Sons of Blackbird Mountain

by Joanne Bischof

  “These for makin’ up beds,” Ida said.

  “Where do you want them?”

  “Jus’ downstairs. Cora can sleep on the sofa. Al won’t mind the floor none.”

  Aven followed Ida that way. With the jam needing to stew, she set about helping to tuck and fold blankets and slide cases onto pillows. By the time they finished, the light was so dim that Ida checked the kerosene in the lantern. At the desk there, she slid an envelope from her apron pocket. “Cora fetched the mail in town last she was there. Brought it just now. Somethin’ came for you, Aven.”

  Aven thanked her and slipped the envelope into her skirt pocket.

  Ida pulled out a second envelope and placed it on the desk. “And this for Jorgan. A letter from his Fay.” She winked.

  Haakon strode past, snatching it from the wooden surface. At the window he pressed it to the glass, but there wasn’t enough light to illuminate the papers inside.

  “Haakon Norgaard.” Ida put her hands on her hips. “I’m gonna swat you.”

  He sniffed the envelope, then handed it back. “You’re no fun.”

  “And you need to go get some sleep. ’S gonna be a long night.” Ida limped around the great room, plucking up odds and ends of the brothers’ messes.

  Haakon grabbed one of the pillows and carried it out to the front porch. He smashed it against an arm of the swing and settled in. His legs dangled over the other end, and folding his arms, he closed his eyes. The sunset beyond was vibrant streaks of rose and gold. A gentle breeze stirred, and a soft rustling came from the orchard where countless leaves trembled.

  Back in the kitchen, Aven checked her pots. She stirred the thick, bubbly goodness and added a splash more water. Ida had put up pectin early in the summer—made from the baby apples that had been thinned from the orchard—so Aven dipped into the crock and ladled out enough syrup to thicken the jam.

  With time left for it to cook and with the letter now on her mind, Aven slipped upstairs. In her room she pulled the envelope out and tore off the end. She unfolded the pages and read. It was an answer to the inquiries for employ that Jorgan had helped her post. Mentioned within the folds was a sewing position in a place called Lexington. A victory, aye, but reading on, Aven gleaned that it was almost forty miles away. So short a span in light of the ocean she had crossed, but now that this family had become her own, forty miles felt as far. Visiting would need to be sparse, if at all.

  Aven read on. The employment offered room and board. Such a luxury. And with a modest wage as well, ’twas a blessing beyond all hope. Yet sorrow crept in at the thought of such a distance. Aven slid the letter away. There would be time enough in the coming days to form a response.

  For now, she adjusted the loose ties of her apron, steadied uncertainties, and forced her mind back to the tasks at hand. She slipped out and turned to close the door when something at her foot caught her attention. Nestled into the shadow of the doorjamb lay a small leather pouch. When had that arrived? In the same spot the wedding photograph had been, no less.

  Aven picked it up. She loosened the drawstrings and, peering inside, spotted a glint of metal.

  ’Twas a wee thimble.

  She pressed it to her fingertip. A perfect fit. There was only one man who would think to give her this. She slid the token back in the pouch where it would be safe and, glancing up toward the attic door, whispered a prayer of strength for the man who was suffering behind it.

  THIRTEEN

  His stomach was sorrier than an overused barrel. Warped and useless. The ache in his gut throbbing, Thor opened his eyes. Where was he? His hand bumped a pillow. In bed, then. The inside of a working still would have been cooler than his throat. He swallowed but it did nothing for the burn. He looked over to see a clean pail, and though his belly was about to heave again, he just needed to be outside. Now.

  Shifting to sit, he saw Haakon in the dim light. Slumbering with his chest to the bed, the runt was draped over the mattress nigh to unconscious. Moonlight seeped through the window as strangely angled slits. Why were the windows covered? It was a struggle to stand, but after he did, Thor crossed to the door.

  His feet felt bare, but he didn’t look down. If he moved his head that far, he’d regret it. He wobbled, catching himself against the doorjamb with a wince. Though the vise on his skull couldn’t be real, he ran a hand there to make sure.

  He didn’t know how he got down the stairs and through the house, but it was the sheer rolling in his stomach that pushed him toward the yard. He stumbled down the porch steps and fell to his knees in the dark. He’d hoped to get farther, but this would have to do. As his stomach heaved, all he could think about was water and how he was never going to drink the stuff ever again. Finished, Thor swiped his sleeve over his mouth. Not ready to stand, he pushed himself back to sit on the bottom step.

  Two moons hovered in the sky, neither holding still.

  More nausea rising, Thor stumbled into the yard, gripped his thighs, and bent as his stomach fought to scrape itself clean. Someone was poisoning him with water, that’s what it was. A proper drink would set this to rights. Seeing his shop in the dim light, he made it that way and sank against the door, panting.

  He reached for the handle. It wouldn’t turn. A few choice words came to mind as he recalled that he’d locked it himself. Thor let his hand slip from the knob, and it bumped along the boards. The wooden barricade would keep the cidery barred shut, even if he managed to find the key. But he wouldn’t find the key because for some stupid reason he’d slipped it out of reach beneath the door. When had he done that? Bending, Thor squinted to see if the key was near. His fingers fumbled the gap.

  If he just had a pry bar.

  A flash of white overhead told him the great owl was on the move—fleeing the darkness that had become a tomb for them both. Thor blinked up at the sky that was graying with dawn. The shift toyed with his balance but he caught himself.

  Where was Jorgan? And Haakon? Ida? He needed them.

  Even Aven.

  One of them would help him.

  The vise tightened. Thor pinched his eyes closed, a sour stinging his throat. Pry bar. He tried to jam the thought into what was left of his sanity. He kept one in the nearest shed.

  He straightened and didn’t know how long it took to find the iron tool, but he was sweating by the time he sank back against the door of the cider barn. And itching. Something crawled against his skin. He rubbed at his forearm. It was just his imagination. But it itched mighty bad so he scratched at it. Sweat slid down his spine as he rammed the pry bar behind one of the boards and pulled with all his might.

  Which wasn’t much.

  Something was wrong with him. Cider would fix it. Or wine. He’d even settle for ’shine if he could get some. Thor pulled on the metal bar again, felt the board crack under the force.

  But, Lord help him, his skin was itching. He dropped the tool and swatted at his arms—at whatever was on him—heart racing at a maddening speed. Thor sank to one knee, rubbing the outside of his arm against his pants to try and scrub the sensation away.

  The sky hazed lighter. He blinked against the splintering brightness as a glow lifted over the treetops. His heart thrashed so hard it hurt. With the rain barrel near—and this itch worsening—Thor rammed his sleeves up and splashed water on his face and arms. It soaked his hair. Sitting, he leaned against the barrel in the shadow of his shop.

  Early dawn cooled his damp shirt and he began to tremble. It moved through his body with such force that he could scarcely scratch at his wrists. The back of his neck. His abdomen. But the crawling on his skin wouldn’t stop. A sob rose up his throat.

  Suddenly a hand was against his face. So soft that he turned his cheek into it. He opened his eyes. Aven.

  Her mouth was moving in speech, but his vision wouldn’t focus. Gripping the rim of the barrel, Thor pulled himself to stand. The motion made his stomach seize and cramp. Down to his knees, he heaved, but there was nothing left. Those small hands
held his shoulders. He wanted to shove her back, but something deep down and far away told him not to hurt her.

  She smeared his damp hair from his face. He pressed her hand away. His own was shaking so bad he couldn’t shape the words he sought.

  He needed her help to get into the cidery.

  If he just had the key. All he needed was the key.

  He tried to form the word again. Did Aven have the key? Was that why she was here? Thor gripped the fabric of her skirt, pulling her closer. If she had it . . . she could give it to him. Aven. If he could only say her name. Key—if he could only form the word.

  Maybe if he could write it. But his chest pocket was wet and empty. He needed to get to the house for some paper. Thor rose and took but a few steps before he fell, knees hitting the dirt hard. He caught himself with his hands before the rest of him collided. He gasped for a breath, needing to slow his heart. He scratched at his wrists. Felt the grit of dirt there. Why was he outside?

  Aven was gone. Or had that been his mother?

  No, he didn’t have a mother. It had to have been Aven. Maybe she was going to bring him something to drink. Maybe if he asked nicely. He pressed a shaking hand to his chest, trying to form the word please.

  His vision blurred as his eyes rolled back. Suddenly the sky was upside down. A fierce pain split the side of his head, and he knew the ground well enough when he rolled onto his side. Tender hands lifted his head, then his face moved against something soft. A woman’s lap. He knew it by the apron pocket and the curve of her waist where he suddenly clutched, desperate for help.

  Aven.

  She was calling out something—her abdomen sinking and rising in fast jolts against his temple. She moved, pressing her ear to his chest, her breath warm and soft against him.

  Aven could feel Thor’s heart thrash along like a raging train. Her cries for Jorgan brought him bursting out of the house, flinging a shirt over his shoulders. Jorgan sank to her side and shouted for Haakon.

  “His heart is racing,” she said.

  Jorgan pressed a thumb to Thor’s wrist and waited a few moments. “Aven, there’s a sack under your wardrobe with two jars of cider.”

  “What?”

  “Trust me, it’s there. I put it there. Run and fetch one.”

  She shifted Thor to the ground, then ran into the house. Upstairs, she sank in front of the wardrobe and peered beneath. There was the sack. She tugged it out and grabbed a heavy jar, the glass cold to her fingers. Was this wrong? Was this what Thor would want? But when Jorgan hollered her name, Aven rose.

  She ran down the stairs and out onto the back porch just as Haakon and Jorgan were carrying Thor to the water trough.

  “What are you doing?” she cried.

  They dropped him in. He sank below the surface before the two brothers reached down and pulled him back up. Soaked, Thor gasped.

  “You’re going to kill him!” she screamed.

  “He was unconscious! And I need him back.” They lowered Thor to the ground. Jorgan loosened the top buttons of Thor’s shirt, the plaid sopping and dark.

  At a clatter in the kitchen, Aven glanced to the window to see Cora rushing a kettle from the stove. Ida pulled a tin of herbs from the shelf so fast, more tins toppled.

  Jorgan shook his brother and lifted his eyelids. “Come on, Thor.” As he patted the man’s cheeks, he looked up at Haakon. “Get the doctor. Now.”

  Haakon ran off toward the barn.

  “What’s happening?” Aven sank beside Thor. Her chin trembling, she gently lifted his head and slid her knees beneath it, holding him up as best she could.

  “I need you to get back,” Jorgan said.

  Aven shook her head.

  Cora rushed in, tipping an herby drink to Thor’s lips. “This should calm him.” She dripped some into his mouth.

  His face skewed in disgust. Cora urged him to take more, but he shoved the cup away, spilling it. Defeat warred with determination in the woman’s eyes. Aven’s hope faltered. Without his wanting it, Thor couldn’t be made to do anything.

  As if knowing it was a losing battle, Jorgan turned for the cider. Immense sadness in his eyes brought to Aven the burn of tears. Jorgan loosened the lid, lifted Thor’s head, and tipped the jar to his brother’s mouth. Amber liquid dripped into Thor’s beard. Aven gently wiped it away with her skirt.

  “Come on, man,” Jorgan said, then whispered the same in Norwegian.

  He tipped the liquor again. More cider spilled away, but then Thor swelled in a gasp and sputtered. He grabbed the jar, bending forward to drink hungrily. He gulped down half of the brew, then coughed, dropped the glass, pulled himself forward, and heaved it all out. His arms shook so fiercely that Aven reached across his wracking back and held him about the waist.

  His weight was more than she could support until Jorgan moved to the other side to bear the most. Thor was heaving nothing but air now, but his body wouldn’t stop. Not until he went limp and they eased him back down. Aven cradled his head as Jorgan pressed an ear to his chest.

  “Do not fail him.” He said it low and urgent as if the heart could be commanded so. When Cora called for Jorgan’s help, he stood and hurried back inside.

  Aven used the edge of her skirt to wipe the cider from Thor’s mouth. She said his name. Tried to tell him that they were with him and would never leave him. But the words flitted right past. Desperate for him to know, she pressed her lips to his forehead. “You’re not alone,” she whispered.

  She kissed his skin again, minding not the saltiness as she slid her hands against his collar, splaying it farther open as if that alone would make the breaths come easier. Water dripped down her fingers. She grazed a hand over his ear and wept his name.

  His eyes were closed, and knowing he’d never hear her, she clung to him and cried out to the God who could.

  FOURTEEN

  Aven paced across the hallway and then back. Faint shuffling and a few thuds sounded from the attic where the doctor was with Thor. Jorgan and Cora had gone up as well. What was happening? Aven wandered back and forth for a few more minutes before the attic door opened.

  She moved aside to be out of the way. The doctor came down first. He slid on a black hat, a handled bag of the same glossy color in his grip. The door closed softly as Cora and Jorgan followed just behind.

  The doctor gave Aven a polite nod in passing, and she trailed them all down. Haakon was in the kitchen, straddling a chair, and Ida was fresh from the garden with a basket of vegetables in tow. The doctor left, and everyone seemed to be waiting on someone to speak.

  Jorgan pulled near his own chair and sat. “The doctor said there wasn’t anything else we could be doin’ for Thor, but that it’s up to him and what his body can handle. And obviously, the Lord.”

  “And his heart?” Haakon asked.

  “The doctor didn’t like the sound of it but said there’s little that can be done. Said Thor’s young and strong and that it should hold out fine. What the doc is more worried about is his liver, which can’t be doin’ too well just now. Cora’s gonna fix something for him to take that should help.”

  Worry threaded so tightly through Aven that she could scarcely ask the next question. “And for his unease?”

  “Doc wants him to keep with the teas Cora suggested. He gave us some medicine, too, that should help him sleep. Gettin’ Thor to take the medicine was harder than gettin’ him to drink anything we’ve tried before, so I don’t know how much help it will be.”

  Oh, the state Thor had to be in. Was there nothing she could do?

  Weariness and worry stayed companions with them in the kitchen. Cora went out for some air, and Haakon went to see to the afternoon chores. Looking like he was ready to sleep for a week, Jorgan mentioned that he needed to head back upstairs.

  “I need another bowl and some rags, though.” He opened a low cupboard.

  Aven hurried to get a large enamel bowl, and Jorgan fetched the rags that had been washed and dried that morning. When he re
turned upstairs, Ida watched as Aven resumed her restlessness. ’Twas a relief when the dear housekeeper suggested a batch of crackers for Thor.

  “Wonderful idea.” Aven rinsed her hands and dried them. Why were they shaking?

  Because she remembered this very time in a flat far away.

  When it was Benn and not Thor fighting for release.

  Grateful for the task, Aven set the jar of flour on the table. A tin cup served to measure out several scoops into a bowl. Next she scraped a hefty dollop of butter from the crock and fetched the baking soda. When the dough was rolled and cut into squares, she placed each one on a baking sheet, pricked them with a fork, and dusted the tops with salt. Into the oven they went. She was tidying up her mess when Haakon went up to relieve Jorgan, who came down a minute later. He sank into a chair at the table.

  Aven poured coffee, stirred in cream, and set the hot mug on the table just as Ida slid a plate of stew beside it.

  Aven suppressed her wondering until he’d taken a few bites. “How is Thor faring?”

  Jorgan lifted his gaze. “He’s still thick as thieves with that bucket, but he’s hangin’ in there all the same. Tonight will be the worst.” He stabbed a slice of potato and stirred it in the gravy. “I’m gonna try and get some sleep before he wakes. I’m worried he and Haakon are gonna have a rough time of it.”

  When Jorgan polished off his meal, he ducked from the kitchen and collapsed on the sofa. Within moments the man was still as stone, all save his chest that rose and fell in slumber.

  ’Twas a few hours later that Haakon came down. He dropped a pile of laundry on the porch. Without a word he returned upstairs. Only minutes passed when there was a ruckus followed by a clatter. The attic door opened and slammed. Haakon was back in the kitchen, tossing another bundle of cloths onto the porch.

  “He’s impossible!”

  “I can send up more tea.” Ida reached for a tin of herbs.

  “There’s no point.” Haakon took up the bar of soap and wet his hands. “It’s just gonna come back up.”