Patricia Davids - An Amish Christmas

Not wishing to have a repeat of the mad dash, Karen said, “Jacob, take the lines.”

He scrambled over the seat back to sit beside her. After handing him the driving reins Karen stepped down from the buggy. Her sturdy black shoes sank into the ground still soft from last night’s rain.

The morning sun, barely over the horizon, had started to burn away the fog lingering in the low-lying farm fields. Where the sunlight touched the high wooded hillsides it turned the autumn foliage to burnished gold and scarlet flame. A breeze tugged at the ribbons of Karen’s kapp and brought with it the smell of damp grasses and fallen leaves.

Walking briskly back toward their farmhouse, she scanned the shallow ditch beside the road without seeing anything unusual. Turning around in the road, she looked at the children and raised her arms. “I don’t see anything.”

“Farther back,” Anna yelled.

Dropping her hands, Karen shook her head, but started walking. Anna had been leaning out her side of the carriage. She would have had a good view of the ditch. Karen had been paying attention to the problems facing her family and not to the road. A mistake she would not make again.

A few yards farther along the lane she caught a glimpse of something white in the weeds. At first she thought she’d been right and it was a bundle of cloth or a stray plastic bag caught in the brush. Then the breeze brought her a new smell—the sickly metallic odor of blood. A low moan made her jump like a startled rabbit.

Taking a few hesitant steps closer, she saw a man sprawled on his back, his body almost completely hidden in the grass and wild sumac. His face looked deathly pale beneath close-cropped black hair. Blood had oozed from an ugly gash on the side of his head.

In an instant, Karen was transported back to that terrible day when she had stood beside the remains of the smashed buggy where her mother and sisters lay dead and her brother lay dying.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Pressing her hands to her face, she whispered, “Not again, Lord, do not ask this of me.”

“Did you find something?” Noah yelled.

Jerked back to the present, Karen shouted, “Stay there!”

She approached the downed man with caution. He was an Englischer by the look of his clothes. The muddy white shirt he wore stretched tightly across his chest and broad shoulders while his worn jeans hugged a lean waist and muscular thighs. Oddly, both his shoes were missing.

He moaned, and she moved to kneel at his side. “Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”

“It is a dead man!” Noah stood on the roadway looking down with wide eyes.

She scowled at her brother. “He is not dead. I told you to wait in the buggy.”

“Are you sure he isn’t dead?” The boy’s voice brimmed with excitement.

Laying a hand on the man’s cheek, Karen became alarmed by how cold his skin was. He might not be dead, but he wasn’t far from it. “Run to the phone shack and call for help. Do you know how to do that?”

Noah nodded. “Ja, I dial 9-1-1.”

“Goot. Hurry.”

She watched her brother climb over the fence and head across the muddy field of corn stubble. Their Amish church forbade telephones in the homes of the members, but did allow a community telephone. It was located at a midway point between their home and two neighboring Amish farms.

Jacob brought the buggy up. When Molly drew alongside the ditch, she snorted and sidled away. Apparently, she didn’t care for the smell of blood. That must have been what frightened her in the first place. Jacob held her in check.

Karen looked up at him, “Go get Papa.”

“We can’t leave you,” Anna protested.

Jacob drew himself up bravely. “I should stay.”

Shaking her head, Karen said, “I’ll be fine. Just go. And bring some quilts. This poor man is freezing.”

Jacob slapped the reins sharply and sent Molly racing up the lane toward the farmhouse. Settling herself beside the injured man, Karen took one of his hands and began to rub it between her own. How had he come to be here?

He groaned and moved restlessly. She squeezed his hand. “You will be okay, sir. My family has gone to get help.”

He responded by turning his face toward her. His eyes fluttered open. They were as gray as rain clouds. Encouraged, Karen continued talking to him and rubbing his hand. “My name is Karen Imhoff and this is our farm. Can you tell me who you are?”

He mumbled something. Leaning forward, she positioned her ear near his mouth. His faint, shaky whisper sounded like, “Cold.”

She quickly unbuttoned her coat. Pulling it off, she tucked it around him. Raising his shoulders slightly, she scooted beneath him so his head rested on her lap and not the chilly ground. It wouldn’t help much. His clothes were wet from the rain as was the cold ground he was lying on. Using the corner of her apron, she folded it into a pad and pressed it against the wound on his head.

He moaned again, opened his eyes and focused on her face. “Help me.”

His voice was barely audible but the words he whispered were the same words, the last words, her brother Seth had uttered. She cupped the Englischer’s face, trying to infuse him with her own strength. “Help is coming. Be strong.”

Please, God, do not make me watch him die as I did Seth. Save this man if it is Your will.

With her free hand she stroked his face, offering him what comfort she could. The stubble on his cheeks rasped against her fingertips, sending an unexpected shiver zipping along her nerve endings.

His sharply chiseled features were deeply tanned, but his underlying pallor gave his skin a sickly color. His hair lay dark and thick where it wasn’t matted with blood. Dark brows arched finely over his pain-filled eyes.

Raising an unsteady hand to touch her face, he fixed her with a desperate gaze and whispered, “Don’t leave me.”

Grasping his cold fingers, she pressed them against her cheek. He might die, but he would not die alone. “I won’t leave you. I promise.”

“You’re…so beautiful.” His voice faded. His arm went limp and dropped from her grasp.

Karen tensed. His life couldn’t slip away now, not when help was so close. She shook him and spoke firmly. “Listen to me. Help is coming. You must hang on.”

“Hang on…to you,” he mumbled.

Tears sprang to her eyes. “Stay with me. Let God be your strength. Hold fast to Him.”

After several slow breaths, he said, “Yea, though I walk…through…the—”

She took up the rest of the Twenty-third Psalm for him. “Through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.”

She glanced toward the farm. Where was her father? What was taking so long? Desperately, she prayed help would come in time for the man she held.

Clearing her throat of its tear-choked tightness, she finished the psalm with a voice that shook. “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever.”

Please let Your words bring him comfort, Lord.

It seemed like hours, but finally the buggy came rattling to a stop beside her once more. Her father climbed out gingerly. His left arm rested in a sling with a cast to his shoulder.

He was dressed in dark trousers and a dark coat. His plain clothes, long beard and black felt hat proclaimed him a member of the Amish church. His calm demeanor bolstered Karen’s lagging spirits.

“What is this, daughter? Anna is wailing about a dead man.” Eli Imhoff pulled a bundle of blankets from the seat. Jacob remained in the buggy, controlling the restless horse.