In the morning they woke to more heavy fog. The lake was now coming in slow undulations. The lines rang up on the masts, the gulls swarmed in the brume, and the crew was hungover and at odds over whether to weigh anchor or wait for the sun, which showed promise in the east, to come burn off the fog.
They waited for two hours, the fog more blown away than burned, and raised sails under a southwesterly breeze that brought as much warmth as it did smooth sailing. They traveled the last thirty miles of shoreline in little more than three hours. As they turned toward shore outside Gunflint Thea saw the town spread sparsely along the harbor: the fish houses, the hotel and apothecary, the church steeple up the hill. From the quarter mile offshore, with the exception of the trees, it looked just like Hammerfest, and as her heart raced it also sank. The boats rowing out to meet them looked exactly like her papa’s fishing skiff, the water was as hard and as cold as the North Sea. The wind, even as it brought a warmer day, had every quality of bitterness that the air back home had. Had she really traveled so far to end up where she’d started?
Rather than dropping anchor again, the crew reefed the sails and turned for harbor. It seemed a difficult maneuver, as the ship was large and the harbor entry narrow, but the crew was practiced and sidled her right alongside the Lighthouse Road. Two of the deckhands jumped ashore with lines and tied her off on the cleats.
On the Lighthouse Road several townsfolk had gathered. Thea, standing behind the mizzen shroud, her heart aflutter, looked from face to face for the welcoming smiles of her aunt and uncle. She panned the crowd twice, each time coming away empty. She sat on a crate on deck, disbelieving.
“Last stop,” one of the crew said. “Gunflint, Minnesota.”
Thea looked at him. He had a wind-worn face, his hair was a tousled mess, his coat was open and sagging on his large shoulders.
“Miss,” he said, as he stepped nearer, “all passengers must get off the boat now.”
Thea understood enough to grab her bags and land. As she rose, clutching her handbag and shouldering her carpetbag, she noticed the man with the camera box standing below her. He had the lens pointed at her and snapped a shot. It was Hosea Grimm, his Kodak at the ready as it was every time a boat landed in Gunflint.
Thea moved to the plank that had been laid down as a gangway. She crossed onto the Lighthouse Road and stood with the Opportunity in the background. Hosea Grimm took another picture, then flashed her a puckish smile.
It was not long after the crowd had dispersed, after the crew of the Opportunity had unloaded their cargo, after Hosea had collapsed his tripod and boxed his camera and arranged delivery of a pallet of dry goods for his apothecary, after the sun had come out full and all the morning’s mizzle had been burned away, it was not long after this that Thea sat on a bench on the Lighthouse Road with her bonnet crumpled in her fists. Her sobs were there for all the world to see and hear. Hosea approached her with his hat in his hands. He had been watching her from the corner of his eye as the crowd scattered, watching as the expression on her face shifted from expectant to nervous to despairing.
He knew all at once that he must help her. Simply help her. So he stood silently before her a long time, his feet surely in view of her downcast eyes. When finally she looked up, Hosea said, “Hello, miss. I trust, based on this attitude of despair, that your landing has not met your expectations.”
She looked back at her bonnet in reply.
“My name’s Grimm. I’m a merchant in town. I’d help. However I might.”
Now Thea met his eyes — an act that spoke as much to her situation as her tears, for she’d long been taught to avoid the gaze of men — and in a tremulous voice said all at once what a horror her journey had been. She talked a full minute before Hosea interrupted her.
“Beg your pardon, miss, but you’re speaking a language I don’t understand. Do you not speak English?”
She returned her blank stare to her bonnet.
“You’ve come from far away, I’d bet. From Norway, I presume. Judging by that gibberish you speak. Or Denmark. Or Sweden.” He was speaking as much to himself as to her, and he kept his chin in his hand as he studied the masts of the schooner tied to the Lighthouse Road. “Probably Norway if you’re staking a claim here.” Now he knelt before her, played his hat brim through his own hands. “Norge?” he said.
Thea looked up. She wiped her eyes dry with the backs of her hands, cleared her throat, and said, “I am new to America.”
Grimm smiled. “Welcome,” he said. Without asking for permission he lifted her carpetbag and said, “Come along with me.” With his spare hand he lifted his tripod and camera box and started up the Lighthouse Road. Thea followed because she knew no other option.
Outside the offices of the Gunflint Ax & Beacon Hosea stopped, set down all that he carried, and opened the door, holding it for Thea. There were four men sitting at desks, one of them was Selmer Gunnarson, who did the typesetting. He’d been in Gunflint for eight years, before there was a Lighthouse Road or brick building. He’d emigrated from Bergen eight years before that.
“Selmer,” Hosea said, “I need to borrow your old tongue, friend. This here young lady landed at noon, she speaks hardly a word of English.”
Selmer rose from his desk, wiped his huge hands on the apron he wore, and came to stand before Thea. He removed his spectacles and addressed her in Norwegian: “Hosea tells me you’ve just landed. Who were you expecting to meet?”
Feeling a surge of relief, Thea spoke rapidly, “I’ve come from Hammerfest, my uncle is Rune Evensen, I’ve come to help on his farm.” She paused, withdrew a letter from her purse addressed to Mrs. Rune Evensen She offered it as some kind of proof. “My auntie was to meet me.” She paused for a moment, then asked the question she now feared the answer to. “Why wasn’t Auntie here to meet me?”
Selmer looked at Hosea, who stood with his hat in his hands. “The lass is here for Rune Evensen. She’s his niece. She’s come an awfully long way.”
Thea looked from Hosea to Selmer and back again. To Selmer she said, “Is Auntie okay?”
Looking at Thea, Selmer addressed Hosea again. “What should I tell her?”
Hosea stood with his finger tapping his pursed lips for a long moment, then said, “Tell the lass the truth. Tell her how her aunt hanged herself from the barn trusses. How old Rune has lost his mind. Tell her she can stay with me until we figure out what to do.” He paused. “Tell her about Rebekah, that she’ll have a friend.”
She spent two days and nights boarding at Grimm’s. At the end of her second day he put her on the back of a wagon bound for the lumber camp on the Burnt Wood River.
The previous morning Hosea had asked her if she could cook. He did this with the typesetter translating again. When Thea said yes, of course she could cook, he told her that Trond Erlandson needed help at the camp. He told her that for around a dollar and a half a week she could winter upriver. She could take stock in the spring, after her season in the woods, and decide on her future then. All of this, he said, was provided she did not wish to return to Norway presently.
Thea sat there dumb, trying to see herself in the woods. And because she could not return home, and because it was harder to fathom an alternative than the prospect before her, she agreed to go.