An Amish Wedding Feast on Ice Mountain

by Kelly Long

  “That I can believe as well. You both are out here to help an auld woman’s favorite bird come home, and I dearly appreciate that. You have my word that no news of this, um, interlude will be repeated by either me or Jack.” She held out her arm, and Jack easily came to perch on her shoulder. “I’ll bid you two young people gut nacht.”

  Ransom watched her turn and hobble off down the road, her gray hair illuminated by the moonlight.

  He turned back to Beth. “I’ll see you home.”

  She shook her head. “Nee. Viola might see . . . I mean, not that there’s anything to see.”

  He laughed softly, then bent to swipe a quick kiss across her cheek. “There’s something, little hare. There’s something . . .”

  * * *

  Friday morning dawned bright and clear, and Beth’s stomach churned with expectation and excitement. She knew that the bishop himself was to bring a wagonful of people from their community to help lay the foundation for a new cabin for the pastor’s wife and children.

  Beth tied her apron neatly and skipped breakfast as she hurried to wash the dishes in the sink before the wagon came.

  She couldn’t help but overhear Viola complaining to Rose, but she knew that not even Viola would gainsay the expectations of Bishop Umble.

  “It is, of course, right to help the Englischers,” Viola mused loudly. “But a shame that we ourselves should lose the money from the pie stand this morning because of it.”

  It’s better to give than to receive, Beth thought and told herself that she wasn’t contradicting but merely stating a fact. She was spared any further thought on the matter when the sound of the wagon and horses rattled from the dirt road.

  “Come, Rose, we will geh as well and see about this undertaking.” Viola rose from the table and Beth turned and bit her lip. She wasn’t sure if there’d be space in the wagon, and she sighed to think that her free time away for the day would be spent under strict supervision.

  I’m becoming wanton, she thought. Swayed by Ransom’s kisses. It’s strange—I haven’t been kissed since my fater died. Why does Viola not show me affection as she does Rose? Of course, I’m not actually her daughter, not authentic, not real. I’m not real. I’m a freak and a glutton and—Her negative diatribe was brought to an abrupt end by a knock at the door.

  Beth turned from the sink to see Viola securing her bonnet and Bishop Umble at the screen door.

  Viola hurried forward and opened the door. “Bishop, please come in. Rose and I were just preparing to join you.”

  “Well—” The bishop stroked his long white beard. “As to that, Widow Mast, I’m afraid we only have room left for Beth. The fellow who set this up with Ransom did so while he was with Beth after the fire. Did you not know? Kumme along, Beth. We mustn’t dally. Rose can finish those dishes.”

  He held the screen door wide and Beth hurried to leave. “Gutbye, Viola and Rose.”

  She received no answer; nor had she expected one.

  * * *

  Ransom held the brake while the bishop handed Beth into the back with the other folks who were going. He glanced round at her and saw that she was comfortably settled next to Lucy, who was an excellent seamstress and was going along to see what clothes the women of the community might make to replace the ones that had been lost in the fire. Jeb and Abel were also there, as well as several other expert carpenters and women bearing food for everyone.

  Bishop Umble was inclined to be talkative and held Ransom’s attention until they arrived at the site of the fire. Strangely, Ransom saw Ryan Mason step from beneath the tall pines and reach up to shake hands with the bishop and the wagon’s other occupants.

  Ransom jumped down and tied off the horses. He moved, intending to swing Beth over the side of the wagon, and was annoyed when Ryan reached her first. But he was quick to note that Beth seemed little interested in attentions from the Englischer. She began to whisper, then giggle with Lucy as they looked his way.

  Ransom felt himself flush and cursed softly under his breath. What am I? In school still, that the attentions of a girl can make me blush? But he had to admit that Beth was no ordinary maedel. . . .

  * * *

  “Ach, Beth,” Lucy whispered with matronly certainty. “Ransom is more than smitten with you. Did you see his face when that Ryan lifted you down?”

  “Nee,” Beth protested, but Lucy grabbed her hand and pulled her to the side by some sprawling mountain laurel.

  “What are you not telling me?” Lucy demanded with a smile. “Ach, he’s kissed you.”

  “Nee,” Beth whispered feebly, then couldn’t contain her smile at the obvious untruth.

  “How many times? Ach, if he kisses anything like Jeb . . .”

  “Ahem!” Bishop Umble interrupted them with a twinkle in his bright blue eyes. “Sorry to barge in, but this is Mrs. Lott. Her husband was the pastor who passed on from this world to the next. She’s thinking of going back to Williamsport—she and her children lost all their things in the fire—but I told her that I’d like her to stay on a bit until the new cabins are built. She’ll stay with Martha and myself. I thought you and the other women might be able to help her out with some clothing for her and the kinner.”

  Beth recognized the woman as the harried lady who had bought her first pies. No wonder she looks like she’s struggling—to lose her husband like that—so young.

  Beth reached out a hand to the older woman, as did Lucy. Mrs. Lott gave them a wan smile.

  “Please call me Olivia. And the children are Sienna, April, and May. They’ve been all out of sorts since their father . . . Well, since the fire.”

  Beth saw the blond-haired woman’s blue eyes swim with tears, which she hastily swiped away; it was as if she were tired of crying.

  “Why don’t I take the children for some breakfast while you geh into the barn nearby and let Beth take some measurements?” Lucy suggested with a smile.

  Beth saw that Olivia looked askance at their Amish dresses and had to smile. “I can sew most anything, Mrs.—er, Olivia. How do some shorts and nice blouses sound?”

  “Wonderful. Thank you.”

  Beth nodded and led Olivia back to the barn, trying to forget about the day in the rain, when she and Ransom had kissed inside it.

  “Are you married?”

  Beth flushed at the question, almost as if her thoughts about Ransom had revealed themselves to the world. “Uh . . . nee. . . .” she stammered.

  “Oh, I’m sorry for asking. It’s strange, but when you’re a—widow—it seems as if every other woman on the planet has someone in her life.”

  “You must miss your husband very much. I–I’m so sorry.”

  Olivia swiped at her eyes once more as they reached the barn and slid the door open. “I keep thinking it might just be a bad dream; that I’ll wake up and everything will be the same. But I know that’s not going to happen.”

  Beth sought for something to say as she drew her tape measure from her apron pocket.

  “I—my fater died . . .” The words sounded small and insignificant in comparison to Olivia’s grief, and Beth was surprised she had uttered them.

  “Did you hate God for a while?” the Englischwoman asked ruefully.

  Beth stood stock still as the question resonated throughout her soul. “I—” Did I? Do I? “I—have been angry with Him—” It was a truth that nearly took her breath away.

  Olivia waved a hand tiredly. “Please forget I asked. I know your Amish faith probably doesn’t dwell on negative things like that.”

  “Nee, oh no, I’d like to know, please. Did you—hate Him for a while?”

  “I still do,” Olivia admitted quietly. “Jim was a good man, and so young. He was a good father, husband, and pastor. I don’t understand . . . when there are so many . . . evil men . . .” She broke off and straightened her back with obvious resolution. “I’m truly sorry.” She extended her arms. “Please take your measurements.”

  Beth bit her lip as she stretched out the
yellow tape. “My daed was a good man too. I—it wasn’t his fault that he died. . . .” It was mine. Mine. Mine . . . She sighed deeply at the treacherous thoughts. “I suppose being gut or bad has nothing to do with dying.”

  Olivia leaned forward and suddenly held her in a tight embrace. “It’s so strange that you say that . . . it was the name of the last sermon Jim preached.” She pulled back to stare into Beth’s eyes. “I haven’t thought of it, what with everything that’s been going on. But . . . he said that God is in charge of the time you die . . . that he knows the day you were born . . . the number of hairs on your head . . . the number of tears you shed. . . .” She sobbed the last words through a smile that caused Beth’s heart to skip a beat. “Thank you, Beth. Thank you for helping me remember. It’s a great comfort; like I’ve got some equilibrium back.”

  Beth nodded, her own eyes full of tears, and whispered with tenderness, “Praise Gott. You’re welcome.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Ransom had a sudden idea as he watched fellow Amish men arrive with wagons full of lumber to frame out the cabins. He turned and sought out the bishop in the small crowd, noting that Beth was nowhere to be seen.

  “Ach, Ransom, looking for Beth?”

  Ransom frowned into the discerning blue eyes of Bishop Umble and automatically shook his head. “Nee . . . I was . . . um . . . looking for you actually.”

  “Well, here I am.”

  “Right. I was thinking that, instead of renting these cabins out to the Englisch like we usually do.... We should offer them as cabins of rest, a place where folks could kumme for a donation or for free, just to heal from the world. . . .” Ransom trailed off, unsure whether his idea was too far-fetched, but Bishop Umble was smiling.

  “The Cabins of Rest on Ice Mountain. I think we could advertise and it could be a great spring-through-autumn retreat for folks!” The bishop clapped him heartily on the shoulder. “Excellent idea, sohn.”

  Ransom nodded, awash with the leader’s affirmation. It felt gut, but then he remembered the past with a swamping dread. The bishop’s hand tightened on Ransom’s shoulder and the auld man leaned close. “Do you understand grace, Ransom King?”

  He said the first thing that came into his head. “People don’t talk like that. . . .”

  Bishop Umble smiled. “Nee, I suppose not, but they want to . . . they want to ask those kinds of questions, but evil has a way of trying to silence grace.”

  “I guess the voice of . . . grace . . . has been pretty silent in my life.”

  “Then let it in, buwe. Give it as much of a chance as you’ve given the darkness that holds you.”

  Ransom swallowed as the bishop walked away. The auld leader stirred his heart and made him feel as if someone had touched his very soul. He looked around instinctively for Beth, wanting to share the idea with her.

  She and Mrs. Lott were walking toward him, and he swiped at his eyes as they approached.

  * * *

  Beth noticed that Ransom’s dark eyes seemed to glimmer in the sunshine and she smiled in greeting, longing to tell him of what Olivia had said to her in the barn, but she noticed a sketchbook under his arm. “What’s that?” she asked curiously.

  “Ach, some furniture sketches of mine. I thought the family might like to choose some pieces and different woods—Daed’s got quite a supply back at the shop and I’ve ordered some other wood types in.”

  Beth smiled faintly. “It’s funny, I’ve lived among the Amish all my life and should know wood types, I suppose.” She wrinkled her nose. “But all I can think of are cherry, walnut, and pine.”

  “Oh, me too,” Olivia Lott said tremulously. “My grandfather was a carpenter, but I know very little about his work other than remembering sitting on his workshop steps and watching him use all these fascinating tools. He made me a dollhouse that had a spiral staircase.... I still had it up until the fire. The children played with it. . . .” Her kind face and blue eyes looked wan but resolute. “Still, God had something good in mind when he brought you to us.”

  Beth impulsively reached out and touched her arm. “Ach, jah, and you to us.”

  * * *

  Ransom smiled at the pair of women. “Perhaps, Mrs. Lott, you might care to look through our sketchbook and pick out some furniture. My family and I would be glad to make it for you. . . . It may take some time, but I plan to hire a few more men at the shop, so it shouldn’t be too long.”

  Olivia’s eyes filled with tears and she gladly bent over the book Ransom held out. It made him feel righteous for once, for a brief moment. But then he wondered if he hid in his work, lost himself somewhere in all the scrollwork and fancy trimmings.... Do I know what grace is . . . He straightened his back and tried to concentrate on showing the drawings to Mrs. Lott. He admitted to himself that he felt shy almost, while Beth stood there quietly listening, but it also felt gut.

  He cleared his throat. “Among the hardwoods you can choose from, we have northern red oak, quarter-sawn white oak, cherry, maple, beech, elm, mahogany, walnut, hickory, cedar, and pine.”

  “Oh my,” Beth murmured. “How can she choose? They all sound beautiful.”

  “Danki.” Ransom smiled at her. “Well, let me describe some of the woods when they’re finished and maybe we can write down what pieces of furniture you want in each wood.”

  Olivia swallowed visibly and shook her head slowly. “You’re both so kind, but I–I have no money to pay for fine furnishings. I’m really limited . . .”

  “But Gott is not limited,” Ransom said easily. “And besides, you’ll be helping me by letting me keep some furniture on display to raise interest in our expanding furniture business. If my daed was here, he would thank you too. He’s at home today . . . but let’s geh sit in the shade and I’ll show you what I’ve got.”

  They made their way to a copse of maple trees and sat down on the grass. Ransom took out a pencil nub and a clean sheet of paper. “Now, cherry is nice. It has a light, reddish-brown color that will darken with exposure to the sun. It might be really gut for a dining-room table and chairs. Although maple is lovely too. It’s significantly harder than oak and is growing in popularity because of its beauty.”

  Ransom glanced at Beth while Olivia thought, and he imagined what it might be like to build furniture for Beth—for a home of their own. I am losing my mind . . . and she deserves so much more....

  “Oh, Mr. King,” Olivia exclaimed. “Can I just leave it to you and your family to choose what is right? We’d be so glad of anything you create.”

  Ransom nodded and remembered to smile, though his mind was far away, lost in an image of golden-haired children sitting around a walnut-stained table while Beth sat opposite him and they all quieted for grace . . .

  * * *

  Beth savored the movements of Ransom’s lean hands as he paged through the drawings for Olivia and her to inspect. She realized the time spent with his grandfather had opened a well of creativity in Ransom that shone in each bold sketch. She watched him as he explained each piece of furniture and the wood he might choose, and she knew that he had a gifted mind for such things. Then she remembered what it was like to be held by his capable hands and couldn’t resist the shiver of delight that ran down her back. Was this what it was to love someone? she wondered, finding that even the cadence of his voice gave her pleasure. She clenched her hands in her lap and tasted the secret thought that Ransom could be hers . . . could love her back . . . if only . . .

  * * *

  The following week, at the site of the cabins, timber was being delivered from the Kings’ woodshop, and the pungent smell of fresh-cut pine and maple hung heavy in the air. “I’m glad you thought of making these cabins a place of rest for both Amish and Englisch alike, Ransom,” Bishop Umble said heartily, and Ransom tried to drink in the compliment. as he and the spiritual leader walked about the worksite.

  “It’s a pleasure and a privilege to help,” Ransom returned. “But there is one thing . . .”

 
“You name it.”

  Ransom shrugged. “You seem to carry the burdens of the past so lightly on your shoulders. I mean, dealing with this fire and the role of leadership. And I’m sure there have been other things that you and your family have had to face in the past. I don’t know . . . I just wondered if there is some secret to it.”

  Bishop Umble smiled. “It’s not a secret surely, but perhaps not something you’ve considered before. We don’t tell ourselves enough of Gott’s Truth. . . . In any case, for us humans, time and the past seem immutable—unable to be changed.”

  “But that’s the truth, right?” Ransom asked.

  “Well, as humans on this earth, we’re forced to think in linear time. We can’t go back, become young again, or undo something that has wounded us in the past. But to Gott, time is not immutable. He lives for and in all time. He holds our lives in His Hands and He is capable of going back in our pasts and bringing goodness or wisdom or, especially, truth from the things we’ve experienced into today.”

  “Whew!” Ransom tipped back his hat on his brow. “That sounds complicated!”

  “Maybe this sounds less difficult—we have to learn to forgive ourselves for our pasts as Gott forgives.”

  “No,” Ransom answered soberly. “That sounds much more difficult.”

  Bishop Umble paused in his walking and turned to face him. “Is there something, Ransom, that you need to forgive yourself for?”

  “I wouldn’t know where to begin,” he said softly.

  The bishop shot him an encouraging nod. “I didn’t say it was easy—in fact, I think it’s easier to forgive others sometimes because we feel they deserve it. But ourselves . . . no, we don’t deserve forgiveness in our own eyes.”

  Ransom nodded and exhaled, but he couldn’t do what Bishop Umble was talking about. In fact, he was sure the spiritual leader wouldn’t even want to be talking to him if he knew everything . . . if he knew about them . . .

  * * *

  As she peered from her small loft window, Beth watched Bishop and Martha Umble walk away from the cabin. She had heard someone knock earlier and had hastened to the loft ladder to geh and answer the door, but Viola had been up—oddly enough. Then Beth had listened shamelessly and caught various words that made her heart sing.