Authors: Arthur Bradley
When they got to within a few paces, the older of two men stepped forward. He had a weathered face but kind eyes. He glanced at Samantha and then turned to Tanner and extended his hand. The man’s grip was strong and his hands calloused. They were real Amish all right.
“I’m Jacob Miller.” He gestured toward the younger man. “This is my oldest son, Samuel.”
“I’m Tanner, and this is my daughter, Samantha.”
Jacob looked at the girl.
“Daughter, you say?”
“That’s right.”
Jacob met Tanner’s eyes but said nothing more about it.
“Unless you’re just passing through, you should turn back.”
“Why’s that?” asked Tanner.
“We have a problem in our community that poses a grave threat to visitors.”
Samuel, who looked about thirty years younger than his father, added, “Please, this is for your own safety.”
“What kind of threat?” asked Samantha.
“Please,” Jacob repeated, ignoring the question, “it’s not safe here.”
Tanner nodded. “We appreciate the warning, but we’re here to pick up some kids.”
The old man looked to his son, but he only shook his head.
“What children do you speak of?”
“A few weeks ago, the townspeople in Salamanca sent fourteen kids here to stay with Isaac Yoder. We’re here to take them back home.”
“Ah,” Jacob said, nodding, “yes, I see. You came for the English children.”
“That’s right.”
Jacob looked up at the sun, weighing a decision.
Finally, he said, “Come, then. We must hurry.”
Tanner followed Jacob and Samuel for the better part of a mile, moving at a pace that their single horse felt was appropriate for the beautiful spring afternoon. They passed several Amish farms that were spread out along Flatiron Road, easily recognizable by their barns, grain towers, and the absence of cars or farm machinery.
When they arrived at a large farmhouse, Jacob turned into the dirt driveway and came to a stop. Tanner pulled in behind them and swung the bus around to make it easier to get back out onto the road.
The two Amish men hopped from their buggy and hurried inside.
Tanner and Samantha stood by the bus, hoping to see a long line of children come pouring out of the farmhouse. Instead of children, however, the two men returned with a middle-aged Amish woman. She looked stout enough to wrestle a pig to the ground, something she had undoubtedly done on more than one occasion. She wore a dark blue dress and had a white apron tied around her waist. Her hair was tucked under a simple white cotton bonnet.
She hurried toward the bus, leaving Jacob and Tanner by their buggy.
“English,” she said, adopting the term frequently applied to outsiders.
He walked forward and met her in the middle of the dirt driveway. Samantha stayed close behind him.
“Ma’am,” he said.
“I’m Miriam. Jacob says that you’ve come for the English children.”
“That’s right.”
“And can you provide some sort of proof that you have their parents’ permission?”
He pulled out the paper with the descriptions of the children.
“This is all I have.”
She looked it over and nodded.
“It’s enough.” She turned to Jacob and waved. He patted Samuel on the back, and the younger man took off running around the side of the house.
“Where’s he going?” asked Tanner.
“The children are all in school. It’s across the field about a half-mile away. There is no road access, so he will go on foot and walk the children here. Now, please, come and allow me to fix you and your daughter something to drink.”
As everyone walked around to the front of the simple wood house, Tanner was reminded of the times he had visited his ex-wife, Grace. When he had last seen her, she was less than two miles from where he now stood. The world suddenly felt very small indeed.
“Please,” offered Miriam, “sit and relax.” Without waiting for them to do either, she turned and hurried inside.
Everyone took a seat and looked out at the large farm. An Amish man and his two sons were in the distance, plowing the field with the help of a mule.
Samantha looked over at Jacob.
“Do you mind if I ask you a few things about the Amish?”
He seemed surprised by her directness.
“I suppose not.”
“Tanner said you don’t drive cars or trucks. Is that true?”
Jacob nodded. “That’s right. We are simple people.”
She pointed toward the man working in the field.
“But wouldn’t a tractor help them to plow the farm faster?”
“Perhaps, but it would also rob a father the chance to share time with his sons.”
She nodded. “Okay, but what about electricity? Wouldn’t having lights and heating make life easier?”
“Why must life be easier?”
She scratched her head, giving his words some serious consideration.
Miriam came back out on the porch carrying a glass pitcher of milk. She poured them each a small glass, but took none for herself. The entire time they drank, she looked off at the sky, as if expecting a thunderstorm to roll in.
“What happens at nightfall?” asked Tanner.
Miriam shot him a worried look.
“What do you mean?”
Jacob also sat forward, clearly concerned by the question.
“You’ve been trying to hurry us along since we got here,” explained Tanner, “and Jacob warned us on the road that it wasn’t safe here. So, I’m guessing something happens at night. What is it?”
She looked to Jacob, waiting to see if he would answer.
“It is an Amish matter and not of your concern,” he said.
Tanner lifted the heavy shotgun and laid it across his lap.
“I’d like to be the judge of that for myself.”
Jacob would no longer look at him, and Miriam bit nervously at her lip.
They sat for several minutes without anyone speaking. The sun was getting low in the sky, and heavy shadows started to creep over the fields.
Jacob turned to Miriam.
“Where are the children?” he said, unable to hide his agitation.
“It is a long walk, Jacob. They’re coming. See? There.” She pointed off across the meadow. “It’s them.”
Everyone stood to get a better look. A few hundred yards away, a procession of young children marched single file across the field. They were garbed in a mix of traditional Amish and modern clothing. Samuel was leading them, and a young woman was bringing up the rear.
As they got closer, Samuel waved, and Jacob waved back. The woman at the back was urging the kids to move more quickly, and the entire procession was nearly at a trot. As soon as they got to the farmhouse, Jacob gathered everyone together.
“Okay, it is time to go now. Please, you must hurry, English.”
Tanner counted the kids. Thirteen. He checked again. Same count.
“We’re one kid short.”
“It’s Timothy,” the young woman explained. “He was ill and stayed at home with the Hochstetlers. Please, if I don’t go now, I won’t have time to get home before dark.” Without waiting for anyone to reply, she turned and hurried back across the field.
The man who had been plowing the farm passed her as he and his two sons came in for the evening.
“Jacob, what’s happening here?” he asked, brushing the dirt from his clothes.
Jacob quickly explained the situation, and the man nodded his understanding. He looked up at the sky.
“If you hurry, you and Samuel can get home in time. Please, go now.”
Jacob patted the man on the shoulder as he and Samuel hurried back to their buggy. They climbed in and urged the horse to make haste.
The farmer turned to Tanner and said, “I’m Isaac, and you’ve already met my wife, Miriam.”
Tanner nodded.
“I’m afraid I must insist that you take the children back to Salamanca immediately.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“I’m one short.”
Isaac looked to Miriam.
“One of the boys was sick today,” she explained. “He’s with the Hochstetlers.” She could no longer hide the worry in her voice.
“Then you can return for him another day. You must go, now.” His words now sounded more like a plea than a firm insistence.
Tanner began calling out the names on his list. The children were all well behaved, and each responded politely when their name was called. Only Timothy Brown was missing. According to the list, he was Peta’s boy. Tanner shook his head. If any kid was going to be missing, it was bound to be hers.
He turned to Isaac.
“Tell me where the boy is, and we’ll swing by and pick him up on our way out. I can’t leave without him.”
“You don’t understand. There’s no time. You must go now.”
“No, I think it’s you who doesn’t understand. I said that I’d come back with fourteen kids, and I’m not leaving without fourteen kids. So, unless you have a spare son you’d like to donate, I’m getting little Timmy.”
Miriam leaned over and whispered something in her husband’s ear. He nodded.
“Come,” he said. “We must get the children inside.”
Tanner leaned his shotgun against the wall and helped Isaac lift a heavy wooden shutter. The Amish man nodded his appreciation, and for the next several minutes, they worked together, carefully hanging the shutters over every window of his modest home. When they were finished, both men stepped back and looked at their work. The shutters were constructed from one-inch thick oak planks that were stained from years of exposure to the elements. Whether or not they would hold up would depend on what was coming.
“Thank you, English.”
Tanner nodded, picking back up his shotgun.
Isaac slid a chair beside the door and sat, weary from the day’s hard labor. Tanner pulled one over next to his. They sat, quietly looking out at the night.
Finally, Isaac said, “I’m sorry for my behavior earlier.”
“You’re worried. I get it. But maybe it’s time you tell me what’s going on here.”
“Yes, I suppose it’s only right.” He paused, searching for the right words. “English, are you familiar with our custom of
Rumspringa
?”
“It’s a time when you let your teenagers go out and sow their wild oats.”
Isaac smiled. “Sow their wild oats—a wonderful idiom indeed. But true enough, I suppose. When our children reach sixteen, the rules for their conduct are somewhat relaxed. Punishments are less severe. They are expected to conduct courting and perhaps even experience non-Amish life to some degree. The purpose of this is to help them make an informed decision of whether or not to stay in the Amish community.”
“And do most come back into the fold?”
“Indeed. Almost all do. Young people often think that our customs are somehow holding them back, but when they experience life outside, they feel disconnected from nearly everything they see as important.”
“All that’s well and good, but what does it have to do with us sitting here in the dark?”
He took a deep breath before answering.
“When the virus first hit, some of our children were away on
Rumspringa
, experiencing life with the English. When we saw how dangerous things had become, we called them home at once.”
“Makes sense.”
“Yes, but some... some were already infected.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“We kept them apart from others to keep it from spreading. And in the end, most of them died. It was horrible to see our children die.” Tears welled in his eyes, and he pretended to wipe away sweat with the sleeve of his dirty shirt.
“I’m sorry,” repeated Tanner.
“That was not the worst of it. The worst came when three boys began to recover. They were hideous to look at, but even worse to be around—unspeakably violent. That is not our way, English. You know that.”
“What did you do?”
“At first, we tried a firm hand, threatening
Meidung
, our banishment.”
“And did that help?”
“No. It only caused them to grow angrier. Their hearts became filled with vile hate for everyone but their kind.”
“Did you cast them out?”
Isaac wiped at his eyes again.
“We did, but not into society. We could not do so in good conscience. So, we built a barn for them to live in. It is forever kept dark because their eyes cannot adjust to the light. They stay in the barn throughout the day and roam freely at night. We leave them food and drink to help them stay alive.”
“It sounds like you came to an arrangement with them. That’s something, I suppose.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Ours was but the act of desperate men and women. When they come out at night, they are no longer Amish. They are like wolves on the hunt.”
“Why don’t you just lock them up?”
“They would not allow it without great violence.”
“Let me get this straight. You have a situation where a few murderous teens kill anyone who happens to be out after dark? Is that what we’re dealing with?”