her voice. “The Lord will get you home
safe.”
Let’s freaking hope so .
Their horse is an old, burly
thing, with kind brown eyes and a hunched but capable back. Joseph hitches the
buggy to him quickly. We’ve got to get going.
When we pull away from the barn,
the cold air hits my face like a slap. Up ahead, the forest of autumn trees is
ablaze in color. Before we get too far, I look back at the house, set like an
apparition in the chilled farmland. Ezekiel’s tree is swaying slightly, bracing
against the wind. From its branches, two flowers have fallen, leaving only
four.
Chapter 11
Joseph
drives us through the autumn woods, over a brook collecting ice at its edges, and
past a few other tidy Amish houses. Leaves — nut-brown leaves, yellow leaves, leaves so red they could
burst into flame — are everywhere, cast over the ground and dangling from the
highest branches of the trees. Every once in a while, we pass a jee-bow that
turns a light shade of turquoise as we pass—the color of hope, I’ve
learned. Above us, the sunlit sky is filled with flocks of birds—mostly
geese flying south for the winter in perfect formation. Looking up at them, my
heart is oddly filled with envy. What I would give for wings.
It’s nice to be carted around by
Joseph and his old mare, though. Every few minutes, our wagon wheels roll on so
smoothly that I almost fall asleep, but whenever my eyes drift closed for more
than a second, we hit a tiny boulder or ditch and my whole body lurches up into
the air, waking me instantly. Xander laughs every time it happens, and every
time, I punch him in the gut.
“I think it’s about two o’clock,”
Joseph says as we emerge from the woods and onto another long stretch of empty
plains. “I’m sorry, but I’ll have to leave you here. I can’t let Annie alone
with those kids too long. They’re liable to run amok on her.”
My legs ache thinking of the walk
we have ahead, but I’m grateful for the ride we’ve had.
“Joseph, seriously, thank
you for taking us this far,” Xander says.
“Yes, thank you so much,” I
second.
“Not a worry. We’ll be praying for
you kids, and I know Ezekiel’s gonna do all he can for you,” he says, tearing
up through his broad smile. We both give him giant hugs. “Remember the stars. Everything
you need to know, you’ve got,” he says, cracking the whip. “Git up now.”
We watch the buggy until it
becomes a small, black dot shifting across the horizon. I look up and thank the
sky for Joseph, for Annie, for the kinds of people who will give you their tent
and clothes and warmth. We’ve got a good amount of things to schlep now, but I
think we really need all of them. Besides the tent, axe, and the stuff Deb gave
me, we have two wool sweaters each, heavy coats, hats, and old leather gloves, my
canvas bag filled with the medicine kit, knife and flint, mason jars, tin cans,
and the like, the clothes we left Camp Astor with, my inimitable compass, and
dread swirling in our bellies.
From where Joseph dropped us, we
walk on for days, stopping every night to pitch the tent along some tiny stream
or pond if we can find one. The air has gotten cooler. Every morning, my jar of
water is crusted over with ice. Xander and I try to keep our chins up, but
neither of us is too proud to cling to the other’s warm body when we bed down.
The tent is so cold you can see your breath puffing out of your lungs.
I’d say we’re somewhere in Indiana
now. The dark, lush forests have given way to shimmering fields of waist-high
golden wheat, dancing in the wind. It’s near sunset, and instead of the
swooping, purple-eyed bats or twinkling fireflies, we are eaten blood and bone
by mosquitoes the size of my fingernails. I know they’re just trying to eke out
a living, like us, but I still want every one of them dead. Xander takes rapturous
delight in slapping me to kill them, especially when they’ve landed on my face.
I slap him right back, but unlike him,
safe.”
Let’s freaking hope so .
Their horse is an old, burly
thing, with kind brown eyes and a hunched but capable back. Joseph hitches the
buggy to him quickly. We’ve got to get going.
When we pull away from the barn,
the cold air hits my face like a slap. Up ahead, the forest of autumn trees is
ablaze in color. Before we get too far, I look back at the house, set like an
apparition in the chilled farmland. Ezekiel’s tree is swaying slightly, bracing
against the wind. From its branches, two flowers have fallen, leaving only
four.
Chapter 11
Joseph
drives us through the autumn woods, over a brook collecting ice at its edges, and
past a few other tidy Amish houses. Leaves — nut-brown leaves, yellow leaves, leaves so red they could
burst into flame — are everywhere, cast over the ground and dangling from the
highest branches of the trees. Every once in a while, we pass a jee-bow that
turns a light shade of turquoise as we pass—the color of hope, I’ve
learned. Above us, the sunlit sky is filled with flocks of birds—mostly
geese flying south for the winter in perfect formation. Looking up at them, my
heart is oddly filled with envy. What I would give for wings.
It’s nice to be carted around by
Joseph and his old mare, though. Every few minutes, our wagon wheels roll on so
smoothly that I almost fall asleep, but whenever my eyes drift closed for more
than a second, we hit a tiny boulder or ditch and my whole body lurches up into
the air, waking me instantly. Xander laughs every time it happens, and every
time, I punch him in the gut.
“I think it’s about two o’clock,”
Joseph says as we emerge from the woods and onto another long stretch of empty
plains. “I’m sorry, but I’ll have to leave you here. I can’t let Annie alone
with those kids too long. They’re liable to run amok on her.”
My legs ache thinking of the walk
we have ahead, but I’m grateful for the ride we’ve had.
“Joseph, seriously, thank
you for taking us this far,” Xander says.
“Yes, thank you so much,” I
second.
“Not a worry. We’ll be praying for
you kids, and I know Ezekiel’s gonna do all he can for you,” he says, tearing
up through his broad smile. We both give him giant hugs. “Remember the stars. Everything
you need to know, you’ve got,” he says, cracking the whip. “Git up now.”
We watch the buggy until it
becomes a small, black dot shifting across the horizon. I look up and thank the
sky for Joseph, for Annie, for the kinds of people who will give you their tent
and clothes and warmth. We’ve got a good amount of things to schlep now, but I
think we really need all of them. Besides the tent, axe, and the stuff Deb gave
me, we have two wool sweaters each, heavy coats, hats, and old leather gloves, my
canvas bag filled with the medicine kit, knife and flint, mason jars, tin cans,
and the like, the clothes we left Camp Astor with, my inimitable compass, and
dread swirling in our bellies.
From where Joseph dropped us, we
walk on for days, stopping every night to pitch the tent along some tiny stream
or pond if we can find one. The air has gotten cooler. Every morning, my jar of
water is crusted over with ice. Xander and I try to keep our chins up, but
neither of us is too proud to cling to the other’s warm body when we bed down.
The tent is so cold you can see your breath puffing out of your lungs.
I’d say we’re somewhere in Indiana
now. The dark, lush forests have given way to shimmering fields of waist-high
golden wheat, dancing in the wind. It’s near sunset, and instead of the
swooping, purple-eyed bats or twinkling fireflies, we are eaten blood and bone
by mosquitoes the size of my fingernails. I know they’re just trying to eke out
a living, like us, but I still want every one of them dead. Xander takes rapturous
delight in slapping me to kill them, especially when they’ve landed on my face.
I slap him right back, but unlike him,
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