Sons of Blackbird Mountain

by Joanne Bischof

  When he turned his head, it was to the sight of Aven strolling down the row, Grete loping alongside her. Aven wore a blouse of cream with tiny, pale flowers. The same make of cloth he’d stacked in one of the old sheds after Dorothe’s passing. Aven’s patchwork skirt brushed the orchard floor only for leaves to cling to the hem. She glanced down the cross paths with each one she passed, seeming to search for something. When she finally spotted Thor, she slowed.

  Was that something him?

  Grete ran ahead and collided into Thor with licks and wags. Turning his face, Thor pushed her away and the dog circled the tree, then flopped beside him. Aven treaded nearer and knelt a few feet away. The lace at her collar said she’d taken effort with her stitchwork, and he’d never thought that plain fabric could look so fine. Her hair, even more ginger beneath the sunny sky, was braided loose. She pushed a few stray strands from her cheek and looked happy to see him.

  That expression giving him a pang, he let his eyes trail the length of her. There was a tenderness within him so severe he wanted to draw himself closer to her and touch the curve of her waist again. To touch the same curving line at her neck and shoulder. Skin that was so soft, he could hardly contemplate it, and knew it wisest not to try.

  She’d just seen him at his worst.

  Seen his mayhem and unrest. His anger. Even the nausea he’d battled against. She’d held him amid his sickness, only to humble him further by wiping his mouth. Clutching him in the yard even when he’d smelled like a pint gone bad. But there she had been, nearer than she should have gotten. Embarrassment spread a heat just beneath his shirt, and he suddenly couldn’t raise his gaze from the ground between them.

  When she moved closer and touched his sleeve, he pulled away. His gaze finally lifted. Just in time to see confusion line her face.

  Blinking quickly, she glanced around as if trying to rally from what must have seemed a snub. She did so with grace. “As soon as Haakon returns with the wagon, Jorgan and I are away to town.” Aven gave him a weak smile. “Fay is due to arrive any day, and Jorgan wanted to ask after the train schedule. We’re also going to the mercantile as he’s in need of a new part for the cider press. He’s wondering if there was anything you needed while we were about. We each set off to find you.”

  So she was here as a favor. It was small comfort to know the reason for her seeking him out was an indifferent one. Plain and to a purpose. Her gaze skimmed his pocket the same moment he withdrew his pad and pencil. He looked from it to her, and while there were things he had need of, his head throbbed too much to write in English. The language was convoluted enough and right now, well, beyond him. She wouldn’t understand his requests in Sign, so he shook his head. The only answer he could conjure up.

  Thinking she would rise and leave, he was surprised when she took the little book and opened it to a blank page before she slipped it back in his grasp. The pencil she stole as well, turned it right-side down, and tucked it back in his hands. Blazes, what was wrong with him?

  Her eyes flooded with concern as if wondering the same thing. “Are you in pain?”

  Desperate to pull himself together, he wrote in Norwegian. And crooked at that. Ja, litt.

  Her mouth moved with the words as she read. Sadness drew itself across her pretty face.

  Recalling one thing he couldn’t do without, he added tobbak. When Aven’s expression went regretful, he realized she didn’t know the word. Heaven help him, what was it in English? His mind was a quarry today—a thousand hammers and pickaxes at work within. And for some reason, not much was being unearthed.

  Squinting against the pain, Thor did his best to shape the curves and lines with the lead tip. When he finished, the crude drawing looked more like a teakettle than his pipe.

  Aven squinted at the figure, tipping her head to one side. Then she seemed to understand. “ ’Tis a pipe you’re wanting?”

  Nei. Thor slid his finger to the rounded chamber.

  “Ah, tobacco.” Her light-brown eyes were warm when they lifted to his. “I’ll be sure to get some.”

  He made the sign for gratitude. When he lowered his fingertips from his mouth, she seemed to understand, for she smiled. Beyond that, she didn’t move. Just looked back down the row. Knowing she should be getting back, he put his notepad and pencil away. When he rose it was a struggle, but to his relief she didn’t try and help him this time.

  Hoping he appeared steady, he stepped on with her beside him. Grete plodded along just ahead.

  Aven’s chin tipped up when blue jays flapped overhead, dipping through his orchard in search of a free meal. Cocking her head to the side, Grete watched. Useless dog. Thor wanted to pick up another apple and hurl it at the birds, but he didn’t want to startle Aven. Her hands were clutched in front of her skirt, and the way she was twisting her fingers together, it seemed she wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

  He wrestled with the notion of turning to her, motioning to his eyes, then her mouth—an assurance that she could say what she wished. But his whole body was thrumming with the need to sit down again, so he locked his focus on the porch steps and reaching them, sat.

  Aven slipped into the house, and he didn’t see her again until Haakon came along the road with the team. She and Jorgan came down the stairs and into the yard, having waited much too long. Shielding his eyes, Jorgan looked about as pleased as Thor felt.

  The wagon ambled into the yard. Haakon called a command to the horses. When they stilled, he hopped down, reached for an edge of the tarp, and flung it back. Every crate was empty.

  “What did you do?” Jorgan asked.

  Haakon tugged a thick fold of cash from his pocket. “Paid a visit to some neighbors of ours. There’s forty-six dollars here. And no more interest due for each month we sell ’em more.”

  They’d never sold to the Sorrels. Granted, a few of their accounts bought more than could be consumed, and they all knew it was being funneled elsewhere. Matters being what they were, Thor and his brothers had turned a blind eye, but to sell to the Sorrels directly? And without his permission?

  Haakon was out of his mind. They weren’t selling to those men. Thor didn’t even know if he wanted to sell to anyone from here on out.

  You not think, Thor signed, but before he even finished, his gaze lifted to the cider barn. One of the windows was uncovered and open, the removed boards stacked off to the side, warped and splintered. His whole body froze. A tingle rose that became warmer and warmer and warmer until his skin lit up with need. His mouth growing wet with it.

  He turned to Haakon, who was practically in his face. Bruises flanked the flesh beneath Haakon’s eyes, and cuts on his lip and cheekbone told Thor just why his knuckles were sore.

  “Did you have something to say to me?” Haakon asked.

  When Thor didn’t move, didn’t so much as blink, Haakon took a step back. “See now . . . I didn’t think so.” Haakon strode off.

  Looking like he wanted to throttle the runt, Jorgan stormed toward the cidery. At the window, he fetched the hammer from the ground, then a board and a bent nail. Thor couldn’t hear the blows, but he could see his brother’s urgency.

  Both shamed and grateful for it, Thor turned away and went into the house, leaving Aven alone beside the wagon.

  EIGHTEEN

  Rain tapped against the window. A welcome clatter after so many warm days. Upstairs in her room, Aven unfolded a fresh sheet. With Fay due to arrive any day, she spread the bright, clean linen over the new feather tick Jorgan and Ida had made. It rested atop another tick, that of straw. Aven had watched Jorgan over the last three days—the care he’d put into the tasks.

  She tucked the sheet into place. The wood frame Jorgan had built was sturdy, and the rope he’d woven across to hold the mattresses made a fine bed indeed. To make room for it, they’d moved Aven’s bed against one short wall of the room, pressing Fay’s up against the other. In between was just enough space for a braided rug and the dresser with its small mirror. Aven
had emptied half of the drawers, which was no effort at all, so little she had. With Jorgan’s beloved a child of missionaries, Aven had a feeling Fay would understand that well.

  To think of a wedding soon . . .

  Her heart soared at the thought. At how two people who had been separated as children went on to form an attachment through letters. A friendship that had flourished into a romance so sincere that a young woman was soon to return.

  Aven smoothed sheets into place, then a quilt that had been stitched by Dorothe herself. Fay would be rooming with Aven the few weeks before the wedding, and Jorgan’s intent to do things honorably showed in every detail.

  With the house quiet, Aven finished her task. ’Twas naught but an unhurried Thursday. The men were out and about, and having visited Cora’s family, Ida would be gone much of the day. At the very least, until the rain let up.

  At a gentle knock on the doorframe, Aven looked up to see Jorgan.

  “May I come in?”

  “Of course.” She perched on the edge of her bed and he leaned against Fay’s.

  He considered it. “This is nice, thank you.”

  Aven smiled.

  Falling quiet, Jorgan ran his hand over his beard so many times, she feared there wouldn’t be any whiskers left for the wedding.

  “If something is on your mind . . . ,” she began.

  “I’m trying to think of how to ask.” He cleared his throat, looking so uncomfortable she sensed what he sought.

  “Perhaps ’tis about Fay?”

  He nodded and started tugging at his beard again.

  Aven checked a smile. “Perhaps marriage as well?”

  “Yes’m.” Jorgan peered out the window, then looked back to Aven’s hands folded atop her lap. “I’m not sure what to ask. But I want to be good to Fay. I haven’t spent much time around women . . . apart from Ida, or Dorothe. Or now you. Never in a . . .” He cleared his throat again. “A wooing sense.”

  Of course. He’d romanced her only through writings.

  To set him at ease, then, Aven shifted on the bed, pulling her stockinged feet in beneath her skirt. “A woman simply wants to be loved, Jorgan. Cherished. Seen and, most especially, heard. To be valued. I have no doubt that you intend this.”

  He nodded firmly.

  “But we also don’t break so easily that you men need be afraid to stand up to our will if we’re heading down the wrong path. Or trying to lead you down the same. ’Tis good for a woman to be given due consideration yet also to trust the wisdom and strength of her husband. And . . .” Aven fiddled with the edge of her quilt, smoothing her hand along a favorite patch. “When it comes to other matters . . .” She cleared her throat, feeling a hint of her own embarrassment. “Being both tender and unafraid will welcome her most assuredly to a joyous union with you as her husband.”

  The side of his mouth lifted in a smile.

  “There are few men I have known who possess those qualities so genuinely as yourself.”

  After a thoughtful delay, he answered, “I thank you for that.” He lifted the smallest of the pillows from the end of Fay’s bed and fingered a bow. When he set it back, he spoke. “Ida mentioned that I wasn’t the only one to get a letter the other day.”

  She’d almost forgotten.

  “Have you decided what you’ll do?”

  “Nay.” Sewing in a shop in Lexington—a fine offer. With room, board, and a modest wage—a fair living. But the distance . . .

  Aven took the letter from the dresser. Good sense told her not to waste the opportunity. A life so near to what she’d dreamed of. Work to be proud of and wages to live comfortably on. What more could she possibly want?

  Something that was a matter of heart. One not inside this envelope.

  Reaching up, Aven touched her necklace. The chain boasted neither charm nor jewels, but the delicate weaving of the metal threads was pretty all the same. It held little value to most. She’d learned that the day her mother had tried to sell it for food for them both. The peddler she offered it to had turned his nose up at what was only thin steel, declaring it so weightless, he’d not give a halfpenny for it. So her mother slid it back on and took Aven’s hand. Farther along the road they’d traveled until they’d finally reached the workhouse.

  When her mother had died there only weeks later, Aven unclasped the chain from her mother’s neck with the bravest and most frightened hands a girl her age could possess.

  She didn’t realize how quiet she’d grown until Jorgan spoke. “How long do you have to decide?”

  “ ’Twould be proper to reply within the week so they’re not left to wonder.”

  When she set the envelope back on the wooden surface, he rose. “We can mail off your answer on our next deliveries. Or deliver you straight to Lexington ourselves should you decide to go. Haakon could take you in. Or I, or even Thor.”

  Aven nodded, but a sting tightened her throat.

  Jorgan was the only one who knew of the opportunity, and she didn’t know how to mention it to anyone else. She thought of Thor. Tried to imagine how she would express leaving. He would have a sign for it, but the shape was one she didn’t want to try and make. Nor did she wish to imagine him being the one who drove her away from this place. For him to be the one to lift her things from the wagon and bid the last good-bye in his own silent way.

  Jorgan stepped to the door. “None of us want to see you go. I know that’s not fair to say—what with this chance you got—but it’s the truth.”

  “I thank you for that. But I wonder . . . if this is the place for me.”

  Jorgan leaned a shoulder against the jamb. “Can I ask whatever happened with Haakon? With what he asked you.”

  “You know about that?”

  He nodded.

  Aven drew in a slow breath. “Haakon is dear.” And charming at that. “But I’ve been a wife before.” She understood both the blessings and trials that came with marriage. While she wished to wed again, it was not a decision to make quickly. “I’ve known Haakon for only a few weeks. Longer, granted, than I had known Benn, but the situation is different. I’m sorry to tell you that I married your cousin because he offered to feed me. To take me away from the workhouse—where the infirm and insane and unwanted are left to work for survival inside stone walls.” Where children often lacked shoes and had only meager meals that came twice a day. Sleeping atop lice-infested bedding and even for that they were thankful.

  “I was a child when I went there, and my mother died within its walls. ’Tis a miracle I came out in anything other than a coffin.”

  Jorgan’s face was drawn with sorrow.

  Never had she told them how fragile she was upon Benn finding her. “That life is now a world away, and I don’t wish to marry for necessity again. But for love, like Fay and yourself.”

  A resolve filled Jorgan’s face as if he knew the man who would offer her such. “Take your time in answering Haakon. It will be good for him to be patient, and more importantly, it’s only fair to you.” Rain still pattering on the roof, Jorgan looked up to the ceiling, then thanked her afresh for her advice.

  When he was gone and with her mind no longer on reading, Aven pulled her sewing near. The black mourning gown was almost transformed into a swimming costume. Only a few more stitches on the waistband to complete it. She threaded a needle as the charcoal sky churned outside. Tipping her work nearer to the window gave enough light to see the stitches. When she reached the end of her thread, she knotted it and took up the spool to cut more.

  Would she sew garments for perfect strangers once more?

  Her gaze drifted to the letter, but at the sound of heavy footsteps in the hall, she looked over to see Thor step into view wearing a coat and floppy hat pulled low. Her heart lightened at the sight of him, and gone were any thoughts of workhouse walls or marriages of convenience. In its place was a delight she couldn’t ignore.

  Looking drenched through, he motioned for her to come to him. Aven stood and stepped to the doorway
. Dew was gathered in his beard and he ran a hand there, his other braced to his chest as if clutching something just beneath. A smile lit his eyes, but he made no move for his notepad. He didn’t even try and shape any of his words. Did he want something?

  Aven was about to ask when he tipped his head down, sending drips to fall from the brim of his hat. It was strange—standing so near to him and not smelling cider. Instead, it was the musky scent of rain and the richness of the woods that filled her senses. She hoped he could stay fast to this course of sobriety. ’Twas further than Benn had ever gotten, so Aven wasn’t sure what to make of it or what to expect. But she did know what to pray for and that she would continue to do so.

  Thor unbuttoned the top of his coat and pulled one side away. There came a soft mewling sound. He angled his body so she could see a tiny face of gray fluff. Peeking out of the front of his shirt, the kitten mewled again. Aven gasped.

  Thor reached down and lifted the tiny bundle free. Its little claws clasped into his large hand and he hissed in a breath. Giggling, Aven reached to help him. She took the kitten and eased its paw free from his skin. Thor winced, then sucked the tip of his knuckle.

  “Wherever did you find this?”

  He pointed back the way he’d come, then gestured the shape of a pointed roof. Perhaps the barn or an outbuilding. With two fingers he made the curving stroke of a cat’s whiskers at his cheek, then he rounded his hand in front of her stomach as if to indicate a pregnant mother. Last, he held up five fingers, touching each one in turn before pointing to the gray kitten again.

  “Five of them?”

  He nodded.

  “And this one?”

  He pointed at her.

  “For me?”

  He smiled gently.

  “Is it old enough to be away from its mother?” She nestled the warm bundle closer against her chest. It seemed too tiny to be weaned.