An Untamed Heart

by Lauraine Snelling

  “That is a cough medicine.”

  “But a candy too. Along with lemon drops.”

  “And peppermint.” Gunlaug smiled in spite of herself.

  That evening, when the rest of the family was still at the supper table, Anders brought the two pieces of wood he had been smoothing and forming and showed them to Nils. “I need to carve a hole here to put them together, but I wanted to make sure this is all right before I go any further.”

  “Do you have an awl?” Ingeborg asked.

  “Not that I know of. It is not in the tool chest. Saws and hammers mostly.”

  She thought a moment. “Any glue?”

  “Nei.”

  “Well, you dig out a hole or a notch, whatever will work, and we’ll wrap it tight with thongs. I saw something that said wrap the things together with strips of rawhide and soak it in water. When it dries, the rawhide shrinks down and the bond will be solid hard.”

  Anders looked at her. “Where did you learn that?”

  Hjelmer grinned at his sister. “From a book she read. Ingeborg learns all kinds of good stuff from the books and newspapers she reads. She is always looking for more stuff to read.”

  Ingeborg felt a smile wrap around her heart. What a compliment from a boy who observed far more than he spoke! She ruffled his hair. “Takk.”

  Tor reached for the wood. “I have strips from the gloves I am making. I know how to weave the shorter strips together to make a long one without knots, so it can be smooth. If we use some of that sheepskin that has the wool on, that should make good padding for the underarm part.”

  Ingeborg felt her mouth drop open and snapped it shut. She exchanged looks of delight with Gunlaug, who was now grinning from ear to ear. It wasn’t even the end of July yet, and look at the way these children were learning to work together. God be praised.

  “This will save my life—again. I’ll be able to walk.” Nils reached out to shake each of the boys’ hands.

  Ingeborg watched the boys run merrily outside, then offered, “You’ve been amazingly patient.”

  “You have no idea, since you didn’t know me in my other life.”

  My other life. Ingeborg thought on that. He was right. And not just about his life. Their lives here at the Strandseter were set apart from all their other lives. The time here did far more than just produce a lot of cheese and spin wool and feed the livestock so that the lowland pastures could be hayed for winter fodder. Both children and adults learned to work together and grow up in so many ways. Surely there was someplace in the Bible where it said, God is in this place. Never before had she seen this so clearly. When she got home she would have to look that up. Someplace in Genesis perhaps. If only she had a Bible along. She knew it wasn’t in her copied sheets, because so much of those were the Psalms and parts of the New Testament.

  Hjelmer waved a hand in front of her face. “Ingeborg, come back.”

  “Uh, sorry.” Back to work.

  All of them. Anders set to carving out an indentation to take the top of Nils’s crutch. Mari went to mixing something in the kitchen, Ingeborg to spinning along with Kari on the other spinning wheel, while Gunlaug and Hamme took to the looms. Tor worked on his gloves, leaving Jon and Hjelmer to card wool.

  “If you showed me how, I could probably learn to help with that,” Nils said to Hjelmer. “Then we could perhaps play a game of chess.”

  “This doesn’t go fast.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  So Hjelmer showed him how to stroke the wool straight through the fine wire teeth of the tools that looked like large, flat, shallow wire hairbrushes. Then he handed Nils two cards. “Now you slide one against the other, like this. It combs the hairs—the fibers—out straight so they’ll spin into a smooth yarn.”

  Nils made a couple of passes. “This isn’t as easy as it looks.”

  “Most things are not.”

  Ingeborg forced herself to pay strict attention to her spinning. Otherwise she might burst into laughter. Hjelmer was doing a fair job of teaching, rather coaching. Leave them be. When she caught herself wishing it were her hands on the backs of the carding combs guiding Nils’s hands, she nearly broke the spinning thread. Ingeborg Strand, what are you thinking?! She knew she didn’t say that out loud but . . . She heaved a sigh and reached into the basket beside her for another handful of the fine belly wool. This stuff took more skill to spin than did the coarser wool. She spun a fine thread to knit into stockings. Once she had several skeins, they would need to find materials for the dyes. Some they’d already brought up from the farms: onion skins that made yellow, walnut husks a nice brown, and of course, the indigo plant. Everyone used indigo.

  The only bad thing about spinning was it allowed her mind free rein. And she felt uncomfortable about where it kept wandering. “Gunlaug, what is that psalm you wanted us to memorize?” That would help keep her mind in check.

  Gunlaug recited it. “I have it written down.”

  “I know, but—”

  Gunlaug’s chuckle set the evening air that floated in the windows to dancing. She stopped the gentle thuds of the heddle and batten working in rhythm and rose, stretching as she did. “I need to move around. We can all work on it together.”

  Mari brought in some dough flattened into a round on the griddle to set into the coals of the fire. “We will have a treat tonight.”

  “What is it?”

  “You will see.”

  Ingeborg heard a grunt or a groan of disgust from Nils when Hjelmer stopped his carding and showed him how to pull in long sweeps so that the wool strands lay straight and even. Nils took them back with a sigh.

  “Why is it that I can discuss ancient Roman and Greek philosophers and speak four languages but I cannot master wool carding?”

  “You will get it. Hjelmer is not telling you the hours it took for him to learn.” Ingeborg did not say that Hjelmer picked up the skill years earlier from watching Ingeborg. He took right to it. All she was doing was stretching the truth a bit. After all, how many hours had he spent watching her?

  Hjelmer gave her a sideways grin and a raised eyebrow. He knew exactly what she was doing. She wondered sometimes at the perceptions of this younger brother of hers. Someone had said one time he was an old soul when he was born. She believed it. His was the first birth she was ever in the room to observe. She had stolen in and hidden in a corner because she wanted to know more so desperately. Even then, all things to do with birthing and healing and the way life worked fascinated her.

  Perhaps that was why she felt such a connection with him. Her mother had lost two more babies that Ingeborg knew of, both of them early on. Had she not been instructed to run for the midwife, she would probably not have known then. Her mother, like all women, kept womanly things intensely private.

  “That certainly smells good. Are you sure it is not done?” Hjelmer asked, staring at the baking griddle in the coals. “You wouldn’t want to burn it, you know.”

  “I will not let it burn, but no matter how good it smells, it would still be doughy in the middle. You need to learn patience.”

  Gunlaug laughed. “Your little sister has you there.”

  “My little sister thinks she is the boss in the kitchen. Just because she is almost eleven.”

  “That is just because she is. Who does much of the cooking around here? I do not see anyone else volunteering.”

  “I think I got it!” Anders waved the shorter piece in the air. “Tor, what do you think?” The two worked the two pieces together. “Tight fit, I know, but that is important.”

  “I have some thong done here. You hold it and I will wrap it.”

  “How about if I try it out first?” Nils suggested.

  “Good idea. If we need to we can shave some off the end.”

  Nils started to push himself up when Tor stepped closer and provided a leaning post. “Takk. Even that good leg has gone weak on me.” Anders settled the crutch under Nils’s arm and stepped back, but not far. Both boys wer
e making sure the man did not fall.

  Ingeborg let out the breath she did not realize she had been holding. Nils stood upright, on his own, the crutch beside him. He moved the crutch forward, thought the better of it, and planted the crutch beside the splinted leg. He moved the other leg and, balancing on that, moved crutch and mending leg together as one. “It works!”

  Everyone clapped and Tor cheered.

  Ingeborg felt like leaping to her feet and twirling around the room. Thank you, Lord, she repeated over and over. What a monumental accomplishment! Maybe they could soon remove the splint too.

  She could hear Mor’s sage advice. “Do not rush in a birthing or in getting well. Running ahead of the good Lord is never wise. He will tell when the time is right.”

  Mari disappeared out the door and returned with a jug of buttermilk to set on the table. With everyone staring at her, she lifted the griddle out of the coals and set it on the table with wooden trivets underneath. “We have something to celebrate and something good to celebrate it with. Come on, so we eat it while it is hot.”

  Cautiously, deliberately, Nils used a step-and-thump action to get across the room to sit down at the table with the others. His grin told Ingeborg how pleased he was.

  And hot the food was, but the oohs and ahhs around the table said more than words.

  “Mari, what is this?”

  “Not biscuits and not bread or cake but something in between.”

  “It is my secret,” Mari told them. “But I am glad you like it.”

  Nils sat with eyes closed, a contented look on his face as he worked his mouth. “It may be a secret, but you need to tell the cook at our house how to make it.”

  Ingeborg could see the color rise over the cheeks of her baby sister. What a fine man to think to say something so perfect to a young girl who so seldom heard words of praise. Something fluttered in her chest. Whatever it was, it made her feel deeply pleased.

  20

  “I told you he likes you.” Gunlaug failed at looking innocent.

  Ingeborg shook her head. “He just likes to talk with someone who has read at least a few of the authors he has read.” She tipped her head back and gazed across the valley. She never tired of looking at the cattle and sheep grazing under the watchful eyes of the herders. Most of the books Nils mentioned she had never heard of, but he loved to tell her about them. And she loved to listen. And to argue. What a splendid time they had arguing.

  He seemed to enjoy asking her about life on the family farms and the intricacies of all the relatives that played such an important role in each other’s lives. This was all quite ordinary to her, but it seemed amazing and exceptional to him. It made her wonder even more about his family.

  “Did you not know your grandparents?” Ingeborg asked him one evening in front of the fire.

  “They died when I was young and did not live near us.”

  “And your aunts and uncles and cousins?”

  “You have to understand, my far left home and moved to the city to build a business of his own. I do not know how often he returned to see his family. He never talks about them.”

  “And your mor?”

  “Her far thought she was marrying beneath her station, and since she went against his wishes, he ordered his family to have nothing to do with them.”

  Ingeborg shook her head and prodded the coals of the fire with the poker, just to see the sparks dance. “That is so very sad.”

  “Perhaps, but not unusual. Far and Mor have created their own place in society, and they are happy with that. They want their children to receive a good education and to make good marriages.” He rubbed his leg, which no longer wore the splint but only a wrapping. “It is not something to get upset about. That is just the way life goes.”

  “I cannot think of life without my cousins and tantes and onkels. We do everything together just like one big family. Onkel Frode never married, but he is included in everything. He says Onkel Kris and my far, Arne, had enough children for all of them. He is the funny one in the family. Far is the deep thinker and a very careful farmer, and Onkel Kris sometimes likes the bottle a little too much, especially in the winter when the days are dark. But Tante Berthe does not allow drinking in the house. I think he keeps a bottle in the grain bin, but I’ve never gone to look. Life is different in the summer.”

  “But you are never home in the summer.”

  “I know. I’d rather be up here than anywhere.” She locked her hands around her knee and stared into the fire. As warm as it was outside, still the fire was a pleasure. It kept the coffeepot hot. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “No, thank you. There is no need to get up. Just stop and rest for a change. You never slow down.”

  “There is so much to do, and even in the long days I resent stopping to sleep. Sleeping seems a tragic waste of precious time. I can sleep in the winter when it is dark again.”

  She leaned her cheek on her knee, knowing that this was not acceptable ladylike behavior. “What do you do in the winter?”

  “Most of my life I have gone to school in the fall, winter, and spring. It seems like most of the year.”

  “Probably because it is.” She prodded the fire again. Soon she would need to bank the coals and go to bed, but the pleasure of his company was too strong. “Do you go to fancy society events?”

  “Ja.”

  “And you enjoy them?”

  “Ja, sometimes. But one always has to be polite and proper and—” He stopped and shook his head, a lock of blond hair falling across his wide forehead. “Those things can be so boring. Here at the seter, you are all doing something that is important and will make a difference in your families’ lives. And you’re polite and proper, certainly, but that is not the sum of your whole existence.”

  “Providing for one’s family through a business is equally important.” She thought about the folks who lived in the village. “What would we do without someone to run the store or the blacksmith shop or the other businesses?” But little as she knew of the lives of wealthy people, the businesses in Valdres did not make their owners a great deal of money. She knew that what she would call wealth had no comparison to the kind of life Nils talked about. They were in different worlds. And that made her sad.

  Ingeborg paused as she measured out some rennet. “Do not be silly, Gunlaug. I am tired of your insisting. Men of wealth are not interested in farm girls. This is just a pleasant turn of fate for him. Soon he will go home and never think of me—er—all of us.” For some reason the thought made her heart heavy. There was no hope, so rather than think of that, she chose to enjoy each moment.

  Nils had made remarkable progress over the past few weeks and had healed so well that he had started helping with the chores. Today Nils was out with Hjelmer herding the cows. For some silly reason she always knew exactly where he was. As if she had a little bird that kept her informed.

  Gunlaug slammed the batten against the body of the rug she was weaving. “You are wrong, but I will not argue. You always have to learn by experience.”

  “Look who is talking.”

  Gunlaug shrugged.

  “Come on, that is not fair.”

  But Gunlaug also refused to argue or discuss, not a new reaction but irritating nonetheless.

  On Sunday afternoon the older boys went fishing. The last couple of times they had brought home enough trout to last several meals. Or it should have, but everyone ate enough fried fish to practically swell up. And never want any again—until the next time Tor and Hjelmer went fishing. Anders did not enjoy it so much and chose to stay at the seter.

  “Do you think the lake will be warm enough for swimming soon?” Mari asked.

  “It never gets as warm as the lakes down below—you know that—but if you want to go in next Sunday, that is up to you.”

  “We can go wading.”

  “You go wading in the creek.”

  “I know, but we have not gone to the lake enough this year.”

&nbs
p; “That is true, we have had so much cheese to make we cannot even take Sundays off.” But Ingeborg knew that was not the real reason. It was too hard for Nils to make the climb up to the lake yet. Since she did not want him to feel left out, she had been making excuses to stay near the seter.

  Nils had changed to a short stick for awhile and for the last two days had been walking without any assistance. But he could not go far yet.

  August rolled in and with it a sense of urgency that the time to go back down to the home farms was approaching. They all spent hours spinning, weaving, tending sheep and cattle, and making cheese. Always making cheese.

  When a horse and rider appeared on the track from home, Ingeborg thought at first it might be Ivar again, but then he would nearly be married by now, and for certain his mother would not allow him to come back up here. Besides, the rider was leading two horses. That was strange. She watched Gunlaug notice the rider and stalk off, shaking her head. She too had had hopes for a minute, but common sense probably told her the same thing it told Ingeborg. She’d not mentioned Ivar since the day he’d left.

  “A rider is coming,” Jon came running into the house to announce. “Maybe he will bring candy again.”

  “Perhaps. But he will bring letters.” She glanced at Nils, who looked like a thundercloud had smothered him. She almost asked him what was wrong, but when the light dawned, she thought the better of it. He might hear from his far, and she knew he didn’t want to.

  When she recognized the rider, she ran out with the others. “Gilbert, how wonderful to see you. They usually send the old men, you know, not the young ones.”

  “The older ones are too busy or just did not want to ride all the way up here.” He dismounted and drew letters from one of the bags. “I imagine this is what you want the most.”

  “Is there anything about the wedding?” Mari asked.

  “Of course.” He handed her a letter from Katrina, three to Ingeborg, several to Gunlaug, and one to Kari. He had one thick letter still in his hand.