Daughters of Northern Shores

by Joanne Bischof

  Sigurd scrunched up his face in confusion. Apparently they weren’t expecting it to be a girl. Since no daughter had ever been born on this farm in nearly four decades, Haakon didn’t blame them. Then again, maybe it was time.

  Thinking to keep busy, he perused the box of tools beneath Thor’s workbench. Not finding what he sought, he checked along the far wall where more tools sat waiting to be used in crates beside the massive cider press. Grabbing up a rasp, he checked the heft of it, then found one that was lighter. He handed the second to Sigurd and gripped the first for himself.

  “Let’s see if we can’t get the outside of this building looking like it should again.” He knew Jorgan or Thor would have covered over the markings there, but both of them were busy. As for him . . . He had time.

  Once outside, Haakon squared his stance and placed the rasp to the tainted wall, then scraped it forward over the coarse boards. Shavings and dried paint fell away.

  “Why are you doing dat?” Sigurd asked, squinting up.

  “Because it’s not supposed to be here.”

  “Can I help?”

  Realizing that the boy couldn’t reach, Haakon skidded a metal box into place and patted the rusted lid. Sigurd climbed onto it and could just reach a portion of the writing.

  “Now . . .” Haakon said. “Get after it like I’m paying you.”

  Tongue sticking out in concentration, Sigurd did just that.

  Haakon followed suit, and soon much was scraped away. Still exhausted from scant sleep, he rubbed the heel of his palm against his forehead. His stomach grumbled for a solid breakfast, and when he couldn’t put off breaking into one more portion of hardtack, he returned to his pack. He’d just snapped another stale piece in half when he saw Ida entering with a tray. Her mouth was set tight—her disappointment in him clear—and yet those thin, knobby hands were the same ones that had swiped his tears as a lad and helped him see that there was hope in the world even when it was bleak.

  As Haakon rose, he could scarcely lift his eyes to her face, but he forced himself to.

  Ida was silent as she set the tray on the edge of Thor’s workbench.

  He brushed crumbs from his hands. “Thank you.” Lowering his head, Haakon pulled out the list of items for Thor and set it aside the tray where she could reach it. Ida tucked the folded list into the pocket of her worn apron.

  She gave a sure nod and instead of turning away spoke in the voice that filled all the places his mother hadn’t been able to. “There’s someone here to speak to you.”

  Despite himself, the back of his throat stung with emotion. After a nod of his own, Haakon cleared his throat. “Thank you, Miss Ida.”

  “You best treat her with kindness. I’ll be near, and so will Jorgan, ya hear?” Though not tall, Ida lifted her chin, giving him a heady dose of challenge. “I’s awful glad you came back, my boy. Best not make me wish I wasn’t.”

  Though his throat tightened further, Haakon made himself speak. “Yes, ma’am.” He pulled up his suspenders and adjusted his shirt, tucking it well despite the wrinkles. He ran a hand over his beard to make sure it wasn’t in shambles, then tied back his hair to be as respectful as possible for this.

  When Ida moved to Sigurd’s side, Haakon stepped out into the sunshine.

  Aven stood there with a shawl drawn tight around her shoulders.

  Beyond her, Jorgan sat on the porch swing with his own breakfast in hand. Haakon gave his brother a small nod, then slowed to a stop at least a dozen paces from Aven. Everything about this filled him with fear, but he’d more than earned the discomfort. He blinked against the brightness of the morning, shielding his eyes only to see her better. Aven moved crossways into the dimness of the cider barn’s shade, bringing him an ease of comfort that he didn’t deserve.

  Though Ida had said Aven wished to speak to him, Haakon could tell that he was going to need to be the first to say something. But all he could do was look at her and regret. On the chance that was making her uncomfortable, he dropped his gaze to the patch of ground between them.

  Glory, he could use some coca right now, but it was too late.

  “I . . . uh . . .” He wet his lips and braved a look at her again. “I’m awful sorry, Aven.” He winced at how futile that sounded. “I’m more than sorry.”

  She clasped her hands and rested them together above her unborn child. Thor’s child.

  “Sorry’s for somethin’ you didn’t mean to do,” he added. “For breakin’ something that’s on accident. But my behavior that day wasn’t an accident, so I know it’ll take more than a word to make it right.”

  Aven’s eyes filled with a sheen, and she set her mouth tighter as though to keep her chin steady. As for Haakon, he was thankful for his beard and hoped it concealed the fact that he was a mess inside.

  “That I’m standing here now is a kindness, and I thank you. Thor too. And the family.” Anxiety rising, he fisted his hands at his sides and worked his thumbs against his fingers. “I want to promise you that I’ll never again try to bring you harm. I understand that my word doesn’t hold any weight, and that’s fair. If you’ll allow me, I’ll say that I mean it all the same and will do what I can to make that evident.”

  Aven didn’t so much as move. Nothing stirred on her person save the twisting of her shawl’s edge and a bit of hair that brushed against her cheek in the breeze.

  “If it’s best for you that I move on, I’ll do so right away. But please take my apology and my assurance that I’m more sorry than I can say.”

  Dagnabit, he was going to cry. Haakon coughed into his fist to fight it. Made harder that Aven was tearing up enough for the both of them.

  “Will you forgive me, Aven?” He asked through a throat so tight, it was scarcely a whisper. “I mean—might you consider it some day?” This wasn’t coming out right.

  She dropped her gaze then, seeming to focus instead on his boots. They were as patched and awful as he felt, and he had to force himself not to shift them. When a cloud drifted in front of the sun, the land dimmed. Air cooling. He couldn’t read her expression so well, but he didn’t dare move closer. To his shock, it was she who took a small step nearer. Not so near as to be friendly, but near enough that he could see the splattering of freckles across her face and the deep brown of her eyes. Eyes that had once regarded him in panic—driving a wedge into his soul that he was yet to pull free.

  Now they were soft and so filled with grace, he lost the battle with himself and had to swipe a hand over his eyes. Though he couldn’t see her in doing so, the voice that spoke then was as small as his own had been.

  “You’re forgiven, Haakon.”

  EIGHTEEN

  WITH A FEW MINUTES BEFORE AUNT CORA was due to visit, Aven lifted a wicker basket to the center of the mattress. Beside it rested a list brought to her by Ida—one written from Haakon and containing items requested for Thor. ’Twas strange to peer upon Haakon’s penmanship after all this while, but with his apology this morning, she was able to lift the scrap of paper in a steady hand. While the first bricks of possibility had been laid, bringing the first traces of newfound peace, uncertainty still dwelled within her, so she would seek Cora’s counsel during their visit today.

  Beginning with the initial items on the list, Aven fetched fresh sheets of paper for letter writing as well as several new pencils. Next she gathered up Thor’s pipe and pouch of tobacco along with other sundry items listed for him. Aven placed everything in the basket, grateful for a way to help, small as it was.

  But what wasn’t easy to lower into place was the framed photograph that Haakon had requested last of all. A wedding picture that Thor kept. How Haakon had known about the photograph bespoke his years of living in this very attic before Aven’s arrival. That the framed memory would soon be in Haakon’s care left her unsettled—but with these things bound for Thor, Aven pulled the photograph from its place among her husband’s most treasured items and laid it in the basket.

  A gentle knock on the door frame
had her turning to see Cora with medic bag in hand.

  “Oh, do come in.” Aven waved her nearer and pushed the basket aside.

  Cora entered with a cheery greeting and set her black bag on the edge of the bed. A few strands of the midwife’s graying hair peeked out from beneath the cotton wrapping she always wore wound around her head as other freedwomen did—her chestnut-brown skin a pretty contrast to the soft blue of the cloth.

  “Now, how’s about you lie back and we see how this little one be faring?” Having served as midwife to the Norgaards for over thirty years, Cora moved to the window and pushed the curtains farther open, spilling in brighter light. Dotti, who had been asleep in the sunny corner, lifted her head, whiskers twitching in soft greeting. Cora gave the cat a gentle rub under the chin before tying back the drapes.

  With the coverlet now cleared, Cora helped Aven lie back and ’twas a relief to pull her feet up. Always did she look forward to Cora’s visits. Not only did they offer cause to rest a while, but Cora’s sage wisdom and kind ways were as cherished as Ida’s. Perhaps a few years past fifty, Cora bore the same sprightly way as her older sister—caring and kind, while never one to shy away from the truths of life or the delivery of them to body and soul.

  With skilled hands, Cora felt along one side of Aven’s mounded abdomen, then switched to the other side and did the same. Often during these visits, Georgie’s laughter carried from the first floor, but today Cora’s ten-year-old daughter hadn’t come along to play with the boys. The absence of the child was likely due to Haakon’s presence and the fact that he’d always held a special spot in the girl’s heart. Cora’s way of guarding that heart, perhaps, until time and answers eased the strain of his presence.

  Cora pressed along the underside of Aven’s belly where she declared the baby’s head well settled. “That good.” Cora lessened the pressure. “Be just where we hope.”

  She tugged up Aven’s blouse and chemise so that her stomach was exposed. Aven followed Fay’s lead in not giving corsets a second thought in the final months of pregnancy. ’Twas freeing, and as Cora readily confirmed, much healthier for the growing babe. In the late afternoon light, the skin of Aven’s belly was as tight as a drum, and as of right now, the little one inside kept a cheery rhythm of the wiggling sort. Cora must have felt it beneath her hands because she lifted her eyes to the ceiling with a tender expression.

  “Have you and Thor settled on names? Last I came, you was thinkin’ on one for a girl still.”

  “Aye. We have.” Aven described the uniting of her and Thor’s ideas and Cora smiled.

  “I rather like that. It suits you both.” Having fetched her tool for listening to the baby’s heart, Cora bent and pressed it to the underside of Aven’s belly. “Have you pains?” she asked.

  “Soreness here and there, but mostly just a heaviness. Do you think it will be soon?”

  “By our count, it be a few weeks off, though the babes know when it time. The waitin’ be hard, but you doin’ a fine job.” After affirming a good, steady heartbeat, Cora smoothed her hands around Aven’s stomach, shaping a secure circle as she made her assessments.

  “What do you think of the size of this next Norgaard?” Aven asked. So substantial had Thor been upon his birth that she was preparing herself for a testing like his mother had had.

  Cora smiled. “If you’s worried because Thor the biggest baby I ever attended, then let me tell you that the papas don’t have all the say in the size of their babies.” She winked. “It might just be feelin’ so big ’cause of your own small stature. But I wouldn’t worry after it too much.”

  Aven nodded, relieved.

  Cora lowered Aven’s chemise and blouse back down. Though a scraping sound came from the yard, Cora’s focus didn’t leave Aven’s face. “No matter what, little ones come into this world just as they ought. Just as God arranged. It ain’t easy, but your body’ll know what to do, and you’re to trust in that.” Cora righted a button of Aven’s blouse that had come undone. “I’ll be there to guide you. Whatever might be asked of you during those hours . . . trust that there be purpose behind it.” Her eyes were wise and kind. “I promise that God knew just what He was doing when He knit this life inside you, and I also promise that I won’t walk from this room without having spent all I got to see you both safely along.”

  “I thank you.” At a pinch of tears, Aven tried to cling not to worry but to the hope and assurance Cora offered. She sat up some when the midwife moved to help her. The task might have been a welcome distraction, but the struggle of it all only sent more tears welling. Aven sucked in a breath as sorrow broke in waves now. “I . . . if Thor . . .” For so long they’d dreamt of this time—of a child. And now that it was here, he was elsewhere fighting for his life. Fear crashed around her, blotting out even the joy of all that might be.

  Cora’s expression softened, and she lowered her gaze to the basket of things for Thor. “Take heart, dear one.” Her grip on Aven’s hand offered assurance. “Since the start of time, soldiers done marched to the front lines and men set out on voyages, even as their women labor back home—bringin’ life into this world. You’ll not be the first to give birth on the shores of missing him, and you’ll not be the last.” Cora lowered her head so Aven could look straight into her gentle eyes. “I say that to bolster. You’ve no need to fear. It a gusty place to stand, but it only mean that the Lord be all the nearer.”

  Aven nodded as a soft breeze drifted in from the open window. The same gentle rush lifted her shawl that was draped on the bedstead, filling it with air as though a sail. It swiped against the cradle, trailing against the smooth wood that Jarle Norgaard had carved with the curving filigree that harkened back to Norwegian ships of old.

  Cora lifted the window higher, inviting in more of the sweet air. When the shawl slid loose of its smooth knob, she folded it with care. “Wherever Thor be both now and on the day of this one’s birth, he’ll be lovin’ you fiercely.” Cora’s smile was as warm as her words. “Now you rest here a spell longer, and I’ll be right by your side. No need for either of us to rush off.”

  Settling back against the raised pillows, Aven thanked her. Wanting to hold tight to Cora’s sage wisdom, she fingered the soft sheet where Thor always lay and closed her eyes.

  Cora moved about and by the sound of it was shifting bottles in her medic case. Her footsteps crossed the floor, followed by the gentle rattle of the chains that belonged to the hanging farm scale. Though most oft used for weighing bags of apples, it had been hung into place near the newly arrived cradle—both rituals belonging to the time just before a new Norgaard babe.

  With the scraping sound still in the yard that was much less familiar, Aven glanced out the window.

  Haakon stood in front of the cidery and with a rasp in hand ran it against the weathered wood, causing a portion of the vow written there to fade. Same as he’d been doing that morning while she’d rallied the courage to face him of her own accord. The shirt between his suspenders was dark with sweat, his boyish confidence gone, and in its place was a raw and real ability that bespoke years of sea and survival.

  Cora’s own gaze moved to the window. A shadow passed over her eyes—brief but telling. The woman wasn’t pleased with the youngest Norgaard, that was certain. Cora watched as Haakon worked—the very woman who had helped bring him into the world. Perhaps in this very room. So close was Haakon in age to Cora’s daughter, Tess, that Aven had a sense Cora might have been his wet nurse. A motherly bond that she couldn’t yet begin to fathom. ’Twas a broken heart shining in Cora’s eyes, and it made Aven’s own chest ache even more.

  At the washstand, Cora poured a glass of water while she watched Haakon scrape at the nearest board. “He due to have a time of it if he aimin’ to make that writin’ go away.” As Haakon continued his work, so softened Cora’s countenance. With the markings made by secret leaders of the Ku Klux Klan, Aven realized just how potent Haakon’s actions were to Cora.

  Yet ’twas a mother
ly protection for Aven in Cora’s voice. “How you farin’ with him home?”

  “I’m not certain. At first I was stunned to see him. He came with no word or warning.”

  “Ain’t that just like Haakon?”

  Aye. “I don’t know what to think or believe. There has been time enough to prepare for that, but I don’t know that I’m as ready as I might have been.”

  “I say you’re doin’ right fine. More than fine.”

  “We’ve spoken briefly, and he asked me to forgive him.”

  Cora’s hands that had been busy adjusting a pillow stilled. “What had you to say?”

  The scraping continued—muted by distance but steady with determination.

  “I told him that I forgive him, but I’m not sure of what to do. I don’t feel any different, Aunt Cora. I’m still uneasy.”

  Cora patted a cool touch to Aven’s arm. “There be no shame in unease. Not when it be of such a nature as you’ve known. Your trust been broken, and he must bear the consequence.”

  “But how can that be? If I’ve forgiven him . . . am I not doing something wrong?”

  “Forgiveness be a gift taught to us by the One who forgave first and who forgave the most. You took that to heart when Haakon done asked you, and I’m right proud of you and your answer. Mighty proud. But that you’s unsettled around him be the cost of his choice. Unlike forgiveness, trust be a cost only he can pay.”

  Aven watched him through the window as he stood there, speaking to Sigurd, who was helping. In this moment, she could see a trace of the kindness she’d once known was in him.

  “It be trust he need to earn, and that’s what sin does. Forgiveness . . . it pure and good, but it just the start of it. Offering one don’t mean the other be remedied as well. When a person be hurt, there need be a minding to both hope and sense.”

  With Cora the faithful soul to have delivered most of the infants in the region for decades, she’d surely seen her share of injustice when it came to the ways of a man with a woman. How many trembling hands had she laid newborns in? How many misty-eyed mothers had she spoken these words of comfort to?