The Homestead

by Linda Byler

  You needed your own brand, though, the sign of ownership sizzled into their hairy flanks. Clay and Hank roped them with a swinging jute rope called a lariat. One arm swings a loop of it over his head with a muscular strength, a calculated grace that sends it over the running calf’s neck. The horse immediately sensed his master’s aim and stopped in seconds, haunches lowered, forefeet braced, as the rope twanged taut.

  To Hannah, the taut lariat performed a song to her senses, like the strings of a guitar, the verboten musical instrument she longed to hold, to cradle in her arms, the form and sheen of it a thing of beauty, a vessel of sweetness that sang unbearable notes unlike anything she had ever heard. Its notes could evoke unnamed feelings of dissatisfaction, a glimpse into the unknown, a beckoning world she knew nothing about, like a promise of light and brightness at the end of a dark hallway.

  She still hadn’t reckoned it all out. It was like a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing. But she watched Clay sitting on the top rail of the fence with the heels of those wonderful boots caught on the lower rail, the guitar balanced against his long legs, his hands plucking idly at the strings, as easily as brushing his horse’s mane. Watching him laughing, nodding, his light blue eyes twinkling at his brothers who sang, their heads bobbing with the movement of Clay’s hands, brought all these questionable longings. Her heart quickened, making her sit up and take notice of a world without the blackness of restraint and the laws that ruled her life.

  Sometimes, when she was with her mother, the sweetness of her, the light around her an aura of goodness, she felt pulled by a rope as strong as a lariat to be like her, to live out her days in peace and contentment with whatever the Lord sent in her direction, plodding one step behind her husband. Just, well, taking it, “it” being whatever he decided, like pulling up her roots from Lancaster County and leaving her aging parents, severing the ties with her family with the sharp blade of his will. A stone was the only remnant of her past life that she kept, a stone where her heart should have been.

  Glassy eyed with numbness, a deep keening, a mournful sound that stayed enclosed, tamped down with the strength of her will, her mother had remained seated on that wooden seat beneath the canopy of dirty white canvas.

  Oh, Hannah had seen. She had felt every womanly sorrow along with her mother, knowing that the waxy contours of her face were the feelings so successfully banished, like her own.

  Hannah figured they were here now, in this strange new world, so thinking back with yearning for the closeness of cousins, the kinship of grandparents and aunts and uncles, wasn’t going to help a lick, so she may as well square her shoulders and get on with it, this living out here in this land full of nothing.

  She looked up as the riders approached, watching the way they sat in their saddles, their limbs loose, relaxed, their hands idly holding the reins as if they weren’t necessary for guiding or stopping their horses.

  Hannah threw her axe, swiped at a thick strand of dark hair, and watched Hank’s face, then Clay’s. They both lifted their hats with that offhanded push they always applied, a gesture that puzzled Hannah. She thought perhaps it was a sign of good manners, like a handshake, only easier, but she wasn’t sure about that. She smiled as her eyes met Clay’s.

  “Whatcha doin’, Hannah?” Clay stopped his horse, threw a wrist across the saddle horn, put the other one on top and leaned forward slightly as he watched Hannah’s face.

  “We’re cutting logs for the barn,” she said, a smile playing around the corners of her mouth.

  “You know you and him’s gonna get hurt whacking them trees down,” Clay said slowly.

  “Him?”

  “Your brother. You’re nothing but kids. Your pa oughta be helpin’ you some. Where’s he at?”

  Hannah shaded her eyes and pointed to the horses plodding methodically, their faithful noses almost touching the ground with exhaustion.

  Clay’s eyes narrowed into slits as he watched. His long, greasy blonde locks barely moved in the ever present wind, the cleft in his chin covered with blonde stubble, about a week’s growth. His cheek twitched like a horse’s hide when a fly bothered him, his jaw set. He shook his head.

  “He’s killin’ them horses.”

  Hannah nodded.

  “You know he ain’t gonna grow no corn.”

  Hannah felt Manny behind her before she heard his voice, high and strident. “You don’t know anything either, Clay Jenkins. You don’t. God can bless my father and his corn crop.”

  Deeply ashamed, Hannah whirled to face her brother, eyebrows drawn, trying to shush him with her glare of warning.

  Clay said slowly, “Well, that can all be, but looks as if he’s gonna have hisself a job just keepin’ them horses alive.”

  “God can do anything!” Manny spat out, his face white with childish rage and suppressed tears.

  “I reckon.”

  Hank watched the plodding team, then turned his horse toward Hannah. “We come over to invite you and yer family to our round-up and neighborhood git-together in two weeks.”

  “Neighborhood? There are no neighbors,” Hannah laughed.

  Clay watched her face as she laughed, one of those laughs that came from deep within, that bubbled to the surface as clear and pretty as spring water in the Ozarks. He squinted, blinked, and kept watching as Hannah said that if there were neighbors, they sure were well hidden.

  “Some of ‘em are, some of ‘em ain’t. You get yer horses, we’ll ride around and meet a few.”

  “Mam won’t let me.”

  Manny nodded in agreement, eyeing the Jenkins brothers with distaste. He hitched up his trousers and told Hannah there was work to be done and the sooner they got to it, the better. Then he turned on his heel and picked up his axe, his posture and vehement chopping giving away his disapproval.

  “S’wrong with him?” Hank asked.

  Hannah shrugged.

  She met Clay’s pale blue gaze boldly, as if trying to make up for her brother’s bad manners. Suddenly embarrassed for different reasons entirely, she scuffed the toe of her old leather shoe into the wood chips and trampled grass, lowering her head to focus on the mud and wood chips.

  “Hey, it’s okay,” Clay said in that slow, soft way of speech that he had.

  He looked off across the grass to the house, where Sarah appeared in stark relief against the dark logs, her posture bent over the outdoor fire as she tended the pot hanging on a tripod.

  “Yer ma never got a stove?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why’d the old man build a house without a chimney or a fireplace?”

  Confused, Hannah lifted dark eyes to their blue ones. “What old man?”

  “Yer pa.”

  “He isn’t old.”

  “Just our way of talkin’. The old man’s my pa.”

  “Oh.”

  Hannah looked away. Hank and Clay swung their wrists to the left, laying the rein on the right side of their horses’ necks, shifted in the saddle, and were off in mere seconds.

  Sighing, Hannah turned, slowly picked up her axe, and resumed her work halfheartedly. They must all appear like beggars, pathetic losers without a clue how to go about making a living. And that, precisely, is what they were. A hot wave of shame swept through her, followed by a pride so icy it stung.

  Why couldn’t they have stayed in Lancaster, where they were the same as other folks? Hannah thought of riding around to meet the neighbors on one of the sturdy, all-purpose Haflingers, dressed in her plain Amish garb with the large white covering on her head, without a saddle and without boots. She felt a sense of loss so keen she shivered.

  It was the loss of being able to hold up her head, to feel as if she was a normal, attractive person of means, someone who knew what was going on in the world around her. She felt displaced, blinded by the vast world of the treeless plain, where the winds blew constantly, and the clouds hung in the sky, uncaring, void of color or meaning.

  Sarah tended to her bubbling stew, wiped th
e sweat from her streaming brow, then hurried back to the house to hush her crying baby. She smiled warmly as Mary dashed to reach baby Abigail before her mother did, lifting the swaddled infant and clumsily patting her back.

  Sarah sank into the armless rocking chair, so grateful yet again that they had had the good foresight to bring it all the way from home. As she fed her baby, her eyes grazed the interior of her home and again she felt deeply grateful. A good floor made of wood, sturdy walls, windows, and a door, the four necessities of a decent home. Beds to sleep in, a loft for the children, may God be praised.

  Mose would sark for a chimney, he would. He wanted to get that corn in the ground first. Oh, he was working so hard to get started farming. A crop of corn would be all they needed.

  She thought with satisfaction of the stew bubbling on the fire—potatoes, carrots, a few prairie hens, wild onions, garlic, and salt. It was a stew hearty enough to stick to her men’s ribs. Her men.

  Manny was growing so fast into a sturdy little man. She was grateful too for the gift of potatoes and a bucket of carrots from Abby Jenkins. What a treat to be able to change the daily diet of cornmeal and prairie hens. And so Sarah rocked, the stew bubbled in the open air, Mary ran out to play with Eli, the great open space beckoning, the world for them an endlessly unexplored place.

  Sarah cared for little Abby with an even greater appreciation than any of her previous babies. Hadn’t God provided? Oh, He had, and so much more than she could have comprehended, were it not for the fact that she held this perfect little girl, dressed in warm clothing, all taken from Abby Jenkins’ chest, where she had stored away the clothes of her baby who had died. There was much to be thankful for, much to consider in the ways of the Lord, indeed.

  A shout broke through her reverie, a far away sound that shattered her peace, as if a mere pinprick of noise became a harbinger of alarm. Her rocking ceased. Slowly she lifted Abby, closed her dress and held stock still, listening.

  There. Another shout!

  In one swift movement she gathered Abby in her arms, moved to the pile of blankets in the corner and laid her gently on her stomach, covering her with her own small blanket. She stood at the door and surveyed the flat expanse before her, involuntarily searching for Mose.

  Her heart sank within her as she saw Mose circling the horses—or the lone horse left standing. The other was a dark mound on the upturned soil.

  Sarah ran, leaving Abby alone in the house, calling to Mary and Eli. When she reached her distraught husband, she took one look at his red, streaming face, the panic in his eyes. Throwing up her hands, she asked what she should do.

  “Water!” shouted Mose, as he bent to untangle taut harness pieces. Sarah ran back to the house, her skirt billowing behind her, the wind in her face. Her thoughts were racing over what a dead horse would mean: one horse left over, and they could not go on. She could not think about that now.

  Grabbing the water bucket, she lowered it into the wood rain barrel until it was full, hefted it out with all of her strength, and walked fast, water sloshing over her skirt, the sound of Abby’s wails in her ears.

  Mose watched her approach, ran to grab the bucket, lowered it by the heaving horse’s head, tried to lift it, coaxed, spoke gently saying, “Here’s water, Dan. Water. Drink some water.”

  Sarah bent to examine the horse’s eye, the lids falling heavily. The horse was covered in white foam, his sides streaming, the rivulets of sweat joining the foam, creating small crevices, and staining the earth where it ran off. She grimaced, seeing the blood seeping into the white lather, staining it pink, the dry nostrils expanding and contracting rapidly with the unnaturally quick breaths that came in desperate spurts.

  “He needs water, Sarah.”

  “I know.”

  “How can we get him to drink?”

  Sarah shook her head. “Loosen Pete.”

  “I did. Can’t you see? He’s not attached. He wants to stay.”

  They stood helplessly as the horse continued the fast, raspy breathing. The sweat continued to stream from him as he struggled to inhale and exhale.

  “Can we get him up, do you think?” Sarah asked.

  Mose nodded, grabbed the bridle, chirped, tugged at the bit, and kept calling his name over and over. Sarah watched the noble, obedient horse try to lift his head, scramble to regain his footing, scraping one foreleg and then the other along the partially tilled soil before a deep groan escaped him. His head sank forward, his body shuddered into a solid heap, and his breathing slowed until he was still.

  Mose called his name again, urgently, but there was no response. “Is he gone?” Mose asked Sarah, a look of blank bewilderment in his brown eyes.

  “Yes, Mose. He just took his last breath. He must have become overheated.” Sarah’s hand went to Mose’s shoulder, moved up and down, a gesture of comfort, the caress of caring.

  Mose lowered his face, and then lifted it to stare at Sarah. Her eyes opened wide, shocked at the incomprehension in her husband’s eyes. “But, I can’t harrow without Dan.”

  “No, you can’t.”

  Mose hesitated, shoved his hands deep into his trouser pockets. “But how will we go on?”

  Alarmed, Sarah soothed him, saying God would provide, thinking God would provide by borrowing a horse from the Jenkins. Here was a case where they would evolve from God’s testing and do the right thing by using common sense and the sound mind God had given them.

  “But how will God provide?” Mose asked, as he brushed Sarah’s hand away from his shoulder. Her hand fell away and for the first time ever she felt his reproach. Quick breathing beside her made her turn to see a white-faced Hannah, fists clenched, chest heaving, followed by an out-of-breath Manny, who came to a halt, peering down at the dead horse.

  “So you really did kill this horse. I knew you would. You’re nothing but a thickheaded farmer! Don’t you know you can’t raise a crop of corn in this soil without at least six horses and a plow twice the size of yours?” Hannah shouted, her white face reddening with the force of her fury.

  Without hesitation Mose drew back his hand and smacked Hannah’s face a glancing blow. “No daughter of mine will ever speak to me like that,” he ground out.

  Hannah’s head snapped back, a red stain appeared on the side of her face and, for a moment, Sarah thought she would lower her head and take this as the chastening she deserved.

  But in another moment, Hannah lifted her head, faced her father and spoke levelly, the words laced with a disrespect so potent it sickened Sarah. Hannah’s eyes glittered and drew into narrow slashes of dark brown as she spoke.

  “You killed that horse, Dat. You’ll kill Pete, too, if you keep on. Didn’t Hod tell you this is cattle country? Didn’t he tell you? You won’t be able to raise a crop of corn. You left Lancaster, Dat, now you’re going to have to change your ways.”

  Mose stepped up to his daughter, his fists clenched, his jaw working. Sarah realized his intent and reached out to grab his arm and plead with him. “Come, Mose. Everyone is upset. Let’s go to the house and eat our dinner. Bring Pete, Hannah. Manny, get the bucket.”

  They turned as one, this small band of people walking together leading the tired, sweating horse that remained across the level prairie with the grasses waving back and forth in the uninterrupted wind, each one carrying their own different loss and feelings of foreboding.

  True to her word, Sarah calmly took up the stewpot, set it in the middle of the table, and got out the dishes they’d need. Hannah sliced a loaf of sourdough bread.

  Manny put Pete on a tether after giving him small amounts of water and tried not to hear his weak, anxious nickering. Mose sat on a stump by the doorway, his head in his hands, his wide shoulders slumped forward with the crushing weight of his loss.

  They all sat down together, bowed their heads, and prayed silently, although it was questionable whether Hannah prayed at all, the way she chewed at her lip and her eyes glittered like brass, the rebellion raging through her body.
Manny and Eli bowed their heads low, squeezed their eyes shut, and said their prayers dutifully, not quite understanding what the death of a good horse entailed.

  They all ate hungrily, sopping up the good, sustaining stew with slices of bread. Breakfast had been early and sparse, Sarah doling out the thin and watery cornmeal porridge.

  The meal revived their spirits, and they kept up a conversation, a planning, of sorts. Mose took his rightful place as head of the house saying that God would provide another horse if they repented of their sins, lived righteously in godly fear, and prayed day and night. God had never let them down, and He wouldn’t this time either.

  Sarah bowed her head in submission, listening to her husband’s words, wanting desperately to have a faith as great as his, although basic common sense knew there was only the Jenkinses and the begging—humble asking accompanied by the sense of failure—that remained. But she bowed her head anyway then looked up into his bright eyes, shining with a new and vibrant light. She smiled And said, “Yes, Mose, I do believe you are right. We will continue our work on the barn and see what the Lord has in store for us.”

  Happily and vigorously the children nodded, content to live in the realm of a father who based his whole life on his faith. Manny, especially, was filled with a deep sense of the celestial, his face glowing with an inner light.

  To see Hannah’s face, then, was a study in light and dark. Her cheek still flushed from her father’s administration of discipline. Her face was shadowed with anger and ill feelings playing across it like puffy, wind-driven clouds.

  “Hannah, what do you think?” Mose asked, appearing to make restitution for his harsh discipline earlier.

  No answer.

  “Hannah?”

  Still no answer.

  Sarah looked at her eldest daughter with pleading in her soft eyes, but Hannah’s eyes were well-hidden by the heavy curtain of her upper lids.

  “Hannah, you will speak to me when I ask you a question,” Mose said with conviction.