Lars nodded. “Mostly that was Ingeborg. She don’t let nothing stop her, but Kaaren thought she was working herself into an early grave. They say hard work is good for healing the soul, but I don’t figure the good Lord meant for women to bust sod. It’s backbreaking work for a strong man.”
“Ja, so I’ve heard.” Haakan pulled his coat shut and buttoned it up. “It’s getting colder.”
“That north wind cuts right through ya.” Lars slapped the reins, sending the team into a trot.
By the time they’d made their purchases at The Mercantile and loaded the wagon, wisps of drapery clothed the sun. Once out of town and on the open prairie, they could see the lowering clouds bearing down on them from the north.
“Them clouds are bellied up with snow, sure as sin.” Lars slapped the reins and chirped the horses to a faster pace.
Driven before the rising wind, the first snowflakes bit like pinpoint daggers. The horses shook their heads and picked up the pace, already blowing heavily from the weight of the loaded wagon.
“Bring up that elk robe,” Lars said. “We can huddle under that. Otherwise we’ll be frozen clear through before we reach the river.”
Haakan did as told, but the robe provided only scant protection. He’d thought to put in a quilt, but they had planned to be home by bedtime, so he didn’t take it. The thought of Ingeborg’s reluctance to agree to the trip blasted through his mind. And he’d thought her too concerned about spring blizzards or Dakota blizzards in general. Her fear after what she’d been through was not surprising. And more important than her fear, she had been right. They should have waited. Now they were in trouble.
“How will you see the ford?”
“Count on the horses to know the way, I guess. Right now I can’t see five feet in front of them.”
The jingle of the harness and the grunts of the trotting team could barely be heard above the wind. Wind was such a paltry word for the driving force that seemed intent on blowing them off the prairie.
Haakan pulled a bandanna from his pocket and fastened it over his face, jerking his hat lower on his forehead so it would stay with him. He could feel the shivers start in his arms and legs and move inward.
“What about that soddy?”
“What?”
“That soddy, the one I stopped in.” He leaned closer to Lars and shouted in his ear.
“Good idea. Just how we going to see it? Could go right by in this weather.”
Their shouts mingled with the driving snow and whirled away.
Haakan turned to face the north, shading his face from the pelting snow, yet watching for the outline of the decaying building. The snow collected on the brim of his hat and on his shoulders covered by the robe.
Lars pulled the horses down to a walk to give them a breather.
How far had they come? Haakan tried to estimate their speed and the distance. He couldn’t tell if they were still on the road or had struck off across the prairie. Stories he’d heard of men lost in the blizzard and walking in circles till they lay down and slept their way to a frozen death played in his head.
With the reins clamped between his knees, Lars stamped his feet and slapped his arms against his chest. “And we thought spring was here!”
“What?” Haakan leaned closer.
“Spring. Thought it was here.”
“No, I ain’t seen it yet.” Haakan thought he mentioned the soddy but wasn’t sure. The wind took the words away before they could make it to his ear. He pulled his coat collar up higher. If he wasn’t careful, he could lose part of his ears to frostbite. He copied Lars’ stomping and slapping actions. Sitting up on the wagon seat like they were was just asking for frostbite, let alone freezing to death.
He peered out to the north, trying to see the soddy. His eyes blurred in the effort.
He thought of the women waiting for their return. They’d already been through so much, they surely didn’t need any more suffering. He could hear Ingeborg asking them to wait another week. They should have listened to her. He stared out through the driving snow. His chin felt like it had been stabbed by flying bits of glass.
Since arriving in America, Haakan had pretty much left the faith of his fathers, the faith he learned at his mother’s knee and from the stern admonitions of Reverend Sjorguard during confirmation. But now he sent a plea heavenward. God in heaven, please, I beg you, see us through this storm. If you help us now, I promise to return to you.
Cold. He’d never in his life been so cold. He clutched the elk robe closer around his shoulder. The wind slashed through all the layers of protection and pierced to the very marrow of his bones. Would he ever be warm again?
While shudders racked his body, he fought against closing his eyes. Frost rimmed his eyelashes, making them even heavier. He rubbed the frost away with the back of his mittened hand. He looked over at Lars. His chin rested on his chest.
Surely the men had seen the blizzard coming and remained in St. Andrew.
Ingeborg stared out the window at the swirling snow. Coming thick and fast, it had covered the ground within minutes, creating a world with no dimensions. No sky, no horizon, nothing but swirling, driving white pellets. She knew because she could barely see her hand at the end of her arm when she tightened the rope from the house to the barn.
She clasped her elbows in her hands and turned to face the questions on Thorliff’s face. “Not to worry, son. They are in God’s hands, and He can part the snow for them. They are most likely standing in the doorway of The Mercantile, deciding where they will spend the night. Lars understands Dakota blizzards. And respects them.” Roald had, too, and yet one had taken him. Ingeborg crushed the thought beneath her will and crossed the three paces to the stove. “We will make an egg cake so they will have a fine treat when they do return. How about that?”
Thorliff ducked his head. Paws whined and stuck his nose in the little boy’s hand. Andrew stirred, rustling the corn husks in the mattress on the bed. When he whimpered, Ingeborg went over and picked him up, snuggling him against her cheek. That side of the room away from the stove was frigid. How could a day go from bright sunshine and Chinook breezes to sub-zero in only a few hours?
She sat Andrew on his block of wood on one of the chairs and tied him in place with a dishtowel, all the while teasing him with nonsense words and funny sounds. While his usually contagious chortle rang out in the dim soddy, Thorliff refused to look up from the book he read in the glow of the kerosene lamp. At one point, he got up and put on a sweater.
After giving Andrew a chunk of pork rind to chew on to relieve his teething, Ingeborg sat down beside Thorliff and stroked the hair back from his forehead. “Listen to me, son.” When he didn’t raise his head, she tipped his chin up with her finger so he had to look her in the eye. “We believe that God takes care of us, don’t we?” He nodded. “And that He knows what is happening here and answers our prayers?”
Thorliff refused to look at her, covering the blue of his eyes so she might not look in.
“We will pray for the men, all right?”
He said nothing, the squaring of his chin mute testimony to his thoughts. When he breathed, the breath going in caught on something, and what might have been a sob in a weaker person only became a sigh.
“Thorliff, are you afraid?”
He started to shake his head, a movement so small that it failed to set the lock of hair on his forehead into motion. Instead, he nodded, and a tear slid from the corner of his eye. “Far didn’t come back, and I prayed and prayed.” Another tear trickled after the first. “Why, Mor, why?”
“Ah, my son, my son. So young to have to endure such sorrows!” She pulled on his arm, and he flew to the safe haven of her lap. “I do not know the answer to your question. I asked God the same thing for months and weeks, and I never heard an answer. But I do know, now, with all that I am and believe, that God knows best, and He keeps us in His hand.”
“Did Far know he was in God’s hand?”
Ing
eborg nodded. “Oh yes, my son, he knew. And now your far is standing next to the throne of God with all the angels, and knowing your far, I am sure he is reminding God to take care of his family still down here on earth.”
Andrew, drool glistening on his chin, waved his rind in the air and jabbered a long string of sounds, ending with “Mor, see me.”
“Yes, I see you, den lille guten. Thorliff, you are such a good reader, why don’t you get our Bible and find Psalm ninety-one. God tells us not to be afraid, for He is here with us.”
Thorliff went to the chest, covered by the flowers, leaves, and vines painted in the rosemaling of his homeland. He lifted the lid, picked up the heavy Bible, and brought it to the table. Carefully, he turned the thin pages, looking for Psalms. When he found the place, he read aloud, his voice barely audible above the shrieking wind.
“So, what does that tell us?” Ingeborg asked her son.
“That God is in charge of the wind and all that is.” Thorliff kept his finger on the place. “And that He knows about us and will protect us.”
“Good.” She leaned forward. “Then right now we will thank Him for just that. Ja?”
“Ja.” Thorliff closed his eyes, and together, he and his mother raised their voices in prayer, certain that God could hear above the howling of the wind. At the “amen,” Ingeborg sighed and wiped the corner of her eye with the edge of her apron.
“Now, when we feel afraid, we will remember that verse just as if God were standing right here beside us in all His glory.” She stood. “Let’s bake that cake. It is good you brought in so much wood this afternoon. As soon as the cake is baked, we will do our chores, and then after supper, we will write a letter to our family in Nordland. I wonder where your Onkel Hjelmer is this day.”
Haakan shook the man beside him. “Wake up!” He shook him again. “Lars!”
Lars jerked upright. He turned to look at Haakan, struggling to open his eyes. When he brushed the frost off of them, he stared over Haakan’s shoulder. Lars’ face cracked in a smile. “Look!”
Haakan turned. Sure enough, the wind had slacked just enough that the dark walls of the crumbling soddy could be seen.
Lars turned the team to the building and drew the wagon as close to the wall as possible. The men stood and nearly fell, since legs without feeling are impossible to stand on. With the halting motions of gnarled old men, they climbed out of the wagon, leaning against the wheels until they could move. They bent to unhitch the horses. In the lee of the building, the wind could only howl at them, not tear them limb from frozen limb.
Even so, their clublike hands refused to bend around the snow-and ice-coated traces.
“Go inside. Start a fire,” Lars yelled above the screeching wind.
“With what? There wasn’t any wood in there.” Haakan crammed his hands under his armpits to warm them enough to unhitch the horses.
How easy it would be to lie down and sleep his life away. Instead, he stumbled to the wagon bed and dug under the supplies to retrieve his ax. He found a flint box under the wagon seat and stuffed that in his pocket. Going to the end of the wagon, he hefted his ax and, with a mighty swing, attacked the sideboards. Chunk by chunk he split the wood, and when he had an armful, he hauled it into the soddy.
While dusk had not yet fallen, between the dark walls and the darker storm, he could see only blackness. He stood still until his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he could make out the end of the small room and the fireplace. He dumped the wood in front of it, and using his ax handle as a brace, he knelt on the packed earth floor. He shaved thin curls of wood off the wagon boards and arranged them in a small pile.
Opening the tinderbox was beyond him. His frozen fingers wouldn’t form the minute motions needed. Again he clamped his hands under his armpits, this time inside his coat.
A curse exploded from his throat. They had to have fire, or they would die!
“How are you coming?” Lars stumbled into the dark room.
“Slow.” Haakan blew on his fingers, and this time the metal box opened. With shaking fingers, he knelt again by the shavings pile and tried to strike a spark into the mound. Between his shaking and lack of control, what sparks he did strike disappeared into the blackness.
Like the sparks, Lars disappeared into the swirling blackness outside the door.
“Come on, come on.” Plea or prayer, Haakan muttered and tried breaking the curls into the tiniest slivers. If only he could see. If only he could make his hands work right. If only the fire would start!
Ingeborg did as she’d counseled her son. Every time the fears returned like a pack of wolves circling and seeking to drive in for the kill, she thought of Jesus standing right behind her and added an angel or two for safe measure. She just wished Kaaren were in the soddy with them instead of across the field in the other house all by herself.
Later, in the barn with the comforting noises of the animals around her and her head pressed into the warm flank of the cow, Ingeborg added extra prayers for Kaaren. Even though the wind howled like a gigantic wolf, screaming and tearing at the corners, she sat on the stool, content with the squeeze and pull motion that brought the milk streaming into the bucket. A sheep called her lamb, the cow switched her tail, and one of the horses pulled more hay out of the manger. Simple noises that tuned out the storm and tuned in her feelings of gratitude. The evening turned into one long prayer, and peace filled her heart.
But in the darkness of the night, with the storm howling so loud she kept waking, she could feel the old terrors ripping at the edges of her mind. How would Kaaren survive the loss of yet another man to the storms of the Dakotas? And Thorliff? Would he ever learn to trust in his heavenly Father? Would she? The blackness of soul that had shrouded her for those many months sought entrance again, slithering under the door she kept forcing closed.
Haakan hadn’t felt this close to tears since he left his mother waving to him from the station platform. How senseless! He took in a deep breath and let it all out, seeking to control the shaking of his body. He struck the flint again and again, each time feeling more desperate and knowing that calm and concentration accomplished more than desperation, anytime. His father had struggled to teach his sons that the cool head prevailed in a hot situation.
What he wouldn’t give for some real heat right now.
He leaned closer and struck the flint again. A bright red eye landed in the shavings and glowed. Afraid he might blow it out, Haakan puffed ever so gently. The eye expanded, slivers of wood curled black and a flame rose, eating the slivers around it and glowing brighter. Haakan chose three slightly larger slivers and set them, teepee fashion, over the flame. He rocked back on his heels and breathed a sigh of relief. Now they might make it through the night. He added more bits and pieces to the now ravenous fire, already feeling the warmth of it on his hands and face. Fire, so simple a thing, and yet without it, men perished. And the blizzards won.
He added the larger pieces, still careful to keep from crushing the precious flame.
“Thank God, you got it started.” Lars joined him at the fire.
“Did you get the horses unhitched?”
“Partly.”
“You stay here and I’ll finish. I can feel the burning in my fingers now, so I should be able to unhitch them.” Haakan got to his feet and stepped back into the fury of the storm. He’d been concentrating so hard on his own war with the flint, he’d nearly forgotten the cataclysmic battle raging outside the dirt walls.
He banged the icy traces and chains against the broad side of his axhead and unhooked them. One by one, he led the horses away from the doubletree and into the soddy. Their body heat would help keep all of them warm.
“We’re about out of wood.” Lars turned his back to the fire.
“I know. Should we unload the wagon and bring the supplies in here? It’s going to be a long night.”
“I’ll help you in a minute.” It was hard to understand his words above the chattering of his teeth.
/> Haakan returned in a moment with the elk robe and wrapped it around the shoulders of the man hunched near the flame. By the time he’d chopped another load of wood from the sides of the wagon, he’d worked off much of the effects of the cold.
One of the horses nickered when he stepped back through the doorway. Compared to the outside, the room already felt warmer. He stacked the wood near to the fire so it could dry some before being added to the flames. Cold as it was, the snow hadn’t melted enough to seriously wet the wood.
What could they use to melt snow for the horses to drink, let alone for themselves?
On the next load, he dumped a sack of seed wheat on the floor next to Lars. “Here, sit on this. It’ll get you off the cold ground.”
Lars didn’t move.
“Come on, man.” Haakan took hold of his friend’s shoulders.
Lars growled and flung out an arm, catching Haakan on the side of the head.
Haakan stumbled backward. His ear rang only slightly. Lars was too weak to do serious damage. In the north woods, he’d seen men go crazy from the cold. All they wanted was to be left alone so they could sleep. He brought in more of the supplies, stacking them a couple of feet from the fireplace. He opened one sack and poured grain in front of each of the horses after first removing their bridles.
“There, that ought to make you feel better.” The horses dropped their heads, and the rhythm of their chewing sounded comforting as he removed their harnesses. Snow had drifted in the corner where the roof had caved in, but even so, Haakan could feel the steam rising from the horses. If he could take the elk robe for a bit, he would use it to wipe them down. The snow that had frozen to their hair now melted to make them colder.
Haakan added more wood to the fire. Lars now leaned against the sack of grain, firelight playing over his slack features. Periodically a shudder clattered his teeth together, but his hands had relaxed their grip on the robe. Could he get the man walking again to keep his circulation going? He’d heard of men killing a horse, gutting it, and crawling inside the cavity for warmth and protection. Is that what he needed to do for Lars? But since they were protected at least to a degree, and if he could keep the fire going, they would be safe. Surely this blizzard wouldn’t last for days like some he’d heard of.
Lauraine Snelling - [Red River of the North 02] Page 11
