Hester on the Run

  The characters and events in this book are the creation of the author, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.

  HESTER ON THE RUN

  Copyright © 2015 by Linda Byler

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Good Books, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  Good Books books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Good Books, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or info@skyhorsepublishing.com.

  Good Books is an imprint of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

  Visit our website at www.goodbooks.com.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Byler, Linda.

  Hester on the run / Linda Byler.

  pages ; cm.—(Hester hunts for home; Book 1)

  ISBN 978-1-68099-058-4 (trade pbk.: alk. paper) —ISBN 978-1-68099-112-3 (ebook)

  1. Amish—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3602.Y53H47 2015

  813’.6—dc23

  2015024221

  ISBN: 978-1-68099-058-4

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-68099-112-3

  Cover design by Koechel Peterson & Associates, Inc.,

  Minneapolis, Minnesota

  Printed in the United States of America

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  The Story

  Glossary

  Other Books by Linda Byler

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  OUTSIDE, THE RAIN FELL STEADILY, SPLASHING ON the glossy green leaves of spring, sliding off in tiny rivulets, dancing from one leaf to another. The sky was pewter gray, the day’s light dimmed by the heavy clouds of a rainstorm in spring. Beneath the great white oaks, the lofty maples, ash, and cedar trees, the undergrowth received the raindrops, spurring the lush grasses and bushes to renewed growth.

  Nestled by the side of a sizable ridge, built to avoid the harsh winds of winter, a small house made of logs stood in the rain, the weathered shake roof glistening with moisture as the rain slid steadily from the edge, plunking like a curtain of water in front of it.

  There were four small windows made of glass, with six small panes divided by a dark wooden framework. Only one of the windows glowed with a yellowish glow, beaming warmly through the muffled light, the dripping darkness of the thick forest surrounding the house.

  The front door was made of oak planks with a chunky forged iron latch that was closed securely against the wild creatures of the night, or marauding Indians, the residents of the wild mountains of Berks County, Pennsylvania.

  The year was 1745, and Pennsylvania was a land of forests, mountain ranges, rivers, and creeks, unspoiled and, for the most part, lightly settled by Europeans. Now a small community of immigrants was hacking away at the great trees, building homes, clearing land, making a life for themselves in the New World, America.

  They came from Switzerland to escape religious persecution, their forebears having been called “Anabaptists,” or “re-baptizers.” This particular group was descended from Jacob Ammann and was known as “Amish.”

  Beside the glow of the oil lamp by the window, a young Amish couple sat side by side, their heads bent low, his brown hair almost identical to the color of his wife’s. A heavy beard lay along his facial contours. His hair was cut straight across his forehead, falling to below his ears on the side and straight across the back of his head at his hairline. He had a wide forehead, high cheekbones, and full lips. A strong, swarthy man of twenty-nine, he was dressed in a dull, homespun shirt of unbleached muslin. Nine buttons held his broadfall knee breeches securely.

  His wife wore the traditional white head cap, sewn in the old style adopted by their people in Switzerland. It was made of Swiss muslin, a wide band in the front with pleated fabric attached to it, and tied beneath the chin by wide strings of the same material.

  Almost all of her head was covered. Only a thatch of severely combed hair, parted in the middle, remained visible. Her forehead was narrow, her nose a goodly size, but it was her eyes that dominated her features, the one beautiful aspect of her otherwise plain face.

  They were large and the blue of a robin’s egg, the color turning with the changing of her emotions, which happened as frequently as her words came. That dancing color of blue that went from indigo to the shades of blue sky on a sunny day, was what had captivated Hans.

  And so Catherine had placed her hand in Hans Zug’s, repeated her soft answer after his, at her place by his side in front of the Amish bishop in the Rhine Valley, and became his wife.

  She was known as Kate.

  She wore a linen shortgown, over a linen petticoat, as well as a linen kerchief and apron.

  Barely visible on her lap was an infant, swaddled in serviceable blankets. Her thick, jet black hair shone almost blue in the lamplight.

  When the baby turned her head, her small, oval face was the color of a red squirrel’s ear. She was perfect, this tiny foundling.

  Her eyelids were already beginning a curtain of brilliantly black lashes over the contours of her wide, flat eyes. The small brows arced like the symmetry of an eagle’s wings. Her nose was a tiny bump, with nostrils so small, Kate feared for her ability to breathe normally.

  Oh, she was so beautiful! Not of her flesh and blood, this foundling, but hers, all hers. And Hans’s. At long last. Kate held in her arms her heart’s desire after nine long years of waiting and hoping while her womb remained barren.

  The desolation of sleepless nights, when the yearning for a baby of her own caused hot tears to squeeze between her eyelids, the ache in her chest a physical pain, were now things of the past.

  She had gone to the spring swinging her wooden bucket, her step heavy but sure as she made her way down the path from the house.

  That April, a sharp wind bore winter’s reluctance to lighten its grip on the daily temperature. Kate held her shawl tightly around her neck.

  A few dandelions waved their brilliant yellow heads, accompanied by the purple violets growing along the side of the spring. She had bent to gather a handful to grace the windowsill by her spinning wheel when she heard it. At first, she thought it might be the plaintive call of a catbird. A mewling sound.

  She stopped picking violets and sat on her haunches, holding very still. There it was again. A kitten? But they hadn’t brought any cats to America. Rocking back on her heels, she flattened a few dark green ferns, oblivious to anything but the beating of her heart.

  When she heard the thin, wailing cry once more, she scrambled to her feet and stood motionless, holding her head to one side. A shiver chased itself up her spine, across her shoulders, and down her forearms, causing the hairs to lift across them.

  Suddenly, she felt as if she was being observed. Making a turn to the right, she lifted her blue eyes to the surrounding wooded slopes, quickly scanning with her experienced eyes. More shivers sent an involuntary shudder through her, as her eyes raked the deep forest surrounding the spring. Was this small cry a trap?

  Always, the Amish settlers needed to be wary of the Indians, the ones who had rightful ownership of this land. Always, there was the danger of meeting a group of hostile native men, in spite of William Penn’s endeavors to keep the peace, as he offered more treaties to that effect.

  When the cry came again, she knew it was not a bird or a kitten. It had to be an infant. Neither the danger of hostile red
men, or anything else, could stop her now. Her mother’s heart responded, and she became a woman possessed, weaving through the undergrowth, bent over, her arms thrashing, combing the ferns, grasses, and bushes with an intensity that sprang from her very nature.

  She came up empty-handed and stood uncertain, the loud beats of her heart filling her ears.

  When the cry came again, she lurched toward it, stumbled, slipped on wet rocks, then resumed her wild searching, raking aside the heavy ferns and mountain laurel that spilled across her face.

  She gasped audibly when she came upon the small brown bundle. A fawn? Was it only a bleating fawn whose mother had been killed? The deerskin was so soft, it had to be from a young fawn. Tentatively, she reached out, touching the deerskin with trembling fingers. She bit down hard on her lower lip, and then a cry escaped her when she found the black hair, the brown face that scrunched up and emitted another mewling sound.

  “Mein Gott,” she breathed. She sank to the ground, unaware of her full skirt trailing in the icy spring water as she put both hands beneath the bundle and lifted it gently onto her lap, crying now, laughing, chortling to herself.

  In the dappled sunlight that played between the moving leaves of the forest, she saw the baby for the first time, and her heart swelled with an indescribable longing. The baby was beautiful.

  Quickly, furtively, she stole a glance. Yes, it was a girl. A girl baby.

  “Ach, mein Himmlischer Vater” (Oh, my heavenly father)! It was all she had ever wanted. Mumbling now, talking to herself, half in prayer, she examined the infant from her head to her tiny red feet. So perfect.

  Again, her eyes swept the hillside, searching for answers. Would someone come to reclaim her if she took her to the house?

  A strong smell came from the baby’s furs, an unwashed, unclean scent that made her recoil. Her first instinct was to bathe her, rub her skin with oil of lavender, dress her in clean clothes, swaddle her with soft blankets.

  The trees rustled around her; the spring bubbled and tinkled merrily over the rocks; the wooden bucket lay on its side, forgotten, with the clutch of purple violets beside it.

  Quickly, she held the baby to her chest, and with a swift movement she was on her feet, glancing hurriedly behind her now. Gaining momentum, she walked fast until she was running, out of breath by the time she got back to the house, barring the heavy door behind her.

  Only then, the thought came, what would Hans say?

  In fact, Hans said very little. He stated, matter-of-factly, that very likely a scared young Indian maiden had left the infant by the spring purposefully, hoping the white people would care for it.

  By the baby’s features, he believed her to be of the Lenape tribe, often mistakenly called the “Delaware.” The rich golden brown color of her skin. Her straight, thick, glossy hair. Her well sculpted eyes and brows. Yes, they would keep her, he said. He never doubted that God had heard their pleas for a newborn baby.

  Kate’s love for her husband sprang up, flowering into a new and beautiful thing, deeply appreciating his manly ways, this sure choice he made now.

  She heated water in the heavy, black, cast-iron pot and swung it across the flames in the fireplace. She shaved small bits of lye soap and worried the warm water with her hands until bubbles rose to the surface.

  When Kate placed the small brown infant into the water, she opened her eyes wide and became very still, and Kate giggled and laughed with the sheer joy of being able to bathe this wonderful little being.

  That first night, they boiled a cloth to purify it, then dipped it repeatedly in warmed cow’s milk, laughing together as the powerful little mouth suckled until their fingers hurt.

  Kate would not lay her down, even after a soft burp came from her throat. She held her, possessing the baby, her face lit with a radiant fulfillment that came from her mother’s heart.

  They couldn’t get enough of her. They wept together at her first smile. They marveled when she grew, her cheeks filling out from the good cow’s milk.

  Word got around, the way these things do, and only a few weeks elapsed before Kate’s motherin-law was at the door, tall, formidable, and completely disapproving. Kate clutched her precious foundling to her breast, a sick feeling mushrooming in her stomach.

  Taking her outer wraps off in one jerked movement, the irritation on her face playing with her lowered eyebrows, Rebecca was a scary figure in Kate’s life. Especially now. Bending to peer at the sleeping infant, Rebecca breathed out in a disdainful whoosh of annoyance, “She’s red as a beet.”

  “Ya, Mam.” It was all Kate could think of, a sort of agreement, a subservient answer, a bowing to higher authority that was deeply ingrained, the teachings of childhood branded into her conscience.

  “What makes you think you can raise her Amish, with Indian blood?” Rebecca inquired, tersely, tight-lipped with disapproval.

  “I don’t know,” Kate mumbled.

  “She’s a heathen child.”

  Quite suddenly, Kate broke out with a swift denial, pleading the infant’s innocence, as her motherin-law stood over her with fiery objection.

  When the door latch lifted and her father-in-law, Isaac, appeared with Hans behind him, Kate’s voice drifted off quietly, and Rebecca’s features rounded into a caricature of pleasantness.

  Isaac shook hands solemnly with Kate then bent to peer into the small wooden cradle Hans had just completed.

  “Ach, du lieva” (Oh, my goodness), he murmured softly, quick tears springing to his nearsighted blue eyes, with the dozens of wrinkles and crow’s feet spreading around them. “An shay kind” (A nice child).

  Hans beamed, clasping his hands on his shirtfront. Kate blinked back the awkwardness of the moment, her motherin-law’s censure a cawing black crow stuffed into submission for now.

  “So tell me how this all came about,” Isaac said, kindly.

  Willingly, Hans launched into Kate’s experience at the spring, ending his story by surmising that a young Indian woman left the newborn there, intending that they would find it.

  Isaac nodded, his blue eyes alight. “It’s risky business, but perhaps Kate is right. Time will tell. Just be prepared to give her back if the mother would turn up at your door.”

  Kate sat up, opened her mouth to defend herself against the unlikeliness of that very thing, but glanced at her motherin-law and decided against it, withering against the back of the chair she sat on.

  “Do you have a name?” Isaac asked.

  “Hester.”

  Hans spoke her name quietly, reluctantly. Kate looked down at her hands, clenched so tightly in her lap.

  “Why such a name?” Rebecca said sharply. “No one is named Hester in the freundshaft” (extended family).

  “It is the name Kate wanted,” Hans said curtly, echoing Rebecca’s own tone of voice and leaving her without a reply, since she had been taught to let male figures take the dominant role, even if they were younger.

  “Why not Esther? It’s a Biblical name. Queen Esther was sent by God to save her people.” Isaac’s voice was kind, so Kate could speak more freely.

  “Dat, I had a friend in school, a French girl, named Hester Elizabeth. She was nice to me, in spite of my being Amish. I loved her a lot. And, well, I wanted my daughter to be called by her name.”

  “She’s not your daughter,” Rebecca spat out, saliva spraying across Kate’s face, little wet pellets that made her draw back.

  So Kate learned to live with the deepening gloom of Hans’s parents’ disapproval, although Isaac’s kindness lessened the sting.

  Each day was filled with a kind of heady gladness as she went about the tasks of running the house smoothly, interrupted only by the sweetness of little Hester’s cries. Kate would go swiftly to her cradle, lifting her out, so glad she was finally awake so she could watch her perfect mouth lift into a smile, her black eyes sparkle with recognition.

  She was at last a mother, like all her friends. She had a small gift from God, a benediction, a si
gn of his favor. Hans loved the baby so much, his love for his wife multiplied.

  Spring turned into summer, and Hester grew into a healthy child with round cheeks and glowing skin the color of maple syrup.

  Kate washed the baby’s clothes in the great wooden tubs and wrung them out with strong, capable hands. She rinsed them in hot water with a dash of apple cider vinegar in it and hung them on the rail fence surrounding the house.

  She scrubbed floors, the wide golden oak boards planed to a shining smooth texture by Hans’s brawny arms.

  She planted a garden, with Hester cooing from the blanket where she was placed. Curious butterflies flitted above her, the birds sang and twittered, diving around her, and Kate told Hans that she knew Hester’s eyes followed the birds and other flying things. Hans never doubted her.

  Hans had built their house against the ridge, which rose in back of it to the north. A gentle slope fell away from it, toward the south, down to the barn built of stone and log. The barn’s sturdy roof was made of split shakes, overlapped from the peak to let the rain tumble down over them, keeping the cow and calf, the heifer, and two horses snug and dry in winter.

  A split rail fence surrounded the barn, ensuring the animals fresh air in the wintertime. The large pasture was dotted with stumps from the trees Hans had felled and rose away beyond the small barnyard, up the side of another ridge to the east.

  Little by little, Hans’s acreage spread out, allowing him to plant wheat, rye, and spelt. In any spare time, he felled trees and split them for more fence rails or logs for neighbors who had use for them.

  Hans was a good manager and a hard worker, squirreling away every coin he possibly could. His fields were planted, hoed, and harvested in time. He fed his horses well so they could work long days in the sun, tilling the soil, and harvesting what grew in it.

  He was the blacksmith for all the Amish families of the settlement, spread out in a radius of fourteen or fifteen miles, give or take a few.

  On the days Hans went gile chplauwa (blacksmithing), Kate enjoyed a sort of freedom that gave her a great and secret pleasure. She spent idle time arranging wildflowers in redware cups, sometimes washing her hair and arranging it in different ways in front of the small wood-framed mirror above her sink.