Northern Lights Trilogy (104 page)

“Could you consider it for the children’s sake?”

“For the children?”

“Yes. As you have said, they would love a father.”

“It is not exactly like I have a hundred men at my door, Riley.”

“It is not exactly like they can come knockin’ when you’re always at sea, Cap’n,” he said, returning Elsa’s sharp tone.

“The children have you.”

“It is not the same and you know it. And it’s not only for the children. You need a man by your side too. You’re young and healthy. I know what you and Peder shared was somethin’ special, but does that mean you will avoid love for the rest of your life?”

Elsa bit her lower lip. When he was so forthright, he was usually right, whether Elsa liked hearing it or not. The children came running back in then, eager for Elsa to inspect their hands. And Cook arrived with their meal, setting it upon the dining room table and leaving.

“Hurray!” Kristian cried. “It
is
brisket again! Can I have mine on a slice of bread?”

“Yes,” Elsa said. “But you must first wait for us to say a blessing over the food.” She turned to Riley and dropped her voice. “I will think about what you have said, Riley.”

The man nodded once, obviously gratified.

A week later as they left Camden, Elsa worked on a painting of her mother, sister, and nephews outside her childhood home, with the
harbor behind them. She had sketched out twelve prospective paintings while in Bergen, and wanted to get this one in color before it faded from her memory. As she worked, she thought of the portrait above the Ramstads’ fireplace, the one of Peder and Kristian as a toddler in samurai costumes. That had been a glorious season, that year when they had first explored the Far East together. She smiled as she remembered going to the Saitos home in the mountains, an outdoor tub and a loving husband.

Elsa dipped her brush into the green-blue oil, then set it down. Her heart was no longer in the painting, and it never came out right if she could not concentrate.

That night in Japan, Peder had come to the steaming tub, picked up a bar of soap, and washed her hair, tenderly, thoroughly. She could still feel his strong fingers on her scalp, his lips softly touching her neck. It was one of the most intimate, treasured moments of their marriage. And even remembering it for a moment made her swallow hard in melancholy woe.

Could she ever let someone else in her heart like that again? When he had died, a part of her had died with him. They had been one. Not that they always were of one mind…but he had become her heart, and she his. Was there enough left within her to risk that loss again?
But look at what I’ve gained from the risk
, she thought, looking over at Kristian and Eve. They were playing skittles, a child’s shipboard game involving a top and pins. As the top spun, Eve shrieked and Kristian giggled. The Swiss clock on the wall chimed seven times.

“Nooo,” Kristian wailed, knowing what it meant.

“Yes, go get undressed. I’ll be in shortly to tuck you in.”

Cook ducked his head through the door and looked at her with an inquiring glance.

“Yes, I’d love tea, Cook,” she said with a smile. It was their routine every night. She would go and tuck her children into bed—they had their own bedrooms and proper beds on the
Majestic
—tell them each a story, usually reading
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
to Kristian
and making one up for Eve, then she’d tuck them in and have tea in the parlor. Afterward, Elsa would stroll across the deck, talking to the crew, assigning tasks, checking Eric’s charts. It was a good life. A fulfilling life. Did she really need a man to make it complete?

No.

But did she wish Peder were home with her again?

Yes.

One warm evening, Elsa sat down at her logbook table and moved aside a brass sextant—a gift from some anonymous friend—off the upper portion of an old, yellowed chart. The sextant was a fine instrument, the best she’d seen, and had been awaiting her in Camden a year prior, as other gifts had awaited her in Seattle and Bergen. Each time, when she inquired, no one knew their source. With the sextant, she had even gone to the maker in Boston—a temperamental craftsman named Gates—but he told her he had sold over a hundred of that make and hadn’t kept records of who purchased them.

Elsa picked it up, feeling the heavy weight of the brass instrument in her hands. Whoever sent it knew her well, for she loved to take readings every night that there were stars visible, loved the methodical, dependable nature of the earth and sky and sea. Regardless of what happened in her world, those three elements remained constant. Like God in a way, she mused. The sea constantly showed her new faces, but deep down, it was always the same sea. An old friend, of sorts.

Hearing the bell clang for the fourth watch, Elsa rose, left her cabin, and walked the decks to the stern of the ship. She enjoyed observing the watch toss the foot-long Walker “Cherub” into the sea, allow it to drift beyond the
Majestic
’s wake, then haul it back in to measure their speed. The combination of rotating blades and recording dials indicated their progress with unfailing accuracy.

“How are we faring, Eric?” she asked as he raised a lantern to read their rate of speed.

“Very fine, Captain,” he said with a smile. “She’ll be one for the Ramstad record books, for sure.”

“Good, good. Please report to me your findings before you turn in.”

“Aye, aye.”

She turned and closed her eyes as she walked back to her cabin, taking in deep breaths of the fresh salty air, loving the rock and roll of the sea beneath her feet. This was home to her, perfect in so many ways. She could almost sense Peder’s arms around her, the warmth of his embrace. Almost. But he wasn’t there. He would never be there again.

Perhaps it
was
time to be open to another. To look for the possibility that God would allow her to love again. “Perhaps,” she whispered to herself, gazing at small swells across the water lit by a half-moon climbing the sky above. “Just perhaps.”

A
fter nearly two months on Soren’s trail, Kaatje was so exhausted that she felt near to collapse. Life as a farmer had been taxing, but nothing like this day-to-day struggle to survive on the river and alongside it. They were moving fast and furious through the Interior of Alaska, stopping only to camp. They averaged fifteen miles a day, give or take a bit, and it was grueling. She had lost weight; her clothes hung on her lean frame. But there was no way Kaatje would ever let James Walker know she was struggling. While things had softened between them, there was still a discouraging air about him, as if he wanted to stay away from her but was stuck within close proximity of her, day in and day out.

They were trudging along an Indian path near the village of Tanana, portaging yet again where the river was impassable. The men carried the boat over their heads and small packs on their backs while Kaatje was left to manage the rest. The path wound around huge clumps of swamp grass and massive fields of flowers—wild iris and giant bluebells, for the most part.

Kaatje wore a net under her hat, but still the huge black flies clung to it, hoping to find a hole and a way in. When they did, they bit, leaving red welts on her tender skin. Not so tender anymore. It was
just as James had warned, but she refused to say anything, to complain. Where was the tenderness and consideration he had shown her now and then? He was a confusing and exasperating man. She stopped to shift her pack, lifting the straps that ate at her shoulders. The men trudged forward, never looking back. She felt irritable and abused, angry at her traveling companions—they called themselves guides!—and her absent husband. It was Soren’s fault they were there; it was James’s and Kadachan’s fault they were on this path with these blasted woman-eating flies…

Memories of the mother grizzly plagued Kaatje, and she constantly looked about, sure they would soon happen upon another. They had seen several along the river, the bears fishing and dolefully watching the boat pass as if they knew the men had shotguns trained on their foreheads. Kaatje looked ahead. The men seemed to ignore her as they concentrated on their own load. As if they were the only ones carrying anything.
Why, a grizzly could come and haul me away right now, and the men probably wouldn’t even notice
, she pouted, knowing she was pouting, unable to do anything else.

Kaatje rounded a boulder and immediately encountered a swarm of no-see-ums, tiny gnats that seemed to find their way under her net and leave bites that swelled to the size of chicken eggs as she slept. She could barely see the path before her, and swatted around her face blindly until they dissipated. James turned briefly, obviously noting her discontent, but then moved on.

What was she doing here, so far from her daughters, her home, her life? Why had God led her to this place to suffer so for a man who had mistreated her from the beginning? She grimaced and clenched her teeth, muttering a conversation between herself and her Lord. “He’s dead. Here I am, in the middle of nowhere, on a path to nowhere. For what? For what? Yes, I needed to know about Soren. But couldn’t there have been some other way? Couldn’t I have sent James? Why bring me here?”

The old answer soon came to her. She needed to be there.

“Why? Why did I have to come? Wasn’t it enough to come all the way to Alaska? Why did I have to do this?
With these?
” she growled, swatting away another wave of gnats.

Kadachan looked over his shoulder at her, apparently overhearing her muttering, and then whistled softly at James. Kaatje willed herself to be quiet. They rounded another bend in the path and the roar of a waterfall became audible.
Water.
The word alone gave her hope and courage. They neared the river again. How blessed water would be, driving away the sweat and heat and flies!

Fifty yards later, they came upon the edge of the river, and before them stretched a peaceful glacial pool with a fifty-foot-wide waterfall that cascaded down twelve feet, plunging bubbles to the bottom and then releasing them in an aquamarine cloud.

Oh, how she longed to dive in! To be free and clean! But she didn’t suppose the men would consider it. No, they probably wanted to cover another ten miles before resting! They probably wanted her to take some more of their weight, or maybe carry the boat, too—

Kaatje felt her pack being lifted, and she looked over her shoulder to see James quietly easing it off. She felt ashamed of her childish whining, even if it had been to herself. Kadachan pulled off his calfskin boots, and then his shirt. With a cry of glee, he did what she longed to do. He dived in.

He emerged twenty feet away, in the center of the pool, flicking his long, ebony hair in one glorious manly move. He pulled his head back once, inviting her in, as James dived in too. It took no urging. She bent, pulled off her mud-encrusted boots and stood, impatiently waiting for the men to turn. They did as she silently bid. Then, Kaatje unbuttoned her split skirt and dropped it to the ground, leaving her bloomers and shirt on. Last to go were the net and hat. She dived in then, loving every second in the bitingly cold, spine-tingling water as it covered her skin, easing away the irritating dust and flies and sweat and gnats, and eventually the frustration and aching muscles.

James swam over to her. He gestured with his head at Kadachan,
who was now floating on his back. “He says you mutter and complain like the raven. The raven likes a cooling bath. And the water will wash away the smells that draw the flies in droves.”

She splashed him in the face. “I suppose you do not smell and therefore do not draw flies?”

“They are not drawn to us because we spread bear fat over our chests this morning. As we suggested you do also, remember?”

Kaatje groaned. “Talk about smell! I’m amazed I could walk behind you two all day!”

This time, James was the one to splash her. He smiled, and Kaatje could not resist smiling back. It was one of the few times, in their two months together, that he had given her a full-fledged grin. His smile sent small laugh lines dancing at his eyes, and the dimple appeared again. His teeth were bright white against his tanned skin. She looked away, embarrassed to be wishing he would smile at her more often. It was such a pleasant sight, she told herself, such a relief in comparison…

“Come,” he said, moving toward the waterfall. He swam over to it, and then looked back, waiting for her. Kaatje’s heart sped up. What was that? she wondered. Did his look say what she thought it said? It was intimate, searching. He wasn’t just looking her way. He was taking her in, drinking her in just the way he thirstily gulped in the glacial water. His glance was steady and meaningful. He was waiting.

Unsure of herself or him then, she moved to the falls, then followed James in a dive under the pelting cascade of water and beyond it to the other side.

When Kaatje emerged, she gasped at the beauty. The sunshine met water in a dancing, luminescent way that she had never seen before. James held on to a ledge before them, and she did the same.