A Land to Call Home (22 page)

Poor Penny. What would she do when she heard this?

I
could tear all that red hair right off her head.” Penny spit out each sound.

“Don’t blame you one bit. But that won’t solve the problem for now. How do we find Hjelmer?” Ingeborg looked over at Haakan. The three were the only ones still up in the southern soddy. The shingling, bench-making, feeding all the workers, and the general merriment of the day at the schoolhouse had worn them all out. Only such an important discussion could keep them up.

Haakan shrugged. “Maybe you should send a letter to each of the train lines, asking if any of them have hired on a man named Hjelmer Bjorklund. You could include a letter to him to be sent on.”

“How do we get an address to send letters to?” Penny looked as bewildered as Ingeborg felt.

“I would think all of them have offices in Fargo.”

“Do you know the names of the railroads?”

Haakan sucked in a breath that lifted his shoulders and let them fall again. He closed his eyes in thought.

When he opened his eyes, he stuttered over three or four names, shaking his head the while. “Not sure what they are all called.” He corrected one or two and watched as Penny wrote them down. “Other than that . . .” He shrugged. “Perhaps after the snow sets in Petar could go looking for him.”

“Where?”

“Out west, far as the new lines are going. But, you know, when the weather gets too bad they shut down, and perhaps he’ll come home by himself then.”

“If he can.” Penny gripped the back of the chair till her fingers turned white. “Maybe he doesn’t want to come home again. Maybe
he built himself a whole new life and just . . . just forgot about us.” Her voice dropped to a bare whisper. “About me.”

Ingeborg ached to comfort the young woman, but what could she say? “God knows where Hjelmer is.”

“Ja.” Penny nodded. A heavy sigh accompanied the final motion of her head. “But God isn’t telling.” She stared down at her whitened knuckles. “I better get back to Kaaren’s. At least there I am needed.” The unspoken “and wanted” echoed in the quiet soddy.

Ingeborg chewed on the side of her lower lip. “Remember you and Kaaren talked about my writing to Mrs. Johnson at the hotel in Fargo? Why don’t I go ahead and do that? You could work there and go to school. If nothing else, that would make the waiting easier.”

“Sometimes I wonder why I don’t do as Tante Agnes says and just accept the attentions of Modan Clauson. He’s been asking me to go out riding with him, and he’s a good man. At least that’s what Tante Agnes believes, and I do too.”

“He has a good reputation with everyone. Comes to church regular as we have it,” Haakan said. He thumped the front legs of the chair back on the hard-packed dirt floor. “And he needs a good woman to take care of his two children. They need a mor bad.”

Ingeborg studied the girl’s downcast face. “But you are in love with Hjelmer.”

“Ja, for whatever good that does me.” Fire flashed again in Penny’s eyes. “Please, go ahead and write to your friend. Hjelmer is not going to come home, and if and when he comes, he will not find me mooning around here like a lovesick heifer. I’ve always wanted to get more book learning, and I will.” She straightened her shoulders as she spoke. “Good night to the both of you, and thank you many times over.” She strode out of the soddy as if a full marching band played at her heels.

“That young man has some real accounting to do if he does come home.” Ingeborg blew out the lamp. Haakan had the wisdom to not say a word, only folded her in his strong embrace when they settled into the corn husk bed.

While the men were doing the chores in the morning, Ingeborg wrote her letter. Perhaps someone from the church meeting would be going to either St. Andrew or Grafton on Monday and could mail it for her.

Several hours later the Reverend Hostetler stood at the door to the sod school and church greeting all the arriving families. Taller than the soddy doorway and possessed of a deep voice that could
call hogs five miles away, his piercing eyes quailed the hearts of the most stalwart, let alone the children.

Andrew buried his face in Ingeborg’s shoulder, and Thorliff stood closer to his father’s side. Even hat veils dared not rustle as the people took their places on the benches that had been finished and set in place at twilight the day before. At the front of the dim room, a narrow table covered by a white cloth held a lighted kerosene lamp, an open Bible, and a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. In spite of the glass chimney, the flame above the wick flickered in the breeze from the open spaces planned for door and windows. The overcast day did nothing to lighten either the room or the atmosphere. Soon people were standing around the sides of the room, since all the benches were taken. Several men got up and gave the women their seats. At a glare from his wife, one man hastily snatched his hat from his head and held it in front of him.

All seemed to hold their breath as the frock-coated preacher strode down the center aisle and stopped in front of the table, bowing his head for a long moment before turning to face the congregation.

“We will start with the singing of ‘O God, Our Help in Ages Past.’ ” His Norwegian words rang loud in the muffled room. He hit the first note and everyone joined in, singing as if to burst off the roof of shingles so recently nailed in place.

When he picked up the Bible from the table, his long forefinger trailed down the page before he began reading. “Thus saith the Lord our God: ‘they that plow iniquity and sow wickedness, reap the same. By the blast of God they perish and by the breath of his nostrils, they are consumed.’ ” When he finished, he let the silence stretch. “We will now sing ‘I Lay My Sins on Jesus.’ ” The people joined in after the first note.

Ingeborg held Andrew on her hip. When she glanced at him, his eyes were stretched wide and he carefully didn’t look toward the front. She smiled at him but received no answering grin in return. They sat at the finish of the hymn, clothing rustling, throats clearing. The silence fell again, a silence that vibrated with tension.

“Welcome to our Father’s house this Lord’s day.”

The softness of his voice let Ingeborg take a deep breath. She could feel her shoulders let go. Andrew sat straighter, beginning to look around.

“God said we are sinners. We are sinners.” He paused. “You are sinners!” His words thundered in the tightly packed room. Andrew
let out a shriek and buried his face in his mother’s shoulder. A baby behind them wailed, and another small child began to cry.

“Hush, hush. You are all right.” Ingeborg comforted the shaking child.

The man continued to thunder hell and damnation upon the people.

Ingeborg tried to close her ears against the ranting voice that now settled into a pattern. He would drop his voice down to a near whisper, shake his finger at them, then thunder again. According to Hostetler, they were all on their way to hell, some of them maybe faster than others, but all included. By the time he got around to telling them that Jesus died for their sins, Ingeborg’s ears ached.

No one met the Reverend’s eyes when he shook their hands after the benediction and final hymn. Once outside, the people congregated in groups far enough from the door so as not to be heard.

“He will not be our minister if I have anything to say about it,” Joseph Baard muttered to Haakan.

“I feel the same.” Haakan wore the tight-jawed look that said he’d had enough.

The crowd dissipated quickly, no one stopping to visit. Ingeborg had thought to invite the man home to their house for dinner but followed Haakan to their wagon without a backward glance. Andrew still had not left her shoulder nor Thorliff her side. Joseph’s family stayed around him like a clutch of ducklings obeying their mother. Within minutes, the yard cleared, the creak of the wagons and thud of horses’ hooves fading away. Many unspoken prayers that the preacher would move on filled many thoughts.

Halfway home, Haakan began to whistle under his breath. Andrew peeled himself off his mother’s lap and, with her assistance, climbed into the wagon bed to be with Thorliff. A familiar giggle soon arose from the back, and Ingeborg exchanged a smile with Haakan.

“I gave my letter to Mary Johnson. She said her husband was going to St. Andrew.”

Haakan nodded. “Good.”

That night snow capped the fence posts and bent the remaining grass. When the sun finally came out about dinnertime, the snow disappeared like cookies in a crowd of children.

“We’ll butcher tomorrow,” Haakan said over his last cup of coffee. “The more shingles we can get on today, the better, but with November nearly upon us . . .”

Ingeborg knew what he meant. Last year the first heavy snowfall had hit before now, and a blizzard followed soon after.

After clearing away, Ingeborg bundled Andrew up and crossed to the other soddy to check on the babies. The ring of hammers for nailing shingles on the barn roof accompanied her. If the men would allow, she would have joined them, but she knew that was a futile thought.

Penny met her at the door with a finger to her lips. “They’re all sleeping. Metiz went out for a final willow bark gathering.”

“Good. Then I will put Andrew down for a nap at home and go hunting.”

“You want to leave him here?”

Ingeborg shook her head. “He’d wake the babies.”

Once out in the woods along the riverbank, Ingeborg drew in a deep breath of the crisp air. Soon Thorliff would have to set his snare line for rabbits, and as busy as he had been, they didn’t have as much dried fish as usual. But after they slaughtered the two hogs they should have enough for the long winter. Another deer or elk would be a bonus.

But the elk bounded away before she got him sighted in. She settled back along the game trail for the deer to come down to the river to drink. With one shot she brought down a buck. The does following him scattered faster than she could blink.

Ingeborg approached the fallen animal carefully as she’d always done, watching to see if there was any motion. Blood pulsed from the neck wound, making her more cautious. Usually she got a head shot. She started to lean over to slit the throat when the animal threw up its head. The antlers snagged her pants.

She stumbled back, feeling a searing pain in her leg. She leveled the gun and shot again. This time directly in the head. The buck collapsed.

She sank to the ground, her heart pounding as though she’d run for miles. So close. “Dear God, thank you, thank you.” She let her head fall forward to quell the nausea roiling her stomach. It wasn’t that she hadn’t been careful. She had. Each movement flowed through her brain as she checked her actions to make sure she hadn’t been careless.

“Merciful God, thank you.” She opened her eyes, feeling as if an hour had passed. She needed to make sure the deer bled out. When she got to her feet, her pant leg pulled away and she could feel the warm blood on her leg. She looked down, then bent over and examined
the wound. A slash above her knee still oozed blood, but she could tell the worst was over. She dug in her pocket and withdrew a square of cloth to tie around her leg. With that in place, she hobbled back to the buck, slit his throat with her hunting knife, then leaned against a tree. Could she carry the deer carcass home?

By the time she’d finished gutting the deer and had tied it up to carry, the short dusk had turned to dark. She sighed. Should she fire the two shots that signaled trouble or make a travois to drag the deer home?

She didn’t bother to glance down, she could feel seepage from below the wrap. She’d have Metiz sew the wound up when she got home. But for now, getting home was the immediate problem.

Taking the knife out again, she slashed at the base of a willow sapling. When it fell, she started on the next. Her leg burned as though someone held a hot poker against it. Hacking free several smaller branches, she used them to tie the sapling’s branches together, giving her a web of limbs on which to lay the deer. She rolled the carcass over onto the travois from her knees, then using a tree by her side, she pulled herself to her feet. She needed a third hand to grasp a walking stick to keep herself upright.

Ingeborg tied the rifle along one of the willow poles, hoisted the two ends, and ordered one foot to place itself in front of the other. With each foot requiring a command of its own, she started up the game trail. One step, two, three and pause. The fire in her wound grew, working its way up her leg. Step again. She stumbled over a root and crashed to her knees. Cutting off the scream that made it past her lips brought blood to the end of her tongue. The pain brought tears to her eyes. Sucking in control as a drowning man gulped air, she pushed herself to her feet. One step, two . . .

“Ingeborg!” The shout came from a distance.

“Mange takk again, Lord.” She then raised her voice. “Here! On the game trail!” Leaning against the trunk of an elm tree, she answered the call again, grateful the voice was so much closer. In a minute Paws leaped at her side, yipping his joy at finding her. After she ruffled his ears and thumped on his sides, he left her to sniff the deer, his tail wagging all the while. She could see a lantern glow faintly through the brush. Never had light been so welcome.