The Hallowed Ones (8 page)

My father stood to gather his bucket and move to the next cow. “I think that this thing . . . whatever it is . . . shall be short-lived.”

“I hope so.” I bit my lip. I selfishly hoped that the English would hurry and straighten out their business so that their cares and tragedies would not interfere with my
Rumspringa.

But my father knew my thoughts well. “Still. I think you will have to wait for
Rumspringa.
”

“Wait until the crisis is over, of course . . .”

“No. I mean that you’ve not demonstrated the judgment that I hoped you would have. Perhaps in spring.”

My breath caught in my throat. “But you and Mother went . . .”

“
Ja.
And those were different times. Safer times.” My father carried his buckets to the mouth of the barn. “I do not have confidence that the world is safe enough for you to roam about in it.”

I stared into the bucket. My hands slackened, and I blink- ed back tears. Selfish tears, I knew. There was much more at stake than my solitary future. Outside was facing violence and God knew what else. Seth and Joseph were missing, perhaps dead.

But all I could think of was the soft sound of snow creaking on the roof above my room this winter as a tear splashed into the milk bucket.

***

I finished my chores at twilight and trudged back from the Millers’ barn to our house in the falling darkness. I looked up, watching the stars overhead. They were the same as they always were. Despite what my father said, I couldn’t believe that the world had truly changed.

I took my time, smelling the dew condensing to earth and the sweet smell of drying grass. I almost didn’t notice a thin figure walking through the field, his back stooped with age and from the load of the paint cans that he carried.

“Good evening, Herr Stoltz,” I greeted the old Hexen- meister.

He seemed lost in his thoughts, as well. He paused and set down his paint cans. “Hello again, Katie.”

“Are you painting?” I gestured at the cans with my chin. I said nothing to him about his work at the crash site this morning.

“
Ja.
There is much work to do.” He smelled of turpentine, and wet brushes were tied in a bundle over his shoulder. Flecks of red paint in his beard looked like blood in the dim light.

“I thought that you had painted all the hex signs this spring?” I asked. The Hexenmeister was responsible for painting the hex signs on the barns. I was accustomed to seeing him at the fringes of the community, muttering to himself, planting seeds in haphazard places. When I was a small child, he had scared me, but I had become used to thinking of him as a harmless old man, practicing his art.

Until this morning. And I began to take him more seriously.

The Hexenmeister had always seemed to be just beyond the edge of the Ordnung—a bit mystical and not living entirely within our strict rules. He would not have been allowed to work as he did in other Amish communities: with graven images, with vain and complicated art, with the calligraphy he used in letters he wrote directly to God. These were the practices of a small group of Pennsylvania Dutch, immigrants from the Old Country. Our ancestors had somehow been unable to extricate themselves from that particular Old World root, even as they renounced other sinful and worldly practices. The old man’s father and his grandfathers before him had taken on the role of Hexenmeister. Some thought that this was an inherited insanity. But the Elders had always been quiet where he was concerned.

I wondered what they knew that I didn’t.

I noticed that, unlike many of the Amish who sold their furniture, quilts, and crafts to the English, Herr Stoltz never sold any of his beautiful paintings. He made them for us, and us alone. Any of the hex signs sold in stores run by the English were reproductions, ordered from English painters who mimicked old designs. They had no real knowledge of the symbolism in them. To them, they were just pretty pictures. To the Hexenmeister, they were images designed to beckon good fortune, friendship, and fertility—and to ward off bad luck.

“There are more to do. Different signs.” He rubbed his gnarled, stained hands like they ached.

“Would you like help carrying the cans?”

He shook his head. “No, Katie. It’s late. You run along home to your family.”

His eyes stared out unblinking into the night, and I stifled a shudder. It was as if he saw something in the darkness that I could not.

“Yes, Herr Stoltz. Have a good evening.” I left him in the field, looking up at the stars.

He wasn’t the only one out this evening. As I approached my house, I saw an unfamiliar figure pacing outside. As I neared, I realized that it was Mrs. Parsall, dressed in my mother’s clothes, but minus the prayer bonnet and with the addition of her own sneakers. Mrs. Parsall was stouter than my mother, and the buttons strained against her belly. I smiled for a moment, seeing my friend cast into our world.

But when she turned, the expression on her face wiped away my amusement. She held her cell phone, and her lower lip quavered.

“Mrs. Parsall, what’s wrong?” I reached out to rub her arm.

She blew out her breath. “I spoke with Dan.”

I perked up. “Your husband is all right?”

“Yes. He’s all right. But . . .” She shook her head, and I could see her reaching out for words. “He says that something terrible has happened.”

“Come sit.” I guided her to sit down on the back step of the house. Her hands were shaking, and she took three tries to get the phone back in her apron pocket, failed. I took the phone out of her hand and noticed that the battery symbol was blinking on it.

“Please shut it off,” she said. “The big button on the right.”

I pushed it, and the phone display faded with a musical chirp that sounded like a pale imitation of birdsong. The insects seemed unaffected by what had spooked the ravens. We listened to the crickets for some time, watched the last of the summer fireflies rise to swim in the field, before she spoke again. Her voice was stronger.

“Dan says that they think there was a terrorist attack. A biological weapon.”

“Here?” In our little corner of the world, that seemed improbable. “How?”

“They don’t think it started here. They think it began in DC, that it’s spreading west. A contagion.”

“A contagion?” I echoed. My skin began to crawl.

“Something that causes violence, madness. They don’t understand it yet; they’re just gathering intelligence from afar.” Her words ran over each other. “Dan says they’ve closed the borders to the United States.”

“No one gets in or out. Like here.” My head was swimming.

“Like here. In quarantine.”

“What are they going to do about it?”

“No one knows. The military has no idea how the contagion is spread, how much of the rioting is panic, and how much is due to the contagion itself. In the end, it may not make much difference. The U.S. military is operating largely out of ships off the coasts, where they are intercepting radio and television transmissions.” Her eyes lowered. “From what Dan says, it’s complete havoc. Philadelphia and Boston fell. Fell like New Orleans after the hurricane.”

“And your children?”

She hiccupped back a sob. “Most colleges are on lockdown, according to Dan. The National Guard is there. He’s trying to find out.”

I threw my arm around her. “They’ll be all right.”

“I hope so.”

I wrinkled my brow, trying to understand. “How can a sickness cause evil?”

“There are a lot of theories that suggest that evil is a sickness. Every time some twisted SOB in the newspaper kills his girlfriend’s children, there’s always some psychiatrist who comes forward to say that the guy’s mentally ill.” Mrs. Parsall held her chin in her hands, elbows braced on her knees. “They say that there’s no evil in the modern world anymore. That it’s all just psychological dysfunction. Sociological inequities. Disease and social maladaptation.”

I chewed my lip. “Plain folk are taught that evil is spiritual. The absence of God.”

Mrs. Parsall bit back a sob. “Well, it seems as if God’s left the building, and we’re left to our own devices.”

We prayed that night, until the moon rose high in the sky.

With the information that Mrs. Parsall had provided about disease, I spent the evening under my mother’s stern eye, washing vigorously under the cold water pump. Though Plain folk generally believed that illness was an expression of God’s will, my mother would take no chances.

Once we had all been scrubbed beet red, my mother, father, Sarah, Mrs. Parsall, and I walked over to the Miller house with casseroles in hand.

And to pray.

Plain folk held regular prayer services every other Sunday in each other’s homes. We prayed before every meal and when it was needed. Like now.

As we approached the lone light shining in the Miller house, walking in the darkness, I wanted to be comforted by that light. I wanted some reassurance of God’s will. That it remained constant. That it remained good. That he was still listening to us, even if he ignored the Outside world.

We prayed silently before supper and after. Then Herr Miller got out his tattered
Ausbund
prayer book, and we prayed and sang in Deitsch.
Mrs. Parsall sat silently in the corner, absorbing the words with glistening eyes and hands clasped in her lap. I drew her down on her knees beside us and felt her leaning hard against my shoulder. I know that she understood none of it, though she was praying in her own way.

The Amish were not permitted to be prideful in prayer, and we made up no prayers of our own. We used the Lord’s Prayer most often and others from the prayer book. Many religions used prayer as means to impress, but we were forbidden to. We hoped that God heard us using the old words or our silence.

At one point Herr Miller broke down in tears. Elijah clasped his shoulder and wept quietly with him.

Herr Miller was facing every Amish parent’s nightmare. Not just the potential loss of his children—he was facing the loss of their souls. Amish people were not baptized until they were in their late teens or early twenties, after
Rumspringa.
Our community wanted them to choose the Amish life of their own free will and understand the decisions they were making, as adults. There was no point to us in forcing a small child to be baptized. They could not give consent, nor could they fully understand the rules to which they committed.

If, Lord forbid, Seth and Joseph died before they were baptized, they would be lost. Caught out. They would not enter heaven. Herr Miller would never see his sons again, and I could not imagine the depths of that grief. He, at least, had the hope of seeing his wife again after death. But without all of his children . . .

The thought of evil still permeated me, ignited by my discussion with Mrs. Parsall and fanned by the Lord’s Prayer. Much of day-to-day Plain existence kept me well
insulated from evil—and those sins that I usually resisted were the things that the English took for granted as neutral parts of everyday life: driving cars, electricity, the pride of fashion and vanity. I was so accustomed to debating the evils of those things in my head that it rarely occurred to me to contemplate violence or destruction.

I knew that I was weak, that I sometimes failed to submit to God’s will. But I didn’t feel truly sinister. I’d never had the urge to harm another living thing, to do such violence that was supposedly caused by some piece of germ warfare. Illness, like everything else, was considered
Gelassenheit
—God’s will. Disease was invisible, and it was easily attributable to his divine plan.

But was the loss of Seth and Joseph truly his will? Had the Outside interfered with his divine will by creating an evil that was not spiritual? If it was a disease, would any amount of spiritual virtuousness deflect it? Or did God choose who would be affected?

My thoughts rushed and collided together, not able to be soothed by even the familiar rhythms of the Lord’s Prayer. I felt the loss of the young men who had been like brothers to me in an ache behind my breastbone.

That night I lay awake in bed with Sarah sleeping beside me, staring at the dark ceiling. I didn’t understand. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to.

Instead of snoring, I heard soft sobbing from the bed beside me. Mrs. Parsall was trying to muffle her crying in the pillow. I could see her blond hair pressed up against it in the moonlight.

I kissed Sarah on the forehead and slipped out of my bed. I padded over to Mrs. Parsall’s bed and climbed in beside her. I wrapped my arms around the older woman as she sobbed.

Like Herr Miller, she may have lost her children for all time.

And there was nothing I could say to soothe that hurt. All I could do was be a shoulder in the darkness.

***

Evil arrived on our doorstep the next day.

At the time, I didn’t see it that way. But that was the way the Elders saw it.

I was doing my chores and Elijah’s, feeding the cattle. Star dragged bales of hay on a sledge, and I stopped her in the middle of the field to put the hay in the iron bale holders beside the watering tubs. The bales were heavier than I was used to, about fifty pounds each, but I was determined not to complain. There were bigger concerns now than my own comfort. Though an air of crisis hung low like a cloud over our community, there were still mundane chores to be done. I was grateful for them, for the ache in my muscles that kept me tied to the present moment; the activity kept my mind off of useless ruminating about the future.

The cattle had seen me coming and were heading in, mooing and grumbling among themselves. Unlike the black and white dairy Holsteins in the barn, these were brown and white Herefords. Beef cattle. Most of them were bulls, and I gave them a wide berth. They were never aggressive. But at two thousand pounds, they could accidentally hurt a person as they made a beeline for the hay and grain.

I stretched, stepping back, as the bulls clustered around the feeder. My back popped in two satisfying places, and I looked up at the leadening sky. I wanted to get the hay bales out before it rained. It would be much worse slogging through a muddy field with soggy bales that weighed more than they ought to.