Copyright © 2016 by Linda Byler
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
Print ISBN: 978-1-68099-192-5
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-68099-194-9
Cover design by Koechel Peterson & Associates, Inc., Minneapolis, Minnesota
Printed in the United States of America
TABLE OF CONTENTS
The Story
Glossary
Other Books by Linda Byler
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
IN THE MEADOW, THE VARIETIES OF GREEN WERE A SHOCK TO Hester’s senses after the dull brown of the past autumn, followed by the gray-white world of winter. The city of Lancaster had been assaulted by the elements, or, in Bappie’s words, by God’s displeasure with all the goings-on.
But now winter was over. The long, dark evenings had faded away; the sound of melting snow and ice was a song. The steady, musical tinkling of raindrops splashing from the eaves formed small streams of water that ran into the streets. There they pooled with the gray slush and were joined by the mud from horses’ hooves and steel-rimmed buggy wheels.
Hester’s store of herbs and tinctures had fallen to an alarming scattering of almost-empty sacks and a few half-filled bottles of various remedies. The winter had brought much sickness. Hester continued her services with herbal remedies, steadily gaining more knowledge about administering them. The word around town was about a child who recovered from lung fever after the doctor had given up. Some had abscesses heal. For others, sore eyes and flaming, pus-coated throats were relieved by the mysterious tinctures the “Indian lady” carried in her huge, black carpetbag. She dressed in the traditional black shawl and full bonnet of the Amish.
Oh, there were those who held their hands to their mouths sideways, palms inward, rolling their eyes in a pious manner and hissing to one another that this Indian maid was involved in black witchcraft. Look at the color of her outerwear. All black. That bonnet hiding those large black eyes—it gave them the shivers, so it did. They fetched the doctor whom they trusted, not some big-eyed, dark wraith that walked the brick sidewalks of the city without fear.
She held her head high now, they said. Her strides covered the distance efficiently, the long-legged, easy gait of an Indian, but give her a few decades, and she’d be a hunched-over old crone. Then people would see which spirit she possessed.
But to those who knew and loved her, Hester was the beautiful Indian widow who had been married to Isaac King’s William, until the fearful, flooding night when his horse threw him against the stone wall of the bridge, injuring his head, and he was taken to the bosom of the Lord.
Now she resided with an unmarried woman, an old maid, Barbara King, called Bappie. Her temperament was as colorful as the wiry strands of auburn hair that eluded her starched white covering. The ever-expanding town of Lancaster, in Pennsylvania, was their home. Theirs was a solid house, and it adjoined a brick-encased one, which housed Walter and Emma Trout and their two adopted sons.
Bappie did not have a solid reputation within the Amish church. Its Ordnung, with its stringent rules and regulations in the late 1700s, barely allowed these two single women to live within the town’s boundaries. For one thing, Lancaster was a place of the world, where taverns dotted the streets and worldly churches sprang up like mushrooms. There were Baptists and Methodists and Lutherans and those Dunkards who almost drowned the people they baptized, when everyone knew three splashes from the holy cup was sufficient.
No, Bappie was pushing the rules, what with the successful hawking of her vegetables at the farmers’ market on the square, even if she grew all of them on her own plot of land.
As for Hester and her practicing of herbal medicines, the ministers left that alone. They were glad when a healing occurred, but they shrugged their shoulders for the most part, saying if it was from God, it would grow and prosper. And if not, the practice of using the herbs would dwindle away since no good came of it.
Hester sat cross-legged, the pleated skirt of her red dress and gray apron holding a large amount of freshly snipped herbs. Here, where the meadow sloped down to a swamp, the moisture stayed plentiful all year long. The abundant growth of plants was far beyond anything she had ever hoped to find.
There was figwort, comfrey, yellow daisies, dandelions, March turnips, dove’s foot, elecampane, eyebright, featherfew, and a profusion of artichokes, hemp, and hyssop. The list went on and on, but discovering so many wild artichokes brought an eager shine to Hester’s dark eyes.
Many people in the town carried their water from a communal well. But during the winter, rather than brave the cold and driving snow and ice, they drank very little good, cold water, resulting in bladder and kidney troubles. The juice of the artichoke helped immensely with this problem.
Hester had brought three large baskets, lined them with cloth sacks, and labeled each with the herb it would contain. She plied a pair of sharp scissors, snipping away dead leaves and cutting roots from stems, stacking them on a neat pile beside the cuttings. So engrossed was she in her work, with the breath of a song on her lips, that she did not notice a lone figure walking at a brisk pace, until he caught sight of her red dress and white muslin cap.
He stopped, hesitating. The mellow spring breeze ruffled the thick blond hair on his head, moving it gently. He reached up to brush a few stray strands from his vision, then lowered his hand.
His breath came faster, lighter. His one hand clenched into a fist, and then his other one, as emotion shook him. Inner turmoil took hold—a mixture of knowing and wanting, followed immediately by the sure sense that he must be willing to sacrifice his deepest longing. He told himself that he must allow time and patience—God’s way—to be his guide. Hard as it was, he believed that God’s understanding was far beyond his own. The young man walked on.
Hester hummed, her large, dark eyes liquid with contentment. The unbelievable softness of the day, the vibrating colors around her, enfolded her, healing the cold and the bitter anguish of children dying during the unforgiving winter months. She had felt so helpless in the presence of too many tallow candles, giving only flickering light in the dark and hopeless hovels of the poor.
She looked up just in time to see the tall figure and to watch his retreat, her hands restless in her lap. Slowly she bent her head and lowered her heavy lids as the scissors fell from her nerveless fingers. Would she always wonder? Her heart fluttered, feeling captive within the confines of her body. She had built a protective shell around herself so she could somehow live with her sense of failure as William King’s wife. Yet now she felt a rising of hope that she had tried so hard to do away with.
How many months had gone by since that brisk fall day? Whenever she remembered it, the day was filled with color—brilliant yellow, vivid reds, and deep ora
nge. His hair was thick, like spun gold. His shoulders like great oaks. She blushed deeply, thinking of the fine bronzed hair on his forearms, exposed where the gray, homespun sleeves had been rolled up.
“I am Noah.”
Involuntarily, she had stepped backward. Always protecting herself. She knew in that instant that she needed to put the hard shell securely in place. The shell grew out of her own shortcomings.
He was her brother. He was. Over and over, she recounted their meeting of a few months earlier, every spoken word, every emotion, every light that came from his blue eyes.
Noah belonged to her childhood in Berks County. They had lived together with Hans and Kate, Isaac, Lissie, and dear tiny Rebecca who died in infancy, buried in that stone-cold place. Solomon had been born, and then Daniel. Eventually, ten children in all joined the happy home. Hans and Kate had found her, a wee Indian baby, by the spring, left there by the shame of an Indian girl, her mother. Noah had been born barely a year later.
Now, after all these years, he had come home from the war and found her, his sister. Yet after that day, the sister part was almost laughable. She was not a sister in any sense of the word, but so much more.
And then, like a thundercloud, there came an unwelcome darkening of the glad light within her. In an instant, she had shrunken within herself, leaving her words cold and clipped.
Hester bent over the herbs in her lap, holding the palms of her hands tight to each side of her face to cool the heat in her brown cheeks. She squeezed her eyes tightly as the shame of remembering that day shivered up her spine.
She had not been prepared for the pure rush of longing, the strong desire to lay her head on his solid shoulder, to feel his powerful arms enclose her, allowing her to come home to the safety they held. She had wanted to stay within a place that carried a memory of Kate, who had created her deep sense of well-being. Her mother’s love had brought her kindness and generosity, rooted in deep and abiding trust.
She had caught herself, in time, thank God, when the sight of Noah tempted her to believe she had returned to the safety of her childhood world. How close she had come to allowing herself the freedom of revealing any love, even a sister’s foolish devotion! How unintelligent was she, she asked herself. Hadn’t she married a fine young man? Suddenly the bile of resentment she felt toward William rushed back, rebelliousness against his devout ways. For William had been raised in the strictness of the Amish Ordnung, which he took very seriously, keeping every demand to the letter and requiring the same from his wife.
But she had failed him. Not with her outward appearance, and certainly not in the view of his family (apart from his impossibly demanding mother), but with her inward seething. Her strong urge to hurl her mug of tea at his self-righteousness was probably a mortal sin. Only when he was on his deathbed did she come to believe this.
No one could persuade her otherwise, not Bappie nor Emma nor Walter. And so she had thrown herself into her work with passion—gathering and preparing herbs, grinding roots, boiling leaves with whiskey, bottling concoctions, living the knowledge handed to her by the ancient Indian grandmother in Berks County.
When Noah met her that day last fall, she had told him in words covered with cold, hard ice, that she lived with Barbara King, that she was a very busy woman, and that she had no time to sit with him and talk of the past.
In that moment his eyes had turned from warm gladness to a navy blue, then faded to a weary gray of disbelief, and his eyelids drooped low, as if losing sight of her would soften the coldness of her words. When he walked away, his shoulders were hunched in defeat, but only after his kindness had returned long enough to wish her a good day.
Was he able to summon, like Kate, concern for someone else’s well-being, even after such a cold dismissal? Instead of firing back, he had collected himself, wished her the best, and without another word, walked away.
It had taken Bappie no more than 30 seconds to make her indignant appearance, raining cold, hard questions, thick and fast. “Who was that?” “What do you mean, ‘your brother’?”
This was followed by a snort of disbelief, a swipe of fiery red hair beneath her covering, and a solid planting of her roughly clad feet with her arms crossed tightly in front, covering strings flapping loosely at her back, in disregard of the required bow under her chin.
When Hester repeated, “My brother,” Bappie sent another derogatory look her way, along with an expulsion of sound, which left no doubt about the meaning of either the expression or the noise.
“He’d pass for my brother a lot more than yours.”
“He’s not …” Hester floundered, then turned away.
“You mean he was brought up in the same house by the same parents. He wasn’t found by the spring with you.”
Hester’s head dropped forward. She had so wanted to forget Noah’s appearance and the hope he had stirred within her. But Bappie’s words rang true and strong, reminding her of what she couldn’t deny or understand.
Bappie tossed her head, stuck the tines of the manure-encrusted pitchfork into the dry earth, loosened her hands, and dusted them off with a firm whack before rubbing them along the sides of her apron.
“I’d say you were pretty rude to the poor chap.”
Miserably, Hester acknowledged this.
“You need to make it up to him. If he comes visiting, I’m going to invite him in, and …”
Hester broke in midsentence, her eyes flashing. “No, you’re not, Bappie! This is my life, my situation, and absolutely not your business. I mean it. You stay out of it.”
Bappie’s eyes narrowed. “Well, if he’s only your brother, you sure are fired up. All right, if that’s how you want it. What’s his name?”
“Noah.”
“Hm. Just like Noah and the ark. He’d make a spectacular Noah. Just like you imagine that stalwart man of God.”
Hester felt the color rising in her face and thanked God for the honey-brown color of her skin. At least Bappie couldn’t see her reddening, for all her self-effacing shrewdness.
And now almost six months had passed without a word, an appearance, or any sign of Noah again. Over and over, she had told herself, it was not a good sign for a man to leave his faith or disobey his parents, let alone go to war. Had he ever committed himself to the church at all? Perhaps he had been excommunicated. If so, she had good reason to have spoken coldly. She wanted to shun him, keep him out of her life, out of sight. And yet, on this fine spring day, she relived that last meeting with Noah when she saw a man walking alone, too far away to be recognized with certainty.
She picked up the scissors, then let them drop away. She gathered up a handful of fragrant herbs and rifled through them idly. She smoothed back a few dark hairs, picked up the scissors again, and slowly cut away the stems of a wild strawberry plant.
She thought of all the decaying teeth she had witnessed, the grayish, unhealthy color of so many of the children’s gums. The juice of the strawberry root was so good for this foul ailment, but most of the children resisted the bitter taste. Worse still, in Hester’s mind, was that the mothers supported the children’s yells of disapproval.
She would try mixing in a bit of honey or maple syrup. Motivated now, and inspired once more, she settled her memories. Her sighs turned to quick breaths of anticipation as she resumed cutting with renewed energy.
Back home, in the soft, evening glow of the warm, spring sunshine, Bappie had worked herself into a fever of housecleaning. She had flung open the two front windows that faced the muddy street. The white muslin curtains that usually hung over them flapped softly on the washline in the small backyard.
When Hester dropped the three baskets on the back stoop, she heard windows sliding up and down and the wooden stool being knocked around. She figured if she wanted something to eat she’d have to cook it herself.
“I’m home!” she called.
No answer. Only the scraping of the stool across the oak floors.
Hester shrugged,
opened the pantry door, and dug out some dried apples and a bit of hard cheese. She knew there was a ham knuckle down cellar. Her mouth watered, thinking of schnitz un knepp, Bappie’s favorite and an old Pennsylvania Dutch dish Kate had made so well.
Hester could still see the deep pleats spread over Kate’s ample hips, the wide comforting swell of them as she moved efficiently for such a large woman, seeming to float from stove to hearth to dry sink and back again.
Kate’s schnitz un knepp was one of Hester’s most comforting memories. Kate would boil the dried apples to perfection until they were soft and brown, then mash them thoroughly with a potato masher and crumble the ham into the apples, its salt flavoring the sweetness of the fruit and creating the special taste of this dish. The fluffy dumplings on top tasted of both the ham and the apples.
Wishfully, Hester put the ham knuckle in the pot with the dried apples. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to see Kate just one more time?
Her thoughts were interrupted by Bappie, holding her arm above her head, leaning on the doorway, her eyes drooping with tiredness. “I didn’t know you were home.”
“I called out.”
“I was cleaning windows.”
“Mmm.”
“What’s for supper?”
“Schnitz un knepp.”
“Mm. Good. I’ll polish the floor real quick.”
“Don’t hurry. This takes a while.”
Hester sliced a thick slice of dark brown bread, spread a good portion of butter across it, and bit out a huge chunk, closed her eyes, and chewed with appreciation. She was so hungry.
She heard Bappie’s maneuvering in the front room, smelled the lye soap, and smiled as she poured boiling water over tea leaves, inhaling the goodness of the spearmint. It was good to come home to Bappie, her friend and coworker, like a mother, sister, and brother, all wrapped up in one.
She had nothing to complain about. Her life here in the city was more than sufficient to keep her comfortable and content. Walter and Emma, kind and accommodating, offered assistance any time, although Hester knew all too well that as the portly couple aged, she and Bappie would need to help them more and more frequently.
Hester Takes Charge Page 1