Fire in the Night
Authors: Linda Byler
Fire in the Night
Lancaster Burning
Book 1
A suspenseful romance by the bestselling Amish author!
Linda Byler
Table of Contents
The Story
Chapter 1
T
HE FLANNEL CLOTH AROUND HIS
neck kept bothering him that night. It smelled of the Unker’s salve that was slathered all over the cloth and was supposed to soothe his sore, dry throat. He put two heavy fingers between the cloth and his neck and struggled to turn on his side before a cough tore through his sensitive throat—burning like fiery sandpaper.
Fully awake now, he turned his large, ungainly body and struggled to sit up. Lowering his legs to the side of the bed, he extended one foot, searched for his
schlippas
(slippers), and muttered to himself.
His room on the first floor used to be an enclosed porch, the place Mam and Sarah did their sewing and quilting. The spray-painted coffee cans lining the windows held blooming geraniums of various ages.
His single bed was one from the hospital with wheels on it and a crank. Whenever he was ill, they would make him comfortable by turning the handle at the foot of the bed to lower his head or to raise it when the coughing started.
A white doily with a small brown pony embroidered on it and crochet work binding the edges covered a nightstand next to the high bed. An insulated carafe of ice water occupied a cork coaster next to a plastic tumbler with a blue bendable straw. A small battery-powered alarm clock sat invisible except for its illuminated numbers. A box of Kleenex, a bottle of Tylenol, and a tall green bottle of Swedish Bitters completed the assortment of necessities.
Levi Beiler was born with Down syndrome and gained weight easily, which was the reason he was a large man. He was the oldest of ten children, born to David and Malinda Beiler in the winter of 1977 when the snowplows opened the roads from Ronks to Gordonville in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.
It had been a shock when their firstborn appeared different—the eyes so small and unseeing, the tongue so oversized and uncontrolled, the hands and feet square and without muscle tone.
“
Siss an mongoloid, gel?
(He’s a mongoloid, right?)” she had whispered.
For some reason, it had been harder for David to accept—his firstborn son’s defect a dagger to his heart. What had he done to deserve this? Was it a curse?
As was the Amish way, he examined his heart. He must have done something wrong for God to send them a “retarded” son. As always, the community rallied around them saying that God only sends special children to special couples, recognizing their outstanding abilities to care for them.
What a cute one! Grandmothers clucked and swaddled and gave advice. Grandfathers clapped David’s shoulder and said He would provide strength for the coming days, and He had—far beyond anything they could imagine.
Levi was thirty-one years old now and still in reasonably good health. Except for his fiery throat.
The house was dark—no switches on the walls, no lights flicking on with the push of a finger, devoid of electricity. The small flashlight he normally kept under his bed was not in its usual place, so he turned to go to the kitchen, holding onto the doorway and then the wooden desk with his slippers sliding across the spotless linoleum.
A movement caught his eye. Something white.
Turning clumsily, he watched but could not see clearly without his glasses. Holding onto the brown recliner, he peered past the maple tree, its budding branches hanging just above his line of vision.
Well, that was a
dumba monn
(dumb man). Why would a white car drive past the house with no lights?
Moving to the window, he gripped the oak trim. Lifting the green blind slightly, he watched, his eyes narrow and brown and cunning. It was a small car, he thought. But with only a half moon to provide a little light, he couldn’t tell for sure.
He held his breath and waited. A cough tore through his infected throat, and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly, struggling mightily to swallow.
Should he wake Dat? Maybe they were
schtaelas
(thieves).
Ach
(oh), now he needed to use the bathroom. Turning away, he shuffled carefully through the darkened house with a small yellow sliver of light from the half-opened bathroom door to guide him.
Mam kept a small kerosene lamp burning all night for Levi, and now its soft, golden glow was a sign of her love and caring. He was glad he had a good Mam.
When he was finished, he washed his hands and dried them on the brown towel that hung by the sink and decided to go back to bed.
Likely someone turning around, he thought. He put the car from his mind, replacing it with the missing flashlight.
A white form appeared at his parents’ bedroom door.
“Levi,
iss sell dich
? (Is that you?)”
“
Ya
.”
“Are you alright?”
“
Nay
.”
“Do you need help?”
“No, I’m going to take Tylenol.”
“Where’s your flashlight?”
“Lost.
Ich bin aw base
(I am mad).”
Smiling widely in the dark living room, Mam made her way across it, touched Levi’s shoulder with one hand, his forehead with the other. She clucked and then shook her head.
“You have a fever.”
“I know.”
Mam reached beneath Levi’s pillow, retrieved the missing flashlight, and clicked it on, waiting while he poured the water and opened the pill bottle. He removed two pills and swallowed them, grimacing and moaning, watching his mother’s face for any sign of sympathy, which was there, of course.
“Poor Levi. That throat of yours just acts up now and again.”
“I need to eat more ice cream.”
“Yes, you do.”
Mam went back to bed, rolled onto her side, pulled up her knees, and fell asleep, listening to Levi settling himself in the night.
Upstairs, Sarah had left her west window open just a sliver, the crisp, spring air freshening her room with its fragrance. Her windows were covered with sheer beige panels with scarves of darker hues entwined on a heavy rod above them. So when a flickering light played across her pretty features, her wide, green eyes fluttered, squinted, and then opened completely.
At first she thought it was the swaying branches of the maple tree playing tricks with the light of the half moon. But the sheer beige panels hung still. Blinking, she watched the light. Chills crept up her arms and across her shoulders. Was she being visited by some heavenly spirit? God didn’t send angels now the way he had in Bible times.
The light was intensifying. In one easy movement, her tall form sat erect, her eyes wide. A crackling!
Chills ran over her entire body; her nostrils flared. When her feet hit the floor, she was already running and pushing aside the curtains. She knew before she actually saw the grim spectacle before her. Through the branches of the large tree, a hot, orange light on the barn’s east side danced, the mocking tongues of flame daring her to do something about them. She could only think of demons, of hateful, vengeful destructive devils in the form of licking flames, greedy in their intent to destroy.
A scream, primal and hoarse, tore from her throat. She backed away, a hand to her mouth, as if to stop that awful sound, that implication of horror.
She was aware of the floor creaking. She wasted no time, her hands on the walls to steady herself as she descended the stairs. She called out, or thought she called, but in reality it was another hoarse scream.
“Fire! Fire!”
Her mother reached her first, a hand at the neckline of her homemade nightgown, her eyes wide with terror. By the light of the crackling flames, the kitchen had taken on an eerie, orange hue, with shadows that pulsed and danced.
Dat came to the bedroom door, his hair and beard wild in the undulating light. He yelled, then dove back to retrieve his pants, buttoning them as he reappeared.
There was a high shriek from Levi’s bed. Instinctively, Sarah rushed to his bedside, telling him to stay calm. The barn was on fire, and she needed to make a phone call.
Dat was incoherent. Mam was shoving her feet into her barn shoes, crying out about dialing 911. Sarah pushed past them both, ripped open the
kesslehaus
(wash house) door, flew down the steps, and dashed across the lawn to the phone shanty beside the shed.
She tried to turn the knob three times, but it was stubborn. So she turned in the opposite direction, and the door flung inward. Turning her head, she gasped in terror as the voracious flames licked their way to the barn’s rooftop.
The horses screamed. The high, intense sound scattered Sarah’s senses for a second. Summoning all her strength, she focused on the telephone on the wooden shelf.
She had no flashlight. Her hands scrabbled wildly now, searching desperately for a source of light. She felt the smooth roundness of a small Bic lighter. Thank God.
Instantly, she flicked it with her thumb and held it steady. A tiny orange flame rewarded her with a small circle of light—ironically so necessary when only a few hundred feet away the same element was now destroying their livelihood.
Lifting the receiver, she jabbed hard at the 9 and then hit the 1 twice. Instantly, a dispatcher on the other end of the line spoke in clipped, precise tones. Sarah gave him articulate directions and then replaced the receiver, a terrible dread seizing her as she kicked open the door.
Acceptance would have been easier if she hadn’t had to listen to the desperate cries of the horses. They thrashed and kicked, completely beside themselves with fear. Cows and heifers bawled, their raw fear transforming ordinary moos into sounds of frightful proportions. Sarah barreled straight through the stable door as flames roared overhead, the haymow fully engulfed.
Dat was a dark tragic figure now, so human and pitiful, somehow so unable. Mam, so small and helpless, shoved open the barnyard door.
With a cry and a yank, Dat released the cows from the iron locks around their necks, the lever opening them in perfect unison. Each cow backed over the gutter and turned, bawling, as Dat waved his arms. He yelled and yelled, the sound of his voice futile now, as the roaring and crackling became louder.