The Hallowed Ones tho-1

by Laura Bickle

  * * *

  Evil arrived on our doorstep the next day.

  At the time, I didn’t see it that way. But that was the way the Elders saw it.

  I was doing my chores and Elijah’s, feeding the cattle. Star dragged bales of hay on a sledge, and I stopped her in the middle of the field to put the hay in the iron bale holders beside the watering tubs. The bales were heavier than I was used to, about fifty pounds each, but I was determined not to complain. There were bigger concerns now than my own comfort. Though an air of crisis hung low like a cloud over our community, there were still mundane chores to be done. I was grateful for them, for the ache in my muscles that kept me tied to the present moment; the activity kept my mind off of useless ruminating about the future.

  The cattle had seen me coming and were heading in, mooing and grumbling among themselves. Unlike the black and white dairy Holsteins in the barn, these were brown and white Herefords. Beef cattle. Most of them were bulls, and I gave them a wide berth. They were never aggressive. But at two thousand pounds, they could accidentally hurt a person as they made a beeline for the hay and grain.

  I stretched, stepping back, as the bulls clustered around the feeder. My back popped in two satisfying places, and I looked up at the leadening sky. I wanted to get the hay bales out before it rained. It would be much worse slogging through a muddy field with soggy bales that weighed more than they ought to.

  Suddenly, I heard a distant roar.

  Four sleek triangular gray planes flew in “V” formation overhead, streaking across the thick sky from west to east. They reminded me of geese, the way they flew. I lifted my arms to wave and shout, wondering if they could see me. I supposed that perhaps they were checking the damage, to see who had survived.

  The low roar rumbled over the field. Instead of white contrails, the tails of the planes were spewing something bluish. Not smoke. The planes continued along their way, heading east, streaking the sky with that mysterious blue, and receding beyond sight.

  The breeze pushed the smell of the blue substance down through the field. I wrinkled my nose. It smelled metallic, like winter. I hoped that the military had found a cure for the contagion. Maybe they were dusting us, like crops, to get it dispersed.

  Whatever the reason, the sight lifted my heart. It meant that there were still people out there in the Outside world. Alive.

  I smiled up at the sky.

  And it opened up and began to rain. The rain tasted cold and sharp, like metal.

  I sighed and returned to my work, dragging the last heavy bale from the sledge. The bulls had crowded me out of the feeder, so I chucked this one on the ground, and the smaller, less dominant ones headed for it. As I surveyed the cattle, I began to worry.

  The big ones were due to be slaughtered this fall. The small ones would be kept over the winter, to be slaughtered in the spring. Some of the meat would be sold to the English. But if Outside remained off-limits, then there would be a lot of cattle to feed. And we didn’t have enough room to keep all the meat. I doubted that we had enough food to sustain them through the whole winter. Things could get ugly very quickly, I decided, scanning the backs of the bulls.

  I spied a dark shape along one of the fence posts in the distance. I frowned. The cattle shouldn’t be lying down at mealtime. A downer cow was a sign of illness. We would have to act quickly to protect the rest of the herd. Growing up Plain, I understood that the individual was weak, but the power lay in the collective. The group must be preserved at all costs.

  I walked briskly to the edge of the field. Maybe this sick one could be separated in enough time. As I got closer, I noticed that the dark shape wasn’t on the inside of the barbed-wire and wood fence. It lay on the Outside, just inches beyond.

  And it wasn’t a bull. It was too small.

  It was human.

  I approached cautiously, trying to stay upwind of the body curled up around the fence post. One foot was tangled in barbed wire, as if the man had tried to get inside but failed. It was an Englisher. He wore sneakers, jeans, and a black jacket with a great deal of zippers and flap pockets. His face and blond hair were pressed into the mud, rain tapping on his face. His eyes were closed. The rain rinsed blood from a wound on the side of his head, near his temple. He looked like he’d been struck with something.

  “Hello?” I rasped. I couldn’t tell if he was alive or dead. I was afraid of both.

  The pale form lay motionless in the mud. I crept closer, studying his shoulder. I saw that it rose and fell slightly with his breath, a breath that passed through his lips and disturbed the matted grass under his battered face.

  He was alive. My heart caught in my throat.

  I ran back to the horse to get help as fast as my feet would carry me in the sucking mud.

  * * *

  “We have to help him!”

  I exploded into my house, soaking wet. My father was eating lunch in the kitchen and stared at me. He pushed away from the table, grasped my arms.

  “Help who? Herr Miller? Elijah?”

  I shook my head, struggling to catch my breath. “No. There’s a man out at the south field. He’s been hurt. He needs help.”

  “Where at the south field?”

  “At the fence.”

  I knew that once I told my father, he would take care of it. An important part of the Amish belief system was helping those in need. And this man clearly needed us.

  “Is he English?”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  My father reached for his coat. “Show me.”

  I drove Star back to the field, where the man lay. He had not moved. My father approached slowly, crouched down at a distance.

  “He’s outside the fence,” my father said. “We must ask the Elders for permission to bring him inside.”

  My brow furrowed. “But he’s hurt.”

  “He may also be sick. We must ask the Elders.”

  My hands wound in my soggy apron. My father looked at me tenderly. “You have a compassionate heart, Katie. But we cannot violate the rules. We must ask them.”

  I nodded slowly, water dripping from my nose. Surely when the Elders saw him, they would bring him in, take care of him. I could not blame my father. He was a good man and was trying to follow the rules.

  “I will go get them,” he said.

  “I will stay here and pray.”

  “Don’t get too close,” my father cautioned. “He may be contagious.”

  “I understand.” But I didn’t, really. The young man appeared to be hurt, not sick. The violence facing Outside had seemingly chased him down. I hoped that if Seth and Joseph found their way to an English house, that the Englishers would help the boys.

  I watched as my father took Star and rode away, then turned back to look at the young man, the rain tapping on the ground and my prayer bonnet.

  I knelt against the bottom rail of the fence, several yards upwind of him, and prayed silently with rain sliding down my knuckles. He did not move, did not seem to sense my presence there. But as I stole glances at him, I hoped that he could feel God with him, that he would know that rescue was close at hand. Just delayed by a bit of procedure.

  Almost an hour later, I heard footsteps in the muck. I lifted my head to see my father, the Bishop, and two of the elder ministers walking across the field, rain streaming off their hats. My heart rose to see them, to know that they would end the young man’s suffering.

  I stood respectfully, backing away as the Elders circled around the young man. I clasped my cold hands behind my back.

  They stared for a long time, in silence, before the Bishop shook his head.

  The Elders made as if to retreat.

  A rebellious squeak came to my lips, and my hand flew to my mouth. “You’re—you’re going to leave him?” I whispered.

  The Bishop looked me in the eye, and his gaze was sharp as steel. “We cannot bring him inside. No one goes in or out. The rule stands.”

  “But he’s just beyond—” I protested
. “He’s suffering!”

  “And we cannot bring that suffering upon ourselves,” my father said, clasping a warning hand upon my shoulder. I was not being obedient. I blinked up at him in amazement.

  “We will not allow him to suffer.” One of the Elders slipped a hunting rifle from his shoulder.

  I stuffed my fist in my mouth to stifle a cry as my father steered me away from the scene. I looked back, wet bonnet strings stuck to my face, as the minister raised the rifle and took aim at the young man.

  Rifles were used for hunting in our community, never used against people. Tears sprang to my eyes. The evil of Outside had surely reached in here, in the guise of fear and mercy.

  I struggled to twist away. “But if it’s God’s will that he should die, should we not leave him?”

  The black figures stared at me for speaking out of turn again.

  “Father,” I pleaded. “It’s Gelassenheit. Let God decide.”

  My father turned back, exchanged a glance with the Elder who held the rifle. The weapon trembled from barrel to stock. It would be a hard thing to ask a man to kill another. Even in the name of mercy.

  The Bishop’s gaze flicked among us, then to heaven. He reached out and pushed the barrel of the gun down.

  “Leave him. Let God decide if he should go quickly, or if he should suffer.”

  The men in black walked back across the field, back to their dry homes, like crows returning to the nest.

  I trailed behind them, a confused and drenched brown sparrow behind the flock.

  Chapter Six

  I returned to the fence before dusk.

  The rain had stopped, and the sun singed a low bank of clouds at the horizon. The long rays of the sun illuminated the sheen of moisture glistening on the fence posts and grass in an aura of gold and shoved my shadow behind me.

  I clutched a jar full of cold water close to my chest. It sloshed with every step as I advanced upon the fence. When I stopped before the prone wet form beside the barbed wire, I swore that the hammering of my heart thundered through the water and caused it to splash to the rim. I imagined that this was the sound of the sea, though I’d never heard nor seen it.

  The rain had soaked the young man through, his hair plastered to his sharp cheekbone. The blood had been rinsed from his face. He had not moved since this afternoon.

  I feared that Gelassenheit had been fulfilled, that he was dead.

  I crouched down beside him in the mud, wet grass tickling my knees. Tentatively, I reached through the barbed-wire fence to touch his chest. Swallowing hard, I placed my palm flat against the cold zipper and soggy leather of his jacket, where his heart lay. I was rewarded with feeling his chest swell against my hand.

  I chewed my bottom lip. It would have been easier if he were dead, I knew. But Gelassenheit wasn’t about what was easy.

  I reached under the barbed wire with the jar, pressed it to the young man’s lips. Awkwardly, I tried to turn his head toward the jar. Water dribbled over his lips, and my hand shook. I couldn’t tell how much trickled down the back of his throat, and how much ran down the side of his cheek into the grass.

  I sat back on my heels and set the jar down on the ground beside me. After wiping my hands on my apron, I clasped them to pray. The molten light from the vanishing sun warmed my face. I held on to that warmth until it drained away.

  I stood as the first stars began to prickle through the canopy of blackness. I knew that it was wrong of me to ask for a sign from God, to ask for anything. But I wished, deep in the bottom of my heart, for some indication that he would not turn away from me for what I contemplated doing.

  But there was no sign. No word from God except what the Elders had said.

  And for a moment, I wondered if what Mrs. Parsall had supposed was true . . . Had he truly left us? Left all of us?

  And if so, did it matter any longer what we did?

  * * *

  I waited until the moon crept beyond the tangle of trees, until my sister slept and I could hear Mrs. Parsall’s soft, fitful snoring.

  I slipped out of bed, dressed noiselessly in the dark. I remembered where each and every creaky floorboard lay in the house and sidestepped them in bare feet. I felt a pang of guilt in my chest as I passed the closed door of my parents’ room and stepped down the stairs into the kitchen. I put my shoes on and let myself out the back door, a shuttered lantern in my sweating grip.

  The crickets and bullfrogs sang sleepily, and the moon burned through the tatters of clouds overhead. The cool night air slid over my face as I made my way to the barn just at the edge of our yard. This was the barn that was frequented by our family, the cows, and the horses. It was in good repair and freshly painted red—not the gray, dilapidated realm that I haunted a mile away with the dogs. I slowly opened up the lantern and turned up the wick, feeling the heat of metal in my hands.

  In the highly flammable setting of a barn, with the unpredictable hooves of animals, fire was an imminent threat. I placed the lantern down on the bare ground and watched it like it was a living thing with its own volition as I reached for the barn door. The hinges squeaked as I opened the door, then propped it open with a brick. I gathered the lantern in a two-fisted grip and walked into the darkness.

  I whistled softly at Star. She blinked and nodded at me. We were keeping her here since we had taken over so many of the Millers’ chores. I rubbed the white mark on her forehead and kissed her nose. She blew questioningly at me as I led her to the sledge and placed the heavy harness on her.

  “I shall bring you extra oats,” I promised, trying to buy her silence.

  I turned the lantern down and shuttered it, and we left the barn. I glanced fearfully up at the windows of my house. No lights burned, and it was just chilly enough tonight that the windows were closed.

  I was thankful that the moon was waxing, that it provided enough light to see by. It cast spiky shadows of grass and fence posts and the lacy shadows of trees on the ground. It illuminated the clouds above in gray light, all color drained from the sky.

  I led Star to the Millers’ south field. The horse’s ears flattened, and I knew that she assumed that we’d be throwing more hay bales. I reached up to ruffle her ear. “I’ll be quick.”

  She snorted back at me. The sledge bounced along the ruts in the field. I saw the steers lying down in the moonlight, shadows nodding. But that wasn’t the shadow I sought . . .

  There. I advanced upon the form curled up beside the fence. I knelt down beside the young man, touched his shoulder. It shivered.

  “Can you hear me?” I asked. My voice sounded very loud in the quiet of night.

  The man didn’t speak, and his eyes were closed.

  “I’m going to take you someplace warm.”

  I reached between the two strands of barbed wire and grasped his arm. With all my might, I pulled his soggy sleeve beneath the lowest strand of wire. I dragged him over a hump of lumpy grass and poison ivy, trying to extricate his dead weight from the wire. His jacket caught, and I was forced to pause and work it free. I hadn’t brought gloves, and the barbs scraped my hands.

  I succeeded in pulling him to my side of the fence. Grasping his heavy arms, I dragged him toward the sledge.

  Star’s eyes rolled, and she whinnied, shying away. In the field a steer ear twitched, and there was an answering moo.

  “It’s okay, girl,” I said soothingly. Star was a good horse but unaccustomed to human cargo on the sledge. I left the young man in the muck, tied Star to the fence post, and then managed to drag him up on the sledge by his feet. He weighed considerably more than a bale of hay, even wet hay, and sweat prickled my brow under my bonnet.

  “Ja, let’s go,” I said to Star. She allowed herself to be led from the fence, but I could tell that she was on edge. It was as if she sensed that I was breaking the rules and she was demonstrating her disapproval.

  “I know,” I told her, through gritted teeth.

  She hauled the man to my distant, little gray kennel b
arn, away from our homestead and the prying eyes of others. Hearing the clatter of gear and the grate of the sledge, Sunny waddled to the door. She snuffled my hands and apron, searching for treats.

  I kissed her head. “No treats tonight. But I brought you a roommate.”

  Copper was sniffing over the young man with the vigor of a hound dog. He whined at me, as if he’d caught some of the horse’s trepidation.

  “You must keep him a secret.” I relit the lantern with matches from my pocket. The golden light illuminated the interior of the kennel as I contemplated where to house our guest. I considered hoisting him up to the hayloft but thought that would be impossible. I finally decided on a paddock at the far end of the barn. I hadn’t put the dogs in it because the wall was caving in. Instead, I’d blocked it off with cages and used it for storage. I grabbed a pitchfork and put down a good layer of fresh straw.

  “It’s probably not what you’re used to,” I said, leaning on the pitchfork. “But it beats spending the night in a wet field.”

  I wrapped my arms beneath the Englisher’s arms and dragged him awkwardly from the sledge to the back of the barn. I had to stop more than once to remove the straw that gathered behind his limp heels.

  Once I got him arranged on the bed of straw, I did my best to get him out of his muddy jacket. It was like trying to undress a giant rag doll. The coat finally peeled off, and I landed on my butt in the straw.

  I moved to hang the jacket up on a peg for horse dressage on the crumbling wall. It occurred to me to look for identification. Englishers always seemed to carry their lives with them. I reached into his pockets and found a few coins, a key ring, and a silver folding knife. Curious, I opened it. The blade was stained with blood. I shuddered and put it back. It reminded me of the saw on the floor of the furniture store.

  I found a sopping wet wallet in one of the zippered pockets. Tentatively, I opened it. It was half-full of English money, a credit card, and a foil-wrapped package. I read the wrapper: Latex condom with spermicidal lubricant for contraception and STD protection. To prevent pregnancy, HIV/AIDS, and other sexually transmitted infections . . . Repulsed, I dropped it. I wrinkled my nose and searched for a driver’s license. I found it tucked in between some bills. I squinted at the license in the dim light. It said his name was Alexander Green, age twenty-four. He lived in Toronto.