More Than a Dream

by Lauraine Snelling

  ‘‘Ja. I think in the night. I didn’t check for coals in the stove, but the house was real cold. Remember the wolf howling so close last night?’’

  He stopped grooming and came to lean against the stall post. ‘‘Ja.’’

  ‘‘Help me check, but I think it was Wolf. His tracks are all around her cabin.’’

  Haakan cleaned the brushes by scraping them, bristle on bristle. He set the brushes on a shelf and came to take Ingeborg in his arms. ‘‘I’m not surprised. Metiz has been getting weaker and weaker. Why, we were just talking about her last night.’’ He rested his cheek on her head where her knitted scarf had pulled back. ‘‘I am so sorry for us, you, but not for her.’’

  ‘‘Do you think Pastor Solberg will bury her in the church cemetery?’’

  Haakan sighed. ‘‘There might be a ruckus over it.’’

  ‘‘I was thinking, what if we burned her house down?’’

  ‘‘Is that what the Indians do?’’

  ‘‘I’ve heard of it.’’ She sighed, her cheek shifting against the rough wool of his coat. ‘‘How would we find out?’’

  ‘‘Pastor Solberg has been in contact with the Indian agent for the reservation. He will tell us.’’

  ‘‘I will miss her so. She taught me everything. If it weren’t for her, we might not have made it that terrible year.’’ She looked up at her husband. ‘‘Do you think she knew?’’

  ‘‘Knew what?’’

  ‘‘That her time was coming. She had that extra sense so often, of knowing things.’’

  ‘‘Could be.’’ He tilted her chin up and kissed her. ‘‘Another sorrow for you.’’

  Ingeborg shook her head. ‘‘She lived a long life, and this is right. I am sad, for I will miss her dreadfully, but sorrow? No. She’s gone home to be with our Great Spirit. How she loved to say that when I said God or our Father. I think that’s why it was easy for her to believe in Jesus. He is the Son of God, so He is our brother.’’

  ‘‘Some here will disagree with you.’’

  ‘‘They did not know her as I did and do.’’ She hooked her arm through his. ‘‘Come, let’s go look for Wolf’s tracks.’’

  They found them to the side of the house where the snow didn’t drift in as deep.

  ‘‘He was letting us know?’’

  Haakan shook his head. ‘‘I . . . I just don’t know about that.’’

  ‘‘What other explanation is there?’’

  He sighed. ‘‘I don’t know that either. But then, there are a lot of things I don’t understand. I’m just glad God does.’’

  ‘‘You want a cup of coffee?’’

  ‘‘Ja. I will stop in to tell Pastor when I go for the children. You want to tell Kaaren and Ilse?’’

  ‘‘I’ll ski over there later.’’

  Ingeborg rattled the grate and laid more wood in on top of the coals. As soon as she had the lids back in place, she brought the coffeepot forward to the hottest part of the stove and crossed to the crock that held cookies baked the day before.

  Haakan sat down at the table. ‘‘I got the chickens shoveled out and cleared the path to the cheese house. There’s enough milk out there to start a batch.’’ Due to the reduced milk production in the winter when many farmers let their cows go dry, the Bjorklunds made far less cheese. So that was when they cleaned out the cheese house and prepared for spring and the new crop of calves.

  Ingeborg took a knife out of the drawer to cut the cheese and stared at the blade sunk in a deer horn handle—Metiz’ specialty. Tears stung again and she brushed them away with the back of her hand. So many things to remember her friend by, but wasn’t that the way it was supposed to be between friends? ‘‘I’ll write to Manda and Baptiste tonight. And Thorliff—he’ll want to know.’’

  ‘‘I think I’ll take a hammer and boards out there and board her house up until we decide what to do.’’

  ‘‘Good.’’ She set the coffee in front of him. Only into the new year two months. What would the rest of 1896 bring?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Blessing, North Dakota

  April 1896

  Ingeborg stood at the kitchen window, hands cupping her elbows. Snow still covered the land with not a hint of a thaw, and heavy clouds hung over the earth. ‘‘Will this winter never be over?’’

  The cat stretched in his place in the rocker by the stove and jumped to the floor to wind around her skirts. She leaned over and picked him up, cuddling him under her chin like Astrid did. The heavy purr vibrated her arms, and his ear tickled her chin.

  ‘‘Good thing I have quilting tomorrow or I swear I will go stark raving mad. It’s not like I have nothing to do, but I am sick and tired of that wind. Here it is almost Easter and spring hasn’t even shown its nose.’’

  With a sigh she left the window and checked the cake she had baking to take to the church with her the next day. She’d already made a pot of beef barley soup, since it was her turn to serve, and the simmering the next morning would only improve the flavor.

  She set the cat back in the chair, opened the oven door to gently press the cake top to check for doneness, and closed the oven door again to let the cake bake a few more minutes. After the cake was resting on the counter to cool before frosting, she returned to sorting through her leftover pieces of fabric to see what to take for the quilting.

  Feeling more restless by the moment, she picked up the family Bible and took it over to the rocking chair by the stove to read but first gently nudged the cat to the floor.

  ‘‘Goodness sakes, it’s too dark to even see to read.’’ Laying the Bible aside, she rose and lit the kerosene lamp, setting it up on the warming shelf of the stove to shed a pool of light over the rocker.

  The cat had taken over the chair again.

  She paused in picking him up. Was that a wolf howl? In the daytime? If they were that hungry, perhaps she’d better go out to the sheep shed and check on her flock.

  The sound came again. Either the wind or a wolf howling. She plunked herself back down in the chair. The howling reminded her.

  ‘‘Ah, how I miss Metiz.’’ The cat jumped back up in her lap, kneading her thighs and pleading for some long overdue petting.

  Two tears dropped on his fur.

  Ingeborg opened her Bible to the Psalms, and in every one she read, David seemed to be lamenting. Reading aloud, as if to drive off the bleakness, she said, ‘‘ ‘My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? why art thou so far from helping me. . . ?’ ’’ On and on she read, gaining strength from the words. ‘‘ ‘Unto thee will I cry . . . be not silent to me. . . . Hear, O Lord, and have mercy upon me: Lord, be thou my helper.’ ’’

  Hearing the sleigh arrive with the schoolchildren, she hastily wiped her eyes, closed the Bible, and rose to build up the fire. Andrew would want something hot to drink before going out to help with the chores.

  Andrew and Astrid laughed their way through the door, stamping the snow off their boots and shedding their coats to hang them on the pegs on the wall.

  ‘‘Guess what, Mor?’’ Astrid flipped her braid back over her shoulder.

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘Pastor Solberg sent Toby Valders home from school today. He cannot come back until he apologizes to Ellie.’’

  Ingeborg glanced up at her son, whose mouth had been laughing, but his eyes still wore the glint of anger.

  ‘‘Don’t worry, Mor, I didn’t touch him.’’

  ‘‘He didn’t have to. Pastor Solberg got really white around the mouth and then said, ‘Tobias Valders, you go home until you can comport yourself as a young man of God in this school.’ What do you think Mr. and Mrs. Valders will do to Toby?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know.’’ But Ingeborg flinched inside. Mr. Valders was known to have a temper, and Mrs. Valders would be terribly embarrassed.

  ‘‘I’m glad I’m not Toby.’’ Astrid picked up the cat, which had been mewing at her feet.

  ‘‘I’m going to change clo
thes. Is Pa out in the barn?’’

  ‘‘I think so. Ellie is all right, isn’t she?’’

  Andrew nodded. ‘‘He wouldn’t dare touch her.’’ His quiet voice wore barbs of steel.

  The next day Ingeborg pulled her things together, fetching the tall pot of soup from its place on the back porch, where it had partially frozen during the night. When she had everything settled in the sleigh, she gathered the reins and drove next door to pick up Kaaren and Ilse. With all the deaf students at school, they could both attend the monthly quilting bee at the church.

  ‘‘Sounded like Pastor Solberg had a pretty bad day yesterday.’’ Kaaren arranged the buffalo robe over her legs and Ilse’s.

  ‘‘More than Toby Valders?’’

  ‘‘Ja. Two other boys got in a fight, one of them from the deaf school. They got to chop wood as a reminder that fighting is not the way to settle a disagreement.’’

  ‘‘However did Andrew stay out of it?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know. Maybe chopping enough wood is an effective way to learn to control your temper.’’

  ‘‘But Andrew only fights when someone younger or weaker is being bullied. He doesn’t just get mad and punch someone.’’ Ilse spoke up from her nest under the robe.

  ‘‘I’m certainly happy to hear that.’’ Ingeborg clucked the horse to a trot, setting the harness bells to jingling merrily.

  ‘‘Do you know if Penny is bringing her machine today?’’ Kaaren asked. ‘‘I could have put mine in.’’

  Ingeborg shook her head. ‘‘No idea.’’

  ‘‘Are you all right?’’

  The concern in Kaaren’s voice made Ingeborg swallow hard. ‘‘I will be if spring ever comes again.’’

  ‘‘It has been a long winter. And a sad one. That makes it seem even longer. Would that I could help you.’’

  ‘‘You do, as much as possible. I guess grief is just something you need to wade through, like the mud in the spring. It pulls at your feet, but you don’t sink down beyond getting out. And when it dries, the soil is richer than ever.’’

  ‘‘That’s a beautiful description. All of us waiting for spring for seeds to sprout, and if God planted them, we have no idea what wonderful plants are going to flower, such glorious colors, such sweet fragrances. Just think, some of the most sweet smelling bloom only at night, like the nicotiana. I planted some of that last summer right under our bedroom window. I saved the seeds, so I shall bring you some.’’

  Ingeborg whoa’d the horse and stepped from the sleigh to throw a blanket over the horse and slip the bridle off, then tied the rope to the halter and the hitching rail. While she took care of the horse, the other two unloaded the sleigh, and by the time they had everything inside, others were arriving.

  Women filed in, carrying baskets of food, sewing supplies, and their Bibles, ready for a day they all looked forward to for the entire month.

  ‘‘All right, ladies, let’s get started.’’ Penny Bjorklund clapped her hands and turned to answer a question. ‘‘No, let’s set the sewing machines up by that window and the quilting frames over there. That sun should feel most welcome for a change. I know I was beginning to think spring had passed us by too.’’

  ‘‘Don’t plan on it being over yet. Mr. Valders says another storm is still on its way.’’ Hildegunn Valders set a platter of fresh cinnamon rolls in the center of the table. ‘‘I brought these to go with coffee.’’

  ‘‘They smell heavenly, but I sure hope your husband is wrong. The only storm I want to see is a gentle rain that smells like spring and melts all this white stuff very gently so that it all soaks into the ground and gives us the best crops possible. Now, if that isn’t asking for a lot, I don’t know what is, but God says, ‘Ask, and ye shall receive.’ ’’

  ‘‘Ja, well, I am asking that Kaaren read and we get started. Einer Junior is home with a sore throat, and I cannot be gone all day.’’ Mrs. Helmsrude shrugged as she finished her sentence. ‘‘Why do they get sick on quilting day? This is the first school he has missed, and now he will not get a perfect attendance.’’

  Penny clapped her hands again. ‘‘Let us begin. Ingeborg, will you carry around the coffee tray? Bridget, would you take over stretching that quilt on the frame so we can get it basted? Mrs. Valders, will you be in charge of the cutting, please? We need to get another wedding ring started. Who knows who’ll get married next. Goodie, how are the blocks coming for the quilt to be auctioned?’’

  ‘‘We’re about half done.’’ Goodie Wold looked up from counting blocks in a stack and glanced around the room. ‘‘Everyone has to remember to sign their blocks. Some are coming back without signatures.’’

  ‘‘Oh, I forgot.’’ Mrs. Veiglun shrugged and made a funny face. ‘‘I was just so glad to get them finished.’’

  A chuckle rippled through the room. They all knew that sewing was not one of her favorite things to do, and she did not have a sewing machine like some of the others.

  ‘‘That’s all right.’’ Mary Martha Solberg patted her hand. ‘‘I’ll do that for you if you’ll bake some more of that wonderful apple pie. I don’t know what you do, but yours is so much better than mine.’’

  And you are a master at making others feel better, Ingeborg thought. So often I wish I could remember to pause and say the best thing and not necessarily the first thing that comes to mind. She caught herself from shaking her head or Kaaren would know she was misthinking again. Kaaren and Mary Martha both had the gift of pouring oil on troubled waters, while she would most likely strike the match. That thought made her almost smile, not exactly an appropriate response either, since Kaaren had the Bible open on her lap.

  ‘‘Anyone have any favorite passages they would like read?’’ Kaaren held up her Bible. After several suggestions she began reading in the Psalms as requested.

  Ingeborg set her tray back down and took her place at the quilting frame.

  ‘‘Your soup smells so wonderful,’’ mouselike Mrs. Magron said in a whisper.

  ‘‘Thank you,’’ Ingeborg whispered back. Even so, Mrs. Valders across the frame raised an eyebrow. Ilse nudged her with her foot, which made Ingeborg almost smile again.

  When Kaaren finished reading and leading in prayer, talk picked up as needles flashed in and out, scissors cut through fabric, and sewing machines whirred, the treadles thumping in unison.

  Ingeborg got up to stir her soup when she heard Mrs. Valders say, ‘‘Did you hear that they are planning on burying Metiz in our cemetery?’’

  Ingeborg tried to ignore the flash of anger that nearly melted her camisole. She glanced over at Kaaren, who gave a slight shake of her head. But Ingeborg ignored her.

  ‘‘And why wouldn’t she be buried in the church’’—she emphasized church—‘‘cemetery?’’

  ‘‘The church cemetery is for baptized Christians, not for heathens.’’

  Ingeborg tried to clamp back the words galloping off her tongue but failed. ‘‘You have no idea what Metiz believed because you never talked with her.’’ Ingeborg tried again to swallow her anger but almost choked instead. ‘‘Metiz lived out her faith. She didn’t just talk about it. She’s a better Christian than you will ever be with all your judgmental ways.’’ She gripped the back of her chair until her knuckles whitened.

  ‘‘Why, I never . . .’’

  ‘‘That’s right, you never gave her credit for helping when Mr. Valders nearly lost his life instead of just his arm. You never spoke to her as a friend. You never offered any kind of Christian love.’’ With each word Ingeborg leaned farther over the chairback until it was cutting into her midsection.

  ‘‘Ingeborg, would you come help me at the cutting table?’’ Kaaren took her arm and literally dragged her away from the quilting frame.

  Ingeborg followed her, but instead of joining the cutting, she made for the door, snatching her coat and scarf off the chairs where they had laid them and slammed out the door. Her flaming face didn’t even feel the biting wind tha
t had kicked up, nor did her bare hands as she wrapped her long knit scarf about her head and neck. She crammed her hands into her pockets and strode out across the prairie. Snow crunched beneath her laced and well-greased shoes, and even the sun reflecting off the snow could not prevent the tears from freezing on her cheeks.

  ‘‘I could rip that woman limb from limb right now with my bare hands.’’ She took her hands out of her pockets and stared at them. They’d even formed the shape of her anger, clenched and rigid.

  She rammed them back in her pockets and kept on walking, her strides so long that she wound up at her own porch before she realized where she was.

  When Haakan came in for dinner, he found her setting the table.

  ‘‘What are you doing home? Where is the horse?’’

  ‘‘At the church. I walked out of there before I attacked and perhaps injured Hildegunn Valders.’’

  ‘‘I see. That bad, eh?’’

  ‘‘She doesn’t believe Metiz should be buried in the church cemetery.’’ Ingeborg slammed a plate on the table hard enough that it cracked right in two.

  ‘‘Ah.’’

  She stared at the broken plate, her hands flying to cover her cheeks. As if mesmerized by what she’d done, she picked both pieces up and held them together again.

  ‘‘It’s broken, Ingeborg, but it’s only a plate.’’ Haakan took the pieces from her shaking hands and threw them in the box of garbage.

  ‘‘No. I have to fix them.’’

  Haakan grabbed her hands before she could dig the pieces of plate out again. ‘‘Ingeborg, listen to me. Glue won’t hold dishes together. They just break again.’’ He put his arms around her and held her writhing against his chest, trying to get free. ‘‘Ingeborg!’’

  She burst into tears, collapsing against his chest. ‘‘Sh-she is so hateful, a-and she thinks she knows it all. No wonder Toby is such a terror, having to live with someone so self-righteous as she.’’ Sobs broke her words just as the plate had crashed on the table. ‘‘I-I will never speak to her again, and if Pastor Solberg refuses to bury Metiz in the cemetery, I swear, I will never enter the door of that church again either.’’