Hester on the Run

by Linda Byler

  CHAPTER 9

  THAT SHE WAS AN INDIAN BECAME MORE EVIDENT as time went on, Kate thought to herself, watching her eldest daughter at twelve years of age. The high cheekbones, the flat nose. Her profile was striking, the full view of her face breathtaking, as she blossomed into the first fringes of womanhood.

  She was still a girl, a child, and yet there was a difference. She moved with a supple grace, her footfalls without sound. She moved through doors, opening them only wide enough to allow her slim body to slip through, as if opening them wider would allow too much wasted space.

  She often seemed to experience the house as an uncomfortable place of detention, causing her to become restless, often pacing from window to window and back again.

  With the horses, she was phenomenal, showing no fear and much patience. She exercised a skillful authority that usurped Hans’s own expertise. That was why she often accompanied her father on his horseshoeing forays, able to assist with the mean-spirited ones.

  On this day in early summer, Hans had asked Kate if it was all right to take Hester, but Kate had demurred, saying the blackberries were ripe, and they needed all they could get to make jam. Hans protested, becoming quite upset, but Kate refused to budge. The family numbered ten now, after the births of Menno and six-week-old Emma.

  In the rocker by the hearth, Kate rocked the baby, the chair almost completely hidden by her voluminous skirts, spreading over her ample hips and long, thick legs. Her swollen feet protruded from beneath the heavy skirt, her soiled black apron reaching only a bit below the knees. Her arms were thick and capable, her shoulders fleshy and soft, a home to the dear babies God had been kind enough to allow them to have. That was a thought she still clung to, grasping it with greedy fingers as she completely panicked at the thought that kept trying to push its way into her knowing.

  Her life was often a bit more than she could handle. She tried steadily to tip the scales toward accepting children as good blessings, at least they were supposed to be.

  Kate struggled. She loved a clean house. She liked her washing done on time, the whites as white as possible. For that, she scrubbed the laundry in water that was almost unbearably hot, using a knife to scrape cakes of strong lye soap with a vengeance.

  She carefully folded and put away the wind-blown wash as soon as it was dry. She liked to have a weed-free garden, the walk and floors of the house swept.

  But when the babies came every year, the workload increased tenfold. The pounds on her tall frame kept adding on until, when she came to the age of forty, her bones creaked in the morning, her back hurt by evening, and still the babies cried. The weeds multiplied in the garden, and Hans could hardly keep up with the farm and all the horseshoeing.

  Kate slung little Emma across her back in a large cloth tied around her shoulders. She told all the children to come along, to gather up the wooden pails by the springhouse, and to climb the ridge behind the house with her.

  Hester helped with the little ones, carrying Menno piggyback, her strides effortless, until she pulled far ahead of everyone else.

  Kate grabbed a young locust tree, lowered her head, and gasped for breath, the pain in her chest suddenly smothering her. She coughed and wheezed and put a hand to her throat. She watched the little ones cavorting about the low grass like energetic rabbits and remembered wistfully the time when she, too, frolicked so effortlessly.

  Quite unexpectedly, an unexplainable rage gripped her. She lifted her head and screeched at Hester in a thin, whining sound of reprisal. “Hester! Stop! You’re going too fast, and you don’t wait on the little ones!”

  Impatient, Hester turned without saying anything, her eyes flat, dark slits. Menno was asleep on her back.

  Mopping her streaming forehead with the edge of her dark apron, Kate saw her young daughter looking like an Indian princess—haughty, superior, capable—and the first nibble of jealousy crept into her heart, a subtle invasion, a harbinger of maladies.

  Oh, she looked astounding, this child who was no longer the small baby she had found. Her hair was like the wing of a raven. She had perfect form, the ability to climb any mountain or tree, ride any horse, and impress Hans with all of it.

  Of course, it was Hester who led them to the black raspberries. They were even better than the blackberries. At the edge of a natural clearing, the bushes grew in such great abundance, it was difficult to remain calm.

  The children squealed in delight and were soon covered in purple stains as they tore the berries off the prickly bushes and stuffed them into their mouths. They savored the sweet juice on their tongues, forgetting their steady diet of turnips, cabbage, carrots, deer meat, and pork.

  They filled every pail heaping full. Then Hester took off her apron and filled it with the succulent berries. Bees flew lazily by, sated with the sweet juice, and butterflies hovered over the vast growth, sipping their own portion of summer’s bounty.

  Noah stopped, lifting his face as three crows wheeled across the sky, their raucous cries a warning to his trained ears. At the same moment, Hester pointed, mute.

  A black bear and her cubs.

  Hester and Noah acted in one accord, herding the children silently, efficiently, out of the clearing.

  “Mam, you must come.” Noah’s voice was a whisper but with much urgency, a tone that Kate completely missed. Loudly, she said, “This bucket isn’t full yet.”

  Noah held a finger to his lips, grabbed the baby from her sling, and ran into the safety of the woods where Hester had herded the remainder of the family.

  Intent on filling the one pail to the brim, Kate turned back to the bushes, her wide back to the heavy black brute that was now raised up on its hind legs, its nose snuffling, sniffing the wind. Its small brown eyes rolled from left to right, searching for the intruder with the strange smell.

  Kate turned at the cawing of the crows, subconsciously aware that it was never a good omen. At the same time, the bear dropped on all fours and moved toward the trespasser in her berry patch. Kate turned and froze. The black bulk was moving fast in its lopsided, shuffling gait, the hulking body propelled by the bear’s desperation to save her cubs.

  A high wail of despair tore from Kate’s lips, and she raised her arms up over her face, instinctively shielding herself from the black onslaught. The mother bear hit her with terrific force. Its stinking hot breath was the only thing preceding the slashing, red hot, ripping sensation as four sharp teeth embedded themselves in the soft white flesh of Kate’s shoulder, shredding the homespun fabric with ease.

  She didn’t know if she was screaming or the bear or her cubs. She only knew that a blood-curdling bellow went on and on as she lay, waiting for the subsequent bites and her death. She knew the end was here as she cried out in the German language of her forebears. She remembered her parents in Switzerland and the loss she realized when she left them, knowing she would never see them again.

  “Mein Gott, ich bitte dich, hilf mihr” (My God, I beg you, help me)!

  She begged for mercy, at the same moment she accepted her fate.

  “Dein villa geshay, auf erden vie im Himmel” (Yet, oh blessed Lord, your will be done on earth as it is in heaven).

  The screaming went on, the wild howling accompanied by thumps, someone beating, beating.

  Kate knew the bear had gone when an eerie quiet hung over the clearing. She lay on her side, her bloodied shoulder on the ground. Slowly, she rolled on her back and grimaced as she struggled to sit up.

  Immediately, Hester was there, her dark eyes taking in everything—the shredded dress, the punctured shoulder, the dark blood pumping out of it, slowly running down her arm and across her dress front.

  “Komm” (Come). Hester spoke calmly as she helped her mother to her feet. They both knew the importance of getting to the house as quickly as possible. To save her mother the added burden, Hester transported baby Emma in the sling and carried two pails, while Noah and Isaac brought the remaining berries, the other children between them, their eyes wide wi
th fear.

  No one complained or lagged behind, and few words were spoken as they made their way off the mountain. Often Noah looked back or to the left, then to the right, keenly aware of his surroundings as Hester took the lead. She strode swiftly down the steep incline, scrambling over rocks and between trees, her only objective to get her family back to the safety of the house.

  They poulticed Kate’s bleeding shoulder with ground red pepper, eliminating the heavy flow of blood almost immediately.

  Noah slung his powerful body across the back of the swiftest roan and rode headlong to Lissie Hershberger’s house. She was in her garden, busily tying up her pole beans, hot, red-faced, and ill humored. She sincerely hoped that crazy rider was not someone needing assistance. She was dead tired and so sleepy her whole head felt fuzzy. Midwifery wasn’t easy, and she wasn’t young anymore.

  Hans Zug’s Noah. What did he want?

  He told her, breathlessly, shaking the blond hair away from his face. Lissie gave herself up right then and there, but she couldn’t help grumbling to herself, imagining that fat Kate, so greedy for berries to make all that jam to put on her many slices of bread. Her own fault.

  Ach no, she reasoned. Forgive me, Herr Jesu. I have sinned.

  Lissie settled the cloak of love securely about her shoulders, buttoned it well with the virtue of duty, hitched up her own horse, and drove recklessly to Hans Zug’s, her leather case of tinctures and salves rattling along on the back seat of her wagon.

  She entered the house amid crying babies and wide-eyed little ones. Kate was propped up on pillows, grim-faced and pale.

  “Voss hot gevva” (What gives)?

  Kate blinked, then ground out through tight lips, “A mother bear. Picking raspberries.”

  Lissie peered over her round, gold spectacles and lifted the thick square of cloth.

  She clucked like a hen, sucked her teeth, and said, “Eye, yei, yei.”

  Kate lifted worried eyes and asked if she’d be all right.

  “Oh, ya, ya. But she got you good. It’s a wonder she didn’t finish you off.”

  “She would have, but for Hester.”

  Lissie stood still.

  “Hester?”

  “Ya.”

  “What did she do?”

  “Oh, she screamed and carried on.”

  “She banged on the bear with a big branch, kept it right up, yelling the whole time,” Isaac offered, his eyes bright with excitement.

  Lissie turned to Hester, who sat on the wooden rocker holding the baby, dipping a cloth into warm milk, satisfying its constant need to be fed for now.

  Hester ducked her head, and Lissie was presented with the sheen of black hair.

  “Hester! My, oh,” Lissie said.

  Hester volunteered nothing, so Lissie turned to her bandaging. She washed the wound with hot water and lye soap, then laid comfrey leaves over it and held them tight with clean cloths, watching as Kate’s lips compressed, gritting her teeth as Lissie pressed the remedy against her skin. She’d be fine, Lissie knew. This woman was strong.

  “All right?”

  Kate nodded.

  Lissie knew her remedies. Chickweed salve and a clean compress with strips tied around her chest and beneath her arms, comfrey tea, and comfrey leaves to help with infection.

  Lissie marveled at Kate’s size. My goodness, she was a lump. Now who would take care of all those raspberries, with her laid up from that bear chomp?

  “There you go, Kate. Now don’t do anything for at least a week. You could tear those puncture wounds, and you don’t want to start up the bleeding. Do you need help putting away the raspberries?”

  Kate tried to smile, but it turned into a grimace. “Hester can.”

  “By herself?”

  “I think so.”

  From her seat on the rocking chair, Hester raised her head. Lissie watched the dark eyes glisten in the noon light, slide away from her mother’s face, then move back again. This time, a new and darker light shone from those mesmerizing eyes, and Lissie stiffened, her small blue eyes going rapidly from Kate’s face to Hester’s.

  Was there ztvie dracht (divisions)?

  Turning to Hester, Lissie raised her eyebrows.

  “You look tired. You have things to do. I’ll manage,” Hester spoke quietly.

  Lissie looked dubiously at the little, dark-skinned girl, at the nine children surrounding her, the weary Kate, the six pails of raspberries, the apron thrown in the corner with dark purple juice leaking out of its bulk, spreading a purple stain across the scrubbed oak floor. And Lissie made up her mind. She’d stay.

  Hester placed the sleeping Emma in the cradle by the hearth, sliced a loaf of sourdough bread, spread it with wild pear butter, and sat the children in rows on the benches pulled up on each side of the long plank table.

  Lissie poured cups of spearmint tea and laced it with molasses. The children ate hungrily, and then the littlest ones were put to bed for their naps. Kate fell asleep, snoring softly.

  Noah and Isaac went down to the barn to finish cleaning the cow stables. Lissie set to work.

  Hester was a fast learner. She washed the berries and put them to cook in the large cast iron pot.

  Lissie tried to get Hester to talk, in the manner of mother and daughter. She soon discovered that Hester was not comfortable with too many questions. Yes, she got along well with her mother. Yes, she enjoyed the babies. Yes, she worked hard. Yes, she liked it.

  Finally, Lissie’s round form shook with laughter. “Can’t you say anything except yes?”

  Hester’s head dipped, but her eyes sparkled, and when she raised her head, Lissie felt as if an angel had visited her. When she finally looked Lissie full in the face and smiled a full, wide smile, her eyes danced with humor.

  Where would this young girl’s destiny take her? She was, indeed, a special girl, a gift of God for Hans and Kate. But after nine children in ten years, did they remember? Or was Hester turning into an unpaid servant?

  She mentioned Hans, and Hester’s face lit up.

  “Dat likes me. He’s very nice to me. He buys me things special. He tells me to hide it from the others. Especially Noah and Isaac.”

  Lissie’s eyes narrowed. She stopped stirring the raspberries. “He does?”

  Hester nodded happily.

  “Look!”

  She ran to the adjoining bedroom, and Lissie heard the scraping of a box on the wooden floor. Hester returned with a necklace of turquoise stones, draping it across her fingers, lifting them to move the exquisite lights of blue green. “Isn’t it beautiful?” she whispered.

  “But it’s jewelry. From Indians. We Amish don’t believe in adornment of the body. Hester, Hans should not have given it to you.”

  “Oh, it’s just for pretty. To keep. I have to put it in my box under the bed.”

  Lissie nodded, her eyes wary. Well, suspicious or not, real Christian love would accept and believe the child’s story, so she did, for at least five minutes. Then she blurted out, “But he didn’t ask you to wear the forbidden jewelry?”

  Hester shook her head, her eyes averted.

  When she looked up, Lissie’s eyes questioned the shaking of her head, but again, Hester’s eyes were flat and expressionless, so Lissie shrugged it off once more and changed the subject.

  Hester, however, enthused by the rare peek into her dearest thoughts, told Lissie how Hans had draped the necklace about her neck, just to see what a true Indian looked like. “He doesn’t schput (mock) my dark skin, the way some others do. He is a very good father. He is kind.”

  Lissie lifted the heavy square of muslin, bulging with steam and hot cooked raspberries, and squeezed so hard the juice burst out of the cloth. She burned her fingers and whistled.

  “Häse” (Hot)! she chortled.

  Hester laughed out loud, a sound like the tinkling of cold spring water tumbling over mossy stones. Lissie realized why the sound shocked her. Hester rarely laughed, and certainly not out loud.

 
They added precious coarse sugar to the steaming raspberry juice, then set it to boil in the big pot over the low burning embers in the fireplace, filling the whole house with its summery fragrance.

  Lissie set about mixing lard and brown flour, wetting it with vinegar water, her capable hands kneading and mixing. She thumped the wooden rolling pin across the lump of dough under Hester’s watchful eye.

  Not one bit of the raspberries went to waste. Lissie poured the pulpy mush out of the muslin square, added a bit of sugar, and thickened it with more flour. Then she dumped the mixture into the waiting pie crusts, slapped another rolled pastry on top, and set the pies on the table while she got the brick oven going.

  Not too far away from the back door, Hans had built a bake oven for his wife. The low building was large enough to contain a sizable brick oven with a cast iron door built into the opening and room for a roaring fire. A large wooden paddle hung on a hook beside the oven. When the fire had died down, and the coals had been raked out of the oven, Kate placed pies and bread on this thick paddle, inserted it into the vast interior, or slid it beneath them when they were done baking and pulled them back out.

  The bake oven was not in the kitchen because of the heat in the summertime. Kate was as proud of Hans’s craftsmanship of the oven as she was of the springhouse he had built.

  With the addition built onto the house and the many acres Hans had cleared through the years, the little gray house and weathered barn were turning into a farm, a place where hard work and skilled traits were in evidence.

  Kate lay in her bed enduring the pain, half listening to Lissie Hershberger and Hester. When Hester laughed out loud, Kate strained to see, catching a glimpse of their bent heads, Hester voicing her admiration of Hans.

  Wearily, Kate closed her eyes and let her head roll back and sink mercifully into the softness of the feather pillow. That bothersome old agitation about Hans’s admiration of Hester was too wearying for words. Lissie didn’t need to be nosing into their life this way. It really was none of her concern. But here Kate was, unable to work, Lissie’s capable hands fa-sarking (caring for) all the raspberries, and she was having contentious, selfish thoughts. She was ashamed. She fell asleep with humility coasting through her dreams.