A New Day Rising (26 page)

He threw himself back in his seat, visions of new machinery plowing through his mind. How much would one cost? He jingled the change in his pocket. More than he had, that was certain. He straightened in the seat. One thing he knew, if he couldn't make one, he could sure repair them. They had to be metal, and he knew the repairing of iron and steel.

Roald, too, had written that there was not a rock to be found on the homestead. What would it be like to plow without hauling off a sledge loaded with rocks? Norwegian soil grew rocks better than anything.

"Grand Forks, next stop." The conductor stopped in the doorway and repeated his announcement. As he made his way down the aisle, he stopped at Hjelmer's seat. "If you be wanting to take the St. Paul, Minneapolis, and Manitoba Railway to Grafton, you'll cross the river here and walk to the other train station. Tain't far for a young sprout like you."

Hjelmer had been grateful ever since boarding in St. Paul that the conductor spoke Norwegian. There'd been a couple of times when he nearly got off at the wrong station because he didn't understand the language. Once he did get off, but the conductor called him back. It seemed he'd never make it to his destination, so many were the miles he crossed. Seven days now he'd been cooped up.

"Mange takk." He corrected himself, "Thank you." With a grin he added, "Much obliged," his latest phrase.

"You'll do, son, you'll do." The conductor shook Hjelmer's offered hand and went on down the aisle, his voice carrying the announcement of the coming stop to all ears.

Hjelmer swung down to the wooden platform after the train coughed and snorted to a stop. He swung the rope around his quilt over his shoulder, picked up the valise in one hand, and set out for the river, the bridge looming down at the end of the street. He stopped before crossing the steel-girded structure. It looked large from here, but compared to the long, massive bridges he'd crossed on his westward trek, this one rated low. He'd seen the long curved Rockville Bridge in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, which, according to the conductor, was the longest bridge in America. He'd been so impressed, he'd asked someone to translate what the conductor had said. Now that bridge was a work of man that challenged the elements. And the Brooklyn bridge, he'd been watching it grow the month he lived in New York. Nearly finished now, it was touted as one of the wonders of the world. He had seen some country, indeed, he had. He stopped in the middle of the bridge and looked over the side at the teeming brown water. Looked like nothing more than liquefied mud. Why in the world did they call it the Red River? Hawking a glob of spit, he sent it to join the murky water passing below. Give him the sparkling blue rivers of home any day.

Would he ever be able to go back? Mor wants. to come over here, he reminded himself. One day I'll have enough money I can return to Norway and bring her back here with me. Far will never come, but Mor will. Why he knew that with such certainty didn't bother his mind, but knew it he did.

At the western station they were unloading new farm machinery. He stood amazed. Green, red, and white, the bright colors gleamed on equipment he could only hope he figured out right. The one with the sharp teeth would be for mowing. It was easy to tell the plows because the shares were much the same as the hand models, and the wheels that carried what looked like skinny curved teeth could only be a rake, but what a job that would do. He stroked a loving hand down the cold metal. He would have one of these, yes, someday he would.

The sun had died a glorious death on the western horizon by the time he stepped off the train in Grafton. Miles of track were being laid at an astonishing speed, but for now, this was the end of the line. He knew the Red River lay to the east, and the Bjorklund homestead was somewhere to the north, so he began his walk back to the river. For certain he couldn't get lost if he followed the river.

Walking felt good after all the hours of sitting on the train. Hjelmer strode out, quickly leaving behind the hamlet of Grafton. Birds sang good-bye to the day, and he marveled at the purpling of the land as the sky deepened to azure and the stars poked their way through the heavenly canopy. The wind at his back cooled the sweat that had beaded under his shirt and coat, and laid the grass on its side to rest for the night. Only the whine of the mosquitoes sounded discordant in the peace. Far off, a cow bellered, a dog barked, and another answered. Ahead he could still see the outline of the trees in the dimness. Strange that no matter how fast he walked, they didn't seem to draw any closer.

He slapped at a mosquito on his neck. You'd think with the wind they'd be in hiding, but no such luck. He stopped for the night far short of the trees. Their being close was definitely an illusion of the flat land. One could see almost too far for comfort. He thought of angling south to the light he could see in the distance. Must be a farm, but knowing how far away he could see the trees, the light might be just as far off.

After eating the roll and cheese he'd purchased in Grand Forks, he rolled in his quilt and pillowed his head on the valise. Before long, he pulled his coat over his head so he'd still have some blood left in the morning. Frogs croaked and peeped, an owl hooted on its ghostly passing, and another bird cried a song he knew not. But when he pushed his coat back so he could see the stars shimmering above, he quickly retreated. Close darkness was definitely preferable to the blood-letting. Already he itched.

He woke with the dawn only a promise on the eastern horizon. Sometime during the night he must have discarded his coat as a head protection, for any skin that had been exposed to the marauding mosquitoes now itched unbearably. Unable to ignore his discomfort, he got to his feet, folded his quilt and rolled it, and with his bundles tied to his back, he set out again.

The glory of the morning restored him. The rising sun gilded each blade of grass and bespangled every spider's web until the earth lay encrusted in gold and jewels. He took in a deep breath of spring perfume-the blend of grass and earth and growing things mixed with a sweet overlay of blooming flowers. Soft air caressed his cheeks, and the breeze lifted his hair when he removed his hat.

If he'd been younger, he'd have spun around and around, dancing the music of spring. His feet shuffled a couple of steps, then walked on. He couldn't stop grinning, and he could feel the stretch of it in his cheeks. His arms insisted on rising above his head, and his hands clapped, much against his better judgment. The song burst forth from his throat, playing baritone to the lark's soprano. The river, when he reached it, sang bass while the cottonwood trees rustled sibilant secrets of symphonic strings. All sang of spring, a prairie overture.

While he wanted a drink, the mud-brown water made him hesitate. Was it drinkable? Animal and bird tracks showed him the wildlife of the area frequented the riverbank. He dipped his hand and raised the water to his mouth. Nothing like the sparkling waterfalls of home, that was for certain. But it was wet and revived him just the same.

He inquired at one soddy if they knew of the Bjorklunds, but they shook their heads and pointed north. Surely their language had been some form of German. Again, Hjelmer regretted never having learned other languages, especially English.

The sun was nearing straight up when he saw smoke rising from two chimneys fairly close together. He broke into a trot, his bags bumping against his shoulders. A flock of sheep raised their heads, poised to flee at a moment's notice. A dog barked and soon came racing to accost him.

Hjelmer stopped and let the dog, hackles raised and stalking on tiptoe, sniff his shoes and pant legs. "Easy, boy. I mean you no harm."

"Paws, come." The boy's command rang across the meadow.

The dog lifted his head, looked back at his master, and whined deep in his throat.

"Come, I said." Staff in his hand and porkpie hat pushed back on his head, the boy strode toward the visitor. "God dag." He stopped and slapped his knee. The sheep had gone back to grazing.

"You're Thorliff, aren't you?" Hjelmer nodded as he spoke. No one with eyes could fail to recognize this young version of his older brother, the likeness was so exact.

"How'd you know?"

"Because I'm your onkel Hjelmer, and I'd recognize a Bjorklund like you anywhere. Do you remember me at all?"

Thorliff cocked his head. "Sort of. Come on, Mor will be pleased to see you. We were beginning to wonder what had happened to you." He turned to lead the way, then spun back and extended his hand. "Velkommen." He stopped and started again. "Welcome to Dakota Territory."

"Mange takk." Hjelmer shook the boy's hand. "You have grown up so fast. How my mor, your bestemor, would love to see you." He matched his longer strides to the boy's as they headed for the house, burning with questions as to who it was with the team out in the far field and how they all were.

"Mor! Mor!" Thorliff called when they neared the sod house. "Come quick."

A woman came charging out the only door, drying her hands on her apron as she came.

"We have company!" Thorliff dashed forward. "Onkel Hjelmer is finally here."

Ingeborg wiped her hands again and extended them to the newcomer, her smile of greeting bringing warmth to his heart immediately. "Hjelmer Bjorklund, you grew up while we were away." She clasped his hands in hers and squeezed. "How are you? Why did you come that way? How long since you've eaten?" The questions tumbled out while at the same time she pulled him toward the door where a small child, wearing the long dress of a baby yet, clutched the doorframe.

ingeborg scooped up the child. "Hjelmer, this is Andrew. He's nearly two now." The little boy buried his face in her shoulder, first finger in his mouth. "Come in, come in. Dinner will be ready soon. Would you like a cup of coffee in the meantime?"

Hjelmer looked around the soddy, his first reaction one of dismay. This was the way his brothers lived, like rabbits in a burrow? But as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he recognized the trunk his mother had painted for the emigrants and saw his brother's hand in the chairs around the table and the rocking chair by the stove. All the Bjorklund sons had been well taught on the intricacies of fashioning wood into useful and functional items. Gustaf started them young with their first carving knife and slowly graduated them to lathes and saws and planes.

He raised a hand to scratch his face and the back of his neck. "Ah, ja, that would be wonderful."

"What did you get into?" Ingeborg stepped closer to peer at his face.

"Not what did I get into, but what got at me. No one warned me that the mosquitoes would try to eat me alive."

"Uff da. They can be bad." She glanced down at the boy waiting by the door. "Go get some buttermilk from the cooler. It is in the crock on the right." While Thorliff scampered off, Ingeborg set Andrew in the rocking chair, from where he immediately scrambled down and twined himself in her skirts. In spite of the difficulty, she poured coffee into a cup and motioned Hjelmer to the table where she set the saucer down.

"Mange takk." Hjelmer sucked in a deep breath, the air redolent of simmering stew or soup, fresh baked bread, and now the coffee before him. Under it all lay the musky scent of dirt walls and floor. How can they stand it so dark? And yet, I'm sure more windows are too costly. "You have made a comfortable home here." He wanted so badly to ask about the man out plowing the field, but he restrained himself.

Thorliff returned and set down the jug of buttermilk, then sat in the chair and leaned his elbows on the table. "We thought you was coming -a long time ago."

"Thorliff!" Ingeborg turned from slicing the bread. She picked up a cloth and took it to the table. Pouring some buttermilk into a dish, she dipped the cloth and started to smooth the thick liquid on the young man's neck. She drew back.

Hjelmer looked up and saw her cheeks flame red. He grinned at her and reached for the cloth.

"I ... I forget you are not one of the children any longer." Ingeborg raised a hand to her face. "Cover well wherever there are bites. That should take the itch out and the swelling."

"Mange takk." He did as told and felt immediate relief. He sighed. "Between this and the coffee, I'm not sure which is more welcome." He spread the soothing buttermilk on the back of his neck, pulling his shirt away to let the skin dry. "Where did you learn this remedy?"

"A friend of mine, Metiz, she knows everything about medicinals." Ingeborg held the bowl out so he could dip the rag again.

"Metiz, that is a strange sounding name." He dabbed the cloth at the swollen bites on the back of his hands, grateful he'd kept his cuffs buttoned instead of rolled back. The bites ended at the cloth line.

"Metiz brought Baptiste with her when she came back this spring. He's my friend." Thorliff picked up Andrew, who had plunked himself on the floor and begun to whimper. "He helps me graze the sheep." He bobbled the child on his knee and made funny faces to make the little one laugh.

Paws let out a yip in welcome that brought Thorliff to his feet and to the doorway with a delighted cry. "We have company. You get to meet another one of your relations."

Hjelmer turned in his chair. The man filled the doorway, backlit against the sun outside. He had to duck to enter the same as Hjelmer had. Hjelmer laid the cloth on the table, at once aware that with buttermilk all over his face and hands, he must look a sight. This was not the best impression for whoever this man was.

Ingeborg performed the introductions. "Haakan Bjorklund, meet Hjelmer Bjorklund, your cousin twice removed. Hjelmer is the youngest of Gustaf Bjorklund's sons."

The two men shook hands and sized each other up through matching blue eyes. They looked enough alike to be brothers.

"Welcome," Haakan said in English.

"Ja, mange takk," Hjelmer answered while his thoughts raced. What cousin? Who is he? What right does he have here? He acts like he owns the place.

"Haakan's mor wrote to him in the north woods of Minnesota and asked him to come here and help out Kaaren and me." ingeborg turned back to the stove and handed Thorliff the plates she had warming on the shelf of the stove. "Here, you set the table."