And that scared me, because that impulse felt truly evil. Ashamed, I placed my hand over my heart and recited the Lord’s Prayer. But I could still feel the hot evil of that seed there, taking root.
“It’s me again. Katie,” I said, as I hauled back the heavy barn door.
As before, the dogs greeted me. I fed them their scraps and headed back to the paddock.
There were signs that the young man had moved during the day. Straw had been disturbed, and the blanket was gathered tight around his ears. I knelt beside him and peeled back the blanket. It was stuck to his hot cheek with a sheen of sweat.
He blinked at me as I did so. His teeth were chattering, but his gaze was lucid. “Bonnet. You’re Katie. From the note?”
“Yes.” I situated the basket between us, feeling suddenly pinned under that icy gaze. “I brought you some supper.”
“Thank you.”
I reached toward him, and he flinched.
“I mean to check your wound.” I showed him my empty hands, as if I were dealing with a wild animal.
He licked his lips and nodded. I gently unwrapped the band- age. He winced as the gauze stuck to the wound. I didn’t like what I saw. The rim of the wound was yellowing, and a red runner crept across his cheek. His skin was scalding under my fingers. I bit my lip. This was beyond my power.
He must have seen that. “How bad is it?” he asked.
I didn’t want to lie to him. “It’s infected.”
He stared up at the ceiling of the barn. “No antibiotics here?”
I shook my head. “No. I’ll wash it out again with antiseptic, but . . .” I knotted my fingers in my lap. “I don’t know what else to do.”
“It doesn’t really matter, anyway,” he slurred.
He seemed to be fighting to maintain consciousness, and I wanted to keep him talking. I brought a cup of milk to his lips. He dribbled it down his cheek. He was too weak to hold his head up. I propped my hand behind his neck to help him swallow. I forced down a cup of milk and another of warm broth.
“What happened out there?” I asked. “What happened Outside?” I thought of the stained knife.
“My motorcycle wrecked . . . I was chased . . .”
His eyelids began to fall, and I wiped the broth from his chin. “Chased by whom?”
“They were fast, faster than me . . . like birds . . .” His eyes became more unfocused, and I wasn’t sure he saw me anymore as his pupils dilated in remembered fear. “ . . . soundless . . . they smelled like blood . . .”
His head lolled to the right, and he passed out.
I shook his shoulder but was unable to revive him. I dutifully cleaned and rebandaged his wound. I didn’t think he would last much longer. He had that smell about him—that acrid smell of illness, sharper than sweat. I’d smelled it on sick cattle, on Frau Miller before she died.
Frau Miller had been pregnant, about to deliver. My mother and I had gone over to the Miller house to help, with kettles for boiling water and clean towels. The midwife, Frau Gerlach, greeted us at the door with worried eyes. Frau Gerlach never looked worried. She was always starched, prim, proper, and in control. That morning her sleeves were rolled up past her elbows, and deep circles ringed her eyes.
“She’s been in labor all night,” the midwife said. “All night with no progress.”
My mother and I climbed the stairs to Frau Miller’s bed. She was covered in a sheen of sweat that stuck her nightgown to her chest. Her long hair was strung out on the pillow behind her. She did not look like the glowing picture of motherhood that I expected. She looked pale, sick, exhausted.
“The baby’s a breech,” Frau Gerlach said. “I’ve tried to turn the baby as much as I can, but she needs to go to the hospital.”
My mother knelt down beside the bed, took the other woman’s hands in hers. “You must go to the hospital. You’ve tried, but you can’t do this alone.”
Frau Miller shook her head. Her expression was peaceful but pained. “The baby will come.”
“You’re too exhausted to push any longer.” My mother wiped her face with a cool washcloth.
At the foot of the bed, I saw her leg twitch and Frau Miller’s face cringe as a contraction overtook her. The midwife bustled me out of the way, but I saw a runnel of blood dripping down the edge of the bed.
“Oh no,” the midwife said. “It’s coming. Coming all wrong.”
Frau Miller turned her face to the pillow and howled as the flow of blood thickened and tapped on the wooden floor. I backed away from the widening puddle. My mother and the midwife were up to their elbows in it, shouting instructions. I grasped Frau Miller’s hand. Her nails chewed into my palms like talons, and I did the only thing I could: I recited the Lord’s Prayer, over and over.
My mother finally fled to the door, her sleeves and front of her apron soaked in blood. She looked as if she’d been butchering. She shouted down the steps: “Someone get an ambulance! Now!”
But it was too late. I felt Frau Miller’s hand loosening in mine, saw her blank stare. She didn’t blink.
And there was no lusty cry of a baby. The midwife was unable to wrestle the baby free before it suffocated with the umbilical cord wrapped around its neck. I learned later that the child would have been another son. An unbaptized son who would never join his brothers or parents in heaven.
The birthing room held the same acrid smell of death about it that I smelled now in the barn. It had taken days to air the Millers’ room out and scrubbing the floor with lemon juice to release it.
I sat back on my heels. Light had drained from the day, darkening the barn, and there was little else I could do for Alex here.
He needed medicine. He needed it or he was going to die. Of this much, I was certain.
I trudged back across the field, my gait and heart heavy. I had interfered in things I should not have. This was an ongoing struggle for me. For the others in our community, following the Ordnung was a reflex, like breathing. It was almost as if . . . they were moved by others. Others’ interpretation of the Ordnung. Not self- controlled, not their own interpretation. I knew that, deep down, I was not like that. I had to mull things over. I followed what I understood. And for that, I was both grateful and afraid.
Something pale moved across the meadow, like a sheet blown by the wind. I squinted at it, shading my hand from the last of the sunset.
It was a horse, riderless, pale as moonlight. I could make out some tack and gear on it. It was not an animal I recognized.
I stuffed my fingers in my mouth and whistled. The shrill sound made my ears ache, but it caught the horse’s attention. It slowed, allowed me to approach it within yards. I saw that his sides were heaving, that he was lathered from running, that the white of his eye showed when it rolled back to me.
“Shhh,” I said. I approached him from the front, showing that I was no threat. “Where did you come from?” I whispered.
The horse blew and pawed, agitated. He finally allowed me to reach out and grasp his bridle, rub his nose. I said soothing nonsense words to him. A stab of fear ran through me . . . If this was an English horse, I could not keep him. The horse, unconscious of the rules, had violated the Bishop’s order.
But I set that aside for now. I could do him the kindness of leading him to water and strip him of his gear, so that he could be free and not encumbered by saddle sores.
I murmured to him in low tones, and he allowed me to remove the bridle. I let it fall in the grass, hoping that it would not be discovered. I think that he understood that I was trying to help him.
Then he turned his side to me, to show me the saddle buckle.
And I gasped.
The saddle was stained with blood, a rusty blotch that spread over the horse’s left side. In the foothold, a torn boot dangled.
I stood still, shaking. The horse glanced back at me with a pleading eye.
I sucked in my breath, timidly unbuckled the strap at his belly while trying to keep the boot from bumping my shoulder. I think that there was still something in it: flies swarmed around it, and I could see a bit of bone peeking out of the top of the boot.
I shoved the saddle away, to the ground.
The horse whinnied, shook himself. I saw that the saddle had left angry red marks along his belly, saw that he was relieved to be free of that horror.
