Giggles vied with chuckles; laughter broke free not to be stifled by the thunder that crashed directly overhead. Instead of running for the house, the two faced each other and raised their joined hands to the heavens in praise of the downpour.
A bark behind them brought Astrid running to the porch steps. ‘‘Oh, you poor baby, come play in the puddles.’’ She scooped the puppy up in her arms and, spinning around, found puddles for stomping. Barney licked the raindrops from her neck, making her giggle again. She swung him in her arms, cradle style, until he leaped to the ground and landed in a puddle with a woof, his pudgy body immediately a ball of dripping mud.
The rain continued to pelt the ground and form puddles in the ruts and hollows as the thunder and lightning drifted eastward, over the river and beyond.
‘‘Mor, let’s wash our hair.’’
‘‘Better hurry, or it might be gone.’’
Astrid flew into the house for the rose-petal soap she’d received for her birthday and, grabbing towels, left them on the porch to keep dry. The two of them rubbed the soap into their drenched hair, and after Ingeborg scrubbed and sculpted Astrid’s, the girl did the same for her mother. Wearing foam-formed turbans, they dipped water out of the already full rain barrel under the downspout at the house and rinsed each other soap free.
Standing on the porch, their heads wrapped in towels, they watched the rain continue to soak into the thirsty ground.
‘‘I can hear the trees sighing in delight.’’
‘‘And the garden,’’ Ingeborg answered. She slid an arm around her daughter’s shoulders and hugged her close, both of them shivering now in the breeze tugging at their wet clothes.
‘‘We better get dried off.’’
‘‘I don’t want to miss a minute of it.’’ Astrid leaned her head against her mother’s upper arm. ‘‘You think it will ruin the hay?’’
‘‘Not if the wind doesn’t knock it down. So far we can rejoice in the gentleness of it. Such a gift, a perfect rain.’’
Astrid shivered again, so hard that her teeth clicked together.
‘‘You’re cold.’’
‘‘I know, and it feels so good.’’ She turned her head to look up to her mother. ‘‘You think Thorliff gets to play in the rain anymore?’’
‘‘I don’t know.’’ Ingeborg wrapped her other arm around her daughter. ‘‘But I’m sure grateful we got to.’’
‘‘Me too.’’
‘‘Oh, the windows!’’ Ingeborg spun around, and they both headed for the west windows to slam them shut. They spent the next half hour mopping up rainwater from the floor and laughing all the while.
The rain continued through the night until the rooster’s crow chased it away.
While she stretched her arms over her head and pushed her toes toward the bed’s foot, Ingeborg inhaled the rain-washed air blowing in their bedroom window.
Haakan propped himself up on one elbow, the better to see out the window. ‘‘Guess we won’t be cutting hay today.’’
‘‘I guess not.’’
‘‘Ah, well. It wasn’t quite ready anyway.’’ He lifted the long braid she wore at night and sniffed. ‘‘Your hair smells good.’’
‘‘Washed in rainwater.’’ Shivers tickled her middle.
He trailed a finger down her nose and rested it on her lower lip, moved it to her chin, and kissed her. ‘‘You smell good.’’
Some time passed before he called to Andrew to come get started with the morning chores. After they went out the door, Ingeborg found herself humming as she rattled the grate to reveal the remaining embers. A good rain made everyone happy.
Galloping hooves pounded up to the house. The sound set the hairs on the back of her neck upright, a frisson that made her head for the door.
‘‘Mrs. Bjorklund, come quick.’’ The call, accompanied by a fist thundering on the screen door, made her hurry.
‘‘What is it? Oh, Mr. Nordstrum, how can I help you?’’
‘‘It’s my boy. A cow kicked him, and he banged his head on the wall. There’s blood coming from his ears.’’
‘‘Go to the barn and ask Andrew to hitch up the buggy. I’ll get my things together.’’ Ingeborg spun around to see Astrid entering the kitchen and reaching for an apron from behind the stove.
‘‘I’ll take care of breakfast, Mor. You go.’’
Ingeborg snatched her medical basket from its place in the closet and swiftly checked to see all was in place. A head injury. Oh, Lord, whatever can I do? Ice. Would ice help? Do I need Metiz? Lord, please give me wisdom and lay your healing hand upon this child.
While she waited for Andrew to back the horse between the shafts, she recalled seeing Robbie Nordstrum playing with Trygve after church last Sunday. The two looked enough alike to be brothers and thought of enough mischief to make up for three families.
‘‘You want anything else, Mor?’’ Andrew snapped the last trace in place.
‘‘I’m thinking ice could help. Do we have any left in the icehouse?’’
‘‘Some. Pa was saving it for the Fourth of July celebration.’’
‘‘Better to save this boy’s life. Bring some as soon as you can.’’
Ingeborg climbed up on the buggy and flapped the reins. ‘‘Get up, boy.’’
Water splashed out of the ruts as they trotted out the drive, the wheels throwing up mud behind them. What rain hadn’t soaked into the thirsty ground had turned the upper layer of soil to the slippery gumbo that clogged wheels and weighted down horses’ hooves. The sky sat upon the earth, creating fog pockets in the hollows and turning the world gray. A thin line of gold in the east promised that the sun had not forgotten to rise but at the moment was bowing to the hovering clouds for dominion.
The rich smell of rain-soaked earth lent life to the breeze, with the dust washed from air and plants. Ingeborg exhaled worry about the injured boy, leaving him in God’s gracious hands, and inhaled renewed rejoicing for the life-giving rain.
The horse’s flared nostrils and heaving sides told of the weight of hooves and buggy by the time she stopped him in the farmer’s yard.
‘‘Here.’’ Mrs. Nordstrum flapped her apron as she called from the back door of the soddy that had yet to be replaced by a frame house. The couple had moved to Blessing the summer before and, like those before them, had built the barn first. They’d bought the farm from a family who had given up and moved back East like others who’d been chased away by the drought.
Ingeborg stepped down from the buggy, taking care to walk on grass so that she would not slip in the mud. Even so, she slid once, catching her balance by a bit of arm waving, her basket cover flapping in the motion.
She scraped the bottoms and sides of her shoes on the steel plate embedded upright between two blocks of wood and entered the soddy.
‘‘How is he?’’ she asked.
‘‘The same. He just lies there. He don’t answer when we call him, not even a flicker of an eye.’’ Betty Nordstrum wrung her hands, her lip quivering, her voice cracked by fear. A little girl, still wearing the shift of babyhood, peeked out from behind her mother, one thumb planted firmly in her mouth. A baby whimpered from the basket set on the table. Ingeborg had helped the baby into the world not much more than a month earlier. She followed the mother to the bed in the lean-to at the back of the lime-washed rooms. Kneeling beside the bed, she laid a hand on the boy’s forehead. No fever.
‘‘Could you bring a lamp in here, please?’’
‘‘Oh, sorry. I sorta get used to living like a mole. The bleeding from his ears, that stopped. I washed it away. As if that could help him. Oh, God, please . . .’’ She gnawed on the knuckles of her fisted hand and hurried from the room, swinging the little girl up into her arms.
The boy’s skin felt damp, clammy, and at the moment Ingeborg removed her hand, he went rigid, which was followed by an arching of his back that sent him nearly off the bed. Tremors shook his entire body, his limbs flailing, one knee catching Ing
eborg in the side.
‘‘Oh, Lord God, help us.’’ She breathed the prayer as she leaned across the boy’s body to stop the thrashing. ‘‘Lord God, please be merciful to this child of yours, to this family.’’
‘‘What’s happening?’’ Betty rushed back through the door, the lamp held high in one hand, her other clamping the toddler on her hip.
‘‘He’s having a fit.’’ Ingeborg dug in her basket for a piece of smooth-sanded wood. When the boy’s jaws relaxed enough for her to check his tongue, she inserted the piece of wood between his teeth.
‘‘What’s that for?’’
‘‘To keep him from swallowing his tongue or biting it if he convulses again.’’ Knowing full well there would be more, she beckoned the lamp closer and lifted one eyelid and then the other. One pupil looked black, the other nearly invisible in the light. She checked his ears, but his mother had washed them well. His breathing filled the small room, echoing from the corners.
‘‘Where is Mr. Nordstrum?’’
‘‘He had to finish the milking. He’ll be here soon.’’
‘‘Someone will be bringing ice as soon as they can. We’ll pack it around his head to see if we can reduce the swelling.’’ She thought a moment. ‘‘Perhaps we should take him over to the icehouse.’’
‘‘Is . . . is he going to die?’’
‘‘I don’t know. I pray not.’’
The boy arched again, his face a rictus of distress. His mother stifled a scream, and the child on her hip let out a wail that brought an answering one from the babe in the basket.
‘‘What’s happened?’’ Mr. Nordstrum burst through the doorway. ‘‘Is he dead? Is our boy gone?’’
‘‘No.’’ Betty turned and burrowed into her husband’s arms.
He looked over her head. ‘‘How is he?’’
Ingeborg finished feeling the back of the boy’s head. ‘‘He might have a cracked skull, and I’m sure there is swelling in his brain from the blow. Andrew is bringing ice, but I think we would be wise to take your son to the icehouse. All I really know to do is to pray for him and try to get the swelling down.’’
‘‘Is that what is causing him to jerk around like that?’’
‘‘Ja, I am afraid so.’’
The man left his wife and knelt by the bed, stroking the hair back off his son’s forehead. ‘‘Ah, my son, my son. I am so sorry. I should never have let you milk that cow. You are so little.’’ He bowed his head, silent sobs shaking his shoulders.
Ingeborg laid a hand on his back. ‘‘You mustn’t blame yourself. Accidents happen in spite of all our good intentions.’’
‘‘B-but he’s such a good boy.’’
‘‘I know.’’ Oh, Lord, what do I say? Please heal this boy and comfort this family. She closed her eyes, remembering how sick she’d felt inside when three-year-old Andrew got lost in the tall grass. Surely she could have done something more. But God had sent Wolf to care for Andrew and bring him home the next morning. The sight of the great gray wolf with Andrew clinging to his side, baby fists buried in the rough gray fur, had never disappeared from her memory. Nor the joy at seeing her mosquito-bitten son come home. Please, Lord, bring this boy back from the land of pain where he wanders.
The baby left off crying, and glancing up, Ingeborg realized Betty had turned her attention to the other two children, her gentle murmur only faintly audible above the heavy breathing of the boy on the bed.
‘‘Mor?’’ Andrew appeared in the doorway, a dripping gunnysack in his hands.
‘‘Go and crush part of that ice block in a towel and cover the rest with quilts to keep it from melting,’’ Ingeborg instructed Mr. Nordstrum. ‘‘We’ll pack the ice around Robbie’s head.’’
‘‘Okay.’’ The man did as asked, glancing back over his shoulder as if fearing his son might die in the meantime.
‘‘Can I help in any other way?’’ Andrew stood at her side.
‘‘Not that I can think of. Oh, go by Pastor Solberg’s and let him know what has happened.’’
‘‘I brought the wagon for the ice, and I have to clean off the wheels first. The mud sure sticks. And it is raining again.’’
‘‘Why don’t you ride one of the horses and then come back for the team?’’
‘‘Good idea.’’
‘‘How much ice is left in the icehouse?’’
Andrew shrugged and extended his hand about three feet off the ground. ‘‘Not much.’’
‘‘If the ice helps, we’ll take the boy there and keep him cool and quiet.’’ She could hear the thud of the side of the ax on the ice block. Within moments the father returned and handed Ingeborg a towel of crushed ice, already dripping.
She folded the towel over, making an ice pillow, and gently raised the boy’s head and shoulders so his father could place the pillow underneath.
Nothing changed, but Ingeborg knew the value of patience. Her stomach rumbled in the meantime.
Several hours and several seizures later, Pastor Solberg arrived and, after greeting the family, took his turn kneeling at the bedside.
‘‘Any change?’’
‘‘I think he is slipping into a coma.’’ Ingeborg kept her voice low so the others wouldn’t hear.
‘‘Ah, Lord God, hear the prayers of your children.’’ Pastor Solberg laid his hand on the boy’s chest and bowed his head. ‘‘Hear us, holy Father. You know the pain of this family and the pain this child is feeling. Only you can restore him to health and wholeness, and we plead the saving, cleansing blood of Jesus to bring Robbie back from wherever he is.’’
The boy twitched but on only one side of his body now, his back not arching off the bed like it had before.
‘‘Is that an improvement?’’ Pastor Solberg whispered with a look up to Ingeborg seated in the chair beside him.
She shook her head. ‘‘I don’t know. I think we should move him to the icehouse.’’
They loaded Robbie in the back of the wagon on a pallet of quilts, with his head cushioned by a down pillow and the last bits of ice. By the time they had him bedded on top of the sawdustcovered ice, his breathing had evened out, the tremors nonexistent.
Ingeborg waited on each breath, willing him to keep breathing. Betty Nordstrum clung to her hand with one and patted her son with the other.
As the hours passed, Ingeborg closed her eyes and ears against the sound of each breath and instead concentrated on the alternate drumming and pattering of the rain on the roof and the splashing of the runoff into the water-filled grooves worn in the sod.
Hours passed. Neighbors came and went, some to pray, some to bring food, all to offer encouragement. Mr. Nordstrum took the children home, accompanied by Ilse to oversee the house while Mrs. Nordstrum remained with her son.
‘‘I am going home for a bit, and then I’ll return,’’ Ingeborg said, feeling the boy’s forehead again. Still cool, and while shivers twitched his body now and then, they were indeed shivers and not tremors. She could tell the difference.
‘‘Is there anything I can do?’’
‘‘You can rub his arms and legs. When I come back, we’ll take him off the ice and see what happens.’’
‘‘He is so cold.’’
‘‘I know.’’ Ingeborg wrapped her arms around herself. Me too. But, Lord, with no change, is this not good? Hope stirred like a kitten replete with milk and yawning before sleep.
‘‘I’ll bring you back something to keep warm. And coffee.’’
‘‘Thank you.’’
The overcast sky made it seem much later than it was. Lights beckoned from her house across the land. A horse and rider loped across the field.
‘‘How is he?’’ Pastor Solberg stopped his mount beside her.
‘‘The same.’’
‘‘And that’s good?’’
She shrugged. ‘‘At least he is not worse. I’ll be back in a little while.’’
‘‘I brought a lantern.’’
‘‘Mange takk.
’’ Breathing in the damp air as she walked, Ingeborg felt renewed, as if she breathed in life itself. ‘‘Father in heaven, making this boy well again is such a simple job for you. Say the word, and he will sit up and be himself again. In the meantime, teach me what to do for him.’’
Listen.
She glanced over her shoulder to see who had spoken, the sensed word was so clear. ‘‘I am listening.’’
Rest.
‘‘Rest? That is what he is doing.’’ Only the sounds of her feet on the earth and her own breathing filled her ears as she approached her house.
‘‘How is he?’’ Astrid looked up from stirring gravy when Ingeborg entered the kitchen.
‘‘The same. I thought to bring back coats for Mrs. Nordstrum and me. It’s cold over there, and we are not lying on the ice.’’ Please, God, let me do the right thing.
‘‘You going to eat supper before you go back?’’
‘‘No, I’ll just gather what we need. Pour some coffee in a jar for me, please.’’
Astrid wrapped the jar in a dish towel to help keep it hot and put the jar, cups, sliced bread, and cheese in a basket to hand to her mother when she was ready to go out the door again.
‘‘You want the wagon?’’
‘‘Yes—the little one. Or the wheelbarrow—that’s what I’ll take.’’
Astrid retrieved the wheelbarrow from the garden and folded the coats and quilt into it, setting the basket on top. ‘‘If I can do more, tell me.’’
‘‘I will. What you can all do is pray for Robbie during grace.’’
‘‘We will.’’
Ingeborg looked longingly at the lighted windows from the barn but trundled the wheelbarrow back toward the icehouse, her brisk stride warming her from the inside out.
A puddle of yellow light surrounded a lantern set on the higher sawdust-covered blocks of ice. Robbie still lay without moving on the first shelf. The icehouse huddled low to the ground, its snug, thick walls filled with sawdust, which also covered the remaining blocks. With care they would last until August or even September. The people of Blessing could buy ice in the summer, usually for making ice cream, or as in this case, for use in caring for an injury.
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