Blood of the Prodigal. P. L. Gaus

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      Branden looked over at the bishop and watched him snap his whip to bring the horse to a brisk pace. The look on his face made it plain that he did not intend to linger in the memories of bygone years. Having said what needed to be said so that Branden would understand, he now evidently considered the matter closed.

      “My son will not be lost forever,” he declared. “Only God can understand the reasons for the ban. And only God can restore my son to us. His sinfulness endangered us all. Now it endangers my grandson, too.

      “It is our son, Professor, who has the boy. Jonah, who has been lost to us all these years, has our grandson.”

      Reaching beneath his vest, he drew out a carefully folded note and handed it over without comment. Branden opened it, read it, refolded it, and handed it back to the bishop. The bishop gestured for him to keep it.

      “My son intends to keep Jeremiah for the summer, but he does not know the danger,” Miller said. “He never really did. The danger of the world. Less than a month remains now, and my son does not know as much as he thinks he does.”

      “Why would your son take one of your grandsons?” Branden asked.

      “Because he is the boy’s father.”

      Branden’s eyebrows lifted with surprise.

      “After the ban, my son lived in town with a wretched woman he had met in the bars. At least he lived with her when he wasn’t in jail.

      “Then, apparently, he left town altogether. At least we have heard nothing of him since then, up until he left this note. After he had been gone several months, Jeremiah’s mother gave birth, and we have pretty much raised the boy since he was a few months old.”

      “And the boy’s mother?”

      “Dead,” the bishop said curtly.

      Branden waited for an explanation. When it became clear that no further details would be forthcoming, he tried another tack.

      “You put the ban on Jonah when he was eighteen?” Branden asked.

      “Thereabouts,” Miller said.

      “And he ran with a wild crowd living in town?”

      “And in jail.”

      “Then, for all you know, he just moved out and went away. Nothing from him in those years?”

      “Nothing until about a month ago, when he put that note in our mailbox and took Jeremiah away.”

      “Then you want us to help you find Jonah?”

      “Not so much my son. It is Jeremiah we seek. But with restrictions, Professor.”

      Urgently, then, as they finished their drive back to the pond, the bishop explained his restrictions. The terms under which they could accept his help. The extraordinary fact that they had decided to ask any Englisher for help at all.

      When they returned to the pond, the bishop nodded approval to Cal Troyer, shook Branden’s hand warmly, whipped his horse back up the lane, and headed the buggy home.

      HIS TRIP had been successful, the bishop mused. The professor and the pastor would help. And the professor had given his word. He would abide by the deacons’ restrictions.

      There would surely be great risk for the district, not to mention for the boy. But the deacons had agreed. The bishop consoled himself again with an urgent prayer. This was the only way. Sad, he thought, what assurances a bishop needs in these perverse times. In this perverse world.

      Once, life had seemed flawlessly simple. As it was written, so it had always been. Their lives need never change. But now, there was the ever-clamoring pressure from the outsiders. First it had been the land. Always scarcer, and repeatedly divided among the boys. Few parcels worth farming still remained. Those that came up for auction these days were priced well beyond his means. He had seen 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,” СКАЧАТЬ