Days ago Thor had apologized to Al for the rough go he’d given him on the stairs. Al had assured him he’d mended well, but Thor found guilt hard to loose. A reminder he would harness to always take care in avoiding liquor—every hour of every day. Because the cost of his choices hadn’t just affected himself, but others as well.
It made this day heavier than usual. An awareness filtering through this orchard as real to him as the breeze itself.
Thor motioned to the stack of empty crates and shaped the sign for half, then the letters B-U-S-H-E-L. Jorgan spoke for him. Only the apples with the reddest faces were to be gleaned. When Thor’s wishes were translated, the pickers confirmed their understanding. Leaning against one of the ladders, Haakon watched, this process as natural to his upbringing as crawling or walking had been.
Thor freed several apples from the nearest tree, taking his time to remind the boys that a gentle twist up of the smooth fruit would break it off. He placed the apples in his bag, and when he’d gathered enough to serve the purpose, Thor demonstrated a reminder of how to unfasten the metal clasps at the underside so the apples could be eased into the bins from the bottom end.
“Be real gentle about it so they don’t bruise,” Jorgan relayed in English.
Fay stood behind Jorgan, shielding her eyes as she listened on. Her thick skirt was as deep a red as the Foxwhelps, and though her yellow hair was bound up snug, little wisps of it tugged free. Jorgan was taken with her, of that there was no doubt, so the sheer fact that the man had a level head just now was admirable.
Remembering something more, Thor searched the ground for any trace of brown rot. Gnats swarmed around, and he brushed one aside that tickled his neck. Finding a cluster of dark, wrinkled apples, he picked it up and held it over. He sliced a hand through the air for never, then made the motion of placing the diseased cluster into a crate.
Thor watched as Jorgan explained. “If you find any that have brown rot, be sure to pile them up separately so we can dispose of them away from the fields. Otherwise more apples’ll spoil.”
Satisfied, Thor gave a firm nod toward the nearest trees. The young men set to work. He meant to join them, but something irked at the back of his mind. Three additional hands weren’t as many as he’d hired the year before. Aven had told him that Peter Sorrel had inquired for a position, but Thor hadn’t taken him up on it.
Perhaps he should reconsider that . . .
For now, Thor glanced to the three families who stood waiting along the edge of the row. Little ones played about while strapping sons and wiry boys looked ready to work. Gangly daughters toted infant siblings on their hips. All would doubtless be at work by the end of the hour. If he knew one thing about folks in these parts, it was that even the tiniest of hands were taught to help. To the older children and adults, Thor offered canvas bags. They’d all just witnessed the explanation, so he assumed they knew what to do. Spread around them were buckets and pails of their own to cart home.
If this went well, more folks could be invited in the coming weeks, bringing Thor and his brothers closer to paying off the lease. Thor tried to ignore the twinge he felt at so many apples being taken away from the farm. Never could he recall a time that the bulk of the harvest hadn’t been pressed and fermented. It wasn’t just about liquor. Hard cider had been an art to him. The timely addition of ale yeast to the choicest juices had been something he’d taken great pride in. The one thing he was truly skilled at.
How many years had he stood in this very spot with Da? Being the one to accept a picking bag and place it over lean shoulders along with Jorgan and Haakon? Da would have guided their work, Ma and Ida would have fixed something fine in the kitchen, and they would have all gathered in the yard for a bonfire. A celebration for the first day of harvest. Pain struck at the memory because neither Ma nor Da would be there when a match was set to wood tonight.
At a little tug on the leg of his pants, Thor peered down to see a boy with two missing front teeth holding a bucket that was full. Thor smiled and, leading the boy by the shoulder, walked him to one of his family’s washtubs. With a gentle touch so as not to bruise the fruit, he showed the little fellow how to lower each one into place. The apples would need to be checked every week or so to watch for rot, but these folks would know that.
Just a few steps away from Jorgan, Fay was helping two other children, placing apples into their buckets with words of affirmation. Feeling an absence without Aven here, Thor glanced around for sight of her. Even as he did, he knew she was in the house helping Ida fix the evening meal. With many mouths to feed, he doubted he’d see Aven until dusk.
Taking up a bag, Thor slid the two straps over his shoulders and approached the nearest tree. Lift and break. Lift and break. He took the fruit two at a time, his hands moving in quick rhythm. He’d picked so many apples over his life, he could do this in his sleep. The skin of the Foxwhelp was a deep, speckled red, but if the flesh were tasted, it would be a few days short of perfectly sweet. The best storing apples were always picked a week shy of ripe. In a few days the trees would be further gleaned for first eaters. With proper care and a cool, dark place to pass the winter, this week’s harvest should keep through January.
Thor emptied his bag and went back for more. He hefted up a ladder, settled it against a sturdy branch, and climbed three rungs. A few paces off, Haakon was hard at work. The bag strapped to Haakon’s chest was already brimming, and he picked with swift authority. Leave it to the kid to rise to the occasion.
By the time the sun was high overhead, Haakon was hefting yet another filled crate into the wagon, and Tess was striding up the row. She bore a pail of water and a basket of tin cups. A striped scarf wound around her hair, covering it entirely. Cora’s daughter set her offering in the middle of the grassy lane and divvied up water for the workers. When she came his way, Thor downed his own share and thanked her with a touch to the arm.
Taking up her bucket with a slim, toffee-colored hand, Tess promised to return later with more.
All worked until far into the day when a quick break came for dinner pails to be emptied in the shade of heavy-laden branches. Thor sat with his brothers and ate what Ida had brought them. As Jorgan and Haakon chatted with those gathered round, Thor’s gaze drifted across his orchards. This year’s offering of Foxwhelp was a good one. Each tree weighted down and drooping. His other varieties had fared equally as well, so barring that an early storm didn’t come—or that the creek didn’t rise—they’d be in a good position to earn out the lease. Thor lifted his gaze toward the Sorrels’ farm, praying it would be so.
A fragile fog had rolled in, feathering the evening air with mist as Haakon wove a tale for the children gathered near him. Supper was soon to be served, and with mothers busy helping in the kitchen and fathers talking in the yard, the children lingered on the porch where Haakon’s voice had them all under his spell.
In the yard, Thor was piling up old boards in haphazard fashion. ’Twas a delight to see him for the first time that day. Aven stood in the doorway of the kitchen, pitcher of tea in hand, and though she was to still be filling glasses, she’d paused just long enough to hear the end of the story.
“But because the land was yet to have a name,” Haakon continued, “those who settled it argued about what these hills were to be called.”