Back and forth, the ideas waged a war in his mind, much like the blizzard trying to snatch the roof off their heads.
“Try this first,” he muttered, hauling Lars to his feet.
Lars mumbled something, and Haakan figured it was better he could not hear it.
“Lars! Listen to me! You are going to walk with me back and forth in front of the fire. Do you hear me?”
Lars mumbled something again, and his head lolled forward.
Haakan held him up with one arm and slapped his cheeks with the other. “It won’t help if I carry you. You have to walk.” He pulled one of the man’s arms up over his own shoulder and clamped his own around Lars’ waist. “Now walk!”
He carried dead weight. The thought made him cringe. He might feel like dead weight, but the man was still alive, and he was going to remain that way.
“Lars, Kaaren needs you!” He raised his voice to outshout the wind. “Kaaren needs you. You can’t let her down.”
Lars lifted his head. His eyes fluttered open. “Walk.”
If Haakan hadn’t had such a close grip on the man, he never would have heard the word. But walk they did. Back and forth. Forth and back. Haakan stopped only long enough to add more wood to the fire. When he had to go out and pull more wood from the wagon, he lowered Lars to the grain sacks and covered him again with the elk robe.
Neither of them shivered any longer. Is that good or bad? Haakan took turns living in his thoughts of home, of the cook at the lumber camp, of a cup of steaming coffee. When he needed to keep awake, he talked to Lars. He sang some of the drinking songs he’d learned in the camps. The German loggers knew the best ones, and he sang them at the top of his lungs. Then he sang the hymns he’d learned as a child.
Back and forth. Lars stumbled and grumbled, but they kept on. One foot in front of the other, turn, and go back.
How long was this night to last? Never had one seemed so long or so dark.
Dawn broke the back of the storm and sent it skulking to its lair.
While snow again covered much of the land, there were places where the wind had blown the land bare and others where drifts rose in white waves on the flat prairie. Ingeborg stood in her doorway and shaded her eyes with her hand, looking toward the north for sight of the men.
If they came.
She fled from the thought and stepped into the barn, again capturing the peace of the night before, a peace she’d felt in spite of the howling wind. No wonder Roald and Carl had spent so many of their waking winter hours in the barn. You felt that peace in the house too, remember? She nodded, grateful for the reminder.
She milked the cows, fed the chickens and pigs, threw hay in for the sheep and horses, and picking up the full milk bucket, she headed for the house. By now the boys would be ready for breakfast. She looked across the drift strewn field between the two soddies. A plume of smoke rose from the other chimney, and a cow bellered from the sod barn, answered by the one she’d just milked.
Since all the troughs needed water, she’d set Thorliff to drawing from the well. They would take the horses and oxen down to the river to drink as soon as they’d eaten so he wouldn’t have to lug as many full buckets. Take the mule and go look for the men. The thought had come earlier, too, when she was feeding the horses. The one mule remained from the team, the other had died with Roald. She’d hoped to find another mule to fill in, but so far hadn’t found one. Like the other draft animals, mules were a premium on the prairie. If only she could find and afford a jack, she could breed him to her mares and sell the mules as fast as they were grown and broke to harness. Roald had bought the team of oxen before they were even old enough to plow for an entire day. She’d learned the lesson well. You bought what you could when you found it.
She purposely kept her thoughts on the future. If she allowed just a moment into the past, she could feel the darkness surge over its boundaries, and like a wave upon the shore, eddy closer to usurp her sanity and pull her back into the depths of despair.
“No!” She shook her head and kicked her boots against the wooden block by the door to remove the snow before stepping into the soddy. She would not allow herself to slip back. She knew she couldn’t take the chance, for the darkness might not let her go this time. “I will trust in the Lord with all my heart . . . I will sing praises to my God . . . and in Him is no darkness at all.” She ran the verses together, having learned the power of the Word when she had reached back to grab her Lord’s hand and live. “He is my strength, my fortress . . . I am not afraid.”
“Mor, are you all right?” Thorliff turned from adding wood to the cookstove. “I was just coming to help you.”
“I am fine.” Ingeborg sat the bucket of milk on the workbench, removed her scarf, then hung it and her coat on the wall pegs. Taking the round flat pans from the shelf, she tied a dish towel over the bucket and poured the milk through it as a strainer and into the flat pans. When the cream had risen to the top, she would skim that off to churn for butter. Butter and cheese they could always exchange for sugar and other needed things at The Mercantile.
“Mr. Bjorklund isn’t back yet?”
She shook her head. If only there were some way to keep the fear from leaping into her son’s eyes. Was he picking up on the fear she kept trying to drive out of herself?
“Is Tante Kaaren okay?”
“We will go visit her as soon as we eat and water the animals.” She drew the kettle of rolled wheat and oats to the front of the stove and lifted the lid. The rich fragrance of cooked grain rose to greet her. She’d set the pot to cook the night before, the grains taking long slow hours of simmering to soften for cereal.
Ingeborg took three bowls down from the warming shelf that ran across the top of the stove. As she dished up the steaming cereal, Thorliff went out to the root cellar for the pitcher of cold milk.
Andrew brought the hard crust of bread Thorliff had given him to chew and rubbed it and his runny nose against her pant leg. “Mor, hungry.” He emphasized his point with a line of syllables that made no sense to Ingeborg.
“He wants bread and milk.” Thorliff set the pitcher in the center of the table.
Ingeborg set the bowls at their places. “He’ll have to make do with cereal.”
“Bacon, Mor, bacon.” Andrew clutched around her leg as if afraid she might take off before they ate.
“No bacon today.” Ingeborg lifted him up on the box Roald had made for the little ones. He’d talked of making a special highchair for them, but like so many other things, that dream had been killed by the storm as well.
“He means meat. He calls everything bacon.” Thorliff took his place.
Ingeborg poured milk on Andrew’s cereal and added a dollop of jelly. She did the same for Thorliff and then herself, leaving off the jelly. They were too close to out for her to spend any on herself. She sat in her chair and waited for the boys to fold their hands. When they’d finished grace, she looked at Thorliff. “How do you know what he says and means?”
Thorliff shrugged. “I don’t know. Paws and me could run across the field to see about Tante Kaaren.”
“We’ll water the animals first.”
“Wouldn’t take me but a minute. Paws and me can run fast.”
“There was smoke coming from her chimney, Thorliff. She is all right.” But the men, are they all right? The thoughts bombarded her like arrows tipped in worry—lethal projectiles.
“Mor, milk.” Andrew held out his cup.
Ingeborg poured him some more and refilled her coffee cup. Could they be lying broken somewhere without fire? Frozen during the night but not dead yet, and no one came to save them? Surely they had stayed overnight in St. Andrew and were well on their way home now. She shook her head. Two camps warred in her mind, and caught between them she ranged the no-man’s-land of indecision.
She slapped her hands on the table. “That’s it. Come along, Thorliff. Let’s dress Andrew for the cold. We’ll water the livestock, and then I’ll take the mule to
find Lars and Mr. Bjorklund.”
“We’ll stay at Tante Kaaren’s?”
“Ja.” Ingeborg scooped the dishes up and set them in the dishpan. “Hurry, Thorliff.” Now that her mind was made up, she couldn’t get going fast enough.
Though the sheep begged to be let out of the corral, she ignored them and led the team and the mule while Thorliff drove the oxen and cows to the river. Paws made certain none of the charges got out of line, patrolling their heels like a trained cow dog. On the way back, the sun broke through the cloud cover like a warming benediction and then hid itself again. The wind, blowing straight from the north, picked up in intensity and kicked some of the snow pellets up to sting their cheeks.
Andrew squirmed in the backpack she’d fashioned for him to ride in since he’d grown too big for the shawl sling. “Easy, son, it won’t be much longer now.” The straps bit into her shoulders. It wouldn’t be long before he’d outgrown this also, and then how would she be able to work and still keep track of him?
The animals seemed to drink forever. The river level had fallen, but she knew when the snow melted again, it would rise. Earlier in the spring it had nearly reached the top of its banks. So many things there were to be concerned about. If they weren’t frozen out, they could be flooded out. Ingeborg reminded herself that she had promised to give thanks in everything. She sighed. Sometimes, like now, when memories pelted her and the present looked bleak, giving thanks didn’t make a lot of sense.
The cows didn’t want to go back in the corral. As one headed each way, Ingeborg felt like throwing up her hands. “Paws, go get them.” She dumped Andrew in his pack in the oat bin, tied the lid up so he would have light, and tied the horses in their stalls. They could go out in the corral later.
Then stabbing a pitchfork full of hay, she carried it into the corral. The oxen followed her docilely. Thorliff yelled and waved his arms, Paws barked and nipped, and the errant cows joined the oxen at the hay. Ingeborg forked in a couple more loads while Thorliff shot home the bars. Retrieving Andrew, who now had oats in his hair and stuck in his mittens, she led the mule toward the house.
After tying the animal at the post by the door, she hurried inside to bank the fire and put a few coals in a tin bucket. She packed ashes around the coals, bundled some small sticks together to use for kindling, and placed that along with several larger pieces of wood in a gunnysack. She had all the necessities for a quick fire. It would be enough at least to warm them, along with the coffee she put in another small pail. Some leftover biscuits joined the coffee tin, and she tightened the lid down. With the entire load tied in two sacks to hang across the mules’ withers and a quilt to sit on, she boosted Thorliff up and Andrew in front of him.
“I’m going after them,” she told Kaaren after the greetings.
“But surely they stayed in St. Andrew.” Kaaren, her blue eyes looking huge in her pale face, bit her lip.
Who was she trying to convince, Ingeborg wondered. By the looks of her, Kaaren hadn’t slept a wink.
“Do you need help with the chores?”
Kaaren shook her head. “No, I got all the stock fed, and since our cow is still dry, there was less to do.” She took in a deep breath and wrapped her fingers together. “Oh, Ingeborg, I’m not sure I can bear another loss.”
“You pray, I’ll ride. If I’m not back by dark, or if the blizzard returns, at least I’ll know the boys are safe here with you.”
“I can go milk.” Thorliff stood straight, as if trying to convince her he was older and stronger than he was.
“Ja, I know you can, but the animals will be all right for one night, even though Boss will beller fit to raise the dead.” She flinched when she said that. How often did the saying ring oh, so true.
“Just hurry.” Kaaren picked up Andrew and, resting him on her hip, hugged him close. “We will be okay here.”
Ingeborg kicked the mule into a bone-jarring trot and finally into a canter that kept her bags from banging him in the shoulders. Long ears flicking forward, then back, the mule settled into a ground-covering lope. The north wind cut clear through her coat and sweater and set her teeth to chattering. “Please, God, please, God,” kept pace with the rocking of the mule.
When she could feel her feet no longer, Ingeborg knew she needed to get off and walk to get the circulation going again, but she kept on instead. The sun remained in its cloud cave, letting the wind terrorize the land.
Surely she should have reached the river by now. Had she gotten turned around? If only the sun would peek out again and be looking over her shoulder
The stillness hurt their ears after the howling of the wind. The horses shuffled their feet. The ripe odor of horse manure filled the soddy.
Haakan studied the man now sleeping the sleep of healing, cradled in the curve between two seed sacks and covered with the robe. Firelight danced on his face, a face that no longer wore the pallor of death, and other than the white spot of frost bite on the tip of his nose, it bloomed with the ruddy color of windburn and health.
Stepping outside, Haakan felt a laugh burble in the back of his throat. The wagon in its present state would haul nothing. He’d chopped and burned most of the wagon box, and if the storm had lasted much longer, he’d have cut into the frame and axles. The wagon tongue lay buried in the snow. He looked to the east where a thin band of pale gold marked the horizon. Lowering clouds, chilling reminders of the storm, lightened as he watched.
“Haakan?”
He spun at the call and reentered the soddy, blinking in the dimness. “Thank God, you are awake.”
“The storm, it is over?”
“Ja.”
“And we are still alive.” Lars looked around, an expression of wonder on his face. “I feel as though I’ve walked forty miles.”
“Maybe not quite that far, but I think we must have worn grooves in the floor. I had to keep you moving to get you warmed up.” The horses snorted and stamped, their breath a cloud that hung in the air.
“Were did you find the wood?”
“Ah, let’s just say the wagon looks some different than when we left town yesterday.”
“Can it make it home?” Lars pulled himself to a sitting position.
“Ja, but not with any of our supplies. I thought about riding one horse home and bringing back the other team and wagon.”
“It’s still on the sledges.”
“Ja, good thing. There’s a foot or more of snow out there, but if the sun comes out, it will be slush by noon.”
Lars threw the robe aside and levered himself to his feet. “Ohh,” he said with a grimace. “Have you looked at my feet?”
Haakan shook his head. “I thought it best to keep you moving. I hope you don’t lose any toes. Your fingers seem to be okay, and there’s a white spot on your nose, but I think it’ll go away.”
Lars raised a hand and felt the end of his nose. “I have feeling.”
“That is good. You think we can leave our supplies here?”
“If need be.” Lars shuffled to the door, and leaning on the crumbling sod blocks that framed the doorway, he stared at the wagon. Or what was left of it. “Good thing the blizzard stopped when it did.”
“Rebuilding that box won’t take long.” Haakan hefted his ax. “If you want to stay here, I can cut up that central beam and the footboard. You use it sparingly, it should last till I return.”
“No.” Lars shook his head. “Let’s harness the horses and ride ’em home, pulling this derelict behind.”
Within minutes they were on their way, stomachs rumbling but spirits rising like the sun that gleamed as a silver disk in the sky when the clouds occasionally thinned.
Doubts plagued Ingeborg like mosquitoes in the summer. The men would think her foolish if they had remained for the night in St. Andrew and were now well on their way home. But what if they were dying and she didn’t get there in time? Please, God, they weren’t already dead! Had she swung too far west and missed the ford? It would be easy since sn
ow covered the track north.
One thing she knew for certain. The children were safe with Kaaren.
She slapped her mittened hands against her shoulders and chest. This abominable cold. Just the other day the sheep had been grazing in hock-deep grass, grass that now lay frozen again under the snow. And the violet growing on the south side of the barn? Would it live?
“Don’t be silly,” she scolded herself, just to hear a human voice. The mule’s ears swept back to catch her words, then forward, nearly pricked together at the tips.
“What is it?” Ingeborg sat up high as she could. Was that someone coming on the horizon? She nudged the animal with her heels back into the bone-jarring trot. Leaning back to absorb the jolts, she kept her eyes on the specks. As they drew closer she saw a team of horses, two people riding astride.
The mule brayed, his tone static with the jolting.
A whinny floated back on the wind.
She kicked the mule into a lope. Pounding across the frozen prairie, snow spraying behind her, Ingeborg felt her heart rising right along with the heat from the exertion. Why were they riding? Had something happened to the wagon? She waved a hand above her head.
The riders returned the gesture.
With so many hours behind the plow, she’d recognize her team anywhere. Belle and Bob whinnied again, and the mule answered.
Ingeborg tried to swallow the lump in her throat, but it wouldn’t go either down or up. Surely the misting in her eyes was caused by the bitter wind. “You’re alive!” she breathed as they came up to her.
“Ja, thanks to Haakan here.” Lars nodded at his partner. “He knew of an abandoned soddy, or we wouldn’t have made it through the night.”
Ingeborg felt her heart race as she stared into eyes so blue and so familiar. “Mange takk.” She couldn’t force any other words past the lump.
Lauraine Snelling - [Red River of the North 02] Page 12
