Daughters of Northern Shores

by Joanne Bischof

  He closed his bag, then moved to the washstand, where he soaped and rinsed his hands. “I’ve a colleague in Vermont. A friend and mentor who once worked on the front lines.” Dr. Abramson shook droplets from his hands. “He will undoubtedly know more, so I’ll send a telegram and continue my own study. For now, I advise we find Mr. Norgaard a more secluded location.”

  Thor lowered his face—something he never did. ’Twas as though he wanted to see no more of what was said. Or worse, what he already knew.

  “What if it’s not this epidemic?” Aven asked through a tightening throat.

  The doctor drew in a heavy breath. “With that type of drinking history, if his liver is instead failing of its own accord, he will have a short while yet to live.”

  At that, Aven could scarcely see beyond Thor. Even as she peered upon her beloved, there was a wrenching in her heart so deep she feared it might harm the baby. Such grief that she barely knew how to stay standing. For when Dr. Abramson returned to his bag and took hold of the leather handle, he added, “If this ailment is not Epidemic Jaundice, then your husband, Mrs. Norgaard, is dying.”

  TEN

  THOR SAT ON THE EDGE OF THE BED IN A room so hollow it may as well have been a tomb. He was alone now, per the doctor’s advice, but if he knew anything about his family, he wouldn’t be alone for long. He imagined everyone downstairs discussing what should be done. He didn’t need to be there to guess what would be said. Aven would be the most adamant to be allowed to care for him, but it was paramount she see reason.

  Next he thought of Jorgan, who had cared for him when he sobered from hard drink. Jorgan had sat with him through the worst of it. Through the terrors and the vomiting and every misery in between. If anyone was capable of seeing a body through the furthest reaches of awful, it was Jorgan. But with a wife and two children, Jorgan didn’t belong anywhere near him either.

  Then there would be Ida with her heart of gold and a grit that defied her age. She’d volunteer without pause, but Thor would no more burden her with caring for him than he would anyone else. So with a settled resolve he rose and reached for his coat. Sliding it on took great effort, but if he was going to do this, he needed to be able to fend for himself. He made slow work with the buttons but was too chilled to let it hang open. He ached for more water, but overriding all thirst was the pain it caused to empty his bladder. Worse than that discomfort was the lump in his throat that became harder and harder to fight.

  A sweet ache it was, loving Aven, because life would part them some day. Sheer agony overrode that tenfold at the knowledge that the day could be soon.

  The doctor’s optimism offered a hope that he suffered only from this strange epidemic. But so dreadful were the symptoms, and with children about, Thor couldn’t pose his family further risk. There would be time in the coming days to ponder the alternate outcome, but for now he stepped gingerly toward the dresser and opened his lidded box there. He had need of a key that had sat forgotten for years. All the more bewildering to find it not on the bottom of the box as expected but on the top of everything else. Had it been used recently?

  There was little point in wondering, so Thor opened the door. Use of the handrail got him down the steps, and he took his time across the second-floor hallway. When he descended the bottom flight of stairs, it was to find the family deep in conversation. Fay sat in a chair near the window. Jorgan stood behind her, both hands on his wife’s shoulders. His thumb worked against the fabric of her blouse collar, grazing a curve of lace. The doctor stood nearest the windows, backlit by a sun so low Thor couldn’t make out his face and moving lips. But by his mannerisms, he was in grave discourse with them all.

  Thor didn’t try to interrupt and instead waited until one by one they drew still. He saw it only in his peripheral vision as his focus had shifted to Aven. She cradled both arms beneath her stomach—eyes on him and him alone. He wanted to pull her close with an assurance that all would be fine. He wanted to believe it himself, which made sight of her and their child all the more sobering.

  Jorgan gestured for his attention, and Thor shifted to see him better. “I’m gonna go with you.”

  Ida limped nearer, capturing Thor’s focus next. “Nonsense. I raised you since you were just a tyke, and if you think you’s goin’ anywhere without me, you got another thing comin’.”

  He loved her for it—both of them—but Thor stepped aside. Jorgan hedged his path and spoke something that Thor couldn’t make out as he moved around his brother again. It was hard to sign at the same time, but Thor managed. Cabin. He took another step toward the kitchen. Alone.

  With both arms, Ida waved him down. “Who’s gonna help you?”

  He touched his chest, made the sign for help, then touched his chest again.

  Aven stepped forward, garnering his attention. “And what of care? What of meals?”

  They could leave food just outside. Thor implied as much, and needing to pull himself away from his wife, he strode through the kitchen, and opened the door. The cool of dusk brushed against his neck, and he raised his collar as shivers broke loose inside him.

  Once beneath the gray sky, he glanced back to make certain no one followed. He didn’t look back again until he’d reached the stand of trees that separated the great house from Haakon’s cabin. His steps were slow as pain wormed up his side. Darkness that had nothing to do with the coming night edged around his vision as it had done in the few days prior. Lightheaded, he braced a hand against a tree. This was no time to pass out. He took steadying breaths until his vision righted. The scant daylight that remained was enough to see by, and there, in the distance, stood the outline of Haakon’s cabin. Thor stepped into the yard, and only then did he glance back again.

  Everyone was coming, though the distance between him and them meant they’d been arguing. Aven was the farthest along, with her skirts clutched up in a hand and her small feet nearly running. No doubt she’d won. Jorgan was rushing to catch up to her. Despite the intensity of Jorgan’s speech—a pleading for her to see reason—Aven didn’t acknowledge him. Nor did she heed the doctor who was fast to reach her other side.

  Thor forced himself to move quicker so she wouldn’t catch up to him. His gait was a bitter limp, and a groan scraped up his throat. Grief sank its stone into his chest, and he nearly stumbled. Just a short distance to go. Thor knew he lacked the strength to make it, so was walking on borrowed mettle, shutting his mind off from all pain as he trudged onward. Haakon’s cabin grew bigger the nearer he drew.

  How he hated this place.

  But it was the only fitting spot he could think of. Secluded, secure, and near enough to the house to be practical. Thor pressed on, though his mind was beginning to lose its grip on determination. Pain flamed, demanding he slow. As he did, his boots skidded over a mass of south-bound tracks made not by animals but by men. From the different sizes and makes of bootprints . . . perhaps half a dozen of them. Not only did they cross this way through the yard, they circled the cabin like a pack of wolves.

  Sorrels.

  They’d been here and weren’t being shy about it.

  Suddenly someone was in his side vision. Thor nearly stumbled again but it was only Jorgan. His brother spouted off alternate ways for Thor to rest in safety, and Thor snapped off the hand sign for no as he backed farther away. Holding his palms up peaceably, he tried to get them both to stop. For pity’s sake, at least Aven.

  When she kept after him, Thor growled her name. “Av—” The only part he could ever manage. Except he’d never spoken it so roughly.

  While he knew not the sound, it had to be as sharp as he’d intended because Aven halted at the force.

  How sweet her name was to him. Always said as a cherishing. In this moment it was the same cherishing that drove his determination to protect her. He prayed she knew that.

  With Jorgan having yet to notice the tracks, Thor considered not pointing them out. It only deepened the danger of this place and would be yet another reason for Jorga
n to urge him elsewhere, but with the likelihood of Aven or Ida now crossing this wooded grove to reach Haakon’s cabin, he had to do something to warn them.

  Thor snapped for Jorgan’s attention, then pointed to the ground. Jorgan’s gaze trailed along the tracks all the way around the side of the cabin. The gravity of what this meant wasn’t lost in Jorgan’s paling face, and when he looked back at Thor, there was pleading in his eyes.

  “You can’t do this.”

  He had to. Guard A-V-E-N, you.

  “Thor, don’t do this.”

  Thor repeated the word for guard, then pointed back to his wife.

  “Of course, Thor. I promise.”

  He made the signs for gun and bring, then pointed to himself.

  Finally Jorgan nodded. “I’ll fetch you two.”

  Shivers quaked him so hard that Thor could scarcely extend his gratitude. Beholden to his brother, he backed away. The last person he saw as he climbed the porch steps was the doctor. The young man gave him a nod of understanding, and if Thor wasn’t mistaken, there was hope in his steely gaze, as if the doctor believed there would be good at the end of this.

  With his strength sapped, Thor harnessed that force of assurance as he climbed the last step. His hands shook as he fished the key from his pocket. He pressed his way in and didn’t look back as he entered walls that housed the final, bleak memories of Haakon. He surveyed the far end of the room where they had brawled, then, pulling his eyes from the past still tainting the first floor, Thor bolted the door shut behind him, fixed his gaze on the stairs, and determined to climb them.

  ELEVEN

  MAY 5, 1895

  PORT OF CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  THE FOG MAY AS WELL HAVE CLEARED JUST FOR THEM. Upon nearing the United States coast, the sea air no longer spread as thick as their breakfast of overcooked oats. Now the sun could be seen just shy of noon over buildings that wove along the South Carolina coastline. Church steeples rose above the knobby roofline, their height and majesty trumped only by the masts of the ships that anchored there.

  Though the plantation system had collapsed, taking down this seaside economy and its shipments of slaves, Charleston was once again a booming hub as one of the busiest cargo terminals in the American Southeast. It was that energy and familiarity that Haakon wished he could sidestep, but this was just the first taste of home. The illustrious Charleston was a shy reckoning to what stepping foot on Blackbird Mountain would be.

  Days ago, Haakon and Tate had disembarked Le Grelotter and, with salutes from their crewmembers, watched the vessel sail away from Barbados until it was only a speck on the horizon. A farewell as hard as all the others. With a homeward current calling them, he and Tate had joined the small crew of a two-masted schooner bound for America, bunking down in the hold among sacks of rice and cakes of indigo. Their labor above deck had paid for the nine-day passage, and now they bid their thanks and started down the narrow gangway.

  When Haakon reached American ground, it felt as weighty as when he had raced along such a dock . . . running from his past and toward a future that, while taking him far and wide on this great earth, had brought him back to the very same coastline.

  Workers milled about, some stacking heavy sacks, others moving loaded wagons by horseback. Men bellowed commands to one another, while interspersed throughout the chaos were women and children who had come to greet the seamen. Some ladies stood on tiptoe as though awaiting husbands. Others shielded their eyes, scanning the tanned and grizzly faces in search of who might have been brothers or fathers.

  Haakon did his best to weave around passersby, but all at once he saw a woman in the distance looking his way. She was a petite thing, straining to try and see over the crowd gathered. Her smile was as bright as the sun shining on her coal-black hair, and never had Haakon seen such anticipation.

  Did she know him? He’d encountered enough women along his travels that faces were hard to recognize.

  Then one of the crewmembers he’d recently met burst past Haakon with a jolly “’Scuse me, mate!”

  Upon reaching the woman, the sailor pulled her into a hug so tight that her laugh slipped out breathless. Her eyes glistened as she beheld the man who must have been her husband, judging by the ring Haakon now saw on her finger. A gentle banding upon the same hand that reached up to loop around the man’s neck.

  Lowering his sight, Haakon stepped past them. He pulled his pack forward and dug around for his pocket watch. Finding it, he scanned the time as a way to busy himself. Some way to strip away thoughts of home and who he’d left behind. A moment to regain his wits and be prodded by the reminder that the woman he desperately needed to make amends with was not only wed but wedded to his brother.

  Beside him, Tate hitched his pack higher up his shoulder, flashing a newly earned bandage that wrapped his forearm. They walked on as investors discussed pricing and exchanges while travelers gauged their whereabouts. Mariners of every size and color filled out the rest of the crowd, some exchanging wares with one another, others destined for new vessels and crews. Striking his way through the thick of it all, Haakon had never been so uncertain about who he was or where he belonged. Here he walked, foreign and lost in his own country.

  “I think this is the way,” he called to Tate before edging between a loaded cart and a brick building.

  A coach clattered by, and his ears warmed against the tinkling laugh of a southern belle and the low, smooth drawl of her gentleman. Had Haakon really spent most of his life here? While Charleston was a few days south of the Norgaard orchards, these folks were American through and through, making him only a short train ride to the backwoods he called home.

  Searching for the train depot, Haakon headed farther from the waterfront, and beside him Tate took in the sights. As they walked, Haakon realized there would be no more sea shanties. Never again would they stand on the forecastle as the four-hundred-ton brig dipped and crashed over the swell. No more nights sitting beneath stars while winds cold enough to shape icebergs cut through their coats, even as laughter and stories kept them merry. There would be no more glow of the Northern Lights or dorsal fins beneath a rounded moon. He would never forget the stormy nights belowdecks or the creak of rope and wood as they worked alongside a crew so noble Haakon had scarcely known how to watch their home ship sail away.

  In the distance, a train whistle blew.

  He was stepping away from a life molded and shaped by survival and comradery . . . bound for a life that had once held the same.

  Pretty sure his next days would be bent more on survival than comradery, Haakon wondered why he’d thought any of this going-home business was a wise idea. Maybe he should skip the part of his plan that involved walking into another pummeling by Thor Norgaard. Maybe he could settle here instead. Find a wife and make a decent living in this portside town. The world was a big place, and there was nothing that had to draw him back to Blackbird Mountain.

  Nothing but his own conscience that would continue to haunt him.

  Tate knelt and opened the top flap of his pack. “There’s something I want to give you.” He rose again, his Bible in hand. He opened the black book, licked his thumb, and sifted toward the middle, where he slowed his search, ending it by tearing out a sheet.

  Haakon’s eyebrows lifted, but Tate just folded the paper in half. He handed it over.

  Uncertain, Haakon accepted the offering.

  “There’s the answer to your question, and it’s also the reason why you didn’t need to jump that night.”

  So Tate had seen him pitch himself overboard after all. No wonder Tate had dove in first. It was a debt Haakon could never begin to repay.

  Rising, Tate inhaled a deep breath, and he squinted in a way that had nothing to do with light. “It’s been an honor, my friend.”

  Haakon nodded, hating the swell of sadness that tightened his throat. “Why are you saying all this? We’re getting on the train.” He started in that direction but Tate didn’t budge.

&n
bsp; “No. I’ve got some business to do at the bank.”

  “What do you mean?”

  There was a hint of regret in Tate’s face as he asked, “Did you get paid in coin?”

  Haakon nodded. Gold sovereigns and sterling shillings—the currency of Barbados and tender he was in no rush to exchange. Gold and silver would speak the right language in Appalachia, and as for the train ticket he needed, there were a few US dollars in his pack for the occasion.

  “Well, I got paid in British banknotes.”

  “Oh.”

  As boatswain, Tate made much more aboard ship than Haakon did as an able seaman. He should have realized Tate would receive paper slips instead of a mound of coinage.

  “I’ll wait with you,” Haakon offered. “While you switch it to dollars.” He was in no hurry.

  “Nonsense. The bank won’t be open ’til Monday, and this train is leaving soon. You’ll be home by the time I’m done. There’s no sense in waiting.”

  Haakon looked down the street one way and then the other. Last, he glanced over his shoulder toward the depot, wishing for answers.

  “Haakon. Go on.”

  Whether alone or with his friend, he didn’t know how to get on that train.

  “I can get home from here without your help.” Tate consulted a brass pocket watch. “More notably, you can get home without mine.” He smiled again.

  Haakon shook his head. Tate didn’t understand the hulking force of Norwegian revenge awaiting him back home. “I think I might . . .”