Blood of the Prodigal. P. L. Gaus
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that pressure coming for years. What he had not seen coming was the pressure from the tourists. Gawking city English, with their billfolds full of money.
But the land had been the start of it. The pressing need for money to buy new land. And the boys who worked in the sawmills and the wheel shops had become, inexorably, ever more accustomed to the world. No less the girls who worked in the restaurants. And in the quilt shops. Worldly enticements at every turn. That was where the liberals had gone astray. Today had confirmed it for him as nothing else could have. What greater proof might a bishop need than a single trip into town?
The bishop could see, with perfect clarity, what threatened his people. Rumbling over the back roads, he prayed for insight and for strength. There would surely be many tests to come. He asked for resolve, steadfastness, and simplicity. His fingers tightened on the reins. He prayed for protection from the world. As his thoughts turned to the families of his district, an answer was given to his prayers, and a sense of peaceful belonging returned to him.
There had been no serious infractions, lately. At least none that had been brought to his attention. One girl was suspected to have worn a dress with fewer than the proper number of pleats. When warned, she had submitted. A good sign. On the northern edge of the district, a lad had been found letting his hair grow past the earlobes. Again, easily corrected. Radios with batteries were a challenge, but they could get through that, he figured. In truth, there had been no serious challenges of authority or custom since his son’s. And his ban had assuredly taken care of that.
His authority as bishop was rarely challenged, now. Why couldn’t the other bishops understand? Of course he had a reputation for severity. But didn’t they know that the real issues were never the color of clothes or the number of pleats in a skirt? Not the length of hair, or the style of a summer hat. The real issue was, and always had been, authority. The willing, dutiful submission of a serene people. Righteousness thereby preserved. The profane world held at bay.
The strength of the people was not available merely to individuals. It rested only upon the whole, the Gemei, through hard work, plain living, and obedience. Submission to one another by denial of the individual self. Through sacrifice and, above all, lack of pride. And hadn’t he kept the Gemei pure through a tireless vigil of leadership? His people understood, better than any, that to be different was to be proud. To be profane.
There, precisely, was the root of evil, he thought. It was pride that caused nonconformers to assert themselves. Pride, the greatest of all sins. Such, he recalled heavily, had been the downfall of Jonah. He thought again of little Jeremiah, gone a month now.
He knew Pastor Caleb Troyer. A good man. If he would only forsake the world and become a farmer, then surely a righteous man. And the professor, Michael Branden. Serious. Not worldly. Not profane. Certainly not kutslich. And yet, still one of the vain ones. One of the proud. One of the English de Hoche.
Miller wondered again how much these two English should be trusted. Certainly more than the police, that was clear. But not yet entrusted with everything. Not yet trusted to the uttermost. Perhaps only trusted completely if the next month came to naught. May God forbid that so grim a need should ever arise.
5
Thursday, June 18
4:30 P.M.
“I TOLD Cal you’d take the case, Michael,” Caroline said as she gathered up the scattered pages of her manuscript, smiling outwardly at her husband and inwardly at her gentle mischief.
Branden carried two more mugs onto the spacious back porch and poured coffee for himself and Cal. “It’s wiser to be a historian than a prophet, Caroline,” he scolded.
Caroline turned to Cal, taunting. “The Professor doesn’t like to be thought so predictable.”
Cal held out his palms in mock surrender, laughed, and sidestepped the jab by pointing to Caroline’s loose stack of papers. “Another book?”
“It’s a revision of a collection of children’s stories I edited a few years ago,” Caroline said. She stacked the pages on edge, laid the manuscript on the glass-topped patio table where she had been working, and joined them in white wicker chairs by the porch windows. The day had begun brightly, but now a front was coming in from the north. A cool afternoon breeze blew through the tall screens of the porch.
The porch was more than spacious, running the entire length of the two-story brick colonial, extravagantly wide and screened on three sides, with windows stretching from floor to ceiling. Because of a gentle slope to the Brandens’ long back yard, the porch seemed to hover over the lawn, so that the Brandens and their guests enjoyed a spectacular view of the eastern hills and Amish valleys. In summers, the porch had come to be Caroline’s favorite place to work, and often, Branden would find her standing there, watching the hawks ride thermals, or gazing at the patchwork of Amish farms and fields in the distance.
Caroline sat in an old-fashioned, low and wide wicker chair, her legs crossed casually. She peered at Branden and Troyer over a fresh mug of coffee. “You did take the case,” she said.
“Wasn’t up to me,” Branden said. “The bishop made the decision. I just showed up for the interview.”
“How’d that go?” Cal asked.
“Slowly, as you predicted,” Branden said. “We toured Holmes County for over an hour before he asked anything about me.”
“Typical,” Cal said.
“Mostly we talked about the people and the farms we passed. In remote regions of the Doughty Valley. He showed me each of the family farms under his leadership. Named all of the children, parents, grandparents, land holdings, livestock, relatives, and relationships. Even courtships. Essentially, he introduced himself to me by detailing all of the district over which he serves as bishop. Eventually, he wanted to know about me. And Caroline. And whether we had any children.”
Cal glanced at Caroline and saw the memory of her losses pass heavily across her eyes. Troyer and Branden exchanged glances, wondering how she would handle a case involving a child.
Eventually Caroline asked, “Does he have a lot of children?”
“Fourteen. Thirteen living,” Branden answered gently, grateful to see her strength. He wondered again, briefly, how he’d mention the Federal Express envelope to her. Wondered how she would handle the prospect of moving to the new university professorship he had been offered.
He took a moment, turning his coffee mug in his fingers, sipping from it thoughtfully, and then said, “Actually that’s the whole point of this case. His children, that is. One of his sons, Jonah Miller, is dead to them, but still alive.”
He glanced from Cal to Caroline, giving them a chance to think it through.
“He left home?” Cal asked.
“Shunned,” Branden answered, pointedly.
“His own son?” Caroline said. “That’s hard to believe.”
“He’s the bishop,” Branden answered. “If anyone in that district were to have been mited, the bishop would have done it himself.”
“I would have hoped the mite was a thing of the past,” Caroline said.
“He wouldn’t have had any choice,” Branden said. “He’s the bishop.”
“Many of them would not so much as have spoken his name,” Cal added.
“Then there’s more to this case than the custody of a boy,” Branden said. Cal and Caroline waited for an explanation. “Bishop Miller did actually speak his son’s name, once. At the end of our interview, Cal. He said something like, ‘It’s my son, Professor, who has the boy. Jonah E. Miller. He’s been lost to us for nearly ten years.’ Then he handed me this note.”
Branden gave the note first to Cal. When Cal had read it, he passed it, disquieted, to Caroline. She read it out loud.
Dear Father.