Hester on the Run

by Linda Byler

  Rudy continued climbing up the trail at a fast walk. They rounded a bend, and Rudy lowered his head to pick his way carefully as the trail turned steeply down.

  The sound of water became more apparent, a sloshing, tumbling sound. Birds called, a myriad of sounds that surpassed anything she’d ever heard. It seemed as if hundreds of birds were warbling or singing, whistling and calling, all at once. The trees around them were alive with the colorful songsters.

  Emotion that had no name rose in Hester’s chest. The plaintive calls and whistles evoked the nameless call of the Creator. He was alive and had made her and the life around her. He had formed the youth with the flaming hair that sat so close behind her. She felt bound to a great and Higher Spirit, a power far beyond her years.

  The trees thinned once more, the trail smoothed out, and the light became brighter with shafts of sunlight piercing the branches. Hester breathed deeply. The dry summer smell of the forest had changed to a rich, wet smell, the way a quick thundershower in summer gave out a clean scent.

  Suddenly, they broke through the trees into a natural glade where strong sunlight poured through the gap in the forest. Hester quenched a gasp of pure astonishment.

  The youth behind her said, “Stop your horse.”

  Mute, she pulled steadily on the reins, remaining seated, unable to move. She had never seen or experienced any place of beauty such as this. An outcropping of limestone created a shelf high up the side of a steep cliff. Pure, clean, silver water tumbled off the rocks and splashed against more stone before it fell into a deep pool, so clear it was the same color as the trees and the sky and the earth beneath it.

  Great masses of dark green ferns moved restlessly, either by the breeze or the droplets of water that sprayed endlessly from the moving water. Lilies, orange, yellow, and white, grew in abundance, great colorful clusters of them everywhere she looked.

  Hester was aware of the youth’s hand lightly on her waist. “I guess you still remember yer ma.”

  Shaken by the strong feelings, the response to all this beauty, Hester could only nod and slip quickly from her horse’s back. She was brought back to the moment by his voice. “See that goat? It’s Uhma’s. Best tie yer horse.”

  Hester dropped the reins. Patting Rudy’s neck she said, “He’ll stay.”

  She caught the sunlight in the youth’s green eyes and was amazed to find they were exactly the same color as the deep pool of water where the ferns grew out over.

  CHAPTER 11

  “FOLLOW ME.”

  Obediently, she fell in behind him. His quick footsteps led her along the outskirts of the glade.

  The white goat grazing by the pool lifted its head, chewing rapidly before bleating its high-pitched sound.

  Hester laughed out loud. “Silly goat.” Her voice was a caress, that of a lover of animals. Her laugh was a waterfall, a human tinkling sound of spring water, but more refreshing. He’d never heard any sound of laughter like that, ever.

  They rounded the falls, becoming silent as the power of the water stilled them. Another bower of rocks and ferns, a few young trees, and they came upon a wooden hovel tucked beneath a pine tree so large it seemed to reach all the way to the sun. It was mostly made of bark with a round top that was all one piece. Moss grew over it in some places to the north like an old tree. Plants were growing everywhere. Vegetables in sunny areas—beans and corn, squash and pumpkin. Many different flowering plants tumbled over and about one another in colorful profusion. More goats were tethered close to the peculiar little house.

  As they approached, the youth called out. Instantly, a white head appeared at the door, the face beneath it as brown and craggy as the bark surrounding the door. Two white braids hung on each side of the face, the black eyes hooded by layers of loose skin, wrinkle upon wrinkle folding themselves beside the eyes, up the side of them and down along the cheeks. A shift hung loosely on the narrow shoulders, but the hips were wide, the skirt hanging in gathers over the width of the old woman.

  She did not smile. She spoke only in broken English, her speech soft, as if it came from deep in her throat. “You.” That was her way of greeting.

  Her black eyes examined Hester with the intensity of a magnifying glass. She spoke another language very fast, then came over to Hester and touched her hair, her face. A strong grassy odor enveloped Hester, like when a pitchfork lifted newly mown hay that had been rained on and partially dried.

  “Lenape,” she kept repeating, nodding her head, her tongue clicking against the roof of her mouth.

  The youth watched Uhma, looked at Hester, and waited. Finally, he stated his purpose.

  “What bite?” Uhma asked, her black eyes boring into Hester’s.

  “Bear. Mother bear. A black one.”

  “Ooo. Ooo.” Pursing her lips, she nodded, then disappeared into the bark-encrusted hovel.

  The youth told Hester that meant she knew why the infection was there and what had caused it. She would know the mixture of herbs, the medicine they would need.

  “I have no money,” Hester said, quietly.

  “She won’t take any.”

  Hester nodded.

  They waited. Silence hung over the peaceful little area except for the songs of birds and the distant waterfall. So many scents wafted through the air, intensified by the misty wetness of the falling water.

  Uhma’s return brought the bleating of the littlest goat, and she turned, scolding, chiding, in another language.

  She handed them a package, a small one, wrapped in skin and tied with string. Her sharp eyes confronted Hester, boldly telling her to stay still and listen.

  “This.” She pointed to the package. “This. Steep in boiling water. Pack on bite. Hot. Change every four hour.”

  Producing another package, she held it up. “This. Steep in boiling water. Give to drink. Every hour. All day long.”

  “What is it?” the youth asked.

  In answer, Uhma shook her head, solemnly. “I die, packages die with me.”

  She straightened, her eyes seeing faraway, further than the mere earth and trees and sky. “The Lenape. Common people. There is no separate. The land and the people are one. No longer. I die. I go soon to my Creator. I have been here awhile, now soon I go. I have knowledge. It go, too. Too many new worlds come. One foot in old, one in new. Not good. Now go. Heal girl’s mother.”

  Hester put out her hand in the manner of the Amish to shake Uhma’s hand, a way of thanksgiving, of gratitude, “Thank you. Denke schöen.”

  Uhma’s hand was cool and calloused, the skin paper-thin between them, her grip firm and sure. Her eyes kindled with an ancient recognition of her people, her lips parted in a smile. “You Lenape girl. I die, you come.”

  She swung her hand in the direction of her little hut, the goats and herbs, the falling water. “You come. Get wisdom. I write.”

  Her black eyes shone, the wrinkles deepening around them. Hester felt as if she had been given a blessing, just like the way the bishop, John Lantz, would say so lovingly, “Ich vinch da saya” (I wish for you a blessing).

  A current of understanding passed between them, fully understood by Uhma, still innocent and unaware by Hester. We are one people, one culture, the same blood flows in our veins, no matter what the white men try to take from us. We had a proud heritage, we are one with the land.

  When their axes bite into the trees of our forest, they bite into our souls. Our heartbeats are one with the Creator, our responsibility the care of the earth.

  Young Lenape girl, your blood will be Indian forever. Destiny can take you where it chooses, but your Indian heritage will remain. Go in peace.

  The return trip found the youth reluctant to let go of her. He tacked it up to his long days of loneliness as a boatman, shrugged his young shoulders, and tried not to think more about it. But her black hair that blew in wisps across his face was a sensation that stayed with him during the remainder of his time at the river. He slid off the horse with an acute sense of loss.
She sat straight, keeping her eyes on the trail ahead, not moving a muscle.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Will you be coming by again?”

  She shook her head. “I am not allowed to speak to outsiders. Especially men.”

  “Yes. Well.”

  He wanted to keep her there, so he reached out to stroke Rudy’s neck, who promptly lowered his head and nuzzled his shirt front. “You like horses?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you go to school?”

  She nodded again.

  “You don’t know my name, and I don’t know yours.”

  She became very still.

  “I’m Padriac Lee. Paddy.”

  “Paddy is a girl’s name.”

  “It’s Irish.”

  “Oh.”

  “What’s yours?’

  She hesitated. Her mother would not be happy, knowing she spoke to Padriac Lee. “Hester Zug.”

  “Zug? Boy, you are Amish. Only people around with that name.”

  She hesitated. She was not used to sharing her feelings or her background and certainly not the fact that she was so different from her family.

  “Are you an Indian?”

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “You’re a Lenape. They’re good people, most of them. Same as the Amish.”

  She smiled.

  “I have to let you go.”

  The overwhelming need to go with her, to protect her, was completely mystifying. He wanted to fling himself up on that horse, put his arms around her, and keep her safe for the rest of his life.

  He touched the leg of her trousers and looked up at her. “Goodbye, Hester.”

  She nodded. Her eyes shone darkly as she lifted the reins. Rudy sprang into a gallop immediately, kicking up little clumps of sandy loam, leaving deep footprints in the earth and in Paddy’s heart. The remainder of the day, he sat on an old wooden crate, his chin in his cupped hands, and stared across the water, her black eyes etched on the back of every object he saw.

  When Hester returned, Kate had roused from her stupor, but the fever still raged, the infection still foul-smelling.

  Hans met her at the door, the afternoon sun full in his face, his skin greasy and unwashed, his eyes intense with fear and worry.

  “Where’s the doctor?” he pleaded, anxiety edged in his voice.

  “I didn’t go to the doctor.”

  He raved and ranted. He tore at his hair with both hands on either side of his head, lifted his face to the ceiling and cried like a baby. He scolded Hester. He lifted his hand to smack her face, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. The children cried, Noah walked to the barn, grim-faced, the look in his eyes much older than his years.

  Hester calmly prepared the poultice and the tea, moving about the whitewashed rooms, talking to Hans quietly. Under her voice, he regained his sense of direction, wiped his streaming face, and set about helping Hester with her administrations.

  Far into the night, they fed Kate the strong tea by the spoonful. They changed the poultices and lowered their faces to sniff the wounds, afraid to hope there was a difference.

  Toward morning, when the sky was darkest, just before the light streaked the dark clouds of night, Kate began to cough, slightly at first, then with more effort. Hans was alone, Hester lying by the fireplace, her eyelids refusing to stay open.

  At Hans’s cry of alarm she scrambled to her feet, aware of her surroundings in an instant. She heard Kate coughing, then retching miserably, the strain tearing at her wounds.

  When morning broke, Hans went to milk the cows. Hester changed the poultice once more, placing a hand on her mother’s wide forehead. She was streaming with sweat. It beaded on her pale upper lip and ran from her forehead, soaking the nightdress she wore, the sheets beneath her, and the coverlet spread over her.

  The breathing was very soft, almost indistinct, as her chest rose and fell evenly, her eyes closed as still as death. Through the fog of her weariness, Hester wondered if indeed she would die in spite of the night’s vigil, the endless hours of spooning the tea into her mouth.

  How patient Kate had been! So obedient, forcing herself to swallow when it took all of her strength to open her mouth. A new, stronger love for her mother welled from Hester’s young heart, cementing the bond between a mother and her foundling. Perhaps they were not of the same blood, but heartstrings can be inseparable.

  Hester replaced the bitter herbs every four hours steadily. She spooned tea endlessly into Kate’s obedient mouth. She continued to perspire, then slide away into a sleep so deep Hans cried out for Hester to come. Had she died? Was this really the moment when he would need to give up his beloved wife?

  All during that day and into the night, Kate slept. Toward morning, she began coughing again. Hester lay on her coverlet by the fireplace, hearing the rasping sound as if it was too far away, too unbearable to bother with. So it was Hans who bent his head to hear Kate’s words.

  “I want water.”

  Joy pulsed in his veins as he brought her a glass of cold water from the springhouse, stumbling over tufts of grass and his own shoes, bent over, scuttling, muttering to himself like a man possessed, unable to grasp the realization that God had, indeed, heard his pleading.

  Kate’s recovery was slow, but in a week’s time, she sat on the hickory rocker, much thinner, weak and pale. As she held little Emma, her white face took on a shining gratitude.

  Hester threw herself into the work, doing her best at the numerous tasks that needed to be done every day. Kate spoke in quiet tones, instructing Hester. How hot the water should be for the washing, how to smooth the wrinkles out of them before folding them and putting them away, how to bake the bread, boil the cornmeal mush.

  The weeds in the garden took over, and Noah and Isaac were sent to pull them. They worked together as a team, and life went on. Visitors arrived, wagon loads of curious well-wishers bearing covered dishes of fruitbreads and nut cakes, schnitz und knepp (ham, apples, and dumplings).

  Kate sat, wan, youthful-looking, almost beautiful, her blue eyes bearing an inner light of gratitude that had not been there before. Hans hovered over his wife in gentle servitude, bringing her a drink of water, a handkerchief, eager to do her bidding.

  Hans’s parents came, Isaac and Rebecca Zug, wanting to know more about the rumors that circulated through the community. Some said an Indian woman had cast a spell. Others said it was hexary (witchcraft).

  Still others said Hans had prayed. A real miracle. Unser Jesu healed her.

  Lissie Hershberger said Dr. Hess gave her enough laudanum that she slept it off, the infection.

  So they came, talked and talked and talked, formed their own opinions, and went away unglauvich (unbelieving). Hans spoke plenty, his face red with effort, his beefy hands spread wide for emphasis. He showed them the herbs in the deer leather parcels, asked Hester to tell her story. Hester refused.

  The air in the log house was stale and stuffy with the scent of mens’ puffed up knowledge, their opinions permeating the very oxygen with their foolishness. The wagging beards, the wobbling chins, the endless soliloquizing, surmising, backbiting about the old Indian woman. Some said they heard she lived and moved as one with the earth and its Creator, a witch.

  Hester stayed still, silent as a rock, her large black eyes moving restlessly from face to face. When Rebecca laid the tablecloth on the long plank table to serve the food people had brought, her mouth was stern with rebuke. Hans and Kate sat up to the table, ate the good food obediently, and didn’t address the subject.

  They ate the schnitz und knepp. Rebecca piled the plates high with the boiled ham cooked in dried apples and dropped dumplings over the sweet and salty ham and apples, an old Amish favorite. Rebecca, watching her son ladle in huge mouthfuls and chew with great enjoyment, his cheeks round and rosy, was pleased. Here was her favorite son, his wife healed by his prayers, his children around him, his quiver full of good, strong arrows, able, sturdy workers who would be a gr
eat help as he journeyed on his way to prosperity.

  She served the schpeck und bona (ham and green beans) with a flourish, basking in Hans’s lavish praise. The cobbler and walnut cake came next, with a heavy redware pitcher of milk to drizzle over the mound of sweet baked goods.

  The children squealed in appreciation. Kate smiled and ate small portions, remembering to praise her motherin-law’s cooking skills. Hester ate, aware of the change in atmosphere as the visitors took their arguments smelling of rotten sulphur out of the house. Isaac and Rebecca, too, had voiced differing opinions, but they had chosen to drop the subject, “letting each man to his own thinking,” which was right and had cleaned up the air.

  After the good meal, they asked Hester to tell her story. Hester shook her head no. Kate watched her eldest daughter and knew that Hester would never reveal the secret of the old Indian woman. She would rather die. Hester was an Indian in so many ways, and no one could change that.

  Hans tried, at the milking in the morning. He leaned over the back of the cow she was milking and implored her to tell him so he could thank the old woman.

  Hester pictured the silver, splashing falls, the ferns and the goats, and recalled the scent of the pure water. But she knew hordes of mocking people would search for her with their scornful curiosity, and she shuddered.

  “No,” she said. “No.”

  Hans promised her a trip to the trading post. Perhaps to town. Would she like to go to town, buy a new dress?

  The answer was the same. “No.”

  He told her she was a disobedient child. What if Kate took sick again and needed herbs?

  “Then I’ll go,” she said into the bucket of milk at her feet.

  “Look at me.” It was a command.

  The steady milking stopped. Obediently, she raised her head. Her father’s eyes held a new expression.

  “Disobedience is not allowed in this household, Hester. ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child,’ our Lord says.”

  She lowered her head, resuming milking as if she hadn’t heard him.