Amish Vampires in Space (2 page)

On the way, he studied the sky. It was something his father had trained him to do. The bright northern twins were where they always were, to his right, hanging a dozen degrees over the northern pasture. The David and Goliath constellation stood high over the barn, the Velvet Goose flew to their left. And the Morning Nebbit was overhead—an amorphous clump of stars, a haze of light. Thousands of stars, he’d been told. The enormity of that notion vexed him. He tried not to linger on it.

Just like the secret.

He entered the barn and lit more lamps. To the left was the milking stall, a small wood-walled pen, complete with the new metal head brace the blacksmith had crafted for him. Behind that, the bins of stored grain. Overhead on both sides were lofts. Alfalfa on one side, straw on the other. To his right was the row of horse stalls, and behind that, the cow pen. There was a large back door that allowed the cows to come and go as they pleased during fair weather.

Less frequently now than before, it seemed. They too, sensed something was amiss.

The horses were awake. They stood at attention, watching his every move. Hoping that food would come their way soon. Which it would, after the milking.

Jeb spread alfalfa in the feed trough at the end of the milking stall and went back to gather the first animal. He tried not to look at the place where the secret was buried. It all but called out to him this morning though. It hurt his gut even to think about it. He didn’t want a change. Didn’t want anything to end. There would be repercussions.

He led the cow, Clara, into the milking stall, and guiding her head through the brace, secured her. Smoothed her back and neck.

Perhaps he should get a youngling involved? Pass the secret on to him? The penalties would be less severe…

Jeb shook his head, patted the cow on the head. “No. A man lives for his responsibilities. It is part of the
Ordnung.
” The rules the community lived by.

He found his milking stool and a clean bucket. Slid both next to the cow. He took a seat and rubbed his hands together. Blew into them a couple of times. Admired the cow’s dark side. The largeness of the animal. The weight of it. And the hooves. He slowly reached out for the nearest udders. “Don’t you kick this morning, Clara. I’m not in the mood.”

As if in response, the animal gave a clipped
Mawk.
Stamped a back foot.

Jeb frowned. Began his work. Milk spattered in the bucket.

When the time came, the secret would come out. But he dreaded it.

The punishment would fall on him.

• • •

Daytime was the worst. All day long it hung overhead. The danger. The responsibility. He knew because he was trained to look. To watch the heavens for signs and days and seasons.

But as with his secret, Jebediah tried to ignore what he saw. To work around it.

It was harder now, though. Harder than ever.

“So, what do you think?” Ezekiel asked.

Ezekiel was younger by ten years, a handbreadth taller, and fair in complexion. He wore the bill of his dark hat wide, at the extreme edge of what the rules allowed. His shirt was white, but yellowed by sweat at the back and armpits. His dark pants showed the labor of half a day. Together they stood on the trail that bisected Ezekiel’s farm from that of his neighbor’s.

In one hand, Ezekiel held the head of a stalk of wheat. He rolled it with his thumb so that Jeb could see the entire head. There were very few kernels, and they were tiny. “The effects of a blight? Shriver worms?” Ezekiel smiled weakly. “Longday?”

Jeb snorted. “Longday…” It was a generational joke, used to explain disorders of every kind. A reference to the planet’s 26-hour rotation.

He glanced at the head of wheat, then gazed over the entire field. Every stalk looked sickly, starved. The heads were half the size of what they were ten years ago. He turned and took a few steps toward the neighboring field.
That
field was barley. It looked better than the wheat, but not by much. Jeb’s own land was wetter, but he’d seen signs of change there as well.

“After how poor last year was,” Ezekiel said, “I was hoping this year would be different. Better.” He looked Jeb in the eyes. Worried. “We’ve had rain. The heat hasn’t been too extreme…and we prayed, Jeb. We
all
prayed, right?”

Jeb nodded. “Ya, we did.” He looked toward Ezekiel’s barn, a fair walk distant. It was painted red, with a green roof. Not ostentatious. All within Ordnung allowances. Standards. In fact, if it were all about obedience, their community did it best. Helped each other. Worked together. Worshiped.

Jeb frowned. He had written it off to the age of his eyes, this perception that the sky’s color had changed. But now he wondered. “Has the breeze seemed warmer to you this year?” he asked.

Ezekiel pushed his hat back and scratched his head. Looked thoughtful. “I know I should notice such things, Jeb. But I just don’t. The fields…the engagement…too much on my labored mind.” He straightened his hat. Smiled. “That’s why I ask you. No one reads the world better.”

Jebediah sniffed, forced a smile. He knew he wasn’t the only one noticing differences. He couldn’t be. Some of the elders had twenty years on him. Decades of watching the seasons. They should know. Yet no one talked about it. They just worked harder. Prayed harder. Lived.

“I sometimes wish for a device,” Ezekiel said. “Something the smith or woodworker could construct for me. Something that would keep track of all these millions of things. Free my mind. Save me time.”

Jeb shook his head. “Such a thing wouldn’t save you time, Zeke. It would only add more complication. Distract you from your calling. From the Lord’s work.” Or so his grandfather had told him.

Ezekiel gave a quick bow of his head. “You speak true, I’m sure. I know, the more I have, the more I have to preserve. The less time I ultimately have.”

Jeb placed a hand on Zeke’s shoulder. “See there. The beginning of wisdom.” Jeb motioned toward the path. “Let’s walk back.”

Ezekiel bowed again, crumbled the head of wheat in his hand and dropped it. Looked over the field. Looked worried again. “But about the field? The crops?”

Jeb squeezed Zeke’s shoulder. Tried to look confident. To comfort. “I don’t want to guess yet. I want to study more. Talk to a few elders…pray.” He smiled. “We’ll get through it, whatever it is. We’re community.”

Zeke returned the smile. “I knew I should ask you. You always know what to do.”

Jeb sniffed, began to walk. He wished that were true.

• • •

Back at home, Jeb greeted Sarah quickly and walked outside again. It was just after noon, and the sun’s current position was significant. He didn’t want to miss it.

Most of the cattle were outside now, grazing the north pasture. The wooden fence line ran from the front of the barn due north for about two acres and turned west. He noticed two calves as they chased each other. Otherwise, the cows were quiet and content. On the other side of the barn, the four horses clustered near the front fence. Staring at him. Again, hopeful.

Jeb shook his head, entered the barn and passed through the horse stalls and milking area to the back where he kept his tools. The larger tools—shovels, mallets, and the like—were hung on the wall there. The other, smaller tools, he kept in a long wooden work cabinet. The top of the cabinet was large enough that it would easily support a fence post in need of repair, and the depth was better than six feet. A sizable space for the type of work he performed on a daily basis. The cabinet was heavy enough that few people would ever attempt to move it. Which was good.

It also had lots of drawers. Five across and either three or four going down, depending on the row. The smaller drawers contained the finer tools. Strapped to the back wall were glass jars containing smaller items—screws, nails, and wooden pegs.

Jeb knew right where to go for the particular items he sought. He opened the leftmost drawer and pulled it all the way out. When the back of the drawer became visible, he grabbed the sides of the drawer and lifted up a little. He was then able to pull it farther out, revealing a second back. In the space between was a folded piece of heavy cloth. He brought that out and unfolded it. Inside were two pieces of glass. Special pieces of glass. He pushed the drawer closed again and exited the barn.

In front of the barn were two vertical hitching posts for the horses. They were hand-me-downs from his father that often brought comments for being a tad more than plain. Usually hitching posts were crafted of wood, but these were made of metal—an aluminum alloy, to be precise.

“The horses just chew up the wood,” he usually told the curious. “These were built to last. To remain. Like Father’s influence in my life.”

That was usually enough explanation. Family was the smallest representation of community. In fact, true community required only two. Just like Adam and Eve in the Garden. They were both a community and a couple.

Jebediah approached the leftmost post. The bottom quarter was covered with purple lichen, a reminder of Alabaster’s origins. A minor annoyance. He glanced first at the house behind him and then at the path that led from the house east, before squatting down near the post. He spit in the heavy cloth he carried and pressed it to the metal. Rubbed it up and down vigorously, clearing both dirt and lichen.

After a few seconds, he checked the post’s surface and began rubbing again. After a few
more
seconds, the post was clean enough—shiny enough—that he could see the sun’s reflection in it. He took another look at the house and raised one of his special glasses so that the light of the sun’s reflection passed through it.

The glass was a prism of sorts. It separated the light into its primary components. The post altered that rainbow so that the dark areas between the individual colors became visible. These he stared at for many moments. Comparing the pattern with what he remembered. What he’d been taught.

He shook his head. Frowned.

He placed the cloth on the ground and put the prism on top of it. He brought out the other piece of glass. On its surface concentric circles had been drawn. They denoted the eight seasons of the year, and the apparent size of the sun in the sky during those seasons. The glass was also filtered to protect his eyes.

Jebediah turned toward the house. Squinting, he brought the glass up and placed it over the sun’s circle in the sky.

He gasped. The current image was larger than it had ever been. At any time of the year.

“That can’t be right,” he whispered. “Can’t be.” He brought a hand to his chin, thought a moment. He lifted the glass again. Looked through it to study the surface of the sun. He counted the spots of darkness there before checking the size a final time. He brought the glass down then and placed it with the other. Wrapped them up together.

He squatted there for a time, staring at the ground, chin wrapped in his hand again. Thinking.

Finally, his knees reminded him of his age, so with a grunt, he collected the wrapped glass and stood. He took a few short steps to let the pain and numbness subside.

Maybe what he was seeing was just the day? An effect of the atmosphere. Heavy dust from the plants? Or something brought in with the wind.

He nodded. “Just interference. That must be it.” He reentered the barn. “I’ll check again tomorrow.”

• • •

Three days later, Jebediah ran the glass tests again. He couldn’t bring himself to do it before that. He didn’t have the time. He didn’t
make
the time. There were too many things to do. Cows to milk, fields to hoe. Too many things.

Sadly, the tests returned the same results. It wasn’t an atmospheric abnormality or a glitch in the test. It was the sun. Their sun. Something was happening to it.

Now the question was: What to do?

Still frowning, Jeb returned the folded cloth holding the glass to the hidden portion of the work desk drawer and pushed it closed. He turned around and leaned on the desk, crossing his arms and looking out toward the still open barn door. He could see one of the metal poles there, and beyond, the dirt drive and the porch of the house.

The largest of his horses—Ezra—was inside the barn enjoying the shade. He watched Jebediah over the stable wall. As the moments of contemplation wore on, Ezra snorted a few times. Whinnied. Lightly stamped his feet.

Finally, Jebediah walked across the barn and patted Ezra’s head. He found where he kept dried apples and fed the horse a slice. Ezra nodded his approval as he ate. Jeb gave him a final pat and walked away toward the barn door.

Behind him, the secret beckoned. Tugged at his mind, his feelings.

He paused at the door, but didn’t turn. “It is sinful,” he hissed. “Leave it be.”

Yet the pull remained. He felt a wave of heat and a new dampness under his arms.

“I cannot.” He shook his head. “It is forbidden.”

But don’t you have to? Your father…

His insides stirred. “Get thee behind me.” He strode stiltedly out the door. Each step felt a little easier. A little lighter. He fixed his eyes on the house. Kept walking.

The turmoil never really ceased, though. The responsibility.

He entered the house to find the living room empty. He could hear Sarah in the kitchen beyond. The clanging of pots. He stomped his feet on the mat and took his shoes off. He pushed away his thoughts from the barn and walked toward the kitchen. Toward comfort and reason.

The kitchen was large in comparison to the rest of the house—14 feet by 12—but that was because he knew it pleased his wife. She loved company. Loved to entertain. Even though they had no children of their own. Or maybe because of it. She liked the presence of people, the conversation. Serving.

The room had a small square table along the far wall. To his right, on the same wall as the entrance, was a sink and ample counter space. Perpendicular to that, along another interior wall, were the cast iron stove and more counter space. There was a secondary entrance beyond that stove that led to a small utility room, complete with another sink. Both sinks used hand pumps for water. It was the height of convenience. What his Sarah deserved.