An Untamed Land

by Snelling, Lauraine

  “Velbekommen,” Ingeborg responded. He had appreciated the meal and said so. It seemed like forever since she’d heard those words. She watched him go to the horses, calling their names as he approached. Belle raised her head and nickered, then pricked her ears and looked up the river. All three turned to look where the horse did, just in time to see Carl step out of the woods. He raised one hand that clutched two geese by the necks in salute, while his other hand helped balance the deer carcass he had slung over his shoulders.

  Thorliff darted out across the prairie to meet his uncle. “You shot a deer and gooses. Let me help.” But when Carl laughed and handed the little boy one of the geese, Thorliff dragged it on the ground. “It’s heavy.”

  “They’re beauties, they are. Here, you take this instead.” Carl pulled a rabbit carcass from his coat pocket and gave that to Thorliff instead. “Now we can have rabbit stew for supper. What do you think of that?”

  Thorliff stroked the soft fur and proudly carried the still-warm body over to the fire. “Here, Mor, feel. You could make mittens for me and Gunny from this, couldn’t you?”

  Ingeborg smiled at him as she took the rabbit by the hind legs. “Ja, we could. If we can find time to tan the hide.” She looked at the deer with admiration. “Now you won’t have to hunt for a long time. And I only heard three shots.”

  “I set a snare for the rabbit. There are trails all over the prairie. Soon I’ll have to teach Thorliff how to trap and snare. He can keep us supplied in meat that way.” Having laid the deer on the ground, Carl straightened up and stretched his shoulders. “That got heavy. Guess I’ll hang it from the wagon hoops to dress it out.” He turned to Roald. “How’s the sod busting going?”

  “Slower than I’d like, but the horses can’t go any faster.”

  “You want me to work the plow for a while, and you dress this deer out?”

  Roald flexed his hands. “If you’d like.” He picked up the harness again and headed for the horses. “You eat while I get them ready.”

  Kaaren bustled about to fill Carl a plate while he washed his hands at the basin. “You made every shell count. Such variety: rabbit, goose, and venison. We’ll be busy now.”

  Ingeborg looked longingly at the garden spot she wanted to work over with the mattock. Just the night before, Roald had finished carving a handle for the heavy, broad-headed tool, shaped something like a two-headed hoe. When she had asked Roald if they should leave the garden place for the old woman in case it was hers, he’d shaken his head as though she were losing her mind. It was Bjorklund land now. Ingeborg stifled the fear of reprisals. Roald’s word was law. She straightened her back. The garden would have to wait, since they couldn’t let any of the meat go to waste. “Come, Thorliff, you can help me pick the geese. Soon there will be a feather bed for you to sleep on.”

  Roald swiftly skinned out the deer, being careful not to slit the hide in the process. Carl had bled and gutted the animal where it fell, keeping the heart and liver for them to eat. With the hide pulled free, Roald stood back to look at the carcass. “He wintered well, even has some fat left. If only we had a tree here to hang it from.” He glanced to the woods. “Maybe we should move camp closer to the trees.”

  Ingeborg and Kaaren swapped an “oh no” look. Not after all the time they’d spent digging the cooking pits! Ingeborg went back to stripping the feathers and stuffing them in a cloth bag that already held those of the duck. A goose feather caught on the air and floated up to her nose. She sneezed, making Thorliff laugh.

  “Feathers all over!” He blew at one that escaped his hands, sending the bit of down across to Ingeborg, who blew it back. The boy clapped his hands, floating more tiny feathers.

  By the time they finished, they both looked as though they’d bathed in goose down. Ingeborg picked several feathers out of Thorliff’s hair. “You have been a big help, son. See how full our bag is?” She held up the puffy sack. “Now we need more firewood to dry all this meat. Think you can find some?”

  The laughter left Thorliff’s face as he glanced over his shoulder to the trees. His look pleaded for her to help him, but he took a deep breath and nodded.

  “You must stay where we can see you, so only pick up branches along the edge.” At that his face brightened again.

  “I can get plenty of wood.” His voice sounded like a younger version of his father’s. “I can drag big branches back.”

  Ingeborg tickled his nose with a feather she plucked from his shoulder. “I know you can.” Such a brave little boy, she thought. What a miniature of his father. Would that the elder could see it. She sent a plea upward, along with a heartfelt sigh.

  While he marched off, she cleaned the geese and hung them alongside the deer on the wagon box. “That would make a good deer robe even though he was already shedding.” She turned back the hide that Roald had rolled with the hair side in. “I have never tanned one myself, have you?”

  “Ja, though we sold most of the pelts we trapped as young men.” Roald looked up at the sound of a bird call. “You know, deer aren’t so plentiful in Norway anymore. But when we killed a steer, we tanned the hide and used it for making harnesses and shoes. My father was an expert at making boots and shoes. One day I will have to make a last to form the boots over.”

  “Is there nothing your father could not do?”

  Roald appeared to think for a moment. “I don’t believe so.” He began cutting thin strips of meat off the haunch to hang over the spit to dry. “Best you bury those entrails so we don’t draw coyotes.”

  Or wolves. Ingeborg tried to stop the thought and the accompanying shudder. She picked up the mattock and the goose residue and headed for the garden plot, where she ran into Thorliff. He was dragging a branch behind him and carried sticks in the crook of his arm.

  “That is good, son. Why don’t you go help with Gunny when you are finished. I think she needs a nap.” Thorliff just nodded, making Ingeborg aware how exhausted he was. When Thorliff was too tired to ask questions, he was really tired. But he still protested the thought of a nap. Naps were for babies, not for big boys. However, watching Gunny was becoming one of his assigned chores. If he fell asleep too, so much the better. She watched him trudge back toward the fire pit before she set off to bury the entrails. They would make good fertilizer for her garden.

  But by the time she’d swung the heavy mattock over her head, slammed it into the soil, and then drawn it back to loosen the soil a few dozen times, she could feel the familiar ache in her back, compounded by the weariness in her arms and shoulders. Would that there was time to plow this patch, but the horses were needed more in the field. If only she knew which of the sprouting plants were safe to add to their diet. Surely that was a dandelion at her feet. She fingered the green, serrated leaves, always recognized at home as the first taste of spring. Pinching off one leaf, she rubbed it between thumb and forefinger and sniffed.

  “Dandelion—I’d know that smell anywhere.” She bent again to pick the leaves and searched out others. When her apron was full, she returned to camp feeling as though she’d been gardening after all.

  Kaaren was setting the bread to bake when Ingeborg returned to camp. Fat dripped from the drying meat and sizzled on the coals below. The rising smoke would help the meat-drying process.

  “Oh, look what you found.” Kaaren picked out a small, tender leaf and bit the tip off. “Now we’ll recover from the winter quickly. Mother always said dandelion was the best physic around. She picked the first of the greens herself and cooked them with bacon. What I wouldn’t give for a side of bacon or ham. Maybe by next year we’ll have a smokehouse.”

  “Use the strips of dried venison to flavor these. I keep wondering what roots around here are edible, what seeds, which trees and bushes will have berries and fruit to eat.” Ingeborg dumped the dandelion leaves on a cloth at the back of the wagon and leaned the mattock against a wheel. Then, kneading her lower back with both fists, she turned to watch where Roald had joined Carl at the ever widen
ing square of broken sod. To think they couldn’t plant the black earth as they would an ordinary plowed furrow. The laid-over sod would now rest and rot, to be backset again in the fall. With plowing and dragging the following spring, the ground would finally be ready for planting. No wonder so many homesteaders fail to prove up their claims, she thought. There is far too much time before they can reap a harvest.

  She turned toward the river and studied the piece of already broken land. Roald said it was about an acre and a half in size. He planned to plant it to wheat and oats—wheat flour for them and oats for the livestock. The plot looked too small to do all that it needed to, especially since some of it would be in corn and potatoes. She let her gaze sweep the land. If what they said about the prairie grass growing waist high was true, they wouldn’t have a shortage of hay; that was for certain.

  “Ja, if those two men have their way, we will see many changes here by next year. I, for one, look forward to a roof over our heads.” Ingeborg nodded toward the western horizon. “I have a feeling those clouds are carrying a bellyful of rain, and it will be here before supper. We’d better put everything under cover, especially the wood. I’m going for more.”

  The rain held off until the geese were roasting on the spit, and the rabbit stew was bubbling on the coals. When it began to sprinkle, Roald and Carl hurried to unharness the horses after they’d left sod busting for the day. They hobbled them and dashed for the wagon when the downpour hit.

  Kaaren poured coffee, and everyone sat in the wagon sipping the hot liquid and listening to the rain drumming on the canvas.

  “We have to get those plow handles sanded down,” Carl said loud enough to be heard above the rain. He grimaced when he studied the palms of his hands. “That Mainwright certainly knew nothing about caring for his belongings.”

  “Let me see.” Kaaren took his hand in hers. “My goodness, your hands look like ground beef. Roald, how are yours?”

  Ingeborg groaned when her husband turned his hands palm up. Blisters, open sores, and crusted blood mingled with the dirt of the field.

  You need to turn that deerskin into gloves as soon as you can.” Carl studied his sore hands. “Tomorrow I’m wrapping those handles with leather.”

  “In the meantime, you get those hands scrubbed and let me bandage them. You’ll get infection if you’re not careful. Both of you.” Kaaren’s hands were planted on her hips, and the set of her eyebrows warned everyone that she wasn’t backing down.

  Carl looked at Roald and shrugged. “You know how she is when she gets her dander up.”

  “Can we wait until it’s done raining?” Roald raised his hands in a plea. Thunder rolled overhead, and in a few seconds, lightning flashed to the east. “The storm’s passing.” He looked over at the smoldering fire. Steam rose in billows from the raindrops drowning the blaze. The strips of venison hung dripping in the steam clouds. “When it rains here, it could put out a burning barn, let alone a cooking fire.”

  The crescendo on the canvas reduced to a patter, then to intermittent drops. Ingeborg sat on the end of one of the trunks, lost in the celestial show. “Oh, look, a rainbow!” She pointed to the full arc that stretched clear across the sky. Do you suppose God is giving us a sign too? He’ll not flood us out and will always remember His promises? She rested her chin in her hands. God, help us to keep our promises, just as you do.

  Thorliff leaned against her, his head on her shoulder. “The thunder woke me up.”

  Ingeborg put her arm around him. “Were you frightened?” He shook his head. “Good, because thunder never hurts anyone. But we must be careful of the lightning out here on the open prairie. There are no trees like in Norway to attract the lightning strike. Remember that lightning always strikes the highest point.”

  “You must lie down on the ground if you are caught out in a thunder and lightning storm,” Roald said, joining in the conversation. “Never stand up and run.”

  “But I run fast.” Thorliff caught his father’s stern look. “Yes, Far.”

  “That is a good boy.” Ingeborg patted his bottom. “You can help me with the fires while Far and Onkel Carl scrub their hands.” She swung off the endgate and turned to give him a hand so he could jump without slipping. “Good thing we brought in so much wood. You go under the wagon and pull out some small sticks for me.”

  Thorliff ducked low and handed her the small branches broken in short pieces. After finding some hot coals in one of the pits, they stirred them, blew on them, and added small bits of wood. Within moments, a wisp of smoke trailed upward, followed by a bright orange flame licking the bark and sticks.

  “Now, how will I start the other fire?” Thorliff asked.

  “Take one of the burning sticks and put it over there.”

  “There?” Thorliff pointed to the pit under the dripping meat. Ingeborg nodded. “I can build the wood just right.” At Ingeborg’s nod, he retrieved more kindling from under the wagon and, after pushing the soaked firewood to the sides, laid several sticks, then inserted the tip of the burning branch.

  Ingeborg nodded each time he looked up at her. “You are doing a fine job. Soon we’ll put you in charge of the fires.”

  Thorliff drew a long branch from the burning fire and squatted beside the other. He poked the burning tip into the sticks and watched the flame catch. Doing just as his mother had, he added ever larger sticks until the fire burned brightly, the pitch snapping and crackling in the rising flames. Arms crossed over his knees, he stared into the fire, careful not to sit on the ground and soak his britches.

  “You did well.” Carl sat on the log behind the squatting child.

  Thorliff threw a smile over his shoulder and continued his study of the flames until the fire grew too hot. He retreated to the log where Kaaren had set up her bandages. After wrapping the men’s hands, she lifted the lid of the iron spider; the aroma rising from the rabbit stew mingled with the clean fragrance of newly washed air and land.

  Ingeborg saw the look Thorliff sent his father. Why can Roald never tell the boy he’s done well? It would take so little. But Roald’s gaze appeared locked to the strip of cloth wrapped and tied around his hand.

  “Uff da, the bread wasn’t baked enough before the fire went out.” Kaaren turned the fallen loaf out of the lidded iron pot and onto the wagon endgate. Using the hem of her apron as a pot holder, she broke the round loaf into pieces. “We’ll just have to eat fallen bread tonight. Sorry, Inge. I know you were so pleased to bake real bread.”

  “That is the least of our worries.” Ingeborg stepped back from turning the cooking geese when the smoke blew in her eyes. “We would do well to dig a long trench and make racks for drying the meat. Like the ones we had at home”—she corrected herself—“back in Norway, for drying the fish.” She wiped the tears and sniffed. “But right now, we all need to eat.”

  “We’ll take the deer and hang it from a tree branch first. We don’t need visitors tonight.” Roald rummaged in the wagon until he found the rope they’d brought. “One of these days I’ll have pulleys carved, but a tree branch will do for now.”

  “Can I help?” Thorliff leaped eagerly to his feet.

  “No, you stay here. Come on, Carl.” Roald hoisted the deer hide and head, the rope, and the ax. “You take the deer.”

  Carl shot Ingeborg an apologetic smile and followed his brother into the deepening dusk.

  Ingeborg kept the frown she felt from showing on her face. It would take so little. She reminded herself that Roald had let the boy ride on the workhorses.

  By the time the men returned from their task, dusk had long since deepened into night.

  “When you are ready to cut off more strips of venison, Carl or I will lower it for you.” Roald took the plate Ingeborg had prepared for him and sat down on what had become his favorite spot on the log.

  Tired from the long day and hard work, they ate supper in silence and then went to bed.

  During the night, Roald moaned in his sleep every time he rolled ove
r on the hard wagon surface. Ingeborg lay and stared at the canvas above. Her shoulders and back ached as though she’d been beaten with the handle of the mattock rather than turning the ground with the heavy tool. And when Roald groaned, she knew he must be in pain, whether he would admit it or not. Toward the front of the wagon, Carl snored. The baby whimpered, and Kaaren settled her for nursing. All were sounds she’d heard many times before—and knew she would for months to come. She turned on her side and pillowed her head on her bent arm. Now she could see the bright stars out the back of the wagon.

  She rose for the second time and added wood to the fires to keep the meat drying. No sense in waking anyone else when she couldn’t sleep anyway. She shivered in the predawn cold. While spring was blossoming during the day, night seemed to want to stay in winter. She had the coffee hot and ready when the others climbed from their beds.

  “Mange takk,” Carl said, accepting the steaming cup. “Did you not sleep at all?”

  “Ja, but”—she carefully schooled her face—“all of you were sleeping so peacefully that I decided to take care of the meat myself. It was nothing.”

  “It was more than nothing to me. I needed the sleep, in spite of the hard bed.” Carl stretched his arms over his head and rotated his body, trying to stretch out the kinks. “We worked so long on the railroad and then on the trip coming up here, I thought all my muscles were strong enough. But bucking that plow uses different ones, all right.”

  “How are your hands?” Kaaren propped the baby on one hip and inspected the wrapped hands of both men. “You said you’d wrap the handles with leather for now?” At their nods, she glanced at Ingeborg. “How long will it take to tan the deer hide? That’s not something I’ve ever done, but I can make gloves when the hide is tanned.”

  “It depends on how much time we can find to work it.” Ingeborg stretched her shoulders up and down. The mattock had done for her what the plow had done to the men. “Breakfast will be ready by the time you harness the horses.”