“Aim just in front of the deer, for they will bound forward at the noise. Head shots are the best because you damage less meat, but a chest shot is easier in the beginning.”
Ingeborg nodded.
“Take your time. Most people get too excited and miss the shot.”
Ingeborg propped the rifle on the log exactly as he had shown her.
Quiet settled around them, but for the whine of the mosquitoes. When the forest noises started up around them again, Ingeborg felt a sense of peace, of time standing still like the hush before dawn. Two squirrels chattered above in the larger of the oak trees. Sparrows flitted in the brush around them, chirping their news and finding seeds and bugs.
Three deer appeared in the edge of her vision, a doe with her young and a four-prong buck. They tripped noiselessly down the trail, their big ears tracking for any unusual noises.
Ingeborg raised the rifle to her shoulder without a sound, each motion slow and deliberate. She sighted down the long barrel until the buck’s head lined up in the two Vs. She tracked just ahead of him. He stopped and looked around.
She took a deep breath, let it all out, and squeezed the trigger.
The buck leaped in the air and dropped to the ground.
“What a shot!” Carl jumped to his feet and over the log, drawing his knife as he went.
Ingeborg used the rifle as a prop and got to her feet, shaking as though she had the palsy. She had killed a deer—on her first shot. Joy made her want to leap. Her eyes filled with tears. The buck had walked so proud and beautiful and free.
She forced herself to walk over to the fallen animal where Carl waited for her.
“You want to slit the throat as soon as possible so the animal can bleed.” He looked up for her nod. “I know you know these things, but it never hurts to have a reminder. Where’s your rifle?” When she pointed to the log, he shook his head. “Always bring it with you in case you only stunned him. He could get up and kill you or seriously injure you. Those horns are wicked.”
The pride she felt vanished like smoke caught on the wind. She should have known better than this.
Taking his knife, she knelt beside the fallen animal. They would have food and another hide to tan for either a cover or clothing. She should be grateful. She cut the jugular with one swipe and turned away to get the gun.
By the time they had the deer gutted and were heading back to the homestead, darkness hid the ruts, and vines and branches slapped her in the face. Why was she so weary? It was as if her strength had drained out with the blood of the deer. While Carl could sling the deer over his shoulder, how would she drag a carcass back to camp? Did she really want to become the hunter for the family?
The awe on Thorliff’s face made her smile again.
“I only heard one shot.” Kaaren looked at her, her mouth half open.
“Ingeborg only needed one shot.” Carl tied the back legs to the tripod they had fashioned for dressing game. He looked toward his brother, who was drinking coffee by the fire and hadn’t yet said a word. “She didn’t waste any shells, you know.” He waited a moment for an answer that didn’t come, then set about skinning the deer.
After finishing his supper, Roald returned to the forge where he had spent many evenings pounding out plowshares. But that night when they had collapsed into their bed, he rolled over and put his arm around Ingeborg. “That was good,” he whispered in her ear, his breath tickling the hair around it.
Ingeborg felt as though he’d given her the moon and stars. “Mange takk.”
The days ran into weeks, with the Bjorklunds hurrying to prepare for winter. Ingeborg went out hunting nearly every day, and Thorliff’s snares kept the stewpot bubbling with rabbit. He stretched out the rabbit skins so he could tan them, imitating the continuing work of Kaaren and Ingeborg with the deer hides. All the animals fattened on the rich prairie grass, even after the late frost.
The day Joseph Baard rode over and asked if they could raise his soddy the following day gave them all a sense of relief. “I got the beam cut and all. Ivar and Margaret Weirholtz from just north of me are coming too. We should have a regular party together.”
“Ja, that is good. You want we should bring the sod cutter and both teams?” Roald tipped his hat back. A line marked his brow like all the others, separating the tanned skin from the white.
Ingeborg left off slicing strips of venison from the haunch. “I’d better get more bread made, then. Kaaren, there should be enough fat on that buck to make piecrust. I remember Mr. Baard here is partial to your plum pie.”
“Don’t want you to go to no trouble, now.” Joseph nodded his thanks when she refilled his coffee cup. “Agnes has been cooking the last two days, too.”
As he rode off, Ingeborg and Kaaren couldn’t stop smiling even if they had wanted to. Other women to talk with, and a new neighbor to meet. Such excitement.
The day of the soddy raising became the high point of the fall. While everyone worked hard, laughter made the load lighter, good food and plenty of it refueled their energy, and when the sun sank, Ivar Weirholtz brought out his fiddle.
Ingeborg hadn’t danced since the previous fall when the neighbors at home got together to celebrate a good harvest and listen to tales of the new land from one who had returned. Then the group had been larger, but the spirit here felt the same.
They danced the hambo, the masurka, the reinlender, and pols. All ages together, they shuffled, spun, skipped, and clapped, some with partners, more often without. The children paired with adults and with each other. Everyone danced, even Gunny in the arms of her father.
“We have to start them young,” Kaaren teased back when Joseph made a remark. “We do not have that many times to play here on the prairie.”
“There will be more when we have a school to meet in and a church to worship in,” Roald promised. “The southwest corner of Bjorklund land is waiting for the buildings.”
Ingeborg sent him a special smile. Here was another of those surprises he enjoyed springing on her. He was determined to build a community here for his family and others. So easy it was to forget the dreams when they lived in the present moments of backbreaking toil.
When Roald took her in his arms for the vals, Ingeborg looked up at his strong face, moisture glistening in the firelight. Would he mind if she said “I love you”? She kept the words in her heart but returned the steady pressure on her hand and sent him the message with her eyes.
After they returned home that night and finished the evening chores, it was a long time before they fell asleep.
Several weeks later, Ingeborg realized she was late with her monthly. She hugged the secret to herself, unwilling to mention it in case she was wrong. When she started throwing up in the morning, Kaaren guessed immediately.
“Have you told Roald yet?” she asked one morning when Ingeborg returned from her retching bout behind the soddy. Ingeborg shook her head. “You’d better soon, or your pale face will give you away.”
“I want to be certain.”
Kaaren raised an eyebrow.
“I know, but what if I. . . ?”
Kaaren raised a hand, shaking her head at the same time. “That was not your fault, Inge. Accidents happen.”
But in spite of the joy that swelled her heart that a baby was on its way, Ingeborg couldn’t shake the gnawing fear that clenched her stomach.
After she told Roald, he only said, “When?”
“In June,” she replied, but she could tell by the light in his eyes he was pleased.
“June is a good month for babies.” He nodded once more and raised a warm, calloused hand to touch her cheek. “A very good month.”
When the temperatures dropped to freezing several nights in a row, the men took time off from the field work and hauled stones from the river to build the fireplace. Rock by rock, the soddy grew darker. They fashioned a mantel above the firebox and continued up to the eaves with the chimney sprouting above. After the mud and rocks had time to dry, Ca
rl laid a fire and brought in a stick from the campfire to light the wood.
Would it draw? They all stood in the soddy, watching the flames lick the kindling. The smoke drifted straight up.
“That is good.” Roald let out a held breath, as did the others.
Thorliff hunkered down in front of the raised hearth and stared at the flames. He looked back around the room. “This fire is friendly. See, it makes colored pictures on the walls.”
Ingeborg followed his pointing finger. It did indeed. Maybe dark walls were good for something, reflecting dancing red-and-gold flames.
The day they set the door, though, Ingeborg felt as if she’d been sent to prison. The soddy walls seemed to close around her, stealing the light and air she needed to live. She took the gun and headed for the woods. They’d dried the last of the venison; it was time for another deer.
She’d about reached the woods when a familiar figure stepped from the trees.
“Metis! How are you?” Ingeborg felt as though the sun had just come out after a long rain.
The old woman nodded, her face wreathed in a smile to match Ingeborg’s. “You well?”
“Ja. Welcome home.” Out of the corner of her eye, Ingeborg saw a gray shadow disappear back into the woods. Wolf was back too. But this time, she ignored the twinge of fear. Wolf would never hurt a friend of Metis. The old woman had assured her younger friend of that before she left on her trek last summer.
“You want to go hunting with me?”
“Your man let you shoot?”
“Ja, but Carl taught me to hunt,” Ingeborg said, holding up the new rifle she carried.
“Ah.” Metis held out the dead rabbit she gripped by the ears. “This yours.” She nodded over her shoulder. “In snare.”
“Thorliff has been so busy helping set the door, he hasn’t checked his lines yet. Can you use it?”
A nod.
“Then, you take it. Thorliff has been keeping us well supplied.” A chill wind tugged at Ingeborg’s coat. “I’d better get going. I am glad you are back.”
“Yes. Good to be home.”
What will she do for a home? Ingeborg thought as she strode south along the tree line. Last year Metis had lived in a cave in the riverbank. Would she want to build something more permanent again? Would Roald let her?
She returned to the soddy empty-handed and chilled clear through. “I saw some large hoof marks on one of the trails farther south,” she told Carl when he sat down for supper.
“Elk. We sure could use a couple of elk hides for the winter. I’ve heard that with the hair left on they are almost as warm as buffalo robes.”
“Perhaps you could hunt for elk while I take the team and drive into St. Andrew for supplies,” Roald interjected. “We could have snow any day from the look of the sky tonight. I think we have put this trip off as long as we dare.”
“Good.” Carl turned to Kaaren. “You make up a list of what we need and make sure you include coffee.” He winked at her. They’d been out for over three weeks. Roasted and ground wheat just didn’t take the place of coffee.
Both men left in the morning after doing the chores, which included bringing in an extra load of wood. The fireplace devoured wood like the steam engine of a train.
Ingeborg stood at the side of the campfire and watched them go. The sky had lightened just enough for her to see the man high on the wagon seat off to the north. She laid another round of venison strips over the drying fire and started to rub the ashes and brains into the hides. While not her favorite chores, she’d rather do anything outside than be cooped up in the soddy. The thought of a long winter within its dark walls seemed beyond her capabilities.
She shivered in the wind. A snowflake landed on her nose. If only she could call the men back.
By midafternoon, Ingeborg could no longer distinguish the skyline.
“Roald will most surely stay in St. Andrew,” Kaaren said over the whimper of a fretful Gunny. They kept taking turns walking with her or rocking the hammock tied between the bedpost and the side of the rocker. The baby rubbed her ear and upped the pitch of her crying.
“Ja, I am sure he will.” Ingeborg stopped at the window. If Carl were lost out hunting, how could they let him know where home was? If only she had a gun to shoot every so often to guide him. One of the bells that the lead cow in the herds of home wore would work also.
She looked around the kitchen. What could she use? The cast-iron spider sat on its three legs in the coals in the front of the fireplace. “What do you have cooking in the spider?”
“Bread, why?”
“Will it be done soon?”
“Ja, I could probably take the lid off now. Inge, what are you planning?”
“We have to make a bell to guide Carl home if the snow turns into a blizzard. You can’t see the barn from the door right now.”
When she picked up the lid, yeasty perfume filled the room. Eyes closed, she inhaled the fragrance for a moment. The round loaf already wore the tanned crust of nearly done bread.
“Good.” She tied a dish towel through the handle on top of the lid so the metal circle hung suspended. What to beat it with? It had to be iron to ring true.
“Where are you going?” Kaaren asked as Ingeborg grabbed her wool coat off the peg by the door.
“To the forge. I will go ahead and milk now before this gets worse. Thorliff, you come help feed the other animals.”
Thorliff looked up from the book he was reading in the lamplight. “Now?”
“Hurry, son.” She tossed him his coat and knit hat. Taking a spill from the mantel, she lit it in the fire and held it to the lantern wick. The flame flickered and then flared into the cheerful golden glow that would light both their way and the barn.
The sod barn huddled into the ground, as if hiding from the onslaught of the driving snow. The outline was barely visible until they had walked about ten feet from the house. Snow drifted about their ankles and settled on their eyelashes. The wind tugged at their scarves and made their noses run.
Once inside, Ingeborg breathed in the warmth, the quiet, and the rich mixture of odors. To her, the barn smelled almost as good as the baking bread. Boss turned her head and mooed softly. The chickens clucked from the spots they’d found to roost upon, and one of the sheep bleated. The oxen were outside in the corral Carl had finished just two days before.
“It is good in here, isn’t it?” Thorliff said in the dimness.
The barn had been built with openings under the rafters to allow air circulation and light, but the storm had blown out the light. Ingeborg turned to hang the lantern on a hook from the rafter. Along one wall, Roald had a box with pieces of iron. She took out a solid bar about twelve inches long and, with the dish towel in one hand and the bar in the other, stepped back outside. She walked about three feet beyond the end of the barn and held the lid out from her body. Beating three times on the metal, she waited between each for the ringing to stop.
“Why are you doing that?” Thorliff stood by her side.
“To let Onkel Carl know where home is, in case he is lost in the snow. If we had the rifle, we would shoot it three times like this.”
“And waste the shells?”
He is his father’s son, she reminded herself. But, Thorliff, never put things before people. People are always more important than things. She listened for a shout or a shot. Nothing. “Is not your Onkel Carl of more value than a few rifle shells?”
“Mor! I did not say that.” The child stood with his hands planted on his hips and a look of utter shock on his face.
Ingeborg rang the pot lid again. Three times it bonged. “You go feed the animals, and then you can ring this while I milk the cow.”
“I will,” Thorliff said, then scurried off.
Ingeborg followed the wall of the barn to the lee side so she would be protected from the wind. Like a foghorn, she banged the lid every few minutes.
“I am finished.” Thorliff returned in a while and took the lid. He h
eld it up and pounded it manfully.
Ingeborg left after reminding him to stay close to the barn. As warm milk streamed into the bucket, she could hear the ringing. “Please, God,” she murmured, her forehead pressed into the cow’s warm flank. “Please bring them back home safely.” After checking to make sure all the stock had hay and water, she took down the lantern and started for the door.
The door burst open and Thorliff tumbled inside. “I heard him, Mor. I heard Onkel Carl.”
“Keep ringing, then, so he can follow the sound.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you” rang with the improvised bell.
“That is enough, boy. You want we should all go deaf?” Carl loomed out of the snow, looking more like he’d rolled in it than walked through it.
Thorliff threw himself at his uncle, the lid and bar tossed to the ground.
Once in the house, Carl stood as close to the fire as he could, a cup of hot wheat drink in his still-mittened hands. “Thank God for your quick action, Inge. I went right by our place. Next stop would have been St. Andrew or the Little Salt River, I’m afraid. That is, saying I would have made it that far.”
Kaaren bustled about, serving him a plate of hot venison and vegetables. Every once in a while she dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her apron.
He sopped his bread in the juice and rolled his eyes in appreciation. “I thank my God for this hot food, I tell you. When I prayed for help, He sent an angel with a spider lid. All the bells of heaven will sound no sweeter than that ringing.”
“Should we keep ringing for Far?” Thorliff started to button his coat again.
“No, no need. He will stay in St. Andrew. He and I, we have a pact. If the snow starts to fall, stay where you are.”
Unless he was already on his way home. Ingeborg smothered the thought. Roald had stayed in St. Andrew; he wouldn’t have had time to get there and do the buying of all their supplies in so short a time.
An Untamed Land Page 27