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  “Do I hear a motion to adjourn?” the superintendent finally said.

  “So moved,” said one of the board members.

  Instantly, Gideon was on his feet. “I believe you have overlooked new business.”

  Ulysses Brownley blinked at Gideon. “The hour is late. Perhaps at our next meeting.”

  “With all due respect,” Gideon said, “we requested in advance to be heard at tonight’s meeting, and we have patiently waited for you to consider your weighty matters, although all of us will have to be up before dawn to tend our animals.”

  Brownley cleared his throat. “Very well. We will now consider new business, but only briefly. What is the matter you wish to put before the board?”

  “We wish to present our reasons for requesting an exception on religious grounds to the new educational regulations.”

  “We do not make the state laws, Mr. Wittmer,” Brownley said. “We are only charged with enforcing them at the local level, in one small school district.”

  “Nevertheless, I wish to make our case,” Gideon said, “in the hope that we might continue to work together for suitable education of our children as we always have.”

  Good for you, Gideon. James turned up one corner of his mouth.

  Gideon stepped out of the row of men and centered himself before the members of the board arranged across the front of the room.

  “True education,” he said, “cultivates humility, simple living, and submission to the will of God. We train for life both in this world and in the next. We do not see school and life as separate spheres. The highest form of religious life is our community life, and we guard carefully against any threat to our community.”

  Brownley leaned back in a wide black leather chair and pulled out his pocket watch.

  Gideon was undeterred.

  “So long as schools were small and near our farms, we have gladly worked with teachers the district so generously provided to find a meeting of the minds. In this way, we have considered both what was needful for our children’s participation in our life together and what the state offered for their good.”

  “Mr. Wittmer,” Brownley said, “perhaps you can get to the point.”

  “I have four points,” Gideon said, calmly ignoring the scowl on Brownley’s face. “First, we believe that it is in our children’s best interest to attend school close to our homes, where they can easily help with the farmwork that is foundational to our way of life.

  “Second, we would like our children to receive instruction from teachers committed to and respectful of our values. This will require special qualifications that may not coincide with those the state would measure.

  “Third, our children need only basic skills in reading, writing, and arithmetic. All other training should be conducive to our religious life. These goals do not require that our children remain in school after the eighth grade.

  “And last, our children need to be trained for our way of life, not the English way of life. Our hope is not that they achieve earthly success, but that they are prepared for eternity.”

  James wanted to stand up and clap. Gideon’s late nights formulating his thoughts had yielded a polished presentation in which he did not look down at his notes even once.

  “Since the form of education is an expression of our religious life,” Gideon continued, “we respectfully request that the board relent and allow our children to attend school close to home and in a manner that allows for parents to consult freely with the teacher for pupils up through eighth grade. After that, our children will withdraw from school.”

  James watched the superintendent’s face as he made a show of consulting his pocket watch once again.

  “We will take it under advisement,” Brownley said, “with the reminder once again that our duty is to execute state law, not formulate it. Now, I will once again entertain a motion to adjourn.”

  Gideon allowed himself a sigh of relief.

  He could have said far more, but Ulysses Brownley had heard enough for one evening. The seed was planted. By God’s grace, it would grow.

  Aaron King clapped him on the back. Joshua Glick shook his hand. Grinning, John Hershberger dipped his head toward Gideon. Jed Hilty gave a satisfied nod. Cristof Byler looked red in the face from holding himself back, but he had held to the agreement that only Gideon would speak for the group. Even Isaiah Borntrager was pleasantly composed. Amid the unspoken congratulations, it was James’s eyes Gideon sought, and his reward was a smile that said James could not be more pleased.

  At the front of the room, board members whispered in huddles before dispersing. Spectators trickled out of the meeting room.

  “I’ll get the buggy,” James said.

  “I’ll be out in a few minutes,” Gideon said. His mind needed two minutes of quiet before the spirited ride home. The men would return together to Gideon’s home, where they had left their rigs.

  No doubt the conversation would be animated. Isaiah and Cristof and John would unfurl all the words they guarded during the school board meeting.

  Gideon slipped down the corridor and turned into a side hall where he hoped to lean against the cool brick wall and catch his breath.

  His refuge dissipated before he could close his eyes and utter a prayer of thanks. Heavy footfalls made him stand up straight.

  “Mr. Wittmer.” It was Brownley.

  “Yes?” Gideon moistened his lips.

  “The laws exist for a reason,” Brownley said, his words a snarl.

  “We are peaceful, law-abiding people,” Gideon said. “But we take our faith seriously.”

  “Education and religion do not mix.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  “I’m warning you,” Brownley said. “If you and your ragamuffin friends persist in this dissent, you must do things properly. Go through channels.”

  “I believe that is what we were doing tonight,” Gideon said. His neck suddenly ached. “Is not the school board the right authority to meet with on the question of education? If we should go elsewhere with our concerns, we welcome your counsel.”

  “Don’t placate me,” Brownley said. “I can manage my own school district. You’d be wasting your time pressing the question. The law is clear. I will provide you a printed copy in its entirety upon request.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Gideon said.

  “I notice that your son is on our truancy list.” Brownley shook a finger. “Send that boy to school starting tomorrow and I will instruct the teachers to go the extra mile to help him catch up. The same offer stands for your friends who are breaking the law.”

  Gideon pressed his lips together and said nothing.

  “I will be monitoring the attendance reports personally. If these children do not turn up in school soon, you will face the full consequences under the law.”

  Gideon exhaled softly. “Perhaps we should arrange a meeting to discuss our concerns when the hour is not so late.”

  “Discussions will not change the law, Mr. Wittmer. Put your children in school.”

  “He’s gone again,” Jed muttered as he walked past Rachel, who rummaged through the vegetable garden looking for autumn squashes. Pulling overgrown bean plants from the fence two rows down, Ella stiffened at the irritation in his voice.

  “Where?” Rachel said.

  “He doesn’t leave me notes,” Jed snapped. “I asked him to throw down some hay in the barn, and he left the job half done. I haven’t seen him in hours.”

  “It’s never been like David to act like this,” Rachel said. “I don’t know where he could be going.”

  Ellie busied her eyes searching for dry beanstalks to pull, but she could do little to divert her ears.

  “I can’t watch him every minute of the day,” Jed said. “Nor should I have to. He’s fifteen and capable of doing a man’s work.”

  “Perhaps you should talk to him again.”

  “And say what? I’ve said it all before. Would he have defied his father this way?�
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  Ella held her breath. Rachel gave no answer.

  “I have to see to the hay myself. The animals shouldn’t suffer because of David’s willfullness.” Jed grunted and tramped out of the garden.

  Ella yanked another bare stalk and tossed it in the pile. Either Rachel refused to see the obvious or she was more naive than Ella thought. It could not be coincidence that David’s odd behavior began the same week school resumed session. He was not gone every day, nor all day, but his absences roughly coincided with the same hours Seth was legitimately off the farm to attend school. How David was getting to Seabury and back, Ella didn’t know. But she did not have be an English professor to know where he was spending his lapsed hours.

  Looking over the waning vegetation, Ella gave her stepmother a flimsy smile, grateful in the moment that it was not her place to advise what Rachel should do with her recalcitrant son.

  “I told Joanna Hershberger I’d bring some cotton cloth she could use for the baby,” Rachel said. “I don’t think I’m up to taking it. Will you go?”

  “Of course. I’m almost finished here.”

  Ella waited for Rachel, sniffling, to finish collecting squash and haul the basket toward the house before raking through the soil at the base of the spent bean plants and returning the rake to the tool shed. She went to the well to pump water over her hands, her mind muddled over whether the Hershbergers had made the right choice to keep their children home.

  News of Isaiah Borntrager’s impulsiveness had spread through the farms in the last ten days. Jed had driven over to the abandoned school to see for himself the further damage Isaiah’s shenanigans had caused. On James’s behalf, Gideon had taken a horse and ridden out to speak privately with Isaiah before mounting freshly painted signs on the old school warning off additional disturbance. If the school district did not do something soon, Gideon told Ella, he would gather a crew to safely dismantle the structure before anyone else got hurt. Gideon’s report of the school board meeting two days ago—and Mr. Brownley’s hostility afterward—did not suggest the board members were concerned with the decrepit building.

  Ella fetched the cotton from the house and hitched up the open buggy. She would use it for as many days as the weather remained fine. Winter would come soon enough and necessitate enclosed transportation.

  The Hershberger infant seemed no closer to a routine than the last time Ella visited, and Ella saw no books or papers to indicate schooling was under way for the older children. In fact, the baby screamed over much of the brief conversation Ella had with the tiny girl’s exhausted mother, who gave one distracted instruction after another to her eldest daughter about the care of the younger ones. Ella’s presence only added to the chaos, and she did not stay long.

  When Ella went past the school on her way home, she paused to gaze on the broken shell, still stunned to see what had become of the school she had loved. Most of the teachers came straight from the teachers college and only stayed two or three years before marrying or moving to a more progressive school. As a pupil, Ella was always curious about each new teacher who arrived with untarnished energy and dedication. Only one of them ever expressed exasperation with Ella’s barrage of questions about what they read or her perseverance to complete the work of a higher grade level.

  Tobias and Savilla had experienced this school, where teachers found ways to feed the minds of the Amish pupils without crossing their parents. Gertie’s impressions of school were in the hands of Margaret Simpson, who was a kind individual but who believed in progressive education. The old school stirred warm memories. The new school reminded Ella more of a sleeping, unpredictable monster.

  A black-capped chickadee settled on a haphazard pile of crumbling roofing, its orange-hued sides shimmering in the September sun as it dipped its head and pecked, searching for edible tidbits. Ella wondered if David had seen this bird.

  Ella sighed. David. This is not the way.

  CHAPTER 14

  The wagon coming toward Ella could only be Aaron King’s.

  His hitch had been unbalanced for years, causing the team to pull slightly to the right. Aaron insisted it was hardly any trouble to compensate with the reins and saw no reason to repair or replace the hitch. Trying not to laugh at the spectacle, Ella gave him wide berth in the road and returned his wave.

  Aaron carried a full load of lumber, some of it hanging precariously off the open back end of his wagon. Ella scrunched her face.

  Aaron’s barn was fairly new, raised at a frolic only three years ago. The last time the church met at his home, Ella hadn’t noticed it was in need of repairs—certainly not enough to explain the size of the load in his wagon. Besides, he was headed east, not south toward his farm. Curious, Ella turned her cart around in the road and urged her single horse into a canter to keep Aaron in view. With each turn he took, Ella became more persuaded of his destination.

  The Mast farm.

  Ella followed Aaron to the west end of the Mast farm, to a pasture Chester had left fallow the last two years. Her eyes widened at the view.

  Two buggies, three wagons, and a total of nine men and older boys. They descended on Aaron’s wagon to unload. Chester had been the boss at the last two barn raisings. Now he glanced at each piece of lumber and pointed to where it should be laid.

  Ella glanced across the Mast acres. The crew was a long way from the house or barn, and the shape taking place before her eyes was too large for an ordinary outbuilding.

  A gasp caught her by surprise. Chester strode toward her.

  “Keep your eyes in your head,” he said.

  Slowly, she rotated her head to look him in the eye. “You’re putting up a school.” The layout was identical to the collapsed building.

  “We won’t get it up today,” Chester said. “We need a lot more lumber, and some glass for the windows, and a woodstove. But yes, a school.”

  “But …” Ella did not know how to finish her sentence. She swallowed. Did Gideon know about this?

  “Gideon did a fine job speaking to the school board,” Chester said, as if reading her thoughts, “but I know a stubborn face when I see one. That Mr. Brownley has no intention of altering an iota of his plan.”

  “Surely he will not sit idle and let you build a school.”

  “I don’t require his permission. It’s my land. I’ll build whatever I want on it. The building won’t belong to the English. It will belong to us, and we’ll use it as we see fit.”

  Ella’s heart boomed. “You’re very bold.”

  Chester swung his arm wide at the other fathers and sons. “We are bold together—bold in obedience.”

  The men’s movements were fluid, cooperative, effective. Aaron’s load had not been the first to arrive. Already four trestles were laid out, ready to answer the call to hold up a roof.

  “It’s a fine place for a school, wouldn’t you say?” Chester beamed. “A quiet corner with a view of God’s goodness, but close enough to the road that it will not be difficult for our families to reach.”

  Ella nodded. Chester had chosen well. Pupils could come out of school and look toward an expansive sky with a band of deciduous trees fluttering against the horizon. Mast wheat would rise in golden rolls before their eyes to the east, and Borntrager cattle would dot the verdant pasture to the west. Amish children would know that the land was God’s generous gift and learn their role in caring for it.

  “It will be lovely,” she said. “Truly. But Mr. Brownley will still consider our children truants. We won’t be authorized to hold classes.”

  “We do not need the state’s approval to educate our children. We are perfectly capable.”

  “But we don’t even have a qualified teacher.”

  “We’ll find one. And when we do, we’ll be ready.”

  James Lehman entered the Seabury Consolidated Grade School without fanfare. No bell. No knocker. He pushed open the oversized door and went in. The interior of the school resembled many English buildings constructed in the last de
cade or so and matched what James expected.

  Standing in the main corridor, he sought his bearings. Tasteful signs in modern script announced the purposes of the rooms or gave cryptic instructions. ART. MUSIC. LADIES. GENTLEMEN. PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE THIS WAY. CLASSROOMS ABOVE. PLEASE USE STAIRS AT REAR.

  James was not there to speak to the principal, and he was not curious about English art or music lessons, which would have no relevance for the Amish children. He wanted to see Gertie in the setting that seemed to make her happy, look in on Savilla because she seemed less happy, and take Gideon a report.

  He passed the office—where he saw no one in attendance anyway—and followed instructions to use the broad rear stairs. On the second floor, another set of scripted signs gave pertinent information. It was not hard to find the one that said, GRADE 1, MISS SIMPSON. James turned the knob, and the door opened easily.

  Chalkboards, desks, books, a globe, cheery letters and pictures of animals attached to the walls. It looked like any classroom ought to, but was brightened by a bank of electric lights.

  The woman at the front of the room paused with her chalk in midair. “Can I help you?”

  “Miss Simpson?” James said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Then I’m in the right place.” He stepped into the room.

  “Sir—”

  Gertie squealed, slid out of her seat, and hurtled toward him. “This is my onkel James.”

  James warmed with the enthusiasm of the introduction and received Gertie’s hug, lifting her the way he would have after school in the dawdihaus.

  “Is Gertie needed at home?” Miss Simpson set down her chalk.

  “All is well at home,” James said. “I only wanted to see for myself.”

  “Class is in session,” Miss Simpson said. “If you’d like to come back after school, I will be happy to answer any questions you have.”

  James surveyed the rows of desks and the pairs of eyes of their occupants. On one side of the room, a little boy squirmed. At the back, two little girls leaned their heads together and snickered.