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Overview
When Leora Ebersole sees the small plane crash in her Old Order Mennonite community, she has no idea it’s a foreshadowing of things to come. When the young pilot, Moses Hughes, regains consciousness, they realize his instruments were destroyed by the same power outage that killed the electricity at the community store, where Englischers are stranded with dead cell phones and cars that won’t start.
Moses offers a sobering theory, but no one can know how drastically life is about to change. With the only self-sustaining food supply in the region, the Pacifist community is forced to forge an alliance with the handful of stranded Englischers in an effort to protect not only the food but their very lives.
In the weeks that follow, Leora, Moses, and the community will be tested as never before, requiring them to make decisions they never thought possible. Whom will they help and whom will they turn away? When the community receives news of a new threat, everyone must decide how far they’re willing to go to protect their beliefs and way of life.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781496414502 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Tyndale House Publishers |
| Publication date: | 06/01/2016 |
| Series: | The Alliance |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 384 |
| File size: | 15 MB |
| Note: | This product may take a few minutes to download. |
About the Author
Jolina Petersheim is the best-selling author of The Outcast, which Library Journal called “outstanding... fresh and inspirational” in a starred review and named one of the best books of 2013. That book also became an ECPA, CBA, and Amazon best-seller and was featured in Huffington Post’s Fall Picks, USA Today, Publishers Weekly, and the Tennessean. Jolina and her husband share the same unique Amish and Mennonite heritage that originated in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. After years of living in the mountains of Tennessee, they moved to a farm in the Driftless Region of Wisconsin, where they live with their two young daughters. Follow Jolina’s blog at jolinapetersheim.com.
Read an Excerpt
The Alliance
A Novel
By JOLINA PETERSHEIM, Kathryn S. Olson
Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.
Copyright © 2016 Jolina PetersheimAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4964-1399-4
CHAPTER 1
Leora
Buffered by grassland, the collision is strangely quiet. Dirt sprays as the small plane scrapes away the top layer of Montana soil, coming to an abrupt halt in the middle of our field. Black smoke billows as fire leaps to life on the front end of the mangled plane. Standing for a moment in shock, I leave my sister, Anna, eating cold peach supp at the table and run out the open back door. The corners of my mouth stretch as I scream for Jabil, who is down the lane, working beneath the pavilion. I cannot see him, and I doubt he will be able to hear me. But over the din of the devouring flames, I do not hear anything. Not the whine of the saw blades that sometimes soothes my sister's tantrums. Not the fierce roar as Jabil and his crew power-wash bark from the once-standing dead trees that will soon become the walls of another log house.
On the back porch, I grab a piece of firewood left over from winter and leap down the steps. I cross through the gate and wade into the meadow and see that, around the plane, a diameter of grass is seared by the heat of the fire. I scream for Jabil again, and then I scream for my younger brother, Seth, who is working down at Field to Table at the end of the lane.
I run up to the plane and stare into the cockpit. The windshield is shattered. The pilot is slumped over the control panel. Blood trails down half his face like a port-wine stain. For a moment, I think he is already dead. Then I see his fingers twitch near the throttle.
"Can you hear me?" I yell. The man groans and tries to look at me without turning his head. I use the butt of the log to hit the door handle, because the handle itself is too far off the ground for me to reach. When it won't budge, I try to break the side window, thinking it'd be better for the pilot to be cut by the glass than burned to death. But the glass is too thick and the window, same as the handle, is too far off the ground for me to put any leverage behind my swing. "You have to help! I don't know how to get you out!"
The pilot says nothing. His deep-set eyes close as he loses consciousness, his jaw slackening beneath a tangled beard. I hear a sound over the crackling flames and turn to see Jabil and his logging crew charging down the lane. Some of the men are still wearing hard hats or protective goggles, and the sawdust from their work sifts from their bodies like reddish sand. Their uniform steel-toe boots stamp the meadow as they surge toward us — about ten of them — and create a circle around the wreckage. Jabil is carrying a crowbar; his brother Malachi carries a shovel; Christian, a fire extinguisher; and the Englischer, Sean, a bolt cutter.
They did not need me to scream for help because, of course, they would have seen the plane crash on their own. The entire community must have seen it. I keep holding my worthless piece of firewood to my chest and watch the crew extinguish the fire and pry open the cockpit door; then Jabil tries to lift the pilot out by his arms. The man falls toward him, but his feet remain lodged under the crumpled floorboard. Jabil uses the crowbar to work the pilot's feet free. Christian tugs on the pilot's shoulders, and he slides out into the waiting loggers' arms. The plane's metal ticks and acrid smoke from the charred engine burns my throat and eyes. I back up from the plane in case it catches on fire again.
Jabil turns to me. "We take him to your house?"
"Jah." I gouge the wood with my nails. "Of course."
Jabil Snyder has been foreman of the logging crew since his father's sudden passing last year, when, literally overnight, Jabil became the wealthiest man in the community. At twenty-one, he is only two years older than I, but next to his uncle, the bishop, he is also the most revered. Therefore, when Jabil calls out commands, the men respond in unity. They move across the meadow as one, the pilot's broken body borne by their work-hardened arms. Running in front of them, I open the gate and prop it with an overturned wheelbarrow. I dart up the steps into the house, and Anna looks up from her bowl.
"We need the table," I say in Pennsylvania Dutch. "You'll have to move."
My sixteen-year-old sister continues watching me with the eyes of a child, her smile serene despite the bedlam outside. "I mean it," I continue, because sometimes she understands more than she lets on. I take her bowl of supp over to the countertop. Anna frowns and stands to retrieve it, as I expected she would. I drag the chairs away from the table and remove the tablecloth and quart jar full of weeds Anna picked and arranged like flowers.
Knowing the pilot's appearance will upset my sensitive sister, and the small crowd in our home will upset her even more, I carry the supp bowl, cloth napkin, and spoon into the back bedroom we share.
"Read to you?" Anna asks, glancing up at me with an impish smile. What she really wants is for me to read the book to her.
"Later," I promise.
I tug my sister's dress down over her legs and kiss the white center part of her twin braids. Closing our bedroom door, I hurry down the hall and see Jabil is supporting the pilot's head and shoulders and Malachi the legs as, together, they maneuver his body onto the table. His clothes are singed, and blood from his head wound stains the grooves of the beautiful pine table that — like most of the furniture in this house — was crafted by my vadder's skillful hands.
"You have scissors?" Jabil asks. I withdraw a pair from the sewing drawer and pass it to him. Touching my hand, he meets my eyes. "Sure you want to be here for this?"
At my affirming nod, he turns and cuts off the pilot's Englischer clothes by starting at the breastbone and working his way down. His thick, calloused fingers are so confident and swift, it seems he's been performing this action all his life. My face grows warm as the T-shirt falls away, exposing the pilot's chest. Besides my younger brother, I have never seen a shirtless man, as such immodesty is prohibited in the community.
The pilot is smaller-boned than Jabil, who, along with his brothers, I once watched lever a main barn beam from horizontal to vertical without breaking a sweat. But the pilot is still muscular and lean. A thick silver band hangs from a chain around his neck, engraved with the words Semper Fi. A cross, ends elongated like spears, is tattooed from the pilot's left clavicle down to his pectoral — biology terms I recall from the science book I borrowed from the Liberty Public Library, back when I had time to spend studying, simply to absorb knowledge, and not to prepare for the tedious classes I did not want to teach.
I turn and see that Jabil is extracting a pistol from the holster on the belt threaded through the pilot's jeans. I pivot from the sight — and the fear it evokes — and wrap my arms around my waist. "Has somebody tried calling 911?"
Sean, the Englischer, says, "Tried ten times. My cell wouldn't work."
I dare a glance over my shoulder, being careful not to look at the table where the pilot lies. "Did you try the phone in the shop?"
Malachi says, "We tried that, before we came here to help. It didn't work either. Electricity's all messed up. Our equipment shut down too."
There's the clunk of soft-soled shoes dropping to the hardwood floor.
"That doesn't look good," Jabil says.
Willing myself to maintain a clinical eye, I turn yet again and walk to the end of the table. The ball of the pilot's right ankle is distended. I cradle the pilot's foot in my hand and gently rotate it to see if the ankle is broken or just strained from the men wrenching him from the plane. The pilot's eyes fly open, and he yells, the force of it whiplashing throughout his body. The cords of his neck stand out as he bites down. Concerned that — in his panicked state — he is going to hurt himself, I do not let go, but keep the ankle braced between my hands.
"It's all right," I soothe. "You're safe."
The pilot's eyes meet mine. They are the color of Flathead Lake in summer, the clarity only slightly muddied by the haze of his pain. Then he closes them again and the foot in my hand relaxes. I hear the back door open. My thirteen-year-old brother, Seth, strides across the kitchen. He takes off his straw hat and wipes the sweat from his hairline with his forearm.
Leaning over the table, he peers down at the pilot's head wound. "Was he trying to land?" Seth turns toward Jabil. "Did you see anything?"
"No, just the crash."
I look down at the pilot's right foot, feel the knot of his stockinged heel cupped in my palm, and for some unknown reason it brings me comfort. "We need to get him to the hospital," I say. "We have no idea what injuries he has."
"I don't know how we can get him to the hospital." Seth straightens and looks at me. "The electricity at Field to Table shut down and none of the customers' cars will start. And with him being in this shape, it's too far to take him to Liberty by buggy."
The logging crew stops speaking among themselves. The silence draws attention to the dripping faucet and rhythmic snoring of Grossmammi Eunice, napping in the living room.
I ask Seth, "Why won't the cars start?"
"No clue. The Englischers are trying to figure out how to get home, but they can't get ahold of anyone because their cell phones won't work. Bishop Lowell and the deacons are asking everyone to meet at the schoolhouse so we can come up with a plan."
I glance down at the table, where the bleeding stranger lies. The pilot's in no condition to be moved, because we don't know what is broken. But neither can he just stay here in our house unsupervised. "You all go ahead," I say. "Take Anna. I'll stay here with him and Grossmammi." I look over and see that Jabil's eyes are trained on the gun, glinting on the table. The smooth, polished weapon appears so out of place — almost vulgar — among our rustic, handcrafted things. "And take that with you."
"You're sure?" Jabil asks me again, motioning toward the pilot. And I cannot tell if he's asking if I'm sure that I want to remain behind, or if I'm sure that I want him to take the gun.
"I'll be fine," I say. "Just leave me here."
The strident tone of my request rings in the uneasy quiet. Without a word, Jabil turns and leaves through the back door.
* * *
Hearing the tapping cane behind me, I turn from the sink and see Grossmammi Eunice. She must be having a good day. She has taken time to put her dentures in, which she keeps in a jelly jar beside her recliner, and to tidy her hair beneath her kapp. Her sparse eyebrows are also jauntily cocked behind her pince-nez glasses, which serve as little purpose as mine, since she's legally blind but still too stubborn to admit it.
"Have a good nap?" I ask, drying my hands. "You look rested."
Grossmammi harrumphs and moves into the kitchen, using her cane like an extension of her arm. Her eyesight is so poor, she doesn't notice the shirtless male lying on the table beneath a sheet. She pulls out the chair and sits across from him, waiting to be served her tea. I stand frozen in the kitchen — bucket and rag in hand — not sure how to tell her about all that's happened during her nap without causing my grandmother to drop dead from fright.
"Ginger and rose-hip blend?" I ask, buying myself some time.
Grossmammi nods. "Jah, and some brot, if you have it."
Setting the bucket down, I splash hot water from the cast-iron kettle into a mug and fill the strainer with a scoop of Grossmammi Eunice's favorite tea blend, which I set in the liquid to steep. I pray she keeps her doll-sized hands in her lap rather than on the table, where she would inadvertently touch warm flesh.
"Would you like your tea in the living room?" I ask. "You might be more comfortable there." She harrumphs again. "It's just that —" I rack my brain for a valid-sounding excuse — "I'm about to mop the floor, and I know you don't care for the Pine-Sol fumes."
She pushes up from the chair. "Why didn't you do it while I napped?"
"I should've; you're right." I would agree with about anything, just to get her out of here before she discovers the pilot, or — worse — he pops up from beneath the sheet like a jack-in-the-box. I hurriedly slice off a heel of bread and slide it on a tray, along with a knife and two small pots containing butter and jam. I stride across the floor with the tray, trying to herd my cantankerous, eighty-pound grandmother back into the living room.
She shifts her whole body to glower at me, though her milky eyes are missing their mark, scorching the wall over my shoulder. She takes the tray from my hands and backs into the living room. Setting it on the coffee table, she pulls the door closed between us with something akin to a slam. My whole body deflates with relief. All in all, I got off easy.
Carrying the bucket back to the table, I prepare to clean the pilot's head wound, like I'd planned before my grandmother's interruption. My hands shake as I dab the hair matted with so much blood, it appears ruddy. But once the water's tinted copper, the hair reveals its hue: pale blond, like Silver Queen corn in summer. The strands are also just as fine as corn silk. I watch the pilot's eyes skitter back and forth beneath the pale lids. His jaw is coated with beard, but his upper cheeks and nose are speckled with freckles that make him appear boyish, despite the tattoo on his chest and another on his bicep, though I cannot decipher the latter's design.
In our community — which adheres to a strict set of rules resembling a hybrid between Mennonite and the more conservative Amish — the pilot's beard would be a symbol that he's married. But he would have to remove the mustache, which Amish leaders deemed too militaristic back during the Civil War, when full facial hair became a symbol of combat and control. Therefore, Amish men were forced to shave their mustaches in order to set themselves apart as pacifists who would never raise arms against another man.
I'm continuing to inspect the pilot when the sheet covering him flutters at the movements of his bare chest. I scrape my chair back across the floor, my own breath short. I look toward the living room door and wait. I hear only the tinkling of china as my grandmother enjoys her tea. Before the loggers and Seth left, we debated moving the pilot to the couch in the living room, where he would be more comfortable. But we did not know if that was wise. We have no way to gauge whether his neck and spinal cord have suffered injuries as well, which could have been exacerbated by the force the loggers used to free him from the cockpit. Plus, I imagined that if Grossmammi Eunice awoke to the presence of a half-naked man asleep in our living room, she might have a heart attack and fall into her cross-stitch pattern. I never anticipated the fact that she'd wake up before he did.
My stomach taut with anxiety, I place two fingers against the side of the pilot's jaw to check his heart rate. The hairs of his beard are rough against my fingertips, and the throb of his blood beneath the pad of my index finger makes my own pulse speed up. I have almost counted to a minute when the pilot comes to and bolts upright, clenching my hand. Choking on a scream, I struggle to free myself, but the pilot won't let go. He draws me in closer, his strong hand still clamping mine. I can smell the tang of his sweat mixed with the residual blood from his head wound as he rasps in my face, his blue eyes blazing with terror, "Where am I?"
My throat goes dry; my head swims. Swallowing, I command with far more authority than I possess, "Release me first."
The pilot looks down at my hand, as if surprised to see he's holding it. He lets go and reclines on the table. His face whitens, and I can almost see the wave of adrenaline receding.
"Your plane crashed in our field." I point to the door, which Jabil left open, as if that would encourage propriety between me and an unknown Englischer pilot who sports tattoos and a gun. "The logging crew got you out and brought you here."
The pilot tries to get up again.
"Don't!" I force his shoulders down to the table. I step back, mortified by my impulsive behavior, but the pilot obeys. He keeps lying there with his hands shuttered over his eyes. "You want some water?"
"Please."
I go over to the sideboard and pour water from the metal pitcher. I carry the glass over to the pilot, but he makes no effort to sit up. "Are you going to be sick?"
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Alliance by JOLINA PETERSHEIM, Kathryn S. Olson. Copyright © 2016 Jolina Petersheim. Excerpted by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc..
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