Something pale moved across the meadow, like a sheet blown by the wind. I squinted at it, shading my hand from the last of the sunset.
It was a horse, riderless, pale as moonlight. I could make out some tack and gear on it. It was not an animal I recognized.
I stuffed my fingers in my mouth and whistled. The shrill sound made my ears ache, but it caught the horse’s attention. It slowed, allowed me to approach it within yards. I saw that his sides were heaving, that he was lathered from running, that the white of his eye showed when it rolled back to me.
“Shhh,” I said. I approached him from the front, showing that I was no threat. “Where did you come from?” I whispered.
The horse blew and pawed, agitated. He finally allowed me to reach out and grasp his bridle, rub his nose. I said soothing nonsense words to him. A stab of fear ran through me . . . If this was an English horse, I could not keep him. The horse, unconscious of the rules, had violated the Bishop’s order.
But I set that aside for now. I could do him the kindness of leading him to water and strip him of his gear, so that he could be free and not encumbered by saddle sores.
I murmured to him in low tones, and he allowed me to remove the bridle. I let it fall in the grass, hoping that it would not be discovered. I think that he understood that I was trying to help him.
Then he turned his side to me, to show me the saddle buckle.
And I gasped.
The saddle was stained with blood, a rusty blotch that spread over the horse’s left side. In the foothold, a torn boot dangled.
I stood still, shaking. The horse glanced back at me with a pleading eye.
I sucked in my breath, timidly unbuckled the strap at his belly while trying to keep the boot from bumping my shoulder. I think that there was still something in it: flies swarmed around it, and I could see a bit of bone peeking out of the top of the boot.
I shoved the saddle away, to the ground.
The horse whinnied, shook himself. I saw that the saddle had left angry red marks along his belly, saw that he was relieved to be free of that horror.
“You have to leave from here,” I said. “Go away.”
The horse stared at me, unyielding. His tail switched.
I made shooing gestures with my hands.
“They will kill you if you stay,” I pleaded.
He snorted and walked away slowly, toward a distant tree line where a creek flowed. My heart broke to watch him go.
But it ached even more for that boot left behind in the saddle.
Chapter Eight
The next morning I rode my bicycle down the dirt road to the gate that separated our community from Outside. It was an old green girl’s bike with a white plastic basket with flowers on the front and on the banana seat. I’d purchased it from an English garage sale for ten dollars when I was twelve. It was on the edge of what was allowed by Ordnung—bicycles were permitted, and the rules on rubber tires had been relaxed when I was a child. The bike wobbled on the ruts made by the metal wheels of the buggies. Determinedly, I rode slowly to the wooden gate. The gate closed the road, connecting a wood and barbed-wire fence on either side that stretched as far as the eye could see.
A meandering cabbage butterfly drifted through it. The fence was a flimsy thing. An able-bodied person would easily be able to climb over it. It was symbolic, every bit as much an illusion of security as the Hexenmeister’s carefully crafted hex signs. I didn’t understand how remaining behind a couple of two-by-fours was meant to save us from the end of the world.
I pulled up short before the gate. It had been bolted with a simple iron lock that was probably older than my parents. My heart hammered in my throat as I contemplated breaking the Elders’ edicts . . . again.
But I found that each rebellion was easier than the last. Perhaps this was what they meant about the road to hell.
I lifted my bike up and set it down on the other side of the fence. I clambered gracelessly over the wooden beams and dropped down beside it. Money from my Rumspringa box clinked in my apron pockets. Money that could hopefully buy some medicine for Alex.
And I prayed I could avoid whatever that bloody fate was that had befallen the horse’s rider. But I could not, in good conscience, allow a man to die when I could do something about it. All I needed to do was get him in good enough shape to walk, to get him out of here. Like the horse.
Righting my bike, I pedaled off into the sunshine.
Some things about Outside seemed utterly normal. Canada geese flew overhead in their tight formations. A red-tailed hawk perched on a telephone wire, watching me as I rode along the empty pavement. Black-eyed Susans and orange tiger lilies grew in profusion at the side of the road. The sun was warm on my back, and a breeze tickled through the tassels of grass.
As before, there was no traffic. I rode without fear, the wind rustling through my skirts. I pedaled fast up hills and allowed myself the thrill of going downhill at hazardous speed. It was like flying. No one could see me, the flying Plain girl with the wind tearing at my bonnet strings.
But other things were not anywhere close to normal.
I saw a trailer that had burned down to its foundations, the sharp smell of the melted plastic siding still in the air. Closer to the village, a car accident made the road impassible. I had to walk my bike on the shoulder around the abandoned cars.
Sobered, I continued on toward town, where there was more evidence of fire. Burned-out cars had slid off the road into telephone poles. All the glass was broken out of the general store, glittering on the asphalt like ice. Smoke billowed out of the structure.
I swallowed and continued. I was afraid to be Outside alone, without Elijah. But, no matter what, I would have to get used to his absence. I would have to prove to him and to myself that I could.
I stopped at the furniture store and pulled my bike up on the porch. I called into the darkness of the structure for Seth and Joseph, but no one answered. I reached into my pocket for a pencil and snagged a scrap of paper that blew up against the building. I left the boys a note:
Seth, Joseph:
I don’t know if you’ll get this note. But your father and Elijah are looking for you. All they want is for you to come home.
—Katie
I wedged the note between the door and the door frame. If they came back here, if they saw it, they would know.
I continued on, pedaling down the side streets. I saw a police car overturned on its roof, burned to a crisp that blackened the pavement. A truck carrying pumpkins had jackknifed in the road, smashed gourds painting the street a lurid shade of orange. Flies had descended upon the mess, and I wrinkled my nose as I walked my bike around it.
I finally arrived at the drugstore, next door to a Laundromat and bar. I didn’t really expect to find anyone there, since the streets had been empty.
The door at the front of the drugstore was locked, and the sign on the window said that it was closed. I shook the door handle, rattling the glass.
I stepped back and looked up. The lights were on inside, so I assumed that the structure still had electricity, that the power lines to this part of town were still intact. I was certain the drugstore kept surveillance cameras on the property to deter precisely the kind of thing I was planning on doing.