Hester on the Run

by Linda Byler

  But it was a small thing. She decided not to fret or worry about something so insignificant. It was actually nothing.

  In the early summer, they whitewashed the interior of the house. Hans mixed lime with water, and they brushed it over the logs and crumbling mortar, bringing a new cleanliness to the walls and a new white light over everything.

  Kate’s energy was renewed, and she cleaned the furniture with linseed oil, washing all the insides of the drawers, scouring the plank floors with hard lye soap, and loving her house.

  She realized how happy it made her to be surrounded by the things she cherished. The woven coverlet on the wooden settee by the fireplace was a nine patch, washed many times, its colors fading to a sort of nondescript sameness, so she set about making another.

  She lifted the brown homespun bag from the small attic she could reach by the sturdy ladder against the wall, heaving it over her shoulders as she stood on the top step, her memory serving her well. Every scrap of worn-out clothing went into this bag. She would sew the small pieces together to form a bed covering or a child’s coverlet.

  She would make a fine coverlet, a small one, to soften her seat on the bent hickory chair she always sat on to rock her baby to sleep. The interior of her house was so white, so clean and new, she would make a colorful coverlet like a bouquet of flowers she’d picked by the spring. Her mind darted rapidly from one pattern to another as she strained to remember the design she’d seen at Amos Hershberger’s. It was multicolored strips.

  Could she cut and arrange a variety of strips into a pleasing whole? It seemed a bit daunting, especially now, with all the garden work. She’d have to do it when she found a few minutes now and then, probably mostly in the evening by candlelight. The gardening could not wait the way the bits of colored scraps of material would.

  She cut some of the patches that morning though, guilt hampering the sure slices of the scissors, as she cut around the rectangular template made of wood. The blue fabric represented the joy Hester had brought into their lives. Yellow was the sunshine of summer, the warmth that drew the healthy plants up from the earth, fruits ripening, ears of corn maturing, beans hanging in heavy pods from the lush vines twined around the shaggy bark poles set in straight tripods along the rows. There was gratitude in the yellow, too, gratitude for God’s sunshine, its warmth and nourishment.

  Green was the forest, the mainstay of every settler’s existence. The trees, the leaves, the abundant herbs and berries, the wild animals that provided them with food and clothing. The pine trees and mighty oaks provided shelter for all the creatures and enveloped the small log house with their bountiful green embrace, a protection sprung from the earth itself.

  Kate frowned at the lack of red. Well, she’d take care of that later. Red signified the red bird’s wing, wild raspberry bushes, the holly, and all dots of brilliant, glossy red. She’d dye some of the pale swatches of fabric with pokeberry juice whenever she had time.

  The nausea had all but disappeared now, leaving her with an enormous appetite. Everything she had not been able to eat before, she ate now in large quantities. Great piles of beans, sizable slabs of fried meat and eggs, all disappeared from her heavy redware plate, followed by sips of creamy buttermilk or milk laced with molasses.

  Hans watched his wife’s head bent over her plate, shoveling food into her mouth with quiet efficiency, a sudden urgency to fill the great grasping stomach that seemed to be constantly empty. She developed a bit of a double chin, and her neck and shoulders became rounded, fuller, along with the rest of her.

  But she kept the garden weeded, helped in the fields, and whitewashed the small log house, cleaning it until it shone. He had no complaints. If his wife put on a pound here and there, it was no big concern of his. She was a good woman.

  Soon the attic would fill up with the harvest, onions heavy and white, braided together by their tops in a long string, mounds of orange pumpkins, turnips, and squash laid out on the floor for the winter’s use. Kate grunted a bit as she bent over to pick the yield, Hans opposite her in another row, and his good-natured teasing made her laugh.

  Hester was crawling fast now, so quick that Kate could hardly keep up with her, grabbing at the little dress as she came close to baskets of beans, pulling her back from the edge of the chair she always loved to sit on.

  Kate’s whole world turned into constant color and motion: Hester’s bright black eyes, her brown skin, the orange of the pumpkin against the changing leaves of the forest, all red and yellow and green. The whitewashed log walls inside the house brought out the rich, brown hues of the wooden furniture. Kate mixed strong apple cider vinegar with a bit of beef tallow and polished all of it with a bit of soft cloth, rubbing it into the wood grain to produce a luxurious sheen.

  In the evening, when the light of the betty lamp shone in the windows, the fire leaping and dancing on the hearth, and Hester sound asleep in her cradle, they sat talking, making plans. Kate’s needle wove in and out of her patches, and Hans’s voice rose and fell. They were truly content. God had blessed them far beyond measure, allowing them to become parents again, even after the gift of little Hester. They felt unworthy of God’s goodness.

  Hans worked on a new springhouse, set by the flow of the cold waters that bubbled out of the ground at the base of the ridge, fed by the runoff from the surrounding mountains. Kate was thrilled to think of having a cool place to set her eggs, milk, and cheese.

  She watched Hans lift the heavy limestones, his massive shoulders straining at the seams of his shirt, the constant way his hands lifted and cut, fitting the stones tightly, building this sturdy little house that would help keep food cool in summer. The well-placed structure would greatly ease Kate’s burden of cooking and preserving.

  Manny Speicher came to help when the stone walls became taller than Hans. Together they formed a scaffolding of stumps and planks and lifted the stones onto it, as Hans kept laying the stones to the eaves.

  He made a small window at each end, one to the south and one to the north, and then built a sturdy shake roof over the top. The spring flowed through small openings on each end, keeping the stone interior cool and moist.

  Hans built a trough made of stone and mortar so that the running water would not upset the heavy crocks filled with milk. They marveled at the occasional buttermilk they could have, no matter how warm the days would become.

  Kate’s springhouse was the envy of the whole community. More than one housewife was guilty of serving her husband soured milk with his breakfast porridge, raising her eyebrows in practiced meekness, saying sweetly that a springhouse built the way Hans Zug had done would take care of any milk spoilage. They came by the wagonload to view this wonderful springhouse. Kate beamed with pleasure, her full cheeks blooming with color, her blue eyes radiant upon her husband.

  Hester sat on Hans’s knee, her bright eyes missing nothing, always alert but seldom smiling, although her black eyes twinkled, enhanced by her thatch of straight black hair.

  When the November winds swooped down off the ridge and blew the tired, brown leaves to the ground, the beautiful red, yellow, and orange ones came along with them. Hester sat outside, her nose red from the cold, and played in the leaves, crawling among them, sometimes holding so still she was like a stone child. She watched a curious chipmunk scamper close then sit as still as Hester as they eyed each other, neither one showing any fear.

  Kate wondered at this. Were Indians trained in the way of the forest, or did these traits flow in their bloodlines, as much a part of them as the color of their skin or the growth of their thick, black hair? Kate had never realized a baby could be so perceptive, so curious, black eyes missing nothing, constantly darting here and there, the unsmiling little mouth beneath them expressionless.

  Yes, she was an Indian, and an Indian she would likely remain. That was all right with Hans and Kate. They would take her to church and raise her within the religious tradition they knew would shape her and bring her to God, the Amish way of lif
e instilled in her heart.

  Yes, they would dress her modestly and simply, in clothing like that worn by grown women. She would be baptized upon her faith, and all would be well in the end. They were devout, believing that through the blood of Jesus Christ they were redeemed from their sins. They practiced a godly lifestyle and prayed for their sweet baby girl every day.

  And now she would have a sister or brother very soon. Kate’s heart was alight with anticipation. Hans made a trundle bed, a low, small bed that could be shoved beneath their large bedstead during the day, made of the same sturdy pine boards.

  So the cradle stood, awaiting the next little occupant, empty and quiet, the rocking stilled for now.

  CHAPTER 4

  THEY WERE BLESSED THAT THERE WAS VERY LITTLE snow on the ground so the doctor could arrive that February.

  Hans drove Dot like a madman. The doctor clutched his hat and prayed out loud, his prayers peppered with exclamations of surprise and astonishment that they came out of that gully or over that rock in one piece.

  Hans’s face was as white as the few inches of snow that dusted the road and surrounding woodland. His eyes bugged from his face in genuine panic, and he leaned forward until his nose almost touched the walloping haunches lunging ahead of him, as if that position would get him back to the house sooner.

  Dot was wild-eyed, lathered with white sweat, her sides heaving, when the wagon careened to a stop by the barn. The doctor sat still as Hans launched himself from the wagon, instantly loosening the traces, his hands shaking.

  Tugging at his hat brim, the doctor told Hans very courteously that he was, indeed, extremely fortunate to be among the living, let alone steady enough to attend to his wife, and he hoped he would never again have to sit in the same wagon Hans did.

  Hans paid him no mind, just waved a hand as if to rid himself of a fly, and asked if he intended to sit in that wagon the remainder of the evening.

  Elizabeth Hershberger was already there, the neighborhood matriarch who attended mothers at a time like this. Everyone called her Lissie, a tall, round woman of roughly seventy years, well trained in midwifery, although she usually worked with a doctor, if possible.

  Lissie was a widow, Dan having been knocked over by the tree he had felled, miscalculating its crash to the ground. They found him pinned underneath, his skull crushed. Lissie buried her man, took up the reins of the fat brown mules, and kept the farm going with the aid of her two sons.

  Lissie was not one to be soft-spoken or humble. Her voice rang out with a deep, bell-like sound. Unlike many Amish women, she knew her own mind and spoke it without fear of being corrected.

  “What took you so long?” she asked, as her way of greeting. The doctor was not overly fond of Lissie, having been scolded many times by her tongue-lashings. His nerves were already shot, and he was in no mood to tangle with her self-appointed position as head coach.

  “Look, Lissie, if we would have been here before this, we wouldn’t be here at all. So keep your nose out of it.”

  Hester began to cry, this loud exchange from strange people frightening her. Hans scooped her up, kissed her on her soft face, and held her the remainder of the evening until her head drooped against his chest. Then he changed her into the heavy nightgown she wore on winter nights and tucked her into the trundle bed, setting it carefully into the shadows.

  Lissie made tea, strong and black. She spread cold biscuits with apple butter and swung the kettle of beans over the fire until the house was filled with the aroma of browning beans.

  Dr. Thomas Hess was a gentleman with refined ways. He had graduated from a college of medicine in England, so he did not take kindly to Lissie’s slurps and rumbles of appreciation as she tucked into the food.

  He watched her large fingers grasp the heavy handle of a cup, lift it to her lips, gulp, and then grimace, her eyes squeezed shut in endurance as she swallowed the hot drink. She dipped her biscuit into the bowl of steaming beans, then opened her mouth wide to shove half the bean-laden biscuit into it, leaving a trail of apple butter on her greasy dress front.

  “Now, then, Dr. Hess, why aren’t you eating? It’s wunderbar goot” (wonderful good), she chirped, her small black eyes dancing with pleasure.

  Dr. Hess thought of his wife lifting a china teapot to pour tea into a china cup for him, but he didn’t mention that. He just said politely that he would have a cup of tea, which was plunked in front of him with more enthusiasm than good manners.

  For the second time that evening, Dr. Hess thought he might not live, swallowing the boiling hot tea from the scalding cup. When the pain on his tongue became unbearable, he went outside, scooped up a handful of snow and considered it a great and calming luxury to bury his stinging appendage into it. Lissie chortled to herself at the doctor’s discomfiture. The smarter a man was, the less common sense he had. So much for college, if he didn’t think a redware cup was hot.

  Kate delivered a fine son. Dr. Hess pronounced him “strapping,” already able to plow the fields. He was pleased to say that with feeling as Lissie whisked the baby away for his bath.

  The doctor puzzled over Hans Zug’s expression, or the lack of it, for a long time. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders and let it go. Clearly, something was wrong.

  Hans looked at the pale face of his son, the too wide forehead, the swollen eyes, the pouting red mouth, and searched desperately for any inkling that someday he would have hair. There was none. Only a whisper of pale, red down, or was that his imagination? To think that his own flesh and blood, his offspring, would look like this shook him to the core of his being. He always imagined his sons would be handsome. He asked Lissie if there was something wrong with him.

  “What do you mean, Hans Zug? Why, of course not. He’s the finest, sturdiest baby I’ve seen in a coon’s age. You better not mention one word of this to your wife, or I’ll clout you with a wooden spoon. Shame on you.”

  And Hans was ashamed. He cringed, turned red with embarrassment, and gave Lissie a whole ham instead of giving the doctor the other half, to get back into her good graces. He sincerely hoped she wouldn’t speak of this to anyone.

  After his son’s bath, the baby looked clean, but not much better. Hans watched with a sort of mistrust as Kate held their son, her face shining with a mother’s love, cooing and whispering to the baby, saying he was so beautiful. “So an shay kind” (Such a beautiful child).

  Hans tried to smile and share her joy as he bent over his wife. But his smile was thin and wobbly, his eyes dull with disbelief.

  “What do you want to name him?” she asked, her voice soft, her eyes luminous in her wan face.

  All Hans could think of was Ham. Wasn’t he one of Noah’s sons in the Old Testament? He looked like someone who could be named Ham. What he did say was, “It’s up to you, Kate.”

  “Oh, but a father should name his child. Especially his first son. Remember, I named Hester.” Kate’s voice was soft and quivering with emotion.

  Hans couldn’t think of anything except Ham, but he didn’t say it. Noah was Ham’s father, and a man of God with that ark building and all, so he said, “I like the name Noah.” He hoped his voice came out reverent and loving, without a trace of Ham in it. He sighed with gratitude when Kate smiled up at him, her eyes full of love, and said that was a good name, a sound and reasonable name from the Bible.

  Lissie was pleased with their choice, although she told them they should have named their son after Hans’s father, Isaac. But Hans didn’t want Lissie to know he wasn’t overly fond of his father, who had let his youngest brother Shem have the farm back home in Switzerland.

  He looked Lissie square in the eye and said his name was Noah. She shrugged her shoulders and thought she was glad Hans wasn’t her husband, with those bugging eyes and pushy demeanor. “You need to name one son after your father, you know that,” she said, tartly, packing her things in her square, black bag.

  Hans was tired, sleepy, and disagreeable, so he merely asked her why. She said it w
as the ordnung (law) of the church. Hans said he never heard of such a thing, whereupon Lissie lifted her finger and shook it at him, and told him if he wanted to know he could ask John Lantz, the bishop. It was only common sense and good manners, and it brought a blessing to a family to name a son after the father.

  Andy Fisher’s Ruth was their maud (hired helper), arriving before breakfast, a small, narrow-faced girl with brilliant green eyes and a small sliver of red hair showing around her cap. Kate would stay in bed for ten days and be waited on for everything she needed. Ruth was capable, and the household was run smoothly, much to Hans’s delight.

  He felt sorry for Hester, the poor, dear child, not able to understand any of this, Kate in bed with the new baby that she was so jealous of. She held out her arms and wailed for her mother, but Kate was not allowed to hold her because it would take too much strength.

  So Hans spent a lot of time with Hester. He taught her to take her first steps, watching her face as she concentrated on keeping her balance. Her black eyes lit up with the challenge as she wobbled toward her father, giggling gleefully as he swooped her against his chest in a loving embrace when she succeeded in taking a few steps alone.

  From her bed, Kate’s eyes shone, watching Hans with their daughter. Yes, he was a wonderful father, so good with her, the dear man.

  As she fed their son, she held him close, running the palms of her hands across the small, bald head and marveling at his beauty. He was so different from Hester. Of course he was. He was white, and would likely be blond when his hair came in, but he had Kate’s blue eyes and a strong nose. This baby was already sturdy and well rounded, his hands and feet large. She envisioned him walking behind the plow, his hands clenched on the wooden handles, his bare feet coming down solidly, crumbling the earth. These hands would wield an axe, fell mighty trees, clear land of his own, continue the way and heritage of the Amish.