But then I remember our own exodus to this country, to a place where we could live in peace, troubling no one. Which is God’s path? To which should we give ourselves?
My heart is troubled, and again, I feel that tightness and uncertainty. I do not like this feeling.
I spoke this to Hannah, shared it with her in the late morning, when Shauna was out harvesting greens, and Mike and the boys were over helping some men from a neighboring farm get another combine running. I do not yet wish them to know that this journey is being planned.
“Oh, Jay,” she said. “It frightens me, too. For Sadie and Jacob, and for all of us. But I think it is what is meant to be.”
And then she rested her hand on my shoulder, and folded in close, as she does sometimes when I need persuading.
“You are a good man, Jay. Go talk with Sadie. Go talk with her. Ask her.”
And so I did.
She was done with her morning chores, and was out by the graves of the boy and the man. She had brought the pants Jacob had torn through the other day, and my socks that needed darning. She was stitching them, quietly, by herself. Her sewing bag was by her side, as cluttered as always. She heard me coming, and glanced up, but went back to her needlework.
I sat beside her, and my knees cracked as I did.
“What is it, Dadi?” she asked. Her little smile, delicate as a flower on her slender face.
I told her what the men had said, what was being discussed. I told them they had talked about her, and she laughed.
“About me?”
I said yes, and she laughed again. It was a woman’s laugh, like her mother’s, but bright and young still. I saw her, now not a girl, not a child. It is hard to see who a person is, through all of those memories of who they were.
I told her what I was thinking, and I asked her what she thought was God’s will in all of this. It was hard getting out the words, to ask my little bird such a thing. What father asks his child for advice?
But she was more than a child, now.
She looked away, her eyes soft and distant. “Some things God wills, and we cannot change. We cannot change the tides. Or a storm, on the earth, or on the sun. Or that I was born a girl. Or that you are my dadi. We are so small, and those things will happen whether we will it or not.
“But there are other things.” She gave a little laugh. “Is it God’s will that we leave?” Her eyes fluttered, then closed, and she spoke, almost to herself. “God knows what it would be for us to stay. And God knows what it would be for us to go. If we stay? It would be like Derek, with that pistol of yours. We would live. Some of us. But it would be terrible. And the blood shed by the English would stain our hands.”
Her hands busied with the sewing as she spoke, carefully, slowly. And then she paused, and her face turned up to me. “And if we go? Then the story of our journey will be told and remembered. Of our setting aside what we have, and not resting in the shadow of the sword. It will be harder. Some of us will not live. More, I think. But it would let us live our plain way, and be a witness.”
Her eyes fixed on mine. They were as deep as the sky. “Which is God’s will? Both. Neither. And the many ways between. There are so many ways in between.”
I said that I did not fully understand.
“I don’t either,” she said, her voice soft and plain, still holding my gaze. “God’s will is too big for me to see. It hurts to see even part of it. Like a fire. But I think it will be better if we go, and face the harder journey. More like Him.”
And I knew what she meant.
She looked down, back to her sewing, and nestled back against me as she did. Like when she was a little girl.
We sat for a while.
Then she said, “Dadi?”
“What?” I said.
“I think your memories are hard, a burden. All that writing, of the terrible things. Maybe they are something you should—leave behind.”
I gave a shudder, hearing my thoughts in her voice, and heard the blood suddenly coursing in my ears. Her voice continued, softly.
“There will be enough hardship on the road ahead. Why carry the hardship of the past? Maybe you could leave your remembering behind, with the house and the barn and these bodies in the ground. Maybe in a new place, with new and empty pages, it will be better. You can write about the journey, and about the new place.”
She sat in silence for another moment, and her hands stopped sewing.
She rummaged in her bag for a moment, and pulled out a notebook, simple and leather-bound. “I had Jon get it for you from the store. Not many people buying them, so it was free.”
She placed the notebook in my open hands, and the wind played through the empty, half-open pages.
“But you do what is best, Dadi.”
So. I was decided.
AND WHEN WE GATHERED together, that afternoon at the Schrock farm, I found that most had decided in the same way. Of the twenty-three families in the district, twenty-one saw God’s will in our leaving. The two that did not chose to submit, and so we would all together leave.
The end of it, the certain end of it. Or the beginning of it.
Ah. It is late. I am not tired, but it is late! I must stop writing this now.
November 5
Jon passed through this morning, moving quickly. The news was from other settlements in the district, where the talk of exodus was everywhere. We would move on.
Of the one hundred and eighty-two districts, one hundred and fifty-seven had chosen to leave. Within two weeks, there would be thousands of us going westward, racing the winter. Young men without wives and children were volunteering to ride out ahead, to make contact with families and the bishops of those districts, to bear the message that we were coming.
“And you?” I asked.
Jon gave me a look. “And me?” he said. “Bishop Schrock asked if I can bear the tidings. I can travel much faster, carry a week’s supplies.”
I could see that this pleased him, young and strong as he was. I asked him what his mother and father thought of this, and he laughed.
“Someone’s gotta do it. And who better than me? I’m the best rider in the district. They know that.”
I smiled at him, and warned him not to be prideful.
He winked back. “It’s not prideful. It’s just true.”
Halfway down the path to the road, Sadie appeared, carrying a basket full of potatoes still heavy with dirt. Jon gave me a nod, and cantered over to her.
They exchanged words, words that I could not hear. But I could see the look he was giving her. And I could see that she saw it, too. She handed him something, and he thanked her.
And he was off, riding a little faster than he’d come, faster than he needed to.
HANNAH AND I TOLD Mike and Shauna of our decision later in the morning. The four of us sat together after a late breakfast, after the young folk went to pick spinach and greens, and to continue harvesting the last potatoes. I knew it would not be an easy conversation, but it needed to be done, so I did it.
With Hannah at my side, I told them what we had planned, and why. And that we would leave them this place, and all of the stores we could not carry with us. It will be enough to carry you through winter, I told him. And you have learned enough from these weeks together, I told him, enough to do what you need to keep the farm.
I gestured to the shelf in the sitting room, by the kitchen, to where our books sat, neat and in a row. And there, I said, we will leave you books on farming. It will be at least a week before we are ready to begin the journey, and we can talk so that you can know everything you need to know.
And then I handed him the title for the house, and the document I had written up last night saying that he had the right to live here and care for the house in our absence. It included my signature, and Hannah’s, and a place for him to sign.
“I do not think you will need this,” I said, “because I don’t know that there are many lawyers out plying their trade now. But just
in case, if anyone asks, or if there’s a problem. This is your home, for as long as you need it.”
Mike was quiet, for a little, and Shauna sat with her hand pressed to her mouth, her eyes filling, dancing from Hannah to me and then back again.
Mike stood, and made a show of looking at the title and the document, but I could see that he was really staring at his feet. He did not look at me when he spoke. “Jacob, it’s your home.”
“I know,” I said.
He uttered the Lord’s name, but not in vain, I don’t think. Then he took a deep breath, and let it out in a jagged, splashing exhalation.
“I know you folk do what you think you need to do. But from what I hear, from the men I’ve been patrolling with, things are just a total mess everywhere. There’s just, I mean, it’s, just . . . You’re going out like lambs to the slaughter.”
I told him that was God’s will, not ours.
“I knew you’d say that,” he replied. His voice was raised a little, with a tremble in it. “Look, it’s amazing that you’re just leaving all of this for Shauna and me and the boys, but you’ll die out there. All of you.”
I told him that might be so, but that it was not for us to decide.
He uttered a soft curse, then apologized for it. Shauna spoke, her voice unsteady.
“And I don’t know what we’re going to do without you. I don’t know if, I mean, we just can’t . . .” She trailed off.
“Of course you can,” Hannah said, her voice soft and strong. “You will have this place. You will have food enough, and you are known to the community now. Come spring, the land will give what you want. And God will do with us what God wills.”
And Shauna was crying, and Hannah was holding her.
“So that’s how it has to be.” Mike’s voice, a little gravelly, his eyes meeting mine, then looking anywhere else.
“Yes,” I said. And so he signed the paper, and Shauna did, too.
I suppose the conversation could have gone worse.
November 12
Hot again today. November, and it is so hot. But I am too busy to write. It is good, that I am too busy to write.
And better yet that I am too busy to read. This page is the only page I will let myself see today.
November 17
Got the horses shoed today, and finished the cover for our wagon. The cover is an old plastic tarp, bright blue, which must do. Though it looks silly.
We are almost ready. And I will not keep reading this. I will not.
November 19
I will write in this book, this one last time, about today, because it is the last day, and that seems worth putting down, even if the words are soon discarded.
This morning, the day broke clear and cloudless, and the first of the Plain folk from the settlement began to pass. A line of buggies, gray-topped and humble, black sides shining, like ants in a row on a kitchen floor. They cast long shadows.
Most were laden, not with people, but with bags and food and supplies. Mixed in were wagons, also laden with supplies. All around them, the people walked, the pace slow and unhurried.
We watched them pass, and waved, and shouted greetings to those we knew. Hannah and Sadie walked down to the road, and there were leave-takings and short prayers. I watched, as here and there some of the passing women would approach Sadie, and hug her, or offer her a prayer. Other women would just look, and others still would look but try not to be seen looking. The men would nod as they passed, silent recognition.
How much has changed.
But while Hannah and Sadie greeted, I went back to the barn. There was much to do. I have been working on both the buggy and the wagon these last few days, to make sure they are ready for the journey. We have preserves and water, dried meat and fruit, and a barrel of new potatoes, and squash and apples. It will be enough. It will have to be. Mike and the boys will help me load today, as will my Jacob.
We have clothes, what little we have, both for winter and summer. We will bring one of our milk cows, and the horses, of course. The horses are newly shod, and we have replacement shoes for them both. Other things we must find as we go will be grass enough on the way for them, and fuel for our cookfires.
I have chosen from my tools those most useful for the road, and for building or being of use when we reach our destination. Everything is ready.
Then there are the other things, the things we cannot bring, the things we do not need. We have chosen carefully and humbly, but some things were harder to leave. My lathes. So many of our books, though some come with us.
Not this one, though. Or the others in which I have written.
Dinner was a little sorrowful this evening, and Shauna cried a great deal as we talked of our parting. Afterward, we went outside, and in the cool of the dimming day, we looked out to the darkened skies. They are beautiful, so full of stars. The Milky Way, clear as can be. We stood together, and watched the skies come alive and dance with so many lights.
Now, I am done. We rest, in readiness for the morning.
And this book, this book? I will leave it now. I am done with them, these memories. The words of scripture sing in my head, “the past is finished and gone, everything has become fresh and new.”
I will put it in this drawer, this drawer I fashioned with my own hands. I will close the drawer.
And in the morning, we will walk, with the sun like a shepherd behind us.
Acknowledgments
Rache, thank you for your wifely encouragement and good words of direction. Mom, Dad? Well. Obviously. Thank you for both bringing me into existence and for your support. Chuck and all the folks at Algonquin, thank you for your insights and your edits and your guidance. You have refined this into an infinitely better tale. Plus, you’ve published it, which still freaks me out a little bit. Kathleen, thank you for taking me on, and for having perhaps the most honey-buttered voice of any literary agent on the continent. The good souls at Poolesville Presbyterian Church, thank you for being the kind of church where a pastor is welcome to dream and create.
And Phyllis. Oh, Phyllis. Thank you. I wish you’d lived to see this in print. This book exists only because you took the time to make the way straight for it. I trust, from the faith we share, that this little story is known to you in some way I do not yet fully understand.
DAVID WILLIAMS is a teaching elder in the Presbyterian Church. He lives in Annandale, Virginia. When the English Fall is his first novel. (Author photo by Joseph LeBlanc.)
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Published by
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© 2017 by David Williams.
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on experience, all names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
eISBN 978-1-61620-708-3
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