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.
Suddenly, I heard a distant roar.
Four sleek triangular gray planes flew in “V” formation overhead, streaking across the thick sky from west to east. They reminded me of geese, the way they flew. I lifted my arms to wave and shout, wondering if they could see me. I supposed that perhaps they were checking the damage, to see who had survived.
The low roar rumbled over the field. Instead of white contrails, the tails of the planes were spewing something bluish. Not smoke. The planes continued along their way, heading east, streaking the sky with that mysterious blue, and receding beyond sight.
The breeze pushed the smell of the blue substance down through the field. I wrinkled my nose. It smelled metallic, like winter. I hoped that the military had found a cure for the contagion. Maybe they were dusting us, like crops, to get it dispersed.
Whatever the reason, the sight lifted my heart. It meant that there were still people out there in the Outside world. Alive.
I smiled up at the sky.
And it opened up and began to rain. The rain tasted cold and sharp, like metal.
I sighed and returned to my work, dragging the last heavy bale from the sledge. The bulls had crowded me out of the feeder, so I chucked this one on the ground, and the smaller, less dominant ones headed for it. As I surveyed the cattle, I began to worry.
The big ones were due to be slaughtered this fall. The small ones would be kept over the winter, to be slaughtered in the spring. Some of the meat would be sold to the English. But if Outside remained off-limits, then there would be a lot of cattle to feed. And we didn’t have enough room to keep all the meat. I doubted that we had enough food to sustain them through the whole winter. Things could get ugly very quickly, I decided, scanning the backs of the bulls.
I spied a dark shape along one of the fence posts in the distance. I frowned. The cattle shouldn’t be lying down at mealtime. A downer cow was a sign of illness. We would have to act quickly to protect the rest of the herd. Growing up Plain, I understood that the individual was weak, but the power lay in the collective. The group must be preserved at all costs.
I walked briskly to the edge of the field. Maybe this sick one could be separated in enough time. As I got closer, I noticed that the dark shape wasn’t on the inside of the barbed-wire and wood fence. It lay on the Outside, just inches beyond.
And it wasn’t a bull. It was too small.
It was human.
I approached cautiously, trying to stay upwind of the body curled up around the fence post. One foot was tangled in barbed wire, as if the man had tried to get inside but failed. It was an Englisher. He wore sneakers, jeans, and a black jacket with a great deal of zippers and flap pockets. His face and blond hair were pressed into the mud, rain tapping on his face. His eyes were closed. The rain rinsed blood from a wound on the side of his head, near his temple. He looked like he’d been struck with something.
“Hello?” I rasped. I couldn’t tell if he was alive or dead. I was afraid of both.
The pale form lay motionless in the mud. I crept closer, studying his shoulder. I saw that it rose and fell slightly with his breath, a breath that passed through his lips and disturbed the matted grass under his battered face.
He was alive. My heart caught in my throat.
I ran back to the horse to get help as fast as my feet would carry me in the sucking mud.
“We have to help him!”
I exploded into my house, soaking wet. My father was eating lunch in the kitchen and stared at me. He pushed away from the table, grasped my arms.
“Help who? Herr Miller? Elijah?”
I shook my head, struggling to catch my breath. “No. There’s a man out at the south field. He’s been hurt. He needs help.”
“Where at the south field?”
“At the fence.”
I knew that once I told my father, he would take care of it. An important part of the Amish belief system was helping those in need. And this man clearly needed us.
“Is he English?”
“Yes. I think so.”
My father reached for his coat. “Show me.”
I drove Star back to the field, where the man lay. He had not moved. My father approached slowly, crouched down at a distance.
“He’s outside the fence,” my father said. “We must ask the Elders for permission to bring him inside.”
My brow furrowed. “But he’s hurt.”
“He may also be sick. We must ask the Elders.”
My hands wound in my soggy apron. My father looked at me tenderly. “You have a compassionate heart, Katie. But we cannot violate the rules. We must ask them.”
I nodded slowly, water dripping from my nose. Surely when the Elders saw him, they would bring him in, take care of him. I could not blame my father. He was a good man and was trying to follow the rules.
“I will go get them,” he said.
“I will stay here and pray.”
“Don’t get too close,” my father cautioned. “He may be contagious.”
“I understand.” But I didn’t, really. The young man appeared to be hurt, not sick. The violence facing Outside had seemingly chased him down. I hoped that if Seth and Joseph found their way to an English house, that the Englishers would help the boys.
I watched as my father took Star and rode away, then turned back to look at the young man, the rain tapping on the ground and my prayer bonnet.
I knelt against the bottom rail of the fence, several yards upwind of him, and prayed silently with rain sliding down my knuckles. He did not move, did not seem to sense my presence there. But as I stole glances at him, I hoped that he could feel God with him, that he would know that rescue was close at hand. Just delayed by a bit of procedure.
Almost an hour later, I heard footsteps in the muck. I lifted my head to see my father, the Bishop, and two of the elder ministers walking across the field, rain streaming off their hats. My heart rose to see them, to know that they would end the young man’s suffering.
I stood respectfully, backing away as the Elders circled around the young man. I clasped my cold hands behind my back.
They stared for a long time, in silence, before the Bishop shook his head.
The Elders made as if to retreat.
A rebellious squeak came to my lips, and my hand flew to my mouth. “You’re—you’re going to leave him?” I whispered.
The Bishop looked me in the eye, and his gaze was sharp as steel. “We cannot bring him inside. No one goes in or out. The rule stands.”
“But he’s just beyond—” I protested. “He’s suffering!”
“And we cannot bring that suffering upon ourselves,” my father said, clasping a warning hand upon my shoulder. I was not being obedient. I blinked up at him in amazement.
“We will not allow him to suffer.” One of the Elders slipped a hunting rifle from his shoulder.
I stuffed my fist in my mouth to stifle a cry as my father steered me away from the scene. I looked back, wet bonnet strings stuck to my face, as the minister raised the rifle and took aim at the young man.
Rifles were used for hunting in our community, never used against people. Tears sprang to my eyes. The evil of Outside had surely reached in here, in the guise of fear and mercy.
I struggled to twist away. “But if it’s God’s will that he should die, should we not leave him?”
