Northern Lights Trilogy

by Lisa Tawn Bergren

  This is not the way. It was as clear as any audible voice.

  Karl looked up, blinking against sudden raindrops. “Lord, Lord,” he murmured. “I do not understand. Why do you allow me to hurt the people I love most?” His thoughts sped backward over the years to when he had kissed Elsa Ramstad and forever alienated his best friend, Peder. “Why do you not help me?”

  This is not the way.

  “What is not the way? Where I am going? How I mishandled the Kenneys?”

  This is not the way.

  Suddenly it struck Karl—it was not God’s desire to watch Karl punish himself. It was dangerous, being out on the bow in the dark of night. How many times had he warned his crew not to do such a thing? If he wasn’t careful, he would wind up overboard, just like Peder. Lost forever. A life taken by a cruel sea. That would not honor his Lord.

  Carefully he made his way back to the bridge, pausing for a brief look at the binnacle, a chat with Lucas and the others on starboard watch, then retired to his cabin. He grabbed a linen beside his wash basin and dried his hair of the salt spray in the darkness, then struck a flint and lit his lantern. He sat down hard on his sea chest. “All right, Father,” he said, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward, his hands on his face. “That was not the way,” he prayed silently. “What is the way?”

  You are on the right path.

  “How? How can I be on the right path? With every step, I seem to hurt another.”

  Karl heard no response.

  “Oh, I know. Perhaps it is not with every step. But must I hurt everyone I love?”

  Again he heard no response.

  Karl sighed and rocked in tandem with the ship for a while, relishing the great washing sounds of waves passing by and the creak of solid beams that groaned from the pressure but were certain to hold. He knew they would hold. This was a ship forged at Ramstad Yard, in Camden-by-the-Sea.

  Camden. Was Elsa home yet from Bergen? He yearned to see her, talk with her, laugh with her. How long had it been since they had been together? Since Japan. Two years. How could two years have gone by? It seemed when he was back East, she was in Washington. When he was in the Far East, she was in Bergen. When she was in Camden, he was in San Francisco. Are you keeping us apart on purpose, Lord? I can be trusted now.

  Or could he? Karl shook his head and stared at the lantern. Was the reason he could not fall in love with Mara Kenney because he still yearned for Elsa Ramstad? Impossible. Had he not proven his intention to do penance? To be only her friend? If Elsa was ever to be his, she would have to make the first move. She would have to walk up to him without faltering. Walk up to him without any hesitation in her step and kiss him. Yes, she would have to kiss him.

  Karl flopped back on the bed and groaned again.

  Because that was certainly never going to happen.

  three

  June 1888

  The silence was getting to her. Kaatje had watched Kadachan pad off into the forest, presumably to see if he could find out any information from the tribe just upriver, while James went about laying a fire. They had traveled late into the evening, trying to cover more miles in order to reach the neighboring tribe and possible further information on Soren Janssen. Wearily, she pulled out the knapsack of jerky and hardtack, and then fetched a bucket of fresh water. The river was still icy cold, and even a quick dip made her wince.

  When she returned, the fire was crackling, the warmth of it welcoming her back into the circle of silence. “Can we not speak?”

  He looked up at her with a slight scowl. “Of what?”

  “Of anything. The monotony of our travel is getting to me. Tell me of Alaska. Of the wildlife, your treks, your friends. Anything.”

  James grunted and stirred the fire. When he remained silent, Kaatje sighed and handed him a slice of jerky and another of hardtack, then sat down upon a wool blanket to eat her own boring fare. A half-hour later, feeling the cool June evening beginning to penetrate her clothes and chill her, she wondered if she should turn in. She had just picked up her blanket and wound it around her shoulders when James began speaking.

  “Once, in ancient times in Alaska, there lived a tribe of giants along the Cook Inlet.”

  A story! James Walker was actually going to tell her a story! She sat down in stunned disbelief, a slight smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. He ignored her.

  “The land was good and fruitful, and the gentle people wanted for nothing, content to live in peace with one another. In that day, there was a young couple named Nekatla and Susitna, and they were especially happy since they were engaged to be married.” He kept his eyes on the fire, as if slightly embarrassed that he had begun the story at all. But as he went on, the words came more easily.

  “The wedding day was nearing when bad news came to the tribe. A stranger came running into the village, crying, ‘Run! Run! Warriors from the south are soon upon you! They are killing every person in their way, burning the villages! They have killed my family, my friends. I have nothing. Run, before you face the same!’

  “All plans for Nekatla and Susitna’s wedding were forgotten as the villagers gathered to discuss their strategy. Some thought they should stockpile weapons and prepare for battle; others wanted to hide in the forest until the invaders passed. Finally, Nekatla rose, waiting for his turn to speak. ‘It has been our way for generations to avoid the ways of war. We are a people of peace. But to hide would be to allow the warriors to pass by, to go on to kill others in distant lands.’

  “The elders conferred quietly among themselves and then turned back to him. ‘Go on,’ they said, ‘we are listening.’

  “‘We must go south to meet this tribe of warriors,’ Nekatla said, as tears of fear rolled down Susitna’s face. ‘We must carry gifts instead of weapons and show them that they have no reason to attack our village or our loved ones.’ It was a bold plan, but the villagers saw the wisdom of it and quickly agreed. As the men gathered their provisions and the women the gifts, Nekatla and Susitna climbed to a nearby hilltop where they had spent many afternoons together. ‘We will marry as soon as I return,’ Nekatla promised her.

  “‘I will wait for you here,’ she told him. ‘I will not leave this spot.’

  “Susitna watched as the men disappeared into the forest. She gathered her sewing needles, knife and baskets, nuts and berries. For days she camped on the spot where Nekatla had proposed, making baskets, sewing, and looking to the distant forest, hoping her beloved would soon return. When many days had passed, and Susitna grew weary, she said, ‘I will lie down, just for a moment,’ and quickly fell fast asleep.

  “That night, word of a terrible battle reached the village. ‘Nekatla was very brave,’ reported the breathless runner who had escaped the fray. ‘He led our men to meet the warriors, and when he went forward to speak, someone threw a spear and pierced his heart. At once, we were at war, fighting until all our men were dead or dying, along with many of theirs.’ The women and children and old men wept as they found out that their loved ones were gone, never to return to them.

  “A group of women climbed the hill to break the terrible news to Susitna, but when they found her asleep, they said, ‘Let her rest. She’ll have greater strength to bear this burden in the morning.’ While she slept, they wove a blanket of soft grasses and wildflower blossoms, which they laid over her. ‘May Susitna always dream of her love,’ an old woman whispered. They left her then, returning to the village without joy or warmth. As the evening grew darker, and the air colder and colder, Susitna fell deeper and deeper into sleep. All around her, the fruit trees froze and died, like the men falling in battle. The villagers’ tears became clouds in the chilly air, then returned as Alaska’s first snowfall. Soon, all the land was blanketed in white, until Susitna and all her people were covered.

  “Susitna still sleeps through the seasons, dreaming of Nekatla. If you come into the Cook Inlet in the winter, you can still see her beneath her white blanket. In the summer it is a green and f
lowered blanket.”

  James looked up at Kaatje then, his eyes curious. “It is said that when the people change their ways and peace rules the land, Nekatla will return. Then Susitna, the Sleeping Lady, will awake.”

  After a moment Kaatje said, “It is a sad story.”

  James nodded and glanced at the fire. “It is.”

  “Why did you share it with me?”

  “You wanted to talk. About anything.”

  “That is not talk. It is storytelling.”

  “All right. Let’s talk.”

  Kaatje sighed. Why must it be so difficult with this man? “Why did you share that story with me?” she repeated.

  “The Sleeping Lady is a mountain south of us. Kadachan reminded me of it today.”

  “What made Kadachan think of it?”

  “You remind him of her. You sleep, he said, until your husband returns.”

  “I am hardly asleep.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  Kaatje sat back, staring at him with a frown. Is that what he thought of her? “If I were like Susitna, wouldn’t I still be on my Dakota farm waiting for my husband to return?”

  “Perhaps,” James said nonchalantly, stirring the fire with a stick. “There are many ways that people sleep through life.”

  “If I am sleeping, at least I’m trying to awaken! That is why I am here, out here. That is why you are here.” Asleep indeed! This was undoubtedly the oddest conversation Kaatje had ever had!

  James nodded once. His cool demeanor irked Kaatje. “What about you? What are you hiding from? A man doesn’t come to this place,” she gestured around her, “unless he’s running from something.”

  He nodded again. “I suppose you are right.”

  “So?”

  He considered her for a moment, his eyes sad. “I guess I was running from my own bad memories.”

  “Forgive me,” she said, retreating a bit after seeing his expression.

  “No, it’s all right. You are not saying anything that I don’t deserve. I had a wife once, Mrs. Janssen. A pretty girl named Rachel. We lived in Minnesota on a farm. We had just staked a new claim when she died in a fire.”

  “Oh, Mr. Walker. I am so sorry.”

  He shook his head. “It’s been many years. I came to Alaska to sleep. Because I didn’t ever want to risk waking to that pain again.” He looked her steadily in the eye. “I didn’t want any woman to ever come near me again.”

  She had felt that way when Soren first left, wanting to protect herself from the pain. She’d had no idea James had been there too—had known firsthand the cruelty of being the spouse alone, the one left behind. She looked over at him and smiled sadly. They’d been together all these weeks and she hadn’t known.

  “And then here you come, shaking me awake.” His words interrupted her musings.

  She looked up at him in confusion. Was he speaking of Kaatje as someone he wanted to be with? As a woman instead of an employer?

  “Making me think about what I had once,” he quickly amended. “What I would do if I were in your situation. I haven’t thought this much in eight years, Mrs. Janssen, and I’m none too sure I like it.”

  Kaatje swallowed hard. “I think…I think God would rather have us be uncomfortable than asleep. I hope I’m not asleep, Mr. Walker. I hope that this whole journey is about waking from a long nightmare that began when my husband abandoned me. I want to put it behind me. To find out the truth and get on with living. I want to live each moment awake. Because as much as my life has been difficult, a lot of wonderful things have been given to me too. Do you understand that?”

  “I do,” he said with a nod, resuming his task of poking at the fire. “Yes, I think I do.”

  Kadachan still had not returned come morning, and after taking her daily river “bath,” splashing her face and washing the rest of her body with a cloth as she hid behind a neighboring bush, she got dressed, packed her things, and sat down upon her sack back at camp.

  “It could be a while,” James said, looking over at her.

  “I see.”

  “Might as well make the most of these few minutes.” He went to the boat and pulled out two fishing rods. “You’ve been complaining about the jerky and hardtack. How about helping me scare up some fish? This part of the river is good for northern pike.”

  She raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Count me in. But I’ll need a lesson. I haven’t fished for years.”

  He gave her a small smile that warmed his eyes and revealed a dimple in his cheek. He pulled his head to the right. “Come. There’s a nice fishing hole a few hundred feet upriver.”

  She followed behind him, matching his long strides with some effort as he jumped from one tree snag to another where the shoreline got mushy, then around an area of long reeds, sending tiny frogs leaping out of their way. James paused, bent down, and dug his hands into the muck, pulling long earthworms from their homes. Kaatje grimaced. She had forgotten about that aspect of fishing. James went on without speaking, and in moments they reached a group of towering pines, the river cutting under them, revealing their root systems. To one side, jutting out into the river, lay a large, sturdy logjam. The water grew deeply green and still in the small cove, and the spot in the shadows would be perfect for fishing.

  “You know how to spot them,” Kaatje said, making her way out on a silvered log.

  “Careful.”

  “As always,” she said. She sat down on the log, relishing the smell of the river, the cool breeze of morning off the water, the warmth of the log beneath her. It was idyllic and at last something to do besides sit in the boat. She looked up to watch James make his way out to her. “Do you think I could fish off the side of the boat?”

  “It wouldn’t be best. We’re always moving around, getting set with our poles.” He took her hook and jabbed a worm on the end, then let the string fly outward again, the worm jiggling.

  “I could move around too.”

  “Let’s just fish here, Mrs. Janssen, and I’ll think on it.” He baited his own hook and then found a spot he deemed likely to find fish. “All right,” she sighed.

  “You’re too far out,” he said gently. “Pull your hook in toward the shadows of those logs. See? Did you see that one? They’re down there, and hungry this time in the morn. Set your bait right, and we’ll be eating fish for breakfast.”

  “I like that idea,” Kaatje murmured, pulling it closer. It was a bit awkward, holding her pole out in order to get the string closer to the log pile. When a fish bit down on her hook right away, it surprised her, and Kaatje yelped.

  “Got one?”

  “I do! Oh!” The momentum of pulling up on the fish and trying to stand at the same time set her off balance, and she would have slipped into the water had James not grabbed her arm.

  “Let go of the pole!” he said through gritted teeth, holding on to his own pole with one hand and to Kaatje with the other.

  “No!” she said, laughing at her own stubbornness. “I have a fish!” She didn’t know why she believed he could easily pull her upward with one arm; she just did.

  He rolled his eyes and pulled her up to the log again, his face red from the effort. But Kaatje ignored him, quickly turning to the pole and the flapping Dolly Varden at the end. “Look at that!” she squealed. “She has to be eighteen inches!”

  “Humph.”

  “Oh, don’t be a grump, Mr. Walker,” Kaatje said. “I caught a fish, and you caught me!” She grinned at him until he gave her a hint of a smile. She so liked how his rare smiles transformed his face. He really was quite handsome when he allowed himself to have a little fun. When his deep green eyes stayed focused on her a moment too long, she turned and bent, picking up the fish under its neck. “I’m off to fry my fish. Don’t worry if you don’t catch one of your own; I’ll share mine with you. It’s only fitting that I pay you for keeping me dry.”

  She started to edge around him, realizing too late that the log was barely wide enough for her to do so. She kep
t her eyes downward, suddenly uncomfortable, recognizing the strength in his wide chest, the clean, manly smell of him. He held on to her shoulder as she passed, still guarding her from a fall. She liked the protective nature of his gesture. She dared not look up at him, afraid of what she might see, or what she might not. Kaatje swallowed hard and made her way off the log, no longer smiling, never looking back.

  When Kadachan came to camp that evening with word that a “curly-haired white man” had staked a claim a mile north, Kaatje felt as if an ox had sat upon her chest.

  It had been years since she had even come close to getting word of Soren, let alone seeing him. What if he was on his claim, happily mining, believing his family safely tucked away on a distant Dakota farm? What if he was…there?

  Her vision blurred, and she sat down hard upon a rock.

  James leaned forward from the waist and gave her a searching look. “You all right, Mrs. Janssen?” He shifted uncomfortably and straightened. “You look peaked.”

  Kaatje’s hand went to her chest. “I am fine.” She took a deep breath. “Certainly there is more than one ‘curly-haired white man’ in the immediate area.”

  James’s expression was not affirming.

  The landscape swam before her eyes again. “It is not certain?”

  James took off his hat and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He lowered his voice, as if being careful to break the news gently. “There are probably no more than ten white men within fifty square miles. And few men I’ve laid eyes on have curly hair.”

  Kaatje nodded, unable to speak.

  “We can get to that claim tonight.” He searched the sky. “This twilight will hold for another couple hours at least.”

  Kaatje looked away, thinking. “That is very thoughtful of you, Mr. Walker,” she said, gazing at the river that might take her to her husband. “But we have had a very long day. I believe it would be best to wait until morning light.”

  James looked at her, apparently to see if she meant what she said, then shrugged and turned away. He spoke quietly to Kadachan in Tlingit, and they began finishing their chores for the evening.