Beacon of Light, page 13
Relieved, Oba walked along, his feet kicking up powdery snow, dodging branches, throwing aside underbrush. The only trail Oba could identify was a curving path of snow through trees and briars, tall dead grass and twittering birds.
Everything was white—even the sun and the sky turned white, after a while. Oba’s eyes were mere slits to protect from the constant strain of light, so he felt relieved when the orange glow of fading sunlight revealed evening’s approach.
The dogs were tiring, their tongues protruding from opened mouths, their steps lagging now. Oba felt the cold begin to seep through his trousers, but his torso stayed warm inside the parka’s fur. Jonas was quiet now, his shoulders slumped, showing signs of fatigue.
On each side, the dense forest stretched out. As far as Oba could see, there was nothing but trees, snow, and the whitish cloudless sky.
When the sled came to a low place, and the gurgle of water beneath a thick layer of ice could be detected, Jonas held up a hand.
“This is as good a place as any.”
Oba said nothing. He had no idea how one could sleep outdoors in below zero weather, with no shelter, but he figured he was about to find out. The dogs sensed a night of rest and stood quietly, their heads hanging low enough that Jonas told Oba perhaps he’d been too hard on them for the first day out. Oba looked them over, feeling nothing, and turned away.
“You gonna help with the dogs?”
“That’s your job.”
“Well then, you get started on the fire.”
He’d watched Jonas start a few, so he figured it couldn’t be too hard. He kicked away the snow, then straightened to search his surrounding for dry brush, tree bark, anything that could easily be burned. He pushed through the soft snow on legs threatening to give way, gathered what he hoped would be sufficient kindling, found matches in the metal box he’d watched Jonas pack, and proceeded to light a fire. He was proud of the hot bright burst of flame, but it faded to papery gray ashes as quickly as it had ignited. Over and over. Oba lifted his face to look around for dead pine branches.
None. Here the pines were so healthy he supposed they never dropped dead branches, and if they did, they were buried under a foot of snow. Jonas watched but went ahead driving stakes to chain the dogs for the night.
“You done real good, Flo, you old charmer,” he muttered, running a hand across the top of her head, watching Oba clump back into the trees.
This time, he found heavier underbrush, a few pine branches, and a wet, snow-soaked log. He grunted with the effort of hauling it all back through the deep snow, then began again. One by one, the matches burned away, producing a tiny yellow flame, a thin spiral of smoke, before it sizzled away to nothing. Jonas finished staking the dogs, walked over to check his progress, and jumped back when Oba leaped to his feet, swore loudly, kicked the brush and logs in every direction, tossed the box of matches, and stomped off through the trees.
Jonas watched him go, then bent to the task of starting his own fire with the available underbrush, which was plenty. You simply had to know how to do it.
Oba was too worn out physically to go very far, so he sat on a snow-covered log and wished he’d had more sense than this. He could not begin to imagine the miserable cold, the frightening aspect of a dying fire and carnivores waiting in the black shadows. So he had passed the first test, but sure had failed miserably on the second.
He blamed Jonas, justifying his own incompetence by telling himself Jonas should have allowed him to stake the dogs, overlooking the fact he’d never wanted anything to do with them. His backside was cold. He got to his feet, watching the white of the snow change into ever-deepening shadows where the firs held their branches close to the ground. A small brown creature wallowed through the snow, disappearing behind a tree.
His eyes opened wide in alarm, and he made his way back to Jonas and the dogs, staggering in his haste. He was cheered to see the sturdy orange flames licking at pieces of pine bark, looking as if the fire would grow bigger, with sufficient heat to cook a meal. Perhaps they would keep them warm during the night after all.
Jonas was singing. Not humming low, but singing lustily, the blue veins on his red forehead bulging, his mouth open wide as the words were belted out.
Embarrassed by Jonas’s unabashed confidence, Oba kept his eyes averted. The words were something about an Indian girl and the moon. He blushed, clearly uneasy with this flagrant display of emotion.
Suddenly, the singing was cut off. “Did you know my wife was raised by Indians?”
“Yeah.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“You told me.”
“Did I? Well, we spent nights like this, out here in the woods, making camp, the solitude and beauty indescribable. We had nothing but each other, our love, and the presence of God. When that all gets taken away, it leaves a big, black void that comes back to taunt you from time to time.”
Oba couldn’t imagine his own parents living like this. They were brought up in traditional farm life, working from sunup to dark building barns and houses and working the fields, the women skilled in housekeeping duties, the sewing and cooking and cleaning. They were hard workers, but they valued good homes and close community.
“I’m glad for your company.”
Since Oba did not know how to respond, he merely said, “I’m hungry.”
“Right-o. We’ll have us a meal.”
They had watery cornmeal mush and beef jerky hard enough to break a tooth. But it was food, and it filled his stomach, although he dreamt of mashed potatoes and gravy, apple pie, a warm drink.
A shelter was built by hauling pine branches, stacking a few sturdy logs against a tree, piling them on. Snow was shoveled away and thick skins laid on the bare, wet forest floor. There were more skins to roll themselves up in.
The fire blazed, sending a cheery orange light to surrounding areas. In the firelight, the dogs lay curled in the snow, nothing visible except a lump of multicolored fur, even their ears and eyes hidden as they slept.
Jonas instructed him in the ways of nighttime preparations in the woods. You left everything on, including the boots. He could dry his socks if need be, but don’t sleep without your boots.
“You have to sleep with me, so don’t get all polite and prissy. We don’t have much choice—we need all the warmth we can get. I sleep with one eye open, so don’t worry about the fire.”
Oba was asleep immediately after the weight of the skins settled over him. He was too exhausted to feel awkward about Jonas being so close.
SO THAT WAS Oba’s introduction to the great wilderness. From time to time, he performed well, given the circumstances, but he refused any overtures from the dogs, and refused to feed them or touch them, which was a mystery to Jonas. It wasn’t natural the way he avoided them, especially Flo, the most loving and affectionate one of them all.
Jonas had his misgivings, wondering if Oba would ever change.
Oba would never forget his first view of the mountains that rose like distant blue peaks covered in white, a lake nestled in the valley beneath them, fed by a wide, strong river. Everything was covered in snow, the sun creating a myriad of beautiful hues, the sky a magical canvas of blue, cotton clouds scudding on icy breezes.
It took his breath away. For a long time, he stood on the rock that allowed him to view the valley, completely speechless. Jonas stood beside him, the dogs at his feet, watching the amazement in Oba’s face.
“You mean, we’re going down there?” he asked finally.
“Can you imagine how far that is?”
“I dunno. Ten? Twenty?”
“Try a week of traveling.”
Oba shook his head, his face full of wonder. Jonas watched as Eb rose to his feet, stretched, arched his back, then walked over to Oba and pushed his nose against his sleeve. Absentmindedly, Oba reached down and touched the fur on top of his head, then began a rhythmic stroking, smoothing back the layer of dense hairs.
Jonas looked at Eb, winking at him before turning to nestle with Sel in the deep snow.
And still Oba stood, transfixed.
“But . . . how do we get there?”
“Very carefully, down this mountain. The trail zigzags, goes around swamps and rocky places, cliffs. It’s not a smooth ride. This is unsettled land. Land that’s free for the taking. If you can survive out here, you can claim the land as your own.
“But how will we?”
“You’ll see. You’ll learn.”
Oba had seen views like this in his geography book at school, but it was in black and white. He couldn’t begin to describe the colors of windblown fir trees and skies so crystal blue it almost hurt his eyes. The height and the breadth and the length of this place was simply not believable.
But here he was, absorbing the wonders of unspoiled wilderness, unable to truly and reasonably say God did not exist.
CHAPTER 11
THAT SUMMER, MAY TOOK INSTRUCTION CLASS, LEARNING the rules of conduct and the way of a Godly life. There were those who shed tears upon her arrival to show a willingness to commit to the Amish church. Then there were the naysayers who sniffed their disapproval. She should know better, they said when she was outside of earshot. She would never shake the mark of her sin as long as that child lived. Shameful woman, they thought.
But the ministry remained unified. Where there was true repentance, there was reason for acceptance and forgiveness, and they had no reason to believe May did not bring sorrow of her past to Christ.
She gave no one cause to gossip, or to take offense at her appearance or her conduct. Naturally an obedient person, given to a desire to please others, she was more than willing to be subject to the rules of the Amish way of life. She looked forward to baptism, the water poured on her head by the kindly bishop an outward show of her inward cleansing. A rebirth.
Still she struggled when the dark times came, which were more and more frequent as she attended services that summer. As the heat escalated, so her internal struggles multiplied, sitting in a room with other applicants, the morning sun already causing beads of perspiration to form above her upper lip. The voice of the minister rose and fell, supplying the articles of their faith. Suddenly a new thought entered her mind. Had she committed the unpardonable sin that the Bible spoke of?
The room began to spin, as a nauseating sickness grasped her, a dizziness she could not control. Her heart raced uncontrollably as a very real anxiety sank its hideous talons into her mind. She had no idea what was happening; she only knew she had to regain her composure, somehow.
She looked around, her fear mounting. Did no one else feel the power of her apprehension? The minister’s voice droned on as she wrestled with the fear that pushed her to the edge of her chair. Perspiration poured from her body. She reached into her skirt pocket to find the small cotton handkerchief necessary to wipe her streaming face, her hands shaking so badly she could barely do it.
Oh dear God. Help me. I honestly fear I am losing my mind.
When, how, and why had the horrible thought entered her mind? Why couldn’t she shake it?
And then, just as suddenly, she thought of having left Baby Eliezer with Clara and it seemed all wrong. She could feel, in the way mothers can, that he was crying for her. What if Clara dropped him, or forgot about him while she tended to the horses? The anxiety became all-consuming. She almost got up from her seat, fled from the drone of the minister’s voice, fled from the accusations in her head, fled to her son who needed her.
She did not remember what the sermons held, could not pray while she was on her knees. Her whole body ached to hold Eliezer, feed him, kiss his forehead. She should never have left him.
Could she ever be a good mother to him? The prospect was overwhelming.
Worthless. She was worthless.
WHEN SHE WAS dropped off at home, she ran to the house and scooped Eliezer into her arms, the relief of knowing he was okay and of being able to feed him so immense that she began to cry. For a while, Clara let her be, recognizing that she shouldn’t interrupt the reunion of mother and infant.
Oh God, oh God. May’s thoughts repeatedly made a feeble attempt at prayer, but only rose to the roof of the room and crashed back down on her head, leaving her with an inner turmoil.
The dark times had been plentiful of late, but she never experienced this cloying fear and despair. Her beloved son ate his fill and now lay dozing on her lap, and now he seemed heavy, cumbersome, a burden.
Finally Clara spoke, brusquely, impatient with May’s inability to converse.
“What is wrong with you, May? You look like a scared rabbit.”
“Oh, nothing.”
“Whatever it is, I hope it leaves soon. What a grouch.”
May did not reply to this at all, her misery too deep to allow the forming of words. She would not eat, but sat on the rocking chair, her hands loosely in her lap, staring off into space. There was no reason for the descent into fear and hopelessness. Where was the peace she should be experiencing at this time in her life? She had no doubt about her decision, had felt the transition from sinner to one who was redeemed by the blood of Christ, and this not of herself, but a gift from God.
She retraced her steps, mentally reviewing the past months, any happening that would have caused her to stumble, to lurch off the path of hope and forgiveness. She could dredge up a few months, but after that, it seemed risky to delve into her past, given the state of her mind.
She wished she could speak to Oba, then voiced this aloud.
“What?” Clara looked up from the horse publication she was reading.
“Oh, I just said, I miss my brother, Oba. I don’t know what became of him.”
“You said.”
“Did I?”
“Yes, you told me he left before you did. He was wild and rebellious, am I right?”
“Well, yes. Mostly ruined by Melvin’s treatment of him. He did not believe in God, or so he said.”
Clara considered this, then put a finger to the page, turned down the corner, and laid the periodical on a stand beside her.
“So if he did not believe in God, it’s hard to tell what may have become of him. You know alcohol is often what a troubled person turns to, and it causes a downward spiral sometimes for the rest of one’s life.”
“Don’t say that, please.”
Clara shrugged her shoulders. “Only speaking the truth.”
The breeze lifted the white curtain at the window, then drew it back against the window screen. The air was heavy with humidity, uncomfortable.
“It’s hot,” May ventured.
“You don’t feel good?”
“Just . . . in my head.”
“What is wrong, May?”
“When we were taking instruction, the thought of having done the unpardonable sin came clearly into my mind. Clara, how do I know I can be forgiven for my past?”
Clara pondered this for a moment, then shook her head. “The only way that forgiveness reaches you is if you keep your eyes on Christ. If you constantly think of your past, of yourself, you’re going to sink.”
“But what is the unpardonable sin?”
“There are a variety of interpretations. Some say it’s suicide, others say it’s rejecting faith. I really don’t know. If the Bible clearly says all sin is forgiven if we believe, that covers just everything. Everything.”
Tormented, she slept very little. Eliezer cried out from his crib, his little gums red and swollen, the pain of teething pulling him roughly from an infant’s blessed sleep. May no longer felt the awful suction of crippling anxiety; she only felt an emptiness, a black void before her, the fear of falling headlong, in an abstract, unattached fashion. Like a dangling sword just out of her reach, knowing it was there, but powerless to do something about it.
She moved through her days in a fog of bewilderment, never quite understanding what had occurred, this strange thought that scattered her thoughts and pushed huge obstacles in her path.
The unforgivable sin. The power of the devil. These harbingers of doom dogged her days, followed by an intense longing to see Oba, the possibility as remote and as unreachable as the surface of the moon.
Eliezer began crying interminably, pain dulling his eyes, fevers and rashes and constant diarrhea plaguing him. May felt powerless, unable to soothe him. Clara told her he’d be fine and that May had to start taking care of herself if she wanted to help Eliezer. May found no comfort in her words. What did Clara know about babies?
“You have to eat,” Clara chided, from her stance at the cookstove, sausage hissing in the heated cast iron pan.
“Who can feel hungry in this heat?”
“As skinny as you are, I don’t see how the outside temperature will have much effect. A good stiff breeze would blow you away.”
May said nothing, hid her face.
Clara flipped the sausages, brought a loaf of bread and a pat of butter to the table, bent to sniff the butter before wrinkling her nose.
“This stuff is strong. You know, rancid. I’m going to buy a cow, make my own butter. Idy’s butter isn’t kept cool enough, and by the time she finally sends that lazy Sary over here, it’s half gone. I’ll go to Oakley on Tuesday. The livestock auction. You may as well come with me, get your mind off your woes.”
“Who’s going to milk the cow?” May asked tiredly, one ear listening for the wails from the bedroom.
“Who do you think? Me.”
“I milked a lot of cows.”
“In Arkansas?”
“Yes. The boys and I. Leviticus was too small, but Ammon and Enos did fairly well as they grew older. I’m actually quite a good milker.”
“Didn’t Melvin or Gertie milk?”
“No.”
But he had always been there, his greedy eyes sparkling like a ravenous vulture, taunting her. Mocking her inability to escape him, knowing she was his obedient prisoner. She should have escaped before it started, should have tried to help herself more.
