“I brought the letter from Manda that Penny brought to church today. Metiz, there was one for you too.”
“Good. I thought we’d have a letter reading after dinner, or rather after the presents. Otherwise the children will think they are being left out. Bridget brought a letter from Augusta, and I have one from Solveig.
Good thing Christmas comes, and we work a bit harder at keeping in touch.” Kaaren took up potholders and lifted the pot of beans from the oven. “Let’s put the food on the table and say grace so we can eat.”
By the time everyone had eaten their fill, there wasn’t a whole lot left but a heap of dirty dishes, along with a mountain of pots and pans.
“We’ll have dessert later and let the dishes soak while we open presents, if that is all right with you.” Kaaren glanced at the line of children, who all nodded vigorously.
“You mean no more coffee yet?” Lars got a laugh from the others at his woeful look.
“I think we can manage. Into the parlor, everyone.” Laughing and teasing over chairs and floor space, everyone finally found a place to sit, with George McBride perched on a stool in the corner. Ilse had kept him from going upstairs to his room with a hand on his arm.
The carved wagons Kaaren’s uncle Olaf made for the boys were a hit, as were the rag dolls sewn by Mary Martha, the pastor’s wife, for each of the girls. Everyone got mittens, scarves, hats, or wool stockings, the favorites being those made out of rabbit fur by Metiz. Hjelmer had made ladles for the women in his blacksmith shop, and new shirts for the men came from the sewing machines now residing in most houses.
Thorliff ’s printed story pleased everyone, and when Haakan brought Ingeborg a beautifully carved box she thanked him with a huge smile.
“Look inside,” he said.
She lifted the lid to find a lovely cameo brooch. “Haakan, you shouldn’t have.” She kept shaking her head in disbelief while at the same time pinning it at the neck of her dress.
“Onkel Olaf made the box, but I cut and dried the wood.”
“As he does for most all of my furniture.” Onkel Olaf nodded, pipe smoke wreathing his head like those of several of the men.
“We should maybe make a run over to Minnesota this winter for both oak and pine, you think?” Haakan tipped back on his chair until he caught his wife’s eye and, grinning, sat back upright. “But not right now.”
“All right. Time for letters.” Bridget, at age sixty-eight the oldest one at this gathering, pulled one out of the pocket of her apron. “This is from Augusta.” She leaned closer to the sun-brightened window to see better. “ ‘Dear Mor, I know you will share this with everyone, so hello to you all.’ ”
George stood and headed for the kitchen as Bridget continued. Within moments Ilse followed, to find him staring out the kitchen window.
“Why did you leave?” She signed and spoke slowly, carefully enunciating to help with his lip reading too.
He shrugged, a frown digging furrows in his brow. “You know,” he signed.
She nodded, burrowing into his soul through his eyes. “I will sign.”
He shook his head, cutting the air with one hand. “Too slow.” His fingers still lacked the fluid grace necessary to sign swiftly. “Too many.” He thumped one fist on top of the other.
“You have to try.”
He shook his head, locked his arms over his chest, and turned again to stare out the window.
Ilse tried to get in front of him, but each time he turned away. She glared at his back. “All right, be a stubborn, mean, angry man. I don’t know why I keep trying.” She spun on her heel and strode back into the parlor to join the others, calling him several uncomplimentary names in her mind.
Uff da, Kaaren thought. Now what?
Bridget continued to read from Augusta’s letter.
“I cannot believe how quickly the time goes by. It seems like I came to America only last spring instead of more than four years ago. Kane and I were thinking of coming to visit this winter, but since I am in the family way again, we decided to stay put. I know how much you love babies, dear Mor, and little Katy is so bright and smiles and laughs all the time, so much the way I remember our Katy. She went from crawling to running, and while we cannot understand all her jabbering, she goes on and on. I’m sure she will be a storyteller like her grown-up cousin.”
Bridget stopped and looked toward Thorliff. “She means you.”
“I know, Bestemor. You think I should send her a copy of my story?”
“Ja, I was hoping you would get the hint.” She returned to the letter.
“All is well here. Kane is still raising horses for the army, but we have more cattle now too. With the steam engines, there is not as much call for oxen, but we still sell some. Our garden did well this year, so I put up as much as there was. We will not go hungry. I love the rolling hills here in South Dakota, and while we have no close neighbors, we get together sometimes. I wish we were closer to a church, but a village has not sprung up here like in Blessing. I wish you all a blessed Christmas and know that our Father is keeping you all safe.
Your loving daughter,
Augusta”
“She sounds happy,” Hjelmer said. “When she started off in such a mix-up, I wasn’t so sure.”
“You think her getting on the wrong train was an accident?” Bridget looked over her glasses at her son.
“Well, ah, yes, it was a mistake she made, remember?”
“Ja, a mistake ordained by God so that she would meet the man He’d planned for her.”
Hjelmer rolled his eyes. “I’ll not argue on Christmas, Mor.” But the slight shake of his head put the final punctuation on his thoughts.
“Okay, my turn to read before you two get into an argument.” Kaaren waved her letter. “This is from my sister Solveig, who you’d think had fallen off the face of the earth, as often as I hear from her.”
“Ja, since we no longer take cheese and eggs and such to the St. Andrew store, we never get up there.” Ingeborg reached over and took the baby from Penny so she could play with him. “Sometime this summer we will go up there.”
“Good.” Kaaren unfolded the letter.
“Dear sister,
“I am so remiss in writing that you must wonder if we are still alive. But we are, and while the Bonanza farm that George managed for so many years has been sold and broken up, George was given half a section for his years of working for the company. He bought the rest, so we own a section of land and lease another. George’s brother has come to live here and help with the fieldwork. I have my chickens and a milk cow, just as you advised that every wife needs.
“The children are growing like weeds! Arne is seven and in school. Anne is five and wishes she were in school—she is teaching her dolls to read. Clara is three, and we will have another before summer. George has promised me some help before then. What do you hear from Norway? How are our family and the school? All are well, I hope. I am still amazed that my big sister is running a school for the deaf. What a blessing you are to so many people. Please write more often, and I will try to be more diligent in answering.
Love from your sister
and all of hers,
Solveig”
“Anne was just a little one when we saw them last,” Ingeborg said, shaking her head.
“Ja, she was carrying Clara when they came.” Kaaren folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. “Your turn, Mary Martha.” She glanced up to see Grace leading George McBride back into the parlor, her small hand hidden in his. Grace’s smile, so full of encouragement, made her mother send a prayer of gratitude heavenward. A little childshall lead them. The verse flashed through her mind and brought a sheen of moisture to her eyes. Kaaren looked over in time to catch Ingeborg’s nod, her eyes bright too.
Grace sat George back down on his stool and, after patting his arm, took her place beside him, signing to Ilse to interpret.
That man doesn’t stand a chance, Kaaren thought as she kept up her runni
ng litany of gratitude.
Mary Martha began to read her letter from Manda, the adopted daughter of Zebulun MacCallister, Mary Martha’s brother. Manda had married Baptiste, Metiz’ grandson, and they moved to Montana to ranch with Zeb. Mary Martha and John Solberg raised Manda and her sister, Deborah, when Zeb took off for Montana after his wife Katy died.
“Dear Pa and Ma,
“Thank you for the quilts you sent. We are grateful for them every night. While the weather is cold, we do not get the terrible winds that sweep down from the north in Blessing. We have built a log house of our own, and it is very snug. I train all the horses, and Baptiste keeps us all in meat and furs. He says this is a hunter’s paradise, not hunted out like the Red River Valley. He and Zeb went on a horse hunt and brought back fifteen head. That, with the breeding stock we have, is becoming quite a herd. Although I never lived in mountains before, I know why the Bjorklunds dreamed of Norway. Such beauty I cannot begin to describe.
I know you are all together for Christmas, but you can know that we are happy and safe. Hopefully we will see you in the summer when we bring the horses to sell. We all send our love. Give Deborah an extra hug from me and tell her thank you for the letters.
Love,
Manda”
“That was pretty long for Manda to write.” Thorliff leaned his elbows on his knees. “I’d love to see Montana. I hardly remember the mountains of Norway.”
“Ah, high snowy peaks plunge right down to the fjords, with ridge after ridge of trees and farms wherever there is a flat place big enough. So different from here.” Bridget closed her eyes, dreaming of the past.
“Do they have more snow than we do?” Sophie’s eyes turned as round as her open mouth.
“Not usually. But many of the houses are built right into a hill, and the upper story is for people and the ground floor for the farm animals. That way everyone stays warm.” Ingeborg smiled at her niece. “You would like it.”
“Do we get coffee and dessert pretty soon?” Trygve asked at his father’s prodding.
“As soon as the dishes are finished.” Bridget got to her feet and led the way into the kitchen.
Looking back two days later as the train chugged south, Thorliff wished he had been able to stay home longer. While Anji promised to write more often when he’d gone over to see her the day after Christmas, he had a feeling that things would never be as they were before. He took out his paper and started a letter, promising himself to write more often whether she answered or not. That’s what friends did for each other after all. And it was obvious she needed cheering.
Dear Anji,
I hope you like my story and that it brings back good memories for you. I am so sorry to see your father suffering like he does. I know God is in His heaven and all is right with the world, but suffering like that brings up questions, at least for me. But then, you know me, the inveterate questioner.
He went on to tell her about his dressing down in class for his questions, trying to see the humor in it so that she would too. He reminded her that he’d left one of his Dickens books there and perhaps his mor or Kaaren would read to her father.
Joseph seemed to enjoy the story when I read it, and that would give you a chance to do something else. I will write more when I get to Northfield. We are nearing St. Paul, and while there is plenty of snow here too, it is nothing like the drifts of Blessing.
As ever,
Thorliff
When he stepped off the train in Northfield, he felt as though he’d stepped back into his other world. What a paradox. Did he dare ask the teacher if that was part of Biblical truth, this telescoping of time and distance?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Blessing, North Dakota
January 1894
The pit, black beyond measure, yawned at her feet.
Ingeborg teetered, flailing her arms, reaching for some kind of rescue, any kind. The air swirling around her pulled at her skirts, tugged at her hair.
God, help! Her cry echoed the corridors of time, fading into nothingness.
“Mor! Are you all right? Mother!” Astrid shook her mother’s shoulder once gently, and then with force. “Mor, talk to me!” Her voice cracked, a sob seeping through.
Ingeborg heard the voice as if from across a chasm, the chasm at her feet. As if something pulled at her very eye sockets, she stared into the void. Even God had left.
“Mor!”
The word shrieked in her ear.
“Mor! God, help us. Please, Mor, what is wrong?” The sob cut off Astrid’s air. She patted her mother’s cheeks, shook her again, both hands this time.
“Astrid?”
“Oh yes, Mor. It is me. Please, please open your eyes.” Astrid collapsed into her mother’s arms, shivering as though she’d just come from bathing in a snowbank.
“Astrid.” Ingeborg’s voice gained strength. “Little one, what is wrong?”
“Mor, you wouldn’t wake up, and I heard you crying.” Astrid burrowed closer, like a baby animal seeking milk from a reluctant mother.
Ingeborg blinked once and then again, stroking her daughter’s braids with a trembling hand. Where have I been? What happened? She shivered. Was the door open to the outside? Why was it so cold in her room? She sat up, looking around. They were in the parlor, her knitting in a heap on the floor by the foot of the sofa.
“Hush, Astrid, it is all right now.”
“B-but Mor, you were . . . you sounded like one of Tante Kaaren’s puppies when they are hungry. What is wrong?”
Ingeborg shook her head. What is wrong? She glanced out of the corner of her eye, trying to catch a glimpse of what had gripped her with such deadly talons. A shadow slithered away before she could truly see it.
She clutched Astrid to her chest, raining kisses on her daughter’s hair, her forehead, and her wet cheeks. “A bad dream, I think.” A horrible dream, but dreams did not live on after awakening, did they? And if not a dream, then what?
She sucked in a deep cleansing breath and wiped the tears she’d not known were there with the back of one hand.
“Why are you home from school so soon?” But glancing out the window, Ingeborg knew by the shadows that some time had passed. The children were home from school, supper should be started, and here she’d been . . . She leaned forward and picked up her knitting, new wool socks for Thorliff, now a mass of knots, dropped stitches, and tangled wool.
Astrid stared from the knitting to her mother. “What happened?”
“I don’t know, but I shall set it to rights later. How would you like a cup of hot cocoa? I think we both need one.” She rose and brushed off her apron as if to brush off the vestiges of the dream. “Where is Andrew?”
“He stopped at the barn. Far called him.”
Ingeborg dumped the rat’s nest of yarn into the hand-woven basket Metiz had given her for Christmas and took her daughter’s hand. “Perhaps you would peel apples for me, and we shall bake a pie for supper.”
“After our cocoa?”
“After our cocoa.” She checked the logs in the stove in the parlor, now chunks of shimmering coals. Where had the time gone? Attacked by shivers that stung like a hoard of angry bees, she took a chunk of wood from the woodbox and added it, along with two more, to the coals, then closed the glass-centered door and adjusted the damper. No wonder she’d been shivering. The fire had nearly gone out. Lord, what happened to me?
Walking to the kitchen felt like pulling her feet out of the swamp that formed near the river in the springtime, gumbo heavy on her boots. When wet, the black soil of the Red River Valley could bring horses, wagons, and machinery to a stop, let alone a human foot.
Ingeborg shivered again. Lord, I feel cold from the inside out. She rubbed her hands over the cookstove in the kitchen and checked the firebox to see coals there winking in a pile of gray ash. Opening the damper full wide, she took a piece of pitch pine and, with the heavy knife she kept on the warming shelf, shaved some curls onto the coals to start the fire more quick
ly, then added several small sticks. Smoke rose before the flames licked the curls, stinging her eyes, the pain feeling almost welcome, the heat a cause for rejoicing.
“You almost let the fire go out?” Astrid handed her mother the pot they always used for cocoa, her voice and face wearing matching question marks.
“I know.” Ingeborg hugged her daughter around the shoulders. But she couldn’t answer the questions unasked. Or wouldn’t as she watched the red and orange flames eat the wood, turning it black.
Black like the pit. Oh, God, please, not again. I cannot be trapped by that. She closed her eyes for a moment. You promised. Where were you? I called for you . . . to help me . . . to save me.
She opened her eyes to see Astrid’s face.
“Mor.” Panic colored her words like the flames devouring the wood.
“Get the cocoa. Thanks be to God, he sent me an angel.”
Astrid clamped her arms around her mother’s waist, and the two of them stared at the fire a moment longer. “So pretty, aren’t they? The flames, I mean?”
“Ja, that they are.” Ingeborg laid her cheek on the top of Astrid’s head, the hair, in the morning so tightly bound in braids, now tickling her nose. Then she set her daughter off with a gentle push and added more wood to the blaze. She set the iron lids back in place, first the divider, then the back lid, and finally the front, the clatter of them settling in place a welcome barrier to the now heating fire. “Bring the sugar with you too.”
Together they spooned out the precious cocoa powder and sugar, added water to mix the two, and when that bubbled, added a stream of milk, Astrid stirring all the while.
The cat rose from its box behind the stove, arched and stretched, then wound itself around their ankles, a plaintive cry to be picked up.
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