The Newcomer Read online

  As soon as Henrik left to go outside, Catrina whispered, “Where is this garden the newcomer talks so much about?”

  “He means the Garden of Eden, in the Bible.”

  She looked blank.

  “It’s where God set the first two people on earth, Adam and Eve. They lived in the Garden of Eden, a perfect world, until the devil tempted them to disobey God and they were banished from the Garden. Henrik believes that’s what the New World is meant to be. A return to the Garden, he calls it.”

  “Do you think that could be true?”

  Anna didn’t know how to answer that question, so she hedged. “It’s a nice thought.”

  “I like it,” Catrina said. “But if we really are in the Garden of Eden, wouldn’t that mean that we’d all be together? Jacob, Dorothea, and her baby, and Felix.”

  And Bairn. Don’t forget Bairn, Anna thought. She put an arm around Catrina’s small shoulders. “Soon,” she said. “We’ll all be together again soon.” That was her prayer.

  October 28, 1737

  It was a luscious feeling, to do nothing.

  While others napped on Sunday afternoon, Anna slipped quietly away to take a walk down to the stream. She sat down on a bed of marsh grass, stretching her legs out. She took off her shoes and dipped her feet into the cold, clear stream. So cold it made her skin goose-pimply. Then her feet grew used to the cold and she pulled her dress up to her knees so she could dip her ankles in.

  It had been a wonderful day, the best day of all for the little church of Ixheim. Today they had their first worship service in the New World. The morning skies had been clear and the air was brisk but not unpleasant, so Christian suggested that they meet outside, under the cover of trees, to worship God and give thanks.

  The evening before, Christian had opened his large wooden trunk and emptied it out on the cabin floor. A special hidden compartment in the chest had protected his precious family Forschauer Bible during the trip to America. The Gerbers and the Masts had also brought copies of the Ausbund, their beloved book of hymns. Hearing these stories of persecution and martyrdom reminded everyone why they had risked so much to come to a new land. They no longer had to hide their religious practices.

  Once or twice during the long service, Anna had let her gaze drift to the newcomer. She wondered if this worship service was very different from those he had known, those inspired by Jakob Ammann himself, but if so, he gave no sign of it. He sat on an uncomfortable tree log as quiet and unmoving as the rest of them. His chin was tucked low in what she thought was reverence and humility, but after watching him for a long moment, she realized he had fallen asleep.

  The fellowship meal after the service was served outdoors as well. No cooking was allowed on Sundays since it was a day of rest. But Maria had cooked a venison stew in an iron skillet on Saturday evening, and there was hearth-baked bread to scoop up the stew. There had been no petty quarrels on this fine Sunday, no sharp remarks or jabs. Everyone had gotten along with each other remarkably well.

  Wind rattled through the branches of the trees and stirred the grass that limned the creek. Anna took a deep breath and stretched again, letting her numbed toes dangle in the water. She watched a leaf float along the water’s surface and closed her eyes, feeling herself drift along like that leaf, just drift along . . .

  A soft plop in the water startled her. Eyes open, her heart did a flip-flop. Henrik stood a few feet away from her, skimming rocks into the creek. She remembered her legs were uncovered and yanked her feet out of the creek, scrambling to find her shoes.

  Henrik’s blue eyes were laughing. “Should I cover my eyes?”

  “What?”

  “If I cover my eyes, you can put your shoes on so you can stop blushing the color of cherries.”

  Anna turned away from him as she tucked each foot into a shoe.

  He bent down and dipped one cupped palm into the water. He raised it, dripping, to his mouth, drinking noisily. He looked at her as he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, then flashed her a bright smile. “That might be the finest water I have ever sipped.” He plopped down next to her on the grass. “Or maybe it’s just the company that makes it so particularly fine.”

  Those words he spoke, they were sweeter than honey. She wasn’t accustomed to men who spoke such sweet words; it wasn’t their way. And she was embarrassed to discover that she liked it. “This is a nice spot, this creek.” She felt foolish. What a silly thing to say. She could feel another flush start to burn on her cheeks.

  But the newcomer didn’t seem to notice her discomfort. “Indeed it is.” He gazed up and down the creek. “It’s a fine land. A running creek that abounds with fish. Woods that supply plenty of fresh meat. It’s a poor hunter that can’t bag a buck or doe within an hour’s time.”

  That was a jab at Christian, she knew. He had taken a turn at hunting yesterday afternoon and returned empty-handed by dusk. Henrik went into the woods and soon returned with wild turkeys that were easily shot, roosting on the lower boughs of trees.

  It rankled her, such open dismay leveled at the minister. It wasn’t just from Henrik—the others made their own digs and jabs. Christian might not be a dynamic man, but he had always done his best for them. Over the years, in his peaceable way, he was the one who settled disputes, sat by the dying, and wept with the grieving. To be fair, the newcomer wouldn’t know such a thing about Christian.

  “I mean to catch some ducks and geese soon. We can raise them for eggs.”

  “And their feathers for pillows.”

  “A feather pillow. A luxury I’d almost forgotten.” His head turned to her and the sun seemed to catch at something in those blue eyes of his, making them sparkle. “First, though, I need to build you a coop.”

  For me. As if he was building it just for her.

  “We need to start building soon. Enough of this hay gathering.”

  “Christian depends heavily on Jacob. Any day now, they should arrive. Jacob and Dorothea and the baby. And then everything will be as it should.”

  “From your mouth to God’s ears.” The newcomer tipped his head back, lifting his chin, closing his eyes to soak up the autumn sun. But even with his eyes closed, Anna felt his awareness of her, like a warm breeze that swirled around her.

  13

  Ephrata Community

  October 28, 1737

  Dorothea ached from such little sleep. She sat in a chair next to the bed where her husband lay. Her head nodded as she reluctantly succumbed to a fitful slumber. She jerked awake when she heard Jacob stir, call for her, so she rose and leaned over him. His eyes were haggard and red-rimmed. What had happened to her husband? This strong man was failing before her.

  Jacob looked directly in her eyes. Slowly he lifted his head. He seemed to be searching for something to say to her. “Dory,” he whispered.

  Tears sprang to her eyes. Dory was a pet name for her that he hadn’t used since their courting days. “I’m sorry . . . to be . . . leaving you like this.” He groped for her hand and she clasped it, holding it against her heart.

  “You’re not going anywhere, Jacob Bauer.”

  A wisp of a smile curved his lips. “I have no fear of death.” His eyelids fluttered shut.

  He may not fear death, but she feared life without him.

  Dorothea knew to concentrate on each task, one by one. Get through the morning, then the day. But what to do about the long nights, like this one, remained troublesome.

  She sighed and stretched, feeling loose-jointed with weariness. When she checked on the baby in the cradle, she saw his open eyes stare back at her. He asked for so little, this dear one. No sweeter baby ever lived, she was sure of it, and then she wondered if perhaps the Christ child was as docile a baby for the mother Mary. She picked the baby up and held him against her chest, loving the feel of an infant in her arms, so grateful to have a distraction during the endless dark night. She thought it must be only midnight and dreaded the hours until dawn. Somehow those hours seemed twi
ce as long as any others. She took one more slow look around this sparsely furnished room, with its narrow bed, small table, and chair. The mattress Jacob lay on was nothing more than a thin pallet on top of a thick plane of oak. The sheets were of a rough, fibrous cotton. It was not a room designed for pleasure. No books to pass the time. The fireplace was the only concession to comfort.

  Silence, thick as wool, wrapped around her.

  She heard doors open and close. Then the sound of bare feet pattering down the hallway, the quietest susurration. Even at midnight, this odd community wasn’t asleep; something was happening. She heard a faint sound and strained her ears. What was that? It came from somewhere far from her little room.

  She went to the small window and unlocked the latch, then pushed and pushed until it opened. She peered out into the darkness and heard the sound again, coming from the next building over. Why, it was music! Voices, men and women. She strained to listen: women’s voices sang high, men’s voices sang low, separately at first, then joining together in melody before separating into harmonies. The sound of the music swept over her, filling her with a breath-held feeling of utter joy. A joy so intense it brought tears to her eyes—happy tears. And when it ended, she breathed out a long, slow sigh. “Oh, that was such a wonderment.”

  Her eyes flew open and she looked to see if Jacob might be awake, observing her delight in the music—he would surely disapprove and remind her it was against the rules of their church to have such harmonies. They were to sing in unity, one voice, with no one standing out. No one was to elevate himself or herself, because that would be the start of pride.

  Rules. So many rules.

  But how could something so beautiful, so worshipful, be forbidden?

  Thankfully, Jacob was sleeping, unaware of what went on around him. Tomorrow . . . no, this morning, for it was already the next day, she would try to find out why there was music in the night.

  She kept the window open an inch or so and tucked the sleeping baby into the cradle, fed the fire in the clay-lined fireplace with a few pieces of wood, and stretched out next to Jacob on the small bed, ever so carefully so not to disturb him. She listened to his raspy breathing, labored but not unsteady, before turning to her side to face the window. The music that floated in through the crack in the window surrounded her, lifting her thoughts to another world. It thrilled her to the depth of her very soul. She closed her eyes and let the sound fill her. Soon, she slept, curled like a contented cat.

  Lady Luck, Atlantic Ocean

  October 29, 1737

  Felix was fed up with the awful dog. It followed him everywhere, up ladders, down hatches. The only place he could get away from it was if he climbed the mast to the crow’s nest, which he could do only at night when the crow’s nest, most times, was empty. And even then, the dog would sit on the deck, eyes fixed upward. Waiting.

  If Felix didn’t know better, it was like the awful dog thought its only purpose in life was to watch over him. And then to tattle on his whereabouts with a bark.

  The dog was a combination of Maria and Catrina, all mixed up in one.

  He was down in the lower deck, hungry and searching for the apple barrel, because Cook banned him from the galley for the unfortunate bread dough incident.

  The captain had sent him to the galley to fetch Cook. Naturally, Felix did as he was told. Cook had even told him to stay out of the galley while he was gone. That was the part that Felix didn’t remember. Cook had been in the middle of kneading bread dough and it looked like fun. His mother used to let him knead dough, but that was long ago, way back in Ixheim, before their adventures began. He liked the thought of kneading dough, of thinking of those times in the kitchen with his mother.

  So he slipped back into the galley after Cook stomped away to the Great Cabin, poked the dough, once, then twice, then punched it. A few times. The last punch knocked the jar of yeast so it went flying, spilling yeast everywhere before it rolled to the ground. Not such a difficult problem, Felix thought, as he worked the spilled yeast into the dough and quietly slipped out of the galley.

  But it turned out to cause quite a kerfuffle.

  The way Cook described it—which Felix thought might be a bit of an exaggeration—the dough exploded. Still, there was a chance that Felix might not have been blamed for the ruined dough, but the awful dog gave him away. It had followed him into the galley and was quietly licking clean the floor of spilled yeast. When Felix shut the galley door behind him, he unwittingly locked him in.

  And Felix was banned from the galley, once again.

  Ephrata Community

  Dorothea’s eyelids fluttered open but the heaviness of fatigue pulled them shut. For a moment she forgot the anxiety and depression that weighed her down and willed herself to remain in that blissful state between sleep and full consciousness, before reality set in.

  A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. “One moment if you will.” She stumbled over the table leg as she moved to pull the heavy door open. Two robed figures with hoods covering most of their faces stood at the threshold; at first, Dorothea wasn’t sure if they were men or women. Neither spoke. She looked from one to the other. Then she recognized one of them as the woman who helped her when she arrived. “Sister Marcella.”

  “Yes. And this is Sister Alice.” Sister Alice, small and birdlike, stood behind Sister Marcella, a basket in her hand filled with polished red apples and yellow-green pears.

  Sister Alice handed her the basket. “We eat only one meal a day.”

  One meal a day! One meal. No wonder they all looked so gaunt and thin. Different robed figures had brought her meals throughout the day. “I didn’t realize there was a famine in this land. We don’t have much money, but we can give you what we have, and I’ll be sure to reimburse you when we return to our church.” She was touched by their generosity. They had been kind and hospitable to her in this time of need.

  Sister Alice shook her head. “You are our guest. And there is no famine. Quite the contrary. The Householders have had a bountiful harvest this year.”

  “The Householders?”

  “They are our Third Order.”

  Dorothea gave a puzzled look. “Third Order?”

  “The Brotherhood, the Sisterhood, and then the Householders.”

  Sister Marcella, the more serious of the two, filled in the missing pieces for Dorothea. “The Householder group are the farming families in the area who provide food and support for us. There is an abundance of food.”

  “Then, why do you eat only one meal a day?” Why would anyone eat so little if they didn’t have to? Food was a great pleasure in life.

  “Father Friedsam believes that self-denial brings us closer to God.” Sister Alice seemed pleased to tell her more. “Nor does he allow us to partake of meat, either. But no one expects you to limit your intake of food. Please feel free to ask for anything you need. After all, you have a baby to nurse too.” She went to the cradle and picked up the baby.

  If Dorothea had any doubts that the solemn sisters were tenderhearted, they vanished as she watched them fuss over the baby. “He is adopted. His mother died on the ship, right after he was born. I took him on.”

  Sister Alice’s eyes went wide. “Oh! We assumed he was a late-in-life child. Like Sarah and Abraham.”

  Dorothea was startled by that comment. Did she seem so very old?

  “What are you feeding the baby?”

  “Goat’s milk.”

  “We can help with that. Today is our day of fasting, but I will see if goat’s milk is in the kitchen.”

  “Fasting?”

  Sister Alice nodded her head with vigor. “Oh yes. We fast often.”

  The basket of fruit in Dorothea’s arms was looking more and more inviting. “You fast?” She was accustomed to fasting on the morning before her church took communion, but twice a year provided plenty of practice for self-denial.

  “We do,” Sister Alice said. “Father Friedsam believes that it helps us to see God�
�s presence. Suffering brings us closer to God. Father Friedsam chose the name ‘Ephrata’ from the Bible. It’s a word that denotes suffering.”

  Suffering. Dorothea knew all about that.

  Sister Marcella had her eyes on Jacob. “How is your husband faring today?”

  “The same, it seems.”

  “Is he able to eat?”

  “A little. He has trouble chewing and swallowing. He’s very weak.”

  “Perhaps I could poach some chicken and shred it into small pieces for him. Add milk to it for nourishment.”

  “But you don’t eat meat.”

  “We do not judge others for their choices. If your husband has such weakness, it seems meat would provide the best nutrition for him.”

  “If it would be helpful,” Sister Alice said, “we can stay and watch over your husband for you. Or care for the baby.”

  “Know that I do appreciate your offer. You’ve all been most kind. But no. Thank you, but no.” She looked over at Jacob. “Is it possible to send for a doctor?”

  Sister Marcella shook her head. “The closest doctor is in Germantown.”

  “How far would that be?”

  “About sixty miles southeast. It would take days of travel, there and back, assuming a doctor could be persuaded to come, which is quite unlikely.”

  She looked in the direction of the small window. “Surely, you must grow herbs or plants for medicines. Do you not have anything to bring down fever?”

  “Perhaps we can see if Brother Andrew has something to suggest. He has some familiarity with treating ailments.”

  Sister Alice set the baby back in the cradle and joined Sister Marcella, standing by the door, ready to leave. Dorothea didn’t want them to leave. “Do you mind if I ask you a question about this place?”