An Untamed Land (46 page)

Andrew whimpered like a newborn kitten. Thorliff choked and coughed in his bed.

The pounding again. This time she knew for certain the head-splitting noise was coming from the door.

Ingeborg leaned against the edge of the table. It seemed a mile to the door.
Place one foot in front of the other. Move!
A draft from around the door blew across her feet, up under her soaking wet nightgown, and bit her legs. The chill made them move. When she finally rested her forehead against the cold of the door, she stared at the bar that kept intruders out but now barred the way for help to enter.

“Ingeborg, open up!”

Ingeborg jerked her head back as the pounding rattled the door and the shouting penetrated her mind.

“Metis.”
Oh, Lord, thank you, it’s Metis
. She hardly recognized her own voice, it rasped so sharply. The bar.
I must raise the bar
. She lifted with both hands. Her fingernails scraped down the bar; her head banged on the door. She scrabbled for a handhold and, by a
supreme act of will, remained upright. “I . . . can . . . not . . . open the door.”

“You must! I not help you otherwise.”

Ingeborg understood enough of the accented words to respond. Summoning strength from she knew not where, she heaved on the board. The wind slammed the door open, throwing her back against the stove—the now cold stove. Slowly that fact registered on Ingeborg’s befuddled mind. The stove was out. They would freeze to death. Were her babies still and lifeless? No, those were Kaaren’s babies, from how far back? Where was Roald?

Metis threw her body against the door, fighting the wind until it gave and slunk back to howl a protest from the eaves. With the bar dropped in place, she turned to Ingeborg. “Ah, as I feared, you have failing sickness I hear attacking white men. Go to bed; you need milk for baby, no?” She helped Ingeborg back across the room and saw Kaaren sound asleep again on the other side of the bed. Metis looked at Ingeborg with a question in her dark eyes and shook her head sadly at the silent answer. “You cover up. I start fire. Cows bellering. Much to do.”

Grateful to leave the reins in someone else’s capable hands, Ingeborg lay down and was barely awake when Metis put Andrew to her breast. He felt even hotter than she, but he nursed. She stayed alert enough to drink something that Metis offered and then let herself sink back into the swirling fog.

Save Andrew and
Thorliff. The thought kept Ingeborg responsive enough to do all within her power to obey Metis when she ordered her to drink or to swallow.

Three nights later in the still hours just before dawn, her fever broke, and even in her haze, she knew Roald hadn’t returned.

In the morning, she opened her eyes to see Kaaren staring vacantly at the wall. In the way of children who recover so quickly when they are on the mend, Thorliff sat down on the bed beside her.

“You are better.”

When her throat refused to respond, she merely nodded. Just then Andrew let out a lusty yell, and she felt relief flood her system. The children were all right. But Roald? She tried to sit up but couldn’t muster the strength. She heard someone come in the door and hope flared until Thorliff ran across the room.

“Metis, Mor is better. She is awake.”

“Is good. I thought it be soon.” She peered into Ingeborg’s face
and nodded. “You soon be strong, my daughter. Little one needs you. He not like cow’s milk.”

It took all of Ingeborg’s concentration to follow the words. So long since they’d practiced their English. “Slow down.” She croaked the words, bringing a grin to Thorliff’s anxious face.

Metis chuckled. “You soon be well. See, you give orders. Come, Thorliff, help mama drink so she get strong.”

“Will Tante Kaaren drink too?”

“Yes, we make her.”

Ingeborg listened to the exchange. She was alive, alive to see her babies grow up, alive to wait for Roald to return. Surely he was still helping some other family. A surge of bitterness caught her by surprise. He should have stayed here with his own family. What if he were lying somewhere, sick himself, with no one to nurse him?
Please, God, not that
.

The next day, a knock at the door brought her out of an afternoon slumber. When Thorliff hurried to the door, he opened it to find Petar, the Baards’ nephew who had arrived the previous summer.

“Is Roald here? My uncle needs him.”

“No, Far has been gone for a long time.” Thorliff stepped back and motioned the young man inside. “Come talk to Mor.”

Petar removed his hat and stood by the bed, turning the knitted stocking hat in his hands.

“Didn’t he come to your house just before the storm?”

“Yes, but when he found we were managing, he said he would go back to the Polinskis’. We tried to get him to stay, but he said someone had to see after them. We wasn’t so sick, you see, like some.”

“Would you go to the Polinskis’, please, and ask for him there?”

“Ja, that I will. They wouldn’t have nothing to feed his mule, though. They was burning all their hay in twists, last I saw.”

“Mange takk, Petar. Why don’t you have some soup Metis made before you leave. I am sorry I cannot serve you.”

“Never you mind, ma’am. I can look out for myself.” He looked over to Kaaren, who sat perfectly still in the rocking chair and appeared not to see anything around her. Her face was blank, her body motionless. “Is she gonna be all right? Aunt Agnes is just getting back on her feet and wants to know about everyone.”

Ingeborg shrugged. “I certainly hope so. We will all pray to that end.”

“And the little ’uns?”

Ingeborg mouthed the word “gone.” The pain caught her again.
No more Gunny or Carl or Lizzie. And what about Roald? He would be here if there were any way that he could. She knew that for all she was. She glanced again at the motionless figure. What about Kaaren? Did she suspect or know what had happened? Had the knowing been too much to bear?

Ingeborg forced herself to do a bit more each day, but by evening, she fell into bed exhausted. However, she was never too tired to look out the window every time she passed, hoping for the sight of a tall man riding a stubborn mule. Or to listen for the jingle of the bit and reins. Something—anything to tell her that Roald had come home.

Each night Ingeborg went to bed praying for Roald and his return. And each morning, the day and its unending labor brought no word. Joseph Baard returned each day to help with the outside chores, leaving Ingeborg with more time than ever to think. They all knew Roald had spent several days at the Polinskis’, but when Mrs. Polinski got back on her feet, and the first storm had cleared, he said he was heading home. But he had never arrived. Had the following storm caught him in the open? Had he been attacked by wolves or gotten so sick he couldn’t ride and fell in a drift and never made it out? In the quiet of the night, the questions pounded away at her, magnifying the night noises and chasing away her sleep.

Was there reason to hope? Yet without hope, what was left?

One afternoon Ingeborg found Thorliff curled up in his bed trying to stifle the tears running down his cheeks.

“What is it, den lille? Do you hurt somewhere? Are you sick?” She sat down and gathered him into her arms.

“I w-an-t Far to c-come h-home.”

“Oh, Thorly, so do I.” Her tears matched his. “You have been such a big boy, I sometimes forget you are my little son.”

“Wh-when is he c-c-coming?”

“I do not know. We have to prepare ourselves.” She bit her lip and sniffed back the tears. “He might never come back.” Saying the words made the hole in her heart gape like a septic wound.

“But I prayed that God would bring him back.”

“I know, son. I did too. And we must keep on praying.” She rested her wet cheek in the soft hair by his forehead. “But always know that Far loves us, and that he would come home if he possibly could.”

When their tears finally stopped, Thorliff looked up at his
mother. “I will take care of you, Mor. I will.”

“Mange takk, my son. We will take care of each other.”

Several weeks later, she heard a harness jingling and looked out the window to see the Baards packed in their sleigh, surrounded by quilts and buffalo robes. Ingeborg threw open the door and stepped out into the weak winter sunshine. Arms clasped to keep from shivering, she called them in.

Agnes gathered the younger woman to her shrunken bosom and held her close. “Oh, my dear, my dear. Such a time of it you’ve had. And the never knowing.” At the loving words, Ingeborg sagged in her friend’s arms, and the tears broke forth in deep, body-shaking sobs. Agnes turned her and led her into the soddy. The three boys had already greeted one another and were heading back out the door.

“We’re going to the barn.”

Agnes sat down on the bed with her arm still around the sobbing Ingeborg.

Thorliff returned and stood in front of them. “Will Mor be all right?” His voice held a note of fear.

“Ja, you go play. Sometimes we women just have to cry.”

Thorliff patted Ingeborg on the arm and slowly backed off, as if not sure he wanted to leave.

“Come on, Thorliff, let’s go see the sheep.”

With another last look to see if his mother needed him, Thorliff sighed, as if grateful to transfer the burden of caring for his mother to someone else, and ran out the door.

As quiet settled around the women, the only sounds were that of the soup simmering on the back of the stove and Ingeborg’s now subdued sniffs and gulps. She dug in her apron pocket for a handkerchief and, after blowing her nose, mopped her eyes. She sighed, and the sound called forth all her longing, worry, and fear.

“He’s dead somewhere, isn’t he?”

Agnes Baard laid her cheek against Ingeborg’s hair. “I’m afraid so. No one for ten miles around has seen him in over ten days. We checked in St. Andrew and at all the farms we know of. The last to see him were the Polinskis.”

The softly spoken words snapped Ingeborg’s last thread of hope.

“I prayed and prayed for him, except when I was too sick to be aware, but I think even then I was praying.”

“I know.”

“But God took him.” The words lay flat in the silence. Ingeborg stared across at Kaaren sitting still frozen in the rocker. “And Carl and his two babies. What kind of loving God would do such a thing? If that is love, I want no part of it.”

“Ingeborg! Do not say such things. God knows best. This was His will, and we must accept His will for us. The Bible says . . .”

“I do not care what the Bible says! Is the Bible going to bring Kaaren back to us? Is the Bible going to milk the cows, birth the lambs, plow the soil, plant the wheat, and break new sod?” She turned fiercely to her friend. “No! I must do all that. This land is for Roald’s and Carl’s children . . .” She stammered to a halt. “For Kaaren’s children, if she should ever have any more, and for my children. I
will not
lose it. Not after all the blood and sweat we’ve poured into this earth.”

She drew away from the comfort of Agnes’s arms. “We
will
farm this land. I will farm it myself.” Her vow echoed in the quiet room. The ring of it woke Andrew with a start, and he began to whimper. Ingeborg rose to her feet and crossed the room. Bending over the cradle, she lifted the baby and buried her tear-stained face in his sweet chest. “Sorry, den lille, but you are not ready to eat yet.” She changed his diaper and crossed to the rocking chair, laying him in Kaaren’s lap. She picked up the limp hands and wrapped them around the baby, locking them together. “Kaaren, you rock this baby. Now.” Authority rang in Ingeborg’s voice.

She stepped back, ready to leap forward if Andrew should start to fall.

Slowly, ever so slowly, one foot pushed against the dirt floor and set the rocker in motion.

“Thank you, God,” breathed Mrs. Baard.

Ingeborg shot her a withering look. “I will pour the coffee if you want to call your husband. There are cookies and milk for the children.”

As the company left to get home before sundown, Ingeborg stood in the door and waved a last goodbye. She sent her vows into the sky, painted all the colors of flames by the setting sun. The time for grief had passed.
I will make it here. I will farm this land and Carl’s land, and I will prove up the homesteads. I will! And there will be no more tears
.