Hester on the Run

by Linda Byler

  “Go to bed.”

  “Yes. You will see to it, about the fabric?”

  Hans only nodded, his eyes hooded. He turned from her as something black and frightful, like a shadow of fear, rolled across his features.

  “Denke” (Thank you).

  She slipped through the door to her bedroom, closing it softly behind her.

  Far into the night, Hans sat. He was tired, his legs aching from the long day of loading hay after cutting it with a scythe. His thoughts were tumultuous as he tried to decipher his own rush of feeling for Hester. It was the little girl he loved. It was not appropriate to feel any fond emotion for her at this age. Somehow he needed to tread carefully and be the father she so desperately needed.

  Sleep eluded him. The wolves’ spine-chilling song added to his loneliness. An unnamed fear of the future tormented him as he thought of Hester. She was a young woman now. Who would be a fitting husband for her? His mind traveled, resting on each young man of the community. Jacob. David. Abner. Joe. All of them were either too short, too immature, too lazy, or had no character. Ach, it would be a few years yet.

  He wanted to buy her yards and yards of beautiful hued fabric, but that was no longer a luxury he could allow himself. She needed to be restrained and come to understand the way of the cross. It was best for her soul.

  He got down his heavy German Bible and immersed himself in the words he found between the leather-bound covers. Slowly he relaxed. He prayed for strength, the will to do what was right. As he prayed, he began to realize that Hester’s beauty was a thing he cherished, even held with pride. And pride was wrong.

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” Again, he sank deep into spiritual ashes, imagining gray sackcloth covering his head completely. He emerged some hours later, knowing the joy of his life would remain with him, the young Indian maiden named Hester.

  It was only a matter of ridding himself of the pride he carried.

  Rebecca came, stern and overbearing. She swooped through the log house like a hawk, her sharp, beady eyes missing nothing. Everything was out of place. She meant well. She just came to teach Hester how to be a better housekeeper.

  She sewed a white cap for Sunday. She placed the used Sunday one on Hester’s head, tying the wide strings beneath her chin.

  Hester stood, her soft brown chin lifted, her eyes flat and black, veiled by lowered lashes. A hatred so intense built up in her chest until she felt as if she was on fire. Abruptly, she turned on her heel and left the house, walked swiftly to the spring, and climbed the ridge behind it. She moved in strong, hurried strides, on and on, over rocks and through brambles, until her breath came in short gasps. Her heart pounded with her swift ascent. Clambering up the side of an outcropping of limestone, she crawled out to its edge and flopped onto her stomach, folding her arms beneath her chin.

  She had no tears, only a knot that was so hard she felt as if she had swallowed a large, mysterious object. Hatred for Rebecca swam in her veins. She wanted to chase her out of the house like a vermin-infested dog, drive her across the yard and down the road until she disappeared, then send the stodgy old horse and wagon after her.

  It felt good to acknowledge and finally understand the emotion that rocked her. Hatred was wrong; it was evil. She knew it inhabited her mind and heart. All her life, she’d sat in church services and heard the Amish ministers speak of heaven and say that the only way to go there was through Jesus Christ. The way you went to hell, they said, was not to believe in him as your own personal savior.

  So where was Jesus? What did you do if you accepted the fact that you were such an awful sinner but you still wanted to drive your grandmother down the road? Besides that, you hated your cap.

  Slowly, Hester lifted her head. The summer’s heat radiated from the rock she lay on. It shimmered and waved above the multicolored green of the treetops, which waved and rolled away as far as she could see, blending into the distant purplish-blue haze that was Hawk Mountain. There was no break in the sea of green. The sky was the azure blue of summertime with fluffy, fat clouds lazily floating along.

  She became aware of birdsongs and butterflies. Suddenly, she sat up, untied the scratchy strings, tore off her cap, and placed it carefully on the rock. She lifted her hands to the back of her head and pulled out the hairpins. She ran her fingers through her heavy black hair and shook her head to loosen it.

  Leaping to her feet, she lifted her arms, spread them slowly, then flung them out, on her tiptoes now, her bare feet lifting her body as high as it could go. She threw her face to the sky, her eyes closed, as she absorbed the movement of the trees below her, the rustling of the branches around the heat of the sun, the rolling of the white clouds.

  Here I am, God. It’s just me. You created me, you made me who I am. I know I sin. I know it’s wrong, but alone, I cannot do everything I should.

  A puff of wind caught her black hair and lifted it, sending it rippling behind her.

  I am flesh and bone. An Indian. My skin is a different color. I am different. Why am I here?

  Slowly, she lowered her arms and dropped her head with the grace of a ballet dancer.

  Overhead, a shadow crossed her. She lifted her head and caught sight of a bald eagle as it soared directly above her, so low she could see the strength of its intense yellow eyes, the strong curve of its noble white head, the great lift and swell of its massive wings.

  Cold chills washed over her as tears squeezed from between her thick black lashes. She felt alive. She felt the spirit of the eagle, inseparable from God. God was the eagle, and the eagle was God. He was so big, her mind could not accept it. He was so strong, she could not fathom it. Everything was possible, everything was wonderful. She had nothing to fear.

  She stood on the limestone rock, the sun blazing down from the summer sky as the great bird soared, circled, dipped, and lifted on swells of air, her heart following its movement.

  Strength flowed from its wings. Redemption immersed her yearning heart. She understood that God had created her, knew her nature, knew every cell in her body. She was his. He alone could guide her, save her, by sending his Son to die for her.

  If someone had asked her to put her heart’s song into words, she could not have done it. Words were untrustworthy. God was not. Humbled, satisfied, her spirit rejuvenated, she turned. The wind caught her hair and blew it across her face as she lowered her eyes to find the offending cap.

  Quite suddenly, the corners of her mouth lifted, and she sat on her haunches to retrieve the hairpins. The eagle’s head was white, too. God had made him in that fashion. She would wear the cap. In her heart, it signified the strength of the eagle. She would live the life he required of her, a small price to pay.

  Gathering her thick black hair, she twisted it into the usual bun, placed the cap on her head, and tied the strings loosely. Then she knelt, lifted her face to the sky, and said, very soft and low:

  “Denke, Gute Mann” (Thank you, good Father).

  I am a child of his, and he will give me courage and strength for each new day.

  She would certainly need it.

  CHAPTER 15

  WHEN HESTER RETURNED TO THE LOG HOUSE, THE air had become stifling in the hollow surrounding it.

  The bake oven radiated heat, so Rebecca must be baking bread, she thought. She was surprised to find the family gathered around the table for the noontime meal. Had she been gone so long?

  Hans pushed back his chair, rose hurriedly to his feet, then stood, uncertain, stifling the strong feeling that rose in his chest as he faced Hester, who had returned unharmed.

  Rebecca’s sharp words rang out. “Where were you? Disobedient child.”

  Hans’s tortured eyes went to his mother’s sharp features, and he folded into his chair, trembling before the familiar sound of his mother’s temper.

  “I went for a climb up the mountain.”

  “Why? With all you have to do here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don�
�t know.” The words were a mockery, a bald-faced slur that hung in the room like a stench.

  Hans sat up, opened his mouth, his eyes going to Hester’s face. He wanted to protect her. He wanted to keep her from the grinding, twisting wrath of his mother.

  Hester sat down when no more words were forthcoming. Noah poked Isaac’s thigh with his forefinger, and he slid down the bench to make room for her. She sat close to Hans, whose unveiled eyes revealed everything Rebecca needed to see.

  Rebecca’s breath hissed between her lips as she lifted the spoonful of bean schnitzel to her mouth. Well. So this was how it was.

  Hans praised the bean schnitzel, saying he had never eaten a better seasoned dish than this one. The mixture of cut green beans, bacon and onion cooked in butter was a combination he had always loved. All she said was, “You have onions in your beard.”

  Hans’s face flamed.

  Rebecca reveled in his discomfort. A talk would be in order.

  They all bent their heads to the fried salt pork, the cooked turnips and the knabrus, the dish of buttered cabbage with onions, and no further words were spoken. The children were not allowed to speak at the table. They were expected to eat everything placed before them and to remain completely silent. There was no asking, no questioning about the amount of food each one was given. They accepted the food, receiving it as nourishment, and that was it.

  When Rebecca served the warm Lebkuchen, the silence was broken by Hans’s gleeful laugh. “Did you make the sauce, too?” he chortled.

  “Yes, I did.” Rebecca placed large squares of the moist, warm cake on the scraped-off plates, then poured the sweet brown sauce over it. There were walnuts and dried apples in the cake—a very special and infrequent treat. Every spoonful was eaten with gratitude, plates scraped noisily, and spoons licked clean.

  Afterward, they bent their heads in prayer for the second time to thank God for what they had just received. Then they sat around the table, drinking cold mint tea sweetened with honey.

  Rebecca told Hans he needed a bigger house. He needed to buy a new stove, the kind she had heard about. She knew he had money, so why not use it to the children’s benefit?

  Hans smiled, his round cheeks glistening with sweat, his stomach overly full, and stroked his beard. “If I build a house, it will be built with stone.”

  “Ooh.” Rebecca was impressed. A son who built a house of cut limestone was, indeed, prestigious. Someone of high status.

  Hans smiled at his mother with benevolence in his large, dark eyes. Yes, he had money put by. The farm was growing, the pile of coins accumulating.

  Before Rebecca took her leave, she cornered Hans in the barn. Wasting no time, she told him it was high time he sought a wife. She told him the children were running wild, that Hester was incompetent, the house was dirty, the clothes unwashed, the sewing undone. He needed to find someone.

  “I don’t want a wife.”

  “No, you want Hester.”

  Hans recoiled from his mother’s words. He could not help the heat that rolled across his full cheeks or the accompanying confusion.

  “No, no, no.”

  Rebecca waited, haughty, enjoying her son’s floundering.

  “No, Mam. No. Not in that way. She is my daughter.”

  “Piffle. She’s not your daughter, and you know it.”

  “But I have no feelings for her in that way.”

  “Then get a wife.”

  “Who?”

  “Annie Troyer.”

  Hans’s eyes bulged with disbelief. “Mother!”

  “Don’t ‘mother’ me. If you’re going to compare every available woman with Hester, you’ll never get anywhere.”

  “Mother!”

  Later, swinging the scythe through the tall, waving grasses, the sweat rolling from his wide forehead and down the sides of his cheeks, he thought about his mother’s words. Yes, she was right. But, oh, the thought of someone replacing Kate was unthinkable. Mol net die Annie (Certainly not Annie). Honeybees buzzed through the grasses, crickets chirped and hopped, crows wheeled and cried their unnerving squawks, but his mind was far away.

  No, it was not true. Hester did not leave the house dirty or the clothes unwashed. None of it was true. Perhaps not to Rebecca’s standards, which were ridiculous. She was one of those Swiss women who scrubbed her doorstep every morning, living in a house so clean you could eat off the floor.

  Hester did well. Not like Kate, but good enough. He wondered idly why Hester had taken to wearing the cap. She had put it on for his mother’s sake today, perhaps.

  His ears burned as if she had cuffed him the way she always had when he was a boy. He cringed within himself. That was not true, either, that outright lie about his feelings for Hester. His mother had always had a sharp tongue, unguarded, as loose as a flopping fish. Of course it wasn’t true. He loved Hester only as a daughter, that was all.

  He prayed for guidance, for strength in the coming days, as he rested on his scythe there in the middle of the hayfield in the blazing sun.

  A few weeks later, Hans made up his mind. He polished the leather harness until it shone, instructed Noah to wash the spring wagon, and curried Dot and Daisy until their coats shone. They were going to the trading post, then to Berksville.

  Hester’s heart beat rapidly, her eyes snapped and sparkled as she washed dishes and laid out the children’s clothes. She picked the cleanest, least-patched knee breeches for Solomon, John, and Daniel.

  For herself, she chose a dress of bittersweet, a rust-colored hue. She loosened the small drawstring in the back of her cap, then tightened and retied it. There. That was better. The cap did not have to hide so much of her straight, black hair. She liked the way Mary Fisher’s cap fit much better than the one strict Rebecca sewed for her.

  They did the chores, ate a quick breakfast of porridge with bread and milk and got everyone dressed and combed before seven o’clock. The sun was a red orb of resplendence, already giving off heat for the day. Hans wore his long-sleeved linen shirt, vest and knee breeches, and a wide-brimmed straw hat, placed squarely on his head.

  The horses sensed a long drive and trotted gaily, their heads lifting as they followed the dusty, sun-dappled road between the trees, down steep inclines, and up more hills and turns. After an hour of steady traveling, Hans stopped the team beneath a tree, threw the reins across the dash, and let the horses rest awhile. The children scrambled off the high spring wagon, stretched their legs, and raced in circles, chattering like a flock of colorful birds.

  Hans smiled. He looked at Hester beside him holding Emma. What was so different about her today? Beneath the shade of the oak trees, she was radiant with beauty, an inner light making her brown skin glow, her large dark eyes like liquid fire. He looked away.

  “Come, children,” he called, his voice choking.

  When the road led down to the river, Hester caught her lower lip between her teeth and her upper one. Padriac. Would he be there? She could smell the river, the wet bottomlands, where the dusty, crumbling earth turned to soft black mud that squished beneath toes and smeared easily across skirts and breeches.

  A row of thick bushes almost hid the raft, but Hester spied it long before they reached the crossing. An old, grizzled man unfolded from his seat on a wide stump, a blade of grass dangling from his teeth. His hat was a questionable shade of brown, made of felt, the brim waving and flopping around his face. His stained, collarless shirt was open at the neck, his knee breeches held up by a sturdy rope with frayed edges.

  He removed the blade of grass, spit a stream of green juice, and rumbled, “Howdy.”

  “Hello, there.”

  “Goin’ across?”

  “Yes, we are. If you’ll take us.”

  “Sure thing.” Going to the rope that circled a sturdy post, he unwound it slowly, then coiled it and laid it on the raft. Picking up another rope, he hauled the large, flat raft to the bank, secured it, and went to Dot’s bridle.

  “Horses skittish?”
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  “I doubt it.”

  Hans lifted the reins and clucked to them as the old man tugged at the bit. The horses stepped gingerly, bending their heads as they walked across the planks and up onto the raft.

  Hans got down out of the wagon and went to stand next to the horses’ heads as the old man poled them away from the bank. The children’s eyes widened with apprehension, but they remained seated, obedient.

  “These all yours?” the man asked, looking directly at Hester.

  “Yes,” Hans said, gazing across the water.

  “Where’s your wife?”

  “In heaven.”

  Up went the old man’s eyebrows. “Can’t beat that.”

  “No.”

  “When’d she die?”

  “It’ll soon be a year.”

  Hester looked straight ahead, clutched Emma on her lap, and remained silent. She knew the wizened old man wanted to ask more, but he chomped on the blade of grass, watched Hans, busied himself forming his own opinions, and kept his questions to himself.

  When Padriac returned the following day, he told him about the Amish man and his wagon load of kids, his wife dead. “Either them Amish allowed young wives, or that oldest daughter wasn’t his,” he mused. “Them Amish is odd,” he finished.

  Padriac watched the old man’s face intently, but he only nodded his head and asked if they had come back in the evening. Frustrated, he kicked the raft, balled his fists, and stalked off, leaving the old man looking after him with questioning eyes, shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head before sitting back down on his overturned, wooden crate. He pulled his felt hat down over his eyes and leaned back against a tree. Young chaps nowadays!

  The trading post was a long, flat building made of logs. Two windows with a door in the middle looked like eyes and a nose, Hester thought. The hitching rail in the front was strung with horses of every size and description, some carrying saddles, others without. Men lounged against the front wall, eyeing them curiously. Hester sat very straight, looking neither left nor right as Hans guided the team up to the side of a hitching rail. He tied them with the neck rope, then told the children they were allowed off, but to stay with him.