In an examination room on Ellis Island, an immigration official asked Thea her final destination.
“Gunflint, Minnesota,” she said.
The Norwegian-speaking immigration officer checked one of a dozen ledgers on his desk. “Gunflint, you say?” He checked another of the ledgers. “There doesn’t seem to be a place with that name.”
Thea was of course confused. She told him her aunt and uncle lived there. She gave him their names as though that might prove its place on a map, its place in a ledger.
“How will you be getting from here to there?” he said.
She told him she would be taking a train from Hoboken to Chicago. From Chicago she’d take a steamer to Duluth. From Duluth another steamer up Lake Superior to Gunflint. She told him her uncle raised cattle.
The immigration officer consulted an atlas of Midwestern states. He summoned another official and, after a brief consultation, they settled on Duluth, Minnesota, for Thea’s final official destination.
Five hours later she was on a barge bound for Hoboken. She would not remember these days, or would remember them only as a blur, as though she had passed through the train station in Hoboken in a dream. The locomotive was another dream, and the two days it spent on its way to Chicago were still other dreamlike days.
In Chicago, at Union Station, she stepped from the train into the strangest world yet, a building so grand and in such contrast to anything she had ever imagined that it frightened her. All that noise and motion and clamor like a taut string about to snap.
And outside Union Station was another kind of tension, another kind of dream. The buildings above her were shrouded in fog, a kind of rain fell and drenched the penny map she held before her. On Michigan Avenue she walked north to the river and found the docks of the Chicago, Soo & Duluth Line. In the ticket office she bought a third-class berth on the Sault for seven dollars. She had only four hours to wait for her three-day cruise to Duluth.
The Sault passed through the locks onto Lake Superior in the middle of the night. It rode out of Whitefish Bay, the moon on the horizon its lodestar. It was cold and even as the boat sailed ahead, a breeze came up the stern, hitting Thea’s face and bringing tears to her eyes. The Sault docked in Marquette at midday. For half an hour stevedores unloaded and loaded cargo, a dozen passengers debarked, another dozen boarded. In the dark of night they docked again, this time in Ashland. The same exchange of passengers and goods. Another half hour spent in harbor.
The following morning Thea stood on the stern deck again. Again she watched the sunrise behind them. Still the stiff breeze trailing. It was fully day when the Sault landed at the Chicago, Soo & Duluth Line docks in Duluth harbor. She thought the fledgling city rising before the tall hills looked something like Tromsø. Even the air had an arctic quality, chill and damp.
The offices of the North Shore Ferry Service were located right on the harbor, behind the livery and the enormous Board of Trade building. Thea entered and waited while a man behind a barred window sold billets to two families in line ahead of her. When finally it was her turn, she approached the window. She had clutched in her hands the phrasebook she’d been given for just such purposes.
In a halting whisper she said, “Gunflint, Minnesota. Please.”
“Speak up,” the man said.
Thea collected herself and repeated her request.
“Opportunity sails tomorrow at seven a.m. Passage is two dollars twenty cents.” He spoke in a loud voice, avoiding her pleading eyes. “Will you take a ticket? There are others awaiting my services here.” He gestured to the queue behind her.
Thea reached for her purse, pulled some crumpled dollar bills from it, and put them on the tray under the bars. The ticket vendor looked at her finally, exhausted. He took a deep breath.
He shifted his visor and said, “Do you understand the boat leaves tomorrow?”
She answered with an unconvincing nod.
He took another deep breath and shifted his visor still again. “Wait a moment.” He stepped into an office behind him and returned in a moment with his own phrasebook. He made his best effort to put the same question to her in Norwegian.
In English she said, “Yes. Tomorrow.”
He nodded and set about preparing her boarding card. He made change for her payment.
Thea, emboldened by the exchange, added, “I am new in America.”
Without looking up the ticket vendor said, “I’d never have guessed.”
She walked up Lake Street past Superior Street, dodging the mule-drawn streetcars, slipping on the rain-slicked cobbles. Farther up the hill, on the corner of Lake and First, she paid a quarter for a room in a boardinghouse, another dime for a hot bath. It was her first proper bath since leaving Hammerfest and as she soaked in the tub she was overcome with fatigue. So rather than going out for a hot meal, she finished her bath and dressed in her freshest clothes and, by the light of a window, read her Bible. She read it with a fervency she’d not felt in ages. Starting with First Corinthians. She read for a long time. Even as her eyes felt heavy and the softness of her rented bed called, she read.
When finally the evening fell and the light from the window waned, she laid herself down and slept, the good book clenched to her heart, for more than twelve hours. When she woke before dawn she felt a moment of panic before she realized where she was. She quickly gathered her belongings, washed her face, pulled her hair back, and donned her bonnet. By six a.m. she was back on Lake Avenue, headed for the docks.
The Opportunity was a two-masted schooner and her crew was drunk and quarrelsome even as the passengers boarded. The rigging and masts were plagued by a colony of gulls and the singing of the lines in the wind was a song that brought Thea back to the harbor in Hammerfest. It reminded her of why she was making this journey. She stood on deck, her bags between her feet, as the Opportunity was tugged through the canal and out onto the lake. The sails were raised and they filled and she felt the old pull of a boat borne by the wind.
The boat moved into a quartering breeze, its progress slow, the roll of the water sharp. The spray rose above the decking, met her waiting face. Four hours later the crew was already lowering the sails. The weather the wind had brought in turned cold and foggy, the conditions worsening the crew’s already sour mood. They weighed anchor and dropped a tender and announced Two Harbors. For an hour she stood on deck and watched as the tender made trips in and out of the fogged harbor. Ten travelers debarked, none boarded.
The rest of the day was slow moving. At sunset they anchored outside Otter Bay. All afternoon Thea had had the strange sensation of going back in time. Whether it was the way the boat moved under sail, the sharpness of the cold wind, or the prehistoric wilderness they were traveling past she could not have said.
At midnight they stood at anchor outside the settlement at Misquah. The boat’s captain told Thea and the three remaining passengers that they would have to wait until morning to sail to Gunflint, so Thea went belowdecks and found a bench to rest on, using her carpetbag as a pillow.
The ship heaved all night, even as the wind died and the rain began. Sleep was impossible, and not only because of the ship’s rolling. She felt, after this long month of travel and tribulation, the relief of being so near her destination. She felt the excitement that should have been accompanying her all along.
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.