An Untamed Land (53 page)

“Thorliff!” She pounded the door and yelled at the same time. The wind seemed to take her words and puny efforts and whirl them away with the snow.

“Mor?”

She could barely hear his voice. “Ja! Open the door.”

The wind and cold blew through her as if she stood there naked. She dug at the snow, pushing it aside, wishing she had the shovel.

“Hurry, Thorliff.”

“I can’t get the bar up.”

“What?” She yelled into the crack of the door frame.

“I can’t raise the bar.”

“Keep trying.” Was that Andrew screaming or the wind? She dug faster, throwing the snow as far as she could, digging like a dog after a rabbit. Finally she had enough cleared away that the pressure could be relieved against the door.

She nearly fell into the soddy when the door sprang open. Thorliff had tear tracks running down his cheeks, and he hiccuped from crying.

She stepped back outside to retrieve the milk buckets, and together they leaned against the door to shut it. A two-inch crack remained. “Get the shovel.” Thorliff handed her the shovel and like a mad woman, she threw the snow away from the door. She had to get the door closed or all the heat in the house would be gone. When they tried again, the bar slammed in place, and the wind howled as if furious with them for flaunting their puny strength in its face. But at least the howling was outside, not in.

Ingeborg leaned her head against the door. She wanted to sag down into a heap by the stove and not move for a month. But the look of terror on Thorliff’s face made her reach up to take off her muffler. “You did a good job, son.” She knew she had to put a smile on her face, but now the burning of her face told her how close she’d been to frostbite. She leaned down so he could inspect her skin. “Are there white places on my face?”

He nodded and touched her right cheek and the tip of her nose. “Here and here.” He went to the door and scooped up a handful of the snow that still lay where it had blown in. Rubbing her face gently with it, he tried to smile. “Are the sheep okay?”

“We have one lamb, and who knows how many more will come tonight. Just like sheep to pick the worst storm of the year to drop their lambs.” Ingeborg cupped her hands over the stove and opened the oven door to let more heat into the room. She could have frozen to death right outside the door, and her children might have died too. How much longer could she hold on?

She knew she should check the sheep before going to sleep, but the memory of the last trip kept her from it. Thorliff and Andrew were sound asleep now, and she would be too, standing upright, if she didn’t lie down first. She spread another quilt over their bed, wondering if she shouldn’t take both of them in with her. But after filling the stove with wood and turning down the damper so it
would last longer, she crawled into bed with her clothes on. If the storm let up, she would go check on the sheep.

But it raged through the night. Each time Ingeborg got up to put more wood in the stove, she could hear it screaming for entry. When she woke again, she could see the sky had lightened from black to deep gray. Or was the window so covered with snow that she couldn’t see out? She listened carefully. It was too quiet. The storm had blown itself out—at least for now.

She shoveled her way out of the soddy to find snow still falling, but the wind had returned to its lair. They had three more lambs and one dead ewe. “If I’d been here, maybe I could have saved it.” She dragged the carcass outside and away from the barn. The wolves would have a feast.
If Roald had been here, we probably wouldn’t have lost it. He could have opened the door. But not me. I almost let my children die when I couldn’t get back
in. She scolded herself all through the chores and back to the house.

Lars pounded on the door just as she served breakfast to the boys. Snow blew in with him. “Are you all right? I did not dare try to come during the blizzard.”

“Ja, we are fine.” She told him about the sheep.

“Ingeborg, you are an amazing woman. I will tend the sheep tonight so you can rest.”

“Not if the storm comes back, and it could.” She looked at him from eyes that burned for want of sleep. “I will not be responsible for another of our men to die in a blizzard.”

“We will see.”

She drew water for the sheep trough, brought in extra wood, and dug down to the root cellar door to bring in a ham and vegetables. Storms had been known to follow right on the heels of each other, as they had last year. She wanted to be prepared.

Snow continued to fall all day, and by late afternoon the wind had started to rise again. While Andrew was better, he wanted to be held and rocked. Every time she returned to the sheep pen, Thorliff took her place in the rocker with the baby on his lap. Paws took turns going with her or staying with the children. It was as if he knew his place as watchdog and couldn’t decide who needed him most.

Since Lars couldn’t return, she was up most of the night with the sheep again. One lamb needed assistance coming into the world, and another ewe was in distress but wouldn’t lie down for help. Why, Ingeborg wondered,
couldn’t they have their lambs in the daytime
?
She knew that some did, but most came at night.

By the time she’d finished chores in the morning, she knew that if she lay down, she wouldn’t get up again. She catnapped in the chair while Andrew slept and Thorliff whittled on a chunk of wood with his father’s knife. The storm had again let up when she returned to the barn, but the cold only felt more intense. Each trip back to the barn that night felt longer than the one before. She could hardly put one foot in front of the other.

“Mor, Mor.” Was that Thorliff crying? Had she fallen asleep in the barn?

“Ingeborg. Ingeborg!” She felt someone shaking her, grabbing her hands. Was it another nightmare?

She forced her eyes open. No, not a nightmare, but the look on Lars’ face said something was terribly wrong. “What is it?”

“Thorliff and Paws were on their way to get me when I was almost here. They couldn’t wake you.”

Ingeborg raised her head to see Thorliff, his lip quivering, standing beside the bed. “Mor, I didn’t know what to do.”

“You did fine.” She patted his cheek. “I must have fallen asleep.”

“You wouldn’t wake up.” Tears started again.

Full awareness hit her like the storm had struck the door. “The sheep! The cows.” She pushed herself up on one elbow.

“Let me take care of them.” Lars touched her shoulder. “I would have been over long ago if I could have made it through the storm.”

“I know. I’m glad you didn’t try.” She swung her feet over the bed. “But I’m all right now. Besides”—she pointed at his hands—“if a ewe needs help, your hands are too big.”

Thorliff had picked up the baby and brought him to his mother. “Andrew won’t quit crying. I gave him some bread and milk, but he wouldn’t eat either. I don’t know what else to do.”

“How long has he been like this?” Lars asked.

Ingeborg tried to think. It seemed like it had been forever.

“How about if I take the children home with me and then come back to help you? Kaaren has been frantic with worry and maybe this is the way we can best help you.”

Ingeborg nodded gratefully. “I’ll get some of their things together.”

“Good, and I’ll milk the cows while you do that. The oxen can go outside.”

She shook her head. “The storm drifted right over the corral fence. They could get out and get lost on the prairie.”

Lars just shook his head as he picked up the milk buckets and headed out the door.

“I can help.” Thorliff leaped to follow, sending a look of pleading over his shoulder to his mother.

“Ja, you go ahead. You’ve been cooped up in here far too long.” With Andrew now quiet on her hip, she gathered some of their clothes together. She took the two remaining diapers down from the line she’d stretched from stove to fireplace. She needed to wash diapers again. She found the dirty ones frozen in one corner. No wonder the house smelled. Setting the wash water to heat, she also made a pot of coffee and started a pan of cornmeal mush. They were out of bread too.

Andrew whimpered and lay his head on her shoulder.

“My poor baby, you will be so much better off with your Tante Kaaren.” She smoothed a rough hand over his curls. “I know you will.”

But when she shut the door behind them, she felt as if that scabbed-over hole in her heart ripped open once again. Crossing the snow to the barn, she was certain if she looked back she would see drops of blood gleaming on the white surface.

Back and forth, barn to house, house to barn, she dragged her body on in spite of the weariness that only deepened with each step. The house was so quiet she couldn’t stand to be in it. Even Paws had deserted her and remained at the other soddy.

Night, daylight—it made no difference. Had days passed, or was it only hours?

One ewe lay down, strained for a time, and got up again. Ingeborg moved her into a stall by herself and tried to get her to drink. The ewe refused and got up to pace again. This seemed to go on for hours.

Ingeborg did the milking, took the milk to the house, grabbed a cup of coffee, and returned to the barn. This time when the ewe lay down, Ingeborg managed to get an arm up the birth canal and find what felt like a back. As she’d suspected, the lamb lay in the wrong position, and she needed to turn it. Contractions squeezed her arm. She felt around, searching for the feet. Instead she felt another head. Twins. And one was blocking the birth canal. The ewe strained, but after all this time, Ingeborg could tell the animal was weakening.

“Easy, girl, let me help you.” She tried to talk, to calm the mother, but the ewe struggled to her feet again. Ingeborg thought
of going for Lars to help, but the wind had returned, and she couldn’t take the chance of getting lost. Not after losing Roald to last year’s blizzard. If he, strong as he was, couldn’t conquer winter’s rage, she never would be able to make it. At least, here, she was safe from the storm outside.

The ewe lay down and Ingeborg lay with her. She reached inside again, trying to turn the lamb. She found the feet. Her hand felt numb. She waited for a contraction to help turn the lamb but none came. Then she felt a faint one begin. She pulled, trying with all her might to bring at least one lamb into the world. If she could save it, the long night might have some worth. Another contraction, and she pulled the lamb out, laid it on the straw, and reached inside for the other. The ewe lay quiet. Ingeborg couldn’t tell if the animal breathed or not.

But the lamb didn’t. She left the one inside and, grabbing the face of the other, cleaned the mucus off its nose and blew into the nostrils, gently pressing the rib cage at the same time.

Nothing.

She tried again, and again, each time hoping for a response and each time more sure it was too late. Finally, she laid the dead lamb down beside the dead ewe. “Three! I lost three!” She tried to get to her knees, but one leg had fallen asleep while she’d struggled with the sheep. She pitched forward, catching herself with only a chin scrape on the stall wall. She hung there, her hands clenched on the bar.

Eyes feeling on fire, and a rock in her throat that may have been her heart, she hung there. Slowly releasing fingers cramped with the strain, she sank down into the bloody straw. Her nails scraped down the wall, picking up slivers as they went.

“Oh, God, if you are real, why do you torture me so? They say you are a God of love, but I feel no love. Do you hate me so? Am I so bad you must take everything from me?” She rested her head against the manger. Wouldn’t death be better than this? All she needed to do was step outside and lie down against the barn wall. With the cold, she would just go to sleep.

Sleep. What a comfort. To fall asleep and not have to work again. No more dying sheep. No more crying children. No more.

“God, help me.” She could only whisper the words, but they came from deep within her being. A dry sob wracked her body.
“God, help me,” she rasped again. A burning lay at the back of her throat, and she convulsed with the agony of her utterance. Tears clogged her throat and overflowed her eyes.

Ingeborg wept.

Epilogue

M
or, Mor, come quick!”

Ingeborg looked up from the pan of soapy water. She’d moved the dishpan outside into the sunshine to wash the kerosene lamps. She couldn’t seem to get enough of its warmth after the long winter. Snow still covered most of the ground, but right here at the south wall of the soddy, even the icicles had all melted. The chinook wind felt like the kiss of heaven. She returned the still-stained chimney to the soap suds and followed the laughter. Andrew and Thorliff were up to something again.

As she walked, she raised her face to the sun. “Thank you, Father,” she murmured, as was so often her litany these days. So many things to be thankful for, and so much time to make up. She’d asked forgiveness for her year of rebellion and knew for all she was worth that the Father had heard and lived up to His promises. The months since the lambs were born in February had been long and difficult as she bounced back and forth between learning again to seek God’s will and battling hours of blackness when all seemed hopeless. But at least the dark times, when they had come, had lasted only hours instead of days, or weeks, or months.

It seemed the tears had flowed for weeks. Things such as finding Roald’s old hat out in the barn behind the grain bin, being reminded each time she opened her Bible that God loved her and forgave all her sins, the sweet smell of Andrew when he leaned back in her arms and patted her cheeks, all made her weep and sometimes laugh through the tears. Laughter again filled their house—how good, and cleansing, it felt. And when the meadowlarks returned to the prairie with their lyrical songs, she knew she had some mending to do. Not
mending of clothes—that was a never-ending chore—but the mending of friendships.

One morning she took her courage in hand and followed the well-worn path to Kaaren’s soddy. Andrew hung on her hip, while Thorliff and Paws ran back and forth, kicking up what snow they could find and sliding in the muddy spots on the path, their shouts and barks adding joy to the morning music.