More Than a Dream (38 page)
Ingeborg shook her head as she separated the thick fall into three strands. ‘‘That boy. Uff da.’’ She stopped what she was doing. ‘‘How about if I braid from both sides as usual and then join them and finish as one?’’
‘‘That sounds nice. Thank you.’’ Astrid sat on the stool, humming a song as her mother looped the strands over one another. ‘‘Soon I will be old enough to wear my hair up.’’
‘‘Don’t be in too big a hurry. Time is flying by as it is.’’
‘‘It is? Not when I do my arithmetic. How come I have to do arithmetic?’’
‘‘How else would you be able to help with the bookkeeping in the cheese house if you didn’t know your numbers?’’
‘‘You do all that.’’
‘‘Ja, but you are getting old enough that you can learn.’’
‘‘Tante Penny lets me help in the store. She says I make change really good, er, really well.’’
‘‘I’m sure you do.’’ Ingeborg dropped a kiss on the straight part in her daughter’s hair. ‘‘There you go. Let the cat back in before he has a fit.’’
‘‘I need to go feed my chickens.’’
‘‘The door needs to be dug out first. Far will do it later.’’
Astrid took out the silverware and set the table while they talked. ‘‘Are we having porridge?’’
‘‘No. Ham and eggs and fried bread.’’
‘‘Yum. With syrup?’’
‘‘If you like.’’ Ingeborg dug a hunk of rising dough out of the bowl and smoothed the rest back into a smooth mound. Laying the dough on a floured board, she cut it into roll-sized pieces and flattened each one to then be dropped in the sizzling lard in an iron skillet on the back of the stove. They puffed up as they fried, and when browned, she turned them over, standing them on their sides in a warming pan on the shelf of the stove.
She’d just finished when they heard the men knocking snow off their boots at the door.
‘‘You pour the coffee, and I’ll fry the eggs. Oh, and open a jar of applesauce too. Andrew likes dipping his bread in that.’’
By the time the men were washed up and seated, Ingeborg set the serving platters in front of them. They all bowed their head for grace and at the amen reached for the platters to pass around the table.
‘‘Mor, you make the best breakfasts.’’
‘‘Why, thank you, son. We haven’t had fried bread for a long time.’’
‘‘Nor fried cornmeal mush either. I like that.’’ Astrid dipped her bread in the puddle of syrup on her plate.
‘‘You have a drop of syrup on your dress.’’ Ingeborg pointed to a place on her own front to show where and nodded when Astrid used her napkin to dab it away. Many was the time her daughter just pulled her dress up enough to suck off the syrup or jam.
‘‘You might want to use soap and water on that too. Sticky syrup will attract more dirt.’’
When the children were out the door to jump in the wagon bed set on skids that Lars drove up, and Haakan returned to clean out the barn, Ingeborg wrapped some cheese, bread, and a jar of jam for Metiz. She stuck them in a backpack, and after getting into her heavy coat, scarf, and mittens, she slung the pack over her shoulders and took down the skis from the pegs on the wall in the porch.
Ingeborg blinked against the brilliance of the sun on the new snow. She raised her face to feel any warmth, shutting her eyes against the glare. With the loops of the poles over her wrists, she set off, reveling in the pull of the muscles in her legs. Her breath clouded in front of her face, and flying down a long, high drift made her laugh. The silence of a land shrouded in new snow struck her ears, her breathing and the hiss of the skis the only sounds.
She took in a deep breath and exhaled, the plume of steam dampening her cheeks as she surged ahead.
Free, I’m free!
The thought brought a laugh that came out part choke.
Thank you,
God, the weight is gone! Thank you for bringing me back to life!
Thank you, thank you
. If she could have twirled in place on skis she would have.
As she drew nearer to Metiz’ little house, she slowed. No smoke rose from the chimney. The front porch had not been swept off. She glided up to the buried step and unbuckled her skis.
‘‘Metiz!’’ Her voice rattled in the cottonwoods around the house. ‘‘Oh, God, please, not Metiz.’’ She pushed open the front door and stepped inside where the temperature seemed the same as outside.
‘‘Oh, Metiz!’’ She stood in the light from the doorway and stared at the small body barely evident under the covers. No movement, only an intense sense of no one being there.
Ingeborg crossed to the bed and tried to see through the tears already raining down her cheeks. ‘‘When, oh Lord? How long has she been gone?’’
She touched the leathered cheek, the lips curved in a slight smile. Her dark eyes that spoke so much of life were closed. ‘‘You went the way you wanted, in your sleep. But oh, my dear friend, how I am going to miss you. Lord, please . . .’’ But she wasn’t even sure what she was asking for. Pulling over a chair, she sat by the bedside, her breath rising in steam clouds like outside. Had the fire gone out in the night and she froze? ‘‘Oh, Lord, I hope not.’’ The peaceful look on her friend’s face brought more tears.
The wolf howled last night
. The thought brought her halfway to her feet, but she sat down again. ‘‘It couldn’t have been.’’ She stood and walked to the front door, almost afraid to look out. She stepped outside and studied the area where snow had not drifted. Big dog tracks? She looked closer. No. Wolf’s track, his deformed foot a signature like none other. She found more tracks at the back door and circling the house.
‘‘She saved your life all those years ago, and now you returned to announce and mourn her passing. How fitting.’’ Ingeborg blinked back the renewed onslaught of tears. ‘‘She died last night, didn’t she? We saw smoke yesterday morning. And he came.’’ But her only answer was a deeper sense of peace.
‘‘I’ll be back, my friend.’’ She strapped her skis on again and headed home. She had to see if Wolf’s tracks were at their door too.
She skied up to the barn and, leaning the skis against the barn wall, stepped inside the warm and cow-scented interior.
‘‘Haakan?’’ When there was no answer, she raised her voice. ‘‘Haakan?’’
‘‘Back here,’’ he called from the horses’ stalls.
Ingeborg found him brushing the horses. ‘‘She’s gone.’’
‘‘Metiz?’’
‘‘Ja. I think in the night. I didn’t check for coals in the stove, but the house was real cold. Remember the wolf howling so close last night?’’
He stopped grooming and came to lean against the stall post. ‘‘Ja.’’
‘‘Help me check, but I think it was Wolf. His tracks are all around her cabin.’’
Haakan cleaned the brushes by scraping them, bristle on bristle. He set the brushes on a shelf and came to take Ingeborg in his arms. ‘‘I’m not surprised. Metiz has been getting weaker and weaker. Why, we were just talking about her last night.’’ He rested his cheek on her head where her knitted scarf had pulled back. ‘‘I am so sorry for us, you, but not for her.’’
‘‘Do you think Pastor Solberg will bury her in the church cemetery?’’
Haakan sighed. ‘‘There might be a ruckus over it.’’
‘‘I was thinking, what if we burned her house down?’’
‘‘Is that what the Indians do?’’
‘‘I’ve heard of it.’’ She sighed, her cheek shifting against the rough wool of his coat. ‘‘How would we find out?’’
‘‘Pastor Solberg has been in contact with the Indian agent for the reservation. He will tell us.’’
‘‘I will miss her so. She taught me everything. If it weren’t for her, we might not have made it that terrible year.’’ She looked up at her husband. ‘‘Do you think she knew?’’
‘‘Knew what?’’
‘‘That her time was coming. She had that extra sense so often, of knowing things.’’
‘‘Could be.’’ He tilted her chin up and kissed her. ‘‘Another sorrow for you.’’
Ingeborg shook her head. ‘‘She lived a long life, and this is right. I am sad, for I will miss her dreadfully, but sorrow? No. She’s gone home to be with our Great Spirit. How she loved to say that when I said God or our Father. I think that’s why it was easy for her to believe in Jesus. He is the Son of God, so He is our brother.’’
‘‘Some here will disagree with you.’’
‘‘They did not know her as I did and do.’’ She hooked her arm through his. ‘‘Come, let’s go look for Wolf’s tracks.’’
They found them to the side of the house where the snow didn’t drift in as deep.
‘‘He was letting us know?’’
Haakan shook his head. ‘‘I . . . I just don’t know about that.’’
‘‘What other explanation is there?’’
He sighed. ‘‘I don’t know that either. But then, there are a lot of things I don’t understand. I’m just glad God does.’’
‘‘You want a cup of coffee?’’
‘‘Ja. I will stop in to tell Pastor when I go for the children. You want to tell Kaaren and Ilse?’’
‘‘I’ll ski over there later.’’
Ingeborg rattled the grate and laid more wood in on top of the coals. As soon as she had the lids back in place, she brought the coffeepot forward to the hottest part of the stove and crossed to the crock that held cookies baked the day before.
Haakan sat down at the table. ‘‘I got the chickens shoveled out and cleared the path to the cheese house. There’s enough milk out there to start a batch.’’ Due to the reduced milk production in the winter when many farmers let their cows go dry, the Bjorklunds made far less cheese. So that was when they cleaned out the cheese house and prepared for spring and the new crop of calves.
Ingeborg took a knife out of the drawer to cut the cheese and stared at the blade sunk in a deer horn handle—Metiz’ specialty. Tears stung again and she brushed them away with the back of her hand. So many things to remember her friend by, but wasn’t that the way it was supposed to be between friends? ‘‘I’ll write to Manda and Baptiste tonight. And Thorliff—he’ll want to know.’’
‘‘I think I’ll take a hammer and boards out there and board her house up until we decide what to do.’’
‘‘Good.’’ She set the coffee in front of him. Only into the new year two months. What would the rest of 1896 bring?
Blessing, North Dakota
April 1896
Ingeborg stood at the kitchen window, hands cupping her elbows. Snow still covered the land with not a hint of a thaw, and heavy clouds hung over the earth. ‘‘Will this winter never be over?’’
The cat stretched in his place in the rocker by the stove and jumped to the floor to wind around her skirts. She leaned over and picked him up, cuddling him under her chin like Astrid did. The heavy purr vibrated her arms, and his ear tickled her chin.
‘‘Good thing I have quilting tomorrow or I swear I will go stark raving mad. It’s not like I have nothing to do, but I am sick and tired of that wind. Here it is almost Easter and spring hasn’t even shown its nose.’’
With a sigh she left the window and checked the cake she had baking to take to the church with her the next day. She’d already made a pot of beef barley soup, since it was her turn to serve, and the simmering the next morning would only improve the flavor.
She set the cat back in the chair, opened the oven door to gently press the cake top to check for doneness, and closed the oven door again to let the cake bake a few more minutes. After the cake was resting on the counter to cool before frosting, she returned to sorting through her leftover pieces of fabric to see what to take for the quilting.
Feeling more restless by the moment, she picked up the family Bible and took it over to the rocking chair by the stove to read but first gently nudged the cat to the floor.
‘‘Goodness sakes, it’s too dark to even see to read.’’ Laying the Bible aside, she rose and lit the kerosene lamp, setting it up on the warming shelf of the stove to shed a pool of light over the rocker.
The cat had taken over the chair again.
She paused in picking him up. Was that a wolf howl? In the daytime? If they were that hungry, perhaps she’d better go out to the sheep shed and check on her flock.
The sound came again. Either the wind or a wolf howling. She plunked herself back down in the chair. The howling reminded her.
‘‘Ah, how I miss Metiz.’’ The cat jumped back up in her lap, kneading her thighs and pleading for some long overdue petting.
Two tears dropped on his fur.
Ingeborg opened her Bible to the Psalms, and in every one she read, David seemed to be lamenting. Reading aloud, as if to drive off the bleakness, she said, ‘‘ ‘My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? why art thou so far from helping me. . . ?’ ’’ On and on she read, gaining strength from the words. ‘‘ ‘Unto thee will I cry . . . be not silent to me. . . . Hear, O Lord, and have mercy upon me: Lord, be thou my helper.’ ’’
Hearing the sleigh arrive with the schoolchildren, she hastily wiped her eyes, closed the Bible, and rose to build up the fire. Andrew would want something hot to drink before going out to help with the chores.
Andrew and Astrid laughed their way through the door, stamping the snow off their boots and shedding their coats to hang them on the pegs on the wall.
‘‘Guess what, Mor?’’ Astrid flipped her braid back over her shoulder.
