Kornwolf

by Tristan Egolf

  Conjecture: Helga of Bedburg was actually Peter Stumpf’s sister and concubine.

  Conjecture: in the wake of Peter’s arrest, Clara Stumpf, as an infant, was smuggled out of Bedburg by Helga, her aunt.

  Conjecture: lucky to escape with their lives, they took to the forests as wandering fugitives.

  Fact: Helga and Clara Stumpf were baptized in Landau in 1608.

  Fact: they were listed as having evaded persecution in the town of Bedburg.

  Fact: Landau was set in a wooded stretch of the Rhine/Palatinate region.

  Deduction: as fugitives, Helga and Clara, the latter under the care of the first, had wandered the woods of the Rhine/Palatinate hiding from church and state authorities.

  Fact: in light of their situation, as well as existing political, religious and economic conditions in Germany, the Anabaptists, specifically, would have provided both Clara and Helga Stumpf with their clearest, if only, sanctuary. Both would have been baptized as adults. Both would have married and changed their names. And both would have then assumed the guise of pious Anabaptist wives.

  Fact: Clara Stumpf married Joseph Horace Speicher in 1612.

  Synthesis: three hundred fifty years later, a member of their fourteenth generation of descendants, Jacob Ezekiel Speicher, ran amok in Pennsyltucky—whether in jest or outlandish earnest—reviving belief in an ancient “curse,” a phenomenon known as “The Time of the Killing,” while spawning, at once, a new urban myth—and passing it on for reenactment …

  Question: but passing it on to whom?

  Answer: someone within the family.

  That was Jack’s excuse, wasn’t it? “Family matters”?

  Owen stopped.

  Family matters?

  He looked at his watch.

  Damn it.

  He should have gone to the courthouse …

  He looked at the pile of books on the table. He would just have to come back for them later: he’d never be able to sneak them past The Prune without busting a seam in his trousers. As much as he hated to leave this material out in the open where someone might find it, he just couldn’t bring himself to steal it … Besides which, the footsteps now coming down the stairs sounded unmistakably male: probably a janitor fetched by the stammering middle-aged woman who worked for The Prune.

  Owen pulled on his coat, gathered the text and walked back into the aisles. He was drenched in sweat. With trembling fingers, he placed each book in its slot on the shelves. And none too soon, it appeared, either: as, moments after the door had buzzed, most of the lights on the ceiling went out. Only a single, low-watt bulb in the middle of the reading room glowed dimly.

  Typical Stepford bullshit, that: instead of announcing “Closing time!” the janitors (even the service staff was frosty) would sooner play dumb and, afterwards, once it was obvious, inconvenienced.

  “Hold your water!” Owen grumbled, annoyed.

  Anal, queeny bastards.

  He emerged from the aisle and followed the length of the catalog back across the room. While cutting through the darkened maze of tables, he spotted a figure in the doorway—a man with his features obscured. A very large man.

  Owen slowed down. A prickle of fear shot through him. The oxygen caught in his throat.

  Exhaling in clear exasperation, the man stepped into the light.

  It was Jack.

  When Fannie arrived at the Intercourse Market at seven o’clock, it was nearly empty. The auction building was cold and drafty, providing for no more than twenty-five persons. Jan Pratt was up on the block, bidding away a crate full of chickens. The crowd before him consisted primarily of English farmers and livestock merchants. Jonathan wasn’t among them; Fannie determined as much with a cursory sweep. She found herself standing alone, for the most part, if flanked by a few familiar faces. On one side, Jonas Kachel, who’d hosted the district’s last, ill-fated service, stood grinning toward her, seeming at peace with his lot in life as a miserable wretch. While, down the row, Horace Grabers and David Ziegler were muttering grimly—neither, by any account, more miserable, though lacking all pretense of neighborly love. Between them, a dwindling mob of English bidders accounted for worldly prospects. Fannie felt out of place among all of them. She couldn’t relate to a soul in view. To her eye, life with the Zieglers or Kachels was no more feasible than leaving The Order. Yet, for as far back as she could remember, these had seemed like her only options. Sure, there’d been Rumspringa, during which time she had gotten a chance to loosen her bonnet. But Rumspringa, finally, had served to compound her overall sense of isolation. Very few of her daily associates seemed to share in that isolation. If one thing linked her, indissolubly, to Jonathan, it was their genuine piety—their steely, unwavering Christian faith—from out of which, all blessings had flowed. In ways, it had set them apart from their peers. To be sure, it had set Jon apart from the Cross-bills. And it distinguished them, both, from Ephraim.

  By nature, they truly belonged in The Order.

  As much as she cared for her cousin, Fannie was certain his faith in God had been compromised. (For that, she blamed her uncle in full.) The same applied, for different reasons, to a good many members of District Seven. Yes, Bishop Schnaeder, and others, were there. But they had been steeped in opposition for longer than Fannie had been alive. Only in recent days had the Bishop made clear his intention to break with the church.

  This turn of events had been loaded with paradox.

  Whereas fear of The Devil had cast a shroud of gloom over much of The Basin, Fannie and Jon had been given a glimpse of a brighter life in the days to come. Out of this ordeal, she had assumed, at least the district would be reconfigured. Whole new assemblies would come into being, and one of them, Bishop Schnaeder’s, was sure to be suited ideally to Fannie and Jonathan. They would remain in the fold, as intended. All they had to do was survive this season …

  But first, they had to get through tonight. Which hadn’t gotten off to a very good start.

  Having defied her mother’s orders, along with taking the bait from Gideon, Fannie had come to the market to find, by way of a shrug between sales from Pratt, on the block, that Jonathan wasn’t working. He had already left the market. He had withheld his plans from Fannie—having said he would be there till after eleven. Were she not entirely clear on his rationale, she might have felt betrayed. But she knew that his highest aim, in this case, would have been to spare her excessive worry. She trusted Jon as only his verschproche might, and with understanding.

  Still, she would give him hell when she found him. Provided she found him without any trouble.

  Standing with David Ziegler, Horace Grabers had spotted her, and the two were now glaring. Fannie’s appearance had halted their conversation. They were fed up with the Hostlers.

  She nodded to Pratt before turning away. Then she walked down an aisle, overshadowed by empty crates on either side. Behind her, a halfhearted bidding contest had begun. Pratt’s auctioneering resounded, filling the vacant expanse of the building. It faded away as she passed through the exit.

  There weren’t enough people outside, in the parking lot, to justify the overhead lighting expenses. A couple of funnel cake stands were still open, and two or three vendors were milling about. Otherwise, it could have been midnight in Ronks—save for the hum of distant traffic. Indeed, as Fannie had already noticed, the roads were congested throughout The Basin. Beyond the sprawling expanse of asphalt, 342 was a blur of activity.

  Fannie’s buggy was one of three Amish wagons tied to the hitching station. She stopped to untether her father’s pacer. The sound of music caught her attention. She glanced out over a field of corn that bordered the lot to a bluff in the distance. The lights from a Lutheran church’s steeple were visible, etched on the darkened horizon. The congregation inside was singing. Fannie could hear them clearly now.

  For a moment, it brought to mind Jonathan’s voice. And, as such, she was instantly captivated. Jon could do things with his voice that most people c
ould only dream of.

  Unlike Ephraim.

  As quickly, (on that note) her stomach dropped. She was soon overcome by the insistently nagging dread that had plagued her all evening: a feeling that something was terribly wrong—that a travesty into which she was bound up inextricably hovered with imminent closure. She didn’t know how to interpret the feeling, exactly—or, more so, how to believe it. Her only tangible sense was that someone would die tonight.

  She had to find Jonathan.

  Jack arrived back at the gym by 8:30, several hours behind schedule. Originally, he had planned to be out in the fields, concluding matters, by then. For a couple of reasons—including his personal safety—he’d waited until this evening. But, soon enough, he would overshoot moonrise, defeating the point.

  He was terribly frustrated.

  From the time he hit the plank at a clip out of Philth Town that morning, what would have begun as a hectic day had been complicated further by numerous unforeseen delays.

  First, he’d been summoned by phone to the city precinct to talk about Franklin Pendle. Jack had already considered this matter settled a couple of days earlier. But, apparently, an Officer Bolton, who was new to the force, wanted firsthand confirmation. He’d needed The Coach to look over “the merchandise”—the gloves and equipment brought in from the pawnshop. For this purpose, Jack had been made to wait in the lobby for over an hour and a half. Franklin himself had been questioned already—and had insisted, as Bolton relayed, that Jack had given him everything—all of the goods in question—freely, as a “gift.” If not corroborated, Franklin would be in Joseph’s Hall in time for dinner.

  Once The Coach had been called to the evidence room, he’d taken one look at the headgear and bag gloves—and even his busted portable—and thrown in the towel, more disgusted than heartbroken.

  No more. Franklin was on his own.

  Second, Jack had then driven to West Chester County to visit the farrier there, only to find that a bridle had been misplaced, transported to Downerstown. While waiting for a young man to fetch it (by buggy), Jack had remained in his truck, down the road. Originally, he had placed this order outside of Stepford County deliberately. Forty miles to the east, fewer questions were bound to be asked—and he wouldn’t be recognized. Such had been his initial logic—but that had been back at the start of the month. By now, word of the blight had spread—to the point where Plain Folk all over the country, if not the world, were sure to be talking—all it would take would be one of the farrier’s young assistants to shoot his mouth off, or one of the incoming Amish locals, or anyone, getting a look at the product, then asking who had placed the order—and what for—and God only knew what would happen.

  Jack had felt fortunate once it was over.

  Third, more alarmingly, he had returned to the gym to find it blown for a whirl. Three of the training room windows were shattered. The back door was nearly torn from its hinges. A sizeable patch of the outer wall had been torched, then hosed with extinguisher foam … Right away, Jack had thought of Blye. But then he had noticed the horse apples scattered and caked in the alley behind the gym—along with a wide-brimmed hat lying torn and dirty beneath the fire escape … And with that, he had realized that, just as he’d dreaded might come to pass one fateful day, The Crow had finally come to the city. An old suspicion of Jack’s was confirmed: although he had never been listed in Stepford’s directory, and never, excepting in recent days, gone back to The Basin for anything, he, as a coach, had garnered enough publicity over the years to alert even old man Bontrager, and many others, by the look of it, as to his whereabouts.

  And if not, then Brynmor had filled them in.

  And fourth (to speak of whom), the kid had been present and, in short, made a mess of everything. His jacket lay on the floor of the office—stinking of grass from across the room. A chilly draft had led Jack upstairs to the roof hatch, hanging wide open to the sky. Thus, the kid had made his escape, uninjured, presumably. No problem there.

  But in covering his tracks around the office, he had failed to abysmal excess. Which might have been prompted in part by Yoder’s message in Pennsyltucky Dutch. Given its content, Jack understood the intended rationale, as it were: normally, he and Jarret spoke German or Plain Folk only, if ever, in private—and as more of an arcane novelty than anything. In this case, however, Yoder had been more at ease with divulging specifics in code—which, ironically, had only spurred the Brynmor kid to investigate.

  And that was exactly what had happened—as evidenced clearly by the other two messages, the first from a mumbling research assistant at the Stepford County Historical Society, who was phoning to “reconfirm” directions to the Amish Basin’s Heritage House, the second from an angry-sounding lady at the paper: (“Don’t ever call here again, you asshole!”)

  After he listened through them, the messages started to fall into place for Jack. His dilemma shifted from catching up to recovering, and how to proceed—in what order …

  Finally, he had placed a call to Yoder. But Yoder’s phone was down temporarily. Ridiculous portables never worked …

  He looked at his watch. It was seven o’clock.

  He had to get down to the courthouse, fast.

  He managed to ring through to Marty who, stupefied, promised to come watch the gym right away. It was strange that the whole place hadn’t been sacked already. Marty was there when you needed him.

  The courthouse was seven blocks away. It took longer to drive than it would have to run there.

  Jack had arrived to find Percy at dinner. The entrance guards were unable to help him. But a passing stenographer had overheard their discussion, and done her best to summarize: the defendant had been released on house arrest. The details would come out on Monday.

  Jack had then placed another call to Yoder, and left a message this time. What was the use of having a portable phone if you didn’t leave it on?

  Then he’d moved on to his second dilemma: the Brynmor kid. The Heritage House.

  He’d managed to get there in twenty minutes. And none too soon: the place had been closing. Owen had been in the basement, prowling around in the aisles, the resourceful bastard. Jack had been ready to stand corrected for underestimating the kid. But not without giving him such a scare, he would dream in black and white for a month.

  Forty minutes, an offer he couldn’t refuse and a shocking enticement later and humbly, graciously, Owen had conceded to keep his fucking mouth shut.

  Which, as it turned out, was easily assured: he had just lost his job at the paper.

  Still, that wouldn’t prevent him from snooping. And Jack could suffer no further intrusions. Owen would stop asking questions, for the moment. He would make no attempts to report his findings. Also, he would attend to the gym, as already discussed. No change in the deal … In return, providing he upheld his end of it, he would be let in on matters that surely exceeded his wildest flights of fancy—matters which, by himself, he would never be able to get to the bottom of. Whatever faith he may have placed in his own investigative prowess, Owen had scarcely begun to scratch the surface on this one, and wouldn’t alone. The only way through to the marrow was Jack. But Jack, in turn, would have to demand unconditional, total cooperation.

  By the end of it, Owen looked queasy, either with fear or relief—it was hard to tell which. He’d seemed to be overwhelmed completely. But he’d also appeared to understand, and be up for, the task and position assigned him. Not that he’d ever had much of a choice. Or so The Coach would’ve had him believe.

  Jack had left him sitting there, white as a sheet, in his Subaru, staring at the diner where the two of them had just spent an hour talking. Jack talking. Owen nodding.

  The Coach had pulled away from the parking lot, opening up on westbound 30.

  By then, he’d been feeling nauseous himself. The medicine vial in his pocket weighed heavily. In twelve more hours, by early morning, he would’ve been cleared to resume his dosage. In the meantime, he needed
all the help he could get. For the moment, he had to endure the fever.

  To either side of the road, glaring electrical lights had flared in trails: billboards, traffic lights, lanterns on fences, a sign reading: “HARVEST SABBATH TONIGHT.”

  To think, he would live to see the day …

  Nothing was sacred, not even the profane.

  At least the training room door was fixed, or, in any case, momentarily barred. Marty had fashioned a row of sliding bolts to the door jamb. Solid enough. He was now at work on the windows, nailing boards over the top of the shattered panels.

  Jack, having thanked him, was free at last to turn his attention to preparations.

  The hatchback was ready, the locks and bars and chains—and the farrier’s product—secured. He needed to take a last walk through the building—a final cursory sweep to confirm that he wasn’t forgetting anything, or, more specifically, leaving it out in the open. Brynmor was scared enough, at the moment, to hold back from digging around too insistently. Of course, he would never sit perfectly still. That wasn’t to be expected or asked. However, in light of certain prospects, already mentioned, the kid would cooperate. As long as nothing too blatant was left behind—down in the cellar or up on the wall—Jack could rest assured that Owen’s briefing would unravel systematically.

  Meanwhile, The Coach had to check his machine, fix the alarm, if needed, and get out.

  Yoder’s message began optimistically. His voice boomed out of the speaker in triumph.

  “Jack, Jack, Jack …” He was laughing. “Jack. Hey. We did it! Jack. Come on, now, pick up the phone. You called.”

  A humming static silence followed.

  Judging by Yoder’s tone, The Coach almost braced for a burst of applause in the background. “Jack?” Again, the hum. Then, sighing: “God damn it. You need to buy a cell phone.”

  Why? thought Jack. What good does it do you?

  Yoder continued, as though in reply. “I’m down at the courthouse. You just placed a call to this number … fifteen … minutes ago. I was caught up in signing release papers, sorry. Phones aren’t allowed in the judge’s chamber.”