It was an old oak—the tree Thor had often climbed while at the boarding school for the Deaf and Dumb. A place to hide amid the velvety leaves. A place to see more of the world. To climb as high as he could just for the chance to look out across the North Carolina horizon and pretend that there, in the distant haze, he could make out the shape of Blackbird Mountain, Virginia. Home.
Nearly eight, he’d only been at the school for two years, but every day of it—every day away from his family—had been more lonesome than the one before. The learning of Sign had been his only comfort, but even that comfort didn’t pull him near or tuck him in at night.
So there he’d sat . . . straddling one of the thick branches, battling emptiness. It was then that he’d peered down to see a bearded man in a plaid coat, awaiting him. Da. Thor scrambled down from the tree so fast he nearly collided with the ground, and when he finally ran into Da’s open embrace, the tears Thor had spent two years holding back unleashed.
When Da pulled back, Thor peered up into his face to see tears there as well. But they weren’t the kind for a homecoming. They were of a sadness so deep, Da’s bearded chin was trembling.
Thor felt in that instant the hot fear of knowing that life would never be the same. That a shadow was about to spread over him.
It was such a darkness that threatened to seize him now.
Thor shifted his head. Knew he was lying down, but nothing more. Sleep had taken him for some time. What had Cora put in that cup she kept tipping to his lips? The air was like ice, making him shiver so hard he could scarcely lift a hand.
He managed to grip the back of his head, which was being pressed by a weight so hard it was sure to crack. He opened his eyes. The room was aflame with sunset. Slits of it hit his eyes, intensifying the throbbing.
He was going to die. Right here, he was going to die.
Thor stared at the wall, wrapped his arms around himself, and tried to fight back the cold. It clawed its way through his clothes, prickling his skin. It had been summer last, he recalled, but maybe winter had set in while he was asleep. The knots in the pine walls were small and close together. He stared at them, noticing the patterns to be found—like snowflakes in a blizzard—until he realized that the flakes were increasing. A flurry that was making the walls nearly white.
Thor blinked, feeling the itch on his skin again. Sharp and prickly. It had to be ice. He chafed at his forearms. Shivers quaked him. Did anyone else know a storm was approaching? What of his trees? His brothers? Ida would be out by the line, hanging laundry, only to be caught in the flurry.
Thor went to sit up to warn her. His skull twisted inside his head and he collided with something hard. A burn lashed at his scalp, and he groaned. A warm wetness dampened the side of his head. He’d hit the nightstand on the way to the floor.
Someone knelt beside him and pressed a rag to his head. The hands were like fire. Thor forced them away as he struggled to his knees. He needed to get to Ida. And Aven. She was out in the shed, cutting fabric with her scissors. He’d be ready for them this time—but he had to warn her about the storm. Had to get her and bring her back to the house. Aven needed him.
He’d be gentler this time. He promised.
At a spark of pain, Thor realized someone was dabbing that rag to his skin again. He pushed away whoever it was. Forget the blood. They needed to worry about the storm. Ice was stabbing him. Thor swatted at his skin, but it was so cold it felt like he was hardly moving.
Hands bound his own, pinning them down and away from his shivering body. Thor wrenched free and gripped the edge of the mattress to pull himself up. Someone was beside him. Thor grabbed the person by the front of the shirt. Haakon.
Thor tried to shape the sign for snow. The family had to be warned. They needed to make Aven safe. Bring her back to the house. Ida too. Thor stared down at his fingers and forced them to make an A, then a V. At the E, he was shaking too hard to finish. He tried to talk, but the words were like mud in his throat. Furious, he socked the floor. Regretted it when pain shot through his arm. Into his head. Stomach wrenching, Thor lunged for the bowl again.
A moment later a rag wiped his mouth, then those hands were loosening the buttons of his shirt. Why were they taking off his shirt? It was freezing. Thor tried to hold it in place, but Haakon pried it off of him.
Bared from the waist up, a chill slapped his skin. Thor grabbed for his shirt but Haakon twisted away, throwing it aside. Irritation mounting, Thor pushed Haakon into the side of the bed.
Haakon shouted at him—blue eyes flickering with fury. Thor shoved his brother again. This time so hard that Haakon slammed into the wall. Thor was sick of the milksop acting like he owned the world. Was sick of everything he did. The way he looked at Aven. Taught her to swim.
Told Thor he couldn’t do it because he couldn’t talk.
Stupid Thor couldn’t talk.
Thor needed Haakon to warn Aven about the storm—make sure she was safe—but he was fed up with his brother, so he slammed him down with all his might and rose for the door. He’d do it himself.
FIFTEEN
Aven set Cora’s basket on the kitchen table. Something knocked above the ceiling . . . then thudded so hard the lantern over the table trembled.
“Jorgan!” Haakon hollered from the attic. “I need you!”
Seated at the table, Jorgan lunged up. His chair slammed back and he stumbled around it.
“Jorgan!” Haakon bellowed. “I can’t hold him!”
A crash clattered overhead. The wall of the stairwell shuddered. Too close to be the third floor. Jorgan called out for Al.
Aven turned but saw only an empty yard and a gaping barn door where Al had gone to do the chores. Cora was already rushing that way. Jorgan shouted for Thor to calm down. A heartbeat later there was a slam and Haakon swore.
Two pairs of running feet pounded the hallway, one just behind the other, followed by a crash so hard, the whole house shook. From above, Thor groaned—an agonized, guttural sound that had Aven’s heart ripping in her chest. She stepped back only to bump into the windowsill.
The scuffle intensified as did the sound of Jorgan’s and Haakon’s desperation. Even as panic quickened her pulse, the Twenty-Third Psalm came to mind. Not for herself, but for Thor.
“The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.”
Aven hurried to right Jorgan’s chair when the wall trembled.
“He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.”
Above, boards sounded like they were about to splinter.
“He restoreth my soul.”
She lost the rest—pleading to Christ for peace for this man.
Jorgan bellowed a curse and crashed down the stairs. He hit the wall at the bottom so hard, a picture fell and shattered. The whole world seemed to dim when Aven realized that coming down the stairs next was Thor.
Nearly on his knees, he fought against whoever held him. Haakon.
Thor’s torso was bare and Haakon clung beneath one of his shoulders, groping at his brother’s thick arm to hold on. Like two stags they fought, each clamoring to be stronger.
Al rushed into the kitchen with Grete at his heels. He skidded around the table and into the great room where he hefted Thor around the middle. Grete barked. With Haakon’s help, they tugged him up a step. Thor fought and thrashed. He kicked the wall then Al square in the stomach so hard that Al dropped like an empty sack.
When Grete growled, Aven called for the dog. The pup hesitated, looking terror stricken and confused. Aven called again. Whining, Grete crawled nearer. Aven pulled the dog close.
Jorgan rammed Thor with all the force he had, shoving his brother back a step. Then another. Thor punched at him. The sound of his fists colliding with Jorgan louder than even Thor’s grunting.
Jorgan ducked against the pounding blows, but still he heaved until Haakon clasped his brother’s arms. Al struggled to his feet and took hold of his other side. The three of them forced Thor farther back.
Thor made a sound much like “Av—”
She had to be mistaken. He didn’t speak.
“Get down, Aven!” Jorgan shouted.