An Untamed Land (43 page)

“Here, I made this for you.” Agnes handed Kaaren a wedding ring quilt, the colored patches glowing in the late afternoon sun. “And these should help, too.”

“Curtains for the window.” Kaaren held them up with delight. “What riches.”

By the time they moved half the meager furniture into the new soddy, both houses looked empty. They left the big bed for Thorliff
and Andrew, so Ingeborg had sewn a new sack for the corn husk mattress for Kaaren and Carl. “This goes to your house too.” She took the down quilt and folded it into Kaaren’s arms. “Now you will be plenty warm. And with more elk robes this year, we can keep all of our beds warmer.”

The first night she and Roald were alone felt strange. With the boys asleep, they sat in front of the fireplace, Ingeborg carding wool, and Roald smoothing the wooden legs for a new chair. She watched him as he rubbed his calloused hands down the satiny chair leg. Most men used whatever branches they could find to fit for chair legs, but Roald, craftsman that he was, turned each piece of wood into a thing of beauty. The shelves on the wall that held her precious china were testimony to his skill. She leaned her head against the curved back of the new rocker she so enjoyed using. Roald had finished it late last spring, so that she would have one too when they moved the other to Carl’s soddy. Roald thought so far ahead, sometimes she wished she could look into his mind and see his plans.

“Ja, what is it?” He caught her staring.

“Nothing. I . . . I . . .” She had almost said, “I love you.” Would that be such a terrible sin, since they were here alone? “Would you like a cup of coffee before we go to bed?” At his nod, she got up and poured their cups full from the pot always set just off the fire. She rested one hand on his shoulder as she handed him the cup.

“Mange takk.” He touched her fingers with his. That night sleep took a long time coming. Such freedom within their own four walls.

Three nights later, Baby Lizzie joined the family in the other soddy. Like Andrew, she let out a gusty wail, so they all knew she had arrived.

Ingeborg kept Gunny for the first few days and cooked the meals for the men. When she thought of the previous fall and her hunting days, she felt a pang of loss. This year, the closest she got to the woods was to haul water. If only they had gotten a well dug this year. Roald had promised, but always the fields came first.

Andrew began to cry and woke Gunny from her nap. She crawled into Ingeborg’s lap and stuck her thumb back in her mouth.
Oh, for a few hours to walk the trails and admire the turning leaves. Winter, the long dark days of winter, were nearly upon them once again.

T
he blizzard struck on Christmas Day.

“We won’t be going to the Baards’, that’s for sure.” Roald stomped his feet and brushed the clinging snow off his coat. He’d just returned from following the rope he’d strung to the barn so he could care for the livestock no matter how fierce the blizzard might become.

“Can we get to Carl and Kaaren’s?” Ingeborg placed bowls of steaming mush on the table and set the coffeepot back on the cast-iron stove to keep warm.

Roald shook his head. “I would rather not take the chance. I’m sure the wind has drifted the path full of snow, so we could get lost between here and there. Glad we made that last trip to town before this hit.”

“But how can we have Christmas without Onkel Carl and Tante Kaaren?” Thorliff looked from one adult to the other as if pleading would change the weather. “I carved a doll for Gunny.”

“We will go as soon as the storm quits.” Roald sat down and dug into his breakfast. “Eat up now and maybe Mor will give us one of her fatigman for a treat.” The shriek of the wind tearing at the stovepipe made him look up at the roof. “Thank God, we have such a snug home and our animals are all under cover too. It isn’t fit for man or beast out there.”

Ingeborg sat in her rocking chair nursing the baby and thinking of home. Christmas in Norway meant that all the family would be together, gathered about the huge round oak table. Sisters and their husbands whom she knew only through letters, new babies and children growing so fast she would no longer know them. She dropped a kiss on the down-covered head of the son for whom she’d waited
so long. At seven months, Carl Andrew had learned to get up on all fours and rock back and forth. It wouldn’t be long before he was creeping and getting into everything. He belched and stared up at her with the same blue eyes of his father and brother. A smile tugged one corner of his mouth and milk drizzled out the other.

“Had more than you need, I take it?” His smile stretched further, and he reached up to pat her cheek with one chubby fist. She nibbled on his finger, causing a chortle that made them all laugh. She smiled back in response and nibbled again when he stuck his finger in her mouth. Dimples came and went as he laughed at her and repeated the gesture again and again, until she tired of the game.

Ingeborg looked up to see a smile flit across Roald’s face at the sound of the baby’s laughter. The smiles came more easily of late, not only because of the baby but because the farm was earning enough money to pay their debts and buy some of the things they needed. She knew he was more content now that things were going so well. Such a sense of duty he had.

She glanced gratefully at the cookstove, her Christmas present that had arrived in the back of the wagon last week. As cold as it was outside, they might be more than just a little grateful for the increased warmth. Now the wood sent more heat into the room instead of up the fireplace chimney, since Roald had boarded up the fireplace to keep it warmer in the soddy.

“Mor.” Thorliff leaned against the arm of her chair. “Tell us a story.”

“Ja, that is a good idea.” Roald picked up the wood he’d been shaping into a large shallow bowl, rounding the edges with care. He settled back in his seat, made one slice through the wood, and held his blade up to the light of the kerosene lamp, running his thumb along the knife edge. With a grunt he put the wood down, picked up the whetstone, and spit on the center before smoothing the edge of the knife blade round and round to sharpen the edge.

Ingeborg watched the ritual while she paused to decide which story to tell. The way her men had settled into their seats warned her that one story would not be sufficient, so she began. “In a time long ago there lived a young boy named David, who guarded his father’s sheep up in the hills of a faraway desert country.”

Thorliff sat cross-legged at her feet, his elbows on his knees, his chin propped on the heels of his hands. He flashed his mother a grin. “David and Goliath—my favorite!”

Ingeborg kept one eye on the window as she continued the story.
By the end of the second story, a drift had blocked out what little daylight remained.

When she rose, Roald followed her actions and put away his carving. “I am going to dig out the door before it is stuck so fast we are trapped in here. Thorliff, you fill that big pan with snow so we can melt a bucketful for the cattle. I brought in extra water earlier so we would be prepared.”

Ingeborg felt a surge of admiration for this man who took such good care of his family and farm. She rose and checked on the goose roasting in the oven. The heat flushed her face and teased her nose with the heavenly fragrance. Cooking in the stove rather than the fireplace made her life so much easier, she almost felt guilty. They’d planned such a feast with all the Bjorklunds and the Baards. And now the bounty was all for themselves.

“Thorliff, would you please peel the potatoes, and then we’ll set the table.”

“When are we going to open our presents?”

“You think we have presents?” She tried to look surprised but ended up smiling into his upturned face.

He nodded, his eyes solemn.

“After your father takes care of the livestock again. We’ll play Hide the Thimble while he milks the cow, and then I have a surprise for you.”

“Presents?”

“No, something so delicious you won’t believe it.”

“Better than cookies?”

Ingeborg nodded.

“Better than lefse?”

Another nod.

“Candy?”

“You might say that.”

“Tell me.” Thorliff’s eyes danced, enjoying the age-old guessing game as much as she.

“When the time comes.” Ingeborg stirred the pot of dried green beans she’d seasoned with chunks of bacon and onion. What a feast they were about to have. Only having their family and friends all together could have made it better. She wanted to see Gunny open the doll Thorliff had carved and for which she’d sewn clothes. At two, Gunny would be such fun to watch.

For a change, Roald volunteered to say grace when they were all seated at the table. Usually he began eating before anyone could begin,
and because he obviously didn’t want grace said, she’d let it go, too. Today, they said it together, “I Jesu navn, gar vi til bords . . .” At the end Roald added, “And thank you Lord for this land and bounty you have given us. Amen.”

Ingeborg stifled the look of surprise she felt moving over her face. She dished up and passed their plates of food, served on the china she’d brought in the chest from Norway. She saved them for only the very best occasions, and the rest of the time they lined the intricately carved shelves Roald had built. Under the shelves stood the trunk painted in the rosemaling pattern of the Valdres area. While some of the paint was worn and chipped due to the hard wear, in the trunk she kept her linens and quilts. There, too, she saved her treasures, such as a curl from Thorliff’s first haircut, the first rose she’d picked from the bush by the door and dried between the pages of their English/Norwegian dictionary, and pieces of fabric she’d collected for a quilt.

She watched her two men devour their Christmas dinner as if they had to rush back to the field work. None of them were accustomed to a holiday; that was for certain. Ingeborg savored the mashed potatoes and rich gravy, the slices of crispy goose that she’d shot herself, the rolls and chokecherry jelly. Thorliff passed his plate again and again, as did Roald.

“Coffee?” She rose to her feet and returned to the table with the pot in hand. As she poured, she glanced again toward the window as if hoping something had changed. She could just see light filtering through the snow. Anytime there was a lull in the conversation, the wind whistling around the corners of the soddy, pleading for entrance with the wicked cold, made her shiver. For weeks now, she’d been more aware of the wind, especially since it always seemed to come from the north.

The first Christmas had been crowded with all six of them living in the one room, but they’d managed. Now, with all their added belongings, the same room was hardly big enough for four, and one of them wasn’t out of the cradle yet.

“Mor?” Thorliff’s question brought her back to the present. “Andrew is crying.”

“Sorry, den lille,” she murmured, picking up the whimpering baby and holding him up for a kiss. “You will have to holler louder to be heard over the wind and your mother’s dreamings.”

Roald finished the last sip of coffee and pushed his chair back. “I will take care of the stock now so we can have a peaceful evening.”
He put on his coat and boots, wrapping the long wool muffler over his face before he opened the door. The drift had blocked it halfway up again since the last time he’d shoveled it away.

Thorliff brought the pan, and before going farther, Roald filled it again with snow to melt.

“Put as much as you can in the reservoir. Since the water is already hot, it will melt the snow quickly.” How she loved saying the word reservoir and dipping hot water from the tank on the end of the stove. Maybe by summer they would have the well dug and no longer have to carry water from the river. One good thing about melting snow, she hadn’t needed to make the trek with two buckets hooked on a shoulder yoke for weeks. Nor did she have to strain the mud out. She glanced over at Thorliff, scraping the snow from the pan into the reservoir. At seven, he’d become such a good helper. Since it already showed he was going to be about the size of his father, or taller, a lot of responsibility fell on his growing shoulders.