Forsaken

by Leanna Ellis

  Beneath the warmth of the sun, her heart had felt light with the knowledge that everything she did took her one day closer to being with Jacob for the rest of their lives. That particular day, she was busy with the wash, hanging it out on the line for drying, when a buggy approached the house and she recognized it as the bishop’s. Dat met Will Stoltzfus on the drive. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The sun still shone. Her heart continued beating. And yet, her world changed. She simply hadn’t known it yet.

  When the bishop climbed back into his buggy and turned his horse down the drive, Dat stood for a few minutes before slowly turning and walking, not toward the house or the barn, but toward Hannah. It was her first inkling that something was wrong. Very wrong.

  “Hannah.” Dat’s tone sounded deep and rough.

  She stood still, a wet shirt dangling from her hands.

  He placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. Was it for her or for him? Whatever the exact reason, a tremor took hold of her and shook her with such force she thought her knees might buckle. With a slow, heavy thumping, her heart pummeled her breastbone. “Jacob…”

  The second Dat said his name she knew. Maybe it was the dip of his voice or the crackling sound in his throat like that of splintering glass, or maybe her heart sensed it was about to break. Did she actually hear the word “died”? It was all blurry now, those next few minutes…hours, days, weeks, and months spun around her. All else that Dat added was drowned beneath the roar in her ears, and then her knees dipped.

  Dat grabbed her arm, keeping her upright, and murmured comforting words she couldn’t even remember. Somehow, together, they made it to the house. Mamm was there, fussing, hugging, and crying as if she had lost one of her own. Hannah laid her head on the kitchen table, feeling like her purpose and hope had drained out of her fingers and toes, and a heavy weight descended on her. Numbness spread through her limbs. But there were no tears. Not from her. Not yet.

  “We must go to the Fishers,” Mamm said from what seemed like far away.

  “No.” Dat’s voice sounded curt. “They have already had the burial.”

  Unable to lift her head from the table, she swerved her gaze toward Mamm, who asked the questions that couldn’t form on her own tongue.

  “Already? So soon? But when did the accident occur?”

  The accident.

  Jacob’s father was a carpenter, making chairs, tables, swings, and birdhouses; his oldest son, Levi, was to inherit the business, but all three of the Fisher boys helped with the family business. Jacob had been using some piece of equipment when something went wrong. Terribly wrong. The details were sketchy, but in her dreams Hannah had seen Jacob lying on the sawdust-crusted floor covered in blood. His eyes—once full of life and fun—stared vacantly.

  And those darkened eyes crept into her dreams time and again.

  For a long time it seemed as if she would never cry. Tears piled up inside of her like logs in a beaver’s dam, but she knew they couldn’t stay trapped and stagnate forever. The first night she climbed out of bed and wandered outside—an attempt to run from those haunting eyes in her dreams…or run toward them, her footsteps becoming more determined and purposed the further she went—she ended up at the cemetery alone, and the dam inside her broke open and the tears flowed. More nights than she could count, she sat snuffling and sobbing, her face wet, her clothes damp. The gravestone became her pillow, the soft mound of dirt, then grass, her bed. The flow of tears would cleanse the pain welled in her heart. Or that’s what she had hoped.

  But her head, then heart, couldn’t accept what had happened, how Jacob had been snatched out of her life. It didn’t seem real. Mamm said, “You never saw his body in death, never touched his shoulder and felt the hard, cold reality.” But would that have made any difference?

  Eventually, the tears that once streamed down her face so easily slowed until they quit flowing. She sensed they had frozen in her heart like tiny, glittering icicles. The poetry book Jacob had given her secretly before he left on his travels became a comfort. She began reading to him as he’d once read for her, and she hoped he would hear the words to build a bridge between the here and the beyond, or maybe open the barrier to her heart once more, because tears seemed better than the bitterness trapped inside of her.

  The millstones of pain became like the Israelites’ remembrance stones from the Old Testament, and the poems reminded her of tender moments she had shared with Jacob or hoped to share one day. Hannah took the now worn poetry book out of her apron and found the page she wanted easily.

  “One of us…that was God…and laid the curse so darkly—”

  A rustling nearby stopped her reading. She glanced up. The wind stirred. The grass around her swayed, and the shadows danced beneath a sliver of moonlight. Thick clouds moved in, overtaking the stars. Opening the book where she kept her thumb as a mark, she found where she had left off. “…the curse so darkly—”

  Hannah.

  Her heart leapt a single, solitary beat. Was that her name on the wind? Had someone called? She lifted her chin and whispered back, “Jacob?”

  “I carry your heart with me…”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The words Hannah read aloud poured over Akiva like a waterfall, and memories of simpler and sweeter times, when he had spoken those words to Hannah, flooded him. To hear them from her now, to watch her place a loving hand upon the stone that bore what once was his name gave him a jolt of confidence.

  She hadn’t forgotten him.

  She remembered.

  More than that, she hadn’t let go of the love she once had for him.

  Boldly, Akiva stepped out of the darkness, his gaze sharp on her, his mind pouring words straight into her heart. Seeing her again was like drinking in cool, refreshing water. He could drown watching her. If he could drown.

  The words took shape in his mouth and he spoke them aloud: “One of us…”

  Hannah gasped and jerked the flashlight from off the ground, swung it around, and the book tumbled onto the grave. Her long skirt tangling around her legs, she fell backward but scrambled back to her feet. Panic darkened her eyes, sharpened the edge of her jaw. The light struck him squarely in the face, but he didn’t flinch or recoil. He stood as still as the headstones surrounding him. It’s me, Hannah. I’m home.

  But the words stuck in his throat, and he could only speak them with his mind and hope she heard…recognized him…came to him. As so often in the past, her nearness tied his tongue into knots, and he could barely breathe. So he resorted to the words of the poet, who could say what he couldn’t: “…that was God…and laid the curse so darkly on my eyelids, as to amerce.”

  His voice, supple and melodious, was his greatest weapon. Whether spoken aloud or into the silent spaces of her mind, it lulled and lured. Slowly, her hand lowered and the light followed, just as the sun arced in its descent.

  “…my sight from seeing thee,—that if I had died…” His voice rasped raw with the strain of self-control. If he had died, he would not have had this moment. This moment that made the last two years almost bearable.

  He watched emotions flicker across her face in quick succession—shock, disbelief, recognition. That tiny glimmer dawned in the chestnut depths and gave him hope. Hope of what would be. Her hand went limp and the flashlight fell to the ground and rolled, the light slanting across his own grave, oblique and forlorn.

  He drew the Elizabeth Barrett Browning poem from memory—“Men could not part us…nor the seas change us…our hands would touch…and, heaven being rolled between us at the end, we should but vow the faster for the stars.”

  Her eyes dilated, looking dark and soulful, and she took a step toward him, the words pulling her nearer. One tiny step—but a step. Which gave him hope, a soaring hope of promise.

  “Hannah…” His voice deepened with a rash need. It was in the nuances of his voice that her so
ul recognized him. He held a hand out toward her. “Come to me.”

  “Jacob.” Her perfect mouth formed his name but her voice was no more than a whisper. Her hand lifted toward him, mirroring his movement.

  Then a cry split the night, an owl dove for a kill.

  Hannah blinked. She gave her head a tiny shake and withdrew her hand as if she’d inadvertently touched a flame. Confusion clouded her eyes.

  Akiva sniffed the air, tilted his head toward the fresh kill, the scent of blood, which saturated the night and awakened a fire within him.

  Her gaze searched his face. The light of recognition vanished and the spiky talons of fear took its place, stabbing a hole in his heart. “W-who are you?” She glanced and took a step back. “How did you know my—”

  Feeling the crushing blow of her fear, Akiva dipped his chin low, focusing on her eyes, holding her captive. She swayed as if the wind buffeted her. A strong will resisted his skills, but only for so long. But he couldn’t make her see him for who he was. Immediately his tactics changed. He would need a new plan, something that would keep her near him, show her he really hadn’t changed so much and remind her of their love. It would take time, but time was on his side. He’d have to take the risk he’d most feared. “You do not know me.”

  It was a statement, raw with disappointment, not a question. He’d hoped despite the changes in him that she would somehow see the boy she’d once loved, a piece of him, a desperate part that yearned to be loved again.

  “You’re English?” Her voice sounded cold.

  He felt the shield he’d built around his heart rise like a thick wall. “Would that be good or bad?”

  Her gaze skimmed over him, resting on his chest, and his followed. A dark stain covered the front of his shirt and he tugged the zipper of his leather jacket upward.

  “You’re hurt.” Concern erased the defensiveness and fear in her voice.

  “I will be all right. Given time.” He moved back a step, giving her space but not too much, and sat on the top edge of a gravestone. “Forgive me, but I had to see you.”

  “Me?” Her gaze remained steadfastly fastened to the wound in his chest.

  It did not hurt, not anymore, as the healing had already begun. Nourishment would speed the process, and his need pulsed within him, exacerbated by the scent of blood on the night air. But he resisted. Waited.

  “Do I know you?” She squinted, searched his face. “Why did you come here?”

  “I’m sorry, Hannah.” He rested his hands on his knees, locking his elbows, bowing his back slightly.

  A pinch of concern creased her brow, as he’d known it would. The tenderness in her heart was always easily stoked.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you earlier. I do know you. Or so it seems.” His voice sounded heavy with regret and sorrow. It was too soon to reveal himself; too many questions would stir up fear. So he tossed out the temptation, like a line in the river—bait—“Because of Jacob.”

  Her breath caught. “Jacob. You knew Jacob?”

  He gave a slight nod. “He told me about you.”

  “How? When?”

  He leaned forward easing the pressure in his chest and puffed out an icy breath. “We met in New Orleans. Two years ago. He told me of you, of the poems you read together, of your plans…of his love for you.”

  Her eyes softened with tears, and she stepped toward him, this time of her own accord. “How can I help you? Let me go for some help.” She touched him first, a brush of her hand against his, and sucked in a breath. “You’re cold. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

  The warmth of her skin was almost his undoing. He closed a hand over her arm, entrapping her, and her pulse tapped his palm with urgency, pulling him, calling to him. His breath snagged on his windpipe. “No one can know I am here.”

  “But you need help.”

  “I will not die, if that is your worry.” But instantly his heart contracted, as he stared into her trusting face and remembered the pain of that day when his life had changed irrevocably. A line from some poem bobbed into his consciousness. Was it Shakespeare? No, Lord Byron:

  She walks in beauty, like the night

  Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

  And all that’s best of dark and bright

  Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

  “What happened to you?” Her quiet question pulled him back.

  “It would not be good for your reputation for others to know we met here. Jacob told me what it is like—the Amish community.” Slowly, he lifted his gaze toward hers. “What would you tell your family? They would not understand or approve.”

  Her mouth set in a firm line, then she dipped her shoulder beneath his and lifted him to his feet, her arm slipping around his waist to offer support. “Come. I know of a place you can stay.”

  Hannah. No longer a phantom of his dreams or apparition in his desperate imagination, she was real and so close. So very close. Her nearness weakened his resolve. He breathed in the scent of her—grass, wind, milk, and moonlight. It surrounded him, penetrated his defenses, enticed him to abandon his plan and take her. His soul cried out for her. He yearned to tell her it was him, to make her his. Right now. This minute. Now.

  But if he wasn’t careful, she could die. And then they would be parted forever. Right now, a fragile line held them together and if he wasn’t careful it would be severed for eternity.

  If not for this blasted wound, if he wasn’t so weak from hunger already, he might be able to fight it off, not give in.

  My love is as a fever longing still…

  And frantic-mad with evermore unrest…

  Shakespeare. Definitely Shakespeare—a man who must have known love and loss and all-consuming longing.

  But no. He wouldn’t take what had been taken from him. He wouldn’t frighten her. She couldn’t understand, not yet anyway, and he needed time to prepare her.

  A shudder of resistance rocked through him and he clenched his teeth.

  “You’re in pain. Let me get you some help.”

  “No, I’ll be fine.” He should have pushed away from her. He should have run, to protect her, to protect them, but he could not. Instead, he rested his head against Hannah’s shoulder, which was padded by her cape, and rolled the back of his skull against the soft curve, brushing her long, sleek neck with the tip of his nose. He drew in a slow breath of her intoxicating warmth. Her pulse was strong. Powerful. Intoxicating. He heard the ebb and flow, the rush of blood through her veins. The invigorating scent pulsed, called to him. He was torturing himself but he couldn’t help it. It was the sweetest torture knowing she would be his one day. Clenching his teeth, he resisted what had become second nature to him.

  Not now. Not yet. There would be a time though, but not to satisfy a physical thirst. It would be to gratify his soul. They would be together, Hannah and him, forever. Because being near her again was as close as he would ever come to heaven.

  Chapter Eighteen

  You look like hell.”

  “Yeah, well, feel like I’ve been there.” Roc fell into the chair. The glare of a lamp made him squint, and he bent forward, shoving his fingers through his hair, and held his head in case it fell off like the headless horseman’s and started rolling around on the floor. After what he’d seen tonight, it could have been a possibility. “Or maybe I’m still there.”

  Mike shut the door to his apartment and gave the chair a wide berth, as if anticipating Roc might hurl or worse. He had, after all, come banging on his friend’s door some time after three in the morning after he’d driven the hour from Lancaster County and then cruised the lonely, mostly empty streets of Philadelphia, letting the night’s events churn in his mind.

  Mike had the thick neck and bulging biceps of a workout guru, but it was the eyes, the been-there-seen-it look, and the constantly shifting and measuring gaze that said h
e was either a bouncer or a cop. He was most often the latter, but occasionally he worked late night hours in a bar downtown. With a practiced eye, he gave Roc the once-over. “You been drinking?”

  “Not yet, but I’m ready if you have something.”

  Mike clicked off the radio that he’d been known to play all night—classical music chased away the demons of his own past, memories that lurked in his dreams. Roc knew a few of the nightmares that chased Mike, the same that nipped at his own heels, and after tonight Roc figured he’d have a few more giving chase.

  “So what’s up? I’ll let you know if it warrants a drink or not.”

  “What am I, on probation or something?”

  Mike watched him for an elongated second, a tight line forming between his brows. Then he went to the kitchen and brought back two beers. “So what gives?”

  Roc twisted off the cap and tossed it on the nearest table. He took two long swallows and clunked the beer down next to the cap. How could he explain? What would he say without sounding like he needed to take up permanent residence in a psych ward? Digging his elbows into his knees, he peered at his friend through stringy hair that had flopped forward. “Tell me about the body. Better yet”—he grabbed the chair’s arms—“let’s go see the homeless guy.”

  “Can’t.”

  That single word halted Roc’s rise out of the chair and he fell back against the pillowy frame.

  “Already been claimed and cremated.”

  “Was it really like—” His throat closed up shop.

  “Yeah. Too much like Emma.” Mike leaned back, holding the beer he’d yet to take a drink of, and stared at the blank television.

  Roc wouldn’t allow that image to spring to life in his mind, or else he’d find himself listening to strings or making some Three Stooges sounds. In self-defense, he shifted his gaze toward the radio then to Mike. “That why you’ve got Chopin going?”