by Adina Senft
After pulling plastic over the wedged clay waiting to go on the wheel, he washed his hands and forearms at the deep, two-bay porcelain sink and dried them on an old towel. Then he set off in the direction of Willow Creek along the path that Caleb had worn into the hill between the Yoder place and this one.
He needed some inspiration from the flowers and fields on this warm summer evening—in that way, at least, he could put some truth into the marketing copy.
* * *
There was something beguiling about moving water. Henry climbed down the slope into the creek bottom, where a path meandered along a grassy bank. Alders, maples, and willows leaned over the water, which chattered and bubbled along in its course, turning rocks over and cutting the channel infinitesimally deeper every day. Clusters of purple flowers grew among hillocks of wide-bladed grass, and hummingbirds and sparrows flitted among them. Two swallows dove and swooped after mosquitoes, no doubt with the aim of taking them back to a barn somewhere to feed hungry young before night fell.
The water had scoured the soil from a couple of wide, flat stones, and as Henry sat and leaned back on his hands, he felt the warmth of the afternoon sun stored in the granite permeate his skin.
With a shock of recognition, he looked up into a maple above his head and saw a rotted old piece of rope tied around a branch. This was where he’d gone into the creek that December day, egged on by Michael Yoder and his brothers. The rope had broken and dropped him into the swimming hole right over there, and it had been a good thing they were having a green Christmas, or he might not have survived the experience.
Or so he’d thought at the time. Somehow it didn’t look quite as deep and scary as it had when he was a boy.
The breeze and the whispering rush of the water calmed him the way the voice of a trusted friend might—a friend you could count on to be there no matter what the season or circumstance. The creek eddied and swirled, always in motion, always changing—yet still the same, all these years later.
Motion. Liquid motion.
Henry sat up and pulled his sketchbook out of the breast pocket of his shirt, along with a number eight Micro pen. He sketched in the outline of a batter bowl. Liquid poured from the spout, but if he treated the handle as the source and the motion went from here to here…
No, that wasn’t right. Too obvious. Like giving the baker instructions on how to use his tools.
He tried again, the swirl and eddy of the creek in his mind—the stillness of the rocks—the sound of wind and the way it moved through trees—
Five bowls appeared on the page now, none of them quite right. Six.
Birds. The swoop and dive of the birds against the light as they sought to feed their families—the way a baker wanted to feed his or her family—sky, water, bird, light, all in motion—
That was it.
The seventh bowl came into being under his pen, a line at a time, a shadow here, a curve there, a swirl and a dive, light as air and brilliant as water. He could use one of the delicate shades of blue he’d already developed in his glaze recipe book, but there was more to it—the luminescence of water, a pearly, swirly effect—he had the ground minerals on hand to produce that, he was sure of it, somewhere in the boxes he hadn’t yet unpacked.
It was unusual. It suggested light and movement, whether at rest or in use.
Down the margin of the page, he made notes. Oh, this was going to be good.
He had to get back to the barn right away.
Over the rush of the creek, he heard voices around the bend, and scrambled to his feet. But before he could get across the path and up the slope, three people came around the curve. He recognized Priscilla Mast’s blond hair and glasses right away. But who were the two city kids with her?
“Hallo, Henry,” she called, relief in her voice.
“Hi, Priscilla.” Teenagers wouldn’t expect him to stand there and visit. He’d be polite and then they could all be on their way.
“What are you doing down here?”
“Taking a walk. How are you?”
“I’m well, thanks.” Her gaze pleaded with him to do something.
And then he put one and two together. “You okay, Pris? These kids bugging you?”
“Hey,” the taller one said. “Way to make assumptions.”
He was a good-looking kid, maybe seventeen, with a cocky step and an “I own you” gaze. The younger one had the same hair color, but if they were related, the resemblance ended there. If he could have pulled his black hoodie over his head and rolled up like a hedgehog, Henry would bet he would have.
“Not much of an assumption,” he said calmly. “Two Englisch boys tailing an Amish girl—that never turns out well. Take some friendly advice and leave her alone.”
The kid took a deep breath, as if he was trying to keep his temper. “Who are you? She’s got no problem with us. We’re staying at the place where she works. You want her to lose her job?”
“I don’t think Ginny will give you that much power.”
The kid deflated a little and Henry wondered when the last time was that someone had spiked his guns.
“Come on, Justin,” the younger one mumbled. “Knock it off.”
“Priscilla Rose?” Justin appealed to her.
“I’m going home now,” she said, and crossed to the track that led over the hill past Sarah Yoder’s garden—the one that Henry himself had been about to take. “Nice to see you, Henry.”
Justin looked as though he might follow her, and probably would have, but the younger one’s gaze reluctantly locked on Henry’s sketchbook, which was sticking out of his pocket.
“Are you an artist?” Justin turned as if a rock had spoken, and while he was distracted, Priscilla disappeared over the top of the rise.
“I suppose you could say so. I’m a potter.” He held out a hand. “Henry Byler.”
The kid shook the hair out of his eyes and took Henry’s hand as if he wasn’t quite sure he was doing it right. “Eric,” he said reluctantly.
Henry gave it a firm shake, and the kid’s fingers toughened up their grip, mimicking him. Had he never shaken a man’s hand before?
“What are you doing out here?”
It was the same question Priscilla had asked, but with a different meaning. The kid had recognized a Moleskine sketchbook when he saw it. Maybe he was interested in art.
“Don’t talk to strangers, Eric,” Justin said.
His brother—for they had to be brothers—ignored this hypocrisy as he waited for an answer.
“I’m making batter bowls, but I got stuck on a design for the glaze.” To his own amazement, he pulled the sketchbook out of his pocket. He never shared his process. But there was something in this kid’s eyes—a hunger that he would never put into words for fear of being mocked—that Henry recognized with the accuracy of shared experience. “So I came down here for some inspiration.”
Eric took the book with something close to reverence, opened it to the pages Henry had been working on—and Justin tapped it in the middle so the book folded shut and fell through his brother’s fingers.
As neatly as a basketball player stealing the ball, Justin caught it before it hit the ground. “What’s this?” He flipped it open, riffling through the sketches of mugs, bowls, and even an art piece or two that were in the first few pages.
Henry was both taller and faster—and knew a thing or two about basketball. In less than a second, the book was snapped shut and back in his pocket.
“None of your business.”
“But it’s Eric’s business?”
“If I choose to make it so, yes.”
Justin’s brows drew down over his eyes. “What is up with you, dude?”
“Not a thing. But something’s up with you. You might consider sharing the spotlight with someone else once in a while. Selfishness is a total bore, dude.”
“What the— Where do you get off?”
“Right here. Have a nice afternoon, boys.”
He made
it halfway up Yoders’ hill before he turned around.
And saw Eric—alone—standing knee high in the corn at the top of the creek bank. He had followed Henry up the slope and stood watching him go, like a small child in the ocean who had no clue how to swim.
Chapter 6
The Saturday afternoon sun was beginning its descent, the light catching in the branches of the trees, when Sarah finished picking the peas. Her bowl was full, and with them she planned to make a chicken potpie for supper, with new potatoes and the baby carrots she’d thinned from the feathery square that made up one element of the Ohio Star design in her garden.
A buggy turned into the driveway and rolled up to the house, so Sarah took the bowl and made her way across the lawn to greet her visitor.
Linda Peachey looped the reins over the rail in front of the rock garden with hands that shook. She turned, a hesitant smile flickering on her lips and the inside of one wrist pressed protectively to her stomach. “Hallo, Sarah. Wie geht’s? ”
“It’s gut to see you, Linda.” No matter how close it might be to dinnertime, Sarah couldn’t look at a woman this thin without wanting to feed her. Not only that, she felt a little guilty for not having gone to see her long before this. “Kommscht du. I’m hungry for some blackberry pie, and if you keep me company, I won’t feel guilty about having a piece.”
“Neh, I don’t want to trouble you.”
“No trouble at all. I like people to indulge my bad habits.”
Linda smiled and followed her into the kitchen, where Sarah didn’t waste an instant cutting the pie, pouring cream over it, and setting it down in front of her guest. A pot of what she had taken to calling meadow tea followed, which filled the kitchen with the scent she loved, and would do this young woman’s body some good even as it lifted her spirits.
“You have such a way of making food seem like a gift,” Linda said on a sigh of contentment as she scraped up the last of the pastry.
Sarah cut another piece and slid it onto her plate. “Food is a gift—from God.”
“And I’m thankful for every bite.” She hesitated, concentrating on her pie so that, Sarah suspected, she could put off telling her what she’d come for.
“My sister-in-law Amanda was telling me the other day that you might stop by.” Sarah took a sip of tea. “I’m glad you came.”
“Amanda is a gut Freind. Did she say what I was looking for?” Any other woman might have taken offense at being talked about, but Linda seemed to find it a relief that a way to start the conversation had already been opened.
“Not really. She seemed a little shy about it. About die Bobblin, I mean.”
“It’s not easy.” Two slices of pie seemed to have taken the edge off, and Linda picked up her mug of tea and breathed in the scent. The tremor in her hands made the china clink against her teeth as she sipped. “Crist doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, so I’m left to bend my friends’ ears.” Her blue gaze met Sarah’s. “At least with you, there’s a hope of being able to do something besides talk.”
“I’m no expert, Linda. I’m still learning.”
“Then we can learn together. If you think you can do something for me, then I’m willing to do as you say. I can’t pay you very much, but in the fall, the boys will go hunting and I can see that you get some meat for the winter.”
“I’d never turn down that offer.” She gathered her words together. “So if we are successful, have you thought a little about the situation you would bring a little Boppli into? Is there a chance that you and Crist will have a home of your own?”
Linda’s gaze fell once more to her mug. “I don’t think so. We can’t afford to buy in this county, and if we moved away, we’d be leaving both his family and mine. Neither of us are willing to do that—and we don’t think it’s God’s will that we do, either. But it’s all we can do to pay a little rent to Arlon and help with the farm.”
“Shouldn’t his boys be helping, too?” The question shot out of Sarah’s mouth before she could stop it. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business how he and Ella bring up their family.”
“I can see why you would say so. The boys are high-spirited, but they have good hearts.”
“But Linda, if they helped their father and uncle, they wouldn’t have the energy for such high spirits, and the farm would be more profitable—would be able to support you better. And make an environment that you could bring a baby into. A calmer environment.”
Linda took another sip of tea—something a woman did when she disagreed with you, but didn’t want to argue. Then she said, “I am in the place that God has put me, and I’m content there. If it’s not His will to bless us with children, then I must be willing for that. But if there is something I can do, I want to do it.”
Sarah reined in her human nature, which wanted to tell this trembling reed of a young woman that living hand to mouth on a tumbledown farm with no peace was not conducive to bringing life into the world, and her body was telling her so. How could God want her there when she could not do His will for a woman and a wife?
Sarah didn’t have the answer, but she could do a little to help.
“There are some things you can do,” she said gently. “You have plants growing in your yard and in the woods behind your place that can nourish you. We’ll start with this meadow tea. I’ll give you the recipe and I want you to drink four cups a day—one with each meal, and one in the evening before bed.”
Linda nodded. “That will be no burden at all. I love the smell of it—like a fresh-cut field in summer. What does it do?”
“Besides cleaning out the lymph system, which promotes healthy breasts, it’s a nerve tonic. It reduces stress.”
“I’m not stressed,” Linda protested.
“When you came in, you were shaking.”
The other woman waved a hand. “I was just hungry. I was so busy today I forgot to eat lunch.”
Sarah knew when to knock on a door, and when to go around the side and open a window. “The body needs calm and a good sleep at night, so this will help you there as well.”
“And you said that some of the ingredients grow around us, so I won’t need to buy them?”
Sarah made up her mind between one word and the next. “I’m not going to charge you for the things I give you. We’re experimenting.” Linda tried to protest, but with a smile, Sarah kept right on going. “There’s also a plant called lady’s mantle. Ever heard of it?”
Her patient shook her head.
“I’m just learning about this one, but Ruth Lehman says it’s excellent for fertility. She says that when you look at the plant, you can picture a lady—a mother—covering you with her cape to protect you and the baby. That’s how the herb works.”
“I’ll take her word for it.”
“I know, a little fanciful, but no more than smelling a fresh-cut field in our tea, neh? I’ll give the lady’s mantle mixture to you as a tincture. Just put a couple of drops in a glass of water and drink it. You’ll be running to the bathroom every five minutes if I ask you to drink two kinds of tea.”
“I’ll be running to the bathroom anyway. Between tea and this lady’s mantle, that’s a lot of water every day. More than I drink in a week, I think.”
Sarah made a mental note to write this down in her patients’ journal. Poor Linda was probably dehydrated as well as being under stress and suffering from clogged-up plumbing. “We all need water, and lots of it. You may not think so, because I can see you’re retaining water, but the more you drink, the less you’ll retain. There’s a reason the Bible tells us the water of life flows from the throne of God. We can’t live without lots of it—or Him.”
At last Linda smiled, and Sarah could see that her resistance was crumbling. That was gut. A patient who was motivated to do the right thing wouldn’t stop after a day or two and then wonder why she wasn’t getting well.
“Kumme mit, and I’ll show you what plants to pick and how to prepare them.”
When Lind
a went away an hour later with a cardboard box containing a bottle of tincture, some packets of dried herbs, and several handfuls of cleavers and chickweed, Sarah waved farewell.
“See you in church tomorrow,” she called, and Linda waved through the buggy’s open door in acknowledgment.
Let these things help her, Lord. Even if it isn’t Your will that she be blessed with a baby, I pray that You would bless her with a return to health. You have given us these humble plants that contain so much that is good for us. You have given us water, as necessary to us as Your love. Help her to use them wisely, so that she can serve You with joy.
Because that, Sarah suddenly realized, was what had been missing in Linda’s eyes.
Joy.
There was resignation, and she had said she was content. But in someone who loved God and was loved in return, a person should be able to see more than those pale substitutes.
Give her back her joy, Lord.
And as You do, I’ll find mine.
Chapter 7
Priscilla had never been so thankful for a Sunday as she was today. Church was held that week at Bishop Dan Troyer’s home, on the other side of Willow Creek and down the county highway about four miles…so far away that the likelihood of running into Justin Parker was zero.
She was looking forward to a whole day where she’d be guaranteed a little peace.
Though why he should disturb her peace so much was not quite clear yet. He made her nervous. He wanted too much of her time. And yet there was something about him that was causing a little root of compassion to grow in her heart—though he would be the first to tell her that he felt sorry for her and not the other way around.
She and Katie and Saranne had breakfast on the table by the time Mamm and Dat got in from the milking, and once they’d cleaned up and changed into clean Kapps, their blue Sunday dresses with the white organdy capes and aprons, and their good black oxford shoes, Dat had led out the horse and harnessed him up to the family buggy.