Daughters of Northern Shores

by Joanne Bischof

  “Two years, ma’am. Though only a few weeks in Fincastle. I worked for a surgeon in Boston for most of my apprenticeship and am well practiced in the surgical field, even for someone of my age.” He went to cross his legs but tipped back in his chair, which had some sort of spring mechanism. The young man planted both polished shoes on the floor. “As for my hesitation . . .” He motioned to her unborn child. “I have no experience with childbirth, so any reservations expressed were solely for your well-being. I’m sure the time approaches when I’m indoctrinated into the world of child delivery, but I admit, I am glad it is not this day.”

  Aven gave in to a smile. ’Twas a mutual relief.

  At a soft thump, she looked over to see that Peter had stepped to a nearby shelf, scrutinizing a human skull that rested there.

  Dr. Abramson continued. “I understand your concern. It’s no easy thing to witness a loved one suffer while we ourselves feel helpless.” He swiveled his springy chair toward the desk and nabbed a pencil from a narrow porcelain vase. “I’d like to inquire as to this physician your husband saw previously? His name, please, and also, what was the purpose of Mr. Norgaard’s visit? Did something occur to bring your husband distress?”

  “Aye. Doctor Kent was his name, and he was working for the Bureau for the Deaf. I’m sorry that the exact name of the organization eludes me, but I can retrieve that information for you straight away from some paperwork at home. I wish I had thought to bring it with me.”

  Nodding, the doctor scribbled his notes, and Aven continued.

  “Thor and I were troubled by what seemed a lack of vigilance.” With little choice but to trust this young surgeon, she went on to describe how the doctor from the train had been conned by Jed and Harlan Sorrel. With Peter listening on, she regretted describing his family’s bad form.

  But not only did Peter show no offense, he added a testimony of his own. “They’re a dark sort, sir, and were given undue trust in a way that reckoned poor judgment on the doctor’s part.”

  Looking troubled, Dr. Abramson nodded at Peter’s description and flipped to a new page in his notebook. “Describe the manner of the examination. What was the nature of the assessment?”

  “’Twas an interview about his lack of hearing,” Aven said. “It involved several questions as well as an examination of the ear canal and a blood draw for study, which I believe was to occur at a later date. The study, that is.”

  The doctor lowered his pen tip and jotted down quick thoughts. “How invasive was the study of the ear canal? Was it a deep probing?”

  Aven watched as he scribbled more notes.

  Breakage of the eardrum? Would cause nausea. Also trouble with balance. Walking?

  Research symptoms of vertigo.

  She lifted her gaze to his face, and while his brow was unlined, it furrowed beneath the weight of his wonderings.

  “’Twas not very invasive. The ear examination seemed more a cursory glance.”

  “And when did this all occur? Was your husband yet showing signs of the ailment?” He pulled a book from the stack and flipped to the index.

  “No, he was in excellent health.” She pondered the exact time and offered up the date, which he scribbled to paper.

  The young physician studied his notes, confusion lining his face as though he were missing a clue that remained hidden. He skimmed the index of the book and added a new word to his wonderings. Labyrinthitis? “Please explain to me again what you observed in as much detail as possible.”

  She did, going on to describe that the purpose of the blood draw was to better learn about the anatomy of the Deaf, especially those born with the condition as her husband was. “The blood would be examined under a microscope, or so the letter said. While we were at the depot, blood was taken from Thor’s veins by way of a needle. I cannot remember what it was called. I wish I had brought his paperwork. I can do so tomorrow—”

  “Microscopic study, hmm . . .” Dr. Abramson slid his pencil behind one ear and, lifting up his notes, examined them by light of the window. His brow puckered in confusion, then he rose, strode to a shelf of books, and perused the titles. After selecting one, he set it on his desk, then went back for another, which he also added to his growing stack. “This needle you describe . . .” He moved to the cabinet and opened it. “Did it look like this?” With a crouch, he reached to the back of the lowest shelf, then rose with a small leather case in hand. He opened the lid and showed Aven the contents.

  There among the velvet padding lay a glass syringe and glinting needle.

  From where he stood, Peter bowed his head.

  “Aye, though his vial had a glass center.” This one was metallic all around.

  The doctor angled the tool to the afternoon light. “I’ve only recently acquired it, and confess that I know little of the methods of application. The surgeon I studied under used it infrequently, opting for alternate administrations of medication. My predecessor here in Fincastle left it to me upon his retirement. He served as a surgeon for the Union and, from what I gleaned, used it to administer opiates to soldiers via injection.”

  Peter interjected. “But the doctor didn’t put anything into Thor’s veins. He was taking something out.”

  “Yes, a difference there, of course. Still . . . I wonder . . .” Dr. Abramson studied the tool with its sharp tip a few moments longer, then, closing the case, set it on his desk. “I lack the answers we need, Mrs. Norgaard, but I promise you that I’ll do all I can to secure them. As soon as I discover something further, I’ll return to you all. Please also gather those documents you mentioned. I have a feeling they’ll be of use to us.”

  THIRTEEN

  HAAKON ENTERED THE FARM BY WAY OF the small graveyard. If any of the family had been surrendered to the earth, he wanted to know now. To have time to prepare himself for who would or would not be there upon arrival. Birds squawked at him from branches overhead as he edged around the fenceless plot. His steps sank in the soft dirt while his heart hammered with the same urgency as their song. At the count of only three crosses, he shot out the breath that had been caught in his lungs. Da and Ma and Aunt Dorothe. As it had been when he’d left.

  That meant his brothers were still alive. And their wives.

  No children—if born—had been lost.

  Relief swelling inside, Haakon sidestepped down the slope. Dirt trickled and tumbled. This wasn’t a path already cut, but he meant not to be spotted yet. Much better to avoid the main road so as to know just who he’d be coming upon first. Depending on the person, it would alter his approach. While each of the coming introductions would be apologetic, some meetings were about to be more grievous than others. As it was, he’d kept to the shadows and woodlands on his hike up this mountain. He’d passed through underbrush, trod through cow fields, and even stumbled past an abandoned camp in the woods where he knew better than to pause and gather his wits.

  Haakon worked his way along the high side of the creek bank and let out a low whistle for Grete to come running if she could. Water gurgled below, so clear and inviting, that he stepped lower and crouched. With a wad of spent coca leaves in his cheek, he turned his head to the side and spat them out. Leaning lower, he filled his hands with the mountain water and couldn’t recall a taste so keen. It was just as he remembered—all of it. Even the air draped deep and heavy as it had been since his first taste of it.

  Haakon rose and slung his pack onto his shoulder, then stepped down a stretch of rutted deer trail. He clambered back up a small hillock to see—f or the first time in over four years—the meadow that was his. At the far end of the grassy hollow stood his cabin where overgrown grasses swayed in the spring air . . . and it dawned on him then that Grete was gone.

  The brown hound hadn’t come running. Unless she was too old to leave the porch, she had died. Never once in his upbringing had she been away from his side. Not until the day he’d left this place. An ache he didn’t want to acknowledge broke inside him as he waded through waist-high weeds. Swa
llowing down his grief, Haakon stepped over a low wire fence that hung askew. The losses could have been much greater, and as much as he longed to see Grete bounding across the farm to him, it was a loss bent with time. A consequence to his choices that she’d had to pass without him at her side.

  Haakon fought against the heartache as he walked along the thin stretch of woods that separated the two pieces of land. While both sides pulled at his intentions, he caved nearer to safety, veering toward his own cabin where he might gain his bearings for a few minutes. Maybe even wash up, though he doubted the family cared much about how he appeared. It was something much deeper they would be caring after, and he feared he lacked what they deserved. Only a testing of the waters in his soul would tell, and truth be told, he was uncertain as to what might be found.

  At sight of movement, Haakon slowed. Someone was walking from the direction of the great house. He squinted that way, trying to make sense of the snatches of color that moved through the leafy branches. It was a woman. While he could glimpse little of her manner through the foliage, those were bare feet beneath a lace hem and hair the shade of the cinnamon tea she’d favored.

  Aven.

  Haakon froze. Perhaps thirty yards off, she headed crossways over Norgaard land. If he wasn’t mistaken, toward his own section of the farm where his cabin stood empty and awaiting him. She carried a basket at her middle and seemed bent on her destination. With Aven venturing that way, a sudden northeaster may as well have gusted against his sails, all but capsizing him to alter course. The last thing she needed was him walking up to her without warning.

  With her attention elsewhere, he went unnoticed, but for him there was suddenly nothing between them but his own agony. Even the trees that had stood there were gone from sight. The meadow grasses but a blur. It was just him and Aven, and he was losing his breath to it.

  He blinked quickly, and the world returned—every green leaf of it. It was then he noticed a man walking at Aven’s side. Thor? It had to be. But no. While the fellow was tall, he was lean. A watchtower of a man that could be no one other than Jorgan. Melancholy and homesickness stirred Haakon forward, but he braced a hand to the nearest tree, forcing himself to remain put. He was too much in the clearing to go unnoticed much longer, so he stepped deeper into the nearest thicket . . . only to crunch underbrush beneath his boots. He froze the same moment Aven and Jorgan did.

  The rifle Jorgan carried was suddenly aimed his way. Jorgan ducked lower, his eyes meeting Haakon’s own. Haakon waited for the rifle to lower but it didn’t.

  Fair.

  Haakon took a slow step forward, and that’s when Aven did the last thing he expected. She stepped forward as well, a hand shadowing her eyes. When she halted, it was so sudden that she must have seen him good and proper. Heart thundering in his chest, Haakon swallowed hard.

  Like the firing of a shotgun, several things passed through his mind at once.

  First—she was stunning. As lovely as he remembered, shoulders squared, showing no fear of him. Her brown eyes were doe wide, though, diverting all assurance of her calm. A spirit of fortitude that had been shaped by the distant shores she’d come from as well as the faith that dwelled within her, and in this moment he remembered as vividly as last he’d stood here that she was more than he ever deserved.

  The second realization was that she was with child. And far along at that. Not only had Thor made her his wife, he had made her a mother. Haakon tried to make peace with that—and quickly—but it settled inside him in a place not so easily atoned for. While he meant to repair that, a third awareness rose above all else. This one jarred him like no other. She had every reason to despise him, and yet in her expression dwelled no trace of hate. Shock, yes, as well as quiet trepidation that bespoke her memory of their last encounter. But what he saw more than anything else was pity.

  Dropping his gaze, Haakon fought to rally his capacities, and then someone moved in the shadows of the porch. He knew not who it was until he heard footsteps so heavily placed they could only be one person’s. The urge to take a step back was so riotous that Haakon shifted his stance.

  Thor stepped into the sunlight and Haakon saw his brother for the first since that wretched day on Sorrel land when Thor had fought to save his life.

  Gaze riveted to Haakon, Thor leaned against a post. His towering build was just as sobering, yet an arm encircled his abdomen, sturdy hand gripping that side. Thor’s expression was stoic, but something else was there. Pain. Had he been injured?

  Focus torn between Thor and Aven, Haakon knew not how to address them. Aven made the choice all the simpler when she set her basket aside and turned away. Haakon watched her go, wishing he hadn’t when she cast a glimpse over her shoulder that held every brokenness he had inflicted upon her. The sheer sight of it nearly buckled his knees. Why had he thought coming home a good idea?

  When she was gone, Haakon searched for words, but his mouth wouldn’t move. His hands wouldn’t either—save a slight tremble that was far from Sign Language. Thor seemed to notice, just as he always did since the language was one of movement and observation, be it a grand sweeping phrase or something as subtle as Haakon’s frayed nerves and the rush of blood through his limbs.

  Haakon wracked his brain for some semblance of what to do, and it was standing here, looking at a slightly older Thor, that had him recalling their da. They shared the same wide shoulders, that strapping brawn. How similar the two were, yet while Da’s coloring had been sun and wheat, Thor’s hair and beard was the dark of the earth.

  That story Haakon had told the deckhands hadn’t been one he’d conjured on his own. No, it was one of the Nordic sagas Da had passed down to them. The sea serpent really was fabled to have battled with Odin’s son, Thor. While the man before him wasn’t as fierce as the Viking god depicted in the legends, his brother was powerful enough to have earned the name, even on the hour of his birth.

  Looking at Thor now, Haakon could all but hear the stories from their childhood. Those that Da wove for them by the warmth of the fire and the sweetness of his pipe smoke. Tales of might and courage, of valor and battle.

  If this were a battlefield, a gesture of peace would be to lay down a shield. Haakon had only a pack, so he eased it from his body and lowered it to the ground.

  Thor glanced to the frayed canvas, then back. Perhaps he read it as a declaration of being here to stay. Desperate to clarify, and too humbled to even attempt communicating in Sign, Haakon lowered himself to one knee and then the other. He unsheathed his knife next and laid it flat in the dirt.

  Thor’s brows pulled together, confusion carving every stern feature.

  Did he not recognize him? Yes, Haakon’s skin was more weathered and his beard full. Hair that had once been cropped short was long enough to tie back. His boots were as dusty as ever and more patched than Ida allowed under her kitchen table. But he was still him, and the longer Thor looked his way, the more Haakon realized that Thor hadn’t doubted it for a moment. It wasn’t misunderstanding in Thor’s expression but disbelief.

  “I’m sorry for coming without warning,” Haakon said. “I need to sort some things out with my land and, more important . . . with you all.” In particular, Aven. He didn’t say that because he didn’t need to, and he doubted Thor would appreciate him so much as mentioning his wife just now.

  “Care to tell us where you’ve been?” Jorgan asked calmly.

  “I was at sea.”

  Nodding without the slightest shred of surprise, Jorgan looked to Thor. After watching Haakon for several moments, Thor made the sign for stay by dragging his hands down toward the ground, then moved them from side to side above the earth for here. His brow was tipped up in question, and it was a gracious one at that. More than Haakon ever deserved, and even then it wasn’t kindness he saw in Thor’s face but a desperation to make sense of what to do.

  Knowing he would need to be closer for Thor to read his speech, Haakon rose and paced forward some. “If you don’t mind,” he sai
d. “Just until we sort things out. If you’d rather, I can stay elsewhere for the time.” He glanced toward the sun that had already dipped behind the trees with coming dusk.

  It was getting late in the day, but he doubted either of his brothers cared. Their only care would be not to let him anywhere near Aven. Nor Fay for that matter. Maybe they’d let him stay in a shed or an outbuilding? He could certainly keep to himself and would make it a hard and fast point not to be a bother. Then again, if they chose against him remaining here, he could camp out elsewhere, just until they all decided how to proceed.

  How he wished it wasn’t this way, but to his disgrace, what was done was done. Now all he could do was work to make amends. He was scarcely sure where to begin. More confusing were his uncertainties about Aven. Haakon had cared for her once. Very deeply. But that care hadn’t been a love as Thor’s had been. Instead, he’d let longing fester into something much too dangerous.

  Would he have the chance to apologize to her?

  Even more worrisome, did he know how to make sense of this root inside him that still belonged to her? It was a sentiment stronger than he cared to admit and was part of the reason he had stayed away for so long. He had hoped time would obliterate his tenderness for Aven, but perhaps the ocean hadn’t been as big as he had thought.

  Gripping tight to the handrail, Thor went to move down the steps but only descended two before stopping. He bent over some, fist clenched tight at his side.

  What was going on?

  Jorgan watched without speaking. As much ground as Haakon had to make up with his oldest brother, this moment was between him and Thor, and they all knew it.

  Breathing as loud as an ox, Thor moved another step, and grimaced again. His knuckles turned white from his grip on the railing. Haakon had witnessed ailments of every make on his travels. From the gaunt faces of starvation to the delirium of dysentery, he knew he was looking upon a misery as grave. Thor’s eyes found Haakon’s, skin bearing the yellowish hue of jaundice, and there lived within his gaze the undeniable sorrow of a man about to dig his own grave. A near assurance that both intrigued and terrified Haakon. Thor Norgaard was dying.