An Amish Courtship on Ice Mountain

by Kelly Long

  He recognized a kindred spirit and went on to finish the meal in better spirits. At least not everyone blindly follows the commands of the bishop . . .

  * * *

  Martha leaned over on her hands and knees, scrubbing the hardwood floor and trying to ignore the familiar light-headed sensation that always came at the end of a long day of work and little food. Her grandmother had accidentally spilled some water on the floor, and Martha had decided she might as well scrub the entire area under the auld woman’s bed. She finished and blew out a breath to cool her forehead, sitting back on her heels.

  “You had less than a spoonful of that oatmeal ya cooked for supper, dearie,” Esther Yoder murmured, leaning over the side of her bed.

  Martha smiled at her and reached out to pat her grandmother’s blue-veined hands. “It doesn’t matter. Tomorrow I will make an extra batch of scrambled eggs.” Her belly growled at the thought, and she laughed.

  A brisk knock on the door broke her good humor, and she got to her feet, worrying wearily that it might be Judah. But when she opened the door and stepped outside to keep the chill from her grossmuder, she saw nothing but a large wicker basket.

  She picked it up tentatively, glancing around, then caught the rich scent of baked ham from within. She hastened indoors and set the basket on the floor.

  “What is it, dearie?”

  Martha lifted the latch and pulled up the lid. She felt dizzy for a moment at the sight of so much food crowding the wicker confines to bulging capacity.

  “It’s—food,” Martha said slowly, trying to reason who might bring such bounty to their home. Surely not Judah? If anything, he’d think starving was gut for us . . . But, perhaps, Joel? Nee, not when I shut him out so coldly . . . She realized her grandmother was speaking and answered with haste.

  “What? I’m sorry—I was only thinking of who might—”

  “Derr Herr, that’s Who,” Esther said briskly. “Now, kumme. Serve it up, and make your own plate first, my girlie.”

  Martha obeyed, overwhelmed by such bounty. Baked ham and coleslaw; scalloped potatoes and mashed, sweet potatoes with marshmallow and rich brown gravy in a carefully placed cup. And coconut cream pie, as well as half an apple streusel. Why, such an amount could last them for days, Martha thought. If I’m careful . . .

  She portioned out plates, adding just a spoonful more to everyone else’s but her own. Then she sat down next to her grandmother in a rickety chair and ate slowly and with thankfulness. She had been worried what they would do with the pantry running so very low and the potatoes nearly gone, but soon it would be spring and she might plant the garden, which always sustained them for a good long while.

  She balanced her plate on her knees and savored the rich taste of marshmallow and sweet potatoes, wondering against her will what Joel Umble was doing that nacht.

  * * *

  Joel stood in the dark cold, back in the trees behind Martha’s cabin. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other to keep warm and hoped that the Yoders would find the food sustaining. He was waiting until he saw a candle through the window of the small pantry, indicating that Martha was in her room, and then he would try to ask her once more whether she might court with him.

  He rationalized as he waited, hoping she wouldn’t think the food came from him. He had seen the proud lift of her chin and knew that she would not like to accept charity, especially if she might somehow associate it as a bribe to win her favor. He sighed aloud at the thought, then nearly jumped out of his skin when the play of a lantern shone through the trees. Someone is coming along this way—and at such a late hour of nacht.

  He immediately stood taut, wondering if the person meant harm to the Yoders.

  “Joel?”

  He lifted his head at the harsh sound of his name and turned to face the tall man behind the lantern.

  Chapter Seven

  Martha startled upright on her meager bed when a spatter of pebbles struck the glass window on the opposite wall just a few feet away. Dear Gott, it’s Judah already . . . She flung back her thin quilt and sat upright, her breathing sounding harsh to her own ears. It was typical of her people to court initially in secret, at nacht, when the others of the girl’s haus were asleep. But in her thin nachtgown, she felt almost defenseless, for she knew that nothing would change Judah’s resolve. She swallowed, and her bare toes curled back from the icy wood floor as she went to the door of the shed that was her bedroom and opened the latch. For a moment, she saw nothing but dark, and then a tall figure stepped into the light of the guttering candle she had on the wooden box that was her makeshift nightstand.

  She bit her lip and looked up into his face, then gasped in surprise as he easily removed his hat. “Joel?”

  “Jah,” he whispered. “May I—would you allow me to kumme in?”

  “Wh—why?” she asked, not caring now about the cold. Just having the chance to talk with him alone seemed warm and heartening somehow.

  He cleared his throat. “I’ve told you. I want to court you, Martha.”

  She stared up into his blue eyes and felt a stunning lassitude begin to steal over her. Perhaps this would be a chance for a moment of happiness against what she knew would only be misery at Judah’s hands. Maybe Gott had sent Joel to her . . .

  She widened the door and he stepped in, ducking his head beneath the low wood frame. She waited while he shut out the cold, her hands fisted with desire at her sides, her longing to touch him so great she could taste it.

  “Martha?”

  He stepped so close to her she could smell the subdued pine of his soap, and she shivered. She arched her back and watched with some inborn womanly knowledge as his gaze lowered and his handsome face flushed.

  He moved quickly, catching her hard against him until she could feel his own body’s response, and then he was kissing her, slanting his head, using his tongue, until she closed her eyes in wanton desire and tangled her arms about his broad shoulders.

  He bit her bottom lip cruelly and her eyes flew open . . . She tasted blood at the exact moment she recognized Judah’s mocking face . . .

  * * *

  Joel stared at the man who held the lantern in the dark woods and had the curious sensation that he was falling, even though his legs held firm. He blinked, trying to see better, when he suddenly felt as though a chasm had opened somewhere in time, directly in front of him. He was powerless to turn from the vision, a hazy scene that brought the metallic taste of blood to his mouth and an incredible certainty that death loomed somewhere near. And then it was gone and he stood staring at his old friend, welcoming the sharp glare of the lantern light.

  “Buwe, you look like you expect a ghost. Don’t ya know your friend, Ole Dan Zook?”

  Joel exhaled and half laughed, reaching to shake the other man’s big hand. “Dan—nee, I didn’t know you in the dark.” He strove to keep his voice steady. “What are you doing out here at this time of nacht?”

  Dan Zook lived up in the high timber and had been a friend to Joel’s daed. Joel could remember sitting on the auld mountain man’s knee when he was little more than a toddler. When Joel’s daed had passed away, it had been Dan who had often filled in the gaps in Joel’s knowledge of the woods and who’d continued to foster in him a love of its creatures.

  “Well,” Dan grunted, “I know what I’m doing about here—hanging some smoked fish in the Yoders’ barn. But what about you?”

  Joel shook his head in the light of the lifted lantern. “Something similar, I guess.”

  Dan threw back his great head and laughed. “I knowed you since you was little, Joel Umble. And you can’t fool auld Dan. You’re hanging around in the dark waitin’ ta court that Yoder maedel, am I right?”

  Joel had to smile. Normally, the absolute secrecy of courting was of the utmost importance, but he’d already told May, whom he knew he could trust, and he knew that admitting his intentions to Dan would feel good. Besides, Dan lived far from the reach of Bishop Loftus and any community
gossip; he’d been shunned two years before because he’d dared to have words with the bishop during a preaching sermon. Joel didn’t remember the text, but he had known Dan was right when he heard him speak. And Dan had been able to make it on his own, living off the land. Joel knew that he wasn’t technically supposed to be speaking to a shunned Amish person, but he also knew he’d acknowledge Dan anywhere.

  “Jah,” Joel said softly, coming back to the moment. “I seek to court Martha Yoder, but she doesn’t seem to want me.”

  Old Dan sighed. “The child’s as wild as the wind; you won’t be able to reach her with your words or books, I don’t imagine.”

  Books! Joel thought quickly, ignoring his friend’s advice. I’ll write her a poem or a letter . . . Words on a page are harder to deny at times than those spoken . . . He was thankful to have something to concentrate on besides his eerie vision.

  “Ach, buwe . . . I can fair hear the wheels turnin’ in that head of yours. I should have kept me big mouth shut. Well, I’ll be headin’ on. Looks like there’s a bit of candlelight in the small window yonder. Gott’s peace be with ya, sohn.”

  Joel embraced the auld mountain of a man in the dark after Dan had dimmed the lantern. “Danki . . . I’ll kumme up and see you soon, my friend. And Dan . . . be careful, will you?”

  Dan grunted, then stepped on, his large frame barely making a sound on the snowy ground.

  Joel turned back to the Yoders’ cabin and found that his heart was throbbing at his pulse points and he felt as though he’d run a long mile through sodden earth, but he ignored all of this as he headed for the small door of Martha’s pantry bedroom.

  * * *

  Martha sat bolt upright in bed, stifling a scream after her heated dream had turned to a nightmare, but somehow she steeled her heart and set her jaw with determination . . . She knew then that if Joel Umble should ever kumme courting, she’d let him in and—Well. I’ll let him in, if only for a few moments. And I’ll be able to live off of whatever he says or does even in a lifetime spent with Judah . . .

  * * *

  Joel threw the pebble lightly, striking the glass in the window with accuracy. He held his breath as he considered the charged implications of his actions. The hard stone against the fragility of the glass, begging for entry—it was all too symbolic of what a man’s body did with a woman’s, and it left him feeling hot inside his wool coat, despite the cold of the air.

  Then the candlelight wavered and the small door to the pantry room was opened a bit, cascading mellow warmth out into the snow. He half smiled, feeling oddly close to tears. He was in . . .

  It was odd, but it seemed almost as though Martha had been waiting for him. She seemed very practical in her movements as she held the door wider for him to duck and enter. He slipped off his hat, then rose to his full height in the narrow room.

  He glanced at the sparse space between her handmade willow bed and the shelf housing the limited preserves of the family. Two canned jars of venison, a few green beans, and a pint of crushed tomatoes. Nothing on which to sustain a family for very long . . .

  “Did you kumme to take an accounting of our food supplies, Joel Umble?” she asked in brisk tones, and he swung his gaze back to her.

  “Nee,” he said huskily. “And what limit I might see on the shelves is more than made up for by the bounty you provide to the eye.”

  She tilted her head as if weighing the value of his words, and he was struck by the slender outline of her body in her thin cotton nachtgown. He wasn’t completely sure, but he thought that most of the time, Amish girls courted with their hair up and their skirts down, but he was beginning to understand that Martha would do as she pleased—tradition or not.

  She was standing with her hands folded in front of her, pressed against the back wall of the sliver of a room, and she looked like he felt: half scared, but wide-eyed with excitement. She was illuminated beauty in the midst of darkness . . . save for the single candle that guttered on a small table at the head of the bed.

  “Do you want me here?” he asked finally. He wondered if she heard the note of hope that lingered in the air with his whispered question.

  He watched her pale face, her eyes shining like pools of autumn sunshine, and could barely suppress his sigh of relief when she nodded.

  “Jah,” she whispered back, and then slowly moved her right hand to indicate the bed. “Would—do you want to sit?”

  He moved to sit down gingerly on the edge of the bed with its tattered quilt cover, unsure if the wood would hold his weight—but it did, after an alarming creak or two. He drew a deep breath, trying to relax, when Martha stepped forward, only to sink down beside him. Her thigh pressed against his, and Joel felt the overwhelming sensation that his heart would pound out of his chest.

  “You nervous?” she ventured, and he nodded, unable to stop himself.

  “You shouldn’t be,” she went on, almost wistfully. “You got a nice haus, nice clothes, and such—money. I’m half ashamed to have you here in this shack. But it’s mine and who I am.”

  Joel looked at her then. “I’d wager the dreams you dream in this little room are as great as those dreamed in palaces far away. I’m not a snob, Martha.”

  “Nee, I wasn’t saying that. I just—” She paused, and he grasped the moment, leaning over to press his mouth to hers.

  He drew away after a second, and she stared at him, then spoke. “I guess we should practice for longer, if we want to get gut at it.” There was both anxiety and an odd note of sadness in her voice.

  But he half smiled. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Jah. Why?”

  “Because I bet that half the girls I know would make me pay for that kiss with a dozen compliments or try to parlay it into a marriage proposal—” He broke off.

  “I don’t want anything from you, Joel Umble.” Her voice was clear for all its quiet, and it resonated in his heart.

  * * *

  I don’t want anything from him, but that’s a lie . . . I’m being selfish . . . Suppose he thinks that I might have feelings for him or that—that he might have feelings for me—He could get hurt in more ways than one when he finds out about Judah . . . and all because I’m a silly girl who doesn’t want to give up my dreams . . .

  She stood up abruptly and felt his bewilderment even as she turned to face him.

  “Martha—what? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, but you have to geh. Now. I—I was being foolish; a very silly girl.”

  He rose and trailed a finger down her shoulder, causing her to shiver with pleasure against her will. “You’re a very beautiful woman.”

  She shook her head and walked away from him to open the door, letting in the blustery cold air. “Please geh.”

  He put his hat on in slow motion, then moved to pass her—but stopped and looked at her directly. “I told you once, Martha. I’m not giving up. I will not give up on us.”

  He stepped out into the dark nacht, and she closed the door, pulling the latch tight. Us . . . Us . . . He’s not giving up on us. But there is no us . . .

  And the reality of this thought caused her to sink to the icy floor beneath her bare feet and begin to sob.

  Chapter Eight

  “Where was Judah last nacht, Joel?”

  His mother’s voice was worried as she served their breakfast of scrambled eggs, ham steak, and wheat toast.

  “Probably out checking a trap,” Joel said wearily. He’d noticed his bruder hadn’t been abed the previous nacht but had been too focused on Martha to care. “And that’s where he is this morning, too, I bet.”

  “I guess so.” His mamm played with her toast, breaking it into small pieces, and Joel sighed, longing to ease the anxious movements of his mother’s fingers.

  “What was it like when Daed courted you? Can you tell me?”

  His mamm stared at him, seeming almost startled by his abrupt question. Joel realized that in no way would an Amish woman of his mother’s generation disc
uss courting with a sohn, but he was happy that he’d broken her anxious train of thoughts for a moment.

  “Joel,” she finally snapped. “How dare you ask such a question?”

  He secretly delighted in the fact that her face held a healthy flush of color, and he reached across the table to catch one of her hands in his. “Mamm, I love you. I want you to have abundant life.”

  She pulled away from him and snatched up her plate, rising from the table. “You talk foolishness, Joel. As if there is such a thing on this earth as abundant life . . . Huh, if you understood true worry, then you would never say—” She broke off, dumping the plate in the sink, and Joel felt a deep disconsolation.

  “I need some things from the store,” his mother murmured, her anger gone, quicksilver as always.

  “Let me check on the sheep first, and then I’ll geh.” He took his dishes to the sink and walked outside, feeling a cold within that matched that of the mountain’s chill.

  * * *

  Martha tried to concentrate on the fact that she knew there were enough leftovers from the basket the previous evening for both her and her family to eat. But she had to get away from the cabin—from her memory of the nacht before—even if it was only for a brief time.

  She quietly took down the cracked black pocketbook that was hidden behind the coffee can on the single shelf in the kitchen area. She undid the clasp and stared at the few coins inside: all the money that was left from her working last summer, cleaning cabins for the Englisch on the other side of the mountain. She knew she could get a large sweet onion for three cents from Sol Kauffman’s store and decided she’d make a venison stew in the Dutch oven for the next day’s food. She took the small change, put the pocketbook back, and slipped from the cabin while the rest of her family still slept.

  She tried to pray as she hurried along the slushy paths that led to the heart of the community, and she found that her steps beat out a tattoo in her head . . . I won’t think about it. I won’t think about it . . . But then a hawk called, triumphant in snatching its prey, and she bit her lip as her mind replayed the scene of her first courting with Judah Umble.