Thorliff studied her face, his eyes serious, and his mouth pursed. “Gunny is sick too?”
“Ja . . . no.” Tears welled in spite of her attempt to hold them back. “Oh, Thorliff.” She reached out to take his hand in hers. “Gunny has gone to heaven to be with God. Baby Lizzie, too.”
“She died like the baby chickens?”
Ingeborg nodded. She had no words to say.
Thorliff sighed, his lower lip quivering. “I want Gunny to come back.”
“Me too. Oh, Thorliff, so do I. Poor Tante Kaaren and Onkel Carl. They are too sick to even know it yet.”
“Will they die, too?” A tear overflowed, and others quickly followed, coursing down his cheeks. He brushed them away with the back of his sleeve.
“Pray God they won’t. We must keep praying for them.”
But when Roald returned in the morning, the slump of his shoulders and the devastation in his eyes told her what she’d feared.
“Kaaren?” He shook his head. Unable to say the precious name, she asked instead, “Do you think she will pull through?”
“I don’t know. Oh, Ingeborg. My brother is gone, and I could do nothing to save him.” Roald slumped in his chair, head in his hands.
“I will go there now.”
He shook his head again. “I will bundle Kaaren up and bring her back on the toboggan. Then we will leave the others and let the house freeze up. I have no lumber to build boxes for them.” Dry-eyed, he looked up at her. “I should never have brought him to this land.”
“This death is not your fault. You didn’t create sicknesses such as this. People die from illness in Norway, too.” Ingeborg tried to reason with him, but he was past hearing or understanding. She laid a hand on his shoulder, and he rested his cheek against it.
Sounding as if a far way off, he finally said, “I didn’t do the chores yet.”
“I will do them. You sleep for a while.” Ingeborg put on her outer garments and, filling the bucket with water, headed for the sod barn. Later, Roald could walk the team down to the river, if he could reopen the hole where he’d kept chopping out the ice for a drinking hole. Maybe that, too, had frozen so solid they’d have to melt snow for all the animals.
The red-and-white cow turned her head and bellered when Ingeborg opened the door. “I know, you’re hungry and thirsty and your bag hurts. Be patient, and I will get to you.”
Later, carrying a bucket of milk, cooled so it no longer steamed, and with six eggs tucked in her pockets, she stopped at the side of the soddy. Across the narrow field separating their two places, she looked for the familiar plume of smoke. Faint, it hovered a moment, then dissipated in the breeze. Soon, it would be no more. She bit back the tears again and entered the warm room. Thorliff was stirring, and she could tell by the tenor that Andrew had entered his second stage of demanding food. The next would be a caterwaul fit to scare birds from the trees.
As soon as she’d hung up her things, she shushed the baby and quickly changed his diaper. She needed to wash diapers this morning, too, and when Kaaren came, caring for her would take every available minute. Ingeborg sat down in the rocker and, unbuttoning her bodice, fed her son.
“I’ll bring her now.” Roald stirred from the brief sleep he’d collapsed into and rose to his feet, looking more like a man of sixty than thirty-seven.
“You must get some sleep so you don’t come down ill yourself.”
“Ja, and I must check on our neighbors too. I haven’t seen sign of the Baards or the Polinskis.”
“As to them, they are probably frozen to death in that thing they call a house. If he weren’t so lazy . . .”
“Ingeborg.”
“I know, but you have helped and helped him, and we have all donated food and clothes for those poor children.” Ingeborg couldn’t believe she was saying such things. Didn’t the Bible say the poor would always be with them? And to love your neighbors as yourself?
“I don’t wish them ill, but . . .”
“I will leave as soon as I’ve brought Kaaren over here and tended to their animals. I’d bring them too and put them up in our barn, if we only had room.”
By the time he returned with the barely alive young woman, the wind had picked up again and dark clouds had gathered on the northern horizon. As soon as he’d settled Kaaren in Thorliff’s bed, he turned to leave.
“I will go to the Polinskis’ first, since they are closer, and spend the night there if I have to.” At the frown wrinkling Ingeborg’s brow, he shook his head. “I am aware of the clouds. I will be careful.”
He took the words right out of her mouth. She hugged her shawl tightly around her shoulders. Polinskis! Roald, we need you here. But she kept the thoughts to herself, knowing that trying to keep Roald from a course he had set was like trying to stop the blizzard. That dedication to caring for those around him was one of the things she so loved. Except for now.
“Go with God,” she whispered into the rising wind.
Kaaren’s fever broke late in the evening. She breathed more easily too, sleeping now rather than lying in the comatose state as she had been.
“Thank you, Lord,” Ingeborg prayed. “And please protect Roald, wherever he is.” She milked the cows and fed the stock early while there was still light. Thorliff helped her, so they finished more quickly. They brought in extra wood and set snow to melt in the barn. By dark, snow had begun to fall, hard driving pellets swirled by the wind.
“Mor, I don’t feel good,” Thorliff said as she tucked him in Roald’s side of the bed.
Fear made her throat go dry. “You sleep now. You will be better in the morning.” She kissed his cheek. Was he running a fever?
Baby Andrew, too, seemed restless, nursing a bit and then whimpering. “You haven’t eaten all you need,” she said, stroking his cheek. He rubbed his eyes with his fists and went back to nursing, only to stop again. Where, oh where, are you Roald? Please, dear God, keep him safe. We need him so, right here, right now.
When Andrew finally fussed himself to sleep, Ingeborg checked on Kaaren one last time. As she put the spoon of broth to Kaaren’s mouth, the sick woman’s eyes fluttered open. She turned her head slightly, and a faint smile eased the lines of pain.
“Inge, I thought you were an angel.” Kaaren took the half cup of the venison broth, one spoonful at a time, before drifting off to sleep again.
“Thank you, God.” Ingeborg laid a hand on Kaaren’s cheek. Cool and warm both, just the way skin ought to feel. She breathed the prayer of thanks again and crawled beneath the quilts of her own bed.
Andrew awoke in the middle of the night, fretful and hungry. He nursed again and went back to sleep, but Ingeborg could not. Thorliff kept coughing and was starting to wheeze.
By morning, the wind still raged, and Ingeborg made it to the barn, thanks only to the rope Roald had strung. She took care of what chores she could, making two trips with water, but still the horses were thirsty. Her body felt as though she’d been fighting the plow sod busting for a week without rest. Her head hurt, her throat felt raw, and she was tired, so tired she fell asleep feeding the baby.
“Mor, I’m thirsty.” Thorliff’s plaintive cry, combined with a retching cough, startled her awake.
“I’m coming.” She set Andrew down, only to have him fuss and begin to cry. He howled louder than the wind while she cared for Thorliff and Kaaren.
By that evening, after chores that took twice as long as usual, she kept seeing double and dragged herself from chair to chair around the room. Her hands trembled so severely, she could hardly feed Kaaren, and when she tried to coax some soup into Thorliff, he just turned his head away.
“Hurts.”
“I know. But please, eat this anyway. You must eat.” Ingeborg rested her throbbing head on her hand. The spoon clattered to the floor.
That night, she took Andrew to bed with her. She was afraid she wouldn’t have the strength to carry him later. “Please, Father in heaven, if you love us, let Roald come home in the
morning.”
Was the pounding inside her head or from somewhere else?
“Ingeborg, the door. Someone is at the door.” Kaaren’s faint voice came from near her left ear.
Up out of the fog, out of the swirly place where she’d hidden, Ingeborg dragged herself, foot by reluctant foot. But when she raised her head from the pillow, the tilting room made her retch. How to get to the door? Why don’t they just come in? She struggled to her feet, fighting back the nausea, the pain, and the terrible heat. How could it be so hot in here? She knew it was winter, that much hadn’t changed.
Andrew whimpered like a newborn kitten. Thorliff choked and coughed in his bed.
The pounding again. This time she knew for certain the head-splitting noise was coming from the door.
Ingeborg leaned against the edge of the table. It seemed a mile to the door. Place one foot in front of the other. Move! A draft from around the door blew across her feet, up under her soaking wet nightgown, and bit her legs. The chill made them move. When she finally rested her forehead against the cold of the door, she stared at the bar that kept intruders out but now barred the way for help to enter.
“Ingeborg, open up!”
Ingeborg jerked her head back as the pounding rattled the door and the shouting penetrated her mind.
“Metis.” Oh, Lord, thank you, it’s Metis. She hardly recognized her own voice, it rasped so sharply. The bar. I must raise the bar. She lifted with both hands. Her fingernails scraped down the bar; her head banged on the door. She scrabbled for a handhold and, by a supreme act of will, remained upright. “I . . . can . . . not . . . open the door.”
“You must! I not help you otherwise.”
Ingeborg understood enough of the accented words to respond. Summoning strength from she knew not where, she heaved on the board. The wind slammed the door open, throwing her back against the stove—the now cold stove. Slowly that fact registered on Ingeborg’s befuddled mind. The stove was out. They would freeze to death. Were her babies still and lifeless? No, those were Kaaren’s babies, from how far back? Where was Roald?
Metis threw her body against the door, fighting the wind until it gave and slunk back to howl a protest from the eaves. With the bar dropped in place, she turned to Ingeborg. “Ah, as I feared, you have failing sickness I hear attacking white men. Go to bed; you need milk for baby, no?” She helped Ingeborg back across the room and saw Kaaren sound asleep again on the other side of the bed. Metis looked at Ingeborg with a question in her dark eyes and shook her head sadly at the silent answer. “You cover up. I start fire. Cows bellering. Much to do.”
Grateful to leave the reins in someone else’s capable hands, Ingeborg lay down and was barely awake when Metis put Andrew to her breast. He felt even hotter than she, but he nursed. She stayed alert enough to drink something that Metis offered and then let herself sink back into the swirling fog.
Save Andrew and Thorliff. The thought kept Ingeborg responsive enough to do all within her power to obey Metis when she ordered her to drink or to swallow.
Three nights later in the still hours just before dawn, her fever broke, and even in her haze, she knew Roald hadn’t returned.
In the morning, she opened her eyes to see Kaaren staring vacantly at the wall. In the way of children who recover so quickly when they are on the mend, Thorliff sat down on the bed beside her.
“You are better.”
When her throat refused to respond, she merely nodded. Just then Andrew let out a lusty yell, and she felt relief flood her system. The children were all right. But Roald? She tried to sit up but couldn’t muster the strength. She heard someone come in the door and hope flared until Thorliff ran across the room.
“Metis, Mor is better. She is awake.”
“Is good. I thought it be soon.” She peered into Ingeborg’s face and nodded. “You soon be strong, my daughter. Little one needs you. He not like cow’s milk.”
It took all of Ingeborg’s concentration to follow the words. So long since they’d practiced their English. “Slow down.” She croaked the words, bringing a grin to Thorliff’s anxious face.
Metis chuckled. “You soon be well. See, you give orders. Come, Thorliff, help mama drink so she get strong.”
“Will Tante Kaaren drink too?”
“Yes, we make her.”
Ingeborg listened to the exchange. She was alive, alive to see her babies grow up, alive to wait for Roald to return. Surely he was still helping some other family. A surge of bitterness caught her by surprise. He should have stayed here with his own family. What if he were lying somewhere, sick himself, with no one to nurse him? Please, God, not that.
The next day, a knock at the door brought her out of an afternoon slumber. When Thorliff hurried to the door, he opened it to find Petar, the Baards’ nephew who had arrived the previous summer.
“Is Roald here? My uncle needs him.”
“No, Far has been gone for a long time.” Thorliff stepped back and motioned the young man inside. “Come talk to Mor.”
Petar removed his hat and stood by the bed, turning the knitted stocking hat in his hands.
“Didn’t he come to your house just before the storm?”
“Yes, but when he found we were managing, he said he would go back to the Polinskis’. We tried to get him to stay, but he said someone had to see after them. We wasn’t so sick, you see, like some.”
“Would you go to the Polinskis’, please, and ask for him there?”
“Ja, that I will. They wouldn’t have nothing to feed his mule, though. They was burning all their hay in twists, last I saw.”
“Mange takk, Petar. Why don’t you have some soup Metis made before you leave. I am sorry I cannot serve you.”
“Never you mind, ma’am. I can look out for myself.” He looked over to Kaaren, who sat perfectly still in the rocking chair and appeared not to see anything around her. Her face was blank, her body motionless. “Is she gonna be all right? Aunt Agnes is just getting back on her feet and wants to know about everyone.”
Ingeborg shrugged. “I certainly hope so. We will all pray to that end.”
“And the little ’uns?”
Ingeborg mouthed the word “gone.” The pain caught her again. No more Gunny or Carl or Lizzie. And what about Roald? He would be here if there were any way that he could. She knew that for all she was. She glanced again at the motionless figure. What about Kaaren? Did she suspect or know what had happened? Had the knowing been too much to bear?
Ingeborg forced herself to do a bit more each day, but by evening, she fell into bed exhausted. However, she was never too tired to look out the window every time she passed, hoping for the sight of a tall man riding a stubborn mule. Or to listen for the jingle of the bit and reins. Something—anything to tell her that Roald had come home.
Each night Ingeborg went to bed praying for Roald and his return. And each morning, the day and its unending labor brought no word. Joseph Baard returned each day to help with the outside chores, leaving Ingeborg with more time than ever to think. They all knew Roald had spent several days at the Polinskis’, but when Mrs. Polinski got back on her feet, and the first storm had cleared, he said he was heading home. But he had never arrived. Had the following storm caught him in the open? Had he been attacked by wolves or gotten so sick he couldn’t ride and fell in a drift and never made it out? In the quiet of the night, the questions pounded away at her, magnifying the night noises and chasing away her sleep.
Was there reason to hope? Yet without hope, what was left?
One afternoon Ingeborg found Thorliff curled up in his bed trying to stifle the tears running down his cheeks.
“What is it, den lille? Do you hurt somewhere? Are you sick?” She sat down and gathered him into her arms.
“I w-an-t Far to c-come h-home.”
“Oh, Thorly, so do I.” Her tears matched his. “You have been such a big boy, I sometimes forget you are my little son.”
“Wh-when is he c-c-coming?”
“But I prayed that God would bring him back.”
“I know, son. I did too. And we must keep on praying.” She rested her wet cheek in the soft hair by his forehead. “But always know that Far loves us, and that he would come home if he possibly could.”
When their tears finally stopped, Thorliff looked up at his mother. “I will take care of you, Mor. I will.”
“Mange takk, my son. We will take care of each other.”
Several weeks later, she heard a harness jingling and looked out the window to see the Baards packed in their sleigh, surrounded by quilts and buffalo robes. Ingeborg threw open the door and stepped out into the weak winter sunshine. Arms clasped to keep from shivering, she called them in.
Agnes gathered the younger woman to her shrunken bosom and held her close. “Oh, my dear, my dear. Such a time of it you’ve had. And the never knowing.” At the loving words, Ingeborg sagged in her friend’s arms, and the tears broke forth in deep, body-shaking sobs. Agnes turned her and led her into the soddy. The three boys had already greeted one another and were heading back out the door.
“We’re going to the barn.”
Agnes sat down on the bed with her arm still around the sobbing Ingeborg.
Thorliff returned and stood in front of them. “Will Mor be all right?” His voice held a note of fear.
“Ja, you go play. Sometimes we women just have to cry.”
Thorliff patted Ingeborg on the arm and slowly backed off, as if not sure he wanted to leave.
“Come on, Thorliff, let’s go see the sheep.”
With another last look to see if his mother needed him, Thorliff sighed, as if grateful to transfer the burden of caring for his mother to someone else, and ran out the door.
As quiet settled around the women, the only sounds were that of the soup simmering on the back of the stove and Ingeborg’s now subdued sniffs and gulps. She dug in her apron pocket for a handkerchief and, after blowing her nose, mopped her eyes. She sighed, and the sound called forth all her longing, worry, and fear.
An Untamed Land Page 32