by Linda Byler
Hannah shook her head, waded dust to the barn, hopped on Goat’s back, and entered a world of brown dust and dirt that clung to every available surface, flattening the already skeletal grasses and whipping the dry earth into drifts like snow. Where the wind had scoured the loose dirt, only a bare, swept area remained, wide, deep cracks like broken glass separating the soil.
Hannah tied her handkerchief across her mouth and nose, to help breathe better. She could not stop turning her head, her eyes searching every surface, hardly able to absorb this world without life.
It was like the end of the world, when there would be nothing left. A sense of foreboding made her shiver. Was there ever a time when it simply did not rain for more than a year? That in itself seemed an impossibility. It always rained, even here in the West, didn’t it?
She had no one to ask, no one who could assure her that the rain would come. Well, God, but He wasn’t very reliable, so far.
Yes, she did believe in God. Of course she did. It was unthinkable to go through life without acknowledging a Higher Power. It was just difficult to think of asking for rain, then believing it might happen. When, in truth, it might not.
Look at her father. He called it faith. Was it? Or was he merely determined, assuring himself over and over that God would hear him and do what he wanted if he fasted and prayed hard enough.
What was faith? Assuring oneself that God would do what you wanted? Or was it never asking for anything except God’s will, not your own, be done? Faith was a mystery to Hannah, elusive as the wind. You were supposed to be able to move mountains with it, if you owned even a tiny bit, like the size of a mustard seed.
No one could ever move mountains, so did that mean no one had any faith? Maybe faith was not ours to have, but it was supplied by God at the exact moment He wanted us to have it.
Well, enough of these thoughts. Hannah shook herself, freeing her mind from the numbness of unreality that lulled her into a stupor. Nothing seemed real. The prairie seemed like an alien land, a barren place without humanity.
Some places on the road were drifted so high with dirt that Goat had to wade through. His head nodded faithfully as he put one foot in front of the other, staying on course, his horse sense taking him home.
Hannah dreaded her arrival. She knew the question of staying or returning to Pennsylvania would have to come up, and soon. What would she do?
Five battered, wind-driven cattle that lived on worthless, dry grass and water in the tank, likely coming from a well that sank steadily deeper and deeper each month.
She would wait to come to a decision until she spoke to the remaining Amish friends. What about the Klassermans? The Jenkinses? Would these sturdy local folks let the drought get the best of them? She wouldn’t believe it until she actually saw them leaving.
As she neared the buildings, she saw the weird angle of the wind mill. The blades of the giant wheel, the metal paddles that caught the breeze so efficiently, spinning the great circle that propelled the water pump up and down, bringing gallons of cold water from the underground stream to the surface hung lifeless, at odd angles, completely still.
She heard the high bawling of the thirsty cattle before she saw them.
CHAPTER 24
The ride to the homestead in the face of the onslaught caught Hannah’s breath, held it, left her lightheaded, dizzy, her limbs weakened with the force of the windmill’s ruin. Always quick to size things up, calculate the cost, deciphering the best plan, Hannah’s mind went blank. There were no thoughts, only the black, painful realization that they were ruined, finished.
There were no funds to pay Ben Miller to restore the windmill. Every available source of water had dried up months ago. Underground streams ran quick and full, but with no means of bringing the water to the tank, it was useless. Hannah envisioned a deep, dark flow of life-giving water beneath bedrock, layered with ancient stone and packed, dry soil, dead roots of any growing thing, destroyed from beneath, and pounded to powder by the merciless scourge of hot wind and fiery sun.
She was brought to the present by Buck’s nickering, Goat stretching his neck to rid himself of the reins, his nose reaching for water. He pressed his face deep into the brackish hay-strewn moisture in the bottom of the trough, lipped the sides as if it would give him a few more drops.
Hannah peered to the bottom of the galvanized water trough to find only a layer of soggy hay and silt, dust turned to mud, leaving a foul, swampy odor. She straightened, led Goat to his stall, hung up the saddle and bridle, stood in the middle of the barn and gazed blankly at the water trough, her mind refusing to accept the inevitable, unable to focus on a solution.
Her breath came in quick gasps, as panic overtook her, seized her in a cloying grip like tentacles from some alien creature.
She walked to the side of Buck’s stall and leaned against the rough boards as she struggled to gain control. She thumped a fist against her chest, licked her lips, swallowed, tried to regain some sense of calm, knowing there was only one solution.
Kneel before Ben Miller’s mercy. Cast themselves on someone else’s benevolence, the thought nauseating, repulsive. Strutting bantam rooster that he was, he knew everything. Never let her get a word in edgewise.
She found Manny and her mother white-faced with fear. There was no water.
Hannah would not meet their eyes. To protect herself, she did not want to acknowledge the questioning, the defeat, so she sat on a chair and put her head in her hands, unapproachable.
Abby’s chatter, the hum of the children’s low voices, the sighing of the wind in the eaves, were the only sounds in the room. The house stood, squat and low, the ruined prairie spreading out on every side, falling away to the edge of the horizon, the windmill rising like a battered sentry, fallen by the very power that had brought them life-sustaining water: the wind.
The roiling, eternal wind, that movement of air around them that never ceased, harnessed by the clever windmill, only to be stripped of its power by too much of it.
This homestead. Built by hands of generosity, caring hands that helped them back on their feet after the brutal fire, standing here, a testimony to her father’s hopes and dreams, a harbinger of prosperity and peace, the lush grasses feeding the herd as it grew into a vast number of fine, black Angus cattle.
The herd was Hannah’s dream. She invested so much of her time in the fledgling herd, nurtured and cared for by hard work and planning.
She saw the vacant buildings, the interior destroyed by wild creatures of the plains, the dust and desperate sadness of failure. The evacuation of men and women who had met the end of their ability, leaving these echoing dwellings containing nothing but the ghosts of what might have been.
Cars would rumble by, the occupants turning their heads idly, viewing the abandoned buildings with disinterest, a vague knowing of another person’s collapse. Another victim of drought and the Depression.
The knowing raked across Hannah’s body like a physical pain. She clutched her stomach, leaned forward over her crossed arms, spoke to the floor in ragged edged words of defiance.
“We’re not giving up, so you and Manny can stop looking at me with all that stupid pity. I’ll ride Buck. I’ll find Ben Miller and bring him back. He can fix it.”
She lifted her head, her eyes black with a dangerous light. Sarah lifted a hand, shook her head. “No, Hannah. No. We are done. Manny and I …” her low voice was sliced off by the dagger of Hannah’s outcry, a volley of harsh and rebellious words that pressed against Sarah, smashed her down into a chair, and held her there, robbed of an answer.
Manny stepped up, pleaded, spread his hands in supplication. “Come on, Hannah. Can’t you see?”
“All I see is your refusal to try,” she spat.
Fueled by the force of her anger, she saddled and bridled Buck, who sidestepped every time she tried to place a foot in the stirrups.
There was no help from Manny, so Hannah’s determination swelled with every misstep. It was her’s
or the horse’s will, and he was not winning.
She arrived at the Ben Miller homestead, stiff and sore, so thirsty her mouth felt as if it was stuffed with cotton. Buck was lathered with white foam, breathing hard, wild-eyed and cranky. He tried to bite her shoulder when she led him into the barn, so she swatted him with the ends of the leather reins, which only angered him further, resulting in a good strong kick with his left foot.
“Whoa, there!” Ben Miller stood in the barn, short, wide, the same generous grin he always wore creasing his round face. “Some horse you have there.”
“Yeah, well, he serves the purpose.” She told him of her mission.
Ben raised both eyebrows, then bent his head, wagging it back and forth like a big dog. “Hannah, I don’t know how to tell you this.”
She froze.
“We’re quitting. Going back home. No one can outlast this drought. Senseless. Unwise. We know better. We know where there is a much better land of opportunity. I made a mistake, falling in love with the whole pioneer-spirit idea. Lost a lot of money. But so be it.”
Hannah’s eyes hardened, her chin raised. “Quitters.”
Ben Miller spat with force. Hannah swallowed and looked at the wet spot on the dusty barn floor. Anger sizzled across Ben’s friendly blue eyes, reddened his face.
“You best listen to reason, girl. I’d rather be alive and a quitter, then dead and still hanging on.”
“I’ll stay with my cattle.”
“Hannah, listen. It’s very serious. If it doesn’t rain this summer, there is no possibility of survival.”
She knew this to be true, but bucked against it anyway. “Sure there is.”
“Well, I ain’t standing here arguing with you. Come on into the house. You look like you could use a meal. How about a drink of water? Tin cup there on the wall.”
Hannah lunged, filled the cup and drank greedily. So they were leaving, Hannah thought, as she entered the house to find cardboard boxes and satchels piled everywhere.
Ben’s wife, Susan, met her with glad eyes, a wide, welcoming smile. “Oh Hannah, we’re going back. I’m so happy, I’m counting the days till the train departs for eastern civilization.”
“Good for you.” Spoken abruptly, devoid of warmth.
Ben glanced at her sharply. “Do you have time to make a cup of tea for Hannah?”
“Of course. Oh, of course. You do look hungry. Susan bustled around her kitchen, talking, putting yellow cheese on a blue platter, some cured meat, saltine crackers, and small, brown cinnamon-speckled cakes.
Cheese. Saltine crackers. How long since she’d eaten either one? For a moment, Hannah thought of comforts, things she’d always taken for granted, the butter on her bread, the eggs from the hen house, flour and sugar and coffee. It would certainly be easy to settle into the old way of life, but that was precisely why she resisted.
It was too easy. Life as dull and tasteless as vanilla pudding without sugar. Going back to Lancaster, marrying someone, having many children, she knew no cheese or butter or saltine crackers would ever spice her life to anything interesting.
“Let’s go,” she said to Ben.
“You should give me an idea how badly the windmill is damaged,” he said.
“It’s wrecked some.”
“Is the main structure still standing?”
“Yes.”
Ben drove the spring wagon loaded with tools. At the homestead, he eyed the battered windmill and said he’d need help, he couldn’t begin to do the work by himself. He paced the area around the windmill, repeatedly lifting his gaze to the battered paddles, talked to himself, and finally drove off in the spring wagon pulled by two tired horses, saying he’d be back with more men, a welding machine and, he hoped, lots of luck.
This was all said without the usual rolling good humor, leaving Ben Miller as dry and brittle as the surrounding plains, which struck fear in Hannah as she stood in the wind, watching him drive off.
He returned the following morning with Ike Lapp, Jake Fisher, and Jerry Riehl, the spring wagons piled with tools. They brought a galvanized milk can of water, warm and tasting of metal, but it was blessed water, slaking their thirst as they drank cupful after cupful.
Ben Miller took Sarah aside, stood in the yard, in the heat of the late morning sun, the wind tugging at Sarah’s skirts, flapping the edges of Ben’s straw hat.
Hannah paced the kitchen, the sight of the two people talking in the yard drawing her to the window repeatedly. What were they saying?
The conversation went on too long. At one point, Sarah reached into the pocket of her skirt, produced a handkerchief to wipe her eyes. Ben was going back. Would he persuade her mother?
The men swarmed the windmill like black insects, crawling up the rungs as loosened paddles occasionally fell to the ground in chilling spirals. What if the wind caught one and flung it haphazardly to slice into the body of an unsuspecting victim?
They repaired, hoisted, welded, all day. By nightfall, the windmill was spinning, the giant arm pumping fresh water from the underground stream. It poured from the pipe, sloshed into the tank, bringing the thirsty cattle in a headlong dash, jostling and shoving into position, drinking for a long time.
Hannah stood, her arms crossed, noticed the beginning of the falling off of the cattle’s flesh. They were thin. Thin and thirsty, unable to escape this heat and brittle grass. She asked Ben Miller for a bill, proudly, her eyes boring into his with a fervor he could not understand.
“Hannah,” he said quietly. “I know you don’t have the funds to pay me. I’ll strike a bargain. You agree to give up and return to Lancaster County with us on the train, and your debts are paid. There is no way on earth anyone will be able to make a living, let alone survive in these conditions.”
Almost, Hannah let go. Let go of hope and determination, let her dreams evaporate like steam on a cold winter morning, allowing the sight of the ribs with the cowhide stretched over them to determine her choice.
But, what if? What if it rained? What if this arid, dusty prairie turned into the lush paradise her father had envisioned? Each new day there was a chance the rains would come. There was water now.
She shook her head, met Ben’s pleading gaze, shook it again. “No.”
Ben sighed, looked off toward the house. He felt a deep widespread pity for the widow Sarah, and her son, faced with an awful decision. But so be it. He had his own family’s welfare to consider.
Jerry stayed behind, sent Jake with Ike Lapp and Ben Miller. He asked Hannah to walk with him, he wanted to talk to her. Her first impulse was to refuse, but the thought of the broken windmill and the cow’s ribs had softened her somewhat, so she told her mother and Manny that she was walking with Jerry.
The night was dry, wisps of heat rising from the dust on the road. The stars above them were blinking on and off like tiny white lanterns in a sea of night, the wind rustling what remained of the waving prairie grass. There was no moon, but the road was discernable by the bright light of the stars.
They did not speak. The silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring, uncomfortable. Hannah cleared her throat, pushed a strand of dark hair behind an ear. She bit her lip, her hands hung loosely at her sides. What did he want?
Jerry stopped, turned. “Hannah,” he began softly.
She made no reply.
She heard his sigh, or was it merely a sound of the wind?
“I’m so afraid I’ll mess this up.”
Still she did not answer.
“I want you to know that I’m not forcing a decision on you. I just hope that somehow I can find the right words.”
Her heart fell. Was he asking her to marry him? Her breathing stopped for a long moment, then resumed, leaving her lightheaded, her heart clattering in her chest.
“You know and I know …” He stopped. “We both know there are dire conditions here. It will be tough for anyone or anything to survive. I’m not sure it’s possible.”
She cut him off. “I
t’s possible.”
He chose not to challenge her response. She felt him reach for her hand. She withdrew it, fast. His hand came in contact with her skirt, then fell back.
They walked on in silence.
There was no yipping of coyotes, no howling of wolves, no prairie hens skittering through the grass by the side of the road. Only a barren silence that stretched for many miles on either side of them, a wide circumference of a pitiless stretch of forgotten land, blessed neither with rain or snow. It was a land that threatened to creep into a heart or soul, rendering it barren as well, creating human beings who stopped feeling and experiencing life fully, turning them into dull, lifeless versions of the prairie itself.
Jerry felt a rising alarm as they walked. Hannah seemed as firm and as obstinate as ever. Would she clench the bit in her teeth, headstrong and self-willed until she met her own doom? The thought of a future without the presence of Hannah in it was simply not possible.
“Wisdom easy to be entreated.” These words were put into his mind. He took a deep breath and tried again.
“I know what your ranch means to you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Maybe I don’t.”
“You don’t. Not if you’re planning on returning to Lancaster. You have no idea.”
“Did I say I was going back?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll stay, if you’ll stay.”
She stopped walking, startled. “Everyone else is going back. My mother wants to return as well.”
“And you?”
“I’m staying.”
“Jake is going back.”
“So?”
He turned and grasped her shoulders, his grip firm, drawing her toward him until she could smell the steel and oil of the windmill, the perspiration of the day’s heat.
“Marry me, Hannah. Marry me while Ben Miller is here to perform the marriage. We can get a license from the courthouse. We can live together, but don’t necessarily have to, well, you know, live as man and wife. We’d be married in name only, and you would have a man to help you with the cattle, protect you from the riff-raff that ride around and prey on out-of-luck homesteaders. I know you don’t love me, Hannah. You love only the land. You don’t have to love me. We’ll just live together, try and make a go of it, if that’s what you want.”