The Hallowed Ones

Alex leaned his head back against the wall. “The nukes would devastate our climate, plunge us into a winter like no one’s ever seen. The dust would blot out the sun. All of us would freeze or starve to death. Never mind the rest of the mammals on the planet.”

“Would that be a worse way to go than the vampires?” I couldn’t imagine a worse way than having my head torn off by the creature from the Laundromat.

His mouth opened, closed, like a fish’s over a hook. “I don’t know. They have to find another way.”

“It is out of our hands,” I said, turning my attention back to the basket. I handed him a clean blanket.

“Is that what they call Gelassenheit, Bonnet?”

My blood curdled in anger. “What do you know about it?” I forced myself to say blandly. To turn the other cheek.

“That your people tend to surrender yourselves to God’s will. I always thought it was kind of passive, but . . .”

I turned to face him with eyes narrowed. As conflicted as I felt about my own religion, I would not brook sarcasm from an Outsider who knew nothing about it except what he’d read in college textbooks. Plain folk were charged with being mild-mannered, but something within me snapped: “Let me tell you about how Gelassenheit saved your life. When I found you on the other side of our fence, I was forbidden to take you in by the Elders. They said that no one goes in or out of the gate. I asked them—begged them to reconsider. A man stood over you with a rifle, was going to put you down like a dog.”

My voice lifted, and I could see him shrinking back, the armor of cynicism falling from him. “I begged them to leave you there, that it was up to God whether you lived or died. And they took their gun and walked away. I violated their rules to bring you back here, because I thought that was the right thing to do. If they were to find out, you would be exiled. Thrown out of the gate and fed to the monsters.”

I put my face very close to his, so close that my bonnet strings brushed his shoulder, and hissed: “Don’t dare to tell me about Gelassenheit.”

His gaze fell from my furious one. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m a jerk.” When he glanced up, the expression in his ice-blue eyes had thawed a bit, seeming as hurt as it had when he’d talked about Cassia and the end of the world. He swallowed hard. “I owe you. Thank you. I mean it.”

I gave him a curt nod, crawled away, back to the basket. My cheeks flamed, and I was ashamed of my outburst. “You’re welcome.”

The anger drained out of me as I dug in the basket. I set a jar of apple butter on the floor and a wrapped- up loaf of bread. Though I seemed to be doing well at pilfering and provisioning for Alex, I had no idea what to do with him next.

I cleared my throat, and my voice was more gentle. “I thought you would be bored, so I brought you some things to read.”

I gave him copies of the Bible and the Ausbund. Chastened, he took the books gratefully. “Thank you.”

“And I also brought you some less boring reading.” Hesitantly, I handed him a stack of well-worn Wonder Woman comics. “Just don’t spill anything on them.”

A brilliant smile spread across his face. “Diana, princess of the Amazons! I love her.” He began to page through them. “‘Beautiful as Aphrodite, strong as Hercules, wise as Athena, and swift as Mercury . . .’”

I hesitated and returned the smile. Maybe we had just found a small patch of common ground.

Chapter Thirteen

I managed to avoid Elijah until the Singing.

By then, there was nowhere to hide.

Sunday evenings were when the young unmarried members of our community got together to socialize in a pre- approved fashion. After Nachtesse, we all walked to the one-room schoolhouse with our copies of the Ausbund tucked under our arms, giggling in the gloaming. The Singing took place without adult supervision. It was our chance to be free each week. There was always something magical about it: the music, the shy glances passed between boys and girls, holding hands in the darkness.

But it wasn’t magical tonight. I told my mother that I didn’t want to go and busied myself with washing dishes. She took the dishes from me and dried my hands with the dishtowel.

“Go. It will be good for you to get your mind off things.”

“But, Mother . . .” I protested.

“It’s Sunday. No chores.” She lifted her finger and smiled. “Go.”

I sighed, then trudged up to my room to stare sullenly at the dresses in the closet. Mrs. Parsall watched me from the bed, peering over her glasses. My mother was teaching her how to crochet, to keep her occupied. She was not doing a half-bad job on the afghan she’d started with marled ombre yarn. The rows were quite even, though she did count the stitches under her breath.

She laid down her hook when she saw me. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Yes. To the Singing.” I rolled my eyes.

“Are you sure that you want to go out?” she asked neutrally. But I could see the anxiety in her eyes. She knew what lay in the darkness as much as I did.

I sighed and stared into the closet. “My mother insists.”

“I would like to go to the Singing.” Sarah peeped into the room and stuck her tongue out at me.

“You’re too young,” Mrs. Parsall and I said automatically, at the same time. That made us both laugh.

Sarah bounded in and wedged herself into my closet. She liked helping me get ready for the Singing, imagining what it would be like when a boy like Elijah would come to the house to walk with her into the night. When I was her age, I stood on the back step and watched the older boys and girls disappear too. It was hard to tell her not to envy that.

I pulled out a plain brown dress and began to take off my apron. I wasn’t much in the mood for this and wanted to fade into the background.

“No! Wear this one.” Sarah pulled my newest dress from the closet, a twilight-blue one that I’d made two months ago.

I made a face. “I’d rather wear the brown one.”

“But the blue one is prettier.”

“I don’t feel pretty today.” I unpinned my dress, careful to put the pins in a pin box with a magnet on my dresser.

“I don’t know how you manage those pins,” Mrs. Parsall said, plucking at her own uneven neckline.

Plain women didn’t use complicated fasteners on our clothing, like zippers or buttons. I could see that Mrs. Parsall was still trying to get the hang of the pins. A loose one glinted at her collar, and I could see a scrape on her neck from where she’d stabbed herself.

I stepped out of my dress and reached for the brown. I turned my back to them, then slipped the Himmelsbrief into my pocket. I don’t think they saw, as their attention was fixed on the closet.

“Wear the blue!” my sister insisted.

“Sarah, your sister is old enough to make her own decisions.” Doubtless Mrs. Parsall was thinking the same thing I was: the blue would make me more of a target at night. The brown would blend right in. “But maybe she will let you braid her hair.”

“I think that’s a fine compromise,” I said, fastening the brown dress shut.

Sarah grinned and drew me down onto the bed. She tugged off my cap and began loosening the pins that held it in place. I stared down at the floor, resigned, as my hair tumbled over my shoulders. It hung now almost to my waist. It wasn’t thick and lustrous like some of the other girls, but fine and straight, easy to braid and pin up. Flyaways occasionally escaped, despite my best efforts, but it was easier to deal with than recalcitrant waves. My friend Hannah complained about hers requiring a headful of pins to look tidy. My hair, on the other hand, was like a good Plain girl: obedient.