Yellow Wood

By Terry Trafton

Autumns in Southern Indiana blaze with vibrant colors and nowhere are they bolder and more spectacular than across the rolling hillsides around Jasper and Huntingburg in an area known as Yellow Wood. Against this fiery backdrop of fall colors begins an enchanting and unusual love story that puts conscience and faith in conflict. Physician and amateur photographer, 35-year-old Aaron Fain is obsessed with a beautiful Amish woman who has the uncanny ability to see things before they happen. When Aaron looks at the photographs he took of Emily Yoder, he is shocked by what he sees. Immersed in an eerie white light as she stares into the camera lens, in her eyes are images that are not only fascinating but also inexplicably frightening.
In the seductive heat of a sweltering Midwestern summer overwhelming passions push their relationship beyond the boundaries of propriety. Fear of having to choose between her love for Aaron and her devotion to Amish customs and obligations weighs heavily on Emily’s conscience. Captivated by the simplicity and innocence of the Amish, Fain ‘s perceptions of the culture, despite his efforts toward a deeper understanding, remain idealized and superficial. One evening at sunset while sitting uneasily in a sparsely-furnished Amish living room, Fain sees a cloth doll without a face, without hands and arms, propped against the back of a stiff wooden chair. He immediately realizes that Emily has knowingly revealed aspects of her life that would shatter his romanticized perceptions. It is this harsh reality that causes a disenchanted Aaron Fain to turn away in disappointment. Susan Adams has returned to Jasper after a recent divorce, and it is to her that Aaron reveals a conscience darkened by guilt and anguish.
Late on a summer night a slender shape on the stone pathway in Fain’s garden, her arms reach for Aaron as she tells him she wants to hear one last time her name on his lips, and that he must once again proclaim his love for her before the night sky changes forever. It is then that Fain understands the mystery that is Emily Yoder. Above them in the stone-cold blackness that is space, a new star blinks icy white and no longer is the vain Cassiopeia the reigning queen in the starry sky.
Yellow Wood is a sensitive and magical love story about a materialistic starry-eyed doctor and an enigmatic Amish woman who has a profound knowledge of the stars and a mysterious alliance with the Lyra constellation. Set in the Amish Triangle of Southern Indiana, the story with its paranormal overtones reveals the tenuous and fragile nature of relationships and is guaranteed to keep the reader’s attention from beginning to end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Aug 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9781642375633

Book preview

T.T.

The Road Not Taken

By Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Chapter 1

BENEATH A WHITE vinyl canopy, her face partially concealed by early morning shadows, the young Amish woman seemed in no hurry to interact with the dozen or so people who stood patiently under umbrellas observing the early morning activities around them. Aaron had seen her at the farmer’s market other Saturday mornings, and this morning during a persistent rain, he watched her move crates and cardboard boxes filled with produce. She arranged vegetables on long wooden planks, but left potatoes and apples in baskets under a wooden counter. When their eyes met coincidentally, she smiled slightly. It was not a smile seen in her eyes. Lines of light brown hair trailed out from under a black bonnet and stuck to her damp skin. There were moments when her pale eyes stared into the distance, when she seemed to be thinking fondly about something or someone. Too soon, and to his dismay, the woman turned away to wait on customers, heavy-eyed shoppers who resembled stiff sleepy shadows under this black and broody sky.

For Aaron Fain, early summer mornings in rain were often extraordinary. Steamy fogs still hovering above the long pastures created a pleasant sense of isolation and escape, and the sound of raindrops striking the pavement sharply was strangely mesmerizing. As a young boy growing up in Southern Indiana, he had thought how carelessly promises were disclosed on rainy days. Rain always sang those promises boldly . . . bravely. With each raindrop came thoughts of living closer to Calvary—a virtuous time when purged guilt denoted freedom, another chance to inhale the fresh rare air of innocence. As puddles deepened, Fain wanted the cleansing rain running through his veins, wanted the sins of being human to dissipate; but even with this redeeming rain cold against his skin, he knew sins never suspended for long their ruthless attacks on a conscience already weak, already fatigued too severely.

During those early years of their lives, Aaron and his brother Charlie were in church practically every Sunday, sitting with their friends, listening to a nervous preacher attempt to put a benevolent God in their lives. It must have worked for Aaron, because his belief in a deity was as strong now as at any other time in his life. Though he was not a member of a church congregation, he had attended a protestant church with some regularity—until Jane left. After that, the realization that his faith had taken a shaky and profane hiatus continued to weigh heavily on his conscience. Though he had not been to church since, strong convictions remained, and not once had he denied the existence of God. But God had a tremendous temper. God, although merciful, could lay down a curse on those who had strayed too far from The Word. Such a thought generated real fear in a man like Fain, a man who had relegated the sacred cannons of Christianity to secondary status behind personal ambitions.

Sin was endemic in the genesis of humankind. It came with a sentence of mortality adjudicated in a Higher Court. To be human was to be a sinner. The idea that one sin was more serious than another was frequently contested among religious academics. But for Aaron Fain, sin was sin, and each sin required its own redemption. Although recovering sinners were determined to walk the straight and narrow pathway to salvation, there was some wobbling along the way, and requests for divine intercession were frequent.

In the end, the faithful would survive. The Sunday morning crusaders marched to a resolute drumbeat, proclaiming their beliefs openly, unabashedly, while continuing to endure the sins of humanity. The Sunday morning hypocrites proclaimed a Sunday morning commitment that came up short on other days of the week. But Sunday would come again, and each time it did, strong-of-word but weak-of-heart worshipers had another opportunity to confess and be forgiven. Nevertheless, the rain was momentary consolation for this man who had wandered too far and too fast from the passion of Jesus Christ.

As she put green beans into a plastic bag with wet hands, rain dripped from her fingertips. After wiping her fingers in the white apron, she reached down for another bag, which she immediately filled with radishes. A smallish woman held a black umbrella with both hands, as though she expected it to blow away at any second. But there was no wind this morning, only the music of rain.

Nervousness apprehended him as he stood curiously in the rain only a few feet from her. Umbrellas passed in monotonous-gray, inky shades. The dampness in his shoes was suddenly perturbing. Still, he continued to watch the beautiful Amish girl whose smile seemed fixed on two delicate lips. When she saw him standing like a statue in this Saturday morning rain, what would she think? Holding an umbrella which he had not opened, Aaron was barely conscious of rain dripping from his hair. If she looked his way now, she would just shake her head and laugh him away—blink him right out of her life. But there was no reason at all for her to consider him in rain, in sunlight, not even in starlight. Realizing this, he shrugged his shoulders slightly. Aaron Fain was just another insignificant shadow on this stone-gray day.

Many farms in the surrounding area were owned and worked entirely by Amish families. The farmer’s market was dependable income for them, particularly during summer and fall months. They came to sell fruits, vegetables, fresh breads, and pots of cut flowers. The numerous buckets and baskets of lilies, irises, geraniums, and cone flowers splashed a small brightness across the otherwise dreary weather. Very much a familiar portrait of life in and around Jasper, Indiana, rows of black buggies set against the rainy morning were images of another time and place. Like apparitions out of the dawn, they had moved in a slow methodical caravan toward the Dubois County Fairgrounds. To Fain, the overwhelming blackness of so many Amish buggies in the long shadows beneath the trees was reminiscent of funeral processions he had seen.

On the surface of a puddle near him, Aaron caught her shimmering reflection—the edge of her bonnet a somber shade against the sky. As raindrops struck the puddle, her face became a series of undulating lines rippling across the water. The puddle was a mosaic of dull flat tones with a bright splotch of red lipstick reflected. Low on the eastern horizon, the sun white, inky hues veiling trees and fields, the morning had a distinctly melancholy feel. Closer to a brick community building enclosed in drizzly grayness, were several huge oak trees, their long leafy branches snaking out across the lines of Amish buggies.

When he looked back at the young woman, who had just finished bagging carrots and apples, Aaron was surprised to see her looking at him. He opened the umbrella hurriedly and dropped the front edge low enough to conceal his face from her. Turning, and then walking a few steps nearer the building, Fain felt a shiver, a kind of icy spike in his chest, but immediately shrugged it off as nothing more than a chill brought on by cold rain. As he continued toward the building, which seemed smaller beneath the oak trees, the same thought persisted. He could not deny that he had come to the farmer’s market to see the Amish girl who weeks ago had been such an evocative stranger in his life. Why had he lowered his umbrella so quickly? Too soon, another more perturbing thought disrupted any euphoria that came when their eyes met. It was only an unintentional glance, nothing more than coincidence.

Rain drummed heavily the tin roof of the pavilion. Looking out through a nearby window, Aaron watched the morning turn darker. If heavier rain came, customers would leave and sellers would be obliged to pack away their fruits and vegetables. If that happened, she’d leave him wishing for sunshine on this rainy summer morning. Even during contemplation, a 35-year-old man does not stare into puddles or regard too long a gray sky filled with rain. But Aaron remembered other summer rains when the world had fascination and magic that were genuine. All those rains ago, as Herbert Avenue filled with streams of water, he and his younger brother Charlie had splashed the puddles in yellow boots. They had sailed away to new adventures on small boats that floated better than either expected. Charlie was gone, and the loneliness never ended. He had taken the sunshine and left behind lonesome days that stuck thick and heavy to even the most extraordinary summer day.

Twenty minutes passed. In the air were the sweet aromas of fresh breads. As more people came in from outside, concession stands became increasingly crowded. Tables were occupied by damp people—most of them Amish. Standing up to leave, Aaron was startled to see her walk toward him. He felt the rush of blood to his face, tried to turn away but could not lower his eyes from hers.

May we sit here? she smiled. A heavy-set man in a black hat with a stiff brim stood a few steps behind her.

I was just leaving, Aaron said, wiping a napkin across the table to clean away any stains or spills that might be there. But there were none, and for a moment, Fain felt distressingly foolish.

She must have sensed his uneasiness. There’s enough room for three, she told him, gesturing toward three empty chairs. There’s no reason for you to hurry away.

The man with the black hat had already sat down in one of the chairs and paid no attention whatsoever to the young woman. His white shirt stained and wet, he seemed tired. Nodding nonchalantly in Fain’s direction, he removed from his overalls a white handkerchief which he used to wipe his face. Too much rain—not good for business, unless you’re a sod farmer, he said, shrugging his shoulders slightly.

The sweet smell of perfume replaced the fresh smell of hot breads. Fain thought the Amish a simple people who did not readily embrace the modern age. Her appearance was clearly Amish, or possibly Mennonite, but there were indications that she might not be entirely fastened to those embedded traditions of either culture. Aaron had never been good at sizing up people, always presumed too much and was usually disappointed that people were much different from his initial impressions. She continued to regard him oddly he thought.

We sell each Saturday morning, she began, even if it’s raining.

That’s good, Aaron nodded. I’m sure I’ll see you again.

She was still smiling when he walked away. Then, sooner than he realized, she was gone, lost among the many people who had come inside to stay dry. His thoughts were not so much about the young woman as they were concentrated on the man with her, an older man whose face was serene, a man whose manner suggested he was quite comfortable sitting beside this young woman who had caught Fain’s attention. Possibly the man was her husband. Instantly, however, Aaron knew these impressions were more preliminary assessments, which seemed accurate, but in the end might be nothing more than hurried misperceptions.

As rain fell harder, the day turned grayer. Remembering that he had come to take pictures, Aaron glanced at the camera strap on his shoulder. The camera was still in a case that was dripping wet. He had not taken a single picture. If he could just catch her when she was not looking, Fain could capture her face. Maybe immersed in a crowd was the best way to be inconspicuous. Since pictures were taken here all the time, there was no reason for Aaron to hesitate. Although he wanted to preserve her face, Fain felt guilty taking her photograph without permission. But, a stronger sentiment—determination—prompted him to raise the camera slowly. Surprised to find her sitting where he had left her, Aaron was sure he was being observed by people offended by his intention to photograph such a striking Amish woman—pious people who considered his action an act of thievery. Twice when Fain had her face framed, he lowered the camera and walked deeper into the crowd. Then, in one bold moment, he aimed the camera in her direction and heard the shutter snap twice. Since she was only 15 feet away, he’d be discouraged if her image was not there when he looked later.

Walking back to his car, Aaron paused a moment near the place where he had seen her earlier. A blue tarp was stretched across the produce. For some strange reason, he took a picture of the empty stall. Other sellers were only now stretching tarpaulins across their fruits and vegetables. A few still did business and seemed reluctant to let the weather shut down their sales, no matter how intensely it rained.

Inside the car, heart racing, breathing hurried, Fain looked at the photographs. For the next minute, he stared at the pictures in disbelief. She was looking directly at him when he took both pictures. This could not be possible. With no other people in the frame, there she was, eyes wide, looking straight into the camera lens. If only rain would take away what had happened, wash away the face he had stolen. Long sheets of gray lay heavier across this June morning. Smudges of black on the pavement were laced with muted reflections of car lights. Rain ran down the windshield in surreptitious streams, scrambling the landscape into surreal images. The sky was now so bleak that the day took on the face of late evening.

Fain traced the sharp lines of her face with his index finger, while thinking how extraordinary it would be to touch that face. Shadows passed. They were the silhouettes of shoppers hurrying to their cars and trucks. Again, guilt seized him. Thoughtlessly, selfishly, he had invaded her privacy. Had he been compelled to steal her face? Or had she given him that beautiful countenance willingly? Maybe he had not stolen it at all. She had seen him standing in the rain watching her. She had seen the camera. The sound of a horn not far away startled him.

It had rained each day for the past two weeks, and in many conversations was talk of sunshine and blue skies. The sun, now a soft white impression on the overcast sky, showed no sign of burning through the ceiling of dull somber clouds. If the rain stopped, he’d go back and tell her he had snapped her picture inadvertently. Ten minutes passed, and then ten minutes more of heavy rain. After another 30 minutes, rain fell off appreciably. But forming on the windshield was the watery likeness of a face. As he watched in surprise, twisting, spiraling rivulets of water merged into a ghostly visage with two freakish, misshapen eyes, their empty sockets deep vacuous cavities filling with rain. He began to think this entire thing silly, a gown man waiting for rain to stop so he could once more resume his strange fascination with this Amish woman who seemed more a girl than a mature woman. And what about her thoughts? Wouldn’t she consider his actions boyish, immature, impractical, even laughable? After all, it must seem peculiar to her that he would continue to hang around the farmer’s market on such a rainy day.

Unable to say how he knew, Fain was convinced that this woman had an oddness about her—a quality not necessarily eerie, but one more enigmatic. This strangeness was in her eyes, which seemed to probe rather than engage, eyes that saw profoundly more than just an exterior image. These were penetrating eyes, perceptive, intuitive eyes that pierced the deepest shadows. As Aaron continued to examine the two photographs that were identical in every respect, he was surprised to see a white aura appear. Her face looked at him out of a scintillating whiteness. Stunning gray eyes, almost transparent against this luminous burst of light, called to him, haunting eyes filled with poignant imagery—sunlit fields, starry skies, visions of places he had been—and then, the head of a faceless doll in the shade of a large tree. Turning away from the photograph, convinced these were hallucinations, random, abstract illusions, Aaron heard a distinct voice—speaking in veiled whispers that were exclamations of who she was. Closing his eyes for a moment to shut out an increasingly doleful landscape, summer sunshine streamed like a rushing river, enticing him to loosen the confinements of a life shackled to materialism, a mundane life, driven, not by hope, but by repetitious monotony. Adventure was absent from this life of habits and routines. Did she already know that? Had she seen it in his eyes, only to remind him now?

Suddenly, as darkness fell heavy around him, Aaron Fain was on a freight train on a rainy night, a passenger riding the rails to nowhere special, leaning against the night as the sound of a long mournful whistle cut into the rain that fell in steely lines, obligations, promises, dusty memories perishing under the heavy iron wheels that moved the train inexorably to a new destination. How could a man who had accomplished so much be so inclined to let go? Sadness came with rain. Hopes of exoneration came with rain. His own sins, many of them inherited, most committed out of weakness, these were the sins of being human, unavoidable associate sins that too often intensified in rain. The longer his eyes remained shut, the harder it rained, the heavier the weight dragging him down, and the more oppressing those sensations of guilt.

When Aaron looked again at the picture of the attractive Amish woman, the intense light behind her was gone. Her face calm, her eyes peaceful, she smiled slightly. Curiously, the untied strings of her bonnet, dangling long down her neck, reminded Fain of roads untraveled. During those next few seconds, he knew with certainty that she had wanted him to realize that his life was about to change, and for some unknown reason, despite his fascination with her, Aaron Fain was decidedly frightened.

Chapter 2

MOTIVATED IN PART by a shaky conscience, he’d have to acknowledge his intrusive crime. Returning to the pavilion in what was now little more than a drizzle, intending to apologize for taking a couple clandestine photos, Dr. Aaron Fain hesitated nearly a minute before entering the building. Though he felt a confession appropriate, the strange aura in the pictures, the white energy distinguishable around the young woman, had momentarily checked his intent to apologize. The camera had caught something unexplainable. Or had it? To think he had seen in the photographs something surreal, even supernatural, was preposterous. Another, more practical thought suggested that the bright light was nothing more than another freakish coincidence.

Once inside, he went directly to the food court, which was still busy, and after searching among the many strangers who would always be strangers in his life, Aaron’s determination to confess had all but vanished. The apology for stealing her face was off, and when he saw her standing with the bearded man, he raised his camera and snapped three other pictures, and this time he was sure she had not seen him take these new photographs. Fain had stolen her face again, three more times really. Hurriedly, he snapped several more pictures of this captivating Amish woman, whose bonnet straps still hung loose, whose white apron was noticeably