Sons of Blackbird Mountain

by Joanne Bischof

  “He should be. But the worst of it is gonna take about a week. The next few days will be hardest. He’s already feelin’ it.”

  Such a challenging choice this was for Thor. Was he truly trying to turn his back on the bottle? Hope stirred in the farthest reaches of her heart. “What can I do?”

  Hitching one leg up, Jorgan rested that ankle on his knee. He gripped the top of his boot with both hands. “Just keep doin’ what you’re doin’. You’re always a help, and we’re grateful. More than we tell you.” With his other foot he nudged the swing forward and back. “Aven, he’s gonna be real sick. He’s gonna be angry and hassled. He’s afraid of these days ’cause of how it went last time.”

  Last time?

  “When the terrors kick in, it’s different for Thor than for most people. Without being able to hear, reading signs or lips is gonna be real hard for him when he’s sick.”

  She never would have thought of that. There was so much of Thor she didn’t understand. A grace that Jorgan was explaining it to her now. Yet gratitude was trampled beneath her sorrow for Thor and all that he faced. All that he lived with.

  “Because of that, there’ll be almost no reasoning with him. There will be no use explaining much to him or giving words of comfort. We have to keep him as calm as we can and keep him—and others—safe.”

  She looked back to the boards across the shop door.

  “Cora’s with him now, keepin’ an eye on him. Al’s here too. For more manpower.”

  She was scared to ask what for. Thor’s size and strength were answer enough.

  “It’s real important that you don’t go up to the attic.”

  “I understand.”

  “Thor made me ask you to promise.”

  Did he? “I promise. Please tell me what I can do.”

  He gave her a brotherly smile—muted and protective. “Just seein’ after him from down here will be enough. We’ll take up his meals and such and be with him through all hours. We’ll all be stretched pretty thin. You as well.”

  To inquire into their past with this felt so personal, but it also felt necessary. “May I ask what went wrong the last time?”

  Settling his boots to the porch, Jorgan stilled the swing. “No matter what you hear, or see, or how bad it might seem for us—Haakon or Al or even Cora—I need you to stay downstairs.” He looked at her, and she realized that was the only answer he was going to give.

  “I promise I will. You have my word.”

  It was an oven up here. Gripping the edge of the mattress, Thor bowed his head. Sweat spread along his skin. It made his shirt cling to his back and abdomen. He gave a few quick tugs to try and cool himself down. Even the water he sipped seemed hot. He was tired of drinking it, but Cora had insisted he have at least a few glasses a day. At the rate salty stickiness was beading on his skin, he was going to need it. Using his sleeve, Thor wiped the side of his face.

  Cora had taken his pulse, and with worry in her pinched mouth, she wrote down the number before stepping out. She had cause for concern. The way his heart kept speeding up and slowing down was making him uncomfortable. Thor pressed a hand to his chest as someone passed through the doorway.

  Cora set a tray on the bed beside him. Next she dipped a rag into a bowl of clear water, wrung it out, and smoothed a cool compress to his forehead. He closed his eyes.

  When she rinsed the rag again, he watched her chocolate-brown hands. They were strong and weathered. Shaped by years of doctoring hurts and bringing babies safely from their mother’s wombs.

  She’d been there the day he was born. Helping him into this world where they say he squalled with such abandon, the neighbors heard. His cord was so thick, it had taken Cora several tries to sever it. She’d weighed him on the farm scale, and with him two ounces over eleven pounds, Ma shed tears of pride and exhaustion, and Da was so proud, he joked that he was going to take Thor to the county fair for the blue ribbon.

  Cora often told him the story when he was a boy. It always ended there.

  Because then she’d passed Thor into the arms of a mother who wouldn’t know it was the last infant she would raise. Or that seven years later when Haakon came along, a bout of seizing would pull her into the dark. Taking her from this life just hours after Haakon’s first cries had made her smile.

  Cora pulled a small device from her bag and pressed it to Thor’s chest, listening through the other end. He tried to hold still. After a few moments, Cora put her tool away. The rag was still near, and she dipped it into the bowl again. Her lean fingers glistened when she twisted it. After a few more brushes of the cool compress to his skin, she gently touched his arm where the stitches still were. A small pair of scissors glinted as Cora took them out of her medic bag. They occupied her palm unthreateningly as her eyebrows lifted in question.

  Thor gave a single nod and to his relief, the stitches came out a lot easier than they went in. She spread fresh ointment over the healing scar and bandaged it snug.

  Anxiousness rising, Thor shifted his boots and looked across the room to where Al sat on the other bed. The young man was somber as he watched Thor. Earlier, they’d all agreed not to let Cora in the attic without another man near, and Thor was grateful. He’d already hurt Ida the last time he attempted this, bruising her thin form when she rushed to help during the terrors. When it came to the two women who’d raised him, he couldn’t stomach the notion of bringing them harm. Or any other woman.

  He tried not to think of Aven and was relieved that she’d made her promise to Jorgan.

  Cora folded the rag again and rested the soft coolness to the back of his neck.

  She’d cautioned him against quitting abruptly, and while he knew it was riskier, he’d failed at tapering off in years past. Something about being able to have even a little derailed him. Despite her worry—or because of it—Cora was here now.

  Except he couldn’t shake the notion that if she truly wanted to be of use, she’d put something stronger than water in that glass. Unwanted irritation swarmed his mind. Thor pinched the bridge of his nose.

  Thumb to the inside of his wrist, Cora held it there for a minute, then wrote another number. Al shifted his feet, looking as relaxed as a man could look in his position. He glanced to the boarded-up windows, then back to Thor. Worry drew Al’s dark brows together. For just reason. The need to tear something apart was putting a crease in Thor’s own brow.

  Thor gripped the mattress harder when Cora slid the rag down his temple.

  Slow breath in, slow breath out.

  She wet the cloth again and pressed it to the other side of his face. A few droplets struck the top of his thigh, sinking through his pants where they seemed to sizzle against his skin. What was she putting on him? Confusion buzzed around the edge of his mind, and Thor jerked his head away. So sharply that Cora froze. Slowly, Al rose to his feet.

  It took all of Thor’s strength not to move. Desperate was the urge to push something. Shove something. Break anything to be rid of this sensation. One that ached even into his bones.

  God help him, he needed a drink.

  Impatience throttling him from the inside out, Thor rose and paced. With a wave of his hand, he motioned them out.

  Cora and Al exchanged glances, and she gathered things onto her tray.

  Something in the back of his mind told him he should be more polite, but the thought was overwrought with a need to vomit. Ida had placed a bucket beside his bed for that very purpose. He’d be using it before the hour was out.

  Thor grabbed up the glass on the table, took a sip, his face skewing at the taste of water. He set the glass aside so fast it tipped over. Liquid pooled across the desk. Furious, he clutched the glass and was about to chuck it against the wall when he stopped himself. Hand shaking, he dropped the cup on his bed and stepped away.

  What was wrong with him?

  At a tremor in the floor, he looked to see Haakon step in, Jorgan right behind.

  Thor drew in a deep breath and hoped he appeared
calmer than he felt.

  Haakon sat on his own bed and bent to tie a shoelace. When he straightened, it seemed like something was on his mind. Haakon rubbed his hands together. Back and forth. And back and forth.

  Sitting, Thor watched him.

  Finally Haakon glanced from him to Jorgan. “We try not to keep secrets from one another, so I need to tell you both something.”

  An itch at his arm, Thor rubbed it.

  Haakon ran a hand down his face and must have spoken in that same instant because Jorgan jolted. The man stood straight as a pole, mouth falling a notch.

  “You what?” Jorgan asked, eyes wide.

  Thor darted a look back to his younger brother, who spoke again. “I kissed Aven.”

  Thor blinked. Rubbed that itch in his arm again.

  Haakon . . . did what?

  “I’m sorry if that was a stupid thing to do,” Haakon added.

  Jorgan looked like he wanted to throttle him.

  Haakon? And Aven? Thor went to stand, but he couldn’t. God help him, he was going to stand. He must have managed because the room started spinning, and Haakon rose as well.

  Jorgan made the sign for when?

  “In the pond. By the dock. When we were all there.”

  This had to be part of the delirium. It was already kicking in. There was no other way for it to make sense. This sadness that was overcoming him.

  Jorgan’s gaze narrowed. “Is that what you were doing down there?”

  Haakon nodded, and when he looked at Thor, something shifted in Haakon’s confidence. It was followed by a wary step back.

  “What did she do?” Jorgan asked.

  Haakon pointed down the hall to where Aven was, then pursed the fingertips on both hands, pressing them together. He tapped his chest next and made the sign for same.

  She felt the same? Or kissed him back?

  What did it matter?

  Haakon squared his shoulders. “I also asked her to marry me. I didn’t do a good job of it, and I should tell her I’m sorry.” He looked at Thor. “But I also won’t take it back. She seemed surprised, but she didn’t decline either.”

  Needing to be free of this room, Thor moved to push past Jorgan, ignoring the sight of Haakon trying to talk to him.

  Jorgan stepped in his way. Hands to Thor’s chest, Jorgan braced him. “You need to stay here.”

  Thor shook his head and went to push past again, but then Jorgan spoke her name.

  Next he signed it. A-V-E-N.

  The fight to leave waned. Arms limp at his sides, Thor watched his brother’s hand shape the letters again, more slowly, and Jorgan might as well have been shaping Thor’s ache for her. His sorrow.

  Jorgan sent Haakon out, and as Thor watched his younger brother depart, he forced himself to step deeper into the room. Desperate for his jar of cider, he glanced around, but it wasn’t there. Jorgan closed the door and slid a chair in front of it to keep watch.

  Palm to his forehead, Thor closed his eyes.

  He needed that bucket now. He dragged it close as sickness churned his gut. Bending to await it, he tucked his hands in his lap. A-V-E-N. His fingers shook as he shaped the name his brother just had. Blinking at the floor, a wet heat dampened his lashes. Thor bowed his head and focused on breathing.

  It took all the strength he had. Because now he’d loved two women in his life, and Haakon had taken them both.

  TWELVE

  Counting by twos, Aven moved fourteen pint jars from the bottom shelf of the pantry to the kitchen table. She washed them with hot soapy water, boiled each one, then spread everything on towels to steam dry. Beside the pot of bubbling water sat another pot where Aven scooped out eight cups of sugar. She dumped in a pail of berries, then went out to the porch for another.

  She startled at the sight of a young man standing at the base of the steps. Hat in hand, his brow was dewy as if he’d walked some ways to get there. His hair was flaxen and as closely shorn as a field after a scything. Eyes a light brown and unmistakably familiar. The young Sorrel man from church. One of the neighbors who had caused so much trouble for them.

  She took a step back.

  “Evenin’, ma’am.” His gaze drifted to the collapsed, charred wood crib, then back to her. Unlike before, he didn’t study her as closely and instead dropped his focus to her shoes. “I’m lookin for Mr. Thor.”

  “He’s . . . uh . . . he’s in the middle of something. Will be for the rest of the day.”

  “Oh, I see.” Though clearly disappointed, the young man’s eyes finally lifted to hers. “Might you tell him I came by? I was wonderin’ if he’s still hirin’ pickers for the harvest. I could use the work.”

  Bending, Aven hefted up the bucket with both hands. “I will pass along your inquiry.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He slid on his hat as he started away.

  “Your name, sir?” She couldn’t recall what Haakon had called him.

  He turned some. Gave a sad smile. “Peter, ma’am.”

  She nodded and watched as he walked back down the road.

  Haakon was standing at the stove when she returned to the kitchen, and it was a different kind of startling she felt this time. One that sent a surge of uncertainty straight through her heart. How did temptation and caution collide so boldly in Haakon’s presence?

  “Was someone out there?” he asked, the first they’d spoken since the pond.

  “His name was Peter.”

  Haakon paced to the window. After a few moments he turned back to her. “Did he bother you?”

  “No. He was looking for Thor. Inquiring about work.” And honest work, at that.

  “Thor’s not gonna hire a Sorrel.”

  “I assured him I would pass along the message.”

  Haakon rubbed a thumb across his bottom lip, making no further response as he watched her. Aven lifted up the bucket of berries, rested it on the edge of the pot, and tipped them in.

  “What are you doing? Thor needs those.”

  She shot out a breath. My, if he wasn’t also trying to one’s patience. “Your brother is the one who asked me to do this. He’s worried they won’t keep.”

  Haakon’s forehead pinched. “What are we gonna sell?”

  “I’m not sure.” She reached for a long wooden spoon and tried to ignore how near he stepped to her.

  “So we’re gonna live on jam now, huh? That’s just wonderful. First there’s you, Miss Warm-And-Then-Cold in the water. Then there’s a Sorrel knockin’ on the door. And if that’s not enough, I’m about a day away from gettin’ my face smashed in again by my brother.”

  There was a time to stay quiet and let the hurting express what they needed to say. Perhaps something she’d learned in living life among the broken and the suffering. All crushed into place together by fate and circumstance. So soft came an answer. “I owe you an apology about that. The water, that is. I should not have reacted so hastily.”

  “I don’t want an apology.” At a bump from upstairs, Haakon leaned toward the great room.

  “Do you need to go up there?”

  He listened a moment longer. “I don’t think so. Jorgan’s gonna sit with him for a few hours. Then I will.”

  Aven turned to stir the berries. The juices were running now, soaking up the sugar. With Haakon having grown quiet, she thought on his other complaints. One in particular was alarming. “Did Thor hurt you? Some time ago?”

  Haakon opened one side of the pie safe and pulled out a biscuit. The pastry flaked as he broke it in half. “I don’t wanna talk about Thor.”

  “I’m talking about you.”

  Vulnerability pulled Haakon’s gaze to hers. He set the biscuit on the counter and slid the butter dish near. “I was younger then, so I was smaller.” The lid clanged as he lifted it. “I’ll be fine now.” He opened a drawer, and when he failed in finding a butter knife, Aven handed him one she’d just washed.

  He thanked her. Brow pinched, Haakon smeared butter onto the biscuit then, using a spoon, sc
ooped out a dollop of the softening berries. He drizzled the fruit onto his biscuit, looking lost in thought. “It was a couple of years ago. Thor kinda lost his mind. He said later that it felt like somethin’ was crawlin’ on him. He just couldn’t handle it, I suppose.”

  Haakon pressed the two pieces of biscuit together and licked his thumb. “I tried to hold him but couldn’t. He’d smashed my head into the window by the time Jorgan made it upstairs. Even Ida came runnin’, and Thor bumped her around more than he would have ever meant to. She’d tried to help Jorgan steady ’im. It’s why they boarded up the windows this time.”

  Aven didn’t realize the wooden spoon was dripping in her hand until Haakon took it and set it aside.

  Pushing back the short hair at his temple, he ran his pinkie along the jagged white line of a scar. Then he bent his ear forward, showing that the back side was marred. “And this”—he pointed to his nose— “was broke in two places.” Haakon chomped a bite, then a second. He mumbled around the mouthful. “Thor’s really strong. And when he’s scared, it’s like herdin’ a spooked bull.”

  Fresh to mind was the way Thor had pulled her from the shed. How hard she’d fought back and how iron his grip had been. Their fall and his crushing weight. How, no matter the ways she’d fought back, he’d dragged her up from the ground like she was a rag doll.

  Aven lifted her gaze to the ceiling, and something else tugged at her heart. The memory of him helping her down the bank. Of him sitting across the table from her. His ideas and his books. His words written—the gentle sound of his voice when he put it to paper or shaped it with his hands. The look in his eyes as if he had so much he wanted to say to her but didn’t know how.

  “He watches you, you know.” Haakon leaned back against the wooden countertop.

  “He watches many people,” she countered, not liking how close he’d gotten to the truth. “It’s how he knows what’s being said.”

  Haakon shook his head. “It’s different.”

  At a thump at the door, she was grateful for the need to walk over and open it. ’Twas Ida standing there. At least she was quite certain it was Ida. The gray-haired woman carried a mound of blankets and pillows so tall it nearly toppled. Aven took some.