But one person saw me as I walked around the corner of the house, toward the open field and a good cry. The old Hexenmeister called out: “Katie!”
I paused. I could pretend not to have heard. But duty made me turn around with an artificial smile on my face. I anticipated that he, like much of the rest of the congregation, would want to say how proud they were of Elijah and the other young men and women.
“Yes, Herr Stoltz?”
He walked up to me slowly, as if his arthritis was bothering him. Crumbs of cobbler from the afternoon meal clung in his beard, and I could see that one eye was watering. He reached into his jacket. “I have something for you.”
My brows drew together in curiosity. “For me?”
He handed me an envelope. “For you.”
I stared at it. It was made of heavy linen paper, sealed tightly with wax.
Without another word, Herr Stoltz hobbled off back to the house, humming to himself and veering toward the dessert tables.
“Thank you!” I called after him.
He did not seem to hear me.
I had no idea what it could be. I began to walk across the blond grass fields toward home, digging my fingers into the top of the thick paper. I opened the envelope, pulled out a heavy sheet of the same lumpy handmade paper.
I stopped in my tracks as my eyes scanned the page.
“Oh,” I whispered.
In carefully inked letters the color of gooseberries, the Hexenmeister had written in Hochdeutsch—High German. It wasn’t the everyday Deitsch that we spoke to one other. This was the language of prayers, the voice to heaven:
Keep thine own faith. Wear love around thee like a shield, and no harm shall come to thee, even when thou walk in the valley of darkness. God bless and protect thee, and keep the road before thee straight and open.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.
His handwriting was a bit shaky but was still the most beautiful I’d ever seen. I clutched the letter to my chest and blinked tears up at the sky.
I knew what this was. It was called a Himmelsbrief. When I was a child, I had heard the old legends about the peasant of Cologne. The story was about a poor, illiterate boy who had prayed to God for help. The sky opened up, and a letter fell into his hands. From that moment forward, he became blessed. He was starving, and a woman fed him. A man rushed out of a shop in the marketplace and took him to be a jeweler’s apprentice. He grew wealthy and successful, eventually learning to read. The text of the peasant boy’s letter was different than mine, but the idea of the Himmelsbrief was the same: it was a blessing from God, and it was to be carried with one always.
Hexenmeisters had the ability to craft such letters, working their prayers into the words—much like the magic of the hex signs they created. I had never known anyone else who had possessed one, had never seen or touched one.
And the Hexenmeister had given one to me.
I stared back at the house. How much did he suspect about my disobedience? How much did he know, through his strange connection with God?
I carefully folded the letter back along its original creases and placed it in my apron pocket. Perhaps the old man, having heard of the devastation on the Outside, had begun making them for the community. Maybe it wasn’t just me he’d singled out to receive one.
Maybe.
Since no one would miss me from the afternoon’s socialization at the Miller house, I decided to check up on my patient in the kennel. I went to the house to gather some things to take with me. Mrs. Parsall, exhausted from last night, was snoring in my room. I smiled and prepared her a sandwich and fruit on a plate in the kitchen for when she awoke. I could understand her reluctance to attend our church services, but if she was to remain here for any length of time, I thought it might be good for her to get out a bit and mingle with the others, so they would not fear her or feel awkward around her. But not today.
Carrying my supplies in a wicker laundry basket, I walked through the back field to the old barn. Copper met me halfway; I could barely distinguish his coat from the golden grass. I noticed that there were white chicken feathers stuck to his tongue.
“I see that you’ve been busy.” I gave him a disapproving look that was lost on him. There was no use in telling a dog not to chase chickens. It was simply in their nature. Not evil. It just was.
Copper wagged his tail and sniffed my laundry basket vigorously.
“Yes, there’s food in there. In good time.”
Copper fell into step beside me, his tail slapping at my skirt as we walked.
The dilapidated barn looked undisturbed, and I set my burden down to haul open the doors. The dogs had their own dog door cut into the side, covered with canvas flaps. Sunny squeezed herself through the door, panting from the effort.
“Hello, sweet girl.” I put my arms around her, and she licked my face. It felt good to bask in the unconditional warm slobber of the dogs, who would love me no matter whether I was baptized or not.
I rose and carried the basket into the dimness of the barn.
“It’s Katie,” I announced.
A voice echoed from the shadows in the back stall. “I’m glad it’s you.”
I was heartened to hear that Alex was conscious. I could tell that he’d been moving around in the barn; the straw was disturbed and the waste bucket I’d discreetly left for him had been emptied. He was sitting up in his stall with his hands folded in his lap, watching me with his blue eyes.
“I brought food.”
A corner of his mouth quirked up. “Well, I’m glad for that. And for someone to talk to. The dogs aren’t good conversationalists.”
I reached forward to examine the wound on his head. He winced when I touched it, but it seemed as if the redness was beginning to recede.
“Did you take your antibiotic this morning?”
“Yes. And a fistful of ibuprofen. And I used part of the hydrogen peroxide.”
I wrinkled my nose. I could smell a bit of the peroxide on him, but I mostly smelled the sour odor of someone who hadn’t bathed in a few days.
“I brought you some things,” I said. “Including soap.”
Alex sighed happily. “I would really love a bath, Bonnet.”
I frowned at him calling me “Bonnet” but decided to let it slide. He didn’t say it with sarcasm; it was said with the affection of a nickname. “There isn’t a spring room in the barn,” I said. “But there is a pump out back. I’ll bring you a washbasin before I leave this afternoon.”
I set about unpacking the contents of the laundry basket: sandwiches, apples, a thermos full of cider, a fresh block of soap, a battery-powered flashlight, a toothbrush, baking soda, and a straight razor.
Alex picked up the straight razor. “Ouch. I’ve only seen these in the movies.”
“Don’t cut yourself. There are no more antibiotics.”
I also handed him a set of men’s clothes. “These are for you. They will make you less obvious if you are seen.”
He grimaced. “Yeah. I know that I reek.” He took the bundle and shook out a shirt, britches, socks, undergarments, and Plain shoes.
“I hope that they will fit. The shoes may be a bit tight on you, but they’ll do until I can find something better.”
He held the shirt up to his chest and lifted a chiding eyebrow. “Where did the clothes come from? Your husband? Your brother?”
My mouth flattened, and I said quietly: “I’m doing laundry for a family that lost two young men to Outside. I expect that the dead are less likely to miss them.”