The Children's Blizzard(46)

Gerda shut her eyes, pushed Mrs. Nillssen away, desperate for sleep to overtake her. Instead, her feet began to awaken. First they throbbed, then they burned, then they itched, and finally it was as if angry ants were swarming over her flesh, tearing it away with their pincers; she gasped, she moaned, she sat up and screamed, tearing at her boots to get them off, begging for Mrs. Nillssen to cut off her boots because the laces had shrunk as they’d thawed out, anything to relieve the searing pain.

And when finally the boots were cut off—and some of her flesh seemed to be sheared off with them—she saw skin that was purplish black, dying. Her very flesh was dying, and the metaphor seemed so apt she wanted to laugh.

    But then the ants began their attack again, and all she could do was bite down on the towel Mrs. Nillssen shoved in her mouth to shut her up.

“Shhh, shhh. You mustn’t disturb the girls,” the woman whispered in Gerda’s ear as she writhed in pain.





CHAPTER 23


?????



THIS MORNING AT FIRST LIGHT, Anna had watched as her husband harnessed the horse, strapped the blanket around its girth, then climbed up in the sleigh and rode off, fast as lightning, over the log bridge straddling the ravine, toward the tundra of the prairie. She couldn’t watch him for long; the rising sun was already too fierce, little glints of ice reflecting it everywhere. Something blinding did catch her eye out by the ravine, but she had to cover her eyes with her hands, the glare actually hurt.

What a fool her husband was, going out there in this cold. But he thought himself a paragon of the community, so he had to ride to the rescue of the Schoolteacher, the girl, all the children who must have spent the night in the schoolhouse. The Great Gunner Pedersen, Hero of the Storm. Ha! What an idiot, a preening idiot, he was. At least now the storm was over; he wouldn’t get lost, he wouldn’t perish. Although she wished he would, at least five times a day, practicality had won out last night. She couldn’t risk losing him in the middle of winter; she couldn’t deal with the horses, the house, the children all by herself. In the spring, she could leave him—she knew that now. But until they were through the winter, she needed him.

    So she’d held him at gunpoint all night. What a fantastic thing to recall! She’d pointed the gun, the one her sister had given her the night before they moved away from Minneapolis to this desolate wasteland—“To use if there is only one way out, my darling,” Margit had whispered fiercely in Anna’s ear—right at his heart. All night long, she held her husband hostage. She, Anna Pedersen, who used to weep whenever mice had to be killed, back when she was young and tender, untouched.

She blamed the prairie. She blamed her husband. She would not blame herself.

Let the man ride off now with his gallant steed; he wouldn’t come to any harm. She was sure everyone was safe—maybe a little cold and hungry—at the schoolhouse. The Schoolteacher had sense; she wouldn’t have risked the children’s lives. What a simpleton Gunner was—he did not understand women at all. Only as figures of romance and fancy, to be saved, protected. Their strength downright terrified him, she had seen that herself too many times to count. So naturally, the moment a new woman came into his life, outwardly uncertain and shy, he had behaved like a romantic patsy. Oh, the poor, pretty young thing, this Raina Olsen, boarding out for the first time, so homesick! She needed his protection, his assurance—just as he’d thought Anna had, back when they were courting.

But Anna hadn’t been deceived at all by the Schoolteacher. She could see the young woman was stronger than she appeared, even though her head had been decidedly turned by Gunner’s ridiculous behavior. What Anna had feared was that the young woman would use that strength to persuade Gunner to run off, something that Gunner would never do on his own, despite his seductive words and actions.

    Anna didn’t fear that any longer. Something had happened during the long night while the wind broke against the windows and her husband sat like a hostage before the gun in her hand. She’d seen her husband for who he was. Six foot two, and terrified of a woman a full foot shorter. A boy who only pretended he was a man. She’d realized she could pull the trigger anytime, and she wouldn’t feel remorse, only justification.

It was a powerful feeling. It gave her back control of her life.

Busy at the stove, baking a loaf of bread she’d set out to rise earlier, she bustled about the kitchen; anyone looking at her would see the Anna of old: the sweetheart, the dazzler, the icon of femininity. It was just her and the children. She was humming a contented little tune when she heard horses pull up outside. She looked out the window in surprise; Gunner couldn’t be back so soon, could he?

The sleigh outside belonged to Doc Eriksen, the only physician around. He had practiced in the old country and was beyond the age when a man of medicine should be expected to retire peacefully. The prairie, of course, had forced him back into service; the ruthless prairie, with its endless dangers to people formerly used to living close together, relying upon one another. To have a doctor in a community out here was nothing less than a miracle, even if he was a doctor who looked as if he required medical care himself. He waved at Anna, shouted something; she glanced at the children—they were sitting close to the stove, maybe too close, so she snapped at them to stay back—then she threw on a shawl and went outside.