drive to the lake, past fields that had been harvested the week before. Fall’s work was done. All that was left was to prepare for winter. The lake itself was surrounded by homes and vacation cabins and trees. The day was too cool for swimming, but Martha saw several men out fishing.

  “Where do we even start looking?” Duncan was staring out the window, an expression of pure misery on his face.

  Martha looked at Eli, who nodded his head once and turned the buggy west. Down the road the mare clip-clopped until Eli called out “Whoa” and pulled her into a parking area.

  They stepped from the buggy as the sun slipped toward the western horizon.

  “Why here?” Duncan asked.

  “Makes perfect sense, it’s where the monument of the chief sits.”

  Duncan bounced on the balls of his feet. No doubt he had waited for this moment for many years. He had promised his dad he would solve the mystery of the map. “There’s a monument?”

  “Indeed,” Eli said. “And I think it might have been dedicated around the time our mapmaker began etching his clues into a piece of wood . . .”

  “Which was later affixed onto the back of a wardrobe.” Martha wanted to run to the monument, which she could now make out in the midst of the trees. She settled for a very fast walk.

  Chapter Sixteen

  This area is probably where Chief Shipshewana lived out his last years, once he was allowed to return.”

  “From Kansas.” Duncan walked around the monument as if he were looking for a secret compartment.

  “Correct. The forced march took sixty-one days and twenty-seven of their people died.” Eli studied the inscription. He sensed that they were on the right trail. Maybe it was just Martha’s enthusiasm. He had to admit that her eagerness to solve the mystery was contagious.

  Duncan wasn’t so sure. “Feels like a stretch.”

  “It could be that we’re completely off base,” Martha admitted.

  The three stood in front of the monument, reading the words inscribed there.

  THE CHIEF WAS REMOVED FROM THIS RESERVATION SEPTEMBER 4, 1838 AND WAS ESCORTED TO KANSAS BY A COMPANY OF SOLDIERS. HE RETURNED IN 1839 AND DIED IN 1841.

  “I don’t see any pots—of gold or tears,” Duncan muttered.

  Martha took the map from his hands. “But a receptacle like the one drawn on this map—it can hold many things and it can take different forms—a box or a saddlebag or a pot. As to what it might hold, I suppose the owners could use it to store treasure, food, or even tears.”

  “How do you store tears?” Duncan asked.

  “Memories. You could store memories.” Eli stepped back, trying to see the monument with the eyes of a visitor in 1931. Finally he shook his head, unable to spot anything out of the ordinary. But what Martha was suggesting pricked his memory. “In Revelation there is a verse . . . something to the effect that John saw twenty-four elders kneeling before the Lamb of God, and each had a harp and a golden bowl.”

  “I don’t remember hearing that in church,” Duncan said. “But then I never did understand the book of Revelation.”

  “The bowls were full of incense,” Eli explained. “And the incense were the prayers of the saints.”

  When Martha looked at him curiously, he shrugged and said, “Bishop Abram enjoys the book of Revelation. He’s preached on it several times in the past.”

  Duncan leaned forward, his fingertips now touching the monument. “So you think the map was made by an Amish person?”

  “I think it was made by the father or grandfather of the person who owned the original wardrobe.”

  For the next fifteen minutes, they each walked in different directions. It wasn’t until the sun kissed the western skyline that Martha admitted to herself they might not be able to solve the mystery. But they were so close . . .

  An older man was walking past them, leading a small dog on a leash.

  After Eli had greeted the man, he explained, “We’re on a bit of a quest.”

  “A good way to spend a fall evening.”

  “Indeed, it is. At the moment we’re stumped. We think that we’re looking for something pertaining to Chief Shipshewana, which is why we’ve come to the monument.”

  The old man nodded and pulled a pipe from his pocket, though he didn’t light it. “Then you know that the Potawatomie Indians once lived along these shores.”

  Martha and Duncan had joined the two men.

  “Yes, we know their history—or at least a part of it. Are there any other plaques or memorials to the chief?” Martha asked. “Something that is very old.”

  “Probably as old as the monument,” Duncan added.

  “I can’t think of anything like that.” The old man slipped the pipe back into his pocket. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help.”

  Eli thanked him for trying. He turned to Martha, shrugged his shoulders in a time-to-surrender gesture. Suddenly he wanted to take her hand in his, like he had on Sunday. In that moment, as the sun blazed orange and the sky filled with streaks of purple and red, he knew that he didn’t want to be alone any longer. His life was fuller, richer with the woman standing in front of him. She was a blessing that had been brought into his life almost against his will, and she was more precious than any treasure they might or might not find.

  All those thoughts flashed through his mind quickly, so that at first he didn’t realize the old man had turned and walked back toward them.

  “There is one thing, but I doubt it holds a treasure.”

  Duncan was sitting on a park bench, his elbows propped on his knees and his
head in his hands. He didn’t bother looking up.

  “There’s a round metal plaque of sorts—impossible to read the words. It’s old, that’s for certain. For some reason, the grounds crew keeps the grass around it trimmed. My dog Flash is always sniffing around it.”

  Duncan had stood up, and Martha was now standing right next to him.

  Eli said, “That sounds like it might be what we’re looking for. Can you tell us where it is?”

  “Take this road to the end. You’ll see a pasture and then the banks of the lake. There’s another small park there—nothing much but a trail and a few benches. The metal plaque is on the west side of the bench farthest from the water.”

  They thanked him and decided to leave the mare and walk the short distance.

  Though the sun had disappeared below the horizon, there was a little light left. A slight breeze rustled the leaves that remained on the trees. As the man had described, there was a round metal disk, approximately the size of a dinner plate, surrounded by a metal rim. The place had sunk slightly over the years, but the area was well maintained nonetheless.

  They knelt around the piece of metal.

  “Certainly looks old,” Martha said.

  “And this word, it could be Shipshewana.”

  Eli pulled his pocketknife out and opened the blade.

  As Martha and Duncan leaned even closer, he worked the tip of the knife into the recess between the piece of metal and the rim, which held it in place.

  Duncan looked suddenly nervous. “Should we be destroying public property?”

  “Not destroying it,” Martha said.

  Eli paused to wink at them. “We’re just looking.”

  The metal did not yield easily. Years of rains, floods, and sun had effectively sealed it shut. But eventually the blade won. Eli lifted off the round plaque, which they still couldn’t read, and set it carefully on the ground. And then they were all three looking into the dark recesses of a metal container, their heads bent together as one. The light was now nearly gone, but there was enough.

  Eli reached down and pulled out the ancient wooden box.

  Duncan snatched his cell phone from his pocket and took a picture. It showed Eli’s hand, the box, Martha’s fingers on the edge of the container, the lid lying in the grass.

  Unlike the metal, the wooden box opened easily.

  Inside was a cheesecloth, and inside of that an object covered with waxed paper like Eli’s mother once used to wrap his sandwiches. He placed it on the grass and together they turned the object over again and again until they’d completely unwrapped the thing the owner of the map had hidden.

  Epilogue

  Two months later

  Martha and Eli sat in a booth at JoJo’s, enjoying a fresh pretzel and hot chocolate. The day was blustery and quite cold—exactly like December should be. Martha found that she wasn’t dreading the shorter days or the wintry weather. In fact, she was looking forward to it. Winter brought its own joys, like time for quilting, preparation for Christmas, and buggy rides through the snow-covered town with the man sitting across from her.

  “So it’s final?” she asked. “The objects will all be placed in the historical society office?”

  “On display for all to see. Hopefully folks will better appreciate the connections between the Potawatomi, Amish, and Englisch people.”

  “Reading those letters—it was better than any mystery or romance novel. It was like actually seeing into the lives and hearts of our ancestors.”

  Eli nodded. “It’s a rare gift.”

  “The coins—”

  “From the Englisch.”

  “Necklace—”

  “Made by the Potawatomi.”

  “And Bible—”

  “Which we know belonged to an Amish family.”

  “Treasure—for sure and certain.”

  Eli sipped from his hot chocolate, and then he leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner and said, “The mayor, she says that we’ll have even more tourists than ever, come to see the time capsule.”

  “Which means we’ll have even more people at the auction.” Martha popped a piece of pretzel into her mouth.

  “Maybe so.”

  “Could be I’ll need help in the office.”

  “That’s why I got you the kitten.”

  “The kitten is for everyone, Eli. I’m sure that Socks has already upped our production.”

  Eli grunted at that, but he smiled at her as he stood and reached for her hand. “I spoke with Jeremiah this morning,” Eli said.

  “How is Duncan?”

  “Turns out the lad has a real skill with woodwork. Jeremiah has decided to hire him on full-time.”

  “The map—it led Duncan back to Shipshe, to the life he was meant to live.”

  “I supposed Gotte did that, but the map helped.”

  They walked outside into the blustery day, and Martha marveled at what God had done in her life in so little time. She still loved Melvin. She always would. She and Eli had talked about that.

  He’d explained to her his heartbreak as a lad of seventeen, how he’d grown used to being alone, how he’d convinced himself that marrying wasn’t a part of God’s plan for him. They both had scars, but the wounds themselves had healed, and what remained was a map of its own sort—one chronicling the ups and downs of life.

  “How’s the dress coming?” he teased.

  “Nearly done. Aenti Irene is working on it today.”

  “Is the medicine helping with her blood-sugar problems?”

  “It is. The doctor said she might have had diabetes for several years without realizing it, and certainly it explains her erratic moods. Now that she’s taking the insulin, she’s like a different person.”

  Eli squeezed her hand, and Martha could feel the warmth spread all the way to her heart. After they’d found the time capsule, Eli had asked her to dinner to celebrate. They’d begun to walk each Saturday on the Pumpkinvine Trail, and he always sought her out on Sundays—whether it was a church day or not. Somehow in only two short months, he’d become an integral part of her life. He made her laugh again, and he said that she made him feel younger and more content than he ever had before.

  “She still seems okay?” he asked. “With us marrying?”

  “When I told her, it was the first time she hugged me. Aenti has kept to herself for so long that she’s forgotten how much better it is to share our burdens with one another—our burdens and our joys.”

  “She’s part of the community again.”

  “I think she’s actually looking forward to moving.”

  “The dawdi haus at my place hasn’t been lived in for some time. It will be gut to have her there.”

  “And she’ll have enough money to last her, now that the sale of the farm to Simon Miller has gone through.”

  They made an unusual family—a confirmed bachelor, widowed woman, and crotchety old aunt. But sometimes families were unusually shaped—patched together by God’s omnipotent hand.

  In many ways, life resembled a mystery.

  And this time, Martha was quite satisfied by the way it was solved.

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  1. At the beginning of this story, Martha doesn’t want to move. She doesn’t want any change in her life. What scriptures can guide us when we’re going through such a time?

  2. Have you ever lost something precious? Read Luke 15:8–10. How does this scripture relate to us today? What things should we focus on?

  3. Aenti Irene is not a pleasant woman, but she does write to Martha and ask her to come and stay with her. In her way, she’s asking for help. We learn by the end of the story that Irene has been suffering with a medical condition. So often, we can’t really know what another person is going through. In light of that, what are some specific ways we can show grace to one another?

  4. This story is a mystery, but it’s also a story of romance found again. Are we ever too old to fall in love? And are romantic relationships different as we a
ge? If so, in what ways, and what things can we do to cherish them?

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book is dedicated to Kris Stutzman who owns and operates Lolly’s Fabrics in Shipshewana, Indiana. Since the first book I wrote set in Shipshe, Kris has been a joy and a privilege to know. She’s quick with a smile, a hug, and an answer to my many questions. I consider it one of life’s blessings that I can count her as my friend.

  Thanks also to my prereaders Kristy and Janet, without whom I would probably take up professional fishing instead of writing. You ladies always help me meet my deadlines, and your work ethic is awesome. Gratitude also to my agent Steve Laube, my editor Becky Philpott, and all of the awesome folks at HarperCollins Christian Publishing.

  I’d also like to thank Janet Schrock, historian for the Shipshewana Area Historical Society. Your publication Shipshewana, Indiana 1889–1989; A Patchwork Sampler provided wonderful insight into the history of the area. To the folks in Shipshewana, a special thank-you for welcoming me into your homes and your hearts. Being the grand marshal in your Christmas parade is a memory I will always cherish. You are where my love for the Amish began, and I’m proud to share your little community with my readers.

  If you happen to be passing through northern Indiana, I encourage you to take a few hours to visit this small town south of Interstate 90. It is truly a haven of rest in a very busy world.

  And finally . . . “always giving thanks to God the Father for everything, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ” (Eph. 5:20).

  Blessings,

  Vannetta

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo by Jason Irwin

  Vannetta Chapman is author of the bestselling novel A Simple Amish Christmas. She has published over one hundred articles in Christian family magazines, receiving over two dozen awards from Romance Writers of America chapter groups. In 2012 she was awarded a Carol Award for Falling to Pieces. She discovered her love for the Amish while researching her grandfather’s birthplace of Albion, Pennsylvania.

  Visit Vannetta’s website: www.vannettachapman.com