by Dale Cramer
For reasons he could not quite fathom, full of a pain he was not ready to talk about, Caleb struck out on foot, without a word to anyone, to the other side of the valley. In a little while, walking alone up the foot of the far ridge, he arrived at the cottonwood tree whose shade had now merged into the twilight. The western sky was still stained with blood, the east a shimmering promise of moonrise with a single star keeping watch, low over the black hills.
He sat down beside the loose mound of dirt that marked his son’s grave, propped his arms on his knees and stared out over the valley. There were no words. Caleb Bender was a thoughtful man, but his bruised soul could not begin to put words to the questions life had asked him of late. Gott’s reasoning was as far away as the morning. Even to grieve overlong was to question Gott. All he could do was trust, and wait. This too would pass. The light would come.
It was a tiny sound, brief as a cricket’s chirp, and it came from far away. Perhaps it drifted across a mile of perfect stillness from the door of Mary’s home, or perhaps it was one of Gott’s little lights shined unerringly into the bleak recesses of his own soul, but for a fleeting second Caleb could have sworn he heard the faint, sweet squeal of a harmonica.
Night had nearly fallen by the time Kyra pushed Miriam out the back of the house with a final word of encouragement, shutting the door behind her. She could make out Domingo’s shadowy figure in the dusk, hobbling out of the edge of the bean field on his cane, his new wide hat low over his eyes, his head tilted down, careful of his steps.
Self-consciously at first, she walked tentatively, pausing at the back of the garden by a fence post entwined with lush green vines. From the darkness near the ground a glint of blue-white shone up at her—a moonflower bloom. She pinched the bell-shaped flower from the vine and tucked the stem above her ear. As her fingers lingered in her undone hair, she closed her eyes and that voice came back to her, soft as a breeze in the corn, a whispered memory.
Dulcinea.
She struck out toward him confidently now, her head up, her shoulders back and daringly revealed by one of Kyra’s white peasant blouses. Kyra’s best black skirt—the one with the embroidered roses—swished about her sandaled feet.
She was ten feet away when Domingo finally looked up and saw her. She stopped, and he stared, the whites of his eyes showing in the dusk, surprised.
“Miriam?”
Blushing, her gaze dropped away from him.
“You didn’t see me?”
“I saw,” he said, “but I thought it was Kyra.”
She remained motionless. Sand and rock crunched underfoot as he hobbled closer and stopped with mere inches between them. When he reached up very slowly and lifted her chin to face him, she saw hope burning in his eyes.
“Like a dream,” he whispered as his hand slid gently under her hair, caressing her cheek. His eyes roamed over her face with obvious pleasure, lingering on the moonflower.
“Is this your answer?”
She nodded slowly, a demure smile creeping onto her face. “I never really had a choice,” she said. “I will be your wife, and your people will be my people. But we must not speak of it until the time is right. My mother is not well, and I cannot do this to her while her heart is heavy with the loss of Aaron and the little ones. I love you, Domingo, and I will promise myself to you, but we must wait. I don’t know how long.”
“Then I will wait, Cualnezqui,” he whispered. “For as long as it takes.” His cane clattered to the ground, forgotten as he swept her into his arms.
Author’s Note
For the benefit of my non-Amish readers, and in deference to my Amish kin, I feel I should point out a few things about bed courtship, or bundling (the terms are interchangeable). In the old days before the New Order came along, when a boy and girl were “going steady,” after a Saturday night date it was customary for the boy to remain at the girl’s house and sleep in her bed. This was done quietly and never openly discussed, even among family members, though the parents were aware of it. According to the Amish, the reasoning behind allowing such a thing was entirely practical: Their uninsulated houses were extremely cold at night, beds were at a premium because of the large families, and since the farms were some distance apart, the boy often faced a ten- or fifteen-mile buggy drive in the dark of night, in single-digit temperatures.
Bed courtship has an important (albeit secondary) role in THE DAUGHTERS OF CALEB BENDER, as it does in Levi’s Will, but the reader should bear in mind the historical contexts of these works. While bed courtship was widely practiced until the mid-1900s, since that time most of the Amish have made a concerted effort to stamp it out.
Amish churches vary from one district to the next as to their place on the liberal/conservative continuum, but they generally fall into three categories: New Order, Old Order, and Schwartzentruber, with New Order being the most liberal group.
As far as I know, the New Order churches, which emerged sometime in the 1960s, have never practiced bed courtship. Around the 1950s many of the Old Order churches began to recognize the moral dilemma inherent in bed courtship and have since taken a stand against it. If the practice goes on at all today, it’s more likely to be among the more conservative and insular sects like the Schwartzentruber. But the more conservative Amish never talk about such things, especially with outsiders, so I cannot speak for them one way or the other.
The group that went to Mexico in the 1920s was mostly members of what was then known as the Abe Troyer Church, an offshoot of the Schwartzentruber—very conservative. It is a fact that they did allow bed courtship in the early part of the twentieth century, but the church instituted a number of changes under the leadership of a man named Tobe Hostetler (they’re now known as the Tobe Church) and they have spoken out against the practice for many years.
Acknowledgments
By now I have learned that the writing of a novel is anything but a solitary pursuit. There is always an army of friends and family who offer advice, feedback and esoteric knowledge in the early stages, and an army of professionals who polish and package and correct, making me look better than I am in the latter stages. Among others, who may go unmentioned but not unappreciated, I am grateful to the following:
My wife, Pam, who sees it all before anyone else and never fails to bring a feminine touch to my writing.
My father, Howard Cramer, who gives me insight into the Amish mind and culture and contributes a long memory full of wonderful stories and details.
My cousin Katie Shetler, who does her best to help me understand Amish customs and rules, and the diversity that exists among them. Thanks to her, I sometimes get it right. When I don’t, it’s entirely my own fault.
Marian Shearer, a local writer who grew up in Mexico, who corrects my Spanish and graciously shares her encyclopedic knowledge of Mexican life, culture and geography.
Lori Patrick, a freelance editor, friend and champion, who writes the back cover copy and provides unflagging support through the whole writing process.
Hoot Gibson, for the monkey story.
A host of friends too numerous to list (but you know who you are), who help me shape early drafts through brainstorming sessions, fireside chats and first-draft feedback.
My editor, Luke Hinrichs, both cheerleader and coach, who brings all the various aspects of writing, editing, cover art and marketing together into a cohesive whole.
My agent, Janet Kobobel Grant, a keen-eyed editor and wise counselor.
Last, but certainly not least, this work owes a great deal to a book by David Luthy titled The Amish in America: Settlements That Failed, 1840–1960. To my knowledge, it is the only comprehensive written record of the Paradise Valley settlement, and it was instrumental in creating the backdrop for this novel.
About the Author
Dale Cramer is the author of the bestselling and critically acclaimed novel Levi’s Will, based on the story of Dale’s father, a runaway Amishman. Dale’s latest series, THE DAUGHTERS OF CALEB BENDER, is base
d on an Amish colony in the mountains of Mexico, where three generations of his family lived in the 1920s. Dale lives in Georgia with his wife of thirty-six years, two sons and a Bernese Mountain Dog named Rupert.
For more information about the author and his books, visit his website and blog at dalecramer.com. Or readers may correspond with Dale by writing to P.O. Box 25, Hampton, GA 30228.
Books by Dale Cramer
* * *
Sutter’s Cross
Bad Ground
Levi’s Will
Summer of Light
THE DAUGHTERS OF CALEB BENDER
Paradise Valley
The Captive Heart
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