The Outside (11 page)

—
Katie

 

I came to regret leaving later. We all did.

But that morning seemed cool and crisp and full of hope. My belly was full, my clothes were clean. I tugged the backpack high up on my shoulder and followed Alex out into the clear morning.

As always, we moved north. Inexorably north.

I was certain that the sun had colored the left side of my face more than the right. But not enough to burn. It was growing too cold for that. Our feet made tracks in the grass where they wiped away the frost.

I knew that we wanted to get to Canada before snow. We needed to find Alex’s family before hard winter came. We had a long way to go; if we continued to go north and avoid densely populated areas to cross the border, we might have to go as far as Sault Ste. Marie, Alex said. I didn’t know how we were going to survive that without reliable shelter. Nor did I have any idea how the rest of humanity would.

I suspected my community had a good chance of surviving the hardships of winter. We Plain people were reasonably self-sufficient, growing our own food and raising our own cattle. One challenge would be getting enough heat; kerosene stores would be bound to dwindle. But they’d figure something out, cut firewood, tolerate the elements as our forefathers had.

But the vampires . . . I didn’t know how they would survive them. The Darkness had been let in, and the Elders were in denial. The Hexenmeister had the power to protect them, if only they would listen.

But, always, my horizon was today—the next sunrise or sunset. And then . . . I couldn’t see beyond
and then
. I hoped that somehow a cure to the contagion would be found, that we could return to our homes and that life would return to some semblance of normal—if we still remembered what that felt like.

I wrapped my coat tightly around my neck. I could feel the cold air creeping in. I had kept my Plain clothes, but Ginger and Alex had taken clothing from the Animal Farm, changed into jeans and heavy sweaters. Alex had found a replacement for his old jacket among the father’s clothes, a jacket made of green oilskin. Ginger was wearing the mother’s navy blue sweatshirt embroidered with kittens. I felt even more out of step with them than when we had started.

But I was determined to keep up as we walked along a two-lane road. I saw farmland right and left studded with a few farmhouses with metal roofs to withstand the wind that scoured over the northern part of the state. Trees around the houses nodded east, as if the west wind had pushed them for many years.

Off to the west, I could see a forest on the flat land, with the sunlight slanting through it. I squinted at it as Alex spread open a map. It flapped against his jacket, tearing at the corners as he swore at it.

“There.” He pointed to the woods. “That’s where we’re going.”

I lifted my eyebrows and shuddered instinctively. “It’s dark there.”

“It’ll be safe,” he promised.

I wrapped my arms around my elbows and followed him.

We turned west and walked down a broad paved lane bounded with chains painted white between concrete stanchions. It was surrounded on both sides by what had once been a manicured lawn. At the end of the lane, a white figure stood.

It was a statue of a woman in a veil with her arms outstretched. It took me a moment to realize who she was. Plain people didn’t believe in graven images, but I knew her instinctively to be Mary, mother of Jesus. At the base of the statue was a sign that read
WELCOME TO THE SHRINE OF OUR LADY OF PEACE
. Frostbitten zinnias wilted in a flower bed at her feet.

“What is this place?” I asked.

“It’s a Marian shrine,” Alex said. “It’s a Roman Catholic pilgrimage destination. If any place is still holy, this is it.”

“I was here as a little girl,” Ginger said. “I remember. My grandmother took me. There are all these little grottoes in the woods and a church.”

“If it’s sacred,” I said, blowing out my breath and staring up into Mary’s unseeing eyes, “we should be safe.”

“C’mon,” Alex said. “We’re burning daylight.”

We made our way down leaf-strewn bricked paths that meandered around bare trees. Tied to the trees were brightly painted sculptures.

“Who are these?” I asked.

“Saints,” Ginger said. “This one is Saint Francis, patron saint of animals.” She pointed to a figure holding a lamb, then another figure of a robed man holding a baby. “And Saint Joseph.”

“We didn’t have saints in the Amish religion.” I stared up at the robed man holding the baby. He was bearded, like an Amish man, and with the expression of tenderness on his face he reminded me of my father. I had heard of saints before, but wasn’t sure I fully grasped the concept. “I know that they’re holy people.”

“Right. They’re special people who lived fully ‘in Christ,’” Ginger said.

“How is that different from being full
of
Christ, like Pastor Gene said?”

“Saints usually lived a long time before. And accomplished huge miracles. Like this one, Saint Joan.” She pointed to a figure of a young woman in armor. Paint had flaked away from her face, and squirrels had stored nuts in the bottom ledge of her shrine.

“What did she do?”

“God spoke to her. He told her to lead an army to victory in the Hundred Years’ War. And she did.”

I looked at the figure. She didn’t seem very big, or very powerful. Plain people didn’t believe in military service—we were pacifists. I couldn’t imagine leading an army. And I couldn’t imagine God speaking to me.

“Remember that she was also burned at the stake for heresy,” Alex chimed in.

“She was a pawn for people in power,” Ginger said. “A young girl trying to do as she thought best, as she believed God told her. And she was canonized for it, made a saint. She’s one of the patron saints of France. Also of women and captives.”

“I don’t understand . . .” I struggled to articulate what I felt. “I don’t understand putting a mortal person on such a pedestal. Literally.”

“Saints are thought to be intercessionaries with God. Roman Catholics pray to them, as well as to God and Jesus. It’s just another way of connecting to the divine.”

I frowned. I wasn’t sure how I felt about praying to ordinary men and women, even if Christ moved through them and performed miracles with their mortal hands. But the Holy Spirit seemed to move in mysterious ways.

We walked down the path, farther into the woods draining of light. I saw a fountain, overhung with ivy and backed by a rock wall. The water in it was still and green. A figure of a woman—another iteration of the Virgin Mary, I assumed—was kneeling before it with her hands clasped in prayer. Behind the wall I could see a rack of burned-out candles in glass containers. Leaves had blown into the doorway.

“What’s this?”

“Our Lady of Lourdes. A grotto,” Ginger explained. “Saint Bernadette of Lourdes saw an apparition of Mary. Mary told her to dig, and a spring with healing powers was revealed. Some believed in its powers. Some didn’t. That’s the thing about miracles. They’re open to interpretation.”

I thought I’d experienced healing water at Pastor Gene’s creek, but I wasn’t sure. As more time passed, I wasn’t sure if that was the Lord or if it was just luck. Time was seeming to cloud the miracle I’d felt. I stared into the green water. “This is the spring?”

“No. The real one’s in Lourdes, a town in France. This is a replica.”

“It’s pretty,” I said. But also somehow forlorn in its abandonment.

We continued walking along the bricked paths. Moss had begun to grow over the bricks, obliterating names of people who’d apparently made donations of money to the shrine.

“Why does the path circle this way? Aren’t we going back where we came from?” I asked. I was unused to the idea of Ginger being a spiritual guide. But this seemed to be an area of thought that she knew from her childhood. She occasionally stopped to look at sculptures, her hand pressed to her lips, lost in reverie. It was beautiful to see her in this way, touched by memory and faith.

“A lot of religions believe in the idea of labyrinths for meditation. While the feet are kept busy, the presence of God is felt.”

I smiled. That I could understand. Plain people believed that God emerged through hard work and performance of our daily duties.

The sun dipped below the horizon. I could see, sharp against the violet sky, an evening star burning. And before it, the cross atop a church spire at the end of the brick path, a quarter-mile distant.

“That’s the chapel,” Ginger said. It was good to see her smile again.

The moonlight illuminated a stone mound to my right—it reminded me of the Indian mound we’d stayed at days before. A placard identified it as the Grotto of Our Lady of Fatima.

“The Virgin Mary appeared before shepherd children in Portugal during World War I,” Ginger said. “She was said to be as bright as the sun.”

But we were losing sun. I hitched my backpack higher up on my shoulder, laced my fingers in Horace’s reins. He twitched an ear and shied to the side.

I glanced to our right. I thought I saw movement between the trees.

It’s just a deer
, I told myself.
This is holy ground
.

Unless it’s been defiled. Unless the Darkness has been let in
.

“Who runs this place?” I asked. “Who maintains it?”

Oblivious, Ginger walked several paces behind, soaking in the memory. “Nuns. Beyond the chapel are dormitories.”

Horace pawed. The sound of his hooves on the brick caused both Ginger and Alex to turn. I heard the hiss of Ginger’s indrawn breath. The moon broke free of the tangle of tree branches, shining down on us.

I saw something out of the corner of my eye, on the left side of the path, flitting between the trees. Something dark. My skin crawled.

“Run,” I whispered.

Horace needed no urging. My fingers were wrapped in his reins, and he dragged me forward. I cried out as my sore hand struggled to cling to him.

More dark figures moved between the trees, like rotten leaves. I glanced to the cavelike mouth of the Fatima grotto. Shadows slipped out of it, dark as ink, not bright like the apparition of the Virgin Mary. I saw pale faces and hands, framed in robes of black.

“The nuns . . .” Ginger paused. “The sisters are . . .” I could read the shock on her face.

“Run!” Alex insisted. He was ten steps behind me, ten paces ahead of her.

And that was all it took.

The sisters swarmed Ginger. I snatched a stake from Horace’s pack, disentangled myself from the reins, and ran back.

“Ginger!”

Alex had turned, and I saw silver flashing in his fist. He slashed at one of the black shadows. It reeled back, hissing.

But one of the blackbird nuns fell upon Ginger. She dropped to the pavement, shrieking, clawing on the mossy brick. Alex skidded to a halt over her, slashing at the bloodthirsty nun. I thrust my stake ahead of me. It pierced the shadow, and I heard the wet slap of black blood on the brick. White claws grappled around my weapon. I kicked back, shoving the body from the stake like a piece of meat from a stick.

Alex pulled Ginger to her feet and we ran to the chapel. I fumbled in my pocket for my
Himmelsbrief
, stumbling backwards, holding it out at arm’s length. The preternaturally pale faces of the nuns hissed at me. Most of them were old women, but I saw the smooth face of a young one, barely older than I was.

“Come to the Lord, little sheep,” she whispered.

“The blood is the life.”

“You will die, and rise again like Jesus in the Resurrection.”

I backed up the steps of the chapel. I heard Alex behind me. The doors crashed open, and Horace’s hooves banged on stone. I ducked into the chapel, hoping that I was not walking into deeper Darkness.

The doors slammed shut, blotting out the night. I heard scratching on the door, plaintive cries . . .

. . . but the door held fast against them.

“It’s still holy,” I whispered, turning to face the inside of the sanctuary. It felt like a miracle that this place was safe. “How?”

“Maybe it’s an island . . . like your barn protected by a hex sign when your larger community had been defiled.” Alex’s voice was disembodied, distracted.

I saw red and blue patches of light on the floor, cast from the moonlight moving through the stained-glass windows. Depicted in one was Mary, appearing in a cloud before a young woman. I wondered if this was one of the women who’d seen her at Fatima or Lourdes.

“We need light.” I heard Alex scrabbling around. There were clicking sounds, and one by one, cylindrical glass votives were illuminated. They must have been battery powered, with metal flames flickering inside. The glass was red, and the light cast was wan. But it was light.

I followed his lead, punching buttons on the top of the votives. There were hundreds. I mashed the buttons, seeing them light up, greedy for the light.

I noticed a metal box beside them with a small sign that read $2.00
DONATION
.

“For each candle. For a prayer.” Ginger was unsteady on her feet, leaning against the back of a pew. I slipped my arm beneath her, cried out when it came away with warm blood.

Something thumped against the door and giggled. “The blood is the life.”

Horace clomped on the slate floor, blowing at the door.

“Take her up front,” Alex ordered.

I supported Ginger down the aisle, our footsteps ringing loudly on the slate. Alex charged ahead of us, to the altar, which was surrounded by hundreds more of the lights in their iron holders. He slapped them on, illuminating a fabric-draped altar with gold ornaments and an intricately painted statue of Jesus looking benignly over us.

I helped Ginger lie down on a pew, tugged her coat off. There was blood on her shirt collar, trickling down her sleeve. I unbuttoned her shirt, apologizing as I did so, to examine her shoulder. I couldn’t see what had happened—there was too much blood.