The Hallowed Ones

“Shit.”

I walked to the front of the barn. Alex hauled open the door to the dawn.

The gray of night had given way to a red gash at the horizon. I glanced at him. “Is it safe now?”

He stood with his hands in his pockets, barefoot, shirt open, and hair mussed, blinking into the wan light. “Yeah. As soon as the sun comes up. As long as you stay out of shadows and shade.”

I nodded, ran my fingers through my hair. I pinned it up in a loose roll with the hairpins I had remaining and straightened my apron over the tear in my dress. There was nothing to be done for the lost bonnet, but I hoped to be back before anyone noticed I was gone. I realized then that I looked very guilty. So did Alex. I blushed.

“Hey,” he said.

I half turned toward him, eager to be on my way and escape this awkwardness.

He caught my hand. “Be careful, will you?”

His fingers meshed in mine. I nodded wordlessly and moved away, pulling against his grip.

But he didn’t let go. He reeled me back in as if I were a fish. With a startled gasp, I stumbled and landed against his chest. A flicker of amusement glittered in his eyes.

He kissed me on my forehead, whispered against my skin. “Be careful, Bonnet.”

He released me. I stumbled backwards, nodded again, and turned to walk the way back home with my heart thundering in my chest.

* * *

I let myself in the back door, wincing as the screen door banged against my calf. I heard footsteps above me, and I lurched to the cupboards to begin banging around with pots and pans.

My mother descended the stairs, tucking her hair into a bun at the nape of her neck. She was always the earliest riser in our family. “Katie. You’re up early.”

I lit the kerosene stove burner with a match. I smiled at her and remembered what Ginger had said about the simplest lie being the best one. “Couldn’t sleep. Would you like some eggs?”

“That would be lovely.” My mother seemed relieved to see me in the kitchen and puttering about in an obedient fashion. I flopped a chunk of lard into the skillet and took some eggs out of the egg basket.

My mother plucked a piece of straw from my dress. I swallowed. My mouth was dry around the half-truth: “I saw Sunny this morning.”

“How big is she?”

I wrapped my arms around an imaginary dog belly the size of a barrel. “Huge. Her temperature hasn’t dropped yet. The puppies could come soon. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Good.” My mother slid into a chair at the table. “About yesterday . . .” she began.

I cracked four eggs, one by one, into the skillet of sizzling lard, waiting for her to continue.

She stared down at her hands, knotted together before her, as if in prayer, working the piece of straw between them. “I know that it’s difficult to understand why the Elders do what they do. But it’s for the best.”

I turned over my shoulder, smiled reassuringly at her. “It’s all right.” As bad as things were, a tiny flicker of something had lit inside me. Hope. Despite the Elders.

I seasoned the eggs with salt and pepper, then scraped them out on two plates with a fork. They were tender and slightly runny, just the way my mother liked them. I took my plate and sat across from her. I was ravenous and rushed through my prayer to get to the eggs.

My mother set her fork down. “I just want you to accept that things are the way they are for a reason. We may not understand it. But we have to do as we’re told.”

I spoke around hot egg in my mouth, not meeting her eyes. “Gelassenheit.”

“Yes. Gelassenheit.” She tapped the piece of straw on the table. “Sometimes I think that your father and I have been too lax with you.”

I looked up in alarm.

She continued. “But then I remember the kinds of freedoms I had at your age. When I was on Rumspringa, I was riding a motorcycle.”

My jaw dropped. “You . . . what?”

My parents had told me little of their time Outside, only allowing stories to come in bits and pieces as circumstances warranted.

Her eyes twinkled, and she nodded. “We are not nearly the sticks in the mud that you think. I know your heart, that you are a good girl. You are bright and a hard worker. I have faith that you will eventually come around to what’s best. As we all do, sooner or later.”

My stomach turned, and I pushed the half-eaten plate of eggs away. I forced myself to look my mother in the eye. She seemed in such a perfect state of denial of everything, clinging to her beliefs and the way things used to be. “Thank you, Mother. I will . . . strive to do better.”

“That’s my girl.” She reached across the table to pat my cheek.

“May I go begin my chores?” I asked.

“Yes. And remember to bring more milk and eggs in today, liewe.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“And one more thing.”

I looked at her expectantly.

“Bring Elijah some supper today.”

“Yes, Mother.” I bit my tongue so hard it bled. More likely, I’d feed it to the dogs. Or the Outsider.

“You and I will talk later about getting baptized. Your father and I have decided that this is best for you.” The set of her mouth showed that she would brook no argument.

I slid away from the table, scraped the remainder of my plate into the trash. I slipped down to the spring room to wash and retrieve a clean dress from the laundry before I left the house. I reminded myself to put the Himmelsbrief in the pocket of my clean dress. Apparently, the Himmelsbrief didn’t seem to mind my wavering faith as much as my mother did.

The sun had climbed high enough on the horizon that I could see its full yellow body. I headed due north when I left the house. Not toward the chicken coop, the cows, or the Miller house. But to the Hexenmeister.

Herr Stoltz’s house lay at the farthest northern edge of our settlement. His vegetable garden was overgrown and tangled with thistles, and the shade cast by the nearby forest over his small dwelling lent a palpable chill to the land. The whitewash on the house was speckled with mildew, and sprigs of peppermint grew wild around its foundations. The shade around it made me nervous, as I thought of things that could lurk there. I steeled myself, reasoning that the Hexenmeister’s property would be better protected than ours.

As children, we avoided this place. The Hexenmeister was a bit frightening. He’d never done anything to harm anyone, but we feared the way he talked to himself and watched how the adults gave him a wide berth. But I needed him now.

I screwed up my courage and knocked at the door. It echoed back through the rooms of the house.

I waited and knocked again, more insistently.

Eventually, I heard shuffling and the thump of a cane against the floor. The door opened, and the Hexenmeister blinked dazedly at me. Well, not at me . . . He looked beyond me at the sky.

“Oh, it’s sunrise already. Good thing.”

I swallowed hard. “Herr Stoltz, may I speak with you?”

He stepped aside to let me in. I noted that the collar on his shirt was wrinkled and bore paint stains. He smelled like he needed a bath.

I had never been inside the Hexenmeister’s house. Whenever it had been his turn to host church, he always did so from the yard. I could see why.

Every horizontal surface was cluttered with bits of wood, paper, paint, a T-square, rulers, and old brass compasses. I saw the petals of a hex sign beginning to unfold from a sketch on a perfectly sanded piece of wood, a jar full of blackberry ink. A fly buzzed past me, and I swatted at it. I didn’t want to imagine the chaos in the kitchen.

The old man stumped to a worn rocking chair and sat down. “What can I do for you, Katie?”

“I wanted . . . to thank you for the Himmelsbrief . . .” I began. I perched uncomfortably on a stool at his feet.

His eyes narrowed. “Have you had to use it?”