David Sebastian drove away with a heavy spirit, knowing he had left his friend with a sick heart if not a broken one.

  He hoped he hadn’t said too much. In no way did he want to create even a glimmer of false hope that somehow, by some miracle, this present situation might change. From all appearances and based on everything he had learned about the Amish before and after his conversion, there would be no change.

  Tradition was tradition, and rules were rules. The way they had always done things was the way they would continue to do things.

  Or would they? The unforeseen change he had sensed moving through the community like an unsettling wind during the past few weeks—it wasn’t the way they had always done things. He couldn’t help but wonder where all this was going and what it would lead to.

  His heart ached for Gant and for Rachel. His friend’s stricken expression when he learned about Samuel Beiler had said it all. The man was distraught. And Rachel—the poor girl had nearly fainted when the selection was announced the day before. Why, she had turned absolutely ashen.

  Those two truly loved each other, of that he had no doubt. This latest event must have had all the effect of a barred door closing on whatever hope they’d held. Perhaps he was simply too much of a romantic, but he thought it more likely that his fondness for both young people was at the heart of his distress for them. He could scarcely imagine the pain that must be tearing at them during this time.

  Despite his own anguish for the two, however, he had to believe that God had His best will for both of them in mind. Somehow, He would bind up their wounds and give them a future, even if that future didn’t include their sharing a life together. There was no limit to what the Creator could accomplish for His children.

  If only he could help Rachel and Gant believe that.

  Still numb and somewhat dazed by the events of yesterday, Rachel stood staring out her kitchen window. The day was bleak, entirely overcast with the gray dullness of an Ohio winter. Like her heart.

  The announcement still seemed like a bad dream, like one of the many she’d had after Eli’s death. She would wake up, for a moment almost relieved when it occurred to her that it had been a dream and everything was all right now. Then the realization that nothing was right, that the bad dream was real and would go on day after day, year after year, would pummel her in the stomach, leaving her weak and sick for the rest of the night and next day.

  That’s how she felt at this moment. Throughout the morning, she had drifted from room to room, slugging through her work, steeped in the same weakness and the feelings of helplessness that had overtaken her when she’d first learned that Samuel had been chosen as the new bishop.

  Oh, she had tried not to hope, tried not to dream about being with Jeremiah. Every time the thought stole its way into her mind that a new bishop might actually make a difference, might reverse Bishop Graber’s refusal to let Jeremiah convert, she would quickly attempt to suppress the bud of hope that began to open deep inside her. She never allowed herself to forget that things might not change, even under a new bishop.

  Still, there had been that faint glimmer of possibility.

  Now even that was gone. With Samuel as bishop, she was most likely relegated to widowhood for the rest of her years. And she could have accepted that, had Jeremiah Gant not come into her life. If she hadn’t fallen in love with the one man she could never marry.

  There was something else, something pressing on her apart from the finality of never being free to love and marry Jeremiah. Samuel himself. Did his new position of authority mean he would be even more relentless in his determination to convince her to marry him? Would he press her even more persistently? Was it possible that, as bishop, he could demand that she marry him?

  A surge of revulsion rose in her. She couldn’t. She could never be a wife to Samuel Beiler. She couldn’t bear to even think about the possibility. Instead, she resolved to busy herself with her remaining chores for the day. It was midafternoon already, and she still had much to do. In addition to filling the lamps and bringing in more firewood, she badly needed to put the finishing touches on three birdhouses.

  She had fallen behind on her orders. Since the vandalizing, she had all but lost her incentive to even go into the workroom. It was so painful to remember the damage and disarray she had found there that awful night when someone had broken into her house.

  But she had orders waiting to be filled, and many were intended as Christmas gifts. She hated to disappoint those who were counting on her, so she really did need to overcome her reluctance to work. Besides, she knew the only way she would ever rid herself of the sick dismay this experience had foisted on her was to face it square on and return to her work. She must stay busy. The Amish had always recognized the reality that trust in God, work, and time enabled one to walk through grief without being crushed by it.

  Rachel had lived through grief before and recognized it for what it was. She had survived it then, and God willing, she would survive it again.

  But oh, how she dreaded the process.

  29

  FAMILY MATTERS

  What greater thing is there for human souls than to feel that they are joined for life…to be with each other in silent unspeakable memories?

  GEORGE ELIOT

  The note was delivered shortly after dark by a boy Gant had never seen before. But he recognized Turner’s handwriting all right, so he took the message to the barn right away.

  He found Asa putting a swatch of horsehair on the pony he’d whittled for the little girl, Tabitha, while she was ill. As soon as he looked up and saw Gant standing near the door, he handed the doll back to the child, hauled himself to his feet, and walked over to the door.

  “You need to go tonight,” Gant said without preface. “Between eleven and midnight. Is everything ready?”

  The other nodded. “Everything and everybody. They’ve been waiting a long time for this.”

  “I know. It’s been hard on them.” A thought struck Gant. “The girl, Tabitha…she’s able to travel now? And Silas?”

  “Tabitha is still weak and a little wobbly in the legs, but she’ll be all right to travel. And Silas is itching to leave. I think he’s going to be surprised when he figures out he’s not as strong as he thinks he is yet, but he’s got gumption, that one. He’ll do.”

  “Have you talked to him?”

  Asa looked at him and shook his head. “There’s been no good time so far.”

  “You’d best get it done,” Gant said bluntly. “He should know before you get on the road.”

  Asa sighed. “I suppose so.”

  “You worried about how he’ll react?”

  “A little maybe.”

  “He’s young enough. I should think he’d be glad to know he has family.”

  “That’s just the thing. He doesn’t know me. I’m not family as far as he’s concerned. I’m a stranger.”

  Gant studied him. “You’re going to be on the road together. You won’t be a stranger for long. In fact, this trip should be good for you both. Give you a chance to get to know each other. That’s why you ought to talk to him before you leave. So he’ll know who you are.” Gant stopped and then added, “And so you can quit fretting about it.”

  Asa gave another nod. “No doubt you’re right.”

  “Sometimes I am.” Gant left him then so he could get the deed over with.

  At first Asa kept Silas in the corner of his vision as he began to tell him the strange, mind-boggling story of how they were related. After another moment though, once he sensed that the truth had begun to settle in on the boy, he turned to face him directly.

  “As incredible as this must seem to you,” he said, “it’s the truth, and you deserve to hear it. I don’t know much about what might have happened to your mama since the time I last saw her at the plantation, but I can tell you whatever you want to know about the years before that, before you were born.”

  The boy’s eyes seemed about to pop. The narrow look of cynicism that usually pinched his features had disappeared, at least for the time being. For now, young Silas was obviously a captive listener to whatever Asa had to tell him.

  “You’re sayin’ my mama…she was your sister? You’re the big brother she used to talk about?”

  Asa nodded, watching him closely.

  “So that makes me—what? What kind of relation to you then?”

  “I’m your uncle. Your mama and I had two different fathers but the same mother.”

  The boy studied him. “You’re darker than my mama. A lot darker.”

  “That’s because your mama’s daddy was a white man.”

  “I know that. Doesn’t mean I like the knowing.”

  “Even so, it’s true. He was the owner of the plantation where we lived when she was little.” Asa paused. “Ariana never told you about him?”

  Silas shook his head. “She never said nothing about him ’cept he wasn’t a very good man and that’s why she ran away from him.”

  “Well, now that’s the truth. He wasn’t a good man, especially where his slaves were concerned. He took some kind of sick pleasure in hurting us.”

  “So…you were a slave too?”

  “I was. But no longer. I’m a free man now, thanks to Captain Gant. There are good white men, son. I’ve known a number of them, and the Captain is one of the best.”

  Silas’s face hardened to a sneer. “Right. I s’pose you think he’s your friend.”

  Patience, Lord. Give me patience with this boy…

  “I know he’s my friend. He took a bullet for me. That’s why he walks the way he does.”

  The boy shot him a look of pure skepticism. “He got himself shot because of you?”

  “He did. Nearly died as a result of it. So don’t give me no sass. I won’t tolerate unkind words about white men or black. We’re all the same color in God’s eyes.”

  The other glanced away, remaining silent for a time. “Mama, she believed in God too,” he finally said.

  “I know she did,” Asa said quietly. “We used to talk about Him when she was just a little girl.”

  The boy turned to look at him. “She told me that. Told me her grownup brother used to tell her stories about God and Jesus.”

  “She remembered that?”

  Unexpectedly, Silas’s expression turned softer, even thoughtful. “Yeah, she remembered. She…she thought real high of you, it seemed.”

  Asa’s eyes burned. The boy was searching his face as if he were looking for something hidden. Finally he spoke. “So, just say you are my…uncle. What am I supposed to call you now? Uncle or Asa?”

  “Best I can recollect, you haven’t called me anything up to now, have you?”

  Silas shook his head. “Didn’t seem necessary.”

  Asa smiled a little. “Well, then…when it does seem necessary, call me whatever you want to.”

  The boy continued to watch him and then finally gave a nod. “I’ll have to think on this, you know.”

  “Of course you will. In the meantime, there’s something else you need to know, and our time is short, so I’ll just fill you in. We’re leaving in a couple of hours or so. Do you feel strong enough to travel?”

  Silas’s expression brightened. “We’re leaving? About time!” Then he stopped. “You’re going too?”

  Asa looked at him. “You didn’t know? Yes, I’m going. Is that acceptable to you?” he said dryly.

  The boy’s eyes narrowed. “I reckon it is. It’s not like I need you to go though.”

  “I understand,” Asa said, making an effort not to smile. “Still, you won’t mind if I go along? I’ve had a good bit of experience with these trips north.”

  Silas studied him. “I s’pose you might be of some help then. But not because I’m still sick. I’m fine.” He paused. “Well then, we’d better tell the people.”

  Asa hesitated, thinking. “Why don’t you do that? They’re used to taking their direction from you. I need to talk to the Captain about some things anyway.”

  Silas stood up, dusting his hands down the sides of his trousers. “I’ll handle it.”

  As Asa walked away, he thought this new nephew of his could most likely handle just about anything that needed handling.

  In any event, it promised to be an interesting trip.

  Later that night, Gant and Gideon stood watching as the last of the runaways were stowed in the wagons. Turner’s oldest son, as promised, had arrived to help drive.

  “You’re sure I shouldn’t go?” Gideon asked for the third time.

  Gant shook his head. “No. Silas is used to doing this. He knows the way. He may be young, but he’s smart, and he’s experienced. And I expect Asa can handle himself and just about anything else just fine. No,” he said again, “I need you here. And so does your family.”

  Gideon turned to look at him. “Why do you say that? About my family?”

  Gant shrugged. “You know the trouble they’ve had. I just think you need to stay put for a while. Besides,” he added, “with Christmas coming soon, I expect to be plenty busy. I’ll need your help.”

  Asa walked up just then. “So, looks like we’ll be on our way now.”

  Gant nodded. “You’re sure you have everything you need?”

  “We’re all set. Even if we weren’t, there’s no more room in the wagons.”

  Asa smiled at Gideon. “I’ll miss your company. Maybe next time.”

  “I wanted to go this time,” Gideon said, “but the Captain thinks I should stay here for now.”

  “And he’s probably right. Don’t worry. There will be other trips.” He shook hands with Gideon and then Gant.

  “Have a care, mo chara,” Gant told him.

  Asa started off, tossed a wave over his shoulder, and then took off jogging toward the wagons.

  “What’s that mean?” Gideon asked.

  “What you said to him.”

  “Mo chara”? It’s Irish for ‘my friend.’ ”

  Gideon looked from Gant to Asa, who was climbing up on the wagon bench in the lead wagon.

  “I expect he’s a good man to have as a friend,” he said.

  “The best,” Gant replied, meaning it. “They don’t come any better.”

  30

  A STIRRING OF RUMORS

  A man reveals himself not by his words but by his deeds.

  ANONYMOUS

  It took only a little more than two weeks for Samuel Beiler to show what kind of bishop he would be.

  There wasn’t even a pretense that life for the Plain People would proceed as usual, that little would be changed under the leadership of the new bishop. Although Gideon Kanagy was no longer living Amish, he still had a number of friends who were, and those friends were talking. Talking and complaining and even worrying. Sometimes to Gideon.

  Tonight, Reuben Esch and Solomon Miller both seemed particularly riled up as they sat in Gideon’s rooms above the carpentry shop, plying him with the latest hearsay.

  Gideon was surprised that either of his friends, Reuben especially, would visit him in his living quarters. Although both were in their rumspringa, neither had chosen to live outside the Plain community.

  Solomon was actually preparing to make his vows to the church soon, and rumor had it that he and Sarah King would marry next year. Reuben, the son of Malachi Esch, had always been one of the male Amish youths who seemed disinclined to stray from his Amish upbringing. Even in his rumspringa, Reuben typically took little advantage of the freedom this Amish custom of a “running around time” offered. He was far more likely to stay close to home, helping with the farmwork.

  Gideon was reminded that Reuben’s father, Malachi, had never seemed to be as strict and unbending as some of the other Plain men were with their children. Malachi always appeared easygoing and good-natured with a soft spot for his family. So maybe Reuben had no worries that he might be rebuked for keeping company with a known rebel like Gideon Kanagy. Apparently Solomon didn’t either.

  In any event, he was glad they were here. He sometimes missed being around his Plain friends. Although he still saw the other fellows now and again, being together with his two oldest pals was different. He had grown up with Reuben and Solomon. Sometimes it seemed as if they’d known each other forever. The three of them had always shared matters they wouldn’t have confided to others. There were some things best left unsaid except to the most trusted of friends.

  Tonight, his two companions seemed to have plenty to confide, and Gideon’s surprise and anger grew by the minute at their stories about their new bishop. Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised by the tales he was hearing about Beiler. He had never liked the man, had never quite trusted him, partly because of the accounts he’d heard growing up about Beiler’s harsh treatment of his own sons. Even so, he was surprised by some of his friends’ tales.

  Over the years, Gideon and some of the other fellows had actually come to feel sorry for the Beilers, especially the two older boys. Aaron, the oldest, was now in his own rumspringa, and according to Solomon and Reuben, he was inclined to spend more time with the Englisch in the area than with his own Amish neighbors. Noah, the middle son, was a couple years younger than Aaron and a quiet, seemingly shy boy. Once he was finished with his schooling, he went right to work on the farm, and that was still where he spent most of his time. As for Joe, the youngest, he was thought to be a little slow in the head.

  Tales had circulated for a long time that Aaron and possibly Noah were routinely mistreated and maybe even beaten by their father.

  It wasn’t unusual for an Amish man to be strict with his children. But strict was one thing, and cruel was another. Gideon didn’t know if many of the adults were aware of the stories about Beiler, but the young people talked. They talked about the bruises they’d seen on Aaron, particularly in warm weather when more of his skin was exposed. And when they were younger, there had been many a morning when Aaron and Noah had come to school with swollen red eyes that hinted they might have been crying the night before.

  No one knew for certain, of course, but tales were told, and some were believed. But even if anyone had known for sure, most likely nothing would have been done about it. A man’s dealings with his family were his own business. That was just the way things were among the People.

 

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