At least Magda never doubted Tora’s word—that her sister was the Heroine of the Horn. One day, while cleaning one of the mission’s rooms, Tora had discovered an old newspaper, opened to the obituaries. When she saw Peder’s name, Tora had sunk to the ground, her hand over her mouth in shock. Magda had found her. “What? What is it?”
“It’s my brother-in-law,” she said, waving vaguely at the paper. “He’s dead. Elsa’s alone as I am.”
“You should go to her,” Magda had said. For a woman who frequently raved like a creature riddled with madness, Magda could sound terribly lucid for moments at a time.
“You don’t know what has happened between us. You don’t know what I’ve done. Elsa will never forgive me.”
“There is nothing done that is beyond forgiveness, child,” Magda had said. Tora studied her, thinking that an unearthly, holy light seemed to emanate from the woman. It was moments like this, when Magda seemed to have a toehold in eternity, that Tora found her fascinating. But a moment later, Magda was yelling, “Heroine of the Horn! Heroine! Heroine! Tora is sisters with the Heroine of the Horn!”
Her announcement at the mission left Tora open to hushed jeers and sarcastic remarks from the others. Only Magda and the sisters continued to treat her with anything akin to respect. Days after arriving, she had secured enough work from the home to pay for her food and lodging, but nothing more. She existed on thin soup and day-old bread donated by the baker, and slept on a hard cot amid a hundred other sleeping, snoring women. She frequently spent hours, when not working, spying around town, trying to overhear any news of her sister. Eight times, she had come as close as this to facing her sibling but never closer.
“What holds you back?” Magda asked again, shivering in the late afternoon breeze that blew the snow at a slant.
Tora laughed, a hollow sound. “Pride, I suppose. I wanted to face her again. But I wanted to arrive in a fine carriage. In fine dress.” She turned, angry at Magda because it was easier than being angry at herself. “Look at me! A trollop living in a Catholic shelter. I haven’t bathed in a week.”
“We’re blessed to get a bath each week—”
“In lukewarm, used water?” Tora shivered at the thought. Was there much more she had to bear?
“Still, it’s something …”
“Magda, why do you cling to me so? Why don’t you live your own life and leave me to mine?”
Magda studied her with rheumy eyes. “’Cause you’ve been touched.”
“Touched?” Tora shook her head. “You’re mad. Perhaps it’s spreading.”
“No. Jesus has come near.”
“And run away as fast as he could,” Tora said with another hollow laugh.
“No. He’s here now.”
Tora studied the woman, observing again a light that seemed to shine within her. It took her breath away. “Why?” she asked unsteadily. “Why would he bother?”
“Because you are loved.”
“Impossible. No one loves me. I have driven them all away.”
Magda looked from the sky to her. “I love you, Tora. Your sister loves you. Jesus loves you more.”
Tora turned and walked away. “You know nothing. You should take your love to someone more worthwhile,” she called over her shoulder. “I am undeserving of even a madwoman’s love.” She continued walking, not watching where she was going. In a few moments, she bumped into a young woman, making her dump all her packages—presumably Christmas presents—across the boardwalk.
“I’m sorry,” Tora muttered, stooping immediately to pick up the nearest package, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. How many similar bundles had she brought home last year in Helena? she thought.
“No trouble,” the woman said, stooping nearby. Something in her voice made Tora look up. She could not look away. It was Kaatje. Kaatje Janssen.
“Here, Mama,” said a girl, rushing up behind her. “Christina and I’ll help you.”
Tora felt dizzy, as if she would faint at any moment. Still, she could do nothing but stare. At Kaatje. At Jessica. At Christina. At Jessica again. She looked similar to Letitia Conner in Spokane, she assessed, as if safely viewing her from a hidden spot, but she looked different. Her mother’s intuition was dead-on. Tora would have recognized the girl anywhere.
“Are you okay, miss?” Kaatje was asking. “You seemed to be—” Tora met her eyes. Her recognizing, understanding gray eyes. The last time she had seen them, she was depositing Jessica at Kaatje’s feet. Then they had been angry, disbelieving eyes. Now they were only disbelieving. “T-Tora,” she said simply.
Tora, coming to her senses, scrambled to her feet. Everything in her told her to run. Run. Run. Run. She ran past a cackling Magda, past the cemetery, past the Catholic mission to the waterfront. It felt as if she never could run far enough.
At the wharf, on an abandoned dock, she walked to the end, conscious that the rotting planks could give way at any moment and she would plunge into the icy waters below. But she did not care. It would be fitting, she thought, to drown in the murky waters, held down by broken planks, her lungs filled with cold. She deserved nothing more. What was she thinking? Attempting to see Elsa? And now Kaatje and Jessica? She was not worthy of them. Of any of them.
It was still snowing. Giant white flakes wept into the Sound, disappearing on contact with the water. It was as Tora felt she herself should do, to allow herself to slip into the water and out of life forever. If she took one step, it all could be over. The misery. The striving. The ache. The pain. “Dear God,” she mumbled, looking up to the sky and watching as the snow came down, making pinpricks on her face as ice met warmth, “dear God in heaven, what do you want?” Her voice grew louder. “What do you want from me? What do you want?” she screamed.
“He wants you,” a voice said behind her.
Tora whirled, almost falling. “Magda. How—how in the world—?”
“He wants you,” the old woman repeated.
Suddenly, Tora knew the truth. Knew it in her heart, in her bones.
Magda was not a madwoman at all.
Magda was a seer.
fifteen
Joy to the world! the Lord is come. Let earth receive her King!” Karl smiled as his smooth bass joined the other voices in the congregation in this final hymn of the evening. In the magnificent cathedral in downtown San Francisco, their celebration seemed all the more joyous. Even the thought of returning alone to his modest rented cottage a mile south failed to dampen Karl’s spirits. He was here to worship his Savior; nothing else mattered.
To be able to travel back in time and see the babe in the manger! Karl thought, glancing at the nativity scene at the front of the church. What would it be like to look upon the face of Jesus? His God in infant form! The thought overwhelmed and warmed him at once. How good it was to be again in companionship with the One who mattered. It all made sense to him now. His despair. His loneliness. His very soul had been crying for the Christ child.
As the pastor dismissed his congregation calling “Merry Christmas! Go and serve the Lord!” people mingled and chatted as they walked down the center aisle. People Karl had never met stopped him to introduce themselves and wish him a blessed holiday. Just as he was nearing the door, a burly man in a fine overcoat turned and smiled at him. “Good day, sir. I’m Gerald Kenney. Merry Christmas to you!”
“And to you! I am Karl Martensen,” Karl rejoined as they shook hands. He watched as Gerald pulled out a pocket watch and glanced at the time. On the face of it Karl could see an anchor. “Are you a sailor by chance?” Karl asked.
“Ah, I love the sea,” Gerald said, placing a hand on his shoulder with all the familiarity of an old friend. “I’m afraid my good wife has convinced me to stay ashore from now on. I merely invest.”
“I see,” Karl said, following Gerald’s gaze to a portly woman he supposed was Mrs. Kenney and to his two young daughters. “I’ve just returned to sailing myself. Docked last week from Seattle.”
�
�Seattle? Were you on the Silver Sea, by chance? Serving under Captain Stover?”
“Aye. He’s a very fine captain.”
“That he is. I believe he was actually here at this service. Have you been a sailor long?”
“Just returned after a bit of an absence. To be honest, I cannot wait to get back to it.”
“Understood,” Gerald said, his eyes brightening. “Nothing like the sea, and the anchor,” he added meaningfully, gesturing toward his watch, “to remind a man of what is important.”
Karl met his glance, wondering if Gerald was possibly talking about his faith as well as the ocean. One look, and he recognized a brother in Christ.
“Hayden!” Gerald called, motioning for Karl’s captain to join them. The two men shook hands, clearly old friends, and shared Christmas blessings.
When Captain Stover turned to see who else was with him, he smiled, and said, “Why, Martensen! Good to see you! Merry Christmas!”
“And to you too, sir,” Karl said, returning the captain’s firm handshake.
“This man,” Captain Stover said, speaking to Gerald Kenney while placing a hand on Karl’s shoulder, “signed on as a common deck boy but could’ve been running my ship.”
Karl shifted uneasily under the praise.
“Where’d you get your experience, son?” Gerald asked.
“Sailed for some time out of Boston Harbor, then later for an operation out of Camden, Maine. Of late I have been making my own investments along the interior riverways in steam and the like.”
“Ah, I see,” Gerald said.
“Got to Seattle last month and found that God wanted me to take a new direction. At least for a while,” he said uneasily. Speaking overtly of his Lord still was a bit awkward to him. “The sea is the place for me; I was born to be on the water. I’ve taken a leave of absence from my regular duties. My business partner will carry on without me until I decide to stay ashore.”
“When do you ship out again?” Captain Stover asked him. “Will you be rejoining my crew?”
“It would be a pleasure, sir,” Karl said. “I simply have not decided where I am to go next.”
“Well, you’re welcome anytime, Martensen,” the captain said. “If I didn’t have a first mate that was like a brother to me, I’d hire you on as such.”
“That’s high praise, sir. Have a very merry Christmas.”
“And to you.” He turned to Gerald with a nod. “Kenney. Don’t eat too much turkey.”
“Only until I cannot move a muscle.” Gerald turned and motioned toward his family. The ladies walked toward them in genteel fashion, and Karl smiled at all three, making the young women blush. “Mr. Martensen, may I present my lovely wife, Rosalind, and my daughters, Nina and Mara.”
Karl bowed slightly. “So pleased to meet you all. Merry Christmas.”
“And to you, Mr. Martensen,” Rosalind said warmly.
“Mr. Martensen just docked from Seattle,” Gerald said. “I thought we might have him join us for dinner—”
“Oh, that’s very kind, but—” Karl interrupted.
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Kenney said, hearing no excuses. “There’s no friend like a new friend, and we’d be pleased as punch if you would join our Christmas celebration.” The girls giggled in unison and ducked their heads when Karl looked their way.
“Well, this is truly a surprise. Thank you. Shall I come to your home later?”
“No, no. Our celebration begins now,” Mrs. Kenney said. “Follow us, if you’re free to do so.”
“Of course. Again, I am humbled by your generosity.”
“It’s Christmas!” Gerald said. “No time like the present to follow the example set by Christ himself.”
Trent had spent Christmas morning with his great-aunt and was relieved when he could excuse himself by noon. The woman was tiresome, never doing anything but complain, and to make things worse, she ate to the point of gluttony, often allowing crumbs to spill out upon her lips and her breast. They had nothing in common. She even refused to attend church with him that morning, wanting nothing to do with “those hypocrites” at Duluth’s First Presbyterian, or any other church for that matter. Her life was empty and angry, and Trent wished he had more family than her. He longed for his dead wife. He longed for the children they never had. He longed for Tora Anders.
For all her foibles and grand ambition, Tora was filled with the spark of life. He felt drained just thinking about it. Had he made the mistake of his life in letting her get on that train to the Montana territory four years ago? Had he made a bigger mistake closing her out and shutting her business down last summer? Sickened at the thought, he roamed through the tall, silent grand hall of his home and to his office.
There, on a massive mahogany desk, under a brass paperweight, was the letter he had read a hundred times.
25 November 1886
Dear Trent,
You have been in my thoughts constantly since the day we last parted. I owe you an apology for my actions. First, for hiding the truth of my child from you. Second, for using your name to get ahead in my own enterprise while jeopardizing yours. I was a woman scorned, and acted in haste, not wisdom.
I was wrong, Trent, and I am deeply sorry. You meant the world to me, and I tried every which way to make you love me too, all to no avail. It is only now that I realize that we had the love I so desperately sought, but risked it for my own gain. You never deserved to be betrayed, nor to be deceived. I hope you will find happiness someday. I am in search of it myself.
Always yours,
Tora
He was still there, standing quietly, struck numb by conviction, when a knock sounded at the front door. The servants had been dismissed for the day, cozily tucked into their homes and surrounded by family. The sheer emptiness of it all hit Trent once again, and he wearily headed to the door. Who could be out and about on Christmas Day?
The front door came open with a creak at its massive hinges. A small boy was outside, shivering in the cold. He stretched out a tiny hand. “A message for you, sir. Urgent from the telegraph office.”
Trent dug in his pocket for two bits. “Thank you, son. Merry Christmas.”
“And you, sir!” he exclaimed, looking at his palm and the coin.
Trent did not wait to see him out the gate. He closed the door, ignoring the irritating squeak that usually drove him to distraction. Curious, he opened the telegraph envelope before returning to his study.
25 December 1886
FOR URGENT DELIVERY TO: Mr. Storm
Mr. Storm:
Have found subject in question. Situation dismal. Living in Seattle. Exact location is unknown. Will establish contact shortly. Please advise as to next steps. Campbell
Trent sat down heavily, suddenly feeling every hour of his forty-two years. Tora was alive. Not in good condition, it appeared. But alive. When Joseph had reported his suspicion that she had been kidnapped by some cowhands passing through, Trent had become physically sick. It had all been his fault. To what had he exposed her? Why hadn’t he been more understanding? Why hadn’t he married her when he had the chance? Perhaps if …
He stopped himself right there, knowing that God had answered his questions long ago. There had been a reason that Trent saw no way other than to let her go. It had been so clear to him at the time—that she had to go her own way to discover what was truly important, what was vital in her life, before they would ever have a chance together. She had been deluded, chasing empty dreams, and she had to see that for herself, since she would have never heard it from him. He clung to that truth, that understanding in his heart. For every day he doubted it. How could God have led her to such a dangerous path? How could he have taken her from the safety of Trent’s wing to the streets of Seattle? Was she ill? Would they ever have a chance again?
Quickly, he reached for his pen and dipped it in ink to draft a return telegraph message.
25 December 1886
FOR IMMEDIATE DELIVERY TO: Joseph Campbell
He paused to pull out a drawer and consult a train schedule, then returned to his missive.
Will arrive on 2 January. Meet at the Butler Hotel. Storm
Karl smiled happily as he exited his rented coach. Life was an adventure! One never knew what the next turn in the road would bring, what friend he would meet next. He was amazed at the instant camaraderie he had felt with Gerald Kenney, and breathed a silent prayer of thanks for an entire new family he instinctively knew would become dear friends. There was something about them all that reminded him of the Bergensers. And the feeling made him jubilant.
Mrs. Kenney opened the door, welcoming Karl inside. “Come in, come in, Mr. Martensen. You may give your overcoat to Ronni, here,” she said, gesturing toward a diminutive maid beside her. “Then my Mr. Kenney is awaiting you in his study. He’ll be pleased to share some refreshment with you while I oversee the kitchen staff. My girls have retired for a bit.”
Karl smiled at the tiny, round woman who reminded him of a tough sea captain thinly disguised in feminine ways and garb. No doubt Gerald had his hands full with this one. It was just what Karl sought in a wife—a mind of her own, strong ways, but never losing the charm of womanhood. A woman like her would be a true helpmeet. A friend. A mate for life. He sighed, dismissing the question that crossed his mind every once in a while: When would he meet the right match for him? Perhaps it was never to be. And perhaps it would not mean emptiness for his life, if he could fill it with people he enjoyed like the Kenneys. Surely there were other ways on God’s fine earth to find peace, fulfillment.
Gerald turned from a map of the Northern Territories on his wall. “Ah, Martensen,” he said, reaching out a hand to his guest. He nodded toward the map. “A gift from my daughters. You’ve seen much of it, I suppose?”
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