CHAPTER 9
* * *
They waited for Papa to wake up.
Klara held Papa’s hand and kissed it. “We need you, Papa,” she said. “You have to live.”
Sven scavenged for a ragged gunny sack to use as a blanket. He shook the dust out of it and draped it over his father’s body.
It seemed like forever, just listening to their father’s rough breathing and frequent moans.
At last Papa woke and pushed himself to his elbow. He cried out. His eyes widened when he saw the bloody front of his shirt in the candlelight. “Vonlaus,” Papa said. The blood stain on his shirt blossomed into a crimson flower. “You’ll have to fetch help. I’m not going to make it.”
“We’ll wait until you’re stronger,” Ryker said, “and go together.”
“Nei,” his father gasped and stiffened. “It’s a mortal wound. Fetch the money pouch,” Papa said. “Gather what is left.”
“I can’t,” Ryker said, choking back tears.
“You can. It’s over for me. Go—” Before he could finish his sentence, Papa’s voice faded into silence.
“Papa!” Klara said. “He needs a drink of water.”
For all Ryker knew, Indians hid in the yard, waiting for them to show themselves. Ryker pushed open the door a crack. It was twilight. His stomach growled, and he remembered the dill pickles lying on the cabin floor. Somewhere the cow waited to be milked. Maybe the Indians had missed the cellar under the kitchen where the milk jug, cheese, and fresh eggs were kept. He must fetch water from the well.
“Wait here,” he said to the twins. “I’ll be right back.”
“No!” Klara said. “Don’t leave us.”
“I’m here,” Sven said. “I’ll take care of you.”
Ryker crept out of the cellar and breathed the fresh air. He pressed close to the ground and crawled to the outhouse. His heart beat so loudly that he doubted he could hear Indians if they were there. He waited a long moment and peeked around the side, looking toward the front of the soddy. The haystack smoldered into a heap of red charcoal beyond the barn, and the smoky smell lingered over the homestead. Skraelings! Dirty Indians. The fire had burned itself out before it reached the garden.
No sign of Indians. Crows stirred with a flurry of black wings when Ryker walked by the dead geese, where they were picking the carcasses. He didn’t dare start a fire, even if the meat would spoil. Ryker found three eggs in the nest beside the coop. No sign of Beller, Marigold, the calf, or the ox team. Ryker looked around before he dared enter the soddy. The last thing he needed was to be caught inside. The soddy had only one entrance.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he scooped the pickles scattered on the dirt floor and put them into an empty flour sack hanging behind the door. He gathered a string of dried beans from the wall and opened the trap door to the cellar hole under the kitchen. It held a few garden vegetables. He found a jug of milk and a pat of fresh butter. He added to the sack until it bulged. Tears came when he picked up the block of gjetost cheese. There would be no treat for Christmas this year.
He stuffed his mother’s comb and matching hand mirror into the sack. He eyed the Norwegian Bible, but it was too heavy to carry.
“Dear God,” Ryker said, but no words followed. “Dear God,” he said again. Then he gathered the money pouch from the hiding place behind the stove. He hung the strings of the pouch around his neck. It held only a few coins.
He reached for the butcher knife from the high shelf and a quilt from under the bed. He must hurry. Mama’s hatpin stuck in a pincushion in her knitting basket. It might come in handy. He grabbed the ball of yarn, and Klara’s sweater. Flint for fire. A short length of rope. He grabbed the salt shaker off the window sill and picked up Uncle Tom’s Cabin off the floor where he had dropped it.
“Dear God,” he said again. Then he spied the shoes lined under the bed. He grabbed them and stuffed them into the sack.
He was almost out the door when he spied the tintype of his parents’ wedding day. His father scowled into the camera, so young and strong. Swallowing a sob, Ryker pulled the picture off its nail and kissed their young faces. He tucked it into his pocket, wondering if he would ever see his mother again.
Swirling gray clouds gathered on the western horizon. Mama and Elsa would be cold if it rained. Even now slivers of lightning sparked in the sky, and the wind rose. Ryker pushed the sack into the hideout and crept back to the well. He prayed as he drew water. He asked God to make the Indians kindly toward Mama and Elsa. They hadn’t been kind to his father.
Ryker climbed the willow tree and scanned the flat prairie for their missing animals or signs of Indians. A blanket of yellow flowers covered the prairie. Wisps of smoke from the smoldering haystack stung his eyes. Everything looked the same. He squinted past the endless prairie. Fort Abercrombie should have protected them.
Bitterns and red-winged blackbirds sang from the swamp. A hawk fought the crows for the dead gander. A nighthawk swooped across the darkening sky. The first raindrops splattered on his face, pattering on the green willow branches.
Papa must go along with them. Papa knew what to do. Papa would surely be strong enough to travel by morning. Ryker clambered down the tree as the fat drops turned to drenching sheets of cold rain.
It made no sense to leave during a storm. An unexpected peace settled over him. It wasn’t an audible voice, but an inner assurance that made him certain they could wait to leave until morning. He prayed for angels to watch over Mama and Elsa. He prayed for the twins, for Martin, for Papa, and for himself.
He was almost down the tree before he remembered to ask God to keep the new baby safe. Maybe a little brother this time.
Ryker crawled back to the root cellar. The candle sizzled. Papa looked as white as death itself. Blood soaked through the bandage on his chest, and Sven insisted on giving him drops of water.
“Mama always makes sick people drink water,” Klara said.
They took turns drinking from the milk jug. It felt cold and sweet on his throat. Ryker hoped the Indians hadn’t killed Marigold. She was a good cow, beautiful in spite of the blinded eye, always faithful to give milk, and now with a calf. She may have run out into the prairie when the Indians attacked. No sign of her carcass, nor of her calf.
“Papa, do you want a pickle?” Sven said.
“No,” Klara said. “Remember when we had measles? Mama said only water.”
His father spoke again, his words as quiet as a butterfly’s wings. “You’re the man of the family now. Find Mama and Elsa and fetch them home.”
“Papa,” Ryker said as tears sprouted from his eyes, “you’ll be better soon.”
“The title is free and clear.” Papa’s voice sounded barely audible. “The deed in the strong box dug into the wall under the stove.” He rasped a shuddering breath. The candle flickered. “Making hay is easier than breaking sod. You’ll make enough to support the family if you stick with it.”
“Please,” Ryker said. “Don’t talk that way.”
“I’m fading,” Papa said. He clutched Ryker’s arm until his fingers gouged Ryker’s flesh. “Don’t be so foolish as to sell out. There are those who would take advantage. Promise me you’ll care for the family.”
Ryker’s dreams of a better life floated before him. A fancy house with books, decorative pheasants, and two milk cows seemed unimportant. He turned away from the dream and promised to care for the family and keep the farm.
Then Papa called for the twins and spoke a word to each, telling them he loved them and that they should take care of their mother. “Mind your brother. He’s as good as any man.”
The candle fizzled to blackness. “I never planted that lilac bush she wanted,” Papa said. He gasped once, and Ryker thought Papa was gone, but his voice came again from the darkness, even fainter and weaker. “Tell Schmitz . . . fetch soldiers.”
Klara begged Papa to live.
Papa slept, his ragged breathing the only sign of life.<
br />
“Angels will care for us,” Klara said in a shaky voice between sniffles. “Mama says we don’t need to be afraid.” She prayed Mama’s favorite nighttime prayer: “Protect us as we stay awake, watch over us as we sleep.”
They huddled in the darkness until first Klara, and then Sven drifted into a restless sleep.
Mama or Martin should be here. His older sisters should be in charge. Outside the storm roared its fury. Even though muffled by the earthen walls, the sounds of pouring rain proved louder than his pounding heart.
CHAPTER 10
* * *
Ryker knew he should feel something, but a black fog settled over him, as thick as the smoke over the Schmitz farm earlier that day.
Ryker couldn’t rest. He couldn’t shut down his mind. It was as if he were missing something important. Something nagging just beyond reach. The smoke over the Schmitz farm. The Schmitzes’ cabin was built of real logs. Indians had fired the Schmitz cabin. He couldn’t go to them for help.
He remembered the gunshots, and a cold shudder went through him. He thought of Johnny running through the tall grass, and how the twins could have been with him, heading into the face of danger. They had been within spitting distance of the Indians. He looked out the crack in the door. The rain had settled into a steady downpour. A gust of wind brought a shiver to his skin.
Ryker closed the door and touched Papa’s cold face, like a slab of meat hanging in the woodshed. He jerked his hand away and groped in the darkness for Klara’s warm body.
Papa was gone. The ground shifted beneath Ryker’s feet, and it was a long moment before he could breathe.
“Protect us as we stay awake,” he prayed through chattering teeth. He must be brave. “Watch over us as we sleep.”
Ryker stayed awake through the dark night, rousing to peek out the door several times. The rain stopped, and mosquitoes tormented. Klara cried out in her sleep, but Ryker feared a smudge fire would draw the savages. He covered her with her quilt. Then Ryker crawled outside and lay under the drooping willow boughs.
The sky cleared, and a million stars splattered across the floor of the sky. Somewhere Mama and Elsa looked up at the same stars. Maybe Martin viewed them from a rebel prison camp. Or maybe Martin was already with Bertina and Sissel, Papa, and Bestemor. He tried to imagine living far above the stars, in heaven with the Triune God and the cherubim and seraphim. Some things were beyond imagination.
Mama and Elsa might be in heaven, too. They might already be orphans. They would be worse off than Jimmy Henderson, who at least had a father. Ryker could not staunch the flow of tears.
“Help us, God,” Ryker said. “Watch over us, Papa.” His throat thickened until he thought he might suffocate. “Don’t leave us.”
Ryker cried until his tears ran out. His head ached. Overhead, the shadow of a swooping bat. The whine of mosquitoes and croaking frogs mixed with the haunting howl of a wolf. Or maybe it was an Indian signaling his fellows to attack them again. Maybe the same Indians who had taken Mama and Elsa. Elsa was so small and sometimes had bad dreams in the night. What if she cried out and an Indian hurt her? What if Mama’s baby came tonight?
No, he reminded himself. Mama’s baby would not come tonight. Mama would keep Elsa safe from the Indians. Ryker would take the twins to the Tingvolds’ with morning light. Mr. Tingvold would fetch the soldiers. They would be all right. At least for now. He looked up at the panorama of stars overhead. Mrs. Tingvold named it the Milky Way. He would remember to ask her why it had such a strange name.
Martin knew how to follow a trail by the stars, just like Topsy in Uncle Tom’s Cabin, but Ryker knew only how to get lost. The memories of trips to Fort Abercrombie swirled in his mind. How smothered he had felt while traveling through tall grass. But he knew the trail to the Tingvolds’. He had nothing to worry about.
Ryker crawled back into the cellar, leaving the door open a crack to allow the moonlight to pierce the darkness. For a long while, he watched the twins sleep, Klara with her thumb in her mouth, and Sven with his knife gripped in one hand and his arm thrown protectively around his sister’s shoulder. They should have celebrated their birthday with a prairie hen supper, Mama kissing them good night and tucking them into their beds. Ryker should be reading another chapter of Uncle Tom’s Cabin while Mama knitted. Papa should be adding numbers in his tally book, trying to figure how much hay they must sell to buy a better plow. Instead, their world had fallen apart.
Klara called out for Mama. It seemed the night would never end. Ryker held his breath and listened for sounds of danger.
Nothing but whippoorwills. Frogs in the swamp. The scurry of a mouse through the grass. Ryker could not bear to look toward his father’s body. Ryker tried to remember the sound of his voice but, instead, recalled a memory from Norway, how Papa had wept when Sissel and Bertina had died. Papa gathered him onto his lap and buried his face in Ryker’s chest, sobbing and crying, and telling Ryker that he must live because losing a son would kill him.
“Oh, Papa,” Ryker said softly. He held the memory like a treasure. “Mama said you had a heart of gold.” He pulled the quilt away from the twins and covered his father, not wanting the twins to awaken to the sight of their father’s corpse. Surely, he did not want to see his father’s dead face, but Ryker squared his shoulders, bit his lower lip, and pulled back the quilt. He looked long and hard into his father’s face. There was nothing of peace about Papa’s face, not like Ryker remembered from his Bestemor’s funeral.
Back then, Mama had forced him to kiss his grandmother’s cold cheek. Even in death, Papa’s face froze into a grimace of pain and determination. Papa had fought to survive to care for them. He had wanted to find Mama and Elsa.
Ryker had no chance to please his father now. Ryker had secretly hoped to step into Martin’s spot of favor after Martin left for war. It hadn’t happened. Now it never would. It seemed a waste. This long season of labor and struggle. All for nothing.
He leaned over and kissed his father’s forehead.
He needed fresh air. Ryker covered his father’s face and returned to his place under the willow branches. Puddles of water pooled in the grass, and far away he heard a rooster crowing. A pinkish orange light showed to the east, and Ryker knew they must leave soon.
He called for the twins, and Sven and Klara lay in the dewy grass beside him, shivering at the touch of wet grass. The twins wondered what had happened to Beller. Klara thought he had followed Mama to take care of her, and Sven thought he was off hunting. Ryker did not voice his fear that Beller had been killed by the Indians. Klara’s teeth clattered. Ryker thought of the quilt around their father but made no move to retrieve it.
“Where will we dig his grave?” Sven said. “We don’t have a marker.”
Ryker reached for a small twig and chewed it into a soft brush to clean his teeth. He needed time to answer his brother. He knew their safety depended on his decision, though it was an intuition deeper than words.
“Indians might see a grave,” Ryker said. He hated being in charge. Martin should be making the decisions. “They’ll follow if they know we were here.”
A long silence broken only by the morning chorus of birds. “Then we’ll bury him in the root cellar,” Sven said. “We can’t just leave him.”
Digging a grave would take all day. The floor of the root cellar was rock hard this time of the year. Maybe if it were spring flooding, they could manage. But not now. There was no time. They must fetch help. He had promised Papa, and he must stick to his word.
“We can’t take the time,” Ryker said softly. It wasn’t fair. A choking sob rose in his throat. “We have to think about Mama and Elsa.”
“We can’t just leave him!” Sven said. “It isn’t right.”
“Ryker is right,” Klara said. “Papa wants us to find Mama and Elsa.” She stepped closer to her brother. “Besides, Jesus slept in a tomb,” Klara said. “Papa will be safe in our hideout until we can come back.”
They had
dug the root cellar when they first moved to the prairie. Ryker and Martin hauled buckets of rich soil to the garden spot as fast as Papa shoveled them.
Papa had not known he was digging his own grave.
Ryker remembered how they had lived in the dugout until the first crops were in. Afterwards, they used it for storing potatoes and cabbages. The dugout was prone to spring flooding. Ryker disliked thinking of his father’s bones drowning every year.
If he lived, he vowed to move Papa’s bones to higher land. There was no high land on the prairie, but Ryker would find a place for him, if he had to travel all the way back to Dodge County to do it.
“Not even a prayer?” Klara said.
“I’ll fetch the Bible,” Sven said.
“Wait,” Ryker said, holding him back while he scanned the yard and hayfield. A red fox skittered into the tall grass after a gray rabbit. The rabbit’s white tail bounced behind it like a ball of yarn. Indians could be waiting for them to come out. They could be hiding in the tall grass. This might be the last minutes of their lives. His heart raced, and Ryker pushed away a wave of terror.
“I see nothing amiss,” Klara said. “I wish Beller were here to warn us.”
Ryker took one last look and nodded to Sven. His brother raced to the house and returned, out of breath, carrying the ancient volume from the Old Country.
As Ryker took the family treasure from his brother’s hand, he felt the reality of his new position fall upon him. He was the head of the family, at least until Martin came home, or the soldiers found Mama. Ryker squared his shoulders and opened the Bible to Psalm 91, his mother’s favorite passage, ending with verse 11, “For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways.”
“Read more,” Klara said. She stuck her thumb in her mouth and sniffed back tears. “The part about trouble.”
Ryker skipped to the end of the chapter. “He shall call upon me, and I will answer him. I will be with him in trouble; I will deliver him, and honour him.”
Escape to Fort Abercrombie Page 6
