by Linda Byler
Hester and Bappie took it on themselves to try to find the children’s home. Taking the boy by the hand, they asked him to come with them. They were going for a walk. His terrified eyes glowered at them. Turning, he zigzagged wildly through the house, finally coming to a stop beneath the table, where he curled into a trembling fetal position, his eyes tightly closed.
The baby began wailing, its sobs turning into screams of hysteria. Leaving Emma to comfort the distraught child, they walked out onto the street, more determined than ever to find the source of the children’s mistreatment.
The town of Lancaster was newly washed, the storm having given the dusty streets and buildings a thorough rinsing. The evening was warm but not humid, making their stroll a pleasant one.
Naturally, they turned toward the more common section of town where the separate dwellings turned into huts that housed miners, coal-shovelers, and migrant workers. Here the streets were a soup of mud and water.
Tired, unkempt mothers peered suspiciously from doorways, swatting at clouds of mosquitoes that swarmed up from the liquid streets. Yelling children clad in mud shot across the roadways, all thin arms and legs with big feet and hands and bellies.
A youth sagged against a crooked doorpost, smoking a homemade pipe made of a reed and a corncob. He blew a jet of brown smoke in their direction, coughed, squinted, and spat into the mud before lifting the pipe and inhaling deeply.
“Hello?” Bappie said, a question more than anything.
The youth nodded in their direction.
“Do you have any idea if anyone on your street is looking for their children? Two boys?”
A shrug of the shoulders. His too big shirt slid off one shoulder, leaving his thin, white neck exposed, childlike, too vulnerable.
“Is your mother here?”
“Aren’t got no ma.”
“Your father?”
“Died two days ago. At the foundry.”
Bappie perked up, her eagerness bringing her through the puddles of water, the mosquitoes, and the green-tailed flies that buzzed around the filthy doorways.
“Do you have two brothers?”
“A course not.”
“Did anyone else die? At the foundry?”
“Two more.”
Clearly they were on the right path. They asked him to take them to the men’s families. He said no, they didn’t have no families.
Defeated, they looked at each other. Feeling dismissed by the disinterested youth, they retraced their steps, lifting their skirts to avoid dragging them through the mud. There were many more streets, but the evening sun was already low in the sky, and both of them had no wish to be here in this corner of Lancaster when darkness arrived. Better to go back home.
The squalor, the odor, and raw poverty of the miners’ homes kept Hester awake. She thought of the Indians, their uncanny ability to flourish with nothing except what the earth provided. With the gift of trees, they erected their lodges; with stone they fashioned arrowheads to find food that sustained them. From the wild animals, they fashioned their clothes. They made their tools, in fact, an entire way of life, with nothing except the knowledge handed down from generation to generation. They roamed the land, never hungry, always resourceful.
So who had gone wrong that intelligent white people should let the poor fall along the wayside? Had the liquor and its alcoholic content become a tradition as well?
She considered the Amish, the Mennonites, the Dunkards, the conservative groups who cared for their own. They had the poor among them always, but not like this. Constantly they gave, they fa-sarked, they cared for any less fortunate than themselves.
She supposed she had always been sheltered from the depravity of humankind. The ignorance and unfairness. How could a row of shacks come to be? On that street? What kept the people in poverty? Over and over her mind mulled, searching for a reason that all of God’s children were not the same. Perhaps God does love unequally. Otherwise, how could he allow these little ones to suffer untold terrors?
Hans seemed so much better, his shortcomings so different in the way he loved her and ignored the boys, Noah and Isaac. In spite of all that, he provided shelter and food and instilled a work ethic, teaching them to be self-sufficient, to work the land, fell trees, milk cows, and train horses. The list went on and on.
So much of Hans’ weakness was her fault. Hadn’t she always thought so? As time went on, that idea became firmly entrenched within her. It was easier to handle the past if she lived as the one who had done wrong somehow.
The same with William. She had failed miserably.
Her own sense of unworthiness unrolled like a scroll, the writing not quite legible, but unmistakably there in black and white.
To stay alert, to stay away from men, was her new and immediate goal. It was the only way to fix her past, to stop making mistakes. She would grow herbs and make tinctures with Bappie’s help. Together they would tend to the sick, erase the miserable huts, and teach the men and women to clean and cook, to grow vegetables, grind corn, and make their own bread from wheat kernels.
Hester flipped on her side and punched her pillow. She was awake completely now by the passion that drove her thoughts, the tumbled possibilities, the lessons she learned from Emma, good, kind soul that she was. Together with Bappie they would roll up their sleeves and make a big difference in the lives of the poor.
For starters, Bappie did not need to throw away the leftover cabbage leaves or the few tiny carrots half hidden in the loose soil in the bottom of the wooden crate. Red beet tops were very good cooked with salt, pepper, and a dash of vinegar. Bappie threw them away, which Hester found extremely wasteful. But so far she had kept quiet.
Kate had used every last wrinkled pea pod, every little nubbin of corn. She packed away late green tomatoes to roll later in flour and fry in lard. “It’ll taste good in the cold winter,” she would say, her eyes merry as she shucked that last pitiful ear of corn. This week after market, Hester would crate all the outer cabbage leaves, the red beet tops, anything she could salvage.
She saw the rowhouses every time she closed her eyes. She felt the hopelessness.
Why was the boy lolling about in the late afternoon when he should have been at work the way farm lads were? What caused these people to live in desolate clusters of shacks, when less than a half mile away, wealthy families lived in opulence, black servants seeing to their every need?
She thought again of the Amish and their stringent work ethic. They, the Mennonites, the Dunkards, and many of the more liberal English worked hard to establish farms, clearing entire forests to make room for rolling fields of crops. Maybe no one had taught these poor families how to garden or save money. Hester’s heart beat faster. Her pulse quickened with the daring plan that formed in her mind.
Yes. She would start, one family at a time. The summer would soon be over. This is what she would do. With her store of herbs and the wisdom she had learned from the old Indian woman, she would heal the sick children and teach the destitute women to cook, clean, and wash clothes. She hoped Bappie would agree to help her.
Outside in the warm summer night, a figure crept past Hester’s bedroom window, tiptoeing stealthily, bent over, a dark figure with his face hidden. He stopped, then slid his hand along the German siding as if to test the sturdiness of it. For a long time he stood, his face lifted, white and featureless in the dark night, with only the ineffective light from the stars overhead.
Hester turned, her dreamlike edge of sleep disturbed by a sound she could not place. A sliding or slithering. A brush against stone? If she were in the forest, she would have known, but here in town, she could not place it. She sighed, untroubled, and let sleep overtake her.
Back in the verdant garden the following day, Hester straightened her back, met Bappie’s eyes, and said, “This fall when cold weather approaches, we will go to the poor houses, you and I.”
Bappie’s elevated eyebrows rearranged her freckles. “We will?”
; Hester nodded. She lifted a hand to tuck a strand of hair beneath her cap. “I think God wants me to do this. This might be why I was led to this town. I have all these herbs and the knowledge of how to use them.”
Bappie’s face turned a shade darker, obliterating the freckles. Her eyes snapped with anger, black and abrasive. “Hester! You think you’re going to solve poverty once and for all with a musty box of stinking herbs? Don’t you know the reason those people live like that? They’re lazy. The men don’t care. They sit down at those taverns and drink away any wages they earn. It’s hopeless.” Bappie sniffed and mopped her brow with her gray handkerchief.
Hester’s mouth turned down. Her nose tingled as her breathing became fast and shallow. “You say that because it leaves you free and blameless. The Amish are soaked with that attitude. You sound exactly like Frances and William.”
The words were out before she could think of their consequences. Bappie straightened to her tallest height, her eyes wide and bulging with the scratching truth of Hester’s words, an uncomfortable affront to her own righteous life. She stamped one bare foot.
“You! You are such a … such an Indian in your strange way of thinking!” she burst out, her cap strings flapping, then coming to rest across her shoulders.
Hester faced Bappie squarely. “Yes. I am an Indian. After seeing the squalor and destitution of poor white people, I am glad. Glad. The Indians have no money, only a priceless heritage handed down to them from their forefathers. That’s just like the Amish. They are self-sufficient in so many ways, making a good way of life with only the things God has created. I am proud of my Indian blood for the first time in my life, and it feels good.”
Bappie’s mouth hung open in surprise.
“You can think what you want. I defend my ancestors and the way they live.”
Bappie snorted. “I guess you defend the Ohio massacres, the scalping, the savages plundering and burning homes. Those Indians are worse than animals.”
“Because they were driven to it by the white men’s greed for land.”
This Bappie could not truthfully deny.
“The Indians roamed these Pennsylvania woods peacefully, and you know it.”
Bappie nodded.
Hester continued, “All my life, I have worn my Indian heritage like an abnormal growth. Ashamed of it. No more. Seeing the little boys, realizing the cruel, depraved way they were beaten ….” Hester shook her head.
Bappie looked off across the garden to the woods beyond. She shaded her eyes with a hand, the palm turned down, watching the flight of a meadowlark. Suddenly she turned. “Let’s not quarrel about something so unnecessary.”
“For you, maybe. But not for me. I know for the first time that I do not have to go through life feeling ashamed of who I am. I want to be able to use the knowledge handed to me by an old Indian woman. Many herbs that grow in these fields and swamps and forests are priceless. They heal. They are good for so many things.”
Bappie held very still. “Listen.”
From the edge of the woods, by the meandering little creek, came the sound of whistling. At first the women thought it was an unusual bird, till Hester shook her head. Somewhere, she had heard the whistle before. It was more than blowing air through lips, the way Hans and Lissie would whistle. It was a sad, captivating tune. It brought tears to her eyes so many years ago, and it did again.
“Someone is down there,” Bappie said, her eyes wide, her hands knotted into fists.
“Sounds like it,” Hester agreed.
Warily, they stood still, their ears straining to hear the unusual sound coming from below them.
“Wish we had some sort of protection. Like a gun,” Bappie murmured.
“No one dangerous would whistle like that,” Hester said, clearly moved by the sound.
They waited, then bent to the task of weeding the heavy pumpkin vines. Soon the green growth would die, leaving the orange pumpkins to ripen in the late autumn sun, one of the last crops to be sold at market before it closed for the season. A few late beets, some lima beans and potatoes, and the days at market would be over.
They worked in solitude, their argument forgotten, each one bent to her own task and her own thoughts.
New life flowed in Hester’s veins, filling her with a renewed sense of purpose. She had found her place on earth. She embraced the reason Kate had found her, the reason she left the farm, even the fact that Billy had found her and brought her to Emma Ferree, who had ushered her into the path of the town’s needy. The penniless. The weak.
She knew how they felt, the feeling of being an outcast. Hadn’t she felt that way all her life? No more. Her soul sang within her. Over and over, the waves of a new understanding lapped at the edges of her own lack of self-worth, wearing it away, creating a sense of peace, of purpose.
Everything—her marriage to William, his death, her senseless servitude and lack of trust in herself and her husband—had prepared her for this venture. Freed from self-blame, she began to whistle, to hum, to break into song, as tears dripped off the end of her nose.
She froze when a figure stood directly in front of her. Straightening slowly, she found a tall Indian, his black hair parted in the middle, a heavy braid down his back, his skin darker than her own. His nose was prominent, his eyes quick and black and restless.
His clothes were the same brown, made of skins, as any white frontiersman. A knife was thrust through the wide leather belt, and he carried a rifle and a gun powder horn slung over his shoulder.
“Hello.” He addressed Hester in perfect English.
She met the eyes that were blacker than her own and recognized a part of his face. This was the Indian youth who had moved through the trees like a wraith. She had seen him, heard his whistle. Cold chills crept up her back. The blood drained from her face, leaving her dizzy, light-headed.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
“I am of the tribe of the Lenape. I believe I know who you are. I have watched you for many years. Only now do I make myself known. Your mother was of my tribe. We played together as children. I have come to ask you to go with me to the Ohio River where my people dwell on its banks. I will give you time. I am on my way to the Great Waters and will return in the spring when winter has gone.”
Hester could not stand alone. She sank to the ground, slowly folding under this unexpected arrival from her past. Instantly, the Indian brave was beside her, extending his hand to help her to her feet. She shook her head, keeping her eyes lowered to the restless hands in her lap.
“I do not want to disturb you. You have the winter to decide if you will accompany me. You will consent someday to be my wife, I have hoped for many years.”
Hester lifted her face to meet his eyes. They were black but kind, gentle, and alive with interest in her alone. A magnetic force rose from his eyes, and she stood, unaware that she had risen to her feet.
The meeting of their eyes could not be broken with so much they recognized in each other. He placed his hand on her arm, taking her trembling hand in his own. She was close enough to see the texture of his skin, the strong cords of his neck. He smelled of animal skins, dust, gunpowder, and sweat. His hair glistened with grease in the ways of her people.
“Thank you for allowing me the winter to decide,” she whispered, after long moments had elapsed.
“That makes me very happy,” the Indian said. Then, “My name is Hunting Wolf.”
“I am Hester King. I was Hester Zug before marrying.”
He nodded. “Your husband died.”
“Yes.”
“Your mother’s name was Corn Maiden.”
Hester gave only a weak wave of her hand, a dipping of her dark head to acknowledge what he said. She was thankful for his words, but confusion veiled her ability to understand why he had waited all this time, why he had suddenly made himself known.
“You are Lenape.”
“Yes.” Hester smiled then, directly meeting his eyes.
His face softe
ned, his eyes became black velvet, the longing true, forthright, and honest. “I will return. Think on my words, dearest one. I will take you to my lodge so you can meet your cousins, your brothers. But not without your consent.”
“Thank you.”
Without another word, he turned and disappeared, blending into the waving grasses and the thick line of trees, as if to hide the sight of her confusion.
Bappie lifted her freckled face to the bright sky and gave a low whistle. “Whoo-ee!”
That was all she said before turning to face Hester with a look that was undecipherable in her brown eyes. Finally she placed a hand on Hester’s back, gave a small pat, and said, “Isn’t life crazy, my friend? Just when you thought you had it all figured out, along comes a new direction, huh?”
She gave Hester another small pat. “Remember, all your troubles come from men.”
Bewildered, Hester turned her face to Bappie, a frightened look widening her eyes. “Are you sure?”
CHAPTER 20
THE CURB MARKET OF LATE SUMMER WAS A SPECtacular sight. Every member of the township, and those who lived inside the town and did not have room for a garden, hurried to the market to purchase the last of the produce to store down cellar.
Farm wagons rattled by, men urging their horses to a fast trot, their straw hats clamped low on their brows, bringing in the potatoes and squash and apples. The smell of cider hung in the air as the steam-driven press clapped and sputtered while juice ran from a pipe into wooden buckets.
Carriages that shone like glass, drawn by high-stepping horses, their necks arched like proud swans, their manes and tails braided with red ribbon, moved slowly through the crowd, enjoying the attention they received.
Amish farmers sold potatoes and turnips, pumpkins and squash. But no one’s vegetables were arranged quite like Bappie’s. The largest crowd always surrounded her colorfully displayed goods.
Hester wore a light black coat, just enough to fend off the stiff breeze. She moved as if in a dream, her thoughts certainly not on her duties as she arranged the heavy orange pumpkins, counted the yellow squash, and shooed away a few bees that kept droning around the beet tops.