Sons of Blackbird Mountain

by Joanne Bischof

  He gave a small smile, followed by a nod.

  “Ida mentioned that they are taking donations for the fund-raiser. Haakon said there is to be a raffle before the dance. If I’m able, I’ll send along some jars of the jelly and perhaps then we can see if folks take to it.”

  He seemed pleased by that. And even . . . proud? It shone in his eyes when he looked down at her. When they reached the fallen log again, she climbed over first. He followed, and the jar in his grasp jangled softly.

  Aven motioned to the coins. “Though perhaps there is another option as well.” She swallowed hard, determined to finally brave this. “I’ve been offered a sewing position at a shop in Lexington.”

  Thor’s brow puckered in confusion. His gaze lifted from her mouth to her eyes. When he lowered his focus again, she knew he was waiting for more.

  “The wage is a fair one, and with room and board provided, I’d be able to send my earnings back here.” The jar in his hand suddenly seemed much too small. His efforts, anything but. “My earnings wouldn’t be much, but if I could do my part to help you keep this farm, I would go. But I confess . . .” She couldn’t look at him as she spoke the rest. “That it would be difficult to do. This has become my home too. You all have become my family. It’s for that reason only that I would go. Not because I would wish distance . . .”

  He stepped closer and suddenly his nearness was startling. Not because she feared him, but because of what it did to her. Thor shaped four letters. He fashioned two more words, then finished by forming a fist, pressing the tip of his thumb through two fingers, and running his hand beneath his beard.

  “I’m so sorry. I don’t understand.”

  He nearly turned away.

  She caught his arm. “Please teach me so I can know?”

  He shook his head and went to step around her.

  Aven followed and turned so he would see her speak. “Please.”

  Thor glanced back to the tree house, then farther down the lane. Finally, he leveled her with a stern look and she knew he was caving. He stepped nearer, took her hand, and opened it. With the tip of his finger, he traced what looked like an A on her palm. Her wrist he cradled gently, and his touch had been so soft that she was glad he couldn’t hear her quick intake of breath. The pocket at his chest lay flat—the notebook elsewhere.

  “A,” she repeated weakly.

  He traced the letter again, then raised his fist, thumb tucked to the side.

  She made the same shape. With both of his large hands around her own, he adjusted her fingers to better match the correct form. When he let go, she held the letter still. He nodded his approval, then moved on to the next. She struggled at the E, but he was patient as he guided her fingers in the smallest of ways. It made her sense just how detailed this language was. Even a tiny change in shape would alter the meaning. His care and thoughtfulness—his teaching—took all of her focus until she realized that they had finished her name.

  She shaped it once more. A-V-E-N. She smiled and his own expression was soft. “Will you teach me the others next? What is yours?”

  He made that fist again where his thumb poked through, then traced a T on her palm. Next he did the other three letters. By the time she had learned it, she could shape T-H-O-R even quicker than her own name. He signaled for her attention. After making the T shape again, he ran it under his beard.

  He wrote his name on her palm, then slid that T beneath his beard again. After a second repetition, she realized the single gesture was Thor. She tried it, liking the feel of it.

  Thor showed his approval and motioned for them to walk on. Though she didn’t fully know what he’d said in response to her mention of Lexington, she meant to find out. Because she now knew that the first four letters of that ardent speech had been her name. The very last word had been his own.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The Sorrel house stood like a ghost from the past—the mansion only a whisper of its former grandeur. The war had sunk the white antebellum from its days of glory. The once-pristine yard was overgrown with brush and laundry lines bearing sun-faded clothing. The formal drive long forgotten. Artillery wounds near the brick chimney were patched and painted over, but the shattered porch railings still stood in disrepair—both posts and rails missing from its own fight to survive the War between the States.

  Unease dwelled on this farm. Hanging in the air even now. Thor tried to decide if he wanted to knock on the front door or try the barn first. Jorgan stepped beside him, and Thor was grateful for his presence. With a toss of his thumb, Jorgan suggested the house.

  The stately home wasn’t as extravagant as some plantations, but it was sturdy and the land vast. Just a few miles from the James River, the plantation had once been a hub for goods and imports. Or so the story went. While some slaveholders abandoned their plantations or sold them off, Jed Sorrel had limped back here upon the fall of the Confederacy to find his once-immaculate house shaken to the battered floorboards, furnishings all stripped away. His family keeping refuge a few counties over. The basement stairwell cut up for firewood.

  Slave quarters empty.

  A few of those slaves hadn’t gone far. With the Emancipation Proclamation being what it was, the Sorrels hadn’t been able to drag Ida or her sister back. Just torment them over the hedge. The pair had sought employment from Jarle and Kristin Norgaard—renters of the upper acreage and freshly arrived from Norway just a few years before the South seceded. Not only had the immigrants leased the acreage from its owners, but upon Jarle’s return from his required service for the infantry, they’d given several newly freed men and women work in the orchards with wages. A place to reside in the small cabins.

  But just because Lincoln signed a document saying it could be so, sentiments among the Sorrels ran through murkier waters. Their patriarch wasn’t the only man to have lost his slaves to the Thirteenth Amendment, nor was he the only Confederate to refuse to sign the oath to the Union.

  Forfeiting his right to vote, Jed had taken a stand with the South that some of his fellow Southerners upheld. Some going so far as to join him in the crusades of what had been named the Ku Klux Klan. A group founded by former Confederate generals like Jed himself. All passionate about their cause, making it into newspapers across the country of the terror they inflicted to see the purification of society defended. Though legally disbanded now, that meant nothing in these parts.

  Thor strode with his brother up the grand porch steps, feeling with every step the pistol he’d wedged into his waistband at the small of his back. A pair of boys ran past so quick, Thor moved down a step. A barking puppy trailed them across the porch, more interested in the game of chase than the trespassers.

  Thor shared a glance with Jorgan, then crossed to the front door. Worried he wouldn’t knock with the right amount of volume, he signaled for Jorgan to do the honors. His brother stepped up to the tall door and pounded knuckles with slow precision. Jorgan had his head down, listening. He gave a brief nod, so Thor moved back. Someone was coming.

  A woman with pale-yellow hair opened the door. Her belly was swollen with child, and she looked surprised to see them. Turning her thin face away, she hollered out to someone deeper in the house. Thor flexed his hands, recalling what he meant to express to them, all the while hoping he’d be understood. The woman stepped aside, and another wedged forward, this one Mrs. Sorrel, whom he’d seen just days ago.

  Jed’s wife.

  Her hair was twisted up tight, and she carried herself with an air of authority despite the humble cut and threadbare fabric of her gown. While a Southern belle through and through, gone were the hoopskirts and fluttering fans. In their stead was a timeworn determination.

  Confusion flitted across her eyes, and for the briefest of moments Thor saw the widening of fear. Did she worry he’d turn her in about the apples? He wasn’t here to tattle. Quite the opposite. With the back of his hand, he bumped his brother’s side. Jorgan spoke.

  When he finished, Mrs. Sorrel shook her
head. Thor watched her mouth.

  “They’re not here. They’ll be gone the rest of the day.”

  Jorgan must have asked where they’d gone because she spoke again.

  “You think I know where they’re off to? What I do know is that they’ll be gone until dusk, as usual.” She didn’t say it unkindly. In fact, there was a spark of irritation in her eyes for not being more entrusted with her man’s whereabouts. At least that’s how it appeared.

  Thor glanced around. He’d bet every bullet in his pistol that the Sorrel men were on the farm somewhere. No doubt staying from sight in this very house. He nodded to Mrs. Sorrel to show that he understood. When Jorgan thanked the woman, Thor led the way back down the steps. They could come back in a few days.

  Jed and his kinsmen couldn’t stay out of sight forever.

  Thor and Jorgan returned to the house to find Aven rushing out to meet them. Thor worried something was amiss until he saw the cheer in her eyes.

  “A new idea has occurred to me.” She moved to his side—so near that Jorgan coughed into his fist to hide a smile.

  Thor nearly elbowed his brother.

  “I’d like to try out an apple butter recipe. Ida was telling me about the recipe she uses, and if we stew the apples and sugar in your cider, it might give an even richer flavor. But I wondered if there was a variety you’d recommend—”

  Thor yanked his gaze from her mouth to keep from stumbling into the porch railing. He missed what she said next, but the excitement when she turned to face him again was enough. He offered his agreement, liking the idea. Having tasted the cider jelly she’d stewed up, he’d eat anything she ever set in front of him. But she wasn’t cooking up sweets for him. She was doing it for the farm. And that made her efforts all the finer.

  He dug for his pencil and notebook, then wrote, Need fresh apples, apple butter.

  “Yes. When will they be ready? And is there a type you’d suggest?”

  Foxwhelp—Sept.

  Roxbury—Oct. Sweet Coppins, same. Roxbury best make apple butter.

  She read that with care. “Thank you. When the time comes, I’ll be ready and you can guide me.” She smiled. “But for now . . . there’s not much for you to do except await the ripening?”

  That was put rather simply. But yes.

  “And what are you doing now?”

  Nothing pressing. What was she getting at?

  “Could you possibly spare half an hour?”

  He narrowed his gaze. She was smiling bigger now—almost giddy. Something wasn’t right. He nearly shrugged because he’d be more than happy to pass time helping her, but then Aven turned away and spoke to Jorgan. What was going on? Thor tapped her shoulder to try and get her attention.

  When she turned back, she pointed to herself, then slowly spelled her name with her fingers.

  She did the E all wrong, but the effort was such a nice sight that he wasn’t going to complain.

  Aven angled back toward Jorgan, who showed her the word for teach. She faced Thor and made the sign. Then she peeked slyly over her shoulder, fetching the next word. Looking back at Thor, Aven swiped two fingers across her palm in a dancing motion. On her own, she formed a T and gently slid it under her chin. She pointed to herself again, to him, then danced two fingers on her palm once more.

  So the little trouble maker wanted to dance and was using Sign to soften him to the idea.

  Jorgan was nearly laughing now.

  Not wanting to be a total brute, Thor tipped an invisible hat for her efforts, then strode onto the porch. In a jiff she was beside him, gripping his sleeve. Her fingers grazed his arm, and he really wished she would stop touching him. It was only making it harder to stand his ground. He pulled her hand away and moved aside even farther.

  “Thor!” She whirled the other way to block him and even then, she was giggling. “This dance is only two weeks away. Unless you’ve told this young lady you’re not attending, you’ll have to learn a few steps.” Behind her, the late-afternoon sun said there was enough daylight left.

  He should have walked home slower. And now that he was thinking of it, he had some pencils to hatchet in two and sharpen. He doubted that would impress Aven, though.

  “Half an hour. Just half an hour for us to practice a few simple steps. Then you can be done, and I promise I won’t bother you again.”

  Resolve faltered inside him. Thirty minutes? And he could be done with this? It was tempting to cave—to be rid of this once and for all—but Thor shook his head. He really didn’t want to dance.

  Aven’s gaze lifted to his, and there lived in her eyes a final whisper of hope. Her mouth shaped one word. Just one word. “Please.”

  Breathing out a sigh, he looked from her to the yard where Jorgan was heading off. Thor let out a whistle, and his brother turned.

  Thor signed to Aven. Dance? I not know how. He looked to Jorgan for help, and his brother spoke for him.

  Aven nodded compassionately. “That’s why I’ll show you.”

  I not hear music. Did she not understand?

  “He’s reminding you he can’t hear the music,” Jorgan said.

  Aven stepped nearer to Thor, touching his arm again. He shot out a breath but didn’t pry her hand away this time. “Just half an hour. Will you please trust me? I promise I will help you through this.”

  Thor walked with Aven across the farmyard and to the meadow just beyond. Out of sight of his brothers had been his only insistence. That meant there would be no one to translate, but he figured Aven would do most of the talking. He could write, of course, but his hands were about to be occupied with the Irish lass fairly skipping along at his side. Thor slowed when she did.

  “Are you ready?”

  He swallowed hard.

  Aven stepped back and clasped her hands in front of her. “Some dances are quite quick and animated. A reel or a jig, etcetera. You’ll want to avoid those, I’d imagine.”

  Quite.

  “But perhaps a waltz. If you danced even one, ’twould be gentlemanly. Then, perhaps, you could simply pass the time talking with the young lady. I mean, writing . . . or however seems most comfortable with being . . . sociable with her.” She stumbled over the words, her eagerness fading some.

  Was she jealous by that idea? Thor doubted it, but there was something about her just now. It wasn’t as if this other young lady had a liking for him. She’d only pulled his name from a drawing basket for a fund-raiser. Yet Aven wouldn’t be attending. The unhappy thought dissipated when she took his right hand and pressed it to the curve of her waist.

  Her eyes lifted to his and she gave a gentle smile.

  His gaze filtered across the vast meadow. Not a soul in sight. That was for the best. There didn’t need to be an audience for this—the first time he ever had a young lady in his touch. Aside from when he’d dragged Aven away from that shed, he’d never had his hands on a woman in any way. Twenty-eight was awful late to just be starting, but it’s what it was. He released a slow breath.

  Aven fitted her right hand in the crook of his left. Gently, she raised their arms some. “This is the stance. Does it feel comfortable?” So at ease was she that he tried to appear the same.

  His smallest finger had a mind of its own, though, grazing against her hip. He hoped she didn’t notice. When she patted his shoulder, he shifted all focus back to her face.

  “ ’Twill help if you’re paying attention.”

  He flashed her a stern look. If he was paying any more attention, he was going to pass out.

  “This dance counts by three.” Her guidance was gentle, her watch of him even more so. “I’ll count as we do each step. We’ll go nice and slow so you can get the idea. To begin, you’ll step forward with your left foot, then to the side with your right. We’ll bring our feet together.”

  When she stepped forward with her left, he must have moved back with the wrong foot because she landed on his boot. They righted themselves and tried again. The next attempt went better. When she meant
him to move his left foot, she tapped his shoulder. When he was to step with the other, she squeezed his right hand. That helped more than she might have realized.

  “That’s perfect. We’re making a square, so now we’ll both go to your left and bring our feet together.”

  He followed her without incident and he could see how delighted she was.

  “Look at you. Already a dancer.”

  That was being generous.

  As Aven spoke, “One, two, three . . . one, two, three . . .” He followed in his mind, forward—side—together. Back—side—together.

  More than a few times he made a mistake, but the instances grew further apart until they were making an invisible square together.

  Aven looked breathless by the time she finally stilled them. “You will do better at this than you realize. The only thing we need to focus on next is for you to learn how to lead.”

  What?

  “A help will be for you to watch the other couples. That will guide you in the tempo of the music. If you follow the flow of the room, I believe you could do it, Thor.” Her hand shifted inside his. “Now. You step strongly forward and be firm with it. You’re to lead. Step forward with surety so the only choice I have is to step back.”

  He did. And it felt good to guide her.

  She smiled. “Well done. Now to the side . . .”

  Trying to remember the steps, he pressed her in the direction he wished her to go. Aven was fluid to his every movement. She made it look easy, and even though he couldn’t have been doing this full and proper, she followed him. Not an ounce of resistance as he pressed her back . . . led her to the side.

  “Now I’m going to turn under your arm.”

  She was gonna what?

  Aven lifted his hand and ducked beneath his arm. She kept turning until she was facing him again. Thor halted, watching her.

  “No. You cannot stop. You keep waltzing while I turn.”