Here it was again. All her life she had tried to fit in, to be a white Amish woman, when all she was, all she ever would be, was an Indian, a red-skinned person of the earth who belonged to an entirely different culture.
She felt herself slip, then let go and fell to the ground, heaving sobs tearing from her throat, dry and hoarse, until she was spent.
She sat up when the light through the woods turned rosy, a covering of beauty she couldn’t notice as her eyes swelled with the pain of her tears. She caught sight of the outcropping of limestone, her girlhood place of worship. Tears ran unchecked down her face as she rose and fought her way upward to the place of her youth.
When she finally reached the flat surface of rock, she saw, through streaming eyes, a heavenly vista before her—the late summer sunset a blaze of glory, painting the sky in magnificent shades of red, fiery orange, and yellow, fading into the restful hues of lavender and blue.
Berks County, her home, spread out before her, a land of rippling green, shades of blue, rivulets of black, sparkling with yellows and lighter greens. Below her lay the Amish settlement, the people she loved, remembered, and cherished.
But it wasn’t enough. She could not forget the blood-red stain of Hans. She would have to give up and release Noah, release her love. It would never work.
With a groan, she flung herself down, shutting out the beauty of the evening. She closed her eyes, willing herself to keep them closed. She felt the need of prayer, of joining her thoughts to God.
God? Did she believe he cared about her at all? Here she was in this last hour, her life of happiness stretched before her, and she could not close the gap, she could not cross the bridge of forgiveness. Maybe, just maybe, she could try talking to the Great Spirit, the god of the Indians, her foreparents. Did he care?
Here on this rock she had found God. She had found him in the eagle’s flight. She had taken God into her heart and fully realized that he was one with her own self. She would wait on him, she would renew her strength, she would run and not walk, she would rise up on the wings of an eagle.
But now she could not pray, so great was her inner battle. She lay face down and became quiet; deep in her soul, she became still and waited.
Her tears ceased and her heart slowed, as the warm breezes played with the high branches of the sycamore trees and spun the pine needles, wafting the sharp, gummy scent across her spent face. A chipmunk dashed across the edge of the rock, disappearing beneath a few brown weeds, their swaying the only sign he had been there.
When Hester heard the bird’s cry, she waited, tensed, straining to hear. Surely it could not be. She sat up, held a hand to her forehead, straining her sight, searching. The sky was empty, a panorama of heavenly brilliance. She heard it once more. Twisting her back, she let her swollen eyes rake the sky.
Like a mirage to a man dying of thirst in a desert, the silhouette of an eagle, his wingspan magnificent, his white head visible, soared across the sky, followed immediately by his mate. Together they sailed their vast empire, the evening sky, floating on unseen pockets of air, swirling currents that carried them on the evening, slowly away from her and into the beauty of the sunset.
Hester stood then, tears coursing down her face. She lifted her arms, flinging them to the sun and the beauty of the pair of eagles. She called aloud, “Here I am, oh, my Father, my God.”
He had sent not one, but two eagles, her symbol of strength.
She remained in that position until the eagles disappeared into the sunset. She slowly folded herself onto her knees as the sun slid behind the Berks County mountains.
Then, like the softest whisper, a mere stirring of her senses, she recognized her own lack of power. On her own strength, she was helpless to forgive, to forget, to love, to live triumphantly. She could not do it. But with God, the white Amish version of God or the Indian version of the Great Spirit, the God who created everything—the earth and its inhabitants—with him and in him, it was possible.
Unexpectedly, Hans became very small, a dot that was disintegrating fast, where before he had been a huge stain that kept her focused on her own self-loathing. Life before her was imperfect, filled with trials and troubles, but God within her was perfectly capable of renewing her strength each morning, every morning fresh and new.
And so she stayed on the rock, her tears slowing, her body and spirit both entering a place of tranquility.
In the sun’s afterglow, in the golden evening light the shape of a white cross appeared, shimmered for a few seconds, and disappeared.
Had she imagined the cross? No, she couldn’t have. It was the way of the cross that would lead her home. She was learning not to make herself the center of the world. Jesus would be her model, giving the ultimate sacrifice as he did.
“Mein Yesu,” she murmured.
She heard the cracking of brush and tensed, remembering the youth who had slipped through the trees, watching her. The shadows were deepening and the woods were becoming dark, and still the cracking sound continued. Someone was coming up the ridge. She remained seated, listening, watching the treetops in the direction of the breaking brush and the scuffled leaves.
In the fading light, his blond head hatless, his eyes round with fear, Noah stood just below the rock, his face lifted, searching.
Ashamed, Hester remained seated, huddled in the safety of her own personal chapel. On he came, until he stepped to the base of the rock and caught sight of her. With a glad cry he moved swiftly. He stretched out his arms, but with a question in his eyes.
“Hester! I was sick with worry.”
She gave him her hands, and he drew her to her feet. His eyes searched her face, taking in the swollen eyes, the tear stains, the emotional havoc on a face so beautiful. And yet fear kept him from taking her in his arms.
“What is it, Hester?”
She lowered her eyes, feeling guilty.
He put his hands on her shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. “Please tell me. Is it just too much, this returning to your home?”
Hester drew in a deep breath, then turned her head to look away from the searching eyes. “You’ll think I’m kindish. Out of my mind.”
“Never.”
With a small cry, she flung herself into his arms, into the solid warmth of the man she loved. She wrapped her arms around him, clung to him, and buried her face in his chest. “I love you so much, Noah. I love you, I love you.”
With a muffled cry he kissed her swollen eyes, the tearstained cheeks, her trembling mouth. He held her as he had never held her before with a newfound possession, gladness in having her, so afraid of this great love gone wrong.
Finally he let her go, searching her face in the fast ebbing twilight and asking if she was ready to tell him. Side by side, his arm around her waist, they sat as she talked in low words of her struggle.
He listened, rapt, as she spoke from the depth of her shame about feeling tainted, in spite of Hans never having touched her.
Noah’s jaw tightened, the muscles in his cheeks moving rigidly. He nodded, mutely understanding, absorbing her misery.
She told him of the eagles and of God’s message to her heart.
“Hester, do you believe God wants us to be together as man and wife?”
Suddenly Hester’s shoulders began to shake. Thinking he had made her cry again, he quickly took back the question, stammering some nonsense about not meaning it.
But Hester was laughing. Great cleansing waves of merriment. “You never asked me,” she chortled.
So he did. There, on Hester’s rock, on the stone floor of her personal outdoor chapel, he asked her to be his wife, to walk beside him all the days of his life. He knew he was not worthy of her, but he hoped to love her and care for her as long as God gave each of them the breath of life.
Hester could only bow her head to absorb the beauty of his words.
Then she whispered, “Yes, Noah, I will marry you. With joy.”
When they reached the house, Solomon and Lena
showed their relief, visibly able to relax now that they had returned. Lena apologized effusively for having said the wrong thing and for hurting her feelings.
Fannie’s eyes were large and so afraid that Hester went to her immediately, took her in her arms, and held her there, explaining that she needed to take care of some unfinished business in a place she had to go to. That seemed to be sufficient. She helped Fannie put on her nightgown and led her upstairs, tucked her into their bed, and said she’d be up soon.
“Poor little Fannie,” she crooned, smoothing back the fine, brown hair. “I’m so sorry I left you like that.”
But Fannie smiled and sighed, adjusting her head on the thick, goose-down pillow, already fading into the land of a child’s dreams. “If I cry during the night, it’s your fault, you know,” she whispered.
Hester kissed her cheek, and tiptoed quietly down the stairs.
They told Solomon and Lena about their engagement, knowing the secret was safe with them.
Solomon whooped and shouted, saying he figured there was something going on, coming back like this out of the blue without telling anyone ahead of time. Lena smiled widely and congratulated them sincerely.
She served hot tea with sugar and milk, slabs of cold cornbread with honey, a bowl of purple grapes from the vines beside the garden, and slices of cheese with a bold, nutty flavor, the thick slices full of holes. Solomon said it was Swiss cheese from Ohio, made here in America now.
Far into the night, they talked of farms and land, the price of an acre here versus in Lancaster County, which was where so many were migrating and paying crazy high prices for smaller plots of land.
But the yield there is tremendous, Noah argued, although he couldn’t imagine that the Amish could last very long in Lancaster. How could they keep their conservative ways while living so close to the worldly people—that whole hodgepodge of Irish and Lutherans and Dunkards and Germans—a vegetable soup of people.
“So why don’t you buy land there?” Solomon asked.
“I like these ridges.”
“It’s my home. Our home,” Hester said.
Solomon nodded. “Such as it was after Kate died. My mother. She was the best.”
Noah nodded. “Remember how mad she used to get when we teased you, me and Isaac?”
“Your fault. You showed no mercy.”
Noah’s eyes became soft with the memory of Isaac. They talked of his death, of the fruitlessness of war. Noah thought that if life and love were somehow different, wars could be eliminated. But he supposed that as long as people had natures of greed, hate, and jealousy, there would be war. That led to a long discussion of whether there was ever a war that was right in God’s eyes. Or should everyone be nonresistant, like the Amish and Mennonites?
“Isaac was nonresistant in his heart. He was much too gentle in his spirit to be a soldier. He should never have followed me. Or rather, I should not have gone in the first place. And yet it was a good experience. I learned and lived so much more than I would have, had I stayed home.”
“Why did you go, anyway?” Solomon asked.
“Hans. And Hester leaving. Dat made me mad. I was wild inside. Rebellious. I didn’t care if I lived or not. Reckless.”
“Do you blame Dat still for Hester leaving?”
Silence hung over the kitchen, the only sound the ticking of the clock on the wall, the sleepy sounds of tired crickets, the shrill screech of cicadas.
“I did for a long time, but how can I still, if I say I have forgiven him for what he did?” Noah finally said.
“Things were never right between him and Annie, right?”
Noah shook his head. Hester lowered her eyes, keeping her gaze on her hands. Solomon and Lena exchanged meaningful glances.
Noah saved the conversation by saying, “She was plenty bossy, for someone accustomed to Kate.”
Solomon nodded. “That’s about right.”
When morning came, with its special, sun-dappled light filtering in between the maple leaves, Hester was dressed and ready to go when Noah called for her at the doorway.
Her hair was combed neatly, the muslin cap pinned over it, the green of her dress bringing out the olive tones of her skin. Her eyes were still slightly puffy but clear, containing a new confidence. She held her head higher, she straightened her shoulders with new purpose.
Fannie wanted to stay with Lena and the babies, having taken to the toddler, Levi, immediately. Her natural love of infants and her sweet, unassuming ways captivated Lena, who was happy to have Fannie till Noah and Hester returned.
Noah looked at Hester and told her he had never seen her more beautiful. The green of her dress made her seem like a princess of the forest, stepping out from the trees.
Hester held his gaze, returning his love without a spoken word.
Every step of their walk was the old path to school, down past the barn, a left turn onto the road, through the woods, and past Amos Fisher’s to school.
The morning was clear and already warm, the dust swirling at their feet. Dry, dusty grass waved in the summer air. A box turtle ambled across the road, heard their footsteps, and pulled himself into his shell.
Hester bent down the way she had always done, picked up the turtle, and carried him to safety by the side of the road.
Noah smiled. “He’ll crawl right back, likely.”
“No, he knows better.”
They laughed, walking on until they came to a small clearing where a wood-sided house had been built by the side of the road, along with a barn and a few outbuildings. “This must be it,” Noah said softly.
Hester’s heart beat thickly in her ears, the blood pounding as she took a steadying breath, then another.
“You all right?” Noah asked, searching her face.
“Just frightened. Scared terrible,” she whispered.
“Shall we turn back?”
“No.”
A wide porch was built along the front. Firewood was stacked on one side of the door; a chair sat on the other side. A rain barrel caught the water from the edge of the porch. The house was small but substantial, built by Hans, and sturdy. Each window was encased in heavy trimwork, the door thick and solid. The yard was scythed and raked, the fence around the garden well maintained.
Hester noticed the chicken coop, with the chickens contained inside the fencing, and thought of Amos Stoltzfus’s vicious hens.
She gripped Noah’s hand for one last shoring up of strength, then tilted her chin up, her eyes holding his.
Noah lifted his hand and knocked firmly.
After the second knock, the door was opened slowly by a young woman, her eyes as blue as Noah’s, her hair streaked with blond, her face round and sweet—so like Kate that Hester’s breath caught in her throat.
“Hello. Kommet rye.”
She stepped back to allow them to enter.
“Emma?” Hester asked.
“Yes, I am Emma. But I don’t know you.”
“Hester. Remember your older sister?”
Emma shook her head, bewildered. She looked up at Noah without recognition. Then she gasped and pointed at him, saying, “Noah?”
Noah laughed and gripped her hand.
Emma led them to the right into a sitting room, lighted well by two large windows. Hester immediately recognized the rugs, the oak sideboard, and the armless rocking chair, before she noticed the person lying on the bed in the corner.
He was only a thin rail beneath a small blanket that covered him from the waist down. A muslin nightshirt was draped over his skeletal frame, his hair gray and matted to his head, the thick black beard now turned gray as well.
His face was white as parchment, his once full, robust cheeks hollow and sunken below prominent cheekbones, the full, protruding nose thin and beaklike. His eyes were closed, his bony hands resting on the top of the blanket.
“Dat is not doing good, as you can see. He sleeps a lot. The doctors have done all they can.”
Hester was aware of som
eone at the doorway and turned to face her stepmother, the thin, cruel Annie of her past. She was thinner, even, than before, her dress hanging as if on a rack, the black apron circling her waist loosely, the gathers below the belt the only thing that kept her appearance from resembling a pole. Her face was drawn downward, as if the pull of gravity enabled her normal expression to appear more sullen than ever.
“Mam, Noah has come back!” Emma announced. But Annie had not heard. One hand went to the doorframe, another to her mouth. Her thin, claw-like fingers shook violently, her eyes wide, now, with fear. She pointed one unsteady finger at Hester. “You!” she spat.
Hester stood facing her stepmother squarely without alarm or shrinking. “Yes, it’s me, Annie—Hester.”
“What do you want here? Have you come to worry me with your Indian ways and your hexarei?”
“No.”
Noah stepped forward.
“Annie, we have come to see our dat. We didn’t know he was ill until Solomon and Lena told us.”
“What do you care now? You left us to fend for ourselves. Why bother coming back now when he is too weak to know you?”
“Mam,” came the whisper from the bed. Then, louder, “Mam.”
Quickly Annie went to him, bending over her husband to catch every word. Her hands shook so violently she could not lift the blanket to cover his hands. But Hans had seen the two visitors. His black eyes, sunken deep into his face, were large, alight, keen with interest as he struggled to see them clearly.
“Henn ma psuch, Mam?” he whispered.
Annie nodded.
Noah stepped forward, went to his father’s bedside, and placed a strong hand on the shriveled, weak ones of his father.
“It is me, Noah,” he said.
Hester shrank back, the room spinning with her dizziness. From the bed, the dark eyes searched the face of his son before Hans opened his mouth, trying to speak. But the only sound was a dry, hacking sob, one harsh intake of breath followed by another.
Hester had often heard Hans cry. He had cried loudly, sobbing in despair when Kate passed away and crying at little Rebecca’s death, but never like this. It was the crying of a man who was almost too weak to breathe, a sound so pitiful it brought quick tears to Hester’s eyes.
Hester Takes Charge Page 26