I hugged him tighter, more grateful than ever to have him with me again. I knew something like this would happen, I think, without saying it, of course. Thank you, God, thank you so much for returning him to me.
“I’d heard the shot,” Daed says, “and I left the others to go over the hill. We met them at the top of the crest and took Simon’s burden. By the time we came back down, our course was clear. I told the men we’d be returning to town, and to the hospital.”
Daed goes on: “Erick wanted to press on with the hunt. ‘We’ve got at least one good shot in him, and an hour of daylight left,’ he said.”
And once again I am transported back to that horrible happening, the daylight quickly receding and the onslaught of night fast approaching.
In my imagination, Daed asks this man Erick, “And how far do you think you’re going to get with her after half the party retreats with the wounded? You saw what it did to those dogs, how it’s toying with us, drawing us in.” In my mind’s eye as he describes the scene, I can see it happening. I can feel the glare of the sun as it peaks in through the dense canopy, the only glimmer of light in the thick autumn haze. I can feel my own heart beating faster, as if I myself were out on the hunt, my mouth going dry as the tale goes on.
“Drawing us in or not,” Daed’s adversary says, “I’m not giving up, even if I have to go alone.”
“You won’t survive alone, whichever way it goes.”
By this time in the story Simon has joined them.
Daed looks at him strong, cold in my imagination, determined to help the injured man. “And if we don’t get Edward to a carriage soon and that thing comes back, he won’t have a chance.”
Erick considers, then nods. “Yes, yes, maybe you’re right. We wait, then the animal comes to us. We lay in wait, ambush her, and then...”
“No!” Edward shouts.
“Shshshshsh,” Daed admonishes him, “keep it down, Edward.” As he describes it to us, I see him turning to Erick. “You’ll not make live bait of these men. We’re taking them back. You can do as you wish.”
We all stand in the hospital waiting room in silence, enraptured by Daed’s telling. Ruth is silent and still, no twitch daring to interrupt her attention on him. She even seems to stop hating her husband for a moment, which itself strikes me as miraculous.
“Anyway,” Daed says to us with a sad wrinkle in his brow, “the man wouldn’t listen to reason. He and his partner kept on, we turned back. Looking back now, I think that was when I was most afraid. Making our way back through the woods, Edward and Beau in our arms, the baker’s son Schmitty coming back to provide cover. Still, I knew that beast could easily have swung around in a wide arc, ready to creep up on us from behind. It’s a classic move, happens time and again. Draw us in and overpower us, pin us against the crags, and have at us at her leisure. And, headed back to the road, we’d be the first to see her.”
I imagine them dragging through that thick and dense wood, Edward feeling every tiny touch like a lightning bolt of pain shooting up from his exposed bone through his mangled flesh and along his nervous system. I imagine poor Beau, growing weaker in Daed’s arms, the lifeblood seeping away, his time on the Earth fast coming to a premature close. And all the blood they must have been trailing behind them, I think. Daed’s right. They were sitting ducks and their time was running out.
“The sun was disappearing fast, and if we were caught out there in the dark, with two wounded men, well, there’d have been no coming back.” Mamm gives Daed a hug, and Rebecca and I also share a comforting embrace.
Daed says to us, “The horses were champing at the bit when we finally made it to the carriages. We left Erick’s and the fourth carriage behind, of course.” Daed shakes his head, thinking things he doesn’t deem or dare to say. “I hope they can make some use of them.”
“Did you alert the authorities?” I ask. Normally, I wouldn’t think to say such a thing. The Englischer institutions are only our courses of last resort, but surely this is as close to one of those as any of us would ever want to be.
And I’m not wrong. Daed nods. “They’re sending someone out, but there’s only so much they can do at night. With any luck and God’s blessing, by then they will have done what needs to be done, and brought our brothers back safely.” His expression doesn’t reflect very much optimism. and I imagine myself wearing much the same expression.
Simon adds, “As it is, we made it here just in time...we hope.”
“Excuse me, I’m looking for an Olaf Thompson?” We all turn to see a pleasant-looking man, lean and tall and wearing a brown Pennsylvania Game Commission uniform. Olaf steps forward, introduces himself and a few of the rest of us.
“Todd Williamson, Pennsylvania Game Commission. You called in the missing hunters?”
“Indeed we did sir, yes,” Olaf says, his usual ease disguising the rarity with which he or any of us deals with officials from outside our community.
Todd Williamson says. “Well, you did the right thing in calling us. I know I don’t have to tell you that, while you still have two weeks on your licenses, and you are within your legal rights to pursue this activity normally, you’re in some tricky territory here.”
“Our people have been hunting for generations,” Olaf starts out, obviously ready for a challenge on the matter. “And we are perfectly within the law, as you just admitted...”
“Normally you would be,” he says. “But this wasn’t just a hunt, Mr. Thompson. This bear is believed to have attacked a member of your community last week, resulting in the young man’s death.”
“That is correct,” Olaf says. “It was a matter of protecting the community. This creature has become a menace, as you can see.”
“Which is precisely why we’re asking you to cease all future pursuit. We’ve got men going up into those hills tonight to find your friends, and in the morning we’ll start looking for the bear by copter. But this is obviously a dangerous animal, and as seasoned and capable as you and your friends are, I think it’s time you admit defeat and step back, let the professionals handle it.”
My daed can’t seem to keep himself from saying, “I’ve been hunting bear since before you were born, lad.”
Williamson says, “That may be true, but I’ve been a PGC Officer longer than you’ve been one, so I won’t abide much argument on the subject. You keep sending farmers up into those hills, I gotta keep sending my guys in to bring ‘em out, and that’s a dangerous proposition. Further, you’re likely to be making a lot more trips up Cemetery Hill if you persist, and I can’t image that’s what God wills. Now you will stand down and allow us to conduct this extermination in the appropriate fashion, because I will not allow you to continue to endanger my team because of your pride and tradition. Is that understood?”
Daed stares back at him, Olaf too. We all stand silent before his authority, choking on our failure.
He repeats, “Is that understood?”
Daed and Olaf nod, the rest of us following suit. We give up our blood oath against the bear and turn our attentions where they are far better suited and probably a lot more effective; praying for Edward’s and especially Beau’s recovery.
And for Jessup’s immortal soul.
CHAPTER FOUR
Jessup’s funeral attracts Amish men and women from all over Lancaster and York counties. An affable young man, Jessup was well-liked and will be well-missed.
But the first of three ceremonies happens at Jessup’s family home, far too small for such a huge crowd of mourners and well-wishers. In the private home, our minister Malfee delivers somber reflections on death and eternity and the soul’s everlasting place in the kingdom of God. There is no singing in this service, where Jessup’s plain-box casket rests, open, not far from the minister’s right side.
Jessup looks peaceful in a heavy white suit with layers of vest and jacket to cover the extensive damage his attacker did to him before, during and, sadly, after the attack. The traditional Amish long johns woul
d not have been sufficient, as they are for some Amish burials.
Lilly sits with Jessup’s parents, the three of them sniffling and huddled and dressed in black. I sit with Simon behind them, holding his hand, Gramm on his other side. Abram and the rest of my family sit on my other side. We face this loss banding together. As an extended family, we are a line of sadness, an army of faith and resolve and mutual support in the face of encroaching and lingering sorrow, the first defense against the onslaught of misery that has already breached our shores.
The fact that God must have willed Jessup’s death brings Lilly and Jessup’s parents little comfort, although it does give the community something to grasp hold of. In the lives of the Amish, both death and God are frequent influences and both are naturally accepted as being part of the other.
We all believe in our hearts that, because he was such a pure soul, a hard worker and dutiful and loving friend, Jessup is in a good place now, better than anything this life has to offer. Not all are so certain to reside in that heavenly embrace, but everybody who knew Jessup is confident that his place in the celestial world is assured.
There are no eulogies here, as there are in Englischer funerals. The Amish funeral marks the end of that Christian life, and for us it is important to focus on the glory of God as much as possible and not on the misery of death. The body that remains and is buried is only that, and the spirit has already moved on to whatever reward God has in store for that individual soul. There will be no Memorial Day, no anniversary celebrations to remember or commemorate Jessup now. He’s gone, and this is our time for acceptance and comfort, renewal and renewed commitment to God.
I look over at Abram, sitting to my right. He looks at the coffin as if he can’t take his eyes off it. He’s still young. At fourteen, he’s never lost anybody close to him. Our grandparents were dead before he was old enough to know them, and he never really knew Granduncle Zeek either. How difficult this must be for him, I can’t help but think.
What about you? I have to ask myself. Death is a new experience from this side of the skin too. What’s it like on the other side? Can they see back into this world, to influence and effect things that happen, or things that might have happened?
Is Jessup in heaven, or languishing in some purgatory? Is he one of those souls you often hear tell of who die violently and roam the realm of the living, uncertain of their place in the afterlife?
I try not to think about it. I’ve always placed these things upon the alter of the Lord, where I feel that they belong. Death is not the province of the living, why should we claim to understand it, much less master it? Our concerns must be for the living, for that is the way our community can go on living. Without it, we shall surely perish from the Earth.
Beyond Abram, our parents sit. My Daed’s posture is stiff, formal, strong, Mamm leaning against him in her sorrowful revery. He’s seen death, more than he’s ever told me, probably more than he’s ever told his own wife. Indeed, they have buried all four of their own parents. Surely they can make some sense of this terrible blessing, I ask myself, this nasty necessity.
I’m sad to realize that, eventually, I will have adopted their resolve, their acceptance, their tranquility in the shadow of that Grim Reaper. It will make days like this easier, but that brings me no solace. I don’t want to get used to it, or to go through all the terrible experiences that will desensitize me in that pitiable process of soul-numbing and emotional deadening.
I look to my left, where Simon sits, staring at the minister or staring through him. He is unmoving, trapped in a world of his own thoughts. I look right at him, hoping he’ll feel my stare. But he’s a million miles away, and it feels like he’s drifting ever further by the second.
I give him a little shake, which seems to snap him out of his revery, however temporarily. He looks at me, a forced smile pushing itself onto his lips. I look at him to say, I know, I know you’re hurting. And I’m sorry for your loss.
The pallbearers, four single Amish men whom I don’t recognize, load the coffin into a specially designed hearse carriage. Because Jessup was still single, his pallbearers must also be, according to Amish tradition. So these were friends of his, whom I’m certain both Simon and Lilly know well.
Just another thing they have in common, I chide myself. Another thing to bring them even closer together in this trying time.
The rest of us all follow in a procession of carriages to a large barn loaned to us for the occasion. Here the rest of the communities join us in viewing and paying their respects. Having viewed the body, my family and I step back to allow others their chance to say goodbye to Simon’s old friend.
After helping to escort the coffin from the carriage into the barn, a favor for Jessup’s grieving father, Simon hadn’t returned to my side, and I now find myself looking around for him.
I see the man called Erick, whom I’ve never met personally but have seen often from my Whoopie pie booth in the Central Market. He and the man next to him, whom I also don’t know, sit huddled, looking around with guilty relief. They’d been found in the woods that night by the PGC rescue team, and just in time. They’d stranded themselves out there and they know it. Now they sit, having failed to bring in the bear and, much worse, reducing themselves to being rescued instead of being the rescuers of us all. Nobody I know is bothered, but I can tell by their downcast expressions that it eats at them to their very souls.
Funny how we define ourselves, I think to myself. These men pit their whole lives, their entire senses of self into killing this creature, into being the heroes they often imagined themselves to be. Don’t they see how heroic it is just to survive from day to day, just to love God and be faithful to His will, just to love each other?
But I have to admit that I suppose men see life a little differently. How attached they are to their achievements, I have to observe to myself. Their jobs, their function, their ability to reap and sew and build and tear down. Lacking the ability to bear a child, I suppose these are the things they cling to.
Of course, women cannot sire a child, but I’ve never seen a woman try to compensate for that.
Then I spot him.
My husband is standing in a corner of the barn, with Lilly. Alone in the crowd, secluded by their shared history, they confer in the humble and humbling privacy of this public event, enshrouded by a sense that they and they alone have lost something special, a pain only they can mutually experience. They share the same expression: mouths downturned, eyebrows arching, faces flushed red or drained white.
Don’t jump to any conclusions, Hannah, I warn myself. They do share something special, that’s true: Jessup, and having lost him. And they can each provide a solace for the other that is unique. Don’t get jealous. You’re alive, after all, and you should focus on that right now. This certainly isn’t the time to be casting aspersions, especially on the bereaved. Let her enjoy the comfort of Simon’s company. She needs it now, and you’ll have it later.
All of it.
Okay, I hear myself think, be blind, ignore the obvious, pretend it isn’t happening, pretend it doesn’t matter. Just like with the bear, you go on thinking everything should be left alone. Let the creature that threatens your very life run off into the hills, ready to strike again at any time, turn your back to it and wait through those heady few moments before it pounces, pins you down and rips you to pieces.
I shake my head to clear that doubting voice out of my head.
Maybe with some other man, but not Simon. He loves me. And he’s too good a man, with too strong a character, to ever cheat on me or anyone. Besides, if he wanted her, he’d have taken her before I ever arrived.
That was before, my nasty little inner Doubting Thomas whispers. But death, loss, they have a way of changing things, changing people.
No! I won’t let myself believe it, or be swayed by it. Not today. This is a day to reflect on what’s lost, and on what remains.
Exactly, I hear myself say once more before I focus all my
attention on the sermon, the better to drown out that unceasing voice of dread in the back of my mind.
The aging minister Malfee begins another of two sermons. The first is about twenty minutes long and includes recitations of several of David’s Psalms, including the 23rd:
“The Lord is my shepherd,” Minister Malfee says, in our people’s native German, “I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters.”
I look around the room, the backs of Jessup’s parents’ heads bobbing as they quietly cry, sharing their unspeakable misery, huddling together for warmth and for strength. Next to them, Lilly sees them cry and herself begins to quiver with a sorrow that sets her trembling. Lilly’s parents sits on her other side, comforting her with a feeble touch.
“He restoreth my soul,” the minister goes on. “He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.”
I lean against Simon, by my side. Thank God my Simon is here, living, loving me, the way it must be, the way God intends. He’s not about to leave me, he’s not about to go to Lilly just because they’ve lost a mutual friend.
No, not my Simon.
“Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.” The words resonate in my grateful heart, my thankful soul, as if they are speaking for me, telling the story of my own life, especially as it’s become over the past few months. I have sat down with my enemies, anointed. And with all that has come to me in this brief time to reward my risks, my cup surely does run over - with love, with family, with fellowship, things I’d never really known before coming to Lancaster. And I feel the next words as vibrantly as the ones which precede it. “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Amen.”
Whoopie Pie Promise - Book 3 (The Whoopie Pie Juggler: An Amish of Lancaster County Saga series) Page 5