Northern Lights Trilogy

new horizons
June–September 1880

E
lsa Anders knew she would remember everything of this moment, even as an old and bent woman. The scent of sea and wild clover, the vision of seven peaks about her, the feel of the cold North Sea’s stiff wind that would leave her cheeks chapped and rosy come morning. This high up, it was cold enough to make her nose run. She reached for her handkerchief, but as usual, her father was already ahead of her, offering his instead. She took it gratefully, feeling the impact of the realization that he might never hand her anything again. For she was going. Far away and forever, it seemed.

Papa himself was uncommonly quiet tonight, Elsa mused, undoubtedly dreading what she herself dreaded: parting. In two days, she was to wed her beloved Peder. Her heart skipped at the thought of it, and her breath became even more labored.
Peder, oh Peder
. Her darling, who had finally come home to claim her as his own! Her heart swelled with pride at the thought of him. He had stood so proudly at the helm of the
Herald
as it entered port last week! Such a vision he was: all manly man, standing several inches taller than her own impressive height. His long brown hair had a slight rakish wave
to it, and on top, the sun-bleached highlights common to sailors. In the year since she had last seen him, his face had matured. Lines at his eyes had deepened, and his skin was tanned to a golden bronze. How could such joy walk hand in hand with such sorrow? How could she walk by his side while leaving her entire family and the only home she had known for her twenty years of life?

Elsa looked west and then east, crying out silently to God.
Please, Father, tell me this is right, tell me this is good
.

There was no moon, but Elsa needed no illumination. She knew the landscape by heart. A million stars glittered high above the mountains that towered over Bergen and the darker, winding coastline of the Byfjorden. Turning a corner around an outcropping of rock, she could see below her the ancient city of Bergen, its warm lights twinkling softly. The town had once been the biggest trade port in Norway, surpassing even Copenhagen in the Middle Ages. In recent years, the pace had slowed, shipping traffic had moved on, and Bergen was left to find its own way in a new age.

Silently, she and her father reached their destination and sat on a large, flat stone and looked to the heavens. The two of them had come to this spot countless times, this place that Elsa, as a child, had named Our Rock. Her father, a slight man with a bone structure that Elsa had inherited, took her smooth hand in his withered, arthritic-bent one. Elsa thought that if she could travel back forty years, their fingers would be nearly identical: long and thin, yet strong. Perfect for a career as a shipwright, which was what her father had worked at for decades, forming, modeling, building ships. The longing to draw her own plans—or anything else for that matter—gripped her as she stared at the stars. But her destiny lay elsewhere. She was to be Mrs. Peder Ramstad, and she would find her fulfillment in that. Yet the ships in port called to her. Many were majestic vessels, and Elsa could see them in her imagination, crashing through a cyclone’s worst wave, brave and formidable….

Her father cleared his throat as if to speak, and her attention
immediately focused back on home and the present. How could she leave her dear old father? The agony of it threatened to break her heart. Oh, why could her parents not come with them to America? Why did she have to leave her loved ones to have another?

Elsa could hear him take in a breath, and then, after a moment, sigh heavily. An old ship designer who married his beloved Gratia years behind most couples, Amund Anders had started his family late in life. Somehow, Elsa intuitively knew that this made it harder for him to let any of his brood go. And she was going. Her heart beat triple fast again at the thought of it. In two days’ time she would wed. The day after, she and Peder would sail for America.

Her father tried again. “Elsa, my sweet, many dangers are ahead of you. Are you certain of this path?”

“As certain as I can be, Papa. I know that I love Peder with all my heart.”

Amund harrumphed, then remained quiet for a moment. Then, “Love is a good thing for a young heart. But it is not always the best compass in trying to find one’s way. This immigration”—he cast about for the right word—“
fever
is like the smallpox. It threatens Bergen like the angry blisters the pox leaves on one’s skin.”

“Or perhaps it is like scarlet fever,” she answered carefully, “leaving one with a new appreciation for life.”

Her father nodded, relishing her banter. Elsa knew how he would miss their intellectual sparring. Her older sister, Carina, seemed to have not a thought in her head, while her younger sister, Tora, was too busy to stop and indulge in the pleasure of conversation and discussion.

“Papa,” she began, looking toward the skies again, “I must know. Do you disapprove of Peder?”

“Do I disapprove?” he scoffed. “I disapprove of the fact that he is taking my darling daughter away from me. I disapprove of the fact that you will not be here to comfort me in my old age. But of the boy himself ? I cannot disapprove. The boy … the
man
is like a son to
me.” Amund turned to Elsa and cradled her cheek in his hand. “I am so happy for you, Elsa. I am happy that you’ve found your own beloved as I found my own in your mother. But permit me to grieve. I promise. On your wedding day, I will celebrate your union and not grieve any longer. But tonight, please allow an old man a bit of sadness.”