The Reaper's Song

by Lauraine Snelling

  Kaaren must have read her mind, for next she read, “ ‘Praise the Lord. Let them praise his name in the dance; let them sing praises unto him with timbrel and harp.’ ”

  After Kaaren finished reading Psalm 149, Mrs. Valders pushed her chair back. “We need to switch places now. Thank you, Kaaren, for your beautiful reading.”

  “I think a prayer would be in order now.” Mrs. Magron brought on more surprised looks.

  “Oh, well, I . . .” Mrs. Valders huffed before looking again to Kaaren. “If Kaaren is willing to lead us, I suppose we can take the time.”

  Kaaren nodded gravely, but Penny saw the twinkle in her eyes before they all bowed their heads.

  “I have an idea,” Kaaren said, her voice as gentle as the dawn. “I will begin the prayer, and then if any of you have something to add, speak up, and afterward, I will begin the Doxology, and we can close with that.”

  “Well, I never . . .” Mrs. Valders muttered under her breath.

  “Father in heaven, we come before thee with hearts full of praise for all the gifts thou hast bestowed upon us. Thou art our God and we are thy people, the sheep of thy pasture. We thank thee for this day and for the time we have together.” With that, Kaaren paused and a sigh slipped around the room. Silence reigned.

  Mrs. Odell whispered into her clasped hands, “I . . . I thank thee for my family and my friends who help make living here on the prairie less of a burden.”

  Penny bit her lip. Why was praying out loud with others present so difficult? She nearly sighed in relief when another voice began.

  “Father, I thank thee for the new baby that will be coming to our house. I ask that thou keep thy hand upon me and the babe to keep us safe. Frank wants a son again, and if it be thy will, I will rejoice with another boy.”

  Penny knew Mrs. Veiglun wanted a daughter. Her first had died in infancy. Why did men think boys were so much more important than girls? She corralled her wayward thoughts, knowing she needed to pray aloud to overcome the fear, if for no other reason.

  “Father God, I . . .” Her mind acted like a blackboard wiped clean. She worried her lip again. The silence stretched. She could hear Agnes breathing beside her. “I pray for my tante Agnes that thy hand may bring strength and renewed health to her, that she will again go about with singing. Father, I miss her laughter.” Penny fought the tears rising in her throat. “I thank thee in advance for hearing my prayers.” She wanted to say more, so many things needed praying for, but the words wouldn’t—couldn’t pass the pocket of tears. So she prayed them silently: for her newfound cousin, for her store, and for Hjelmer, that he would find a way to mend the fences his land-buying had brought down.

  Others prayed; some sniffling could be heard. The silences between the words no longer seemed to stretch and plead for someone to say something. Now the silences were part of the prayers and were filled with peace. When Kaaren began to sing the Doxology, she hadn’t sung more than two notes before the others joined in.

  “Praise God from whom all blessings flow. . . .”

  Penny glanced upward, sure their music could be seen rising like smoke from an ancient altar, drifting heavenward and directly into the Father’s ear. She swiped at the tears that dripped onto her hands before the final amen sang out in full harmony.

  “My,” said Mrs. Odell as the last note hung on the air before fading away. “That sounded like angels singing. I know it did.” She blew her nose and wiped her eyes with her handkerchief.

  “Guess we better get to stitching.” Agnes tucked her handkerchief away in her pocket. She shot Kaaren a look of gratitude. “Mange takk, my friend. You surprise me over and over at the way God uses you in our lives. Like the apostle Paul said, ‘I thank my God for every remembrance of you.’ ”

  “I say you have to tell us about your miracle.” Penny leaned toward Kaaren. “What happened?”

  Kaaren smiled gently and told about the sensation both she and Lars had felt of Jesus being right with them, and the next morning the twins were healthy.

  “God be praised,” Brynja whispered.

  “Amen to that.” Agnes added.

  As the chatter about houses and gardens resumed, Penny finally got up the nerve to broach the subject she’d been wanting to bring to the women. “Did any of the rest of you hear about the man who wants to open a saloon in Blessing?”

  Talk about a dead silence. The room shut down with a gasp.

  “A saloon?” Mrs. Odell squeaked. “Surely not in our town.”

  “No one has come to us about buying one of the parcels of land and building such a thing.” Ingeborg looked at Kaaren, who also shook her head.

  “What about the property to the south? Who owns that now?” Mrs. Veiglun asked.

  “Why, I guess Hjelmer does. But he wouldn’t . . .” Penny trailed off at the look she received from Mrs. Valders and her two cohorts.

  “Hjelmer will do anything to make a dollar.” Hildegunn Valders said the words as if God himself had spoken.

  Penny leaped to her feet, the pieced squares in her lap flying in all directions. “That’s not true!”

  Hildegunn straightened her spine and threw back her shoulders. Fire shot from her eyes, and her lips cut off each sound like the sharpest of shears. “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “No, of course she ain’t.” Agnes put a hand on Penny’s arm, drawing her back into her seat while at the same time placating Mrs. Valders with her other. “Now, we got something serious here to discuss and getting all het up won’t help us a bit. We must let bygones be bygones. Ain’t that what forgiveness is all about?”

  “Humph.”

  The rude sound raised Penny’s hackles another notch, but the hand on her arm never faltered. The old witch was acting like Hjelmer stole something from her personally instead of being a smart businessman.

  “The question is”—Kaaren spoke in a firm but quiet voice—“what are we going to do about this?”

  “What can we do?” someone else asked.

  “We can let it be known that we do not want such a business in our town,” Ingeborg said.

  “As if the men would listen to us.”

  “Oh, I’m sure that we all have means of making our men listen.” The smile and raised eyebrow combined to give Kaaren’s lovely face the hint of mischief that brought snickers from around the room.

  “We could talk with Reverend Solberg too.”

  “Ja, and . . .” The talk flowed with noddings and more than a few chuckles.

  Penny looked over at Mrs. Valders. A sigh came up from her toes. Now she’d have to ask forgiveness for the way she felt about the bossy woman. How come she hadn’t foreseen the rumpus her question would cause? All she wanted was to enlist the aid of the other women.

  “You are not to worry your head about this,” Ingeborg leaned close to whisper in Penny’s ear. “You did right.”

  “Thank you,” Penny whispered back. How lucky . . . she amended the word—blessed she was to have friends like Ingeborg and Kaaren. Back when the twins were born, she’d lived all those months at their house helping Kaaren with the tiny babies who had come so early. With all the time spent together, she felt as close to the two women as if they were her own sisters.

  When the time came to break for dinner, they called in the children. Everyone sang grace and fell to their meal. With the desserts lined up on one of the tables and the coffee hot, the meal passed quickly. When they finished, the youngest children were laid on quilts to nap while the older ones went back outside to play.

  As the quilting resumed, Ingeborg said, “You know, there is something that has been bothering me, and I thought maybe some of the rest of you mighta thought the same.”

  All eyes were trained on the speaker.

  She waited a moment before continuing. “I know we all want Blessing to grow and become a real town.” She looked around the room, seeing nods of approval. “I been thinking that a bank might be a good thing to have here. Why should we have to take the train or
the riverboat to Grand Forks or Grafton to do our banking and . . . and then depend on the whim of someone who doesn’t even know us to decide how our money can be used?”

  “Why . . . why you have to be rich to start a bank,” Mrs. Valders said, but while the words sounded like her normal know-it-all way, the question came through in her hesitant tone. It was as if she had shouted, “Don’t you?”

  Ingeborg nodded. “In a way, I suppose. Usually that might be the case, but what if we all pooled our money—you know, like the men are talking about a cooperative for our grain so that all the small farmers won’t be at the mercy of the big mills setting the prices for wheat anymore. Look at us. We get together to sew quilts and build houses and harvest. We all work together and for each other.”

  The silence fell again as each woman looked around at her neighbors and thought her own thoughts.

  “I think a bank in Blessing is a fine idea,” Mrs. Magron spoke up.

  All the women looked at her as one. The mouse had spoken. For the third time that day.

  “So . . . who knows anything about starting a bank?” Mrs. Valders looked to Ingeborg.

  “I guess we’ll just have to find out how to do it,” Ingeborg said with a firm dip of her chin.

  But Penny noticed that she clenched her hands together under the quilting frame. Could it be that Ingeborg wasn’t as confident about starting a bank as she sounded? Or was something else bothering her?

  What do I know about starting a bank?” Ingeborg slapped the reins to signal the horse to speed up. Since Goodie had remained at home to take care of her daughter, Ellie, she also kept Kaaren’s and Ingeborg’s children with her, leaving Kaaren and Ingeborg time together. They’d taken advantage of the situation by letting the horse plod its way home.

  “You know as much as any of us,” Kaaren answered.

  “That won’t churn butter, let alone start a bank. We’ve all been on the other side of the desk. I suppose Mr. Brockhurst would tell me if I ask him.”

  “Why wouldn’t you ask him?” Kaaren turned slightly on the hard wagon seat.

  “If we begin a bank here in Blessing—we, meaning others besides us Bjorklunds . . .” She paused at Kaaren’s slight sniff. “I know you are a Knutson, but you are still a Bjorklund too, and . . .” Ingeborg paused again. “Well, the truth of the matter is that we will be removing a sizable amount of money from Mr. Brockhurst’s bank and starting up competition. He might not appreciate that, you know.”

  “I guess I hadn’t thought about that.”

  Paws, Thorliff’s caramel-and-white dog, welcomed them with staccato yips, jumping beside the wagon and racing around it, his tail spinning circles in his joy at their return.

  “Good dog, Paws. Now, don’t go running under the horse’s hooves.”

  “You could write to Mr. Gould, couldn’t you? Surely he knows plenty about starting a bank, or he could find out.”

  Ingeborg nodded. “Ja, I’m sure he does.” She slowed the horse to a walk again. “There’s just one little problem with writing to him.”

  As the barns and houses drew nearer, Kaaren finally prompted her. “And what is that?”

  “I think Haakan is just a bit jealous of my New York angel.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “He gets that tightening of the jawline when a letter comes. You have to look quick to see it, but . . .”

  “But it is there, and you don’t want to make him angry?”

  “Yes. But you see, he has nothing to be angry or jealous about. Gould has been a good friend to all of us. From the moment he rescued me in New York until even looking for Hjelmer for us last year, why, whatever I would ask for, if he could bring it about, he would. Isn’t that what friends do for one another? I only regret I have been able to do nothing for him in return.”

  “Maybe that is what is bothering Haakan.”

  “What, that I can do nothing in return?”

  “No, more that maybe Mr. Gould can do more for you than Haakan can.”

  “That is tullebukk of him.”

  “Be that as it may . . .”

  “So what do I do? Write the letter and not tell Haakan? Deal with Mr. Brockhurst myself and hope the man doesn’t get upset?” She thought a moment. “Or maybe he’ll give us the wrong information because he doesn’t want another bank in the area. Uff da, why do things have to get so complicated?”

  “Asking God for direction might be a good place to start.” Kaaren’s voice wore a smile.

  “Ja, there is that too. But what if I don’t like what He says?”

  “Mor, Mor, Andrew. . . !” Thorliff’s shouts interrupted the conversation, and the women turned their heads to see the boy running across the field, waving his arms and shouting.

  “Now what?” Ingeborg slapped the reins again. Here she’d been dawdling and now there was a problem. “What is it?”

  “Andrew fell out of the haymow, and now he won’t wake up.”

  “Giddup!” She slapped the reins hard, startling the horse to break into a gallop. “Oh, dear God, please take care of my son. He’s yours, but I want to keep him for a long time. Please, please.” She lapsed into Norwegian, her English being too slow and stilted for the agony of her heart.

  She pulled the horse to a stop and threw the reins to Kaaren just before Thorliff leaped up the back stoop of the frame house. Even so, Ingeborg hit the ground almost before the wagon finished rocking. “Take care of the horse, Thorliff,” she ordered over her shoulder, her feet pounding up the four steps as she gathered her skirts in her fists so she wouldn’t trip on the way.

  Her heart hammered against her ribs as if she’d run clear home from the church.

  “In here,” Goodie called when Ingeborg burst through the door.

  Andrew lay on the bed, eyes closed, a purple knot raising the damp cloth on the right side of his forehead. His face looked whiter than a snowbank.

  Ingeborg sank to her knees beside the bed. “How long has he been like this?”

  “Not long. It only just happened. Ellie came screaming to the house, and I went out and carried him in.” While she spoke, Goodie took the cloth and, dipping it in a pan of cool water, wrung it out and laid it on the boy’s forehead again.

  “Has anyone told Haakan or gone for Metiz?”

  Goodie shook her head and at the same time said, “Baptiste has gone for Metiz. Haakan is working over on the piece he bought from Polinski. Hans is caring for the twins. Baptiste took Trygve home along with Astrid.”

  Ingeborg stroked the curve of Andrew’s cheek with gentle fingertips. “Oh, my son, please hear me. You must wake up now. I know you will have a headache, but you are strong and as hardheaded as the rest of the Bjorklunds.” She paid no attention to her words but kept up the soothing murmur of mothers everywhere with sick children.

  “How is he?” Kaaren entered the room and stopped beside Goodie.

  “He don’t even blink.” Goodie clenched her hands until the knuckles turned white. “I shoulda been watching them two more closely. How many times have I said, ‘Don’t go playing near the trapdoor’? I tried to keep them out of the haymow and now look.” She raised eyes filled with anguish. “Little Andrew might die cause I warn’t careful enough.”

  Ellie, who’d been hiding at the foot of the bed, burst into loud sobs. “I wanted to play in the haymow.” Tears ran between her tiny fingers as she hid her face in her hands.

  Kaaren scooped Goodie’s little daughter up in her arms. “There now. You mustn’t carry on so. Andrew wouldn’t want you to cry like this.” She rocked the little girl and patted her back as she sobbed into Kaaren’s shoulder.

  “It could have happened if I was here too,” Ingeborg said without looking up from her son’s face. “You know I’ve told them they could play in the barn. Accidents happen. That is all.” But while her words sounded so sensible, her heart cried out, If only I had been here. She felt a gentle hand on her shoulder.

  She turned. “Metiz! Thank God you are he
re.”

  “You call. I come.”

  “Thank you.” Ingeborg saw Thorliff and Baptiste huddling just inside the bedroom door. “You boys go on and start the chores. I’ll call you if there is anything you can do. Who is watching the little ones?”

  “Hans. He said for us to come here. Andrew isn’t going to die, is he?” Thorliff asked.

  Ingeborg shook her head. “No, but sometimes when you get a bad bump on the head, sleep is the best thing for you. You watch, Andrew will be up and running around again soon. A bump on the head can’t keep a Bjorklund like him down.” If only she believed the words herself.

  The very stillness of his body frightened her beyond belief. Andrew was normally moving from the time he got up until he collapsed in bed at night. Since the day he’d been born, he had given new meaning to the word motion. It seemed like years ago that he’d outgrown the need for a nap.

  Right now, everything seemed like years ago. Ingeborg found herself breathing with her son. She held his hand while Metiz lifted the child’s eyelids and laid her ear against his chest, gently probing the wound and the area around it.

  “No break. Just a hard bump. We wait.” She settled herself on the floor with her back against the wall.

  “Is there nothing in your simples that can help him?”

  Metiz shook her head. “Sleep best thing. We sing to Great Spirit. He will hear.”

  But he’s not just sleeping. If he were sleeping, he would wake when I call his name. Oh, Andrew, my son, my son. How long, O Lord, how long? Her attention journeyed back to the room at the sound of Metiz chanting her native tongue with a haunting refrain. The sound soothed her anxiety, and she found herself humming “Deilig er Jorden,” a hymn she learned at her mother’s knee. Mor, what would you do now? Her thoughts of panic couldn’t exist in her mind at the same time as the hymn, so she forced herself to keep singing.

  She could feel peace tiptoe into the room, shy as a fawn. As long as she hummed, it drew closer and wrapped her in its arms. It stole across the little boy, circled the old woman, and wrapped the others, too, in its warmth. Ingeborg knew with all her heart that if she turned quickly enough, she would see Jesus himself, or one of His angels, standing right behind her shoulder.