Thunder from the Sea (13 page)

“No,” said Tom. “I'd rather stay with Fiona. How long will you be gone?”

“Between the hunt and business in St. John's before and after, we'll be gone a few weeks at the most,” Enoch answered. “But I'm not sure I should go, with the baby comin' along so soon.”

“Is Eddie goin' on the hunt?” Tom asked Enoch.

“No, he's stayin' at home to help out too. And so's Bert. Next year maybe they'll go.”

“Don't worry about me, my love. I'll be fine with Tom,” Fiona assured him. “And Margaret is just up the road.”

“Well, then, I'll pack my things.” Enoch got up from the table. “Amos and Bert are over to Ken's now. We're to meet at the waterfront within the hour and cross over to the mainland together.”

“Enoch, do you think that Mr. Fowler will
show up to take Thunder while you're gone?” Tom asked.

“I doubt it, boy. It's only March, and we could have more snow yet. Besides, the ice is still in. He won't come until the mild weather.”

Fiona helped Enoch to fill his nunny-bag with warm clothes, while Tom brought Thunder out from the woodshed.

“God be with you,” Fiona said as she kissed Enoch good-bye. “And a good heavy hunt as well.”

Enoch put his arm around Tom. “Take care of Fiona, won't you, my boy? We can't let anything happen to her or our baby.”

“I'll take good care of them both,” Tom promised.

Enoch patted Thunder's head and ruffled the fur around his neck. “And watch over them all, Thunder!” The dog's sleek, black body and tail wiggled eagerly.

Fiona and Tom stood waving with Thunder at the top of the hill. They watched the group of hunters silhouetted against the snowy harbor until they disappeared like shadows on the other side of the bay.

“They'll be goin' by boat once they get to Chance-Along. The water on the south harbor is open now,” Fiona said. Tom could see concern in her eyes. “I hope they'll be safe.”

“Enoch will be fine,” Tom assured her. “He'll come home in no time at all.”

“Let's storm the kettle,” Fiona said. “I'll make tea and toast.”

Once in the kitchen, Fiona went to the table. “Oh, m'lord. I forgot to put Enoch's compass in his nunny-bag.”

“I'm sure the others brought compasses.”

Fiona placed the compass on the kitchen shelf. Then she brought out a glass jar of partridgeberry jam and they sat at the table. “Remember when we picked these berries?”

“It was a right beautiful day. I can't wait for spring to come again.”

“Neither can I, my dear,” Fiona agreed. “I'm gettin' as fat as a pig. I'll be happy when the baby's born and the birds are singin' and the world is alive once more.”

Thunder began to bark, then whine softly from the porch. Margaret Rideout came inside
with her granny bag. “I'm here to see how that baby's doin'. It's been a while since we had a granny visit.”

“I've never felt better,” Fiona said. “But you're right; it is time for a checkup.” She headed for the stairs, with Margaret at her heels. “I'll be back the once,” she told Tom.

Tom went into the parlor and knelt by the cradle. He was proud of the work he and Enoch had put into the hard maple to make it smooth and beautiful. Tom picked up the soft, white sweater, bonnet, and booties that Fiona had made. How tiny they were! Soon there'd be a baby in this cradle. The whole idea was amazing.

He heard footsteps on the stairway. Tom got up as Margaret came into the parlor. She wasn't smiling. In fact she looked worried.

“Is everything all right?” Tom asked. Margaret didn't answer. “Is Fiona all right?” he asked again. “The baby?”

“They're both fine,” Margaret said.

Fiona came into the room. Tom glanced from Fiona to Margaret. “If everyone is fine, why do you both look so scarified?”

“Nothin' for you to worry about, my child.” Fiona gave a warning look to Margaret, who quickly lowered her eyes and fiddled with the handles on her granny bag.

“One day at a time,” Margaret said too brightly. “That's the way to live. Things seem to take care of themselves when you take one day at a time.”

Tom frowned. Why were they talking like that? “You'd best tell me what's worryin' you right now!”

Again Margaret and Fiona exchanged glances. “Tom's just a boy,” Margaret said, shaking her head. “He shouldn't hear about having babies … and all that.”

“Why not?” Tom exclaimed. “I'm old enough. I've seen cows birthin'. Besides, Enoch told me to take care of Fiona. How can I, if I don't know what's goin' on?”

Fiona nodded to Margaret. “Go ahead, tell him.”

“All right, Tom,” Margaret said. “Fiona and the baby are fine. It's just … well, the baby is breech.”

“The baby is turned the wrong way to be born,” Fiona explained. “It happens sometimes.”

“What does it mean?” Tom asked.

“Maybe nothin' at all. Babies can be born breech. It's just a little more difficult, that's all,” Fiona said.

“Fiona has another whole month to go,” Margaret told him. “By then the little one should be headed in the proper direction.”

“We'll be just fine, won't we, Margaret?” Fiona asked. “You've delivered breech babies before, haven't you?”

“Yes, I have.” Margaret headed to the door. “But let's not plan on this little tyke comin' into the world backward! You've got a way to go, and things can change all around in a month.” She pinched Tom's cheek. “You look right scared abroad!” she said. “Let's see a smile.”

Tom pulled away. He sure didn't feel like smiling.

After Margaret left, Fiona said, “Don't borrow trouble, Tom. It's a while off before the baby comes.” She looked tired. Fiona's belly was large, and she seemed out of breath lately. “I think I'll lie down on the couch for a while.”

Tom plumped a pillow for her and then covered
her with an afghan. “Thank you, Tom. You're takin' good care of me.” She yawned. “Carryin' this big baby around tuckers me out. I almost wish he—or she—would decide to come into the world right now.”

“Not yet!” Tom exclaimed. “Not until April!”

d
uring the next week Fiona seemed to be resting more than usual. In the mornings Tom would fill up the stove with brishney, get the fires crackling and the sparks darting up the chimney to the sky. Then he'd fill the kettle and set it simmering on the back of the stove.

Sometimes, if Fiona hadn't joined him in the kitchen by then, he'd take tea and toast on a tray up to the bedroom for her.

“You're spoilin' me!” she told him.

This morning was different, though. Fiona was downstairs before he was. “Look at the sunrise,” she said. The eastern sky was ablaze—all scarlet and red, with patches of turquoise peeking through. “It's right gorgeous!”

“It's pretty,” Tom agreed, “but red in the morning is the sign of a storm.”

“Maybe it will rain,” Fiona said.

Tom opened the porch door and a blast of icy air swept through the kitchen. “It's right cold outside,” Tom said. “If it's a storm, it'll be snow, not rain. I'll fill the wood bin.” Thunder was still curled up on his rug, his nose tucked between his paws. The dog lifted his head and watched Tom sleepily as he headed to the woodshed.

After breakfast the sun shone brightly, but rays of sunlight dipped down to the distant sea like streamers. “By jinkers! Take a look at those sun hounds! ‘When the sun is drawing water, better bide home with your wife and daughter,'” Fiona quoted.

She put a chunk of salted pork into a pot and let it simmer on the stove. “Tonight will be Solomon Gosse's birthday!”

Tom grinned. There was nothing he loved to eat more than pork and cabbage, with lots of root vegetables, and a dessert of duff. Newfoundlanders called this banquet “Solomon Gosse's birthday.”

Tom knew the Newfoundland tale of Solomon Gosse, the skipper of a fishing ship. Pork and vegetables along with a duff pudding was his crew's favorite meal and
always
served on Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday. Once, when a cook served pork and duff on another day, he was asked why he had changed the tradition. “Because it's Solomon Gosse's birthday!” the cook replied, for lack of a better reason. From then on
any
pork and duff night became known as “Solomon Gosse's birthday.”

Tom went to the shed and dug up a turnip, two beets, and some potatoes that had been kept cold and covered in dirt or paper since last summer. The chickens clucked and chattered at him as he threw seed into their feeder. Rufus made his usual complaints, crowing and charging at Tom. “Get out of here, Rufus,” Tom yelled, kicking the bird away, “or you'll end up in a stew!” Tom took the vegetables into the kitchen and set them in the sink.

“I'm bringin' Thunder in to warm him up,” Tom said, opening the door. Thunder trotted eagerly into the kitchen and plunked himself
down by the fire. After Tom wiped up the wet paw prints, he set bowls of leftover biscuits with gravy and fresh water in front of the dog, who lapped the food noisily. His tail swished against Fiona's leg as she sat at the table.

Suddenly Fiona gasped.

“What's wrong?” Tom asked quickly. “Did Thunder hit you?”

She shook her head. “No, no. It's nothin'.”

Tom took Thunder's food dish to the sink. “This dog sure was red-raw hungry, gobblin' up his food so fast!”

“I think I'll lie down for a while,” Fiona said.

“I'll fire up the parlor stove.”

“Thank you, my child.” Fiona walked slowly into the next room, where she settled herself on the couch and closed her eyes. Tom tried to be quiet as he broke up kindling and stuffed it into the iron stove.

Fiona seemed to fall asleep, so Tom tiptoed back to the kitchen, poured himself more tea, and sat at the table. Thunder rested his big head on Tom's knee. “You're my best chum,” he whispered to the dog. “My good boy.”

Then Fiona called in an anxious voice. “Tom! I think we'd better get Margaret over here.”

Tom jumped up. “Ill get her,” he said. “Are you having the baby?”

“I—I don't know. But we better find out.”

“Will you be all right while I'm gone?”

“I think so.”

“I'll leave Thunder with you. If you get worse, send him to me. He knows his way to Margaret's.” He pulled on his boots and grabbed his jacket. “I'll be back the once,” Tom promised as he darted out the door.

He raced to the Rideouts' house, flew up the steps, and banged on the door. “Margaret! Margaret!” he yelled.

The door opened and Margaret looked out with surprise.

“It's Fiona!” Tom cried. “Come quick.”

“You head back, Tom. I'll be right along!” Margaret grabbed her granny bag, then called to Eddie. “Watch Rowena, son. Fiona needs me!”

Tom ran home. He had hardly entered the house when Margaret came up behind him, her jacket open and her hair all windblown.

“In there,” Tom said, and pointed to the parlor.

She went immediately to Fiona. Tom sat heavily in a chair. Sensing something to be wrong, Thunder sat by Tom and nudged his leg with a paw. When Tom stroked him, the dog leaned against him, whining softly.

“Oh, Thunder, Fiona can't be having the baby,” Tom said. “She can't. It's too soon.”

Tom couldn't make out what Margaret and Fiona were saying. Then, after several minutes, Tom went to the parlor door and called out, “Tell me what's goin' on!”

When Margaret finally came into the kitchen, she looked worried. “Tom, the baby wants to be born. He's not on his way yet, but he's still breech, and he's a big one. She's goin' to need a doctor. I wish I could get Doc Sullivan over here.”

“I'll go get him,” Tom offered.

“How? By the time you get across and back again, she may be … in real trouble.”

Tom thought for a moment. “What if I put Fiona on the slide? Thunder and I can bring her to Dr. Sullivan's. He's just straight across the harbor.”

“It's civil out there right now, Tom, but there may be a storm coming,” Margaret said.

“If we hurry we could get over there before the storm.”

“Do I have a few hours to go, Margaret?” Fiona asked, coming slowly into the kitchen.

“I think so. First babies are usually slower. It would save time to take you to the doctor, rather than bring him here.”

“Tom, get the slide ready and harness up Thunder,” Fiona said. “We're goin' across to Chance-Along!”

m
argaret helped Fiona dress in Enoch's flannel shirt and breeches. She bundled her up, pulled a fur hat over her head, and wrapped a cloud—a soft, gauzy scarf—around her neck. Then Margaret stuffed a nunny-bag with molasses bread and a flask of hot tea. “I've put some ‘lasses cookies in here for Thunder,” Margaret said.

Tom dressed quickly. He found a pair of Enoch's boots with sparbles—metal brads on the soles that would keep him from slipping on the ice. The boots were too big, but fit better once Tom put on a pair of Enoch's heavy socks.

“Take the compass,” Fiona said. “We might need it if it snows or we get fog.”

Tom put the compass deep in his jacket
pocket. He hitched Thunder to the slide and fastened the booties Dr. Sullivan had made to protect the dog's paws. Thunder whined, trying to remove them with his teeth. “No!” Tom commanded. Thunder looked at Tom questioningly, but stopped pulling at the boots.

The sail on the sled would not be helpful if a storm came up, so after a moment's deliberation, he removed the canvas. “You've got
two
special passengers on board today, Thunder,” Tom said. “We've got to get them safely to the doctor, so it's goin' to be all up to you!”