When the English Fall

by David Williams

  So much more than needed, I thought. But I did not say it, because that would have been rude, and they were a kind couple.

  Those big homes all had big basements, and now most were badly flooded.

  Out front of many of the homes, there were now piles of sodden furniture and torn-out carpeting, stained with mud and clay. Those had joined with the piles of trash that had been accumulating for some time, as trash collection simply could not happen. Most of the trucks were not operating, and even if they had been, the military had requisitioned whatever fuel might be available.

  Jon said that there were many, many more people at the market distribution site today. Even the well prepared, those who were ready with several weeks of emergency supplies, even they were beginning to run low.

  There was more anxiety, and more impatience, and less food. They have cut back on what they are giving out, because the first line of supplies, “those kept ready for an emergency,” are beginning to run out. One angry man began shouting when he was stopped from taking more than his share. The guardsmen tried to send him off, but he punched a market volunteer, and then tried to take one of the guards’ rifles, and so they subdued and arrested him and then took him off somewhere.

  “It really is getting worse,” Jon said. “On the ride back, I heard that there was a big firefight between police and National Guard and some armed gangs from Philadelphia. Not like street gangs, these were just armed men who had gathered together to take what they needed. The gangs had moved from looting stores to moving through neighborhoods, taking food from every house, and shooting anyone who wouldn’t give them what they wanted.

  “Some had made it to Norristown, and there a neighborhood militia had begun fighting back, and then the Guard arrived, and many were killed. So many desperate people, and not enough food. The sergeant who gave me a ride back told me that they are talking about not just closing the highways, but shutting down the borders of the state. People aren’t just fighting inside the cities. Many are starting to leave, he hears. Thousands of them, hungry and carrying what they can, moving out toward the countryside, especially in the south. Everyone, fleeing the city, coming out to where they think they might be able to find something to eat.”

  It was terrible news, but it did not surprise me.

  IT IS STRANGE, TO live in a time like this, when things feel so dangerous. But things have been very hard in the past, too. Every day, every day since I have been here in this settlement, I read from the Martyrs Mirror. That old book was a favorite of my father and especially my uncle, who, when he preached, would refer again and again to the sufferings of the martyrs throughout the ages. When I was a young man, the taste of the book had grown bitter in my mouth.

  Yet when I came here, and in a time of testing and prayer Jonas Beiler heard of my spiritual struggle, it was he who told me to set aside that bitterness. Do not let the poison of your spirit keep you from the truth. Do not forget the power of a time of testing.

  And so as I write, every day, I remember. Writing the words helps me remember.

  All of those stories—of the martyrs, of faith in the crucible of suffering, of how good Christians have experienced and endured times of terrible torture and privation—I remember thinking to myself, so often, about how far away all of those things seemed. Here we were, and we prospered. Our hard work and diligence was rewarded by Providence. There was food, there was plenty, and our faith was without trial. It was easy to become prideful, or to become convinced of God’s protection.

  Yes, we had to be disciplined, and yes, being among our brethren and renouncing the easy path of the English required strength of purpose. But the kind of strength to endure times of trial, and to stand unwilling to turn a hand against those who would harm us? Would starve us? Would destroy our bodies, even as our souls remain intact? That, for a while, has been a trial that we have not had to endure in this country.

  Now, though, the time has shifted. The world itself has shifted. I must trust in my faith, that it will endure this testing.

  Is that not the purpose of faith? Surely it is.

  I PREPARE TO MAKE more jerky. I think I will do so on Saturday. Today I inspected the drying houses and found that my newest one had been a little beaten up in the storm. One of the side windows had been smashed, which is fixable. I will need to get replacement glass, or perhaps even just clear plastic. I would prefer to stay with glass, as it does not need to be insulated and there is much old single-pane to be had still. I do not think this will be a problem. In fact, I am sure I know where to get it.

  As I thought about the drying houses, I found myself flipping back through my last journal, to the beginning, to remember something. It was when I built this last of the houses that I had tried to persuade Bishop Schrock to let me build something new.

  I found the entries, from July and August one year ago.

  I wanted to try a new design, one I’d seen in other settlements, after I had built the passive radiator houses. It was a tunnel dryer, one that heated air across a long chamber, which was then force-fed into the drying house by a solar-powered fan array.

  It dried much faster, and in larger quantities, and I was eager to find a way to expand my business. I could see four or five of them, and maybe expanding so that selling dried meat could become my main business. Carpentry was so inconsistent, as useful as it was, and it felt like the right thing to do to ensure that our household had income.

  But Bishop Schrock had balked. He felt it seemed unnecessarily complex, more potentially prideful. He told me I needed to pray over it, and to set such thoughts aside for a while.

  Back then, I really did not quite grasp why he felt this way. Other communities in nearby districts used the same method, I argued, ones that we are in fellowship with. I did not see why I should not do the same.

  We have already allowed one solar array, he had said. We do not yet know how that array will test us, or if it will be something the Order can make a larger part of our path.

  And so he had told me that I should not put in the tunnel dryers, that I needed to wait.

  I remember feeling that this might not be fair, and that to wait did not make sense. Yet I did, and instead of building a tunnel dryer, I built another passive panel dryer.

  And now I am glad that it happened as it did. If I had built those dryers, they would not work now. The solar storm had shorted out the one array that existed in the settlement, in a way that could not be repaired.

  And so now, instead of being down one drying house, I have all three working. Strange how Providence can work, with hardship proving to be the thing that strengthens us.

  I MARVEL, THIS EVENING, at Sadie. She is still a slender and flighty bird, a delicate thing. But her change over these last few weeks has been a miracle, the kind of change that Hannah and I had been praying for since first she had her seizures. There have been none, not since the Blackout began. I do not know how that can be.

  She seems more at ease, and it is as if the tension has flown from her face. It is fuller, softer, younger. When she speaks, in passing or to her mother, I can hear a difference. Or I think I can.

  I am thankful, certainly. It is a blessing.

  October 16

  This afternoon, Mike arrived again. I had been wondering about him, and praying over him, and worrying over him. It had been long since I saw him, as I had not been able to see him when I went to Lancaster.

  And then, as I was finishing up some repair work to one of the meat dryers, there he was. He came trudging up the drive, pushing that bicycle, behind which was a makeshift trailer. He was not alone.

  Behind him, just a few strides back, were his two sons, Derek and Tad, sixteen and fourteen, each with a large pack, each pulling a wagon filled with supplies. One, a child’s red wagon, the other, a two-wheeled lawn cart. And behind them, a woman I knew from a picture I had seen once.

  Shauna, his ex-wife. She was a little older, and quite a bit heavier than in the picture, but it was her.


  “Jacob,” he said.

  “Mike,” I said, and moved forward to greet him. We shook hands, and he introduced me to his sons. Derek was broad and heavy, a big man like his father, and he mumbled as he greeted me. Tad was long and lean, and he smiled broadly but said nothing.

  And then he introduced me to Shauna, who smiled tentatively and told me she was glad to finally meet me.

  Mike put an arm around my shoulder, as he did whenever he was trying to talk me into something, and said, “Jacob, can we go talk?”

  I told him sure, that of course we could, and told him that the boys and Shauna should go to the house and sit for a while.

  So we walked toward the barn, and as we walked he talked to me about how things had been. He was always a persuasive talker, a good salesman, but now his sales pitch seemed frail. And he seemed frail, I thought, as I looked at him. Thinner than I’d seen him before.

  “You walked all of this way?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Started out at, like, ten. About five hours. Man, I miss my truck.”

  We were silent for a minute. It seemed pointless to speak in pleasantries. Then he broke the silence.

  “I’m running out of food,” he said. “You know I was ready, you know how much I kept, all those supplies.”

  I told him that I did, because he was always talking about how important it was to be prepared for emergencies. Usually that subject would come with him talking about how people were irresponsible and lazy, about how they just relied on the government for everything. He did not say that today, and I did not mention it.

  “Since that storm, things are just getting worse, and I don’t know how much longer we can make it. There’s not enough food coming in on the trucks now, and we all know it, like everybody knows it, and there isn’t any way to get food, and I’m worried. Three of my neighbors had their homes busted into the last two days. Three. And one time, there was shooting. I mean, right there, three houses down, middle of the night. Bam bam bam. A couple of guys from the neighborhood, part of the new watch, they got shot. The thieves took off, I think they killed one of them.”

  He seemed sheepish, a little off, not the usual Mike who was always filled with bluster and self-certainty. His eyes were tired, a little hollow. “And it isn’t just that it’s not safe. I can’t stay at my place anymore. There’s roof damage, and it’s leaking, and the whole lower level of the townhouse still has three feet of water in it. It smells like rot and mildew, and Tad started having trouble breathing. You know his asthma, how that’s always been hard for him. And we’re running out of asthma medication.”

  I asked him how we could help, even though I already knew why he was there, and I knew the answer.

  “I know it’s a ton to ask. I know it. But can we stay awhile with you? We don’t need much, really we don’t. And you have that place out back, you know, where you store stuff. We wouldn’t get in the way. The boys and I can help out around the place, we really can. And Shauna . . . well . . . shoot . . . yeah.”

  I asked about that, because they really never could get along.

  “But you know, Shauna, she’s the mother of my kids. She’s their mom. When I told the boys about the idea of maybe coming out here, they were, like, what about Mom? I mean, she’s their mom. And, she’s, like, got nobody. Yeah, some friends, but they were kind of a mess before this all started. I can’t just leave her in town all by herself. That’d be . . . well . . . I couldn’t do that.”

  We went back and forth for a little bit after that, but I knew that I couldn’t send him away. I told him to wait on the porch. Then I went to talk with Hannah, who was working in the garden, replanting and trying to restore it after the damage from the storm.

  She took it really very well. But what choice did we have? Here, on our doorstep, neighbors in need. Even if they had been strangers coming to our door, asking for help, what would we have done? It really was very simple, deciding that we would put them up.

  She and Sadie went with Shauna and the boys to help get the daadi haus set up. It was two small rooms, a small bath to wash, and a storage area upstairs. A little woodburning stove for heat. And that was it. There was one bed, but there was also an old sofa, and we had a spare mattress that I kept in the storage area.

  I asked him about his girlfriend, Jolie. Wasn’t she pregnant? Where was she?

  “Yeah, well,” he said. “Now I don’t think it was mine. I did, but then she and this other guy took off, went down south with someone who had a truck, before all the roads got closed. I think it was his kid. I don’t know where she got off to. Can’t really care right now. I mean, it’s her life, right?”

  I said that it was sad, and he agreed with me.

  We talked a little more about what he could do, and how he and the boys and Shauna might be able to help out.

  AFTER DINNER, AFTER READING and a time for family prayers, our guests went to the daadi haus to settle in for the night. Hannah and I curled up in bed, lying face to face as we talked.

  It is an old habit, and it feels good. Warm and gentle and safe. It reminds me of when we bed dated. She did not want to sleep.

  “Jay,” she said, “you know this will make everything harder.”

  I said that I did.

  “You know that feeding four more mouths will push what we can do here as a family. And I know they want to help, but I don’t know how ready they are to do what they will need to do to keep us afloat.”

  I said that I knew it, and asked her if she thought we could do any different.

  She sighed. “No. No we can’t. In the Bible, Abram and Sarah didn’t turn aside the angels who walked their way. And the widow, she didn’t turn out Elijah, even in her time of hardship. This is what the Lord has put on us, and we must receive it and let our lives bear witness.”

  I told her that I was thinking the same things, and about what Jesus had said about walking the extra mile, and giving even more than what is asked. Then I said that this was what martyr really meant. “Witness.” I had learned that from someone, years ago. That the word just meant witness. Sometimes being a witness is easier, I said, quietly. You can be true to the Gospel, and live your life so that every word and deed is Gospel. The world will nod and smile, and say what a nice person you are, and all will be simple. But sometimes it’s really hard, and being a witness can mean terrible things.

  This would be a hard time.

  “Yes,” she said. “I know it. And for me, it is easy. I know what we must face. For you, it is easy. But I wish it did not have to be so for Sadie and Jacob. What a mother and father can endure, they would still not wish on their children. Oh, Jay.”

  We held each other for a while.

  Then she fell asleep. I did not, not for a while. But now I am tired. Writing does that.

  October 17

  In the morning, I woke with the sunrise. I got the feed in for the cows, and Jacob fed the chickens, and Sadie and Hannah worked to prepare the breakfast.

  Mike had said that he would be helping me in the morning, and I will confess that I was a little surprised to see him and Tad and Derek all waiting by the kitchen door. They all looked tired, but Mike asked me what they could do.

  First, of course, was breakfast. I asked if Shauna would be joining us, but Mike said she was feeling out of sorts and tired, and couldn’t get out of bed.

  “Oh dear Lord God you have coffee” was the first thing Mike said as they came with me into the kitchen and smelled what was being prepared. It was like one long word, ohdearlordgodyouhavecoffee, and though he apologized, I thought it was a little funny.

  Out at one of the tree stands on the edge of the property, an old oak had fallen during the storm, and it laid out into one of the pastures. It had broken the fence, and I had not yet been able to get around to repairing it. It was a task that required many hands, and with all of the damage done by the storm, it was not yet a priority. I was not worried about losing a few head of cattle, because the tree itself stood as an ef
fective barrier to their departure.

  So with the day still young, I asked Mike and his boys to take lumber from the barn, to saw up the tree and chop it for firewood, and fix the fence. He nodded, and Tad smiled, and Derek grunted sleepily.

  We worked much of the morning. Mike is so handy, and a good man to work by your side. Work lights him up, and he delights in it.

  Tad and Derek are . . . well . . . they are still young. They will learn, as they stay here.

  IT WAS NOT TERRIBLE, having Mike and his boys here today. With no family here, with such a small household, I feel often as if we are a burden on the others. It is not a good feeling, and it is not a feeling that is right.

  I know that we are all called to support and bless one another with care. It is a simple truth, that we all serve one another. I know it. And I have been told, again and again over the ten years that we have been here, that we are a blessing to this community. But I still harbor an old anger. I pray over it, and it disperses, as the Spirit gives the grace, but I know it will return.

  I felt a twinge of it today, as we all sat at table. It was a simple dinner, and a good one, which Shauna had helped prepare, once she had woken. Hannah told me today that they talked, Shauna and Sadie and her, and that Shauna began to feel more at ease. The last two weeks had frightened her, and she had always struggled with fear and anxiety.

  She seems to have pulled herself together a bit. Hannah is good for that.

  And so the dinner was prepared, canned beef stew and winter squash, kale from the garden, bread and jam, simple and enough.

  Around the table, there was talk and some laughter, and the house felt full. Still, I felt the stirring of something dark afterward.

  I think it is an anger from our time of leaving, when I finally realized that we could no longer stay in the Ohio settlement founded by my uncle. We knew it was coming, but it was still hard, because both Hannah and I had been raised among those people.