Amish Vampires in Space (3 page)

She was positioned by the sink. There was a large iron pot in one hand and steel wool in the other. She wore the traditional long dark dress and had her head covered by a white kapp. She was frowning.

Jeb approached and kissed her neck.

She rewarded his touch with a smile but returned to her scrubbing. The frown returned, as well.

The Lord had blessed Jebediah with a wife whose emotions were always near the surface. Other men in the settlement were not so fortunate. A seemingly cloudless day could bring lightning in an instant. Not so with Sarah. “What is wrong?” he asked.

She shook her head, continued with her scrubbing. She worked the sink’s hand pump. After a few strokes, water began to flow. She held the pot under it. Rinsed it. Gave it the once over. “This stew doesn’t want to let go,” she said.

Jeb crossed to the table and took a seat. Waited for a moment, just watching. Sarah continued scrubbing. Finally she set the pot aside and found an equally dirty skillet, started in on that. “So, you’re not going to tell me?” he said.

She shook her head again. “It is not important. A worry. It shouldn’t be present in my mind.”

“Perhaps if you share it, it will leave.”

She shrugged. “Perhaps.” She put down the skillet, wiped her forehead with her wrist. “Forgive me, my husband. I should have gotten you a drink. You’ve been out in the sun.”

Jeb straightened in his chair, placed an arm on the table. “You’re stalling, Sarah.”

Sarah turned to look at him. Both hands gripped the counter behind her, as if bracing herself. “How did your grandfather die?” she asked. “Your grandmother?”

Jeb raised an eyebrow. “That’s an odd question.”

She stared at him, unblinking. “Just answer.”

“Well, I—”

“Because I know the fall took your father, there’s no helping that. And your mother, her heart. Again, it was obvious, unavoidable.” Sarah looked down, shook her head. “I still miss them.”

“Yes—”

“But your grandparents were gone before I met you, and I don’t remember you saying. So, what was it? The fever? An accident? What?”

Jeb couldn’t hide his puzzlement. “They were old. They worked hard—”

Sarah crossed her arms. “It wasn’t the brain loss, was it? The wandering?”

Jeb shook his head. “They were old, Sarah. Things weren’t quite what they had been, but they were mostly all there. Grandpa even helped shoe a horse the week he—”

“So they kept themselves? Their whole lives? Their minds were good?”

“Yes,” Jebediah said. “As much as I know.”

Sarah chewed her bottom lip, watching him, arms still crossed. “Okay.” She turned and picked up the skillet again. Started to scrub.

Jeb almost laughed. “Oh, no, you don’t,” he said. “You can’t do that.”

“I was just asking,” she said. “Nothing more.”

Jeb feigned indignation. “My Frau! You must tell me why you boiled up all those questions. It is the law!”

Sarah paused, then her shoulders began to move as she giggled. She turned again, and a smile filled her face. “I’m sorry, husband. I was just being silly.”

“Taming a planet is hard work, Sarah. Alabaster was a gift, but like all the Lord’s gifts, it required hard work.”

She flipped up a hand. “I know, I know. They worked themselves to death with it. Of course. Everyone’s grandparents did.”

He rested both hands on his knees. “So, why the questions?”

She shook her head quickly. “I was spying, husband. I shouldn’t have.”

Jeb felt a stirring in his stomach, but he kept a smile on his face. “Spying? On who?”

“On you.” Her eyes sought the floor. “I was looking out the window and saw you…checking the hitching post. I didn’t know what you were doing…” Redness enters her cheeks. “What
were
you doing?”

“You thought I’d gone mad?”

“It is a sign, isn’t it? Strange behavior. Aimlessness. So what were you doing?”

In their life together there had been few reasons for Jebediah to lie. Secrets, yes, but never outright lying. He hated the idea, in fact. He shouldn’t start now. It was sinful. Forbidden. But what to say? “I was cleaning the post.”

“I guessed that. But I saw you look at the house as if you were worried,” she said. “And then at the sky.” She squinted. “Why were you looking at the sky?”

“So many questions,” Jeb said, forcing a smile. “Such a suspicious tone.”

She shook her head quickly. “I don’t mean to be, Jeb. I got worried. I’m your helpmate.”

Jeb felt a tenderness at the words. Smiled. “Yes, you are.”

“So, what were you doing?”

Jebediah looked at the wooden floor beneath Sarah’s feet. He saw an oblong knot—common for the trees that grew around them. Unusual knot shapes. Never circular. Never simple. “There have been some problems with the crops. Oddities.” He glanced up at her. “Not just this year, but the year before that, and before that.”

Sarah nodded, listening. She knew the last few years had been difficult. Had required more time in the fields. More watering.

“Grandfather left me some things I could check with,” he said. “That’s all.”

“So that’s what you were doing? Checking what? The air? The sky?”

“Essentially.” He smiled, slowly got to his feet. “I was only trying to see if it would tell me anything.”

“And did it?”

He drew closer, laid a hand on her arm. Hoping the contact would calm her. Distract her. “A little. But nothing certain. Nothing I can really
do
anything about.”

Sarah nodded again quickly, then gave him a bashful wink that always warmed him.

He took her other arm in his. Drew her toward him. She didn’t resist. “Anything else you’d like to ask me?” he said. “About the hitching post? Or why it is important?”

Sarah blushed again. “I would,” she said. “But I’m afraid.”

Jebediah laughed, relieved. “That’s probably wise.”

Then, before she could say more, he kissed her.

Church service happened every other Sunday.
On this particular Sunday, the people from Jebediah’s local district, roughly a hundred of them, gathered at the house of Bishop Samuel. Samuel and his wife had produced a family of six children—now grown—so their dwelling was larger than most. It was an opportune place for service.

Jebediah sat in the living room with the majority of the men. Sarah was in the kitchen with the women. The children were in an adjoining family room.

Wooden benches were brought in to make the seating arrangements easier. Getting a hundred people into a single home was never easy.

The living room was similar in construction to Jeb’s own. Wooden floors, plastered walls, heavy lacquer everywhere. The room was longer than it was wide, and all the windows of the house had been opened. It was a particularly hot day. Only Jebediah had a true idea as to why.

Even the opening hymns, always sung in the same order, today seemed to echo Jeb’s hidden anxiety. There were many verses about hunger, suffering, and grain. With always the reminders of death and hell.

Deacon Mark stood to perform the first sermon. Mark was in his mid-thirties. A hard worker. A broom maker. His hat was on, but his coat was removed due to the heat. There were dark suspenders over a starched white shirt. He walked the house as he talked. Occasionally, the floor creaked under his feet.

“Cast your cares on the Lord!” Mark said. “He will sustain you.” Mark’s style was to chant the sermon as he went along. His opening Bible verse was Psalms 55:22.

Many of the men nodded their heads. Jeb heard a respectful “Yes, Lord,” from one of the elderly women.

“He will never, never,
never
let the righteous be shaken.”

More nods. More affirmation.

Like everyone present, Jebediah fanned his face with a paper fan. It hardly helped.

“Do you believe it?” Mark chanted.

“Yes,” some said.

Mark repeated his question twice, until nearly the whole house answered.

Jebediah fanned himself. Subtly glanced out the window. How, though? How would the Lord sustain? Would He now alter the sun? Heal it somehow?

The pain in his gut grew. The indecision. He tried to stay still. Tried to stay comfortable. “Help me, Lord,” he prayed.

Mark repeated the theme of trusting God. Continued to walk the house. His eyes reddened, and he began to weep. He was handed a handkerchief, but he refused to take it. He let his eyes show his pain. His faith. The floor creaked. More amens. His focus verse changed to Luke 10:29. “Who is my neighbor? Who can tell me? Is it just your family? Your friends…?”

After nearly half an hour, Deacon Mark called for prayer. Everyone rose from their seats and knelt beside them. Hands were folded, heads were bowed with pious faces.

Jebediah thought of the heat and the crops. He prayed for wisdom. For a way out of his silent burden. His secret.

He thought of Sarah in the kitchen. His trusting and unsuspecting wife. He hated keeping anything from her. But it was the Miller duty. The man’s duty.

Everyone started to rise, and Jebediah missed the cue. He remained on the floor, eyes tightly shut. Teeth gritting with prayerful intensity.

He felt a touch on his shoulder. A gentle hand. He opened his eyes and nodded, almost embarrassed. Got back to his seat.

Bishop Samuel spoke next. In his seventies, he was one of their oldest members. Their bishop. Respected by everyone, though not necessarily
liked
by everyone. He always seemed a bit too rigid to Jebediah. A bit too harsh. Samuel’s beard was greying, as was his hair. He kept his coat on, despite the heat.

“Brother Mark spoke well to remind us of the Lord’s sustenance. He brought us here, He will sustain us.” Samuel gripped the front of his coat with one hand, began to slowly walk. “And how will he sustain us? By His mighty hand. By His Spirit’s presence.” His eyes sought the floor, thoughtful. Then he panned the faces of the men. “By our works for our neighbors. Our
Gelassenheit.
”

Jebediah glanced at the window again, then toward the kitchen. Sarah was sitting on a bench near the back wall. She smiled.

“We are the salt of the earth. The light on the hill.” Samuel turned his back on the men, and started walking toward the family room, and the children. “How much darkness does it take to extinguish a light?”

The children sat in silence.

Samuel’s demeanor didn’t change, but his voice rose. “I say, how much darkness does it take! Anyone?” He leaned close to the front row of children. “Someone must know.” He pointed to a girl of blond curls and freckles. “I know you know, young lady.”

The girl smiled shyly. “None?”

Samuel pulled back, turned away, took a long step. Nodded. “The young lady says ‘none,’ and she speaks rightly. There is no darkness that can extinguish light. You can take all the darkness of the night sky, compress it together, but even so the light of a single candle won’t be extinguished.” Samuel smiled. “We are that light.” He made a circling motion with his hand. “All of us. Together. The light that won’t be wiped out.”

“Now often, just by the things we do, we keep that light burning.” Samuel turned toward the kitchen. “By that loaf of bread you bring the sick, by that child you watch for your sister, by the barn you help build.” Samuel smiled. “I love the family we’ve built here. I love what it represents. How it shows the love of Christ. Every day in its actions. Together, we can accomplish much. Overcome any hardship.”

The words did little to comfort Jebediah, but his feelings began to change. He started to think that the thing he dreaded might be the very thing God wanted him to endure. Could that be? Was there some way to know for sure?

If only there was someone to talk with. To share the secret. But there wasn’t. He would honor the settlement, yes, but he would also honor his forefathers with his silence.

He thought of the stars. Lights in the darkness. What he was contemplating doing…would it build community or shatter it? Save it or destroy it?

Samuel’s sermon continued for almost an hour.

Jebediah’s confusion continued for much longer.

• • •

Later, after communion was taken, Bishop Samuel again became the focus. He stood with his Bible spread open between his hands. It was a heavy book and greatly worn, doubtless a gift handed down through the generations. Nearly all their bound books were so.

“Our fellowship has grown. We are in need of another minister.” He stared down at the Scriptures. “‘If any man aspires to the office of overseer,’” he read, “‘it is a fine work he desires to do. An overseer must be above reproach, the husband of one wife, temperate, prudent, respectable, hospitable, able to teach, not addicted to strong drink or pugnacious, but gentle, peaceable, free from the love of money. He must be one who manages his own household well…’” He continued through the entire third chapter of First Timothy, outlining the requirements of leaders and ending with the mystery of godliness.

At last, Samuel closed his Bible, and Mark stood to join him. “We will be in the dining room,” Samuel said, nodding. They wound through the seats to a door just right of the kitchen. The edge of the long dining table was just visible from where Mark sat. It was stained medium brown. When the two pastors arrived there, they went deep into the room, out of sight from everyone else.