Heritage of Lancaster County 03 The Reckoning (7 page)

Finally, unable to withstand the silence any longer, Mat- tie huffed, "Seems to me, Daniel's folks been put through the wringer. And Bishop John's got every right to slap die Meinding on him--same as he did on Katie and anybody else who disobeys around here."

Ella Mae's knitting needles kept flying, clicking softly in a soothing, rhythmic pattern. Keeping mum, she never once looked up. The needle's song, gentle though it was, annoyed Mattie almost worse than if her Mare had stopped knitting altogether and lashed out about Daniel. About anything. Ella Mae was doing about as much talking tonight as a deaf mute, and Mattie figured she knew why. The old woman supposed she had a corner on things when it came to Daniel. Jacob Fisher's downright rebellious son had shown up clean out of nowhere to confess his past faults, qWord has it that Dan's not plannin' to stick around these parts. And he won't be making amends with the People or the church. He's got other things on his wicked mind--things like leaving Hickory Hollow all over again and going right back into the world to make money. He's a fancy draftsman now, you know--drawing up them blueprints for modern folk. Puh, if he had his head on straight, he'd know he could use the talents the Good Lord gave him right here in the Hollow. No need rushin' off to take a tainted paycheck from sindhafi men. No need a-tall!"

"Mattie, you're workin' yourself up over nothin'," her mother said at last, staring her down like she was so much bear bait.

"Well, what's a body to think?" she muttered, moving

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her chair away from the fire a bit. "That boy's confession wasn't worth the air he breathes. And not staying around for the membership meeting, not bowing his knee in holy contrition--" She flapped her hand in the air. "Instead, he had to go and say he was saved--found grace in the sight of the Lord. Such pride! He'll rue the day, for sure and for certain."

The Wise Woman looked mighty disgusted, even though everything said just now had been honest-to-goodness truth. Mattie knew it was, 'cause she'd talked things over with a good half of the older female population in the Hollow. The consensus was that Dan and Katie probably did belong together in more ways than one, and if somebody didn't do something to bolster the Old Ways, and soon, they'd be losing even more young people to the world and the devil before long.

Benjamin Lapp hauled several buckets of fresh well water from the pump, helping his older brother get the farm animals settled down for a bitter, cold night.

The young men exchanged a few heated remarks till Ben could stand it no longer. "I got eyes in my head, ain't I?" he shot back. "Mamma's gettin' worse, seems to me. Can't keep her mind on much of anything these days."

Eli pitched some hay for the mules. "Ya can't expect Mam to be gettin' over our sister's shortcomings all that quick."

"But what about Pop? He's strugglin', too."

Eli snorted. "En wiedicher Hund--a mad dog, he is." Shaking his head, Ben walked toward the milk house. "It's all her fault, every bit," he muttered, stewing over the way things were around the house these days. Not a contented place no more. His Mam seemed upset and awful

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nervous most of the time, getting the jitters when a body'd least expect--leaning hard on Pop, of all things. The bishop had even come calling a time or two. But all for naught, so far as he could tell.

There was only one person who could calm Mamma down, and he'd witnessed it on several occasions. Most folk had quit referring to Ella Mae Beiler as the Wise Woman, what with the bishop putting the clamps on her lately. But from what he'd heard, the kindly woman had had herself a private chat with Dan Fisher, the boy who'd loved his sister way back when. The fella'd gotten himself shunned, too-- comin' back here and strutting around, talkin' about finding forgiveness for his sins and all.

Why, he oughta have better sense than to be telling the People such things. Didn't he know what the Good Book said: "The fruit of righteousness is sown in peace of them that make peace"?

Ben spit a piece of straw out of his mouth and stood looking out the dirt-streaked window of the milk house, trying to think what it was he'd heard one of Bishop John's boys say the other Sunday after preaching service. Something about there oughta be a law about folk going around spreading such prideful talk. "We oughta put a stop to 'em when they boast that way."

Ben knew better than to flaunt any attempt at being holy. Saved, the Mennonites called it. He was raised up to be a right-gut Amishman, knew enough not to toot his horn about being washed and righteous. "Self-praise stinks," Dat had always said. From the time Ben was a little boy at his father's knee, he'd heard words like that; filled with goodness and truth, they were.

He turned to go to the house. The night was damp and cold, pushing its sting deep into his bones. High in the sky, stars peeped in and out of a wispy veil. Across the wide, open field to his right, the moon had risen, wearing a silken

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halo all around. "S'gonna snow to beat the band," he said to himself.

"Who've ya talkin' to?" his brother called, running across

the barnyard to catch up.

"Yuscht myself."

They fell silent for a moment, walking toward the house. Then--"You miss her, don'tcha?" Eli said.

Ben pulled his coat collar up around his neck, holding it

there with both hands.

"Well, don't you?"

"S'nobody's business if I do or don't."

Eli burst out laughing. "I could've sworn you'd say that!" "We don't swear, brother. You oughta be ashamed." He wanted to slap Eli--him making a mockery of honest feelings and all. He really wanted to take his brother down on the miserably cold ground and pound him a good one. And he just might've, if it hadn't been for Mam poking her head out the back door, ringing her little bell like there was no tomorrow.

"Time for evening prayers," Eli spouted off, second cousin to a sneer.

"And a gut thing.., for your sake."

Eli forced his breath out hard, and Ben saw it spiral up over his brother's worn-out work hat, toward a black sky. "Guess, if truth be told, all of us could benefit by a bit of prayin'. Lest we..." He paused. "Lest all of us end up shunned like Daniel Fisher and our sister."

Surprised at the forthright comment, especially coming from one so glib, Ben said nothing, and they hurried up the back steps and into the sandstone house.

All five of the bishop's children knelt at the long bench in the kitchen, the warmest room in the big house. John

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Beiler prayed a short prayer, thanking God for His many blessings and for leading and guiding them in His will and providence. Then he offered up to the Almighty the reins to his life and his family.

"Gut Nacht, Daed," said Hickory John, the oldest, when the prayer was through. The younger children--Susie, six, and Jacob, four--came to give their father a hug before following big sister Nancy, carrying a lantern, to the stairs.

"Sleep gut and fast," he called to them, hearing their feet pitter-pat up to the second floor and being comforted by the pleasant sound.

Ah, such a day it had been. Nippy... almost brittle cold with a dampness that chilled a body clean through. The brightest spot in the day had been his afternoon ride with Mary Stoltzfus. A right sweet girl, she was. And mighty happy to be invited to accompany him, it seemed. She hadn't succeeded in hiding the blush on her round cheeks or the hesitancy in her voice when she spoke to him. Still, Mary's qualities outshone her best friend by a country mile. He could kick himself for ever giving Katie Lapp a second glance. 'Course he hadn't known then what he knew now.

Tired from the day's work, he turned off the gas lamp and made his way to the stairs. It was no bother to climb them in the dark. He was accustomed to the slant of each one, the creaks on the third and the fifth, and the wood railing, rubbed smooth by so many hands, young and old alike.

He thought of his dear deceased wife. Miriam would chuckle to see him now, a middle-aged man trying to court but a Maedel--a twenty-year-old maiden. And he, with a houseful of children between the ages of twelve and four. Jah, she'd laugh, prob'ly.

Sighing, he sat on the bed, staring out at the darkness. For weeks now, Mary had been watching him hard during preaching services, especially on those Sundays when he was responsible for the Scripture readings.

TO

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Wondering just when his heart might begin to beat a little faster at the sight of her--the way it used to with Katie Lapp--he'd decided to take Mary along with him to the bank. As it turned out, not only was their time together surprisingly comfortable, he found that he really did enjoy having Mary sit beside him in the carriage.., sharing sweets, too. Maybe, when all was said and done, it didn't matter so awful much if your heart was stirred up like a giddy schoolboy. Deep friendship was good enough to start things out--and the best thing about growing old together. Nobody would ever dispute that. After all, a man of his stature in the community needed a fine young woman to bear him more offspring and to help him raise the children he'd fathered with Miriam.

And Mary had the patience for such a task. Slipping into bed, he said his silent prayers and afterward decided that he wouldn't make this courtship a long and drawn-out matter. He'd go ahead and make Mary right happy by revealing his intentions in the next couple of weeks or so.

Katherine propped herself up in her bed with as many plush pillows as she could gather. She'd brought with her a stack of books from the library just down the hallway, thanks to Rosie, who had shown great concern, even though Katherine had made every attempt to disguise her puffy eyes and splotchy face. She had even requested that the evening meal be brought to her in the privacy of her own sitting room.

It was Rosie who had assisted her in finding some of the old classics that Laura had enjoyed reading and rereading over the years. The nicest part of discovering the books was that some of them had Laura's childish handwriting in the

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front pages. This discovery delighted Katherine, and for all good reason.

In her present distraught state, she needed a reprieve, a moment of escape. Try as she might, the trauma lingered long after Fulton had shown Daniel to the door. She'd returned to her quarters weeping, and nothing Rosie or any of the other maids could do would console her. When asked about the stranger, she only shook her head and wept all the more.

Rosie sat with her now on a chair near Katherine's bed. "Perhaps if I read to you, the sound of my voice will lull you to sleep."

She turned to her maid, still suffering from having cried so hard and long. "Rosie, you're very kind, but why are you treating me this way.., like a child?"

"You've had a trying day. No need to fret about it " Rosie got up to smooth the coverlet on the bed. "Not a thing wrong with pampering the mistress, now is there? One can certainly see you need someone to cheer you."

Nodding, Katherine searched through her pile of books, not wanting to discuss the tearful encounter. No one needed to know the story behind what had happened today in the parlor. Or anything else regarding Dan Fisher, for that matter. "This book looks interesting," she said, examining a well-worn edition. "A Girl of the Limberlost." She handed it to Rosie.

"Oh my, yes. This was one of Laura's very favorites." Rosie opened the book to the first chapter. "Shall I begin?" Katherine nodded, sighing deeply.

"Chapter one is titled, 'Wherein Elnora Goes to High School and Learns Many Lessons Not Found in Her Books.' "

"Such a long title for a chapter," Katherine said, getting cozy in her mountain of pillows. Listening intently, she wondered about the many life lessons she, too, had learned. Most of them difficult.., not found in books.

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Although the story began with Elnora arguing with her mother over her desire to attend high school, of all things, Katherine was not able to relate one iota. Amish schools provided for only eight grades; then came graduation. The boys went home to help their fathers farm or to learn carpentry skills; girls became their mothers' right hands in tending to younger siblings and keeping house, vegetable gardens, and canning and preserving food.

The sound of Rosie's voice, though she read with considerable expression and interest, served to make Katherine quite sleepy. She already understood from past experi- ence-the weeks and months following Dan's supposed drowning--that continuous weeping brought with it great fatigue and an overwhelming sense of helplessness.

"I should'e taken you away with me " His tender words followed her into the oblivion of sleep.

She moaned and turned in her bed, realizing with a start that Rosie was nowhere about. The room was dark now, and a slice of muted light shone through the windows high above the headboard, casting dim shadows on the comforter near her feet.

"Daniel, was it really you?" she wispered against her pillow as tears involuntarily slid from her eyes. "Are you really alive?"

Falling again into tormented sleep, she dreamed she was a little girl, growing up Amish in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.

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Smoke thickened the skies over New Jersey. Dan smelled its pungent tang as he hurried down the steps to his car parked at the curb. During his commute to church, this being the Lord's Day, he mistakenly pushed the fresh-air button on the dash instead of the heater, and the noxious odor filled the car.

He was tempted to go back home, to be reclusive, yet he knew he must not forsake the assembling of believers, regardless of his state of mind. The precious little sleep he'd had last night was fitful at best, squandered with snatches of troublesome dreams.

Stopping at a series of red lights, he felt hemmed in by the heavy weekend traffic. And the dismal gray sky. All of it reminded him of his brief visit to Canandaigua and the bleakness he'd felt upon driving to the airport for the second time. Desperately weary, he had fallen asleep during the flight to Newark, awakening to the hard impact of tires on the runway, the force of the landing thrusting him back against his seat.