An Untamed Land (34 page)

The work began as the first bird notes announced the coming dawn. Treating each three-foot strip of sod like a brick, they overlapped the seams. The weight of the new layers packed those below, creating walls a good twelve inches thick and solid enough to withstand any elements. As the walls rose, the three boys ran water to the workers and played tag around the wagons. Their laughter rose above the grunts of the men and the chatter of the women.

Penny minded Gunny in the shade of the wagon, leaving the three women free to cook. They even found time to exchange a packet of precious quilt pieces. To Ingeborg, it felt like home.

The men fulfilled their predictions early in the afternoon, then they headed for the riverbanks with axes and the crosscut saw.

The three women entered through the opening left for the door and turned around to check out the space. The east end still had an opening for the fireplace with a goose-down cloud floating on a blue sky that substituted for a roof. But two walls were completed to their seven-foot height, and the door lintel would be finished when they had a wooden piece to lay across the strips of sod.

“Well, it certainly looks solid.” Kaaren laid one hand on a dark wall. Pieces of grass dangled in spots and sprouted straight up in others.

“It smells like the ground all right.” Ingeborg jerked some of the grass loose, sending a shower of dirt onto the floor.
How will four adults, one rambunctious little boy, and a creeping infant live in these cramped quarters through a Dakota winter?

They could hear the ring of the axes and the crash of one tree after another falling. “We’d better get some supper ready; they’ll be mighty hungry after a day like this.” Kaaren led the way out of the room. “Mrs. Baard, do you . . .”

“Please call me Agnes; it sounds so much friendlier. And Mr. Baard is Joseph.”

Kaaren and Ingeborg nodded. “Then you must do the same. We are Kaaren and Ingeborg. The two brothers are Roald and Carl.” Ingeborg pointed to herself. “And I am married to Roald, the one without the beard.” As if they’d worked together for years, the three women scurried about and prepared the evening meal, with Agnes telling them of life in Ohio, where they’d farmed with her husband’s brother.

When Ingeborg realized that Agnes knew some English, she felt a renewed thrill of anticipation. Perhaps this winter they could come together for schooling. Kaaren could teach the children reading, writing, and arithmetic, and Agnes would teach them all English. This all depended, of course, on the Baards finding land to homestead within a reasonable distance. It would be heavenly to look to the west and see a trail of smoke curling into the sky from a cook fire, to know that a friendly face would appear at a door if you walked that way. The thought gave her goose bumps.

The next day they raised the walls for the barn.

When the Baards drove off, the silence that fell seemed deeper and more profound than ever. But when a meadowlark flew overhead pouring out music with great abandon, the joy of the morning returned.

Roald plowed the ground, newly stripped of sod, and the dirt rolled over in curls like good soil was meant to.

Thorliff plucked a fat worm from a clump of dirt and, laughing in delight, held it up for all to see. “Let’s go fishing.”

“Tomorrow, den lille. Today we plant.” While Roald finished the plowing and then pulled the drag over to loosen the soil even further, Ingeborg carefully cut the few remaining seed potatoes so that each small chunk had at least one eye, preferably two. When finished with that, she dug into the trunk that held their seed collection, packed so carefully in Norway. Carrots, turnips, rutabagas, beans, and oats. She dug further and found cabbage seed and onion, and finally down in the bottom, flowers: nasturtium, marigold, hollyhocks, and pansies. Would the plants survive in this harsh wind?
Please, God.
She clutched the packets tight in her fist against her breast.
Please!

That night in the beds they had moved under the wagon when the ground dried, Ingeborg turned to Roald. “Mange takk for the garden,” she whispered.

He rolled over and propped his head up on his hand. “I am glad you like it. We are so much further on now, after the help of our new friends. Soon you will have a house again.” He motioned to the square box throwing shadows in the moonlight.

“Ja, soon.” She cuddled closer and laid her hand on his chest. “I’ve missed you.”

“Ja, me too.” He wrapped her in his arms, and it was some time before sleep found them.

Right after breakfast, Ingeborg gathered her seeds, and while Kaaren managed the housekeeping chores, Ingeborg marked her first row in the garden. She dropped seeds and showed Thorliff how to cover them. She let him plant the beans since the seeds were easier to see, while she marked the next row with sticks pounded in at either end.

Back and forth they worked, taking moments to admire a particularly fine worm. Once Ingeborg picked up a handful of the rich Dakota soil and held it to her nose. The smell—the wonderful smell of dirt waiting to be planted. So black, so pure. No rocks and pebbles to be hauled away. Just dig and plant.

“Come for dinner.” Kaaren stood at the edge of the garden.

“Already?” Ingeborg straightened and wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. She gazed with love over her handiwork. Now for a good gentle rain to soak the ground, and with the warm sun, the seeds should sprout quickly. A garden, their first garden on their own land. Well, almost their own.

That evening she and Thorliff went fishing.

Behind them the ring of axes told of the men’s labor to cut roof timbers. With all the noise, Ingeborg didn’t bother to look over her shoulder for the wolf. Besides, now that she knew the wolf and Metis were friends, she wasn’t quite so afraid.

She sat on her log, swatted at a mosquito on her arm, and let her mind wander over the last weeks. Kaaren had to talk fast to keep Roald from hunting for the wolf. She was right; it wasn’t the wolf’s fault Ingeborg fell. It was her own fault for panicking like that. Thinking of the wolf brought her mind to Metis. Wasn’t there some way they could share the land? Metis didn’t ask for much.

“Mor!” Thorliff’s shout jolted her back to the present. “Help me. I got a fish.”

Ingeborg stuck her pole in a crook of the log and leaned over to assist her son. “Easy now.” The pole quivered as the fish swam upstream, then down. When it slowed, Ingeborg whispered, “When I say jerk, you pull the pole back as hard as you can, all right?”

Thorliff nodded, his eyes big as the saucers beneath her good china cups.

“Now! Jerk!”

Thorliff jerked the pole, and a two-foot fish landed on the log behind him. “Get him.”

“Hang on to the pole.” Ingeborg grabbed for the flopping fish and missed.

“Get it, Mor.”

Their shouts brought Carl and Roald on the run.

Ingeborg grabbed again and this time got both hands around the slippery, flopping fish. She stuck one finger in a gill and hoisted the fish up for all to see.

“He’s a beauty.” Carl looked from the fish to the boy, who flailed arms and legs in his excitement. “You are a real fisherman, Thorly.”

“Get your pole.” Roald made a dive for Ingeborg’s pole, which was fast disappearing, towed by a fish on her line. Soaking wet and in the water to his knees, Roald held up the pole with another fish flipping on the end of the line.

“Far, you are all wet.” Thorliff stared at his father, mouth hanging open.

“But we got the fish.”

“Ja, that we did.”

“And you can lay money that any fish within half a mile has left the country,” Carl said with a laugh. “You think two fish are enough for breakfast?”

Thorliff nodded. “They are big fish.” He looked at the one his father had laid on the bank. “And mine is the biggest.”

“Ja, it is. Think you can carry them back to camp?” Ingeborg took the two fish Roald had stuck on a stick.

Thorliff eyed the load. “One is yours. You could help me.”

Ingeborg felt the smile warm her belly before it reached her face. She looked up to see a corner of Roald’s mouth lift, deepening the crease line from nose to chin. That was definitely a twinkle in his eye. Her heart nearly burst with joy.

“Ja, I will help you just as you helped me all morning in the garden. Come, we will go show these fine fish to Tante Kaaren. She has missed all the fun.”

The thud of ax on tree accompanied them back to the homesite.

The gentle rain came as if in answer to her prayers. It fell through the night and only broke with a rainbow in the rising sun. Drops turned into diamonds on the blades of grass and outlined a spider’s web that festooned the wagon tongue. Ingeborg repeated her thanks as she went about remaking the fire. Thanks to the wood kept dry under the wagon, fire-starting was no longer the chore it had been, especially since right under the waterpot several coals still smoldered.

Two nights later, the cow dropped her calf. They awoke to the sight of a white tail flicking from side to side as the little heifer nursed.

Thorliff squealed and ran toward them before Ingeborg could grab his arm. The cow lowed once and lowered her head.

Roald snatched his son back, just in time. “She doesn’t want you to touch her calf, so stay away.”

“But, Far, Boss is my friend.” Thorliff looked up at his father as if he’d been struck.

“Ja, but not today. Give her a couple of days to get used to us again. I will teach you to milk her, starting tonight.”

“But then what will the calf drink?”

“Don’t you worry; she will get her share.” Roald gave Thorliff a
pat on the behind. “You go stake Lamb out now, or she will be complaining about having nothing to eat.”

That evening Roald tied Boss to the wagon wheel, and after overturning one bucket to use for a stool, he set the other bucket under the cow’s swollen udder and sat down. Thorliff hung right by his shoulder. “See, now, you put your hands on two of the teats and squeeze.” Twin jets of thin liquid danced on the bottom of the pail. Roald milked some more, explaining the squeeze and pull of milking. “This isn’t her real milk yet. See the globs of colostrum?”

Thorliff had his head planted against his father’s shoulder. “Ja.”

“That’s for the calf to be healthy, and Mor will make us some pudding from it.” Roald continued to milk. “You want to try?” He moved his bent leg back so Thorliff could squeeze in.

Thorliff knelt by the bucket, took the two first teats in his hands, and squeezed. Nothing happened. He tried again, still to no avail. “My hands won’t work.”

Roald put his larger ones over his son’s, and together they stripped the milk from Boss’s udder. “You see how it feels?”

Thorliff sat back on his haunches and shook his head. “I have to squeeze harder.”

“Ja, squeeze and pull. You will learn.”

From the shelter of the wagon, Ingeborg watched the two of them. She looked forward to doing the milking, and by the time they had more cows, Thorliff would be a good assistant.

The men spent each night hewing the timbers for the sod house and barn. The ridgepoles were hand-hewn, and the beams were sawed from larger branches. Thorliff gathered all the chips and piled them under the wagon to dry for kindling, then stacked the small branches along with the larger ones cut into fireplace lengths. Keeping ahead of the cooking fire was a monumental chore, especially when Carl returned from hunting with another deer.

“I could have bagged a second one, but I didn’t see how you could handle all that meat, as warm as it is.”

“It’s a good thing Roald brought back a bag of salt. We’ll cure part of it while the rest is drying.” Besides drying the meat, the smudgy smoke from the fire did one other thing—it kept the mosquitoes at bay. With warm days and nights that didn’t cool much, the pests descended upon the Bjorklunds, both human and animal. Even Boss and her calf found relief around the smoky fire.

With summer, the black flies hatched and pestered them even more. Ingeborg couldn’t believe that now she prayed for wind, because
only then did the tormentors let up. Roald and Carl had rigged fly guards for the horses and oxen—canvas cut into strips that brushed over the animals’ faces and protected their eyes.

The day after the surveyors moved on, Roald took the steamboat to Grand Forks to file on their land. Nothing was said of Metis’ claim. Against her will Ingeborg kept her mouth closed.

One week later to the day, Mr. Baard rode by to tell them he’d been to Grand Forks and filed on his homestead. He said the land lay due west about five miles. Now they would begin breaking sod, and he figured he would do the same as the Bjorklunds had done and put the garden where he cut the sod for the house and barn.

“You let us know when, and we’ll be there.” Roald tipped his hat back and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “We sure need rain, wouldn’t you say?”

“Ja, I’m just grateful we were able to find land with water on it, like you have. I heard tales of some folks having to haul water along with all the other work. If someone wanted to go into the well-drilling business, I think they could make a good living at it. ’Course they’d have to take payment in trade since no one has cash for extras.”

Ingeborg listened to their discussion while she kneaded the bread and tended the drying venison.
This country also needs someone to raise workhorses and oxen, and someone to go into the black-smithing business. Pounding out plowshares is a never-ending chore
.

What she wouldn’t give for a well and a springhouse to keep things cool. Carl had promised to dig a root cellar in time for harvesting the garden. They needed a smokehouse too. She had been putting the churn to good use, so she quickly fetched a sack and put a soft cheese, butter, and a loaf of bread in it.

“Here, you take this home to Agnes and tell her she knows what to do with it. I can’t keep up with all the milk that cow is producing.” Ingeborg stepped back and waved as he thanked them and prepared to leave. What a glorious feeling to have something to give away. To think they had friends nearby. What a blessing.