Believing the Dream

by Lauraine Snelling

  “Astrid, you’re an artist.”

  She shook her head and rolled her eyes. “I just like to bake and make things look nice.”

  Thorliff gazed at his little sister. You’re growing up, and I’m not here to see it. What would happen if I stayed, didn’t go back to St. Olaf? It would certainly save a lot of money. Far used to be so against my leaving, I wonder what he’d say if I decided not to return. Would it make a difference with Anji? Has the blizzard hit Northfield too? Or only tried to smother us here on the Dakota plains? At a lull in the conversation, the wind seemed to increase its fury. Or had he just not noticed that it had been howling all along?

  Too many questions, too little mind left. He smiled up at Astrid when she set the first piece of the pie in front of him. “Shouldn’t this be for Far?”

  “No. Tonight you are the guest of honor.”

  “Tomorrow, however, you get to milk cows.” Andrew nudged him under the table with his boot toe.

  “So enjoy the honor tonight.” Haakan accepted the second piece from his daughter. “Mange takk.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  When they’d all been served and the coffee cups replenished, Thorliff cut the flaky crust with his fork. He scooped the bite to his mouth and looked up to see Astrid watching his every motion. He chewed and swallowed, making sure his face changed not a whit. Looking down, he cut another bite.

  “Thorliff.” Her wail made him laugh.

  “Can’t I tease you anymore?” He licked the tines of his fork. “Umm. Best pie I’ve had for a long time.” Pictures of Cook fixing his supper and packing his dinner box cascaded through his mind as he took another bite. Cook loved to make sure he got enough to eat, but even her pastries were no match for this one. Could it partly be because he was home and everything tasted better here, eating with his family instead of by himself at the newspaper office or in the dining room at school?

  “Thank you, Astrid. And you are an artist, only with dough and flour and such.”

  “She draws real pretty too.” Andrew scraped the pie juice from his plate. “Are we going out to check on the stock?” He looked to his father for an answer.

  Haakan shook his head. “Not tonight with that blizzard the way it’s howling. Everything was shut up tight. Let’s just pray it dies out by the morning.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  December 23, 1893

  But it didn’t.

  Ingeborg cupped her elbows with her hands, grateful for the thick woolen sweater her mother-in-law, Bridget, had knit for her. The wind, the horrendous, vicious wind that tore at the house, seeped in through the tiniest of cracks, stealing the warmth and blowing frigid blasts that took her back through the years—back to when Roald died.

  The pit—the eternal black pit, she could feel it, could almost see it on the edges of her vision. It had nearly squeezed the life out of her those years ago, and it always waited for her to succumb again. The fear of it made her shudder with an icy chill that even the roaring storm could not dispel.

  “Mor?”

  If Ingeborg turned quickly enough she knew she would see the darkness slithering away, gnashing its teeth at the interruption.

  “Ja.” Ingeborg sucked in lungfuls of life-giving breath and, grateful for the reprieve, reached out to her sleepy-eyed daughter. “What is it?”

  “Where’s Far?”

  “He and the boys fought their way out to the barn to milk.”

  “Are you sure they made it?”

  “Ja, three tugs on the rope.”

  “I dreamed that the blizzard covered our house right over.” Astrid snuggled into her mother’s embrace. “Like it did the soddy.”

  “Most likely covered the soddy again too.” Thank you, Father God, for our sturdy house and for banishing the pit by bringing my daughter to me. I will not fall in again, for you promised to deliver me. You did before. Her gratitude swelled and forced the shimmering drops in her eyes to overflow.

  “You are crying. What is the matter?” Astrid leaned back enough to gaze into her mother’s face.

  “Not sad, at least no longer. Joy perhaps?”

  “For the blizzard?” The horror in the little girl’s voice widened her eyes and mouth.

  “We are safe, we have each other, and we are not sick.” That other time, terrible sickness had taken Carl and all they’d found of Roald was his pocketknife. Surely God would not allow such tragedy again.

  “And Christmas is almost here.”

  “Ja, I’m grateful for that too.” She hugged Astrid one more time and set her back a step so she could cup her face with loving hands and smile into those eyes so blue. “Ah, Astrid, my heart, what would I do without you?”

  “Be sad?” Astrid hugged her mother one more time. “I’ll get dressed and help you with breakfast. Or do you think I should go help milk?”

  “No, your far gave us strict instructions to stay in the house. He said the wind might just send us flying over the prairie.” Ingeborg shivered at another screech at the eaves. “Go on and get dressed. Put on an extra petticoat and a sweater.”

  As Astrid left the room, Ingeborg took the sourdough crock off the warming shelf, measured out two cups to mix with milk, and set it back to grow again. Then she added flour, salt, eggs, and some bacon grease to the mixture for pancakes. If the dough set some before the men returned, it wouldn’t hurt. The pancakes would just be lighter. The yeasty aroma of the batter made her sniff deeply in appreciation. If there was any batter left over from breakfast she would knead in extra flour and let it rise to make rolls for supper. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve—the candlelight service at church, and the children’s program.

  “Uff da,” she muttered to herself. “And so much yet to do.”

  She took the copper boiler to the porch door and set it beside the new door to the outside. The wind pleaded for her to come out, whistling through any crack it could find, a sibilant siren’s call to eternal sleep. She buttoned up her coat, pulled her hat down over her ears and, mittens in place, stepped outside long enough to scoop the boiler full of snow to melt on the stove. Before she finished, the cold had already penetrated her coat and muffler. “Uff da, indeed.” She glared at the swirling snow. “You’ll not take any of us, ever again.” She turned and, with a grunt, slammed the door against the banshees and returned to her kitchen to slide the boiler to the back of the stove. They wouldn’t have to haul water from the well to the house anyway, and if needed, they could melt snow for the chickens and the pigs too, even the cattle if necessary. But knowing Haakan, he had filled the barrels in the barn to water the stock in an emergency like this. She glanced up at the carved walnut clock on the shelf, their Christmas present one year from Olaf.

  “Mor, how come they’re not back yet?”

  “They’ll be in soon. The blizzard makes everything go slower. They’ll water, feed, and clean out the manure before breakfast so they don’t have to go back out there until evening.”

  “What about my chickens?”

  “Andrew will take care of them.”

  “What if this lasts through Christmas?” Astrid finished unbraiding her hair to begin brushing it.

  “Then we all stay snug in our own houses and go visiting later.”

  “Our presents will be late.”

  “I know.” Ingeborg finished slicing the slab of bacon and wiped her hands on her apron. “Here, let me help you.”

  “Can you braid in these ribbons?” Astrid held up two red-and-green plaid ribbons.

  “Ja, that I can.”

  The clock hands both pointed to the nine when Paws rose from his bed behind the stove, tail wagging, and made his way to the door. After the clomping of three pairs of boots, the door from the porch finally opened. Paws continued to wag his tail but no longer did he leap up and yip his greetings. His muzzle was near to white as the snow on the men’s hats and shoulders, and the rest of his once caramel-colored face was faded like cloth left out in the sun too long.

  “Thank the good
Lord for a warm house and a secure barn.” Haakan set a bucket of milk on the counter. “This nearly froze just between the house and the barn.”

  “So did my face.” Thorliff leaned down to pet the dog, receiving a flick of tongue on his hand for the effort. “Aw, Paws, you’ve become an old dog while I was gone.”

  “Good thing we insulated the cheese house too. There was frost on the cans out there but not froze solid.” Andrew unwound the muffler from his neck. “We fed some of the fresh milk to the hogs and chickens.” He brought his basket of eggs to show Astrid. “Look, that one froze in the nest.” An egg with a crack down one side lay atop the others.

  “But my hens were all right?”

  “Ja, and that rooster tried to get me again. He’s about due for the stewpot.”

  “You just don’t talk to him right.” Astrid took the eggs over to the dry sink to clean them.

  “Breakfast will be ready as soon as you are. There’s plenty of warm water in the boiler for washing. Astrid, bring me the eggs from yesterday and then pour these freezing men some coffee. The cream is already on the table.”

  With her mind humming thanksgiving for her men being safe inside again, Ingeborg poured pancake batter onto the square flat skillet and moved the sizzling bacon from another frying pan onto a plate.

  “And to think you made it home just before this blizzard hit.” Ingeborg patted Thorliff’s shoulder as she set the platter of bacon in front of him. “Our God is so good to us.”

  “Let’s hope that train is stopped in some station instead of out on the prairie somewhere.” Haakan smiled at his wife as she took her place at the other end of the table. “Now, let us give thanks. We have so much to be thankful for.”

  “I’m just grateful that wind can’t get in here.” Astrid shuddered. “It sure wants to.”

  Ah, this is such a far cry from what life used to be here. Ingeborg brought her thoughts back to the moment and joined in the table prayer. Now if only everyone else in Blessing, nay, in all of North Dakota and wherever the blizzard roared, were as snug and tight as the Bjorklunds.

  “So, Thorliff, tell us what school is like for you.” Haakan leaned back in his chair, patting his stomach. “Mor, that was mighty good.”

  Thorliff nodded. How do I tell them without telling them all? He ran a forefinger around the rim of his coffee cup and trapped a sigh before it could escape. The truth, always tell the truth. He glanced up from under his eyelashes to see if Mor had just said that again or if it was only in his mind.

  She nodded, her smile encouraging him to begin.

  “School is harder than I thought it would be.”

  Haakan looked up from tamping tobacco into the bowl of his pipe with his forefinger. “You mean harder to study or . . .”

  “I study all right.”

  “You have time to study?” Ingeborg picked her knitting out of a basket she’d brought to the table and adjusted the four ivory needles that said she was knitting a sock. She caught the trailing yarn over her fingers and inserted one needle into the next stitch. When started, she raised her gaze to meet his, searching for the real answer behind his pauses.

  “Ja, my work at the paper gives me a room of my own, like I told you in the letters. The night we print the paper, that is all any of us does, but other days I have time. You should hear that old press thump. Sounds almost as bad as our steam engine. But I can pick type now almost as fast as Elizabeth. That’s Miss Rogers, my boss’s daughter.”

  “She works there too?” A ring of smoke haloed Haakan’s head.

  “Ja, but not all the time.” Thorliff shook his head. “She sure has strong opinions.”

  “She goes to St. Olaf too? I think you wrote?”

  Another nod. “She is studying to be a doctor.”

  “A woman doctor?” Andrew looked up

  Just tell them about Anji. No, not for anything. Coward. The discussion in his head made him want to run right out into the blizzard.

  “What does your school look like?” Astrid propped her chin on her stacked fists.

  Ah, something easy. Thorliff turned slightly in his chair to see her better. Anything rather than the questions chasing like rainsqualls across his mother’s face. “St. Olaf is on the top of a hill, so Old Main, the first and largest building, looks out over the countryside. It is four stories tall, made out of brick, with a beautiful tower pointing straight into the heavens. All of my classes are there. The dining hall is in the basement. I do a lot of my studying in the reading room, and my first room was on the top floor.”

  “Is it higher than our barn?”

  “Ja, and with tall windows.” He didn’t add that sometimes he found himself looking out the windows at the oak and maple trees rather than listening to his professors. “I wrote you all this.”

  “I know, but I like to hear you tell about it.”

  The adoration in her eyes made him reach out and give a gentle tug on one of her braids. “I see you have Christmas ribbons in your hair. How lovely.”

  “M-mange takk.” Her whisper tugged at his heart. How was it that now that he was home, he realized anew how much he missed his family. This day would be perfect if only he could talk to Anji and straighten out this mess they seemed to have made. Did she long for him as he did her, or had she banished him from her heart forever?

  “Do you have friends there?”

  Thorliff described the two other young men he usually ate dinner and sometimes studied with. “But one of them lives on the hill, and I live down in the town, so there is not so much time to be together.”

  “And you are pleased with your job?” Ingeborg passed the plate of molasses cookies around.

  “Ja, more than pleased. I brought you a copy of the articles I have written. The Christmas contest was my idea, and it went over very well. Mr. Rogers said we picked up some new subscriptions because of it, and a couple of advertisers said they would like to work with us if we do it again.”

  “Will Mr. Rogers do that?”

  “He said so. I’m going to suggest something similar for Easter.” He nodded his thanks when his mother pushed the cookie plate closer to him. “I write the obits. . . .” At their looks of confusion, he paused and added, “obituaries, unless it is someone really well known, then Mr. Rogers writes it. He likes writing editorials the best, so perhaps I will get a chance to write hard news one of these days.”

  “There’s a man come to town from Norway. He’s staying at the boardinghouse, and he sends articles back to newspapers in Oslo.” Andrew brushed the shavings off the animal he was carving.

  “Let me see.” Astrid reached for the figure. “A donkey.”

  “Ja, for the manger scene. I tried a camel, but”—Andrew shook his head—“I haven’t seen a real camel, and I know horses, mules, and sheep real good.”

  “Well.” Thorliff corrected his younger brother automatically, looking up in time to catch his mother’s smothered smile. He cocked an eyebrow, and she shook her head.

  Astrid stroked the carved figure. “You carve as good as Onkel Olaf.”

  Andrew reached for the donkey. “I need to take a bit more off the rump.”

  Thorliff and his mother swapped glances that left them both smiling. Haakan rocked his chair back on the hind legs in time to earn a swat on the shoulder as his wife went by on her way to replenish the fire in the cookstove.

  “I know. If I break the legs, I have to fix them.” He ducked away and brought his chair back upright. “Such bossy women in our family.” But his smile said he was teasing, as did hers.

  Thorliff watched the byplay between the two of them. Would he and Anji ever be like that? Showing love in little ways, sharing good times in a snowbound house redolent with the fragrance of cooking ham and apples baking in cinnamon sauce? He refused to contemplate further and rose, stretching his arms above his head with a yawn. “How about I refill that woodbox?”

  “Ja, and we better get to refilling the water barrels in the barn. Even the little daylight
out there is better than none.” Haakan copied his son’s stretch and took his pipe to the stove to knock the ash into the firebox. Taking out his pocketknife, he scraped the pipe bowl clean and knocked the edge of it against the stove opening again. He set his pipe in the rack on the small shelf and drawer on the wall behind the stove where he kept his tobacco.

  “I thought you’d stay in all day,” Ingeborg said.

  “Sorry. Let’s go then, boys.”

  Once bundled up again, the three of them stepped out into the frigid blast. Haakan shook the rope free of the drifting snow and motioned Thorliff and Andrew to go ahead while he took the snow shovel and cleared the steps. When they got to the well house, Andrew began winching up buckets of water, dumping them into the buckets waiting to be attached to the yokes Thorliff took down from the wall. With a heavy bucket on each end, Thorliff adjusted the yoke over his shoulders and walked sideways out the door. Snow drifted in while the door was open. Haakan cleared the way for Thorliff as they leaned against the wind only to find the snow piled halfway up the front of the barn door. Thorliff set the pails on the icy ground while Haakan shoveled just enough snow for them to open the door and step into the sanctuary of warmth and peace. While Haakan shoveled more snow out of the way, Thorliff broke the film of ice in the barrels and poured in the buckets of water.

  Back and forth they trekked until the barrels were full and the livestock all watered again. Every time he stepped back outside the first breath of icy air felt like a knife burning and stabbing deep in his chest.

  “I think it’s letting up some,” Haakan said when he caught his breath again. He leaned against one of the timber posts, shaking his head. “This is some storm.”

  Thorliff listened. Had the wind really died down? He crossed to the door and pulled it open. Loose snow followed it in, but one could actually tell it was slowing. The snow still swirled, but . . .”The wind is dropping, like you said.”

  “Thank the good Lord for His mercy and favor.”

  Now I can go see Anji? The thought made Thorliff want to run to the house, grab his skis, freshly waxed and ready on their pegs, and schuss across the fields. He could be there in no time.