by Kelly Long
Martha put her arms around him. “Ach, Joel. I’m so sorry. How awful to know that Judah committed such a crime. And Dan was your friend too.”
Joel drew a deep breath. “Notice how he says ‘his master.’ I know he doesn’t mean Gott. It’s Loftus—they were two of a kind, or else maybe Judah was simply mesmerized by the man. You know, evil calls and some answer. Just think about what Adolf Hitler was able to make people choose to do.”
Martha continued to keep her arms around him as he slowly worked through his thoughts. Painfully, he continued to read aloud, the words on each page seeming to leap at them with venomous hatred. When Joel finally stopped, there was a long silence.
“Stephen Lambert was shunned because of a lie—there have been so many lies and half-truths. Always victimizing those who have the least power to fight back,” Joel said slowly. “I am going to pay a visit to Bishop Loftus.”
“Ach, Joel, don’t. Not while you’re so angry.”
“I’m not so much angry as I am clear. I’ll be back.”
Martha watched him go and began to pray that Gott would be glorified in Joel’s life.
* * *
Joel didn’t knock when he entered the bishop’s home. The older man was in the kitchen, spreading brown mustard over a slice of bread with a serrated knife.
“Joel Umble—a strange surprise. Where is your—wife?”
“I will not speak of Martha with you.”
“Then what will you speak of?” The bishop went on making lunch.
“There is something about me I have never told you. I have the gift of second sight. Not witchcraft, not a cheat—simply, Gott has given me the ability to see—beyond what we can see in the everyday world.”
“And?” the bishop asked, clearly bored. “Are you thinking of taking your show on the road to entertain people with your—sight?”
Joel spoke calmly. “No. I come to tell you of a vision I had some time ago. I saw you dying—in your bed, as you sleep. A crushing pain will fill your chest. Your nose will bleed. You will hear every heartbeat in your ears, but no one will help you. No one can help you but Gott, and even in death, you will refuse Him.”
Joel turned to go.
“Wait.” The older man’s voice was sharp and haughty. “Why tell me this?”
Joel smiled faintly. “So that you may prepare. Get your heart ready, if you know where your heart is . . . There will be no more spying, no more threats. Look to your own soul, Bishop. Put your own house in order.”
Joel turned and started to whistle as he made his way out the front door, and he never looked back.
Epilogue
“Easter is a sacred time. A time to be thankful for Gott and friends, but especially for love. I don’t mean some romanticized type of love.” Joel closed his eyes for a moment as he pictured Sebastian. “I mean wholehearted, sold-out, sacrificial love . . . So, I guess that’s all, folks. Have a great afternoon!”
Joel caught Stephen’s eye from where his formerly shunned friend stood at the back of the room and got a much-appreciated nod of approval.
He was picking up his notes from the preaching when Martha came and threw her arms round him. “That was a blessed message, Joel Umble.”
“Ach, I hope so . . . I want to give people hope. I want them to be secure in the idea that Gott loves them and has a plan for their lives . . .” He drew her close and kissed her. “Are you with me in this?”
She returned his kiss with a fervor not meant for the rest of the Ice Mountain community to see, but the backless benches were fortunately empty now. “I’m always with you, Joel Umble.”
He laughed in joy. “Well, do you want to geh out and roll Easter eggs?”
She gave him an arch look. “If we must, though that would be perhaps my second choice right now.”
He laughed again and took her hand. “Eggs first.”
Martha smiled, and they went out together into the spring and sunshine and the pastel hues of new life.
Please read on for a preview of
Kelly Long’s next novel,
An Amish Match on Ice Mountain!
Ice Mountain
Coudersport, Pennsylvania
1958
Stephen Lambert lay on his back in the inky darkness and tried to block out the unmistakable sounds of pleasure coming from the cot next to his.
“Mmmm, baby . . . you’re so hot . . .”
Great, Stephen thought, wondering how Mike managed to get girls back to the fire station with stupid lines like that.
The girl’s soft cries were harder to ignore—breathy little mewls of passion that set Stephen’s teeth on edge.
Gott . . . he wanted to be the one kissing her . . . He turned on his side and grabbed his pillow, ramming it over his head. He knew it was wrong, but he was infinitely grateful when the alarm bell rang, clanging against any forthcoming sounds he might have heard.
He swung his legs over the side of the cot, pulled up his suspenders, and slid on the waterproof boots.
He ran down the hallway, falling into line with the other firefighters until they reached the engine room. Stephen was number seven, and he methodically pulled on the heavy coat and plastic hat, tightened the chin strap, and turned toward the truck, only to bump into Mike, the chief.
Mike was a different man when he wasn’t romancing some local girl, Stephen thought. This Mike barked concise orders and soon had everyone on the engine in proper position, including the station’s wolf dog, Midnight.
Coudersport was a small but bustling logging and coal town, deep in the mountains of Pennsylvania. But, because the town had grown up practically overnight, a lot of the local structures were not built well, and even some of the nicer buildings could become a fireman’s nightmare.
The fire engine, Old Betsy, roared down the main street of town, following the dark plume of smoke that rose against the moonlit sky. It was a boardinghouse on the wrong side of town—a place where the poor congregated, sometimes living on the streets despite the cold.
The boardinghouse had gone up like kindling, and the false front of the building had already half collapsed, spewing flames out into the late spring air.
Stephen began to pray automatically; maybe it was something to do with being Amish, but it was natural for him to beg God for mercy for his crew friends and those inside.
The engine roared to a stop, and Mike began to shout at onlookers to get out of the way. Stephen saw Midnight take up his post, prowling the perimeter of the building, looking for anyone in need. Other crew members were running out the hoses, while Stephen and two other men took up ladders and tried to find a viable position.
It was strange, but after a few fires, Stephen had begun to be able to separate sounds in his head—the cries of onlookers versus the screams of those inside. And now he heard it. A frantic female cry for help, coming from the second floor. His praying escalated as he grabbed the longer of the two metal ladders and moved toward the heat.
Joe, Stephen’s big friend, shook his helmeted head. “Too risky, Steve. That whole false front is goin’ to go any second!”
“I’ll be down fast. You know I will!” Stephen ignored his friend’s warnings and found a place near the far right of the structure that would allow him to get close to the window frame.
He could see her now, her long red hair hanging from the sill. Her young face looked terrified and sooty. He went up the ladder without fear, wishing for about the tenth time since starting this job that his company could afford a fancy breathing apparatus for each member of the crew. As it was, all he had to protect against smoke inhalation was a damp neckerchief tied around his mouth and nose.
The girl saw him and ducked down inside the sill. It was a common enough reaction; victims of fires were often uncertain when rescue was near.
“Stand up!” he screamed. “Stand up.”
Mercifully, the girl obeyed. He could tell now that she was older than he’d thought, but all of this went through his head in a rush a
s he felt the water pressure from the hose spray his legs and back. There couldn’t be much time if they were wetting him down from below.
The girl’s frantic gaze locked with his. “All right.” He nodded. “You’re going to have to jump!”
* * *
Ella Nichols stared in horror at the fireman. His black hat and yellow coat seemed to waver in the heat of the fire.
“I can’t jump,” she screamed back at him, terrified at the thought of falling.
“I’ll catch you. You won’t fall—I promise!”
Ella thought of how much easier her life might be if she simply sank to the floor and gave up. But then she thought of the unborn child she was carrying and straightened her spine. She slung one leg over the windowsill, which seemed hot even to the touch.
She looked down and felt a wave of nausea.
“Don’t look down!” he ordered, apparently watching her every move.
“All right!” She cautiously eased her other leg out, then grabbed the sill with her fingernails as a whoosh of flames flared up behind her.
“Jump when I tell you. On three.”
He extended his arms, somehow standing on the high, swaying ladder with only his legs for support.
“One!”
I’m going to die.
“Two!”
I don’t want this baby to die.
“Three!!!”
She closed her eyes and jumped . . .
