Amish Home

by Rachel Stoltzfus

  I know you do not seek my suffering, that cruelty is not your method. But Lord, is it cruel to tear me into shreds, cast those separated parts far from one another, so that I cannot feel whole, so that one part of me cannot even recognize the other?

  I do not doubt you, great and powerful Lord God, but I do doubt myself. How can I do otherwise? And if I cannot rely upon my own integrity, how can anyone else? How can I win the trust of these mountain folk and not engender their anger or vengeance?

  And will you leave me here with them forever? Is this who I am? Is this where I belong?

  I will go where ever you lead, Lord. But I do need a sign, a pillar of smoke by day, of fire by night, or just the twinkling of a star, to show me the way. I know you will lead me, and I hope you know that I will follow. I give you my word.

  Amen.

  Meanwhile, the days roll on and the Krebbs family tend to their chores, which include all manner of repair work on the shack (the boys’ work) and constant cleaning and sweeping, among Miriam’s various duties. I try to stand up, and finally manage to get on my feet and start hobbling around the shack. My body feels like it is getting better quickly, legs becoming more flexible, less sodden with numbness or stabbed by bolts of pain.

  The hound dog spends more time with me, a speckled beast with hellish breath but an angelic disposition. It lops up to me when it can, stealing a pet or two. Well, not really stealing, because I’m happy to give them away. The creature seems so starved for affection, so ready to receive those little scratches on the head. Its eyes dip closed in joy, ears sinking as I scratch the crevices.

  But once the dog catches sight of its stern master, Lester Krebbs himself, he runs off whining. Lester enters from the corner of the room he keeps for himself and Miriam. He stares me down, but I can’t do much more than sit meekly and not antagonize him.

  And my mind is still blurry, filled with many more questions than answers. As I practice walking around the little shack the next day, I ask Miriam, “So, you found me in the river?”

  “That’s right, honey.”

  “But ... where was I before that?” Miriam just shakes her head, returning her attention to the pots she’s scrubbing. “How long have you been here ... living here, I mean?”

  “Long enough. And hopin’ to stay a might longer too.” She glares at me with that sad, solemn determination which I don’t understand. I don’t have any intention of running her out of her own house.

  “Here,” I say, “lemme help—”

  “No, yer just get cher legs back,” she says, waving me away from the kitchen corner. “Wish I knew what to call yer,” she says, her graying brown hair falling over her face.

  “Wishing? I’ve been praying for it, praying for God to restore me.” I have to pause, then chuckle to myself. “Me ... whoever that is.”

  Miriam turns from the pans. “You know who God is?”

  “Of course,” I say with a simple shrug, although it all beguiles me as much as it must do her. “I know Moses, and Elijah, and of course Jesus—”

  “You know Jesus—”

  “Yes, I love Jesus, he’s my Lord and savior.”

  “But ... how can you know Jesus when you don’t even know yerself? It don’t make sense.”

  I give it some thought and I have to admit that very little makes much sense to me these days. But I can only look into my heart and find whatever truth is cradled there, and that truth is that there is a God, that the king I serve is Jesus.

  I say, “It’s strange, Miriam, because ... I know just about everything else ... that I can think of, anyway. I know what a chair is, I know back pain is, what teenage boys are, cooking pots. None of these things are alien to me at all; certainly not God or Jesus. But ... the rest of it, it’s just kind of ... kind of like a bad dream, but one you can’t remember; but you can’t escape it either.”

  Miriam looks at me deeply, her pale brown eyes searching my own. I don’t know what she’s looking for there. My sanity? I silently speculate. Her redemption?

  Miriam slowly stands up and crosses to a rickety little door in a corner of the central room of the shack. The boys stand there, looking at her with worried faces as she pulls the door open. “You two run along now,” she says, “go fetch yer pappy.”

  They nod, Stanley leading Stonewall out of the room.

  Miriam turns slowly back to me, her face a mask of dread as she reaches into the closet and pulls out a dress that looks very familiar to me; gray and plain, a poorly cleaned white apron and bonnet.

  “You recognize these, honey?”

  I do, but I can hardly say from where. They’re my clothes, I know that much without too much thought, but I have to second-guess myself still. Wait a minute ... these are my clothes?!

  “Yes, I ... where did you—?”

  “You were wearing them when we found you, sweetie.” Miriam brings the dress over to me. I touch the fabric, light for the summer, tattered and torn in and then poorly repaired by caring hands.

  I nod, clutching the dress.

  These are mine, I know it. And these are the clothes of an Amish girl, because I am Amish!

  “I’m Amish,” I say, relieved and excited. Miriam doesn’t seem to share my joy. “I’m Amish and ... ” I search the corners of my memory, the hazy hallways becoming clear. I see a dense cluster of woods, rifle shots ringing out.

  My body spasms, quickly nauseous, and I feel my knees buckling. “Oh, honey,” Miriam says as she takes the dress and leads me to hobble to the bed and lay down. “It’s all too much, isn’t it? I’m sorry, honey ... so sorry.”

  Why, sorry? is all I can wonder, but when the door swings open and Lester stomps in, glaring and pointing at me, I can only begin to guess.

  “What in tarnation are you doin’, woman?”

  Miriam cowers, but stands her ground. “It’s time, Lester, I swear it’s time. Any longer and it’ll be too late!”

  Wait, I think to myself, too late for what?

  “Anyway,” Miriam says, “it’s a good thing if she knows, ‘cause then we’ll know for sure too, won’t we?” Lester stares her down, then turns his wordless attention to me, holding his terse breath behind his clenched teeth.

  “She figure it out yet?”

  Miriam shakes her head. “She’s close though, Lester, real close.”

  “Figure it—?” I hear the fear cracking in my voice, but I’m beyond caring what these people think. It’s what I need to know that’s driving me now. “If you know something you’re not telling me—”

  “I don’t think yer in any position to make demands of us,” Lester snaps, real anger in his tone. “I could cut cher throat right now, wouldn’t nobody be the wiser!”

  Fear shoots through me, released from every gland, seeping up from every pour.

  “But ... why?”

  A long, heated silence passes as Lester stares at the Amish dress in his wife’s hands, then back at me. He grabs the dress and throws it across the room. It lands half on the bed, half on the floor.

  Then Lester says, “Why don’t you tell me?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “I can’t,” I say, my voice louder and quicker, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “Liar,” Lester says, pointing an angry finger at my face, “sinner, whore, murderer!”

  “What—? How dare you—?”

  “You claim not to know who you are,” he says, “so how would you know if it ain’t true?”

  “I ... ” My mind reels, my brain throbs, but I could never the that confused. “It’s just not true; I know it in my heart.”

  “Because yer know’d darned well who yer really is, and this is all some fancy hoax!”

  “What?” My mind is crackling with confusion now, my heart pounding with fear. “What kind of person would—?” Something sparks in my memory, but I can’t quite place it; something nagging and familiar.

  Lester just leans back and chuckles. “Sure, little miss innocent, yer don’t know a dan
g thing, do yer?”

  “No, I really ... I really ... ” But as I think about it, flashes of images streak across my mind’s eye. I’m Amish, and I’m alone.

  I’m alone.

  I say, “My Daed’s gone,” bones chilling at the words as they tumble out of my mouth. “Whole family.”

  “What’s yer surname then?”

  I think hard: Brooks? No. Banks? No, they found me on the riverbanks.

  But I just shake my head and shrug, my brain throbbing even harder. Rubbing my temples does no good.

  “Nice try,” Lester stays, crossing the shack for a brown jug. He pulls the cork, balances the jug on his elbow, then lifts his elbow to fill his mouth full of whatever’s in the jug. A bit of the clear liquid drips down his chin before he lowers the jug. He offers it to me, but I shake my head. “All right then,” he says, lowering the jug as if satisfied in some way.

  Then, after a wordless exchange with his wife, Lester looks me squarely in the eye. I half-expect him to pull out a hunting knife and cut my throat. Instead, he has a different approach in mind.

  “Name Bethany ring a bell?”

  Bethany? I repeat silently, repeating it again several times as my heart beats faster and my blood runs warm again. “Yes, Bethany, that’s me, I’m Bethany!” Everything in my memory opens up now, a tide of images I can hardly withstand. “I’m Bethany Zook, from Smicksberg! And my Daed and I ... we ... ”

  My blood runs cold again. I hear the scream before I can identify it as my own; but as soon as I do, I realize that I can’t stop screaming.

  Miriam rushes over to me, saying, “Take it easy, sweetie, calm down!” as she guides me back to the bed and sits me down.

  “Can’t you shut her up?” Lester says, “stuff a washcloth in her mouth or something?”

  “We’ll do nothing of the kind,” Miriam says. At least, I think that’s what she says. I can barely hear anything beyond the shrill, throat-rending tear of my own wailing.

  Finally, my heartbeat returns to normal, my mind slowing down, the images of the Westington mob fading, rifle shots and that long, terrible fall into the river.

  I remember it all now.

  They killed Daed and wanted to kill me.

  I’m Bethany Zook.

  And I was murdered.

  ***

  I am wandering in a wheat field. I’m completely alone. Around me in every direction, the wheat field is like a golden ocean, the wind pushing little ripples along its grainy surface. The sun is warm against my skin, the breeze makes my plain dress flap idly against my legs. I walk on, in no particular direction and in no particular hurry.

  I don’t think.

  But there is a cold dread growing in my gut.

  I keep walking, losing my balance a little bit. Where am I? I wonder. How long have I been here? My confusion only worries me more, and my growing fear feeds off that negative energy. I try to keep calm, reminding myself: For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast.

  But even the words of Ephesians 2:8-9 can’t soothe me. And they don’t seem to offer very much in the way of direction either.

  I hear sounds in the wheat around me, but I can’t make them out; crackling stems, the wind between the stalks? Not sure, can’t tell.

  Mustn’t wait around to find out!

  I keep walking, picking up the pace a bit. But I’m practically blind in the tall wheat, my surroundings blurring, tilting, and spinning. Am I going in the right direction? I have to ask myself. Have I wandered off? Am I lost?

  Lost forever?

  I start running now, my heart beating faster, sweat collecting along the ridge of my spine and dripping down my back. My legs start to pass each other even faster, pushing me through this golden haze. I clutch my plain cotton skirt, pulling it up to keep from tripping all over it.

  I have the distinct feeling that something is chasing me, and getting closer.

  Something ... or someone . . . dark and menacing

  I glance behind me, but there’s nobody in pursuit, at least not that I can see. But the sounds are louder, and they’re everywhere. A black crow caws overhead, wheat cracking and breaking beneath my own frightened feet as I run.

  Running for my life.

  But this unending wheat field just seems to expand around me, impossibly big, and the thing behind me is getting closer fast, about to pounce.

  I turn and look ahead, but I freeze with a quick panic, my legs stopping so abruptly that I nearly fall forward. Managing to stay on my feet, wrestling with my own panted breath, I look up at a tall man standing in the wheat right in front of me. He wears a white robe, and has a long, graying red beard growing from his craggy, sorrowful face.

  We look at each other for a moment or two. I don’t recognize him, but he is the one to ask, “Who are you?”

  I have to think about it for a second, then for a moment. Then that moment stretches on in front of me, around me, within me. I’m struck cold with a devastating nervousness.

  I don’t have any idea who I am.

  Seeming to realize this, the man asks me further, “Quo Vadis?” I tilt my head to express my confusion. Clarifying, he asks, “Where are you going?”

  I stand in the echo of his question. It beguiles me, because even though I cannot answer his first question, I can answer the second. I may not know who I am, but for some strange reason I know exactly where I’m going. Without even giving it a second thought, I raise my arm and point west.

  And where there’d been nothing before, just the expanse of golden wheat, there is now a stunning purple mountain rising up, and a golden city on its pinnacle. I point to the city on the hill.

  But the old man shakes his head, raising his own arm to point in East. I follow his finger, but I don’t see anything, no other mountain or opposing city. Confused, I turn to ask the old man to explain, but he isn’t there anymore.

  I’m alone again.

  No, I realize, not alone.

  I take a step and I hear it; the lion’s roar. It’s loud and long, strained and scary, ringing loud and near from the tall wheat around me. It sends a ripple of frightened shock through my body and I freeze.

  I take another step and another lion’s roar bursts out unseen, this time a male lion with a low, thunderous growl.

  I’m frozen where I stand, but I can turn enough to see the tips of two lions’ tails peaking up from the wheat, brown tufts at their ends. They’re only a few yards from one another, and just a few yards from me.

  And they’re getting closer fast.

  I back up, but another lion’s scream hits me from behind. I spin around to see another tail approaching, flicking as its unseen master stalks me, closing in for the kill. A few yards to the left another tail appears out of the wheat, and still another just a few feet behind that one.

  I turn, looking for an escape, but the lions are closing in from every direction now; tails pulling down, wheat snapping and falling in trails that are leading directly to me.

  “But the Lord stood by me and strengthened me, so that through me the message might be fully proclaimed and all the Gentiles might hear it. So I was rescued from the lion's mouth,” I mutter.

  But the words of 2 Timothy 4:17 won’t stop the beasts, and one of them screams to the others, a signal for the final assault. That blood-curdling wail echoes in my heart, nearly stopping it cold, and I can feel a shift in the ground as the several heavy beasts launch themselves.

  Be sober, Peter 5:8 reminds me, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.

  They appear like a flash out of the wheat, white teeth and black muzzles, paws reaching out with curved claws.

  “Who through faith subdued kingdoms, wrought righteousness, obtained promises, stopped the mouths of lions ... ”

  Their screams deafen me as their heavy bodies push me to the ground.

  ***r />
  After recalling who I am, and everything that had happened to me, I’d passed out. And when I return Lester is waiting for me. Not to be outflanked by his wife again, Lester is hovering nearby, watching me as he smokes a foul-smelling pipe that’s filled with something rotting and probably animal in nature.

  After Miriam brings me some hot tea in a metal cup, which is surprisingly hearty and invigorating, I look up at Lester and he down at me. He’s waiting, but I’m not.

  Not anymore.

  I tell him my story, everything from Margaret’s death to the present day, as much as I recall it. Those things which are foggy in my memory get clearer and clearer the more I think about them, recall them, explain them. Lester is calm and precise in his questions, like he half-believes me.

  It’s the other half I’m increasingly worried about.

  “First of all, I know’d yer all big into Jesus and thems, but I don’t want yer spreadin’ no more o’ that Bible nonsense around my family, git me?” I search my memory for precisely what I might have said, and I recall talking to Miriam about prayer. “Don’t sit there like some halfwit; you know what I’m talking about. Yer can think what ‘cher want, but don’t you be fillin’ my family’s heads with it!”

  I nod. “It’s your family,” I say, “your rules—”

  “Dang right it is!” Lester sighs, the smell of his rotting teeth filling the air in front of me.

  “Well, if you let me go,” I say meekly, “you won’t have to worry about me saying anything to them about it ... by accident, I mean.” But his hateful glare warns me that I better not have any accidents of the sort.

  “Thing is, you and yer pa’re actually quite ... well, I don’t wanna say famous, but yer all over the news, turns out.”

  “We are?”

  “Sure, big dust up. Y’all’re bone fide missing persons, no two ways about it.”

  “Well, um, great, that’s great news!” Praise God, I think silently, I knew you’d not forsake me! The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil, I repeat, from Psalm 121: 7-8, he shall preserve thy soul. The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in from this time forth, and even for evermore.