Which Way Home?

by Linda Byler

  “Hester, you need to read your Bible more. Get yourself in the Ordnung better. I see your cap tied loosely, your hair just a bit more worldly than I would like. You know God cannot bless us if we are inclined to rebel against the laws of the church.”

  “But I wasn’t aware that I do!” Hester cried out.

  “Oh, but you do. It’s the Indian in you.”

  If William would have reached out and delivered a resounding blow to her face, it would have hurt less.

  “The Indian in you.” Always, she carried that flaw like a monstrous growth, a defect.

  William got up, pushed his chair across the wide oak boards, and stood by the fire, chewing on a sliver of wood, his blue eyes waiting for her response.

  When there was none, he watched her rake dishes off the table and carry them to the dry sink. To her back, he said, “Mother says to try pervinca.”

  Hester stopped washing dishes. As still as a stone, she stood facing the wall. When she turned, William flinched against the sizzle in the black depth of her eyes. “‘Mother says. Mother says.’ William, I am your wife. For over two years, I have been your wife. I bow to your wishes, as well as your mother’s, which is my rightful place. But when you hurl insults, I do not feel it is my duty to keep bowing beneath them. Has not Unser Herr instructed us in the way of marriage? Should you not love your wife?”

  “Schtill!” William’s command was powerful. His voice rang out harshly as he flung the toothpick into the crackling fire. Two steps—long and deliberate—and his hand snaked out and spun her around to face him.

  Lowering his face, his breath hot, he rasped, the words slow and methodic, branding into her conscience. “God has ordained from the beginning that your will is subject to mine. I am the head of the house. What I say is truth. You are to think as your husband. Your will is gone now. You are my wife.”

  Up came Hester’s face, her eyes blazing. “Then you need to love me, William!”

  “I do love you, Hester. I love you more than you know. But you are disappointing me in more ways than one.”

  As you are failing me, Hester thought.

  “I do not believe pervinca has much to do with my needs. I have a storehouse of knowledge about herbs. When I was younger, I had the good fortune to meet an old Indian woman who wrote many cures for all kind of diseases in a book.”

  “Indians have no written language.”

  “She learned from Theodore Crane, the schoolmaster in Berks County.”

  “So you’re saying you know more than Mother and I?”

  Hester drew herself up, clasping her hands behind her back. “Yes. I believe I do.” One eyebrow was lifted as William emitted a short, contemptuous laugh.

  “I highly doubt it.”

  Hester returned to her dishwashing, the set of her shoulders giving away the fury that raged in her breast. She knew that continuing this conversation would prove futile. She would sin, pushing her words onto her husband, where they would only slide away from his hearing and disintegrate into the floor, contributing nothing to either one of them.

  Frances dried and pounded the herb called pervinca, mixed it with whiskey, and brought it to Hester a few days later. Hester was folding wash. The sun shone through the small windowpanes, providing the light she needed to smooth out William’s clean shirts before expertly folding the homespun fabric.

  Today, there was a lightness in her heart, a song on her lips. The golden light streaming through the window, the November chill removed by the glowing fire, the dull gleam of the cupboard with the white agate pitcher containing sprigs of orange bittersweet, the white ironstone plates stacked neatly on the shelves above it all, pleased Hester, providing beauty and a sense of accomplishment. Imperfect she may be, but she was William’s wife.

  Frances never knocked on the door, saying that was for die Englische. Amish were family; there was no need to be formal, including knocking on doors. When Hester looked up, Frances was standing inside, startling Hester so that she jumped, surprised that Frances could open the door so quietly.

  “Hester.” It was Frances’s way of greeting.

  “Mam! You startled me.”

  “And you an Indian? You should be the one sneaking up on me.”

  Hester let that one go, squelching a retort.

  “Here. Pervinca. One dram every morning and evening.”

  Obediently, Hester reached out, took it, and set it carefully on the cupboard by the bittersweet. She noticed the pale green color, how the light turned it to an olive shade, the orange bittersweet beside it.

  “You will obey?’

  “Yes.”

  “Good. You heard? Amos and Sarah Speicher have been blessed with their first child. A son. They named him Abner.”

  Hester’s face softened, her eyes became moist. “Oh? That’s good news! I must go see her. That’s wonderful. God be praised.”

  “Yes. I am so glad for a successful birth. Always a sign of God’s blessing.”

  Hester nodded, picked up the shirt she was smoothing, repositioned it, and prepared to continue.

  “So, will you visit soon?”

  Puzzled, Hester lifted her eyes to her mother-in-law. “Why?”

  “Oh, you should go soon. Sarah is such a shining example of purity for you. She has obviously acquired the blessing that God is withholding from you.”

  This statement left Hester pondering, uneasy, exploring avenues of release from the condemnation in Frances’s words. Why would God bless Amos and Sarah, when he would not fill William’s and Hester’s arms with a bundle so precious it would fill them with joy?

  Kate had always told her that the moment when she first held Hester in her arms, she experienced a joy as great, if not greater, than when she held Noah less than a year later. God had not blessed Hans and Kate for nine whole years, then, unexplainably, he had. Who could figure that out?

  Had Kate submitted herself more fully to Hans’ wishes? Had she drawn her cap well over her hair, covering herself more convincingly with humility and subjection to Hans? But with Hans, subjection was not a hard yoke nor a dead weight slung on Kate’s unwilling shoulders. Hans was easy-going. He had laughed, pulled her wide covering strings, and told her she was getting fat, but in an approving way. His was an attitude lined with the comforting pillows of love on which Kate could rest and recline, her spirit exulting in the constant stream of his approval.

  It was the approval. Hester smoothed the shirt over and over, long after the wrinkles had been rubbed out. Her thoughts turned to memories of longing, to a desperate hunger for approval, the kind that would allow her to be free, to move along with lightness like a dandelion seed, effortless, carried along on soft summer breezes of love.

  She sighed. In the stillness of her kitchen, the bittersweet blurred into the waxy, dark green leaves as tears stung her eyes. For the first time in over two years, she longed for the safety, the haven of approval that was Emma Ferree. And Billy. Dear redheaded, mischievous boy. She should have listened to the words of warning.

  But she had a whole life ahead of her. She would be brave. She was an Indian, fearless and stout-hearted, so she would summon her courage and live her life with William as she had promised the day she married him. Perhaps she could yet soften him, molding him into the kindness she longed for.

  William was a good man. He was. She would try harder. She would be blameless. Then perhaps God would bless her and give them a son, another generation to till the fertile black soil of Lancaster County.

  She swallowed the whiskey-soaked pervinca. She prayed, endured her husband’s kisses, obeyed every wish. Often while he slept, she wondered at the ways of a man, that God had wrought such a difference.

  William told her repeatedly that it was the woman who had sinned in the Garden of Eden. Not Adam. Eve had taken the fruit of that tree, that forbidden apple. Worse yet, she had enticed her husband into senseless betrayal as well. So it was her lot in life to suffer, to subject herself to her husband. Did he not do his duty, cutt
ing trees, tilling the soil, keeping weeds at bay? The sweat of his brow was the price he paid to provide for his wife, the weaker vessel.

  Yes, she said. Yes.

  She threw the heavy harness on the brown driving horse named Fannie. It was Elias’s horse, but hers to drive any time she wanted. Fannie was a small brown mare with liquid eyes the same color as her black mane, except for the green and purple lights in the irises. She was gentle and easy to hitch to the buggy so that Hester could manage the task by herself.

  Fannie stood content and patient as Hester lifted the wooden shafts, then backed into her space with only a minimum of calling. Hester fastened the traces and then the backhold strap to the britching, gathered the reins, and looked up.

  Frances stood, not ten feet away. It was uncanny the way that woman crept up on her, drawing irritation the way lobelia drew pus from a wound.

  “You’re off to see Sarah and the newborn?”

  Swallowing her words of inflammation, she nodded. A semblance of a smile, to be polite, formed around her mouth.

  “Where is your shawl?”

  Hester threw up her hand and pointed to the buggy seat. “It’s hard to throw a harness on a horse’s back wearing a shawl.”

  “Not on Fannie. She’s small.”

  “I’ll put it on.”

  “Make sure you do. Some of the young girls have taken to wearing a coat without a woollen shawl. Serves them right if they freeze.” With that remark vibrating in the cold December air between them, she turned on her heel and walked away, as stiff and formidable as an axe.

  Hester climbed into the buggy, reached for the required shawl, thrust the heavy steel pin through the wool, then flung the corners over her shoulder, making driving easier. She flung Frances’s words over her shoulder as well, then remembered her unacquired blessing of a child as the guilt piled onto her shoulders.

  The road that led away from the Elias King farm was well traveled this December day. The ground was frozen, making the going easier. The first snow hadn’t yet appeared, which was very unusual. William said the Bible spoke of the latter days when unusual weather would occur, and these were definitely the latter days, now, weren’t they?

  The earth lay cold and fallow, a time of dead, frozen cornstalks and wind-whipped grasses that grated together, brittle-brown, waiting for snow to cover their uselessness. Holes in the frozen road were covered with ice, broken where heavy steel-covered wheels had crashed through.

  The sky was gray, the wind a bone-chilling blast from the east. It would begin to snow during the night if not before. William wanted to get more corn fodder into the barn before it fell, so he frowned when she’d said, over fried mush, that she wanted to visit Sarah and her new baby. He clapped his hat on his black hair and stalked out without further words.

  She had opened her mouth to tell him if he needed help, she would be available, then thought, no she’d see Sarah today. Sarah Speicher and her little Abner.

  Her heart sang in anticipation. “Schlofe, Buppli, Schlofe.” She sang every verse of the old lullaby. She could see Kate, large and warm, her wide face serene and content, singing yet another baby to sleep. Oh, she’d loved her babies! Nurtured them, rocked then during the night, cuddled and loved and adored them.

  Hester could still feel the warmth from her large body, feel her breathing above her head, the soft palms pressed on either side of her face, a reverence between them, a benediction. Kate’s love, a remembered treasure, was still sufficient. But only sometimes, like now, did she really experience Kate again. Hester moved along the frozen dirt road with small, brown Fannie clopping along effortlessly, the cold wind tingling her nose and cheeks, her gloved hands expertly holding the reins. The fields of Lancaster County lay cold and deserted, waiting till God rolled the season along to spring, when the warm sun would wake up the dormancy of December.

  Hester prayed that God would remember her body’s own dormant December and would send the sunshine of his blessing into her life. Involuntarily, she set her hat forward with a well-placed grip of her gloved hand. Just in case William’s words might be true.

  CHAPTER 13

  AMOS AND SARAH SPEICHER LIVED IN A LOG house built along a hill, about five miles from the large stone house Elias King had built. The road followed the Pequea Creek, the same route that led to the town of Lancaster.

  Hester had traveled this road quite often, visiting friends or going to church, so she only needed a slight bit of pressure on the right reign to turn Fannie onto the small lane that led to the log house.

  It was surrounded by pine and spruce trees, the larger deciduous trees having been hacked away. There was a small but serviceable barn, an empty corn crib and a henhouse with one door flapping on its broken hinges, squeaking desolately in the stiff, easterly wind.

  Hester stopped the horse and looked toward the house. There was no yellow glow from the small window, but then, Hester reasoned, some people saved their candles or oil till darkness set in. Unhitching Fannie, she looked around uneasily. It was too quiet. The barn door creaked eerily as Hester swung it wide. The smell of raw manure made her nostrils tingle, the stench overwhelming.

  A cow bawled. A horse gave a low nicker. A cat slunk around a corner, then slithered along a wall before disappearing. The manure was piled so high Hester could not find a way to open the gate of the empty boxstall, so she tied Fannie to the gate, leaving her in the walkway.

  “Stay, Fannie. Good girl.” Hester patted the moist neck beneath the heavy black mane before letting herself out, closing the screeching door behind her.

  Uncertain now, she hesitated. The flapping henhouse door made shivers run down her arms. Resolutely, she walked to the front door. Wide planks were worn smooth around the heavy latch where many hands had struggled to lift it. The roof was gray, the shingles weathered and split. The chinking between the logs was drying out. Small pieces of it littered the unsown grass surrounding the walls.

  The windows were empty of light like a lifeless person. Lowering her head, Hester tapped on the door. She waited, then tapped again. A thin voice called from behind the heavy door.

  Hester struggled with the latch, then swung the door wide. A rectangular path of light appeared immediately. The gray shadows returned after she pulled it shut behind her.

  “Over here. I’m over here.”

  Hester found her way to the rumpled bedstead, noticing the weak fire burning dangerously low in the small fireplace as she passed it. She was shocked to find Sarah beneath the covers, her husband, Amos, beside her, and the newborn tucked between them. A foul odor rose from the soiled diapers flung beside the bed, the sour stench of sickness hovering over the small bedroom like a yet undetected whisper of foreboding.

  “Sarah?”

  Hester’s word brought a glad cry, a recognition of answered pleas.

  “Oh, Hester. It’s you! Thank God.”

  “Sarah, what is going on? Are all of you ill?”

  “Our maud went home five days ago. Amos is very sick. Our little Abner is becoming so frail.” Sarah began to cry, soft, hiccupping little sobs of shame and helplessness.

  Hester was already shrugging out of her coat, flinging her large black hat aside. She rolled up her sleeves and went around to Amos’s side of the bed, her mouth grim when the fevered brow burned the palm of her hand. Here was a dire situation. She needed onions. Lobelia. Bitterroot. Small milkweed.

  Bending low, she asked Sarah for onions.

  “Yes. We have plenty. In the attic.”

  When Hester found them, she put them in a kettle with water. She poked up the fire, adding the last few sticks of wood. She would get them comfortable, then look for the herbs later. The baby’s thin cry sounded from the bed. Amos groaned, tried to rise, but fell back, breathing rapidly.

  She found the crock of vinegar and heated it. She bathed their feet and foreheads with cool water, then with the vinegar. She applied an onion poultice and stopped to listen as Amos coughed, gasping and retching. Yes, it was who
oping cough, the scourge of every settlement. The phlegm came up. Hester bent to examine it. She needed elecampane now. Also skunk cabbage, horehound, and pignut. She’d boil them together with brewer’s yeast.

  Her thoughts churned. She must go back home. She had all of these remedies stored in a wooden box. Adrenalin spurred her every motion.

  For now, the onions would be sufficient. She brought fresh, cold water from the container on the back stoop. Both Amos and Sarah drank thirstily. She told them of her plans, promising she’d be back, with help.

  Hester lashed the reins down on Fannie’s back only once. The small horse, sensing the urgency, ran low to the ground, her feet churning with a pace so rapid she seemed to float. The buggy lifted and swung, shattering frozen clods of soil, tilted dangerously, righted itself, and followed the dashing horse.

  She slowed Fannie before they reached the King farm. Hester knew she must be careful since Frances did not like to be told what to do. Calmly, she tied Fannie, slipped into the house, found the wooden box, and added potatoes, apples, a wedge of hard cheese, and a slab of bacon. Hurriedly, she put everything into a leather satchel and went back to the buggy.

  Good. Frances had not interfered. Likely William was out in the lower cornfields.

  Hester drove back at a slower pace, having mercy on Fannie. She gave her a nice pile of hay and a drink of water before returning to the house. The smell of onions, soiled diapers, and unwashed, feverish bodies was hard to bear when she entered, but there was work to be done. Suffering people needed help.

  First, she put the herbs on to boil. Then she would mix the extract from the herbs with honey and give Amos and Sarah each a spoonful every hour. After she finished stewing the herbs, she made a warm pot of broth, added potatoes, and brought them to a boil.

  She lifted the newborn and bathed him in warm water with vinegar, marveling at the strength in his lungs for one so young. He put up quite a howling, bringing anxious questions from the bed where Sarah lay beneath a plaster of boiled onions.