Sons of Blackbird Mountain

by Joanne Bischof

  “You have very red hair,” Haakon said as he handed over the offering.

  Aven accepted the cup and peered at the brew, then up into his striking face. “And you have very blue eyes.”

  He grinned as he pulled out a chair and sat. Aven splashed cream into the coffee, then fixed herself a plate of fried potatoes and ham. Once seated, she eyed the feast before splitting a biscuit in half. To be offered a meal in this abundance—never had she known such a luxury. Her mouth all but watered for the first taste, but the jar of jam sitting in front of Thor was too tempting to ignore.

  As difficult to ignore, but by no means tempting, was a bottle of whiskey. It sat beside the jam as if the two went hand in hand at breakfast. Elbows on the table, Thor studied the newspaper spread out beside his plate. His dark, thick lashes moved with the words.

  “Might you pass the jam?” Aven asked.

  With a lick of his thumb, Thor turned a page. Haakon looked to his brother, then reached out and slid the jar to Aven.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly, still eyeing Thor.

  Haakon shook pepper onto his food. “He can’t hear you.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Thor. He can’t hear you.” Haakon tapped his own ear. “He can’t hear anything.”

  Aven looked back to Thor, who was still reading his paper. “He can’t?”

  After a sip of coffee, Haakon made a face and rose.

  Brow lifting, Thor slanted a glance to his brother, then gulped his own brew that was black as night. Haakon fetched a small sugar dish, and Thor rolled his eyes before turning his attention back to reading.

  Haakon sat and plopped the dish beside him. “See, look . . .” He knocked on the table near his brother’s elbow. Thor lifted his head.

  Haakon touched a finger to his ear and then to his lips. Next he pointed at Thor and, after a few more gestures, pointed over to Aven. Thor looked at her, and gone was her confusion from the day before. In its place was a sadness. Rushing to mind was the weighty expression he’d displayed yesterday. The one that befit what Haakon just declared.

  Had she really thought Thor so imposing on the lane? Aye, he was a fair height, and the spindly chair he leaned against seemed to be no match for that broad back, but . . .

  “What do I do?” she asked Haakon.

  “What do you mean?”

  Her gaze was still locked with Thor’s. “What do I say?”

  “Say whatever you want. If he’s lookin’ atcha, he can read your lips.”

  Truly?

  Thor’s focus dropped to her mouth, then back up. Haakon chuckled, and in response, Thor made several motions with his hands to his younger brother. Haakon motioned back. A form of communication, quick and foreign.

  “I—I was unaware,” Aven said, hoping she wasn’t interrupting.

  Haakon shrugged. “Sorry ’bout that. We’re so used to him this way that we forget others aren’t.” He picked up his fork and stabbed a chunk of potato.

  Thor used the heel of his palm to rub his forehead. After nabbing the whiskey bottle, he uncapped it and poured amber liquid into his coffee.

  Such an amount that even Haakon stopped chewing. “Easy, Thor.”

  Thor gave him a dark look.

  Jorgan strode into the kitchen, tucking a small box of matches into his shirt pocket. His smile at Aven was amiable. “Ida said you wanted to talk to me.”

  “Aye.” Desperate was the need to figure out what to do. What her place was here. Would she have one? Or was it best for all if she moved on? If she stayed, tongues would wag—people having their say of her presence here with unmarried men, and that would be no help to this family who’d welcomed her in.

  Jorgan slid meat onto a plate. “Lemme get Thor and Haakon off, then you and I can sit down.”

  “Thank you.”

  When Jorgan settled at the head of the table, he and his brothers turned all attention to food and drink. Feeling ever so out of place, Aven tried to do the same. After a few minutes of silence, Haakon tapped the table near Thor to get his attention. He made several of those hand shapes again—so smooth and easy they had to be a sentence. Thor watched, face void of emotion until Haakon must have said something about Aven because Thor’s gaze slid her way. She sat very still.

  With two knuckles Thor stroked the side of his beard. Brown eyes still upon her, he took up the sturdy tin cup that was dwarfed by his fingers and gulped what had to be more whiskey than anything else.

  “If it’ll set you at ease, you can say good mornin’ to him.” Plate empty, Haakon pushed it back. “You can say it if he sees you, or you can sign it.” With one hand he touched fingertips to his lips, then moved that arm down and up like a rising sun. “Good morning.”

  Thor was staring at Haakon now. No . . . glaring.

  Then he looked at Aven, and suddenly panicked, she rushed out a “Good morning!” Much too loudly. She winced.

  Grinning, Haakon tossed his napkin on the table. “You don’t have to yell.”

  Brow stormy, Thor knocked twice on the table and Haakon spoke. “She nearly shouted it.”

  “Shut your trap, Haakon,” Jorgan mumbled around a bite of potato.

  Skidding his chair back, Thor stood.

  “Have I offended him?” Aven asked, and Thor winced like she’d just made it worse.

  “Naw. He’s always moody in the morning.” Haakon stared at Jorgan as if daring to be countered. “Blames it on the headaches, but it’s just his personality.”

  Thor stomped from the kitchen and into the next room, returning but a moment later with a rifle hitched apart and resting on his sturdy shoulder. He snapped a sharp hand sign in Haakon’s direction and strode out into the sun.

  Haakon stood and pointed after him. “See, now if I said that, I’d a gotten my mouth washed out with soap.” He stepped onto the porch, and Jorgan fought to hide a smile behind his coffee cup.

  Fearing she’d upset Thor, Aven gathered up their empty plates, stacking them. At the washbasin she rinsed the first few dishes. Through the window she saw Thor leading a team of horses from the barn. With Haakon’s help, they fastened straps and buckles.

  “Where are they off to?” she asked.

  “Just scoutin’. Thor’s worried about some movement on our land and wanted to have a look around.”

  “Oh.”

  “Ida’s up in the garden.”

  Aven hadn’t asked, but his mention of her whereabouts was thoughtful. She watched as Haakon and Thor worked without speaking to one another. Realizing the plate in hand was dripping onto the clean floor, she turned away for a towel. Aven made a tidy stack of dry dishes on the edge of the table as she knew not where things belonged.

  “Tell me, Aven, about yourself.” Jorgan lifted the stack into a cupboard.

  She shook the coffeepot to check if it was empty. Aven spoke as she washed it, describing how she’d lived over a bake shop with Benn. “As you know, he worked near the docks building boats. I kept busy by taking in sewing.” She’d learned to piece together a window-ready gown in a week’s time. If there was something she’d learned from watching her mother work, ’twas efficiency and attention to detail.

  And why she’d mentioned sewing as an answer to that, she didn’t know.

  Perhaps because it was less unsettling than all other aspects of her life.

  “And how did you come by such a skill?”

  “My mother was in service—seamstress to a lord and his wife. We lived in a manor in the countryside just north of Dublin when I was quite young. I recall very little.” Not much beyond her mother’s hardworking hands and smiling eyes.

  Other memories were frailer. Like the mist that had gathered on the hillside there. Memories of Irish gentry, the clank of tea service, and the glow of downstairs evening parties, when colorful gowns twirled by candlelight to the music of a lone fiddle. “I was allowed to stay so long as I kept out from underfoot and out of sight.”’ Twas a rare courtesy extended to the staff.

 
Who her father was . . . now, that she didn’t know. She wasn’t allowed to play with the other children, and before she was old enough to be told the ways of a man and a maid or how her birth had come about, Aven and her mother were made to leave.

  “From there we traveled south to the Limerick workhouse. My mother didn’t survive beyond the first month of our arrival. I was there some time longer.” She kept her voice steady even as grief and loss grew so cold that Aven whisked her mind back to the present. Standing here, in this place—surrounded by Ida’s warm kitchen and Jorgan’s compassionate demeanor.

  “I’m real sorry for that,” he said softly. “And I’m sorry at how misleading Dorothe’s letters were in regard to us. My brothers and me. If you’re at ease with staying, I have some ideas as to what you might do here but would rather know from you first.” He dried his hands on the towel she gave him. “What do you wish?”

  A question she’d been asked only once before. In Ireland, a nun had drawn Aven into an office at the workhouse and told her of a man named Benn Norgaard, a boat builder from Norway, who had inquired after the redheaded woman—the one who carried a box of thread spools across the courtyard as he’d stood there on the cobbled street.

  Despite Aven’s shock of what the man offered, and the tiny gold band the nun unfolded from his handkerchief, Aven had traded in her striped workhouse petticoat and shift for a threadbare dress two sizes too big. Tucked in the pocket was the name for the boardinghouse where the man had secured lodgings for her for two weeks. He was already gone—returned to a ship he was repairing that had struck on the Irish coast. But the Norwegian had passed on the message that he would return in a fortnight to wed her. If the girl could please not flee before then. Aven had no sooner added a pound to her spindly frame and washed the lice from her hair when he’d returned to keep his promise just as she had kept hers.

  With his cousin waiting for an answer now, Aven spoke. “I—I honestly don’t know. I came with the understanding that I would help Dorothe care for you three. Thinking you were all much smaller, and that she would be here.”

  Thoughtfully, Jorgan nodded. Yet there was a smile playing in his eyes as if he sensed the mischief Dorothe had been up to. Aven was sensing it as well.

  “I’ve never been one to want for much. All I seek is a way to earn meals and shelter through a hard day’s work. For that I would be grateful. Dorothe insinuated I’d find such an arrangement here.”

  “We’d certainly put you to use.” He smiled. “If it’s hard work you don’t mind.”

  Not in the least. “Under the circumstances . . .” How was she to phrase this? “ ’Twould appear . . . improper, perhaps?”

  “To others.” He glanced back to the window, deep voice gentle as he beckoned for her to follow him upstairs. “And folks don’t miss a chance to speculate.”

  Nay, they didn’t.

  Down the hallway, Aven slowed when he did just outside Dorothe’s door.

  “There may be a way around that, but I’ll need to talk to my brothers some more.” With a gentle turn of the knob, he pressed into the dim space. Dense floral curtains covered the windows, and after stepping to the nearest one, he shoved back a panel. “For now, there’s some things in here I think you could use.”

  Light seeped into the room, glinting along the stirring of dust motes. Aven walked the length of the nearest wall, seeing framed needlepoints stitched with the tiny signature of D.N. The elegant vines and twisting flower petals a taste of Norwegian handicrafts.

  Past those, tacked to the wall, hung drawings done by children. Penciled on the bottom corner of each one was a name and age written in Dorothe’s familiar penmanship. Noted beneath a mass of pencil scribbles was Haakon, age 3. Just under a drawing of a great whale in a roaring sea was Jorgan, age 10. And on the last was Thorald, age 7. Each one would have been created at a different time, and Aven lingered in front of the last drawing. A boyish sketch of a family. The roughly drawn figures had smiles nearly as big as their faces, and each figure stood beside a tree that was so large it reached the sky. Birds soared overhead. Aven touched the aged corner.

  Standing near, Jorgan pushed aside a vase of dried flowers to reach a lidded sewing basket. “You should take this.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t.”

  “It’s no good sitting here. It’d do Dorothe proud for it to be put to use.”

  Aven took the handle of the basket and the sheer heft of it—from buttons and needles and thread—sent a wash of delight through her. Her own basket was long gone, sold with all else to help procure passage here.

  “Anything else you might need?”

  “This is the best of starts.” And a blessed one. Aven glanced around Dorothe’s room, looking more upon the good woman’s belongings. Shades of ivory and soft pinks made up the quilt draped over the bed, and the brass headboard gleamed. Scraps of colorful thread rested on the bedside table along with a dainty pair of scissors. ’Twas as though Dorothe had been tending a project up until the very end. “May I ask how she passed?”

  Jorgan stepped nearer to the window and peered down. “She was up there in years—nearly ninety—and she went in her sleep. It was right peaceful. One day she was here, and the next she wasn’t. We may not show it much—my brothers and me—but she’s missed.”

  “I wish I could have met her.”

  He gave a sad smile, then glanced around. “She spoke highly of you.” Jorgan lifted a square of embroidered cloth that sat folded on a nearby chair. “And I know she’d want you to be comfortable and at home here. So please let us know if there’s anything you need. Since you sew, you might like to look in the shed outside. There’s piles of fabric and boxes of thread. I can show you if you’d like.” He folded the needlepoint and handed it over. As if he knew as well as she did that her carpetbag had stowed very little.

  “Thank you.” Her embroidery skills were simple at best, but there was something about the deep-blue cloth, its white and pink flowers and vines that made her wonder about placing a few final stitches to finish the job. More so that the arrangement had stemmed from Dorothe’s heart and mind.

  “Should you ever want to search for work of this sort, we can send inquiries to some of the nearby towns. Though . . .” His smile was friendly. “We’d be awful sorry to see you go.”

  Aven was about to thank him when gunfire blasted from a distance. She jumped. Another shot fired from the same direction.

  When all quieted, Jorgan grinned. “Don’t worry. It’s just Thor.”

  “What is he doing?”

  “Just scarin’ someone off. Sometimes our neighbors get a little cozy. He’s careful not to hit anybody.”

  She swallowed hard.

  “Just so you know, Miss Ida stays with us most of the week.” He lifted the small scissors from the nightstand and slipped them beneath the padded lid. “She goes to her sister’s Saturday evenings. Aunt Cora. You’ll meet her. She’s real nice. Lives on our land a few acres past the orchards. One of the reasons Thor and Haakon are makin’ some rounds—to be sure nobody’s pesterin’ them.”

  Jorgan’s focus shifted to the window, then back to her. “Ida offered to stay on all week long so it would never be improper. We’d treat you like family. No different from what Dorothe had in mind. We’d pay you for your work. Give you something to make a new life with. However we can help. We have plenty, Aven, and it’d be our right to look after you.” Motioning her near to the window, he pointed toward a cluster of outbuildings. “The one with the peaked roof is the one you might want to search through. Has some boxes we moved after Dorothe’s passing. Fabrics and such. Use anything you like. And also . . . there’s something else I need to show you.”

  Down the hall, Aven set the treasures in her room and followed him downstairs.

  He didn’t speak again until they were outside. “What else you should know is how we make our living.” He pointed toward the largest outbuilding of all. A barn, as great in size as the house itself. “Some folks find it s
hameful, so I think you ought to have the chance to know before you decide how long you wanna stay.”

  Apprehension rising, Aven studied the building with its weathered siding and abundant windows.

  “We make liquor. Well, Thor does. Here in the cidery.”

  At the building, he slid open a heavy door. Within lay dimness and the intoxicating aroma of apples and their juices. Aven followed Jorgan inside the space that was so tall, the angled ceiling soared overhead. Along every wall rose shelves upon shelves of glass jars. If she were to count them, hundreds. Below that, giant barrels were aligned and numbered with chalk. A long workbench stood covered in pencils, paper, and ledgers. From one of the rafters, an owl watched.

  “Liquor,” she said it softly, not really wanting to.

  “It’s what Da set out to do when he first came here and why Thor keeps the orchards like they’re kin. He brews the best drink in the county.”

  Aven walked the length of the workbench, awing at the sight of dozens of blue ribbons tacked to the wall. The ribbons grew larger and more prominent as the years drew closer to the present. The man was skilled indeed.

  “Folks pay well for it, and he keeps us in a good livin’. Maybe too good, because we want for nothin’, and I don’t know that it was the best way for Haakon to grow up. But that’s already done and dusted, I suppose.”

  Aven lifted a sheet of paper—noting the rows of square writing and the tidy sums that ran the length of the page.

  “Careful where you set that down again. Thor’s meticulous. This is his entire world.” He smirked, and she took care to set it just as she’d found it.

  “His world . . . ,” she repeated.

  “Yes’m. He couldn’t go to school in these parts, so he was Da’s shadow here since he was just yea high. It runs in his blood the same.”

  ’Twould explain why the man smelled headier than a pint of ale.

  Did they all drink it? Or just Thor?

  When she inquired, Jorgan cleared his throat. “I have a share now and again. Same with Haakon. Thor, as you know, is something else entirely. For as much as he consumes, he handles it well. Always has. The man could walk into a room fully stewed and most wouldn’t even know it. If it weren’t for the scent, that is.”