“Then we must win this one first, and win that one eventually,” Bennings said.
“I agree,” Amos said, nodding. “And I have every intention of making certain our eventual victory.”
When it appeared that no one had anything else to add, Amos fixed his eyes on Bennings and approached the man, who turned in his chair to face the SOMA.
“If we are done here,” Amos said, “I am going to ask you to get out of my office—and off my ship.” He paused for a moment and then smiled. He directed his next statement to the rest of the Council. “If the rest of you want this little man running your war, just let me know, and I’ll turn over the keys to him. If not, then I don’t want to see him on my ship again until this war is over and I’m retired.”
(31
LIGHTER
Isaiah King’s family took Matthias into their home—to care for him and tend to his bullet wound. Of course, this was after he’d received first aid from Pook’s unit medic (a tall man named Angelo), and after he’d been seen by Elder Bontrager at the Amish clinic. The Kings were an Amish family who’d come to New Pennsylvania from the smaller Missouri Amish Zone in one of the earliest migrations from the old world.
The Amish of the New Pennsylvania colony were an amalgamated people. The community was made up of converts from among the English back in the old world, Amish-raised transplants from the four different AZ’s of Earth, and even some other plain people who didn’t self-identify as Amish. But one thing the community in New Pennsylvania had that has always been common to communities of plain people the world over, was a sense of obligation to care for one another. They all possessed an intense desire to feed the hungry and clothe the naked, and to take care of the aged and infirm no matter the cost.
Matthias’s life had been spared because the bullet fired at him from the pistol of a Transport soldier had missed an artery in his shoulder by an eighth of an inch. Despite the close call, and the fact that Matthias was still not out of the woods, everyone was hopeful that he’d make a full recovery. They were hopeful, but not deceived. They wanted him to live and thrive, but no one could really know for sure that he would—not yet. There were no hospitals in the Amish Zone (though there was a clinic) and with the destruction of the City, critical medical care had become something that, once again, they couldn’t depend on. Though they weren’t at all hesitant to make use of advanced medical care when it was available, and when it fit with their overall worldview, the Amish generally relied on common sense, intensive personal attention to the sick or injured, and prayer, more than they ever relied on some system devised by the English.
After he’d made assurances that Matthias was being well cared for, Jed, Dawn, and Pook’s soldiers had all made their way back to Matthias’s farm where, by agreement with the elders, they would stay until after the barn-raising, which was scheduled for the coming Saturday. Even with Matthias injured, the barn-raising would go forward. However dour and serious the Amish might seem to outsiders, they are an overwhelmingly optimistic people. Their faith, and the evidence of a thousand years, convinced them that plowing forward despite the obstacles was always the best policy.
But while it is true that they are an optimistic people, they are not particularly inclusive. They have their own culture and rules, and they expect to be left alone to live according to them. So once the barn was raised, the rebel soldiers being housed at Matthias’s house would be expected to leave the Amish Zone—and the elders were not-so-privately hoping that Jedediah would go with them.
Back at Matthias’s small farmhouse, the tiny structure became the temporary home of Jed, Dawn, Billy, Pook, and Ducky—which was all the people the little cottage could comfortably hold. The rest of the rebel squad bedded down in Matthias’s temporary “barn.” He called it a barn because it was where he stored his buggy, wagon, and tack, but for all intents and purposes it was a small shed that was barely weatherproof. Built of old, re-purposed barn wood, the shed had taken four days of lonely labor for Matthias to construct, and the young Amish man had been clear in pointing out that he looked forward to tearing the shed down so that he could reuse the wood yet again.
The shed was no motel, but it was plenty fine according to the standards of the TRACE soldiers. It was certainly better than they could expect most anywhere they’d be billeted outside the Amish Zone. Many times in the past, through their battles and travels, the team had slept in caves, or dens of rocks. They’d often stretched themselves out on the frozen ground of New Pennsylvania for a shivery night of very little sleep. No, for them, Matthias’s shed would do just fine for the week, and they were glad to have it.
Being dead, the Yoders could no longer be relied upon to bring meals, so a committee of the Amish had created a rotating meal-assignment list that would spread the responsibility of feeding the inhabitants of Matthias’s farm until it came time for them all to leave. These arrangements were a matter of course for the Amish, and were never seen as a burden. Jed remembered that his family back in the old world was constantly preparing food to be delivered somewhere, for some charitable reason or another. Among the Amish, a person’s sense of self-worth and personal value was intricately tied to the communal idea of helping others. Independence and individuality were never considered positive things to be sought after. Dependence on one another, and losing oneself in the body of the brethren, were the foundations of the community. To not have that extra work to do would have been quite troubling for the plain people.
Jed gave his little bedroom over to Dawn, and the four other men bedded down on fleeces and blankets in the tiny kitchen. They all slept well after the ordeal of the previous day. Just before bed, Dawn had pressed a small bottle of white pills into Jed’s hand. “Q,” she’d said. “In case you need it.”
On Sunday morning, Jed awoke early and cleaned up his area, stowing his fleece and blanket out of the way so that the kitchen could be used. He wanted to be up early enough to show the soldiers who’d slept out in the barn how to perform many of the daily farm tasks. Since they’d be there for a week, and since Matthias wouldn’t be able to work, the soldiers were expected to pitch in. It was the Amish way.
Jed stepped out into the cool morning air and inhaled deeply. The scents of manured fields and fresh hay, and the pungent aroma of damp grass made him feel almost like he was at home. Almost. There were lingering doubts in him that threw everything just a little off kilter. It isn’t natural for a human to not be grounded in “place” and “time.” To be cast adrift unsettles the soul, and until a new place becomes home, it remains foreign. Jed felt unmoored from the foundations of his life, and even his Amishness wasn’t quite the anchor that it had always been for him.
He wasn’t excited about waking the soldiers in the milking shed at 4:30 a.m. either, but it needed to be done, and the cows certainly wouldn’t milk themselves. They were used to being milked at this hour, which meant that their udders would be full and giving the animals a feeling of urgency. The cows knew when it was almost time to let down their milk, and Jed had seen Zoe so eager to be milked at milking time that her teats were literally leaking the fluid when he’d gone in to start the process.
He pulled open the shed door, expecting to be an irritant to the soldiers, only to be pleasantly surprised by what he saw. Several lanterns were already burning in the small shed, and their yellow-orange light flickered and cast long shadows against the walls. It seems Jed wouldn’t have to wake the men after all. Apparently, Eagles had already—to his own evident joy and amusement—rudely woken the other men, and he was now showing the sleepy team how to milk the cows. The soldiers were all crowded around a stall while the burly wild man tried to explain the process of milking in his broken English.