time he’d seen them left them as little more than childhood memories. Except for one visit to Paradise Springs the first year after the move, his life had been in Elkhart County, Indiana.
From beyond the school he heard the rattle of equipment and smelled the unmistakable scent of greenery and disturbed earth. Next year at this time, God willing, he’d be chopping his own corn into silage to feed his animals over the winter. He couldn’t wait. At last, he had the job he’d always wanted: farmer. He wouldn’t have had the opportunity in Indiana. There it was intended, in Amish tradition, that his younger brother would inherit the family’s five acres. Nathaniel had assumed he, like his daed, would spend his life working in an Englisch factory building RVs.
Those plans had changed when word came that his Zook grandparents’ farm in Paradise Springs was now his. A dream come true. Along with the surprising menagerie his grossdawdi and his grossmammi had collected in their final years. He’d been astonished not to find dairy cows when he arrived. Instead, there were about thirty-five alpacas, one of the oddest looking animals he’d ever seen. They resembled a combination of a poodle and a llama, especially at this time of year when their wool was thickening. In addition, on the farm were two mules, a buggy horse and more chickens than he could count. He was familiar with horses, mules and chickens, but he had a lot to learn about alpacas, which was the reason he’d come to the school today.
He was determined to make the farm a success so he wouldn’t have to sell it. For the first time in far too many years, he felt alive with possibilities.
“How can I help you?” Esther asked, as if he’d spoken aloud. “Are you here to enroll a kind in school?”
Years of practice kept him from revealing how her simple question drove a shaft through his heart. She couldn’t guess how much that question hurt him, and he didn’t have time to wallow in thoughts of how, because of a childhood illness, he most likely could never be a daed. He’d never enjoy the simple act of coming to a school to arrange for his son or daughter to attend.
He was alive and well. For that he was grateful, and he needed to let the feelings of failure go. Otherwise, he was dismissing God’s gift of life as worthless. That he’d never do.
Instead he needed to concentrate on why he’d visited the school this afternoon. After asking around the area, he’d learned of only one person who was familiar with how to raise alpacas.
Esther Stoltzfus.
“No, I’m here for a different reason.” He managed a smile. “One I think you’ll find interesting.”
“I’d like to talk, Nathaniel, but—” She glanced at the older boy, the one she’d called Benny. He stood by the well beyond the schoolhouse and was washing his hands and face. Jacob sat on the porch. He was trembling in the wake of the fight and rocking his feet against the latticework. It made a dull thud each time his bare heels struck it. “I’m going to have to ask you to excuse me. Danki for pulling the boys apart.”
“The little guy doesn’t look more than about six years old.”
“Jacob is eight. He’s small for his age, but he has the heart of a lion.”
“But far less common sense if he fights boys twice his age.”
“Benny is fourteen.”
“Close enough.”
She nodded with another sigh. “Yet you saw who ended up battered and bloody. Jacob doesn’t have a mark on him.”
“Quite a feat!”
“Really?” She frowned. “Think what a greater feat it would have been if Jacob had turned the other cheek and walked away from Benny. It’s the lesson we need to take to heart.”
“For a young boy, it’s hard to remember. We have to learn things the hard way, it seems.” He gave her a lopsided grin, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. She acted flustered. Why? She’d put a stop to the fight as quickly as she could. “Like the time your brothers and I got too close to a hive and got stung. I guess that’s what people mean by a painful lesson.”
“Most lessons are.”
“Well, it was a very painful one.” He hurried on before she could leave. “I’ve heard you used to raise alpacas.”
“Just a pair. Are you planning to raise them on your grandparents’ farm?”
“Not planning. They’re already there. Apparently my grossmammi fell in love with the creatures and decided to buy some when she and my grossdawdi stopped milking. I don’t know the first thing about alpacas, other than how to feed them. I was hoping you could share what you learned.” He didn’t add that if he couldn’t figure out a way to use the animals to make money, he’d have to sell them and probably the farm itself next spring.
When she glanced at the school again, he said, “Not right now, of course.”
“I’d like to help, but I don’t have a lot of time.”
“I won’t need a lot of your time. Just enough to point me in the right direction.”
She hesitated.
He could tell she didn’t want to tell him no, but her mind was focused on the kinder now. Maybe he should leave and come back again, but he didn’t have time to wait. The farm was more deeply in debt than he’d guessed before he came to Paradise Springs. He hadn’t guessed his grandparents had spent so wildly on buying the animals that they had to borrow money for keeping them. Few plain folks their age took out a loan because it could become a burden on the next generation. Now it was his responsibility to repay it.
Inspiration struck when he looked from her to the naughty boys. It was a long shot, but he’d suggest anything if there was a chance to save his family’s farm.
“Bring your scholars to see the alpacas,” he said. “I can ask my questions, and so can they. You can answer them for all of us. It’ll be fun for them. Remember how we liked a break from schoolwork? They would, too, I’m sure.”
She didn’t reply for a long minute, then nodded. “They probably would be really interested.”
He grinned. “Why don’t I drive my flatbed wagon over here? I can give the kinder a ride on it both ways.”
“Gut. Let me know which day works best for you, and I’ll tell the parents we’re going there. Some of them may want to join us.”
“We’ll make an adventure out of it, like when we were kinder.”
Color flashed up her face before vanishing, leaving her paler than before.
“Was iss letz?” he asked.
“Nothing is wrong,” she replied so hastily he guessed she wasn’t being honest. “I—”
A shout came from the porch where the bigger boy was walking past Jacob. The younger boy was on his feet, his fists clenched again.
She ran toward them, calling over her shoulder, “We’ll have to talk about this later.”
“I’ll come over tonight. We’ll talk then.”
Nathaniel
