{"id":1189,"date":"2019-02-14T12:25:01","date_gmt":"2019-02-14T17:25:01","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/read.whitefire-publishing.com\/?p=1189"},"modified":"2020-06-01T09:07:13","modified_gmt":"2020-06-01T13:07:13","slug":"gathered-waters","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/whitefire-publishing.com\/read\/gathered-waters\/","title":{"rendered":"Gathered Waters"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
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Gathered Waters<\/h3>\n\n\n\n

By Cara Luecht<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n

They want to worship as their hearts demand…<\/p>\n\n\n\n

but is it something they can give up everything for?
Brianna has only ever been what her life demanded. A wife, a hostess, a mother. But when a stand her husband takes ostracizes them from the Lutheran church that controls so much of life in Sweden, Brianna finds herself needing to find a strength beyond her station…a strength that will see her through prejudice and persecution and to a home she never dreamed she would find.
Based on the true story of the author s family<\/a> s journey from Sweden to America, this sweeping saga paints the brilliance of new faith, the bravery of a new land…and the beauty of plunging beneath the waters and emerging a new person, capable of what one never thought one could do.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n

\n\t\t\t\t\t

Chapter 1<\/span><\/span><\/h3>\n\t\t\t\t\t

January\n1880 \u2013 Karlskrona, Sweden<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was not by my plan, nor was it a mistake. My husband would say the\nchange in our path was by design. It didn\u2019t matter. Our path, divine or not,\nbegan in our home in Karlskrona. That night, like so many others, I waited. I\nhaunted the window, drawing the edge of the parlor curtain over to feel the\nchilled air seep off the glass. I hoped for my husband but scanned the long\nshadows for the dreaded bishop and his men. I dropped the lace, only to return\nminutes later to repeat the ritual. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

But that night a stranger accompanied my husband. A bitter wind flattened\ntheir coats to their bodies. Afternoon had weakened the sun, and frost gathered\nin the shade, on the lowest branches of trees and on the eastern sides of rocks\nand fence posts. I pressed my hand against the glass, and when I removed it an\niced print remained.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They walked side by side with coats buttoned to the top and scarves wound\naround their necks. With each gust of wind, they lowered their faces farther\ninto the fabric until their mouths and noses were covered. I watched the strange\nman pull gloveless hands from his pockets and bring them to his mouth, blowing\nwarmth into the hollow of his palms. He rubbed them together before searching\nfor relief in the deep recesses of his coat. His tense posture spoke of one who\nhad been cold for too long. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I let the lace slide back into place and crossed to the hearth where the\ncarved mantle stood well over my head; a gift of timber from my husband\u2019s\nfamily land to the north. Dark, solid, and ancient with almost no hint of a\ngrain\u2014one glance at the flawless carvings and glassy finish and there was no\ndoubt why furniture with his family\u2019s Modig name was prized. I jabbed at the\nlogs with the poker, stoking the already roaring fire.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not only was Anders late, but it seemed he\u2019d brought a guest. I\nremembered the last time we had guests at our table, when I was still a prominent\nhostess. Had I known, I would have put on a fresh collar.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I gave the fire one more poke, watched the sparks rise and fall, and\nplaced the heavy iron on the hearth before moving back to the window to check\ntheir slow progress. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The children and I had waited for dinner. We had waited for more than an\nhour, but when the hour had passed and Anders still was not home, I instructed\nour housekeeper to keep the food warm in the oven. I knew the kind of response\nmy request would garner; Elsa\u2019s warm red lips pursed out slightly and turned\ndown at the corners. Of course, never enough to argue with, never enough to\nraise questions, but sufficient to communicate her disdain for the way I\nmanaged the household. I had informed our nanny, Liona, that the children\nshould be fed in the kitchen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I turned back to the room and checked my reflection in the parlor mirror.\nElsa was not a beautiful woman. I ran my fingers over my collar and down my\nwaistline, smoothing the white shirt and tucking it farther into the black\nwaistband of my skirt. The sewn pleats laid flat against my hips and fell in\neven gathers to the floor. Soon, I would have to let the waistband out again. I\nchecked a stray strand of hair and tucked it behind my ear. Elsa had skin like\na sausage, and a body to match. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The dining room table was set for two. We had not had dinner guests in\nsome time. All had been quiet after that last, abbreviated dinner with my\nparents. We were advised to reconsider our questionable business decision. My face\nstayed flushed for hours after we walked them to the door, my sister\u2019s furtive,\napologetic expression the only comfort. Our church friends disbursed soon\nafter, as the investigations at the hand of the bishop intensified. But that\nevening the setting looked safe, the china modest and solid, and the room\ncomfortable. I had become accustomed to the sparse two-person service.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cElsa, we\u2019ll have a guest for dinner tonight.\u201d I entered the kitchen\nthrough the heavy, swinging door. \u201cAnders and another man are on their way up\nfrom the stables.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Elsa made a grunting hum and nodded her understanding. I knew I should\nhave asked her to respond more appropriately\u2014certainly Anders would have been\nunhappy if he knew\u2014but I didn\u2019t want to. I was tired, and she did her job well\nenough that I had no real complaints. I turned back to the parlor and prepared\nto meet our guest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

With a flurry of cold air, Anders opened the door. He followed the\nstranger in, stooping his six-foot-five frame just a bit to avoid the top of\nthe doorway. In tandem, they removed their hats and shook off the cold. Shards\nof icy snow fell from their shoulders and disappeared into the rug.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBrianna, I would like for you to meet Johan. He\u2019ll begin work at the\nbase next week. Johan, my wife, Mrs. Brianna Modig.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I hadn\u2019t thought we were hiring any more laborers to blast stone for the\ntroublesome Navy barracks project. Business was steady, but until it warmed up\nwe didn\u2019t plan to push production any further. I sent Anders a questioning\nglance that went unnoticed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s nice to meet you.\u201d Johan bent slightly with his greeting and\ncontinued on with the standard complimentary language of a guest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His accent was clipped and business-like, unlike the typical workers at\nthe base whose speech tended toward softness around the edges of the syllables,\nlacking in the crispness that spoke of a formal education beyond the primary\nyears.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I thanked him and gestured toward the parlor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His clothes hung loosely and were worn in the typical places\u2014elbows,\nknees\u2014and when he had removed his hat I\u2019d noticed the threadbare fabric under\nhis arms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Once in the room, Anders motioned to one of the upholstered chairs near the\nfire. Johan entered, knees and shoulders prominent under his ill-fitting\nclothes. At some point in the past it was likely his finely tailored suit had\nfit his more robust form. The fabric was heavy and expensive, and the stitching\nlooked professional. On a healthier body, the suit would have been impressive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Johan sat in the proffered chair, relaxing against the fire-warmed\ncushions. His hands at rest, his fingers lax against the arms, they attested to\nhis accustomed comfort in a room like this one; one filled with the luxuries of\nupholstered furniture and polished floors.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Anders and I took the sofa opposite Johan. I couldn\u2019t read Anders\u2019s\nexpressions, but the fire warmed and lit the area, and the soft crackle of wood\nsuccumbing to flames filled the room. Had I known how this man would change our\nlives, I might not have been so lulled by the mundane pleasure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cJohan came to my office today,\u201d Anders said. \u201cHe\u2019s from Varmland but\ntraveled to the base in search of work.\u201d I smiled in welcome, wondering why a man\nof his obvious education and apparent family money would look for work as a\nstonecutter, or worse, a blaster.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I had been to the base when the work first began. I watched the\ndust-covered men labor like ants on a hill. I shouted questions to Anders over the\nhammering and drilling. He pointed out the foremen and the laborers, and told\nme when to anticipate the shrill call that warned the men of the coming\nexplosion that stretched mere seconds into hours. How I held my breath waiting\nfor the tremor and held further for the plume of dust and dirt expelled from\nthe cavern. Johan was not a stone blaster. He was not one of those men.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere were no open beds in the bunkhouse, so I said he could stay in the\ncarriage house until a bunk opens up.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd I truly appreciate that.\u201d Johan smiled. \u201cI am looking forward to a\ngood night\u2019s sleep.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

So many men were looking for work. Families were hungry. Children subsisted\non herring heads and bread made from anything that could be foraged out of the\nsnow and ice. We had plates full of food. Johan and Anders continued to speak\nof work. Even the cuffs on Johan\u2019s shirt hung too large for his wrists.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At one time, years ago, the farms surrounding our home in Karlskrona were\nfilled with thriving families. But generations of too many sons meant one\nhundred fifty acre farms were fenced off into parcels of less than ten acres\u2014plots\nnot big enough to support even a modest family. Animals grazed in the woods\nbecause every inch of tillable land that could be forced to grow rye for the\nfamily\u2019s bread was turned over year after year in hopes of a better winter than\nthe last.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

People, their family names recorded for centuries in the parish books,\nwere moving away from inherited farms\u2014their childhood homes\u2014in order to scrape\nout a living in the soot-paved cities; rocky soil exchanged for cobbled\nstreets. Neighboring farmers, who used to support their wives and children by\ntheir skill and hard work, grew dependent on their wives\u2019 abilities with a\nneedle and their children\u2019s backs as hired-out farmhands. The interest had to\nbe paid, even when shrunken parcels of land could not support the weight of the\nmortgages.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Johan, though, was not one of those men. His speech was trained, his\nvocabulary eloquent, sprinkled with cultural references and current political\nevents. He had my attention, maybe even admiration.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The expensive mantle clock ticked while he sat with perfect posture under\nmy scrutiny.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cExcuse me.\u201d We all turned to see Elsa standing in the doorway of the\ndining room. \u201cDinner is ready.\u201d She bowed slightly and turned, but not before\nAnders gave an appreciative nod. She smiled back with closed lips; just a wet\nslit set deep in ruddy cheeks. I would never understand Anders\u2019s loyalty to the\nwoman.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, I\u2019m famished.\u201d Anders slapped his hands on his knees. We stood,\nand he motioned for Johan to join us. I fell into step, behind the two men. My\nhusband hadn\u2019t consulted me about opening our home to a stranger. I prayed we\nwouldn\u2019t regret his decision. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dinner that night was typical and unimpressive: sausages, potatoes, and\nbread with jam. Anders sat across from me, Johan to his right. Our guest looked\nhungry and was losing the battle to appear indifferent. Anders bowed his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We were both raised to give thanks at each meal, and we raised our\nchildren to do the same, even though our unfortunate tension with the bishop\nmeant we were not presently attending church. But as Anders prayed a sincere\nprayer with Johan as our guest, thanking God for life and family, food and\nfriends, his words rang archaic, and I wondered what the guest thought of Anders\u2019s\ndevotion. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The chair under me had grown uncomfortable, reminding me that I had wanted\nto make new cushions for the dining room. I decided to go to town to look for\nsuitable fabrics; possibly something in red, with flowers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I cracked my eyes while Anders continued and allowed myself a\nsurreptitious glance in Johan\u2019s direction. His eyes were closed. I noted the\nbeginnings of lines forming in the corners, and they gave his face an aged look\nI suspected he hadn\u2019t earned. His high cheekbones and strong jaw line appeared\nsevere and were at odds with his unfashionably long, dark blond hair. What I\ndid not see, however, was any vestige of uneasiness. He appeared to pray as\nsincerely as we did, or as sincerely as I would have if I had not been so\noafishly staring at our guest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I bowed my head and tried to concentrate in time for the final \u201cAmen.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Anders picked up his fork and speared a potato. \u201cJohan will begin work in\nthe office distributing the workers\u2019 pay.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Johan nodded in agreement, already chewing a piece of sausage.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere are simply too many for me to process anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The base work was now in full swing, although Anders had bid for the\nproject when we were still living near his parents in Varmland. After he was\nawarded the contract, we moved to Karlskrona in order to be near the base. There\nwere over one hundred men employed to blast and cut stone. When the work on the\nstructures began, there would be more than three hundred.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Johan cut another bite of sausage, picked up his glass, and took a long\ndrink of water. Thankfully, we were blessed with a good well. His Adam\u2019s apple\nbobbed with each swallow. He set the glass back down on the white table cloth. \u201cHow\nlong do you expect the project to take?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMost of the blasting will be done in the next couple of months. Some of\nthe cutters are already working now, and their numbers will increase as more\nrock is hauled to where it needs to be on the base. Maybe another month before\nthe first crew of bricklayers begins their work. After that, approximately a\nyear and a half until our contract is complete. We should be done and off the\nbase by August of next year.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I moved the potatoes around my plate. The cooling grease from the\nsausages turned my stomach over. I watched Elsa as she darted in and out of the\nroom, trying to discern if she had chosen sausages specifically to vex me. The\nceramic fireplace to my back radiated warmth from its painted tiles, and I\nwanted to escape to my room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA year and a half worth of work,\u201d Johan mused, bringing me back to the\nroom and our guest. \u201cHow many men have you had to turn away?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Anders\u2019s lips turned down and his eyes fell to the humble chunks of meat\nand root vegetables on his plate. Jobs were few, and seldom was there a day\nwhen he was not greeted at his office by a line of barely shod men who had left\nhungry families tucked away in peasant cottages while they searched for work.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI turn away a few.\u201d Anders shifted in his chair. \u201cI prefer to hire men\nwho have experience working around stone. Especially this time of year, when\nit\u2019s so cold and the stone can break in unpredictable patterns.\u201d He sat back\nand addressed Johan directly. \u201cI also will not hire anyone who doesn\u2019t appear\nto be strong enough for work, and I won\u2019t consider anyone who appears drunk. We\ndo not need injuries.\u201d Anders continued to stare at Johan to gauge his\nreaction. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Johan nodded his understanding.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ve already told Johan\u2026\u201d Anders began.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I looked up from my fork with its coagulating grease as Anders glanced at\nme. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe provide no beer during working hours, and if the workers come from\nthe midday meal appearing to be under the influence of it, they are sent back\nto the bunkhouse and will lose that day\u2019s wages.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Anders turned back to his guest. \u201cSometimes this causes men to decide\nthey should search elsewhere for employment, but with blasting and cutting\nstone, I won\u2019t have them risk their lives more than the job already demands. I\ndon\u2019t want this project to be one where the time to completion is punctuated by\nthe crushed bodies of the laborers.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was no beer at our dinner table. There had not been for some time. I\nwas sure Johan noticed but was polite enough not to inquire. It made me fidget,\nknowing we did not offer Anders\u2019s guest\u2014our guest\u2014the smallest of comforts,\navailable at even the most humble of dwellings.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Johan took an intense interest in his remaining potatoes. \u201cI never drink\nbeer of any kind,\u201d he confessed to his plate.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Anders\u2019s gaze darted to me, and a precarious silence filled the room. I\nwondered if Johan was one of those men who drank until they had destroyed their\nown lives; it would have explained his obvious turn of luck.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cUndoubtedly.\u201d Anders looked to Johan. \u201cUndoubtedly, you have noticed\nthere is none at this table.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Or, I thought, maybe he was part of some religious sect eschewing any\ndrink that affects the mind. That would have explained his seemingly sincere\nprayer. He watched us with what I imagined to be the same questions in his\nmind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The last time we entertained guests without the courtesy of the drink was\nthat final dinner with my family. They visited because my father wanted to see\nthe project at the base. Dinner after the tour did not go well. The bishop\nstopped by, and our food was abandoned. It cooled on our plates while my mother\nberated me in the kitchen and my father and the Lutheran bishop conversed like\nold friends.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was no secret, no mistaking how they felt. Their evaluation of our\ndecisions was not a mystery. Thinking he had won, the bishop left that evening\nwith a smile. My parents delivered their warnings and left in silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Anders and I stayed firm in our resolve. If we hadn\u2019t before been\nconvinced that the church intruded where it was not welcome, if we hadn\u2019t\nalready known how presumptuous and prying our families could be, if we hadn\u2019t\nexperienced firsthand the consequences of stepping out of our expected roles,\nwe might have never have questioned our place there. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

But it was too late. We\u2019d already scrutinized our lives and found them\nwanting. Something had to change. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I looked to Anders and Johan, who in turn watched me, and each other, and\nthe silence gave way to the clinking sounds of forks and knives against plates\nas we found our way to an uncertain kinship.<\/p>\n\n\n