Beacon of Light, page 1
The characters and events in this book are the creation of the author, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
A BEACON OF LIGHT
Copyright © 2022 by Linda Byler
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Good Books, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
Print ISBN: 978-1-68099-740-8
eBook ISBN: 978-1-68099-797-2
Cover design by Koechel Peterson
Printed in the United States of America
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
TO APPROACH THE HOME OF HER CHILDHOOD AFTER ALL these years was no small thing. Engulfed by the raw fear of rejection, the panic of being turned away with nowhere to go, her mouth turned dry as her heart drummed in her thin chest.
A wisp of a girl, budding into womanhood, her blond hair was caught in a ponytail, and her long coat hid any curves her blouse and calf-length skirt might have revealed. The lack of a covering rode like an uncomfortable nakedness on her head, the blue of her coat a neon signal of having divested herself of her Amish heritage. She had shucked the plain clothes just as she had rid herself of Melvin Amstutz and his hypocrisy. She had fled his home, but not before he had robbed her of her girlhood, her innocence, and her faith in the plain way of life in Arkansas.
Would anyone believe her if she even found the courage to tell of what life was like under Melvin’s roof?
The home remained as she had kept it in her memory, perhaps with a fresh coat of white paint on the German wood siding of the house. A square two-story, unadorned except for the rectangular windows with small panes, the putty newly applied, the front porch with only the gray wooden box that contained the supply of fuel for the great range in the kitchen.
The bare branches of the maple trees thrust their black fingers toward the lowering gray sky, as if to warn her away, beckoning her silently to retrace her footsteps, forget about any hope of warmth or welcome. She stopped when the frenzied barking of a large dog reached her ears, followed by a low guttural growl.
She clutched the small black satchel, her breath coming in short gasps as a black and brown mongrel appeared from beneath a hedge that bordered the house. She saw the hairs lifted on the scruff of his neck, shuddered to see the great slavering mouth open and close with each frenetic burst of sound.
But she stood her ground. What did she have to lose? To be consumed by this unfriendly animal might well put an end to her existence on earth, an existence that had felt like a dark void since Clinton’s death.
She watched. The dog was there, at her side, the low growl silenced as he sniffed the hem of her coat. She did not meet the fiery eyes, neither did she stretch out a hand to touch him, but held her breath as the long matted tail began a whisper of back and forth movement.
“Hey dog,” she whispered.
There was no sign of life from within the white house. No parting of white muslin curtains or lifting of the green roll-down shades, no door flung open to reveal a welcoming face.
She stepped forward tentatively, the dog stepping aside to allow her to advance. She took this as a positive sign and made her way to the bottom step of the porch. The dog looked up, whined. Slowly she lifted one foot, then the other, until she found herself at the door, trembling. She drew down her top lip to catch the shaking lower one, lifted her hand, and knocked.
Immediately, the door was pulled open from the inside, the latch releasing like a explosion to her overwrought senses. She was face to face with a young woman dressed in the navy blue of traditional Amish dress, a white apron tied around her narrow waist, a large pleated head covering drawn forward over her ears, her face impassive.
“Hello.”
She opened her mouth, but only a croak emerged. She cleared her throat, said hello in a small voice barely above a whisper. She met the curious gaze from the brown eyes, but lowered her own too quickly, guilt washing over her as she realized how unrecognizable she must be.
“We don’t help tramps.”
“I . . . I am not a wanderer.”
“What are you then?”
“I am May. Merriweather Miller. I believe this is the home of my grandparents.”
The woman’s mouth went slack with astonishment, the brown eyes opened wide in disbelief as her two hands came up.
“You’re . . . you’re Eliezer’s girl?”
“I am.”
“May.”
“Yes.”
“But . . . you’re in English clothes. Where are your real clothes?”
“I don’t have them anymore.”
“Are you excommunicated? Should I be speaking to you?”
“No, I never joined the church in Arkansas.”
“Goodness gracious! I’m Nettie. Nettie Troyer.”
May was bewildered. Was she supposed to know who she was? It had been so long; she was sure there was a dizzying array of cousins and new marriages, babies born, families moved to other locations, deaths and sicknesses. Her face revealed her lack of understanding, the shame of her years of absence.
“But . . . this house. It is the house of my maternal grandparents, is it not? Solomon and Mattie Amstutz?”
“Yes, but they both died. Solomon of typhoid and Mattie soon after. Fell asleep in her bed and never woke up. We bought the house. Aaron Troyer is my husband. Remember Aaron?”
May shook her head.
“Well, come in. Rex, move. Let her in. He’s such a bossy dog. Thinks he owns the entire Amish community. Come on in. Bring your bag.”
May was weak with relief, tears close to the surface, the hunger roiling in her stomach like a ravenous animal. The walk from the bus station had used up most of her remaining strength, the sleepless night adding to her exhaustion.
A small child peered curiously from the doorway, her hand to her mouth, the thumb inserted securely. Her small black covering covered her head, leaving May with a wrenching nostalgia, memories of her mother drawing a comb through her hair, expertly braiding and pinning the blond tresses, before pinning the s’glay schwottz coppley (small black covering) on her head.
She followed Nettie to the kitchen table, sank gratefully into the plain wooden chair she drew out for her, then crossed her hands in her lap.
“Well, since you are not excommunicated then, I suppose I won’t have to shun you. According to the ordnung (rules) of the church, I can get you something to eat and join you at the table. It’s only three o’clock in the afternoon, which is fine by me. Aaron won’t be home till later in the evening. Come, Esta, come away from the door. Here, get your thumb out and say hello to May.”
A wail from an adjoining bedroom took Nettie down the narrow hallway to reappear with the fattest baby May had ever seen. His face was as round as the moon, with small brown eyes hidden in rolls of flesh, his fingers waving like small sausages. Nettie sank into a chair, propped the large baby on her lap, and told May he was a glutz (heavy child).
May smiled, unsure what the proper reply would be.
“So, tell me your story.”
May felt her face drain of color, felt the hopelessness of telling this friendly normal young woman of her own dark and bitter past.
If she spoke the truth, she would be turned away, marked forever as an ungehorsam (disobedient) or worse. The deep shame and sorrow of her years with Melvin and Gertie had to remain buried under a layer of denial, a truth that would cease to exist. She was capable of holding it inside; her courage would disintegrate it eventually, grind away at the horror of it until there was nothing left. No one would need to know her darkest secret, and certainly no one would ever find out about her illicit love with Clinton. She would never speak of it, would never marry another, could never love again.
Her ravaged mind and body was her own, and no one would ever again trespass on her own flesh and blood.
All this accosted her in the form of outward hesitation, a trembling of her mouth, a bewildered, evasive look.
Nettie’s eyes narrowed.
“Oh.” Quickly, May recovered her composure. “Oh, there’s not much to tell. My . . . my . . . you know, my parents were drowned that spring. Eliezer and Fronie Miller. And . . . well, you might remember. My grandparents were old. Not, you know, capable of keeping my brother and me. The rest of our freundshaft (relatives) had homes and many children. Mouths to feed. Times were hard after the . . . well, during the war. So they all agreed Melvin and Gertie, our uncle and aunt in Arkansas, would be the best choice, the way he made a success of growing cotton in the Mississippi Delta.”
“Were they good to you?”
“Yes, oh yes. We grew up in their care.”
“How come you left them?”
“Gertie passed away, and Melvin became ill. I was taken in by an English family who led me into the world.”
“And your brother?”
Here May lost her courage, her train of thought, her suave ability to make up a believable tale. Her long dark lashes swept her cheeks, two blushes of color appeared on her thin white cheeks, and she drew a shivery breath.
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I . . . he left. I don’t know where he is.”
“Hmm. Why did he leave?”
Thick and fast, the questions came then, till May was exhausted in body and spirit. Truthful to a fault, this was indeed a treacherous road, one to be navigated without the hindrance of the blackest secret.
Finally, she asked to use the outhouse, was pointed in the direction of the back yard, relieved to find Nettie occupied with setting out a block of Swiss cheese, a paring knife, homemade bread and butter, with a small dish of canned apricots.
May swallowed the rising saliva, felt the greedy glitter of hunger in her eyes, could not butter the bread quickly enough. She fell on the entire slice without breaking it in half, stuffed it into her mouth in a way that caused alarm in Nettie, who said nothing but wondered when this girl had last eaten anything.
When the husband, Aaron, returned, there was color in May’s face, strength gained by the simple food, and courage to face the man of the house. Tall, well built, with a shock of unruly hair that sprang away from his face, he was given to a bashful curiosity, but being a man of few words, he allowed his garrulous wife to fill in the details without his comments upsetting her flow of words.
“So what do you want from us?” he asked finally, changing the toothpick from the right side of his mouth to the left.
“Uh . . . well, nothing, really. I knew this was my grandfather’s house and thought they might take me in, but I will move on if you direct me to my relatives’ homes.”
“And your relatives are?”
“You know, Aaron. S’alsa Abe. Danny Miller. There’s Robert Amstutz and Henry Mast.”
Aaron nodded. “You know none of them will take you in like that.” His jaw jutted in the general direction of her blue coat, which hung open now to reveal the white button-down blouse and the plaid skirt.
Nettie raised her eyebrows, then nodded her agreement.
“Well, yes. You’re right. I know how they are.”
May’s frightened eyes met Nettie’s, the realization that some things remained the same, no matter the span of years or the mixture of joys, pain, or sorrow that moved down from one generation to the next.
Her freundshaft had been unwilling to take in the two orphaned children, and would certainly not accept one gone astray, a black sheep who had been misled by the world, decked out in a blue coat and no head covering, a sure sign of her wanton nature, her refusal to bow to gemeinde ordnung. Here was a heretic, one who the Bible would require them to cast out, to have nothing to do with. The way she was dressed was the way she was judged.
“Then, you mean nothing has changed.” She could not conceal the deep disappointment in her voice.
“Not hardly.”
May swallowed, facing the unknown future with the stark knowledge that she would have to grovel at someone’s feet, to prostrate herself, beg and weep and whine. The world was not hers to experience, with no job, no money, no means of surviving from day to day without someone’s mercy or belief in her blight. She felt the hope of being taken in by her family slip through her fingers like some diaphanous cloth. She had always bolstered her sense of neglect by telling herself her family really couldn’t have taken them in, when times were hard. They had wanted them, really, but couldn’t do it at the time. But no, it wasn’t that. She wasn’t worthy of their care then, and she certainly wasn’t now.
“She could wear my clothes,” Nettie offered.
May smiled, a small attempt at normalcy. “If I could spend the night here, perhaps I could start out in the morning, if you’d be kind enough to give me directions to one of them. The one you think most likely to receive me. I will work as a maid for room and board.”
“I’m sure you will,” Nettie said kindly, and Aaron gave her a knowing nod.
SHE FOUND HERSELF walking along the cold, dusty road, a set of directions clutched in her hand, a warm breakfast of fried mush and puddins in her stomach. There was deep woods on either side of her, here in this hollow where the road dipped close to a winding creek. The forest floor was carpeted with a dense layer of browned leaves, the red and gold of their former glory having been broken down by decay. Birds twittered from branch to branch like busybodies, telling each other about this girl’s travels. Woodpeckers drummed in the dying trunks of trees felled by lightning, slurping up the hibernating beetles and moths with their extraordinary length of sharp tongue. Squirrels peered from the top branches, their flat bushy tails balancing the precarious position as they swung from one thin perch to another. The gray clouds were still the color of polished pewter, but there was an occasional sighting of an irregular streak of blue behind them.
She heard the rattle of a surrey drawn by a horse. The carriages here in her home state were built with the floor narrowed from the top, which left more room to make a short turn. She had not seen a surrey since her childhood, and was gladdened to see one come at a good clip down the opposite incline. She heard the scraping of the brake block against the back wheel, then the release of the handle when the team reached the bottom.
A cheery wave, the horse lunged into his collar, and the buggy was past in a split of gravel. Nothing unusual to see a young woman dressed in the traditional black shawl and bonnet walking from place to place, so she went on her way unhindered. If the occupant of the buggy would have looked closely, he would have seen the ancient moth-eaten spare shawl and the broken bonnet Nettie had given her. Sponged and pressed, it had turned into wearable headgear.
She’d helped her tremendously, allowing her a set of clothes, giving her hairpins, a white covering, with May’s promises of paying her back as soon as she was able. It all felt so right, so good and solid and endearing, somehow. She knew girls who had left to join the mainstream, reveled in their freedom of dress and expression, and who was she to judge? For herself, however, there was a certain axis of her existence that had been righted, straightened, attached. It was a homecoming, a melding of her past with her present that strengthened her sense of who she was. A fortitude, really.
But the hardest part awaited—the introduction of herself to her forbidding relatives. She stopped, unfolded the scrap of yellowing paper, then nodded to herself. Yes, this was Branch Creek. She would turn left at the next crossroad.
There she would find S’alsa Abe, his wife Betty, her mother’s stepsister by marriage.
Please God, please God. Her thoughts ran into a regular rhythm of beseeching Him to help her in her time of need.
Just a bed, enough to eat, a decent home, even without kindness. She didn’t need much.
She walked on, found the macadam road, then turned onto a narrow country road that lay ahead of her like a long, fresh ribbon, turning neither left nor right, the fields falling away on either side with rattling stands of dry, rustling corn. Far in the distance, a wagon moved slowly along the outside perimeters of a cornfield, dark figures among the heavy shocks of cornstalks, ripping off the heavy ears, yanking down the husks and sending them flying through the air like yellow missiles.
There was the farm, then.
Tucked between a stand of pine, the barn was as white as the house. She saw a corn crib half full, a few sheds scattered at random, a barnyard, a cow and horse pasture, a black surrey parked beside the barn. It was a picture of everyday Amish life on a farm, with a few pigs producing fine litters of piglets, hens and a rooster in the henhouse, cows in the barn, plodding Belgian workhorses, a few hungry cats to keep rats and mice at bay.
