Charged

by G. P. Ching

  “Your father was an Amish teen who never came back from rumspringa. He has blood here. John was his cousin. Not only did Korwin not have family, the circumstances of his arrival made him stand out like a sore thumb. He healed too fast. He was too strong. Everyone was constantly reminded he was different.”

  “Lord help me. Jeremiah, what should I do? I let him leave. I barely tried to help him. I blamed him for what happened.”

  “Like I said, you have two choices.” He stares straight ahead over the reins. “You can forget and forgive and marry me. I’d be a good husband. We could be comfortable.”

  “Or?”

  “Or you can leave Hemlock Hollow and find Korwin.”

  “And then what? Bring him back here?”

  Jeremiah blinks slowly. “You know as well as I do there’s no coming back. The bishop will never give you permission to go. If you leave he’ll charge you and shun you. You will be excommunicated. You can’t come back.”

  I cup my hands over my face and sob.

  “I’m sorry I had to tell you this, Lydia. I never wished to hurt you. This is the only way I can see things working out, having it all in the open like this.”

  “I don’t blame you. Thank you for telling me. It explains some things that have bothered me since he left.”

  “What will you do?”

  I look him in the eyes, those cornflower blues that always seem to hold sunshine for me. From this angle, I can clearly see the scar that runs from his eye to his chin. The one he got on rumspringa with me. This is part of it, the part he’s not saying. Just like Ruthie Mae, Abram, and his grandfather believe that his disfigurement was my fault and will leave him without a wife. Perhaps they assume I changed my mind because of the scar.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Do you need my answer today about the courting?”

  He snorts. “No.” A moment passes in silence. “But, if you choose to leave, I want a chance to say goodbye.”

  “There’s something I need to know to make my decision.”

  “What?”

  I lean across the seat and place my lips on his. His kiss is warm and soft, slightly moist, and his breath holds the hint of alcohol, which I assume comes from whatever he’s drinking from the jar. I reposition my mouth and so does he, even placing a hand on the side of my face. I cup the back of his neck. We kiss for a good minute or two, but my pulse does not race, and there is no tingle. No current of heat runs through me. When I return to my seat, it is easy to break the contact.

  “Nothing,” Jeremiah says, shrugging.

  “Me neither,” I say. “But at least I know my electrokinesis won’t hurt you.”

  “Not even a shock.”

  “I love you, Jeremiah.”

  “I love you too.”

  “I really wish that was enough.”

  “Me too.”

  9

  “Do you see that?” I ask Jeremiah.

  An orange glow flickers in the distance—my front yard. “Fire.” Jeremiah snaps the reins.

  “What? No!” I jump from the buggy while it’s still moving. Orange flames lick from a life-sized doll ablaze in the front yard of my farmhouse. It’s tied to a stake, its consumption sending sparks toward the night sky. My father stands on the porch with a rock in one hand and a scrap of paper in the other. The stupor he is in scares me and I wonder if he’s having another stroke.

  “Dad!” I rush to his side and take his hand.

  “Lydia,” he rasps, “for a moment… I thought it was you.” He means the stake. He thought it was me burning. A chill passes through me even though the night is hot and we can feel the fire on our cheeks.

  I search his eyes. “You thought it could be me?”

  “These are strange times,” he says. “Strange times.”

  We look back at the fire at the same time. Jeremiah races forth with a bucket of water from the hand pump. He douses the doll and the fire ebbs with a protesting hiss.

  “Who did this?” I ask. “Did you see them?”

  “No. I heard this hit the door.” He holds up the rock and the note.

  “Give it to me. I know the handwriting of everyone in Hemlock Hollow. We’ll be taking this to the bishop.”

  My father shakes his head as Jeremiah joins us on the porch, the bucket still in his hand. “What does it say?” Jeremiah asks.

  “Not handwritten,” I say with disappointment. “Typed. Cut from a Bible.” A wave of dizziness passes through me and I have to grab the porch rail.

  Jeremiah takes the page from my hand. “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. Is this some kind of a joke?” he says.

  “I find nothing about this remotely funny.”

  “Nor do I,” my father says.

  “This is about me, about what happened at the Lapps’. It must have been Abram and Ebbie. Nathaniel was with us, and the bishop wouldn’t do this.”

  Jeremiah scratches behind his ear. “There’ve been rumors. It could’ve been anyone who wasn’t at the barn tonight.”

  “I know Nathaniel told about the lightning.” I place my hands on my hips, thinking of Mary.

  “I’m not sure it was just Nathaniel who told. Seems Abram has had loose lips lately,” Jeremiah says.

  Mind reeling, I stare at the burnt doll and the scorched stake it’s tied to and feel so tired I can hardly move. “You should go home, Jeremiah. Your parents will wonder why you’re late. Please don’t tell them. Don’t tell anyone.”

  He nods. “I won’t say a word.” He won’t. I’m sure of it.

  As tired as I am, I trudge to the shed on the side of the house and retrieve a shovel.

  “What are you doing?” Dad asks.

  “Go inside. I’ll take care of this.”

  At first, he hesitates, like he’s thinking he should help me. I pause in the yard next to the scorched witch, the smell of singed hay and cloth stinging my nose. An execution in effigy. “I need to do this, Dad. Alone.”

  Dad rests his closed fist on the banister for a moment, gives a shake of his head, and disappears inside.

  The celery I’d planted taunts me. By moonlight, I pull it out, bunch by bunch, and make a stack in the corner of the garden. Then I dig. The hole might as well be a grave, though not as deep. By the time I am done I am covered with loose dirt. I toss the shovel aside and return to the site of the burning. With both hands, I pull the stake from the ground and fill in the resulting divot with my toe.

  “Rest in peace,” I say as I toss it into the hole and bury it. On a whim, I replant the celery atop the heap. It’s not ready for harvest. The roots will take again, I am sure. When I’m done, an outsider would never know about the burning. No humiliating evidence remains. Exactly how I want it.

  I dust off my hands and leave my muddy boots next to the mat. Inside at the table, Dad looks up from his Bible, eyes rimmed red, the silver trails of drying tears on his cheeks. I sink into the chair across from him. We don’t speak. The gas lamp hisses above our heads. He’s using gas, not candles, an act in direct opposition to the recent changes in Hemlock Hollow. I scratch my cheek and my hand comes away dirty.

  “Jeremiah gave you a ride home from the singing.” Dad plays with the corner of the page, his callused fingers two shades darker than the yellowed parchment.

  “Yeah.”

  “Does that mean you two are courting?”

  I squirm in my chair. “Is that what you want for me?” It seems an odd question after the night’s drama.

  He leans back from his Bible and rubs his palms on his thighs. “I’m not good at talk like this—almost like you want me to make a decision only you can make. Marriage is a holy union, not be entered into lightly. Only you can decide who you might want to court.”

  “But you like Jeremiah.”

  “Of course I do. I liked Korwin too. It has only been a few weeks since he left.”

  The lamp flickers above us and, for a moment, I’m lost in its light. “Jeremiah says that Abram Lapp started the fire in the haymow to
frame Korwin.”

  My father inhales sharply. “That is some accusation. Is he sure it’s true?”

  “It’s not like Jeremiah to spread gossip. He said Jacob overheard Abram confessing to Isaac. He admitted he never felt Korwin belonged here.” I shift in my seat. “I saw it, Dad. The way Abram always kept a space between himself and Korwin. How they had the horse ready the day he left. Why did the Lapps need to involve the bishop anyway?”

  “Abram was often cold to the boy, but I’d hoped it was his way of challenging him. Makes sense though. If Abram had simply found the paintings, that would not be reason enough to call the bishop. The fire, maybe.”

  “A fire that was already out? A fire that was so under control that it failed to burn the painting of me?”

  Dad sighs. “And now another fire. Accusations of witchcraft.” He holds up the Bible passage left wrapped around the stone on our porch, crumples it in his hand, and tosses it into the wood stove. “Abram’s actions were sinful. He must have known they were sinful or he wouldn’t have confessed to Isaac. And to think the bishop was accusing you. Now this.”

  “Korwin did paint the paintings, Dad, and they were of me. But I didn’t support him at all. I wouldn’t be surprised if Korwin hates me for not defending him. I protected myself. If I’d admitted that I knew about the paintings, Abram and the bishop wouldn’t have had such an easy time kicking him out.”

  He scoffs. “They might have shunned you and kicked him out!”

  “And Nathaniel? I doubt it. Even so, if we were both kicked out, we’d still be together. We might have been allowed to confess and repent together. Instead, my lie of omission isolated Korwin. What choice did he have but to leave?”

  “You love him.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you going after him?”

  I stare at him for a beat, feeling empty. “Even if I succeeded in finding Korwin and convinced him to come home, what if the Ordnung doesn’t let us back in? Someone in this community thinks I’m a witch. What would it mean for him here, when he can’t even be baptized for another year? And then, after the year’s up, will they make good or will we both be old and gray before we’re allowed to marry?”

  “Only God knows for sure.” He scrubs his face with his hands. With a scrape and rumble, he pushes his chair back and paces the floor. He’s had a limp since his stroke but usually it’s imperceptible. Tonight, his fatigue is evident by his uneven gait. “I’m concerned for your safety,” he says.

  “Do you think I should marry Jeremiah to smooth things over with the Ordnung?”

  “Marrying a boy you don’t love isn’t going to solve the problem. Bishop Yoder wants to take everything to the extreme. The day Korwin left, well, I’ve never known a man to enjoy others suffering the way he did.”

  I’m shocked my father is saying anything against church leadership. Yet every word is true. I’m not naïve enough to think that the burning on our lawn is the last. The seed of untruth planted, rumors about the lightning would fester, entertainment for the small minded and unoccupied. Marrying Jeremiah might help my position in the community. It might keep me safe. But it wouldn’t solve the problem. Not really.

  I shake my head. “I’m baptized. My loyalty is to God first.” This is perhaps the most important reason I should marry Jeremiah, to uphold the vows of my baptism.

  “God travels with you, on the inside. He’s not here or there. He’s everywhere. It’s just a matter of remembering you are His. That’s why we do this, the clothes, the way of life. We are constantly reminded that we are His.”

  “You think I should find Korwin.”

  “I think you should listen to what God is telling you to do and do it.”

  I rub my eyes. “I wouldn’t even know where to start looking.”

  “Of course you do.” Dad tilts his head toward the side of the house, in the direction of the wall.

  “The reactor? You think he’s joined David and the opposition?”

  “Where else would he go?”

  “But Korwin hates David. David is the reason his father is dead. He’d never work with the man or go back to that life. We spoke at length about it.”

  “Again I ask you, where else would he go? He’s a wanted man.”

  A wave of panic constricts my chest, making it hard to breathe. I should have stuck up for Korwin or at a minimum told the whole truth about what I knew. Then we’d be in this together. Instead, I saved myself but made him compromise his principles. The Liberty Party will use Korwin. Maybe not how the Green Republic would, but joining the rebellion comes with a price. Then again, not joining means almost certain death at the hands of the Greens.

  Dad scratches the stubble on his face, and then rubs the back of his neck. “Seems like there’s only one thing to do.”

  “What?”

  “I think, perhaps, you’ve become ill, and I insisted you go seek treatment.”

  “But Dad. I can’t let you lie for me.”

  “Not a lie if you count heartsick as being ill.” He threads his fingers over his stomach. “It is your choice. Always your choice. Maybe I’ve spent too much time among the Englishers. I’m supposed to be the head of the household.” He shakes his head. “I couldn’t live with myself if I made the wrong choice for you. You have to decide this one for yourself.”

  It’s still dark when I wake, heart pounding in my ears. I have no desire to close my eyes again. The sliver of sleep I endured was wrought with nightmares. Green uniforms chasing me through dark passages, my body burning with the power within. I’ve worked so long and hard to put that part of my life behind me, but as I rise from my bed, I start packing without even thinking. The journey is too long to carry my suitcase, but I find an old fabric bag among my things, something I sewed to help with gathering onions. It has handles I can slip my arms through and wear like a backpack.

  I change into my emergency Englisher clothes, the ones we all have now that Hannah and Caleb are on the lam. When they were running the safe house, we could rely on them to provide appropriate dress and identification on the outside. Now, no one leaves Hemlock Hollow for any reason without an Englisher disguise. My costume is a pair of jeans and a stretchy T-shirt with a jacket. In the August heat, the modern material is cooler than my cotton dress.

  When I emerge from my room, my father is sitting at the table, his Bible open in front of him, as if he never went to sleep. With weary eyes, he scans me from head to toe. “I’ll take you to the wall.”

  Life can be measured in heartbeats. Two to the buggy. One hundred to the fields. A thousand or more to the woods. Each beat is a threat, like a clock ticking down. I am leaving Hemlock Hollow. In what must be hours but feels like minutes, we reach the gate and Dad gets out to unlatch the crossbeam and push it open. I rush to him.

  He catches me in his arms as if I am still a little girl, and I sob onto his shoulder. “Oh Dad, I can’t, I can’t do this.”

  With a hand on each of my shoulders he thrusts me away and gives me a little shake. “Of course you can. You are the strongest young lady I’ve had the privilege of knowing, my pride and joy. Make it to the reactor. Use the spark if you have to. Don’t look back.”

  “I’m not sure I can. Besides the flasher, I haven’t practiced in ages,” I say. “I’m not sure I have the control I used to.”

  “You can do this. You will do this.”

  I hug him, hard. “I’ll miss you so.”

  “If you choose to come back with Korwin, I’ll help you. There’ll be consequences but nothing we can’t work through.”

  I nod. “Tell Jeremiah where I’ve gone. I told him I’d say goodbye. You’ll have to apologize for me.”

  He nods. “I’ll explain everything.”

  One more tight hug and I back across the threshold. It’s still dark and this will be my first time going into the Outlands alone and on foot. I slip my thumbs under the straps at my shoulders. My fingers tremble. My father closes the gate as I stand paralyzed with apprehension. T
hrough the narrowing gap, I see him shake his head. “The choice is made. Don’t waste the darkness.”

  The thunk of wood against wood seals my exodus.

  10

  The forest is dark, all twisted tree trunks and slippery shadows. I shuffle across a soft mat of pine needles in the direction of the reactor, unwilling to pick my feet up too high or walk too fast for fear of tripping. Even with a full moon, full sight would be impossible under the thick mesh of branches. Tonight, I have but a sliver of light in the heavens to guide my journey and still several hours until sunrise.

  The grinding shrill of cicadas accompanies my slow, deliberate steps. I fall into a rhythm and soon forget myself. Perhaps it is a type of self-defense, this blank meditative state that comes over me, or else a product of extreme fatigue. Either way, I approach the base of the reactor before first light.

  Dawn comes like a slow leak, the darkness draining, mixing with the paint of tomorrow to create a dim silver glow among the trees. A snap to my right, a branch breaking, pulls me up short. I hold my breath and listen. There’s rustling about one hundred yards away. An animal? I squint against the dim, wishing the sun would rise faster. A shadow stretches from tree to tree behind me and I strain to make it out. Even adapted to the dark, my eyes can’t distinguish anything in the trees. I pull my hood tighter around my face in fear of being recognized, only to witness a rabbit hopping from my suspected source of sound. With a breath of relief, I place a hand over my heart and pivot to get back on track.

  A flash of silver passes by me and impales the forest floor near my feet. Squinting in the dim light, I approach the long rod that protrudes from the ground at a forty-five-degree angle. On the very end are feathers that look like they are made from strips of glass.

  “An arrow?” The hair on my neck stands on end. I see myself in the training room at CGEF with a crossbow in my hands. David is explaining the virtues of a Solarbow, a weapon with technology to change the trajectory of an arrow in flight using solar energy. When the sun rises, this arrow will be a heat-seeking missile. The memory grows stronger as I pull the arrow from the ground. Images flash through my brain. A city at night. A soldier chasing me. An arrow circling a building and landing squarely in my stomach.