Amish Vampires in Space (19 page)

“I hope you’re doing okay back there,” Egan continued. “I know this is bound to seem weird to you, but we actually are moving. We’re many kilometers up, in fact.” A pause, perhaps so the full frightening impact of that statement could sink in. “Since I know this is a new experience for you all, I thought I’d open the visors so you could look out.”

Yes, Samuel thought. This was very much like Jonah’s journey. Called, forced to do something he very much did not want to do. When Samuel told the story he never left out how inherently brutal the Assyrians had been. They were the embodiment of evil. Their enemies weren’t just killed or subdued—they were flayed and their skin was spread over the city walls. Many were crucified or impaled on pikes. To reach Nineveh, Jonah would doubtless have had to travel a road lined with those pikes. Who could blame the prophet for being a bit afraid? A bit hesitant?

Suddenly, the sides of the ship seemed to disappear. There was a collective gasp from everyone around him. Then there were shrieks and someone whimpered, “We’ll fall out! We’ll fall out!” All bent closer to the floor, and most clutched the restraining straps. Some shut their eyes, shielded their children.

It was as if they were sitting atop a fuzzy white and blue mound. The highest mountain that had ever been built. Samuel held his tongue. He just gaped, frightened and unsettled.

“I’m sorry, everyone,” the pilot said. “I probably should’ve warned you. There is no danger here. We’re all protected. All safe. The wall is still there, just transparent at the moment. I wanted you to see out, is all. Sorry again.”

Samuel shook his head. So this was the “circle of the earth” that the prophet Isaiah had written of. Did the prophet have any idea? Had the Lord given him a glimpse of this perspective? Of
His
perspective? It was a monstrous thing. Unfit for human beings. “Glory, glory,” Samuel whispered.

The blue disc began to recede below them. The darkness above only increased. It was a starlit night without end. A representation of God’s infinity. And they hung amidst it. No wheels. No ground. Trespassers in a place where only angels belonged. He’d heard stories as a child, but they did it no justice.

Samuel put his Bible on his stomach and hunched over it. Closed his eyes. Whispered a prayer for strength and for God’s holy will. For protection.

Deacon Mark was to Samuel’s right. He placed an arm on Samuel’s back. “How are you, Samuel?”

Samuel nodded to close his prayer. Looked Mark’s direction. “I gird myself as to battle, brother.”

Mark smiled tentatively. “It
is
disconcerting.”

“Unnatural, is what it is,” Samuel said. “But we will persevere.”

Mark nodded. “Let him who lays his hand on the plow never look back.”

“Oh, yes,” Samuel whispered, rocking forward. He purposely avoided looking at that exterior darkness. At the stars that shone like predatory eyes at night. “Onward in the Lord’s will. Always onward.”

Deacon James would come in a later shuttle, but if he were here now, usually this was where he might break into song. A hymn would be welcome at this point. Anything to reinforce the feeling of togetherness. Samuel wished James was with them. But the shepherds were few. And there was so much to be wary of. To warn others of.

“All right,” Egan’s voice said, “if you look off to your left, you’ll see our ship, the
Raven
.”

Samuel raised his head again. There were no birds known as ravens on Alabaster, but he was familiar with the name. It was used often in Scripture. The raven had been the first bird Noah had released from the ark after the Flood. The prophet Elijah had been fed by ravens.

Samuel had always wanted to see a raven.

“‘Who prepares for the raven its nourishment, when its young cry to God and wander without food?’” Mark said, quoting the book of Job.

Samuel nodded, straightened his hat, looked to the left.

And gasped. It was a leviathan, this thing the Englishers were bringing them to. It was incredibly large, angular, and deep blue. Its size was hard for Samuel to judge, but he would guess it at over a mile in length. Possibly more. It was half again as wide.

“It isn’t as frivolous as I expected,” Mark said. “At least there’s that.”

Samuel nodded. It was true: Aside from the color and some gloss lettering, the
Raven
had very little distinction whatsoever. It reminded him most of an elongated rhombus, with gradual sloping in front and in back. The only real peculiarity he could see was a small area where it bubbled in the center on top, very near the front of the ship.

“Yes, that’s our ship,” Egan said. “She isn’t much to look at, but she’s a workhorse. Able to transport nearly two million metric tons of parcels throughout this spiral arm. Entirely self-sufficient and staffed by a crew of only three hundred.”

“We will be the majority here, then,” Mark said. “If all the communities come.”

Samuel nodded again. He held his Bible at his chest again. He could feel his heartbeat through it.

“If you look at the front, you’ll see a small circular area, a bubble,” Egan said. “That’s where I typically work. The pilot’s bubble, though some call it a nest.” A smile entered his voice. “Don’t worry, though, the other pilot is up there now. Probably can see us, and is worried I might scuff the paint.”

Their perspective of the larger ship began to change. It shifted to the left and then started to grow larger. And larger. Again Samuel was taken by the immensity. How could men build such a thing? How could they be so bold and terrible? So haughty.

He looked around at those with them. Mothers and daughters. Fathers and sons. Many looked at him in return. Frightened but courageous. As their people always had been.

“We’re starting our approach now,” Egan said. “The landing bay is ahead.”

A door in the side of the
Raven
became obvious. It too was geometric. Like a pyramid with a flattened point. As they watched, it began to open. Beyond, Samuel could see white lights. If he squinted, he could almost imagine them as teeth.

“Here we go then,” he said. “Into the belly of the great fish.”

• • •

It was a difficult time to be shunned. Uncomfortable, uncertain. Even more than it would be at any other time. Jebediah had to rely on the kindness of his closest friends, Ezekiel especially, to look out for his livestock. To ensure that some of his animals got loaded. He hadn’t been able to assist in the selection, though. He had only to hope that the able bodies—those most likely to make the trip—were the ones gathered and sent. He still wasn’t sure about his future livelihood at all. What was a miller without his mills? His tools? No one was thinking about those things. Not for him.

Even the last moments with Sarah, those times spent gathering the few items they shared, had been awkward. Quiet. Neither of them knowing exactly how it should transpire. The Ordnung allowed them to still share the same home, because nothing should separate what God had joined. In silence Jebediah watched her load boxes for the trip. He noticed how difficult it was for her even to do her usual chores. He helped, of course. Loaded what boxes he could. But silently. Behaving like the shunned should behave. As an outcast.

Then, when the scheduled day of departure had come, they’d gotten into their buggy and set out for the clearing near the trading post, the prearranged meeting place. That’s where they were headed now. Many had already left, he knew. Reached the ship named
Raven
. The bishop and Deacon Mark, for instance. The crucial livestock had been gone for days.

It was an odd feeling, as they drove. Their settlement had always been a quiet one, but now every house was silent. The buildings and barns were just shells, holding nothing. Remnants of a life lost.

Jeb frowned as they approached the Carpenter residence. Their pasture was entirely empty, aside from one solitary Holstein cow, doubtless ill or elderly. It raised its head to watch them. Slowly chewed its cud. Eyes dark as midnight. Fur white with large black spots. When they reached the fencerow, the cow gave a long mournful cry. A final sendoff. Or a warning—Jeb couldn’t tell which. Either way, it was sad. A situation he’d created, intentionally or not.

After more silent travel, they reached the trading post. There were dozens of buggies lined up, more than had been at the meeting. They filled the covered parking stalls and overflowed into the roadside beyond. One black buggy after another. All the same. All now like salt that had lost its saltiness: cast out and useless.

Beyond those was a single Englisher shuttle. Groups of Amishers were loading from the tail end. Englishers directed them. One held a rifle, as if the presence of a crowd was reason enough to bear arms. There was no disturbance here, though. Everything was orderly.

“This is foolishness,” Sarah said then.

Jebediah guided the buggy to the end of the long row and halted the horse. Looked at Sarah. Surprised. “What is?” he said. “The leaving?”

She shook her head. “Nee, not that. Your shunning. Our silence. You saved us all.”

Jebediah shrugged. “They are trying to maintain the principle. I can respect that.
We
should respect that.”

“Then why don’t you just repent and give them what they want?”

Jeb smiled. “Because I have principles too.”

Fire lit her eyes. “You are a silly man. A proud man.”

He nodded slowly. “That may be.”

Jeb got out of the buggy and hurried around to help Sarah. With a guiding arm he brought her safely to the ground. He offered her a quick smile, but she was having none of it. She instead slid by him and bustled in the direction of the ship. Jeb shrugged and followed.

A full minute later, they reached the head of the buggy line. “I apologize,” she said to Jeb. “Our child plays with my emotions. More so than you ever have.”

“I can be grateful for that, then,” he said. “I have a fine son.”

She turned and looked at him. Wrinkled her nose. “Or daughter.” She lifted her skirt over a high stand of grass and stepped into the clearing.

The ship was maybe seven paces away now. The remaining Amishers were beginning to board. One was Abraham. He was a large man—a hay man—and despite many blessings, often a bit cross. He had his two older sons with him, David and Jonathan. All three paused to watch Jeb and Sarah approach. Others turned and looked too but then bowed their heads and moved into the craft.

The rifle man was stationed on the left side of the entrance. There was an Englisher woman, one he wasn’t familiar with, positioned on the right. Smiling and motioning people in.

Sarah moved to the boarding ramp. She wasn’t yet to the point where the child was cumbersome, but she used extra caution. This was their first, and they’d waited a long time. Seeing her timidity, the Englisher woman stepped forward. Abraham superseded her, though, stepping around in front. He offered Sarah his forearm, which she grasped. He led her up the ramp to the opening.

The younger of Abraham’s boys, a blond lad, took a couple of steps down to stand in front of Jebediah. “You’re not allowed here. Only community members.”

Jebediah frowned. He’d worried about such a thing happening. Yes, he’d been able to get most to agree to the move, but as the work of actually moving had progressed, so had the attitude about it. There was enough momentum to keep it going forward, thankfully, but whispers—and his shunning—slowly made Jebediah the blame of any inconvenience. Discomfort could affect even the most pious man.

Sarah was already inside, out of sight. That, at least, reassured him. She and the child were safe. If it came to his staying, he could handle that. As long as she was safe.

The rifle man had his back to the ramp, busy looking inside. His finger moved in the air as if he were counting.

“This is the last shuttle,” the Englisher woman said, looking puzzled. “He
has
to come with us.”

Abraham’s oldest son, a brunette with only the start of a beard, joined his brother. “He isn’t community anymore. He isn’t allowed to be with us. It is the law.”

Abraham walked back to join his sons. “Ya, my buwes are right. Unless the shunned wants to repent, he will have to stay. By himself.”

The Englisher woman looked flummoxed. She brought the shiny tablet she held up to her chest. Covering it. “This is the last shuttle,” she repeated. “Everyone,
everything
else is loaded. We have a schedule.” She glanced toward the entrance. “Isn’t his wife pregnant? She’ll need him.”

Abraham straightened. “Community helps community. His frau will be taken care of regardless. You wouldn’t understand.” He motioned toward Jeb. “But I know he does.”

Jeb nodded. “I do. She will be fine.” He would miss her, though. Her and the child.

The Englisher woman stepped close. “Gerald,” she said in the direction of the entrance. The man with the rifle was now inside the ship. Doubtless doing more counting. He didn’t seem to hear. “Gerald!” she said again.

“Deacon James is aboard,” Abraham said. “If you want to repent, Jeb, that would solve everything.”

Jeb frowned. “Tell me my sin.”

Abraham huffed. “You disrupted everything,” he said. “You and your fool machine.”

“It was my burden. I did what I was taught—”

“What you were taught?” Abraham sneered. “I had to leave my year’s work to rot in a barn. A year of wasted effort.” He pointed at his youngest. “He broke an arm helping. It may never be right again. Yet all for naught. Danki for that.” He straightened, shook his head. “You may have saved us, Jebediah.” He glanced at the sky, motioned toward the sun. “But we have sacrificed much. You too should sacrifice.”

Jebediah knew it was just emotions at play. Regardless of devotion, emotions were always present. A plow horse that perpetually wants to race. “So it isn’t about my salvation, then,” Jeb said. “My being right with the Lord. It is about your hay.”

Abraham raised a finger. “Don’t paint me the sinner. You’re the one under discipline.”

He bowed his head. “I am. I’m praying our leaders reconsider.”

“So they’ve made a mistake now, is that it?”