An Untamed Heart

by Lauraine Snelling

  17

  Jesus is the Good Shepherd.

  We are the sheep of His pasture.

  Why, oh why, could Jesus not have been the Good Cattle Herder? Cows were smart. Cows could handle emergencies, generally. Sheep had no idea how to escape danger. Cows could find good forage. Sheep simply stood there and ate whatever was there, even if the plants were poisonous. Cows were fun to care for. Sheep? Nei. As Far had often reminded her, this was her opinion and not everyone else’s.

  On the other hand, Ingeborg could pretty much tell what a sheep was going to do before it knew itself. Sheep were highly predictable. To an extent, so were people.

  She watched in dismay Monday morning as Tor made another attempt in vain to grab a sheep. He managed to snatch a fistful of wool from the ewe’s rump, but she twisted away, pulling his glove off. Furious, he threw his other glove to the ground. “I hate sheep!”

  Ingeborg stepped into the stone-walled fold while all her cousins looked on. “You must learn to pay attention to a sheep and predict what she will do. Watch.” She walked toward the ewe Tor had been trying to catch. “She is confused. See how she moves, keeping an eye on both of us? Now she will move off to my right because that’s where she’s looking most often. And I will not chase her. I’ll move to the right also, try to get there ahead of her.”

  The sheep bolted right; Ingeborg darted to intercept her. The ewe ducked away too late. Ingeborg grabbed two fistfuls, one on each side, and tipped the ewe up and back. The sheep landed on her tail, all four legs sticking straight out, and the chase was over.

  “You see, Tor, once the sheep is sitting on its rear end like this, it will not fight me anymore. It paralyzes her in a way. Now she can be shorn; she’ll not resist.” Ingeborg clamped the ewe between her knees. The poor sheep let its legs droop and stared blankly at nothing.

  Kari handed her the shears, and she made the first pass. “You start here. Keep your shears filled. By that I mean to make sure you cut a large glob of wool with each snip. Trim off the chest and belly like this; this fine wool is especially valuable.” She continued on with her narrative as she finished shearing the ewe. Tor did not seem to be paying close attention, but Anders certainly was. But then, he had helped with shearing in the past, and this year he had grown enough to shear sheep on his own.

  She released the ewe and tipped it forward toward its legs. It fell on its side, squirmed, gained its feet, and ran off. “This was not the best shearing. You can see a couple places on the ewe where I nicked her skin, a little blood here and there. A fine shearing job does not nick the skin.” She carried her fleece over to the big table by the wall.

  Gunlaug pointed with her big pair of scissors. “I’ll cut off the scraggly bits like these here and here. Then I will smooth it out and check for burrs and weeds. This fine wool I will cut off and put aside. The coarser wool from the back and sides will go on this pile.” She trimmed the fleece and draped the main piece over the stone wall of the fold.

  Ingeborg smiled at Anders. “Why don’t you try next.”

  Anders picked a ewe from the flock. “I learned this part good last year. I don’t chase it; I try to be where it’s going to be.”

  “That’s right! See how she’s watching you? She knows you have her singled out.”

  “How do I get her to move?”

  “Take a step toward her.”

  Anders did so. The ewe stood there. Impatiently, Anders ordered, “Come on, sheep. Move!” He took another step. She lunged forward and galloped right past him before he had a chance to reach for her.

  “Take note of where she’s looking. She’ll hesitate and then bolt. Watch what she’s telling you with her eyes and ears.”

  Anders missed her on his second attempt. “Stupid sheep!”

  Ingeborg agreed, but she didn’t say so out loud. Another reason she much preferred cows.

  Anders accidentally chased her into the midst of the flock. “Now I don’t know which one!”

  “She’ll tell you. Move in closer.”

  Anders took two steps toward the group of sheep, and his ewe ran out the back and around the rock wall. She raced past Gunlaug, who made no move to catch her.

  Anders huffed, “Why didn’t you grab her?”

  “It’s your sheep. I just sort the fleeces.”

  It took him several minutes more to catch her as she feinted and he feinted, she bolted and he snatched. Finally he grabbed her on the fly, dragged her to a walk, and heaved mightily. He almost lost her, but he managed to get her up on her tail. “She quit struggling!” he cried triumphantly. “I did it!”

  “Huzzah for Anders!” Kari cried.

  Ingeborg handed him her shears. He was doing quite well for a first time, but then he lost his grip. The ewe fell to its side, gained its feet, and ran off, a great glob of loose fleece hanging from her belly.

  Ingeborg caught the sheep, set it on end, and clamped it between her knees. “I’ll hold it. You shear it.”

  With all the cautious and patient care one would use diapering a baby, he snipped away at the fleece as Ingeborg kept urging him, “Fill your shears. It will go faster.”

  Fifteen minutes later, he stepped back, triumphant. Not once had he nicked the ewe’s skin. True, his work was rather uneven, and he left inch-long sections of unshorn wool here and there on her, but for a first attempt, the job was not too bad. Should Ingeborg criticize or not? She decided not. Let him have his moment of victory.

  He carried the fleece over to Gunlaug, and she threw it out open across the table. “Where do I cut away?” she asked him.

  Anders pointed. “Here and here—the fine wool. Right?”

  “Right. There.” She laid the snips aside. “Now what?”

  “Make sure there’s no weeds in it,” Anders said. “Look, there’s a burr right there.”

  Gunlaug cupped her fingertips around it and pulled it out, then turned the fleece over. “Is it good?”

  He peered at it. “It’s good.” He stood erect, grinning broadly. “That is my first fleece all by myself.”

  “But certainly not the last.” She flopped it over the stone wall on top of the other one. “Now it’s my turn.” Gunlaug tucked Anders’s shears into her apron pocket and strode out into the fold. She was showing off, Ingeborg knew, and it was delightful to see. Their fledgling shearers should see how it was really done.

  Gunlaug, as well as Ingeborg, knew which ewes were the most wily and resistant. She caught up one of them so that the apprentices would not have to deal with it, flipped it and sheared it, all in less than three minutes.

  Ingeborg applauded appreciatively. “There is more than one pair of shears, you know, and they’re freshly sharpened. Now let’s all get to work here.” Ingeborg stepped back to let the others take over, but she quickly realized that the small ones were never going to hold a sheep that weighed as much as or more than they.

  “Mari, you and Kari work together—one hold the sheep while the other shears. Hamme and Anders, can you two work together?” Then deliberately she pointed to Tor and Hjelmer. “And you two.”

  Tor was obviously going to object; scowling, he opened his mouth. And closed it again. With a deft hand, Hjelmer seized a sheep and turned it on end. He stood watching Tor, a smug expression on his face, poorly concealed. Tor snatched up a pair of shears and started hacking. Several times he drew blood. Each time, Hjelmer warned, “Be careful!”

  What should she do? Ingeborg felt torn. Keep the two feuders together and hope they’d learn to tolerate each other? Put them on separate sides of those mountains behind them?

  As if reading her mind, Gunlaug stepped in beside her and murmured, “Maybe Tor would like mucking out the stalls better than shearing.”

  “Good idea.” Ingeborg raised her voice. “Tor, come with me, please. Anders, finish Tor’s shearing job there.”

  She walked off toward the barn. Morosely, Tor followed, carefully studying the dirt ahead of him.

  Ingeborg wheeled suddenly. “Wha
t is the matter? Why are you angry?”

  He gave a huge shrug and stared at the ground. She waited. And waited. And waited.

  He suddenly blurted, “I’m just angry. That’s all. You let the little kids do all kinds of stuff, the boys and the girls both. I’m bigger. I can do it better. You should be asking me to do it.”

  “When we were getting Mr. Aarvidson out of the ravine, I asked you to do something only you could do, and you did it splendidly. You were strong enough to take all the weight on the rope, and when it was all right to let go, you did so and came down to help me without being asked. It was a perfect job. When I need your strength, I don’t hesitate to ask. But the smaller children have to learn how to do all these things too. They won’t learn if they can’t do things.”

  He muttered something and started to move away.

  “Tor!”

  He stopped.

  “Bullying and teasing the smaller boys, and that includes Hjelmer, only shows how childish you are. You will not do it anymore. Do you understand?”

  He muttered something.

  “Clean out the stalls, please. We have another cow due to calve soon, and we’ll need a clean box stall for her.”

  “But I’m supposed to be helping with the shearing!”

  “I distinctly heard you say you hate sheep. You needn’t work with them if you dislike them so.”

  “I like them better than cleaning out stalls.”

  “There is plenty of shearing yet to be done. You won’t lose out. And we need the stall.” She paused. “I care about you, Tor. I don’t want you to be angry.” She returned to the fold.

  Anders was stalking a ewe. She bolted; he grabbed her and hauled her to sitting.

  Kari clapped enthusiastically. “You’re getting better at it, Anders!”

  Clearly pleased, Hamme set to work with her shears.

  Ingeborg was watching children do adult work, and it delighted her. These children would do a perfect job next year.

  A few minutes later, with her ewe punctured only a few times, Hamme dragged the fleece up to her shoulder and carried it to the stone wall. Grinning, Gunlaug spread it out.

  “Here and here—the fine wool.” Hamme pointed as Gunlaug snipped. “This is fun!” Her grin dimmed the sun.

  “You did a good job too,” Gunlaug told her. “When the underside of the fleece is flat and even like that, it’s easier to card and spin.”

  Ingeborg called, “Mari, let’s you and I go make supper.”

  Mari pouted. ”Do I have to? This is much more fun.”

  Ingeborg was going to say, “Yes, you have to,” but she stopped herself. Work that is fun goes far more quickly. So often, work that has to be done is not fun. Mari would get enough no-fun work in her life. Let her enjoy this. Besides, Mari was learning a valuable skill. The girl was not real good at shearing yet and needed practice. But for sure she already knew how to make supper. “All right. You convinced me. You help with the shearing, and I will go make supper.”

  Mari squealed, “Takk!” and turned her attention to the unshorn ewe between Kari’s knees.

  Ingeborg gathered half a dozen eggs in the hen coop and continued up to the house. She walked in the door, stopped, and gasped.

  Her patient was sitting in the chair beside the fireplace!

  “Nils Aarvidson, what do you think you’re doing?”

  He gave her an impish little smile. “Well, I think I am sitting in a chair. When I awoke from my nap, I had to, uh, do something that a proper young man would never ever mention to a proper young woman, so I shall never mention it. But there was no one around to help me. I am quite proud that I managed on my own.”

  She should have left one of the boys there! Too late now. “Well, uh, you have earned the right to be proud, for sure. Do you want to remain there awhile?”

  “I do.”

  “Very well, then.” She took the eggs out of her apron and put them in a bowl on the table. She ladled water into the big iron pot, hung it on the fireplace hook, and swung it in over the fire. The fire was down to weak embers among a few charred sticks. She stuffed another three thick sticks of stove wood into the dying coals, for they were too low to boil water in a decent time.

  She gathered up a big bowl of potatoes and brought them to the fireplace. Nils was sitting in the chair she usually used, so she brought one over from the corner, settled into it, and began peeling potatoes.

  Nils watched her for a few minutes. “Is there nothing you don’t know how to do well?”

  She glanced at him. “I’m a farmer’s daughter, and I have been coming up here to the Strandseter for years. If I were to make a guess, I would say that the only reason you are impressed with my skills, shall we say, is because you are not a farmer’s child, and they seem unusual to you. Believe me, they are very ordinary to me. All of us are good at what we do, even the smaller children.”

  “Nei.” He studied her a moment. “Nei, it is more than that. Much, much more than that. You make cheese and show the youngsters how. Weave and—”

  “Gunlaug does most of the weaving. I spin the wool.” She stopped. She had interrupted him. How rude.

  Nils continued. “You husband the cows and sheep. Farm tasks. But . . .” He pursed his lips in thought. “I was a very, very foolish man who did foolish things. I would have died from my foolishness—indeed I was very close to death—but you saved me. I am getting well because of your wits and good nursing. That is not ordinary. That is most extraordinary. You are a most extraordinary woman, Ingeborg Strand. And I salute you.”

  Ingeborg bit her lip. What could she say? Gunlaug’s words at the lake galloped back to her, about Nils being attracted to her. No, this was just gratitude talking. That was all. Surely that was all?

  18

  Three days and they were still shearing. If only I could be out there, Nils thought. His curiosity needed more than a view through the window to be satisfied. Would he have been able to do all the things Ingeborg took so for granted? And always made look easy? He watched, wishing he could see through that rock wall.

  Jon and Kari had taken the shorn sheep out to pasture at the far end of the valley. They’d not gone up into the hills like usual. He’d learned the patterns of life at a seter through all his hours of forced watching. Finally he could read for longer times, but the life going on around him was far more fascinating than Plato and Voltaire.

  The kettle hanging over the dwindling fire emitted fragrant smells that set his stomach to growling. One of the others would be in soon to stir the pot and feed the fire. He knew better than to try to walk by himself. He would not take a chance on undoing all the progress that had been gained. He’d thought about many things on his pallet, the lessons he was learning—patience being one and fortitude another. Hopefully both of those would help lead to wisdom.

  How would he ever forgive himself for taking such a foolish chance? Hiking by himself. One of the first laws the lovers of mountain hiking learned was never to hike alone. The folks at the inn had tried to stop him. More than one friend had tried to talk him into remaining in Oslo. As had his family. He shook his head. No wonder his father was always disappointed in him.

  Ingeborg had said someone would be coming up from town soon with mail and messages. He would take down the letters Nils had written to be mailed. His mor and far must be frantic by now.

  Perhaps he had needed an extended time of introspection, since he so rarely indulged in that aspect of life. He’d always believed the mountains had the ability to change a man. Now he knew that for certain. Ingeborg would say it was God who changed men. Watching those at the seter made him wonder. What was the difference between his family and this one, other than the obvious house and life and all the accoutrements of wealth? Those here had something he’d not seen before his sojourn at the seter. He started to think of his father and quickly stuck that back in a box down in the depths of his mind.

  He’d done enough pondering for the day. Time to study for his test in Augu
st. He picked up his textbook. Even that was preferable to thinking about his father and his demands. Voltaire. Unlike many other philosophers, Voltaire possessed a wit worth studying—dry, acerbic, often profound.

  Animals have these advantages over man: they never hear the clock strike, they die without any idea of death, they have no theologians to instruct them, their last moments are not disturbed by unwelcome and unpleasant ceremonies, their funerals cost them nothing, and no one starts lawsuits over their wills.

  Nils liked that one. It didn’t strictly apply to his family, though. They were, his far especially, so hidebound, no one would dream of suing, because primogeniture was so thoroughly ingrained. What would he do with his life if he did not enter the business? He would probably have to leave his native land, for starters. Leave the mountains? Leave the sparkling waters of the Vik, the supreme majesty of the deep fjords and the soaring eagles? Just when he thought pondering might bear some fruit, it discouraged him further.

  Mari returned, scrubbed her hands, and started getting out flour and other ingredients.

  He laid Voltaire and company aside. “What are you making now?”

  “Biscuits to go with the rabbit stew. Hare stew, actually.”

  “Rabbit? Hare?”

  “Hjelmer’s trapping paid off. He moved his trapline to another place and we have enough to feed everyone. He usually does that a lot up here.”

  “Is there anything he cannot do?”

  “Umm, make biscuits.” Her grin made him chuckle.

  It would be hard to put anything over on that girl. Besides being a fine cook, she was really observant. She and Gunlaug. All of them, really. Well, most of them.

  Sometimes when Gunlaug was sitting at her loom, she talked with him. He surely hoped that her man, Ivar, was all she thought him to be. Of course, then he could probably walk on water too. Strange that Ingeborg didn’t much care for the young man.

  An itch started again down on his leg. Scratching it through all the wrappings was not an easy feat. When Ingeborg rewrapped it the other day, he was appalled at how his injured leg had become smaller, not that either leg was very strong now. How quickly the body lost muscles when not used. He wasn’t sure he’d even be able to hike back to the inn where he’d started.