by Linda Byler
She went back inside with what she hoped was a courteous, regal walk. But Walter Trout saw the hat she was wearing backward, the hairpins hanging dangerously close to leaving her head altogether, then saw her near-slip on the icy doorstep. A resounding laugh came from way down in his rotund belly as he shook his head from side to side, thinking of the delightful Emma Ferree.
Hester was surprised to find Emma’s angelic demeanor changed into one of red-faced fury when she finished the washing. Did she dislike that chore so thoroughly? Hester decided to offer to do the washing. She had always loved it, even in winter when her fingers became so cold she had to blow on them.
Emma hung up the clothespin sack, clapped her hands a few times, then ladled hot water into a mug, added tea leaves, cut a large square of molasses cake, and chewed methodically.
Hester sat by the fire in a worn rocking chair lined with coverlets. The bruise was not large, her dark eyes no longer slits in the purplish swelling, although she still faintly resembled a burst piece of fruit, in Billy’s words. She watched Emma in silence.
Suddenly Emma burst out, “Some days I long for the farm. The idea of being townspeople may have appealed to me at one time, but this thing of hanging out my shifts for the nosy next door neighbor to see just gricked my gase!”
It hurt Hester’s head to laugh, but she had to, the body-shaking sound rolling out of her before she could stop it. “Oh, that felt good to laugh,” she said, breathlessly. “Kate used to say something ‘got her goat’!”
Emma nodded, then reached for the pewter knife, measured another large square of the sweet, brown cake, and plopped it happily on her plate. “Tell me about Kate. Tell me about Berks County. Have you ever been to Philadelphia?”
Hester talked, slowly at first, then faster, as if she wanted Emma to see the woods and the stone house, Kate and the sweet babies that arrived so soon after they found her as a tiny newborn. She told her about Kate’s dying, the ensuing misery when she was replaced by the hawkish Annie, how Noah and Isaac shunned her, and the reason she left, leaving her fate in God’s hands. The reason she left, she said, was Annie’s mistreatment of her. She never mentioned Hans.
Why? It made her head hurt to think about Hans, for she still wrestled with self-blame. He had been good to her. He had provided a home, shelter, food, a way of life. It was Hans who showed her the discipline of the Amish, the way of the cross. Could she always blame her leaving on him alone? Some things were best left unsaid. The whole thing made her tired, made her head ache.
Emma watched the battered Hester gimlet-eyed, missing very little. Who was this girl? What was behind the sadness in her swollen black eyes?
The good food Emma placed on the plank table nurtured Hester’s body and spirit in the winter days after their talk. Billy came and went the way a ray of sunshine slips between puffy, gray clouds, illuminating a room with its brilliance. His red hair waved and straggled about his head like copper-colored flames. His blue eyes shone with mischief, curiosity, and an appetite for life that only small boys possessed.
He often wolfed down his evening meal, then roamed the streets of Lancaster Town, as he called it, claiming ownership to far more than he could in reality. He was the bearer of news, gossip, truth, and untruths. He soaked up tidbits like a dry sponge, then poured it forth at every evening meal, the only meal they ate together.
Tonight, Emma had made Hootsla, a quick, filling dish that Hester had never tried. Emma had cut stale bread into cubes, toasted them in butter in a heavy skillet, then poured a mixture of beaten eggs and milk over top. She had also made Schmierkase from the whey stored in the cold cellar, a spreadable cheese Kate had sometimes made. Hester bent her head to her plate of nutritious food and ate every morsel.
Emma watched her with satisfaction, noticing the color of her dark skin as the bruises healed. She could see Hester’s unusual beauty emerge, the fine contour of her high cheekbones becoming more prominent.
“Hey,” Billy said.
Hester carefully spread the remaining cheese on a slice of bread before looking at Billy, who was energetically shoving a crust of bread along the rim of his plate, the way Hans had taught all the children at home.
“They’re saying.” He paused until Emma stopped chewing and gave him her full, undivided attention. “They’re saying there’s no Indian safe in the town of Lancaster. Nary a one.”
Hester held very still, absorbing the words, fighting down the panic.
“You know they got only thirteen of them at the jailhouse. They’re saying some men from Harrisburg want rid of ’em. Just wanna bushwhack them out of Pennsylvania entirely.”
Hester nodded. She understood Naw-A-Te’s words now. She could still feel the frosty air and see the sickle moon of that haunted evening. Yes, her people were leaving. Had left. Or been killed. Well, they’d done plenty of killing themselves, the settlers’ hearts quaking with terror as they heard tales of the marauding Indians on the western frontier. A heavy sadness followed these bits of news, darkening Hester’s life like an angry black cloud that hid the sun’s face, whenever the threat was mentioned.
“So, you better not go out till this thing blows over,” Billy finished, sticking a knife into a quivering custard pie before jerking the handle up and down like a saw.
“Now watch it there, Billy.” Emma looked up from her Hootsla, her eyebrows lowered as he maneuvered the shaking pie onto his plate. “You have half of a pie there.”
“The other half is for you.”
“Hester?”
Billy eyed her, then said she didn’t eat pie, like as not.
Hester laughed, but the sound was hollow, a false tinkling sound like a distant cowbell that someone was shaking foolishly.
Her thoughts churned, disturbing the normal flow of her mind, wondering, watching Billy’s young face. If she was not safe here with Emma, would she ever be safe anywhere? Or safe, perhaps, but unwanted?
A part of her wanted to rise from the table, gather a few belongings, and be on her way, but on her way to where? Back to Hans and Annie? The days stretched before her, dark and mysterious, swelling with gigantic questions, unanswered now.
She had one thing, and that was her faith. God would protect her, go with her. Hans had taught her this. The imperfect Hans. How could she believe a word he said after he betrayed her with his well hidden ardor? Could she continue to believe in a God presented by Hans?
Naw-A-Te was true. He was faithful. He could press her head against his chest, and she could hear the steady beating of his heart, and nothing seemed wrong. If Hans would have tried the same gesture, it would have been vile, revolting. Should she have stayed and married Running Bear? Wen-O-Ma? A visual image of his face, slick with grease, was as real and as repulsive as ever.
Emma Ferree finished her pie, sat back, and watched the display of emotions, fanned by her troubled thoughts. Well, if she had anything to say, this battered Indian girl would suffer no more if she could help it, and she fervently believed she could. A fierce, protective feeling welled in her chest. Hester had suffered enough.
Emma’s eyes narrowed shrewdly as her brain churned with possibilities. She’d have to let go of her pride and have a talk with that fat Walter Trout. She would find a way.
Walter had just tucked into a delightful stack of buckwheat cakes soaked in butter and drizzled with maple syrup, a large white cloth stuck in his collar to protect his shirt, when there was a rapid knocking on his back door. Thinking how unusual that was, he became a bit hasty, heaving his oversize body from his kitchen chair so that he knocked over his coffee.
Letting it go, he clucked mournfully at his loss but hastened his bulk to the back door, pulling it open and waving an arm with a flourish when he saw who it was. Emma Ferree!
She brushed past him, saying pointedly, “Take your bib off.”
He clawed at it hastily, the red of his face turning to an alarming shade of purple as he rolled the cloth between his fingers, unsure if he should tell her it was
not a bib but a cloth napkin which the gentry always had at their disposal. What would a German know about napkins?
So he drew himself up to his full height of five feet and five inches and told Emma in clipped tones that it was not a bib but a napkin. She answered tartly that he could call it what he wanted but it was still a bib.
She walked into the kitchen ahead of him, eyed the stack of buckwheat cakes, and to her horror, her mouth began to water. She swallowed. She had never seen better-looking buckwheat cakes.
She pulled at the ladder-back chair. Instantly, Walter rushed to her side, pulled the chair out, and asked her to be seated, but found he could not push the chair at all after she was on it. He observed the ample pile of skirts on each side of the chair and pretended not to notice when she bumped the chair up to the table herself. “Now, then, Emma Ferree, could I interest you in some buckwheat cakes?”
Emma swallowed. My, from down here they looked even better. “Perhaps you could,” she said pointedly, feigning disinterest. But when he served her a stack of three cakes dripping with butter and a coating of syrup, made her a cup of tea, and handed her a cloth napkin, she didn’t have the slightest idea what to do with it and laid the thing beside her plate.
So that Emma wasn’t as high up as she thought. But he enjoyed her obvious delight in the buckwheat cakes and didn’t mind when she licked her fingers, then brought up a corner of her apron to wipe her mouth. Such rosy cheeks, so well rounded, he thought. What a healing of his sad heart for her to grace his table.
She asked the favor of him. Did he not own land outside the town? Down by the Amish somewhere? Near Coatesville?
Yes, yes, he did.
Was there a possibility that he could keep a secret, then?
Oh yes, yes, of course.
His head was shining in the morning sunlight, the reflection bouncing off the mirror hung by his wash bench, illuminating the skin to the highest sheen she had ever witnessed. The circle of gray hair looked thinner in the unforgiving light, not entirely like a squirrel, she thought. Perhaps just part of one.
“And on this land you own,” Emma said, pursing her lips and drawing out her question, just enough to keep him on edge.
“Yes?” he asked, eager to help Emma accomplish her goals.
“There is a dwelling?”
“Yes. Oh, quite a presentable house. One built of log and bricks.”
“And there is someone living there at present?”
“No. No. Jonas Fisher has inquired, but finds the rent too steep for his pocket.”
“Well, then.” And Emma launched into a vivid account of Hester’s arrival, keeping Walter mesmerized, for he had truthfully never expected the sack wagon to hold anything quite that frightful. At worst, he’d imagined Billy to have pilfered some hay, which he figured only served that Simon down at the tavern right.
Emma wanted to move out there with Hester until these threats against the redskins died out. Billy would go with them, of course, and she’d school him at home. It was unthinkable for Hester to stay indoors in the town for such an extended period of time. When spring arrived, she would need fresh air and sunshine.
Oh, absolutely, Walter agreed over and over to Emma’s plan, nodding his head so hard his chins wobbled and waggled as if they had entire lives of their own. Emma grabbed her own chin, tugged a few times before deciding, yes, definitely, she had only one.
When he walked with her to the back door, he briefly rested his hand on her back, which made her stiffen and lower her voice a few degrees in iciness, but he paid her no heed. She was very German, and he had his napkins, after all.
Hester was seated at the kitchen table, a small pile of rye straw in front of her. Emma noticed the new look of concentration, a purposeful demeanor, as she began the basket she would make.
“Wunderbahr!” Emma exclaimed, her spirits high, her cheeks flushed from the buckwheat cakes.
Hester smiled. “I learned from Clover and Beaver. You wait!”
Emma clapped her hands like a small overgrown child. “So exciting. Hester. Our house will be graced with your kaevlin!”
“You say kaevlin for ‘baskets,’ too?” she asked, her face alight with understanding.
Emma sat across from Hester, explaining her visit to her neighbor, then told her she had nothing to fear, that she would be taken care of, not just this day or even this winter, but always. She told her she would be the daughter she never had. Walter was willing to let them stay at his house, where she could roam the woods and adjoining fields among the Amish, who would never harm her. They could raise a sow, have a flock of chickens and a cow.
Hester’s eyes glowed with happiness. She wiped her tears hurriedly and said she’d do her best to help make Emma’s life easier.
Emma was so touched by Hester’s declaration of loyalty that she patted her shoulder with her soft, puffy fingers and said she must never fear about the future from this day forward. She, Emma Ferree, would look out for her, same as Billy would, for as long as she needed their protection.
Over and over, she repeated herself, until Billy said he’d be the man of the house, but what was he going to do for excitement if they lived in the country? Without the tavern and the livery, and his band of friends to roam the streets, life was going to be dull beyond anything he could imagine.
Hester could easily explain the ways of the country. Water to haul, firewood to chop, animals to feed, garden to tend, the list went on and on.
Billy listened, his eyebrows drawn down as he thought about Hester’s words. “Well, I know, but if you do all that work, there’s not a whole lot left for me to do.” Emma told him he needed his ears boxed.
Hester was happy to move to the country. She hoped her gardening skills were sufficient, as well as being able to keep house the way Emma required. The German Emma was always scouring floors, washing, and carefully smoothing out clothes and bedsheets, even linen towels and doilies, as if one speck of dirt would never be allowed to exist on anything washable.
Hester wove the rye straw expertly, drawing the rows tightly with strips of willow bark, a basket style whose origin was half-German and half-Indian. Emma was amazed. Billy fell silent, his bright eyes watching Hester’s fingers like an observant hawk. Hester began to talk of her time with the Indians, about Naw-A-Te, Running Bear, Clover, and Beaver, the ways of the longhouse, their weapons and primitive tools. She spoke of her inability to stay, sometimes still not understanding the choice she had made.
Billy snorted. “Seems you didn’t have much choice there toward the last.”
Hester laughed easily, her eyes shining dark pools of appreciation. “No. No. I didn’t.”
“You were sorta dumped into the feedlot by the livery, and if I remember right, I found you, dead as a door-nail.”
Emma broke in, “Now, now, Billy she was alive.”
“Barely.”
Hester nodded, her face serious. “I would have died.”
Billy told her if those men found her, he knew she’d been better off dead.
When a pounding on the front door exploded the homey atmosphere of the kitchen, they jumped, sat erect, then looked at one another with questions in their eyes, all fearfully recognizing that Hester might not be safe.
Emma was the first to think rationally. For someone of her size, she moved with lightning speed, opening the cellar door and beckoning Hester. “Into the potato bin. Cover yourself.”
Hester knew she must obey. She asked no questions, merely slipped down the narrow, steep stairs backward, holding on to the railing on each side until her feet found the uneven, earthen floor. It was pitch black, but her hands fluttered in front of her until they found the stone walls, the shelves, the meat hanging on hooks. She stifled a cry as a large rodent scuttled across her woolen sock–clad feet.
CHAPTER 8
LIGHT, QUICK FOOTSTEPS MOVED OUT OF THE kitchen and down the hallway. There was the creak of the front door. Voices.
Hester moved blindly, her hands roa
ming the walls of the cellar.
Heavy footsteps, the solid clunking of big boots thundering down on the oak floor like an avalanche of boulders. Emma’s voice.
Hester moved faster, her hands raking the wall. Where was the potato bin? It had to be here somewhere.
She heard the rough voices of men. She heard Emma say they could look all they wanted. She had seen no Indian running away.
She heard the steps of the men going upstairs. For one heart-stopping instant, she believed they were lowering themselves into the cellar. If they found her here, she had no way of escape.
The steps were muted, far away now. Hester imagined them upstairs, enormous, dark bodies, massive white faces outlined with black beards and filthy, smelly hats of fur and leather, glittering, greedy eyes, their single-minded goal to rid the town of Lancaster of the last of the redskins, the Conestogas.
Hester thought of the jailhouse, the hunger and filth she heard of there where she would be taken to join the small band of surviving Conestogas. When she heard the muted steps returning down the stairs, she moved frantically, the potato bin seeming completely unreachable. Surely it was along a wall. Perhaps not. She began swinging her arms wide, searching, when one hand slapped against rough lumber. Thank God.
With both hands, she found the square box. Bending over, she felt a large mound of potatoes. More loud footsteps sounded overhead. Her mind rushed faster. She had no time to cover herself with the small vegetables. It would take too long. Could she squeeze beneath the bin? She measured with her hands.
Emma was talking, talking, her words following a calm, relaxed march of ordinary words as she acted the part of a round little housewife, a dumbkopf, asking silly questions about the Indians that had nothing to do with this night or this mission.
Hester found enough space, she thought. Lowering herself, she flattened her body, wriggling and clawing with her hands. She felt the unhealed bruises on her head being squeezed. Dust and dirt slid past her cheek and filled her nose and mouth. Inch by inch, she pushed into the narrow crevice beneath the wooden bin containing the summer’s potatoes.