Tor lumbered down the crude stairs leading up to the attic; here in his own house, the biggest person there, he looked like a man. In a buffalo coat, a wool hat with earflaps, sturdy boots, leather gloves, a muffler he was in the process of winding about his neck and face, he appeared immense. Like a bear. Only his eyes, anxious, still sleepy, betrayed his youth.
His mother went to him, placed her hand on his arm.
“See if you can find Papa’s tracks, but if not, head toward the Pedersen place. And try to find out where the doctor is. That little girl, Rosa—she’s going to lose her foot, I think. I gave her some whiskey but I don’t have any more.”
“I will, Mama,” Tor said, his voice muffled. “Don’t worry, I’ll find them.”
“I know you’ll do your best,” she assured him, releasing him to his duty. Raina cleared her throat; she wanted to say something to Tor, too—if only “good luck”—but she knew he would never pay any mind to anything she said, ever again. They were no longer allies, and they couldn’t go back to being teacher and pupil.
They were strangers, she guessed with a disappointment that surprised her. Or even worse, adversaries.
Tor did not look at her; he walked to the front door and left, and Raina watched him struggle through the drifted snow, in some places up to his waist; here, sheltered by buildings, the snow had things to pile against. But out on the prairie it would be different, somewhat easier; not as deep, as if a giant broom had swept the snow first one way, then another. She was about to turn away when she saw Tor suddenly stop; he put his hands to his mouth as if he was calling out to someone just out of view of the kitchen. Then he broke into an awkward run, falling once, before he staggered up and disappeared around the corner of the barn.
Ten seconds later, everyone in the house could hear his strangled cry, mixed with the startling sound of bells jingling, a horse neighing as, with a great fanfare, a sleigh roared up to the house; Raina ran outside, heedless of the cold, and locked eyes with the man holding the reins, bundled up in robes and skins. As she did, she felt the familiar flush of anger and confusion, desire and hate—
Just as Tor came running toward her, arms waving wildly in the air, shouting, “Papa! Papa!—Miss Olsen, Mama—come see, it’s Papa!”
Before Raina could say a word to Gunner Pedersen, she was being pulled by Tor through the snow, the shock of plunging into the cold igniting memories of the night before. Mrs. Halvorsan was right behind her, calling her husband’s name; Gunner had jumped out of the sleigh, shouting, “Raina? Raina—thank God!” But when they turned the corner of the barn, they all stopped, shocked into silence.
For there was the body of Peter Halvorsan, stuck in the snow like a frozen Norse god. He appeared to be seated, his great shoulders and head the only things visible. His skin was a sickly grey, his hair white with snow, and icicles beaded his shut eyes, his hair, his beard.
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.”