Sons of Blackbird Mountain

by Joanne Bischof

  This was getting too complicated. His face must have shown as much.

  Her expression was soft. “Trust me. ’Tis quite simple. All you do is keep stepping around inside the box, and when you want me to turn, you raise your arm. You will find that most men will turn their partner every few squares. Dance is communication without words. Think of it as a straightforward direction. Raise your arm if you want your partner to turn . . . and she will. Truly, ’tis more simple than complicated.” Her brown eyes peered up to his. “You’re the one leading, and no words will be necessary.”

  They danced around the invisible box a few more times, and wanting to please her, Thor raised his arm. Loosening her grip on his hand, Aven beamed as she spun beneath it. He’d never seen her so happy. He was pretty sure he did his next step wrong, but she wasn’t looking. After finishing her rotation, she slid right into place and they traveled another square. Finally she slowed them. Or was it his doing?

  He didn’t want to let go, but he did.

  Aven laced her fingers together in front of her skirt. “You’ve got it now, Thor. A good thing your partner is already chosen. A line would form if the lassies had their pick.” She smiled, and to his surprise, it didn’t seem like she was teasing.

  Sensing the lesson at an end, Thor dipped his head, then touched his fingertips to his lips, and lowered his hand in the sign for thank you.

  TWENTY-THREE

  “Any time now, Haakon!” on the driver’s seat Jorgan cradled both reins in his palm.

  Sitting beside him, Aven shifted to see what the holdup was. One of the mares stamped a hoof as if impatient herself. Finally Haakon emerged from the house, slamming the door behind him. He fastened the button at his collar, and his short hair was slicked back and combed, the blond color a shade darker in its wetness.

  The wagon rocked when he climbed aboard.

  Thor looked at him coolly. Jorgan called a command that urged the horses forward. Haakon wedged himself beside the two crates of jelly Thor had packed with care. The arrival of October meant the day of their monthly visit to Sunday service, and the two dozen jars for the raffle would be dropped off while in town today.

  With each day a little cooler than the last, gone was the heavy air of summer. In its stead was a cool breeze that swept through the countryside like a welcome friend, making the drive to town more than pleasant.

  As the first buildings of Eagle Rock came into view, Jorgan checked his pocket watch. “We’ll be late, I’m afraid. But what’s that when Haakon has nice hair?”

  Haakon chuckled. Even Thor showed a small smile.

  Jorgan drove the wagon to a stop amid others parked on the flats beside the church. The fenced yard was empty of parishioners, and chatter spilled from the chapel. When Aven turned to climb down, Haakon was there. His touch at her waist was certainly the Sabbath sort, but it was a gentle startling all the same as he helped her down. The men saw to the horses, insisting Aven not wait for them.

  Clutching up the hem of her dress, Aven followed the path that wound inside. So warm and crowded was the small building that she tugged her shawl free. The packed room offered few empty seats in the women’s sections, but at the sight of a sparse back row, she edged that way. Aven sat beside a woman who held a babbling baby. The cherub-faced girl sucked on two fingers, and it was no bother when that damp hand reached for her sleeve. Aven wriggled the pudgy fingers and cooed a hello.

  The room quieted, and the hymn leader took his place in the center of the open square. He paused when the three brothers came to the doorway and stepped in.

  Arriving late, they walked to the empty front pew and sat—a masculine chorus of thudding boots and creaking wood. Their expressions were stoic as light from the overhead windows streamed bright on their sturdy shoulders. Little whispers heralded from the women around Aven.

  Norgaards.

  Blackbird Mountain.

  A woman on her right muttered that they were heathens.

  To Aven’s left, two young ladies quietly mused as to which they would marry.

  Equal measures of protection and jealousy flushed her skin, yet the comments were no surprise. The business ventures of her hosts were not always genteel, and while the room boasted many a robust farmer, these Norwegian brothers were quite possibly the brawest, most strapping of the lot. Aven cast a subtle glance to the lassies who had spoken, wanting to hint that not all of these Norgaards were for the taking. She should have meant the guarding only for Jorgan, but truth be told, it stretched elsewhere.

  Feeling Thor’s gaze upon her, Aven couldn’t bring herself to meet it. Leaning back, Haakon shifted his boots out square, and as he nibbled the tip of his thumb, he stole a glance at the women’s side of the room. His focus shifted to Aven, and he smiled at her. She did her best to ignore him as well.

  Behind Haakon sat the young man who had inquired for work. Peter was his name. The man slid a tiny fold of paper inside Haakon’s collar, then leaned back smugly. Gone was the humble demeanor he’d displayed in his asking for work.

  A muscle flexed in Haakon’s jaw. Balancing a hymnal with one hand, he reached back and fetched the slip of paper. He set it in the center of the book as the hymn caller addressed the congregation. With slow fingers Haakon opened the tiny paper. His gaze skimmed what must have been written. He smirked and with his blue eyes on the caller’s boots, waited for the man to turn before he flicked the folded scrap into the center of the room.

  Aven’s jaw dropped. Jorgan gave his brother a warning glare. A few folks exchanged glances. Even the preacher looked Haakon’s way. Haakon lifted his book some and became very studious of the written songs. Behind him, Peter colored. The hymn leader turned, his boots shuffling over the paper. He looked down but spoke on.

  Thankfully, the rest of the service went without mishap. Aven gleaned much from the sermon, and even Thor paid attention when the preacher spoke his way. When the man turned his back, Aven jotted down a few notes to share with Thor later in hopes that it would further bolster him.

  At the service end, she was scarcely outside when Haakon mentioned fetching the crates. Aven stood beside the wagon as he lowered the backboard.

  “ ’Twas a naughty thing you did in church.” She reached for a crate, but he slid it toward himself, stacked the second atop, and lifted both. “Ye’d be wise next time to be on your best behavior.” Her chastisement felt poorly timed to his kindness.

  “I’m always on my best behavior.”

  She walked on as he did. “Seeing as that’s bold as brass, perhaps you should try not being on your best behavior now and again.”

  He glanced down the dusty road before crossing it. “Fair. Let’s start with this, then. I’ve spoken to Jorgan, and he’s given me some fatherly advice.” Hands full, Haakon used the side of his arm to nudge Aven in the direction he was aiming—a gray, two-story clapboard. “I’m supposed to ask if you wouldn’t mind forgetting about what I said. At the pond that day. I mean . . . for now.” He slowed at the base of the wide steps and waited for her to reach his side again. “That was kind of a quick thing to blurt out, and I didn’t handle myself very well.”

  Aven pondered that as they climbed. While his offer of marriage had been a ramshackle one, she sensed he had meant it. In the moment at least. Yet it was an offer that was best laid to rest. So unseasoned was he with bearing life’s trials that it made his proposition to love and to cherish through all circumstances feel fragile as autumn ice. He had much growing to do yet. Such maturing would be best done without a wife and family in need of him.

  She’d been praying for a response that would be gentle and honest for them both. “At the moment I could use a friend. And family. I’m a bit short on both of those. If you’ll be my friend, Haakon, I’d dearly love to be yours in return.”

  “Of course.” At the top of the steps, he ducked into the building first. “You’re short on husbands, too, you know.”

  “Haakon!” The word burst from her the moment she entered and ech
oed across the empty hall.

  Haakon seemed amused by her outburst and not the least bit sorry for his contribution. “I’m just stating what we’re all very aware of.” He paused to speak directly to her. “Just so as not to take you by surprise . . . I would ask you again. Should the chance present itself.” With several other folks coming up the steps, dropping off goods as well, Haakon moved aside.

  As fond as she was of this man, she would be wise to take care that the opportunity not present itself. Perhaps in time he would be able to care for a young lady. She prayed it would be so, and perhaps Thor’s actions would show him the way.

  Aven followed after Haakon to the far end of the hall. She wove around a pile of colorful banners, then past a table laden with lemons and polished punch cups. Beyond that stood another table that was covered with items for the raffle. Carved trinkets and tinware were stacked in baskets, and beside those rested a neat mound of quilted squares. Aven was tempted to lift a jar that held glass beads, but she simply tucked her hands behind her back and waited as Haakon nestled the crates of cider jelly against the wall.

  She had wrapped each lid with a pretty round of dotted cloth. From Thor’s workbench—and to his chagrin—she’d unearthed a rubber stamp that read Norgaard Orchard. Though he’d indicated that it was for marking receipts, she gave the stamp another purpose in pressing dainty paper labels. Those were now tied around the lids with a strip of ribbon, and Thor had seemed a little more impressed then. Especially when she’d put the stamp back exactly where it belonged.

  With the splendor of the decorated hall all around, Aven admired each end from the tall, sunny windows, to the colorful bunting that ran the length of the stage, to the plank floor that was so well polished it shone. It took little effort to imagine Thor dancing the waltz in this very room. He would be braw and dashing, of that she had no doubt. To say nothing of how shy and uneasy he would be.

  She felt a fierce twinge at missing the evening. The tickets had all been sold, and even if she were to attend, she wished only to dance with the one whose steps had joined hers in the meadow.

  When she and Haakon returned across the street, Jorgan shook hands with several men, then stepped to the wagon, thumbing over his shoulder as he did. “Got three families comin’ tomorrow for the pickin’.”

  “Which apples?” Haakon unfastened a feed sack from one of the mares.

  “The Foxwhelps.” Jorgan loosened the other sack of grain. “Where’s Thor?”

  “Over there. With the reverend,” Haakon answered.

  “The same one who saw what you did in church?” Jorgan asked dryly.

  Haakon grimaced and rather looked like he regretted his actions.

  Aven shielded her eyes. At the far end of the churchyard, small crosses leaned in the same timeworn fashion as the picket fence around them, and just beyond, the clergyman and Thor stood together. The reverend doffed his black hat and held it to his chest as Thor pulled out his notebook and pencil. When Thor handed both over, the reverend tucked his hat under his arm. The breeze stirred his fine, white hair.

  The man hesitated before writing. After a few lines, he showed Thor, who nodded soberly and waited as more was written. Aven pinched her hands in her lap, a worry rising at how somber the exchange was. Haakon and Jorgan kicked at the dust while they feigned interest elsewhere.

  After reading what the reverend had added, Thor wrote a response. Hesitantly, the reverend lifted a hand to shake. With that done, Thor walked across the churchyard. Though his broad shoulders were squared, a hint of defeat surrounded him. He tugged at his beard, stopping only to grip the sideboard of the wagon and climb in. The wagon lurched with his force.

  When he sat, Jorgan tapped the reins. All was quiet until the wagon reached the road.

  “Ask him if everything is alright, Haakon,” Jorgan said.

  Nudging Thor’s boot with his own, Haakon signed the question.

  Thor looked away and out over the distant hills.

  “Guess he doesn’t wanna talk about it,” Haakon mumbled.

  Fiddling with the ribbon in the center of the family Bible, Aven looked out along the road. Stubbs of grass grew up the center of the rutted lane, straight and sure. How she wished life could be as direct. The last of the wildflowers were dry, yet a buxom variety still displayed their golden heads toward a cloudless sky, all but beckoning for her not to despair. But with Thor downtrodden so, ’twas hard not to feel his silent pain.

  When the wagon pulled into the yard and stopped, Aven climbed down, careful to tug her skirt clear of the wheel. She’d scarcely entered the kitchen doorway when she spotted a young woman with pale-blonde hair and a rather lost appearance. The stranger was struggling to fasten a petite trunk that rested atop the table. Her form was elegantly tall, slender as a reed, and her wide-set eyes held a sweet innocence in a pale face. Her dress was as modest as it was plain, and the wispy braid that draped her shoulder feathered all the way to her hip.

  “Oh heavens, might you be Fay?” Aven laid the Bible on the table.

  The woman quickly nodded. “And if you’re Aven, I owe you a finer greeting than this. I was to join Miss Ida upstairs, as she was going to show me where I’m to sleep, but this pesky latch came undone and I can’t get it closed.” She pressed on the snap again to no avail. The poor dear’s fingers were trembling, especially when she glanced to the window. “That’s Jorgan coming, isn’t it?”

  Aven couldn’t fight a grin. “It is indeed.” She scarcely had time to recall that it had been nearly fifteen years since Jorgan and his betrothed had seen one another when heavy footsteps stomped up the porch.

  Trailed by his brothers, Jorgan stepped into the kitchen. He tossed his hat aside, wondered aloud about what smelled so good, then halted. His brow lifted—shock dawning. Hands still atremble, Fay folded them in front of her skirt.

  “Whoa!” Haakon slammed to a halt beside his brother. “It’s Fay,” he breathed. He hit Jorgan’s arm. Over and over. “Jorgan. It’s Fay. Jorgan, it’s—”

  Thor grabbed Haakon by the upper arm and pressed him back out the door. Grinning, Aven followed. She cast a glance to Jorgan, who stood speechless, staring at his wife-to-be. ’Twas much unfolding between them. All from words on a page that their courtship had borne.

  Fay’s rosy cheeks were the last thing Aven saw as she slipped away. Best to give them a few moments alone. Aven skittered onto the porch to find Haakon seated on the bottom step. Thor stood a few paces off, signing halfheartedly to him. Haakon responded with much more passion. When Aven drew near, they both stopped.

  She settled on the step, and after casting a final glimpse toward the kitchen window, she noticed Thor striding off, his once-steady shoulders looking wilted.

  “Is something the matter?” Aven asked softly.

  Running his hands together, Haakon finished by sliding one down his face. He let out a sigh that matched Thor’s demeanor. “It’s just ’cause of his reputation. And I’m afraid I wasn’t much help earlier. Thor’s a little bruised, but I think he’s more relieved. Come the night of it, he’ll be happier.”

  “Night of what?”

  “The dance. The reverend said he won’t allow Thor to accompany his daughter.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  She was pretty, Fay. Pretty like wheat. If Thor could compare a woman to wheat. She was tall and thin and golden. He watched as she and Jorgan carried armfuls of picking bags into the orchard where Thor was assembling the pickers. Jorgan’s gladness brought Thor the same. To see his brother this happy was something Thor had wanted for a long time. Jorgan deserved nothing less, and in the night and morning that Fay had been here, they’d all learned firsthand what Jorgan had declared—she was good and kind.

  With a nod of thanks, Thor helped them hang the canvas bags on a rung of the ladder. He counted twelve thick sacks. With Jorgan having invited several families in from town, it was enough. At Thor’s request—and thanks to Aven’s idea—the families had come to harvest apples for their o
wn use in exchange for a small fee. One of the families had nothing to pay with, so Jorgan had arranged for the father and his oldest boy to log an extra day of harvesting for the farm as barter for all they would haul away today.

  Just past the families stood the pickers Thor had hired. The three boys from last year knew how the bags were to be worn so he handed several over. Abraham, a tall, reedy youth from Cora’s church, took one, sliding it on. Jacob, a quiet lad of sixteen, accepted another. Al took a bag, lifted the straps over his head, and settled them about his shoulders.

  Days ago Thor had apologized to Al for the rough go he’d given him on the stairs. Al had assured him he’d mended well, but Thor found guilt hard to loose. A reminder he would harness to always take care in avoiding liquor—every hour of every day. Because the cost of his choices hadn’t just affected himself, but others as well.

  It made this day heavier than usual. An awareness filtering through this orchard as real to him as the breeze itself.

  Thor motioned to the stack of empty crates and shaped the sign for half, then the letters B-U-S-H-E-L. Jorgan spoke for him. Only the apples with the reddest faces were to be gleaned. When Thor’s wishes were translated, the pickers confirmed their understanding. Leaning against one of the ladders, Haakon watched, this process as natural to his upbringing as crawling or walking had been.

  Thor freed several apples from the nearest tree, taking his time to remind the boys that a gentle twist up of the smooth fruit would break it off. He placed the apples in his bag, and when he’d gathered enough to serve the purpose, Thor demonstrated a reminder of how to unfasten the metal clasps at the underside so the apples could be eased into the bins from the bottom end.

  “Be real gentle about it so they don’t bruise,” Jorgan relayed in English.

  Fay stood behind Jorgan, shielding her eyes as she listened on. Her thick skirt was as deep a red as the Foxwhelps, and though her yellow hair was bound up snug, little wisps of it tugged free. Jorgan was taken with her, of that there was no doubt, so the sheer fact that the man had a level head just now was admirable.