Sons of Blackbird Mountain

by Joanne Bischof

  With Ida’s help Aven managed to stand. “I need air,” she whispered.

  Down the stairs she went. Past the cider barn. All the way around it until she reached the back end. Tall, dry weeds swished as she sank onto a rusted box against the building.

  Dropping her face in her hands, her shoulders shook. A sob rose so strong that air was lost to her. Aven heaved in a breath as tears pooled and fell. Because she could still see Thor’s struggle . . . and because she could still see Benn’s.

  The sun was near to setting that day, two years ago. The flat all but golden in the glory of the sunset that streamed in through the windows. Benn had been sitting at the table of their rented room, his profile lit by that soft light. The pale hue of his hair melded to amber and his pensive brow shadowed above his blond lashes. He’d been lost in thought—and she simply watched him. For it had been the calm after the storm. One week after she’d pleaded yet again for him to give up the bottle.

  He’d tried—for her sake, he’d tried. Making it into the third day. But by then she’d had to lock herself in the closet due to his panic. A panic taking over that bugs were crawling on them both. He slapped at his skin, at her own. Scratching at nothing. Forcing her to hide away.

  Aven had pinned the closet door closed with the broom and tried to stay as still and quiet as possible. Praying that Benn would forget she was there. That their landlord, Farfar Øberg, would hear the ruckus and come to her aid.

  Somewhere in the night, Benn had found a bottle of Akvavit. He’d finished the spiced liquor off by sunrise. Aven crawled out to find him in a stupor.

  So it was four days later, the day of that vivid sunset, that he’d finally turned his head to her and, with a rare smile, asked what she thought about fish for supper. Mused aloud that the market would be open for a few minutes yet. Another bottle of Akvavit was in his grasp, turning slowly in his thick fingers.

  He’d been a handsome man. Thirty-one to her nineteen that summer. He had a stoic kind of appeal. Skin gently weathered from hours spent near the docks. Golden hair thick and cropped short. Tidy most days, save when he was lost in thought and prone to tugging it.

  When he gave her a second smile, flashing that matchless dimple, Aven had fetched a basket and a krone. Only two had lined the money box since his pub debts had emptied it. She’d stayed up many a night stitching seams in dim light to earn the two coins they had. Lacking powder to cover the bruises on her arms that his panic had borne, she draped a shawl about her shoulders.

  She left the flat—that, the last she would see him alive. That smile. The light on his skin. The memory of it was all she had to hold on to as she turned away from the shadows of a life no more. Of a marriage no more due to his choice and the length of a rope.

  For months after she was haunted by the sound of it. How could something so still as a taut rope creak yet? ’Twas the breeze from the open window, she knew. He’d opened it after she left because the curtains were spilling in and out as the wind shifted, and he was there—his life no more.

  There she had fallen, her basket spilling of its contents, and there her landlord had knelt beside her, urging her to leave the room.

  Farfar Øberg had moved a cot into his storage closet when fear hindered Aven from returning to the flat in the hours and days to follow. He brought her blankets and read to her by the light of a costly candle. Days upon days wore on, and she didn’t move from the bakery. Didn’t speak.

  Until two weeks after the funeral, when Farfar Øberg had announced a letter for her. A message written in Dorothe’s hand. One urging her and Benn to come to America. That they would be welcomed to the farm and that there was much work to be had for Benn. After forcing herself to pen news of Benn’s death, Aven had tucked Dorothe’s letter beneath her pillow.

  Months later, Farfar Øberg slipped a twenty kroner in the same spot. How he’d obtained it, he wouldn’t relay. But it was hers, he insisted, when he pushed it back into her hand with his gnarled, wrinkled fingers.

  Aven held the valuable coin, touching the imprint of the coat of arms stamped into the copper-nickel, repeating the words she’d memorized from Dorothe’s letter.

  “The Lord will also be a refuge for the oppressed. A refuge in times of trouble.”

  ’Twas nearly a year later when she finally penned a response to Dorothe’s bidding.

  That, yes. To the Norgaard farm she would come.

  SIXTEEN

  Aven awoke, vaguely remembering how she’d gotten into bed. A quilt covered her, and a nightgown pressed soft and warm beneath that. She blinked up at the ceiling. By the brightness of the room, it had to be late morning. Her second morning abed. She pushed herself up against the pillows. She knew only because Cora and Ida had tiptoed in and out many a time to check on her.

  Had she truly slept this long?

  Managing to sit forward, Aven rubbed at her face. ’Twas as clean as her nightgown. All notion of salty tears wiped away. They’d taken good care of her indeed.

  It had been Haakon who had found her beside the cider barn. That she remembered, but everything else was a blur as exhaustion had taken over. Noticing a sweet smell, Aven looked to the nightstand where a jar spilled forth with clippings of Cora’s porch flower. Honeysuckle. Aven smiled gently. Seeing a plum beside it, she took it and sniffed the smooth purple flesh, but needing to rise, she set it back down.

  When her bare feet hit the floor, she pushed herself to a stand, only to feel so light-headed she had to sit again. Perhaps go a little slower. She picked up the plum and took a few slow bites. When had she eaten last? Or—prior to this—slept? Had she been forgetting to do such things?

  Lacking the strength for anything but the simplest of tasks, she reached for her shoes. Aven buttoned them up, for she’d have no luck with them once her corset was on. She fetched that and then a blouse and skirt. As soon as she was dressed, she headed down. The house was unusually quiet. In the kitchen, she set about fixing a cup of tea, taking care to add plenty of cream and sugar. Alongside steamy sips, she nibbled a few of the crackers and a slice of hard cheese.

  Jorgan carried boards down from the attic. His own steps were slow, and she couldn’t begin to imagine how this had taxed him in both body and spirit. Ida was nowhere to be found, and upon inquiring, Jorgan said she was napping. ’Twas as if this house were healing after a great battle—one she hoped would allow it to heal even stronger than before.

  A battle, she prayed, that had been won.

  “How is Thor?”

  Jorgan rubbed at his shoulder that had to be hurting. “He’s restin’ well. Through the worst of it now.”

  All the heartache she’d been bearing melted away into the stirring of joy. “May I see him?”

  After balancing the two boards on the table edge, Jorgan pulled out a pocketful of bent nails and set them in a pail. “Yes. And if you don’t mind, he’s ready for a meal. He’s had a few crackers, but perhaps somethin’ heartier now. Tess came by earlier and started a stew. She’s gone now, and if you’re able to dish some up—”

  Aven was on her feet before he could even finish.

  “Don’t wear yourself out again.” Jorgan watched her as he pushed the pail aside. “I doubt Haakon minded carryin’ you to the house, but I don’t think he wants to do it again, for your sake.” He gave a brotherly smile then, taking up the boards, strode out.

  She owed Haakon a thanks, and even now could still feel the surety of his hold and the steady cadence of his steps as he’d borne her across the yard. As vivid and real was the way Thor had been trying to say her name.

  As she checked on the stew, Aven felt a curious longing to hear it again. Carrots and potatoes simmered alongside herbs and hearty meat—just the fare to fortify Thor. She filled a bowl, then turned in search of some bread. A fresh loaf rested on the windowsill, and Aven wanted to weep with gladness to whoever was responsible. Tess, most likely. Jorgan confirmed as much upon his return to the kitchen.

  “Tess did that while Ida s
crubbed the attic. I don’t know how she did it, but a few kettles of hot water and soap and the woman set it to rights again.”

  ’Twas no wonder Ida had needed such a rest.

  Aven cut a thick slice of bread for Thor, then steeped ginger and hot water together. After dusting in a spoonful of sugar, she placed the cup on a tray. She steadied the bowl into place, then fetched both napkin and spoon.

  Her heart tripped over itself for reasons she wasn’t willing to acknowledge, and she lifted the tray and carried it up the stairs.

  Near the open attic door, a breeze sifted through the room, fresh and cool. The parted curtains rippled. Skirt lifted in one hand and the tray clutched against her ribs, Aven peeked inside. The room was awash with Ida’s handiwork. Every surface scrubbed and righted. But it was the nearest bed that drew Aven’s attention. The man lying there.

  A wet ring darkened the center of the floor from the tub Jorgan had brought up so Thor could bathe. From his lack of movement Aven surmised that Thor had needed help. He lay on his side now, gaze seeming to rest on nothing in particular. His coloring wasn’t as dull as it had been, yet the shadows beneath his eyes were bleaker. His hair was nearly dry. Aven moved in front of him, knelt, and set the tray near.

  He looked at her and surprise registered in his eyes. She didn’t know why, but a sting of tears gathered and she had to fight them back. Unsure of what to say, she reached out and gently touched his hand. It was nothing, really . . . she simply ran her fingertip along the skin of his knuckles. It was the only hello she knew to form.

  He blinked quickly, then his hand shifted on the mattress and the tip of his thick finger grazed her thumb.

  She smiled again, and losing the fight with herself, a tear fell. Aven wiped it away. “How are you feeling?” She hoped he could understand her.

  He wet his lips but didn’t stir. A small cut above his brow glistened with a trace of ointment. His head had to be hurting, and she didn’t want him to move unless he wished. His gaze was on her face. Though he was silent, the slight shifts in his expression gave hint to his thoughts. His brow pinched when she mentioned the meal. His mouth parted at the declaration of it being bread and hot stew. When she told him she could make something else if that wasn’t appetizing, his gaze roved her face.

  “I don’t want you to have to sit up just now, so if it seems too much, I can set it here for when you are ready. Or bring more later—”

  He gripped the edge of the mattress, trying to push himself up. She moved to assist. So sturdy was he and she weak still, her efforts seemed more hindrance than help. Aven moved aside as he rose to a sit.

  His cotton undershirt was snug to his chest and forearms, the sleeves shoved up to his elbows. He wore sable-brown pants—absent of both suspenders and knife sheath. Thor leaned against the wall, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes.

  He sat that way for a long while. Not wanting to rush him, she set about tucking his clean laundry away. She’d washed and folded their clothing before, but never had she put it away, so it was by trial and error that she finished the task a few minutes later. Thinking Thor had fallen asleep where he sat, she looked over to see that he was watching her.

  Hands slowing, she tucked the last of his shirts into the dresser and closed the drawer. Sweeping her skirt aside, Aven knelt beside his bed again. “Can I get you anything?”

  With his eyes on her mouth, his brow furrowed. Something about him seemed unsteady. Then he looked over at the tray, and his hand shifted ever so slightly toward it.

  “You are hungry?”

  Slowly, he nodded.

  Aven perched on the edge of the bed and peeked at him, hoping he wouldn’t mind. She offered him the bowl and he took it in his trembling grasp. Thor eyed the spoon warily. He lifted the handle and broth sloshed about as he tried to raise it. ’Twould never do for him in this state. To hold the spoon herself might fluster him, so Aven took the bread, tore off a chunk, and tucked it into his grasp.

  A little sigh slipped from his lips—the sound of relief.

  Did he know he’d made it? It was so sweet she found herself swallowing another sting. With slow movements he dunked the crusty piece into the stew, then lifted it to his mouth.

  His eyes slid closed as he chewed. Aven watched him, wondering how hungry he had become. Thor struggled to tear off another piece of bread. She slid her hands against his own, broke off a second pinch, and tucked it into his palm. He dipped and ate. They repeated the pattern only a few more times, gratitude heavy in his brown eyes. When he eased the bowl away, she returned it to the tray.

  Remembering the ginger water, Aven offered it to him. May that it would settle his stomach further. He sipped and made a face.

  She accepted the cup back. “Never have I met a man so choosy about what he drinks.”

  The lines around his eyes deepened in the faintest of smiles.

  Smiling herself, she set the cup aside. “I do promise to make you something else.”

  He dipped his head in a small thank-you, then seemed to regret it, for he lowered himself back to the mattress. With him lying on his side, Aven pulled his blanket up and nestled it about his shoulders. Her fingers brushed against his arm and she felt a tremor in him. The poor man was chilled.

  Aven fetched a denser quilt and lowered that over him as well. His eyes slid closed, breath shallowing. His hair had fallen against the side of his cheek, and as gently as she could, Aven tucked it behind his ear. His eyes nearly fluttered open so she pulled away.

  “Rest ye, now,” she whispered.

  ’Twas what the Sisters of Mercy used to say whenever one of them dimmed the lanterns in the orphan dormitory. Aven cast Thor one last glance, then as quietly as she had come, she took up the tray and tiptoed back out.

  SEVENTEEN

  Never had sleep been so much his friend. It was the balm to his madness. The reprieve that got him to the beginning of his seventh day sober. This hour where the terrors were nearly a memory. It was a small death he’d just died, and he ached with the aftermath. There was a void without liquor—he felt it deeply—but it was a void he had sought, and Thor told himself every few minutes that it was good.

  He’d eaten some more, and combined with much sleep, it had given him the needed strength to finally rise from bed all on his own. He pushed his feet into his boots, laced them, and with slow, steady movements headed outside. The air was crisp. It hit his face, and it felt like a new beginning.

  His hair wet, Jorgan was returning from the pond. Grete cantered beside him. Jorgan lifted a hand when Thor passed, and Thor did the same—guilt mounting inside him for all he’d done to his brother. As for Haakon, Thor hadn’t seen him much in the last few days and that was probably best. A hunch told him that Haakon was at the west cabin, tending to odd jobs as he often did when space between them all was wise. Head down, Thor trudged on, needing the sanctuary of his trees.

  They grew in neat rows on the hills and valleys beyond the farmyard. He looked down along his different varieties landing on the Arkansas Black, his best storer. On the opposite side of the road were a handful of Sweet Coppins, just bland enough that he sold them cheap. Past those were two acres of Baldwin, good for cider and a nice pie apple he’d sell to market by the wagonload. Those would earn a pretty penny, but the most acreage was made up of Foxwhelp, an old bittersharp, and Roxbury Russet, one of his sweetest and best. After harvest, he’d press and blend their juices with care, creating palatable ciders that once fermented were irresistible to his customers. Keeping him and his brothers in a rich living. It was for that reason and that reason alone that his pace slackened and he bowed his head, pressing a hand to his eyes.

  God help him.

  Because none of this acreage was paid off yet. Though he and his brothers were closing in on that day, they had a few hundred dollars left to go. With another eight of interest due every month, there was little time to waste. Yet Thor couldn’t think past this day. This hour. Not even this moment to what lay beyond it.
He didn’t want to think about prying the boards from the cidery. Of stepping into the cool, still air that held the lusty fragrance of his very work and memories that threatened to bring him to his knees even here and now.

  Pushing the fears aside, Thor rubbed his sore upper arm as he walked on. Hair unbound, it pressed against his cheek in the breeze. He pushed it back, wishing for something to bind it with, but his wrist was bare of its leather cord.

  Reaching one of his favorite spots, the place where an old McIntosh tree grew in the oddest of shapes—like a woman drawing water from a well, Ida had once said—he moved to sit against it. It had rained in the night so the ground was dewy. The air still damp. Thor cared not as he settled down on the orchard floor amid soggy leaves. The world made sense here. It had been the same for Da. Thor had understood that more and more over the years.

  When the wind shifted, a few golden leaves tumbled down. He turned one in his fingers. Seeing something on the road, he squinted that way. The team and wagon ambled along, Haakon at the reins. Where was he going? By the way the wagon looked loaded up—and covered with a canvas tarp—Thor had his answer. How had Haakon gotten into the cidery? And what was he doing? Their orders were filled for the rest of the month. Thor had made sure of it.

  While Haakon had always had a habit of wandering off, this was different. As the wagon drove from sight, Thor’s mind tried to ponder further down that path, but thoughts and worries muddied together until he leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

  The world that was gently swaying flushed to darkness. Relief was sweeter than any need to ponder Haakon. No matter how much his younger brother might be undermining his authority just now, it was a dilemma for later.

  The late-summer sun and early-autumn breeze were working together to lull him to sleep. Thor nearly drifted off until he felt a brush of wings against his pants leg. He opened his eyes to see two crows hopping about, pecking at his fruit. Picking up a half-rotted apple from the ground, he chucked it that way, scattering them both.