Sons of Blackbird Mountain

by Joanne Bischof

  Though unable to tell any stories of her own, Grete was aimless. Pacing almost as much as she whimpered. The door ajar for her to roam, should she wish, said what they all knew—Haakon was gone.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  NORFOLK, VIRGINIA

  NOVEMBER 25, 1890

  “Pardon me, miss!” Haakon steadied the young woman he had just bumped into. She bore an armful of parcels but didn’t drop them, which was good because he didn’t have time to help her pick them up.

  He panted as he hurried around her. With a salty breeze drawing him closer to the wharf, he rushed along, dodging workers and shoppers and everyone in between. A priest stood on the corner of a church, trimming a hedge where just above, bells chimed the noon hour.

  Masts and sails could be seen along the horizon, obscured by buildings. Haakon stepped around a wagon to cross yet another street that he didn’t know the name of. He had no idea where he was going except to find the ship called The Grel—something or other, in a place called Norfolk. A bustling Virginia port with so many docks and harbors he had been lost all morning. He only hoped he was getting closer because a glance at that sun said nearly as loudly as those bells did that he was going to be late.

  For weeks he’d been searching for a way off of this hunk of land, and his luck had struck two nights ago when he’d spent his last twenty cents at a portside pub. While slowly drinking a lukewarm ale, Haakon had heard talk that the huddle of men seated in the far corner was a crew bound to ship out soon. He worked his way through the rest of his pint slowly, weighing what to do with such information. By the time he reached the bottom of his mug, he had just enough courage to cross the smoky room and inquire as to when they would be setting sail. He discovered that they were bound for Morocco to procure oranges and olives. Dates by the ton.

  “And from there?” Haakon asked.

  The man who answered was a stately one. Dark hair neatly kept and threaded with the faintest trace of silver. The brass buttons on his open coat gleamed in the lantern light. He quirked a brow as if none too pleased with the interruption. While his answer had been charitable, there was authority in his manner that made Haakon realize this was no average seaman.

  Confirmed when a serving wench sauntered past, asking, “Another for you, Cap’n?”

  The captain gave the lass a nod, then looked back at Haakon. “From there . . . Portugal. If the weather holds.”

  “And the maidens are willing,” a fellow at a nearby table said with a guffaw.

  Other men laughed, and judging by their ruddy skin and weathered clothing, they were all part of the crew. A mismatched lot. Rough and coarsened, but with a confidence that Haakon respected. More so because they had what he sought. Passage out of here.

  With this his chance, Haakon had stepped nearer. “Are there other ships leaving Morocco? Bound for other places?”

  “Bound for Davy Jones’ Locker with you on it if you don’t shut up, Squidlet.” That came from a stocky man who sat across from the captain. The gray-haired lout was shuffling a deck of cards in roughed hands. A scantily dressed woman sat beside him, nestling in despite his sweat-stained collar. She whispered in the man’s ear, and he smiled.

  The captain didn’t answer until he was dealt five cards. He opened them slowly, moved two around, then spoke without looking up. “Some ships will disembark to England. Others, the West Indies.”

  The young serving wench returned with a filled tankard. She set it beside the captain, who lifted his gaze long enough to give her a gentle smile—one that said just how long these men would be at sea.

  Lace trimmed the straps of her chemise that settled so low on her upper arms, the lantern over the table illuminated all of her pale shoulders. Unlike the other women about, she didn’t fawn and giggle or flutter a fan. She simply sat on the bench beside the captain, her ivory arm brushing the gentleman’s sleeve. She spoke nothing else as if she, too, knew her place in his presence.

  The captain grazed a hand against her corseted waist and, after he drank from his pint, spoke to Haakon again. “Some will be bound for Brazil. With the demand for ice in London, others will venture to Scandinavia.”

  Scandinavia.

  Home.

  Hitching his pack higher up on his shoulder, Haakon braved his next question. But first he introduced himself.

  At the words Haakon Norgaard, the man eyed him. “Norse?”

  “Yes, sir. Norwegian.” Which meant the sea was in his blood.

  It was then that the captain invited him to pull up a stool. They spoke more of it, and the next thing Haakon knew, he was signing his name in a worn ledger along with the promise to be to the dock at noon sharp.

  “Ship won’t be waiting for nobody,” said the stocky man as he plunked two gold coins onto the table, raising the stakes.

  That was why Haakon was sprinting just now.

  Though he’d meant to be on time, he’d spent the morning lost in the giant port city that boasted so many inlets; dozens upon dozens of ships had sailed across its waters already that day. He ducked beneath a traveling trunk that was being hefted onto a wagon, then skidded around a pair of mules that waited a lot more patiently than he for the train roaring past. When the caboose dashed by, opening up the road, Haakon ran across the tracks and closer to the wharf that he hoped was the right one.

  That’s when he saw the ship. The same one the captain had described. Le Grelotter was painted in fine lettering along some of her boards, and sailors shouted commands to one another as they hoisted lines. The great anchor dripped as it rose. Haakon ran faster.

  In his pack was a letter for home, but the chance to mail it off vanished.

  He raced ahead, nearly crashing into a cart loaded with sacks. The cart owner shouted at him in French and he shouted back in English, finally skidding to a halt at the bow of the ship where he jumped aboard, panting. The urge to drop to his knees was so overwhelming that he gripped the wooden railing to steady his shaking legs. He’d scarcely caught a breath when someone yelled at him to move.

  He ducked as a rope was tossed from one man to another. Haakon turned, searching for a face he might recognize.

  “You’ll fare better if you stop looking so lost.”

  The voice came from a young man striding toward him. Tall and broad of shoulder, the man was suntanned as if having sailed across the Atlantic more than a few times. He scrutinized Haakon through thin-framed spectacles. This one hadn’t been in the pub. “You the greenhorn?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You the new one?”

  “I think so.”

  The stranger stepped around wooden crates that kept clucking chickens. Brown hair askew, he crunched the last of a green apple before pitching the core over the side. “Come with me. And thank you, because I just won a bet on whether or not you’d show.”

  “I got lost.” Remembering the letter in his pack, Haakon pulled it out. “Is there any place to leave this? I need to get it to my family.”

  With a sigh, the man snatched it, jogged back the length of the ship, and called to a group of workers on the dock. With a flick of his wrist, he flung the envelope to someone who caught it.

  The fellow strode back to Haakon. “That was addressed, right?”

  “Um . . . yeah. It’ll get where it needs to go?”

  “Possibly.”

  Gripping him by the shoulder, the young man aimed Haakon forward. Haakon glanced back for sight of his letter, but it was as gone from view as the person who had caught it. He supposed there wasn’t much need to worry. What he’d written wasn’t profound. Just a few simple lines to say that he was leaving and that he was sorry. That felt like a weak way to do it. Insufficient in light of what he’d done to Aven, but he couldn’t fight the urge to at least try, and maybe one day he would know how to do better.

  “Name’s Tate Kennedy,” the young man said. “I was told you’re looking for Norway.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s where I’m bound, so I’ll sh
ow you the way.” He smiled as he extended a hand, and Haakon shook it, grateful. “What brings you aboard our fine vessel?” Tate grabbed a length of rope, pulled it taut, and knotted it around a metal hoop that was secured to a part of the ship Haakon had no name for.

  “I . . . uh . . . needed to get away.” Haakon ducked when another coil of rope went unfurling past.

  The man tugged his knot tight, then moved to form another. He panted as he worked. With a snap of canvas, a sail unfurled overhead. Haakon peered up as more men tugged lines that hoisted it higher and higher and higher. It snapped in the wind and he watched, awestruck.

  “What do I do?” he called out.

  “Stash your kit belowdeck, and we’ll find the first mate. He’ll get you a task.”

  “How do I do that?” Haakon didn’t even know how to get belowdeck.

  Tate chuckled. “Lemme finish this, then I’ll show you.” He moved to climb a stretch of netting, and Haakon backed out of the way.

  The surface of the water rolled and glittered. Seagulls swooped. A pelican dove for a catch. Otters bobbed on their backs, turning their whiskered faces to the ship as it dipped and creaked over the surface spraying back seawater. The mist of it hit Haakon’s face, and he knew it was just the beginning, this calm, welcoming sea.

  Sails continued to rise and ropes slithered into place, all mixed with languages he didn’t understand. Save for one he knew as a memory. A whisper. Norwegian. Two men shouted commands to one another in it as they worked. The burliest of the pair tossed Haakon a line and showed him where to coil it. The man’s thick hands moved in quick precision as he fastened a knot that Haakon didn’t understand but wished to.

  The stranger’s hair was pulled back with a leather cord, and his sun-bleached shirt was strained around strong arms. He worked silently with Haakon, motioning to a second line. Haakon knew enough of gesturing to grasp what was being asked. Unfurling the rope, Haakon twisted it around the next iron clip.

  The bearded man stepped in again and, without words, reshaped the knot to his liking. When the large man gave a friendly nod, Haakon touched fingertips to his mouth, then lowered his hand in the sign for thank you.

  The suddenness of it startled him. What was he doing?

  This man wasn’t Deaf. Haakon stepped away, but all he could think of now was Thor and how they had done that same exchange ten thousand times in the past.

  Haakon turned to try and lose the memory of his brother.

  More desperate was the need when thoughts of Thor brought forward the vision of Aven’s smiling face. Sharper to his soul, her tears. He glanced out over the bay, glad for her sake that there would be an entire sea between them. When it came to his wanting of her, he feared nothing else would suffice. They were married—Aven and Thor. That he knew, for he’d watched from the hillside where no one would see. Grete had been at his side.

  Aven was free of him now. She would have her peace.

  He could only hope that God would do him the same favor.

  Were there any reaches of this sea that were far enough away to escape this guilt? Were there tropical beaches so distant? Icy fjords deep enough to pull him in and tuck him away? Haakon wasn’t sure, but he meant to find out.

  Sunlight glistened on the water as the ship gained speed—air whipping by so fast that Haakon almost closed his eyes as he breathed in the scent of freedom, holding tight for what was to come. Wind gusted so powerfully, it was nearly deafening, but over that rose the steady shouts and commands of a herd of seamen all working as one.

  Behind, the Virginia port grew smaller and smaller and up ahead, the Atlantic spread out before them—vast and bold. Stunning to behold, but suddenly all Haakon could see were the hills and meadows of home. All he could feel were cool pond water and the prick of blackberry brambles under the hot sun. Could only hear Thor moving about in the great room, loud as an ox as he settled at his chess table. An unfinished game waiting between them.

  Haakon cast a glance back to land. Though he knew he couldn’t see home, he strained his eyes all the same, wishing for sight of the mountains where the blackbirds flew. Where Thor had taught him to swim, and in return, he’d taught Thor how to whistle. The place where walls had often trembled with their brawls. Both in play and in anger.

  Where Da had told stories of the kings of old.

  The place where everything began and the place where everything had changed.

  Haakon blinked quickly to push the past where it needed to stay. The ship sailed ahead with such speed that gusts pounded the sails. It was a freeing feeling, the past growing farther and farther behind. The strength of canvas and wood bringing the future nearer. Freedom. He would stalk it until he found it, and even if it was never meant to be his, he would try all the same.

  “Hey! Squidlet!”

  Jerking from his thoughts, Haakon turned to see a stocky sailor storming his way. It was the same one who’d been playing cards with the captain. “This ain’t a passenger ship!” The man flicked a dull-looking knife to Haakon, who caught it by the handle. “There’s potatoes to peel.”

  The man strode off. After casting a glance up to the young man who was still busy in the rigging, Haakon followed. The ship struck a rolling wave and Haakon stumbled. “Shouldn’t I be helping with the sails? Hoisting them . . . or something?”

  The man gave a gritty laugh. “You so much as touch one of my sails before I say and you’re gonna find out what life is like with just one hand.” Reaching an opening in the deck, he stomped down a steep set of stairs.

  Haakon followed into the dim space just as the man told him to watch his head.

  Smack! Haakon rubbed his forehead and ducked beneath the beam he’d walked into.

  Belowdeck, the rocking of the ship intensified. Planks creaked and everything swayed. The air was stale and reeking. Haakon swallowed hard as nausea struck both his head and his stomach. Made worse at the way a large sailor with stringy hair was cutting the heads off of fish.

  Haakon gritted his teeth to fight a sour taste—his idea of heaven suddenly a lot more like hell. Grimy benches sat shoved up against a rough table, and barrels and sacks were stacked in every available spot. The ship swayed again, and Haakon fought to keep his stomach from wringing itself out.

  A bucket of potatoes was shoved into his grasp. He looked at them, then back to the sailor who plunged his knife into another fish. The man ripped out the guts and dropped the dripping mess into a rusted pail. Using the blade, the man pointed Haakon to one of the benches just as the sailor who had brought him here started back up the stairs.

  “Are you sure this is my job?” Haakon asked.

  “Yep.”

  “How often will I have to do this?”

  “Every day. Morning, noon, and night.”

  “For how many days?”

  The man turned and strutted back down until his ruddy nose was an inch away from Haakon’s. “Until I say you’re done.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Only time will tell, Squidlet.”

  “And what if I want to do something else?” The ship rocked and Haakon adjusted his stance, but his stomach was still moving in the other direction.

  “Then I’ll inform the crew that they’ll be eating raw potatoes tonight. That will be thirteen hungry sailors who get the bad news that there’s a beardless tadpole on board who isn’t feeling too domestic just now.”

  Haakon swallowed hard. “I’ll get to peelin’, sir.”

  “I thought that’s what you’d say.” Stepping back, the man smiled, and to Haakon’s surprise, it wasn’t unkind. “Welcome aboard Le Grelotter. Work hard and do not irritate me. I’m your first mate and you will call me that. The captain you will call Captain or Shipmaster. He’s your Master Under God so long as you’re aboard, and if you even think about giving him the sass you just gave me, you’ll be peeling a lot more than potatoes.”

  Haakon nodded.

  “The ones in the bucket will do for a start. And while you
’re at it, you can say thank you.” He nodded to the knife in Haakon’s hand. “There’s your ticket across this water, so gratitude would be sufficient.”

  “Gratitude.”

  The first mate started back up the steps. “A whole heap of it, I suggest.” Herring gulls swooped over the patch of blue sky, and Haakon squinted as the man climbed toward the sun. “The captain is not your mother, and I am most certainly not your friend. We did not have to let you on this ship. But because we did, you, little Squidlet, are about to see the world.”

  EPILOGUE

  BLACKBIRD MOUNTAIN, VIRGINIA

  NOVEMBER 27, 1890

  “This’ll do?” Jorgan asked.

  He and Thor hefted the new table to the base of the porch. The men had spent a whole week fashioning it within the open space of the cidery, and just in time for the Thanksgiving feast. Made of clean pine, it was sanded and oiled to a silken sheen.

  “Oh, it’s beautiful!” Aven hurried down the steps and smoothed a hand along it. “So fine!”

  “And large enough for many,” Fay exclaimed.

  Suddenly everyone focused on her. She held up her hands, face pinker than the plum sauce she’d spent half the morning making. “I have nothing to share.”

  Jorgan chuckled, and Thor elbowed him.

  After gripping one end of the table again, Jorgan nodded toward the house. “If one of you’ll prop the door open, we’ll get this inside.”

  Fay hurried to do just that, and with much effort from the men, the table was brought into the great room. Furniture had already been moved about; the sofa nudged nearer to the fireplace—a need for such cold weather. Ida’s rocking chair had been slid to its side. The changes allowed for a table that would hold them all. A place where many family meals could be had.