Northern Lights Trilogy (72 page)

“Don’t you think?”

“Yes, you’re right. It would look foolish to have anything smaller. And you and the children should go downtown to find decorations. We’ll string popcorn and cranberries here, of course, but a tree in a house such as this deserves some city baubles and lots of candles.”

Kaatje smiled and clapped her hands. “Oh yes, lots of candles! On the tree and throughout the house! They’ll love it. It will look just grand!”

Two days later the house was transformed. The tree was in place, the swags hung from the staircase rail, and a wreath graced the door. Elsa, for the first time in months, was laughing and singing with the rest of them, apparently forgetting for but a moment that Peder was missing.
And so it begins
, Kaatje thought, remembering how it startled her when she first stopped noticing that Soren was not present.

The children ate more popcorn than they strung—as well as too many of Mrs. Hodge’s Christmas cookies—and Kristian and Christina were sent to bed early to tend to their aching bellies. The others stayed up, talking about the Christmas cantata and past celebrations. The distraction and hubbub were good for them all, Kaatje decided, smiling at the shine on Jessie’s face. The girl was relishing this time with her aunt and cousin, though she didn’t know Kristian was a blood relative. She had taken to the boy much as she did every animal that entered their barn, carefully tending to the younger child’s needs and joyfully playing with him from dawn until dusk. They would miss one another once the Janssens left for home.

When the children and Mrs. Hodge had turned in for the night, Elsa and Kaatje were left to sit beside the crackling fire, a more quiet,
relaxed atmosphere for stringing. They enjoyed the compatible silence for a while, each in her own private thoughts.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Elsa said, letting her hands rest on her lap. “It would not be much of a Christmas this year for Kristian, had you and the girls not come.”

“It’s the best present of all for me to be here,” Kaatje returned. “You know how dear you are to me, Elsa. And you have treated us like royalty since we arrived. We’ll never want to go home!”

“That would be fine with me,” Elsa said, carefully studying her next piece of popcorn for a suitable place to puncture. “Why don’t you stay?”

“And leave my farm? Let the ground lie fallow?”

Elsa shrugged. “Perhaps. For a time.”

Kaatje waited until she looked up again. “Elsa, our place is there. This is a dream of a holiday for us, but it cannot be forever. You need to find your own walk again too.”

Elsa looked away and into the fire. “Where? I wish I was as sure as you! You have a place. Someplace to return. Someplace where … you’re sure of yourself.”

Kaatje shifted in her chair and said, “When your man is gone you’re forced to look only to yourself. I sometimes think that I let Soren pull too much of me into him. It was as if he sucked half of my life into his own body so that when he disappeared, part of me disappeared too. As if he left me leaning over, trying to find my other leg again. Just so I could stand.”

“Exactly!” Elsa said, eyes wide. She considered her words for a moment and then said, “I never thought I was so dependent upon Peder that losing him would feel like I died too.”

“It’s impossible to love and not give of yourself, Elsa,” Kaatje said. “It’s the risk of life. Each time we choose to love, we choose to risk a part of our heart. But how much would we be missing without taking that risk? I think it’s worth it. You simply have to let yourself have some time to find your equilibrium again.”

Elsa rose, letting the popcorn in her lap fall to the ground, and walked to the window. “Right now, Kaatje,” she whispered when Kaatje came up behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder, “I wish I had never risked it. I wish I had never loved Peder. It’s too painful.”

“I understand,” Kaatje said. “But what would you have missed? You must concentrate on that, Elsa. Dwell on all the joy you shared, all the laughter, the love, the peace. Otherwise, the darkness and pain of your mourning will overtake you.”

Elsa turned to embrace her, weeping again for the first time in weeks.

“Elsa,” Kaatje said, backing away after a minute. She stroked her taller friend’s lovely face, wiping away the tears. “You have so much to be thankful for. I know that you miss Peder horribly. But he’d want you to live, to celebrate. He’d want you to take every moment for the gift that it is from God. Cling to that. And do not feel guilty for living when he had to die.”

Tora had come within a block of the Ramstad home nearly eight times. Never had she been able to force herself to walk the last block and face her sister. Today a light, wet snow was falling, chilling her to the bone and almost convincing her to go, if for no other reason than to seek warmth and shelter.

“Go on, why don’t ya?” Magda said, shivering behind her. For some odd reason the older woman had attached herself to Tora as soon as she had entered the Catholic shelter. Magda seemed drawn to Tora, no matter how poorly the younger woman treated her. Tora had grown to accept her as though she had no choice about it; she felt strangely comforted by the batty woman’s presence. “You know you want to,” Magda urged again, seemingly unable to stop herself from repeating her words, “Want to. Want to. Want to. Go see her. Go see your famous sister.”

At least Magda never doubted Tora’s word—that her sister was the Heroine of the Horn. One day, while cleaning one of the mission’s
rooms, Tora had discovered an old newspaper, opened to the obituaries. When she saw Peder’s name, Tora had sunk to the ground, her hand over her mouth in shock. Magda had found her. “What? What is it?”

“It’s my brother-in-law,” she said, waving vaguely at the paper. “He’s dead. Elsa’s alone as I am.”

“You should go to her,” Magda had said. For a woman who frequently raved like a creature riddled with madness, Magda could sound terribly lucid for moments at a time.

“You don’t know what has happened between us. You don’t know what I’ve done. Elsa will never forgive me.”

“There is nothing done that is beyond forgiveness, child,” Magda had said. Tora studied her, thinking that an unearthly, holy light seemed to emanate from the woman. It was moments like this, when Magda seemed to have a toehold in eternity, that Tora found her fascinating. But a moment later, Magda was yelling, “Heroine of the Horn! Heroine! Heroine! Tora is sisters with the Heroine of the Horn!”

Her announcement at the mission left Tora open to hushed jeers and sarcastic remarks from the others. Only Magda and the sisters continued to treat her with anything akin to respect. Days after arriving, she had secured enough work from the home to pay for her food and lodging, but nothing more. She existed on thin soup and day-old bread donated by the baker, and slept on a hard cot amid a hundred other sleeping, snoring women. She frequently spent hours, when not working, spying around town, trying to overhear any news of her sister. Eight times, she had come as close as this to facing her sibling but never closer.

“What holds you back?” Magda asked again, shivering in the late afternoon breeze that blew the snow at a slant.

Tora laughed, a hollow sound. “Pride, I suppose. I wanted to face her again. But I wanted to arrive in a fine carriage. In fine dress.” She turned, angry at Magda because it was easier than being angry at
herself. “Look at me! A trollop living in a Catholic shelter. I haven’t bathed in a week.”

“We’re blessed to get a bath each week—”

“In lukewarm, used water?” Tora shivered at the thought. Was there much more she had to bear?

“Still, it’s something …”

“Magda, why do you cling to me so? Why don’t you live your own life and leave me to mine?”

Magda studied her with rheumy eyes. “’Cause you’ve been touched.”

“Touched?” Tora shook her head. “You’re mad. Perhaps it’s spreading.”

“No. Jesus has come near.”

“And run away as fast as he could,” Tora said with another hollow laugh.

“No. He’s here now.”

Tora studied the woman, observing again a light that seemed to shine within her. It took her breath away. “Why?” she asked unsteadily. “Why would he bother?”

“Because you are loved.”

“Impossible. No one loves me. I have driven them all away.”

Magda looked from the sky to her. “I love you, Tora. Your sister loves you. Jesus loves you more.”

Tora turned and walked away. “You know nothing. You should take your love to someone more worthwhile,” she called over her shoulder. “I am undeserving of even a madwoman’s love.” She continued walking, not watching where she was going. In a few moments, she bumped into a young woman, making her dump all her packages—presumably Christmas presents—across the boardwalk.

“I’m sorry,” Tora muttered, stooping immediately to pick up the nearest package, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. How many similar bundles had she brought home last year in Helena? she thought.

“No trouble,” the woman said, stooping nearby. Something in her voice made Tora look up. She could not look away. It was Kaatje. Kaatje Janssen.

“Here, Mama,” said a girl, rushing up behind her. “Christina and I’ll help you.”

Tora felt dizzy, as if she would faint at any moment. Still, she could do nothing but stare. At Kaatje. At Jessica. At Christina. At Jessica again. She looked similar to Letitia Conner in Spokane, she assessed, as if safely viewing her from a hidden spot, but she looked different. Her mother’s intuition was dead-on. Tora would have recognized the girl anywhere.

“Are you okay, miss?” Kaatje was asking. “You seemed to be—” Tora met her eyes. Her recognizing, understanding gray eyes. The last time she had seen them, she was depositing Jessica at Kaatje’s feet. Then they had been angry, disbelieving eyes. Now they were only disbelieving. “T-Tora,” she said simply.

Tora, coming to her senses, scrambled to her feet. Everything in her told her to run.
Run. Run. Run
. She ran past a cackling Magda, past the cemetery, past the Catholic mission to the waterfront. It felt as if she never could run far enough.

At the wharf, on an abandoned dock, she walked to the end, conscious that the rotting planks could give way at any moment and she would plunge into the icy waters below. But she did not care. It would be fitting, she thought, to drown in the murky waters, held down by broken planks, her lungs filled with cold. She deserved nothing more. What was she thinking? Attempting to see Elsa? And now Kaatje and Jessica? She was not worthy of them. Of any of them.

It was still snowing. Giant white flakes wept into the Sound, disappearing on contact with the water. It was as Tora felt she herself should do, to allow herself to slip into the water and out of life forever. If she took one step, it all could be over. The misery. The striving. The ache. The pain. “Dear God,” she mumbled, looking up to the sky and watching as the snow came down, making pinpricks on her face as ice
met warmth, “dear God in heaven, what do you want?” Her voice grew louder. “What do you want from me? What do you want?” she screamed.

“He wants you,” a voice said behind her.

Tora whirled, almost falling. “Magda. How—how in the world—?”

“He wants you,” the old woman repeated.

Suddenly, Tora knew the truth. Knew it in her heart, in her bones.

Magda was not a madwoman at all.

Magda was a seer.

J
oy to the world! the Lord is come. Let earth receive her King!” Karl smiled as his smooth bass joined the other voices in the congregation in this final hymn of the evening. In the magnificent cathedral in downtown San Francisco, their celebration seemed all the more joyous. Even the thought of returning alone to his modest rented cottage a mile south failed to dampen Karl’s spirits. He was here to worship his Savior; nothing else mattered.

To be able to travel back in time and see the babe in the manger!
Karl thought, glancing at the nativity scene at the front of the church.
What would it be like to look upon the face of Jesus?
His God in infant form! The thought overwhelmed and warmed him at once. How good it was to be again in companionship with the One who mattered. It all made sense to him now. His despair. His loneliness. His very soul had been crying for the Christ child.

As the pastor dismissed his congregation calling “Merry Christmas! Go and serve the Lord!” people mingled and chatted as they walked down the center aisle. People Karl had never met stopped him to introduce themselves and wish him a blessed holiday. Just as he was nearing the door, a burly man in a fine overcoat turned and smiled at him. “Good day, sir. I’m Gerald Kenney. Merry Christmas to you!”

“And to you! I am Karl Martensen,” Karl rejoined as they shook hands. He watched as Gerald pulled out a pocket watch and glanced at the time. On the face of it Karl could see an anchor. “Are you a sailor by chance?” Karl asked.

“Ah, I love the sea,” Gerald said, placing a hand on his shoulder with all the familiarity of an old friend. “I’m afraid my good wife has convinced me to stay ashore from now on. I merely invest.”