Northern Lights Trilogy

by Lisa Tawn Bergren

  “I am afraid I have sad news. Terrible … terrible news. My Peder died, almost two months past.” The women gasped and the men murmured, frowns upon all their faces. “We were at sea, in a storm, when he fell overboard. There was nothing—” Her voice cracked, keeping her from saying more. Surrounded by such love, such dear old friends, her grief bubbled to the surface once more.

  “Come,” Kaatje said, pulling her toward the small cabin. “Come inside, Elsa. You’re with family now. We’ll take care of you.”

  Karl walked around the corner of the house, pretending to stroll to the outhouse, unable to quite believe that Elsa was here. Since most of the people had gathered around her, few were left to notice his departure. He leaned against the side of the house and rubbed his face hard with shaking hands. She was here on the same day as his recommitment!

  He knelt on the ground before him, staring up at the sky. Was this his first test? To be sure that he was ready to tread more holy ground? Behind him, through the thin walls, he heard a group enter the house. Slowly, he stood, willing himself to look through the window. Carefully, he edged nearer to stare inside. She was even more lovely than he remembered. But why was she in mourning black? Sorrow and weariness ringed her eyes with purple, but she was beautiful. Standing there, staring at her, he forced himself to search his heart. It pounded as he thought hard about Elsa, about what she had once meant to him, about what he had allowed himself to do.

  After several long minutes, watching her as she spoke to the crowd about her, his heart slowed. No, this time it was different. There was something different now. What he felt were the stirrings of a gladness at seeing a long-lost friend, the same kinship he had felt with Kaatje. Had his lustful, dangerous desires at last abated? He found himself smiling, and ducked away from the window. It would not do to be caught, gazing into the window, staring at his friend’s wife rather than joining the others inside.

  “Thank you, Jesus,” he whispered. How long had he prayed for such a relief to his wild dreams and desires? “Thank you, Father. Help this to be the way, for me to continue feeling this way.” Braver by the minute, Karl rounded the corner to face Elsa in person. When some of their friends had departed and it was quieter, he took several more steps, considering what he would say, how he would say it. Then he wondered briefly where Peder was. Why wasn’t he here with her?

  He almost ran into Pastor Lien, out to fetch a pail of fresh water. The man was ghastly gray. “Pastor!” Karl exclaimed. “Here, let me help you.”

  Pastor Lien quietly handed him the tin pail, staring off at the last vestiges of sunset.

  “What is wrong? Are you all right?”

  Konur looked at him strangely. “You did not hear?”

  “Hear what?”

  “Elsa Ramstad arrived—”

  “I know. I just saw her,” Karl interrupted, unable to curb his sudden fear. “What? What is it?”

  Konur gripped his shoulder. “It’s Peder, man. Peder died two months past.”

  Karl dropped the pail and dropped to his knees beside it. Feeling as if Konur had punched him in the gut, he fought for breath. He couldn’t believe it. Peder was dead. Peder was gone. There would be no forgiveness, no new phase of their lost friendship. It was all irrevocably over, and Karl struggled for comprehension, one thought repeating itself over and over in his head—Peder is dead. Peder is dead. Peder is dead.

  section two

  All Who Are Thirsty

  ten

  Late September 1886

  When the sad-eyed Owen Crosby called Tora’s new home a “shanty,” he had been generous. In Tora’s estimation, it was little more than a lean-to, with cracks between the boards and a dirt floor. The only amenities were a clean straw tick and a small iron woodstove. It was little wonder that these people had trouble keeping a schoolteacher, Tora thought, since more snow would slip through the walls than stay out come winter. Hopefully October would not hold an early snowfall.

  She had little time or energy to consider much else before hauling out a comforter and falling into a blissful sleep on the straw tick. Her belongings were neatly stacked against the south wall, taking up roughly half of the room. But Tora did not care. She had a roof over her head, food in her stomach, and tomorrow she would face what was to come. For now she was exhausted, weary from head to toe, and for the first time in as long as she could remember, Tora fell asleep in her bed fully dressed.

  “Teacher,” came a dreamy voice as Tora noticed a nip in the air for the first time since last night. “Teacher! Wake up!”

  Groaning and a bit disoriented, Tora rubbed her eyes and sat up. Before her were two girls, about six and eight years old, she guessed. She looked around the dreary shack, even more depressing by daylight. Could this be real? Could she have fallen so far as this in a few short weeks? At least I have a home, she chided herself, remembering her fear last night of sleeping in the streets as darkness fell on the town. Now I have a job to do.

  “Teacher, the others will be here any minute!” said the eldest. Tora noted that both had neatly plaited, blond braids, reminding her of her sisters when they were young.

  “All right. Give me a moment to get my bearings. I’ve only just arrived. You,” she addressed the six-year-old. “I assume we have a water pump somewhere on the premises?”

  She nodded.

  “Good. Please go fill up my pail.” The girl set to her task immediately, and Tora pressed back a small smile. Perhaps this wouldn’t be the worst job in the world. The little urchins would at least do as she bid. Tora looked at the girl’s older sister. “You have been a student here for a while, I take it?”

  “Whenever there’s a teacher.”

  “Good. You get the others to go inside the schoolhouse and write out their numbers and letters. It will be a start. Get an older boy—” She paused to squint at the girl until she nodded that yes, there was indeed an older boy. “Good, get him to build up a fire in the woodstove and warm up the room.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Fiona O’Meara, ma’am.”

  “Very well, Fiona O’Meara. Thank you.”

  She was off like a shot just as her sister entered with the pail of water. “Thank you,” Tora said. “What’s your name?”

  “Gemma O’Meara.”

  “Good. I will see you inside the school, Gemma. I just need a moment to collect myself and freshen up.”

  With a nod, the younger girl left the shanty too. Tora shivered. Goodness, it was cold! She could see her breath! Grimacing, she cupped hands to the pail and splashed her face. It was freezing, but invigorating. Like her reflection in the pail as the water calmed, Tora’s immediate future became clear to her. I am a schoolteacher, she repeated silently, trying to make it seem more real. I am a schoolteacher. Mrs. Segerstad in Bergen would have laughed herself silly over such a thought. Although bright, Tora had never been one to apply herself to her schooling. It was a daily battle. And here she was, a teacher!

  She dried her skin with the edge of her skirt and rose to try and find another dress that might be suitable. After digging through several trunks, Tora realized that anything she had was too fancy for a schoolmarm. What would the mothers say if they saw her in Parisian-designed gowns?

  Sighing, she turned back to one of her least favorite dresses, examined it with a critical eye, then proceeded to rip the ruffle off at the waist. It left a few hanging threads, but Tora decided that would be okay. Anyone who saw her would assume it was a castoff from elsewhere, one donated to the poor schoolmarm. After today, Tora would make further alterations to her other dresses to make them suitable. But for now, she would only face today.

  In minutes she was dressed. She was about to leave for the schoolroom when she spied a basket by the door, covered with a cloth. Peeking in, she saw three fresh rolls, obviously brought by the girls. For the first time, she noticed her rumbling stomach, and ate one as she left her room, and another on the way around to the sch
oolhouse door. Swallowing the last bit, and taking a deep breath for courage, she entered the schoolroom. About ten feet by eighteen, the house was built of clear pine boards, and held sixteen small desks. More than most country schools, she thought. There were a pair of four-paned windows on either wall, with a podium and desk at the front of the room, built up on a slightly raised platform. In one corner was a map of the United States, a bit outdated, she noted. In the other was a chalkboard.

  Tora walked briskly to the front of the class, pasting on a smile and looking at each of the children. About twelve of the desks were filled, mostly with very young children. In the last row sat two boys of about fifteen years of age. They sat up straight when she turned to face them. “That’s the prettiest schoolmarm I ever laid eyes on,” one of the fifteen-year-olds said to the other, looking at her boldly. Tora ignored him, continuing to peruse the rest of the class.

  Nine girls and five boys, she counted. One by one she took stock of what age she guessed each to be, and their demeanor. She felt overwhelmed—what did she know about dealing with children? But, she decided, they were simply small people, meant to be dealt with like small adults.

  “I am Miss Anders,” she announced lightly, still taking stock. “I am your new teacher.” There was a redheaded boy of about ten, a brunette girl of about seven, and next to her, another brunette of about five or six. Tora’s eyes rested on hers. With hair that gently curled to her shoulders, and dark summer-blue eyes that reminded her of … Tora stifled a gasp. Why, the girl was the spitting image of Soren! Of herself!

  She sat down abruptly on the edge of her desk. Was this … was this Jessica? She could feel the blood drain from her face.

  Swallowing hard and looking away from the girl, Tora fought to find her voice. “I would like you each to tell me your name, age, and how much you can do numbers, read, and write.” Tora worked her way around to the other side of the desk on shaky legs. She sat down hard, trying to appear as if she were listening, all the while waiting for the children to be done and for the girl that looked like Jessica to speak. At last, her turn arrived.

  She stood, and Tora noted her slender frame, yet tall height. Both she and Soren were tall. “My name is Letitia Conner,” she said. She paused as Tora closed her eyes and put her head in her hands. “Miss Anders, are you feeling poorly?”

  Letitia Conner, Tora repeated to herself. Letitia Conner. She’s not the girl! She’s not my daughter. Tora managed to look up and smile at her. “Yes, Letitia. I’m sorry, I have a headache. You look so familiar. What are your parents’ names?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Edward Conner.”

  “Ah, yes,” she said. “I’m sorry, I do not know them. Please go on.”

  The girl did so, but Tora was not listening. All she could think of was how the girl looked like Soren, like herself for that matter. The cut of her chin, the perky tilt of her nose, the bow of her mouth … It was all like Tora’s. Did anyone else in the room notice? She glanced around. How foolish of her! She was in a classroom of children! Children did not notice such things. But her name … had Kaatje changed Jessica’s name, as well as her own? Remarried? No doubt that louse Soren had moved on. Had Kaatje moved here from the Dakota Territory? Or had she given Tora’s child up for adoption?

  It was all too much to consider. As she pretended to listen to the other children as they stood to speak, the tears came unbidden. At first, Tora tried to hide them, pretending she was merely bothered by the dust, and she blew her nose, but she could not stop them. On and on they came until she gave in to the deep sobs that had been aching inside her chest ever since … ever since Letitia caught her eye.

  She could hear the children hush in shock, then begin to scatter.

  “She’s loony,” whispered one.

  “We need to get my ma,” said another.

  Tora didn’t care. It seemed all she could do was stay there and cry, cry as she hadn’t cried in years. How long had it been since she had thought about Jessica? How long had she been missing her? For that was what struck her most; she had found her long-lost daughter, the daughter she had always missed.

  A small hand rested on her shoulder. “Don’t cry, Miss Anders,” said a soft voice. “It will be all right.”

  But when Tora looked up, she just cried harder.

  Letitia was Jessica. She had to be.

  It was Mrs. Conner who came and retrieved her from the empty classroom and quietly led her to the shanty. Tucked under the comforter and given a sip of water, Tora looked at her rescuer for the first time. She was the spitting image of Letitia. The girl’s mother. She isn’t Jessica. Tora fought to find her voice, wondering at the disappointment that mingled with relief in her breast. “You … you are Letitia’s mother?”

  “I am.” She stroked Tora’s brow in a concerned fashion, obviously checking for fever. “Are you ill, miss?”

  “A bit … overwhelmed.” Tora’s mind flew, trying to find a legitimate excuse for her breakdown. What would another woman understand, identify with, empathize with her for? For the first time in a long while, truth was her ally. “You see, I’ve lost everything. My home, my occupation, my love.” She turned away as if it pained her to speak. And it surprised Tora that it actually did hurt to talk of such things.

  “Poor girl,” Mrs. Conner murmured. “And you lived where.?”

  “Helena. I was in Helena.” Tora thought fast, afraid that if she told too much of her story, these people could be affected by Trent Storm’s long arm too and despise her as everyone else had. “I was in love with a man who cast me away like yesterday’s bath water. Suddenly, I was lost. I had thought we would marry! I was employed by him, so then I was out of work too.”

  “Poor, poor girl!” Mrs. Conner said, obviously aghast at Tora’s turn in fortune. “What brought you here?”

  “I bought a train ticket with next to my last dollar. Mr. Crosby found me in town, looking for work, and mentioned you all needed a schoolteacher. No doubt you’re thinking he made a huge mistake.” She sat up and wiped away her tears. “I promise you, Mrs. Conner, this is truly unlike me. It was all just too much. I had just arrived—”

  “That’s right!” she interrupted. “Just last night! It was too much for any woman, let alone a woman who’s been through what you have. You rest, dear. Get settled. Tomorrow’s soon enough to begin school. I’ll speak to the other parents and explain. You just take care of yourself.”

  “Oh, thank you. You are too kind.”

  “Not at all. Let me know if you need anything. We’re the closest farm, not a mile down the road to the east. I’ll have my boy bring supper by for you.”

  “You needn’t—”

  “Nonsense,” she said, pushing Tora’s shoulders back until she lay down again. “You rest and let my boy know tonight if you’re needing a thing.”

  “Thank you,” Tora whispered as Mrs. Conner left the shanty quietly. “Thank you.” She was so weary! With eyelids of stone, Tora gave in to the sleep that called her from deep within.

  Tora did not usually dream. She could not remember the last time she had had a dream. But that day she had a dream so vivid that it was difficult to shake. So when the Conner boy appeared at five with a knock on her shaky door, Tora struggled to wake. She shook her head, embarrassed that she had slept all afternoon, and went to the door.

  It was one of the older boys who had sat in the back. “You’re a Conner?” she asked.

  “Ross Conner,” he said with a nod as he pushed a large basket toward her. “Mama sent this. I’ll pick up the basket tomorrow at school. We’re havin’ school tomorrow?”

  “Yes. Eight sharp. Do not be late.”

  He stood straighter when he heard the serious note in her tone, then shuffled his feet. “Mama wanted me to ask if you’re needin’ anything.”

  “No. Thank you. See you tomorrow morning.”

  “Bye!” he said, scooting away from her door as if she were the village witch, the relief in his walk visible.

  Tora c
losed the door, still half lost in her dream. She sat back down on the bed, basket at her feet, trying to remember just how the dream went … There had been a girl, a girl that looked somewhat like Letitia, but not like her exactly. It was Jessica, she supposed. Did a mother have some supernatural power to discern what her baby would look like as a child? The last she had seen of Jessie, she was just an infant, chubby and cute, with eyes the color of cornflowers, and hair that curled up at the ends in little ringlets.

  It was nonsense. All of it, Tora thought, suddenly angry. She stood and paced. Why, she hadn’t thought of Jessica since that day she had left her in the road at Kaatje’s feet, determined to go on with her life. It was all that rotten Soren’s fault! If he had not gotten her pregnant, none of this would have happened! She could have gone to work for Trent immediately, they would have fallen in love, and no secrets from the past would have split them apart.

  The anger dissipated as Tora once again thought of the child in her dream. When she had seen Jessica in her sleep, she had felt neither anger nor the weight of responsibility. Only the overpowering sense of lost time and guilt. What had she done? She sat down hard on the edge of her bed. Had she given up a child she had actually wanted? That was impossible! Her life held no place for a baby, a toddler, a girl. What Tora wanted excluded children. Once she and Trent had married and a suitable nanny was hired, then.

  It was all too much, she concluded once again. Perhaps she was truly on the edge of hysteria. Who wouldn’t be in her position? One of the greatest ladies in the West, now fighting it out as a schoolmarm in the Washington Territory! Next she’d be ambushed by Indians, the way her luck was running.

  Wearily, she reached for the basket and unwrapped some roast beef, potatoes, and carrots on a plate. She picked at it for a few minutes then lay back down. Sleep overtook her immediately.

  The next morning, she was up and ready for her students before they arrived. Determined to make things right—since she could see few options—she had built a fire in the school’s woodstove and, after checking a student’s primer, had written the alphabet on the board. Although she could speak English with almost no accent, she still had trouble remembering not to write her letters as she had as a child in Bergen, with crossed o’s and such.