An Untamed Heart (5 page)

Losing lambs was always one of her big worries, since wool in the spring and fall and lambs for slaughter were two of their cash crops. With over twenty ewes they finally had more fleece than they could clean and spin into their own yarn, unless they wove more into rugs and blankets. Weaving was usually a winter occupation, as was spinning, other than what they accomplished up at the seter. While Ingeborg was adept at both, Gunlaug was the master and taught the older children during the summer. Cheese was Ingeborg’s specialty.

“All is well?” Mor asked, leaning for a moment on her rake handle.

“Ja. Just a bit of a scare when I saw we were short a lamb and a ewe. They were resting behind the barn. Not their usual place, but both seemed all right.”

“Do you want to start marking rows for the potatoes? Berta is nearly finished cutting what we have left. We certainly don’t want a slack harvest like last year.”

“Was Far able to buy more?”

Hilde shook her head. “Everyone is short.”

Digging with one’s fingers for the first new potatoes under the flourishing vines was Ingeborg’s favorite treasure hunt. The new potatoes were crisp and sweet. Sometimes she washed one and ate it raw, like an apple.

She took the ball of twine rolled on a stick and laid out the first row between two other sticks, then hoed a hole, dropped in the potatoes, and mounded the dirt over them. The fragrance of freshly turned soil made her smile. It was one of the smells of spring that always made her rejoice. While
she loved all the seasons and the changes therein, burgeoning life in spring was her favorite by far. Especially after the long dark winter.

“You mark and I’ll plant,” Berta said, so Ingeborg swung the bag over her head to hand to her. They’d learned as youngsters that teamwork made all the work lighter.

The iron bar rang sometime later, about the same time the sun hit the zenith. Mari had soup heated and bread sliced. She’d only recently started taking over many of the kitchen duties.

Ingeborg straightened again. While her muscles had recovered from their earlier soreness, now she was starting to ache from spending the morning bent over.

By the time the sun was starting to ease its way down to the horizon, the garden was planted as much as possible and the tools were stored back in the shed. Two days done, and it usually took at least three. Many hands did indeed make the work light, as Mor so often reminded them.

Later, at the table, Far nodded when Mari reported they’d finished—ahead of the other families. Hjelmer had run over to each of the onkels’ houses to make sure.

Mari rattled on. “Tante Berthe said it was all because we have the benefit of the southerly slope. Our garden always warms up faster. I told her we really liked the bread Gunlaug brought over.”

“Good.” Mor nodded in satisfaction. Even though she would never admit it, Ingeborg knew she liked to win the garden contest too. Would it have been so hard for her to enjoy the game?

Ingeborg kept her mouth shut. Tante Berthe was a bit of a whiner and often provoked the others with her griping. That made winning all the more sweet. She felt a nudge under the table. Berta felt the same way. This could be worth a giggle or two when they climbed into bed. Since all the children slept upstairs, and the parents down, bedtime was often a chance for merriment. Mor had always lacked in the laughter department. Not like Far, who looked for chances to exercise his big roaring laugh. It was a shame Gilbert took more after their mother. Perhaps if he married Asti, she would make him laugh more.

After the meal, Ingeborg went back outside to pen the sheep and chickens. She didn’t have to herd the sheep; she just walked ahead and called. They fell into their normal line, making their way into the sheepfold, and she counted as they came. She closed the gate behind them and went to the chickens, most of which were already roosting in the hen house. When she clucked, the others came, fully expecting the handful of grain she threw out. While they located every grain, she found several more eggs and bade them good-night as she shut the door.

Eggs in her apron, she paused to look to the west to check the sunset. Far always said,
“Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.”
Tomorrow would be another fine spring day. And she hoped she would not creak and groan when she woke up. And, she had to get over to Gunlaug’s to tease her about the winning. Gunlaug did not particularly like to be teased. When Ingeborg entered the kitchen, Far looked up from reading the newspaper.

“If it stays like this, I think we can start moving supplies up to the seter on Monday.”

“Arne, that is too soon.” Mor hooked the iron frying pan on the wall by the fireplace.

Ingeborg said nothing, but her heart screamed,
It can never be too soon to escape to the seter!
She sighed. Leave it to her mor. What if Onkel Jonas would agree that she could go along to Amerika? Would she find freedom there?

The next several days passed slowly with spring housecleaning, along with digging out the barn, the pigpen, and the hen house, where manure and bedding were allowed to build up during the cold of winter to help provide heat for the animals.

Ingeborg checked the garden daily for sprouts, but so far the only things growing in the garden were the weeds. Hoeing weeds was always good for the soul.

“Did she really say that?” Gunlaug paused her hoeing and stared in horror. Gunlaug had volunteered to help Ingeborg hoe—an excuse to have a chat.

Ingeborg nodded. Even after all this time she was still thinking about her mother saying she’d rather go to the birthing by herself. When her daughter stuttered “Why?” Mor had just shrugged and said, “We won’t discuss this further.”

Ingeborg locked her jaw. Did Mor think her daughter would do a bad job? All the thinking and rethinking she’d done about the last birthing to figure out what she had done wrong or not done right. Had she somehow endangered the mother or the baby so that it took so long to be born?
She knew Mor had taken her along because she suspected problems.

“Ja.” Ingeborg fought to tamp down the anger that threatened to erupt. “I thought she wanted to teach me, but she won’t say any more about that birthing, and now I don’t know if she wants to continue with our lessons or not.” She chopped viciously at a weed.

“What are the lessons like?”

“I guess I learn by doing.”

“Then how can you learn if you don’t go along?” Gunlaug dug her hoe into the ground. “That makes no sense whatsoever.” She tipped out a seedling weed with her hoe and paused again. “And she hasn’t brought it up since?”

“No. And that was a couple weeks ago.”

“Was there a problem with this last birthing?”

“I don’t know. I think she is mad at me.”

“She’s not told you?” She looked at Ingeborg, who shook her head. “Did you ask?”

Ingeborg shook her head again. “I can’t wait until we get to the seter. I just want out of here. Life up there is free and without contention.” She knew what she really meant was without her mother, but loyalty or some other misplaced emotion kept her from saying it. But she knew Gunlaug knew what she meant. They were close enough friends for that assumption.

Gunlaug bent back to the task. “So what do we do next?”

“Start packing? Have you taken your loom apart to haul up there?”

Gunlaug broke out into a big grin. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. Far made me a new one that we can leave up there. He just finished it last night. He will remove the bolts so we can load it and then set it up again in our seter house.”

“That is perfect. I’ll be taking up the spinning wheels, and I have last year’s fleece all washed and bundled up. After shearing there will be plenty of fleece there. How is our yarn supply?”

“Almost nothing left. We’ll all have to spin to catch up.” Gunlaug paused and looked off into the distance. “If only Ivar could come, it would be perfect.”

“Oh, that would be a big help. His mor would probably come check on him once a week or send him a message that he is needed at home.” Ingeborg made a face and rolled her eyes. “‘I need you, Ivar, my son, my only son. I cannot get to town without you.’” Ingeborg knew she was able to mimic others, and Ivar’s mor was so easy, especially the whine in her voice.

Gunlaug tried to stifle her snort, but her attempt at a stern mien crumbled into laughter.

“Ingeborg?”

Hjelmer’s voice cracked on the call, sending the two cousins into rib-holding laughter.

“Ingeborg, where are you?” His call was coming closer.

“Out in the garden,” she called back and hoed out another couple of weeds. Why did they sprout so much faster than the vegetable seeds? And grow three times as fast?

Hjelmer leaned against the fence. “Why didn’t you answer me? Mor is asking for you.”

“All right. I didn’t realize school was out already.”

“I just got home.”

Gunlaug propped her hoe against the fence rail. “I need to get home before my mor starts calling too. See you tomorrow.”

Ingeborg watched her head across the pasture. If she couldn’t talk to Gunlaug, she didn’t know what she would do. If she
married, she would at least not have to try so hard to get along with Mor. She turned to Hjelmer. “What does she want this time?”

“You said you would make something for supper.” The two fell into step, headed toward the house.

Ingeborg resisted the urge to smooth the stubborn lock of nearly white hair that stood up toward the back of his head. He used to smile at her for her attention, but now he pulled away. It was a shame that children, especially boys, couldn’t remain pliable like they were when children.

“And Berta couldn’t do that?”

He shrugged. “Guess she was busy.”

And Katrina was plying her needle, trying to finish the linens she would take with her to marriage next month. Ingeborg was sure Katrina had coerced Berta into helping her. While Ingeborg enjoyed doing the fine needlework required, some stubborn streak resisted her sister’s pleas, usually with a rather caustic comment of someone having to do the work around here. If she wasn’t careful, she’d begin to sound like Mor, who of course, was helping with the wedding preparations. Katrina, as always, did exactly as Mor told her. Having the linens ready and the trunk full was a point of pride.

Ingeborg asked Hjelmer, “Are you going to finish cleaning out the barn?”

“Ja, but not today. Splitting the wood comes first.”

“How is that coming?” Besides needing wood for the summer cooking and canning, they needed a supply for up at the seter.

“The pile is growing. You want to come help?” He might be boy-sized, but his work was already a man’s.

“I’d rather do that than cook. Is the woodbox full?”

“Berta was supposed to do that.”

Ingeborg thought for a moment. “I’ll get the dough ready, and Mari can supervise the cooking. I suggest you get a head start, and we’ll see who has the biggest pile by later tonight.”

Hjelmer’s eyes lit up. “You think you’ll catch up and pass me by milking time?”

“I’m sure of it.” Ingeborg watched her little brother, the lad who was so afraid he would never be tall like the other men and thus caught in the world between working with the men and helping the womenfolk. His slight build and the weakness left in his arms and legs after an attack of diphtheria two years earlier would surely change as he grew into his Strand stature. There wasn’t a short man among all the Strands that she knew. She reached over and ruffled her brother’s hair, which made him flinch away. It was, of course, what she expected. She’d read something about that, that if you did what you always did, why expect a different outcome? Some things were hard to resist—like letting Mor make her angry.

If Mor was with Katrina, the others were in the front of the house, so she could make the dough and slip out before she had to encounter the disapproval again.

By the time the dough was ready for the griddle and Mari all set to go, Ingeborg knew she might just as well take the milk bucket and head for the barn. Along with the milking pail, she grabbed the bucket holding the whey from the churning to feed to the hogs and chickens as she went by.

The cows were lined up outside the barn door, waiting patiently. Bess, the bell cow, tossed her head, making Ingeborg smile. Why was it she could laugh at a cow’s impatience yet get so put out with her mother? That was not a comfortable thought. But it plagued her throughout the long hour of her
forehead pressed against a warm flank and milk singing into the bucket. Why did not the others respond like she did? Trying so hard, or not trying but instead getting irritated. Milking was one of those chores that allowed her mind to roam freely, so she sent it up to the seter.

When she stood up between cows, she could hear the ring of the ax, the thud, a pause to set a new hunk in place on the chopping block, and then repeat. If some others didn’t help Hjelmer, they’d never be ready in time. Mentioning this at supper would cause Mor to be rude again, but . . .

Why was she always the one who had to bring up contentious subjects?

Far and Gilbert split wood with Hjelmer until dusk, while Ingeborg, Mari, and Berta stacked it.

“We’ll start again after morning chores.” Far dug out a file and sat down to hone the two-bit ax, so Gilbert followed suit. Ingeborg straightened from the stacking and kneaded her back with her fists. Shame they’d not been able to load the wagon at the same time, but it would be needed for other jobs before the big trek.

Far glanced over at the two remaining logs that awaited the crosscut saw. “We need to drag the green logs down here.”

“Is Onkel Frode going to send wood up too?” Hjelmer asked.

“He said so, but . . .”

Ingeborg knew Far hated to say anything against his two brothers. But then, he hated contention like a cat hated puddles. Not that they had any hesitation in their griping. So much so that sometimes it got in the way of their work—and living.

“I hope we can leave soon.” Hjelmer eyed the piles of wood. “Can we roll that log up on the sawbucks yet tonight?”

“Is right now soon enough?” Gilbert asked, nudging his little brother. “You grab one end and I’ll take the other.”

Far chuckled, something he didn’t do often enough, in Ingeborg’s book.

“Go tell your mor we’ve worked up an appetite again. See if she’ll set something out for a bedtime snack.”

Hjelmer glanced at Ingeborg, a bit wide eyed.

Mari rolled her eyes. “I’ll tell her.”

Or will most likely do it herself.
Ingeborg knew that was an uncharitable thought but didn’t wish to erase it—like she so often wished, when her mouth or mind got away from her. If only she could do as the Bible said and bridle her tongue—always. Mor had pointed out that verse to her more than once. It rankled like a sliver under the skin.

When they gathered around the kitchen table, where Mari had set out the fresh ginger cookies and små brød, Mor acted like nothing had ever bothered her, all but looking at Ingeborg. When Hjelmer brought up the date for leaving for the seter, Far nodded.

“We will ride up tomorrow and see how the snow is melting. If we can see the bare ground, we will decide. We’ll leave the wood chopping to the others.”

Ingeborg felt her heart leap.
Please, Lord, let the snow be melted and let no more fall.
Wishing she could go along would do no good. But hopefully Far would take Hjelmer and leave Gilbert here to man the other end of the crosscut saw. Getting the wood ready was a big part of the preparations. Good thing they had dragged logs up the hill into the seter yard last fall. Cleaning out the buildings was always a big job too, especially the house. Who knew what had taken refuge in the snug building during the winter? One time they
found a den of foxes in the cheese storage cellar cut into the hillside, and often mice, rats, or squirrels chewed their way into the house.

After milking, Ingeborg spent the next day at the woodpile and even pressed Gunlaug into the heavy work. Gunlaug soon said she had things to do at home and left before Ingeborg could try to talk her into staying any longer.

Gilbert leaned on his ax handle on the chopping block and shook his head. “She never has cared much for the heavy work.”

Ingeborg refrained from reminding him that most women didn’t like using a crosscut saw or an ax. If that was what he expected in a wife, he’d never have to worry about getting married. “She works hard in other ways.”

“Sitting at a loom doesn’t take a lot of muscle.” He hefted his ax and set another chunk on the block, neatly splitting it with one mighty whack. The whack and thunk of wood chopping resumed.

No, but swinging an ax does not produce the splendid weaving that Gunlaug can do.
Ingeborg didn’t say it aloud. She reached for the file to touch up her ax. Chopping with a sharp ax was hard enough, but a dull one took far more muscles, and as Far often said, “Work smarter, not harder.”

Mari brought two cups of steaming coffee out for them in the middle of the afternoon. “I thought you could use a break for a time.” The door slammed behind her, and she returned with a water jug and a plate of leftover små brød with jam. The three of them sat on the porch step, even Gilbert breathing a sigh of relief.