The Children's Blizzard(44)

He was only ten feet from his own barn.

“Papa,” Tor cried hoarsely as he tried, frantically, to dig his father out of his snowy grave. He ran to the barn for a shovel; he began to chip away at the snow, but he was sobbing too heavily. Gunner ran to the boy, gently pushed him away, knelt down and tried to shake Peter Halvorsan back into living. But it was too late.

“Peter!” Mrs. Halvorsan was on her knees, her hands patting her husband’s still, icy face, trying to warm him up; desperate, she tried to pry his frozen lips open so she could blow breath into his body. But it was too late.

“Raina!” Gunner finally turned to her. “I thought—I didn’t know…I worried myself sick when no one came home; you must come with me now. I’ll take you back.”

But it was too late.

Raina shook her head, backed away, her eyes glued to the tragic scene before her. “No,” she whispered fiercely. “I won’t go back to that house. I won’t.”

Gunner looked at her, puzzled, then turned around to help Tor pry his father’s body off the ground—it was frozen into a sitting position, making it difficult to maneuver. The two of them stumbled, struggled to bear that icy giant into the house; Mrs. Halvorsan was still crying her husband’s name, and Tor’s tears froze on his cheeks. Somehow, they got Peter Halvorsan into the kitchen, and laid him on the floor next to the stove; the presence of this frozen form, lying on its side, knees drawn up, silenced the entire house of crying children.

    “Peter,” Mrs. Halvorsan whispered, kneeling next to him, gently covering him up with her own shawl. “My Peter, my boy—Fredrik, oh, where is he?”

Raina looked at Gunner; he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders. So Anette and Fredrik had not made it home, after all. She grabbed her coat, her gloves, and ran out the door, Gunner following her.

“We have to find them, Anette and Fredrik,” she called over her shoulder as she climbed back into the sleigh, waving off his assist. “Oh, hurry up! Don’t just stand there!”

Gunner was so shocked by her tone that any gallant speech froze on his tongue; he climbed in next to her but seemed incapable of action. She grabbed the reins herself and slapped them against the horse’s back, jerking the sleigh into motion as she steered it out toward the prairie.

Praying it wasn’t too late.





CHAPTER 22


?????



THE CHANGE IN ATMOSPHERE FINALLY roused Gerda from her coma, although she couldn’t open her eyes right away. They were frosted shut, as if she’d stitched her top and bottom eyelashes together. She was able to move her left arm, slowly, and she placed her hand—cold, a dead weight—on her eyes, and tried to pry her lids apart. Finally she was able to, although she knew she’d broken the skin somewhere, as she felt a fresh sting of icy air around the corners of both eyes.

She remained on her back, and she waited for her eyes to adjust to the gloom, to tell her where she was. At first all she saw was darkness, but slowly she became aware of a glow of light at her feet, weak rays of sun snaking inside the shelter, which gradually showed her that the roof over her head was made of straw, and then she realized she was lying on straw, frozen and poking at her. Then she looked at her hands and saw that they were purplish red, and covered with pricks.

She couldn’t feel her feet at all.

There was a deafening silence in her ears—there was no other way to describe it; her ears rang but there was no sound, and when she struggled to push herself upright on her elbows, both ears popped with a viciousness that made her cry out; she clamped her hands to her ears, then fearfully removed them, terrified she wouldn’t be able to hear anything. And indeed, the terrible silence surrounding her made her heart seize up, and she was sure she was deaf. Until, from outside the haystack, she heard a hawk’s cry.

    She struggled up until she was sitting; her limbs felt frozen—her knees were locked, and painfully she maneuvered them, bending them. But her feet—she watched them with detachment, as if they no longer were part of her—were sticking out of the haystack. They were feet, they were clad in the boots she’d put on yesterday morning, but were they really hers? She painfully tried to pull them inside the stack, and she could, but there was no feeling at all below her knees, and she wondered how she would get Minna and Ingrid to safety, which couldn’t be far away. After all, they were in a haystack, so they must be near a barn. And a house.

“Minna, Minna darling, Ingrid, wake up.” Her voice was hoarse, a croak, and she was desperately thirsty; she couldn’t remember when she last had a drink of water, or a morsel of food. But she must get help for the girls, who were still sleeping; she glanced at the two, merely lumps of clothing, curled up in slumber. She decided to let them remain asleep; it was better for them, given how weak and hungry they must be.

Now that the storm had stopped, she would be able to find her way back to them. So it was up to her, alone, to venture outside the shelter of the stack; it was up to her, alone, to find help.

Where was Tiny? Where had he spent the night? The thought blinded her, like a flash of lightning; she saw him, in the same flash, running away, shouting at that horse, chasing it into the vortex of snow and wind. He had left her, left the girls, to fend for themselves. He had abandoned her, as she knew, deep down, he always would. Whether for a horse or for an adventure, he would have left her eventually. The absence of him—for if he had survived, she would never be able to look at him in the same way again, so either way, he was lost to her for good—shocked her. He had been the stock of all her dreams these past few months; all her plans for the future included him. Now she must start over; she would have to find new castles to build.