When the English Fall

by David Williams

  But with the terrible weather, and the power outages, and the trouble, they were suffering. The hot and dry summer stunted their corn, and all they grew was corn. When the fierce rains began again, their fields were much damaged. Some rains, they can handle, but two or three inches an hour?

  Joseph shook his head as he spoke. The Johansons had seen almost no yield this year. The herbicide-treated soil had no quackgrass, nothing to hold it, and the slight incline of much of that property meant that much corn and soil were washed away. I had seen it, the washes cutting across what had been good earth.

  The Johansons also had several chicken coops, long flat structures with hens by the tens of thousands, all packed into crates. That had been a good cash yield, from one of the big companies that puts chicken into the stores in the cities. But then the power failed midsummer, not one of the storm outages, but when one power company wouldn’t provide to another. The fans failed, and the coops became ovens. Most of the hens died.

  Mr. Johanson was beside himself, deep in debt to the bank, and the loans and loan guarantees and payments from the government that used to tide English farmers over no longer came through. Something about China, and austerity measures. Mike has told me about these things, too.

  Joseph was worried, because his neighbor had taken to drinking more and more. Two nights before, there had been angry shouting in the distance. It was just drunkenness and rage, as he stumbled through the fields shouting with a bottle in his hand, cursing uselessly at his own fields, blasting the sun-blasted earth with his hate. The police came, called by another neighbor. Very sad thing, we both thought.

  So we prayed together for his neighbor, for the family. And then we ate, and gave thanks. It was good, to be together. A blessing.

  I WAS LOOKING OUT across our little farm, in the half-darkness of the night, and giving thanks for the blessing we had been given, when she was suddenly by my side without my knowing it. Like a wraith, she moves sometimes, my Sadie.

  I asked her how she had enjoyed her time with Rachel, and she smiled and said it was good to see her.

  She looked at the night sky, dimming at the cool of day. She said that the angels were coming soon. The sky will be filled with their wings. She was not upset, as she had been before. There was no seizure. She was very calm. But she was still saying it.

  “We will be all right, when they come,” she said. “But it will not be easy, Dadi.”

  And then she went inside. “It’s late, Dadi,” she called to me. “Come in.”

  September 18

  For the first time in a month, a gentle morning rain, soft and long and soaking. It will do the wheat good.

  Mike came in his truck today, with the trailer. He was in a good mood. The buyer had transferred money, right on schedule, into Mike’s bank account. It is electronic, the payment, but Mike deals with that part of the business. What matters is that the payment was made. Mike had taken his broker’s fee, plus the costs for transporting the goods based on distance, fair as we had always agreed.

  He brought cash with him, a large fat envelope, which he counted out once and again for me. I always tell him that I trust him, but he always laughs and says it is good to be sure.

  When business was done, we talked. Or rather, he talked. I mostly listen. He talked about what was in the news, more about the cutbacks, about discontent in the military because of benefit reductions, and some large demonstration that got angry in Washington. But he seemed less worried, because, for this week, his portion of the furniture sale would help with his bills. It was good to see him so relaxed. It is so rare.

  He always worries. His life is so difficult, so chaotic. He tells me of his struggles with his ex-wife, of custody issues and how unhappy his two children are, of his girlfriend who is pregnant, and how things are with the two of them.

  Things with them are not good.

  It isn’t easy, and never seems to get easier. For the years I have known him, it is always the same. Patterns of sadness and anger passing through his life like the seasons of harvest and planting.

  Where we have the Sabbath, and the apples, and the oats, and the wheat, and the corn, he has the fights, and the anger from his radio, and the anger of his sons, and the bitterness of his broken life with Shauna. I think that is his ex-wife’s name, although usually there is a profanity before he says it. He says it that way so much that sometimes I wonder if that is her actual name.

  And then the words came to me: The sorrows are planted, and they grow strong in the earth of his life, and they rise up, and there is harvest.

  I think that, but I would not speak it to him. He does not need me to tell him something he knows already.

  He does not need me to tell him anything, I think. He needs me to listen. So I do.

  In so many ways, he is a good man, for all of his bluster and anger and cynicism. Yet contentment seems out of his reach.

  But today, he was happy. If just for a moment.

  IN THE HOUR AFTER dinner, as the night was gently cool, I sat with Hannah awhile. The table was cleared and the horses stabled, and evening prayers were said. Jacob was asleep, and Sadie was calm. We sat, and we did not talk much.

  It was a good thing, to sit, calm and quiet.

  Then she asked, “Jay?” And I said, yes? “Does Sadie seem better, Jay?” I said I did not know, but that she seemed happier. I said it because it was true.

  “Will she be able to stay with us?” I said yes, because I knew we would be able to make do, although in my heart I knew that when age came upon us, she would have to stay with our son.

  She was silent for a moment. “What of a husband? How can she marry? How . . .” And I hushed her, and said I was not sure, but that I worried about it, too. She is still only fourteen, I reminded. And she is better lately.

  This sounded empty in my ears as I said it, but I said it anyway.

  “Then why does she still talk as she does,” asked Hannah. “The women talk about it, and it troubles the deacons. Always the same these last months, always about the angels and the English. Terrible, strange things.” I said that I did not know, but yes, it was always the same.

  “You know about the things she says,” whispered Hannah. Her eyes turned up, brown and anxious. My Hannah, she is never anxious. “Do you think it is true?” she asked. “It frightens me, sometimes.” There was a catch in her voice, and she pressed against my arm. I held her closer.

  I did not know what to say, and so I said that such things were not mine to know.

  We sat for a little while after that, and then she went up to prepare for bed.

  I sat for a while, and wrote this, but I know tomorrow will be a long day.

  September 19

  I rose as I always do, just before the sun rises. But in the barn this morning was Sadie, already up, dressed . . . if a little messily . . . and milking. Just as she had before. Jacob was gathering eggs.

  Sadie smiled at me, looking up for a moment, and said, “Good morning, Dadi,” and went back to her milking.

  I said good morning back. I do not know why I felt sadness, but for a moment, I did. But by the time I was walking to hitch the horses to the plow to prepare two more acres for the wheat, I was no longer sorrowful.

  And the air was cooler, the first truly cool day for many, many months.

  IN THE AFTERNOON, BISHOP and Mrs. Schrock came for an unexpected visit. Mrs. Schrock talked with Hannah, maybe about Sadie. This would be good for Hannah, because Mrs. Schrock is frail, but a gentle, quiet heart, and very good at prayer.

  Bishop Schrock talked with me, and it was about Mike. He was concerned for my soul, being around such a one. He was thinking that I should consider ending our partnership, of finding another to seek the orders for my woodshop among the English.

  “There are English and there are English,” he said. “He is a divorced man,” he said, “and a drunkard. In the town I heard that the police had to be called because of their fighting. He is not someone you should be associati
ng with. He might steal from you, and might bring shame on all of us.”

  Bishop Schrock talked for quite a while. When he preaches, this is also true.

  I listened, mostly. We have had this conversation before. Back in August, on the 10th. And, let me look back. Yes, July 14th. And other times. Bishop Schrock is a persistent man, so different from Bishop Beiler.

  And I answered that I was very sorry that Mike was having such a hard time, and that such things were common now among the English. And I said, as I have every time we have spoken of this, that though the English cannot be of the Order, and we cannot take their ways into our hearts, we must always be compassionate to them.

  If I only pray for him, and do not help him through my listening and our work, then am I doing as Jesus would have me do? I said this, as I always say this. And Bishop Schrock always looks away, and his face looks as if he has hurt a tooth, his jaw working a little bit. That is how his face looks, when I say that.

  Last year, when he brought his concerns about Mike to the deacons, and they talked, that is what I said. I said other things, too, but that was the heart of it. And they decided what they decided. That is why I still work with Mike.

  “I will pray for you on this matter,” said Bishop Schrock. I thanked him, and told him that I always appreciated a heartfelt prayer.

  And then we talked about chickens.

  September 20

  The day began, and the cool was in the air as the sun rose. Fall is so close now. Sadie is helping more. Jacob was milking this morning, but she was near the house, moving methodically through the last of the everbearing strawberries, filling a small basket with the fruit.

  It is so late to be gathering them, but they keep coming. Joseph Fisher told me that last year, they still had everbearing strawberries coming in late October. Of course, the frost and that one huge early snow came, but it was still so very late.

  Sadie and Hannah spent the morning working on strawberry preserves, and Jacob and I killed and plucked that hen, and two broilers we’d been fattening up.

  It was a slow day, a calm day. I went to sit near the road, and chewed on a bit of straw, and watched the English roar by in their cars. Car after car, whoosh.

  Whoosh. Whoosh. Such a hurry.

  But for me, it was restful, a sabbath, though not the Sabbath.

  SADIE WAS STILL OUTSIDE, though it had been dark for several hours.

  I heard Hannah call for her, and Sadie replied, but I did not hear what Sadie said.

  I went to the kitchen, and Hannah told me to go talk with her. What did she say? I asked. Just talk with her, Hannah asked. She was trying not to be upset.

  And so I went, and I sat, and I asked her what she was doing.

  She was not upset. She was not unhappy. She looked at me with her large eyes set kind and sad into that slender face, and she smiled.

  “I’m waiting for the angels, Dadi. I want to see them when they come.”

  I asked her what that meant. But she just smiled, and shook her head. “You’ll see, Dadi.”

  Then she asked, “Dadi, can you stay with me? Can you sit awhile?”

  I said that I could. “If it takes three nights, or even seven?” she asked. I told her that I could.

  “It is very soon, Dadi,” she said. “Very soon. I’m glad you’ll sit with me.”

  And so we sat, for an hour, saying little. My concern faded, as she nestled against me. After a while, she gave me a little hug, and went in to go to bed. She did not seem upset.

  Hannah and I talked afterward, and I told her what Sadie had said. She asked what it meant again, and I said what I had said before.

  She is not angry or afraid, I added. And she has been doing so well in the kitchen and around the house.

  I know, Hannah said. And then she paused, as if to say more, but she did not.

  September 21

  After breakfast, today was mostly apple picking. The Fishers came to join in, and then the Sorensons, as our acre and a half of trees was ready for picking, and the four of us can only gather in so much. Deacon Sorenson brought his big wagon, and three of his sons, and the eldest’s wife and her new baby.

  We moved from tree to tree, in groups that mingled and changed. Jacob was a help, of course. And Sadie was very busy. She laughed, and passed a smile to the middle Fisher boy. Then she went back with Hannah and Mrs. Sorenson and Mrs. Fisher to help prepare the meal for tonight.

  The baskets filled quickly, and the two wagons were soon loaded. The yield was not as much as the year before, and many of the apples were small, but it was still an abundance. After a long, slow day, twenty-two bushels, with much still left on the trees. There would be plenty for sale, and for cider, and for preserves.

  Then there was talking, and lemonade, and some early cider.

  For dinner, ham, and freshly baked bread, and beans in the cool of the late afternoon. Deacon Sorenson said a simple blessing, as is his way. It was a very nice day.

  SADIE SAT OUT AGAIN tonight, watching the sky as the stars appeared. I sat with her, of course. We mostly talked about the day, and the picking, and when I mentioned Sam Fisher, she may have blushed a little. But it was dark.

  The air was cool, and as the night grew deeper, it took on the scent and crispness of autumn.

  Another night like this, and we will need a fire in the stove, I said to Sadie. “I love to just watch the fire in the fireplace,” she said. “So pretty, as it dances.”

  I agreed.

  We sat for maybe an hour, until the sky was fully dark. And then she said, “Not tonight,” and gave me a little hug, and went to prepare for bed.

  September 22

  And on the third night, the angels came and filled the heavens.

  It began in early evening, as I watched, sitting with Sadie again, just as she had asked.

  It was just darking, the last colors of the sun vanishing, the first stars showing, the light of the town brightening. It had been a beautiful sunset.

  And then they came. A flicker here, and a flicker there, color danced in the sky. Then sheets of it, brighter and brighter, dancing wild sheets cast across the skies, beautiful purples and blues and pinks.

  The sky became full of them, dancing, waving, and pulsing. They would fade a little, and strengthen, and then grow stronger and stronger.

  So beautiful. But terrible. What was this? Angels? It was not as I would have thought. So bright and silent. I do not know. I do not yet know.

  Hannah came, and Jacob, and we watched together, as the wings of angels lit the skies, and the earth glowed under the warm light. Jacob laughed and pointed and jumped around at the joy of it.

  Then it grew so bright that it was brighter than midnight under a full moon, bright enough to see my hand, to see the house. Angel wings dipped, radiant with color, and touched the earth. There was a feeling of strangeness in the air, I do not know what it was, but the hairs on my arm rose. From fear, perhaps, because it was strange, but also because the air seemed sharp with . . . something. I do not know. But the smell changed.

  “Dadi, it’s so bright, what is that smell?” asked Jacob, suddenly stilled, his voice filled with awe and alarm. Hannah pulled in close, but Sadie stood separate, looking up, rocking back and forth a little.

  It went on, radiant and terrible and beautiful. We stood silent.

  And then Jacob said, “Dadi, look, there are no lights in the town now,” he said, “and there are no lights on the road.” It was true. And he was excited and frightened, and looking everywhere and talking, and then he pointed up.

  “Look at the plane,” he called out, and there it was, an airplane, a big one. It was not where the planes normally fly, high and moving north or south. The silhouette was low and large. There were no lights on it, or in it, just the beautiful light dancing on and behind it.

  It was sideways. It was coming down.

  I could see both wings, bent back dark like a broken cross, and it was floating downward, downward, very slow. It was very w
rong. I began to pray.

  The plane moved down, southward, like a dark, windblown leaf against the color-splashed sky. We lost it to view behind the trees.

  And then there was a faint flash, and a few seconds later, a crump like a short peal of thunder.

  “Oh blessed Jesus, all those people,” said Hannah, and she began to pray softly and in earnest, her whispered prayers melding with mine.

  Still, the skies danced, so bright, so silent.

  And a few seconds later, another flash, to the north. And a minute later, another to the southwest.

  Sadie turned to us, and her eyes were huge and wet with tears.

  “The English fall,” she said.

  And then she went inside, away from the light that filled the sky over the darkened earth.

  September 23

  I awoke this morning, and it felt like any other morning.

  We woke together, and prayed in earnest for the souls of those on the fallen plane. Such a terrible thing to see. For half of an hour, we prayed. But then the day’s work called.

  The air was crisp, this second day of autumn. I went out to the barn, and there was Sadie, milking. I fed the horses, then went to tend to some business in the workshop.

  In the distance, there was fire, smoke rising from something big burning off to the south. Where the plane went down. It is strange that it is still burning, but the woods have been dry.

  YOUNG JIM STOLFUTZ ARRIVED while the morning was still new, riding that three-year-old mare of theirs, no buggy, riding fast, faster than he should. I saw him through the window of the workshop, set down my tools, and walked out to greet him. He rode over to me, leapt off, and came up breathless, face red with excitement and the bite of the breeze. The mare was breathing hard.