After eating the roll and cheese he’d purchased in Grand Forks, he rolled in his quilt and pillowed his head on the valise. Before long, he pulled his coat over his head so he’d still have some blood left in the morning. Frogs croaked and peeped, an owl hooted on its ghostly passing, and another bird cried a song he knew not. But when he pushed his coat back so he could see the stars shimmering above, he quickly retreated. Close darkness was definitely preferable to the blood-letting. Already he itched.
He woke with the dawn only a promise on the eastern horizon. Sometime during the night he must have discarded his coat as a head protection, for any skin that had been exposed to the marauding mosquitoes now itched unbearably. Unable to ignore his discomfort, he got to his feet, folded his quilt and rolled it, and with his bundles tied to his back, he set out again.
The glory of the morning restored him. The rising sun gilded each blade of grass and bespangled every spider’s web until the earth lay encrusted in gold and jewels. He took in a deep breath of spring perfume—the blend of grass and earth and growing things mixed with a sweet overlay of blooming flowers. Soft air caressed his cheeks, and the breeze lifted his hair when he removed his hat.
If he’d been younger, he’d have spun around and around, dancing the music of spring. His feet shuffled a couple of steps, then walked on. He couldn’t stop grinning, and he could feel the stretch of it in his cheeks. His arms insisted on rising above his head, and his hands clapped, much against his better judgment. The song burst forth from his throat, playing baritone to the lark’s soprano. The river, when he reached it, sang bass while the cottonwood trees rustled sibilant secrets of symphonic strings. All sang of spring, a prairie overture.
While he wanted a drink, the mud-brown water made him hesitate. Was it drinkable? Animal and bird tracks showed him the wildlife of the area frequented the riverbank. He dipped his hand and raised the water to his mouth. Nothing like the sparkling waterfalls of home, that was for certain. But it was wet and revived him just the same.
He inquired at one soddy if they knew of the Bjorklunds, but they shook their heads and pointed north. Surely their language had been some form of German. Again, Hjelmer regretted never having learned other languages, especially English.
The sun was nearing straight up when he saw smoke rising from two chimneys fairly close together. He broke into a trot, his bags bumping against his shoulders. A flock of sheep raised their heads, poised to flee at a moment’s notice. A dog barked and soon came racing to accost him.
Hjelmer stopped and let the dog, hackles raised and stalking on tiptoe, sniff his shoes and pant legs. “Easy, boy. I mean you no harm.”
“Paws, come.” The boy’s command rang across the meadow.
The dog lifted his head, looked back at his master, and whined deep in his throat.
“Come, I said.” Staff in his hand and porkpie hat pushed back on his head, the boy strode toward the visitor. “God dag.” He stopped and slapped his knee. The sheep had gone back to grazing.
“You’re Thorliff, aren’t you?” Hjelmer nodded as he spoke. No one with eyes could fail to recognize this young version of his older brother, the likeness was so exact.
“How’d you know?”
“Because I’m your onkel Hjelmer, and I’d recognize a Bjorklund like you anywhere. Do you remember me at all?”
Thorliff cocked his head. “Sort of. Come on, Mor will be pleased to see you. We were beginning to wonder what had happened to you.” He turned to lead the way, then spun back and extended his hand. “Velkommen.” He stopped and started again. “Welcome to Dakota Territory.”
“Mange takk.” Hjelmer shook the boy’s hand. “You have grown up so fast. How my mor, your bestemor, would love to see you.” He matched his longer strides to the boy’s as they headed for the house, burning with questions as to who it was with the team out in the far field and how they all were.
“Mor! Mor!” Thorliff called when they neared the sod house. “Come quick.”
A woman came charging out the only door, drying her hands on her apron as she came.
“We have company!” Thorliff dashed forward. “Onkel Hjelmer is finally here.”
Ingeborg wiped her hands again and extended them to the newcomer, her smile of greeting bringing warmth to his heart immediately. “Hjelmer Bjorklund, you grew up while we were away.” She clasped his hands in hers and squeezed. “How are you? Why did you come that way? How long since you’ve eaten?” The questions tumbled out while at the same time she pulled him toward the door where a small child, wearing the long dress of a baby yet, clutched the doorframe.
Ingeborg scooped up the child. “Hjelmer, this is Andrew. He’s nearly two now.” The little boy buried his face in her shoulder, first finger in his mouth. “Come in, come in. Dinner will be ready soon. Would you like a cup of coffee in the meantime?”
Hjelmer looked around the soddy, his first reaction one of dismay. This was the way his brothers lived, like rabbits in a burrow? But as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he recognized the trunk his mother had painted for the emigrants and saw his brother’s hand in the chairs around the table and the rocking chair by the stove. All the Bjorklund sons had been well taught on the intricacies of fashioning wood into useful and functional items. Gustaf started them young with their first carving knife and slowly graduated them to lathes and saws and planes.
He raised a hand to scratch his face and the back of his neck. “Ah, ja, that would be wonderful.”
“What did you get into?” Ingeborg stepped closer to peer at his face.
“Not what did I get into, but what got at me. No one warned me that the mosquitoes would try to eat me alive.”
“Uff da. They can be bad.” She glanced down at the boy waiting by the door. “Go get some buttermilk from the cooler. It is in the crock on the right.” While Thorliff scampered off, Ingeborg set Andrew in the rocking chair, from where he immediately scrambled down and twined himself in her skirts. In spite of the difficulty, she poured coffee into a cup and motioned Hjelmer to the table where she set the saucer down.
“Mange takk.” Hjelmer sucked in a deep breath, the air redolent of simmering stew or soup, fresh baked bread, and now the coffee before him. Under it all lay the musky scent of dirt walls and floor. How can they stand it so dark? And yet, I’m sure more windows are too costly. “You have made a comfortable home here.” He wanted so badly to ask about the man out plowing the field, but he restrained himself.
Thorliff returned and set down the jug of buttermilk, then sat in the chair and leaned his elbows on the table. “We thought you was coming a long time ago.”
“Thorliff!” Ingeborg turned from slicing the bread. She picked up a cloth and took it to the table. Pouring some buttermilk into a dish, she dipped the cloth and started to smooth the thick liquid on the young man’s neck. She drew back.
Hjelmer looked up and saw her cheeks flame red. He grinned at her and reached for the cloth.
“I . . . I forget you are not one of the children any longer.” Ingeborg raised a hand to her face. “Cover well wherever there are bites. That should take the itch out and the swelling.”
“Mange takk.” He did as told and felt immediate relief. He sighed. “Between this and the coffee, I’m not sure which is more welcome.” He spread the soothing buttermilk on the back of his neck, pulling his shirt away to let the skin dry. “Where did you learn this remedy?”
“A friend of mine, Metiz, she knows everything about medicinals.” Ingeborg held the bowl out so he could dip the rag again.
“Metiz, that is a strange sounding name.” He dabbed the cloth at the swollen bites on the back of his hands, grateful he’d kept his cuffs buttoned instead of rolled back. The bites ended at the cloth line.
“Metiz brought Baptiste with her when she came back this spring. He’s my friend.” Thorliff picked up Andrew, who had plunked himself on the floor and begun to whimper. “He helps me graze the sheep.” He bobbled the child on his knee and made funny
faces to make the little one laugh.
Paws let out a yip in welcome that brought Thorliff to his feet and to the doorway with a delighted cry. “We have company. You get to meet another one of your relations.”
Hjelmer turned in his chair. The man filled the doorway, backlit against the sun outside. He had to duck to enter the same as Hjelmer had. Hjelmer laid the cloth on the table, at once aware that with buttermilk all over his face and hands, he must look a sight. This was not the best impression for whoever this man was.
Ingeborg performed the introductions. “Haakan Bjorklund, meet Hjelmer Bjorklund, your cousin twice removed. Hjelmer is the youngest of Gustaf Bjorklund’s sons.”
The two men shook hands and sized each other up through matching blue eyes. They looked enough alike to be brothers.
“Welcome,” Haakan said in English.
“Ja, mange takk,” Hjelmer answered while his thoughts raced. What cousin? Who is he? What right does he have here? He acts like he owns the place.
“Haakan’s mor wrote to him in the north woods of Minnesota and asked him to come here and help out Kaaren and me.” Ingeborg turned back to the stove and handed Thorliff the plates she had warming on the shelf of the stove. “Here, you set the table.”
“Good that you could do that.” Hjelmer felt a bit more at ease. “I understood they needed a man to work the fields. That is why I came as soon as I could.” He caught the look exchanged between Ingeborg and Haakan. What else was there he didn’t know?
“Lars has been working Kaaren’s fields since last fall,” Ingeborg said. “They were married after harvest.”
Hjelmer sat down, feeling like he’d just been gut-punched. Why hadn’t Mor told him this bit of news?
What is the matter with the boy? Ingeborg could not yet think of Hjelmer as a man, no matter that he stood nearly as tall as Roald had. Breadth of shoulder ranked somewhere between Carl and Roald, but the boy promised to resemble Roald more. He still had some growing to do. She tried to study him without his knowledge. The two men conversed politely while she settled the children and remembered to bring the jam for their bread.
If she hadn’t known Roald so well, the tightening of lips and deepening furrow between the younger man’s eyes would have gone unnoticed. Something was definitely bothering him. She seated herself and clasped her hands for grace. After a moment of silence, she nodded to Thorliff, who began, “E Yesu naven . . .” Hjelmer joined in, as did she. And when she glanced up from under her eyelashes, she could see Haakan with his head bowed. Although he wasn’t saying anything, she could feel a difference about him, too. Something wonderful, beyond mortal man’s understanding, had happened at that bedside three nights before.
As soon as the meal was dished up, they fell to with a vengeance. Hjelmer asked for seconds and accepted the third helping that Ingeborg encouraged him to take.
“I . . . I’m sorry,” he finally said, pushing his plate away. “I didn’t know I was so hungry. I don’t always eat that much.”
“Mor likes us to eat a lot.” Thorliff gazed up at his newfound uncle. “Sometimes she makes cookies, too, but Tante Kaaren makes the best.”
“Do you think Tante Kaaren would let me taste her cookies sometime?” Hjelmer asked.
Thorliff nodded. “We can go over to her house after dinner and ask.”
“I thought we would go over as soon as we are finished. She will be so pleased to see you again.” Ingeborg took away the spoon that Andrew banged on the table.
“Onkel Lars got frostbite, so we cut off part of his foot.”
“Thorliff!”
“Well, he did.” He looked back at Hjelmer. “But he is lots better now. Metiz is making him get better.”
“Along with God’s help.” Ingeborg stood to clear away the dishes. “You help me with this, young man.” She glanced over at Haakan to catch a glint of amusement dancing in his eyes. She could feel the answering smile curve her own lips. What was he seeing that made him laugh inside like that? A wink sent her way made the familiar warmth pool around her middle.
Haakan stretched his hands above his head. “Much as I’d like to accompany you, I think I’ll head back to the field instead. From the looks of those clouds, we’ll get rain before dark, so I need to put in every minute I can. Perhaps tomorrow you can work with the other team, Hjelmer. With the bad weather and all, we’re late getting out on the fields. We’re plowing now, working the soil that’s already been busted so we can get it seeded.”
“Ja, that will be good.”
“I could drive the oxen to disc what you’ve plowed,” Ingeborg said to the stove.
Silence, thicker than sheep’s wool and heavier than rain-soaked soil fell on the room.
A man cleared his throat. It had to be Haakan. She turned around. Hjelmer stared at her like she’d just sprouted horns. Haakan shook his head, but the smile hadn’t left his face.
Andrew took that moment to let out a shriek, disgruntled at the lack of attention.
“But . . . but your children.” Hjelmer blinked once and then again.
Who do you think did the work here the last months? Ingeborg felt like yelling in his shocked face. Didn’t you read the letters I’ve written to your mother? She thought a moment, remembering how much of the last year she had carefully neglected to mention.
“Come, let’s go now before Andrew falls asleep or gets any crankier.” Without waiting for a reply, she set the child on her hip and strode out the door, closely followed by Thorliff.
“Down, Mor, down,” Andrew pleaded.
“Mor, are you angry?” Thorliff asked softly from by her side. Paws whined and danced in front of her.
“Nei!” The sharpness of her voice made the dog’s ears go down.
Andrew whimpered in her arms, his weight pulling her off center. Any other time she would have let him walk, but now she was in a hurry. She hitched him higher and continued the pace. She could hear Hjelmer coming up behind her.
“I could carry him for you.”
“He don’t take too good to strangers,” Thorliff answered for her.
“Mange takk, but we have done this many times before.” And will continue to do so long after you are gone. She kept the thought to herself. Who does he think he is, coming here and making judgments about what I can and cannot do?
“Thorliff!” Baptiste’s voice came from the sod barn.
“Coming.” Thorliff looked up to his mother for permission, and at her nod he scampered across the grassy expanse.
Baptiste stepped into the sunshine from the barn door.
“Why . . . why, he’s Indian!” The shock in Hjelmer’s voice needled Ingeborg again.
“Partly. He’s from the Lakota tribe, part of the Chippewa Nation, and he’s also French Canadian.”
“He’s a half-breed?”
“No, he’s Metiz.” Ingeborg spoke from between clenched teeth. Why was she letting this young man get to her like this?
“Metiz? Isn’t that the name of the woman who is helping Lars?”
“Ja, it is.” Ingeborg knocked on the doorframe and stepped into the soddy. “I have brought you company, Lars, Kaaren. Hjelmer has finally made it to Dakota Territory.”
“Oh, Hjelmer, little brother, how wonderful to see you.” Kaaren made him blush by throwing her arms around him. She stepped back after the hug and looked into his eyes. “I’ve spent many hours praying for your safe arrival, and now you are finally here, safe and sound. The Lord be praised.”
Ingeborg set Andrew down and rubbed the crick in her back with her fists. “You look like a new man, Lars.”
“Thanks, I am a new man.” For the first time since the amputation, Lars was sitting in the rocking chair, his foot propped up on pillows on a stool. He reached out a hand to greet the newcomer. “Welcome, I’ve heard so much about you.”
Kaaren took Hjelmer by the arm. “I want you to meet my husband, Lars Knutson. We were beginning to think you had fallen into the drink and never come out.”
“Sit down, sit down. I could use a good story. Kaaren, is the coffee hot?” He leaned over to pick up Andrew. “And this young one here would like a cookie. I know he would.” He settled the little boy on his lap. Andrew wriggled himself into a comfortable position and beamed up at Kaaren when she handed him a cookie.
“Takk.”
“You’re welcome, little one.” Kaaren smiled over at Ingeborg, who had taken a chair at the table. “He’s getting more words every day.”
Ingeborg nodded her head. “Thanks to Thorliff.”
“Takk.” Andrew said it again and waved his cookie in the air, scattering crumbs all over Lars.
“And he even used it in the right place.” Lars gently pinched Andrew’s foot, drawing a giggle. Another pinch and the baby’s deep belly laugh filled the room. At that same moment, Thorliff and Baptiste came through the door, laughing along with the little one.
“I know, I know. You smelled the cookies.” Kaaren passed them the crock she had set in the middle of the table.
“Baptiste is finished cleaning out the stalls. Can we go fishing?”
“Where do you fish?” Hjelmer asked, then nodded his thanks when Kaaren placed a cup of coffee in front of him.
Thorliff looked at him, a question mark all over his face. “Didn’t you see the river?”
“Ja, the one that’s more mud than water?”
“We catch fish from it.”
“We used to drink from it before we dug the wells,” Ingeborg added, and saw the surprise register on Hjelmer’s face. This was certainly a day of shocks for him, she mused, noticing how careful he was to ignore Baptiste after that first stunned appraisal. Doesn’t he realize how precious water is here on the prairie? It isn’t like Norway, that’s for certain.
Lauraine Snelling - [Red River of the North 02] Page 18