He sat and placed the kitten in his lap. Having brought the warm milk near, he dabbed the cloth and squeezed white drops onto the kitten’s downy mouth. It licked its muzzle. Thor squeezed out more. He kept at it until the tiny, pink tongue had lapped up its supper.
Thor stroked its small head that was dwarfed by his hand. So rough he could be with his brothers or when his wishes weren’t understood, but there was a gentleness about him at other times. Aven watched him, enjoying the ability to do it freely. His large thumb brushed a tiny gray ear, then ran down the length of the kitten’s thin tail. Lifting one of its scrawny legs, he glanced there, then back up to Aven. Thor stroked his thumb against one side of his bearded jaw.
She shook her head.
He pulled out a chair for her and when she sat, he handed over the kitten. Their fingers brushed, his own warm to the touch and filled with a tremor. He motioned to Aven and made that stroking sign again. Then he pointed to himself and gestured as if pinching the front of his hat. He repeated the two different signs, using one when he pointed to her, then the other when he pointed to himself.
“Oh, ’tis a girl!”
He nodded, his pleasure clear that she’d understood. She was alight with her own kind of contentedness. Of being here with him. Of knowing what was on his mind.
Thor tapped Aven’s arm, pointed to his mouth, and made an unmistakable “Tt—” sound.
He was full of surprises today.
He slid his notebook near and wrote, Tis. After circling the three letters, he crossed them out and added, Not word.
She smiled. “I disagree.”
Thor rose and strode into the other room. He returned with a thick book that he thudded on the table in front of her. The spine read DICTIONARY. He gestured to it as if daring her to prove it.
Aven laughed. “ ’Tis a word to me.”
He chuckled, and she savored the sound. Thor sat beside her again as Aven kissed the top of the kitten’s furry head. He watched them quietly. When he swiped an arm against his forehead, she realized it was no longer dew on his brow but perspiration. Perhaps he wasn’t feeling as well as he seemed.
“What shall we name her?”
He gave a small shrug.
“Let’s see . . .” She searched her mind and thought back to women she had known. Perhaps one who had been dear to them both. “How about Dotti? ’Tis short for Dorothe.”
Thor lowered his hand for the kitten to see, then shaped the letters. The kitten reached out to play with his fingers, and Thor touched its wee paw.
Here Aven sat beside him, her uncertainties having faded with each day of knowing him. Just as Cora had promised.
A bead of sweat slid down Thor’s temple, and his breathing was labored. Reaching back, he squeezed behind his neck and pinched his eyes closed. Aven clutched the kitten to her front with one hand and rose to pour him a glass of water. She handed him the drink, and though he looked doubtful, he sipped.
Water would be a small comfort to him. ’Twas something much more potent his body was wanting, and as he drank from the glass, his eyes no longer meeting her own, she knew his fight to overcome it was far from over.
NINETEEN
Pack strapped to his back, Thor strode up the hillside, feeling like he was ninety years old. He had to be a good mile from the farmyard now. Panting, he slowed. Sun-warmed evergreens fragranced the air, and it was this piney tang he heaved into his lungs, trying to gentle his breathing. This was a climb that needed to be made in order to hunt.
Haakon would probably pitch a fit to find wild game on the roasting spit, but Thor had a mind to try and bag something today. It was all he could do to sit still any longer, and he had nothing else to keep busy with. At least not right now.
Though Jorgan had let him set off on his own, Thor had been made to promise not to do anything stupid.
Define stupid, he asked.
Not amused, Jorgan had given a warning look. Thor had smiled for the sole reason of it feeling good to smile again.
Jorgan didn’t need to worry. Though it was no secret to Thor where most of the stills on this mountain were, and though he could hunt down at least two within the hour, a drink was the last thing he came up here for. No, it was the wide-open space and the need to think clearly. Grete had tried to come along, but Thor made her stay behind. She was handy for small game but didn’t like to be far from Haakon, so she would only come up here and fret.
Head still aching, Thor slowed. He sat on a broken log and pulled his pipe from his pocket. Thanks to Aven, there was a fresh quarter pound of tobacco in his pouch. He pulled out a pinch and stuffed the chamber. He patted his pocket for a match, but the small box wasn’t there. He looked in his pack. Nothing.
Two curse words and one humdinger of a hand sign came to mind, but he just set the pipe aside and hung his head.
Folding his hands, he pressed his forehead to his knuckles and closed his eyes.
Focused on breathing in and out. In and out. His head pounded like a runaway horse, and there was nothing to take the edge off.
Thor glanced back in the direction of the farm. It was too far to see, but was Haakon still on the porch, Aven trimming his already-short hair? That’s what had made Thor decide to get away. He didn’t like scissors when it came to hair. Nor when they were in Aven’s hand. Even less did he like seeing her and Haakon there together, deep in conversation.
It seemed a good time to load up a pack for a night in the woods.
Shifting his boots, Thor tried not to think about having a smoke. Or a drink. Or anything else he wanted in life and couldn’t seem to figure out. Why was everything so dad-blasted hard? Drinking himself toward the grave had been no picnic. Being sober wasn’t either. It was like life was out to corner him. Cram him into a place where he couldn’t move and couldn’t win.
It had always been this way. He couldn’t make himself talk, and he couldn’t make himself hear. Not even the traveling preacher with his revival could do a thing about it. Had Da really walked Thor up to the front of the giant tent that night?
Though he’d only been twelve, Thor would never forget how everyone was falling down and carrying on in the name of religion. The preacher saying that Thor’s Deafness was a spirit needing to be loosed. But when the old man had put his icy hand to Thor’s head and spoke some kind of prayer, nothing had happened.
The preacher chalked it up to Jarle Norgaard and his boy not having enough faith.
Thor walked away from the tent that night still Deaf as a doorpost and fearing neither he nor Da would make it into heaven. Which meant neither of them would see the good Lord or Ma. Thor had crawled up to the highest hideaway in the cidery that night and drank himself to smithereens. It was the first time he’d ever done such a thing. He’d had plenty of sips over the years of tasting with Da, but never so much that he couldn’t remember anything of the next day.
It was a numbing he got used to.
Here on the hillside, Thor blinked into the bright light of noon. It pierced his skull so fiercely he had to shield his eyes until his vision righted. When it did, he peered down the slope to see movement in the brush. The tips of antlers. Not fifty yards off, a young buck trod forward, lifted his head, and peered at Thor. Half surrounded by brush, the creature didn’t startle. Maybe a two-year-old at most. Those weren’t much for wall mounts but tender eating to be sure. Thor dropped his gaze to the rifle that was two feet away. If he moved slowly . . .
Reaching for it, he hoped with everything in him that he was being quiet. His inability to hear himself made him a poor hunter at short range, but from afar, where sound gave way to sharp aim, he was the best shot out of his brothers. Thor closed a hand around the forestock and set the gun across his lap. The creature stepped forward and paused, watching him still.
The rifle was loaded. A quick raise and fire and the animal would drop.