The Hallowed Ones

humming to herself.

Snatches of conversation swept past my ears:

“Is that the Outsider woman?”

“Do you think she’s really crazy?”

“. . . did you see the fire last night?”

“. . . maybe someone was trying to cover their tracks . . .”

“Maybe it was the Hexenmeister. He is crazy.”

“No, he’s too frail to commit such an act on his own.”

I glanced around and saw many of the men and women who were too fearful to enter the Hersberger house. Frau Gerlach nodded at me from a nearby bench, her posture prim and ramrod-straight. Her apron was pure white and her bonnet sharply starched. One would never know that she’d spent yesterday smeared in gore.

I didn’t see the Hexenmeister, which worried me.

Elijah and his father sat near the front of the men’s section. Elijah’s shoulders were a broken line of grief. I shuddered, recalling the feeling of the hammer striking the stake into Ruth’s chest.

I saw him rise, walk back toward us. I stared down at my hands, hoping that he didn’t mean to speak to me. But his shadow stopped before me, and I was forced to look up.

“Thank you,” he said. His face was open, vulnerable. “Thank you for what you did for Ruth and the girls.”

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. I could not meet his eyes.

“Can I . . .” he began. “Can I come by to see you sometime?”

I flicked a panicked glance up at him.

“Just . . . just to talk?”

My grip on my own fingers tightened. I nodded shortly, just to get him away from me.

He shuffled off. My mother reached over Sarah and put her hands on mine.

“See?” she whispered. “Gelassenheit.”

Bile burned the back of my throat. I wanted to tell her that Gelassenheit had nothing to do with it.

The cluster of men in black at the front broke apart. The Bishop stood before us with his Ausbund in hand.

“God has taken the Hersberger family from us, brought them to his kingdom. We should be grateful to our Lord Jesus for bringing them home.”

My hands tightened into fists. Grateful? I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood.

“. . . God has a plan for us, here on earth. It may seem inscrutable. Unknowable. But our faith in the Lord will bring us through this time of violence, to his kingdom and reunion with our loved ones in heaven. Only through faith, love, and obedience to his will shall we reach the kingdom.”

I let his words wash over me. They were, I realized, meaningless to me. I watched him read aloud from the Ausbund, reciting hymns that we usually sung. My attention wandered to the smoke rising from the back of the house. It didn’t smell like the slaughterhouse of yesterday. It simply smelled of burning wood. Pure. Cleansing.

Since there was no point in going to the cemetery, the funeral disbanded early. The congregation scattered like blown dandelion fluff. I still didn’t see the Hexenmeister among them, not even when I climbed the high step on my family’s buggy to survey the crowd.

His absence chewed on me as I worked my chores. I had little to do: laundry for myself and the Millers, picking pumpkins, searching for some wild sarsaparilla for tea and wild onions for stew. My mother had given me just enough to keep me occupied, to keep my thoughts from churning.

But they still churned, spiraling like blood down the dark drain of the Hersberger bathtub.

Self-loathing soaked through me. I hated what I had done yesterday. I hated how I had felt about it. I could feel myself falling into darkness, into a strange world that looked like my own on the surface but was full of bloody secrets underneath.

Only one of my secrets filled me with warmth: Alex. I was relieved to have someone beside me and the old Hexenmeister. Someone who was willing to do the Lord’s dirty work with me. Someone who I could be honest with.

He was as far from Elijah as a man could get. But he was a good man. I knew it in my heart . . . my heart that skipped when he was beside me. I had not ever experienced that buzz of emotion with Elijah. I didn’t know what to call it. But it—and he—fascinated me. And I was afraid that I was falling for him. Falling for a secret.

I ranged far from the house with my basket in search of the sweet root. I found that my feet took me north, and I followed them straight to the Hexenmeister’s house.

But as his house came into view, I realized that Herr Stoltz was not alone.

One of the Elders stood on the front porch. And he was holding a gun.

My heart lurched into my chest. Had something happened to the old man? Had they hurt him?

Screwing up my courage, I crossed the road to the house. I held my basket primly before me, thankful to have it as a plausible excuse. “Is Herr Stoltz home? I have brought him some sarsaparilla and onions.”

The Elder on the porch regarded me with skepticism. “Ja. He is home. But he is not taking visitors.”

“Oh. I hope he is not ill?”

“No. He is not ill. But he is not allowed visitors.”

I blinked. “He is not allowed visitors?” The old man had always done as he pleased. I glanced at the front window, through the glass, and my heart sank. I saw Herr Stoltz sitting at his desk. And the Bishop stood before him. The look on his face was such a wrath as I had never seen.

The Elder moved to block my view. “The Bishop says he is to stay here. He has violated the Ordnung. No one speaks to him.”

My eyes slid to the rifle. I understood: Herr Stoltz was a prisoner in his own home. The Bishop has found out or suspected his hand in the fire that consumed the Hersberger house.

My eyes widened, and I blurted: “Is he under the Bann?”

“No. Not yet, anyway.”

I lamely held the basket before me. “Could you please give these to him?”

“You can leave them here. I will give them to him if the Bishop says it’s okay.”

I nodded, handed him the basket, and walked briskly away from the house. I walked until I was out of sight of the guard.

And then I fled.

At first, I headed south, toward home. I wanted to tell my mother, have her comfort me. I wanted my father to listen, to feel his protective shadow over me.

But I was learning that some things were beyond them, their powers to understand or their strength. This was one of them.

I veered south and east, toward the kennel. There was one person who would listen to me.

I hauled open the barn door, flooding the straw floor with light.

Alex rushed to the sound of the door reeling back. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and he was holding a bucket of water that splashed onto the knees of his britches. A worry mark deepened his brow.

“Jesus, Bonnet. Thank God you’re here.”

“What’s wrong?” I dreaded his answer.

He gestured helplessly to the back. “The dog . . . she’s in labor. I think. I don’t know.” He set down the bucket and rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “You’ve got good timing.”

“Ja,” I said darkly. “I have excellent timing in all things.”

He searched my face. “Look, don’t worry about . . . about last night. Your wizard is working on it. The old man’s got some vinegar in him. He’ll have all of your folk outfitted with Himmelsbriefs— or is it Himmelsbriefen? Anyway, he’ll have you guys set up before long. The vamps will move on, and maybe by then the military will have—”