Back in the orchard, they began all over again, the cycle not slowing until just before noon when Tess approached with a pail of water. She offered a drink to each of them in turn. When she extended a cupful to Peter and he declined with a shake of his head, she tipped the cup, spilling it onto his boots. Peter’s brows shot up, and he looked to Thor as if not sure what to do.
Thor turned away to check a smile. It seemed Al’s sister had her own mind about how this was to go. Tess was equally as cool as she helped Ida and Fay serve up the noon meal. Cora wasn’t around, and Thor didn’t blame her. Some things took time—if they healed at all. He’d leave that up to each of them, but for himself, he needed to oversee that this operation ran smoothly, so it was a relief when Tess simply shoved a plate into Peter’s hands . . . as opposed to placing it elsewhere.
With a redhead nowhere in sight, Thor got Ida’s attention. Where A-V-E-N?
“She’s upstairs. Poor thing done twisted her ankle this morning. Stepped funny off the porch. She tried to make it over as nothin’, but was hurtin’ real bad. I sent her up to bed and she’s restin’.”
Thor signaled to Haakon to prep the cider press, and Haakon gave a curt nod. Thor polished off his meal as he strode to the house, then set his plate on the table before climbing the stairs.
Aven’s door was ajar, so he knocked with a knuckle before touching it farther open. She sat on the edge of her bed, head bowed, ginger braid draping one shoulder. Her bare foot was soaking in a deep pan of water. A coarse bag of soaking salts rested nearby. Aven looked up when he stepped through the doorway.
“Thor. Is something the matter?”
Her cheeks were flushed and her pretty eyes seemed tired. She swallowed hard. Never once had he been in her room, but he doubted that was the cause for her distress. There was a cup on the nightstand, so Thor filled it for her. She sipped, looking grateful. Taking a knee in front of her, he lifted her bare calf and gently felt around the bone.
Aven eased the hem of her skirt out of the way, looking taken aback. Thor took care to keep his focus on the injury so as not to set her ill at ease. The skin around her ankle was swollen and bruised with a spread of purple. He kept his touch as soft as possible as he circled her ankle slowly. Aven flinched some, but to his relief it only felt sprained. Still . . . painful, those.
Thor pulled the hand towel from the nightstand and dabbed her skin dry. He helped her move farther back on the bed. Once she was settled, Aven rested her head into the pillow and closed her eyes. Finished, he bent and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. His thumb grazed her cheek, and with work needing him, he left her.
He returned to the yard to find it empty, everyone back in the orchard save Haakon, who was in the cidery, tugging a tarp from the different sections of the giant press. Haakon shook out the oiled canvas, and Thor moved to help fold it. When they had finished, Thor followed him to where the scratter still sat in the yard from the recent cleaning. Haakon gripped one end of the handled machine and Thor took the other. They slid it off to the side to make room for the press.
The scratter was easier to nudge about than the larger contraption, but by no means less important. Nestled within a wooden box was the cam—a wheel that had dozens of nail heads jutting out of it. Awful to the touch, but it had been grinding apples into mash since Da had built it over twenty seasons ago. Jorgan kept it so well maintained with oil and cloth that it had some years left in it.
Back at the press, Thor and Haakon disassembled and carried the segments out to the yard one piece at a time. They set down the old, white oak crossbeams and went back for the center pivot, which was just as heavy. He and Haakon heaved out the screw next. Made of red oak, it was as massive as all the rest. Wide enough that Georgie would scarcely be able to wrap her arms around it.
It would take grease soon, but for now they just fastened it into place with as much effort as it might have taken to hoist a barn wall. The heavy iron and wood pieces were not made to move back and forth to the yard, but this year Thor couldn’t abide the smell of the cidery for days on end. Better the fresh air and moving breeze to sweep the aroma of even the sweetest ciders away.
When pieced together, the press was strong enough to apply ten tons of pressure. Enough to get three gallons of juice per bushel. As for the apple pulp left behind, Ida would use some of it for the garden. Folks would come and take away the rest to feed to chickens and pigs. Others would soak the pulp with water to make ciderkin—a poor man’s drink, but not something to be snubbed in these parts, especially since it was good for children.
After Thor and Haakon had carried the center pivot into the yard, they set it up on its end and attached the iron braces. Wrench in hand, Haakon grimaced as he tightened every stiff bolt. Thor spelled him after a time until everything was snug. The surrounding sections went next, but they didn’t attempt the larger crossbeams until Jorgan had returned.
As three, they lifted the chunks of white oak into place. The nut of the screw was almost as heavy as the twisted, carved column it rested atop, so it was with much effort that they had it all assembled. Sweat dampened his skin as Thor climbed down from the contraption, only to see that the pickers were returning with another wagonload. The last of the day.
He hefted a crate out before the wagon had even come to a complete stop. While there was no great rush with dusk ending the workday, he meant to check on Aven again.
Inside the shop, Peter stood stock-still, scrutinizing the vast interior. The shelves loaded with jars. Filled casks. Peter’s gaze shifted to the many windows as he assessed something. Thor set the crate down harder than he should have. Peter looked at him and headed back out.
When the wagon was empty, Thor bid a good evening to the pickers and headed for the house. He cast a second glance at Peter, who walked down the road with a weary, dogged stride. What Thor wouldn’t give to know what would be said among the Sorrels tonight. He tried not to think about it as he climbed the stairs, forcing himself to trust his gut with the boy. If the Sorrels meant to cause trouble, they’d manage no matter what he did. They always had.
In the kitchen, Thor started for the stairs, but Ida signaled that Aven was asleep. Thor came back and accepted the plate of supper Ida handed him. He was so tired, he scarcely noticed what it was. It was good, though, and it filled a void he hadn’t realized was clawing for attention. He meant to ask Ida something, but only when no one else was around.
By the time he finished eating, the kitchen was empty and night had fallen. Time had passed like a thief. Had he fallen asleep where he sat? His plate was gone, the dishes washed, and a twinge in his neck confirmed that he’d sat that way for too long. Thor stood and stretched his neck from side to side.
He ached for his bed, but with this rare chance to catch Ida alone, he knocked softly on the housekeeper’s door. The floor barely shuddered with her light footsteps. He and his brothers had never been inside Ida’s room. They made it a point to give her strict privacy, and it had always been that way. Her room was a world they scarcely knew, but when she opened her door, Thor glimpsed a brown-and-black quilt on the wall, a tintype of a dark-skinned soldier on the nightstand, and an open Bible on the bed.
The Lord had smiled down on them the day she’d come here.
“Figured I’d just letcha sleep.” Ida tugged the strap of her robe snug. “Thought I’d find ya in the same spot come mornin’. Y’all did a right fine job today. With all of it.”
He offered his thanks in return for everything she did, day in and day out. Would now be the time to ask for more? He pointed to himself, then shaped need help with question. He pointed toward Aven’s room and fingerspelled her name. How best to phrase this? Learn speak question, me. For Aven he would try. Just four words—surely it couldn’t be impossible. You teach? With nervous hands he conveyed what that question would be. The one a man rightly took a knee to speak.
Ida’s eyes glistened with joy. Leaning forward, she squeezed his hand, and there was a pride in her face
that humbled him. “You come find me this time tomorrow and we’ll start the first word.”
With one arm, he pulled her near and squeezed her thin frame tight. She patted his chest and he left her to rest. Upstairs, he was just passing the middle room when Fay stepped into the hallway. She bore a small basin filled with water in the crook of her arm and a flickering candle.
“She’s asleep now,” Fay said to him with ease, which was rare for someone he didn’t know well. He liked that about her.
Thor nodded his appreciation and headed to the attic stairs. He followed them up to find a faint glow from a candle, though Haakon was nowhere in sight. Seeing an open window, Thor looked out to find his brother sitting on the far edge of the roof. Just as they’d often done as boys.
Gripping the window frame, Thor pulled himself through. A spark flashed as Haakon struck a match. He lit the end of a pipe that Thor hadn’t noticed. It was with several quick puffs that Haakon drew in smoke and blew it back out. Exhausted, Thor settled down on the shingles and thought some about what he needed to say. After Haakon’s confession of his tenderness for Aven some time back and Thor’s request to Ida just now, it was only right Thor give the same clarity.
The words knotted in his mind when he thought of stating them, so Thor went with the simplest approach. He shaped Aven’s name, grateful for the moon that was almost full. It lit his hand enough for Haakon to see. Before Thor could finish, Haakon looked away.
Thor thumped his brother’s arm because he needed to know this. Love A-V-E-N. Thor finished by touching his chest. It was both a desire for her and a decision to care for her. Sliding his hands together, he signed fervent so Haakon would understand just how much.
After a few moments, Haakon freed his pipe and offered it over. Thor declined. Was that it? Or did his brother need a chance to ponder? Not wanting to rush him, Thor waited as Haakon peered overhead. With a raised hand, he seemed to be counting the stars. Haakon stopped at just three. The row that made up the story of Odin’s wife.
Da had told them that in this country the same stars shaped a belt that belonged to the hunter Orion. While he’d always taught them to put faith not in the Viking gods but in the God who had cast every star across the sky, Da had still woven the fables for them. His way of teaching them of their ancestors. And Da had often pointed out that line of three to them, perhaps because his own wife was as distant.
Thor knew some of that sharp longing. Having wanted a wife for a good many years, it had become harder and harder to be alone. While he wouldn’t deny that young ladies had occasionally caught his eye in years past, it was Aven whom he sought to give his life to. It was more than taking a wife for love and comfort. It was about leading, cherishing, and protecting her. A great responsibility and one he felt the Lord equipping him for. He struggled to express that to his brother, but when he finished, Thor knew Haakon had followed along, even in the dark.
“So will you take Aven as your wife now?” Haakon asked.
Thor certainly wanted to. But he was still gauging how best to proceed with her. When he signed that, Haakon seemed surprised.
“She hasn’t accepted yet, then? I mean, not officially?”
No.
Haakon tapped his pipe against the roof, then used the heel of his boot to tamp away the ash. He rose to a crouch, bracing himself with a hand. “Best of luck with it, Thor. Truly.”
Not certain of what to make of that, Thor nodded, then watched as Haakon skidded to the edge of the roof. He climbed down to the banister of the porch below as they had so often done. And just like as children, Haakon was gone into the night.
TWENTY-EIGHT
A fire crackled in the hearth each evening. A welcome addition to the cool of nightfall and a reminder that winter was not far behind autumn. Though the crisp evenings beckoned for them, Haakon didn’t tell his fables anymore. Instead, he was more and more distant. Usually pulling a chair into the corner where he kept busy oiling his boots or untangling fishing line. He made little conversation except for that which had to do with the harvest.
Rarely did he ever sit completely still. There was a restlessness within him, and it seemed to be growing day by day. A distance that Aven felt in all ways but one, because it was there that she often felt him watching her when he thought, perhaps, that she didn’t notice.
By the start of the new week, the swelling in her ankle was much lessened. While the bruising had mellowed, it still smarted to walk on, so she took ginger steps wherever she went. To be up and about was blessed relief, even if Fay and Ida insisted she not do much.
The two women had seen to the laundry, so Aven tucked the folded items away. She was just in the attic putting Thor’s and Haakon’s things where they went when a clatter sounded from outside. Aven moved to the window. There in the sunny yard, Jorgan and Thor were greasing the mighty screw.
Standing atop the press, Haakon turned the long, wooden arm that twisted everything into motion. Grete paced around the contraption, tail aflutter with excitement. Haakon called to his brothers for more lard. They slathered on fresh handfuls until the wooden pillar was well streaked.
The handle of the scratter hadn’t stopped being cranked all morning, and now the pickers lugged over bucket after bucket of ground pulp. There would be fresh cider by days end, if not in mere moments.
Thor set a slatted, wooden frame onto the base of the press and spread cheesecloth over it. The lads layered on pulp. Once covered, that cloth was wrapped up and another frame set over it to repeat the process. Not wanting to miss the grand moment, Aven headed down. Her steps were hindered but she gripped tight the handrail, and sweet victory came when she stepped outside and the crisp air wrapped her in a delicious gust.
Thor replaced Haakon atop the frame of the press. He turned the rod just as his brother had done—one side at a time—cranking the wooden bar around and around. The rotations bore down on the screw, compressing the pulp-filled slats. A few bees buzzed around the press, eager for the sweetness. Thor grunted and tugged the screw a rotation lower. Juice squeezed from the frame. It ran down a spout that filled buckets as quickly as the other men could swap them out. At the grinder, Al turned the handle while Fay and Jorgan dropped in bucketfuls of wet apples. It all ran with such precision that Cora and Ida were able to sit back and observe. If Cora was bothered by Peter’s presence, she didn’t let on.
Tugging her shawl snug, Aven joined the women on the porch steps. The rod continued to pivot as Thor’s grunts grew more strained. Using his shoulder, he wiped at his forehead, clasped the rod, and turned it again. He did that only once more, then let out two sharp whistles. Jorgan climbed up to stand opposite him and gripped the free end of the rod. Together, they cranked it with double the force. Juice gushed from the press. Tess and Georgie strode down from where they had been in the garden. In Tess’s lean hands was a basket of green cabbage heads. She set it on the steps beside the women, and Aven watched as they all began peeling off leaves. Ida fetched a board and knife and showed Aven how to cut the stout leaves into shreds.
“What is this for?” Aven asked as she worked.
“Tangy cabbage.” Then louder, “Soon as Thorald brings us some of that fine cider.”
Thor spotted Ida but his brow furrowed. Ida waved a cabbage leaf overhead. He grinned. He hopped down, fetched up two buckets, and carried them over. One he gave to Ida and the other he set on the steps. After pacing into the house, he returned with an armful of jars and placed them in a long row across the middle step. He counted them, then tallied all who were around and went back for one more jar.
Gripping up the bucket, he sloshed cider nearly everywhere but into the glasses. Thor shook his wet hand and offered a jar first to Ida, then to Cora. He made sure that everyone had one before taking the last for himself. Grete crawled forward to lick at the damp step.
Thor clanked a jar with his brothers, then with all the others. Last, he tapped his own to Aven’s, gave her a wink, and using his glass, mimicked a drinking m
otion. There was an expectancy in his eyes as he waited.
Aven sipped and it was heavenly. “Ohhhh, that’s good.” Tangy and sweet—the product of a year’s worth of work. As she had been on a ship bound for America, he had stood among his trees as the new spring buds unfolded into promise. And here she was by God’s grace. Able to share in it today.
He shaped several words to her.
Ida helped. “Said that Dorothe used to sit here with us and do this very thing.” She dropped a handful of cut cabbage into the bowl.
Aven’s heart warmed at the thought.
Thor took a hearty gulp, and Aven felt a sudden twinge at the memories of him with more potent brews in hand. With such a claim difficult to conquer, his temptation would surely linger. In fact, she was certain it did, and she respected him all the more because it was a daily choice he was making to overcome.
Cora took another drink. “Best yet, y’all. Best yet.”
Thor’s head dipped in thanks. Even Al and the lads looked proud. Peter drank his cider, peering at the juice in between each sip as if to make sense of how something could be so good.
Over the course of the morning, the next buckets were poured into jugs and sealed. Fay stood at a makeshift table that had been set up in the shade of the house. With a damp rag, she wiped each finished jug and Jorgan carried them two at a time to the cidery.
While Ida minded her pot of steaming cider and cabbage, Aven tidied up scraps of the leaves from the porch. She filled her apron with the trimmings and carried them all to the new chicken coop. One that was now inhabited thanks to Jorgan’s recent visit to a neighboring farm. Despite every effort not to limp, Aven’s steps felt far from graceful. After nudging the coop door ajar, she tossed in the offering. The chickens startled, then began pecking at the thin, green trimmings.
Haakon strode up behind her. “Ida’s askin’ for you.”
Sons of Blackbird Mountain Page 23