When the English Fall

by David Williams

  When we were finished with the bodies, we did the same with the boys in the house. And then we moved through the farm. I called out the names of the girls, shouting, shouting their names, Maisie! Grace!, over and over. We stayed together, although dividing up would have been best for searching. I think that none of us wanted to be away from the others.

  The house was empty, and so much of it had been smashed and broken. Their basement larder, so well stocked, had been completely ransacked. But much else had been simply broken or shattered, just out of anger. Why smash plates? Why break windows?

  But for a heart so far fallen from the love of God, breaking things is easy. If you see no value in a soul, why would you see value in a practical thing?

  We shouted, and we searched, and when we found them, they were in the barn.

  They appeared like wraiths, covered in hay, their dresses dirty and crumpled. Grace was wide-eyed and distant, her older sister walking with her, guiding her. “Here we are,” said Maisie. “Here we are.”

  As I moved toward them, I heard the sound of horses. Others were arriving.

  I HAVE FINISHED MY evening’s work late and by lamplight, the task that I did not know I would be given this morning. Mike helped me, his hands working alongside mine.

  Six coffins, four large, two small. All pine, from my supply. So simple to build, these boxes. We loaded them onto the wagon, and now I write.

  Tomorrow, we will bury them, bury our brothers and sisters in the Stolfutz family plot. It is not on Isaak’s farm, but on the farm of his grandfather, which is now part of the Schrock Farm. Bishop Schrock and the deacons decided this.

  We cannot wait, as we would, for a decent viewing. That is tradition, and the way of the Order, but we cannot wait. The funeral home has closed, the director gone. He had family in the South, and no one has heard from him in over a week.

  Embalming is not possible, and none among the Order know the art well enough. We must move quickly, before the bodies decay. It is cold, so that will help. But it still cannot wait.

  Many men arrived after Maisie and Grace made themselves known. There was not much that could be done, and we were careful not to clean until the police came. So there was much prayer, much prayer in that time.

  Grace did not speak, it was as if she could not. She was in shock. But Maisie did not want to stop speaking. She told us of what they had seen. They were gathering eggs for dinner from the coop, when a beat-up blue pickup truck pulled in, with six or seven men. They all had guns, and they shouted for food and supplies, waving their guns angrily and saying terrible things.

  The girls hid, and watched.

  Isaak showed them where the food was, and gave them all that they had. Not just a little, but everything. They took everything from the larder. Then they went into the house.

  Some of the men grew angrier and angrier, though Isaak tried to calm them, and told them there was no threat, and that they could have anything they wanted. One man seemed calmer, seemed like he was their leader, and he talked quietly with their father. They made them stand in a circle, then get down on their knees, with their backs to them. Maisie said they went to hide then, as quietly as they could, in the barn, under the hay.

  Then came the sound of shooting. Then there was more shooting from inside the house. The men searched and smashed things, but the girls stayed hidden and quiet, deep within the warmth of the hay.

  The sheriff came, after an hour, in a four-wheel drive that had been gotten running. Three deputies came with him.

  I left shortly after he arrived, my charge in hand. And so after a quiet dinner with prayer, I have built the coffins. Hard, hard thing, it is, to live in these times.

  October 23

  The cold continues, close to freezing.

  I left early, immediately after breakfast, with Mike along in the wagon laden with coffins. Pearl pulled us, strong in her stolid way.

  We reached the farm, where a dozen men had stayed overnight to watch over the house and do what they could to prepare and protect the bodies. They were in a row, neatly wrapped in thick cloth. There could be no viewing, not because of decay, even with no embalming. Cold as it had been, that is not a worry. The bullets had done too much damage, and with no one to repair the heads and faces, it would not be good. Better to remember what they had been.

  We carefully placed each of them into the caskets, and then together loaded them onto the funeral wagon, which had been brought by the Sorensons.

  Then we moved off, one after another, a line of buggies and wagons, a blacksnake creaking along through the fields.

  There was little talking as we moved along. Really none at all. Just the creak of the wheels, and the smell of the horses, and the sound of Pearl’s breathing as she pulled the wagon.

  There were many other buggies when we reached the Stolfutz plot, a small square of farmland set apart by a white picket fence. Hannah was already there with the children, dressed in black. There were others there, too, a couple of trucks. Outside the fence, benches had been brought, everything the church wagon could carry, plus more from the farms in the community.

  It was not enough for all who were there. Many stood, out around the edges.

  The graves were already dug, six in a row. Markers had been made, as was our custom, by Jon Thorson’s hand, simple stone with the initials of each cut into them.

  We laid each of the caskets by one another, a line of them, up on some tables that had been brought. I found my place, alongside Hannah and next to Sadie. I saw that Maisie was sitting with Mrs. Schrock, because the Schrocks had taken the girls in for now. Grace was not there, which was probably for the best. The service began.

  It was the same, the same as it always is. The silent prayer. The simple, slow songs. Asa Schrock preached the first message, and then again he preached the second. They were the same as he had preached when Jonas died, the same as he preached whenever anyone died.

  Why would they be different? Death comes to us all, as it comes to animals and plants and all things living. It is the same. Asa spoke about God’s Providence, about our duty, about serving and being humble and patient no matter the circumstance, about not being prideful. He spoke about how important it was for us to trust, and to stay true.

  And about not letting fear take us and change us, turning us away from the simple path of grace. He does not usually say that. But it was a good thing to say. Sadie nestled against my side, but she seemed still and calm, which was good. Hannah held my hand, held it tightly.

  Then we sang, and prayed in silence. When the service was done, all filed past the coffins. I had marked the names on each, so that we could know in our leave-taking which we were seeing. There were many people there, and many leaves to be taken, and the line moved slowly.

  Afterward, there were sandwiches and tea, very simple. There had not been much time to prepare, but those who had prepared had done their best.

  Unlike the Beiler funeral, there was not much talking. Jonas had his leave-taking, even though that cancer moved so terrible quick. But so many all at once was very hard, particularly on the children.

  Even though we know it is God’s will, and that God will care justly for one who lives a righteous life, it is not easy to have so many friends no longer with us.

  It goes deeper than that, I think.

  Because we know, now, that as the world of the English fails around us, we are not separate. Yes, we have the Order, and yes, we have our way, but the time when that meant we stood free from the world has passed.

  I am not sure, as I think about it now, if that has ever been true. We are never really apart, as much as we choose to set ourselves different from the world that surrounds us.

  The English are like the earth, or the air. And if the rain falls, it falls on all alike, as the Bible says.

  AS WE WERE EATING the simple meal afterward, in that somber visiting, I found myself talking with Bill Smith, who had come to pay his respects. He was shaken, because Isaak was a neighbor
and a good friend. He’d heard the shots, and he’d gone out to check his herd, because people were starting to steal cattle.

  “I shoulda known,” he said. “I shoulda checked on him, shoulda known something bad had happened. You just can’t imagine that it’d be something like this, bad as it is.”

  I agreed but told him there was no way he could have known. And if he had known, what could he have done?

  He nodded. “Yeah. I suppose you’re right.”

  I asked after his family, how they were coping.

  “Donna’d wanted to come,” he said, his voice husky and strained. “But she was just too much a mess this morning. It’s hard enough with Isaak and Barbara. The kids, though. Man, they were such good kids. I just don’t know how we came to this.”

  I said that I knew God’s hand would carry us through this time, but that it would not be easy.

  “No, no it won’t. But you have to know folks around here aren’t going to take this lying down. You folk are a blessing to us all, and I know we’ve got different ways, but we just can’t sit by and watch evil men hurt you and your kids. You know we just can’t.”

  I told him that I would pray for him, but it was hard to hear those words from him. More anger, more violence, building and building. More armed men, even friends, could not be a good thing.

  The sword has no handle, as Jonas Beiler used to say. When you take it up, the blade cuts into your hand. But now the sword is all around us. It seems to be everywhere, like a sharp harvest rising from the fields. It will touch us, whether we choose it or not.

  October 24

  Still cold this morning, close to a frost, so much colder than it was this time last year.

  I look at my journal, and on this day last year it was almost eighty degrees. And the year before, eighty-two. But the year before was cold. So difficult to predict. I don’t know if those three acres of wheat will make it, not if it gets much colder. Already, the storm damage and the cold have taken a toll. That will be a loss, if it is so. The flour is most needed.

  Dr. Jones came by a little before noon, riding on his bicycle. The message had gotten to him about Sadie, and he came by to look at her.

  We talked for a while, and he offered his condolences, and said that Sadie seemed fine. She was in good spirits, though she seemed always to be humming that tune. We gave him some dried beef, and prayed with him a little, and he left us with some medication.

  “I don’t have much left,” he said. “And I don’t know when I’ll be getting any more. So use it if she gets worse.”

  YOUNG JON DID NOT come today. I realized it as the afternoon wore on, and there was no news. It was hard for him, I think. Seeing that death. It was hard for me. I hope that he will come again, and come soon.

  As dusk came, a party of men could be seen in the darkness, walking the road, alongside a cart that was drawn by a horse. They were not simple folk, but as they grew closer, I realized that I knew many of them. They were neighbors, all of them, a dozen or more.

  All were armed, mostly with rifles. They waved as they passed.

  IN THE NIGHT, THERE are sounds from Sadie’s room. A thumping and a rustling, and I wake, to go and see what it is that she is doing. She is stirring in her sleep, and I am so alert, so aware of it that I cannot help but wake. I move down the hall, and open her door just a crack.

  In the bed, in the half-light, I can see her shifting and twisting slowly in her covers. But she is not crying out, not struggling to breathe or screaming in the darkness. It is just a small voice, spoken from sleep. There are not words, though they sound like words.

  And in there, for a moment, and then again, there is that tune.

  I must remember where I heard it.

  October 25

  Sabbath today, and I feel spent. It is the funeral, I think, that has left my soul feeling depleted and empty. I felt the absence of Isaak, before we left, as we arrived at the Sorensons’, and throughout the service.

  There was nothing different, nothing wrong, nothing flawed with the service. There never is. Simple, and as constant as a stone. It was as it is. But some days, my spirit is weak in me. I feel absent and without strength.

  Yet still I go, and still I am part of it, and still I do not question that I am there. That is the strength of being part of the Order, of letting it be your guide. You go when you are joyful. You go when you are not. And by this, you find yourself standing on a firm foundation.

  AT THE END OF the service, the deacons spoke to all gathered, about Isaak. It was Deacon Sorenson, mostly, as the others watched and listened. He told us about how word had been sent to Isaak’s younger brother, in Ohio. We would try to find a way to get Maisie and Grace to their family, and if it was God’s will, it would be so.

  Then Bishop Schrock reminded us all that Isaak was one commissioned to preach, and that in losing him, we had lost a preacher. That would need to change, and the deacons had met to select another.

  It can be done by choice, or it can be done by simple lot, but Asa said the choice was clear.

  And he spoke my name.

  I nodded, and acknowledged it.

  It was not what I wanted to hear today, but perhaps it is always that way. Among the English, being a preacher meant you were important, that you were a leader. Here, it is a task. It is a simple demand of the Order. It is like plowing a field, or butchering a cow.

  I hope that, for me, it is not too much like butchering a cow.

  AFTER DINNER, WHICH SHAUNA and Mike had prepared for us while we went to worship, Mike wanted to talk with me. We stepped out into the night, and walked the drive.

  “Are things still holding together, Jacob?”

  I told him that I wasn’t sure what he meant.

  “I mean, are you going to have enough. I know you say it. Shoot, I think you believe it. But Shauna and I been talking tonight, you know, about us staying here. It’s been so good, and you and Hannah have been so good for us.”

  I told him it had been good for us, too.

  “But really, Jacob, we’ve been down in the larder, looking at what you have here. How can it possibly work? We’re so many to feed. Maybe we should think about finding somewhere —”

  I stopped him. My words back to him were plain. Where? Where would they go? There was nowhere, nowhere in the world that was not like this. If they left, they would face hardship. Here, they were family. They were our strength. Things were easier with them here. “You fill this house, Mike,” I said. “You fill it.”

  And he knew what I meant.

  Had he been the sort of man to embrace, he would have embraced me there.

  I HAVE WOKEN AGAIN to gunfire. It is early morning, maybe two or three o’clock, and the night pops and crackles with it. It is distant, but it goes on for ten minutes, and it is the most that I can remember hearing. Hannah woke up with it, too, and together we spent those ten minutes in prayer. For our family, for God’s grace, for whoever was out there in the night facing death. After it stopped, she went back to bed, but I find that I am still awake.

  Now I write, but I must sleep. I simply must.

  I HAD FALLEN BACK asleep, I don’t know when, maybe four o’clock, and there was banging at the door of the house.

  I woke with a start, and made my way downstairs through the cold house. Now? At this time of night? My heart raced, as it will when you are woken suddenly. Hannah woke, too, and I tried to tell her that she should stay upstairs.

  She would have none of that, and came down with me to see who was at the door. I told her that she should not come, should be prepared to hide and take the children, but she scoffed at me.

  “It could not be men with ill intent, Jay. Don’t be foolish,” she said. “We do not have locks on our doors. Why would they knock, when they could come right in.”

  She was right. That’s the most difficult thing about marrying a smart woman.

  We came downstairs, each bearing a lantern, and went to the door.

  I swung the door w
ide, and in the faint light of the lamp, there was a circle of men’s faces out on the porch. My eyes struggled with the darkness, but I could immediately see that all of them were armed, and again my heart bolted like a horse in my chest.

  I realized one was Bill Smith. It was a relief to see his face, I will admit. The other looked a little familiar, but I could not remember his name. Thomas, maybe. He was from Lititz, and I rarely had any dealings with him.

  Standing in the drive, there were four more, shotguns and rifles in hand, leashed dogs snuffling around their feet.

  I asked Bill what was happening.

  “We caught up with the men who killed Isaak and his family, Jacob,” he said. “Down at the Johanson farm. Nobody’d been checking in there for a few days, and I guess the place looks abandoned enough that they figured they could just settle in. When we were doing the sweep, one of the guys noticed that there was a truck there didn’t belong, looked like that old blue truck the Stolfutz girl told the sheriff about.”

  “Was that the shooting?” I asked.

  “Yeah. We got ahold of the sheriff and a couple of deputies, he deputized the lot of us, and we went down there. There was about six of ’em, looks like they’d been there for a day or more. We waited and watched, and called in more folks until the place was locked down right good.

  “They went out to the truck at about two-thirty, middle of the night, all of them, all armed. I figure they were heading out to hit another house. No way that was happening. We couldn’t let ’em do that, so we, well, yeah. When they pulled out down the road, we were waiting. A couple of our guys were hurt, but we got pretty much all of ’em.”

  “Dead?” I asked.

  “Well, mostly. That’s why we’re here. A couple of them made it into the fields, jumped from the truck and took off on foot. The fields were pretty overgrown, and they managed to lose us. Thought we might have winged one, but I don’t think we can be sure. We got guys out there with dogs now, and we’re going to be checking in your fields, wanted to let you know what’s up. They’re around and they’re armed, and they’ve killed before.”