Daughters of Northern Shores

by Joanne Bischof

  Aven waved as she crossed the yard with the others. Her copper-colored braid was as noticeable as the swimming ensemble she wore of boy’s knickers and an old shirt. The belt she used to cinch around her waist had been abandoned now that her belly swelled full with child. Her bare ankles and feet were nearly as fair as the snow that had melted from the yard just weeks back. Thor smiled at the sight of his Irish bride and unborn babe.

  Fay walked beside Aven with eleven-month-old Bjørn on her hip and three-year-old Sigurd skipping along. Dressed in a bathing costume that Aven had given her, Fay’s white-blonde hair was as light as Bjørn’s curls. The babe clung to his mother, chubby legs showing from beneath his soggy nightshirt. Energetic Sigurd held tight to Aven’s hand, skipping beside his aunt beneath a clear, blue sky. He appeared to be laughing, and it must have been loud because the chickens startled in their coop with the same liveliness.

  Below, Jorgan stood as unmoving as the pines, watching his family with pride. Thor didn’t blame him. If he had young sons such as Bjørn and Sigurd, the same contentment would be hard to contain. He felt it even now—but it was of an unknowing anticipation. Due to be born later in the summer, boy or girl, it mattered not to him. He only wanted to hold and know the life Aven had made with him and that the Lord had seen fit to bless them with. A life they had longed for during years of uncertainty, made more heartrending by Aven’s tears and his own silent longing that he’d tried not to burden her with.

  And now, even though the babe could be born Deaf as he had been, Aven only asserted that she would love the child with all her might, as she loved him.

  With Aven heading inside, Thor descended the ladder. He tugged off his gloves and followed Jorgan across the yard. Soil crumbled fertile beneath their boots, land that just asked to be tilled and planted, but they farmed little. His orchards—now that was another matter. Of the 327 acres that spread before them, a third sustained apple trees. Several varieties already budded with unfurled blossoms across acreage that was not only Thor’s haven and sanctuary but the family’s livelihood.

  In place of the hard cider that had supported the family for decades was now fresh, unfermented drink that they sold around the county each fall. That which couldn’t be distributed in short fashion was crafted into jams and jellies by the women who teased that their innocent concoctions made more than the liquor ever had. But Thor kept the ledgers and knew they spoke in jest. His liquor had been fine, and he and his brothers had lived like kings. But although the money box didn’t hold the surplus it once had, he and Jorgan were richer than they’d ever been as bachelors.

  In a flash, three-year-old Sigurd darted nearer, pinning his tiny form around Thor’s leg. Thor caught the boy up and locked the child in a playful hold while Sigurd squirmed and giggled. Thor felt the vibrations from the scrawny chest against his forearm. Small hands pulled at the very place, but Thor’s strength was no match for his captive. He hefted his nephew over his shoulder like a sack of grain and toted him toward the house. Sigurd was laughing so hard Thor worried he couldn’t breathe, so he set him right side up on the porch. The boy pleaded for him to do it again, but Bjørn lunged from his mother’s arms. Thor caught the pudgy babe and, resting him in the crook of his arm, nuzzled a creamy shoulder like a hungry bear.

  There was that same sensation again—the unmistakable feel of a child’s laughter. Except this time it was smaller and squishier.

  Feeling a chuckle rise in his own chest, Thor handed Bjørn over to Jorgan. The moment he did, pain squeezed his side. He regretted every drop of liquor he’d ever drunk as the spot throbbed. If he could do it all over again—starting with his first indulgence at twelve—he would. He would tell that boy from long ago to put the pint of cider down, vowing that liquor wouldn’t drown out despair. It would worsen it, because not only had he spent nearly two decades enslaved to the bottle, he now faced down a whole new agony.

  As his side unclenched, Thor knew he’d have to mind the roughhousing. With Jorgan observing him, Thor gave a final pat to his nephew’s diapered bottom and strode into the kitchen. Ida was there, seated at the table in the center of the snug space where she sorted the latest arrival of mail from town. Nearly seventy, the housekeeper was slight of frame, but scrappy enough to have raised him and his brothers from boyhood.

  With the mail sitting beside her plate of half-eaten spice cake, Thor rifled through the envelopes, searching for a response to his letter for the Bureau of Research and Resource for the Deaf and Dumb. Instead, he unearthed only bills and a few new orders for their cider products.

  Ida offered a smile of assurance. “Somethin’ll come soon.” She squeezed his hand in her knobby one, driving home that hope.

  Thor nodded his gratitude and stepped into the great room feeling a heaviness that this wait brought. While he didn’t know what he’d receive from the bureau, he had penned a letter to its return address, requesting it to be forwarded to Dr. Kent. Inside had been an apology for his abrupt demeanor along with a request for any additional information the doctor could recall about the Sorrel men that day.

  After climbing both flights of stairs to the third-floor attic that was his and Aven’s bedroom, Thor found his wife toweling her hair. The spring had to be freezing, and while he doubted she meant to get so wet, Bjørn could splash like nothing else. It was no surprise when Aven paced to him and slid her arms beneath his own, pulling herself close to his chest. Thor wrapped her up and, at her shiver, bound his arms tighter. When she settled her forehead against his shoulder, he tipped his head down and kissed her damp hair.

  He felt her brush fingertips against his sleeve where engrained into the skin of his upper arm lay a scar that marked their first days of knowing one another. The beginning of this life together. With no way to speak such thoughts, he smoothed a thumb across the back of her neck, pressing the long, wet locks aside. What the doctor had marked on the form was all truth. Oral Failure. Except at times, here with his wife, Thor put voice to the first two letters of her name.

  “Av—” He sensed the fragment was scant compared to what she was meant to be called, but he breathed it between them when his tenderness for her overruled even his incapacity with speech. That he’d spoken it now had Aven pulling away enough for him to see that her cheeks were rosier.

  Thor smiled. She did as well, and with her needing to dress, he drew the curtains. While once a bunkhouse for him and his younger brother, this room had been refashioned to suit a bride’s needs, now housing two mismatched reading chairs beside a stand of shelves laden with books. The family cradle rested beside the bed, and framed pictures sat about thanks to Aven’s thoughtful efforts. But four pinholes on the far wall would always remind him of Haakon and the dusty map of the world that had once hung there.

  After Haakon’s fleeing, Thor had boxed up everything from the far half of this room and stored it away to bring Aven added peace. It had seemed to work, but Thor wasn’t certain. Rarely did Aven speak of his younger brother, and she seemed to prefer it that way.

  Having discarded all but her damp shift, Aven fetched a dry one from the dresser. As Thor watched her, memories of the past fell away. In their stead lingered the comforting presence of his wife. A chill shuddered her frame, so he fetched a blanket from the foot of the bed and draped it around her and her wet shift, pulling the knitted yarn snug beneath her chin. She smiled and rose onto her tiptoes for a kiss. He rubbed his hands up and down her arms, then touched the firm curve of her stomach. A tiny foot or knee pressed against his palm. Aven’s eyes brightened with the sensation, and Thor savored it all. Savored everything God had blessed him with.

  But as he did, he was overwhelmed with the need to sit down. Seeming puzzled, Aven watched him settle on the edge of the bed. Thor ran a hand across his forehead and had to work hard not to think of Da’s cross on the distant hill or the pain setting up camp in his gut. Of the growing ache in his joints and what seemed like a trace of a fever.

  Aven touched his beard, tipping his hea
d up before she spoke. “Are you feeling unwell?” The worry in her eyes deepened.

  Need rest better. He’d been working too hard was all. Once the roof was done, he’d slow his pace and be right as rain again. Parched, Thor made his sign again for water, entreating Aven for help. He followed it with the word for eat by pressing closed fingertips to his mouth.

  “Of course.” With a trace of alarm, she fetched a humble gown from the back of the chair and began to dress.

  He’d go down himself, but the thought of two flights of stairs was more than he could handle right now. That frightened him more than he wanted to admit. Thor swallowed a dry taste in his mouth and prayed with all that was in him that this ache was just temporary. And if it wasn’t, that God would see fit to help him through.

  TWO

  MARCH 10, 1895

  KRISTIANSAND, NORWAY

  “HAAAKKOOON NOORGGAAARRD!”

  At the faraway shout from his best friend and fellow seaman, Haakon opened his eyes to find that he wasn’t on the ship. He was in a barn. Though the boarded walls creaked in March’s winds, there was a pair of goats staring at him from the left while on his right lay the warm, soft form of a Norwegian woman. Mind still foggy about the night before, Haakon turned his head to see young Widow Jönsson blessedly asleep, her blonde hair barely visible above the supple furs she had carried here under starlight.

  A situation that would normally conjure pleasurable memories, but this maiden was different because, if he wasn’t mistaken . . .

  He lifted a corner of the coverings and saw a hint of her plaid blouse. The humble collar was buttoned snug against her cream-colored skin. For weeks, he’d tried to woo her, disregarding half a dozen other women for the sole wanting of this one with her deep-blue eyes and hair so lush and golden he hungered to run his fingers through it again even now. As it was, her crown of braids had come unraveled in the night, but that had less to do with him and more to do with the fact that they’d stayed up late to watch over a newborn goat.

  Though perhaps he might imagine that the golden tendrils falling loose against her pillow of sack grain had been a restlessness shared. One of both their knowing that even an interlude so innocent as last night would be the nearest they would ever be in the dark.

  Though time was of the essence, Haakon watched her sleep for a precious moment more. Never would he forget the boldness she’d demonstrated the first time he’d seen her. She’d been on the hillside with her small children about her skirts, rounding up a herd of goats before a storm. Clouds had churned nearly black overhead as she’d aided the creatures in her charge. He’d stood there on the ship’s deck, ice tongs in hand, struck dumb by her bravery and longing to help.

  His memory was muddled about the night before, but it took little effort to recall that he still hadn’t succeeded in winning her, no matter how much he’d pursued her these three weeks ashore. So tender she’d been the hours past, only wanting to talk with him late into the night, that she’d drifted off in his arms before he’d even kicked off his boots. The new goat had slumbered in a pile of hay, just as content looking.

  Not quite the gratifying send-off he’d hoped for.

  Haakon scratched his thick beard and, with sunrise barely lightening the air, ached to go back to sleep, especially with the honeyed scent of this woman and the way she sighed in her sleep. Yet he needed to get to the ship—and now. Part of him wanted to ask God to aid his silent exit, but he didn’t spend much time talking to God these days.

  Then again, after the night before, he was practically a priest.

  It pained Haakon to push back the furs, but he forced himself to brave the frigid Scandinavian morning and leave the warm mound of straw behind. He took great care to keep the bedding around his companion lest she stir. His fingertips grazed the ends of her unbound hair, and he pulled his hand away.

  Over the years, he’d learned it best not to wake a woman. Otherwise they’d want to know where he was going and when he’d be back. Answers he never gave on mornings such as these or there’d be a claim on him in every port from here to London. But this was different. This woman had endeared herself to him more than he knew how to face. Yet though she was a sweet soul that he longed for more of, she could never be more than a brief encounter. Not only was he leaving but she hadn’t been nearly as interested in him as he with her. It was with that fresh blow to his ego that he searched for his boots. They weren’t where he’d left them. Nor were they as falling apart as he recalled. Trying to ignore the reason for that, he pushed his feet in.

  The older goats chewed their cud, paying him little heed as he yanked the laces tight. When Haakon stumbled, knocking into a pitchfork that skidded against the wall, one of them let out an ornery bleat that fogged in the cold. Haakon held a finger to his mouth.

  Even if the night had gone as he’d hoped, he knew this woman sought his companionship and not coin, but with her and her children alone, he couldn’t ignore the urge to fish a few pieces of silver from his pack and slip them beneath a sack of grain. She would find them later, once the sack was emptied and taken away, and by then might have lost all memory of him. Better sense would be to leave the money in view, but he didn’t want to humiliate her by insinuating that he’d meant to pay for her company.

  Fighting both a shiver and stiffening hands, Haakon unlatched the barn door, winced at its creak, and snuck out.

  Coastal winds hit him—dense, salty, and so cold they pierced through his shirt like ice picks. He swung his coat on, eased the door closed, and started down the hillside with pack in hand. In the distance spread the bay and its glittering waters where ships from all over the world moored. Haakon’s only focus was Le Grelotter, the vessel that had been home for the last four years and the one that had brought him here to the Old Country. The land of his ancestors.

  At a little voice calling after him, Haakon glanced back to see one of the widow’s boys. Maybe six, the lad was bundled in a coat of thick hide, and so deep was the snow that he struggled with every lift of his small boots. Needing to hurry, Haakon nearly pressed on, but the boy’s struggle was so severe, his call so determined, that Haakon traced his bootprints back, meeting the lad halfway.

  Blinking up at him, the fair-haired boy spoke in Norwegian. Haakon didn’t understand but a word or two. Not uncommon between them, but always the boy’s mother had been there to bridge the gap. Now it was just the pair of them, a rising sun, and a leaving ship.

  “I don’t understand,” Haakon said regretfully. As deep a regret was sight of sorrow in the eyes peering up at him.

  A child who knew he was being left behind.

  Again.

  First with a da that had departed this world too soon, and now with Haakon who couldn’t stay.

  When the boy entreated him, Haakon took a knee. “I have to go.”

  “Ja,” the boy concurred, but though the single word was an affirmation, the folded paper he held out to Haakon seemed anything but. Haakon hesitated to take it, fearing that if he did, it would make turning away all the harder. But he couldn’t very well neglect such an offering, so he took the paper and thanked its giver.

  When Haakon’s name was shouted again from the deck of the ship, he rose. “I’m so sorry. I have to go.”

  Squinting against the morning light, the boy stepped back. Haakon wished he had turned away before seeing that tiny chin tremble, but he was frozen into place.

  “You be safe now. Take care of your mother.” The lad wouldn’t understand so much English, but the words had to be said all the same. “Oppfør deg, ja?” Haakon added in Norwegian. The decree for behave came easy, so often Aunt Dorothe had used it with him while growing up.

  “Ja,” the boy confirmed in a shaky voice.

  Haakon took another step aside. He had to go. “Ha det bra,” he said in goodbye. Haakon hated to turn away but he had to or he’d be living here for good.

  The boy called after him. “På gjensyn!”

  Haakon winced. There was no mi
staking such a farewell. He’d heard it often amid his travels to this country. We meet again. Did the boy actually believe that?

  The folded paper in hand, Haakon tucked it deep in his pocket and gave a final wave before lumbering through a sloping, snowy field. At the bottom, he hopped a low fence and skidded around a crumbling outbuilding. He was just ducking beneath a stone archway when he saw the crew readying the mainsails.

  “You’re late for watch,” Tate called when Haakon hurried down the wooden dock. A devout Christian, Tate Kennedy was as moral as they came, so Haakon didn’t elaborate as to what motives had him ashore as he hopped over the railing. Then again, Tate wouldn’t have shouted so loud if he didn’t already know.

  “I assure you I’ve been punished.” Haakon pitched his pack to the nearest cabin boy along with a request for it to be stowed.

  After swiping a hand down his buttoned coat, Tate straightened his spectacles. “Punished would be if we’d weighed anchor without you.” His breath fogged with each tug on the line he was winding.

  “Yet that’s never happened.”

  “Wouldn’t want to lose one of our finest,” Tate said dryly. Used to Haakon’s frequent onshore excursions, he thumbed him up toward the crow’s nest. A gesture that might have seemed indifferent if it weren’t for the narrow scar that spliced his palm. Though long since healed, the marks of their blood brotherhood were ones they would bear always. Rivals they’d once been, until the night Tate had rescued Haakon from a cold death in the Norwegian Sea.

  “Flag’s tangled. Right it while you’re up there.” So formidable was the task that Tate smirked, and it was there, within his stern mood—a flash of their comradery. As boatswain, Tate’s next command was for the foredeck crew, who heaved against wooden bars that turned the iron capstan, hoisting the anchor chain. The chain clattered while the shanty they sang kept a steady rhythm and marked the beginning of the voyage.

  The mainsail unfurled. It whipped until it caught wind and tightened, bowing and pulling like a lead dog in a sled race. Except instead of crossing icy vistas, that spirit would bear them far from this snowy harbor, clear of this churning fjord, and out into the open blue.