by Andy Giesler
Like in a terrible dream, the world shifting as it had when I drank the Unkind Cup, I made my way as best I could in the direction I thought was right, stumbling and gasping, my shirt cool with blood. I needed the sun’s warmth to guide me, so when night fell, I fell with it.
I must’ve slept for a long while, because day seemed to have gotten well along by the time I woke. I ate what little I could bear, and I drank the last of the water, wanting for more. Then, after trying at it for a few moments, I managed to get up. I stumbled often along the way, keeping my direction as best I could through the rest of that day. Even after night fell, I kept on going, foolish though that was, not sure of my direction nor of whether I was going anything like straight. On I went, thirsting as if I’d never so much as heard of water, hardly awake, well into the night.
A while later—I don’t know how long—I felt the woods thin, and my feet found a road beneath them. Some road, somewhere. I fell onto it, whimpering, trying not to let the arrow smack into the ground.
“Get up,” I thought. “The shepherds will get you on this road, or wolves, or Aylee herself, or you’ll die here alone, bleeding into the dirt for some runner to puzzle over your body. Get up!”
And you know what? I got up.
I got to my knees, then to my feet, and I took two steps—maybe as many as three—before a soft, warm place gathered me in.
Words from the Reckoning, So Very Long Ago: Ruth Troyer’s Journal
1
June 27, 2164
I woke this morning long before dawn, my heart pounding, the wonder of it flooding me. Like God Himself spoke to me.
Or maybe not God. He and I aren’t speaking right now. Let’s say the world sang to me. If I’d heard its song sooner, Josiah and Atlee might still be alive.
Deep down, I knew we shouldn’t bring the strays into our community. Yet I persuaded everyone to do the right-seeming thing and welcome them, because if we didn’t, we’d be judged afterward. So when the strays decided to kill every man in our community, that was because of my right-seeming choice.
I wanted to end Marsh’s life when it was in my hands. Yet I did the right-seeming thing and nursed him back to health, because if I didn’t, I’d be judged afterward. So when Marsh ordered the murder of every boy in our community this spring, that was because of my right-seeming choice.
I see it now. My whole life, I’ve been making right-seeming choices for the wrong reasons. I’ve always chosen what seemed right out of fear—because if I chose wrong, someone would look back on my choice and punish me. Yet my right-seeming choices have visited ruin on us all.
Justice is wrong-headed.
Justice looks backward.
You punish me today because I didn’t follow your rules yesterday. That’s justice. Justice pretends to be about fairness and healing. It’s not. It gives us back nothing we’ve lost. All it gives us is revenge.
What matters, the only thing that matters, is what will happen next. Not what we do, but the end it will create for our community. We can’t know the end, but we can make our best choice given what we do know. We should point our lives at tomorrow like a compass, as best our compass will guide us. We should let the past advise us, but not direct us.
That’s what the world sang to me this morning: we mustn’t act for yesterday. We must act for tomorrow—no matter how good or bad our action might seem today. Justice is a broken tool from the world that was. We must take up a new tool for the world that is.
Sometimes hunger leads to plenty, fear to joy, violence to peace. Sometimes, if we do a thing that seems bad before, it will end good after. Turning away the strays seemed bad before. Sending Marsh to his death seemed bad before. Removing myself and the children from Eli seemed bad before. But they might have ended good after.
So now it’s left to me to wonder: What should I be doing to give us a better tomorrow, even if it might appear unforgivable today?
2
July 11, 2164
I didn’t know what to expect, but I said my piece at Common.
Started with some things they should know already. That the strays had visited hell on our little community, beyond the hell brought on us by the Reckoning. That when they killed our men, it was for no reason but to set themselves over us, to make us their chattel, for they saw us as helpless and meek. That when they killed our sons, it wasn’t to make sure we stayed fed, for we would have found a way to feed those mouths. It was to cull our herd. To remove our entire male line so their own might take its place. Their own line, which even now lie in some of our bellies and slept in some of our arms.
Then I said the things they might not know.
I spoke to them of the song I’d been given by the world-that-is. I didn’t use those flowery words, as it would have sent them running. But I explained the truth behind it. Of my own failure to do what seemed bad before and would have ended good after. Of their failure. Of ours.
I said the strays ignore us because they believe we’re vulnerable. Meek. Helpless.
And they’re right. We are vulnerable. Just look at how many of us they’ve taken, and how that’s wounded those who remain.
And they’re right. We are meek. But meekness doesn’t mean cowering. It means doing what’s needed, doing it modestly, without anger or hunger or pride.
And they’re right. We are helpless if one of us acts alone. Because if one of us bucks at their bridle, they’ll just punish the rest.
I said this couldn’t be where our world was going, with brutes like these taking whatever they wished. That this wasn’t a future I’d accept for my children. That it was our burden to change it.
Then I told them my plan.
When I first set out the little jars and pouches of coffee powder, the room went quiet. Not one woman moved. I thought they were going to usher me out. Maybe hand me over to the strays to end this dangerous nonsense of mine.
Then the silence stretched on, and I knew they were thinking.
After a minute or so, Esther Stuckey came up and took a jar without a word, then she returned to her seat. I’d hoped she might come up, even if no one else did. She lost her husband, her father, and her two eldest sons in the first purge. Her mother, Rachel, to dire wolves. Her two remaining sons in the spring. All she has left are the three strays who live with her. When she sat back down, she stared at me from the bench, turning that little jar around and around in her lap, so slowly, her eyes brimming with grief and fury.
After that, others gradually came up by ones and twos. I was astonished so many did. Some said a few words. Some that they agreed with me wholly. Some that this went against all they’d been taught, but they’d do it and hope God might forgive us.
Of the twenty-seven women representing their households, twenty-one came up. The other six stood firm against me, chief among them my neighbor Emma Miller. They softly rebuked any thought of violence, saying they would pray for our souls. Their rebuke didn’t surprise me, and I don’t begrudge it.
So I told them another thing they could do, more passive and peaceful. They agreed. When it’s time, they’ll hide their strays’ weapons and take their children into the woods, to a spot we’ve agreed on. A spot where we’ll all meet afterward, those of us who still live, for a different kind of Common, whether we hold it in triumph or in hiding. A Common meeting that will finally include the children.
What have I done?
I hope, and I fear, and I wonder.
I hope those of us who do this awful thing will do it for the right reason. As a gift for the tomorrow it might bring our community, not as petty justice for the wickedness that’s already passed.
I fear to think how many of us will die. Will those roots and herbs still work, cooked and dried to powdered as they are? Will the strays live long enough to kill us right back? How many of them will refuse the cup from dislike or suspicion? Some of us will die. Maybe all of us will die.
And I wonder. I wonder how much the strays will suffer—for this will surely b
e an unkind cup. I regret their suffering, but it’s the only way I can imagine this happening. We need a poison that’s swift and sure, however cruel it must be. Kindness is for another day.
I pondered this for years with Eli. Grandma Anna taught me well what plants I should avoid, and why. Some were bitter, so I’d hide them in a cup of strong coffee. I imagined it so many nights, and I hated myself for the sin of even thinking it. Eli twisting on the floor. Eli begging forgiveness. Eli dying. But then the Medicals would figure out what happened, and who would raise the children with me in prison?
But there are no Medicals now. There are no police, nor judges, nor prisons. There is no justice anymore. There’s just what we must do today, and the tomorrow we hope it’ll bring.
So now we’ll wait for the right time. I hope the World That Is gives it to us soon.
3
July 24, 2164
Quint and Marsh went on one of their trips this morning, taking two other strays with them. If the pattern holds, they’ll be gone at least three days. Maybe as many as six.
Common is tomorrow. I suppose we’ll have a good deal to talk about.
4
July 27, 2164
It’s done.
Thirty-seven strays are dead. Most by poison, the others in whatever way our ladies could make it happen.
We’ve lost track of five strays. As best we can tell, they fled into the woods. We’ll see what we can do about that.
Besides those five, Quint and Marsh are still off raiding with their two pack-mates. I suppose we’ll see them soon enough.
Abbie Kauffman is dead, too. I can only guess that her strays figured out what she was up to and killed her for it. Both of them came marching to our house, fuming and indignant, no doubt to tell Marsh what had happened and to ask punishment for us all. Waneta saw them coming down the drive and ran to get me. My Remy and I greeted them.
William’s Deb Stolzfus is dead, along with her daughter Rhoda and both of her strays. As best her other daughters, Gracie and Vern, could tell from their hiding place, one of the strays started vomiting before the other one took a drink, so the healthy one came after Deb. He killed her with his gun, but not before her paring knife made sure he was finished, too. Gracie and Vern walked six miles to our house to tell us. Esther Stuckey will look after them now, and will look after Gracie’s child when it comes.
Pinky Stutzman is also dead, along with her daughter Miri. Two of Pinky’s strays drank the coffee, but the other refused it, saying he couldn’t stand the stuff. When he saw what happened to the others, he killed Pinky. He suspected something bigger was afoot, too.
Suspecting something was smart.
Pinky’s killer knew Marsh was off raiding, so he sent Sadie to our house to fetch “the Bitch” to negotiate. I came. I sent Hannah to the front of their house to speak with him while the I crept up from the side with my Remy. The stray wanted to yell his demands at Hannah, so he put a knife to the throat of Annie, Pinky’s youngest, and he leaned out the window.
Leaning out the window wasn’t smart.
We saved Annie, but it was too late for Miri. Annie and Sadie will go to live with Esther, too. Sadie’s eight months along, but she’s a strong, reliable young woman. She’ll be a great help to their new family once she delivers.
Three women, two children. An awful loss, but not nearly as awful as we’d expected.
I was going to give Teddy the coffee. Would have been simple enough, as he’s mentioned missing it, but I decided to be more direct with him. He pleaded and lied and threatened. He said I couldn’t do this. That I was Amish. That I was a pacifist. That I’d face God’s judgment.
I could have taken vengeful pleasure in shooting him, but I’m relieved to say I did not. There was nothing pleasant in it. Nor anything unpleasant, really. It was just something that needed doing.
We loaded the strays’ bodies on carts and took them several miles out past our community for the animals to feast on. Maybe in death they’ll do some good and give us a brief respite from the feral dogs and the dire wolves.
Quint and Marsh and their friends will be back before long. After a raid, they always stop at my house to get drunk, so I’m pretty sure they won’t be in the mood for coffee. I’ll need to welcome them some other way.
I’ve gotten six hours’ sleep in the last two days, but that’s all right. I can wait up a while longer.
5
August 3, 2164
I haven’t written in a few days. I slept for one of them.
We tracked down two of the five strays who went missing in the woods. The other three are still unaccounted for. I hope they’re running. I fear they’ll return. We’ll ready ourselves either way.
The next day, Marsh and Quint returned with the two other strays. Marsh and Quint were down before they knew what was happening. I got one of their pack-mates just before he made the barn, no doubt going for the security of the extra weapons and ammo that aren’t there anymore.
The other stray tried to hide in the woods. I knew the woods better.
Soon, I guess, we’ll need to start thinking about what comes next.
When I Was Twenty-Three: The Holy Place
1
A True-old Story
An Alter Writing from So Very Long Ago: How Our Peoples Came to Part
My days are short, and I have not been blessed with children who might bear this story for me. I write this at the urging of Bishop Hershberger, lest we forget. Share this with your children, and write it again as need be, but take care not to change one single word of it.
I am Atlee, son of Ezekiel, son of Amos, son of Joshua. Joshua was the son of Emma Miller, she who witnessed the Reckoning and led our people into the South. She spoke to my great-grandfather of these things, who spoke to my grandfather, who spoke to my father, who spoke to me. Now I put these things to writing for all our people.
The Reckoning brought strife and suffering and death, and nearly all the people perished. But our people, who had learned to live simply, endured. The Reckoning divided us from the wider world, which the Weaverfolk call the “World That Was.” We know not what happened in the wider world. We know only that it is lost to us.
The year following the Reckoning was cruel. Our people were afflicted with three great pestilences: famine, dire wolves, and bandits. Chief among these were the bandits. They killed our men and our boys to the last one, and they enslaved our women.
Many peoples in the past have suffered hardships such as these. Such hardships are a gift from God to test our faith, to see whether we can remain true to our beliefs. A part of our people failed God’s test. Beguiled and misled by their leader, whose name we do not speak, they turned from our ways. They set aside humility and peace and waiting. They took up weapons, and they slew our oppressors, and in so doing, became like them.
Emma Miller, who led our people, told these lost ones our people’s decision: they must leave us and be set apart. She reminded them of what is written in scripture. She told them that because they had abandoned our Ordnung, we would have no company with them, that they might be ashamed. She bade them leave our fellowship, as is our way.
They refused.
Three times she bade them to leave our fellowship, as was our people’s right to ask.
Three times, they refused.
And so, unwilling to confront them with violence, Emma Miller set upon a different path. She chose to find for us a place apart. We would remain the true people, and in sadness we would leave behind those who had strayed.
Those we left behind are the Weaverfolk of the North. They have compounded their transgression of violence by raising up their first leader as a false god. They worship her, who was merely human, and they turn their backs on God.
They call us Alders for following the old ways. They say this with disdain. But we accept this name and embrace it, for our way is old but proper.
We love the Weaverfolk, because we love all people. We will not take violence to them, f
or they are God’s children made in his image. We hope for them, that they may one day return to us and set aside their wickedness.
But until that time, we will remain apart.
Know these things and share them, lest we forget.
2
Comfort
I dreamed of Woodsmith Abram.
Did you know Alters believe in an After? They don’t believe in the Village of the Dead, but in something like it. A place where we’re still us even after the smoke goes out of us, instead of just being rotting hunks of meat.
Woodsmith Abram was an Alter even after they chased him off. He did his worship in quiet, careful not to be seen by others in Surecreek when he did it. So when he died, he still believed in the Alter’s After-place. I hope he was right about it being there. I hope our folk and the Alters are both right. Then maybe when I die, I’ll end up in the Village of the Dead, and I can sneak over the wall some night to go visit Abram in the Alters’ After-place, so I can say good-bye.
My dream of Woodsmith Abram wasn’t a nightmare, as you might expect, but nor was it a pleasant dream, neither. I don’t recall just what it was about, really. I think we were both dead, maybe. Only thing I do recall is that we said good-bye. I could hear it like his voice was in my ears for true. That funny lilt, and the rolling “r”, and the gentleness of it.