River of Mercy (26 page)

Long after the good Dr. Sebastian had left, Asa remained at the boy's side, attempting to cool the fire burning from him and soothe the tremors of his delirium. Now there was no smarting at the boy's insolent tongue, no occasional prick of irritation with that defiant lift of the chin. Nothing but unease for the youth's failing strength and the deadly heat that warred against his senses and battled for control of both body and mind.

Unease and a genuine pity mingled as he studied the young and surprisingly fragile features now fighting so valiantly against the enemy that had invaded his slight frame. How childlike and innocent he appeared in the grip of this unwelcome, deadly foe.

Scarcely did he apply a cooling cloth to the perspiration-soaked face than he needed to lift it away in exchange for another. Asa's other hand remained locked in the boy's tight, baking grasp as he moaned and mumbled incoherently. It was as if, at least for the time being, Asa had become the anchor that secured young Silas to this world.

As he tended to the youth, he prayed for him, seeking the healing only heaven could bestow. In an anointing of compassion and unconditional love, Asa bathed the boy—scarcely removed from childhood—in pleas for the Father's mercy and restoration, for strength to combat this debilitating weakness, for a divine infusion of vitality and wellness that would gain for him the victory over the destructive disease.

After Asa prayed, he bent to listen, lowering his ear to the boy's lips, trying to make some sense of the youth's fever-induced mutterings. He caught only fragments of phrases, rambling words and murmurings that fell away beyond recognition. Still he listened, for even as Silas clutched his hand, he seemed to be pleading, though for what Asa could not comprehend.

Burning. He was on fire, held captive inside a roaring furnace that threatened to draw him into an abyss from which there would be no escape. Only the hand he clung to kept him from falling into that blazing void. Only the soft, covering blanket of words protected him from crumbling into dust and ashes.

He couldn't fall…mustn't fail the people…had to lead them through… they were counting on him…they would never find the way without him, never make it through.

Who was holding him? So strong, that hand…and cool, so welcome in the fire…Mama…Mama Ari. No one else was that strong…no one else would be able to hold him from the flames. No one else would even try. Mama… He had thought she was gone… but no, not gone after all…she was here! Here with him, holding him, cooling him, keeping him from the flames, though he couldn't see her…

“Mama? Mama Ari…”

Asa caught an intelligible word now and then. Something about “people.” Then “Mama…” The poor child was calling for his mama.

He strengthened his grip on the slender but weather-toughened hand for a moment, letting go only long enough to straighten and go for more water. But the feeble voice called him back.

“Mama…Mama Ari!”

Asa knelt again beside the boy sprawled atop the thin mattress on the wooden floor he and the Captain had laid out some months back. The Captain would not have people sleeping on the cold dirt floor below ground. “The least we can do is provide a real floor and blankets and what mattresses we can scavenge.”

Now he riveted his gaze on the boy. Asa put a hand to his forehead, relieved to feel that the heat was subsiding somewhat. Though the water in the basin was warm, he again soaked the cloth thoroughly and pressed it to Silas's forehead.

“Can you hear me, son?” he asked, keeping his voice low as the others slept.

Silas opened his eyes slowly, his expression one of pain, as if even the small hint of light from the low-burning lantern was an agony to confront. When his gaze finally began to focus, it was one of confusion, sharpening to anxiety.

He ran his tongue over his lips. There was no mistaking the effort even this slight movement cost him.

“Where…what…happened?” His voice was merely a rasp, a ragged, scratching sound, like a knife being scraped over a piece of wood.

“You'd best not try to talk just yet, son,” Asa cautioned him. “Save your strength. You've been sick. Bad sick.”

The boy frowned. “Sick?”

Asa nodded. “Burning up with the fever. All the night through.”

“Like Tabitha?”

“Maybe. Except Tabitha has the rheumatism trouble as well. Doc isn't sure now whether her fever came from the ague in her joints or the sickness like you've had. Could be both.”

“She was really sick…” The boy's words drifted off as he again closed his eyes and fell asleep.

Asa stroked his forehead. “So were you, son,” he murmured. “So were you.”

He was relieved to see that this time the youth's slumber seemed more normal, less restive than the agitated, fever-driven sleep of before.

Asa watched him a few minutes more and then went to find a corner, not too far distant, in hopes of managing some rest for himself.

26

It seemed life held
No future and no past but this.

L
OLA
R
IDGE

O
n Sunday morning, Rachel closed the barn door and stood looking around. Her milking and feeding chores done, she supposed she should head for the house to fix her own breakfast. Still she hesitated, taking in the crisp, frost-covered surroundings and watching her breath, clouded with steam from the cold.

She felt as if she'd been holding her breath for days now. Perhaps later today she would finally be able to release the tension.

On the other hand, the strain might turn to something worse. It all depended on how the lot was cast. As had been the way of the People for many years, the hand of God would direct one man to choose a hymnbook in which a paper had been placed—a paper on which a specific Scripture verse was written.

Abe Gingerich, Malachi Esch, or Samuel Beiler. Which man would choose the hymnal containing that paper? On this man would be conferred the power and authority to affect and even change the lives of many in their community—including Rachel.

More than once, the thought had entered her mind to pray about this divine appointment. But only for a fleeting instant before, overwhelmed by her own audacity—the sin of even entertaining such a thought—she had gone to her knees to plead for forgiveness. One must not, one dare not attempt to interfere in the Lord God's work. There was no comprehending how great a sin it would be to pray for an event that would benefit her personally!

Later today, she would know. She might be given a hint of hope, or things could go on just as they were. Or just as likely, she might have to face the shattering reality that any hope she and Jeremiah had was gone.

She assumed that should Malachi Esch be chosen, there might be reason for optimism, not only for her and Jeremiah but for all the people. Malachi was a kind and decent man, a man of wisdom known to be fair and just.

As for Abe Gingerich, he had the reputation of being resistant to change. Although Abe was known to be a steady, good-hearted person, he had always stood on the side of tradition and was disinclined to compromise.

Finally, the thought of Samuel Beiler as bishop caused a shudder unrelated to the cold to roll over her. But why? Other than his ongoing pursuit of her hand in marriage, Samuel had done nothing she could point to that should induce uneasiness or apprehension in her. She had no concrete reason for the feeling of dread he frequently evoked.

No, that wasn't quite true, she realized. More than once she'd had the feeling he was threatening her. Not overtly. Not a heavy-handed sort of menacing, but a vague sensation of warning, a sense that even the slightest indication of defiance on her part would be met with severe consequences.

She realized now that her qualms about Samuel becoming the new bishop weren't altogether related to her future with Jeremiah. True, such an occurrence would almost certainly doom any chance of them ever being allowed to marry. Samuel would never let Jeremiah convert to the Amish church, would never accept him into the community.

But she also feared that as bishop, Samuel might instigate a rash of changes in the People's way of life—unwelcome changes, perhaps even some that would bring about dissension. Was it only her imagination, which Eli had sometimes called too “fanciful,” that made her think Samuel would be a hard, unyielding leader? Was she being entirely unfair when she envisioned him as a bishop who would rule rather than guide, who would demand rather than direct?

Somehow she could never associate Samuel with fairness or kindness. Had she taken too much to heart an exchange she'd once heard between her parents about him?

She had no memory of the incident that had instigated their conversation, but Mamma had actually referred to Samuel as harsh and dictatorial, causing
Dat
to lightly scold her, although he hadn't sounded all that disapproving.

“Sam and his father before him have been friends of our family for years, Susan. He might be a little…judgmental at times, but that's just his way. He's a strong-minded man.”

Rachel had sensed by her mother's low sound of disgust that she didn't share
Dat's
opinion.

It occurred to her now that her father and Gideon were the only persons she could think of who ever referred to Samuel as Sam. She shook her head, thinking their supposed family friend was simply too rigid and authoritarian to be a Sam. Of course, her father had always been a man to see the best in others. As for Gideon, he most often employed the nickname in a derogatory manner.