When the English Fall

by David Williams

  When it was Isaak’s time to preach, he raised up his voice so that he could be heard, even though the roar from the roof had not diminished.

  Mostly heard, to be honest. His sermon was good, about the rain, about the need to hold together no matter what storms came, to remain faithful and with our feet on the solid rock.

  But Isaak did not preach long. As he was midway through the preaching, lights from a vehicle pulling in to the Beiler yard could be seen through the rain-spattered windows. A few moments later, three soldiers dressed in rain gear entered by the back, and one signaled the attention of Bishop Schrock.

  There were words, not whispered but inaudible in the din, and Isaak stopped his preaching for a moment. Those gathered sat quietly, with little whispering and wondering. Bishop Schrock came forward to Isaak, and their heads drew close to each other, and they conferred.

  When they were done talking, Isaak raised his voice to almost a shout so that all in the room could really hear him.

  “These soldiers have come to tell us that they have heard there may be a hurricane coming up the East Coast, and it seems to be coming straight for us. They do not know how strong it is, or how strong it will be, or even how soon it will get worse. It is hard to tell in these days. But the radio reports from the military say it is a very strong storm.”

  There was murmuring around, as many of us still remembered Sandy, and how fiercely she had come through all those years ago.

  Bishop Schrock chimed in, his deep voice booming. “It may not be safe to return home if we wait much longer, or if we continue on through our time of fellowship. We give thanks to our friends for bringing us this news and in braving the elements to tell us this, and we should act upon the news we have been given.” He nodded to the soldiers, who nodded back.

  We sang one more song, raising our voices together, but we only sang about half of the verses. Then, a prayer, and the womenfolk bustled to gather up what had been brought while the menfolk went out to get the buggies hitched.

  The soldiers left as we did so, their truck disappearing quickly into the blinding rain. If anything, the wind was howling even more fiercely, and I was glad of the soldiers and their warning.

  Nettie was even less eager to leave the barn, and there was a wild nervousness in her eyes as I coaxed and urged her out in the rain. I’d seen her spooked before, and I almost began to wish that I’d brought Pearl instead. After time at the plow, though, she needed her rest. Every creature needs their Sabbath.

  Jacob and I hitched her up, and this time Jacob sat back with his mother and his sister as I drove Nettie homeward. She was struggling, I could feel it in her, but she kept on, as I muttered prayers under my breath. It was a harder ride back, though I’d not have thought that quite possible.

  The wind snapped and shoved at the buggy, sometimes coming from one direction, sometimes from another. It knocked at the sides, and several of the gusts felt like they would almost knock us over, they were so fierce. Others caught the buggy from the front, and it buckled back on the leafsprings, and Nettie strained all the harder to pull us forward. Leaves and branches flew through the air.

  In the back of the buggy, my little family clung to one another. Even Jacob, who had thought this all a great adventure, seemed less excited by the storm and more eager to get to our home.

  In places, the water poured across the road, flowing deeper and deeper, splashing around Nettie’s feet as if we were fording a stream. She has never liked water, and I wished even more that I had hitched up Pearl.

  Once, and then again, I had to stop to move a fallen branch from the road, and by the second branch—which was quite large—even the parts of me that had been a little dry were soaked all the way through. Each time, it was harder to get Nettie going again.

  Finally, she just stopped, about a mile from the house, as the driving rain and the howling and the intermittent peals of thunder became too much. I goaded and cajoled, but I could tell that she was terrified, and I have never been one to bring a whip too hard to bear on one of God’s creatures.

  It was not so cold, and I was already soaked to the skin, so I got out of the buggy, and went around to Nettie. She was wild-eyed under her blinders, nervous and barely containing herself. I petted her neck for a few moments, and talked to her for a little, my body in close against her head. Her breath came hot and tense against the wetness of my collar.

  She calmed a little, I could tell. I took the reins and she followed behind me, pulling the buggy at my walking pace. It was hard to see, as the wind battered, but I just put one foot in front of another. My hat helped shelter my eyes, and it stayed on by some small miracle, but it has always been snug and perfect fitting.

  It was a long mile.

  We were glad to be home, when we finally arrived. Although I usually have Jacob stable Nettie, I had them go into the house, and I made sure she was in secure with Pearl before I made my way back.

  IT IS STILL STORMING now, as I write here by candlelight. Dinner together was good, and although we were all a little disappointed that we did not have a chance to spend time with the Beilers and the other families, the pies were delicious.

  We took a time for family prayer together after the meal, and all of us prayed for the storm to spare those who were not aware of its coming, and for those who are living near the sea. If it is like this here, it must be more terrible there.

  The wind has grown all the stronger, and the house groans and creaks, and I can feel it shifting and moving slightly. Upstairs, water has been forced in past some of the windows, and Sadie and Jacob have been sopping it up with towels before the puddles on the floor spread too far.

  Hannah and I spent much of our time after dinner in the dimly lit root cellar. It’s by the barn, built into the earth to keep it cool, and we use it for storage and for growing carrots and beets in the winter. But when the rain comes up, the water weeps in, and while that is fine sometimes, this did not look to be one of those times. By the light of a hurricane lamp, with the storm shaking the door, she and I began to move perishables higher on the shelving. Rice and grains must be kept dry, and already the moisture was streaming in here and there, pooling on the floor, as it does whenever we get a long rain. We moved bags and boxes and containers to higher shelves. It should be enough, and we can work to clear out the water when the rain has stopped.

  I checked again on the animals, as night fell, and they seem to be doing all right. The cattle are tightly gathered under one of the hay shelters, and they will weather the night acceptably. All of the other buildings on our little farm will manage. The barn is a sturdy one, as is the unused daadi haus. And, of course, the house itself. Where I am sitting, drying off yet again. And where all of my little family are sitting, nestled under blankets or reading.

  On nights like this one, I am glad that the house was well built. It had been one of the many houses owned by the Schrock family, and some relative had lived here for many years before it was put up for sale. I remember admiring the craftsmanship of it when I came here to look for a place where we could settle down in this community. It had been carefully constructed, the joists all doubly reinforced, the roof secured against high wind, and insulation everywhere. It was a good and sturdy home for the family we were sure we would have.

  Still, it is not brick, and as it flexes and shifts, I am reminded that wood has limits, even if it is well used by careful hands. Everything in this world breaks, if you strain it hard enough.

  October 12

  It was a long night, and sleep did not come easily. When I awoke, the rain was still coming down in sheets, pouring down the side of the house, but the wind was dwindling away.

  The barn seemed to have managed the night, as had the daadi haus. In the dull grayness of the morning, I could see branches down and scattered twigs and debris as I walked to feed the horses.

  Sadie came with me, or rather, she ran ahead, as quickly as she could, covering her head with a shawl. Inside the barn, all was well, and t
hough there was much moisture here and there, it looked like there was not much that needed to be repaired. I could see a bit of sky where the wind had pried some of the tin roof loose, but it hadn’t fully pulled away. I would be able to repair it.

  As we returned to the house, Jacob came running from the chicken coop, leaping puddles as he came up to us. He breathlessly announced that they were all fine.

  My check of the larder showed that all was well, just a spot or two of moisture there. But when I went to the root cellar, opening that door revealed that it was not quite as fine as I would have hoped. Water stood to the height of my knees, a mess of muck that would have to be cleared out. But the work that Hannah and I did to move perishables was time well spent. I do not think we will lose anything.

  It did not stop raining until early afternoon, and the wind rose on occasion, stirring and shaking the trees.

  When the rain did take a break, I went to look at the work that I had done yesterday. It was a mess. Much of the soil had been washed away, and the seeds that we’d laid in had probably not fared much better. It was too soon for them to have sprouted, so maybe some would have survived, but whatever remained would not be neat and orderly. The Lord would give us patience, and we would deal with it in due time.

  But there was not much about that I could attend to, because the immediate need was the cellar.

  We moved the meat up into the house, where we hung it from the rafters in the kitchen. And then it was back down to the root cellar. I had a pair of waders, which years ago I had used for fishing. Wearing them, I went in, taking with me our three five-gallon buckets. For almost two hours we bailed, bucket after bucket, me to Hannah to Sadie to Jacob, who’d toss it and run it back. Over and over again, me to Hannah to Sadie to Jacob.

  We sang a little bit as we worked, which made the business of clearing all that murky water not quite so terrible.

  When the water level was low enough, the buckets were joined by mops. I found myself remembering a movie I had seen on rumspringa, a cartoon with a mouse and magic, and the echo of the music from that film hummed in my head, just out of reach.

  It would be nice to have such magic right now, I thought. But of course the whole point of that part of the movie was that you never know when the magic you rely on will overtake and drown you. It struck me as strangely like the magical world the English had made for themselves.

  In the afternoon, the Jon Mail arrived, or at least that was what Sadie had taken to calling Jon’s arrival on horseback.

  Sadie came out to listen when she saw that he had arrived, and he tipped his hat to her. She just smiled.

  And he smiled back, and cantered over toward her. There were words back and forth, nothings and trifles. Sadie’s eyes flitted from the ground to Jon’s face, back and forth, like a fisherman teasing a trout fly across the surface of a stream.

  Jon seemed even more pleased, but as I was standing there, he remembered his purpose.

  He asked if we were all okay, and if there was much help needed at our house. I told him no, that we were going to be fine, and then asked what news there was.

  The community had weathered it well, he said. Some of the siding had been torn from the Thorsons’ house, and another tree had fallen on their property, but it really hadn’t been all that bad. There was damage to Deacon Sorenson’s house, too, a big tear in the roof where the wind had caught it.

  “Deacon Sorenson asked if you could come and help with the repairs,” Jon said. I told him that I could, once we’d dealt with things here around the house. Probably tomorrow, after I’d set in with the chores for the morning. I asked if Jon could ride and tell him, and he said he would. He said it with a smile, because he really and truly did love being Jon Mail.

  I then asked him what else he heard, and if there was more news from the world. He had the news, of course.

  After helping his family with the cleanup, Jon had ridden down to the Stauffers to see if there was any broader news about the storm.

  There was a little, which had been conveyed by some soldiers who had passed the news from their radios. The storm had stayed mostly to the east of us, going north–northwest. There was a lot of flooding in Philadelphia, and some bridges had been washed out. From Lancaster and Lititz, the news was of many homes with flooded basements and damaged roofs. Many among the English needed sump pumps to keep their lower levels dry, and there was still no power to run them. With gas now scarce and functioning generators hard to come by, there was nothing to do but use mops and buckets.

  “Not much other news,” he said. “But there will be!” I knew he was right, of course.

  AS THE DAY TURNED to dusk and darkness, I spent some time sorting through my tools and preparing what I will need to bring to the Sorensons’ tomorrow. In one of the drawers of my workbench, as I was gathering up the nails I would need, I found myself for a moment contemplating my pistol. It sat there, black as night, in the drawer in my workroom where I keep it.

  It is a Smith & Wesson revolver, an old Model 29 with a four-inch barrel, and a well-worn wood handle. I have had it for many years, a gift from my father. I took it out and I cleaned it, inspecting the action. I checked the boxes of ammunition, mostly .44 Magnum. It kicks like a mule, but the more powerful load makes it more useful. It is a simple thing, a simple tool, and I use it for slaughtering cattle. It is quick. It gets the job done. My father also had another gun, a rifle, which he used occasionally for slaughter, but mostly for hunting. In this settlement, they are a little less common, but most of the men I know own one. Isaak does not, and Deacon Sorenson does not, because they choose not to. But for many of us, particularly those with livestock, it was just something that we needed.

  As I will need it, next week, for that steer, which is why it was good to check it now. I cleaned it, carefully, as I do regularly. Tools must be maintained.

  I know that among the English, there are many guns. Like the guns that the soldiers carry, weapons kept in preparation for use against neighbors or strangers. They keep them in their drawers at their bedsides, or in cabinets, and the feel of their ownership of guns is very different. It is a feeling of pride. A feeling of power.

  It seems to me that it is all based on a feeling of fear. To keep a gun because you are afraid of dying, and because you want to be ready to kill another human being, it just feels like such a strange thing. So filled with pride, and so dead to God. I do not understand it. Why would I fear dying, when we all die?

  I do fear God, and God’s just judgment on sinners. Jesus taught us that we should never allow the world’s hate to move our hands against others among God’s children. I know these things as if they are written into me.

  Holding it in my hands, feeling the heft and weight and purpose of that object, I found my mind turning to Tom and to that stranger whose body was abandoned by the side of the road. And to the men we now see, our English neighbors, carrying their guns openly by the roadside.

  I think that is why Tom had so many guns, past any possible need. For some, I think, they are just toys, like some among the English collect cars or clothes. But for him, it was different. He lived in fear, fear of failing, fear of the world he was living in. And having those guns made him feel strong, and made him feel safe, even though those objects could not feed his children or make his heart less angry. Maybe it was like the alcohol that way.

  I know that whoever killed that man left by the side of the road probably held their guns for the same reason. I wonder what they felt, as they killed him. Did they feel as I feel, when I put down a pig or a cow? That is easy to do, because I know why I must do it.

  I do not hate a cow. It simply is, and I must kill it if I am to eat and feed my family. I take its life, but I am thankful for it. That animal is part of God’s Providence for me and my family, and I remember to be grateful, as I am grateful for the fields and the harvest.

  When we kill another person, something must be broken in us. We have forgotten who they are, and have forgotten w
ho we are. How could they see that person as a child of God, loved by God as they are loved?

  I could not imagine it. It is the strangest thing about the English, the thing that is beyond me.

  I set the gun away, and remembered that I would need to sharpen the blades, too, if I am going to slaughter the steer this week.

  October 15

  It has been a very busy few days, so much so that I did not have time to write.

  Tuesday I went to the Sorensons’, and spent much of the day working on the damage to their roof. The storm had done far more damage than I would have thought. It had torn away shingles and a large section of subroofing near the front of the house, by winds that had been much stronger than the ones that we encountered. Just a few miles away.

  But storms can be strange that way, leaving one house untouched and shattering another. It is just the way of Creation. And as the story of Job teaches us, it is not a sign that a man or a family is sinful or that they’ve turned from God. It is just that we are humble, small creatures, and the vastness of God’s creation can break us so easily.

  And it breaks our houses. The work took much of the morning and early afternoon. I did not have a chance to bring anything by for the pickup of supplies at the Schrocks’ house, but I did see the trucks moving off. I wondered who went with them this time, then learned the next day when Young Jon came riding by that the mess in Lancaster was bad, because so many people had the lower levels of their houses flooded. This was especially true in a couple of new neighborhoods on the outer edge of town, where the big houses were all stacked up next to each other. Huge houses, they all were, with room enough for a family of seven or eight, but most with just two or three people in them.

  I went inside one, once, a couple of years ago, to install some custom cabinetry. It was a project that Mike had helped set up. The house was immense, bigger than a barn, and decorated like a palace. The people who lived there were really nice people, a pleasant older couple who had moved to Lancaster to retire. But the house was so big for them. Downstairs, they had a theater and an exercise room and a study and a bar. I thought about the daadi haus, built for parents, which could have fit twice over on just one of their three levels.