by Kelly Long
Mrs. Ellis clapped her hands like a small child. “Then I must give you a gift.”
Martha tried to protest, but her words were waved away. “Really, dear, it’s my pleasure. Now just sit here a moment. I’ll be right back.”
Martha watched the trim lady’s retreating back and took a moment to glance around her surroundings. It was odd how cheery but cluttered the room seemed, with all of its knickknacks and small mirrors. She was considering what it might be like to housekeep for Joel when Mrs. Ellis came bustling back. The older woman sat down and handed Martha a small black velvet box.
“Now, I know your people don’t wear jewelry, but I would imagine you use garters to hold those woolen socks up?”
Martha nodded, feeling heat come into her cheeks, and then she opened the box. A frilly light blue garter rested inside. It was a beautiful, dainty thing and she fingered it gently.
“I wore that, on my thigh, on my wedding night,” Mrs. Ellis confided in a near whisper.
“Ach, then it’s very special. I—I cannot accept . . .”
“I have the memory, dear. I’d rather think of it as making new memories . . . if you take my meaning.”
Martha felt her blush deepen. “Jah, I understand.” She closed the small box and slipped it into Joel’s coat pocket, wondering excitedly what their wedding nacht would be like . . .
* * *
Joel slid the old-fashioned key into the lock of the green door that led to the Ice Mine. The mine itself had been discovered in the late eighteen hundreds, when a miner who had been seeking silver found a display of palatial summer ice instead. The clear and sparkling ice formed into huge icicles in the spring and summer but completely disappeared in the winter.
Joel opened the door, and a rush of cold air greeted them.
“Always refreshing and never the same, I think.” He smiled down at Martha, who nodded in agreement; then he reached inside the darkness for the lantern and matches that were housed on the cave wall.
He turned up the light and held it aloft, carefully taking Martha’s hand to lead her forward.
“Careful, now, the footing is slick.”
He heard Martha’s soft giggle. “Joel Umble, I know the bottom of this mine like I know my own woodpile, but still . . . it’s wonderful to have someone care if I slip.”
He half turned to her, letting the warm light of the lantern play over the delicate skin of her face. “You’ve always had to carry everyone, haven’t you?”
She smiled and shook her head. “What else is there but to work for and love each other?”
“There’s you—the wonderful, incredible you as a person and who you are in Derr Herr.”
She pressed tight against him. “Danki, Joel Umble.”
He kissed her in the haloed light, letting himself feel the chill of the air and the sweet warmth of her lips. Then he remembered where they were and the dangers of the Ice Mine shaft that plunged a gut forty feet into the earth. “Step over here, Martha. Do you want to hold the lantern? I’d like to touch the ice along the far wall.”
There was a certain sanctity to the ice; a provision of Gott’s hand to cool the mind and body when it was needed most. Joel gave Martha the lantern and stepped to the first of several foot-thick ice formations. He felt happy as he placed his hand against the clear, wet surface, and then everything seemed to collapse before him. He knew he was having another vision, and even felt more in control of it, until he heard Martha’s scream. He tried to move, to reach for her, but he couldn’t break with the images that swallowed him. Her screams continued, and then he saw her laboring to bring forth a child—her knees bent, her hair damp with sweat. He wanted to encourage her, to soothe her, but the scene shifted, and then he was walking in green grass.
There were seven tombstones, all alike in Amish style. He walked past them slowly, bending to touch the top of each one with his fingertips. He counted as he walked, each one a death knell ringing in his heart, and he heard Martha sobbing, her words blurred by tears, far away. He scrambled desperately in his mind to understand what she was saying, but the vision ended like a window closing, leaving him only with the cold of ice beneath his hand and within his pounding heart.
“Joel?” Martha’s voice was clear in his ears.
He turned to face her.
“Joel, you’re stone white. What’s wrong? What did you see?”
“Nothing. It was . . . foolishness, that’s all.” And yet every vision he’d seen had come true or been true . . . seven tombstones for seven children: his children, Martha’s children. He swallowed hard. I will not put Martha through that; I’ll change that vision and its outcome. I will not get her pregnant with my kinner—I don’t care if I even have to marry her, then court her forever—there will be no deaths.
Feeling both shaken and resolved, he ignored her questioning expression and gently took the lantern back. He caught her cold fingers and blew out the light, leaving them standing still together in darkness before he shoved the door open with his shoulder and pulled her into the light.
Chapter Fourteen
The sorrel horse, Trotter, made short work of the three-mile buggy trip to Coudersport. Still, Martha had time to study Joel’s handsome profile as he sat with the reins easily held between his long thin fingers. He’d pushed his hat back a bit from his brow and she knew that he was deep in thought. He had experienced something at the Ice Mine, but she also knew that it was something he wanted to keep private . . . After all, don’t I have things about me that I want to keep close to my heart? Or am I to share every secret with Joel?
She pushed aside the confusing thoughts as they rode into Coudersport. The small town was bustling with afternoon shoppers and shiny automobiles. There were also a few buggies and wagons, but Martha saw no other Amish, which relieved her in a way—she knew only too well of the Amish grapevine, even from community to community.
Although she had not been to the town in several years, Martha felt a renewed excitement just being able to look in the shop windows they passed. She was aware of Joel driving the buggy with confidence up the main street and knew a sudden pounding of her heart when they stopped at a rambling white house with bright green shutters. There was a white sign with black lettering on it, which she guessed read JUSTICE OF THE PEACE.
Joel confirmed her thoughts when he pulled Trotter to a stop, set the brake, then turned to smile at her. “Ready?”
“Jah,” she said, looking him in the eyes.
Then he gestured to the sign with his chin. “Strange name, isn’t it?”
Martha quickly agreed, having no idea what the name read. She found her voice after a tense moment. “We Amish have our odd names too.”
“So we do.” Joel jumped down, tied Trotter to the hitching post, then came around to Martha’s side of the buggy. He reached up strong arms, and she couldn’t help but delight in the firm press of his body as she slid to the ground.
As they walked hand in hand up the porch steps, it was impossible not to hear what sounded like a general ruckus coming from inside the haus, followed by the shrill squealing of a pig.
Joel looked at her and shrugged, then opened the screen door to knock hard, three times. If anything, the commotion from within seemed to escalate and the pig squeals became more persistent. After a second try at knocking, Joel grinned at her. “Do you think I dare open the door?”
“Why not?” she said smilingly in return. “At least we know somebody’s home.”
Joel knocked once more, then opened the door a crack. “Hello?”
Martha nearly lost her footing when Joel’s shoulder bumped into her as something came barreling through the door from the other side. A huge pink pig with a mottled brown side ran out, squealing in ear-piercing bursts. This was followed by rapid footsteps and then voices from inside the haus.
Martha couldn’t help but stifle a giggle when the pig gained the sidewalk and bowled over a gentleman in pointy-toed cowboy boots. The man raised his voice above the squeals.
“Dammit, Phillipe!”
But the pig kept on down the street.
An old man with a hook for one hand stepped out of the haus, pausing to nod to Martha and Joel. “Frank, don’t you be yelling at my pig!”
“That’s no pig, Pete Parker, and well you know it. He’s a bona fide demon on four feet!” Frank, the man with the cowboy boots, pulled himself to his feet by way of the picket fence and hustled on down the street with a distinct limp.
“Sorry, folks, Frank’s always held a grudge against Phillipe ever since the pig spooked his horse at the Memorial Day parade. So, what can I do you for? You’uns are Aim-ish, right?”
Martha heard Joel clear his throat. “Yes . . . we were hoping to see you, sir. About getting married.”
Pete deftly scratched his gray head with his hooked hand. “Wal, now, that’s a problem, seeing that the justice of the peace has run off.”
“You mean you’re not—” Joel began.
“Who, me? Nah. I’m Phillipe’s proxy ’cause he don’t speak much English. But he’ll be back give or take an hour or two. We’re havin’ a shindig for the wife in one room and a birthday party for Pete Jr. in another. Hell, you two might as well come on in and join the fun!”
Martha watched as Joel nodded at the invitation and hugged the folds of his black coat more tightly about her, wondering was en der weldt kind of wedding they were to have . . .
* * *
One part of Joel’s brain was occupied with the taste of frosted birthday cake, the radiant joy of young Pete Parker when he opened the gift of a BB gun from Phillipe, and avoiding the rather undisguised attempts of the young ladies across the hall at Mrs. Parker’s tea to gain his attention. He knew, too, that Martha fairly steamed inside his coat at the sweet voices and understood that her jealousy was born of passion, which made his back warm and his shoulders tense.
The other part of his mind was trying desperately to think of how he’d explain to Martha that he didn’t want to consummate their marriage yet . . . Perhaps I can tell her that a longer courtship is what she deserves—what’s proper—but then, she doesn’t seem concerned with convention, and I wouldn’t want her any way else ...
He edged closer to the spot where she stood stiffly, half in and half out of the tea party room. She’d removed her bonnet, and her delicate kapp looked a bit wilted.
“I wonder when that pig will be back?” he asked, bending to whisper in her shell-shaped ear.
She shrugged, then gave a little sniff. “I wouldn’t think you’d care, with all of these Englischers trying to catch your eye.”
“You’re the only one who’s caught my eye, Martha. I particularly like to remember holding you in my arms and—” I am doing absolutely everything wrong if I’m planning not to fulfill our vows tonight . . .
“And?” Her voice had softened, and he saw the simmering desire in her eyes. It was all he could do not to kiss her right there.
He was saved from a proper response by Pete Parker Sr. coming over and catching him by the arm. “Got somethin’ I’d like to show ya, boy. Your fiancée can wait in here with the missus— Alice ! ’Bout time your ladies’ tea broke up, ain’t it? The kids are goin’ out to try that newfangled huly hoop thing, and this little gal could use some conversation.”
Mrs. Parker took her husband’s broad hint and quickly hustled her friends out as they chattered and squealed amid the drifters from Pete Jr.’s party. She shut the door behind them all with a look of relief, and Joel’s head rang in the sudden silence.
He gave a fleeting smile to Martha as the older man led him off down the hall, and Joel couldn’t help but wonder what could possibly happen next in this strange Englisch haus . . .
* * *
“Have mercy, honey . . . I’m sorry I couldn’t see to ya a bit sooner, but that tea group is like a herd of friendly bovines—always nudging and wanting more to eat!” Alice Parker gave Martha a wide smile.
Martha watched the small, plump woman move and gesture and decided she liked her.
“I’ll just sweep away all of these plates and we’ll have our own tea right now. I always keep some sandwiches and dainties out in the kitchen for later . . .”
“Ach, but you don’t have to—” Martha began, ignoring the grumbling in her stomach.
“Why, it’s your wedding day, isn’t it? Let’s do some celebrating.” She gestured for Martha to come to the table and take a seat while she fluttered in and out of the wide swinging kitchen door. Martha watched with both hunger and delight as a multitude of crustless sandwiches and scones were soon spread out before her.
“Now, honey, we’ve got egg salad with those big olives and tuna and chicken salad and these are petit fours—a pain to make but a joy to eat! Oh, and let me help you out of that big coat. You must be hot.”
Martha reluctantly let Mrs. Parker slide the coat from her shoulders, but then she felt naked somehow, longing for Joel and wondering how he was faring in the other room.
* * *
Joel was surprised at the number of maps Mr. Parker had displayed in what he called his “study.” In truth, it was a congested closet of a room, but it still managed to present an interesting array of artifacts as well. And, beneath the single light bulb of the room, Mr. Parker seemed to change his demeanor from jovial proxy to serious older man.
“I don’t believe it was a mistake that you came here today.”
Joel glanced up in faint surprise from his study of a local map on a low wooden table. “You mean you think it’s a gut thing Martha and I are getting married?”
Mr. Parker waved his hook hand, brushing aside Joel’s question. “I want ta talk to you, boy. See, I don’t just proxy for Phillipe . . . I’m not as silly as I might seem. But it keeps folks at a nice distance ta think that Pete Parker’s lights are on but nobody’s home . . .”
Joel straightened in fascination. “Why do you want to keep people away?”
The older man bent forward slightly. “I know a powerful secret, son . . . one told to me by another man with a hook for a hand.”
Joel raised his eyebrows but kept listening.
“It was ol’ Herb Cross. He lost his hand lumbering, but his mind was sharp up until the day he died. It was Herb that told me the secret. See, he had the second sight and—”
“What?”
Mr. Parker laughed, and his eyes narrowed a bit. “Deep calls to deep, so the Good Book says, and I know you’ve got the gift, same as Herb.”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“Ah, don’t lie, son. It ain’t healthy for the soul. I know you’ve got the gift but don’t think of it as such. To you it’s more of a curse, a fear of things past and things yet to come.”
The image of the tombstones ran like a train through Joel’s head, and he struggled to find words. “Wh—what do you want from me?”
“To add to your favor. To let you feel the weight of abundance.”
“I’d rather not, thank you, sir,” Joel said roughly. “I need to get back to Martha.” He turned and would have stalked from the small room, but the hook barred his way.
“The secret, Joel Umble. You must give your word that you will carry it with you all your days until you find someone you know who will keep its sacred silence, and then they, too, shall pass it on.”
Joel sighed. He had no true wish to know any secret, much less something that the other man held sacred, but he finally nodded.
Mr. Parker lowered his hook hand and gestured to the map that Joel had been studying a few minutes before. “Your Ice Mountain holds many secrets and mysteries of its own. But there is one place there that was sacred to a people who walked these woods long before us—the Lenni-Lenape. You know the name?”
“Jah . . . the Native Indians of this area.” Joel was intrigued despite himself.
“Right, and the places where they buried their dead are large earthen mounds—made to look like small knolls or tiny hills. Made to blend in with the land and to keep cur
ious outsiders away from the treasures of the mound and the sanctity of the dead. Still today, what you call archeologists search the land for these mounds and have found them in New York State and other places in Eastern Pennsylvania. But not here . . . and not on Ice Mountain either.” The older man moved past Joel to indicate a spot on the map with the tip of his hook. “Do you know the spot, boy?”
Joel bent to study the map and recognized the marking of the creek on Ice Mountain and a heavily green area of dense woods. “That’s up in the high timber. Nobody goes there much.”
“There’s a large burial mound in that area. You’ll know it by the twin birches that mark either side. That’s the secret, Joel . . . and you are bound to keep it until such time as you find someone else who will never tell, never seek to profit or gain by its history.”
Joel looked up from the map. “How do you know that I am such a person?”
“Because I wouldn’t have told you if you weren’t.” Mr. Parker blinked and clapped him on the back. Suddenly the “crazy” Pete Parker was back. “Think I hear Phillipe snorting this way. Time ta get ya hitched, buwe.”
Joel nodded, staring at the odd man. “Jah . . . our marriage . . .”
Chapter Fifteen
Martha stared down at the cream-colored paper of the registry. She bit her lip and glanced at the fast-drying black ink of Joel’s cursive, handwritten name. She held the ink pen, feeling its odd weight like a stone on her heart. Then she straightened her spine and made a fast scribble ending with a dashing stroke. She slid the pen back in the holder and looked up at Joel.
“You have a beautiful signature, sweetheart,” he murmured, then dropped a light kiss on her cheek. “And a new name.”
Martha felt herself flush, pleased that Derr Herr had brought her through the obstacle—it might have been a small thing . . . But then, I guess Gott cares for the little things in our lives too.
“Well, you’ve both signed the registry, and Phillipe seems happy. Now y’all can go into the world as Mr. and Mrs. Umble.” Pete Parker smiled at them while fondly rubbing the pig’s ear.
