The Children's Blizzard(52)
How long had it been since the blizzard? Three or four days? An eternity ago. Yet there were still so many missing in the community—bodies hidden in snowdrifts, waiting silently for spring. It was actually a miracle they’d found Fredrik’s father that morning—
That awful morning was the worst moment of Raina’s life. She was ripped apart by it all—the grief; the desire to comfort Tor and his mother; the guilt she felt at being the cause of everything; the relief, quickly doused by bitter disappointment, when she saw Gunner; the desperation when he didn’t know where Anette and Fredrik were. She grew up that morning, Raina did. Grew up, grew out of childhood and uncertainty and pretty notions and romantic foolishness. She felt herself stand taller, her muscles harden, and a bitter taste invade her mouth. It was life in all its terrible beauty and terrible tragedy—that was what she tasted that morning. She might know softness again, love, hope, happiness. But she would also never know a world where Mama and Papa—and especially Gerda—could make everything all right.
It was this grown-up Raina who had steered the sleigh away from the Halvorsans’, Gunner mute beside her, over snow that looked so fetching now that it was the morning after; she briefly noted the beauty, the sun dogs—one on either side of the sun—showing off in the sky, one lone hawk swooping low over the ground.
She aimed the sleigh toward the Pedersen homestead, skirting past the schoolhouse—it seemed only moments away from the Halvorsans’ and she closed her eyes, remembering the hours it had taken them to get there. If they’d had a sleigh—if he’d come for them—
But he hadn’t. She’d done her best. She’d tried.
Despite her earlier vow that she’d never go back to the Pedersen house, it seemed the logical path to follow; Anette had headed out that way in the storm. Raina held the horse to a walk as they searched for signs of the two children’s progress; Gunner had most likely been in too much of a hurry this morning to see anything and besides, he wouldn’t have known to look. Raina was relieved that it was too cold to carry on a conversation; their mouths and noses were muffled. Gunner seemed so strange to her now, shy, perhaps? There was something that made him not able to look her in the eye: an acknowledgment of failure, or of shame. Something had happened to him during that long, stormy night. She could only guess what, until she realized she didn’t care at all, and the realization was both a thudding end of a dream and a soaring release. She didn’t care anymore what happened to Gunner Pedersen.
The horse picked its way slowly across the prairie, struggling through drifts up to its knees, but sometimes finding its footing easier where the snow had been swept by wind. It plodded toward the homestead south of the school, the house growing bigger and bigger, but Raina was concentrating on the land they were gliding over, searching for anything—a mitten, a shawl, a slate. She didn’t see any footprints in the snow, but that wasn’t unusual, given the sweeping winds of the night before. But then, as they grew closer to the homestead, she did see something—she saw a pail, a lunch pail, sticking out of the snow, beckoning them.
“There!” She pointed at it, and Gunner grunted.
“Didn’t see that this morning,” he replied, as she drew the horse up beside it.
They were on the far side of the ravine; the log bridge, wide enough for a wagon or a sleigh, was just to the left; its surface had been tamped down a little by the runners of the sleigh when Gunner had left earlier. There was another set of hoofprints churning up the snow here, too. And boot prints. They both got out of the sleigh and approached the pail; the snow on the other side of the ravine, on the bank, was broken up; someone had been here, someone had scrambled down the steep incline.
Raina felt her feet taking her toward the edge, her heart seizing up with fear and hope, both, with every step. She forced herself to look down.
The small body, grey, almost blue, like his father. Curled up on his side with his eyes closed, like the child he was. His clothes in a pile next to him, he was only wearing his long johns, and they were ragged, as if he’d torn at them. She sank to her knees in the snow, and misery washed over her; the poor boy, funny little Fredrik—to have died like this, far from home.
But where was Anette? She’d expected to find them together. She started to scan the landscape, which was when she saw Anna Pedersen flying over the bridge, waving her arms wildly.
“I have her. I got her—Anette—I dragged her up, carried her inside, do you know where the doctor is? He was just here, Doc Eriksen, and I said we didn’t need any help but that was before I found them!”
Anna’s hair streamed down her back, her skirt was wet, her hands red and raw; her eyes were strange, frantic.
“It was my fault, do you see the pail? I told her to bring it home, she had the slate, too, but it broke and, oh! Oh, the boy! He covered her with his clothes, do you see? He took his own clothes off and covered Anette, that’s how I found her, and she lives. For now—she isn’t conscious, I don’t know what to do with her hand, do you know?” Anna grabbed Raina by the shoulders, desperate. “Frostbite? Do you know what to do?”
Raina nodded. Gunner stood staring down at poor Fredrik as Anna grabbed Raina by the hand and dragged her across the bridge. Raina glanced back.
“Bring him in, for pity’s sake!” she cried, because Gunner looked as if he’d forgotten how to move his own arms and legs; he just stood there, dumbstruck.