The Reaper's Song

by Lauraine Snelling

  Two days later, in the frost of the near dawn, they loaded the wagon.

  “If we had already butchered, we could’ve taken hams and such too,” Ingeborg said as she covered the blanketed produce with straw.

  “They don’t have so big a crew right now either.” Haakan slammed the wagon tailboard shut. “Now, you be sure to greet Mrs. Carlson for us. And give Solveig greetings. Perhaps she and George can come for Christmas.”

  “Strange to not have a list up to my elbow with things to pick up at the St. Andrew store.” Ingeborg swung up onto the wagon seat. “Good thing I’ve been weaning Astrid or she would have had to come along. And it is downright chilly this morning for a little one.”

  They said their good-byes and left the yard as the first rays of the sun peeked over the horizon, tinting the whole world pink.

  “Ah, look.” Ingeborg pointed above the trees lining the banks of the Red River. “You’ll warm up soon with that.” The horses trotted up the road, harness jingling. A red-winged blackbird sang from a milkweed pod, greeting the sun with his notes. The maple and oak leaves blazed red and orange in the growing sunlight, while the birch trunks gleamed white against the riot of color.

  “Even if it is so flat, this land has a beauty all its own.” Sarah inhaled deeply of the nippy air. “But don’t you miss the mountains of home?”

  “Not so much anymore. But at first it was hard. The winters are bad. That north wind blows down through here like ten freight trains tied together. You are fortunate. The furnace in this house you are going to will keep you warm this winter.”

  Ingeborg didn’t return until after dark, but the moon lit her way nearly as well as the sun. The trip home alone gave her time to think and plan for the months ahead, rejoicing in the gift of a cold breeze in her face, sweaty horses, and a sense of God’s presence as if He were riding on the seat right beside her.

  When she told Haakan of the sensation, he looked at her with a smile. “And He was, you know.”

  “I know.” She crawled into bed and stretched from her toes to the crown of her head. “That is some fine house, that Carlson place.”

  “Ja, but he doesn’t own his own house like we do. Wonder what will happen when the Bonanza farm breaks up. Some of the others down south are, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know that. How come?”

  “With the drop in wheat prices, those money men aren’t getting as much as they used to. So they are selling out. Guess they just don’t realize that farming goes in cycles. Some years good, some not so good.”

  “But we’ve had such good years.”

  “Ja, but the grain prices keep falling, and the railroads are gouging the farmers left and right.” He wrapped an arm around her middle and pulled her to him so she lay warm in the curve of his body. “I was about to ride out to find you.”

  “You weren’t worried?” She turned her head to look at him in the darkness.

  “Accidents do happen, you know.”

  “I know.” Ingeborg turned on her side, comforted in the warmth surrounding her. Didn’t hurt him one bit to be the one worrying for a change.

  With the first heavy frost and deepening cold, hog butchering began, and again the neighbors worked together. They loaded the vats used for scalding the hogs onto the wagons and went from farm to farm. For weeks after, the smokehouses sent wisps of smoke into the blue sky. The women rendered the lard and, after seasoning the ground sausage, made some of it into patties and put them down in crocks, pouring hot lard over them to seal them and keep them from spoiling. They tanned the hides for boots and made headcheese out of the heads. As an old saying went, they used all the pig, right down to the squeal.

  As soon as the hogs were butchered, soapmaking took over. The women saved the ashes from the cooking stoves and leached water through them to make lye. Lye mixed with leftover fat and some of the newly rendered lard became soap. Ingeborg added rose petals to some and lavender to others, but most of it was poured straight into wooden boxes and set to harden. Once hardened, they cut it into bars and let it cure.

  “At least we don’t need to make candles anymore,” Ingeborg said one afternoon. “Kerosene lamps put out so much more light.”

  “One of these days we’ll have the gas lamps like they do in Grand Forks.” Haakan leaned back, dunked a cookie in his coffee, and alternated dunking and chewing.

  “You think they will come out here?”

  “Ja, eventually.”

  “Pa, can I dunk one?” Andrew leaned against his father’s knee. Deborah stood right behind him. Haakan smiled at her and patted his knee.

  “Come sit on my lap, and you can have some too.”

  Deborah didn’t need a second invitation. She climbed up on his lap and snuggled against his chest as if she’d been waiting all her life for just this moment.

  Andrew leaned closer. “My turn, Pa.”

  The children helped themselves to a cookie and made good use of the dwindling cup of coffee.

  “You know, these cookies are good, but doughnuts . . . now that’s something we haven’t had for ages.” Haakan looked at Andrew. “Right, son?”

  Andrew nodded as he dunked the last of his cookie.

  Bridget and Ingeborg looked at each other and shrugged. “Guess we’ll have to make doughnuts, then,” Ingeborg said. “Andrew, run out to the springhouse and get the buttermilk, will you? Think you can carry the little crock?”

  Andrew gave her one of his “Oh, Mor!” looks and, motioning Deborah to follow, headed out the door.

  “Put on a jacket. It’s raining.” But the door slammed before she had all the words out her mouth.

  “Guess I’ll go get the schoolchildren in the wagon. That way they won’t be soaked to the skin by the time they get home. You need anything from the store?” Haakan dusted the cookie crumbs from his shirt front into his hand.

  “Why don’t you send Zeb?”

  Haakan shook his head. “Ain’t you noticed? He never likes to go to town. Absolutely refuses to go to Grafton or Grand Forks. I sure wish I knew more about that young man. Besides, he’s over to Lars’s, helping him with the inside walls on the new house.”

  “Ja, so he can see Katy.”

  “Now, Inge, you wouldn’t want to stand in the way of young love, would you?”

  “There won’t be any ‘young love’ with my daughter until we know more about him.” Bridget plunked the heavy crockery bowl on the counter. “Much as I like him . . .” She frowned. “I don’t take to hiding things. Bring ’em out in the open where we know what’s going on.”

  “I feel the same.”

  “Here’s the buttermilk, Mor.” Andrew handed Ingeborg the half-full crock. “Can Deborah and me have some?”

  Ingeborg poured two glasses and set them on the table.

  “Cookies?” He donned his most winning smile.

  Chuckling, Bridget set one in front of each of the children.

  “I’m more hungry.”

  “Andrew Bjorklund, you could charm the wings off the angels.” Bridget gave them each another, patting their heads as she walked by.

  Haakan came back in from harnessing the horses. “Thought of anything you need?”

  Andrew stopped before taking a last bite of cookie. “Peppermint sticks.”

  “Just the mail.” Ingeborg glanced at Andrew. “And peppermint sticks.”

  “Oh boy! Doughnuts!” Thorliff led the raid on the platter of doughnuts on the table. “Thanks, Mor, Bestemor.” He reached for the pitcher and poured himself a glass of milk.

  “Hadn’t you better serve your guests?” Ingeborg reminded him softly.

  “We got company?” Thorliff looked around. “Where?”

  “Baptiste, Manda, Ilse, Hamre.”

  “They’re not company. They live here!” He looked at his mother as if she’d lost her mind. But at the look she returned him, he shook his head and poured four more glasses. “Help yourselves to the doughnuts. They’re right good.”

  The platte
r had one remaining doughnut. Haakan snatched it up. “I sure hope you have more put away somewhere. This ain’t fair. Doughnuts was my idea.” He held out an envelope. “Here’s another letter from Gould. I’ll trade it for two, no three doughnuts.”

  Ingeborg smiled and retrieved three doughnuts from the crock. Glancing up as she took the envelope, she caught a frown snag his eyebrows and then vanish. You don’t want me to get letters from men you don’t know? Ingeborg almost chuckled. “Good, more things about starting the bank, I imagine. God surely is good to give us friends who can help us like He does.” She tapped the envelope.

  Slitting the envelope carefully, she saved the paper for Thorliff. Then drawing closer to the lamp on the table, she began reading. “Oh no.” She laid a hand over her heart.

  “What is it?” Bridget asked from the sink, where she was peeling potatoes.

  “Mr. Gould’s wife died in childbirth. Oh, that poor man. And his little children.” Ingeborg tried to swallow the tears and failed. She wiped them away with a fingertip and continued reading. “He reminds us that he will be pleased to invest in our venture and wishes us all the best. ‘Please advise me as to when and where you will be needing the funds. I remain your faithful servant and friend. David Jonathan Gould.’

  “To think he sends us this when he is suffering so himself.” Ingeborg sank down on the closest chair. She read the letter again, as if hoping she hadn’t read the news that she had. Her heart felt squeezed with the weight of it. Even great wealth didn’t keep people from losing ones they loved. A letter seemed such an insignificant way to say all she wished, but it would have to do. She knew too well the sorrow he must be feeling.

  She glanced around her kitchen. Maybe they didn’t have a mansion like the Goulds, but the love and laughter in this kitchen—why, she wouldn’t trade it for all the gold in all the banks in the country. She looked up and sent Haakan a tear-washed smile.

  “What is it?” he asked, bending over her chair.

  “I am so grateful for you . . . and . . . and all this.” She swept her hand out to include all within her domain. “Just thanks be to God for His great goodness to us.”

  “Amen to that.” Haakan squeezed her shoulder. “All right, all you doughnut eaters. It’s chores time.”

  Agnes didn’t come to the November quilting bee. While the women had mixed reports on what happened when the booze disappeared, nothing earthshaking had occurred. But Ingeborg reminded them that most of the drinking happened at the socials, and they had yet to have another. Penny hadn’t heard yet on her letter to the land office in Morton County. Ingeborg read them the letter from Mr. Gould.

  “So what do we do now?” Mrs. Magron asked. “And where will our bank be located?”

  “Who is going to run it?” asked another.

  “What are we going to call it?”

  Ingeborg felt as if she was being peppered with buckshot. She raised both hands in the air. “I don’t know the answers to any of these questions. We still don’t know all the laws regarding banking, let alone how to set one up. I guess the next step is to go to Grand Forks and talk with Mr. Brockhurst.”

  “I think we should call it the First Bank of Blessing.” Mrs. Magron twitched her red nose like the mouse she resembled.

  Everyone looked at her, shock on all their faces.

  “I . . . I . . . that was just a suggestion.” She withdrew back into her stitching, gaze downcast as if afraid someone might accuse her of being uppity.

  “I think that’s a good idea,” Penny said before anyone could talk against the name. “I been thinking we could add a room onto the store. It could be the bank and the post office combined. We’d buy a big safe, and Olaf could make a rack of little cubbyholes for the mail. One for each family.”

  “We probably should talk this over with the men,” Ingeborg said. “But I don’t see how they could find fault with these good ideas. Can’t you just see it? FIRST BANK OF BLESSING on a big sign over the door.”

  “Or on the front window.”

  “In gold and black letters,” Mrs. Magron added while she continued to stitch.

  But when none of the Baards showed up in church on Sunday, Ingeborg resolved to go call on her friend the next day. Something surely was wrong.

  That night she woke up sweating, her throat aching as though she’d been crying for hours.

  “What is it, Inge? What’s wrong?” Haakan wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close.

  “The pit. That awful dead pit. I . . . I was teetering on the edge. Something pushed me, or grabbed me, or . . .” She put her hands over her eyes. “I can see it so clearly. Haakan, am I losing my mind again?”

  “Oh, my dear one, you didn’t lose your mind before, and you aren’t going to now. I’m here. I won’t let anything take you away.” He stroked the tendrils of damp hair off her forehead with a gentle hand.

  She turned and rested her head on his shoulder, tucked safely under his arm and next to his heart.

  “Hush, now, and sleep. Always remember, if I’m not strong enough to keep the pit away, our heavenly Father is. Remember, He promises to walk beside us all the way.”

  Ingeborg let his soothing voice calm her. He was right. God would never let her go. But how to deal with the dreams—the terrifying dreams that so easily could become reality? Had been reality.

  A verse floated into her thoughts like a down quilt spread over her on a winter night. “Have ye the mind then of Christ Jesus?” So I put Jesus in my mind. Is that what the verse means? When the pit is there I see Jesus instead? “But I must wake to do that,” she murmured, sleep nearly overtaking her.

  “Hush, my Inge, hush.”

  Even when she woke, she felt the dream hovering, as if she could spin around fast enough to catch sight of it before it hid. “No matter what, today I am going to see Agnes.” She finished braiding her hair, put a clean apron on over her dress, and went downstairs to start breakfast. How good it was to be able to cook first thing in the morning, rather than go out and milk first.

  By the time she finally got out the door, the sun had climbed halfway to noon. She clucked the horse into a trot, the wagon protesting the additional speed with every turn of the wheels. “Need some grease on these axles,” she said. The horse twitched his ears back and forth. Driving alone like this gave Ingeborg some much needed thinking time. Ducks and geese flew the skies above on their trek south for the winter, their plaintive songs inviting her to follow.

  “Follow no, but I sure wouldn’t mind bagging a few, or more than a few. We could use the down for more feather beds. Uff da, all the people who will need covers this winter.”

  The horse snorted, as if answering.

  “Even you agree, don’t you?” She raised her face to the sun that nowadays reached noon before the real warmth could be felt. Frost decorated the north sides of fence posts and rested on clumps of grass. Ingeborg breathed deeply of the brisk air and felt it tingle all the way to the bottom of her feet.

  The heaviness of the previous night took wings and joined the flocks above, flying south and away.

  After tying her horse up by the Baards’ barn, Ingeborg hefted her basket from the wagon bed and crossed the yard to the house. If it hadn’t been for the smoke rising from the chimney, she’d have thought no one was home, it was so quiet. She knocked once and the door swung open before she could tap it again.

  “Agnes Baard, what has happened to you?” Ingeborg stopped as if struck.

  “Just some kind of ailment that pukes up your guts and drains out your strength. I’m on the mend now.” She covered her mouth to cough. “Don’t know when I felt so bad.”

  “Are you sure you want company?”

  Agnes leaned out the door and peered around. “I don’t see no company, but I sure could use a good chat with my best friend.”

  Ingeborg thrust her basket into Agnes’s hands. “Just some extra things I thought you might appreciate.”

  Agnes motioned her in and peeked under the red
-and-white gingham cloth covering. “Oh good, a chunk of your cheese. How good that sounds, and I tell you, nothing’s sounded good for a week or more.”

  “Why didn’t you send over and let someone come help you?” Ingeborg removed her coat and hung it on the coat tree by the door.

  “And let them get sick too? No, it was enough with us here. Joseph had only a light spell, and Anji never caught it a’tall, so she’s been the biggest help.”

  “And the boys?”

  “They’re about as much good in a kitchen as nothing. And Petar’s the worst. You’da thought he was dying the way he carried on. Me and Rebecca and Gus got it the worst. Fact is, Rebecca’s still sleeping off the effects.” Agnes pulled the coffeepot to the hot front of the stove. “I don’t have a cookie or cake to my name. Nothing to go with coffee.”

  “Check the basket.”

  As they made themselves comfortable at the table, Ingeborg studied her friend. Eyes sunken, hair straggling from the bun at the back of her head, skin hanging slack under the once strong jaw, now outlining the bones. “You need to get out in the sunshine.”

  “Ja, what little warmth we might have left before the snow flies.” Agnes shivered. “I ain’t looking forward to the dark days, let me tell you. Not at all.” She sipped her coffee, dunked her cookie, and sucked on it. “And with no baby to care for this year . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “I’ll loan you Astrid, and I know Kaaren would gladly send Trygve over.”

  “Ja, that would be good.” Agnes stared out the window. “I wish . . . I wish . . . ah, the wishing does no good.” She looked back at Ingeborg, her face creased in a mask of pain. “I can’t get over that baby dying. What is wrong with me that I dwell on it so? And to not get pregnant again. Is God so angry with me? Is He not trusting me to care for His little ones?”

  Ingeborg tried to blink back the tears she could feel brimming behind her eyes. She sniffed but it did no good. “At least you didn’t kill yours.”

  The words fell like black coal tossed onto white snow.

  “Oh, Ingeborg. No! You didn’t kill that baby.” Agnes reached for Ingeborg’s suddenly cold hands. “O Lord in heaven, what burdens we bear. Why do we torture ourselves so?”