by Linda Byler
His voice was warm, eager, kind. His face was open and earnest, his black hair falling on either side, his obedience to the Ordnung so evident.
Hester’s future stretched before her, an undulating plain of doubt, the road disappearing into a pit of fear and despair. With William, she could find happiness, she believed. They would take their time as they allowed the Amish community to accept their union. But did she truly want to go back?
“Yes.”
Stepping forward, he caught her hands and held them to his chest. His blue eyes shone with the intensity of his feelings.
“Thank you, Hester. At last, I can say those words.”
She smiled, a fluttering, shifting, stretch of her lips.
“I’ll tell Emma. Do you want to come with me?”
She shook her head.
He walked off with an easy, loping gait, swung himself up on the porch, and rapped eagerly on the door. Hester watched as the doors swung inward and the stout form of Emma stepped aside. William bowed slightly, then began to talk. Emma’s gaze hung over Hester like a two-edged sword, the way God’s Word was described in the Bible. She felt as if Emma could see into her very soul and know her past. The part for which she was to blame.
Hans might never have had those thoughts and intents if she had been smarter. A dumb Indian. How often had she heard those words? She was dumb. As Schtump as a rock. She found the German language difficult, but English was like climbing a chalk cliff. And here she was, chasing dumbly after William King.
As she thought, Emma moped about the house, then unleashed a fury of words against William King, hurling them into the air so that they smacked against the walls and the sides of Hester’s head.
Emma held her head and rocked back and forth, then cried copiously into her wide, white apron, spluttering and sniffing and saying it was all because she loved Hester more than she knew and she was so afraid she’d be mistreated by the Amish people. She didn’t know these Amish from Adam, and she’d been in a bad situation before. What was Hester thinking?
“Oh, du yay. Hester, du yay. Mein Kind.”
A part of Hester wanted to obey Emma’s dire warnings. But to live her life here for the rest of her days, never having experienced marriage or having someone close to her heart, without spending life together with a family, was unthinkable as well.
“Emma, I am not getting married now. I promise to spend only one Sunday evening with him. Only one. If I feel he is not the right man for me, I will end it then. I will.”
Through her tears, Emma nodded her head, the chin wobbling, her cheeks wet with fresh pathways of more tears before wiping her face with a white handkerchief.
Billy stuck his head in the door and left again, shaking his head and muttering dire predictions about all women.
By August, the heat lay so heavy over Lancaster County that the cows stood in any available waterhole to cool themselves down. Heatwaves shimmered across the hot earth, pressed down on one’s shoulders like a wooden yoke, causing Emma to sit gasping for air, her mouth opening and closing like a bluegill as she waved her apron in front of her face.
She sat on an upturned bucket, although very little of it was visible, beneath the still leaves of the maple tree. The air was thick and brassy. The bees’ droning sounded tired, drained of energy: the cicadas clung to tree bark as they gasped for breath themselves.
“Hester! Get out of that garden!” It took all the reserve energy Emma could muster to raise her voice loud enough to yell.
“Why?”
“It’s too hot.”
Hester laughed the sound of a rippling brook, her white teeth flashing in her dark face. She laid down her hoe, lifted her head, and came toward the maple tree. Tall and little, she moved without sound, effortless, her Indian blood enabling her to travel great distances without tiring. Emma never got weary of watching her daughter’s graceful, fluid movement.
Hester threw herself into the grass at Emma’s feet. “I love the garden, Emma.”
“If you stay out there, you’ll melt like a lump of butter.”
“No.”
“I wish I had a springhouse.”
“Oh, you should have seen ours in Berks County.” Hester’s eyes lit up with enthusiasm as she launched into a vivid account of the wet, cool, dripping stone house Hans had built so cleverly over the cold mountain spring water.
Emma watched Hester’s face shrewdly, observing the animation. Did Hester miss her home so much? Obviously, there were good memories. There was a time when Hester had been happy, innocent, content.
“And my brothers? Remember I told you about Noah and Isaac? They loved to drag a bucket into the cold spring water, run ahead of me on the path I was on, quickly climb a tree, and then dump the cold water all over me.”
Hester laughed at the thought, then became closed, pensive.
William had taken her to view the Amish community in Lancaster. They rode in his well-made wagon that was comfortable enough for a drive in the warm winds of July. She had been intrigued by the Amish in this area, and interested, but in a halfhearted way, as if she were tasting soup and one important ingredient had been left out, but she didn’t care enough to figure out what it was.
The farms were prospering, carved out of the woodland by swinging axes that bit into trees that were sacred to the Indians. They thought that a tree belonged to the Creator and not to any particular person. They couldn’t conceive of owning tracts of land since all the land belonged to the Creator as well.
When the white men came and tried to impose their views, many of these peaceful, roaming tribes became furious, marauding in their defense without mercy.
Yes, she told William, the Amish and Mennonite settlers were amazing. They had a fierce work ethic. Like Hans, they thrived on hard, physical labor. Their goals were to make money, expand, get ahead.
They argued that time. He did not back down but kept his attitude, resolutely holding it within himself by the set of his jaw, the sparkle in his blue eyes a glint of determination.
She felt his superiority—and her inferiority and inefficiency. Her way of thinking lay fallow. It was dead, old.
He had what it would take to get this country going. It was called forging ahead.
CHAPTER 11
THAT LANCASTER COUNTY LAY DIRECTLY ON UNusually fertile soil was evident in the growth of its crops. Its forests were also thick and green and dense, the oaks growing to majestic towers, their thick branches bearing a canopy of leaves so heavy it was like a roof.
Amish men cleared the land by the sweat of their brows, side by side with the Mennonites, the Dunkards, and the Quakers, to name several of the “plain” denominations who had settled in the area.
There were Scots, Irish, and English, too, many of them Roman Catholic. Churches sprang up in the town of Lancaster to accommodate the influx of people seeking to make a living on these fertile grounds and needing spiritual sustenance as well.
All her life as a child in Berks County, Hester had been used to attending services in Amish homes, with a simple meal served afterward. It had seemed odd to skip religious services on Sunday after she came to live with Emma. But because she was afraid to show her face in Emma’s church, she simply did not attend any services.
She often thought about her childhood, riding to church in the wagon with her siblings. Hans would be practicing his songs, the way he always did, with Kate sitting soft and wide beside him, clutching yet another little one on her lap, the large hat pulled well forward past her pleasant face.
Going to church was a warm and comfortable ritual, like porridge for breakfast. There was an order to Sunday mornings that began with getting up from her bed in the chilly darkness. Kate would stand so close that Hester could feel her warm breath on the top of her head as she drew the heavy-toothed comb through the snarls in her thick, black hair, pulling it so tight her eyes felt slanted, like she was from Asia. She had once seen pictures of the Chinese with wide, flat eyes in a book that Theodore Crane,
the old schoolteacher, had. In fact, she told Kate that her hair was so tight she was going to turn into an Asian. Kate’s soft, rounded stomach had shaken up and down as she laughed quietly, then she’d held her head against Hester’s for an instant, and said, “Ach, my dear daughter.”
That she was loved was never a question. Love had been in abundance in that narrow little log house. It bubbled from rocks in the spring and hovered over the steaming bowls of oatmeal and corn and beans that Kate set on the table. Love was everywhere—in the sky and the birds and the distant mountains, the sights that made her heart swell and swell until she had to laugh or cry, she felt so much love. She missed it all now.
She sat on a chair she had carried outside, the rough, wide boards covered with a cushion, her bare feet hooked on one of the rungs. Already it was hot as the morning sun climbed into the bold, glaring sky. It was too humid to call the sky blue. Instead, it was white all over, shimmering with heat supplied by the orange sun.
In the pasture, the cow stood beneath an oak tree, her tail swishing endlessly back and forth, dislodging troublesome black flies that made her life a misery. The horse, Frieda, stamped a front foot, then a hind one, swishing her tail in the same steady rhythm as the cow’s. Their heads drooped, as if they already had prepared themselves for the heat of the day.
Billy was off somewhere in the woods. Hester knew fishing was forbidden on the Sabbath, so Emma made sure he did not sneak off with his fishing pole. But Hester was almost sure that if she went to the barn to check, the pole wouldn’t be there. She smiled.
Emma was inside taking her after-breakfast-Sunday-morning nap, her bare feet turned up, her ample hands crossed over her stomach, her breaths coming with quick, soft regularity. Her opened Bible lay beside her, a tribute to her Sabbath day’s devotion.
Hester had read portions of her own Bible as well, but nothing seemed to satisfy her longing for a deeper knowledge of God’s will. She skipped over verses, paging through the Old Testament and then the New. She read the words of Jesus but felt no sense of wonderment. Maybe she was too lethargic to be able to sustain her spiritual body, as if the heat and humidity stifled her desire to learn about God.
She reasoned and thought on these things. As she had been raised Amish, the days in her weeks were repetitive, an order to each one. Her clothes portrayed the Ordnung or rules for living, agreed to by the Amish community. Her cap was a sign of meekness, symbolizing a subservient attitude toward the men in her life—Hans, her father, and if she should marry, her husband.
She had stopped wearing her cap. Her hair was now her glory, as the Bible said. Thick and black, it was so straight it resisted combs and hairpins, shining and so glossy it appeared to shimmer with blue. The feeling of being half-dressed had disappeared after a few months, until she felt no need to wear something on her head.
William had brought up the subject recently, allowing a sliver of guilt into her conscience. He told her God would not hear her prayers unless her head was covered, since she was a member of the Amish. She had promised to live, stay, and follow Jesus in that church, so who did she think she was?
Instantly, rebellion had raised its head, a hooded cobra ready to strike. Angry words filled her mouth, ready to fly forth. Her heart beat heavily, but at the final instant, she bit them back, her mouth wide, compressed.
She believed William wanted to marry her someday. Why would he be courting her otherwise? Yes, she thrilled to see him, but it was troubling, the instant, all-consuming resistance that rose in her when he spoke of so many things—the Ordnung, the Indians, Emma Ferree, almost everything.
Maybe the devil had control of her thoughts now that she had made a stand against Hans and Annie. Perhaps that had all been wrong. Should she have stayed and remained a true and honorable servant all her life? For now she was of the world. She was worldly. It was hard to always know if you were doing the right thing.
Had she picked up the heathen ways of the Indians, as William had said? But they were not heathen. They weren’t. Would she say one thing and mean another all her life?
Oh, she’d stood up to William when his voice brought the usual uprising, the resistance that filled her. She’d told him how she felt about Hans and Annie. But what did she really believe about them, and what was right for her to do?
She leaned forward and dropped her dark head in her hands. She felt as if she were being torn in two directions. Two sides were pulling her in opposite ways, upsetting the peace and stability of her life with Emma and Billy.
She heard a sound that was not birdsong. It was a bit liquid and trilling, like the sound of birds, but…. Wait a minute.
Up came her head. She held so still she seemed built into the chair. Unmistakably, the whistle held a tune. Lightly, but it was there.
Now she heard the chirring of a gray squirrel, the call of the meadowlark she could see plainly, perched on the rail fence.
There it was again. Someone, somewhere, was whistling. Rapt, she remained seated, her senses keen, expecting the whistling to come closer. Instead, it faded away, leaving her feeling deprived, as if a wonder had occurred but been taken away before she could grasp it.
The feeling of melancholy, a lowering of her spirits, remained the rest of the day, until she realized it was almost time to prepare for William’s visit.
Emma made no pretense about hiding her displeasure. She told Hester outright that she had no time for William King, but if she insisted on letting him court her, then she would stay out of the way.
Hester eyed Emma from her place at the oval mirror above the washstand, small and round as she was, her face beet-red with indignation, bristling with disapproval and something else. She wound her hair into a loose twist, held it fast with sturdy pins and combs, then turned to Emma, her eyes large and dark. She had no idea how beautiful she was, how pure and unspoiled, a magnolia in the midst of dandelions, Emma mused.
“Why do you dislike William so?” Hester asked breathlessly.
“I just do.”
“I’m sorry if you feel bad about me spending the evening with him, but just let me try, all right?”
Emma’s answer was a significant whoosh of forced air through her nostrils, a sharp turning on her heel, with her wide back floating across the room and out the front door, leaving the room empty of a spoken statement.
Hester felt as if she were violating Emma’s goodness of heart. How could she be so set in her mind? Emma was the angelic figure who rescued poor children, wet dogs, and injured cats, who handed out food and money to dubious bedraggled recipients, who, more than likely, were not worthy of her generosity, spending it on cheap apple whiskey or frittering it away on senseless sins of a different nature.
William arrived in his shining wagon, the lap robe tucked beneath the seat, the horse black, his neck arched and his tail flowing, pawing the ground impatiently. Hester’s heart fluttered as if a canary were caged inside her chest. A high song of happiness propelled her down the steps and out through the short grass surrounding the house.
His eyes found hers and stayed on them. He drank in the caramel color of her fine glowing skin, the black liquid stars that were her eyes, and vowed to himself that he would make her his wife. He would rescue her from the heathen nature of her origin and pull her out of the quicksand Emma Ferree had set for her.
Love beat strongly in his breast. He marveled that God allowed this wonderful creature, this child of sweetness and innocence, into his life. That outburst about Hans and Annie had all been Emma Ferree’s poison, not Hester’s own thinking.
Secure in the knowledge of his own intelligence, William lifted the reins, and they were off in a cloud of heat and dust. Behind them, a florid, sweating face peered around the corner of the brown house, and an arm was flung angrily in their direction. Her small feet carried Emma into the house, where she cut herself a wide wedge of custard pie, followed by another as large as the first, before she looked at the clock and wondered where that Billy was. It was getting late.<
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The wagon wheels made very little sound as they followed the country road away from the house. The magnificent horse trotted smoothly, its black mane flowing in the breeze. William’s hands were strong and brown, with long, thick fingers holding the reins easily, skilled at the art of driving a fine horse. His profile was so handsome, his yellow straw hat set square and low on his forehead, the way she remembered Hans’s.
He was kind and attentive, pointing out the Amish farms that dotted the cleared fields. The farm belonging to his parents, Elias and Frances King, had a stone house so much like her own in Berks County that she gasped. It was almost identical, including the grayish color of the limestone.
The windows were few, tall, and paned with many separate pieces of glass. The wooden sashes could be raised and lowered, allowing for breezes when the weather was warm and protection against cold winds and snow. The barn was built along the side of a hill, allowing easy access to the second floor. The animals were housed snugly against winter’s frigid winds on the first floor. A vast orchard lay to the south, with apple and peach and cherry trees, sentinels of hard work and excellent management skills. The corn was tall and heavy, a deep green color that spoke well of Elias King’s farming know-how. Hester imagined the hayloft bursting with mounds of loose hay and straw, the corncrib full.
Her heart beat firmly and steadily. Here in this fertile soil was her destiny. Here she could work tirelessly side by side with her handsome William. Finally she would be free of the creeping certainty that she was no one, always hunted because of the color of her skin. The Amish were held in high esteem, hard workers that tilled the land, and she would be one of them.
If William King wanted her for his wife, the Amish would come to accept her in time. She would prepare herself for the ridicule, which was as sure to come as rain. It was the nature of men, just as certain as the changing of seasons or the lightning that occurred by the powers of God. But she would belong. She would etch out a place for herself as William King’s wife. Respect and honor would follow.
