Emma Miller - Johanna's Bridegroom

Blackie galloped into the yard with Irwin, hatless and white-faced, clinging to his bare back. Chickens squawked and flew in all directions as the teenager yanked the gelding up so hard that the horse began to buck, and Irwin nearly tumbled off.

“What’s wrong?” Johanna cried. Irwin, the teen who Johanna’s mother had adopted, never moved faster than molasses in January. “Ruth’s not—”

“Not Ruth! It’s Roland’s J.J.”

Roland. For an instant, Johanna felt paralyzed. If Roland was in danger, she— No, she told herself, not Roland. J.J., Roland’s little boy. The moment passed and she regained her self-control. “What is it?” she demanded.

Irwin half slid, half jumped to the ground, letting the reins slip through his hands. Blackie made one more leap and blew flecks of foam from his mouth and nose. Neck and tail arched, the spirited horse trotted onto the lawn, where, after a few more antics, he began to snatch up mouthfuls of grass.

“You’ve got to come! Schnell!” Irwin steadied himself and ran toward Johanna. “Bees! A swarm! In Roland’s tree. They’re crawling all over J.J.! Roland says they could sting him to death!”

“Bees?” Johanna asked. “Roland doesn’t keep bees.” If J.J. was in danger, she had to go, but how could she go? After everything that lay between them, knowing how she felt, how could Roland ask it of her? “Are you certain they’re honeybees?”

Irwin nodded. “H...honeybees!”

Johanna grabbed him by his thin shoulders and shook him. “Calm down!” she ordered. “Has J.J. been stung?”

“Ne.” Irwin shook his head. “Roland doesn’t know what to do. He says you have to come. You know bees.”

“All right,” Johanna agreed. J.J.’s little face, the image of his father, flashed through her thoughts, and she swallowed, trying to keep her voice from showing what she really felt. “You run to our farm,” she instructed Irwin calmly. “Get my smoker and my bee suit and an empty nuc box and bring them to Roland’s.”

He knitted his eyebrows. “What kind of box?”

“A used hive body. A deep one. And don’t forget my lemongrass oil. It’s on the shelf beside my gloves. Bring them to Roland’s.” She took a deep breath and pressed her hands to her sides to keep anyone from seeing them tremble. “Can you remember all that?”

He nodded.

“Good. Now run, as quickly as you can!”

Anna and Rebecca had followed her into the yard. “What’s happened?” Rebecca asked.

“Irwin says that there’s a swarm of bees at Roland’s.”

“In the tree! By the pond. And...and J.J.’s up in the tree with them,” Irwin said. For all his fourteen years, he looked as though he was about to burst into tears. Red patches stood out on his blotchy complexion, and his hay-thatch hair stuck up in tufts. Somewhere, he’d lost his hat, and one suspender sagged.

“Go now,” Johanna told Irwin. “And don’t stop for anything!”

Irwin took off.

“I’ve got to go see what I can do,” Johanna said to Rebecca and Anna, taking care not to show how flustered she really was. She’d been an apiarist long enough to know that it was important to remain calm with bees. They seemed to be able to sense a person’s mood and the best way to calm a hive—or a swarm—was to stay calm herself. As if that’s possible, the warning voice in her head whispered, when you have to go to Roland’s house and pretend you’re only friends.

“Take one of our buggies,” Anna offered. “We’ll help you hitch—”

“Ne.” Johanna glanced from her sisters to where the horse grazed on the lawn. “There’s no time. I’ll ride Blackie.”

“Bareback?” Anna’s eyes widened. “Are you sure? Blackie’s—”

“Headstrong. Skittish. I know.” Johanna grimaced. “It isn’t as if we didn’t get thrown off worse when we were kids.” How could she tell Anna that she was afraid? Not of Blackie or of being thrown, but of Roland...of the past she’d thought she’d put behind her years ago?

“You’re going to ride astride, like a man?” Rebecca shook her head. “It’s against the Ordnung. Not fitting for women. Bishop Atlee will—”

“J.J.’s life might be in danger. The bishop will understand that this is an emergency,” Johanna answered with more confidence than she felt. Her heart raced as she bent and ripped up a handful of grass and walked slowly toward Blackie. The animal rolled his eyes and backed up a few steps, ears pricked and muscles tensed.

“Easy,” Johanna soothed. “Good boy. Just a little closer.” She inched forward and grabbed a trailing rein. “Give me a boost up,” she said to her sisters.

Rebecca shook her head. “You’re going to be in sooo much trouble.”

Ignoring Rebecca, Anna moved to Blackie’s side and cupped her hands. Johanna thrust a bare foot into the makeshift stirrup and swung up onto the horse’s back.

“Was is?” Grossmama shouted. “Baremlich!”

But Johanna had already pulled Blackie’s head around, grabbed a handful of mane and dug her heels into the animal’s sides. Blackie broke into a trot, and they galloped away.

* * *

Roland Byler’s stomach did a flip-flop as he stood by the pond and stared up at his only child. J.J. had climbed into the branches of a Granny Smith apple tree and sat with his back against the trunk and his legs swinging down on either side of a branch. He was at least eight feet off the ground, but the distance ordinarily wouldn’t have worried Roland too much. Although J.J. was only four, he was strong and agile, and climbed like a squirrel. He’d been scrambling up ladders and into trees almost since he’d learned to walk. What terrified Roland today was that his son was surrounded by thousands of honeybees.

“Please, God, protect him,” Roland murmured under his breath. And louder, to J.J., he called, “Sit still, don’t move. Don’t do anything to startle them.”

J.J. giggled. “Don’t be scared, Dat. They won’t hurt me. They like me.” Bees surrounded him, walking on his bare feet, his arms and fingers. They buzzed around his head and face and crawled in his hair. And only inches from J.J.’s head, a wriggling cluster of the winged insects, thicker than the boy’s body, swayed on a slender branch.

“Don’t make any noise,” Roland warned as J.J. began to hum the tune to an old hymn. Roland’s heart thudded against his ribs, his skin was clammy-cold and his chest felt so tight that it was hard to breathe. “Do as I say!” he ordered.

When Roland was ten, he’d had a cousin in the Kishacoquillas Valley who’d attempted to rob a honey tree and had been stung to death. Roland shuddered, trying to shut out the memory of the dead boy’s swollen and disfigured face as he lay in his coffin.

He couldn’t dwell on his poor cousin or his grieving family. The bishop who’d delivered the sermon at his funeral had assured them that the boy was safe with God. Roland knew that was what the Bible taught. This world wasn’t important. It was only a preparation for the next, but Roland’s faith wasn’t always as strong as he would like. His cousin’s parents had had six living children remaining when they lost their son. J.J. was all he had. Roland had survived the death of his wife, Pauline, and the unborn babies she’d been carrying, but if he lost this precious son, his own life would be over.

“They tickle.” J.J. giggled again. “Climb up, Dat, and see how nice they are.”

“Hush. I told you not to move.” All sorts of wild ideas surfaced in Roland’s head. Maybe he could cut down the tree and J.J. could jump free. Or he could tell J.J. to jump into his arms. He’d leap into the pond—washing the bees off them both before they could sting them. But Roland knew that was foolishness. Neither of them could move fast enough. The bees were already crawling all over J.J.