Sons of Blackbird Mountain

by Joanne Bischof

  The climb wasn’t steep, just lengthy. He was breathing hard before he’d even made it halfway. It had him tugging the flannel off to tie around his waist. He rolled back the sleeves of his shirt as well. Thoughts still on Aven, and with him utterly alone, Thor tried to say her name again. He couldn’t get past, “Av—” Somewhere in his memory lived the other sounds, but they were too far buried. How long had it been since he’d really tried to speak?

  Nearly twenty years.

  Thor could still remember the rigorous oral lessons at the school for the Deaf and Dumb in North Carolina and how much he’d hated them. More potent a memory was the day that he’d sat at the end of a hallway there, his hands covered with thick mitts and his wrists tied with string. He’d kicked the wall a few times in anger, but since the hour-long detention was staff ordered and not unheard of amid forward-thinking Deaf schools, few spared him a second glance.

  It was just two months after Alexander Graham Bell had visited the school, offering a lecture to the faculty about Oralism and an unhearing child’s capability to learn to read lips and speak. Sign Language and fingerspelling were unrefined, Bell declared. Communicating by gestures—coarse and uncultured. How was a person to enter into proper society by such a crude and uncommon form of communication? According to Bell, Sign Language only encouraged deaf-mutes to marry deaf-mutes, thereby continuing a defective variety of the race.

  There was a better way, or so the lectures declared. One that kept a child’s hands at his or her sides like a young lady or gentleman. And so there, at the school for the Deaf, Sign was outlawed. In its place came arduous lessons on how to shape sounds with the mouth. For hours teachers pressed on the jaws and cheeks of their students, even applying gentle pressure to the windpipe to try and guide the Deaf in the formation of distinct vibrations that were the sounds of vowels and consonants. Every student went through the same lessons. Thor had followed along, and though the teachers patiently guided him, his attempts at speech stabilized at a garbled mess.

  So it was in the garden during free time that he’d signed to a friend. Though he knew it was against the rules, he hadn’t communicated properly with a single soul in days. He’d been caught by a stern professor and, with it being his third offense, taken inside. There he was placed in the corner where those awful mitts were put over his hands, his wrists tied together with string.

  As the detention wore on, Thor decided to do everything he could to get out of the binding. If Da believed that Viking blood lived in their veins, then he meant to test its potency. Maybe it was stubbornness or sheer defiance, but he’d upended the stool and was crying tears of rage by the time a teacher rushed over and snipped the thick strings. His wrists were string-cut, so fiercely he’d been tugging.

  This teacher, a Deaf woman like most of the faculty, had bandaged him up and told the other staff that this method of manual confinement was abominable. She declared it all in Sign—turning the entire hallway into a frenzy as she used her beautiful, fluid hands to insist upon a stern letter to Bell. While some of the staff supported her, others reinforced the new method of Oralism, cautioning that her job would be at risk should she proceed in defiance of the new system.

  Thor saw her give a letter to the postman the following day.

  He never knew what happened to that gentle soul, or if a response from Bell ever came, for it was a few days later that Thor had climbed up into the tree. The day Da had come and everything had changed. Bringing Thor back to the ground where they both sought the end of a different sorrow at the bottom of a bottle.

  Thor strode on, thinking that he’d like to meet Bell again someday. Explain a few notions and maybe even make peace with a man he’d been so angry at. If there was one thing he now understood, it was that Alexander Graham Bell had only meant to help, and help he had. Many students had taken to his teachings well, learning to speak.

  How freeing that would be.

  A victory Thor had always yearned for. If only he could master a few words, maybe even speak Aven’s name. The thought emboldened him and terrified him all at the same time. Perhaps Ida or Jorgan would help him.

  The air grew cooler as he passed through a stand of tall maples, their rich green leaves feathered with the ambers and reds of early autumn. A flock of ravens soared across the early-morning sky. Their feathers glinted like black silk in the sunshine.

  Thor caught sight of the Sorrels’ farmyard just beyond. A Confederate flag, tattered and sun-bleached, hung on the side of the barn. Something moved in his side vision, and he spotted Peter jogging through the yard. A little girl with white-blonde braids clung to his back. Thor could see the child’s laughter even from a distance.

  Peter slowed when he saw that they had company. He gripped the girl by the hands, then lowered her down. With a few words and a brotherly pat on the back of her head, he urged her to run off. The girl obeyed.

  Thor headed toward Peter, his presence convenient as the lanky youth was just the man he wanted to see. Thor had seen something in Peter’s display at church the other day. It wasn’t animosity toward Haakon that had motivated Peter’s behavior. It was an effort to impress the other Sorrel men around him. Which told Thor something about Peter Sorrel. A risk he was about to take on the young man and a gamble he sure hoped he was right about.

  This near, he saw that Peter had bruises running beneath his eyes. His lip was split but trying to heal. Red scrapes across his left cheekbone said he’d had a rough time of something. Though introductions were foreign between their families, Thor offered a hand all the same.

  After hesitating, Peter shook it. The young man glanced over his shoulder, and Thor followed his line of sight to see that the door to the house had opened. A pair of men ambled out. One spoke, and Peter’s response was to motion Thor toward the run-down mansion.

  Though unease stretched within him, Thor followed the young man up the battered steps and into a dim foyer. A curving staircase wound to the second floor. A few steps had holes in them, and the ornate banister was patched with rough boards.

  Thor followed Peter past a kitchen, where the yeasty smell of baking bread saturated the air. Half a dozen women bustled about within—some kneading mounds of dough, others bearing trays from the oven. A waiflike blonde looked up when Thor passed, as did several others. Though their ages spanned several decades, they were all pretty in gentle measure. Sorrel men never sought anything but that which brought them pleasure. Judging by the thin bands on their fingers, the women were wives, mostly. Little children played under the table with rag dolls, and a baby slumbered in a basket on a chair.

  In the center of the kitchen, Mrs. Sorrel flipped a mound of dough over on itself. She gave Thor a cordial nod.

  He returned the greeting, then followed the men deeper through the house and to a back room that might have been called a parlor if it weren’t for the missing windowpanes, the smell of stale tobacco, and the stuffed game mounted on the wall. The furniture, while worn, would have been grand in its day. A sofa rested at the opposite end of the room, and that’s when he saw the patriarch of them all. Jed Sorrel.

  The aged man looked up from the newspaper he’d been reading. Three fingers were missing from his left hand, and a leather patch lay strapped over his eye on the same side. From a cannon blast, some had said. Though battered, the general had walked away from the War between the States better than most.

  Boots squared wide, the head of the Sorrel family shook the paper closed. His gray hair was skewed in the back, and he looked at Thor coolly as if having long expected this moment. The man stood with the ease of one much younger and with the dignity of one who had once owned over thirty slaves. Though Jed was not tall, his sheer will to survive three years of battle was intimidating enough. Flanked by his male kin, some veterans themselves, added to the surety of his place as leader.

  “Mind stating your business, son?” He tossed the paper onto the cushion. “Or have you not found your w-w-words yet?”

  Ignoring that, T
hor made a quick tally even as two more men edged into the room. Seven total. Peter stood in the doorway still. Overwhelmed, Thor stared at Peter’s oversized boots, recalling the way Haakon had shouted down from the rafters, gun poised on the tall youth. Though these men weren’t clad in cloaks and hoods, and though they were unarmed at the moment, standing here alone, Thor tried not to wish for his brothers.

  Fear. It was the purpose behind everything the Sorrels did. He felt it now, swarming around him. The very reason he’d come on his own; these men would feel no threat. He meant not to risk anything for his brothers over this.

  Thor fetched his notepad from his pocket. His business was with Peter, so he flipped to a blank page to inform the general. He held over the notebook, and after a few moments, Jed stepped forward to take it. Thor could have moved closer but wasn’t feeling that generous just now. After studying the message, Jed passed it to a man in a sweat-stained shirt beside him.

  Each man eyed it in turn, some so quickly they probably couldn’t read. A few stole wary looks Thor’s way, as if believing the nonsense that his lack of voice truly was a spirit needing to be loosed. Rubbish that, but if it kept them at a distance, he wasn’t about to mention as much.

  The book reached Peter, who scanned the missive. A hint of uncertainty slipped unguarded through his eyes. The book reaching him again, Thor flipped to the proposition he’d drafted up and handed it back. Peter took a moment to read, then gave it to Jed.

  All of a sudden Peter pointed to one of the men, guiding Thor’s attention that way. Thor looked to the man who must have spoken—Harlan Sorrel. One of Jed’s own sons and Peter’s very father. Every angle of his face was tight with the focus of family pride and such bloodlust that the air was colder just looking at him. Harlan smelled of white whiskey. One hundred proof and charcoal mellowed. The only kind of moonshine Thor had ever taken a liking to.

  He slammed aside the memory the moment it hit him.

  “We heard rumor that you stopped makin’ your drink. That so?”

  Thor nodded.

  A different man spoke. This one as old as Jed, perhaps. His head was bald, but his thick arms belied his age. “Got anything left in that barn’a yers?”

  Thor ran a hand over his mouth but didn’t respond. They knew as well as he did that there was a hearty stash left. The Sorrels kept a keen watch on everything in these parts.

  “How much? For everything? We’ll take it off your hands at the right price.”

  Everything? Thor had at least a hundred quarts of table cider left. Double that amount of his finer two-year batch. His three-year brew was still in barrels, but if he jarred it, that proof would be worth nearly two dollars a quart. If his quick tallies were correct, the cidery still housed about five hundred dollars’ worth of product. Well beyond what he and his brothers owed on the lease. Thor tugged at his beard.

  Men threw words his way—some excited, others agitated. All seemed to be wondering the same thing. Why was he holding on to it?

  The room stilled when a woman stepped in. She toted a tray with full cups of coffee and some kind of baked sweet. Her menfolk eyed her as if surprised by her sudden presence.

  Thor didn’t like the way she was looking at him. Not for his sake, but for hers. With a subtle yet sure motion, she set down the tray, tipping her head just enough for her yellow hair to slide from her pale neck. Purple bruises speckled her skin. The way Peter’s nostrils flared, eyes tightening with a pained sadness, Thor would bet everything that it was his mother, confirmed in the way that Harlan’s gaze went hard as steel. The woman straightened slowly, deliberately, and shot a fierce look around the room that Thor feared she’d regret.

  A demand for help if he’d ever seen one.

  She wasn’t going to harbor any of their secrets, that was clear.

  Thor swallowed both a sour taste and a rising anger and stepped aside for the woman to slip from the room easier. Peter offered the notebook back over. Thor took it. He almost signed to Peter for an answer but caught himself. He waited, instead, for what the young man would say.

  Thor had a hunch the Sorrels would like one of their own on the inside. For some strange reason it seemed a risk worth taking.

  Firm conversation tramped around the room, and Thor was torn between trying to follow along and inching aside for a child who was pressing past his leg toward the tray. It was the same girl from the yard. She squeezed by and reached for a piece of sweet bread. One of the men moved to stop her, but Jed shoved the tray nearer, allowing the child a portion.

  At a tap on his shoulder, Thor looked over to see Peter wanting to speak.

  “When does the harvest start?” The words were a struggle to understand with Peter’s split lip badly done.

  Thor held up his thumb and two fingers, then moved his hand back to show it had begun a few days ago. The lad seemed to grasp that.

  “I’ll be there,” Peter said.

  A curious look flitted through Jed’s icy-blue eyes, and Thor pinned it to memory to try and make sense of later. More than ready to leave, Thor stepped back but caught the gaze of the thick-armed man as he did.

  “And the liquor?” the man asked.

  Thor glanced to the girl who crouched beneath the windowsill, the sun bright on her small form. She nibbled her bread, nose scrunched with delight. She smiled up at Thor as if it was due to his presence that she’d gotten her treat. Did she bear bruises as the other women did?

  But blazes, that liquor was valuable.

  Now that he’d had more time to put thought to it, he’d yet to factor in the ’88 and ’89 blackberry wine aging in oak casks. He had four barrels from each year, bringing the value of what he had in the cidery to nearly a grand.

  And the debt was a burden he was tired of bearing.

  To sell it all in one shot. So clean and easy. Freeing.

  His conscience waging its own war, Thor watched the girl even as he thought of the others under this roof. The men waited, all seeming hinged on what his decision would be. On whether or not his cider would continue to fuel their fire.

  Thor scribbled his answer. He ripped out the paper and handed it over. Jed read and crumpled it. He threw the wad at the wall and motioned for his men to see Thor out. Because the liquor . . . it wasn’t for sale.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Peter came just after sunup. The whole farmyard stilled as he walked onto it. Even Grete’s tail ceased its wagging, Thor noticed. The Sorrel glanced first to Aven and Fay, who were oiling the gears of the apple scratter, then to the door that Peter and his kin had once kicked in. Last of all to Al and the other dark-skinned boys who were pulling on picking bags. Al’s hands stilled as he spotted the newcomer.

  Thor had warned them that Peter was coming, and while Al had confessed to not knowing the identities of the masked men who had pistol-whipped him, something about the wary way Peter glanced at him said enough. A soul-heavy look if Thor ever saw one.

  Thor shook Peter’s hand, then stepped aside for Jorgan to explain how the operation worked. Peter nodded as he listened—the bruises beneath his eyes had softened to a yellowing, but the scratches across his cheekbone were rougher, as if struggling to heal.

  Al hitched up the team while Abraham and Jacob heaped a fresh round of crates into the wagon. Thor nicked two picking bags from a pile, and after Peter had gotten the gist of how this worked, Thor handed one over and motioned for the Sorrel to follow him to the orchard. Once there, he worked side by side with Peter, keeping an eye on him to adjust any skills needed. While the young man seemed to be in pain—gritting his teeth whenever he had to raise his right arm—he was a quick learner and a hard worker.

  After filling his third crate, Peter lugged it over to the wagon. Al was already there, sliding one into place. He turned for the next without noticing who extended it. Peter was equally as surprised, and down the crate tumbled. Apples spilled across the row.

  Thor strode over, knelt, and helped gather it all up. Sweat glistened on Al’s forehead and
Peter was red under the collar. Angling to Jorgan, Thor signed Aven’s name. He pointed next to the knocked-around fruit so his brother would know those were for her to use up. Better they be apple butter than rot in storage. Jorgan placed the wooden box on the wagon seat.

  Thor rose just as Peter spoke. “I’m real sorry ’bout that.”

  Thor shook his head. He motioned for them to come near, then patted Al’s chest and signed the wiry youth’s name. A-L. He squeezed Peter’s shoulder, looked Al square in the eye, and signed P-E-T-E-R. Next Thor gripped Peter’s sleeve and raised his arm high enough for Al to shake his hand. Al hesitated, then with his gaze strong and squarely on the Sorrel boy, he gave a firm shake.

  A start, then. Thor nodded his gratitude to them both. From appearances, Al had lost more than Peter ever had, but Peter knew his own kind of grief. As a grandson of Jed Sorrel, being a member of the Klan might not have been voluntary. To commit acts of violence because it was a family cause was no way to live.

  Maybe that’s why Peter was here. Maybe that’s why he’d knelt in the great room that night and tried to hand Georgie back her lost spool doll. Bold, yes. Especially since no one would put it past the Sorrel men to pistol-whip their own kind if crossed. Son or no son.

  Thor didn’t envy Peter. Not now nor in the days to come. As the youth grabbed another crate and got back to work, Thor couldn’t shake the burden to look after him if it was in his power. He hoped that day wouldn’t come, but something told him it might.

  They worked until the wagon was brimming, then everyone walked along as Jorgan led the team slowly back to the cidery. Once there, crates were unloaded and carried into the cool storage space. Tomorrow was Sunday, so they’d wait until the workweek to begin grinding. For now, the fruit would pass the night behind closed doors.