An Untamed Heart (2 page)

Trude rolled her head from side to side. “No. No, I cannot.”

“You must. We will help you.” Hilde nodded to Ingeborg. “We will roll her your way.”

Ingeborg nodded, her stomach clenching along with her teeth. Together she and her mother rolled Trude over.

“Stiffen your arms, Trude. And your knees. We will help you.”

Ingeborg strained, assisting to lift the woman who was so weak she could barely move her arms. Once they had her upright, Hilde braced. “See if you can turn the baby like you did the lamb.”

Ingeborg closed her eyes.
Please, Lord. Please, Lord. Jesus, help me
.

“Trude, you must breathe and do what we say.”

“Ja.” Her head hung. The sound of her panting filled the room.

Ingeborg felt with her fingers. A leg. An arm. A shoulder. She concentrated and imagined that she was working on the ewe. Slowly, gently. A contraction squeezed her hand. The head, she felt the head, like the baby was swimming. And turning. And . . .

“The head, the baby is turned.”

“Thank you, Lord God. Thank you.” Hilde sang her litany over and over. Trude fell on her side and rolled onto her back. An anguished cry ripped from her throat. Her body convulsed and the baby boy flowed into Hilde’s hands.

“Usually we lay the baby on the mother, but . . .” Hilde handed the baby to Ingeborg. “Hold him while I cut the cord.”

With the cord tied off and severed, she returned to her patient to stem the blood flow. “Help him.”

Ingeborg shook the baby gently. “Breathe, baby, breathe. God, make him breathe.” She tipped the baby up and down, then blew in his face. She remembered her father squeezing the lamb’s ribs. She pushed on the baby’s chest and released. Again. She covered his nose and mouth and blew. The tiny chest heaved, and the baby stiffened in her hands. Then relaxed. And cried, a mewling that sounded more like a kitten than a baby. He flailed his hands and cried again.

Ingeborg grabbed the flannel cloths Trude had laid out and wrapped one around the tiny body. Holding him close, she watched as her mother worked to stop the bleeding.

Mor kept up an even pace, speaking in a singsong to encourage the woman in the bed.

Ingeborg held the tiny body close to her and grabbed a small blanket to wrap around him. Would the bleeding never cease? How could her mor remain so calm? Her own heart seemed ready to leap out of her chest.

After what seemed forever and the pile of bloodied cloths growing by the bed, the flow slowly eased, and Hilde nodded.

“Thank you, Lord God, thank you.” She packed clean cloths against the woman’s body and heaved a sigh. “How is he?”

“Alive.”

“Lay him on his belly on his mother’s chest.”

Ingeborg did as told. “I have not cleaned him yet.”

“Call the older woman to bring us hot water and a tub, so we can get these sheets soaking.”

Ingeborg crossed the room and found the older woman sitting just outside the door. “Can you bring in a tub and plenty of warm water? We need to clean her and the baby.”

“Alive? The baby is alive?”

“Ja. They both are.”

“Praise God.”

“Ja, praise God.” Ingeborg waited until she returned, then took the hoop handle to carry hot water in to pour into a dishpan. She added some cold until it was just warm.

“You may wash him,” Hilde said.

Very aware of the honor, Ingeborg took the baby in both her hands and lowered him into the water. So perfect. Tiny fingers and toes, a button nose and pink lips. He no longer looked blue. Perfect. This baby. She had helped this baby so he was able to be born, when he could so easily have died. She couldn’t stop the tears that dripped off her chin. He waved a perfect little hand, swishing it in the water. With a cloth she washed his face and over the top of his bald little head. Was there anything else in this world that could be even close to feeling like this?

She glanced up to see her mother watching her. The two
smiled and together dried the little baby and wrapped him again, to lay him at his mother’s side. Her faint smile as she held him close brought more tears.

“Tusen takk.” The words came faintly from the mother.

“Thank our God. I will tell your husband he can come in now.” Hilde glanced around the now straightened room. All the bloody sheets and cloths were soaking in the tub. Ingeborg had been cleaning while Mor settled the baby with his mor.

Later, mother and daughter walked toward the east and home. Behind them the stars still hung in the cerulean sky, but to the east, a band of faint yellow heralded the new day. A breeze picked up and lifted the strands of hair that had pulled free from their braids.

“I want to learn it all.”

“Ja, I am not surprised. You too have been gifted with the desire for healing.”

“There can be nothing like this . . . this . . .” Ingeborg’s heart felt like it was bursting.

“New life.”

“Ja. New life. Death was so near, hovering around our shoulders.” She shuddered in the predawn chill.

“But God answered our prayers.”

“This time. But what about the times He does not answer with life?” Ingeborg waited, expecting the usual curt reply. Why her mother seemed always angry at her she could never understand. But now they were actually talking.

“He always answers. But sometimes we do not like the answer.”

“Today we helped that baby live. I have to know more.” Ingeborg turned it into a promise to herself. She would learn
all there was to learn. Was this what God wanted for her? “Will you teach me?”

“Ja, but it is not easy.”

“I understand. Takk.”

Besides, she didn’t need a husband to become a midwife.

“So how did it go for Mrs. Gaard?” Gunlaug asked later that day when she brought over a basket of små brød, each little cake glowing golden. “Oh, and tell your mor this is a new recipe, and Mor wants to know her opinion.”

Ingeborg stared at her cousin. Still groggy from lack of sleep, she caught a yawn and shook her head. “Which do you want first?”

Gunlaug gave her a look of confusion. “Mrs. Gaard, of course.”

“We saved the baby, and Mor kept the missus from bleeding to death after the baby finally came.”

“I was afraid to ask in case one or both of them had died.”

Ingeborg closed her eyes, feeling herself back in that room where death had hovered in the corners. “So close.” Did she dare share with her innocent cousin what had gone on? “You cannot tell anyone if I tell you something.”

Gunlaug’s eyes widened. “Who would I tell?”

Ingeborg shrugged. That was true. The only ones they told were each other. “I . . . I turned the baby inside Mrs. Gaard
like I did the lamb. I felt the baby turn, and there was his head. He was born just a few minutes later, and his mother nearly bled to death. Oh, Gunlaug, he is so perfect. And then he wouldn’t breathe and I finally breathed for him and he went stiff and then started to breathe and he sounded like an angry kitten. Mor let me wash him, and oh, Gunlaug, helping a baby come into this world has to be the most wonderful thing I can do.”

“You can do? Tante Hilde is the midwife.”

“I know, but she said she would teach me all she knows if I really want to learn, and I do so want to learn all that I can.”

“I think your mor wants you to get married more than she wants you to take over her job as midwife.”

“But I could do this and not have to even think about finding a suitable man and getting married.”

“Tante Hilde is married. I think you have to be married to be a midwife.”

Ingeborg felt like stamping her foot. Why was Gunlaug being so stubborn?

“Besides, that means you’d have to spend all your time with your mor, and you and she don’t always get along.”

Now, that was an understatement. Ingeborg stared at her cousin. Sometimes she made really wise comments, and this was obviously one of those times. Mor found more fault with her than all the others put together. She’d often wondered why and finally figured it was because she had more flaws than anyone else. She was headstrong, stubborn, and argumentative at times, and had a curiosity bump that couldn’t be stifled.

It was a shame her mor couldn’t be more like her far. He let her try things that most fathers wouldn’t, like helping
birth the lambs and calves and learning how to notice and treat many of the animal ailments. While other fathers would not permit their daughters to study and learn all they could, instead consigning them to help their mors, her father encouraged her to think and question.

Through the years she and her oldest brother, Gilbert, had engaged in many discussions that sometimes grew rather heated. Gilbert, who was not only Ingeborg’s older brother but was also the oldest of all the cousins, was a firm believer in doing things the same way they had always been done, and Ingeborg wanted them to try new practices she’d read of.

“Ingeborg. Ingeborg, come back from wherever you went.” Gunlaug waved a hand in front of Ingeborg’s face.

“Oh, sorry.”

“I’m glad you were able to help Mrs. Gaard.”

“Mor will go check on her in a bit. I’m hoping I can go along.”

“If you do, I’d suggest you keep your torrent of questions to a minimum.”

Ingeborg nodded. “You’re right.” She wrinkled her nose and made a face. “But how am I to learn it all if I cannot ask all the questions?”

“That’s your problem.” Gunlaug got that goofy look on her face again. “Just think, three more days until the dance. What are you going to wear?”

“Clothes.”

“I will have my new blue skirt finished by then, and I am going to add some lace to that waist that is looking shabby.”

Ingeborg grabbed her friend’s hand. “Come with me. I need to check on the cow that is due to calve. She’s out in the west pasture.”

All the way out through the three gates and skirting around an area that had gone boggy with the spring melt, Gunlaug talked about Ivar. Ingeborg tuned out her cousin’s voice and let herself ponder what had gone on during the night. What might they have done differently? First, how could they have made the woman more comfortable? Second, was there a way to prevent a baby from going breech and thereby sliding into the birth canal like God ordained for it to do? When did the baby turn wrong? Was it something the mother did? Her mor had said it was an act of God, but why would God step in and make a baby do something wrong? If it was the mother’s fault, what had she done and when? In between her thoughts, she nodded and smiled at Gunlaug as if she cared to hear about Ivar, her latest beau.

They finally located the cow off in one corner behind a stand of willow brush, already nudging her calf toward the teats dripping milk. She lowed and tossed her head, warning Ingeborg to stay away.

“Easy girl, you did a fine job. How about we go on up to the barn, where you two will be safer?” The smell of blood could bring in all sorts of predators, many of whom would be very pleased to carry off the newborn calf. Ignoring the threatening motions from the cow, Ingeborg broke off a willow branch and walked around on the other side of the disgruntled mama.

“Aren’t you going to let the calf get stronger first?” Gunlaug followed Ingeborg’s lead and broke off a switch.

“I suppose I should, but we lost a lamb out here earlier. The scavengers pick up on a scent quickly.”

Gunlaug looked over her shoulder, as if expecting a wolf to leap out from behind the brush at the end of the field.
Ingeborg rolled her eyes, something she did often when her cousin’s many fears got in their way.

Ingeborg spotted another mat of dandelions. “We can fill our aprons with those while we wait.”

“Who do you want to dance with?” Gunlaug adopted the dopey look again.

“The king of Sweden and Norway.”

“Ivar is such a good dancer. What if I could dance every dance with him?”

“You think it will snow today?” Ingeborg tucked her chuckle back under her chin and added more handfuls of green leaves to the apron she’d removed and laid flat for carrying the greenery.

Gunlaug glanced toward her. “I’d let you dance with him, you know.”

“Right. You know his mother would be sending darts at you if he didn’t dance with others too.”

“I don’t think she likes me very much.”

“She doesn’t like anyone who catches her sweet baby’s eye. You know that no one, even the queen mother herself, would be good enough for her precious son.”

“True. But I love him, and he needs to be loved. Maybe then he will be happier.”

Ingeborg glanced up to see the calf nursing, his tail doing the metronome swish.
Enjoy your first meal of colostrum, little fellow. It is your last. From now on, we’ll be milking your mor and giving you what’s left.
She felt almost guilty about it, but it had to be.

She sat back on her heels. In the blue arch of the heavens, she heard the scree of an eagle. The mountain peaks gleamed white, and the greening of the pastures not only charmed her
eyes but tickled her nose. The smell of spring was one of her favorite scents. The pungent odor of the dandelion leaves only added another overlay of joy.

She mused, “Soon we’ll be able to journey up to the seter. Freedom again. I can’t wait.”

Gunlaug wailed, “But then I won’t see Ivar for weeks at a time, or even all summer.”

Ingeborg ignored her and searched for the eagle. Wouldn’t it be an amazing thing to find the eagle’s nest in the crags of the cliffs? Her brother Gilbert had found one once and saw three hatchlings in the nest of sticks. He also found out that a furious mother eagle could inflict serious damage on a climber. He still bore the talon scars on one shoulder.

She picked up the corners of her apron and tied them together into a bundle. “Let’s move her down now.”

Together they drove the cow and calf down to the small fenced pasture behind the barn. The cow ambled over to drink at the water tank and didn’t even notice that Ingeborg was shunting her calf off into the calf pen. Ingeborg made sure the gates were securely closed and took her bundle of greens up to the house.

“Mor said to tell you that you could have gone with her, but she couldn’t find you.” Mari, the baby of the family at ten, turned from checking the roast baking in the Dutch oven hanging over the coals of the fireplace. “She said that when you finally showed up, you should start the corn bread for supper.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “You brought more dandelion leaves. Good.”

As if Mor had looked for her. She’d said she was going to check on the cow. Had Mor waited until she left to go back to the Gaards’? No matter how many questions Ingeborg
had, she’d not been able to ask them. The thought of Mor’s frown warned her away.

“Bess had her calf way out to the end of the pasture. He’d just been born, so the walk down took awhile.” She dipped water out of the wooden bucket into a basin and started washing the quickly wilting leaves. That was one thing about spring greens. It took a lot of them to feed the family even one meal.

Saturday blossomed under the spring rain that had been falling off and on for two days. The earth smelled fresh and new as Ingeborg carried the milk buckets up from the barn. She poured the milk through the strainer and into the pans to let the cream rise. She had enough cream already to make butter, and that was the next thing on her list to do for the day. Her mother had been called out again during the night but did not invite her to go along. Resentment nibbled at the edge of her thoughts like a mouse on cheese. How was she to learn if she was always left at home?

Berta and Mari were putting breakfast on the table by the time she walked into the house.

“Did you bring up the cream pitcher?” Berta asked over her shoulder from where she was lifting bacon from the pan to a platter.

“No. No one asked me to.”

“We ran out.” Mari headed for the door.

“Can you go call the men instead?” Berta swiped the back of her hand over her forehead. She sounded so much like Mor that Ingeborg did a double take. The same sound of dissatisfaction, as if Ingeborg should have known enough to bring up the cream pitcher without being told.

“I will, and I will get the cream pitcher.” She knew she sounded aggrieved, but hearing it from Mor was bad enough.

“You don’t have to get all cross.”

Ingeborg shook her head as she headed out the door. She retrieved the cream pitcher from the springhouse, called to the men working on a wagon by the barn, and returned to the house, reminding herself to just ignore tones and pay attention to words. The weeks to moving up to the seter were stretching longer and longer. Ah, the seter. That was the one place she was in charge, and no one whined at her or ordered her around. As Gunlaug had reminded her, at the seter they were free.

She resolved not to mention that she was disappointed not to be asked to go with Mor when she returned. She had plenty to do before they all had to get ready for the dance.

The dance. Such mixed emotions surrounded the dance. Many of the Christian families refused to attend dances. But it was a place for young people to meet and talk, so the Strands were among those who went. Quite possibly it was at Ingeborg’s mor’s instigation, for weddings were forged there. Gunlaug could not wait. Ingeborg could. She could read the looks her mor gave her well, and the most looks always came at dances.
Go find a husband. Be charming. Keep your questions to yourself.
Amazing how many different things could be read into one glance. Perhaps because she had heard them all so many times before.

Gilbert had not married yet. Why was he not getting the looks? Sometimes, really often, she wished she had taken Bjorn, the second son, eighteen months older than she, up on his offer to take her to Amerika with him, but then they’d never heard from him again. Mor and Far were sure he had
died, since he’d not ever written. According to records, the ship had made it to Amerika, but perhaps he died on the voyage, or he had landed and something happened to him. They’d all heard the horror stories of people disappearing in spite of the advertisements by Amerikan railroads promising a land of streets paved with gold. But free land—that was what emigrants could work for. And what made the long journey and the dark, unknown dangers possibly worth it.