DC03 - Though Mountains Fall (32 page)

Since Levi’s Belgians freed Miriam from having to work in the bean field, the sisters spent the day with each other working around the house.

Emma chuckled as she hung laundry on the line. “I’ve never done laundry on a Wednesday before.”

“I know, isn’t it fun? I teach the children on Mondays, so I wash on Wednesdays now. Some of the old habits die really hard, but some things I do different just because I can.”

She paused for a second, watching the men work in the field. “It’s good of Levi to help with the beans. Those draft horses will save us three days’ work.”

Emma peered across the fields at Levi and his team. “You know, it didn’t cross my mind this morning but I bet this wasn’t about the beans at all. I think it’s just Levi’s way of letting me spend time with you—while I still can.”

“He’s changed so much lately,” Miriam said quietly as she shook out a painted skirt and hung it on the line. “He’s so much more relaxed. You’ve been the best thing in the world for him.” She hesitated for a second, then said, “It’s a shame my niño won’t get a chance to meet his aunt Emma.”

“Your
niño
? Miriam, you’re going to have a baby?”

A bashful smile. “Jah, I’m pretty sure.”

Grinning from ear to ear, Emma gave her a spontaneous hug, then leaned back and looked down. “I’ll let you in on a secret. I’m pretty sure our family’s going to be growing soon, too.”

“No! Emma,
really
? That’s wonderful! I pray it goes better this time.”

Emma had miscarried twice since Will was born. “It will,” she said. “I have a good feeling about this one.”

“Have you told Levi?”

“No, I don’t want him to worry. It took me forever to convince him the miscarriages were not Gott’s judgment against us. This baby is fine, and Levi will be, too.”

“Life is good,” Miriam said, “but it’s never easy.”

———

It was an unseasonably warm day, and the children were still outside playing after supper when Emma and Miriam went to load the dishes in the buggy.

“Did you ever find that other bowl?” Miriam asked.

“No, I can’t imagine what happened—”

But then she saw it. The bowl. Her eldest child, Mose, was sitting spraddle-legged in the dirt near Kyra’s barn with the bowl on the ground between his legs. His younger sister, Clara, stood stock-still, not ten feet from him, staring.

Emma squinted, not sure exactly what she was seeing at first. There were two dark shapes, one beside each of Mose’s legs, and in the tricky, slanting evening sunlight the two shapes appeared for all the world to be coiled snakes. Then one of them moved, and a slender head inched toward Mose’s leg.

Emma ran wailing to rescue her child, but before she could reach him she heard footsteps and Domingo caught up with her. He grabbed her by the arms and stopped her in her tracks.

“Wait!” he said.

Emma struggled to break free, single-mindedly fighting to save her baby from danger.

“WAIT!” Domingo repeated, holding tight. “They’re not poisonous. It’s all right.”

“But—”

“Trust me. Just watch.”

Levi appeared at her elbow, and Miriam peeked around Domingo, holding Will. They all watched in silent, breathless amazement.

The bowl between Mose’s legs was half full of soup, left over from supper. Oblivious to the adults standing right there watching him, Mose dipped a spoon into the soup and held it out to the snake on his right. The snake’s head moved closer, and it appeared to Emma that his tongue actually flicked at the spoon. Shivering with fright, she started again to bolt after her child, but this time it was Levi who stopped her.

“Shhh,” he said. “It’s okay. Domingo’s right—they’re not poisonous.”

Above the pounding of her own heart Emma could hear Mose’s little voice.

“One for you,” he said, holding the spoon out slowly, carefully, to the snake on his left. The snake’s head moved almost imperceptibly toward the spoon, and his tongue flickered. It looked for all the world as if the snake was eating from the spoon, neither child nor snake showing the slightest sign of apprehension. Mose dipped the spoon again, holding it out to the other one. “And one for you.” This one, too, appeared to crane his neck and sip.

Mose returned the spoon to the bowl, but the snake he had just fed followed it, his head poised above the boy’s leg in anticipation.

“It’s not your turn,” Mose said, and gave the snake a casual bop on top of his head with the spoon.

Unfazed, the snake retreated, suitably admonished, and waited his turn while Mose fed the other one.

Miriam’s mouth hung open. In a soft voice tinged with awe she said, “I have never in my life seen anything like that.”

“Neither have I,” Domingo said, “but I have heard stories.”

Emma glanced up at Domingo. “You’ve
heard
of something like this?”

“Only in old people’s tales. There’s an ancient Nahua myth about a boy who charmed snakes.
Remember
this,” he said. “Remember it well. If there’s anything to the old legends, this one will grow into a very wise man someday—a man others will listen to and respect.”

There was a riveting gravity in Domingo’s words. His voice dropped almost to a whisper as he looked Emma in the eyes and added, “He will be a
peacemaker
.”

Chapter 27

A
deepening gloom hung over all the Amish as harvest drew to an end. November was normally a time of feasting and celebration, a time when all the sweat and toil and uncertainty was behind them for the year, the means for surviving another winter safely stored away in barns and cribs. Late fall was a time when farmers could finally relax and smile and enjoy the fruits of their labor.

But not this year. As soon as harvest was done they hauled entire crops to Saltillo and sold them for whatever they could get, sometimes selling by the wagonload. This year the end of harvest meant loss and defeat, the end of their community and the abandonment of all they had built. It meant parting, and a long journey to a whole new set of problems.

Ira Shrock led the first caravan. The Yutzys and Yoders went with him, after long and tearful goodbyes. Caleb stood in his yard, a terrible sadness settling on him as he watched the odd procession of heavily laden wagons and buggies ferrying children and farm implements and furniture slowly down the
road and out of sight around the end of the ridge. The Bylers and Roman J. Millers parted the next day, leaving only the Benders and the Hershbergers.

Miriam and Domingo went to mass that Sunday morning dressed in their wedding clothes, the only fancy clothes they owned. Miriam pinned a small black scarf to her head because Catholic rules said her head had to be covered in church. It often struck her that the Catholics had nearly as many rules as the Amish—they just drew the lines in different places. She lit three candles when she came in: one for safe passage for the Amish who had already left, one for her family, and one for her unborn child.

The old warehouse where they worshiped had dirt floors and crudely made benches. Parishioners brought little rugs and towels for kneeling, to keep their knees out of the dust. Miriam was used to it. She had worshiped in barns all her life, though the services had always been held on the second level, the rough wooden floor scrubbed spotless. Nevertheless, the old warehouse made her a little homesick. Especially the light.

There were no windows. The only daylight came through the peak vents way up high. Father Noceda had nailed up shelves for lanterns and oil lamps, lending a comforting golden glow to mass. When Miriam was teaching school she found the lack of windows actually helped. A window, particularly on a bright fall day, was an irresistible distraction for most school-age boys.

But on this particular Sunday the absence of windows kept them from seeing the federales coming until it was too late. Miriam and Domingo only heard the hoofbeats at the last second, right before the barn doors burst open and Captain Soto trotted a standard-bred gelding right up the center aisle.

Father Noceda was standing up front, delivering his liturgy when Soto barged in. The sight of the federale captain trotting his horse up the center aisle sent everyone into a panic. Women screamed, and men herded their families toward the walls, knocking over benches and tripping over one another.

Father Noceda stood his ground behind the Communion table, hands clasped in front of him. He didn’t move an inch, drawing himself perfectly erect and stoic, a commanding presence in his full cassock. His eyes remained on the captain, fierce and searing, as the horse trotted right up to the Communion table.

Another wail went up from the people as the captain’s horse pranced sideways and Soto’s booted foot shot out, kicking over the Communion table. Bread scattered, and wine splashed as high as Father Noceda’s face when the table slammed down at his feet.

He never flinched.

“What is the meaning of this?” Noceda said, his fiery eyes conveying much more than his tone of voice. Red wine trickled down his forehead.

Domingo, who up to now had been shielding Miriam, turned to her and whispered, “Get to the door and get out. Hurry!”

“Where are you going?”

“I can’t let him kill himself,” he said, turning away.

Miriam started toward the open door, pushing people in front of her and relaying Domingo’s words—“Get out! Get to the door!”

Behind her, Domingo scrambled over upturned benches, against the tide of the fleeing crowd, heading toward the priest. In front of her she saw a dozen armed federales file quickly in and spread themselves across the back. But the people ignored them, surging into the open center aisle and running for the exit.

She paused in the aisle near the door, watching the scene up front as frightened parishioners shoved their way past her.

Captain Soto leaned down from his saddle, glaring at the priest. “Article twenty-four of our constitution expressly forbids worship anywhere except in the confines of a church building,” he said, and she knew from his voice that he was wearing that little evil grin.

“This IS a church!” Noceda roared, on the verge of losing control.

Soto’s horse pranced in a full circle while the captain’s eyes scanned the upper reaches of the old wooden structure. He turned back to Noceda.

“No, Padre. You told me yourself, it is a
warehouse
. You cannot have it both ways.”

Most of the people had made it outside. Only a few elderly people now hobbled past Miriam. The federales fanned out around the walls and watched their captain, clearly waiting for some kind of signal.

Soto turned his back to the priest, and his grinning lips calmly uttered one short command to his men. “
Quemarla
.”
Burn it
.

Even from the back of the warehouse Miriam saw Father Noceda’s smoldering rage burst into flame. He planted a foot on the edge of the overturned Communion table and hurled himself through the air. He would have speared Soto flush in the back had it not been for her husband.

Domingo saw it coming. With a running start he flashed through the air and intercepted Noceda, tackling him to the floor.

The captain’s back was turned and he didn’t see what happened. He was watching his men snatch the lanterns and oil lamps from the shelves and smash them against the walls.
Kerosene and lamp oil exploded into great rolling clouds of flame, instantly engulfing the dry wooden timbers.

Before Domingo could right himself the captain was gone, charging down the center aisle on his horse, nearly trampling Miriam as he galloped out the back door. His men bolted out right behind him, arms up, shielding themselves from the intense heat.

Flames climbed the walls, licked at the rafters. Black smoke rolled across the floor, blocking Miriam’s view.

Over the rumble of the flames Miriam screamed, “DOMINGO!” Before she could draw breath to scream again, Domingo burst through the wall of smoke, running, stumbling, coughing, with Father Noceda slung limp over his shoulder.

It felt as though the three of them were shoved out the door by a roaring gust of smoke and heat, the dry old warehouse going up like paper.