Chapter One
Rock of Ages, cleft for me
Mount Joy, Pennsylvania
"The rain's finally stopped. We're late. I'd better get
you home before your father comes looking for us carrying
his squirrel rifle—thunderstorm or no."
"Hmm," replied Amy. John's attempt at humor fell short
of its mark.
"With my next paycheck, I should have enough money for
a load of insulation to be delivered next week," he said
with great animation. "I'll check the total weight. If
it's not too heavy for my flatbed wagon, I'll pick it up
at the lumberyard with your daed's Belgians. That will
save us the delivery charge."
"Mh–hmm," replied Amy, trying to shake off the
odd sensation snaking up her spine. It was probably the
two lemon bars she ate after the sloppy joes. Sweet and
spicy didn't always set well in her stomach.
"And I'll pick up one of those fancy whirlpool tubs
with at least a dozen water jets and also a tanning bed so
your mamm won't get so pale during the winter months."
"That's nice. Whatever you think would be best for the
dawdi haus addition." Amy laced her fingers together and
pressed both palms down on her roiling belly.
John Detweiler pulled on the reins and steered the open
buggy to the side of the road. "What has you distracted,
Amy? You haven't heard a word I've said since we left the
cookout and singing at the Lapp farm." His expression
revealed concern rather than irritation.
Amy straightened against the bench seat, grinning as
his previous words took root in her mind. "Mir leid," she
apologized. "I don't feel quite right. I should watch the
combination of foods I eat at get–togethers instead
of nibbling on a dozen different treats." She offered an
apologetic smile. "I do believe mamm and daed would frown
on the Jacuzzi and tanning bed ideas, so just stick to
insulation."
They laughed companionably as John checked for traffic
and then guided their buggy back onto the roadway. "At
least I got your attention." He patted her knee. Even
though her legs were covered by a pine green dress and
black apron, it was still an inappropriate gesture.
But Amy didn't scold him for his affection, because
everyone in the district knew they would announce their
engagement this autumn and marry in November—the
traditional wedding season in Lancaster County. She opened
her mouth to ask him to explain his house addition plans
when the acrid smell of wood smoke assailed her senses.
"Fire!" she gasped. Alarm turned her voice into a
childish squeak. Her mild sensation of unease quickly
escalated into full–blown dread.
"Easy, now. We just left a bonfire and s'mores roast.
Who's to say some Englischer isn't doing the same thing
over the next hill?" Nevertheless, he clucked his tongue
to the horse to step up the pace.
As they rounded the bend in the road, Amy saw a streaky
orange glow reflected against low–hanging
clouds. "Oh, dear Lord," she gasped, half standing in the
buggy. "Bonfires don't light up the entire sky, and that's
the direction of our farm!"
John gently pulled her down to the seat. "There are
plenty of houses in that direction, Amy. Let's not get
worked up until we know for sure." He spoke words of
assurance, yet his tone wasn't very convincing.
She squeezed her eyes shut and began to pray. Over and
over silently in her head, she pleaded for the blaze to be
a brush fire, or perhaps an abandoned ramshackle barn
torched by the volunteer fire department for training
purposes. Every few years the fire marshal scheduled an
exercise and invited all surrounding fire departments to
participate. Amish and Englischers arrived with lawn
chairs to watch the volunteers battle the flames.
"Git up there," John shouted, slapping the reins with
urgency. The Standardbred complied, breaking into a fast
trot.
The horse's effort only hastened the inevitable
conclusion for Amy King. As they reached the top of the
next hill in Lancaster's famous rolling countryside, she
stared across hay and wheat fields at a daughter's worst
nightmare.
Her fervent prayers weren't to be answered.
Her parents' farm—her home for all
twenty–two years of her life—was fully
engulfed in flames. Sparks from the inferno shot thirty
feet into the air as the entire yard glowed with eerie
yellow light. Paralysis seized every muscle in her body.
She tried to scream, to holler for more people to come
help, but no sounds issued forth. Hot, stinging tears
filled her eyes and ran down her cheeks as the breeze
carried smoke and soot in their direction. The horse
neighed loudly and fought against the harness, expressing
a strong opinion about getting closer to the fire. John
slipped an arm around her shoulders as he turned the buggy
into the next driveway.
She barely felt his touch as she again tried to
speak. "Why is no one ringing the farm bell?" she managed
to say between choking coughs.
John jumped out to secure the horse to the hitching
post of the house next door—the home of Amy's aunt,
uncle, and grandparents. Then he reached up for her
hand. "I'm sure they rang the bell plenty. Everybody who
could come is already here." He also coughed from the
bitter smoke that drifted across the yard like a heavy fog.
Avoiding his outstretched hand, Amy jumped from the
buggy and sprinted through the meadow separating the two
farms. She scrambled over the split rail fences with
childlike agility. John followed close on her heels,
trying without success to catch hold of her. "Slow down,
Amy! You'll twist an ankle or break a leg."
She ignored his warning and focused solely on the total
destruction of the hundred–year–old
wood–and–stone structure. When the wind
shifted, her vision cleared briefly. The back and side
yards were swarming with people. Two neighbors aimed green
garden hoses ineffectually on the fire. The fire
department's larger hoses rained a steady stream on the
back of the house, the side still intact. Firemen in full
gear pumped water from the King pond using diesel
generators. Some Amish men still clutched full buckets of
water, passed to them by lines of women and children from
the pond, but the intense heat prevented them from getting
close enough to dump their buckets on the blaze. With
soot–darkened faces they moved back, acknowledging
the inevitable.
Amy stood rooted to the driveway, watching as the roof
collapsed in a shower of sparks. Her home was lost. For a
minute she stood transfixed, unable to look away. One by
one, firemen repositioned the hoses on the barn to keep
the blaze from spreading to other outbuildings. She heard
the mournful bellowing of cows in the pasture, terrified
by sights and sounds and smells they didn't understand.
John again tried to offer comfort with an arm around her
back, but his touch merely galvanized her to action. She
ran pell–mell through the crowd, amid smoke and
sparks and confusion. Hoses and equipment lay everywhere,
ready to send the unobservant sprawling.
"Where are my mamm and daed?" she screamed. Yet her
strangled wail was barely audible. "Rachel, Beth,
Nora—where are my schwestern?"
Several Amish women of their district hurried toward
her, but Amy shrugged off their restraining embraces.
Headlong toward the inferno she ran, and she might have
slipped between firefighters and into the house if John
hadn't caught up to her.
He grabbed her around the waist and dragged her none
too gently back from the heat. "Get hold of yourself!" he
demanded, pinning her against the trunk of a maple. Even
the bark felt warm though the cotton of her dress. "Two of
your sisters were with us at the singing. Don't you
remember? Nora and Rachel said they would wait out the
thunderstorm and walk home if no one offered them a lift.
They chose not to ride with us to give us a chance to
talk." John's face wavered in front of her, speaking words
that took time for her to comprehend. "They are fine, Amy."
She sucked great gulps of air into parched lungs. "And
Beth?" Her voice sounded raw and hoarse from the
smoke. "Where is she?"
"You told me your youngest sister was spending the
night at Aunt Irene's. She was disappointed because she's
still too young to attend social events." John released
her shoulders but didn't step back. He remained vigilant
for another sprint toward the fire.
"They're safe?" Amy repeated the idea before asking a
new question. "And my parents? Where are they?"
"I have no idea," he moaned, his expression a mask of
shock and horror.
Slowly, Amy stepped away from the rough tree trunk
without her earlier panic. On tiptoes she scanned the
throng for several moments before spotting Aunt Irene and
Uncle Joseph. Mamm's sister and brother–in–law
had lived next door for as long as she could remember.
Uncle Joseph seemed to be supporting someone to keep her
from falling to the ash–covered ground. In her
stupor, Amy didn't recognize the elderly woman in the dark
brown dress, soot–speckled kapp and sturdy
lace–up shoes. But the tall white–haired man
at the woman's side was very familiar
indeed. "Grossdawdi," she murmured. Her grandfather. With
growing horror, Amy recognized the bent, sobbing woman as
her grandmother. She could think of only one reason for
grossmammi to carry on so. On unsteady legs, she staggered
toward her family as John remained at her side, supporting
her arm. Onlookers and would–be–helpers parted
before them like the Red Sea.
"Grossmammi, Aunt Irene," she said as she approached.
Both her aunt and grandmother looked up with
red–rimmed, watery eyes, confirming Amy's suspicion.
"Amy, I'm glad you're home," said her aunt as
grossmammi wrapped her arms around her. They both patted
and hugged and attempted to console what was inconsolable.
Amy allowed herself to be enfolded in their embrace,
feeling exhausted and numb, as though she'd run all the
way from downtown Lancaster.
"Where's Beth?" she mewed, sounding more like a kitten
than a grown woman.
"Your cousins are keeping Beth away from the fire.
She's safe at our house." Aunt Irene sounded distant and
muffled, as though she were speaking underwater.
"And my mamm and daed?" she asked with her face buried
in the soft cotton of her grandmother's dress.
"No one can locate them in the crowd."
Aunt Irene's words were little more than a whisper,
but Amy heard the pronouncement clear as a clanging farm
bell. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut.
"Amy! John!" A shout pierced Amy's semiconsciousness.
Amy peered up at two of her sisters running toward her.
Stiffening her spine with resolve, she pulled away from
her grandmother. As the eldest daughter of Samuel and Edna
King, she must be strong. "I'm here, Rachel, Nora." She
opened her arms to them.
Sweating and panting, with dirt–streaked faces,
they hurried forward. How long had they been running? The
glow from a house fire could be seen for miles in a night
sky. The two girls fell into Amy's arms, crying and
hiccupping like young children.
"We're so glad to see you," said Rachel. "Is Beth okay?"
"She's fine." Amy delivered a flat, emotionless
statement, knowing what question would come next.
"And mamm and daed? Where are they?" asked Nora,
extracting herself from the embrace.
Amy locked gazes with Nora, younger than her by only
two years. "No one has seen them since the fire started."
Nora crossed her arms over her ash–speckled
apron. "That doesn't mean they are still in the house!"
she protested, outraged at such an idea. "They could have
gone for a buggy ride or a walk in the moonlight, or maybe
they both went to check on the livestock."
The third oldest sister, Rachel, also crossed her arms,
looking hopeful rather than cross. "Maybe we should check
the barn."
Amy forced her mouth into a smile. "That's true. It's
entirely possible," she said, even though she'd never
witnessed her parents doing any of those things in the
middle of the night. "Why don't we bow our heads and pray
they will soon be home?"
Nora and Rachel wrapped their arms around Amy's waist,
and they all took a few steps toward the fire. The girls
watched the flames consume the final side of the house
with savage fury. Then they bowed their heads in silent
prayer. Relatives and friends huddled close to pray, but
they didn't intrude on the sisters' private anguish.
Amy kept her head down and eyes closed to the stinging
smoke as the sound of their home crashing into a pile of
embers rang in her ears. But she couldn't keep her mind
focused on her pleas to God. She wondered instead about
how she would manage as the new head of the King
household. What will I do when others turn to me for
direction, support, and comfort?
The following days passed in a blur. Blessedly, no one
looked to Amy for anything. She and her sisters had spent
the waning hours until dawn next door in her aunt's
kitchen. They did not return to the smoldering remains of
their home. Uncle Joseph and her cousins cared for the
livestock and began moving them to their own herds. The
county fire marshal arrived before noon to confirm that he
had found the bodies of Edna and Samuel King in the
debris. Investigators would conduct a full inquiry, but it
appeared the fire started in the attic, most likely from a
lighting strike during the thunderstorm. The marshal asked
Amy about working smoke detectors. She explained her
father wouldn't allow them, preferring to place their
safety and fate in God's hands. With the marshal's
terrible news, destroying their hopes of possible
alternatives, the younger girls broke into sobs. Amy
wouldn't let herself give in to sorrow.
Her solemn grandmother organized a closed–casket
viewing in Aunt Irene's front room and the funeral two
days later. It seemed that half of Lancaster County
stopped by to bring casseroles or desserts or to offer
words of condolence. After the burial, the Kings served at
least two hundred people at the luncheon, yet so much food
remained they had to pack it up to send home with
neighbors. Amy moved through the interminable days nodding
her head to sympathetic mourners and murmuring the
words, "They'll sleep peacefully, waiting on the Lord's
return," over and over. But she didn't cry or shake an
angry fist at the sky. The thoughts jumbling through her
brain like puzzle pieces were of her future.
Should we plan to rebuild the house and try to keep the
farm going?
We should just sell the place while the prices are high
and move elsewhere, her daed had said several times.
It's getting too crowded in Lancaster—too much
traffic. It's dangerous to even cross the street for the
mail, her mamm had muttered too often to count.
With so many Englischers settling in the area, it's
getting hard to keep the Plain ways.
Amy remembered her parents' complaints and those from
other district members with bitter nostalgia. Now Edna and
Samuel King no longer had to worry about the number of
buggy accidents or increased land taxes or aggressive
tourists trying to take their pictures in town. They
wouldn't fret about anything ever again.
Now, two weeks later, Amy was no closer to figuring out
what to do. Impulsively, she stalked away from those
clustered on her aunt's porch following a preaching
service. She headed across the meadow toward a stand of
tall pines. Talk, talk, talk—that's all her Amish
family ever did, just like Englischers. Maybe it's all
human beings ever did. But she needed to think, alone, in
only God's presence.
Ever since the night of the fire, the bishop,
ministers, and elders had been dropping by to speak with
her grossdawdi, Uncle Joseph, and John. Even though she
loved her fiancé with all her heart, they weren't married
yet, so why did the elders speak to him more so than her?
They hadn't yet announced their engagement, although
everyone knew they were courting. They had both taken
classes and joined the Amish church. John had moved to a
room in their barn loft so he could spend his free time
helping with the remodeling to the King home. The
long–range plan had been for mamm and daed to
eventually move into the new dawdi haus addition, leaving
the main house to Amy and John. That unfinished addition
had gone up in smoke along with everything else.
Amy swallowed down her selfishness. Because her mind
just now was a confused stew of emotions, she should feel
grateful that others were concerned with her
well–being. Settling herself on a sunbaked boulder,
she turned her face skyward to plead once more for
guidance.
But the answering voice came from a tall, muscular man
rather than from a merciful Lord.
"I thought I saw you slip off," said John, striding
toward her. "Too many folks around your uncle's house, no?
It's hard for a person to find a quiet moment." He sat
down in the tall grass by her feet, tipping his hat back
to catch the warm sun on his face.
"That's the truth. And four girls to one bedroom is
three too many," she joked—her first attempt at
humor in weeks.
He reached for her hand, cradling it gently inside
his. "I imagine so. When one gal runs out of things to
say, someone else pipes up." He focused his sea–blue
eyes—truly his best feature—on her. "You've
been given much to think about the last few days. I know
your uncle and the bishop spoke to you about selling your
parents' farm."
"Jah, they have." She wished this discussion could be
postponed indefinitely.
"Plenty of people are interested in the land, English
and Amish, besides your uncle and his sons." John paused,
waiting for a reply. When she sat mutely watching a
bumblebee's move between clover heads, he continued. "And
I hope you've seriously considered my idea. I have nothing
left here in Pennsylvania except for you, Amy. The
addition I was building onto your parents' house is gone.
I can't continue to live in a barn loft on property about
to be sold. Both of my brothers reside in Maine. I can't
afford to buy your daed's acres here in Lancaster, not
since the proceeds must be split among your sisters, but
my older bruder says I could buy decent farmland up north
with what I've already saved...and your share of the
inheritance." John's assurance slipped a notch when she
failed to respond. "That is, if you're still willing to
marry me in the fall." He seemed to be holding his breath,
waiting.
She turned to face him and ran her index finger down
his smooth–shaven cheek. "Of course I'll still wed
you, John. My parents' passing didn't change my feelings
for you."
He smiled, blushing like a schoolboy. "Whew, that's gut
to hear." He leaned up to brush a quick kiss across her
lips.
He tasted of peppermint candy and sheer devotion. John
was the only thing Amy felt certain of. She'd fallen in
love the night they met and had never doubted his
commitment to her for a single moment.
"Thomas said his district grows larger each year. The
Englischers have welcomed Plain folks to the community,
but there's little chance the area will become a tourist
hot spot like here—at least, not in our lifetime.
What say you, Amy? Land in Maine costs a fraction of what
it does in Lancaster. I want to farm, but I can't afford
to do so here. I don't like working construction, but I'll
continue if you don't want to leave your family." His
ruddy complexion glowed with health and hopeful
expectation.
Amy pulled back her hand and rose to her feet. Clearing
her throat, she composed her thoughts—the ones that
had been churning in her head for days. She'd discussed
John's ideas with her sisters and grandparents. She'd
prayed nightly for direction, and finally it had been
delivered. Now she needed to stop behaving like a child
and speak up. "I have talked things out with my family,
and I've decided to accompany you to Maine. We can marry
before we leave, or, if you prefer, your brother can marry
us upon arrival. But there is one catch." She paused in
her narration to meet his gaze.
He opened his palms wide. "Name it. I only wish to see
my future fraa happy."
"Nora wants to move north with us. None of the young
men in this district interest her in terms of courting.
She yearns for a fresh start where everyone isn't as
familiar as old shoes."
John's brilliant smile slipped a notch. "Thomas and
Sally have a large home, according to his letter. I'm sure
they will take in Nora until we marry and buy our own
place."
"Danki. Having one sister near will lessen the pain of
leaving home. Rachel and Beth refuse to leave our
grandparents. They are planning on moving into the attic
of the dawdi haus and adjusting as well as can be
expected."
"We're not moving to the moon, Amy. You'll still see
them occasionally."
"I've looked up Maine on a map. Visits will be few and
far between." Amy inhaled a deep, calming breath. "As the
eldest King sister, I've made another decision too. I
refuse to sell my parents' farm to an English developer. I
don't want dozens of houses springing up next to my
grandparents. The traffic on this road is bad enough
already."
John's smile vanished altogether. "But no farmer can
afford to pay what this land is worth."
"You mean worth by English standards. This land has
been in my family for generations, constantly divided up
into ever smaller plots for sons who marry. My uncle
wishes to buy our acres and combine them with his. My
cousins want to farm. They will secure bank loans to add
to Uncle Joseph's down payment. The amount won't come
close to what a land developer would pay, but it will be
enough for the four King girls to make new beginnings."
She lifted her chin. "As you already pointed out, land in
other places is far cheaper than here."
He opened his mouth to argue, to protest the foolish
idea of turning down a million dollars, but stopped. Maybe
it was her ramrod posture, or the set of her jaw, or the
hard glint in her cornflower eyes, but he closed his mouth
before it started catching mosquitos. "Your sisters agree
with you?" he asked after a pause.
She nodded. "Jah, they do. Perhaps for the first time
the four of us see eye to eye."
John pushed off the rock to rise to his feet. "Then
it's settled. I'll tell the bishop and Uncle Joseph of
your decision. Shall we head back to the house? I could
use a cup of strong coffee." He held out his elbow toward
her in a gentlemanly fashion.
Amy stood and hooked her arm through his, and then they
strolled across the meadow back to the house. A
long–absent sense of relief settled deep inside her.
Finally she felt she could breathe again.
John Detweiler stared across starlit fields under a
full moon, trying not to cough. The foul smell of smoke
still hung in the air of his austere quarters. The night
of the fire, he'd left his windows open to catch the
evening breeze before taking Amy to the social gathering.
Instead of cool air, the windows had allowed in thick,
cloying smoke. District women and the four sisters had
washed his walls and floor and laundered his bedding, yet
the stench still remained throughout the barn, including
his loft bedroom. Amy's aunt and uncle invited him to bunk
with their sons next door, but he'd declined. He could
tolerate the loft for a while longer. Because the woman of
his dreams had agreed to become his wife, he was a happy
man. They would soon leave the fast–paced, crowded
world of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, for the tranquil
countryside of Waldo County, Maine.
Maybe the winters would be long and harsh.
Maybe the soil might be less fertile than that of the
Garden Spot of America.
Maybe he would have to build a house from ground up for
his new bride without the plentiful able hands in his
current district. Amish homes without electrical wiring
wouldn't be readily available in a four–year old
community. Four years in existence—as opposed to
nearly three hundred years in Lancaster.
But those years had wrought much change to the lives of
the descendants of the original Swiss refugees. And in his
opinion, those changes hadn't been for the better.
Scouting parties of Amish had been quietly looking at land
in other parts of the country for years. For the price of
a farm in this part of Pennsylvania, a father could buy
several homes for his sons in other states. What drove the
Amish from Lancaster wasn't tourism but its consequences.
Once Englischers visited, many wanted to stay and build
houses, driving up prices and clogging the narrow roads
with increased traffic. They demanded things like city
water, professional police forces, and modern schools,
raising taxes for everyone.
Many Amish families earned great sums selling quilts,
crafts, furniture, and baked goods to the constant stream
of tourists...and had become corrupted by the almighty
dollar in return. He'd heard of Amish with
gas–powered air–conditioning, modern
propane–powered light fixtures, and women no longer
content with traditional clothing fabrics, not when
permanent press made ironing an unpleasant memory. Many
had forgotten that subsistence existence, demanded in the
Ordnung, had served the Amish for generations.
Almost every young woman he knew worked for a while in
the English world, facing the temptations of a fancy
lifestyle. He didn't want that for his sweet Amy. So far
she'd remained home, helping her mamm with housework and
occasionally babysitting for the English woman down the
road. But once he overheard Nora and Amy talking about
looking for jobs in a tourist shop to help their parents
pay bills. John cringed, thinking about Amy with women who
wore short skirts, low–cut blouses, and heavy
makeup. Already he'd noticed subtle changes in her
demeanor he didn't like. He hadn't appreciated the way
she'd turned his words against him regarding land prices
up north. She became evasive with his questions and
forthright with her opinions, even on matters she knew
little about. It's not that he thought women shouldn't
have a say, but why should she burden herself with
difficult choices when she had a man who loved and
cherished her?
John walked to his cot and withdrew a tattered,
dog–eared road atlas from beneath the mattress. An
Englischer had either lost it or thrown it out a car
window when it no longer served a purpose. He had found
the atlas in the ditch and taken it home to study when
sleep wouldn't come. By kerosene lamplight he located
Indiana, Kentucky, Missouri, Tennessee, and
Wisconsin—states that many Old Order Amish had
settled in when Pennsylvania and Ohio had grown
overcrowded. His fingers quickly found his favorite
map—Maine—home to his older brother, Thomas,
and Thomas's wife, Sally, and his younger brother, Elam.
John slipped on the reading glasses he'd purchased at
the dollar store. He stared at the small dot that would
become the new home of the John Detweiler family. Even the
town's name portended a good life for those wishing
nothing more than to farm and serve God—Harmony. Now
that the prettiest woman in the world would be at his
side, perhaps harmony would replace the doubt and
disappointment filling his heart of late.