Threads of Hope

by Andrea Boeshaar

  “You hurt me, Peder.”

  “Your shoe had to come off.”

  Kristin felt unusually warm. She untied her bonnet and swept it off her head.

  “It is done now. I will leave and join the men outside so you can remove your stocking.”

  Kristin nodded.

  “But I will have you know that I am not happy about staying for dinner. The Sundbergs are here also.”

  “Oh?” Kristin wondered if that meant Sam would dine with them too. Then she wished the man didn’t occupy so much of her mind lately.

  “I only stayed to keep an eye on you.”

  “An eye on me?” Kristin gave a curt laugh of disbelief. “I am not a child.”

  “But you showed poor judgment last night.” Peder’s voice was low, almost menacing.

  Kristin didn’t know how to respond. What he said was true. It seemed she did possess poor judgment where Sam Sundberg was concerned.

  Standing to his feet, Peder left the sitting room just as Belinda, the Wollumses’ oldest daughter, walked in balancing a large tin bowl in her arms.

  “This is for your foot.”

  “Takk.”

  The girl set it down and water sloshed over its rim. Margaret appeared then with fresh linens, and Kristin took a small towel from her to quickly wipe up the spill.

  Then, taking care, she lifted her swollen extremity into the bowl. The water felt so cold against her inflamed foot that it made Kristin shiver, and she had to immerse it in gradual stages. Strains of women’s voices reached her ears, and within moments Mrs. Wollums, Mrs. Sundberg, and Sam’s sister, Mary, entered the sitting room.

  “I am sorry we took so long.” Mrs. Wollums removed her blue bonnet. “It took some time to locate the plantain.”

  Kristin eyed the leafy-green stems in the Indian woman’s graceful hand. Kristin presumed Sam’s mother would put them in the soak.

  Instead, Mrs. Sundberg hunkered down, inspecting Kristin’s foot. Her touch was cool, gentle, and expert. She spoke in English to Mrs. Wollums, who gave a nod in reply, whirled around, and left the sitting room.

  “Tehalutawe ésta.” Mrs. Sundberg lifted her brown eyes and met Kristin’s gaze. “It is what my people call the black and yellow insects that make their nest in hollow logs or under wooded brush.” She spoke Norwegian quite well, and Kristin understood her without difficulty. “They will sting if the nest is disturbed.”

  “Looks like I found that out the hard way. I must have stepped on the nest with my bare foot.”

  Mrs. Sundberg lifted her delicate brows and nodded. “A poultice will help.” She held up the leaves, still in her hand. “But first I must remove any remaining stingers.”

  The reverend’s wife returned with a long blade, and Kristin felt her eyes grow wide. “I held it in the fire a few moments, as you told me.”

  “Thank you, Agnes.” Mrs. Sundberg took the knife by the handle.

  Kristin drew in a startled breath.

  “Do not be afraid.” Mary gave her a comforting smile. “This will not hurt.” Gathering the folds of her brown and green checked skirt, she sat down on the settle beside Kristin.

  At that moment a realization fell over Kristin. She sat between two Indians. She had never been so close to such a people before. She’d only read stories in the Old Country and heard about Indians on her journey, how fierce they were, and how they scalped innocent women and children. But Sam’s stepmother and sister resembled nothing of those wild-eyed savages. Just the opposite. Here they were, trying to help Kristin, not hurt her. Besides, what she’d said to Sam last night was what she believed—people were not so different.

  Mary took her hand as Mrs. Sundberg lifted Kristin’s foot out of the cold water. She laid the blade against Kristin’s heel then slowly ran it upward, toward her toes.

  “There, that was not so bad, was it?”

  “No.” Kristin turned to Mary, noting how the smile on the girl’s lips made its way to her dark, shining eyes. “Not a bit.”

  “And look …” Mrs. Sundberg held the knife to her. “Look closely. See the two fine hairs on the blade? They are actually stingers. Little wonder your foot hurt so badly.”

  Kristin squinted and saw the fine particles on the sharpened edge and thought how remarkable it was that such tiny things could be so harmful.

  A movement by the door caught Kristin’s eye. She looked over and saw Peder, standing at the entryway, watching. Quickly, she tried to cover her exposed legs with her skirts. How dare he spy on me when I am in such a state of undress!

  Mrs. Wollums spotted him too and shooed him off. Peder stepped back and then turned and walked away. Kristin felt embarrassed for him and his less than chivalrous behavior.

  None of the women or girls said a word about the incident but returned to their task of helping Kristin with her sore foot.

  Mrs. Sundberg handed Mary a few of the leaves. Using a small wooden bowl that Mrs. Wollums provided, they placed the plantain inside and spat on it. Next Mrs. Sundberg crushed the leaves with a wooden spoon.

  Kristin sat by in stunned wonder.

  Once a sort of paste had been made, Mrs. Sundberg carefully placed it on the bottom of Kristin’s foot. Next she wrapped one of the linens around it like a bandage. Mrs. Wollums took away the bowl of water, and Mary carried the wooden bowl and utensils into the kitchen.

  “We will leave it on for about a half hour.”

  “May I inquire … I mean, I am just curious … why did you not wet the leaves with the water in the bowl? Instead you used spittle.”

  “Spittle contains healing powers that mix with the plantain and make it work.” Mrs. Sundberg got up from where she’d been kneeling on the floor. She must have glimpsed the doubt in Kristin’s eyes, for she added, “It will work. You will see.”

  Mrs. Wollums reentered the room. “I should get our dinner on the table.” She turned to her daughters. “Belinda, Margaret, come and help Mary and me.”

  The reverend’s wife led the way out of the parlor, leaving Kristin alone with Mrs. Sundberg, who had rapidly won her respect.

  Kristin smiled to herself. Just wait until she wrote to Sylvia and told her about this adventure in America!

  Sam balanced his white ironstone dinner plate on his knees and watched Mary and the Wollums girls chase two kittens in the yard. A tree-dense area surrounded the clearing and provided welcomed shade. As he ate, Sam carefully kept his gaze away from Kristin, although Ma appeared to be enjoying her company. 70 Even so, her forloveden looked nothing short of annoyed as he leaned against a distant maple with arms folded tightly across his chest.

  “When Lars finds out his niece and that guest of his from Norway are eating Sunday dinner with us,” Pa said, “there will be hell to pay. I just hope that girl won’t suffer for it.”

  “She won’t.” Reverend Wollums smiled and nodded a thankyou to his wife as she handed him a cup of coffee from the tray she carried.

  Sam accepted a cup too, as did Pa. Then Mrs. Wollums moved on to Ma and Kristin.

  “When I drive her and Mr. Olstad back to the Eikaas farm,” the reverend continued, “I’ll explain the situation to Lars. His niece’s foot required medical attention. Mariah Sundberg offered her services—for free.” Reverend Wollums grinned. “Putting it that way, I can usually reason with him.”

  Pa snorted.

  Sam thought it pathetic, but Revered Wollums spoke the truth.

  “Pa?” Jackson tilted his head and squinted into the sunshine. “Why do you and Mr. Eikaas hate each other?”

  “I don’t hate him. He hates me—and my family.”

  “But why?” Jack persisted.

  “Oh …” Pa leaned back in his chair. “It’s a long story and for another day.”

  “Is it cuz Ma, Mary, and me are Oneida?”

  “That’s part of it.” Pa sipped his coffee. “Maybe even most of it. You see, son, many Norwegians are superstitious people. Not all, but some. When I grew up, I heard stories about trolls roaming
the mountains and forests, and of dragons hiding in the depth of the lakes. Once my grandfather told me a tale about the witches living in the apple orchards and casting spells on little boys who ventured too close.” Pa guffawed. “It was most likely his way of keeping me from eating the harvest.”

  Sam, Jack, and the reverend added their chuckles, and Kristin’s head turned their way. When Sam met her gaze, a strange and foreign sensation coiled around his gut. In effort to quell it, he slid his gaze to Olstad, only to meet the other man’s stone-cold stare.

  “Miss Eikaas’s foot seems to be better.” Reverend Wollums observed as he swallowed more coffee. “Her shoe is back on, and earlier she walked around the yard.” He sighed. “But Mr. Olstad seems to be the one with the problem right now. Perhaps I’ll go speak with him.”

  “Hmph. Good luck,” Pa quipped.

  Reverend Wollums raised his brows.

  “You know as well as I do,” Pa explained. “Prejudice spreads and multiplies like those black beetles that infect our potatoes. It’s hard to stop.”

  “But God’s power is stronger than prejudice … and potato beetles.” The reverend’s smile broadened before he stood. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

  Sam watched him go and sent up a prayer that their godly minister would find success in nipping any hatred in the bud.

  “Sam!” Ma waved him over. “Come here and tell Kristin that funny story about when you and your friends went skiing last winter.”

  “Some other time.” The last thing Sam wanted to do was fuel Olstad’s jealousy—and fuel something else too.

  “Please, Sam?” Mary came up alongside him, dark eyes beseeching him, and Sam felt himself caving like he always did when it came to his little sister’s requests. “Please?”

  He inhaled and fired a glance upward. “Oh, all right.”

  “Watch yourself, son.” Pa flicked his gaze over his shoulder, indicating to Kristin. “Need I remind you that she’s an Eikaas?”

  “No, sir. I don’t need reminding of that.”

  Lifting his chair with one arm, Sam carried it over to where the ladies sat. Mary plopped down on the lawn and the Wollums girls copied her. His gaze stumbled into Kristin’s, and he noticed her blue eyes rivaled the sky above. Expectancy shone on her face like sunshine. He laughed to himself. Since when had he become so poetic?

  And suddenly Sam felt a little worried too.

  The wagon bumped along the dirt road. The tall pines and evergreens that lined it whispered in a gust of wind.

  Kristin shivered.

  “Wind shifted.” Reins in hand, the reverend turned to her. “It is coming off the lake now, which means cooler weather on the way.”

  “That will be nice.” Kristin hoped it wouldn’t be so hot now up on the bowed loft she shared with Inga and Anna. Perhaps she’d actually sleep tonight. “Takk, Reverend, for the nice afternoon.”

  “You are welcome, Miss Eikaas.”

  “We should not have eaten our Sunday dinner with those Sundbergs.”

  Kristin glanced behind her into the wagon bed and noted that Peder’s expression appeared stoic at best.

  “Now, Mr. Olstad, there is nothing wrong with the Sundbergs. I have been their pastor for many years. They are good people.”

  Peder pressed his lips together as he stared out into the woods.

  “God has said in the Book of Proverbs that love covers all sins. Saint Paul reiterated it by saying that the greatest gift from God is love.” Reverend Wollums paused. “There is too much hatred in this community already. Please do not add to it, Mr. Olstad. You have been here only a couple of days.”

  Peder said nothing, and Kristin wished that he would heed the pastor’s word. The Sundbergs did, indeed, seem like good people. Kristin had enjoyed chatting with Mrs. Sundberg, and she was grateful for the insect remedy. Her foot felt almost healed. And young Mary and Jackson were well behaved, and Sam …

  She suddenly realized she’d never gotten a chance to straighten him out about her and Peder’s relationship. But what did it matter anyway?

  Kristin looked around her, taking in the scenery. They came upon a clearing, and drying cornfields spread out on either side of her. At this late stage of summer, the corn would most likely be ground into meal and the rest used for animal feed. But why hadn’t Uncle Lars planted any corn this year? And why did he and Mr. Sundberg hate each other?

  “Reverend, can you help me understand the relationship between my uncle and Mr. Sundberg?”

  “I can try.” He paused as if collecting his thoughts. “It started years ago—before I came to Brown County. No one will tell me the full story, but from what I understand, they were friends in the beginning. The Eikaas family had gone to the Sundbergs’ for dinner one night. Later it was discovered some valuable coin silver was missing, and Karl accused Lars of taking it. Lars denied it.”

  Kristin wondered if her uncle was really guilty of the crime. She wouldn’t doubt it.

  “After that Lars spoke out against Mariah Sundberg, as she is Oneida—Jack and Mary too. But they are believers and have just as much right to be in church as the Eikaases. Well, Karl took umbrage. It has continued from there.” The reverend expelled a ragged breath. “I do not mind saying that I am at my wit’s end. And yet, I do not want to give up hope.” He smiled. “There is always hope because there is a God.”

  Kristin overheard Peder’s derisive snort and ignored it. “But I do not understand what Mrs. Sundberg and Jack and Mary have to do with the feud between my uncle and Mr. Sundberg.”

  “It’s not them. It’s their heritage and the color of their skin.

  And unfortunately, prejudice is a weapon fueled by the fact that this community is torn over the situation with the Menominee tribe. Half the folks in Brown County, including your uncle, say it would be a good thing if the Indians cede their land to the government and move out of Wisconsin. The other half, led by Karl and Sam, feel the Indians are entitled to stay, citing that they did not get proper representation before the treaty was signed.”

  “They were tricked?” Kristin was beginning to know how that felt.

  “Some say so.” The reverend glanced at her.

  “It does seem a bit unfair for the Indians.” Kristin recalled her father talking about how unfair the government was in Norway—how it taxed their food so high, including the crops they grew and the fish they caught—so that many people went hungry in spite of a healthy harvest. “It pains me to think that I traveled so far to escape oppression only to find it again here in America.”

  “Oh, now, Miss Eikaas, please do not feel that way.” The reverend hiked his floppy hat higher onto his forehead. “The situation will be resolved with the Indians, and in the meantime, people like the Olstads can stake a claim and purchase the land and own their own farm in a matter of months. America is nothing like the Old Country. You will see.”

  “Ja, and that’s what we are hoping for,” Peder said. “A farm of our own.”

  “And then Sylvia will come.” The thought of her best friend arriving in Green Bay made Kristin smile.

  The wagon suddenly rolled by rows of apple trees, and Kristin glimpsed several ripe fruits bowing their limbs. How good an apple would taste. Did her uncle own this orchard?

  Before she could ask, the reverend steered the horses to the right and up the narrow dirt road, leading to Uncle Lars and Aunt Esther’s cabin. They hit a rut, and Kristin clung to the seat’s sidebar so she wouldn’t tumble off the wagon.

  “I might mention to Lars that he needs to repair those divots before someone gets hurt.” The reverend straightened his hat, and moments later, the cabin came into view. A dreary cloud descended over Kristin’s head. The place exuded gloom.

  “We had a fine time years ago when the community held a barn-raising for your uncle. Mr. Hampton, from the brickyard, even offered to make the hearth in which your aunt bakes and cooks. It also heats the home.”

  “I should say it does, especially the last couple of days.” Kr
istin only wished the volunteers had helped her uncle build a decent home too. “Ja, the barn is very nice.” She couldn’t seem to curb the wistfulness in her tone.

  Reverend Wollums turned her way. “Our community assists your uncle whenever possible. It troubles me that he and his family live in that hovel. We have taken up collections at church and people have donated supplies and time to help with repairs. But things do not change. I hate to think of your aunt and the children going to bed hungry.”

  “Why do things not change?” Kristin turned slightly on the wagon bench.

  “Good question.”

  “There is rotten lumber in back of the barn.” Peder’s tone held a note of disgust. “It is worthless—not even good enough for firewood anymore.”

  Kristin thought she glimpsed a wave of anger brush across the minister’s brow.

  He managed to shake it off. “I will speak to Lars about that—and explain about our additional guests this afternoon.”

  The Sundbergs. Kristin hadn’t begun to think about the ramifications of associating with them. She hadn’t wanted to. Sunday dinner at the Wollumses’ place had proved most pleasurable.

  Reverend Wollums pulled the wagon to a halt. Peder jumped out then helped Kristin from the wagon. Uncle Lars sauntered from the barn.

  “Welcome, Preacher.” His gaze flitted over Peder and landed on Kristin. “Did you enjoy your meal with the Wollumses, liten niese?”

  “Ja, Onkel.” Guilt twisted inside of her, and she sent a glance toward the reverend as he climbed from the wagon seat. Her cousins and aunt poured into the yard. They too greeted the minister.

  “Lars, I would like a word with you if I may.” Reverend Wollums straightened after tousling Erik’s blond hair.

  “Of course. Come into the barn where we can find privacy. Erik, water the reverend’s horses.”

  “Yes, Far.”

  Kristin smiled as the boy ran for the bucket.

  “I would offer something—”

  “No need, Mrs. Eikaas.” With an understanding expression, the reverend waved his hand in the air. “Do not trouble yourself. I will not stay long.”

  Kristin thought Aunt Esther looked embarrassed as she turned for the cabin door. The hem of her mud-brown dress swirled at her ankles. Peder followed the men into the barn just as Inga came forward and hooked her arm around Kristin’s elbow.