DC03 - Though Mountains Fall (5 page)

“Señor Bender, I need to talk to you about something very important,” Domingo said. The night air was chilly, and he held his palms to the fire.

Caleb chuckled. “More important than bringing the federales to the valley to keep bandits from killing us all?”

Domingo considered this for a moment, but he did not smile at Caleb’s little joke. “A different kind of important,” he said. “I am in love with your daughter.”

Caleb was sitting on a log, elbows on knees. Now he straightened very slowly and his head tilted, staring at his young friend.

“Miriam?” It could only be Miriam. Rachel was promised, Ada was simpleminded, and the other two were too young.

“Sí. Miriam. We are in love, and we are planning to be married.”

Caleb blinked and his head recoiled as if he’d been slapped. “You want to
marry
her? How did this come about?”

Domingo looked up and there was a note of sadness in his eyes. “How do such things
ever
happen? It was fate, Señor Bender—too strong. Neither of us could resist it.”

Caleb was stunned speechless for a moment as scraps of memory flashed through his mind. He had seen the signs—the glances, the quiet words exchanged when they thought no one was looking—but blinded by his love for his daughter, and for Domingo, he’d told himself it was nothing, told himself they were only friends.

He saw the future, too. Amish girls had married outsiders before. The outcome was always the same, inescapable. Miriam would be
banned
.

“I’m sorry, Domingo, but I cannot give my blessing to this union. I must refuse.”

The young native shook his head and spoke gently. “You misunderstand me, Señor Bender. This is not a
petición de mano
—I am not asking you for her hand—but out of great respect for you I am simply telling you what is about to happen. Miriam has told me what to expect, and I assure you I am grieved by it as deeply as you. But our course is set, the decision made. I already know you cannot give us your blessing.”

Caleb nodded absently, staring into the fire. “I admire your honesty, at least.”

Then a thought occurred to him, a slim but fervent hope.

“Domingo, have you considered becoming Amish? You would be welcomed with open arms.”

But Domingo shook his head. “It would only be a lie. I was raised to be a warrior, Señor Bender. I cannot change, and I will not pretend to be something I am not.”

“But I have seen you make the sign of the cross. Have you become a Christian?”

“Sí, your God came to me at
El Paso de los Pericos
, and He has changed my life, but I am too much like my Nahua father to ever be a pacifist. The Catholic Church does not require it of me, and besides,” he added with a chuckle, “Father Noceda says I am not even a very good Catholic.”

Caleb’s rough hand rubbed the tired muscles of his neck as his eyes wandered, lost. “I don’t think you understand how difficult this will be for Miriam. And for her mother.”

“Perhaps not. But it can only be as difficult as you make it. Miriam’s feelings for her family will not change.”

There was nothing more to be said. His mind reeling, Caleb got up and went for his bedroll, though he already knew he would not be sleeping much this night. Most of all, he dreaded breaking the news to his wife.

Chapter 4

I
t was the end of a school day. The children had all gone home and Miriam was straightening up the buggy shed when her dat came home from Monterrey. The whole family turned out to welcome him, but after he corralled the horse he came to put the buggy away. Alone with Miriam in the buggy shed, he sat down on one of the school benches and patted a spot beside him.

“Domingo told me,” he said, and then took off his hat and rubbed his bald head the way he did when he was very tired or very worried. There was a great sadness in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know it’s terrible news to you, but, Dat, I love Domingo more than anything.”

“More than your family?”

Coming from her father, the question pierced her heart. She took a deep, shuddering breath and fought back tears.

“Dat, I didn’t choose this. Things just . . . happened. The time I spent alone with Domingo and Kyra in the mountains was like heaven on earth, and I was overwhelmed. Domingo is
the one
. I believe Gott himself put us together, and I want to
spend the rest of my life with him. Everything else will just have to work itself out. It makes me very sad to think of the grief it will cause my family. I only hope you can all forgive me.”

On the verge of tears, he whispered, “You’re still my daughter—at least until the church says otherwise—but this is a hard thing, Miriam. A very hard thing. How many of my children will this country
take
from me . . . ?”

Miriam couldn’t hold it back. She wept for a lost brother, and for a softhearted father whose pain she felt as keenly as her own.

“I will not try to stop you,” he said wearily, “but you already know what is coming, and you know I will not defy the church. As for Domingo, I only wish I could have talked him into joining us, but—”

“I know. He’s a warrior. Dat, he was raised in a different world, but in his heart he’s as good as any man I know.”

He nodded grimly. Neither of them spoke for a minute as a sad resignation settled over them both. Finally he asked, very quietly, “When will it happen?”

It
, he said, the way he would ask a doctor how long before someone died. Staring at the dirt floor she thought for a moment.

“In a few weeks, at Iglesia El Prado. We’ll have to go talk to the priest first.”

There was another long silence before he said, “Perhaps it won’t be so bad, since there is no bishop here.”

She knew what he meant, and she appreciated it. He was saying perhaps the family could bend the rules a bit after she was banned. There would be restrictions, yet beyond those the law was somewhat flexible, especially in the absence of an official overseer.

“Thank you for that, Dat.” Then another thought occurred to her. “Will you let Domingo keep working for you?”

He seemed surprised, caught off guard by the question, but then he shrugged. “As long as the others don’t complain.
Domingo is a good hand. Besides, he has done nothing wrong, except to fall in love with my daughter. I can’t hardly hold that against him.”

———

The word was out, and it divided Miriam’s heart right down the middle. Mamm was deeply hurt, as expected. She managed to function, cooking dinner as always, but she spoke only when necessary and sniffled off and on through dinner. She ate very little, refusing to even look at Miriam.

But Ada misbehaved at dinner. Confused by the somber mood she kept making little attempts to stir things up and create the lively banter she was accustomed to seeing around the dinner table. When she spilled her water—on purpose—she laughed too long and too loud until Mamm finally shushed her with a stern word. Then she sulked, pooching her bottom lip and refusing to eat another bite. Even Miriam’s younger sisters were all deathly quiet.

———

Breakfast the next morning was no different. A black gloom hung over them all, and Mamm still wouldn’t eat. Miriam couldn’t take it. As soon as she finished her chores she told her mother she needed some time alone.

Mamm nodded without looking at her. Miriam crept silently out the back door, past the barn and up along the face of the ridge.

Even now she was wracked with doubts, and as she wandered aimlessly along the tree line her soul cried out. Where was Gott in all this? Was it not Gott who led her to Domingo in the first place, and he to her? Was this not Gott’s will? Was it only selfish desire? She knew in her heart that desire played a part in her choice. She was young and unmarried—how could it not? And if Gott led her to this place, where was He now? Why did she feel so utterly alone, so deeply wounded by the
silence of her family? These questions, and others, poured from the deepest recesses of her soul as she fought with herself, even now, resisting what lay ahead of her.

It was not too late to turn back. She had said no vows; she was still Miriam
Bender
. But if she turned back now what would it do to Domingo? To hurt him like that would crush her even more than the disdain of her kin. And what of her future, knowing as she did that this was her one chance for happiness? Even if she abandoned Domingo at this point she knew his shadow would remain forever, and she would never love another. No man would ever measure up to Domingo, and she would remain alone for the rest of her days, an old maid schoolteacher.

No matter what promises she’d made on the day of her baptism, did her family or her church really have the right to demand such a price? How could she have known then—on the day of her baptism, as a seventeen-year-old who had lived all her life in Salt Creek Township—that she would one day be forced to move to Mexico, or that such a man as Domingo Zapara even existed in the whole earth? Only Gott knew such things.

And where was Gott now?

She wandered along the face of the ridge, oblivious to her surroundings, and she was more than halfway to Emma’s house before it dawned on her that this was where she’d been heading the whole time. Emma would know. She was the second wisest person Miriam knew, and in this case Emma had a distinct advantage, even over her father.

She was a woman.

Levi was on his planter way down by the main road. Focused on his work, he didn’t see Miriam. She heard the sound of a baby screaming in pain and hurried down to the kitchen garden where she found Emma squatting on the ground with Clara, picking at the toddler’s fingers. Clara wailed louder when she saw Miriam.

She knelt down to help, scooping up the child and holding her still for Emma.

“What happened?”

Emma glanced up. “I edged the garden with prickly pear cactus to keep the pests out, but it got poor Clara instead. She didn’t know not to grab it.”

Three-year-old Mose stood back, glowering from under his hat while infant Will lay nearby in a wooden wheelbarrow, sleeping soundly through the whole ordeal.

“Best way to learn, I guess,” Emma said as she plucked the last of the spines from her baby’s fingers, then hugged her close until the wailing turned to snuffles. Five minutes later the child was playing in the dirt with her brother and Emma was heading toward the house for a fresh diaper.

Miriam stayed with the children, watching them torment an ant lion. Staring at nothing she tumbled back into her tangled, bleak thoughts. She didn’t hear Emma return.

“Where
are
you?” Emma asked over her shoulder.

Startled, Miriam glanced at her, then looked away again, shaking her head.

“What’s wrong, Mir? You can’t hide it, you know. I saw it on you when you first came up. It’s in your shoulders, your eyes—”

“I’m going to be married,” Miriam moaned, fighting back tears.

Emma took her by the shoulders and spun her around, but Miriam refused to meet her eyes. Emma’s head tilted, confused at first. An announcement of marriage wasn’t usually cause for grief. Then her eyes widened and the diaper flew up to cover her open mouth.

“Oh, Mir, I’m so sorry,” she said, drawing Miriam into a tight hug. “It’s Domingo, isn’t it?”

Miriam nodded against her sister’s shoulder.

“Poor child,” Emma said. “Oh, what you must be going through.”

Emma held her for a minute, saying nothing, just holding her tight. Finally she backed away and dabbed at Miriam’s face with the diaper.

“It’s just too cruel,” Emma said. “You never had a chance, did you? You’re suffering, and will suffer more, over something you cannot help.”

Miriam blinked. “You knew?”

“That you were in love with Domingo? Of course.”

“Was it that obvious?”

Emma shrugged. “To me, jah. To others—I don’t know. But marriage?” She shook her head. “I can never read Domingo. I wasn’t sure how he felt about you, and I never dreamed he would ask you to marry him.”

“He loves as fiercely as he fights,” Miriam said.

Emma lifted her chin with a finger and looked into her eyes. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

Miriam’s head tilted forward a bit and she glared, hard, from under her eyelids.

“Right,” Emma said, smiling. “Dumb question. Why would you face the ban if you weren’t sure.”

“Such a terrible, heavy price. How can I bear it?”

“Do you have a choice?”

“No.”

“Then you will bear it. Maybe it won’t be so bad.”

“How can you say that? To be put out from among my family, my people?”

“Oh, Mir, you’ll still see your family. They’ll still talk to you. Just because you can’t sit at the same table—”

“Even that. The very thought of it chills me. The dinner table is the center of our lives together.”

“But it’s not like you can’t see them or talk to them. I don’t know about Dat, but I will wink at the ban.”

“Then they’ll ban you, too.”

“Psh, no they won’t. I know how much I can get away with.”