Pennsylvania Omnibus (21 page)

Amos emphasized the word
Mrs
., and Dawn flinched. “I hope not, sir.” She took a step back, taking
her leave, but just before she blinked out, she looked Amos Troyer in the face.
“And Ben is dead… sir.”

Amos nodded, but Dawn was already
gone.

The airbus came in low, descending
until it landed smoothly up against the platform dock. The bus was about
two-thirds full, and Jed waited until it was almost empty before he followed
the crowd out onto the platform. There had been only a handful of Amish on
board, and they filed into line under a sign that read “Amish Residents.” The
English flowed down a roped trail into a second line that terminated under a
sign reading “Tourist Entry.” No one waited in line at a third counter, where
the sign read “Amish Immigrants—Please Check In.”

Jed walked up to the Immigrants
desk, and the woman behind the counter, who looked to be a Mennonite, was
placing papers into a manila folder as he approached.

The woman smiled. “Welcome to York
Amish Zone. For official purposes,”—the way she said this made it sound like
“porpoises”—“I am speaking da English. Are y’uns having the papers?”

Jed remembered that when they’d
removed his bio-identification band, he’d been handed an envelope with papers
in it. He put his hand into his vest and found the envelope, then handed it to
the heavyset Mennonite lady and smiled.

In the distance there was a rumbling
sound, almost like thunder, and Jed turned his head, trying to identify the
sound.

“Chust da Englischers, fighting,”
the woman said. “Always da fighting. It wonders me they all han’t
died.”

“Does the fighting ever come here,
ma’am?” Jed asked.

The woman smiled at Jed as if he’d
said something cute or amusing. “No. Never. The fightings never comes here,
because we are growing da foods for many of the Englischers!” She stamped some
of his papers, then pulled out a few notes and handed them to Jed. “Here are da
moneys, young man.”

Jed saw that the customs official
back at the Transport station must have exchanged his unis for Amish Barter
Notes when his ID band was removed, because the small slips of paper she handed
him were Amish notes.

“Do y’uns read, boy?” the woman
asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Wunnerful gut.” She handed him
another printed sheet. “Here listing ist da
ordnung
. Normally
ordnung
never ist written, but during the immigration periods, rule ist
setting aside. Read when y’uns can.”

“I will, ma’am.” Jed suddenly had
one of those strange feelings of déjà vu. It wasn’t
really
déjà vu,
because it wasn’t the feeling that he’d done all of this before, but the
Mennonite woman’s unique accent and dialect affected him strangely, as if he’d
heard something similar to it recently. Similar, but not the same. Maybe a very
rough and wild version of it.

Eagles
.

Why did he think of the word
Eagles
just then? He shook his head and tried to push down the strange
feeling. He’d been on a long journey. Perhaps he was just tired.

“Wunnerful gut. Okay,” the woman
said, “now, y’uns following line on da floor until are arriving at da airbus
that take y’uns to da Greeting Center. Not costing moneys, young man. Y’uns
stay at der Greeting Center until other housings are arranged, or y’uns are
receiving allotment of da farming lands. Mr. Zook will take wunnerful gut care
of thee.”

“Okay, thanks,” Jed said. And as he
said it, he could hear another woman’s voice—inside his head!—say, “This is
real, Jed, but don’t forget what’s happening out there.” He turned his head,
but there was no one near him who could have spoken the words.

The airbus floated over towering
walls of indeterminate origin that circled the entirety of the York Amish Zone.
Jed estimated that the walls must have been hundreds of feet high and at least
as wide as a cornfield—stretching into the distance like the Great Wall of
China he’d seen in a picture book, only far taller and wider. Taller than many
of the great buildings he’d seen in photographic art books, and the outer
portion that faced the world was a sheer wall that would only be scaled with
much difficulty. Jed wondered who had built the walls and why. With airbuses
and floating airships, the walls seemed kind of pointless and silly.

At the Immigrant Greeting Center,
Jed was taken in by an Amish family who treated him like a king returning from
a far country. He took a hot bath, and while he bathed his clothes were washed
for him. He was given a loaner set of clothes while his dried on the line, and
then he was measured for several more sets of Amish clothing. Jed was told that
the women of the community would have his new clothes—made according to the
local
ordnung
—ready for him in a week. In the meantime he’d have his own
clothes and the ones he’d borrowed.

In this community, according to the
ordnung
, the button pattern was a little different on the front of the
broadfall pants (there were two extra buttons that he felt were unnecessary,
but those were the rules) and the hats had a slightly smaller brim and a
narrower band. The work shirts—pullovers—could have pockets, and had three
buttons instead of two. Other than that, Jed thought as he looked over the
printed
ordnung
, not much was different than the
ordnung
he’d
lived under his whole life. Buggies were the same color and styles, and the
women’s dress was almost identical to what he was used to seeing at home. It
looked to Jed like as soon as he had his new clothes, he should fit right in
here, and he was happy about that.

The waiting list for land
distribution wasn’t long, and he was thankful to learn that he’d be receiving
his allotment of two hundred acres in a few weeks’ time. Until then he was
slated to stay with his old friend Matthias, another young, single farmer who
was just getting started on his own farm. Matthias was supposed to come pick
him up sometime the next day, and Jed was looking forward to seeing a friendly
face from Old Pennsylvania.

Mr. Zook, the patriarch of the
family that ran the Center, a strong man in his early thirties, talked to him
and kept shaking his hand and patting him on the back like he was really
excited to have him there in the community. Jed noticed that behind his back,
or when people thought he wasn’t looking, the local Amish stared at him and
sometimes whispered.

The Greeting Center was more than a
mile inside the AZ, and it was in a forested area dotted here and there with
tobacco and cornfields fenced by split rails. Jed and Mr. Zook sat out on the
porch of the Center, talking and watching the occasional buggy go by, and Jed
experienced that peculiarly Amish feeling of peace that overwhelmed him
whenever he heard the clip-clop of hooves and the rattle of buggies as they
passed. Mr. Zook spoke remarkably good English, with no trace of the
Pennsylvania Dutch accent or dialect.

Jed would learn later that Mr. Zook
had been a backsliding Amish who’d once left the fold to join the world back in
Old Pennsylvania. He’d only agreed to rejoin the Church when he learned of the
opportunity to emigrate to New Pennsylvania. As the operator of the Greeting
Center, he still had some contact with both worlds, and that was the way he
liked it. Jed’s father had called men like Mr. Zook “political Amish” or “money
Amish,” since they weren’t particularly religious men, and stayed in the Amish
fold for reasons other than spiritual ones.

“Our community here is young,
Jedediah. Our elders are mostly in their late twenties or early thirties. The
few older folks we do have are converts who most likely came to New
Pennsylvania as Englischers. Elders and bishops are still chosen by lots, so,
as you can imagine, there are many more twenty-something-year-old Amishmen
serving as elders than any other subset. That means we have a lot of energy but
sometimes lack wisdom. I understand, though, and I know we’ll grow into things
after a few more decades.”

An explosion, loud but distant,
echoed through the air. Jed looked at Mr. Zook, who gave him a crooked
half-grin.

“The war. It drags on and on. I
follow the news more closely than many of the others. And I have the added
opportunity to question a lot of travelers as they pass into the Amish Zone. It
looks like the rebels have turned the tide. People are saying that the
government is fleeing the city and moving their operations to the cities on the
Shelf.”

“What does that mean for the Amish?”
Jed asked.

“We won’t know for a while. There
are some who say that the rebels are setting bombs in the roads and fields to
harass Transport. Others say the rebels are honorable and would never do that.
That they are careful not to kill civilians. But we have had some of our people
die from the bombs. The rebels say it is because the government plants bombs so
that they can blame it on the resistance. Both sides say they studiously avoid
killing Amish.

“Most of our people just want the
war to go away, but some whisper out of the other side of their mouths that
they have to admit it: the Amish have grown wealthy selling food and supplies
to both sides.”

Jed whistled. “The Amish materially
assist the rebels?”

“Not out in the open, but some do.
Transport avoids searching Amish wagons and buggies when they leave the AZ out
of fear of being seen as tyrants. I believe some of the Amish take advantage of
this to deliver goods to the rebels. And many of our food shipments heading to
the City are captured by TRACE units operating outside of town. Some say that’s
because our own people tip off the rebels as to when and where the shipments
will be moving. Nobody cries or complains when shipments are taken. Nobody
except the most mercenary among the Amish.” Zook smiled at his own ironic
claim.

“You talk freely of these things
here?” Jed asked.

“I do,” Zook said. “I find that it
eliminates suspicion of all of the Amish if we are open about what is
happening. And to be totally frank with you, most of the Amish don’t think of
these things at all. They just hear the bombs and want them to stop.”

Zook’s wife had a full box of garden
vegetables and other staples ready for Jed on the porch when Matthias pulled up
in his buggy. Jed’s friend bounded up the walk and shook Jed’s hand vigorously
with a huge smile on his face. “So good to see you, Jedediah Troyer!”

“I’m glad to finally be here,
Matthias.”

“How was your journey?”

“Just as the Englischers said it
would be,” Jed replied. “Scary, but safe and without any real
incidents.”

“Well, you’ll fit right in here.
It’s very much like home. Today we will be helping my neighbors, the Schrocks,
weed a cotton patch they’ve planted. I’m helping them with the crop from start
to finish, and in the winter, the Schrocks will share some fabric with
us.”

Jed nodded. “That sounds
great.”

“It will be a short while before you
get your allotment and can start on your own land, but take my word for it:
without a family, it will be difficult. Many of the single men work together,
and help out with the neighbors’ farms. When we build, we’ll have a lot of help
too.”

“I’m ready to get started,
Matthias.”

“Then off we go.”

As they were loading the Zooks’
vegetables into the buggy, Jed put his hand on Matthias’s shoulder and smiled
at his friend. “When Amos gets here in four years, we’ll already be well on our
way. In fact, Amos should be asleep right now in his pod, and when he opens his
eyes, he’ll be here.”

Matthias didn’t respond. He looked
at Jed with sadness in his eyes. It looked to Jed like his friend’s mouth
wanted to form words, but could not. Then the moment passed, and Matthias
smiled. “Let’s go hoe weeds, Jedediah.”

Jed’s hoe worked expertly between
the plants. Cotton here grew tall, and this crop, though still in its early
stages, was already taller than most of the finished cotton Jed had seen back
in the old world. But then again, most people didn’t realize that cotton is a
perennial bush, not an annual. In the old world, hybrid varieties were grown
shorter so that machines and equipment could work the fields. Then chemicals
were applied in the late fall to defoliate and kill the plant so that the
stripping combines could get the cotton off cleanly. But true heritage cotton
would grow as high as four or five feet, and once the bush became established,
could produce crops year after year. This was the first year of this stand, and
if things went well, Jed knew he’d be pulling cotton by October.

As he worked his blade between and
around the plants, careful not to harm the roots, he thought of row crops he’d
worked back in Old Pennsylvania. Moving up and down the rows with Amos and his
father, talking and laughing. Sometimes they would forget that they were
working at all, and then they’d get to the end of a row and realize how much
work they’d done while lost in conversation.