An Untamed Land (52 page)

Lars stopped by Ingeborg’s soddy on his way in from the fields one day. “Kaaren wants you and the boys to come for dinner today. She’s made something special for Thorliff’s birthday.” Lars stood on the rug by the door so his boots wouldn’t drip snow on the dirt floor.

Ingeborg looked up from the bread dough she was kneading at the table. “I have too much to do.” She pointed to the boiler on the stove where she was washing the never-ending diapers and nodded at her bread.

“Surely you could come for an hour or so. You haven’t been to our house for weeks.”

“Please, Mor, can’t we go?”

“I better not take Andrew out in the cold. He had the earache again last night.”

Lars sighed. “Well, can Thorliff come? He doesn’t have the earache, or the stomachache, or any other complaint, does he?”

Ingeborg ignored the irony in his voice. “Yes, he can go with you.” Her shoulders and back ached from chopping wood this morning and the cramps from her monthly didn’t help any. She kept up the steady rhythm of push with the heel of the hand and fold the dough over on itself. She could feel the man’s studious gaze, but she refused to look up.

Andrew set up a wail when he saw Thorliff putting on his coat. How wonderful it would be to send the baby too. A few hours with no demands would be bliss.

“I’ll bring him back later,” Lars said, opening the door.

“Ja, mange takk.” She heard the door slam and Paws yip around them as they strode off for the other soddy. Andrew raised his wail to a shriek and pounded chubby fists on the door. Finally he sank down, leaned his head against the wood and stuck his thumb in his mouth, the tears still trickling down his cheeks as he sniffed.

“Oh, you poor thing.” Ingeborg scooped him up as soon as she
had set the bread by the stove to rise. She tied him on a chair with a dish towel and gave him a crust to chew on while she dished up soup from the kettle simmering on the back of the stove. She sat down beside him and, blowing on each spoonful until it cooled, fed him his dinner. When he refused any more, she changed his diaper and put him in the trundle bed for a nap. “Sleep now, and when you wake up, brother will be home.” Lashes drifted down over his blue eyes, more like his father’s every day. Ingeborg pushed herself to her feet again and went to wring out the diapers. If only she could lie down like that and fall asleep without a care. But, tired as she was, she feared she’d never wake up.

She looked longingly at her knitting needles. It had been so long since she’d picked them up, because when she did she either fell asleep or thoughts of Roald returned with a vengeance. She had had nightmares of him in that last blizzard, lost and calling for her to find him. One night she awoke with her voice hoarse, as though she had been screaming. She’d shuddered at the words of anger she remembered from the dream. What was the matter with her? Was she going daft in the head? Why, oh
why . . . ?
She cut off the thoughts before they could go any further. She would use this time the baby slept to fork straw in for the cows and sheep. When she was outside working, the voices in her head didn’t scream so loudly.

What could she give Thorliff for his birthday? What kind of mother was she to forget her own son’s birthday? And then to not go over there when Kaaren had prepared something special. A thought that had been recurring more and more often of late surfaced again.

Maybe I should ask Kaaren and Lars to take the children. They would give the boys a good home. Much better than I am giving them
.

C
hristmas of 1883 brought little cheer to the soddy on the prairie. Ingeborg made gifts for Andrew and Thorliff, but for no one else. She turned down invitations to Kaaren’s and the Baards’ and only glared when Lars said he’d bring the wagon by, now outfitted with runners, to take them all to church. Service was being held at the Baards’ new house.

All the other neighbors had participated in the house-raising, but Ingeborg couldn’t force herself to go. She pleaded a sick child, but that was only half right, since Andrew seemed to have a runny nose much of the time.

She couldn’t help thinking back to last year. It was just one year ago that the blizzard that destroyed their lives had struck the Red River Valley. She had kept her mind off the memory as much as possible, but when things grew quiet—when the children were asleep, or she had her head butted against the warm flank of a cow and milk was streaming into the bucket—it was there. And each time, the load grew heavier.

If only Roald hadn’t felt responsible for everyone around them. If he’d just taken care of his own family and his brother’s family. If he’d waited to be sure the storm was over. If he and Carl hadn’t gone into town and contracted the influenza. If . . . if . . . if. Such a simple little word to hinge a life upon.

“Mor?” Ingeborg dragged her thoughts back to the present. She felt as though she were swimming up through a murky cloud that threatened to suffocate her.

“Ja?”

“Andrew is crying.”

Ingeborg turned toward the sound she should have heard and
hadn’t. Poor Thorliff. He deserved better than this. He had lost his father, and his mother couldn’t keep her mind on the moments at hand.

“There, there.” She picked up the soaking wet child and made a face at the smell. He’d been wet and dirty for some time. No wonder he was crying. After changing him, she propped him on her hip in the curve of one arm and fetched a loaf of bread to fix them something to eat. She needed to get out to the barn, and Thorliff had better luck keeping Andrew content if he wasn’t hungry. She’d heat up soup for their supper when she got back in.

“Here, let’s take Andrew to the barn with us. The bin is low on oats, and he can play in there while we do the chores.”

The look of relief on Thorliff’s face sent another pang through her heart.

But by the time they’d finished forking in hay and straw, fed and watered the oxen, cows, sheep, and chickens, and had milked the cows, the baby had gone from fussing to screaming to finally falling asleep, completely worn out with the waiting. As it was, Ingeborg didn’t take time to clean stalls or take the oxen out for some needed exercise. They’d be so soft come spring they wouldn’t be able to work half a day at first. She needed to check on the ewes. Lambing would begin in less than a month, and she needed to build a separate pen for the rams.

Maybe Kaaren should take the boys, at least during the lambing season.

January seemed to last clear through to the next December. Ingeborg could never remember a longer month in her life. Every day she promised herself she would spend time with Thorliff on his reading and numbers, and each night she tucked him in bed wanting to apologize for her lack. Andrew clung to her skirts, when she wore them, whining and crying, “Mor, Mor.”

“What is it he wants?” Ingeborg lifted the fretful child up and settled him on her hip. “How can you understand him, when I can’t?”

“He wants a piece of bread.” Thorliff looked up from his slate where, for a change, she had written a few sums for him to do. “A cookie would be good.”

“We don’t have any. There’s corn bread left. I’ll put syrup on it for johnnycake.”

Within minutes Andrew wore syrup from the top of his curly hair to the soles of his knit slippers. It kept him quiet for a good half hour, and the grin on his face made the mopping up worth it all. While he’d babbled at Thorliff, Ingeborg had wrung out diapers and brought in another bucket of water.

The storm hovered on the horizon like a hawk ready to swoop down on its unsuspecting victims. But Ingeborg knew to read the signs. She checked the rope she’d restrung to the barn, brought in extra wood and water, and made sure all the animals had a good drink and extra feed. The thin gold of twilight lay restless over the land—and over the woman who watched the joining of land and sky.

The blizzard struck like the howl of a train bearing down on a station. Safe and warm in her bed, Ingeborg listened to the roar and shuddered in spite of the warm covers around her. It was too much like a year ago. Nightmares stampeded through her mind, many repeated from previous nights and added to new, more ferocious horrors. In all the dreams, she was lost and alone, attacked and left for dead.

She awoke exhausted, and the day went downhill from the start. Andrew fretted and whined until she felt his forehead and realized he was burning up. Terror struck her heart like the wind striking the soddy. She tucked him into bed, making sure he drank cool water, and bathed his feverish forehead and flushed cheeks. Ingeborg dug through her packet of herbs, pulling out willow bark to make a tea drink for him. Should she put a mustard plaster on his chest? All the lore she’d learned from her mother and Metis seemed crowded into a place in her mind that was guarded by a closed door. She couldn’t think what to do.

Pray first, and then do.
Her mother’s words echoed faintly in her mind.

“No!”

“What is it, Mor? Are you all right?” Thorliff stood at her elbow. “You didn’t answer me.”

How long had she been gone? It felt like hours. Where had she been? Was she losing her mind? She had no answers, and the wind just howled more wildly. Andrew whimpered in his sleep, rolling his head from side to side. When he scrubbed his ear with a fist, she knew that his ears hurt again.

“You take care of Andrew. Wipe his face with a cold cloth and get him to drink. I’ll get the chores done as quickly as I can. Put several potatoes in the oven to bake, and when one is done, wrap a cloth around it and put it under his ear. That will help the pain go away.” Ingeborg put on her outside clothes as she gave the instructions. “Make sure you keep the fire going. I have a feeling it is going to get terribly cold tonight.” She wrapped the long wool muffler over her lower face and pulled the knit hat down until only a slit for her eyes remained. “Make sure you keep melting the snow so we have water.” She raised the bar on the door and leaned against it to keep it from slamming against the wall. Snow had drifted halfway up the door, but she couldn’t take time to shovel it now. “Make sure you drop the bar in place or the door will never stay closed. I’ll pound hard when I get back.” She picked up the two full buckets of water and stepped out into the swirling snow. Locking the rope under her arm, she followed it to the sod barn. She knew she’d never have made it without the guide. She couldn’t see down to her feet.

The barn wrapped arms of warmth around her, and the animals all greeted her in their own language. Ingeborg poured out grain and gave every animal a bit of the water. The two milk cows needed the most or they wouldn’t be able to produce milk. The sheep trough that she’d filled earlier had an inch-thick layer of ice, and when she broke it, the sheep crowded around for a drink. One ewe brought her lamb.

“Oh, heavens, you’ve started.” She checked the others, feeling distended bellies and full teats. Why couldn’t they wait until after the blizzard?

She milked the cows and slogged her way back to the house. The snow had filled in her footsteps from the hour earlier. The drift nearly covered the door. If she hadn’t had the rope, she never would have found the house. The soddy looked more like a deep drift than a home. Only the smoke from the chimney would tell anyone there was a house here.