The Amish Heart of Ice Mountain (6 page)

“Destiny calling,” he answered, then moved to introduce the engineer to the community.

Chapter Ten

Mahlon caught his wife's arm and automatically pulled her behind him as Jim Hanson approached. Edward moved to greet the man with obvious familiarity. “Stay here with the
kinner
,” Mahlon commanded. “I must see what this is all about.”

He inched through the still crowd, unable to hear the words Edward exchanged with the
Englischer
. But then, his new son-in-law seemed to welcome the bishop's approaching presence and, after a moment, they all three turned to face the community that stood waiting with dignified reserve.

“Folks, I'd like to introduce to you Jim Hanson—an engineer,” Bishop Umble said loud enough for everyone to hear. He turned to the
Englischer
. “What brings you to Ice Mountain, Jim?”

“One of your own Amish folks gave us an invitation to come and explore this area.” The engineer grinned as he spoke in a patronizing tone. He pulled out a piece of paper from the pocket of his tan pants, then held it up. “Edward King here seems to know a lot about the gas rigs. Going on the information he gave us, our company, R and D, believes we will find that the Marcellus Shale, and its deep gas reserves, run under this mountain. If we do, you folks stand to make a lot of money.” He looked around at the crowd, still smiling, as if full of confidence and pride. “Although we're pretty sure we'll find the gas, we need to do a bit more exploration. The helicopter that just flew over is dropping off research equipment for our company.”

Mahlon shifted his weight and tried to ignore the quiet murmurings around him as his own anger rose within him.
My own son-in-law invited
Englischers
to invade the mountain....

Bishop Umble put his hands behind his back and cleared his throat. His expression, as usual, was inscrutable. “Are you staying hereabouts, Jim?”

“In one of the little cabins on the other side of the mountain.” The engineer continued to smile, as if his grin was all he needed to pacify the crowd. “Any of you are welcome to come over to see me. We can talk and share a cup of coffee whenever you'd like.”

The bishop nodded.
“Danki
—er, thank you, Jim. We'll do that.” He turned to his fellow
Amisch
. “But for now, I'd like everyone to return to their homes for prayer about this . . . situation.” He cleared his throat again. “The men will meet and talk tonight at my barn. Seven o'clock sharp.”

Mahlon caught the brief hesitation in the bishop's stance before he turned and extended a hand to the engineer, who shook it gladly. Then the
Englischer
turned and walked off.

Mahlon glared as he saw Edward King do the same, leaving Sarah behind.
The audacity. Dear
Gott
, he'll be shunned for writing that letter....
Mahlon's hands fisted at his sides as the crowd quietly dispersed, following the bishop's command to go home and pray . . . leaving Mahlon no choice but to do the same.

 

 

Edward walked numbly on the faint forest trail, his gait uneven because of his eyesight. Then he turned with abrupt surety into a thick patch of mountain laurel and stopped. Before him stood his most recent still. He breathed out a sigh of relief.

He'd halfheartedly promised himself that he wouldn't come back to this hidden place after his accident. But after the meeting, the urge to drink had clawed at him, the call too great to ignore. He bent to flip up a small dirt-covered trapdoor in the forest floor. He stared down at the carefully lined up Mason jars sitting in the cool earthen dugout and mentally made a count. Twenty-three.
Enough to drink . . . enough to sell to
Englischers
off the mountain. . . and so easy to make more.

He pulled up one jar of the clear liquid, his mouth already watering at the idea of the relief the shine would bring. No, not relief. Release, from the pain that squeezed his chest so tight he found it difficult to draw a deep breath. From that moment when he'd looked at Sarah's face as Jim Hanson spoke, and his heart started to crack
.
Gott
, who needs a wife if it means seeing a woman in pain,
nee
, anguish. . . .

He carefully lowered the trapdoor, kicked some pine straw over it, then unscrewed the lid of the Mason jar. He drew in a deep breath and put the glass to his lips as the first drops hit the back of his throat like the spatter of a dream.

“I'd have a word with you,
sohn
. If you've the time.”

Edward choked and spun to see Bishop Umble standing calmly by the still. The
auld
man casually fingered a coil of cool copper while Edward blinked at him like he was an apparition. The moonshine sloshed over his hand as he took an unsteady side step, then straightened in bewilderment. “How did you find me?”

The bishop smiled easily. “You forget that I've been bishop on this mountain since long before you were born . . . ran it when your
grossdaudi
was still young, in fact.”

“Yeah,” Edward muttered, pushing aside the onslaught of emotions the mention of his grandfather produced.

The bishop's smile disappeared. He sighed and gestured to some nearby stumps. “Would you care to sit and talk?”

Nee
. . . not for a second, because you're probably going to tell me I'm shunned or doomed. What would happen to Sarah then?
He swallowed and nodded. “Sure.” He couldn't steady his hands as he tried to screw the lid back on the jar. He gave up and let it sit askew as he carried it with him to sit down near the mountain's spiritual leader.

“Fall's coming,” the bishop declared, leaning back a bit and staring up at the sky.

Edward wished the old man would get to the point. He watched him and clutched the damp jar between his hands like a glistening charm.

Bishop Umble dropped his head, then slanted him a glance. “What were your reasons for writing that letter,
sohn?
”

Edward wet his lips.
Because I wanted out . . . because this place, this damn perfect place needs to be modernized, because I suck at being
Amisch
. . . and because I was drunk.

“Make something up,” the bishop suggested, eyeing him with a mild smile.

Edward bowed his head and rubbed hard at the jar. “I—I don't know what to say. I guess I wanted to make things better for our people, give them the chance to choose an improved life. I mean, the money could—”

“
Ach, jah,
the money . . . what men won't do for money in the world.” He turned a knowing gaze on Edward. “Yet, Edward King, I somehow don't think money matters much to you.”

Edward paused. “It doesn't.”
There, that was the truth.

The bishop slapped his thighs, then rose to his feet. “All right, then. I expect there'll be plenty of questions tonight at the barn, but I'll answer them the best I can. All you need to do is show up.”

Edward stared up at him. “That's—that's it? You're not—I mean, I thought . . .”

Bishop Umble walked toward him and passed a light hand over Edward's head. “Do you understand grace,
sohn?
The infinite mysterious love that knows no bounds, that gives without asking what there is in return?”

“
Nee
,” Edward whispered, feeling trapped and miserable and half-reduced to tears by the
auld
man's gentle words. He'd heard about grace all his life. But until that moment, it had only been a word, something thrown around as a concept but rarely put into practice. He'd never understood what it meant . . . and now he suspected he'd caught a small glimpse of the power both the word and the act contained.

“You will understand one day, Edward King.” The bishop glanced at the still again. “If you'd lengthen the distillate of copper on your still, you'd get better than one hundred thirty proof on your second run.”

Edward's eye widened as the old man disappeared behind the tangle of laurel. He'd not only been spared a lecture and a shunning, he'd also been given a tip to make his moonshine better. What had just happened here?

He stared down at the jar in his hands and for a long moment wrestled harder than ever not to give in to the pull of the drink. Then he shook himself, remembered who and what he was, and unscrewed the lid. “Grace,” he muttered aloud, swallowing a thick mouthful. “Ha!”

 

 

Sarah refused her family's offer to take her back to her
auld
home to spend the afternoon in prayer after Edward had left the service without her. Instead, she stalked away from the murmurs of the other women and headed to her cabin, flinging open the door, prepared for battle. But, of course, Edward wasn't there.

She groaned aloud in frustration and hastily grabbed a decades-old gathering basket from a hook on the wall and marched back outside. Though any kind of work was frowned upon on Sundays, she rationalized that gathering herbs to help the sick would surely be acceptable to
Gott
.

She walked in the thick woods, her anger slowly dissipating as she found herself listening to the striking call of a blue jay and catching the scent of late summer wild roses. She found what looked like a deer trail and began to follow it, pausing to stop and gather some wild mint, which made a good cure for stomach upset.

A man's whistling caused her to straighten in surprise, and she was amazed to see Bishop Umble walking toward her along the path. Usually the poor man did not stray beyond the center of the community with his duties as bishop.

“
Ach
, Sarah King, a fine day,
jah?
”

“
Ja-ah
,” she stuttered
. If you didn't count the letter her own husband had written and the appearance of the helicopter and . . .

“Do you know, I believe I saw some more mint up ahead and off to the left of the trail—right by the stand of laurel.” He gave her a benign smile and she stared after him for a moment as he moved past her and began to whistle once more. Then she shrugged and made her way to the mountain laurel, looking carefully for the additional mint.

She searched for the plant but didn't see a trace of it. “He must have been mistaken,” she muttered and started to back out of the bushes when the distinct sound of a man's singing made her freeze to the spot.

There was no mistaking the rich timbre of the voice, though she'd only heard him sing church hymns. But the choice of his song today had little to do with community meetings and the words irked her. She pushed through the laurel, not yet wanting to reveal herself.

Then she saw the still and the Mason jar in his big hand. She stumbled over a root, nearly dropping her basket, but managed to keep on her feet as she walked into the small clearing. The singing stopped.

He stared at her as if she was an apparition. She put a hand up to straighten her
kapp
, then jerked her fingers down again
. How can he make me feel self-conscious, like I'm intruding on some intimacy in his life, when he's the one who's doing wrong?

She bit her lip as he continued to stare at her and it hit her hard . . .
because I
am
intruding. He loves to drink . . . alcohol is the thing he lets in the closest . . . not me.
The thought filled her with anger and fury and she stamped a small foot in frustration. “Why are you doing this?” she demanded.

He shrugged and gave her a surly half smile. “Since when has the location of my still become a public stopping point?”

“The bishop told me there was some mint here and . . .” She trailed off. Had Bishop Umble seen the still? Surely not, because Edward continued to drink.

He raised the jar to his mouth and took a long swig. She advanced three steps closer to him, longing to knock the liquid from his hand. But there was something powerful and dangerous about him sitting there, something that made her want to both touch him and run away.

He got to his feet with easy grace, and she noted that his white shirt had pulled loose from one side of his waistband. He looked like what he was—dissolute and rakish—and yet,
Gott
help her, she wanted him with her body and heart.

She decided to back away when he lazily stepped toward her, but his laughter halted her steps and she felt herself press back against a giant tree. She clutched her gathering basket almost defensively in front of her and waited while loud heartbeats echoed in her ears to see what he'd do next.

He moved across the forest floor until he stood before her, the jar in one hand while he reached out with his other to casually run his fingertips down the curve of her left breast. She caught her breath and pressed harder against the tree, thankful for its steadiness.

“You always wear gray,” he mused, continuing the slow exploration of her breast until she shivered as he brushed the tight centered bud. “Why?”

She shook her head, her words feeling thick and caught at the back of her throat. “I—I don't know.”

“Because you want to hide, to blend in, to be the perfect, unseen
Amisch
woman. . . .” He took another swallow from the jar and leaned near enough so that his breath brushed her cheek and she could almost taste the smell of the alcohol on him.

She sucked in a staggered breath when he shifted the jar and transferred his attentions to her right breast. “I—I don't want to be perfect.”