The Thorn (The Rose Trilogy)

by Beverly Lewis

  After calling for help, Rose ran all the way back to the bishop's house. She found Nick still standing in the kitchen, leaning hard against the far wall, his shoulders hunched forward, eyes glassy. He glimpsed at her, but she looked away. For the minutes that followed, they watched together in somber silence as the bishop made repeated efforts to keep Christian alive.

  0 Lord, please let him live....

  But despite the attempts, by the time the ambulance arrived, Christian had drawn his final breath. Rose wept quietly as men wearing white rushed into the house and began yet another fruitless attempt to revive Christian. She bowed her head, shielding her view.

  Despite the activity in the room, she heard the bishop and Nick talking in the corner. Nick was describing Christian's fall, saying he'd cracked his head on a boulder deep in the ravine. She wondered, from the bishop's skeptical tone, if the minister thought Nick was lying. And the bishop continued to ask Nick pointed questions even as his son was being wheeled out on a covered gurney.

  Suddenly Nick moved away from the man of God and plodded off toward the barn. In disbelief, Rose watched him go, struck by how exposed he looked without his thick black mane.

  Shaken, she returned to the house to sit with Barbara and Verna, who were huddled near the woodstove in the kitchen. Anna and Susannah had gone upstairs to be with the children, and she could hear their soft footsteps just overhead. Oh, how she wished Mammi Sylvia would come to comfort the bishop's wife - the woman's constant weeping ripped at Rose's heart. She was relieved when her father and grandfather arrived to inquire about all the commotion, what with the siren swelling up and down Salem Road.

  Not long after, Mammi Sylvia arrived in time to help Rose and Verna get Barbara upstairs to bed. Then, kneeling on either side of her, the women prayed for God's presence to be near, especially to the mourning mother. Fill the room and our hearts with your sweet solace, 0 Lord, Rose prayed silently. She did not know what else to pray at such a dreadful time.

  Her grandmother reached for the Bible on the nightstand and began to read softly from the ninety-fifth psalm, still on her knees. it `O come, let us worship and bow down: let us kneel before the Lord our maker. For he is our God; and we are the people of his pasture.... ' "

  Rose waited till Barbara's heartbreaking cries had faded to soft whimpering, like an inconsolable child's, before slipping out of the room to the stairs. In a state of shock, Rose stepped out the back door, wondering, How can it be - Christian is dead?

  She couldn't help but remember her brief conversation with him just yesterday. "Soon, very soon," he'd said with such urgency. What had he wanted to tell her? And why, oh why, had she dismissed him so quickly?

  Trudging back home, Rose was sick with worry for Nick. What would become of him now? The words of King David's psalm plagued her. Mammi had stopped reading just short of the plea for people not to harden their hearts - as in the day of temptation in the wilderness. . . . Many times Dat had read the entire psalm for evening worship: It is a people that do err in their heart, and they have not known my ways.

  Family worship that night was a somber scene - Mamm looked terribly forlorn as Dat read the Bible, his face serious and drawn. Rose's grandparents joined them, as well, and nary a one of them spoke once Dat offered the evening prayers. Afterward, Rose hurried to her room, tears falling uncontrollably as she wept for Christian ... for Nick. For all of them.

  Though she tried, it was impossible to erase the image of Christian's broken body upon Barbara's long table as he lay there, bleeding. Or Nick's strange demeanor - his unevenly chopped hair, his face wracked by shame. She suspected Christian of forcibly cutting off the ponytail, inciting Nick's long-simmering rage. With all of her heart, she hoped what followed had been an accident and nothing worse. Yet ... the two had been enemies from the very first day of Nick's arrival.

  When Rose lay down to sleep that night, her dreams were shrouded in darkness.

  The next day, Nick was gone. "Disappeared in the night," Dat told Rose, his face as grim as ever she'd seen it. "Left his Amish clothing behind ..."

  "Will the police find him and arrest him?" she asked.

  Dat shook his head solemnly. "According to the bishop, they already talked with him last night - and several neighbors, too. But no one saw or heard anything unusual, so in the end, they believed Nick was tellin' the truth."

  Rose felt her breath escape her. "Do you believe he's innocent?"

  Her father hesitated. "We might never know for sure, Rosie. But it's not our place to judge. Nick's soul is in God's hands now."

  She trembled at the thought.

  The rest of the day, she felt as heavy as a bale of hay. Rose slogged through her chores, keenly aware of Nick's absence. The hours passed in a haze of grief. Surely Christian's untimely death had been an accident, just as Nick claimed.

  Still, as much as she cared for him, the rumors were spreading. Soon there were more than a few fingers pointing at the boy who'd never embraced their culture - his hasty disappearance seen as the most damaging proof of all.

  All the years of their friendship ... had Rose ever really known him? To think she'd come that close to Nick's beloved "edge," and nearly fallen into the chasm, right along with him.

  Following Christian's funeral Wednesday morning, Rose and Hen walked to the burial service in the fenced Amish cemetery. The bishop and his wife were surrounded by their married daughters and sons-in-law, all ashen with sorrow.

  The hole that had been dug for the newly built coffin was filled halfway with dirt before the men removed their hats and the preacher read a hymn from the old hymnal. Afterward, the grave was filled with the remaining soil. Christian's mother nearly fainted when it was time to take leave of the mounded earth, and Verna's husband, Levi, quickly steadied her and helped her back to the gray carriage.

  So this is grief. Rose could not imagine what Bishop Aaron and his family were experiencing. My own anguish is nothing compared to theirs, she thought as clusters of families slowly returned to their buggies. Several headed up the road, back toward their homes, while the bishop and his extended family walked silently to their own farmhouse for a private meal.

  "The bishop lost two sons in the space of one day," Hen whispered to her as they walked toward home together. "His only sons ...

  "One from this life, the other to the world," Rose managed to say, feeling awfully conflicted. In the short span since Christian's passing, she'd had plenty of time to think. And to reconsider, too. She missed the Nick she knew, but she was also relieved he was gone from their midst. Wasn't it best? After all, he'd rejected everything that was good and noble ... each of the valuable life lessons he'd learned from the bishop. He rejected God, Rose realized anew. And at what cost?

  Even so, despite Nick's stubbornness, part of her wanted to believe the Scripture he'd heard had not fallen on unfertile soil. Or deaf ears. She prayed that Nick might one day understand fully the reason he'd been handpicked to be brought up as an Amish Christian. Surely there was still hope for him.

  As they walked, Rose glanced at Hen. The Lord seemed to be calling her sister to return to Him. Hen gave her a sad little smile and reached for her hand. Rose was glad for her sister's comforting touch at such an unspeakable time. Thankful, too, she hadn't had that final conversation with Nick, as she'd originally hoped. Best to just push that out of my mind, she thought, wondering how Nick could possibly find any happiness now ... wherever he ended up living.

  Rose sighed. Truth be told, there were moments she wished she'd never known him. And yet, how could she forget him? Indeed, she must continually remember him in her daily prayers.

  She thought back to the afternoon in the ravine and shuddered. Nick had given her the freedom to choose - nearly impossible as that choice had been. Despite that, perhaps the time Nick had spent amongst them could be deemed providential, just as his leaving was, as well.

  Solomon could envision a hot meal and an invigorating shower. This final October day had seem
ed longer than most as he had finished up baling corn fodder. Still, there was another good hour or so before supper.

  He wandered outside and across the long expanse of pastureland to look in on his bishop neighbor, mighty worried for him. Since Christian's death, the bishop's ruddy face had turned as withered as some of the shriveled grapes that still clung to the vine. The poor man was carrying the deepest kind of grief a soul could bear.

  A father shouldn't outlive his son, thought Sol as he pushed open the bishop's barn door. He was surprised to hear Rose Ann's voice. Moseying over the cement floor, toward the stable area, he could see her tending to Nick's favorite horse, Pepper. She was currying him nice and slow, making long, steady strokes - talking to him all the while, though Sol could make out but a few words.

  "Nick would want me to look after ya," she was saying.

  He was struck by her remarkable tenderness. Why hadn't he comprehended it before? Had he been too distracted by Nick's fondness for Rose to pay close attention to Rose Ann herself?

  With a great sigh, she stopped what she was doing and leaned over to caress the horse's mane, crying softly now. It startled him to witness such raw emotion, no doubt intended for a fellow who wasn't worth giving the time of day. As we now know ...

  Solomon's bearded chin quivered suddenly. The last thing he wanted was for Rose to notice him there, struggling to keep his own feelings in check. Turning silently, he headed back toward the barn door and shoved it open again. He stepped into a shower of the sun's dusty rays and made his way to the big farmhouse where ungrateful Nick had put his feet under the bishop's table ... and heard the Good Book read each night. Where he learned about almighty God at the knee of our bishop, thought Sol, shaking his head in dismay. But what he learned just never took.

  Thus Solomon consigned the worldly young man to the judgment he seemingly deserved.

  Rose was perched on her bed that early November night, still wearing her brown choring dress as she tatted a doily - a birthday gift for a cousin. Suddenly she was startled by a light whirling over the window glass.

  Could it be ... ?

  She hastened to open the window, almost expecting to see Nick there. Peering down, she saw Silas below. Her heart fluttered in unexpected wistfulness. It wasn't her old friend after all.

  "Hullo, Silas," she said softly.

  "Will ya meet me downstairs?" His voice was restrained.

  She nodded, her heart beating ever so fast. "I'll be down in a jiffy." When she greeted him at the back door, Silas asked if everyone was asleep.

  "All but me," she whispered, scarcely able to speak.

  "Gut, then," he said, stepping inside. Together, they made their way to the woodstove, where the metal box stored a few chopped logs. He leaned down to add another couple pieces of wood, then waited for the fire to brighten.

  They sat side by side on the long kitchen bench, making small talk for a while - about the weather and the youth activities centered around the numerous weddings to come.

  After a time, Silas rose to stir up the fire again before returning to her side. "I've been waitin' a long time for this day," he said, his eyes reflecting the firelight. "This night ..."

  She listened intently, memorizing every word.

  He reached for her hand, and the feel of it made Rose's pulse leap.

  "Will ya have me, Rose Ann," he asked, "as your husband?"

  She did not hesitate, not even for a moment. She said, "I'd be pleased to marry you, Silas."

  He leaned forward, eyes searching hers as if to see whether she'd permit him to come so close. Then, with great tenderness, he kissed her cheek. "You've made me mighty happy, Rose."

  She knew she must be simply beaming. "And me, too," she whispered.

  "We'll wait till our wedding day to lip-kiss," he said, his gaze fixed on her mouth, then her eyes, and back to her lips.

  "Probably should, ain't?" she said, now holding her breath, dying to know what it would feel like - his lips on hers.

  Pulling back, he drew a long breath. "Jah," he said, though reluctantly, and raised her hand to his lips instead. "We best be waiting."

  Rose smiled, enjoying this surge of pure delight.

  "My father asked me to take over his dairy farm," Silas added. "He'll likely be ready for us to live in the main house, once we tie the knot, possibly next wedding season."

  Such wonderful-gut news! To think, in a year we might be wed. Oh, how bright and happy her future looked now. Silas squeezed her hand again, and Rose smiled into his handsome face.

  Later, after he bade her a sweet and lingering farewell, Rose tiptoed back upstairs. When she'd put on her nightgown and let her hair down, she slipped beneath her mother's beautiful quilts. There, in the moonlit room, she whispered, "Sleep well, Silas ... and when you dream, dream of me, my dear beau."

  The flame of suspicion about Nick's role in Christian's death - whatever it may have been - has slowly burned out in me, turning to ashes at my feet. And I am left with a deep Zeitlang - longing - to go on foot down Bridle Path Lane on this unseasonably warm November day.

  Indian summer, Dat calls it....

  And it's the official start of the wedding season. Esther Kauffman, my first cousin, just stopped by to whisper her appeal to me: "Please, perty please, be one of my wedding attendants." Since she asked me before Cousin Lydiann, I happily agreed.

  Just maybe it was observing the alluring blush on Esther's cheeks that got me thinking about Nick again. He's been gone now for almost a month and no one's heard a word from him. The police questioned the bishop and his family shortly after Christian's death, but as is our way, no charges were pressed. There was simply not enough evidence anyway.

  Even so, when Mamm and I sit and read together afternoons, sometimes she'll look deep into my eyes and say, "If you're ever tempted to feel sorry for that boy, Rosie ... don't. And remember he was never really Amish."

  He knew it, too. I guess it does all boil down to faith. But for Nick's and my friendship, it was truly something else. Something ever so precious and free. I can't begin to describe it.

  Hen continues to cling to her renewed walk with the Lord now more than ever. And here lately, Brandon's been writing her letters. He's apologized for showing Mattie Sue the puppy dog, then taking him away. Hen's actually thinking of taking Mattie Sue to see him - and Wiggles, of course. Far as I know, Brandon hasn't darkened the door of Hen's house since that supper she made for him, but she expects to meet him again for coffee sometime soon. So my sister's not giving up on their love ... or on swaying her husband toward God. And I am filled with a gnawing angst over the seeming loss of their storybook romance. Still, my parents say Hen belongs at home with Brandon, regardless of his spiritual leanings. Honestly, I look for Dat to impose a time limit on her stay here, and very soon.

  Hen says Rachel Glick, her employer, has read between the lines, encouraging Hen to trust God to quicken a desire in Brandon for a peaceable Christian life. I think, as with Nick, Hen must realize it's up to her to relinquish her will - and Brandon - to the sovereignty of God. Because where God's presence is, all good things abound. I must remind myself of this daily ... especially where Nick's concerned.

  Turning onto Bridle Path Lane, I walked along the dirt road, then picked my way cautiously down the side of the ravine, once I passed Jeb's shanty. Carefully I inched over the steepest outcroppings, trying to avoid the brambles and thorns at every step. It would never do to slip and fall when no one knows where I've come this sunshiny day - so similar to the sun-dappled afternoon Nick brought me here.

  Dozens of birds sang and flitted in the canopy of trees as I made my way to the bottom of the gulch. I was after one particular boulder, and I walked right to it, eager to find Mamm's tin money box once again. Reaching into the crevice, I pulled it out and opened the corroded lid. I was surprised to see a note tucked inside atop the money.

  Dear Rosie,

  I hoped you'd come here one day and find this note.

  It's o
nly right that you should hear this from me. I was stupid to go riding with Christian that day. And now, because of me, he's dead. I say let your God be the judge.

  We never got the chance to talk one last time. It haunts me. But no matter what you must think of me now, dear Rosie, I will always miss you.

  Your friend, Nick

  P.S. Will you look after Pepper for me?

  Tears threatened to spill down my cheeks as I folded the note and placed it in my dress pocket. I rejected the visions of Nick shoving Christian off his horse - striking back as he sometimes did. Knowing Nick as I had all these years, I wondered how such a thing could've happened ... if it did. How will I ever know for sure? How will any of us?

  I pressed the lid down on the tin box, a strange longing making me wish I could write a note back to him to tuck inside. But such a note would be seen only by God, down here in this deserted ravine.

  Returning the tin to its muddy crypt, I covered it with the leaves of eleven autumns, a way to say good-bye to the past. "Help Nick find forgiveness, 0 Lord," I prayed, "but most of all, help him to find you...."

  I struggled back up the small canyon, fighting back tears for what might have been ... if Nick had joined church. And for all the lost years of Nick's life with the People, for his rejection of the Lord, too.

  I marched straight home and burned Nick's shocking letter in the woodstove. There was nothing I could do now to help save Nick. That was up to God alone.

  Forcing my thoughts away from the past, I looked toward the future - the wedding attendant's dress I will sew and the many dried-corn casseroles I plan to bake for Silas. This is to be the very last winter of my singleness, and there is much to do to prepare for setting up my own household. So, quite happily, I look forward to becoming Mrs. Silas Good one year from tomorrow, on Thursday, November twentieth. The dear Lord willing.

  I was delighted to discover Salem Road and the overall setting for this series just southeast of Quarryville, Pennsylvania, in the autumn of 2009, while visiting my mother's family - and thanks to the kindly suggestion of one of my dear Strasburg friends. My husband, Dave, and I enjoyed exploring the oldest graveyard in all of Lancaster County during that visit, as well, and I stumbled upon the strikingly beautiful name of Rose Ann, as well as the Amish nickname of Hen, while doing my research.