Sons of Blackbird Mountain

by Joanne Bischof

  “This takes time.”

  The bar slipped from his grip and onto the floor. “You know what?” Haakon banged the soap into the washbin. “I’m gonna go take a bath.” He stormed toward the door. “If anyone needs me, tell them I’ve died.”

  “Haakon,” Ida said sternly.

  He lowered his head, turned, and strode back through the house loud enough to wake all who were slumbering, and a few distant neighbors as well.

  Aven exchanged a small smile with Ida, and before either of them could remark, the smell of toasting crackers begged to be tended. Aven pulled them from the oven, lightly golden and crisp.

  Cora and Al joined them then, looking rested. Al’s tightly coiled hair was closely shorn to his head and he ran a hand over it, making a faint swishing sound as he yawned. Ida heaped two plates with stew for them, and Aven fixed a pot of strong, black tea. At Cora’s bidding, she brewed a cup of chamomile for Thor.

  Aven set the cup of herbal tea on a tray. Next she added two warm crackers. Oh, that he might be able to take a few bites. Settle his stomach, if not his unease.

  “I used the last of what calmed him before he slept. I’ll head home and see if there ain’t a little left. The medicine the doctor left is decent, but we had a time of it, tryin’ to get Thor to take some, and I fear he’s on to us now.” Cora winked. She ate, sipping her own rich tea with closed eyes.

  When she finished, she rose and beckoned to Aven with a lean, work-worn hand. “I gonna fetch them herbs.” She pushed back from the table and righted her homespun skirts. “Walk with me, child. It’ll spare those floorboards you be pacin’.”

  On outside study, Cora’s cabin was pint-sized, but within were so many nooks and crannies it would take a day to fully discover. Aven stood at one of those nooks as she reached up for a tin on the highest shelf. Dozens of other containers sat in neat rows—the name of seed or herb marking each.

  “This here, perhaps?” Aven sniffed the contents and, thinking it right, held it over for inspection.

  Cora shifted her finger through the tiny dried pods. “Ah, the fennel. Thatta girl. Now you be lookin’ for St. John’s Wort. I’ll find the milk thistle.”

  Running her thumb along small glass jars, Aven read more labels. “What is the benefit of these herbs?”

  “It a blend to treat anxiousness. Should help settle Thor some. I’ve a good, strong tincture made up but it’s stewed in whiskey. And while it’s bitter and don’t taste near the same, whiskey be whiskey and I fear offerin’ it to Thor just now.” Looking like a pair of spectacles would be of help, Cora squinted at the writing on an old tin. “So we’ll steep the herbs and hope he might take some.” She pulled down a pouch and peeked inside.

  Aven unearthed the last herb and carried it over as well. Her skirt brushed against a small bed covered with a quilt of brown and white patches. The bed bowed in the middle, looking near to collapsing, but a little spool doll lay slumped over against the pillow. Georgie’s spot.

  Earlier Cora had mentioned that her girls were staying with a family from their church. A shelter for them as Cora and Al aided the Norgaards. Aven righted the doll, grateful to Cora for the time she was giving. All with a smile and spark, no less.

  “He kept down some of what I brewed for him near noon.” Cora fetched a basket and filled it with odds and ends, last of all the pouch. “But only a few sips. It was enough yet, as he rested. Let’s see that he get a good strong cup for the night.” She led Aven out, then closed and latched the door.

  Pots of herbs grew on the stone stoop, and a hanging basket with flowering ivy spilled shade along with a heady fragrance. ’Twas honeysuckle, Cora declared, as she looped her arm through Aven’s. Some years younger than Ida, Cora’s hair was frosted with silver strands, but the wiry grip she maintained was as strong as her manner was kind.

  Cora plucked a bloom and handed it to Aven. It bore a smell so gratifying, Aven committed the name to heart as she inhaled its fragrance. Over and over she did this until Cora laughed.

  “Lawd, child, if you ain’t gonna smell the sweet right outta that flower. I’ll bring you all you can stand next I come.”

  Aven smiled her thanks. She placed the white bloom in her palm as they walked, tipping the silken petals over to admire the underside. How often had she held these very blossoms as a girl? They used to bloom just outside her mother’s third-floor window where Aven had spent her youngest years. She would sit there in the little gable, watching bees bumble from flower to flower while her mother sewed delicate gowns for the lady of the manor.

  In the lifetime since, Aven had forgotten its name. Years later, and alone in the workhouse, there was a vase of this same flower in the office where she met with one of the Sisters of Mercy—the nuns who came to the poor to bring aid. The very Sister who had matched her with Benn that spring day.

  Never had Aven thought to ask the flower’s name. She was thankful to know it now.

  Cora’s grip on her arm was steady. As the weariness of the last few days settled into her bones, Aven was grateful for Cora’s mellow pace. The woman had to feel as stretched thin, if not more so.

  “How did you come to live here?” Aven asked as they walked.

  With a flick of her hand, Cora waved off a pesky fly. “Worked on a farm in Louisiana. Me and Ida were the only daughters of our folks who weren’t sold off. We was too young, you see. Not much use to nobody ’cept to carry water pails or helpin’ our mammy with the missus. When we got older, we decided to run. Scarcely had a feather to fly with, but we got by.” She lowered the basket to her side so it swayed among her skirts.

  “May I ask what happened?”

  “We was runnin’ toward freedom, long before the start of the war. We took off before our owner had a chance to sell Ida away. He had plans for her, ya see, as she was grown then. But Ida was wantin’ to marry a man who worked the fields. Woulda been only a slave weddin’—not legal to the state—but true in God’s eyes, and that be all that mattered.”

  Aven gently freed Cora of the basket when the woman slowed.

  “We got all the way to the south of Virginia when dogs caught up with us and the gang of folk we were travelin’ with. It may seem that Ida took the worst of it, but her beau was injured near as bad, then sold off and never seen again. Her heart was more battered than her leg ever was.

  “I was smaller so the memories be fragile, but I recall how she bore it well. She learned to let the good Lord mend her, and mend her He has. She ain’t bitter none, which is more able than me. Than most. ’Specially with the Sorrels and their kind around. And with their dander still up, no less. Ida be gracious, but it don’t mean her heart don’t want still. Don’t yearn for what was lost.”

  “I’m terribly sorry.”

  Cora drew in a slow breath and tilted her face to the breeze. It lifted the tiny hairs that feathered free of her knotted head wrap. “A few years past that, we was sold to the Sorrels, and that’s how I was on hand to tend Mrs. Norgaard whenever it was her time. I delivered all three of the boys and eight Sorrel babies. All grown up now. When the war ended and Ida and me was free, we took work from the Norgaards. They paid right good.

  “I married my Albert then. Spent some happy years with him before he passed. This place be home. ’S a cryin’ shame to think of those boys losin’ it. But they know what they be about and they know what they made of. We all know it too, and in that there be hope.”

  A few weeks ago such words would have been fodder to ponder, but now they provided a sureness beyond measure.

  Aven glanced around at the beauty of evening. The sky was the color of a peach, the glow of the sun much like the place where it was ripest. Birds called to one another from the treetops, and two deer walked slow and lithe atop a distant crest. How vast had Haakon declared the farm? A few hundred acres. A responsibility she couldn’t begin to fathom.

  “If they’re to keep this farm . . . Thor will be needing to make liquor nonetheless, would you think?”

&n
bsp; “It a question I been wrestlin’ with the good Lord over ’til I realized that the notion be between Him and Thor. In the meanwhile we got our place to pray.”

  Aven nodded. Pray she would. For that man’s heart and their beloved land.

  The acreage spread out around them now like patches of blue and green and gray . . . all coming together to make up a quilt—a tapestry—of home. Rich in the air was the scent of ripening apples. On the hillside, dried grasses swayed in a wave so vast and gentle, it reminded her of the open seas she’d come across. ’Twas a thing of beauty, and the souls who lived here more so.

  Aye, pray she would, and as she did, she would think of a way to help bear the burden. If it would ease Thor’s fight—help Ida and Cora and these men keep the only home they’d known—she would give all she could.

  It was an old oak—the tree Thor had often climbed while at the boarding school for the Deaf and Dumb. A place to hide amid the velvety leaves. A place to see more of the world. To climb as high as he could just for the chance to look out across the North Carolina horizon and pretend that there, in the distant haze, he could make out the shape of Blackbird Mountain, Virginia. Home.

  Nearly eight, he’d only been at the school for two years, but every day of it—every day away from his family—had been more lonesome than the one before. The learning of Sign had been his only comfort, but even that comfort didn’t pull him near or tuck him in at night.

  So there he’d sat . . . straddling one of the thick branches, battling emptiness. It was then that he’d peered down to see a bearded man in a plaid coat, awaiting him. Da. Thor scrambled down from the tree so fast he nearly collided with the ground, and when he finally ran into Da’s open embrace, the tears Thor had spent two years holding back unleashed.

  When Da pulled back, Thor peered up into his face to see tears there as well. But they weren’t the kind for a homecoming. They were of a sadness so deep, Da’s bearded chin was trembling.

  Thor felt in that instant the hot fear of knowing that life would never be the same. That a shadow was about to spread over him.

  It was such a darkness that threatened to seize him now.

  Thor shifted his head. Knew he was lying down, but nothing more. Sleep had taken him for some time. What had Cora put in that cup she kept tipping to his lips? The air was like ice, making him shiver so hard he could scarcely lift a hand.

  He managed to grip the back of his head, which was being pressed by a weight so hard it was sure to crack. He opened his eyes. The room was aflame with sunset. Slits of it hit his eyes, intensifying the throbbing.

  He was going to die. Right here, he was going to die.

  Thor stared at the wall, wrapped his arms around himself, and tried to fight back the cold. It clawed its way through his clothes, prickling his skin. It had been summer last, he recalled, but maybe winter had set in while he was asleep. The knots in the pine walls were small and close together. He stared at them, noticing the patterns to be found—like snowflakes in a blizzard—until he realized that the flakes were increasing. A flurry that was making the walls nearly white.

  Thor blinked, feeling the itch on his skin again. Sharp and prickly. It had to be ice. He chafed at his forearms. Shivers quaked him. Did anyone else know a storm was approaching? What of his trees? His brothers? Ida would be out by the line, hanging laundry, only to be caught in the flurry.

  Thor went to sit up to warn her. His skull twisted inside his head and he collided with something hard. A burn lashed at his scalp, and he groaned. A warm wetness dampened the side of his head. He’d hit the nightstand on the way to the floor.

  Someone knelt beside him and pressed a rag to his head. The hands were like fire. Thor forced them away as he struggled to his knees. He needed to get to Ida. And Aven. She was out in the shed, cutting fabric with her scissors. He’d be ready for them this time—but he had to warn her about the storm. Had to get her and bring her back to the house. Aven needed him.

  He’d be gentler this time. He promised.

  At a spark of pain, Thor realized someone was dabbing that rag to his skin again. He pushed away whoever it was. Forget the blood. They needed to worry about the storm. Ice was stabbing him. Thor swatted at his skin, but it was so cold it felt like he was hardly moving.

  Hands bound his own, pinning them down and away from his shivering body. Thor wrenched free and gripped the edge of the mattress to pull himself up. Someone was beside him. Thor grabbed the person by the front of the shirt. Haakon.

  Thor tried to shape the sign for snow. The family had to be warned. They needed to make Aven safe. Bring her back to the house. Ida too. Thor stared down at his fingers and forced them to make an A, then a V. At the E, he was shaking too hard to finish. He tried to talk, but the words were like mud in his throat. Furious, he socked the floor. Regretted it when pain shot through his arm. Into his head. Stomach wrenching, Thor lunged for the bowl again.

  A moment later a rag wiped his mouth, then those hands were loosening the buttons of his shirt. Why were they taking off his shirt? It was freezing. Thor tried to hold it in place, but Haakon pried it off of him.

  Bared from the waist up, a chill slapped his skin. Thor grabbed for his shirt but Haakon twisted away, throwing it aside. Irritation mounting, Thor pushed Haakon into the side of the bed.

  Haakon shouted at him—blue eyes flickering with fury. Thor shoved his brother again. This time so hard that Haakon slammed into the wall. Thor was sick of the milksop acting like he owned the world. Was sick of everything he did. The way he looked at Aven. Taught her to swim.

  Told Thor he couldn’t do it because he couldn’t talk.

  Stupid Thor couldn’t talk.

  Thor needed Haakon to warn Aven about the storm—make sure she was safe—but he was fed up with his brother, so he slammed him down with all his might and rose for the door. He’d do it himself.

  FIFTEEN

  Aven set Cora’s basket on the kitchen table. Something knocked above the ceiling . . . then thudded so hard the lantern over the table trembled.

  “Jorgan!” Haakon hollered from the attic. “I need you!”

  Seated at the table, Jorgan lunged up. His chair slammed back and he stumbled around it.

  “Jorgan!” Haakon bellowed. “I can’t hold him!”

  A crash clattered overhead. The wall of the stairwell shuddered. Too close to be the third floor. Jorgan called out for Al.

  Aven turned but saw only an empty yard and a gaping barn door where Al had gone to do the chores. Cora was already rushing that way. Jorgan shouted for Thor to calm down. A heartbeat later there was a slam and Haakon swore.

  Two pairs of running feet pounded the hallway, one just behind the other, followed by a crash so hard, the whole house shook. From above, Thor groaned—an agonized, guttural sound that had Aven’s heart ripping in her chest. She stepped back only to bump into the windowsill.

  The scuffle intensified as did the sound of Jorgan’s and Haakon’s desperation. Even as panic quickened her pulse, the Twenty-Third Psalm came to mind. Not for herself, but for Thor.

  “The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.”

  Aven hurried to right Jorgan’s chair when the wall trembled.

  “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.”

  Above, boards sounded like they were about to splinter.

  “He restoreth my soul.”

  She lost the rest—pleading to Christ for peace for this man.

  Jorgan bellowed a curse and crashed down the stairs. He hit the wall at the bottom so hard, a picture fell and shattered. The whole world seemed to dim when Aven realized that coming down the stairs next was Thor.

  Nearly on his knees, he fought against whoever held him. Haakon.

  Thor’s torso was bare and Haakon clung beneath one of his shoulders, groping at his brother’s thick arm to hold on. Like two stags they fought, each clamoring to be stronger.

  Al rushed into the kitchen with Grete at his
heels. He skidded around the table and into the great room where he hefted Thor around the middle. Grete barked. With Haakon’s help, they tugged him up a step. Thor fought and thrashed. He kicked the wall then Al square in the stomach so hard that Al dropped like an empty sack.

  When Grete growled, Aven called for the dog. The pup hesitated, looking terror stricken and confused. Aven called again. Whining, Grete crawled nearer. Aven pulled the dog close.

  Jorgan rammed Thor with all the force he had, shoving his brother back a step. Then another. Thor punched at him. The sound of his fists colliding with Jorgan louder than even Thor’s grunting.

  Jorgan ducked against the pounding blows, but still he heaved until Haakon clasped his brother’s arms. Al struggled to his feet and took hold of his other side. The three of them forced Thor farther back.

  Thor made a sound much like “Av—”

  She had to be mistaken. He didn’t speak.

  “Get down, Aven!” Jorgan shouted.

  Was she what Thor was aiming for? Aven dropped to a crouch behind the table. She pulled Grete into her lap. The dog whined in confusion, trembling from nose to tail.

  Aven heard a thrashing from Thor. Then a whimper that could have only been his own. A sound so raw and broken that she clutched Grete tighter for fear the dog would scamper after him.

  “Av—”

  Tears stung her eyes at the sound of him trying to say her name. Aven blinked as her vision blurred.

  Jorgan commanded them to keep their grips. The clamor shook the upper floor like a beating drum, then all at once everything went quiet. All save the panting breaths of three men.

  First came Haakon’s voice. “He’s out cold.”

  “Let’s move him before he comes to.” Jorgan sounded wrung out.

  Fearing she was going to be sick, Aven sank against the table leg. She tried to heave in breaths, but perhaps that was her problem—they were coming too fast. She struggled to slow them even as the kitchen filled with noise again. This time of that which needed to be done immediately. Cora poured salt into a bowl and rushed for the kettle. Ida drew near to Aven and pressed a hand to her forehead. Aven closed her eyes again.