by Laura Bickle
My mind chased that idea. Mrs. Parsall’s daughter was safe in a religious community . . . one that wasn’t a Plain community. I thought back to what Alex had said, about religious barriers being the only ones against the vampires. But there had to be a line that such things could be of God. I refused to believe that everything of human imagining could be the correct interpretation of God’s word. It was simply not possible.
We Amish were taught to be respectful of others. I didn’t not believe that other Christians went to heaven, only that their way of life made it more difficult to get there.
“How can they be safe?” I struggled to understand. “How can . . . witches fight off the darkness?”
“These places are sacred. Sacred to someone.”
I shook my head. “But they are not . . . not of God.” It didn’t ring true to me. Didn’t feel true. “They will not stand.” I had no doubt that Mrs. Parsall was reporting what was told to her. But I did not blindly accept what she said, just as I did not blindly accept the Ordnung.
I rubbed my temples, confused. “If this is a disease of science . . . I don’t understand how something spiritual could stop it.”
“I don’t think that anyone does. Not yet.”
The thought gave me hope. It gave me hope that we might be able to hold out, to fight back against the monsters.
“But I’m afraid of what they might do,” Mrs. Parsall whispered.
“Of who? The New Jersey witches?”
She let out a laugh, though tears still streamed down her face. “The military. If they can’t stop this anyway else . . . they’ll do what they have to do to keep the last third of the population safe.”
My brow wrinkled. “What does that mean?”
Mrs. Parsall stared up at the sky. “Nukes. Missiles. Chemical weapons. Whatever they have left in sealed-off bunkers. They will sacrifice the few to save the many.”
“What does that mean?”
She smiled darkly at me. “The United States and Russia have enough nuclear weapons to destroy the earth five times over. If they can’t find a cure, they will decimate all the contaminated land to allow the human race to survive.”
A shudder traced down my spine as I remembered the planes flying overhead days ago spreading that metallic-tasting dust. “But . . . they know that people on . . . on holy ground are safe! And will the nuclear weapons not poison those who remain?”
She sighed. “They will run their figures and calculate the acceptable losses. Like Spock said in Star Trek: ‘The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.’”
I began to protest. Mrs. Parsall seemed to have as much faith in the military as my people had for the Ordnung. And that was just as dangerous. Moreover, I didn’t know who Spock was, but he had no moral authority over—
Something rustled beside the car. My head snapped up, and my grip on the bread knife tightened and quaked like a car antenna in the wind.
I saw nothing but heard scratching near the left fender. The hair stood up on my neck. The sound echoed in the undercarriage of the car.
Mrs. Parsall and I both scrambled back on the dew-slick hood.
“Oh God,” she cried.
The sound seethed and scraped below us. A whimper escaped my teeth. I knew with all my heart that the vampires had found us. That we were finished.
I held the knife in front of me as the noise slithered under the engine. Mrs. Parsall wound her fingers in the sleeve of my nightdress, pushing me behind her with the protective instincts of a mother. I resisted, squirming forward. We may be finished, but I would not go without a fight.
A pale, writhing form crept out from beneath the car, and I clapped my hand over my mouth to stifle a shriek.
It was just an opossum. A mother opossum with babies clinging to her, their tails woozily moving like the tentacles of some undersea beast.
She glanced back at us with a weary eye and shambled away into the darkness.
I began to murmur the Lord’s Prayer in thanks.
“Shit,” Mrs. Parsall said.
Chapter Twelve
I did not speak to my family of what I’d learned last night from Mrs. Parsall.
Neither did she.
I carried my silence with me, that heavy curtain of secrets, throughout my minimal chores of the morning. Mrs. Parsall stayed behind when we went to church, and I was forced to carry that silence alone, as my fingers knitted in my apron while I sat on a wooden pew at the Miller house. My mother sat on my left, Sarah on my right. My father sat across the aisle with the men.
It was church Sunday. Plain folk did no more chores than absolutely necessary, beyond caring for their animals, and spent the day in prayer, fellowship, and sharing food. Church services were held on a rotating basis at each house in the community. A wagon would arrive early that morning or the night before with pews and tables, and the women would descend upon the house to begin cooking.
A heartbreakingly clear blue sky stretched overhead. The benches were arranged in the Millers’ yard in rows, and I watched the people settle like birds onto telephone wires, men on one side, women on the other. Two rows ahead of me, I saw Hannah Bachman’s dark hair tucked under her bonnet. She was smiling and looking at Sam Vergler across the aisle. He was blushing under his freckles. I exchanged glances with Elijah from across the yard, looked away. Hannah and Sam had not changed, but something had shifted between Elijah and me.
My gaze landed on Ruth Hersberger, the girl that Joseph had adored. She sat close to the front, holding her sisters’ hands, rising to kiss Herr Miller’s cheek. Her eyes were red and swollen. It seemed that she missed Joseph more than I had thought.
I looked away bitterly. Perhaps a girl like Ruth would be better for Elijah as he stepped into the void left by his brothers.
I sucked in my breath to stifle a sob, then spied the Hexenmeister ambling to the back bench. He seemed to have been busy; even his church suit was spattered with a bit of paint.
I looked forward to the Bishop as he began prayers.
My fingers flipped the pages of the Ausbund, and my voice lifted in song automatically with the others. But my heart beat like a bird against the cage of my ribs as I snuck glances to the front, to Elijah. He sat with his head bowed in prayer and his crutches leaning against his shoulder, never once glancing back at me.
As the women and children sang, the men left the pews to decide who would give the sermons. My voice sounded dead to my own ears, and I was relieved when the men returned and the Bishop walked before the congregation to give a sermon.
The topic of the day was Gelassenheit. I cast my eyes downward at my clasped hands in what I hoped passed for meditative focus.
The Bishop’s voice rolled over us like thunder:
“The world Outside is full of doubt, of violence and turmoil. It is natural to experience fear. And the answer to fear is not questioning. The answer to fear is faith—faith in the will of God.”
I could feel the weight of the Bishop’s scrutiny on me. I whispered “Amen,” and felt his gaze move away.
“Gelassenheit is not something to be accepted when life moves smoothly. We need to recognize the will of God when times are troubled. As they are now.
“We have experienced a great deal of loss in our community recently. The loss of Rebecca and Ava Yoder, Mary Fisher, Seth and Joseph Miller . . .”
I squeezed my eyes shut. The Bishop was admitting that they were as good as dead. A hysterical sob was muffled. I looked up to see Ruth crying into her apron with her sisters’ heads bent over her.
Sarah stared up at me with round eyes and whispered: “Are Seth and Joseph really gone?”
“I’m afraid so, Sarah.”
“Are they in heaven with their mother?”
I swallowed hard. I looked at her innocent eyes, thought of how devastated she would be by the idea that the boys who had been with her all her life were lost. I also thought of all the places that Mrs. Parsall had said that God had saved: the Vatican, the mountain
in Japan, even the pagan temple in New Jersey. I could not believe that God would be unkind enough to leave Seth and Joseph behind.
I leaned in to kiss Sarah’s forehead. “Yes, liewe. They’re with their mother. She’s taking care of them now.”
When I looked up, I found the Bishop staring hard at me. I was certain that he could not have heard our whispered conversation over Ruth’s weeping. But he sensed my rebellion, even from across the yard. I lifted my chin defiantly. I would not tell a little girl that the young men who had been brothers to her were gone for eternity. There was enough time for her to find out on her own.
“But, even in the face of these losses, God has given us a gift,” the Bishop continued. “He has given us a great reward for observing Gelassenheit. He has given us safety.”
A low murmur rustled through the congregation like dry leaves.
“Yes, God has blessed us and has provided for us. The world Outside has been devastated.”
The murmur crackled. There had been rumors, and all were aware of the Elders’ edict that no one was to venture beyond the gate.
“But he has saved us, saved us to reward us for our obedience. And as long as we remain obedient, we shall be safe.”
My fingers chewed the hem of my apron. I knew that this wasn’t true. We were not his chosen people. We were safe, to be certain, but so were others. The image of the pagan army in New Jersey kept popping into my mind. I imagined that they were much like us, dressed in black, fighting against the monstrosities at their own Laundromat.
I was brought back to myself when the Bishop gave up the floor to the next sermon—a lay sermon from Herr Miller.
My heart ached for him. Herr Miller had never been a public speaker. He stood at the front, his hands clasped before him.
“I want to speak today of fellowship, of the warmth and gifts that Elijah and I have received from the congregation during this difficult time. Since we’ve lost . . .” His voice broke, and he tried again. “Since we’ve lost . . .” Again he faltered, and he covered his eyes with his hand. His beard trembled.
Elijah leaped up to embrace his father. His father broke down in his son’s arms, and the congregation lowered their heads in tears and prayer.
The Bishop intervened. “We shall take a short respite before the communion service. The men and women who will be baptized today are asked to leave, to take consideration of their faith. Only those who will take baptism shall return.”
Sarah leaned into my side, and my mother and I wrapped our arms around her. I could not imagine what it was like to be in Mrs. Parsall’s shoes, with no family. I bit my lip and stared at the ground.
My mother prompted me to stand and go with the others: “Katie.”
Sarah looked up at me. “Are you to be baptized today, Katie?”
I shook my head and hooked my hands in the bench beneath my knees, as if I could root myself here. “No.”
I could see the fear and disappointment in my mother’s eyes.
A shadow passed by. I looked up, saw Elijah. He was in the group of young men and women who were leaving. I saw Ruth stand up, hesitate, and then sit down again. Hannah and Sam walked past, smiling at each other. This was surely a prel-ude to marriage for them. My eyes locked on Elijah’s. I silently challenged him to sit, and he challenged me to stand. I did not break that hold until he passed into the threshold of the house.
The Bishop directed us to sing from the Ausbund. I kept one eye on the door. Only those who decided to go through with baptism at this time would return to the service. There was no penalty for reconsidering, and I hoped fervently that Elijah would take this chance to slow down, to wait for spring. There were always one or two who decided to wait.
One young man came back to sit on the front benches, then another. Two girls came next, sisters holding hands. Then Sam and Hannah, walking together . . .
I counted as each of them passed, in spurts and lulls as we sang. No Elijah. All the young men and women filtered back into the congregation, but Elijah had not returned by the time our hymn ended.
I looked up to the sky, smiled in gratitude at God. We would have time.
A shadow passed over me. I squinted up to see Elijah limping down the long aisle on his crutches, and my face fell.
I felt numb as he went to join the other young men and women who were kneeling at the front. Numb as the Bishop reminded them that they were making a promise before God and the witnesses of the congregation.
I wanted to close my eyes, not to witness this. But I had no choice.
The Bishop asked them the first of four baptism questions: “Do you believe that Jesus Christ is the son of God?”
Elijah responded in the affirmative. I could see his lips moving but could not hear him.
“Do you accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior who died on the cross for you?”
He responded with the others, in unison.
“Do you renounce the world Outside, the devil with all his insidious temptations, as well as your own flesh and blood to serve Jesus Christ, whether it costs you your life or your death?”
I saw his lips say: Yes.
“Do you promise to walk in Christ’s word and be faithful to the Amish Church for the rest of your life, never to depart?”
Yes.
The prayer bonnets were removed from the girls, and the Deacon followed the Bishop with a bucket of water and a tin cup. The Deacon poured water into the Bishop’s hands and the young men’s and women’s heads, three times each.
When they came to Elijah, I wanted to stand up, shout at him, but I remained rooted in place, my voice jammed in my throat.
Water splashed on him three times: “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, we extend to you the hand of fellowship.”
The Bishop lifted the men and women to their feet, one by one. “Arise as a faithful member of the church.”
Elijah’s face was glowing like the sun overhead.
I felt something in my chest break.
***
I had witnessed Elijah’s baptism. It was real now, real as the vampires I’d seen yesterday. I tried to smile and make benign chatter with the rest of the congregation after the service, but I wanted nothing more than to flee. Elijah was surrounded by well-wishers, and I managed to avoid him and any questions about my own baptism by busying myself in the kitchen. Once the last plate was served, I made to slip away from the throng.
But one person saw me as I walked around the corner of the house, toward the open field and a good cry. The old Hexenmeister called out: “Katie!”
I paused. I could pretend not to have heard. But duty made me turn around with an artificial smile on my face. I anticipated that he, like much of the rest of the congregation, would want to say how proud they were of Elijah and the other young men and women.
“Yes, Herr Stoltz?”
He walked up to me slowly, as if his arthritis was bothering him. Crumbs of cobbler from the afternoon meal clung in his beard, and I could see that one eye was watering. He reached into his jacket. “I have something for you.”
My brows drew together in curiosity. “For me?”
He handed me an envelope. “For you.”
I stared at it. It was made of heavy linen paper, sealed tightly with wax.
Without another word, Herr Stoltz hobbled off back to the house, humming to himself and veering toward the dessert tables.
“Thank you!” I called after him.
He did not seem to hear me.
I had no idea what it could be. I began to walk across the blond grass fields toward home, digging my fingers into the top of the thick paper. I opened the envelope, pulled out a heavy sheet of the same lumpy handmade paper.
I stopped in my tracks as my eyes scanned the page.
“Oh,” I whispered.
In carefully inked letters the color of gooseberries, the Hexenmeister had written in Hochdeutsch—High German. It wasn’t the everyday Deitsch that we spoke to one other. This
was the language of prayers, the voice to heaven:
Keep thine own faith. Wear love around thee like a shield, and no harm shall come to thee, even when thou walk in the valley of darkness. God bless and protect thee, and keep the road before thee straight and open.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.
His handwriting was a bit shaky but was still the most beautiful I’d ever seen. I clutched the letter to my chest and blinked tears up at the sky.
I knew what this was. It was called a Himmelsbrief. When I was a child, I had heard the old legends about the peasant of Cologne. The story was about a poor, illiterate boy who had prayed to God for help. The sky opened up, and a letter fell into his hands. From that moment forward, he became blessed. He was starving, and a woman fed him. A man rushed out of a shop in the marketplace and took him to be a jeweler’s apprentice. He grew wealthy and successful, eventually learning to read. The text of the peasant boy’s letter was different than mine, but the idea of the Himmelsbrief was the same: it was a blessing from God, and it was to be carried with one always.
Hexenmeisters had the ability to craft such letters, working their prayers into the words—much like the magic of the hex signs they created. I had never known anyone else who had possessed one, had never seen or touched one.
And the Hexenmeister had given one to me.
I stared back at the house. How much did he suspect about my disobedience? How much did he know, through his strange connection with God?
I carefully folded the letter back along its original creases and placed it in my apron pocket. Perhaps the old man, having heard of the devastation on the Outside, had begun making them for the community. Maybe it wasn’t just me he’d singled out to receive one.
Maybe.
***
Since no one would miss me from the afternoon’s socialization at the Miller house, I decided to check up on my patient in the kennel. I went to the house to gather some things to take with me. Mrs. Parsall, exhausted from last night, was snoring in my room. I smiled and prepared her a sandwich and fruit on a plate in the kitchen for when she awoke. I could understand her reluctance to attend our church services, but if she was to remain here for any length of time, I thought it might be good for her to get out a bit and mingle with the others, so they would not fear her or feel awkward around her. But not today.