The Children's Blizzard(41)

THE BLIZZARD, CREATED WHEN AN enormous trough of cold air rushing in from the Arctic had met up with an equally enormous influx of warm, wet air from the gulf, gobbled up everything in its path. The collision generated a force of energy no one could remember seeing in their lifetimes, but that all would talk about with wonder until the day they died. With so much energy, the storm kept on pulsating over the land, eventually reaching down all the way to Texas as it marched eastward.

And as it marched, something took its place: a high-pressure system of air so frigidly punishing, it froze exposed flesh within minutes.



* * *



—

AT SOME POINT, ANETTE SENSED something that brought her out of the deepest sleep she’d ever known. It wasn’t a sound, but an absence of it—the wind had stopped howling. Her ears still rang from the memory of that noise but were trying, desperately, to understand the eerie silence that had replaced it.

She couldn’t move, though, to see what had happened; something heavy was pressing on her chest, keeping her pinned to the ground. Her entire torso was covered, save for her left hand, which she tried to move but couldn’t; she couldn’t feel for what was on top of her.

    All she knew was that the storm was over, but it was still very dark. Nighttime.

And it was unbearably cold, but her eyes closed anyway; she was too exhausted, too thoroughly frigid, to register more. She gave up; she wanted to say Fredrik’s name, but then she didn’t care.

She fell back asleep.



* * *



—

GERDA, TOO, WAS DIMLY AWARE when the wind stopped roaring. She didn’t wake up, but she’d been dreaming of Tiny riding his horse out on the prairie, the two of them racing a screaming locomotive. In her dream, the train abruptly stopped, as if it had run out of steam, and Tiny waved his cowboy hat in triumph, whooping and yelling; he pulled on the reins of little Poco, stood up in his saddle, and winked at Gerda. Then he dug his heels into the horse’s sides and galloped away from her; she watched until he was a speck on the horizon.

She shivered in her sleep and thought that someone had left a door open somewhere because her feet were cold. She flung out an arm and it hit something, something covered in clothing, but the something didn’t move or flinch, so she withdrew her arm, pulled it over her torso for warmth.

She murmured Tiny’s name, although she didn’t know it. She fell back asleep so she could resume her dream, so she could run after him, before he disappeared forever.



* * *



—

    AT SOME POINT, Raina opened her eyes; her clothes were thawing, damp now. The fireplace was roaring, and she turned her head. Mrs. Halvorsan was sitting on a chair next to it, watching the flames. The room was too cold to be cozy, but it was reassuring, with all the children sleeping soundly. But then Raina heard a tiny moaning—like a mouse crying—and she pushed herself up on her elbows.

Little Rosa was thrashing about, asleep but obviously in pain.

“How is she?” Raina asked, and Mrs. Halvorsan turned to her in surprise. She was a tall, lanky woman, with soft brown hair that, despite all her exertions, remained in a determined bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were the same blue as Tor’s, but they were anxious; even when she smiled at Raina, there was a worried “V” between them.

“The poor thing, she’ll lose her feet. There’s no saving them, and I’ve got nothing for her pain save for some whiskey we keep for medicine. I need to give her more.”

“Is Mr. Halvorsan back?” Raina rose on shaking limbs; she was still shivering out all the cold. But it wasn’t as violent as before, so she could walk into the kitchen, over to the table where Mrs. Halvorsan was pouring the whiskey into a tin cup.

“No” was all Mrs. Halvorsan said. She was not inviting speculation.

“The storm stopped,” Raina said with wonder, realizing, for the first time, that the house wasn’t rattling with the wind.

“Yes, and the temperature has dropped. It must be twenty below.”

    The implication of this silenced Raina. Anyone caught out on the prairie—

No, she couldn’t think of it. Besides Fredrik and Anette and now Mr. Halvorsan, she wondered, for the first time, about her family. Mama and Papa—had they had the good sense to stay inside? Or had they, too, been caught out, doing the usual chores—tending to the livestock, letting the horses have some time outside the barn, when the weather had seemed so innocent? Just this morning—no, yesterday. For it was three A.M. now, she saw from the mantel clock.

And Gerda, what had she done? She would have been with a schoolhouse full of students, too, up in Dakota Territory. There was a chance the storm had missed her, but Raina, having been out in the infinite wilderness of it, thought that chance was slim. Raina didn’t know what kind of schoolhouse it was; Gerda had never said whether it was a soddie, or a small cabin, or a bigger house with wood but no insulation, like Raina’s school. But Gerda was so sensible, so strong. Surely she had managed to stay out of the storm, keep her children safe, too. Unless, of course, something had happened beyond her control, like had happened to Raina.

She found herself yawning repeatedly and couldn’t help herself; she knew she should stay up and keep Mrs. Halvorsan company until her husband came back. She should take her turn tending to Rosa. But she was still so exhausted, it was like she was walking through quicksand as she sheepishly crept back to the room full of children, and curled back up among them, next to Clara and Enid. She reached out a hand to pat both children, satisfied they were sleeping; alive.