An Untamed Heart

by Lauraine Snelling

  RA scowled at the platter of pork roast the cook placed before them before the man returned to the kitchen.

  No answer? Then Nils would continue. “His family is remarkably wealthy. Apparently his father and grandfather bought up Amerikan dollars and bonds right after their civil war twenty years ago, when bonds and currency were cheap. Now the Boonstras are buying up more, because the nation is in a financial depression. They are quite certain the Amerikan economy will rebound, and when it does, they will be well enough off that they can buy most of Europe, if anyone would want most of Europe.”

  RA studied his son. “At least he follows in his father’s footsteps.” There was a bitter edge to his words.

  Nils licked his lips. “Actually, no. He’s going to let his brothers do that. He wants to get into trade and transport, he says. Shipping. He has taken quite a fancy to it, what with our logistics class and all, and he’s quite good with geography.” And Nils drove home his point: “Hans will be doing something he truly enjoys. I envy that.”

  For some reason he glanced at his mother. She was studying him carefully. What was going on in that well-coiffed head?

  Nils had five days to master seven hundred years of European history. He returned to classes and took notes conscientiously, but learning a little something about the century immediately preceding the Enlightenment didn’t help a whole lot.

  In the evenings Amalia read his notes back to him, complaining frequently that his scrawl was nearly illegible. She read his text to him. He blotted up as much as he could, painfully aware that his mind was nowhere near as sharp as it had been, and it had not been too sharp to start with.

  Examination day arrived, and he settled into his desk in history class and took pen in hand to write his medieval history exam. It was a shame he couldn’t send Amalia to take it for him. She excelled in history and had learned more from the coaching than he had from being the one coached.

  The first twenty minutes or so went pretty well. Then the headache returned. Another half hour and his eyes could not focus well. He saw his own handwriting grow larger and larger. He was losing his fine motor control. Oops, he had just mixed up Leo the tenth with Hadrian the sixth. Or wait . . . He ended up skipping the question about the popes.

  At last a question that referred to the last two lectures, the dawn of the Enlightenment. He could discuss that one. When his professor counted down to zero and everyone laid their pens aside, he had completed all but the pope question and had even added some information to two of the other essays.

  It took him nearly a minute simply to stand up. His legs ached, his ribs ached, his head ached. His heart ached. Surely he could have done better.

  Hans was waiting for him outside the door. “I’d ask you how it went, but you look like you’d have to get better to die. I happen to have a hansom waiting for us out front. You don’t have to walk.”

  “Boonstra, you’re a prince among men. Prince nothing. King.” Nils stumbled down the hallway. “I would love to join you for a beer, but I’m too knackered. I’d like to just go home and sleep.”

  “Understood.” Hans was his usual ebullient self, and his cheer raised Nils’s spirits. A little. “Oh, Nils, and I think I have a job. Not in trade exactly, but close. I will be a stevedore down on the Londres dock.”

  “Loading the Nordic Princess?”

  Hans stared at him. “How do you know that?”

  “My father owns the Nordic Princess and she’s in the Londres dock right now taking on lumber. Enjoy. She used to be a ketch, but they’ve rigged her as a barkentine. A worthy little vessel.”

  “A barkentine. That’s she, all right.” Hans held the door for him and pointed two doors down toward a carriage at the curb. “Right over there. I’m telegraphing my father, telling him I’ve found gainful employment in Norway, and to save the cost of my traveling home and then traveling back to school, I’m just staying here. Save him some money.”

  Nils stepped up into the hansom and flopped down on the leather seat. The carriage bobbed a bit, giving his ribs another tweak. “And what will your father say to that?”

  “He’ll say bosh, he can afford to send me home. Or maybe not. Saving a guilder here and a guilder there has always rung his bell.” Hans settled in across from Nils and swung the door closed. He rapped on the roof.

  Nils chuckled as the cab lurched forward. “Can you join us for dinner?”

  “Another appointment, sorry. But I’ll gladly accept an invitation for another time. Just think. The shipping magnate and the lowly stevedore dining together.”

  Nils snorted. “A lowly stevedore who can afford to buy the ship.” How good it felt to simply chat, without the need to learn anything, without the need to mount a pretense. How he wished his life were like this.

  By dinnertime he had retrieved enough of his faculties that he could make decent conversation. He allowed as how Amalia had gotten him through the exam and refused to speculate on the results. Then he let his father take off and expound, and what the man said didn’t even really register. His mother nodded knowingly now and then, and he knew well that she wasn’t listening either. For some curious reason, he glanced over several times to see her carefully watching him.

  Nils remained at his parents’ place for several days, for he had no reason to return to his rooms, other than the obvious one, to escape his father. He made a point of letting his philosophy book lie here and there in obvious places, as if he were truly studying. What he did more than anything else was sleep, frequently. He could not shake the weariness that permeated his whole body.

  One day he finally managed to stay awake for most of the day and even read in his philosophy text for half an hour. Perhaps he was finally getting better. Janssen laid out his clothes for dinner, and he actually felt like putting them on, no longer needing assistance. He ignored the shoes waiting for him by the bed and remained in his slippers. He joined the family in the drawing room and made light conversation. He repaired to the dining room, seated his sisters, and when asked about his day offered a few quotes from the philosopher Marcus Monrad, to whom a whole chapter of his text was dedicated. The day was going well.

  The cook set out two roast chickens, a tureen of buttered carrots, and a bowl of turnips in cheese sauce. His father scowled. The magisterial RA Aarvidson disliked turnips and was not particularly fond of carrots.

  They ate in silence, and again Nils noticed his mother watching him.

  Father sat back, wiped his mouth, and glared at Nils. “I received a letter from Dean Klein this afternoon.”

  Nils’s heart leapt into his mouth, starting the pain that so often sneaked in when he least expected it. Would the pain never stop?

  “He says your history professor has submitted the test results. You have received only an acceptable rating. Not the top rating you promised me.”

  His heart dropped from his mouth to the soles of his feet. “I did the best I could.”

  “That is not good enough.”

  “Where is the compromise that you claim a good businessman must make? I did my best.” For what I can do right now. Had the professor been willing to wait, I would have done well.

  “I have a desk waiting for you in the accounting office. You begin work tomorrow.” There was a chilling finality to his voice.

  “Rignor.” Nils’s mother! She never spoke to his father in that stern tone of voice.

  He looked at her, schooling his face, as he always did.

  “Your son is still not well. Look at him. He cannot move smoothly, he cannot see well—have you noticed how he must squint at things that are close? Have you watched him try to climb up and down the stairs? This is not Nils in normal health, yet he did his best for you, the best he could do in his compromised state.” Then her voice took on an iron-hard flatness Nils had never heard from her before. “You will honor his request. You will allow him his summer in the mountains so that he may recover. You will, Rignor.” She nodded toward the table. “Katja, would you pass
the turnips, please?”

  Three days later, Nils Aarvidson, avid mountaineer and outdoor enthusiast, stepped down out of a coach in a village at the foot of the mountains and drew in a deep, luxuriant breath of fresh mountain air. And nearly buckled from the pain in his ribs. Were they never going to heal?

  Should he spend the night at the inn in town or go directly up into the hills? Since he had no particular destination in mind, he compromised by walking up a road east of town to a small wayside inn, Raggen Inn, tucked in a crease within the foothills and there spent the night.

  He ate a hearty breakfast the next morning as a swollen mountain brook crashed and gurgled beside the dining room window.

  “Why don’t you let me bring you more coffee to that comfortable chair outside. The view, as you can see, is spectacular, and letting the sun bake the city out of your bones will make a new man of you.”

  Nils smiled at his hostess. While he had planned to start out early, perhaps this might be a wiser choice. “Takk, I will do that.”

  Freedom tasted like the finest elixir. No one ordering him to do anything; he didn’t even have to be polite if he did not feel like it. He smiled at the woman with cheeks of strawberry red and thanked her for not only the coffee but the sweet roll she had brought along.

  “I just took these out of the pans, and while I know you’re not really hungry right now, would you do me the honor of tasting and perhaps offering approval?”

  He inhaled the fragrance. “Intoxicating.” One bite and he knew he had stepped into heaven. “There are not enough words to say how good this is.”

  She giggled, almost like a young girl. “My son, he likes these too.”

  Nils returned to his room, started to pack, and instead lay down on the bed for just a few minutes.

  When he awoke, the angle of the sun had shifted to late afternoon, so after bread and soup for supper he went back to bed.

  ———

  Next morning after a good night’s sleep and another hearty breakfast, he felt like life was returning.

  The inn’s mistress sent sandwiches and apples with him and insisted on grasping both his hands and asking a fervent prayer that God keep him safe. Refreshed in body and spirit, he began his trek by following a shepherd’s path that the lady assured him would lead him into some of the most beautiful mountains. As if there were any mountains not beautiful.

  Less than an hour later, after staggering the last hundred yards, he had to pause to rest. Being infirm those weeks had certainly taken a toll on his stamina. But he wasn’t worried. He would recover it in a day or two. He continued on. And rested an hour later. And continued on.

  Though it was still early, he could go no farther. Beside a rushing stream he strung a tarpaulin between two trees, built a fire, and settled for the night. His headache had returned, howling even more loudly, so to speak, than the stream beside him. This recovery might take a few days longer than he had anticipated.

  Nils took his time breaking camp the next morning. He had forgotten about camping so close to a rushing stream; the air was faster and colder this close to the water. Tonight he would camp well above a stream. That way he could hear the sweet song of the water without freezing in the cold wind it dragged along with it.

  As he followed the broad path dotted with sheep’s hoofmarks, he had ample time to think. He realized he should have started thinking a day ago. He knew not to camp so close to rushing water. He knew how to set up a camp and build a fire for maximum warmth and comfort. Why was he acting so brainless, like a child? He had been away from the mountains far too long. That was what was wrong.

  Ah, but he was here now. Now all would be better.

  He rested at midday, ate the last of the innkeeper’s sandwiches, and chewed a strip of beef jerky. That persistent headache lingered in the background, ready to pounce at any moment. He could feel its presence as a heaviness.

  The shepherds’ path leveled out now, winding off across the mountainside meadows. He would leave the path and follow this stream farther up. He had no interest in engaging simple shepherds in conversation.

  The sky, which had started out blue this morning, had turned white, and now dark gray clouds hung low. He could read that well enough and tucked his collar up tighter against his neck, under his hat brim. Sure enough, the rain began and soon was falling steadily. No problem. This too was a part of the mountain experience.

  His leather boot slipped on wet stones, and he almost fell. He must be more careful, but his mind seemed to be getting foggy, as if he had drunk two or three beers, but he hadn’t. He stumbled while crossing the stream and waited until his heart settled its pace again before following a game trail that offered easier going.

  The boulders got bigger. That was odd, because usually the larger boulders were downhill. He walked out across a rocky slope, his boots sliding now and again, and picked up another game trail. Why hadn’t he stayed on the main track?

  His boot slid off a wet rock and landed solidly beside it. The wild jolt sent an excruciating stab of pain up through his ribs. He gasped, doubled forward, lost his balance. He was falling.

  Why was rain falling on his face? Where was his hat brim when he needed it? How could he still this howling headache, the nearly unbearable pain in his ribs and now in his leg too?

  Leg? His leg hurt as badly as his ribs did. He was lying on his back in a ravine amid huge rocks, his head downhill, and one foot was pinched up between two boulders. His leg, the one that hurt so badly, was bent in a way that followed the surface of the smooth, slick, rounded rock. He realized with a chill that his leg was not bending at the knee. It had broken.

  He could not move. Even if he tried to move in spite of the fierce pain, he could not. His leg was wedged between the rocks. The cold rain was soaking in despite the warmth of his wool clothing.

  Tonight he would become wetter and wetter, colder and colder. The sun would nearly go down. He could not stretch his arm far enough to get his rucksack and retrieve his blankets and the tarpaulin. At some time during this long cold night, the pain would ease, he would slide into a chilled sleep, and he would not wake up, ever again.

  11

  At least the sun warmed him a little in the morning. How long had he been lying there? Through the night, the very long and very cold night. If only he could have retrieved his blankets and the tent he had brought along, folded so neatly in his backpack.

  Nils stared around his mountain prison. What could he do to get himself out of this disaster? By himself? How often had he been warned against hiking in the mountains alone? He should have listened. Hindsight was always wise. What did he have? Besides a new lump on his head and a leg that was ten times larger than when he’d started out. His ribs were well beyond unhappy with the new situation also. The rest of him did not bear thinking about, like the swollen fingers or . . . Skip the or. If only he could get his leg into the creek. With the fresh snow melt it was plenty cold. What to deal with first?

  If only his mind were clearer. Or he could stay awake. He felt around the lump that now encompassed much of the side of his head. At least the one in back had not opened again and started bleeding. That was something to be thankful for. A cough wracked him, a series of coughs that left him gasping in pain. And more dizzy. He stared at the rocks around him. If he could pull himself into a sitting position, that might help the coughing. But every time he tried to move the leg, he blacked out again. What did he have to immobilize it? His walking staff. But where had it gone in the fall? He propped himself up on his elbows. His ribs screamed. Staring around, moving his head inch by inch, he checked all the terrain within his vision. No staff. It had probably floated down the creek somewhere.

  He froze, as if he weren’t shaking already. Was that a dog barking? He listened with every part of his being. Yes, a dog.

  “Help! Help! Help!”

  Why had he not brought a gun along? Or a whistle? He ignored the pain when he sucked in as mighty a breath as possible and hollered agai
n. Please, God, let that dog hear me! He listened hard, but the creek was chattering so loudly, he heard nothing. “Oh, God, please. I don’t want to die out here! Help me! I know I could not make it through another night.”

  The effort left him gasping, so he collapsed back to a prone position. When he opened his eyes, three suns shone down on him and rocks, many rocks, danced. He listened again, not breathing until he was forced to suck air in.

  A whine. Was it? Or was it the wheezing growing in his chest?

  He opened his eyes. Two dog heads peered over the lip of the trail, looking down at him. One ran off while the other continued to watch him. “Go, dog. Get help.” He tried to wave to the animal, but even his arm would not lift. Was life draining out of him? When he looked again, the dog was gone.

  Oh, please, dear God, please make him bring someone back. Please let this not be a delusion. It was a good thing God did not need to hear a loud voice. He had prayed now more than all the rest of his life put together.

  Sometimes fading out was preferable to suffering. How many times had this happened during the night? What did it matter? Was he to die there, alone and with no way to tell his family good-bye?

  He woke sometime later. Shadows had replaced the sunshine as it journeyed west. The shaking had grown beyond any control he attempted.

  A bark. A bark nearby. He looked up to see the dog again. “Good boy, good dog.” Oh, thank God, good dog.

  A young boy’s face joined the dog. “How bad are you hurt?”

  “A broken leg, head smashed against the rocks, and I slid down that scarp.” How far had his whisper carried?

  “Can you move?”

  “Not much. I was . . . am . . .” The coughing attacked again. Seems it did every time he tried to talk. He felt he was shouting. Until—

  “What? I cannot hear you.”

  Nils forced every ounce of strength he possessed into an answer. “Help!”