by Linda Byler
“I know.”
“I need to look after things at home. Elam and Ben still need teaching.”
Sarah rose, tall and slender in the moonlight, her eyes large and dark. “We’ll be all right.”
“Yes, you will.”
They stepped through the door of the house together, said their goodnights, each one to their own sleeping quarters, alone with their thoughts of the past as the moon made its way across the beauty of the clear night sky. The supplies would arrive tomorrow. The house would be covered with wall board and painted, like Abby’s. The floors would be sanded smooth and varnished, making life so much cleaner, so much more normal.
Sarah knew she had nothing to fear, except the past rearing its ugly head like a horned beast, leaving her mouth dry, her heart racing. She knew the storms of the past winter. She still felt the cold in her half-frozen feet and heard the howling wind. This winter, she would not have Mose to lean on. No one to make decisions.
She gathered little Abby into her empty arms, knew there was no use wailing and pining like a weak kitten.
She must let go of her father. And somehow, bridge the gap between her and Hannah.
CHAPTER 22
One night after Doddy Stoltzfus had left but before the windmill crew arrived, Hannah woke up while it was still dark. She had no idea what time it was, but it felt like way past midnight. The flannel coverlet was drawn up well past her shoulders, half covering her ears, the nights having turned cooler as fall arrived.
Someone’s voice had awoken her. It was not in the house but farther away. Instantly alert, she rolled onto her back, her arms at her sides, holding still and straining to hear.
Was it only the whisper of grass, when the wind didn’t die completely away, even at night?
A banging. And most certainly voices. Low voices. Immediately, her heart set up a clamor of its own. Should she wake Mam? Manny? Wake anyone?
She lay still, listening. Yes, there it was. Someone was at the barn.
Every story she had ever heard about claim jumpers crowded into her mind. Hod Jenkins had spoken of them to her father, while she sat on the sidelines around the campfire in the yard. He had recounted tales of fist fights, even exchanges of gunfire, the law too far away and too unconcerned to help. The documents uncovered too late, many of the homesteaders, discouraged before the claim jumpers even showed up, willingly allowed them to take the land.
Knowing the subservient spirit of her mother, Hannah recognized it was up to her to save their homestead. Whether it was claim jumpers out there or cattle or horse thieves, they weren’t getting away with this craziness. That was for sure.
She rolled out of bed, slipped a dark dress over her nightgown and made her way to the narrow stairs in bare feet like a ghost, her breath coming in ragged puffs.
The rifle. Beside the cupboard.
Her toe hit the former of a kitchen chair, sending sparks of pain along her foot. Her eyes scrunched as she bit her lip to keep from crying out. She found the rifle, her hands closing around the cold metal of the barrel, down to the smooth stock. Gripping it in both hands, she let herself out the front door, holding her breath as it sent out its usual creak of hinges.
She tiptoed across the porch, wishing the silver illumination of the moon away. A dark night would be so much better, but there was nothing to do about that now.
She hunkered down in the shadows of the house, where the dark night made her disappear.
“Hey, them’s horses.” A volley of evil language followed.
“They come back?”
“Nah.”
A shuffling followed, as they removed saddles from horses whose heads hung low, tired out, glistening with sweat in the moonlight.
One tall, thin man, accompanied by a shorter, stockier one. At that moment, Hannah realized the need of a good watchdog. A huge German shepherd, like Uncle Levi’s that he kept tied to a doghouse at the side of his barn. Her father disliked that dog, saying the only thing that kept him from taking off someone’s leg was the chain attached to his collar. The way that dog carried on at the slightest disturbance, he didn’t know how much faith you could put in a flimsy chain, as powerful as those lunges were, coupled with the harsh barking.
She needed a dog just like that. Well, the cracking of a good rifle was all she had. Hod said that most times it spoke louder than the law. Her father had nodded, a smile playing around his gentle lips. Hannah knew well, he would never shoot a gun in any man’s direction. His faith forbade it.
If a man asked him to go with him a mile, he would go twain, as the Bible required of him. If someone took his shirt, he would offer his coat as well. He lived by the righteousness of turning the other cheek. He’d get slapped around and give up the homestead, rather than lose his faith.
Nonresistant. That meant putting up no resistance when someone came to take away what was rightfully yours. There was no gray area for her father. It was all black and white. Being Amish, you lived by the articles of faith written in the small, gray booklet, and by these rules you lived your life, secure in the knowledge that they were not too much sacrifice. They were the Ordnung, the giving of your life to Jesus Christ, living as He had lived on this earth.
Why did these thoughts of her father come now, like a barrage of right and wrong choices, igniting an uncomfortable fire in her conscience?
Well, that was all right. That was her gentle father. She was what was left behind, and she had no plans of giving up their 320 acres of profitable grassland. The windmill was coming, and they had a checking account in her grandfather’s name to buy cattle.
“Wanna try the house?”
“Yeah.”
They hobbled the horses.
Hannah felt the bullet pouch, drew back the clip, and inserted one. A soft click. She held her breath. They were coming. The grass rustled in the night wind, gently. A coyote yipped, far away. It was now or never. If she spoke, they’d know it was a woman. She’d have to let the gun speak for her.
She raised the heavy rifle to her shoulder, sighted down the black, cold barrel, aimed a few feet to the left of them, away from the barn. They should hear the bullet whistle past, but certainly not hit either one of them. Thou shalt not kill, this she knew, and had no intention of doing that.
She squeezed the trigger, her sturdy shoulder took the impact well.
Crack!
A loud yell—and another.
On they came. Hannah followed the first shot with two more. Her heart racing, a dry fear turning her mouth to cotton, she watched as they stopped, turned, and ran, silently scrambling to unhobble their horses. They threw the saddles on, jerking at the cinch, fumbling, muttering to one another about gittin’ outta here.
To let them know she meant business, she fired once more, hoping her family would have the good sense not so show their faces.
She watched as they threw themselves on their mounts, turned, and galloped away into the dry, rustling moonlit night. Hannah stayed in the shadows of the house, her gun held across her raised knees, listening to the retreating hoof beats, until the quiet whispering of the grass was all that remained.
She rose from her cramped position, her knees like jelly, and stumbled up the porch steps, to find her mother and Manny, huddled by the door, Eli and Mary softly weeping.
“Hannah! Is it you? What is going on?” Manny whispered hoarsely.
“Who was shooting? Surely it wasn’t you?” her mother croaked, her mouth and throat dry with the same fear.
“I was shooting. There were claim jumpers at the barn.”
Sarah gasped audibly. “But, Dat, Mose, I mean … your father always said he didn’t know what he would do if he found himself in those circumstances.”
“Well, I knew. They’re not getting these 320 acres.” Such conviction.
Sarah shook her head, lit the kerosene lamp with shaking fingers, the glass chimney rattling between the metal prongs as she replaced it.
“Did you shoot?” Manny asked.
> “Sure. I shot the rifle to scare them off. It worked.”
Sarah gathered the terrified children to her side as she sat down weakly in a kitchen chair, stroking Eli’s dark head as he sat on her lap. Mary stood beside her mother, arms around her shoulders, her eyes like dark pools in the light of the lamp’s flame.
“But Hannah, is it right? Are we living by your father’s rules?”
“Look, Mam. Dat is no longer here. We have our choices to make now, if we want to stay here in the West, all right? It isn’t right to let those brazen, lawless men take what is ours. We worked hard for this, and will continue to work hard. I don’t care what you say.”
“But, Hannah. You know he wouldn’t approve of what you just did.”
Hannah took a deep breath. “Mam, listen to me. If this is how you’re going to be, you may as well go back home now. We can’t live by our father’s dreaming if we’re going to survive. I only scared them off. I didn’t kill anyone. I never meant to. I know about nonresistance, but how far does that go?”
Sarah shook her head, suddenly miserable. Oh, this wild land. Amish had no business out here. How could they be expected to live by the rules of the church? Did those four gunshots mean they had crossed off one of the articles of their faith?
“Ah, but Hannah. Now we are not abiding by one rule, so now we are already started on the downward spiral, turning our backs to the teachings of our forefathers.” Sarah shuddered to think of the lawlessness that had crept in so soon, like a thief in the night.
She turned to Manny, the obedient one. “What do you think?”
So much like his father, he took a few moments before he spoke. “I want to respect our father’s wishes, Mam. But we can’t just lay down and take the claim jumpers unlawful thievery, either. I don’t know.”
Hannah glowered from her stand by the door, one ear turned toward the night, alert for the sound of hoof beats.
“Here we are again. Everyone sifting through the Ordnung, trying to figure right from wrong, wondering, dreaming, looking back, when I am the only one who gets off my backside and does anything about anything.” Her voice turned to a shout.
“You would have died without food if I hadn’t gone to town. No one ever figured out if that was right or wrong, did you? Huh? No, you were too hungry.” She paused for breath.
“So now, you’d better decide if you’re with me or not. If this is how our future is planned, then I’ll marry Clay Jenkins at the first opportunity. I want to live here. To be sensible, we might have to bend the rules sometimes.”
“Oh Hannah, please. Please don’t tell me you would marry an ausra. That is not even thinkable,” Sarah said, wheedling now, begging her headstrong daughter to change her way of thinking.
As the night wore on, they remained seated around the kitchen table, hashing out the rocky path of survival and the Amish Ordnung, the meek and gentle spirit of Mose Detweiler the burning example, a flame to lead them in the coming years, almost extinguished by Hannah’s pragmatism when compared to his righteous, biblical version of life. Sarah found herself often swayed by Hannah’s power and the stark sensibility of her reasoning.
Nothing hidden, nothing sugar coated to make the swallowing of it easier. To live in the West required adaptation. Changes. Who was to care? No other Amish lived here. God saw them, of course, Hannah conceded to humor her mother.
But Sarah knew. And she could tell that Hannah knew: Hannah was wielding power over her mother and Manny by threatening to marry Clay. There was no doubt in Sarah’s mind that it was possible. Hadn’t she seen? Clay would marry her tomorrow. Well, Sarah had a wealth of power herself. The minute Hannah brought up the subject of Clay Jenkins becoming her husband, Sarah would mention the possibility of her grandfather’s withholding his checkbook and the windmill. She knew only too well her aging father’s disappointment, the deep and searing heartache he’d endure if Hannah chose to live outside the Ordnung, the way of righteousness by which he abided.
It was a great mystery, this heartache. Why was it so hard to see children leave the Amish? To see them openly disobey?
And Hannah on the brink of it herself. Sarah well remembered Uncle Levi’s Abner, going off to war, disregarding his parents’ warnings. He had lived many years untrue to the Amish faith, battling side by side with the ausra, the English soldiers in World War I. He was shot and killed. Uncle Levi and Aunt Barbara were never the same after that. How could they be, having no hope for his soul? To burn in hell, eternal damnation. Or did he have time to repent and ask forgiveness before his final moment? They would never know. They could hope, that was all. This life was no kinnershpiel, no child’s play. There were consequences for wrong choices. God is not mocked.
The upbringing Sarah had lived by all her life was now viewed through the microscopic lens of her self-willed oldest daughter. Things she had never questioned, that she had taken as rules written in stone, the foundation of her character, were now shaken and rattled as never before. She had given her life to her husband, and now to Hannah, faithfully and without self-pity. She had done what was required of her, and here she was, her daughter holding the threat of marriage to Clay Jenkins over her head like a fierce, flapping bird of prey that threatened to peck her eyes out.
A shot of anger sparked in Sarah. It made her feel small and helpless, like a baby bird, dependent on Hannah’s offering. Well, this was not right, according to the Bible. Her husband had been a different story. This was her daughter.
She pictured herself at the base of a pedestal, an intricately chiseled Roman pillar, prostrate, worshipping at the shrine called Hannah, bidding Manny to join her. The thought was so real and so revolting that it felt as if a hot wind blew from below the bed, enveloping her in an uncomfortable steam bath. Self-recognition brought wave after wave of anxiety washing over her and then receding, only to submerge her again.
So what was she to do? What was her next step? The coming days loomed before her, formidable as the tallest mountain. It sapped her strength, leaving her floundering for oxygen, as if her trek up the mountain had already begun.
She had felt courage on the night she had the talk with her father. She had recognized the need, felt the passion directed toward the success of the homestead. Now, a far greater trial loomed: taming Hannah and reversing authority in the family.
Sarah realized the thin line of helping Hannah find the balance she would need. To be harsh and unforgiving would germinate the seed of rebellion, drawing it from the earth like a warm summer rain. To allow Hannah to control her, passive and afraid, would only bring an unchastened, unhandy spirit, one that flared up the minute her authority was questioned. Like bread dough forgotten and left to rise, Hannah had risen out of proportion and down over the pan. Such dough is ruined unless brought into submission and kneaded into shape.
Sarah shook slightly, a rare moment of laughter overcoming her as she thought of Hannah’s reaction to her comparison to bread dough. Oh, mercy.
She fell asleep, a prayer on her lips, her sweet face relaxed as she breathed lightly. The moon was low in the west, luminous and orange, before the first call of the sage thrasher woke the western blue birds, until the prairie hummed and warbled and trilled.
The birdsong woke Hannah when the first of the sun’s rays poked a slanted yellow beam of light on the round rafters, the rough boards placed horizontally on top of them. She would be happy to wake up in a decent room, with wall board and paint, but that was beside the point this morning.
She rolled over, stretched, then raised herself from the hay tick and padded lightly downstairs to begin her day.
She had planned on accumulating all the firewood she possibly could before the windmill crew arrived. For one thing, if the family was expected to cook for them, it would take plenty of wood to keep the stove going. Plus winter was coming, and she had no plans of being cold ever again. Between her and Manny, they’d stack the northeast side full of wood, insulating the house as well as never getting lost in an unexpe
cted blizzard.
So Mam could make a big breakfast, after which they’d set off for the creek bed to saw wood. As soon as the new windmill was up, they’d buy the cows from the Klassermans and buy a huge dog; it didn’t matter what kind, just so it was big and had a fear-inducing bark.
She wished they had some kind of food storage facility, but that could wait if it had to, she supposed.
She didn’t greet her mother, just watched her set about gathering the soiled laundry from the wooden hamper in the bedroom.
Finally she asked if Sarah would make breakfast soon; she had plans for herself and Manny to chop firewood.
“I thought I might be able to get the whites on to soak before I start the wash water.”
Hannah snorted. “What do you mean? That doesn’t make sense.”
“I have enough hot water on the cook stove to pour into the small granite tub to soak the whites in lye soap. After that, I want to start the fire to heat the rest of the water in the kettle.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” Hannah asked as she bent to pull on a pair of warm stockings.
Sarah’s patience was as dependable as the sun’s rising, so Hannah was surprised when her mother stopped sorting clothes, faced her with her hands on her hips and said firmly, “I’m busy, Hannah. The rest of the food boxes still need to unpacked before the windmill arrives. I would appreciate your help today. You could make breakfast for all of us. It doesn’t take long to make a pot of oatmeal and fry bread in a skillet.”
“I can’t see why that washing has to be done this minute,” Hannah retorted, stretching her feet in front of her and wriggling the toes of her stockings.
“I told you,” Sarah said shortly.
Hannah glared at her mother, then got up to go to the mirror above the washstand. She removed her hairpins, loosened her long dark hair, lowering her left shoulder to swing her hair behind her, raising her eyebrows to inspect a blemish on her usually flawless forehead. She claimed her head was itchy, saying she probably had lice, the way that train had been packed with people.