The Alliance by Jolina Petersheim Page B

and deacons, who are inside the schoolhouse, almost cowardly awaiting how their words will be received.
    “If you agree to this edict,” he says, “you can come back into the schoolhouse and sign the paper before the administrators of Mt. Hebron Community. This will hold you accountable to all our rules and stipulations. If you are discovered to have disobeyed any of them, no matter how insignificant they might seem to you, you will be expelled from the community with nothing but what you had when you arrived. This goes for both Englischers and those who have been lifelong members of the community. Our lives must be ruled justly so that—in a time of war—we can be the last modicum of peace.”
    Jabil turns and walks back into the schoolhouse, holding the community’s declaration by the edges like a gentleman, although his hands are calloused and he wears a laborer’s shoes. I watch him go, my own thoughts blocked by his words, which were far more eloquent than any the bishop or deacons could have penned. I am astounded by the fact that, though I have seen him oversee his logging crew, I have never seen him lead our people like this. He is no longer just his powerful uncle’s mouthpiece, but a stalwart young man with the wisdom to foresee what is coming and, hopefully, protect us from harm.

    The whole ride down the lane, Melinda—the Englischer from Colorado—perches on the seat between my sister,Anna, and me. Her elbows are tucked in close to her rail-thin body. Her purse and rolling briefcase, which she fetched from her vehicle, are stacked in her lap. She looked so forlorn when she exited the schoolhouse after signing the edict that I saw myself in her and felt it was my duty to invite her home with us. She seemed as hesitant to accept my invitation as I was to give it, but I don’t see that she has any other choice.
    Five years ago, when I was in the same awkward, peer-consumed stage Seth is in now, I also found myself stranded in a community where the cliques were established, making it next to impossible to fit in. The girls, led by the lovely yet puerile Ellen Mast, made an effort to welcome me by striking up conversation whenever our paths crossed during the community’s frequent events. Despite this, I feared they knew why my family had fled to Mt. Hebron and were simply befriending me in an effort to obtain more gossip, so I was averse to participating in the exchange of confidences required in female relationships. No doubt this fear came across as snobbery, and soon the girls did not attempt to draw me into their circle, and I remained on the fringe, telling myself friendship was impossible with those who believe life is filled with light simply because they’ve never witnessed its darkness. But deep down, I know this is not true. Anna’s innocence causes her to approach each day with her arms flung open to the light, and she andI are as close as we can be, considering she can offer neither confidence nor conversation.
    The instant I pull the reins back on the horse in preparation to tie it to the hitching post, Anna scrambles out of the buggy and sprints, barefoot, toward our garden. She glances over her shoulder and smiles—one long braid flapping over the front of her flowered dress—watching to see if the stranger will follow her. Which, of course, Melinda doesn’t. She is too busy studying her surroundings. And I imagine I can see her features morph into a sneer behind her oversize sunglasses. She climbs out primly, carrying her purse, and there’s no hint of her earlier disheveled manner. I secure the horse and pick up Melinda’s briefcase, left behind on the seat like I’m nothing but a country bellhop.
    Melinda picks her way across the barnyard, the heels of her sandals stabbing themselves into the muck. Her tailored clothes and showy jewelry, not to mention that Mercedes SUV stranded at Field to Table, reveal her financial standing. I feel embarrassed to open the front door and let