“Oh, ugh! Ick!” By reflex she set it down hard enough to slop over the edges and stepped back.
“What is it? Ingeborg, what is wrong?” someone called down from the sleeping loft.
“A mouse drowned in one of the water buckets.”
“Oh.” A giggle turned into a snort, joined by another.
“Frightened by a dead mouse.” Had to be Hjelmer. His voice was the only one that had started to change, a baritone that sometimes cracked with soprano. More giggles, and in a moment Gunlaug backed, laughing, down the ladder.
“All you who think that is so funny, just come on down and get at the chores,” she called back up.
Ingeborg tried to ignore her but instead handed her the contaminated bucket. “You take care of this on your way out to the backhouse.”
“We can still use the water. Just fish the mouse out and we can add it to the wash water outside on the fire.”
“Fine. You fish the mouse out.”
“You know I—”
Ingeborg rolled her eyes, grabbed a big spoon, fished the body out, and threw it out the door. The barn cats would find it. Good thing they’d brought cats along too. She forced herself to keep a stern face as the others came giggling down the ladder.
“Since you think this is funny, you do the milking and all the chores this morning without me.”
“What are you going to do?” Mari asked, looking at her big sister suspiciously.
“Oh, I am going to sit at the table with my feet up, drink coffee, and eat gorobrød. With butter and sugar, of course. What else do you think I am going to do?”
At that, Mari started to giggle again, a contagious giggle that even Ingeborg with her sternest look could not ignore.
“We have gorobrød here?” Tor gave Hjelmer a confused look. “I didn’t think we brought any along.”
“She’s teasing.” Hjelmer shook his head, clearly saying his cousin must be lacking something in the brain department to not get the joke. He handed Tor a bucket.
“But I don’t know how to milk a cow.” Tor took a step back.
“Ah, Tor, you need not worry about learning to milk until your hands get better. You can do the other chores. Go out with Hjelmer. He’ll tell you what needs doing.” Although he should know these things by now. Ingeborg never failed to marvel at how much more of the vital things in life that country-raised children learned from the time they could toddle. It was a shame not everyone was raised on a farm.
As the boys and Kari left for the barn, Ingeborg went to the door and called after them. “Tor, we have to remember to tend to your hands when you get done out there. Do you have gloves on?”
He turned. “I told you I don’t have any.”
“I’ll give you a pair of mine.” Anders punched him on the shoulder. “But do not lose them, or you’ll be sewing a new pair.”
That is not a bad idea, Ingeborg thought as she turned back to the younger children. Did they have a tanned deer hide up here? She’d have to look. “Mari, you and I will start the bread and soup. Hamme, you and Jon go out and restart the fire so we can continue heating the water out there. You do know how to start a fire, right?” When they both nodded, she turned to her youngest sister, who seemed so much older and wiser than several of the others. But then she had been coming to the seter for two years already and she had learned to help at home, even did much of the cooking and baking. Impulsively she reached over and drew Mari to her. “I am so thankful for you.”
Mari hugged her back then tipped her head so she could smile up at her big sister. “Can we have eggs for breakfast?” She gave Ingeborg another hug and giggled into her apron.
“Yes, I think we can. The hens have started laying again.”
“The ride up here turned that older rooster mean. He pecked at the others and tried to chase me, but I swung my bucket at him. He gave me the evil eye too. I think he might be in the stewpot soon.”
“You just might be right.” It was always something, or someone not getting along. Why was peace so hard to come by? With all the beauty up here, everyone should be happy. But she knew that wasn’t enough. Just a dream. “All right, you get the flour and lard out, and I’ll go get the milk. We’ll put an egg in the sveler this morning too.”
“Sugar or jam?”
“How about a bit of sugar in the dough and jam on top after they bake?”
Mari smiled pure bliss. “I love sveler like this almost as good as gorobrød fresh from the iron.”
“And Mor taught us how to make both really well. We need to remember to start the dough tonight for breakfast tomorrow.”
“And lapper, and—” Mari’s eyes twinkled. “Did we bring enough sugar for all this?”
“I think so, but we have to use it carefully. Get the fire going hot.” Ingeborg stopped on the stoop and raised her face to the sun. At least it didn’t act like it didn’t get enough sleep last night. She yawned, stretching her arms over her head. One of the dogs came wagging to see her, so she leaned down to pet her. “How come you’re not out with the sheep?”
The dog turned her head then bounded toward the barn. Hjelmer must have called her.
The flat, round, sweet pancakes and eggs to go with the porridge were a hit with everyone. Good thing Mari had made plenty. Boys especially certainly could put away food! And last night it had gotten pretty cold.
“All right, do you all know what you are to do today?”
“Look for nasty weeds,” two of them answered in unison. “All of us?”
“Who is going with the sheep?” she asked.
“I am and taking Jon along,” Anders said. “He’s herded sheep at home too.”
“Good, we’ll need Hjelmer and Tor to finish up the fence mending, since they didn’t quite get that done yesterday. Was there any hail damage that you could see?”
The milkers all shook their heads.
“Good thing it was in the night like that,” Kari offered. “The chickens weren’t outside.”
“Nor the sheep. Remember the year it hailed and they started to run away? I was afraid I would never find them all—alive, that is.”
“A couple of them were limping afterward.” Ingeborg shook her head. That had been only one of the frightening things that year. Like the lynx attack that had wounded one of the young calves so badly they had to butcher it. She’d fought the tears through that one. Being the oldest girl in a family gave her all kinds of chores, including many she didn’t like.
“Can I make sveler again for dinner?” Mari asked. “We don’t have any små brød.”
“Enough soup left?”
She shook her head.
“Fine. We can slice the spekekjøtt to go with that rindy cheese.” They didn’t have much of that dried mutton left either. “We should have set the beans to soaking last night.” Kicking oneself was not helpful either. “But since we didn’t, they will take longer, so start them now. We can each bring in an armload of wood for the woodbox. As soon as the water is hot out there, Kari, you and Hamme wash all the windows. And then we are done with housecleaning. Gunlaug and I will sort through last year’s wool and see what we have. Let’s go.”
“We forgot to pray.”
“We did. It is not too late now.” After they said the table grace, they all picked up their plates and set them in the pan of soapy water steaming near the fire.
As they scattered to do their assigned chores, Gunlaug shook her head. “Keeping all this straight in your head—how do you do it, Ingeborg?”
“Obviously I forgot something. How about you be in charge of table prayers and choosing a Bible verse to memorize each week? Maybe set up a contest, and the ones who can say them all at the end of the summer get a prize.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. We’ll think of something.”
“I know the boys would like a day off to go fishing. But we can’t wait for the end of the summer for that. We need to check the lake to see if the trout are feeding yet.”
“I’m glad he is good at something.” Ingeborg flinched. “I forgot to fix his hands.”
“After dinner, then.” Gunlaug joined Mari at the dry sink, where the dishes were now in the rinse water, and picked up a dish towel.
The rest of the children trailed in with their armloads of wood and dumped them into the box. “More?”
Ingeborg checked and nodded.
“We need to be thinking about the shearing too.”
“I know, Gunlaug.” She could hear the jingle of the horse harnesses. The boys were bringing up more wood from the side lot without her having to tell them. This was a very good sign.
Ingeborg called Tor aside. An hour later he knew how to use a crosscut saw without making his blisters even worse than they were, and the pile of unsplit spools of wood had grown immensely.
Everyone sat down to dinner, glad Mari had more biscuits. While some of the girls cleaned up afterward, Ingeborg took care of Tor’s hands, and then everyone except Mari trooped out to the milk house. The boys carried buckets of milk, and the girls prepared the first of the cheese pots. They put in a long hard afternoon, but so far no one was complaining. They gathered around the fireplace as supper was finishing cooking.
“Willing hands make short work. That’s what Mor always says. We did it and you all deserve something special.” Ingeborg winked at Mari, who had spent the afternoon in the kitchen.
“I think I smelled gorobrød,” Jon said, “when I went to put more wood on the fire. With jam, right?”
“Good. Why don’t you go get a jug of milk from the springhouse, and we’ll sit outside.” She looked at their faces. “Some of you got sunburned. That’s why bonnets are no good hanging down the back.”
“The boys are lucky. Their straw hats are better than bonnets.” Hamme led the way out of the fire pit to the sitting logs and wood chunks that were now in the shade of the house. Mari brought out the freshly made gorobrød, butter, and jam, Gunlaug passed out the cups, and Jon poured—very carefully.
Ingeborg leaned against the log wall of the house. They had done a good day’s work, and everyone got along. What more could she ask for?
“They must have smelled the gorobrød,” Hjelmer said when they heard a dog bark. “I’ll go put the sheep in the corral so they can eat.”
Ingeborg watched him go. Hjelmer might not be the tallest, but he was the most caring of the boys in the family. He took after his grandfather Bjorn.
If only . . .
She knew better than to listen to if only.
But . . . not a good word either.
Please, Lord, let tomorrow be as peaceful as today. And thank you the hail didn’t damage anything either.
The next morning, Ingeborg held Tor back from tending to his chores after breakfast. “Tor, your hands?”
He rolled his eyes but returned and held his hands out.
“The bandages are pretty dirty. Are you not wearing gloves?” She fetched a scissor and cut them off. “We let this go too long. Let’s see how they look.”
As she peeled back the bandages, she was pleased to see healthy pink skin under the dead skin of the blisters, much of which had worn away. “Very good. But we’ll wrap them again to protect the new skin.” As she spoke she did just that. “And you wear the gloves.”
He nodded. “I know how to sew gloves if you have some tanned deer hide, or sheepskin can work too. I could make me a new pair or make Anders a new pair and keep these.”
She’d not heard him speak that long at once before and to volunteer something like that. Smiling up at him, she nodded. “We do have a deerskin—two, in fact. I’ll get them out for you. How did you learn?”
“My far. He makes all kinds of leather things—shoes, aprons, gloves, bags. I help him.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Far’s gloves never raise welts or rub the skin raw either. But I’m not that good yet.”
She knotted the ties on the backs of his hands. “There you go. Count yourself lucky. Those blisters could have gotten infected and messed up your summer.”
He gave her a sideways glance. “Not with you taking care of ’em. They wouldn’t dare.”
Ingeborg tried to hide her laughter but gave it up as a bad effort and burst out laughing. “Takk, I think.” Maybe there was hope for Tor after all. One thing for sure, he would learn a lot this summer.
10
OSLO, NORWAY
The clock on the wall ticked quietly, marking moments, its shiny brass pendulum flowing back and forth. Nils glanced at it again. It was five minutes after nine. The last time he had looked, it was four minutes after nine. His appointment was supposed to be at nine o’clock, and the dean was a punctual sort. What could be the problem? Ordering himself to relax, he heaved a sigh, which made him wish he’d not. He scooted a bit further back in his chair and forced himself to stop fingering the hat brim in his hands. The clock ticked.
The dean’s office door swung open, and his secretary stepped out into the foyer. The gentleman was dressed like Nils’s father dressed, every stitch of attire perfect from cravat to shoes. “The dean will see you now, Mr. Aarvidson.”
“Thank you, sir.” Nils stood up, sucked in some air as a tweak in his side stabbed him, then walked to the door.
The secretary stepped in behind him and announced lugubriously, “Mr. Nils Aarvidson, Mr. Klein.” He stepped backward. Nils heard the door click.
“Please be seated, Mr. Aarvidson.” The dean had been living in Oslo how many decades? And he still spoke with the clipped, authoritative German accent of his homeland.
“Thank you, sir.” Nils perched on the edge of the chair, thought twice about that, and slid back to give a more relaxed impression—also not a good idea. “Thank you for allowing me this audience.”
The dean nodded. “I have spent the last fifteen minutes looking at your records.” He tapped a pile of papers on the corner of his desk. “I also have here a letter from your attending physician, Dr. Jorge, about the extent of the injuries you sustained in that accident. I am amazed that you are so soon ambulatory.” He sat back. “So what have you been doing for the last week?”
Nils had not been expecting that question, or any question, for that matter. He had been expecting a diatribe such as his father delivered daily. “Uh, convalescing, sir. Or trying to. And studying. Actually fretting over not studying. I’m having a difficult time concentrating. My sister, Amalia, has been reading to me, coaching me. My eyes don’t focus well yet.”
“As your doctor’s comments suggested. That blow to the head. Your father came by to see me a few days ago. He is greatly concerned.”
What could he say? “Yes, he is.”
“Your father has requested that we postpone your examinations until near the beginning of the fall school year. He wants you to work in his office half time over summer and study half time.”
It blurted out of him before he could think. “So he can supervise my studies.”
The dean smiled slightly. “Quite possibly, although he did not mention that. So I queried your professors. Your philosophy professor is willing to postpone your exam until the beginning of fall semester. He senses in you a potential that is yet untapped.”
As does my father. Again Nils held his tongue.
“Your logistics professor has offered to waive your exam and give you a grade based on your work to date. Would that be acceptable to you?”
Nils tried to think fast and could not. Logistics of Trade and Transport. He was making an average grade—not great, not mediocre. Could he do better with an exam? Think, Nils! Probably not. “Yes. Yes, sir, that would be satisfactory. I am grateful.”
The dean nodded. “And your medieval history professor refuses to consider a postponement. He intends that you take the exam at the appointed time, along with his other students.”
“Then I will do so. Thank you for your efforts, Dean Klein. I am grateful.”
; The dean stood, so Nils leapt to his feet, gasping as another stab of pain sliced through his ribs. The dean extended his hand. “Mr. Aarvidson, I am impressed. Despite your circumstance, you have not once complained or tried to pass blame. I wish you well. Thank you for coming in.”
Nils stretched forward to accept the handshake and just about died. He hoped the pain didn’t show. “Thank you, sir. I truly am grateful.”
“And I truly am impressed with your fortitude. Good luck, Mr. Aarvidson.”
Nils heard the door open behind him, so with one more thank-you, he nodded briefly and left.
As the door closed behind him, he heard the dean saying, “Take a letter. Mr. Rignor Aarvidson, care of Aarvidson Shipping. My esteemed Mr. Aarv . . .”
“This is outrageous!” RA slapped the open sheet of foolscap on his desk. “A pox on Hermann Klein! A pox on that sorry excuse for a school! A simple request and they send this!”
Nils knew what this was—the letter from the dean, explaining the decisions that had been made.
His father turned on him. “And you acquiesced to this nonsense!”
Apparently Nils was deserving of a pox as well. “It was the best I could get, given the choices. At least I need to study for only one exam this fall rather than three.”
“Dinner is served.” The footman stood in the doorway.
RA marched out, still fuming.
“Thank you.” Nils nodded to the footman and followed the furious tycoon downstairs to the dining room, hanging on to the stair rail and feeling every step he took. He castigated himself with each one. He couldn’t even remember the footman’s name. How would he ever be ready for that test?
At the bottom of the stairs, Katja scooted past him and stood at her chair. She sat and gripped its seat with both hands, lifting as Nils scooted it in, lest his ribs decide to come apart again. Dear, sweet Katja.
Absolutely icy, Nils’s father rattled through the blessing. His mother picked up her fork.
Nils announced, “I learned today that my classmate, Hans Boonstra, is a descendant of Dutch bankers who helped the Germans set up the Hanseatic League. His family has always been bankers.”
An Untamed Heart Page 9
