Though Mountains Fall

by Dale Cramer

  Soto’s head tilted, puzzled, as if the question made no sense. “We sent them to the garrison in San Luis Potosi, where they will be hanged.”

  “You promised you would let them live,” Caleb seethed, his nostrils flaring.

  Soto spread his hands wide and looked to his compadres. “Sí, and I kept my promise! I did let them live. I even made the commander of the garrison at San Luis Potosi promise that he would give the bandidos a fair trial before he hangs them.”

  Caleb’s fists clenched white, remembering the words of a Jewish grocer he’d once known in Ohio. The old Jew told him a strange story handed down by his ancestors about when the Red Sea swallowed the Egyptian army. The refugees were jubilant until Gott himself asked them, “Why do you sing when my children lie drowned in the sea?” Caleb hadn’t quite understood it until now. Try as he might, he could not remain silent.

  “I’m starting to think the only thing in this country worth less than a man’s life is your word, Captain Soto.”

  The smile disappeared, and Soto’s face reddened as he leaned toward Caleb. “They were bandidos, gringo. Outlaws, murderers, thieves. Five of my men lie dead because of them, and three of the peasants in the village. What would you have me do, release them so they can kill again? Or perhaps I should build a nice jailhouse for them and make myself their servant. Would you have me bring them eggs and toast for breakfast every morning for the rest of their lives? Life is hard here, gringo. Mercy is a luxury we cannot afford, especially for men who only make life harder. I have no sympathy for these men.”

  “You will answer to Gott one day,” Caleb spat.

  They laughed at this, the captain and his men, as if it were an old joke.

  “Señor Bender,” Soto said, still chuckling, “I think perhaps this has been the problem in my country for far too long—too much God and not enough common sense. But the new presidente is taking steps to correct the problem. He will bring order. You will see.”

  Captain Soto spurred the horse he had just stolen from Caleb, and his men followed him down the lane toward Hershberger’s place.

  The soldiers had just left when Domingo rode up to the barn on a mule-drawn planter. Climbing down from the seat the young native wiped his forehead with a bandanna.

  He pointed with a thumb. “Wasn’t that one of your horses?”

  Caleb nodded, holding out a hand to show him the coins.

  Domingo raised an eyebrow. “A hundred pesos?”

  “Not nearly enough for my best buggy horse.”

  “Better than nothing,” Domingo said, instantly grasping the alternative.

  Caleb pocketed the money. “I’m starting to wonder if maybe the federales are worse than the bandits. Twice now I have heard Captain Soto say the new president does not fear Gott. What does he mean?”

  “Presidente Plutarco Elias Calles, who won the election and took office just before the New Year. He is an atheist, and he has sworn to break the church’s grip on Mexico.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he, and many others, see the church as the tool of European imperialists.”

  Caleb stared at him. “Do you?”

  Domingo thought for a moment before saying, “I did, once. Father Noceda disagrees with me, but I have come to believe there are two churches. One of them is the buildings and the land, the money and power that attracts evil men and corrupts good ones. The other church is the real one, the one in the hearts of common people who only want to raise their crops and children in peace. They seek only absolution, and hope. Such a hope binds people to each other in ways that men like Captain Soto will never understand. I have only recently come to understand it myself. I am afraid for the true church, Señor Bender. Our new president will attack the power, but in the end it will be the common people who suffer. It is always so.”

  Caleb nodded slowly. Amish or not, his son-in-law was a man of keen perceptions.

  On Thursday morning Miriam laid two outfits on the bed, one Amish and one Mexican.

  “What should I wear?”

  It was an hour before daylight, and Domingo was already dressed in his cotton work clothes and sandals. Miriam had not seen her family since the wedding, apart from the madness at the hacienda, but today was a school day.

  School would be held, as always, in her father’s buggy shed. Miriam couldn’t help being nervous about how she would be received. Very nervous.

  Domingo wrapped his arms around her waist, kissed her ear. “If you are asking what I would like to see you wear, it does not matter—you make everything beautiful. And if you are asking what will upset your family the least, you would know that far better than I.”

  Now, with Domingo’s arms about her, the choice became clear. There was no going back, and no sense in pretending. The plain black dress and kapp would never be seen as accommodation, but hypocrisy. With great trepidation she put on the printed skirt and white blouse, draped a shawl over her shoulders, twisted her hair into a single thick braid, uncovered, and slipped sandals onto her feet.

  Domingo went to his mother’s barn and hitched his horse to the cart while Miriam dressed. Kyra’s two boys sat in the back as the rickety oxcart jostled out of San Rafael and around the end of the ridge, arriving at the Bender farm as the sun peeked over the low hills in the east.

  When Domingo pulled up to the buggy shed and stopped, Miriam hesitated, staring at the house.

  “Domingo, are you sure about this?”

  He took her hand in his. “No. I don’t know what will happen, but I do know that whatever it is, it must happen sooner or later. It was a little awkward being around your father the last two days, but he doesn’t seem angry. Sad, maybe.”

  A glimmer of lamplight shone through the cracks of the buggy shed—Rachel, already there. Miriam took a deep breath, steeled herself and climbed down from the cart.

  As soon as she stepped through the door, Rachel met her with a hug, then held her at arms’ length. “You look lovely,” she said. “Marriage must agree with you because you’re glowing.”

  Miriam smiled demurely, but shook her head. “The blush in my cheeks is only nerves. This is a tense moment for me.”

  But Rachel only smiled. “You’re not banned yet, sister. People may talk, but there’s nothing they can do. Not yet. Relax.”

  “How is Mamm?”

  Rachel darkened and gave a little shrug. “Not so good. Give her time—she’ll get used to the idea.”

  They were almost done arranging the benches and tables when the children started coming in, and Miriam began to sense that Rachel might be wrong. There was something they could do. The Amish were usually the first to arrive, but when it came time to start, the only children in her classroom were Mexican.

  Not a single Amish child showed up.

  Clutching her shawl about her Miriam went outside to look. From the slight rise where the buggy shed sat she could see the entire lane, and the lanes from the other houses down to the main road. There were no children in sight, anywhere.

  Her father came out of the house and headed for the barn, but when he spotted her he changed course. She could hear her own heart pounding as he walked up.

  “Buenos días, Señora Zapara,” he said. She would have taken it as a kindly greeting if he’d been smiling, but her father’s eyes were hard.

  “Good morning,” she croaked.

  “You needn’t be looking for the children, Miriam. The Amish grapevine has done its work. I’ve already heard from most of the fathers that their kinner won’t be coming to your school anymore.”

  Fighting back tears, she clutched her shawl tighter and merely nodded.

  He leaned closer and his voice lowered ominously. “What did you expect, Miriam? You want to know what they said? They said they came to Paradise Valley so their children wouldn’t be influenced by outsiders all day in school. Every family here—every one of them—sold out and picked up and moved a thousand miles, just for that. And now their children are going to be taught by an outc
ast? A baptized woman who chose to walk away from the church? What did you think would happen?”

  When she saw her father in the hacienda stable right after the wedding he hadn’t seemed angry, only a little sad. But the Amish grapevine had indeed done its work, and now she saw in his eyes the disapproval, perhaps even the scorn, of his brethren. She had shamed him. She couldn’t hold back the tears, but she clung to one last hope.

  “I am not yet banned,” she whispered.

  “You will be. You’ve broken from your church, and they know it even if you don’t. These people don’t need a ban to tell them who they should allow to teach their kinner.”

  Her eyes drifted down, away from his hard glare, as tears tracked her cheeks. “Shall I continue to use your buggy shed, then?”

  “Do as you wish until the ban comes, but you’ll only be teaching Mexican children.”

  He walked away, but after a few steps he stopped. Half turning, he looked her up and down. “And don’t go into the house dressed like that,” he said. “It would only upset your mother.”

  It took her a few minutes to collect herself. Then, wiping the tears from her face, she went back into the buggy shed. She had a class to teach.

  At lunchtime Rachel went to the house to eat while Miriam stayed behind. A few minutes later Domingo came into the buggy shed carrying two plates.

  Shocked, Miriam asked, “Did they put you out?”

  He shook his head, smiled. “No, but I am a free man. I choose to eat with my wife.”

  Somehow she made it through the day, and somehow her brother and sisters managed to avoid her the entire time. But she had time to think. None of this was the children’s fault, and it was unfair to deprive the Amish children of an education. Devastating as it was, there remained only one solution.

  “One last thing,” she said as the Mexican children cleared their tables, preparing to leave. “After today I will not be coming here anymore. From now on Señorita Rachel will be your teacher. I want you to treat her with respect and listen to her, okay?”

  The children took it in stride, granting Miriam only a brief parting hug before they bolted into the sunshine, oblivious to her anguish.

  But Rachel knew. She didn’t have to be told what the boycott of the Amish children meant, and that Miriam had no alternative but to withdraw.

  “Miriam, I’m so sorry. What will you do now?”

  She sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe I can start a school for the Mexican children in San Rafael. There is a great need.”

  Miriam remained in the buggy shed after the children left, waiting for Domingo, puttering around, straightening up, saying goodbye to the place where she had discovered her greatest gift. Apart from Rachel none of her family came near, but when Domingo finally brought the cart around and she went to get on it, Ada spotted her. Ada’s face lit up as she lumbered across the yard and threw her arms around Miriam, nearly knocking her down.

  After a day of such heartbreak and disappointment, Ada’s unfettered joy caught Miriam off guard and it pierced her heart. When her big sister backed away beaming, innocent as a child of all but the simplest of rules, she saw the tears in Miriam’s eyes and hugged her again.

  “Shhhh, little one,” Ada whispered. “Gott knows.”

  Chapter 11

  Domingo and Miriam went to Kyra’s for dinner on Friday, and Father Noceda was there without his cassock. He wore ordinary dark clothes, the only marks of his priesthood the stiff collar around his neck, and his skullcap. Kyra and her mother served up some kind of spicy Mexican mixture with tortillas and beans, and only after Miriam tasted it did she realize it contained fish instead of the usual chicken.

  “It’s Friday,” Kyra explained, glancing at the priest across the table.

  Miriam was confused, and when Kyra saw the question in her eyes she added, “We don’t eat meat on Friday.”

  “Fish is not meat?”

  Father Noceda smiled. “It’s an old Catholic tradition—our little way of fasting. We mustn’t neglect our traditions just because we no longer have a chapel.”

  This, Miriam understood. “The Amish are full of traditions, but they have never had a chapel. They meet in each others’ homes and barns.”

  Father Noceda nodded. “Admirable. This is how it was done in the first century.”

  With his mouth full, one of Kyra’s boys asked, “Padre, why did the soldiers take your church?”

  Noceda smiled, tousled the boy’s hair. “Because they could. You must understand, child, the rulers of our country are a little confused. They think everything bad that happens in Mexico is because of the church, so they take the property of the church in the name of the state. Sometimes they take the priest, too.”

  “This is true,” Kyra said. “I’ve heard there are many towns where they have lost not only their church but their priest as well.”

  Miriam gaped in astonishment. “And this is the law of the land?”

  Domingo nodded. “It has been so for a long time. Eight years ago the government adopted a new constitution making it against the law to teach religion in schools or to worship in a public place. The church has no legal right to property, and priests have practically no rights at all.” He waved casually toward Father Noceda. “He is not even allowed to wear his cassock in public.”

  “But we have been here for three years and there has been no trouble in El Prado,” Miriam said. “If the laws have been in place for eight years, why are things suddenly so much worse?”

  It was Father Noceda who answered. “Because troops are here now, and they serve the new presidente. The old one, Obregón, was a cautious politician who didn’t like to stir up the people in places where the church was strong. But this Calles, he doesn’t care. He is out to destroy the church. So now I have no building.”

  “What will you do?” Miriam asked.

  The priest chuckled. “I will do as the Amish do—my flock will meet in a barn. There is a man who owns an old warehouse in San Rafael, where he once stored beans and grain but he doesn’t use it anymore. When he heard what happened he offered his building to the church. It needs a bit of work—a new roof, some paint, and we’ll have to borrow a few things for the Communion table—but under the circumstances it is a great blessing.”

  “I know the place,” Domingo said. “We can’t thatch a roof that size, and tin is expensive. You walked away from Iglesia El Prado with nothing but the clothes on your back.”

  “Not quite,” the priest said with a wry smile. “You’re forgetting that it was your wedding day. I came away with thirteen gold coins in my pocket.”

  “So you will have a building where people can come for church?” Miriam asked.

  “For mass, sí. It won’t be like the beautiful stone chapel in El Prado, but God will bless even a warehouse if His children gather there.”

  Miriam had barely touched her dinner. Since her own people forced her out of her beloved school, she had thought of almost nothing else. Now she began to see a new path, and the idea intrigued her. She pushed back her plate and laid down her fork.

  “Father Noceda, the children of San Rafael have no school. Do you think it might be possible to start one in your warehouse?”

  Father Noceda gave a shrug and stared blankly for a moment. “It’s against the law . . .”

  She sighed and nodded, her gaze falling away from him, a fledgling hope shattered.

  Domingo saw her disappointment and squeezed her hand. With his eyes on the priest, he said, “Miriam, Father Noceda was born and raised in Mexico, so perhaps I hear more than you do of what he does not say. He only said it was against the law; he did not say he wouldn’t do it.”

  Noceda laughed out loud. “My young amigo knows me too well, Miriam. Sometimes we must obey God rather than men. I think it would be wonderful if you could teach the children of San Rafael to read and write, and I will do everything I can to help you. But it is against the law to have a school in the church. The only reason I did not defy the law at I
glesia El Prado was because there a school would have been impossible to hide. Perhaps we can get away with it here in San Rafael, but we will have to do it quietly.”

  Emma watched Levi closely because she knew him well. When the bandits burned his barn it was a watershed moment for him, a time of rare and deep reflection that Emma felt certain, in the end, would sway his mind one way or the other. He didn’t say much, but he spent every spare moment cleaning out the shell of the barn, hauling off charred remains, sifting through drifts of ash and brushing black soot from the adobe foundation walls. Levi was a relentless worker who never shirked and never wasted time, though occasionally amid the remains of his barn she would see him stop and stare, hands on hips, for minutes at a time.

  Thinking.

  Once or twice he said something, only a word or two, but enough for her to know. He was still wrestling with his own understanding of Gott.

  Emma knew what she believed, but Levi had been raised by a father who judged his every move, his every thought, and with mathematical precision meted out punishment for the slightest infraction. In time, it had become Levi’s picture of Gott.

  She understood this, too. Right or wrong, what boy’s image of Gott was not carved in the shadow of his father? Here, in the ruins of his barn, she saw a chance to show him the truth. It was a delicate moment, and she knew better than to preach to her husband about the limitless mercy of the Father, the all-encompassing sacrifice of the Son. Levi didn’t trust words. Better to let him see the reflection of the truth in the deeds of those who understood it.

  Emma went to see her father. It only took a moment, a word or two, as the lightest step in the right place can trigger a landslide. Late in the afternoon her father drove up in his hack while Levi was out by the barn. He only stayed a moment, then returned to his hack and went home. Standing in the back door of the house with Will on her hip, Emma saw them talking. Though they were too far away for her to hear what was said, she knew. She saw the change in her husband’s face—first confusion, then disbelief, then wonder, and finally a profound gratitude. When Caleb left, she saw her husband start for the house and then stop and turn about. Even this, she understood. Levi was a man; he would let no one see him with tears in his eyes.