He glanced at the spot on his arm, every sense aware of the reaction that ran from the skin under the sleeve of his shirt to all points south, north, west, and east on his body.
‘‘You’re forgiven.’’ Without further thought, he took her hand and tucked it under his arm. His look suggested she not try to take it back. ‘‘Now that we have that all straightened out, where shall we go?’’
‘‘Down along the river.’’
‘‘Are you sure?’’ Thorliff stopped walking to turn her toward him. He waited until she looked up, reading resolution in her eyes and the lift of her chin. Only the slightest quiver of her lower lip betrayed her.
‘‘Yes. I cannot let fear rule me.’’ She inhaled a breath deep enough to raise her shoulders. ‘‘And the longer I put this off, the more I dread going there. You know that has always been one of my favorite places. I can’t let that man take it away from me.’’ She paused with a slight shake of her head. ‘‘I can’t.’’
The desire to take her in his arms and shield her from all harm swept through him like a fierce wind. She’d been in danger, and he hadn’t been able to protect her. And this was in their very own town. How helpless he would be with her back in Chicago.
With a sigh he tucked her arm through his again, and they picked up their leisurely pace. Tilting at dragons took a steady heart and firm footing. Lord, please protect her; keep her safe from harm, and give her the strength to overcome whatever lies ahead.
Thoughts whirled through him, mind and heart, as they reached the river. Their pace slowed.
‘‘Right or left? We don’t have to slay all the dragons at once.’’
‘‘Left, and then we’ll come back and go for a soda at Mrs. Sitze’s.’’
Elizabeth’s step faltered only slightly as they walked westward, the river flowing gently on their right.
‘‘Tell me where you are on your story.’’
‘‘Better than that, I’ll let you read it if you like.’’
She flashed him a smile. ‘‘I’d like that a lot.’’
When Thorliff started classes again, Elizabeth felt a pang at being left out. For all these years she’d gone to school every September, and now she wasn’t even looking forward to October and her lifelong dream of attending medical school. Instead, she felt that part of her heart was missing. The mailman left her an envelope from Dr. Morganstein, and she stared at it a long time before slitting it with a pewter letter opener. Unfolding the paper, she read,
Dearest Elizabeth,
This place just doesn’t seem the same with you gone. It is like you have become part of our family, and there is a hole with you not here. The children ask after you, and so do some of the outpatients. Dr. Fossden grumbled at one of the surgical nurses that his third hand was missing and she wasn’t an adequate substitute.
This is not to lay pressure on you to return earlier than the starting of school but to let you know how valuable you are, and not only to us. I know your Dr. Gaskin hates to see you leave again.
I am still set on having you teach physiology and anatomy, and if you get stuck, one of us will help you out. I have already ordered the textbooks and all the charts, and we have an articulated skeleton to hang in the corner of the classroom. You can name it when you come or have the other students assist. As a designated second year student, you will officially be given the title of Doctor because of your copious experience.
I am honored that you want to join us in our mission to provide doctors who are more skilled and experienced than might be available otherwise.
Please greet your mother and father for me and know that we await your arrival with joy.
In God’s love,
Althea Morganstein, M.D.
A tear dripped on the paper. Lord, I cannot let fear rule my life, but Ian Flannery is most likely back in Chicago. What if he tries again? But if I told Sheriff Meeker what I believe, there is no way I could prove that it was Mr. Flannery who abducted me. I never saw his face. I only know it was his voice. She clenched her fists into her diaphragm, where even the thought of the man brought spasms.
Lord, what do I do? I know that you protected me from death or violation. I know that you will continue to do so because that is one of your promises. You said you will guide me, to the right or to the left, you will set my path before me and, Father, I want to walk on it, for I feel you have set my path and my feet on it. She opened her Bible and laid her clasped hands on the fine pages. Lord, I confess my fear, and I ask, I plead with you, to deliver me. I will trust you and your Word. I will. I will. I do. Tears rained down her cheeks, cleansing tears that washed the fear away and left her feeling as though she could float right up to the ceiling. She leaned back in her father’s chair, the library around her a safe place, a haven for her to remember that here, at 10:40 A.M. on September 14, 1895, she gave God her fear.
‘‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.’’ Reverend Mohn waited for the whispers and rustlings of the St. Olaf students to cease. He laid his Bible on the podium, flipping through the pages until the room was silent enough to hear the whisper of fine sheets of paper brushing against each other and the clearing of his throat.
Thorliff turned at the clatter of boots on the stair and the tiptoe thuds as Benjamin tried to sneak in late.
‘‘Good of you to join us, Mr. Dennison.’’
‘‘Sorry I’m late, sir, I . . .’’ Benjamin collapsed in the wooden chair next to Thorliff.
‘‘We will discuss this later.’’ Reverend Mohn shifted his attention to the entire student body. ‘‘Let us begin in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost.’’
Thorliff nudged his friend. ‘‘Oversleep again?’’ He kept his whisper low, his attention on the man in front.
‘‘For those of you who were here at our final meeting last spring, I want to refresh your memory of the challenge I left with you and explain our exercise to the new members of our body. We will start with the reading of the Beatitudes in Matthew five.’’
Thorliff’s ears kept listening to the list, but his mind flew back to the incidents over the summer. Mrs. Karlotta Kingsley and her . . . her attentions. Even the thought of her brought a rush of heat to his ears and to his entire body. He was sure everyone noticed, and he resisted squirming in his seat only with steely determination. When Reverend Mohn glanced from student to student, Thorliff was sure the man could see right into his heart, his sadly impure heart.
‘‘What I asked each of you to do was to choose one of these Beatitudes, to memorize it, and to live your verse to see how your dreams and actions correspond with Jesus’ plan for living. We will now go around the room, and those of you returning students will stand, recite your Beatitude, and briefly share with us what you learned from this assignment. We’ll start here at my right. Miss Syverude?’’
As one by one the students stood, each shared an incident and then admitted that they couldn’t always be merciful, or meek, or peacemakers, or whatever their Beatitude called for.
Thorliff could feel his throat growing more dry by the second. Was he the only one to choose pure in heart? When his turn came, he stood and tried to force words past the sawdust of his throat.
‘‘I—’’ he cleared his throat—‘‘I chose . . .’’ He swallowed hard and willed some spit to return to his mouth. ‘‘I chose ‘Blessed are the pure in heart. . . .’ ’’ He paused. How could he explain that he’d never noticed bosoms and ankles before like he had after choosing the verse? How could he explain his perverse and disobedient thoughts and the number of times he’d had to plead for God’s forgiveness? He cleared his throat again and began. ‘‘All I can say after trying to do this assignment is that I must use the apostle Paul’s words when he said, ‘O wretched man that I am! who shall deliver me from the body of this death?’ ‘For the good that I would I do not: but the evil which I would not, that I do.’ ’’ He raised his hands and let them fall to his sides. ‘‘I don’t know what else to say, sir.’’
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br /> Reverend Mohn nodded. ‘‘Martin Luther had something to say about this. He said he couldn’t stop the birds from flying over his head, but he could keep them from nesting in his hair.’’ He paused and looked around before turning his attention to Benjamin, who would be the last.
Thorliff thought about the quote as he half paid attention to Benjamin shuffling to his feet. Was he so dimwitted, like the disciples so often had been, that he had to ask for an explanation of a parable? Flying overhead? Nesting in the hair?
‘‘Isn’t it interesting that not one of you has had any degree of success in living up to such simple actions in order to receive blessings? And I know each of you well enough to know that you desire God’s blessings. I know that you did not take this lightly. All I have to do is see the sorrow on your faces. And so I must ask myself . . .’’ He paused and his gaze seemed to nail Thorliff to his chair. ‘‘Did I give you too difficult an assignment, or . . .’’ His pause stretched again. ‘‘Is it that God’s Word on the way we should live is never easy, but the eternal rewards are out of this world?’’
At their smiles, he nodded and smiled back.
‘‘Now for those of you who were confused with my story of Martin Luther, let me explain. Thoughts flit into our mind and out, and we have no control over that. What we have control over is in letting them stay—like mulling over a thought, letting it take up residence so that we begin to stew or worry or take pleasure in the thought. Then the thought grows like some awful weed and sets down roots, and we become consumed by it. But Paul says we should take every thought captive. That means to take charge of our thoughts. Choose to think on Jesus, on those things that are true and good and pure.’’ His eyes crinkled, and he half smiled, just enough to let his students know that he was not castigating them but teaching them.
‘‘I have good news for you regarding your chosen Beatitude. There is no way you can ever live up to any of them perfectly. They are examples of the way that God would have us act, to guide us onward, and that, my dear young friends, is what grace is all about. God knows we cannot measure up, and that is why He sent His son, His only son, to live here with us and to die on the cross to pay for our sins. Grace, eternal abiding grace. Grace that says I love you, no matter what. It is the character of God to love, and God is unchanging. So we confess our sins and our failings, and He covers us with His grace and forgiveness.
‘‘But . . .’’ He held up an index finger. ‘‘In love and gratitude we must never stop striving to live the way he wants us to. Through this exercise you became more aware of your own inadequacies, and I hope and pray that you drew closer to your heavenly Father as you prayed to live a Beatitude.’’
Thorliff studied his hands clasped in his lap. I did draw closer.
‘‘Let us pray. Father in heaven, we thank thee for thy word, for thy Son, for these young people gathered here in thy name. I pray that they will continue to study thy Word and to apply thy principles to their lives. In Jesus’ precious name, amen.’’
Thorliff stood along with the others, and with his books tucked under his arm, he trailed out of the room. Grace. It’s all about grace.
Three weeks later Thorliff stood in front of Elizabeth at the train station. ‘‘I hate to see you go,’’ he said, their hands nearly touching the way they seemed to do so easily after he had brought her home from her ordeal in the woods. Not only their hands, but arms and shoulders and eyes saying more than their lips. She’d looked forward to the evenings when he stayed after supper and sometimes she played the piano. Other times they went for a walk or played croquet or joined in one of the rousing political discussions that so often occurred when Phillip invited people over for an evening. Talk turned to the savage fighting going on in the Orient as Japan tried to take over both Korea and China. They discussed the growing number of electric power plants and what that would mean to people in general.
‘‘I-I know,’’ she responded. But at least I’m not afraid any longer. Since when did you become so important to me that my heart wants to see you at least every day? She felt herself swimming in those blue eyes of his, eyes that revealed so much more of Thorliff Bjorklund than ever did his well-shaped mouth. She kept her fingers from reaching up to stroke his square jaw.
‘‘Will you write?’’
‘‘Of course, and you?’’ No matter how busy I am, Thorliff, I will find time to write to you. ‘‘What is it?’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘Your eyes. They went dark for a moment, like a cloud passing over the sun.’’
‘‘Ah, nothing.’’
But she knew it was something. ‘‘No, what?’’
‘‘I-I’m not a real faithful letter writer.’’ Look how much I let Anji down. Will I do the same again?
‘‘You who writes all the time? I look forward to your letters. Tell me stories in them.’’
‘‘Really?’’ His brows knit together in a most fetching way.
Again her fingers tingled to touch him.
Her father cleared his throat. ‘‘There are others of us waiting here to tell you good-bye.’’
‘‘Oh, sorry, sir.’’ Thorliff stepped back. He could feel his neck growing hot.
‘‘Now, dear, you embarrassed them.’’ Annabelle tapped her husband’s arm with her fan, but her eyes twinkled as she put her arms around her daughter. ‘‘I’ll make sure he writes to you,’’ she whispered in Elizabeth’s ear. ‘‘God bless and keep you.’’ Her voice broke on the keep. She swallowed and kissed her daughter’s cheek. ‘‘I will miss you dreadfully.’’
‘‘The train runs to Chicago every day.’’ Elizabeth kissed her mother back.
‘‘And you would take time off to visit?’’
‘‘Dr. Morganstein assured me that I can, even though we don’t get long holidays off. Not like college where we had summers off and semester breaks.’’ Her gaze traveled over her mother’s shoulder to lock into Thorliff’s again.
Phillip put an arm around each of his women. ‘‘Who knows? Perhaps even Thorliff and I will come looking for news.’’ He hugged his daughter. ‘‘I’m proud of you, dear. Never forget how much we love you and are waiting to see you again. Letters are wonderful but . . .’’ He cleared his throat and looked up as the conductor called, ‘‘All aboard.’’
‘‘You better get on up there before you have to run to catch it.’’ When he reached down to pick up her satchel, Thorliff had beat him to it.
Thorliff climbed the stairs and reached back a hand to assist Elizabeth. She turned and waved before allowing him to help her up the last step.
Within moments Thorliff appeared in the doorway and stepped to the ground. He looked up at the window where she sat, her deep purple hat with a fine feather perched forward, the point of it nestled onto her forehead, making her look like a fashionable young woman.
He waved and kept on waving until only the end of the caboose could be seen down the tracks with the smoke from the engine trailing above. The long cry of the whistle echoed the loneliness already filling his heart. How long would it be before he saw her again?
Monday morning in class on the hill, Benjamin took his place next to Thorliff. ‘‘You look like you lost your last friend, but that can’t be, because here I am.’’ He set his book bag under the chair and grinned at his classmates. This year there were seventeen students in the junior class. While several had dropped out, others had come back, and now they were the upperclassmen and in charge of many of the college activities.
Surely I don’t look that bad. Thorliff nodded his greeting. ‘‘Did you have a good Sunday?’’
‘‘Life sure is easier living here in the dormitory. You missed a good time at the social. Ah, the singing and the games. You work too hard. All work and no play makes one boring, old man.’’ He clapped Thorliff on the shoulder.
Mr. Ingermanson entered the classroom and looked around to make sure they were all present. The conversation stopped as soon as he reached the front of the room.
>
‘‘Good morning. I do hope you all have your essays finished. You can lay them right on the corner of my desk on your way out. Today we will be discussing your assigned reading of John Milton. Who would like to begin with any questions your reading raised?’’
Thorliff raised his hand. ‘‘I thought it interesting that it was only after Milton was forced to retire from political life and went blind that he wrote his greatest work. Why was that, do you suppose?’’ The discussion was off and running.
When they gathered in the dining room for dinner, Benjamin picked up his tray and joined Thorliff and some of the others at their usual table near the back wall. ‘‘I do hope Cook sent extra cookies today. Nothing beats her cookies, no matter what kind she blesses us with.’’
‘‘Benjamin, you ever thought of letting Thorliff eat his own cookies? It’s not like they are starving you here.’’
‘‘I have it on good report that you had seconds at dessert again last night. And after that we popped corn, and there were enough apples to take some upstairs with us.’’
The conversation flowed around Thorliff as he reread the article he had just completed for the Manitou Messenger, St. Olaf’s student newspaper. While he really didn’t have time to work on the paper, Mr. Ingermanson had convinced him that it would be to his benefit to take part. Between articles for the Northfield News and the Manitou Messenger, his classwork, and the novel he was already writing in snippets to send to Elizabeth, his hand felt permanently cramped. Let alone trying to live up to the promise he’d made to himself to write home once a week.
Blessing seemed as if it existed on another plane or another continent, not only distant in miles but in reality. No matter how many letters he read from folks there, he realized he no longer thought of that as home. Home as in where he’d been reared, yes, but not where he belonged now.
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