An Untamed Heart (19 page)

Ingeborg bit her lip. What could she say? Gunlaug’s words at the lake galloped back to her, about Nils being attracted to her. No, this was just gratitude talking. That was all. Surely that was all?

Three days and they were still shearing.
If only I could be out there,
Nils thought. His curiosity needed more than a view through the window to be satisfied. Would he have been able to do all the things Ingeborg took so for granted? And always made look easy? He watched, wishing he could see through that rock wall.

Jon and Kari had taken the shorn sheep out to pasture at the far end of the valley. They’d not gone up into the hills like usual. He’d learned the patterns of life at a seter through all his hours of forced watching. Finally he could read for longer times, but the life going on around him was far more fascinating than Plato and Voltaire.

The kettle hanging over the dwindling fire emitted fragrant smells that set his stomach to growling. One of the others would be in soon to stir the pot and feed the fire. He knew better than to try to walk by himself. He would not take a chance on undoing all the progress that had been gained. He’d thought about many things on his pallet, the lessons
he was learning—patience being one and fortitude another. Hopefully both of those would help lead to wisdom.

How would he ever forgive himself for taking such a foolish chance? Hiking by himself. One of the first laws the lovers of mountain hiking learned was never to hike alone. The folks at the inn had tried to stop him. More than one friend had tried to talk him into remaining in Oslo. As had his family. He shook his head. No wonder his father was always disappointed in him.

Ingeborg had said someone would be coming up from town soon with mail and messages. He would take down the letters Nils had written to be mailed. His mor and far must be frantic by now.

Perhaps he had needed an extended time of introspection, since he so rarely indulged in that aspect of life. He’d always believed the mountains had the ability to change a man. Now he knew that for certain. Ingeborg would say it was God who changed men. Watching those at the seter made him wonder. What was the difference between his family and this one, other than the obvious house and life and all the accoutrements of wealth? Those here had something he’d not seen before his sojourn at the seter. He started to think of his father and quickly stuck that back in a box down in the depths of his mind.

He’d done enough pondering for the day. Time to study for his test in August. He picked up his textbook. Even that was preferable to thinking about his father and his demands. Voltaire. Unlike many other philosophers, Voltaire possessed a wit worth studying—dry, acerbic, often profound.

Animals have these advantages over man: they never hear the clock strike, they die without any idea of death, they have no theologians to instruct them, their last moments are not
disturbed by unwelcome and unpleasant ceremonies, their funerals cost them nothing, and no one starts lawsuits over their wills.

Nils liked that one. It didn’t strictly apply to his family, though. They were, his far especially, so hidebound, no one would dream of suing, because primogeniture was so thoroughly ingrained. What would he do with his life if he did not enter the business? He would probably have to leave his native land, for starters. Leave the mountains? Leave the sparkling waters of the Vik, the supreme majesty of the deep fjords and the soaring eagles? Just when he thought pondering might bear some fruit, it discouraged him further.

Mari returned, scrubbed her hands, and started getting out flour and other ingredients.

He laid Voltaire and company aside. “What are you making now?”

“Biscuits to go with the rabbit stew. Hare stew, actually.”

“Rabbit? Hare?”

“Hjelmer’s trapping paid off. He moved his trapline to another place and we have enough to feed everyone. He usually does that a lot up here.”

“Is there anything he cannot do?”

“Umm, make biscuits.” Her grin made him chuckle.

It would be hard to put anything over on that girl. Besides being a fine cook, she was really observant. She and Gunlaug. All of them, really. Well, most of them.

Sometimes when Gunlaug was sitting at her loom, she talked with him. He surely hoped that her man, Ivar, was all she thought him to be. Of course, then he could probably walk on water too. Strange that Ingeborg didn’t much care for the young man.

An itch started again down on his leg. Scratching it through all the wrappings was not an easy feat. When Ingeborg rewrapped it the other day, he was appalled at how his injured leg had become smaller, not that either leg was very strong now. How quickly the body lost muscles when not used. He wasn’t sure he’d even be able to hike back to the inn where he’d started.

He had to walk again and soon.

Mari brought the Dutch oven over to the fire and set it off to the side, wiggling it down into the coals as she always did.

“You are letting the pot heat, right?” He shook his head. “Our cook at home sure has it easy compared to you.”

“Ja, that’s probably true. You’ve been getting cooking lessons whether you wanted them or not, haven’t you.”

“I have been getting lots of lessons I did not know I needed.” He inhaled as she lifted the lid on the other pot, which was hanging over the fire, and stirred. “If that tastes as good as it smells, there will not be any left over. That is for sure.”

She dipped some stew out on the wooden spoon and held it out. “Here, taste and see what you think. It is hot.”

He blew on the spoon and waited, inhaling the fragrance. When he tasted it, he could feel the grin that stretched his cheeks. “How do you make everything taste so good?”

“I just add salt and pepper and other things until it tastes right. Easy. Anyone could do it.”

He shook his head slowly, from side to side. “You are wrong. I know people who have cooked for years and nothing they make ever tastes really good.” He was thinking of his mor. She could cook, her own mor had made sure of that, but
delicious
was not a word one used to describe a meal his mor prepared. It was one of the reasons they had a cook.

He heard shouts outside. “What is wrong now?”

“Nothing. This is a big rite. They just sheared the last sheep. Now we concentrate on other things: we wash and clean the fleece, and we spend a lot of time carding the wool to keep the two spinning wheels in motion. And we keep making cheese.”

“Does all the work never end?”

Mari stared at him. “Is it supposed to?”

“Well, in the city, people go to their jobs, where they work, and at the end of the day or the shift, they stop working and go home.”

“Here we live with our work.”

“I see that.”

Mari put coals in the bottom of the Dutch oven and placed the biscuit dough in the upper level on the rack. After making sure there were plenty of coals surrounding the oven, she stoked the rest of the fire, and wiped her forehead with the corner of her apron.

“I agree. Gets right hot in here.”

———

“Go wash,” Mari ordered as the others hit the doorway. “Down in the creek and bring back two buckets of water. Takk.”

One would think Mari was much older than her ten years, as the others did her bidding. She would make a fine general some day.

When Ingeborg and Gunlaug came in laughing, the wet edges of their skirts said they had not only been
to
the creek but
in
it. Water dotted their shirts too. Someone had been splashing.

“The others are having too much fun to come right now.”

“The biscuits are not ready yet. Would one of you please bring in the buttermilk and butter?”

“Come on, Gunlaug, we will cut and hang the curd at the same time.” The two left again along with the sun they had brought in.

“So what are they doing out there?”

“Cheese is made from cream that has been heated and mixed with rennet to make it solid.”

He nodded. She had told him this before, but he was listening harder now.

“We cut the curd, what the cream forms, and drain the whey away. We have been drinking that, and I use it in cooking. The animals love it too. It is good food. The curd is hung in cheesecloth bags to drain. When it is dry enough, we put it in a cheese mold, or maybe just a large flat pan, and press it down tightly to force the rest of the whey out, what little is left. We can eat some at that point—”

“The soft cheese that we have been eating?” Tasty soft cheese. Fresh, yet not fresh.

“Ja! Most of it is molded in big rounds—wheels—and we wax them so they don’t spoil or dry out. Then we store them to age in the cheese house. Some farms use a cellar, but we have a cavern cut away back into the hill. It always stays the same temperature.”

“And goat cheese is made the same way?”

“Ja, and I have heard that in different parts of the world they use different kinds of milk. Camel, sheep, whatever kind of animal they can milk. But cows produce the most and goats after that.”

“What about gjetost?”

“We do not usually make that, although Ingeborg knows
how. Sometimes people add other things to the cheese too, to give it different flavors. And different countries make different kinds. The Swiss make a kind with holes in it—Emmental. I, for sure, don’t know how they manage to put holes down inside.”

“I never really gave much thought to cheeses, well, not really to most food. Cook buys things at the market, and then he cooks them and serves them in the dining room at home.”

Mari studied him curiously. “After dinner would you tell me about your home? What it looks like?”

“I will.”
Maybe Ingeborg will join us.
His personal angel of mercy. He had a new thought. “How is Tor coming with the leather gloves? I would have him make me a pair if he has the materials.”

Mari shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him. I do not really know.”

“And do not really care?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Probably only to someone who has nothing to do but observe. You hide it well.”

“Takk.” She lifted the lid on the Dutch oven, nodded, and with a smooth motion pulled it out of the fire. She immediately swept the trailing coals back into the fire, even though the floor in front of the fireplace was made of slate to prevent fires from happening in just such a situation.

She stepped outside to ring the bar, returned to lift the biscuits out onto a plate on the table, and then came over for the stewpot she had removed from the fire.

Nils would have given anything to offer to help. They all worked so hard, and there he sat.
I will not live the way I have in the past,
he promised himself.
I am no longer taking wealth
for granted. There is too much to be done in this world.
All his life he had had servants to wait on him. What were their lives like? Did they work as hard as these people did?

In noisy high spirits, the shearing crew came tumbling in and seated themselves at the table. Hamme said grace, and Gunlaug began filling plates and passing them down the table. Mari prepared a plate of stew and biscuits for Nils and brought it to him.

He thanked her and discovered the stew was even better than that foretaste he’d had. Here he sat in his chair by the fire; there they sat at their table. All together and yet apart. He was not with them, not of them. Very near them, yet not in their world. It was an unsettling thought.

“I think we should lift Nils’s chair and haul him outside.” Hjelmer made his announcement when they were nearly done eating. “Tor has a good idea.”

Tor took the cue. “We stick two poles under the seat of that chair and four of us can carry him out, kind of like we did with carrying him home.”

“What a good idea.” Ingeborg smiled at Tor. “Why did we not think of that sooner?”

“He hasn’t been in the chair that long.” Tor tried to look like it was nothing, but his almost smile gave him away.

Nils applauded. “Thank you, young man. I am looking forward to real sunshine on my face. It’s a good thing you are all strong. I could not have carried weight like that when I was your age. And to think you all carried me clear from that creek. Up to the trail.” He shook his head as he spoke, and when his voice broke, he stopped to clear his throat. After rolling his lips together, he continued. “You saved my life. All of you.” He caught Ingeborg blinking and Gunlaug sniffing.

After heaving a heavy breath, he added, “I heard a story once about two men; one saved the other man’s life. The one saved said, ‘I owe you my life, so how can I help you now? It is yours.’ I feel that way about all of you.”

The room was silent as most of those around the table studied their hands or the plates or the spoons in front of them. Jon finally broke the silence.

“Are there any more biscuits?” The laughter made him look around. “What?”

“Yes, there is one more, and you may have it.” Mari passed the plate. “Go ahead and have more of that cheese on it too. I wish we had more jam.”

“Maybe whoever comes up will bring some.” Jon moved the biscuit to his plate and carefully split it open.

Ingeborg and Gunlaug exchanged smiles and slight nods.

Nils watched them. The two took their responsibilities to not only teach skills and get the work done, but to teach morals and the Bible and how to live the kind of life they lived. Did they even begin to understand all they were doing? Or was it a natural thing? They quoted Bible verses like he quoted Plato or poets, mostly dead men. This family made the Bible seem alive and useful and a pleasure.