DC03 - Though Mountains Fall (14 page)

“One last thing,” she said as the Mexican children cleared their tables, preparing to leave. “After today I will not be coming here anymore. From now on
Señorita
Rachel will be your teacher. I want you to treat her with respect and listen to her, okay?”

The children took it in stride, granting Miriam only a brief parting hug before they bolted into the sunshine, oblivious to her anguish.

But Rachel knew. She didn’t have to be told what the
boycott of the Amish children meant, and that Miriam had no alternative but to withdraw.

“Miriam, I’m so sorry. What will you do now?”

She sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe I can start a school for the Mexican children in San Rafael. There is a great need.”

Miriam remained in the buggy shed after the children left, waiting for Domingo, puttering around, straightening up, saying goodbye to the place where she had discovered her greatest gift. Apart from Rachel none of her family came near, but when Domingo finally brought the cart around and she went to get on it, Ada spotted her. Ada’s face lit up as she lumbered across the yard and threw her arms around Miriam, nearly knocking her down.

After a day of such heartbreak and disappointment, Ada’s unfettered joy caught Miriam off guard and it pierced her heart. When her big sister backed away beaming, innocent as a child of all but the simplest of rules, she saw the tears in Miriam’s eyes and hugged her again.

“Shhhh, little one,” Ada whispered. “Gott knows.”

Chapter 11

D
omingo and Miriam went to Kyra’s for dinner on Friday, and Father Noceda was there without his cassock. He wore ordinary dark clothes, the only marks of his priesthood the stiff collar around his neck, and his skullcap. Kyra and her mother served up some kind of spicy Mexican mixture with tortillas and beans, and only after Miriam tasted it did she realize it contained fish instead of the usual chicken.

“It’s Friday,” Kyra explained, glancing at the priest across the table.

Miriam was confused, and when Kyra saw the question in her eyes she added, “We don’t eat meat on Friday.”

“Fish is not meat?”

Father Noceda smiled. “It’s an old Catholic tradition—our little way of fasting. We mustn’t neglect our traditions just because we no longer have a chapel.”

This, Miriam understood. “The Amish are full of traditions, but they have
never
had a chapel. They meet in each others’ homes and barns.”

Father Noceda nodded. “Admirable. This is how it was done in the first century.”

With his mouth full, one of Kyra’s boys asked, “
Padre
, why did the soldiers take your church?”

Noceda smiled, tousled the boy’s hair. “Because they could. You must understand, child, the rulers of our country are a little confused. They think everything bad that happens in Mexico is because of the church, so they take the property of the church in the name of the state. Sometimes they take the priest, too.”

“This is true,” Kyra said. “I’ve heard there are many towns where they have lost not only their church but their priest as well.”

Miriam gaped in astonishment. “And this is the law of the land?”

Domingo nodded. “It has been so for a long time. Eight years ago the government adopted a new constitution making it against the law to teach religion in schools or to worship in a public place. The church has no legal right to property, and priests have practically no rights at all.” He waved casually toward Father Noceda. “He is not even allowed to wear his cassock in public.”

“But we have been here for three years and there has been no trouble in El Prado,” Miriam said. “If the laws have been in place for eight years, why are things suddenly so much worse?”

It was Father Noceda who answered. “Because troops are here now, and they serve the new presidente. The old one, Obregón, was a cautious politician who didn’t like to stir up the people in places where the church was strong. But this Calles, he doesn’t care. He is out to destroy the church. So now I have no building.”

“What will you do?” Miriam asked.

The priest chuckled. “I will do as the Amish do—my flock
will meet in a barn. There is a man who owns an old warehouse in San Rafael, where he once stored beans and grain but he doesn’t use it anymore. When he heard what happened he offered his building to the church. It needs a bit of work—a new roof, some paint, and we’ll have to borrow a few things for the Communion table—but under the circumstances it is a great blessing.”

“I know the place,” Domingo said. “We can’t thatch a roof that size, and tin is expensive. You walked away from Iglesia El Prado with nothing but the clothes on your back.”

“Not quite,” the priest said with a wry smile. “You’re forgetting that it was your wedding day. I came away with thirteen gold coins in my pocket.”

“So you will have a building where people can come for church?” Miriam asked.

“For mass, sí. It won’t be like the beautiful stone chapel in El Prado, but God will bless even a warehouse if His children gather there.”

Miriam had barely touched her dinner. Since her own people forced her out of her beloved school, she had thought of almost nothing else. Now she began to see a new path, and the idea intrigued her. She pushed back her plate and laid down her fork.

“Father Noceda, the children of San Rafael have no school. Do you think it might be possible to start one in your warehouse?”

Father Noceda gave a shrug and stared blankly for a moment. “It’s against the law . . .”

She sighed and nodded, her gaze falling away from him, a fledgling hope shattered.

Domingo saw her disappointment and squeezed her hand. With his eyes on the priest, he said, “Miriam, Father Noceda was born and raised in Mexico, so perhaps I hear more than you do of what he does
not
say. He only said it was against the law; he did not say he wouldn’t do it.”

Noceda laughed out loud. “My young amigo knows me too well, Miriam. Sometimes we must obey God rather than men. I think it would be wonderful if you could teach the children of San Rafael to read and write, and I will do everything I can to help you. But it
is
against the law to have a school in the church. The only reason I did not defy the law at Iglesia El Prado was because there a school would have been impossible to hide. Perhaps we can get away with it here in San Rafael, but we will have to do it quietly.”

Emma watched Levi closely because she knew him well. When the bandits burned his barn it was a watershed moment for him, a time of rare and deep reflection that Emma felt certain, in the end, would sway his mind one way or the other. He didn’t say much, but he spent every spare moment cleaning out the shell of the barn, hauling off charred remains, sifting through drifts of ash and brushing black soot from the adobe foundation walls. Levi was a relentless worker who never shirked and never wasted time, though occasionally amid the remains of his barn she would see him stop and stare, hands on hips, for minutes at a time.

Thinking.

Once or twice he said something, only a word or two, but enough for her to know. He was still wrestling with his own understanding of Gott.

Emma knew what she believed, but Levi had been raised by a father who judged his every move, his every thought, and with mathematical precision meted out punishment for the slightest infraction. In time, it had become Levi’s picture of Gott.

She understood this, too. Right or wrong, what boy’s image of Gott was not carved in the shadow of his father? Here, in
the ruins of his barn, she saw a chance to show him the truth. It was a delicate moment, and she knew better than to preach to her husband about the limitless mercy of the Father, the all-encompassing sacrifice of the Son. Levi didn’t trust words. Better to let him see the reflection of the truth in the deeds of those who understood it.

Emma went to see her father. It only took a moment, a word or two, as the lightest step in the right place can trigger a landslide. Late in the afternoon her father drove up in his hack while Levi was out by the barn. He only stayed a moment, then returned to his hack and went home. Standing in the back door of the house with Will on her hip, Emma saw them talking. Though they were too far away for her to hear what was said, she knew. She saw the change in her husband’s face—first confusion, then disbelief, then wonder, and finally a profound gratitude. When Caleb left, she saw her husband start for the house and then stop and turn about. Even this, she understood. Levi was a man; he would let no one see him with tears in his eyes.

Later, after he washed up on the back porch and came in for dinner, he hung his hat on a peg by the door and said bluntly, “Your dat said they’re going to rebuild my barn.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful, Levi! But surely it’s not a surprise. Our friends always do this for each other.”

“But they’re bringing the lumber, too,” Levi said. “Your dat said they all got plenty left over and they’ll pool their money and buy what’s needed from Hidalgo. They want to start tomorrow—everybody. All the men and boys.”

“Well then, I better start cooking.” She took a pot of new potatoes from the stove, set it on the table, and picked up Clara. When she looked around, Levi was still standing there, staring at her.

“Emma, your dat—I think maybe he’s a very wise man.”

“Oh? Why?”

“He told me these bandits were like a storm. He said a storm don’t care whose barn it tears down, so it’s up to the lucky ones to help him rebuild. He said that’s why we’re here, to see each other through the storms.” Levi shook his head, staring at the pot of potatoes on the table without seeing them. “Your father and mine—they’re not much alike, that’s for sure.”

Smiling, she reached up to kiss Levi’s cheek. “You’ll understand him in time,” she said. “In due time.”

They came in wagons at first light, one after another, bearing heavy loads of lumber and tools. Boys unloaded lumber and stacked it in the yard while men hauled down chests of tools and broke out hammers and saws and planes and mallets and razor-sharp wood chisels. They worked with purpose and precision, every man knowing his place and every boy helping, learning, watching, anticipating needs so that no one had to wait for anything.

It wasn’t exactly a barn raising. Back home it was not uncommon for more than a hundred men to show up from surrounding districts for a barn raising, but the total population of Paradise Valley was only about a hundred, including women and children. In Mexico there simply were no other districts, and this was the busiest time of year for farmers, so the work would be spread out over weeks instead of days. Back home a barn raising would have been planned far in advance, all the joints carefully measured, cut and shaved to a precise fit before the actual construction began. Here, it would all have to be done on-site.

They were setting the main posts in the middle of the barn when a quiet fell, and Emma stepped outside the back door of the house to see what was happening. An oxcart drawn by a standard-bred horse trundled up the lane with Domingo driving
and Miriam by his side. She was dressed Mexican, her hair braided down her back with no covering. Levi stood near the barn, watching.