Sons of Blackbird Mountain

by Joanne Bischof

  NINE

  Breakfast the next morning was a quiet event. Thor and Haakon didn’t acknowledge one another from across the table. Aven tried not to recall the upset from the day before, but it was as impossible to ignore as the silence.

  Yesterday Jorgan assured her that his brothers had always been this way. That their row was nothing to worry about. Jorgan had spoken with such ease that Aven clung to the hope that if tension was a regular occurrence, perhaps it would quickly fade. The hope was kindled when Haakon rose, strode out, and Thor lifted a regretful glance after him.

  Jorgan stood as well. “Haakon and me are gonna mend a window on the west cabin, then see if the fish are bitin’. We’ll be back.” He tossed his napkin onto the table, and though he’d scrubbed at the washbasin before breakfast, the creases of his hands were still somewhat blackened. He’d worked with Thor at sunup to tug down the burnt wood crib. With the help of one of the horses and a sturdy chain, they had it pulled down before the coffee even began to steam.

  Aven nodded as Thor pushed his way from the table and strode deeper into the house.

  With Ida abed resting her legs, Aven set the kettle to steam and prepared a tray of breakfast comforts. After bringing it to Ida in the back bedroom, Aven returned to the kitchen and hefted up the bowl of berries that had scarcely dwindled. An idea dawned. She went to the pantry and pulled out both flour and sugar. Perhaps a pie was in order. Two, judging by the abundance of the fruit on hand and the tension still in the air.

  By the time she finished mixing and rolling dough, Thor had gone outside toward the orchards.

  Aven stirred glistening sugar into the dark berries. ’Twas with thankful hands that she worked. For both the bounty and their generosity in giving her a place to be at home.

  Using a butter knife, she cut a delicate lattice top. Two pans came next, and she assembled both pies with great care. A few snippets of dough remained, so Aven cut them into dainty leaves and twisted vines. She layered the cutouts into place, then brushed the tops with a beaten egg. Into the oven the pans went. If Haakon and Jorgan were successful, fried fish would be on the menu for dinner, so she stuck potatoes onto the lowest rack to roast.

  Her own legs weary, Aven headed upstairs, intent on tending to a project she could settle in for. She pulled her mourning gown from the wardrobe and sat on the bed where she spread out the heavy skirt. It looked as wilted and tired as she had felt upon her climb up this mountain. Which made it all the more gratifying to lift Dorothe’s sewing shears and snip through the lightweight wool.

  Aven trimmed a large portion from the bottom, then much of each sleeve. Even this simple task reminded her of the kind Norwegian woman. While her letters spanning the sea had been delicately worded, they had been meaningful all the same. Of those memories, the richest were the scriptures Dorothe would pen.

  Though raised Catholic as a child, Aven had attended a Protestant church upon her marriage to Benn, and her heart found a home there. The church the brothers attended seemed of a similar make. She was eager to understand more of God’s Word in this wilderness. To learn more of grace and salvation as well as devoting one’s life to the good Christ. She’d cherished beloved scriptures and Bible stories as a girl, and now she trusted that God had her on a path that would further shape her.

  Aven plunged a threaded needle into the dusky fabric. Along one hem she worked, using a running stitch and pulling pins here and there. Before long, a tangy sweetness warmed the air from the pies that had to be bubbling now. Aven took up the gown and sewing basket, then started for the stairs. To work nearer the oven would be wise. ’Twould do no good to become lost in another task and allow her efforts to burn.

  So quick she went down that she nearly missed sight of Thor at the table near the stairs in the great room. Back hunched, he pored over one of his books. Not wanting to interrupt him, Aven set her sewing materials down, then stepped into the kitchen. She grabbed a quilted pad and lowered the oven door. Heat wafted out, as did the aroma of melted butter. The lattice tops had darkened to a golden brown, so she slid out the pans and set them on the kitchen table to cool.

  Aven gently fingered one of the leaf cuttings. The dough was baked to a honey-hued sheen. The vines twisting around were just as lovely. Perhaps a bit ornate, but that was the result of living over the bakery in Norway, having spent many a lonely night helping Farfar Øberg roll and cut dough just so they would each have someone to talk to. Musing that this handiwork would make the grandfatherly man proud, Aven felt a tickle of homesickness in her chest. His wrinkled face came to mind, and she recalled the way it always brightened whenever she mastered a new technique or surprised him with methods of her own invention.

  Aven peeked into the great room and thought a little less of Farfar Øberg at the sight of Thor sitting there. Her sewing basket still rested near him. Should she take it elsewhere? She didn’t wish to, so with a small grip of courage she walked over. Perhaps they could keep company until the others returned.

  His book sat flat to the table, and the thumb he held atop the page slid along as he read. Beside him on the bench was an open jar of cider. He gave her the smallest of glances as she settled onto the bench opposite him.

  Aven pulled the beginnings of the swimming costume into her lap, then reached for a spool of black thread. A snip of the scissors and she gave the thread a little lick before pushing it through the eye of the needle. Though the book was upside down to her, it was clearly in Norwegian. She tipped her head to the side. Her effort to decipher the title at the top of the open page was no use, so faded was the text.

  Thor shifted on the bench. His shoe bumped her own, and he slid his feet away. As if noticing where her focus had landed, he used his thumb as a placeholder, then angled the cover toward her.

  Aven squinted at the title. Verdens Grøde. Something to do with giants. “Are you enjoying it?”

  Palm down, he tipped his hand from side to side as if to say somewhat. Thor pulled his book away, flipped it open once more, and went back to reading. After a few lines, his gaze strayed to her.

  Aven gave a friendly smile as she reached for the tin of pins.

  His breathing was soft as he continued to read. Boots shuffling so often, she had to work not to smile again. His feet shifted once more, but this time he cleared his throat. Was he nervous? Perhaps she was sitting too close. With the table between them, it was surely proper. Aven glimpsed his face, wishing for a hint of his thoughts.

  Her study of him was cut short when she pricked her finger on the next stitch. She winced and stuck the pad against her mouth. She’d do well to be watching what she was doing. Thor lifted his head, looking concerned.

  Finger throbbing, Aven shook her hand. “ ’Twas just a prick.”

  He nudged up the lid of the sewing basket, reached inside, and pulled out a thimble. He set it on the table in front of her.

  “Aye, that would be helpful as well.” She slid it on and the metal cap fit loosely. With his attention still upon her, she spoke in hopes of bringing some comfort to his newfound situation. “I’m sorry about what Haakon did. About the pairing off of the dance.”

  Running the back of his knuckles against his beard, Thor made no response.

  “If it’s dancing that worries you, I could show you how—”

  He shook his head and reached for his jar. A gulp disrupted the thin ring of white foam atop the brew.

  “Just the basic steps. They truly aren’t so hard.”

  Looking frustrated, he reached into his pocket and fetched his notebook. Next he pulled out the stubby pencil. Hard for me.

  “Of course.” Aven hoped he knew she meant it. “And reasonably so.”

  He seemed to appreciate that. When he pushed the notebook aside and returned to his reading, she focused on her stitches. It was a struggle not to peer back up at him. She put all her effort into making an even hem, hardly noticing him place the notebook near. A new line of text had been added.

  I teach you swim.
>
  “Me?” She pointed to herself. “I don’t think I could learn.”

  In his block script he wrote, Not so hard. He touched the word swim again.

  When she braved a glance, his eyes were smiling. That was fair. It was unnerving the way his gaze immediately focused on her mouth when she started to speak. “You teach me to swim and I will teach you to dance.”

  With a quick shake of his head, he leaned back against the wall and folded his arms. The wood creaked against his strength. He studied her for such a long minute that she was further unsettled. Finally, he wrote something more. No dance. No swim. We fair? His eyebrows tipped up in question.

  He was releasing her, then? To her surprise, disappointment rushed her. Aven glanced around the room. First to the wall of windows where noon cast its glow, then to the fireplace that rested empty on this summer’s day, then to the man across from her who was watching her as if her next words would mean much to him.

  “How . . . how do I say please?” She held both hands out for him to know what she meant.

  Thor pressed one of his own flat to his chest and moved it in a small circle.

  Aven mimicked the motion, then pointed back to the word swim. “You will still teach me? Please?” The thought of him steadying her in the water was a perplexing one. But she trusted she would be safe.

  Though his eyes widened, he nodded.

  “Thank you.”

  He smiled, and it was even more captivating than Haakon’s. Perhaps because of how rare it was. Or perhaps because she felt sheer delight at being on the receiving end of it.

  Before she could make sense of such a thought, the kitchen door opened in a gust. Haakon called out. Aven glanced around the corner. Thor leaned that way as if realizing they were no longer alone. A trice later, Haakon declared utter exaltation over the pies, followed by the clatter of the silverware drawer.

  Aven rose and pushed her basket aside. “Do not touch the pies!” She hurried into the kitchen just as Haakon stabbed his first bite.

  He lifted it to his mouth, and her cry of despair was enough to freeze him into place.

  “Don’t touch which pie?” He glanced to the bite he had forked out of the steamy center, then back to her, looking as guilty as a person could look.

  “Haakon!” Aven stared at the marred pastry.

  Heavy boots stomped up the porch and Jorgan ducked in. “There’s pie?” He trod nearer, stole Haakon’s fork, and shoveled out a bigger mouthful.

  Aven gasped. She turned for help, but there was only Thor, who was fetching his own eating utensil. He strode around the table, sat at the head, and pulled the second pie nearer. He stabbed a chunk of crust, then shoved it in his mouth. His approving grunt was her undoing.

  “You all are wicked, wicked men.” She unlaced her apron and pulled it off. After wadding it up, she threw it on the table.

  “You’re not upset, are you?” Haakon asked.

  “They needed to cool for after supper.”

  Thor pointed to the dessert in front of him, then made several slow motions with one hand.

  Haakon glanced at him. “My thoughts exactly.” He pulled the first pan into his lap, then propped his boots up on the edge of the table. He crammed a scoop of blackberries into his mouth.

  Outnumbered, Aven sank onto the stool beside the pantry. “Ida would not stand for such behavior.”

  “But she’s not in here,” Haakon mumbled around a mouthful. “We didn’t catch any fish, and I’m starving. Come have some too.” He pulled out a chair for her. “It’s not as good if you’re mad at us.”

  Thor waved Aven nearer. When she didn’t move, he gestured to Jorgan for another fork, then tried to coax her closer again. She shook her head, and he frowned. Thor lunged toward her, gripped her stool by one of the legs, and dragged her to his side.

  Aven stared at him in shock. His arm brushed her own as he accepted the clean fork from his brother. After spearing a gooey piece of crust, Thor held it over. A response stunned right out of her, she took the metal handle.

  He was watching her mouth, and there was a wanting in his eyes. One that told her actions spoke so much louder than words to him. When she didn’t move, he shaped a phrase with his hands. Aven looked to Haakon for help.

  “He said you’ll be less upset if you have some. And that . . .” Haakon watched as Thor made several more gestures. “You are like a small bird.”

  “A what?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Thor patted the table loudly, and when he signed something different, Haakon seemed to catch on. “Oh. He said you’re thin like a bird.”

  Thor circled two fingers around Aven’s wrist as if to prove his point.

  Haakon rose and reached for the milk bottle. “I think he means to fatten you up.”

  “So I see. ’Tis a concern for my well-being, is it?”

  Thor nodded, and her intention of serving the pie on the lovely china from the cupboard was dying. Especially when he nudged her hand closer to her mouth. His expression ever so eager, she indulged him. And, oh, it was good. A smile twinkled in his eyes as she swiped a finger over her lips to catch the juice. Haakon celebrated with a whistle so shrill, she nearly choked. Thor patted her back much too hard, which made everything worse.

  Tears forming, Aven wiped her eyes. “Now may I have a plate?” She rose and plucked one from the glass cabinet.

  Thor flicked open his knife, cut a thick wedge, and loaded it onto the dainty dish for her. He licked the side of his blade clean, then stabbed the tip into the arm of his chair.

  “Oh.” That hadn’t quite been what she had in mind. “Thank you . . . Thor.”

  When Haakon chuckled, Thor smiled at his brother, and Aven felt something between them being stitched back together.

  Haakon licked a drop of purple juice from the base of his thumb. “This is the best pie I’ve ever had.”

  Aven sampled another bite. It was good. Warm and tangy . . . and she’d never had berries so plump and sweet to bake with before. Haakon lifted the jug of milk to his mouth.

  Aven reached to stop him. “Be a good lad and pour me a glass before you do that.”

  He rose to fetch her one. “Can you make more stuff like this pie?”

  “Certainly.”

  “With apple even? How about peach? Oh, and pumpkin.”

  “I can make whatever kind you wish. Cakes and even turnovers.”

  Dropping his pan onto the table with a clatter, Thor shaped a thought with his hands. Aven waited for Haakon to explain.

  “He asked if you can make chocolate cream.” Haakon filled a glass for her, then sat again.

  “ ’Twould be my joy.”

  Thor’s chest lifted in a satisfied inhale. Aven breathed in deeply as well, savoring this moment and how different it was than her life before.

  The breeze that blew in from the open window held the sweet ripening of the orchards. The curtains on the window stirred, and from somewhere in the distance, hoofbeats plodded along. The steady sound grew nearer, and Jorgan moved to the window. Grete barked.

  Pushing his chair back, Thor rose. Aven glimpsed a weather-beaten wagon pulling up the drive. In the back was a stack of wide boards. Jorgan was somber now. Looking the same, Thor strode to the doorway, where he leaned a shoulder against the jamb. The wagon creaked to a stop in front of the cider barn. When Jorgan called Grete off, two men hopped down.

  With a tip of his head, Thor motioned for Jorgan to follow. They shared a brief greeting with the deliverymen, then reached into the wagon, dragged down two boards apiece, and stacked them just in front of the shop door. The workers pulled down more and piled them there. Board after board after board.

  Boots back up on the table, Haakon folded his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. Shooting out a heavy sigh, he looked none too pleased about whatever had just pulled into their lives.

  TEN

  Holding his pocket watch with a trembling hand, Thor read the time. Just past ten. Nearly twelve
hours since his last drink. Over two days since the boards had been delivered. Time enough for him to brace for what was to come and for Jorgan and him to finish closing up the shop.

  Morning sun poured through the window as if to mock him and his pounding head. He sipped the glass of water Ida had brought him, but it did little for his parched throat. Bowing his head, he dragged a hand through his hair and gripped the back of his throbbing neck.

  During the last delivery, they’d sold enough liquor to keep their customers happy for a few weeks. Beyond that . . . Thor didn’t want to think about it.

  Now Jorgan was sealing over the last of the windows in the attic where Thor would keep himself. The light dimming, Thor glanced around. He didn’t like the way the room was beginning to box him in, but it was safest. With three more swings, Jorgan drove another nail flush. He gave the final wooden slat a firm tug. It didn’t budge.

  Jorgan looked at him. “You doin’ okay?”

  Thor nodded as much to reassure himself as his brother. These early hours, miserable as they felt, were just the beginning. He had a good four days of hell in front of him, and he was barely to the fiery gates.

  Stomach in knots, Thor tried to remember what he’d sat down for. Oh . . . Aven.

  Reaching under his bed, he dragged forward his box of odds and ends and lifted it beside him. He pulled out a tin with a hinged lid. Inside were trinkets he’d collected over the years. A small river rock he’d gathered on school holiday. Three Mohawk beads he and Jorgan had unearthed in the woods one spring. The eagle feather he’d found on the ridge with Da. Thor sifted through the rest of the items until he saw a glinting piece of metal. His mother’s thimble.

  He turned the thimble that was smaller than even the tip of his pinkie. The smooth shape of it reminded him of things forever lost, so he wasted no time riffling through the box some more. He dug until he found an old leather pouch. Thor dumped out the contents, tucked the token inside, and tugged the drawstrings.