Sons of Blackbird Mountain

by Joanne Bischof

  He made a gesture she didn’t understand. As if realizing as much, he reached in for his notebook and pencil. His brow furrowed as he wrote on a page that was wrinkled from the damp. Mother gone.

  “Oh no. And the other kittens?”

  Cora have.

  Never could they be better looked after. “Will you show me how to care for this one?”

  Touching her at the elbow, he led her into the hallway. When he released her, she followed him. In the kitchen he pulled off his sopping coat and dropped it on the table. Next his wet hat. Since all would be best hung up, Aven went to take them. Thor shook his head.

  “There’ll be a puddle on the table.” She reached for the drenched items again, but he flicked the side of her hand. Next he took up the jug of milk and placed it in her grasp. His way of saying the coat could wait? Well . . . “You don’t need to be such a brute about it.”

  Smiling, he fetched a clean spoon, then tossed it with a clatter on the table. He took the milk from her and set the jug down with a thud. He motioned to the stove, and she helped him find a pan. Setting it to heat, Aven drizzled milk in.

  Thor tapped her arm. She turned to see him holding over his notebook. Need clean cloth.

  She stepped into the pantry to fetch a piece of cheesecloth. The kitten was warm and mewling in her grasp all the while. The near little life, the tiny heartbeat thrumming against her palm was such a burst of joy that Aven scarcely wanted to let it go. She did, though, when Thor reached to take it.

  He sat and placed the kitten in his lap. Having brought the warm milk near, he dabbed the cloth and squeezed white drops onto the kitten’s downy mouth. It licked its muzzle. Thor squeezed out more. He kept at it until the tiny, pink tongue had lapped up its supper.

  Thor stroked its small head that was dwarfed by his hand. So rough he could be with his brothers or when his wishes weren’t understood, but there was a gentleness about him at other times. Aven watched him, enjoying the ability to do it freely. His large thumb brushed a tiny gray ear, then ran down the length of the kitten’s thin tail. Lifting one of its scrawny legs, he glanced there, then back up to Aven. Thor stroked his thumb against one side of his bearded jaw.

  She shook her head.

  He pulled out a chair for her and when she sat, he handed over the kitten. Their fingers brushed, his own warm to the touch and filled with a tremor. He motioned to Aven and made that stroking sign again. Then he pointed to himself and gestured as if pinching the front of his hat. He repeated the two different signs, using one when he pointed to her, then the other when he pointed to himself.

  “Oh, ’tis a girl!”

  He nodded, his pleasure clear that she’d understood. She was alight with her own kind of contentedness. Of being here with him. Of knowing what was on his mind.

  Thor tapped Aven’s arm, pointed to his mouth, and made an unmistakable “Tt—” sound.

  He was full of surprises today.

  He slid his notebook near and wrote, Tis. After circling the three letters, he crossed them out and added, Not word.

  She smiled. “I disagree.”

  Thor rose and strode into the other room. He returned with a thick book that he thudded on the table in front of her. The spine read DICTIONARY. He gestured to it as if daring her to prove it.

  Aven laughed. “ ’Tis a word to me.”

  He chuckled, and she savored the sound. Thor sat beside her again as Aven kissed the top of the kitten’s furry head. He watched them quietly. When he swiped an arm against his forehead, she realized it was no longer dew on his brow but perspiration. Perhaps he wasn’t feeling as well as he seemed.

  “What shall we name her?”

  He gave a small shrug.

  “Let’s see . . .” She searched her mind and thought back to women she had known. Perhaps one who had been dear to them both. “How about Dotti? ’Tis short for Dorothe.”

  Thor lowered his hand for the kitten to see, then shaped the letters. The kitten reached out to play with his fingers, and Thor touched its wee paw.

  Here Aven sat beside him, her uncertainties having faded with each day of knowing him. Just as Cora had promised.

  A bead of sweat slid down Thor’s temple, and his breathing was labored. Reaching back, he squeezed behind his neck and pinched his eyes closed. Aven clutched the kitten to her front with one hand and rose to pour him a glass of water. She handed him the drink, and though he looked doubtful, he sipped.

  Water would be a small comfort to him. ’Twas something much more potent his body was wanting, and as he drank from the glass, his eyes no longer meeting her own, she knew his fight to overcome it was far from over.

  NINETEEN

  Pack strapped to his back, Thor strode up the hillside, feeling like he was ninety years old. He had to be a good mile from the farmyard now. Panting, he slowed. Sun-warmed evergreens fragranced the air, and it was this piney tang he heaved into his lungs, trying to gentle his breathing. This was a climb that needed to be made in order to hunt.

  Haakon would probably pitch a fit to find wild game on the roasting spit, but Thor had a mind to try and bag something today. It was all he could do to sit still any longer, and he had nothing else to keep busy with. At least not right now.

  Though Jorgan had let him set off on his own, Thor had been made to promise not to do anything stupid.

  Define stupid, he asked.

  Not amused, Jorgan had given a warning look. Thor had smiled for the sole reason of it feeling good to smile again.

  Jorgan didn’t need to worry. Though it was no secret to Thor where most of the stills on this mountain were, and though he could hunt down at least two within the hour, a drink was the last thing he came up here for. No, it was the wide-open space and the need to think clearly. Grete had tried to come along, but Thor made her stay behind. She was handy for small game but didn’t like to be far from Haakon, so she would only come up here and fret.

  Head still aching, Thor slowed. He sat on a broken log and pulled his pipe from his pocket. Thanks to Aven, there was a fresh quarter pound of tobacco in his pouch. He pulled out a pinch and stuffed the chamber. He patted his pocket for a match, but the small box wasn’t there. He looked in his pack. Nothing.

  Two curse words and one humdinger of a hand sign came to mind, but he just set the pipe aside and hung his head.

  Folding his hands, he pressed his forehead to his knuckles and closed his eyes.

  Focused on breathing in and out. In and out. His head pounded like a runaway horse, and there was nothing to take the edge off.

  Thor glanced back in the direction of the farm. It was too far to see, but was Haakon still on the porch, Aven trimming his already-short hair? That’s what had made Thor decide to get away. He didn’t like scissors when it came to hair. Nor when they were in Aven’s hand. Even less did he like seeing her and Haakon there together, deep in conversation.

  It seemed a good time to load up a pack for a night in the woods.

  Shifting his boots, Thor tried not to think about having a smoke. Or a drink. Or anything else he wanted in life and couldn’t seem to figure out. Why was everything so dad-blasted hard? Drinking himself toward the grave had been no picnic. Being sober wasn’t either. It was like life was out to corner him. Cram him into a place where he couldn’t move and couldn’t win.

  It had always been this way. He couldn’t make himself talk, and he couldn’t make himself hear. Not even the traveling preacher with his revival could do a thing about it. Had Da really walked Thor up to the front of the giant tent that night?

  Though he’d only been twelve, Thor would never forget how everyone was falling down and carrying on in the name of religion. The preacher saying that Thor’s Deafness was a spirit needing to be loosed. But when the old man had put his icy hand to Thor’s head and spoke some kind of prayer, nothing had happened.

  The preacher chalked it up to Jarle Norgaard and his boy not having enough faith.

  Thor walked away from the tent that night st
ill Deaf as a doorpost and fearing neither he nor Da would make it into heaven. Which meant neither of them would see the good Lord or Ma. Thor had crawled up to the highest hideaway in the cidery that night and drank himself to smithereens. It was the first time he’d ever done such a thing. He’d had plenty of sips over the years of tasting with Da, but never so much that he couldn’t remember anything of the next day.

  It was a numbing he got used to.

  Here on the hillside, Thor blinked into the bright light of noon. It pierced his skull so fiercely he had to shield his eyes until his vision righted. When it did, he peered down the slope to see movement in the brush. The tips of antlers. Not fifty yards off, a young buck trod forward, lifted his head, and peered at Thor. Half surrounded by brush, the creature didn’t startle. Maybe a two-year-old at most. Those weren’t much for wall mounts but tender eating to be sure. Thor dropped his gaze to the rifle that was two feet away. If he moved slowly . . .

  Reaching for it, he hoped with everything in him that he was being quiet. His inability to hear himself made him a poor hunter at short range, but from afar, where sound gave way to sharp aim, he was the best shot out of his brothers. Thor closed a hand around the forestock and set the gun across his lap. The creature stepped forward and paused, watching him still.

  The rifle was loaded. A quick raise and fire and the animal would drop.

  Thor didn’t move.

  He just watched the young deer lower his face to the ground, sniff, and look back up. Wind stirred the grasses between them, rippling the dried meadow as waves. All glittering and hot this September day. Thor touched the trigger, let the pad of his finger find its place, but still he didn’t raise the rifle. Part of him wanted to aim and fire, but more of him wanted that stag to take a step back. Turn away and bound down the hillside. What that creature did was out of his control, so Thor controlled what he could.

  He pulled his hand away and just savored the few minutes he had of watching the young deer. When it was gone, Thor’s senses kicked in and part of him regretted letting such a prize get away.

  A small part of him.

  The springhouse was filled with meats, and it was a kill he needn’t make. Really, he’d come here to get away—hunting being an excuse. If he trudged home empty-handed, that was alright by him.

  Thor hauled his pack near and dug inside. Ida had packed him some bread and jerky. The bread had been sliced down the middle and slathered with blackberry jam. Aven’s jam. Thor licked his thumb clean, getting the first taste.

  Leave it to Ida to meddle even from afar.

  Famished, he went to take a bite when something else in the distance caught his eye. Two blonde heads bobbed into view, a pair of women climbing the hillside. They strolled slowly, burdened by heavy-looking baskets. A second glance showed the baskets loaded with apples. It took a few seconds for his brain to lock and load on that.

  Apples.

  If their direction was true, they’d come from his orchards. Thor stood. He’d left Jorgan working on the chicken coop, and with Haakon’s mind who-knew-where, it would have been easy for the women to slip along the far acreage and glean what they wished.

  With the women nearer, the one in front spotted him. Her feet slowed to a standstill so abruptly the woman behind her nearly stumbled. In moments, they were both looking at him. The second went to walk on again, but the first stopped her as if willing to face whatever consequence was coming. Having no idea what he was about to do or how to express it, Thor headed toward them. The gun he left behind.

  He ran his hands together, nerves rising. He wasn’t good with strangers. Trying to communicate with them was rarely successful because people put little effort into understanding him. The first woman watched him—both boldness and worry traced across her features. He approached unhurriedly so as to send no alarm. Thor gave a friendly nod.

  She dipped her head warily in return. With fine lines around her eyes and mouth and threads of silver lightening her already-pale hair, she looked to be in her fifties. The one behind her was just as tall and slender, but only a few years past girlhood. Hair as fair as the rest of her kinfolk.

  Sorrel women. He’d bet anything on it.

  And now that he was thinking about it, the young one was called Sibby. Probably short for something fancier, but he didn’t know. A speaking man would greet her mother as Mrs. Sorrel, the head of the female roost. There were other daughters as well, and wives who had married into the family. Lots of children. Enough to take up several pews if they all were in church, which was rare.

  As if knowing that caught was caught, Mrs. Sorrel set the basket at her feet. Thor stepped close enough to glimpse inside. Easily three or four dozen apples in the one. How long had they been stealing from him? He knelt and dragged the basket nearer. It was his right to confiscate it, but all he could think of were the children. The skinny beanpoles from the toddling stage and on up. Children who likely didn’t know that the fruit they’d be eating was a few weeks shy of ripe.

  He glanced at Sibby and knew hunger when he saw it. The Sorrel men weren’t using their income on family provisions. Certain he knew where it was being funneled left Thor with a rock in his gut. Not that selling the Sorrels liquor had been his intent, but turning a blind eye had been a choice all the same.

  With a tip of his head, Thor motioned for the ladies to follow him. He walked to his pack, set the basket aside, and dug among his things. He found a second sandwich that Ida had made and handed both over.

  The older woman glanced from the offering, then to his face. Anger sparked in her blue-gray eyes. “What’s that gonna cost?” She shifted some in front of her grown daughter.

  It was just like a woman who did without to believe that everything had a cost. He wouldn’t even dream of touching her daughter and hated the notion of her having assumed otherwise. Thor shook his head.

  He shook his head once more as he handed over what Ida had made. When Mrs. Sorrel didn’t take them, he set the wrapped meals on top of the apples and hefted up the basket again. Mouth set firmly, Sibby watched with eyes that looked older than her years. Thor couldn’t begin to guess all that she’d seen or experienced. On her left wrist were small bruises in the shape of fingerprints. Her mother bore bruises of similar fashion on one side of her neck.

  Thor motioned for them to follow. They did, at a distance.

  The climb took all he had left. When he reached the top ridge, he was panting again. The Sorrel farm was just on the other side of those trees, so the women wouldn’t have much farther to go. Rarely did Thor ever come here. Not to the home of the men who marched into their yard bearing torches. The ones who’d been brutal with Al and would likely not stop there. Thor glanced to Sibby again. Was she the one Al had smiled at?

  After striding a few yards nearer to the stand of trees, Thor set the basket down. The women lagged behind. Sibby stumbled, spilling her basket. Thor hurried to help her. He picked up the fruit and placed each one with as much care as if for his own use. Wide-eyed, she watched him. He lifted the basket, settling it in her grasp again, then made the sign for more by tapping the pinched fingers of both hands together.

  She shook her head. Trying again, Thor knelt. He grabbed a stick and wrote the word. Both women read it. He pointed to the apples. When they still looked uncertain, he pressed both of his palms to his chest, then held them out to try and show the act of giving. It’s what Da would have done. Was it not Da who had taught them to look after those who were less fortunate?

  To Thor’s shame, he and his brothers hadn’t given much thought to the Sorrel women and children. So it was with humility now that Thor made the gesture again, pointing to the apples, then to the word he’d written in the dirt.

  Mrs. Sorrel’s forehead crinkled in surprise, and he knew she understood.

  Thor gave a small smile. If he was too friendly it would just frighten them, so he stepped away. A touch at his arm halted him. The older woman was holding out a small box of matches. She spoke, but he h
adn’t been watching. Touching his lips, he rolled his finger forward—hoping she’d repeat herself.

  “I found these in the grass.” Though they were no longer of high society, her speech looked genteel, words shaped with the slow, delicate cadence of a Southern belle. “Are they yours?”

  He accepted the box. Dipping his head in gratitude, he started off. Downhill was easier than the walk up, so he made quick time. He didn’t glance back until he got to his pack again, and when he did, the women were gone.

  Thor sat and pulled his things near, then fetched his pipe. He stuck the end in his mouth, struck a match, and lit the tobacco. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, then shook the flame out. He had fire again, so he could get through for a day or two fine. If he picked off a rabbit or small game, he’d have supper, and while he was finally in the mood for some hunting, that would have to wait. He needed to get back to the farm—and the sooner, the better—because he finally knew what he was going to do. He was going to pay the Sorrel men a visit.

  But first, he had to break some bad news to his brothers.

  TWENTY

  “Oh no you don’t.” Aven lifted Dotti into the crate filled with sawdust.

  The kitten’s tail wriggled again, and there was no doubt of what that meant. Aven had cleaned up two puddles already this morning. Time for a success. When it happened, she clapped and the kitten tumbled head over rump out of the crate.

  Aven scooped her up. “See now! I knew you could do it.” She kissed the downy gray head and dangled the slip of yarn, wondering if their game was at an end. Dotti rolled over, swatting at the tattered fibers with all four paws.

  Excitement sounded from the kitchen. Voices, one over another. With Fay due to arrive any day, Aven tied the string to the crate and scrambled to her feet. She hurried out and closed the door behind her so Dotti wouldn’t escape just yet. She meant to give the cat free reign of the house but wanted her to be less accident-prone first. That also meant she would need to hurry back to check on her.