| |
JAN CLIMBED OUT FROM under the wagon. He was wet, stiff, and cold. A chilly breeze ruffled his damp hair. He shivered and looked around in the dripping morning light. Here and there patches of hail remained.
“Ach!” he moaned. The chicken coop and pigpen were destroyed. He ran to them. Dead chicks lay motionless in puddles. The little chicken hutch rested on its back; he looked inside. Nothing.
He strode to the demolished pigpen. The pig’s shelter lay flat; the fencing had been taken by the wind. No, there it is, across the garden spot against the empty wagon!
Jan ran toward the wagon. Molly raised her head and bawled pathetically. She had not been milked last evening. He slowed as he drew near to her . . . and heard a wonderful noise—the muffled grunting of two piglets rooting for a warmer, dryer spot against Molly’s back.
Oh, thank you, Lord! Jan rejoiced. Of all the animals, he would hate most to lose his father’s pigs. He scratched the piglet’s backs. They would be safe with Molly for a bit.
Jan saw Karl emerge from behind the wagons, saw him run his hand through his wet hair. “The pigs?”
“They are here, Karl. With Molly.”
“Thank you, God in heaven!” Karl replied. He saw the dead chicks and shook his head. An ox bellowed, begging their attention.
Jan and Karl strode toward the oxen together. One of the oxen bellowed again, and Jan heard pain in its call.
The oxen were lying on the ground, bunched together, something unnatural in their arrangement. Jan and Karl approached the oxen cautiously, careful of their horns and hooves, but trying to figure out what was wrong.
As the oxen saw them coming, they struggled to stand—and could not. With the struggle another bellow of pain erupted from one of them. The closer Jan and Karl came, the harder the oxen struggled and the louder the ox bawled.
The rope Jan had strung from the two stakes had come loose, and somehow the hobbled oxen had tangled themselves in it.
Jan reached the first ox and placed his hand on its head, speaking calming words. The other oxen still struggled in agitation. Jan could not loosen the wet knot that held the ox, so he pulled his knife and sawed through it.
A moment later he removed the ox’s hobble and the beast struggled to standing. Jan and Karl, working as quickly as they could, loosed each ox in turn until they came to the last one.
It was the temperamental ox, the one that had given them some trouble. He bellowed piteously but lay still. He could not rise, and the reason was apparent. His near foreleg pointed in an unnatural direction.
The brothers looked at each other and shook their heads. They could do only one thing for this poor animal.
—
SØREN, KRISTEN, AND Sigrün picked up the dead chicks and dropped them, one by one, into a hole Elli had dug. Five dead chicks.
“Who knows what has become of the rest?” Elli sighed. She glanced at Amalie with concern. Her sister-in-law sat on one of the benches with her arms wrapped about herself, haggard from lack of sleep.
Elli heard the report of a rifle and knew that Jan or Karl had dispatched the poor ox. Jan walked toward her, his face grim, and hung the gun on the side of the wagon.
“Søren, set the tools upright to dry in the sun, ja?” Jan asked. He saw Elli tip her head toward Amalie.
Ja, I see, Wife. He shook his head and set his mouth. Lord, what are we to do? Such a storm he had never experienced—and he did not intend for his family or his brother’s family to suffer through another like it again, uncovered to the elements.
The tarps covering the packed wagons had held against the wind, rain, and hail; the food and other things were safe and dry. Karl and Jan quietly re-erected the tent while Elli and Amalie hung soaked and muddy bedding out to dry. Amalie’s movements were stilted, mechanical. She had not spoken yet.
Elli wanted to warm the stew from the night before but could not get a fire started. All their fuel was drenched. She crossed her arms in frustration.
“Pappa! Pappa!” Søren’s cry for help roused them all. He was standing near the tools with a hoe raised above his head—and then he was striking the ground over and over.
As they rushed to his side, they heard the frantic cheep! cheep! of baby chickens. Huddled together among the fallen tools were six very bedraggled and frantic chicks.
Near them was a snake, its head newly severed from its thick body. The tail of the snake twitched and Søren struck it with the hoe once more, separating the snake’s rattles from its body.
No one spoke until Søren said in a tiny voice, “It was after our chicks, Pappa. I couldn’t let it get our chicks.”
Jan laid his hand gently on Søren’s shoulder. “Well done, Sønn. Well done.”
Elli swallowed, grateful for Søren’s courage, thankful for his safety. Amalie, behind Elli’s shoulder, moaned and her moan rose, turning to a keening wail.
“Karl! You will move us to the soddy! You must! You must! Today!” Amalie’s words were shrieked; she was both hysterical and angry. “I-I cannot, we cannot stay outside under the sky! I-I, the sky is too big, Karl! You must move us to the soddy, Karl! Please, Karl! Please!”
The children—and the adults—were wide-eyed and Sigrün began to cry. Karl pulled Amalie into his arms and away from the dead snake. He wrapped his arms about her and pushed her face into his shoulder.
“There, there, my love! It is all right. You will see. It will be all right.” Karl spoke as if to Sigrün, his words soft and patient.
“I don’t want to be outside in the lightning and the rain, Karl! Please!” Amalie sobbed. “Please!”
“Yes, all right. I will do as you ask, Amalie,” Karl reassured her. His face was stricken and unsure when he raised his eyes to Jan and Elli.
“We went into the Andersons’ dugout,” Elli said quietly. “She saw that it was safe. Please. It would be better for Amalie to live in one for now than under the wagons, ja?”
Karl nodded and pressed his lips onto Amalie’s hair. “We will move into the dugout, Amalie.”
Søren, Kristen, and Sigrün crowded Jan and Elli, seeking comfort. “Pappa,” Søren whispered, “Is Tante Amalie all right?”
“She will be, Sønn,” Jan answered quietly, hoping he was right.
~~**~~
