Daughters of Northern Shores

by Joanne Bischof

  With a deep breath, he rummaged through the latest delivery. In company with the warm crock of beans were two thick squares of buttered cornbread. Peter had brought the meal over just minutes ago along with the news that Aven was in the thick of laboring. The farmhand had also declared that the doctor had stayed to observe Cora’s methods and offer his assistance should it be of use. Peter had ended his report explaining that by Cora’s estimation, the baby wouldn’t come until sometime in the night. Perhaps even after dawn. The early evening light streaming through the window declared that Aven had a trial in store.

  With a sigh that held more weight than he knew how to deal with, Haakon went to the cupboard where there now lived two wooden bowls, two cups, and a pair of utensils that he kept washed and stored for this routine. The table wobbled as he shifted things around. Along with the beans and bread, there was a tin of tea herbs for Thor. Haakon was far from domestic, but he’d gotten good at boiling water, steeping the herbs, and making sure Thor had three strong cups a day per Cora’s bidding.

  Thor was probably hankering for something a lot stronger, but he didn’t complain.

  Haakon caught sight of him through the window again. Did the need for a drink still plague him? Thor lowered his head to his hand, and though he would never hear the sigh released, the sheer sound of it broke Haakon’s heart. He wasn’t entirely tender over his brother, but a throbbing in his chest marched right over every time they hadn’t seen eye to eye.

  The kettle spewed out steam, and Haakon reached for a rag, only to knock a roll of paper from the back end of the table. It skidded aside and fell, landing with a soft thud. After filling a bowl with steaming water and adding in a pinch of herbs, Haakon crouched down. He reached back, snagged the roll of paper with his fingertips, and, rising again, set it on the table.

  Something had him hesitate. He knew this paper and that frayed corner that peeked out at him. Haakon unfurled the roll to reveal the map that had once hung above his bed in the attic. His hand swiped down the center, brushing across the Atlantic from the north—a vast lay of waters that touched the distant coasts of Iceland, Greenland, England, and even the North of Africa. Across the coordinates lay Canada and the United States. But what caught his attention the most was Norway. It jutted into the Atlantic, courageous and sure. Unapologetic and even a little daring as it reached into waters that were frigid and unpredictable. The tip of Haakon’s thumb grazed the lowest shoreline where a tiny dot marked the town of Kristiansand. A place on the map he had lain under and dreamed under most of life without really ever noticing it existed.

  He swallowed hard as an ache swelled in his chest.

  Leaving the tea to steep longer, Haakon headed up the stairs. Upon reaching his pack, he yanked back the flap, tipped it over and dumped out the contents. Everything he owned fell out, last of all a fold of paper. This one not so different than the map awaiting him downstairs. Haakon unfolded the single page to see the drawing given to him by one of the widow’s boys. The same one who had run across the clifftops of the fjord while Haakon mended their garden fence against gusting sea winds. The lad had talked constantly in a language Haakon could only somewhat comprehend, but he understood hunger when he saw it. Not only for more plentiful meals but for a man’s guidance and attention.

  As deep a need had dwelled in Widow Jönsson’s blue eyes as he’d set a humble gift for her of the same vibrant color on the table. She had smiled at him, and it was brighter than the sunset over the water. He’d sat there, keeping her and her children company, even as he pondered all the ways he could get exactly what it was he’d wanted from her. She’d been in mourning, and regardless, he’d been a fool to expect a woman to offer over what was sacred and meant for marriage—all for his own satisfaction. Something he’d done time and time again, to his growing shame. She’d done what was right, honoring her husband’s memory and her faith, and Haakon had left so disappointed he hadn’t even said goodbye.

  Haakon lowered his head. The clifftops of Norway now a distant memory, he folded the paper and tucked it safely in the pouch around his neck. The past threatened to punch him in the gut, so he focused instead on the future—the hours to come. Not wanting to leave Thor for long, he stomped back downstairs and outside.

  Thor still sat with his head lowered in his hands. His breathing was steady as he stared at the ground. A good time for words of comfort, but Haakon didn’t know what to say. What he did know was what his brother had to be thinking. Haakon himself had thought it nearly every day of his life. Their mother had eventually succumbed to the childbirth bed. Instead of rising the third time around, it was Haakon’s life that had taken her own.

  It took all of Haakon’s strength to rally his heart as he sat on the bench at the far end of the porch. Thor pressed calloused hands together, slowly forcing them back and forth. A funeral march was peppier than that rhythm, so Haakon picked up a twig from beneath the bench and tossed it beside his brother. It was enough for Thor to look over at him.

  “You should eat some of what Ida sent over.”

  With a slow shake of his head, Thor went back to staring at the ground.

  After chewing on the notion, Haakon tapped the heel of his boot against the floor a few times, hard enough to garner his brother’s attention again. “Your tea is almost ready.”

  Thor made no response. His following sigh was deep—same as Haakon’s.

  There was nothing else to do now, so Haakon simply sat with him. He was supposed to meet up with Sibby’s husband tonight but couldn’t leave now. It’d put a damper on finding Jed, but that was just going to have to wait. Sibby’s husband, Orville, was a mild-mannered fellow and one who would understand. After having ventured to his moonshine still the other night with Peter, they had all begun to hash a plan as to what to do about Jed and Harlan Sorrel. It was murky yet, but they’d hone it in soon.

  Thinking the tea ready, Haakon went in and strained out the spent herbs. He filled a tin mug with the strong brew and drizzled in honey. Thor probably didn’t notice or care, but Haakon had sipped a taste the other day, and the concoction was something awful.

  The act of fixing tea always made him think of Aven and how he’d watched her do it dozens of times in the past. He tried not to think of the agony she was in, fighting for her child just as the last woman to give birth in that attic room had done twenty-five years ago.

  Worry coursed through him in rivulets, pounding inside him the need to panic. Haakon heaved in a slow breath and blew it out with equal measure.

  Back outside, he offered Thor the drink, and with nothing to do but while away this torture, Haakon stepped to the bench beneath one of the windows. For the first time in a long while, his thoughts returned to the Bible page Tate had torn out for him. Maybe it was time to stop ignoring it. He sat, meaning to fish out the thin sheet, when something lumpy jabbed against his leg. Haakon reached into his pocket and pulled out the toy he’d found. The one that had been on the ground beside the wagon.

  Leaning forward, he rested his forearms on his knees and turned the ship in his fingertips. He grazed a thumb along the coils and twists that Jorgan had fashioned with the skill of his blade and the patience of time. Then, at sight of his brother striding this way, Haakon set the carving aside and went to stand. Jorgan signaled for him to stay put. Haakon eased back down. Thor spotted his approach, and his eyes went wide in wait of news.

  Men would always march into battle to protect what they believed in, and women would always endure the pain of bringing their children into this world. It was the way of this life, no matter the time or land, and yet in some instances, the battle wasn’t with swords or with shields—it was between hope and fear as the woman a man loved fought not only for her own life but for the life of their child.

  Twice now Jorgan had been through this, and he’d likely be facing the torment again. Making it all the more consequential when Jorgan sank to one knee in front of Thor and whispered that Aven was doing well. Haakon knew that if Jorgan co
uld, he would have gripped a hand to the back of their brother’s neck and pulled that brewing burden of tears to his shoulder. As it was, he spoke in soft murmurs. One need never be loud with Thor. It was only in the sincerity that Thor grasped the words. Only in a person’s willingness to mouth what needed to be said. An exchange as potent as any conversation could ever be between a man and those who knew him.

  Haakon watched his brothers as a burn tightened his throat. These two faced down something he understood only through the wretchedness of his own birth. Haakon didn’t know much of his mother, but he knew that she’d been generous and kind. That her hair had been dark like Thor’s and that she’d held Haakon with pride the few minutes she’d been able to. Haakon had always imagined her peaceful in that moment. Her Nordic beauty captivating his da as she held their third-born son. Their last.

  If Haakon could fight for her now he would.

  If he could lay down his life for her he would.

  That’s what Da had taught them. To guard all those in their care. If Haakon could turn back the clock to shield the women in his path, he would. Da had raised them as sons of this wild mountain, but Kristin Norgaard had been raised as a daughter of the north. An heiress to woodlands and the plunging blue of mighty fjords. She’d surely run as a girl along the rise of cliffs that pierced skyward to where the Northern Lights held dominion over a vast and breathtaking land. Until the day she’d sailed here to America, just as Aven had.

  A flash of blue filled his memory—young Widow Jönsson opening up the folded shawl he’d set on the table in a cottage about this size. The same woman who had brought five children into the world. Five little souls who had lost their da soon after.

  Haakon shifted his boots that hadn’t been patched by himself—they’d been patched by her. Taken from where he’d set them before falling asleep beside her that night some three thousand miles away. She would have woken in the dark to see to the task. A gift from her to him when she should have been sleeping and when she had nothing else to give. Each stitch strong and placed with loving care by a light that could have only been the moon. To say nothing for the biting, Norwegian cold. If he thought the gesture anything less than an utmost tenderness, he was still a fool.

  Bending, Haakon ran his thumb against her neat stitches, then, straightening, watched his brothers. How he longed to overhear what was being said. But when it came to the details of Aven’s labor and safety, the telling was for Thor and Thor alone. Aven wasn’t his wife. To his rising regret, no woman was. And with all the growing up he had left to do, three thousand miles might as well have been a million more.

  “You stay with me, Aven.” Cora’s sharp voice ripped Aven’s focus from the foggy haze of pain. “You stay with me.”

  Knelt on the mattress, Aven clutched a grip of bedsheets. Her nightgown hung down one shoulder, and the bottom portion was pulled up around her thighs, soaked with the waters that had just broken. Tess rushed in with a fold of towels and helped her mother tuck them all around. Tess’s yellow head covering bobbed with her hasty scrubbing, and when she looked to Aven, her eyes were filled with compassion. Against the far wall stood the doctor, who was taking a brief reprieve from pacing to write down more notes. Beyond that, Aven felt Fay’s gentle kneading of her lower back, but the pains were coming fiercer than any ministrations could ever counter.

  As another round of agony seized her, Aven moaned and fought the urge to cry again. As it was, she’d already given in to weeping. Already vomited over the side of the bed. Already cried out for Thor, and more than once she’d bit back screams as Cora worked to help settle the baby’s head farther into place. The only reprieve against these waves was the rock of comfort that was her baby’s heartbeat. Strong and steady. Cora had declared it time and time again, and each instance gave Aven something to brace against amid stormy seas.

  Yet as pain had a way of doing, she was drifting in and out of despair. Since the spilling of waters, so had intensified the spasms. Now she was losing her breath to them, her body near to tearing apart at the seams.

  “I don’t know that I can do this anymore,” Aven panted when another spasm finally ended. Sunset had long since come and gone. She knew not the hour, only that the women around her would have been deep asleep had they been given the choice. The only female to slumber in this house was young Georgie, whom Cora had settled for the night on the downstairs sofa. “I can’t do this.” Aven nearly choked on the words.

  Ida nestled a pillow against Aven’s hip, and though Aven couldn’t speak, she was grateful for the support.

  “Aven,” came Fay’s gentle voice. If she was weary, it showed not. “You are being so courageous and brave. You are stronger than you realize, and you are doing this beautifully. It may seem as if you’re making little progress and as though the pain will never end, but this child is coming soon.” Lantern light glowed warm against Fay’s face as she pressed Aven’s hair away from her sticky forehead. “You are doing a marvelous job. It won’t be much longer now and you will know the sweet face of your child.”

  Aven’s body clenched again, and she let out a sob. It melded into a cry of despair the longer the throbbing lasted. After swiping the back of a wrist over her glossy-brown forehead, Cora instructed Aven to shift farther to the side of the bed, but she couldn’t move. Pain was the only thing to fill her mind. It filled this whole room with no beginning and no end that she could ever recall. It just was, and it was ripping her to pieces.

  Boots sounded in the hall, and after a gentle knock, Jorgan called through the closed door. “If anyone can be spared a moment . . .”

  Aven knew not who stepped away until Ida slipped out the bedroom door. It closed softly.

  “Aven,” Cora’s voice was calm as she brought another lantern nearer. The light that had been mellow and sleepy now brightened. “This baby’s wantin’ to come now, and I need you to scoot this way. Fay and I’ll help you. We gonna get you on your feet.”

  When Aven insisted that she couldn’t, Fay and Cora came around, each took hold beneath one of her arms, and pulled her forward. Aven sobbed as pain lanced in places only owing to childbirth, but suddenly her feet were on the floor and she was standing best she could on trembling legs. She nearly collapsed with the agony of it, but they braced her well.

  Cora switched places with Tess, who moved in to support Aven on one side. Cora knelt, shoved back the bottom of her nightgown, and checked for the baby’s head. “It’s comin’. I want a good sturdy push with the next tightening. It gonna take some time, but we’ll ease into it, ya hear?”

  When the clenching surged through her, Aven bore down. The longer Cora urged her to keep the pressure, the longer she fought to do so. Finally Aven gasped for air.

  Still supporting half her weight, Tess squeezed one of her shaking hands. “You doin’ such a fine job, Miss Aven. Such a fine job.”

  Nausea rising again, Aven cried for a dish, and it was brought to her just in time. She gripped the chipped porcelain bowl with shaking hands even as she realized it was the doctor who supported it. Tess held back her hair, and when the sickness passed, the doctor took the bowl away. Fay adjusted her support of Aven’s weary frame, offering more words of assurance, and Dr. Abramson returned, offering her a cool sip of water. Though a window had been opened to the breeze, the room crushed down on her with a stifling heat. A hot tear slid down the side of her cheek, and she hadn’t the strength to swipe it away.

  Suddenly Ida returned and, with a touch of Aven’s chin, lifted her gaze. Ida’s limp hitched as she took a small step closer. “Aven, Thor’s just downstairs. He’s waitin’ outside, below your window.”

  A little cry slipped from Aven’s lips, and her vision blurred again.

  “He’s right there, dear. He’s waitin’ for you, and he’s prayin’ for you. You ain’t alone.”

  Choking back more tears, she nodded.

  “He walked himself all the way over here without anyone knowin’ it.” Ida’s steely dark eyes held the dep
th of his efforts. “He sent me to tell you that he’s right proud of you. Right proud of you. He also said he ain’t movin’. Not the whole night through. He’ll be there.”

  Tears pooled and fell. While Aven scarcely had the ability to wipe them away, a new strength was rising up.

  “Ease her back onto the bed,” Cora demanded. “Swift as can be done! Aven, you gonna feel more pressure, but don’t be afraid of it, ya hear?”

  Though every movement was agony, Aven did as told. She squelched a rising scream as she inched herself back onto the bed. Fay looped her unbound hair aside, tucking it well out of the way. Cora pushed her feet up as well so that her legs were bent, and from behind, Fay held her propped up. The doctor moved himself into the corner, where he sat and watched quietly.

  “You’re almost done, sweet one,” Fay whispered.

  Gritting her teeth against the pain, Aven nodded.

  Sweat beaded on her forehead, and Tess dabbed it away with a blessedly cool cloth. “You’s as strong as any mama I ever seen.”

  “A good push now,” Cora said in a rush. She called to Ida for a steamed cloth, which she applied with firm pressure.

  Aven did as told and pushed with all that was in her. Time seemed to stretch on. It drew itself out until it became nothing more than a series of pushes, the women’s reassuring voices, and the growing pressure of her coming child. Between spasms, Aven panted against Fay’s hold and looked to the dark window where just below she knew Thor had stationed himself.

  Each of Cora’s commands had been steady, but now her pitch rose as did her posture when she came up from a crouch. “This be it, Aven. This be it. Steady pushes now. Easy like. Don’t let up, love, keep it comin’, keep it comin’.”