Which Way Home?

by Linda Byler

  Again Bappie did not answer. The lifting and falling of those angular shoulders was her only response.

  Hail continued to ping against the windows. Hester shivered as she watched the rain run down the dark windowpane. She got up to put a log on the fire, stepping back quickly as the flames shot upward.

  “I just can’t stand to think of Levi going through his days, never complaining or asking for help.” Hester eyed Bappie keenly. She had never seen her like this. She was always noisy, sure of herself, knowledgeable, voicing opinions without holding back, and joking easily and lightly. But now, quite unexpectedly, this miserable brooding.

  So taken up in the mystery before her, Hester did not hear the gentle tapping on the sturdy front door, closed securely with a large padlock against intruders.

  When the tapping turned to raps of a more solid nature, she held very still, her head tilted to one side. Bappie was so engrossed in her own thoughts she did not suspect anything. Hesitantly, Hester partly rose, her hand on the plank table, her long, tapered fingers trembling slightly.

  Bappie looked up unaware.

  This time the rapping was harder, more urgent.

  “You go,” Bappie said.

  Biting her lower lip, Hester felt tingling in her nostrils, the acceleration of her pulse. Very unusual to have a caller at this time of the evening in weather like this. With a hand at her throat, and a few light, soundless footsteps, she reached the door, inserted the key, and drew back the latch.

  The figure on the doorstep was tall, wide, and dark. Hester did not recognize him until he spoke in the deep, guttural voice of her people. The words were thick, as if he spoke through the swelled linings of his throat.

  “May I come in?”

  Quickly, Hester stepped aside. “Oh, of course. Forgive me.”

  As he walked in, the smell of wet deerskin was overpowering. It was the rancid smell of the longhouses, nearly lost to her fading memory of her past. Her heart sank.

  His profile was startling. He was every inch the proud brave, the lineage of his ancestors, the Conestoga Indians, running in his powerful veins. His hair hung sleek and thick, parted in the center of his head and braided with thongs of rawhide. Not a hair stood away from his forehead, so well had he applied the rancid bear fat.

  Hester swallowed. A choking sound rose in her throat. She put four fingers to her mouth to suppress the cough that would follow.

  Bappie stood, startled, as she placed a hand on the chair back in front of her. “Good evening,” she stammered, clearly at a loss for further words.

  “Good evening.”

  Turning to Hester, the Indian’s deep, unfathomable eyes evaluated her. “I have returned,” he said.

  “I see. I hope you are well,” Hester said, her voice low.

  “I am.”

  Silence crept its uncomfortable way between them. Ill at ease, Bappie spoke too quickly and much too loudly. “Well, you’re soaking wet. You’re dripping all over the floor.” Puzzled, the Indian bent his head to see what Bappie meant.

  “It will dry. The fire is warm.” He stood closer to the fireplace, his back to the hearth, his silhouette a stance of power, of rigid restraint. His eyes sought and found Hester’s face.

  “I, Hunting Wolf, have come before I planned. I can wait no longer. Before the snow comes, we will be in Ohio on the banks of the great river. Here, there is much danger for me.”

  Hester put out a hand as if to stop his words. “But …”

  “You cannot decline my proposal.”

  Bappie stepped forward. “Now just a minute here. You can’t do this to Hester. She isn’t ready to decide.”

  Like a rock, Hunting Wolf was immovable in his intent.

  Hester sank to a chair. The only sound was the crackling of orange flames as they licked greedily at the logs. She watched the candle flame dance, shiver, then resume its steady glow. In it she saw the hills and fields of Berks County. The log house nestled beneath the maple trees, the barn below it, the pathway, the split rail fence beside it. She could smell the pies and the bread that Kate baked in the outdoor oven, the homemade lye soap she used for washing, the air-dried clothing that she brought in off the clothesline.

  The sun played with the ever-moving shadows of the trees surrounding the cabin. The rain plunked on the cedar shingles of the roof when she lay, warm and drowsy, beside Lissie, with Noah and Isaac on the low pallet on the other side of the attic. The scrubbed wooden floor, the sweet smell of raspberry jam on Kate’s fluffy biscuits. The hard benches she sat on during church services, the beautiful rising and falling of the German plainsong. All of this was part of who she was.

  The smell of the Indian longhouse, the daily slaughter of small animals, the endless pounding of corn, sitting in dust, squatting by the fire, a stone for an oven, a turkey feather for bellows. The communal sleeping arrangements. Hester winced.

  To stand beside this noble brave, a proud specimen of her people, would be an honor, had she been raised by her blood mother in the ways of her people. She was approaching her thirtieth year of living among the Amish, except for the brief time with the Conestogas.

  To live as they did was too foreign. Too distant. A river that flowed too deep and too swift for her to ford. She knew the decision had already been made in her heart, for she belonged to the Amish, the plain way of life, the German heritage she had adopted as her own.

  In spite of the trials, here was where her heart found a home. Here in Lancaster County, working the fertile soil with Bappie, working among the poor and the wealthy, but using knowledge the Indian grandmother had passed on to her.

  The look she bestowed on Hunting Wolf could only be described as tender, sorrowful, perhaps, but certain. “I cannot go. My heart will remain with my people.”

  “Your people are the Conestoga.”

  “The Lenape.”

  “You belong to us. The red man.”

  “In blood only.”

  “I want you for my bride. I desire you as my wife.”

  Hester lowered her eyes, her head drooping in shame. “I have been a wife. You do not want me.”

  “Yes. Yes. I do.”

  “No, I am not a good wife.”

  “You will be among my people. We will teach you the way of the Indian woman.”

  Hester knew the ways of the Indian women. She had learned the communal ways, the squabbling, the boldness, the crude laughter. It was good in many ways. There was affection, love, and strength. Yet the culture divided so widely from her own.

  “I would be honored to be your wife. But you will find an Indian maiden worthy of your love. I was raised among the Amish and wish to remain with them. I have no intention of marrying.”

  Hunting Wolf sighed audibly. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then changed his mind. In true Indian fashion, he moved softly away from the fire. Going to Hester, he lifted her chin with his fingers and looked intently into her eyes. He spoke quietly with great respect. “Then I can only wish you the best in the trail you have chosen. I have lost my heart to you. But I will not force you to leave your people.”

  Like a wraith, a wisp of smoke, he moved away from the kitchen, soundless. The only sign he had even been in the room was the cloying scent of wet deerskin and bear grease.

  Quickly Bappie hustled to the door, shoved the latch into the clasp, turned the key in the padlock, and leaned against it. “Whew!” she sighed, heavily.

  Hester said nothing. Her hands were in her lap, her fingers intertwined so tightly the knuckles were white. The set of her shoulders gave away the turmoil of her emotions, the pressured burden of making the decision in so short a time.

  “Buck up, Hester. You did the right thing.”

  Hester’s smile was only a minimal lifting of the corners of her mouth, but it was a beginning. Slowly the smile widened until it reached her eyes. When Bappie returned to the fire, their eyes met, and Bappie shook her head. “You did good, Hester. For a while, when you sat there like a rock staring at that c
andle, I declare you were every inch an Indian. Quiet, stern, commanding. I had a notion to get up and wave my hands in front of your face.”

  Hester sighed, a long sound of expelled tension. “I guess my childhood with Kate as my mother is planted and rooted so deeply in my heart, it’s there as sturdy as an oak tree. I will love her always. Everything I am, everything I do, I want to be like her.”

  Bappie nodded. “As it should be. My mam is dead and gone, but she is the whole axis on which I revolve.”

  The silence that followed was very deep and comfortable as the icy rain slanted against the cold, dark windowpane.

  In the spring of that year, Hester was filled with an unnamed feeling of sadness. In spite of the earth’s renewal and the wonder of new life around her, darkness clung to her spirits as if her soul was mired in an unrelenting muck of despair.

  The dogwood trees flowered at Easter, and the daffodils and tulips lifted bright, happy faces to the strength of the warming rays of the sun. Everywhere the grasses turned a deep green. It hurt her senses to lift her eyes to the hills as she dropped seeds in the rich, brown earth.

  Her feet were bare in spite of the cold, damp soil. A blue shortgown swirled around her ankles, a dull gray work apron flapping above it. She wore a kerchief of off-white muslin, knotted beneath the thick coil of glossy black hair. Tendrils of it blew in straight wisps around her forehead and down the nape of her long, slender neck.

  Her eyes were large and luminous, glistening with the strange melancholy that had deepened the light in them.

  She dropped one wrinkled pea seed at a time, her heart still, her lips compressed and songless. The butterflies and other insects failed to attract her attention. She didn’t hear the birdsong.

  Bappie was whistling, breaking into a ribald song occasionally, one that angered Hester. It was simply not a proper tune for an Amish woman, and one who was close to middle age, for sure.

  Hester opened her mouth to speak her mind, straightening her back as she did so. Lifting one hand, she shaded her eyes against the strong sunlight and said, forcefully, “Bappie.”

  Bappie stopped, straightened, and lifted surprised eyes to her friend. She tilted her head at an angle, her eyebrows jumping in the most annoying manner.

  “That song is….”

  “Oh, get off it, grouch. Just because you aren’t happy doesn’t say I can’t be. Stop pitying yourself.”

  Hester returned Bappie’s glare, the black fire in her eyes popping and crackling. “I’m not pitying myself.”

  “Yes, you are. It’s a beautiful day and a beautiful spring. God has granted us good health through the winter, and are you thankful?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Then act like it.”

  Hester dropped the seeds she was holding, turned on her heel, and stalked out of the garden. Blindly, she walked away, faster and faster until she was running, her feet swishing through the tender new grass, her skirts swirling about her ankles, hampering her speed.

  Behind her, Bappie watched, lifted her angular shoulders, then let them drop. She shook her head from side to side and went back to dropping the pea seeds precisely. Hester would get over it, whatever it was.

  Hester ran effortlessly like a deer, up a slope and through a grove of trees until she reached the top of a rounded hill. She threw herself down in the old growth of grasses, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

  She didn’t cry. She had no tears within her, but only an ever-widening void, a darkness she could not hold at bay. She felt as if her life held no purpose, and the summer stretched before her as a long, dark tunnel of endless heat and hard work.

  Had she made the wrong decision? Should she have accompanied Hunting Wolf to his people? Her people? She tried to pray, but no words would form. She wasn’t sure God would hear her prayers if she managed to speak to him.

  Alone, bewildered, she rolled on her back and opened her eyes to the intensity of the brilliant sunlight, the blue of the sky interrupted by clouds of white cotton. A shadow passed over her face. Startled, she opened her eyes wide. An eagle was flying so close she could see the white feathers on its head, the distinctive curve of its beak, the great majestic wingspan, and the soaring motion as it propelled itself higher with the graceful lifting of its wings.

  Cold chills washed across her back and down her arms. Unbidden, tears pricked at her long, black lashes. She caught her breath as a sob tore at her throat. Leaping to her feet, she lifted her face to the eagle in flight. Flinging out her arms, she sensed the knowledge of God’s love swelling inside her, filling her heart and soul with its warmth.

  So long ago, it had seemed, and now, a mere heartbeat ago, she had stood on the outcropping of limestone rock and felt God’s presence as the eagle soared above her. God was here on this Lancaster County hilltop. He was real, alive. He remembered her. He cared for her.

  Over and over, she spoke her praise, her face lifted to the eagle’s flight, tears streaming down her face, her arms lifted in supplication.

  How long she remained, she didn’t know. Finally, like a graceful swan, she folded her arms and sank to the ground. She rested in the peace that had eluded her earlier.

  Quiet, her soul anchored once more, she was filled with a new acceptance of her place in life, and gratitude for Bappie, for Walter and Emma, for her home and her work.

  Slowly, she got to her feet and began the trek back to the garden. She stopped abruptly when a figure emerged from the grove of trees, hesitated, then swung to the right toward Bappie working in the vegetable garden.

  Hester quickened her pace. She had no idea who the man might be, and it was better that Bappie not be alone when she saw him. Turning left, she broke into a run, taking a shortcut by slicing through the woods, so she would reach Bappie before the man did.

  Breathless, she slowed herself to a walk. The pounding of her heart was stifling her.

  On he came. Tall, immense, his shoulders wide, his body thick, straining at the seams of his clothes.

  Hester stopped to watch, mystified now. His gait was heavy, purposeful, the long strides covering ground effortlessly. Where had she seen this gait? The set of those shoulders? Hester stopped, her eyebrows lowered in concentration.

  He was in full view now. His hat was brown and pulled low on his forehead. His face was barely visible, so low was the hat’s brim.

  Hester was motionless, watching, her eyes taking in the familiar walk. Why was this man’s gait etched into her memory, branded into her remembering? And yet she could not name him.

  He was a stone’s throw away. She could not move. When he came on, she stood like a statue, her hands hanging loosely at her side, her skirts blowing gently about her ankles. Her eyes were wide with bewilderment, her graceful neck held taut like the Indian princess she was.

  Did he smile first, or take off the hat that hid his features? She didn’t know.

  When he removed his brown leather hat, thick, straight, blond hair tumbled to his shoulders. His blue eyes were wide and filled with a light that was so glad. Hester lowered hers, shyness overtaking her.

  She began to tremble. Her knees shook as if a strong wind was threatening her strength. She drew a sharp breath.

  The plane of his cheeks, with weathered lines around his wide mouth, was so even, nearly perfect. He stopped. His eyes were fringed with lashes she had seen before. The cleft in his chin had been there before.

  She tried to speak, but could not utter a word. A hand went to her mouth.

  Slowly, he came closer. As if in a dream, he reached out, gently grasped her hand, and pulled her toward him. His eyes devoured her face, her eyes, her mouth, still as perfect in their symmetry as he had remembered. Her eyes were the dark jewels he had carried in his heart all these years. Their luster filled the emptiness in his heart. Twice, he opened his mouth to speak. Twice, he failed.

  Their gaze locked and held.

  When he spoke, his voice was low, filled with years of longing. “I am Noah.”

>   The End

  GLOSSARY

  Ach, du lieva.—Oh my goodness.

  Ach du lieva. Grund a velt!—An old, High German exclamation of amazement. Translated literally, it means, Oh, you love. Ground of the world!

  Ach, du yay.—Oh, my, my.

  Ach, mein Gott im Himmel!—Oh, my God in heaven!

  Ach, mein Herr Jesus, Du Komm.—Oh, my dear Jesus, please come.

  Ausbund—The hymnbook that the Amish sing from during church services. The old German book was written by their foreparentss during a time of persecution and imprisonment.

  Aw-gnomma—Adopted

  Behoft—Has, or has to do with.

  Dat—Name used to address one’s father.

  Deifel—Devil.

  Denke, mein Herr—Thank you, my Lord.

  Die Englische leid—Anyone whose first language is English.

  Die freundschaft—The extended family.

  Doddy haus—An addition to the main house, built as living quarters for the grandparents.

  Du, yay—Oh, dear.

  Dumb gamach—Chaos, or chaotic.

  Dumbkopf—Dumbhead.

  Ein maedle ein shoe maedle. Oh, du yay, du yay.—A girl, a beautiful girl. Oh, my, my.

  Faschtendich—Sensible.

  Fa-sarked—To take care of.

  Fashtant—Sense.

  Freme—Visitors.

  Gaduld—Patience.

  Gahr hoftich—Very much.

  Gamach—Chaos.

  Gelbkuchen—Yellow cake.

  Geeda—Members.

  Gook do runna, Mein Herr und Vater.—Look down here, my Lord and Father.

  Goot. Sell iss goot.—Good. That is good.

  Gott sie gelobt und gedankt.—God be praised and thanked.

  Grishtag—Christmas.

  Grosfeelich—Proud, vain.

  Gwundernose—Curious nose; nosey.

  Hembare! Oh, meine Hembare!—Raspberries! Oh, my raspberries!

  Herr, saya—God bless you.

  Hochmut—Pride.

  Hootsla—A bread and egg dish.

  Hulla chelly—Elderberry jelly.

  Ins ana end—A small addition built onto a homestead to house the older generation.