The Reaper's Song

by Lauraine Snelling

“Whoa, Bob, Belle.” But it did no good. The bees swarmed around the animals’ heads. The horses whinnied. One kicked.

  The yellow jackets, roused from their subterranean home, attacked with vengeance.

  In spite of her pulling on the reins, the horses bolted.

  The plow bounced over the furrows.

  Ingeborg flew through the air like a rag doll tossed in play and crumpled on the clod-rough ground.

  Pain, shattering pain, jerked her back to reality.

  Ingeborg lay on the Dakota earth she had fought so hard to break, then save. The rich smell of it filled her nostrils. Part of it, rock hard, felt like a sharpened boulder in her back. Dare she move?

  Breathing deep to clear her head sent it spinning instead and set her chest on fire.

  “Mor!” The call came as from a great distance.

  Answering took more life than she had at that moment. She took shallow breaths, learning from that one effort. She flexed her fingers, moved her feet. They all seemed to work, none causing any more pain than that which already coursed through her body. The bee stings had left their marks in painful welts on her arms and face.

  “Ingeborg!”

  How to answer. A crow cawed from the air above her. You tell them. You obviously have more to say than I at the moment.

  When the world stopped spinning, she cautiously raised her head. The pain in her chest lessened as the air returned. So she’d had the wind knocked out of her. No one died from that.

  The horses! Oh, God, please let the horses—and the plow—be all right. Oh and me too, if you please. She moved her arms, cautiously at first and then to pat and prod her ribs and shoulders. All seemed to be in working order. But she felt as if she was on fire.

  She rolled to one side and, propping an elbow underneath herself, pushed up to a sitting position.

  “Ingeborg!” Closer now came Katy’s voice.

  “I . . . I’m here. I’ll be all right.”

  “Ingeborg.” Katy dropped to the dirt beside her, chest heaving from the run. “The team came home without you. We . . .”

  “Bob and Belle are all right then?” Ingeborg lifted her head to look at Katy.

  “Bob and Belle? Oh, the horses. They are stung and have some cuts, I think, but you, it is you we . . .”

  Bridget joined them, Andrew right behind her. “You are alive, oh, thank the good Lord. You are even sitting up.” Bridget clasped her hands under her chin and raised her face to the heavens. “Thank you, heavenly Father.” Her face darkened and her tone changed. “Now, let us look at you. You never should have—” She cut off her words at a signal from her daughter. “How are your legs, your back? Do you think you can stand?”

  Ingeborg leaned into the comforting embrace of Katy. She wiped a strand of hair from her eyes and came away with a bloody finger. “It is nothing,” Ingeborg said. “A small cut is all.”

  Katy checked the back of Ingeborg’s head. “Another one here.” She pressed a spot. “And here. But they are already done bleeding.”

  “Ugh.” Ingeborg grunted when she shifted. “Please help me up, and—oh!” As she stood, a cramp low in her belly bent her in two. “O God above, no!”

  Her wail set Andrew to crying. He grabbed her pants leg and sobbed as if his heart would break.

  Katy knelt and gathered him to her side.

  “Mor . . . Mor.” He reached for her, and now that the pain had passed, Ingeborg hugged him close.

  “It’s all right, son. Your ma just took a tumble, is all. We’ll go on back to the house and see to Bob and Belle. You want to run ahead and tie them up?”

  “He’s too little to lead those huge beasts. Besides, they might still be wild scared.” Bridget motioned to Katy. “You go with him, and I’ll come with Ingeborg.”

  Ingeborg let herself be fussed over and didn’t resist the arm Bridget put around her waist.

  “Lean on me.”

  Halfway home the lower pain sliced through her again.

  She lost the baby just before sunrise.

  Metiz kneaded Ingeborg’s belly after Bridget, tears streaming from her eyes, carried the tiny form away. “Bring hot tea from stove,” she told Katy, who had sat holding Ingeborg’s hands through the long night. White crescents remained on her palms from Ingeborg’s fingernails.

  “It’s over, isn’t it?” Ingeborg whispered after a heavy sigh.

  “Umm.”

  “I wanted this baby so bad. Haakan’s own child.” Her voice weakened. “How will I tell him?” A tear trickled from her closed eyelid. “I killed his son.”

  “Hush, now, that is no way to talk. Accidents happen and mayhap the good Lord wanted this baby home right away.” Bridget laid a cool cloth on Ingeborg’s forehead and wiped her face and hands with a warm cloth. “We’ll get you into a clean, dry nightgown, and after a good sleep, you will feel better.”

  “Here.” Katy handed Metiz the tea. “This smells awful.”

  “But help stop bleeding.” Metiz held the cup.

  Ingeborg took a couple of swallows before pushing the cup away with hands too weak to make much difference.

  “No. Drink all.”

  Ingeborg held up a hand. “In a minute.” Why don’t they just leave me alone? Maybe then I could die too, before having to tell Haakan what I’ve done. How will he ever forgive me? How . . . how will I forgive myself?

  She drank the remainder of the liquid and turned her head away. Eyes closed, she waited while the rustling from the others ceased as they left the room.

  O God, how could I do such a thing? Two babies now that I killed because of my stubbornness. Father, take me home before I cause any more disasters. Not long after they had settled on their homestead, she had been hunting and had taken a bad fall, losing her first baby.

  She woke to Metiz kneading her belly again. Let me be, she wanted to cry out but knew the futility of that. Metiz would go right on doing what she knew to be best.

  By midmorning Ingeborg’s body felt better. Andrew cuddled beside her on the bed.

  “Astrid is crying, Mor.”

  “I hear her.”

  “Tante Kaaren is feeding her.”

  “Oh, I can do it.” Ingeborg laid a hand on her breast. “Andrew, go get Bestemor.”

  While he was gone, she pushed herself into a sitting position. How long had she been lying in bed? The milk dripping from her breasts and running down her chest was doing Astrid no good. She winced. Between smacking the earth and birthing a . . . a . . . She bit her lip to keep the tears from flowing like her milk.

  With Astrid settled in for a good meal, Ingeborg looked up to see Metiz standing at the foot of the bed. “You startled me.”

  Metiz nodded. “You better.”

  “Ja, I have a strong constitution. Weak in the head but strong in the body.” Remembering her cries to God to take her home, she asked, “What about Anner?”

  “He home.”

  “Any word from Haakan?”

  Metiz shrugged. “Not know. Boys want to see you.”

  Ingeborg nodded and adjusted the sheet thrown over the suckling child. “Tell them to come in.”

  Thorliff and Baptiste tiptoed into the room as if they were afraid of waking her. They stopped at the foot of the bed.

  “How are Bob and Belle?” Ingeborg asked before they could open their mouths.

  “I put some of Metiz’ salve on Belle’s hocks where the plow banged her. Broke the plow tongue and bent a wheel. They both had lots of stings. Bumps all over.” He stopped. “You all right, Mor?”

  She nodded. She could sympathize with the horses. Her stings still itched.

  “You’re not going to die?”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?” She reached for his hand. “Your ma is tough. A tumble from a plow couldn’t kill her.” It just killed your baby. The voice in her mind made her blink. Each time she heard it, the knife sliced away another piece of her heart.

  Thorliff changed so his hand was now clasping hers, letting her grip his fi
ngers until the thought faded away. “You want I should go for Pa? I could, you know.”

  “I know. But it might be better to let him finish the harvest without worrying about me—us. There’ll be plenty of time to tell him when he gets home.”

  In the next days, she both longed for and dreaded the day of Haakan’s return. He had said one month, but it could be longer, depending on how many farmers wanted their grain threshed. The nights were the worst, when the dreams came and the “if only’s” attacked. During the days, the four women handled all the chores now that the older children were back in school. But as Bridget often said, “Many hands make light work.” And while none of the work on the farms was light, the visits by Reverend Solberg and Petar Baard did help, because when they came, Katy put them to work.

  “Uff da, child,” said her mother one day. “They come calling as suitors, you know, not farmhands.”

  “Well, I’m not about to sit in the parlor with either one of them, not with all that has to be done around here. Petar should have just stayed with the threshing crew. I told him that in the beginning.”

  “So, you are more interested in Reverend Solberg then?” Ingeborg joined the conversation.

  Katy shrugged. “He is a good man.”

  “And handsome too,” Bridget added.

  Katy shrugged again. “I guess.” She turned to Ingeborg. “I saw you out eyeing that plow today now that Hjelmer brought it back all fixed up again. You thinking of going back in the field?”

  Ingeborg nodded, keeping her gaze on the quilt pieces in her lap. With the rain falling outside, the women had gathered in the parlor to sew together while the little children played upstairs. Bridget sat at the spinning wheel, her pumping foot keeping the wheel singing its own song as the yarn skin thickened.

  Kaaren sat in the rocking chair, her foot tapping in time to the creak of it. “That’s what you’re planning, isn’t it?”

  Ingeborg could feel her stare clear down to her toes. She could also feel the censure radiating from Bridget like heat from a stove. “I . . . I have to.”

  “You have to? Did I hear right? You have to?” Kaaren leaned forward. “Ingeborg Bjorklund, that is the most . . . most . . .” She stopped for lack of words.

  “Bullheaded, stupid thing you’ve ever heard of.” Ingeborg finished the statement for her. Eyes flashing, she laid her stitching down. “I have to. Because . . .” She too paused, but it wasn’t for lack of words. “I can’t let myself be afraid of the horses or the plow.” She whispered the thought, knowing in her heart for the first time how true it was. “You know, when you fall from a horse, you got to get right back on?” She looked up until Kaaren nodded. “Well, this getting back on is what I have to do. Or . . . or the fear will . . .” Stricken eyes pleaded first with Kaaren, then Bridget, and finally Katy for understanding.

  Kaaren nodded. The rocker creaked. The wheel sang. “Or the pit?”

  Now Ingeborg nodded. “At night I see it creeping closer, waiting to suck me in.”

  “Uff da.” Bridget accidentally snapped the yarn on the spinning wheel. Now she’d have to rethread it.

  A giggle came from the top of the stairs, then small feet thundered down. “Cookie, Mor?” Andrew led the pack.

  “Ja, there are cookies for all good children and their elders too.” With a sigh of relief at the interruption, Ingeborg got up and headed for the kitchen. “Coffee will be ready soon.”

  “I don’t believe God wants you back out there,” Kaaren said later as she gathered the children and their things together.

  “Ja, well, then, if God doesn’t want me out there, He better send us a man to take my place. And I won’t call for Haakan or Lars.”

  “What about Penny’s cousin?”

  Ingeborg nodded. “I’ve thought of him. He’s busy in the store, but . . .” She nodded and smiled at Kaaren. “You think we can keep him away from our Katy?”

  Kaaren left chuckling. “I’ll be going to the store tomorrow. I’ll ask him and Penny.”

  But in the morning, Ingeborg harnessed the two horses while they stood in their stalls munching the oats she dumped in their grain boxes. She checked the harness over carefully to make sure it hadn’t been damaged. Bob and Belle placidly took the bits she put in each mouth, and Belle nuzzled her, begging for a good ear scratching.

  Ingeborg obliged, wondering if she was taking her time because she really was afraid of climbing on that plow again. “Please, God,” she muttered as she led the horses outside. No clouds to promise rain, so no excuse there.

  “You don’t have to do this, you know.” The horses’ ears twitched back and forth, and Bob stamped a front foot. “Oh, but I do.” Saying the thoughts aloud seemed to make the inner struggle more real. She had to get back on the plow or live the rest of her life knowing she’d been afraid and had given in to her fears.

  “Let not thy heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” The words came softly as if carried on butterfly wings. Let. Yes, that was the word. But how? Fear could paralyze one, bring life to a stop. Take Anner, for instance. Fear and anger—the two went hand in hand.

  “Fear not,” the angel had said.

  Ingeborg leaned her forehead against Belle’s strong neck. “I know that fear is of the devil, old girl, and I know that Jesus said He came to overcome the world. Then why do I feel so overcome right now when He is right here beside me?”

  Belle snorted and turned her head, brushing Ingeborg’s shoulder with her nose. Paws pushed against her knee. Ingeborg squeezed her eyes shut. “Jesus.” A tear squeezed from under one eyelid. “Jesus. Jesus.” Others followed the leader. “Jesus, Son of God, my Savior.” She wiped them away with the horse’s mane. Taking a deep breath, she turned and walked to the rear, checked the traces and, gathering the reins, climbed onto the plow. All the while her mind sang the litany. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. And with each utterance of His name, the yawning black pit shrank farther and farther away.

  When they got to the field, she set the blade and clucked the horses forward, looking back over her shoulder to see the black soil curling up and over to form a smooth furrow. The cry of the geese in a V form flying high overhead brought up her face to be bathed by the sun. “All is well. All is well. Thank you, Father God. All is well.”

  She made one round of the field, the furrow dark with rich dampness framing the wheat stubble in the middle. Belle whinnied. A horse answered.

  Ingeborg looked toward the south to where the team’s ears pointed. Two horses trotted side by side across the stubble. A man rode one with a small child in front of him, and a young girl rode the other.

  “Good morning,” Ingeborg called when they grew near enough to hear.

  “Good morning.” The greeting came back in a rich baritone voice.

  Ingeborg twitched the reins to stop the team and sat waiting on her plow. The little hairs on the back of Ingeborg’s neck came to attention. No, this couldn’t be. God wouldn’t. . . . He didn’t. . . but she knew Kaaren had been praying. And she’d so much as thrown down the gauntlet.

  “God, I hear you laughing,” she muttered low enough that only the horses heard her.

  “Mornin’, ma’am. I’m Zebulun MacCallister.” The man tipped his hat and brought his horse to a stop.

  Ingeborg cocked her head. He talked like no one she’d ever heard before. Sort of soft and slow, as if he had all the time in the world to say what he had to say.

  “Good day, again. You are riding on Bjorklund land, and you are welcome here for sure.” She waited, her gaze shifting to the girl on the other horse.

  “I’m Manda Norton and that’s my sister, Deborah.” Manda nodded to the child peeking out of the light cotton wrap around her. “She’s been sick.” As she said the words, she sent the man a frown and raised her chin just a bit.

  With the look, the tone, and the chin raising, Ingeborg knew immediately there was something going on here. Besides, their last names didn’t match. That child has a chip the size of Norway perched on
her shoulder.

  Zeb MacCallister shifted the child in front of him so she was more comfortable. “Another Miz Bjorklund, at the store in town”—he nodded back toward Blessing—“she said y’all might be in need of some help for a while. My mama raised her children to do about anything on the farm, and I’m not afraid of hard work.”

  His soft “ahm’s” and the “y’all” enchanted Ingeborg. She wanted to keep him talking just to hear the sounds. So different from Norwegian and the accented English they spoke, all with the harsh sounds of northern Europe.

  “You go on up to the house, and Mrs. Bjorklund will serve coffee and whatever else she has ready. Dinner will be in”—she glanced up at the sun—“a couple of hours. You are welcome to water and feed your horses too.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” The “ma’am” stretched to three syllables. He tipped his hat again. “We’re right grateful for your hospitality.” He clucked his horse ahead. “Comin’, Manda?”

  Ingeborg hupped the team forward. One thing for certain sure, there wasn’t any lack of good-looking men visiting the Bjorklund farm. She’d felt like telling the man he was an answer to prayer, but that hardly seemed appropriate at the time. Where would they put them up? Bridget and her brood had the soddy. At least the children could stay there, and perhaps Mr. MacCallister wouldn’t mind the barn until they got the new house up for Kaaren’s family. Then that soddy would be available.

  “Oh, Lord, look at me weaving your story so far in advance. You sure were right when you said to let the day’s own trouble be sufficient for the day.” She caught herself chuckling several more times as she and her team rounded the corners and laid straight the furrows. What would Haakan say about her hiring another hand?

  “You know, you two horses better start answering my questions or anyone hears me talking to myself will think I’ve gone loony for sure.” That made her laugh again. So she sang her way around the field, going from hymn to hymn and back to the songs she’d learned as a child.

  “If’n you don’t look like the cat that caught the bird,” Katy said as she came out to the barn to help Ingeborg unharness the horses.