Fay shielded her eyes from the morning sun. “Breakfast is ready if you’re hungry, Haakon.”
“Thank you,” he called back. “And Thor?”
While the doctor had advised Thor take precautions for a short while longer, he’d agreed that careful visits were good and right.
“Jorgan and the doctor are there now with the wagon to bring him back for a spell,” Fay answered. “We’ll fix him something when he comes.” She paused and surveyed her splayed-out children. “What is this?”
Haakon smirked. “Your sons have become food for the fishes, I’m afraid.”
Chuckling, Fay stepped back toward the kitchen, lightly grazing Tusie’s hair with the back of her hand as she did.
“Alright, ciderkins, how ’bout a shark?” Haakon asked.
Much cheering sprang from the boys. A shark was soon drawn in the dirt, as was a squid, both of which devoured the children. Still chuckling at the boys’ antics, Haakon strode to the front of the cidery, where a large metal box made a makeshift bench. The sun was chasing away the shade there, so he sat beneath its brightness and waited as Fay bustled about the kitchen. In the yard, two blond heads bobbed up and down in imaginative play.
Haakon watched with clear contentment, and when Fay brought out a cup of coffee and a plate of food, he rose quickly and met her halfway in the yard. He was just walking back toward the cidery when Fay exchanged an idea with Aven. At Aven’s agreement Fay called out to him.
“There’s good shade here on the steps, Haakon. If you’d like to sit, that is.”
Aven seconded the notion with a small nod. ’Twould be much easier for him to get the second helping he’d soon be needing.
Haakon looked to her then to Fay, and as though not meaning to waste a kindness, he carried his plate over, thanked them both, and sat at as far a distance as the porch steps allowed.
Aven thought again to the reverend’s sermon that Sunday. She’d meant to give Thor the notes but with Tusie’s impending birth had mislaid them. She would need to find them soon and retrace the story of the prodigal son herself. The notion filled her with the same warring emotions—those of sorrow and those of grace. Laced through it all was the tenderness she’d once had for the sailor on the steps.
It had been but a taste of the love she had for Thor and yet real all the same. The smallest hint of romance in her earliest days on this farm—but as she had slowly discovered that it was with Thor that her heart was the safest, she’d turned instead to a friendship with Haakon. A friendship she had cherished. She had only wished he’d forged the same path for them. She prayed that he was able to now and sensed, deep within, a rising hope for such a future.
“Tell us, Haakon, of your time away,” Fay said, surprising Aven as much as Haakon, judging by the way he paused with his cup nearly to his lips. She sat on the steps across from him.
Haakon drank, then lowered his coffee. “Well . . . I was at sea, which you might already know.”
“What places did you visit?” Fay inquired.
Aven grazed the back of her finger against Tusie’s silken cheek.
“I saw most everything surrounding the North Atlantic. England. Parts of Spain. Much of the Caribbean. And of course Norway.” He forked into his biscuits and gravy. “Also a fair number of places along the western coast of Africa.”
“My.” Fay laced her hands together and placed them within the folds of her striped skirt. The tan and white lines were a stark contrast to her black leather shoes. “And you worked in the ice trade, correct?”
“Mostly. When it was the off-season, we moved other exports.”
“What was it like?”
“At times, busier than you can imagine. At other times, we were so bored we almost lost our minds.” Haakon set his plate aside and grabbed the napkin Fay had brought with it. He took his time in wiping his hands as he spoke. “If I were back at sea, it would be time for watch. Instead of sitting here eating this fine meal, I’d be climbing the mast and into the rigging to take place at the lookout. The wind beats so hard there it takes your breath away. And there below would be the wind on the water, moving across it like a cat walking along a quilt.”
Aven drew in a quiet sigh. Oh, how she remembered that beauty. While her own sea crossing was an experience she’d not wish to repeat, it had been a rough and wild voyage that was as vivid as the picture he painted.
“It sounds very adventurous,” Fay said before glimpsing that his coffee was still full. “Of all the places I’ve been in this country, I’ve yet to be on the sea.”
Haakon gave her a brotherly smile.
“And did you not think to take a wife amid all those travels?”
Aven widened her eyes at her sister-in-law, but Fay seemed more intrigued with teasing Haakon as a sister might. Haakon grinned as though knowing as much.
“It seems you would have met your fair share in all the places you’ve visited.”
Haakon’s own pleasure faded some. “It didn’t seem wise to take a wife without some place for her to come home to.” He turned his coffee cup and gripped the handle for another sip. His gaze lifted to the horizon, lingering there before falling to the empty place at his side. A place that might have been taken by a woman whom Fay and Aven would know as sister, and for this man, beloved.
Fay’s expression was soft with compassion. They all knew that Thor and Jorgan were keeping the deed to Haakon’s land under lock and key for the time being. “Perhaps that might be different in the seasons to come.”
“I hope so.”
Aven did too. She wished she could express it, but no words seemed fitting. Perhaps it was for the best that matters of Haakon’s heart and longings were not addressed by her. But she could pray for this man and his growing peace. Hope for a good and steady future for him.
In the yard Bjørn squealed and crouched low as he watched Sigurd draw a fresh picture in the dirt.
“They’re good boys,” Haakon said, watching them. He rubbed at the edge of his patched boot where neat stitches bound the leather together. “And soon they’re gonna have another little ciderkin to play with.” He glanced back at Tusie, and when he smiled, his blue eyes lifted to Aven.
“What is this about ‘ciderkin’?” Fay inquired.
Haakon swiped a hand down his light beard. “Well,” he motioned with his fork toward the cider barn. “Ciderkin, as you know, is the second batch of drink. Made from the dregs of the pulp itself. So since they follow you and Jorgan, they’re rather like the second batch.” He watched as the boys ran circles around the squid’s twisting body. “That makes them ciderkin.”
Fay chuckled again, and Aven gave in to one of her own.
“That means you’re cider too,” Fay said to Aven.
Aven adjusted Tusie’s blanket again, taking care to keep it nestled over her tiny head. “You and your imagination, Haakon.”
He looked back over his shoulder, and she realized it was the first time in days that she’d addressed him.
Harnesses jangled in the distance. From the direction of the woods, the team ambled nearer, Jorgan on the driver’s seat. Thor wasn’t beside him, but on more patient inspection, Aven saw him sitting in the back, legs dangling over the end where the backboard was turned down. She couldn’t contain her smile at sight of him. Haakon rose and headed back into the yard with the boys.
Jorgan pulled the wagon to a stop in front of the house and climbed down just as Thor did. Thor’s movements were strained, but he looked more like himself, skin returned to its soft shade and his eyes clearer. As Thor approached, Aven rose and stepped to the railing with their daughter. On one arm he held a plaid blanket. Reaching them, he beheld Tusenfryd’s face, and his own lit with awe. He studied her for some time, taking in every feature and tiny movement. When his head lifted, his eyes met Aven’s. There was a contentment about him—a sweetness of homecoming. He motioned for her to come down the steps. She did, and once at his side, he led them down the length of the house.
&nbs
p; The walk was slow, but it only gave her more time to enjoy this visit with him . . . the way he was so near. It had been far too long since she’d had a reason to peer up and smile.
At the garden, he circled around the humble fence and stopped at a place where spring grasses grew. Unfolding the blanket, he spread it out and waited for her to sit. Aven did, beaming at him when he settled beside her. His breathing was labored, but any worry that afforded was bolstered by the knowledge that he would be well. As for the baby, Dr. Abramson had asserted that Tusie showed no signs of illness. It was too soon to know for certain, but he was optimistic, and Aven clung to that.
“Has the doctor said when you might return to us?” she asked.
Thor’s chest expanded with an inhale. I home two weeks.
“Truly?”
He was serious as he added, Kiss wife. One week.
A little laugh slipped out. “He told you that?”
I ask.
Aven smiled. “Did you, now?”
Thor nodded. His brown eyes sparkled, and if his longing for such was half of what hers was, ’twas no wonder he’d inquired.
“Well, I look forward to it.” More than she could say. There was a uniting between them that would go far beyond words, and she looked forward to that moment with all her heart.
Flashing a shy smile, Thor lowered his face. A dark strand of hair came unbound from its leather cord and fell against his face. Her fingers longed to be able to tuck it behind his ear. He did it himself, and with his gaze falling to Tusie, he watched her with a tender longing. In a soft rustling, two of Dotti’s kittens scampered along the side of the fence, batting at one another in play.
Thor shaped a single question. Baby well?
“Very well. She sleeps most often, and when she’s awake, she nurses with ease. Though she doesn’t like her nappies to be dirty. It keeps me busy, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. Fay and Ida have been such a help that I feel positively spoiled.”
He grinned and then his expression quieted. You well?
While Aven didn’t imagine herself as brave as everyone insisted she’d been, she was relieved to be through the ordeal and thankful to have brought a new life into this world. That it was Thor’s own child was a joy that softened the recollection of pain. “I am mending. ’Twill be slow, but Cora assures me that it’s steady and sure.”
He nodded his understanding. His hand moved, to touch her own, but he slid it forward on his thigh as if to force himself not to. He surveyed the grass at his side and with his thick fingers plucked up a tiny flowering weed and then another. One he laid beside Aven’s wrist. He carefully placed the other against the folds of Tusie’s blanket.
Heart swelling, Aven touched the tiny bud nearest her. It would last but a day, so she would press it into the pages of her journal tonight. Tusie’s also.
With gentle mews, the kittens wedged themselves between the garden fence, startling two finches that had been perched on a bend of willow. The birds fluttered away in such a fuss that Tusenfryd trembled. Her wobbly little hands flew wide, and Aven made a cooing sound to settle her. She nestled the baby’s arms back into the blanket with care.
Finished, she righted the folds of Tusie’s knitted bonnet. “Poor little dear.” Aven fetched up the dropped flower and looked over to see that her husband’s face was drawn, sorrow sweeping across his brow.
“Thor?”
Lowering his head, he ran a hand over his face as if to return the pleasure that had been there only moments ago. He regarded first the baby and then her before signing a phrase slowly. Each word shaped as if he wished he didn’t have to. When he finished, Aven closed her eyes. Though her vision was dark, she could still see the torment in him. A disappointment that was chased heavily by guilt. She hadn’t remembered to check, and now the deed was done.
Thor set his mouth firm, and in his face lived the bitter reality. The flailing of Tusenfryd’s arms . . . the way she’d startled at the ruckus . . .
Of those on the farm who would hear the world through its colors and shapes, shadows and light, of those who would declare hopes of heart through their hands or form expressions so poignant they went beyond what words could say, Tusenfryd would not be one of them.
Instead, Thor’s child could hear.
TWENTY-FIVE
THOR AIMED DOWN THE ROAD TOWARD THE ORCHARDS, and by the time he reached the first rows of trees, a soreness affirmed that he was pushing himself too hard. In the distance hills rose beyond the farm in varying shades of blue and gray. He went only a dozen more yards before his gait folded into a limp. He finally slowed. If he didn’t ease up, he could land right back where he’d been—flat on his back in a bed.
With the house out of sight now, he struggled along as spring branches drew him in. If only he could flee his guilt as easily.
He’d meant to linger longer with Aven and Tusenfryd, but with his chest in knots and Tusie having wet a diaper not long after her waking, he’d walked Aven back to the house for her to go inside and tend to the baby, promising to return to them before dark for another visit. It was an excuse—they both knew it—and that Aven graciously watched him step away was her own gentle way of upholding his need to absorb this realization. No doubt she would too.
Was it a victory for her right now? That she need only struggle alongside one Deaf person in her life? As soon as the thought came, he cringed at how unfair it was. She’d never been anything but heartening about his lack of hearing and would have been the same with their child.
Closing his eyes, Thor inhaled deep of the orchards. He slowed and, sinking down to a crouch, lowered his head and gripped the back of his neck. When he closed his eyes, the whole world emptied of life. No sight, no sound—just him and this black, vacant void. Was that what he wanted for Tusie? For this to be her reality upon drifting off to sleep at night? Of being woken by others in a start, or snuck up on when she couldn’t sense people coming? Of not being able to go to school due to efforts at speech that only invoked taunting because, like her da, she stam-stam-stammered and couldn’t get anything out?
How could he have entertained such a life for her?
The reality of it singed from the center of his heart. Deafness was not something he would ever wish upon another, but should it have come to pass, he would have welcomed it, bittersweet as it would have been. Should his daughter have been Deaf, he wouldn’t have been alone but instead had a soul who understood this existence. The silence he dwelled in would have welcomed another. He would have had someone to teach and raise in the ways of life as he knew it. He would have something to truly offer. Instead, it would be Haakon to teach her how to whistle and Aven to teach her to sing. Jorgan would hear her questions, and all the others would shape her voice in a way Thor didn’t know how to.
Because his baby girl could hear. God bless her, she could hear.
The Lord had been merciful. She would speak and go to school. She would know the melodies of music and the calls of the forest. She would know Aven’s laugh—something he craved above any other sound, the longing being rivaled only now by the little babbles Tusie would soon make.
Thor rose and, veering from the path, aimed for Haakon’s cabin. He’d rest a spell and visit Aven by suppertime. There was so much to be thankful for. So much. He needed her to know that gratitude stemmed from the very depths of him. It was hard not to walk right back for the house, but wanting Aven and the baby to be able to rest, he’d tarry an hour before knocking on the door.
The walk back to the cabin was strenuous, but he eventually made it to the doorway. Thor worked his way slowly up the stairs, and at the loft landing he saw Haakon seated near the window. The kid was in his usual chair, and with his boots propped up against the wall had the chair tipped back on its hind legs. He turned a limp leather pouch in one hand and in his lap lay a child’s drawing. Haakon seemed so engrossed with studying the picture that Thor didn’t dare disturb him.
Settling on the edge of the bed, Thor watched his
brother lift a jar of clear liquid from the floor and sip. A body might assume it water, but he could smell the moonshine from here. Thor grunted to get Haakon’s attention, and when he glanced back, Thor gestured the twisting on of a lid.
“Oh, yeah.” Haakon leaned forward, picked up the metal lid and ring, then screwed them on snug. “I wasn’t thinking.”
Thor nodded his gratitude, but with the scent lingering, he reached over and opened the window. A single whiff of liquor and he could suddenly taste it on his tongue. Suddenly remember the way it warmed his body, making his troubles smaller and further away.
While Haakon didn’t seem to have that kind of problem with it, Thor sensed something else amiss with his brother. It had to do with that pouch in his hand. The one usually hanging around his neck. While Thor didn’t know what to call the leaves that Haakon kept in there, he reckoned them a severe need for Haakon. With the pouch limp and nearly empty, perhaps that’s what was burdening his brother.
Thor’s attention slid to the Yellowboy rifle leaning against the wall. Haakon had mentioned the picked-at lock and windowsill, and not only had Thor investigated it himself that morning but he had a sense that was why Haakon stuck around now. He owed his brother a vast measure of thanks. While Thor wasn’t afraid, Haakon’s allegiance against such foes was yet another reason Thor had gotten to sit by his wife and daughter today. Thor whistled to get his brother’s attention, shaping his mouth and forcing out air in the way Haakon had once taught him.
Pressing both hands flat to his chest, one higher than the other, Thor circled them in the sign for appreciate. He pressed a palm out toward Haakon for your, then finished with the sign for help by pounding a fisted hand to his open palm.
Haakon squinted at him as if unworthy of the gratitude. “Sure.” When he dropped his focus back to the picture, it was to fold the paper up snug.
Suddenly remembering a different sheet of paper, Thor reached for the letter on the windowsill from Washington, DC. How had he forgotten? He tore inside, pulled out the single page, and noted the date from a few weeks back. A missive from one of the very men who had shaped his education as a boy.
Daughters of Northern Shores Page 21