An Untamed Land

by Snelling, Lauraine

  “If’n you drive them home, by the time you get there, you and them’ll pretty well understand one another.” St. James pushed away from the table. “Let’s get ’em yoked. I got ta get back to the field.”

  “Ja.”

  Roald counted out the bills. All he had left were a few coins to jingle in his pocket. But that didn’t matter. He and Carl now owned both horses and oxen.

  A short time later, Roald walked down the lane behind his team, holding the lines snapped to the ring in each animal’s nose. One day they would be voice trained and he wouldn’t need reins.

  He carried two sets of hobbles and a renewed supply of food for his trip home.

  Two days later he walked into the empty Bjorklund camp. Where was everyone?

  What was all the hollering about?

  Kaaren looked up from stirring the stew set for dinner. She could see the old woman running from the woods and waving. She yelled something, stopped, beckoned Kaaren to come, and ran forward again.

  Kaaren listened carefully. Yes, it was the French word for help. What could be wrong? At the same moment, Ingeborg’s name flashed through her mind. Something had happened to Ingeborg. Oh, dear God, don’t let her die. Please, please, whatever is wrong, be with her and us.

  She started toward the woods at a run, but the old woman waved her back. Kaaren stopped. She listened for all she was worth, and suddenly she knew what to do. “I’ll get Carl. My man.” She shouted the French for man and spun around. Gathering her skirts up around her knees, she headed for the field.

  “Carl! Carl!” She waved her arms as she shouted.

  Carl lifted the plow from the furrow and clucked the horses toward home. Kaaren met him halfway.

  “Ingeborg is down at the river. Metis said to call you. Please hurry.”

  “You bring in the horses.” Carl handed her the reins. “If I’m not right back, unhitch them and drive to the river, in case we need them.”

  “Ja, I will. Hurry.”

  Carl headed for the river at a dead run.

  “Mor, what is the matter with Mor?” Thorliff started to slide off the back of Belle.

  “Stay there,” Kaaren ordered. She grasped the plow handles and clucked the team forward. All the while her please God, please help us silently pounded the doors of heaven.

  Carl ran as if his life depended on speed. Leaping logs and brush, he slipped and slid his way to the riverbank. He looked downriver but spun the other way when he heard a halloo to his right. Moving as quickly as he could through the trees and brush, he found Metis bending over a figure on the ground.

  “Ingeborg.” He dropped to his knees beside the unconscious woman. With one hand he reached to touch the woman’s head. A square of cloth seemed to have stopped the bleeding, but blood stained the ground under her.

  Metis continued to hold the material in place, at the same time motioning Carl to lift Ingeborg and carry her back to camp.

  A shudder racked Ingeborg’s body, but it wasn’t sufficient to force her to regain consciousness.

  If only I could understand the woman, Carl thought as he lifted Ingeborg in his arms. Does she know what happened here? How he wished he had brought the horses. Carrying Ingeborg’s dead weight through the trees and underbrush set his muscles straining, and he could hardly get his breath.

  Ingeborg’s body spasmed again.

  Carl leaned against a tree. Metis checked the head wound, now dripping blood down Carl’s arm. Warm water gushed from Ingeborg’s skirt and down his pant leg.

  He looked to Metis, who stood shaking her head. She muttered a few more words and shook her head again.

  “Go . . . Kaaren . . . horses.” Carl spoke slowly and distinctly, using the little English he knew.

  Metis nodded. She motioned him to keep the cloth on the wound and set off at a run.

  Kaaren unhitched the horses with shaking fingers. “You go watch Gunny, Thorliff. I have to hurry.” She hooked the traces up on the harnesses. “Here, tie Bob to the wagon wheel.” She handed Thorliff the halter shank.

  “But Mor is hurt. I want to see Mor.” Thorliff stood in place, the lead shank clutched in his hand.

  “You will see her later. Please, Thorly, do what I say right now.” Kaaren jerked on Belle’s rope. “Come on, girl, let’s go.” The mare rolled her eyes and jerked back on the rope. Please, God, help me. Kaaren took a deep breath to calm herself and clucked again. This time Belle followed her, trotting more quickly as the woman ran faster.

  She met Metis at the edge of the woods. Together they wound their way back to where Carl stood leaning against a tree somewhat closer to the camp.

  “Thank God you are here.” He closed his eyes, still fighting to get his breath. Ingeborg was a solidly built woman, of that he was certain after trying to carry her so far.

  “Oh, Ingeborg.” Kaaren laid a hand on her sister-in-law’s shoulder. “How should we do this?”

  “Metis, here, can give you a boost on the horse, and then we’ll hand Ingeborg up to you so you can hold her upright. With one of us on either side, we should make it back all right.”

  Working together as though they did this every day, they soon had Ingeborg on the horse, leaning against Kaaren, and were heading back to camp.

  “She’s slipping,” Kaaren cried halfway back.

  Carl reached up to hold them steady while Metis took the horse’s head. “She’s having some kind of fits.”

  “No, no.” Metis shook her head. “She having baby.”

  “Oh no!” Kaaren tightened her grip on her unconscious friend. “Oh, Carl, she’s losing the baby.”

  “Better that than her life.” Carl clucked Belle forward.

  By the time they had Ingeborg bedded down in the wagon, the contractions were coming more consistently. The wound on the back of her head continued to seep.

  “We sew head.” Metis pointed to the bandage.

  “I . . . ah . . .” Kaaren swallowed hard. She’d never stitched through skin before.

  “Now, while she sleep.” Metis paused. “Needle you have? Thread?”

  Kaaren nodded. “I’ll get them.”

  Once they clipped the matted hair away, sewing the lips of the skin together was no more difficult than stitching a quilt. Kaaren ripped up several strips of material, and after folding one several times, she tied the pad in place.

  “Carl, could you please bring us coffee?” She stuck her head out the back of the wagon to see Carl and Thorliff mending harnesses by the fire.

  “Ja, that I can do.”

  The two women sat on trunks and sipped the warming brew, keeping a close eye on Ingeborg at the same time. “How did you find her?” Kaaren asked.

  “Wolf come me get.”

  “Wolf?”

  “He my fran. Me pull him from trap, save foot, lose toe.” Metis set down the cup and placed a hand on Ingeborg’s contracting belly. “Baby come soon.”

  “Did Ingeborg see the wolf?”

  Metis shrugged. Along with a shake of her head, she added, “Wolf no hurt me fran.”

  “Maybe not, but Ingeborg is terrified of wolves. If she saw him . . .” Kaaren shook her head. Would they ever know what really happened?

  The baby was born as the blazing red sun sank in the west. Blood as red as the clouds continued to flow in spite of Metis’ best efforts to staunch it.

  “Must bury,” she said to Kaaren, pointing to the pan. “Bring hot water.”

  Kaaren stepped down from the wagon to do as she was bid. The tears stung her eyes and the smell of blood made her sick. She set the pan to the side and walked around the campfire, breathing deeply of the clean, pure air. God, here we are saying “please” again. Now that she has lost the baby, bring Ingeborg back to health. She is suffering much and will do so more. Father, help us out here in the wilds with no doctor or midwife. No, we do have a midwife. She thanked her heavenly Father for that and went to pick up the mattock. She would do this herself and pray over this tiny soul as if it had been born when the
time was right.

  When Carl started toward her, she waved him away. “You stay with Thorliff.”

  “God be thanked,” was all she could say sometime later when Metis announced that the bleeding had finally stopped.

  “I go home, get medicines. Come back.” Metis stood upright for the first time in hours. Her head didn’t even touch the oak ribs of the canvas.

  “You should eat first.”

  “No, eat later.” She stepped off the endgate and trotted across the field.

  Kaaren watched, the moon so bright it seemed like noonday.

  “Is she going to make it?” Carl brought her a plate of food and a cup of coffee.

  “I think so. At least the bleeding has stopped.” Kaaren leaned against Carl’s solid body. “How am I going to tell her?”

  “God will give you the right words.”

  “Where’s Thorliff?”

  “Asleep by Gunny. I fixed him a bed there.” Carl wrapped his arms around his wife’s waist. “Poor little fellow is scared as can be. You don’t think he remembers his mother dying, do you?”

  Kaaren shrugged. “I hope not.”

  Even with the herbs Metis used in both tea and poultices, Ingeborg slept on—through the next day, the next night, and through the following morning.

  “When will she wake?” Kaaren and Metis were sitting on the logs around the fire, drinking coffee and watching Carl, with Thorliff on the horse, plowing the field.

  Metis shrugged. “Better be soon, or . . .”

  Who are you? Ingeborg forced the whisper past the bar in her throat.

  The woman’s black eyes smiled along with her mouth, but the words that flowed from her like a spring freshet meant nothing to Ingeborg.

  Still, she felt comforted. There was something about the gentle smile. She looked above her to see the familiar canvas of their wagon, even to the patch above the middle hoop. What had happened? When she tried to turn her head to follow the movements of the stranger, a sharp pain shot from the back of her head, so all-encompassing she could only close her eyes and pray for it to pass.

  Those strange words came again fast, but soft and accompanied by an arm to lift her shoulders enough so she could drink from the cup held to her lips. The bitter taste and the motion of rising made her begin to retch; but a sharp “No!” helped her stop. “No” she understood.

  “You’re awake.” Kaaren leaned on the side of the wagon. They’d rolled the canvas up so a breeze could blow through.

  “Ja, have I been sleeping long?”

  “Three days.”

  “Nei.” One small shake of her head and Ingeborg immediately refrained from further movement. Why can’t I remember? “What happened?”

  “We do not know. Metis found you down by the river, bleeding from that gash on your head. You might have bled to death if she hadn’t helped you.”

  Ingeborg digested the words. Bled to death. One did not usually bleed to death from a knock on the head. She lay still, assessing her body. “My baby!” She knew by Kaaren’s silence. “I lost the baby, didn’t I?” The pain that throbbed in her head now ripped her heart in two.

  “There will be others. You are strong and will be healthy again soon.” Kaaren’s words stumbled into silence.

  Like a black cloud blanketing the land, the thought of having no baby sent Ingeborg spiraling downward into darkness.

  “Fishing—I had gone fishing.” With the words came the memory of the wolf she’d seen. She looked around the wagon as much as she could without moving her head. Dusk had fallen, and the light of the fire danced bright images on the canvas. How long did I sleep this time? Has Roald returned? Oh, my—Roald. He wants another son so badly. Tears drained from her eyes and into her ears. When a sob caught in her throat, she stifled it, afraid moving would bring on the searing pain again. When she held still, the throbbing was endurable. Why had she panicked like that? Wolves didn’t attack in the daylight. The animal hadn’t even moved—except for the lip. In spite of the tears, she could now remember the scene clearly.

  The wagon shook with the weight of someone climbing in. “You’re awake again?” Kaaren’s gentle voice only brought more tears. “It is good to cry them out.” She took Ingeborg’s hand and settled down beside the pallet. “I brought you more tea Metis made for you. She boiled barks and herbs and said it will help you get strong again.”

  “How do you know what she said?”

  “She speaks a dialect with some French words. Remember, I worked for a family that spoke French.”

  “Ja.” Ingeborg forced herself to concentrate on what Kaaren was saying. Anything to keep the dark thoughts of her terrible loss at bay. “When?”

  “When did I work there, or when did you get hurt?” Kaaren’s smile said she was teasing, but Ingeborg hadn’t the energy to smile back.

  “Hurt.”

  “Three days ago. Oh, Inge, I was so afraid you’d never wake up.” Kaaren laid her cheek on the back of Ingeborg’s hand. “I couldn’t have stood it here without you.”

  Ingeborg closed her eyes. No baby. Why, God? Is it so wrong to want a baby of my own? The silence deepened like the darkness falling outside. “Where are Carl and Thorliff?”

  “Just coming in from the field. Carl’s been using every moment of light to break the sod.”

  “And Gunny?”

  “Asleep in the hammock under the wagon. Metis showed me how to fashion it so the baby is off the ground. Gunny loves it. When she wiggles—and you know how she loves to wiggle—her bed swings.”

  “This Metis seems to be a fountain of information.”

  “She is. We can learn much from her. She knows how to live on this land and survive.”

  The jingle of harness and Carl’s “halloo” caught their attention at the same moment.

  “We’re in the wagon,” Kaaren called as she laid Ingeborg’s hand back down and, with a pat, rose to her feet. “I’ll bring you some stew as soon as I finish serving our men.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Yes, you are, at least for the broth. You are going to get well again, and the sooner the better. Metis says the headache will go away, but it will take some time.”

  “Why do I have such a headache?”

  “Even us hardheaded Norwegians can’t slam our heads against a log and not expect a headache. Now, would you like to see Thorliff? He’s been so anxious.”

  Against her real wishes, Ingeborg agreed. She’d much rather lie in the dark and let the blessed relief of sleep lull away the pain. She heard Gunny begin to whimper in her sling under the wagon, and listened as Carl and Thorliff unharnessed the horses and brushed them down close to the wagon, allowing her to catch the whiff of sweaty horses. Thorliff kept up his usual stream of questions, which Carl answered patiently. Did the boy never run down?

  Ingeborg laid her hand over her belly. It had been too soon to feel life there. She’d never felt the babe leap and kick. She touched her breasts. There would be no milk, no searching mouth to suckle. Dear God, have you forgotten me? Did I do something wrong that you have taken my baby home before he even had breath? They say it was an accident, but your Word says you know all that happens. How can I say this is your will? Is this one of those times of discipline? How am I to understand?

  “Mor?” Thorliff spoke from the end of the wagon, his voice hesitant, as if afraid to call out to her.

  “Ja, den lille, you may come sit beside me and tell me all that has happened while I slept.” Ingeborg turned her head, and this time the pain didn’t flame into an anvil or piercing sword. She watched him scramble over the open endgate and around the cooking boxes. On all fours he crept to her side and peered into her face.

  “You sleeped and sleeped,” he said reproachfully. “You wouldn’t wake up.”

  “I know, but I’m better now.” She patted the quilts folded beneath her. “So you helped Onkel Carl in the field?”

  “I rode Belle, then I rode Bob, and then I slept in the grass. Far still isn’t here.
When will he come home?” Thorliff chattered on, and Ingeborg forced herself to make the proper responses. At least with his presence the shadows lurked farther away, more toward the horizon instead of behind her head or right shoulder.

  Carl stuck his head in. “Glad to see you’re back to join us. You gave us a bad scare.” He tweaked one of Thorliff’s curly blond locks. “Come on, farmer, let’s eat.”

  “Mor, you coming?” Thorliff halted in his haste toward the end of the wagon. “I’ll help you get up.”

  “Nei, you go eat. It sounds like you’ve earned a good supper.” The wagon shook from the child’s leap to the ground, causing a minor earthquake in her head. She closed her eyes against the pain. If the vile-tasting concoction that woman gave her stopped the throbbing, she’d gladly drink more. Where had the woman gone, anyway, and what did Kaaren call her—Metis? Wasn’t that the name of the old Indian woman?

  After the camp settled down for the night, Ingeborg lay on her pallet, waiting and praying for sleep. The draught Kaaren helped her drink hadn’t brought the blessed relief it had before. Was something wrong with it too? Gunny whimpered but settled down again after a few minutes without needing to feed. Carl snored in whiffles. An owl hooted. Ingeborg turned on her side, pillowing her head on her arm. Her back ached, probably from slamming against the log, if not from lying in one position for so long. She reached up and carefully felt the tender place at the base of her skull. The swelling had disappeared, and the small cut scabbed over, so that wasn’t the bleeding problem. Losing the baby had been. To think she’d been unconscious through something so terribly sad. She’d even looked forward to the pain of childbirth, because then she would hold a child of her own in her arms. The tears came again, softer this time, more like the gentle rains of spring than the torrents of summer. Finally, Ingeborg slept.

  The next morning Kaaren helped her sit up, propping a flour sack filled with dried prairie grass behind her. One stalk poked her in the back until Kaaren beat it into submission. While the moving made her head pound again, she felt grateful for the change in position. Thorliff was off helping Carl in the field again, and Gunny gurgled and cooed on the quilt beside her.