The Divide Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE ALLIANCE

  and other novels by Jolina Petersheim

  The Alliance

  “Petersheim has written a novel of hope forged in unlikely circumstances and a romance sparked in the cold of despair. Readers of faith who have questioned their place in the world, who wonder what they might become if society’s bounds no longer held them, will be enthralled.”

  BOOKLIST

  “This unusual dystopian work mixes hope and faith with fear and cynicism . . . [in an] astute meditation on the intersection between belief systems and the politics of aggression.”

  PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

  “[With its] intriguing plot, riveting storytelling, character depth, [and] twists and turns, this . . . drama will leave readers eager for the sequel.”

  CBA RETAILERS + RESOURCES

  “A riveting and thoroughly entertaining read from beginning to end, The Alliance is unreservedly recommended and certain to be an enduringly popular addition to community library general fiction collections.”

  MIDWEST BOOK REVIEW

  “Finally, an apocalyptic novel ablaze with hope—just the kind of story I champion. A must-read.”

  SARAH MCCOY, New York Times bestselling author of The Mapmaker’s Children and The Baker’s Daughter

  “The Alliance is a gripping story that shows how cultural differences drop away in the face of life-altering circumstance and only the most deeply held truths survive. I raced to the end and wanted more. Can’t wait for the conclusion of this series!”

  FRANCINE RIVERS, New York Times bestselling author of Redeeming Love and A Voice in the Wind

  “Through her authentic, sympathetic characters, Jolina Petersheim conveys hope and redemption in impossible situations. Readers will not want to leave the world portrayed in The Alliance, even as it falls apart around them.”

  ERIKA ROBUCK, author of The House of Hawthorne

  “An absorbing and thought-provoking ‘what if?’ drama that takes a compassionate look at what divides and ultimately unites us.”

  MARYANNE O’HARA, author of Cascade

  “Beautifully written and unique, The Alliance examines the conflict between our humanity and our need to protect that which we hold dear. A book that begs to be savored on many levels.”

  LISA WINGATE, national bestselling author of The Sea Keeper’s Daughters

  “I’ve just discovered rising star Jolina Petersheim, and I’m hooked! The Alliance was a mesmerizing peek at what might happen if everything we thought we believed was suddenly tested. I can’t wait for the next installment!”

  COLLEEN COBLE, author of Mermaid Moon and the Hope Beach series

  “Captivating. Intriguing. A story that takes us beyond what we believe. This well-written tale marks Jolina Petersheim as a poignant storyteller.”

  RACHEL HAUCK, USA Today bestselling author of The Wedding Chapel

  “The Alliance is a cut above. Lovely prose and a fascinating concept make this unique novel a sure winner. Petersheim just gets better and better.”

  J. T. ELLISON, New York Times bestselling author of No One Knows

  The Midwife

  “This powerful story of redemption, forgiveness, and the power of Christ over sin challenges readers to consider modern attitudes in light of eternal truths.”

  LIFE: BEAUTIFUL MAGAZINE

  “Petersheim is an amazing new author. . . . [The Midwife is] a tale that explores what happens when you have a second chance at making things right, even if it opens old wounds.”

  ROMANTIC TIMES

  “An emotional work that is sure to draw in parents and non-parents alike with an extraordinary story full of troubled characters.”

  LIFEISSTORY.COM

  The Outcast

  “Petersheim makes an outstanding debut with this fresh and inspirational retelling of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter. Well-drawn characters and good, old-fashioned storytelling combine in an excellent choice for Nancy Mehl’s readers.”

  LIBRARY JOURNAL, starred review

  “Petersheim’s emotional story leaves readers intrigued by the purity of Rachel’s strong will, resilience, and loyalty.”

  PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

  “Like Hawthorne, Petersheim clearly dramatizes the weight of sin, but she deviates from the original by leaving room for repentance.”

  WORLD MAGAZINE, chosen as a Notable Book

  “From its opening lines, The Outcast wowed me in every way. Quickly paced, beautifully written, flawlessly executed—I could not put this book down.”

  SHE READS

  “A powerful and poignant story that transcends genre stereotypes and is not easily forgotten. The caliber of Jolina’s prose defies her debut author status, and I’m eager to read more.”

  RELZ REVIEWZ

  “You are going to love this book. Be ready to enter an amazing new world, but make sure you have a box of Kleenex for this journey.”

  A NOVEL REVIEW

  Visit Tyndale online at www.tyndale.com.

  Visit Jolina Petersheim online at jolinapetersheim.com.

  TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

  The Divide

  Copyright © 2017 by Jolina Petersheim. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of winter forest copyright © Igor Borodin/Shutterstock. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of boy copyright © 2009 Mark Wilson/Getty Images. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of sky copyright © by Taylor Nicole/Unsplash.com. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Ron Kaufmann

  Edited by Kathryn S. Olson

  Published in association with Ambassador Literary Agency, Nashville, TN.

  Some Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

  Some Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.

  The Divide is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Tyndale House Publishers at [email protected], or call 1-800-323-9400.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Petersheim, Jolina, author.

  Title: The divide / Jolina Petersheim.

  Description: Carol Stream, Illinois : Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., [2017]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016057081 | ISBN 9781496421449 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781496402226 (softcover)

  Subjects: LCSH: Mennonites—Fiction. | Interpersonal relations—Fiction. | GSAFD: Christian fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3616.E84264 D59 2017 | DDC 813/.6—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016057081

  Build: 2017-05-24 08:38:53

  To my parents, Merle and Beverly Miller, who always thought outside the box enough to encourage my writing dream

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Preview of
The Outcast

  A Note from the Author

  About the Author

  Discussion Questions

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Well, here you have it, friends: my fourth novel. There were times during The Divide’s creation that I wasn’t sure I would ever reach this stage of the process, and now—because of an indomitable group of supporters—I have.

  First off, I want to thank my wonderful publishing team at Tyndale House, who were equally determined to make this story the best it could possibly be.

  A special, heartfelt thank-you to Karen Watson, Stephanie Broene, and Kathy Olson for your unending patience. You all are a joy to work with.

  Thank you, Wes Yoder, for your good humor and kindness.

  A huge thank-you to my family members, who are so essential to the juggling act of parenting and writing. Betty and Rich Petersheim, Jen Weaver, Joanne Petersheim, Beverly and Merle Miller, Josh and Caleb Miller: Each of you has helped me pursue this dream in one way or another (but mostly by babysitting). I am deeply grateful.

  To my best friend, Misty: Thank you for your wisdom concerning these characters and for being honest when I asked where you wanted this story to go. Your input helped shape so much.

  To Joel and Marissa Kendhammer: Your testimony was key to helping me learn to overcome fear with faith. Thank you for letting God use you.

  To my daughters, Miss A and Miss M: Oh, how I love you! Thank you for helping me keep life in perspective, even when I’m on deadline. Being your mama is my favorite job in the world. You are each so special and precious to me.

  To my husband: You are the one who sees me on the good writing days and the bad, and you love me regardless. Thank you for being my constant supporter, editor, and friend. Moses’s voice would sound like a girl’s if not for you. I love you so much.

  Thank you, Lord God, for being patient with me and loving me unconditionally as I journey through this life. You are a good, good Father.

  Moses

  SEPTEMBER

  YOU NEVER KNOW how hard something’s going to be until it’s too late to change your mind. As I watch Leora ride away on the back of Jabil’s horse—her loose, dark hair snapping like a pennant—I have to fight the urge to go after her. But I know, for her sake and for the sake of her Mennonite community, I have to remain.

  It’s a good thing I do. About ten minutes later, part of the perimeter collapses with a movement as graceful and altering as an ice cliff sliding into the sea. Hot coals shower the ground. Smoke rises. I crouch behind the scaffolding, preparing to defend the property as long as I can so the families have enough time to escape into the mountains.

  The first man steps through, his figure a blur in the choking haze. I adjust my rifle, trying to find the man in the scope. I’m not fast enough. Another man runs in, and another. The fourth one pauses for only a second, but that second costs him his life. I shoot a few more times, and then I stop to reload, pressing rounds into the chamber one by one, but my fingers are shaking. I look up to see a man leveling a gun at me. My body braces for impact, which is ludicrous. You can’t brace yourself for something like that. I take a shot in the stomach and fall to my knees. I try to get to my feet but stumble until I’m sitting back in the dirt. I support my upper body by bracing my left arm on the ground and using my right arm to hold my abdomen.

  There’s so much adrenaline coursing through me that I don’t feel pain. Instead, staring down at the wound, I feel only disappointment. The community’s lives are resting in my hands because their pacifist ideals won’t allow them to fight back against the gang, even to protect their families, and now I am not sure what will become of them. This thought brings with it the first wave of debilitating pain and nausea. I should be grateful Leora left with Jabil, for even without raising a weapon, he could probably do a better job of protecting her than I. But I can’t help wishing I could relive these past hard weeks, starting when I crashed in her meadow to the moment—just an hour ago—when we kissed in front of the burning perimeter, the community’s last line of defense, which somehow helped put Leora’s and my own defenses into place.

  I hope Jabil makes her happy. I hope he loves her the way I would, if our world weren’t so messed up. But it is. I let the pain sweep me under. Oblivion is easier than reality.

  Sal

  Believing Moses good as dead, the gang rushes past him.

  I have been hiding in the shadows of Field to Table, waiting on the off chance that Moses might need me. And now he does. I study him a moment, aware that he will die out there if I don’t help him, and yet aware I might die if I do. I think of my son, Colton, on his way up the mountain, and realize there’s no point keeping myself safe for him if I never use my life to do any good. Taking a breath, I duck low and dart past Field to Table, the lane, and the blanket of coals where the fallen perimeter once stood. Moses is lying on the ground, the front of his shirt soaked with blood. My first thought is that he is actually dead, and then I see movement as his body involuntarily strains for air.

  The gang seems so intent on finding things of value, and being the first to wreck the next house, they do not notice us behind them. I understand they are going to pillage and probably burn the rest of the community to the ground, and I suppose I should care. But I don’t. I don’t care about anything but getting Moses out of here alive. I drag him by his boots under the scaffolding and press the side of my face to his mouth. His ragged breath fills the curl of my ear. He opens his eyes. Though he appears disoriented, I can tell he comprehends what’s happening. I lift Moses up as gently as possible and feel behind his back. There’s a wet spot about the size of my hand. I don’t know as much about healing as I claimed when I got that deacon to let me stay at Mt. Hebron, but I do know it’s good the bullet appears to have gone straight through.

  I shrug off my parka and my warm shirt. Shivering in my tank top, I use the shirt to stanch the blood. The gang works their way closer. Only seconds before they see us. I grab Moses again by the boots, and it takes every ounce of my strength to drag him over to the store and get him inside. His head bumps against the separation where the double doors lock into place, but I figure he won’t mind a headache as much as he would mind whatever the gang will do to him if they discover he’s alive after picking off some of their men.

  I take a break, breathing hard, and check Moses’s wound. He is bleeding out, but I have no other choice: he can’t stay in the entrance. Hooking my hands behind his armpits, I continue dragging him past the store’s emptied cooler section to the narrow hall. There are two doors, positioned side by side. The first leads to a unisex bathroom with no mirror above the pedestal sink; the second leads to the mechanical room. I push this door wider and drag Moses into it. Inside, I notice a large furnace along the back wall. Behind it is just enough space. I move him there and hurriedly back up to make sure he can’t be seen from any side. Dust furs the vents of the furnace, and dead moths appear like bits of shiny paper on the floor. Though my eyes take in these details, I don’t really see anything. I slip in behind Moses and hold him like an overgrown child. I try to keep the life in his body, even though blood drips warm down my hand.

  An hour seems to pass, but I have no idea how long it’s actually been. Spasms jerk the muscles of my back, and my tailbone feels bruised from my position between Moses and the wall. He drifts in and out of consciousness. His breathing is steady, but so’s the blood flow from the gunshot wound. We have to get out of here, but there’s nowhere to go. Why don’t they come?

  The answer arrives soon enough, with the sound of glass shattering at the front of the building. My heart in my throat, I visualize the gang’s movements—trashing their way from the cash registers, to the café, to us . . . down the hall. The overlap of footsteps and voices. Light from a torch passing by the crack beneath the door. The bathroom door opens next to us. I hold Moses tighter, his body now limp against me, and hope against hope that he won’t make a sound.

  The door to the mechanical roo
m opens, the rubber seal scraping along the uneven cement. Shadows cast by the torch loom across the wall as a man steps inside. I tremble as he yanks open an old metal cabinet that hangs near the entrance. After a minute of searching, he slams the cabinet doors shut. The torchlight grows brighter, and the sound of the crackling pine louder than before. Not even daring to breathe, I remain frozen as I clench Moses against me. Suddenly, as if satisfied there’s nothing of use to him in this room, the man turns and leaves.

  The entire store building grows quiet. Slowly, I try to change position and listen. Moses stirs. I hold him for a little longer and then whisper, “I think they’re gone.” Tears of relief and sadness burn my eyes. My first words since I gave my son away.

  Moses can no longer stand, he is so weak from the blood he lost while walking ten miles from the burned community to town. His spine is curled forward, his folded arms braced on his knees. I look back through the warehouse’s right window and almost jump out of my skin. A pair of dark eyes are staring at me, the facial features appearing distorted through the fractured glass. The eyes narrow. Shuffled steps precede the clatter of rotating bolts and locks. The right door opens. A sun-battered head sticks out, draped with a tangled mane of silver hair. I turn and point at Moses, as if I am the one who refuses to speak and not my grandmother, Papina, who uses silence to communicate her grief. She raises an eyebrow and twists her lips, the combination creating a fault line of wrinkles.

  “It was dark,” I explain. “Moses was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Papina turns her eyes from me and looks at the man in question. She taps her bare foot, and then she waves a rangy arm—jangling with bracelets—toward the warehouse.

  I nod my thanks and walk back to Moses. “My grandmother will look at you.”

  He doesn’t respond. I go down a step and gently tilt back his head. The skin of his face, not covered by his beard, is ruddy, and the V of his T-shirt outlined with sweat. I crouch and put an arm around his shoulders, forcing him to his feet. He wobbles upward, like a drunk. The trip to Liberty obviously battered him further, but if I had left him at Field to Table, he would’ve died. He could still die. But at least he has a chance now that he’s here.