Daughters of Northern Shores

by Joanne Bischof

  And, if he could have what he’d dreamed of in the wee hours of the night, back to Blackbird Mountain. But that couldn’t be home anymore.

  Gripping hold of the rope ladder, Haakon started to climb.

  To not look back was wisest, but he’d come to discover a point of no return with each disembarking, so he glanced over his shoulder to the cliff tops surrounding the fjord. The boy was gone. His mother—likely still asleep. Or worse, just being woken by her son, who would have some news for her. That Haakon had left . . . without telling her goodbye.

  He should have woken her to say farewell. She deserved nothing less.

  Why was he such a coward?

  At the shouts of crewmembers all around, he continued climbing the crisscrossed ropes and upon reaching the first set of rigging clambered higher until he’d passed the second. Wind gusted off the water, hitting him with an icy blast. When Haakon reached the crow’s nest that wasn’t much more than a barrel lashed to the mast, he climbed farther to a third stretch of rigging. With the ship away from its mooring, it rocked enough to suddenly make holding on his every thought.

  Near the top of the mast, the mainsail flapped so loudly it drowned out even the screech of herring gulls that soared below. The patriotic colors were knotted around the highest point of the mast, and it was easier to focus on the wind-battered wool than the fact that the widow’s cottage was far from sight now. No longer would he have the satisfaction of glimpsing her during his workday or sharing her table come dusk.

  Haakon swallowed hard. Such a longing would fade with time.

  It had to.

  Over a hundred feet up from the deck, he forced his focus to rise ahead. Reaching up, he unwound the frigid cloth until the red and white of the ensign hailed this vessel as Canadian more boldly than even her name: Le Grelotter. The shivering.

  Aptly named for this brig with its belly full of ice.

  Packed tightly for the trip south, the frozen cargo was bound for England’s upper class, who expressed their wealth with delicate sorbets, intricate sculptures, and chilled bourbon in the heat of summer. From Lisbon to Bath, gentry would pay well for the choice cargo—all that Haakon and his fellow crewmates had spent the winter harvesting from Norway’s pristine lakes. That which wasn’t needed for garden parties and the like would be sold to meat and brewery enterprises. This was their second trip to London for the season, so what the icehouses there couldn’t hold would be whisked south to the Caribbean, where every last block would be unloaded until there was nothing left in the hull but wet boards and damp sawdust.

  It meant the need to sail proficiently. Too long at sea and their winter of labor would be for naught. Too reckless in their navigation and the ship could capsize. A boatload of shifting ice wreaked havoc on a crew and its vessel, so with care and precision they would sail south and then west until their pockets were lined with silver yet again.

  The ship dipped and sprayed. Water gusted against the sides, foamy and white. Though she was gaining speed, the last of her sails were being unfurled, running rigging pulled tight and laid over the pins. With easy foot placements, Haakon descended the few meters down to the crow’s nest. In the distance the water glittered with sunrise, and on both sides of the narrow fjord rose steep mountains of slate gray and snowcapped white. The wind was ruthless, and as stunning the view, Haakon would much prefer being on deck, pulling in lines to keep from freezing.

  With work-roughened hands, he tugged his coat tighter and tried not to think about the warmth he’d just left behind, but as he thought on the woman again, he knew there was no point in fooling himself. The real reason he hadn’t wanted her to wake was because he couldn’t bear to look into her eyes and contend with the guilt that as much as he aimed to bring her comfort, it was ultimately his own pleasure he sought. He would forget her and her children by the time he arrived in the next port.

  With a three-legged stool behind him, Haakon pulled it forward and sat, keeping his eyes on the water. For most, the hours on watch were a time to ponder. For several, a chance to log the events of the previous day. But unlike those contemplative souls, Haakon didn’t keep a journal. If he did, he would write that they’d hoisted sail and caught a breeze from west-southwest. A gust that was shouldering them away from southern Norway. He’d try to find the words to describe how hard it was to see that shoreline grow fainter. If they lingered, they’d watch the birches begin to open their leaves. He was yet to see Norway in the summer and had only heard of its splendor.

  The practical side of him would note that there were eight hundred tons of crystal ice in the hold bound for London. That’s if they survived the North Sea. If so, they would land in England four days from now.

  It would take great effort to cap the inkwell then, but if he lost the battle with himself, he would add that it was getting harder and harder not to think of home.

  That was why he didn’t keep a journal. There was no sense in documenting such a desire. He couldn’t go home. He shouldn’t go home. And he was a fool to continually be tempted. Though time had passed, the years hadn’t worn the memories smooth. In fact, it felt like just yesterday that he’d walked with Aven, her arm on his. Her brown eyes trusting as they strolled through the woods. They’d ventured to the west cabin, where she’d imagined herself safe to be alone with him, only to discover that she’d been anything but.

  Haakon should have tried harder to make amends, but knowing he couldn’t rightly step foot back on the farm, he’d opted instead to blow the Sorrels’ barn sky-high with nearly a thousand dollars’ worth of his brother’s stolen liquor still inside. While it had halted a decades-old war between their families, he doubted it had been the most sentimental way to apologize.

  Pulling his arms tight across his middle, Haakon bent forward on the stool and, with his gaze still on the inlet, did all he could to keep from trembling from the cold. He wanted something hot to drink. Something good and strong.

  More than that, he wanted to make peace with Aven. He wanted to break free from the challenge young Widow Jönsson had given him to cease his running from whatever had him on the move for nearly half a decade. But he didn’t know how to do either, so here he would stay—on this restless sea—until he finally vanished from all their memories for good. Or until he grew enough of a backbone to step back onto his family’s farm and try to right what he had wronged.

  THREE

  MARCH 17, 1895

  BLACKBIRD MOUNTAIN, VIRGINIA

  AVEN COULDN’T RECALL SUNSETS LIKE THIS in Ireland when she was a child. If a rare bright day spanned the skies, the sun sank behind the stone walls of the workhouse long before nightfall. When it wasn’t cloudy and rainy, cool shadows still blanketed the corridors of the orphanage where she’d lived among hundreds of other children who were as lost to the world as she’d been upon her mother’s too-soon death.

  But not here. How different from the workhouse this was—the Virginia sun like melted gold through the treetops, brightening everything in its warm haze and piercing through the branches of the great maple overhead. A dance of light and childhood charm where nestled within the leaves sat the treehouse that had sheltered many an adventure for the Norgaard brothers.

  While Aven’s climbing days were at a standstill, if she were to scale the makeshift ladder and settle against the rough trunk, she would see the three carved names. Jorgan. Thor. Haakon. Whittled into the living wood as boys when time and distance hadn’t changed them so. ’Twas just as well that she was land bound with child. She had no desire to see Haakon’s name, nor anything that reminded her of the man who had once been her friend but had proved himself anything but.

  Seated below it all, Aven tugged her knit shawl closer against her shoulders and listened as Ida read to Sigurd from where they shared his blanket at the base of the great tree. A small pile of children’s tales lay near, and while Sigurd leaned an elbow on those, Aven kept her hands busy with the stitches on a nightdress for the coming baby. Though she could have finishe
d the tiny collar at home, she’d followed along with Sigurd and Ida since she was as eager for an outing as the rambunctious boy.

  Aven had her own fondness for this glen where Thor had first begun to claim her heart and hand. Never would she forget sitting on the treehouse platform while he tied together a string of buttons and, with a hint of shyness, slid the gift onto her wrist. They’d been far from lovers then, but it had been the beginning of a tender unfolding between them.

  At the sound of Sigurd’s giggling, her attention lifted from the flash of the needle to where he sat cross-legged beside her. The three-year-old’s face was a stark contrast to Ida’s brown skin, but rarely were two souls as kindred as the boy and the freedwoman who stood in place as his proud grandmamma.

  Just beyond, Aven glimpsed their farmhand, Peter, moving about in a far stretch of woods. The young Sorrel had trailed them, but the act was far from ominous, so loyal was he to the Norgaard family. Peter had come along today to check snares, he’d said, but she knew it was Thor and Jorgan’s way of seeing them looked after. The snares having been set close to the treehouse for this very purpose.

  Underbrush rustled as Peter knelt to remove a gray hare. At Ida’s noticing, he held it over for her to see. She waved her gratitude, and Peter smiled, flashing rough teeth in a handsome face. As Jed Sorrel’s grandson, Peter had once been part of the underground Ku Klux Klan, so the fact that he and Ida kept such choice company was a miracle. That Peter kept guard against his own father and grandfather, whose whereabouts remained a mystery, yet another. Though Aven saw no weapon in plain view, sense told her Peter was armed.

  As Ida read on, Aven placed the tiny garment against the front of her mounded womb. Had she fashioned it too narrow? Sewing was her favorite pastime and the soundest skill acquired from her years in the Limerick workhouse. She scarcely measured a size wrong. But since the object of her efforts lay curled up and out of sight, she wouldn’t be too hard on herself.

  “What do you think?” Aven asked, still gauging the wee gown.

  Ida did the same. “Prettiest thing I ever saw, but you gonna need to let out a seam or two.”

  Aven chuckled. She was afraid so.

  Heavens, what a child. She should have expected nothing less from Thor Norgaard, but where he was strapping, she was slight of frame. The difference amplified the size of her rounded skirt front. A trial in store come the birthing hour, but while an inkling of worry trailed her of late, her life, the babe’s life, and the impending delivery were all in the Lord’s hands. Cultivating worries would do no good. Aven smoothed her womb, thankful beyond measure for the gift of life inside her. She nestled the nightdress in her basket as Ida continued to read.

  The woman’s dictation was smooth, testament to years of study after the War. While Aven couldn’t begin to comprehend the torment Ida and her sister, Cora, had endured as young slaves, Aven knew of hardship. Having grown up within the workhouse, where struggle dwelled in steady fashion, she recognized, as Ida did, the will of the human spirit and what it could conquer, be it learning the alphabet in adulthood as Ida had, staring down death with a brave countenance as Aven’s mother had, or facing down a future alone as Aven had done as a girl. Though mourning her mother’s death as the blackest of nights, Aven had faced the unknowns with a teary courage, going on to survive long enough to marry a Norwegian man who liberated her from the labor wards and brought her to his homeland in Norway. She’d not be sitting here today if it weren’t for Benn Norgaard. He’d made her a part of this family, but while she’d meant to be his wife until the end of her days, his own end had come much sooner.

  Amid their grief, Dorothe Norgaard had penned Aven an invitation to come to a place called Blackbird Mountain in America. Bidding her to voyage here to Virginia where Aunt Dorothe and the rest of Benn’s relatives dwelled. Nearly two years later, Aven had braved the ocean crossing, and when the dangerous beauty of the open sea was behind her, she’d climbed these rugged hills to an all-new adventure—meeting and knowing the mountain-raised men on this farm. Aven’s black mourning dress had slowed her every step even as hope budded in her heart that she might call this place home.

  And home she’d found, here with Thor and this beloved family. God had led her through many trials and storms, and while none of them had been easy, the Lord had guided her. He wouldn’t stop now. Of that she had no need to fear. For the future, it meant trusting in God for this growing life inside her.

  Aven placed a hand to Sigurd’s thin back, relishing his sweetness. The Lord knew what He was doing upon the knitting of each and every soul and was with Thor and Aven through the waiting for a child of their own. The waiting had deepened their trust and opened their hands to whatever God meant to provide. ’Twas far from easy, but it had taught her more about navigating the trials of life with grace than smooth seas ever would have.

  Book in hand, Ida read. “‘Darkness closed over a wild and terrific scene, and returning light as often brought but renewed distress, for the raging storm increased in fury until on the seventh day all hope was lost.’” Ida’s eyes widened dramatically as Sigurd’s did.

  “I want to go there,” he said.

  “To the middle of a storm?”

  A zealous nod.

  “Oh, my boy, you’ll have your fair share of those. How’s about we stay here safe and sound for the time bein’?” Ida pulled him close, squeezing tight.

  Peter came along and leaned against the tree. At his feet he set a game bag lumpy with the catch. He waited patiently, being paid by the farm no matter his assigned task. If Aven wasn’t mistaken, he seemed to be listening as Ida read. Though Peter was near the same age as her five and twenty, she sensed he could read and write only modestly.

  With dusk cooling the air, Ida rose and handed the book to Sigurd. There was light yet for the walk home, but if they didn’t start now, they’d be returning to the farm by starlight. Aven struggled to stand. Just as Peter edged nearer to help, she found her feet, then threw him a sheepish grin. He returned the sentiment.

  “Fetch them other books, Sigurd, and we’ll be on our way.” Ida folded the blanket, and Aven tucked it under her arm to help.

  The boy gathered the other books to his chest and squealed with delight when Peter hoisted him up to sturdy shoulders. The farmhand took a knock in the ear from The Swiss Family Robinson as he did. He handled it good-naturedly, got both boy and books righted, then nabbed the game bag and headed on. Aven fell into step beside Ida—their pace a pleasing match of slow and steady. A cool breeze swept through the woods, stirring grasses that were damp but determined to stretch out in these warmer days. Being reborn the mountain was, just as it was each spring.

  Sigurd clutched tight to the top of Peter’s head, listening to the lay of the land that Peter described to him. Peter pointed out a squirrel’s hollow, then directed the boy’s focus to where a rise of blackbirds soared southward and away from Thor’s orchards. Just beyond rose a lofty hill, and though Aven couldn’t see the house on the other side, she’d been to the Sorrels’ plantation now and again over the years. Slaves no longer worked its fields, and Peter no longer lived among its many rooms with his mother and sisters. The old mansion stood as if remembering days gone. Now it was nearly empty—many of the Sorrels having moved on, including most of Peter’s male kinfolk.

  Though Peter chatted with Sigurd, he kept careful survey of the woods around them.

  They returned to the farm to Thor and Jorgan working atop the roof once more. The last of the shingles had come down that morning, and now the men nailed fresh slats into place with pounding force. A fierce racket it was, and with sunset hastening in, a need to hurry. Clear skies rarely lasted this time of year.

  Sigurd pleaded to linger amongst the ruckus, but Aven insisted his mother first be keen of his whereabouts. Aven followed him up the front steps and into the kitchen, where they were greeted by the warmth of the cookstove and Fay’s cheery smile. Her blonde hair, twisted up in a bun, was as light a gold as t
he steamed potatoes she mashed with butter.

  In his high chair, Bjørn made a racket with a spoon on the wooden tray. His small feet were clad in leather booties, one of the shoes about to tumble off. His cotton shift was drenched down the front from his efforts at drinking from a new tin cup. Poor Fay looked near to coming undone. Ida moved to the stove and took over a pot of bubbling gravy. Aven dampened a rag and liberated the child from the mess and his mother from the bundle of chaos.

  “You’re both dears.” Fay glanced out the window to where Peter had joined the men in the work on the roof. “Should we ask Peter to stay for supper?”

  “I’ll see to it.” Swiping her hands on her apron, Ida left the gravy to finish thickening. She ducked into her bedroom that was just off the kitchen, returning a moment later with a heavy shawl, which she laid about her shoulders before departing.

  “We should have been back sooner,” Aven apologized. While each of them saw to housekeeping tasks, Aven had hardly done her share of the labor today. A reprieve Fay encouraged these days, but Aven hadn’t meant to leave her sister-in-law with a herd of hungry men, little Bjørn included. “I misjudged how quickly I could walk.”

  Fay chuckled, and the brightness in her cheeks said that she well remembered those days.

  Thinking it the best way to assist, Aven hefted her nephew to her hip—a juggling act with the unborn babe already in place. A thump came from the great room followed by a flash of gray fur. The cat, Dotti, bounded up the stairs, and her scamper was followed by the rush of Sigurd’s footsteps as he raced up to the second-floor bedroom he shared with his parents and brother.

  “I better see what he’s after.” Fay slid the gravy aside, and her wool skirts swished as she stepped that way. “Could you mind Bjørn for a moment?”