Northern Lights Trilogy (65 page)

Elsa drove down the road east of town, as the stable master had directed. It felt good to be in the country, healing in a way, so opposite was it of city and sea. She smiled again to herself, nudging Kristian on the seat beside her in anticipation of seeing Kaatje again. It had been a year! A year! Having only just settled in Seattle, she had not had time to make the excursion north more than once. But she planned on staying in the Northwest for the winter; she and Kaatje would have plenty of time to catch up, to reconnect as the sisters they were born to be.

Her thoughts turned to her niece. What would Jessie look like by now? She would be five years of age, just a year older than Kristian. Did she look more like Tora? Or Soren? Or had the love of Kaatje so pervaded the child that physical resemblances would not matter? Elsa shook her head. Never had she understood Kaatje’s graciousness in accepting her husband’s misbegotten child from his lover’s hands. Truly, her friend was a greater woman than she. Over the years, she had sent money to Kaatje to help buy Jessie clothing and food, but she had spent little time with her own flesh and blood. A stab of guilt shot through her.

“Look, Mama!” Kristian said excitedly. “A party!”

Elsa frowned as she noticed the many wagons beside what she assumed was Kaatje’s house. In the warm light of dusk, the gathering seemed cozy, welcoming, festive. What could be going on? As they turned the corner, she saw the fields of cut and shocked grain standing to dry. It was harvest! She had missed it! And the group of neighbors were celebrating, no doubt eating a huge dinner after working so hard all day. Elsa faltered for the first time since leaving Seattle. What
would it be like to enter such a gathering of neighbors? She felt like an interloper, an intruder.

There was no going back. A small girl spotted them on the road and went to the makeshift tables yelling, “Mother! Mother! Someone’s here!” Then a dog ran out to greet them, barking incessantly.

A woman rose as they drew nearer, wiping her hands on an apron. Elsa could not see her face, but she recognized her stance, her way of moving. It was Kaatje. “Kaatje!” she yelled, suddenly unable to contain herself, her hesitation immediately forgotten. “Kaatje!” She pulled the horse to a halt and leaped down to the ground, trying not to run to her old friend, unable to do anything short of it.

Kaatje gasped, dumbstruck and standing still as if Elsa were an apparition. Then she opened her arms and laughed as Elsa reached her, pulling her into an embrace. “Elsa! Elsa!” she laughed. Kaatje pulled away to stare at her. “What are you doing here? Why didn’t you send word?”

Elsa laughed and stared back at her. How she had changed! The year had been hard on her friend; she could see it around her eyes, her mouth. But to Elsa, there was not a more beautiful sight in the world.

Kaatje’s smile faded as she stared down at Elsa’s dress. “You’re in black,” she said softly. “What has happened?”

Abruptly, Elsa felt her smile fall too. For a moment, for one glorious moment, she had forgotten. Eager faces, dear old Bergenser faces, surrounded her in expectation. One by one, they each quieted, and their apprehension visibly grew too. Elsa swallowed hard and tried a brave smile. “First of all, this is my son, Kristian. Perhaps he could go and play with the children?”

Nora stepped forward and embraced Elsa quickly, looking into her eyes as if she understood. “Jessie, why don’t you go and show Kristian and the others your new hog? Like a gift from heaven he was, showing up on the road like that.” Eagerly, the children dispersed, off to the barn.
Jessie
, Elsa repeated her name in her head, following the girl with her eyes.
Jessie, my niece
.

Kaatje took her hands. “Would you like to sit down?”

Elsa nodded. “In a moment. First, you all should know how glad I am to see you. It’s like being home!” Her eyes traveled around the group, noticing that nearly all of them were there, with a few men lingering back at the table. These were people who had celebrated with her and Peder in Bergen after their wedding; she supposed it was appropriate to grieve with them as well.

“I am afraid I have sad news. Terrible … terrible news. My Peder died, almost two months past.” The women gasped and the men murmured, frowns upon all their faces. “We were at sea, in a storm, when he fell overboard. There was nothing—” Her voice cracked, keeping her from saying more. Surrounded by such love, such dear old friends, her grief bubbled to the surface once more.

“Come,” Kaatje said, pulling her toward the small cabin. “Come inside, Elsa. You’re with family now. We’ll take care of you.”

Karl walked around the corner of the house, pretending to stroll to the outhouse, unable to quite believe that Elsa was here. Since most of the people had gathered around her, few were left to notice his departure. He leaned against the side of the house and rubbed his face hard with shaking hands. She was here on the same day as his recommitment!

He knelt on the ground before him, staring up at the sky. Was this his first test? To be sure that he was ready to tread more holy ground? Behind him, through the thin walls, he heard a group enter the house. Slowly, he stood, willing himself to look through the window. Carefully, he edged nearer to stare inside. She was even more lovely than he remembered. But why was she in mourning black? Sorrow and weariness ringed her eyes with purple, but she was beautiful. Standing there, staring at her, he forced himself to search his heart. It pounded as he thought hard about Elsa, about what she had once meant to him, about what he had allowed himself to do.

After several long minutes, watching her as she spoke to the crowd about her, his heart slowed. No, this time it was different. There was
something different now. What he felt were the stirrings of a gladness at seeing a long-lost friend, the same kinship he had felt with Kaatje. Had his lustful, dangerous desires at last abated? He found himself smiling, and ducked away from the window. It would not do to be caught, gazing into the window, staring at his friend’s wife rather than joining the others inside.

“Thank you, Jesus,” he whispered. How long had he prayed for such a relief to his wild dreams and desires? “Thank you, Father. Help this to be the way, for me to continue feeling this way.” Braver by the minute, Karl rounded the corner to face Elsa in person. When some of their friends had departed and it was quieter, he took several more steps, considering what he would say, how he would say it. Then he wondered briefly where Peder was. Why wasn’t he here with her?

He almost ran into Pastor Lien, out to fetch a pail of fresh water. The man was ghastly gray. “Pastor!” Karl exclaimed. “Here, let me help you.”

Pastor Lien quietly handed him the tin pail, staring off at the last vestiges of sunset.

“What is wrong? Are you all right?”

Konur looked at him strangely. “You did not hear?”

“Hear what?”

“Elsa Ramstad arrived—”

“I know. I just saw her,” Karl interrupted, unable to curb his sudden fear. “What? What is it?”

Konur gripped his shoulder. “It’s Peder, man. Peder died two months past.”

Karl dropped the pail and dropped to his knees beside it. Feeling as if Konur had punched him in the gut, he fought for breath. He couldn’t believe it. Peder was dead. Peder was gone. There would be no forgiveness, no new phase of their lost friendship. It was all irrevocably over, and Karl struggled for comprehension, one thought repeating itself over and over in his head—
Peder is dead. Peder is dead. Peder is dead
.

All Who Are Thirsty

Late September 1886

W
hen the sad-eyed Owen Crosby called Tora’s new home a “shanty,” he had been generous. In Tora’s estimation, it was little more than a lean-to, with cracks between the boards and a dirt floor. The only amenities were a clean straw tick and a small iron woodstove. It was little wonder that these people had trouble keeping a schoolteacher, Tora thought, since more snow would slip through the walls than stay out come winter. Hopefully October would not hold an early snowfall.

She had little time or energy to consider much else before hauling out a comforter and falling into a blissful sleep on the straw tick. Her belongings were neatly stacked against the south wall, taking up roughly half of the room. But Tora did not care. She had a roof over her head, food in her stomach, and tomorrow she would face what was to come. For now she was exhausted, weary from head to toe, and for the first time in as long as she could remember, Tora fell asleep in her bed fully dressed.

“Teacher,” came a dreamy voice as Tora noticed a nip in the air for the first time since last night. “Teacher! Wake up!”

Groaning and a bit disoriented, Tora rubbed her eyes and sat up.
Before her were two girls, about six and eight years old, she guessed. She looked around the dreary shack, even more depressing by daylight. Could this be real? Could she have fallen so far as
this
in a few short weeks?
At least I have a home
, she chided herself, remembering her fear last night of sleeping in the streets as darkness fell on the town.
Now I have a job to do
.

“Teacher, the others will be here any minute!” said the eldest. Tora noted that both had neatly plaited, blond braids, reminding her of her sisters when they were young.

“All right. Give me a moment to get my bearings. I’ve only just arrived. You,” she addressed the six-year-old. “I assume we have a water pump somewhere on the premises?”

She nodded.

“Good. Please go fill up my pail.” The girl set to her task immediately, and Tora pressed back a small smile. Perhaps this wouldn’t be the worst job in the world. The little urchins would at least do as she bid. Tora looked at the girl’s older sister. “You have been a student here for a while, I take it?”

“Whenever there’s a teacher.”

“Good. You get the others to go inside the schoolhouse and write out their numbers and letters. It will be a start. Get an older boy—” She paused to squint at the girl until she nodded that yes, there was indeed an older boy. “Good, get him to build up a fire in the woodstove and warm up the room.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What is your name?”

“Fiona O’Meara, ma’am.”

“Very well, Fiona O’Meara. Thank you.”

She was off like a shot just as her sister entered with the pail of water. “Thank you,” Tora said. “What’s your name?”

“Gemma O’Meara.”

“Good. I will see you inside the school, Gemma. I just need a moment to collect myself and freshen up.”

With a nod, the younger girl left the shanty too. Tora shivered. Goodness, it was cold! She could see her breath! Grimacing, she cupped hands to the pail and splashed her face. It was freezing, but invigorating. Like her reflection in the pail as the water calmed, Tora’s immediate future became clear to her.
I am a schoolteacher
, she repeated silently, trying to make it seem more real.
I am a schoolteacher
. Mrs. Segerstad in Bergen would have laughed herself silly over such a thought. Although bright, Tora had never been one to apply herself to her schooling. It was a daily battle. And here she was, a teacher!

She dried her skin with the edge of her skirt and rose to try and find another dress that might be suitable. After digging through several trunks, Tora realized that anything she had was too fancy for a schoolmarm. What would the mothers say if they saw her in Parisian-designed gowns?

Sighing, she turned back to one of her least favorite dresses, examined it with a critical eye, then proceeded to rip the ruffle off at the waist. It left a few hanging threads, but Tora decided that would be okay. Anyone who saw her would assume it was a cast-off from elsewhere, one donated to the poor schoolmarm. After today, Tora would make further alterations to her other dresses to make them suitable. But for now, she would only face today.

In minutes she was dressed. She was about to leave for the schoolroom when she spied a basket by the door, covered with a cloth. Peeking in, she saw three fresh rolls, obviously brought by the girls. For the first time, she noticed her rumbling stomach, and ate one as she left her room, and another on the way around to the schoolhouse door. Swallowing the last bit, and taking a deep breath for courage, she entered the schoolroom. About ten feet by eighteen, the house was built of clear pine boards, and held sixteen small desks.
More than most country schools
, she thought. There were a pair of four-paned windows on either wall, with a podium and desk at the front of the room, built up on a slightly raised platform. In one corner was a map of the United States, a bit outdated, she noted. In the other was a chalkboard.