The Hallowed Ones

Fisher. They have not returned, either.”

“But if it’s not safe here . . .” someone began.

“There’s no point in considering leaving. This is our land.” The Bishop scanned the crowd. “We must do as we have always done. Keep faith. Trust in God. We will be safe.”

His eyes were dark, and I thought that he looked up at me as he said, “And no one goes beyond the gate.”

* * *

“You should not have gone.”

My father doubled my evening chores to keep me busy. He gave me mine as well as Elijah’s. I would have offered to do them anyway, but my father wanted to make a point.

I glanced back at him from my milking stool to where he sat on his own. My father had taken on Seth’s and Joseph’s chores. I could never say that he’d ever punished me in a way that he was unwilling to undertake himself, and he was never cruel. I could not resent him as we sat milking the cows in the cool silence of the Millers’ barn.

I averted my gaze from the wreck of the buggy. “I know that you worry.”

“And I know that your heart was in the right place,” he said. “Seth and Joseph are like brothers to you.”

I nodded, casting my eyes down at the bucket. “I couldn’t let Elijah go alone.”

I heard the smile in my father’s voice. “And your mother would not have let me go alone, either.” I heard the smile fade. “But times are different now. You must be careful. You both could have been killed.”

I understood his concern. But I couldn’t convey to him that, no matter how sore my ribs were now, I somehow felt indestructible. Nearly immortal, though I would have never uttered that thought to any living person. It was blasphemous.

“You’ve had enough of the Outside world for now, I think.”

I glanced sidelong at him. “Ja. The Bishop has closed the gate.”

My father stood to gather his bucket and move to the next cow. “I think that this thing . . . whatever it is . . . shall be short-lived.”

“I hope so.” I bit my lip. I selfishly hoped that the English would hurry and straighten out their business so that their cares and tragedies would not interfere with my Rumspringa.

But my father knew my thoughts well. “Still. I think you will have to wait for Rumspringa.”

“Wait until the crisis is over, of course . . .”

“No. I mean that you’ve not demonstrated the judgment that I hoped you would have. Perhaps in spring.”

My breath caught in my throat. “But you and Mother went . . .”

“Ja. And those were different times. Safer times.” My father carried his buckets to the mouth of the barn. “I do not have confidence that the world is safe enough for you to roam about in it.”

I stared into the bucket. My hands slackened, and I blink- ed back tears. Selfish tears, I knew. There was much more at stake than my solitary future. Outside was facing violence and God knew what else. Seth and Joseph were missing, perhaps dead.

But all I could think of was the soft sound of snow creaking on the roof above my room this winter as a tear splashed into the milk bucket.

* * *

I finished my chores at twilight and trudged back from the Millers’ barn to our house in the falling darkness. I looked up, watching the stars overhead. They were the same as they always were. Despite what my father said, I couldn’t believe that the world had truly changed.

I took my time, smelling the dew condensing to earth and the sweet smell of drying grass. I almost didn’t notice a thin figure walking through the field, his back stooped with age and from the load of the paint cans that he carried.

“Good evening, Herr Stoltz,” I greeted the old Hexen- meister.

He seemed lost in his thoughts, as well. He paused and set down his paint cans. “Hello again, Katie.”

“Are you painting?” I gestured at the cans with my chin. I said nothing to him about his work at the crash site this morning.

“Ja. There is much work to do.” He smelled of turpentine, and wet brushes were tied in a bundle over his shoulder. Flecks of red paint in his beard looked like blood in the dim light.

“I thought that you had painted all the hex signs this spring?” I asked. The Hexenmeister was responsible for painting the hex signs on the barns. I was accustomed to seeing him at the fringes of the community, muttering to himself, planting seeds in haphazard places. When I was a small child, he had scared me, but I had become used to thinking of him as a harmless old man, practicing his art.

Until this morning. And I began to take him more seriously.

The Hexenmeister had always seemed to be just beyond the edge of the Ordnung—a bit mystical and not living entirely within our strict rules. He would not have been allowed to work as he did in other Amish communities: with graven images, with vain and complicated art, with the calligraphy he used in letters he wrote directly to God. These were the practices of a small group of Pennsylvania Dutch, immigrants from the Old Country. Our ancestors had somehow been unable to extricate themselves from that particular Old World root, even as they renounced other sinful and worldly practices. The old man’s father and his grandfathers before him had taken on the role of Hexenmeister. Some thought that this was an inherited insanity. But the Elders had always been quiet where he was concerned.

I wondered what they knew that I didn’t.

I noticed that, unlike many of the Amish who sold their furniture, quilts, and crafts to the English, Herr Stoltz never sold any of his beautiful paintings. He made them for us, and us alone. Any of the hex signs sold in stores run by the English were reproductions, ordered from English painters who mimicked old designs. They had no real knowledge of the symbolism in them. To them, they were just pretty pictures. To the Hexenmeister, they were images designed to beckon good fortune, friendship, and fertility—and to ward off bad luck.

“There are more to do. Different signs.” He rubbed his gnarled, stained hands like they ached.

“Would you like help carrying the cans?”

He shook his head. “No, Katie. It’s late. You run along home to your family.”

His eyes stared out unblinking into the night, and I stifled a shudder. It was as if he saw something in the darkness that I could not.

“Yes, Herr Stoltz. Have a good evening.” I left him in the field, looking up at the stars.

He wasn’t the only one out this evening. As I approached my house, I saw an unfamiliar figure pacing outside. As I neared, I realized that it was Mrs. Parsall, dressed in my mother’s clothes, but minus the prayer bonnet and with the addition of her own sneakers. Mrs. Parsall was stouter than my mother, and the buttons strained against her belly. I smiled for a moment, seeing my friend cast into our world.

But when she turned, the expression on her face wiped away my amusement. She held her cell phone, and her lower lip quavered.

“Mrs. Parsall, what’s wrong?” I reached out to rub her arm.

She blew out her breath. “I spoke with Dan.”

I perked up. “Your husband is all right?”

“Yes. He’s all right. But . . .” She shook her head, and I could see her reaching out for words. “He says that something terrible has happened.”

“Come sit.” I guided her to sit down on the back step of the house. Her hands were shaking, and she took three tries to get the phone back in her apron pocket, failed. I took the phone out of her hand and noticed that the battery symbol was blinking on it.

“Please shut it off,” she said. “The big button on the right.”

I pushed it, and the phone display faded with a musical chirp that sounded like a pale imitation of birdsong. The insects seemed unaffected by what had spooked the ravens. We listened to the crickets for some time, watched the last of the summer fireflies rise to swim in the field, before she spoke again. Her voice was stronger.