Sons of Blackbird Mountain (Blackbird Mountain #1)
Joanne Bischof
A NOTE ON AMERICAN SIGN LANGUAGE
This story Contains American Sign Language (ASL), the most recognized form of communication in the United States for both the Deaf and their community since the early 1800s. Though ASL and spoken English share vocabulary, they are two distinct languages and do not translate directly. Sentences are structured differently in ASL, which uses neither articles such as a and the, nor “to be” verbs like am or is.
As is common, the Deaf man in this novel can read someone’s lips if the speaker were to say, for example, that “a woman is beautiful.” He could also read or write this sentiment as English text. But when communicating with Sign, he would form only the words woman beautiful. So simple a phrase, but within the visual exchange of ASL, complexity is at hand. In place of oral tone, facial expressions and manner of movement clarify key distinctions. To drop his jaw on beautiful would declare the depth of his admiration. To lift his brows would turn the same phrase into a question. If he were to frown, appearing nonchalant, he would indicate only somewhat pretty. Each nuance is key, but ones not widely known among the hearing.
Within Sons of Blackbird Mountain I sometimes wrote ASL just as it is signed—including the correlating facial expressions. This is for authenticity and for the reader to experience the language in its purest form. At other times I emphasized only the words. This is for ease of conversation and story flow. In these instances I took great care to express the Deaf character’s intent as well as the sentence structure he is familiar with.
Through this, it is my utmost hope to honor the Deaf and their language and to make it possible for a man who neither hears nor speaks to be more clearly heard by those who do.
ONE
BLACKBIRD MOUNTAIN, VIRGINIA
AUGUST 27, 1890
Aven peered down at the letter again, noted the address written in Aunt Dorothe’s hand, then looked back to the wooden sign that was staked into the ground. The location matched, but with the Virginia summer sun overhead and the shores of Norway but a memory, she was suddenly having a hard time putting one foot in front of the other.
A humble lane loomed—both ahead and behind. Yet if she were to walk on, it would be away from the woodlands she’d spent the morning traversing and into the shade of countless orchard trees. Apple, judging by the fruit dangling from the gnarled branches. A sweet tang hung in the hot air. Aven drew in a slow breath, bent nearer to the sign, and fingered the rough-hewn letters.
Norgaard.
Aye, then. ’Twas the place. The land where Dorothe’s great-nephews roamed. Free and wild the boys were, or so the stories declared. Aven minded not. Having lived within the workhouse, she’d had to watch from afar as many of the orphans there faded away. The change in circumstance now—in freedom—had her eager to find the house. The family. Most especially, the children.
At a beating on the path, she looked up to see a hound bounding near. The dog’s tail wagged as the animal sniffed around Aven’s shoes. The banging tail struck her leg, and Aven reached down to pet the glossy brown head that lifted in greeting.
“Hello, you.”
The dog gave a few licks, then trotted back along the path as if to show her the way. As it surely knew more of these rolling woodlands than she, Aven clutched up her travel-worn carpetbag. She walked on, brushing dust from her black mourning gown as she did. A dress no longer needed since the two years of mourning had ended before she’d even set foot on this place called Blackbird Mountain. When a stick crunched up ahead, she shielded her eyes. Heavy were the shadows in the grove as afternoon pushed into evening, brighter still the sun that pierced through.
Another twig snapped and a man stepped into the lane, not half a dozen rows up. Aven could tell neither his manner nor age as he knelt with his back to her, stacking metal buckets. The dog circled him contentedly.
Feeling like a trespasser, Aven strode near enough to call a hello. The man didn’t turn. It wasn’t until her shadow fell beside him that he glanced her way. Slowly, he rose and, using a thick hand, pushed back unkempt hair that was as dark as the earth beneath his boots. It hung just past his shoulders where it twisted haphazardly, no cord to bind it in sight.
His lips parted. Eyes an unsettling mix of sorrow and surprise. A look so astute that it distracted even from the pleasing lines of his face. He spoke no greeting. Offered nothing more than that silent, disarming appeal as if the world were an unfair place for them both.
Aven struggled for her voice. “G’day, sir. Might you . . . might you be able to tell me where Dorothe Norgaard could be found?” Though Aven had been a Norgaard for four years now, the Norwegian name never sounded quite right in her Irish brogue.
The man glanced to the carpetbag she white-knuckled, then to her dusty shoes and up. He ran the back of his hand against his cropped beard. More uneasy, Aven adjusted her grip on the leather handle, reminding herself that she had read the sign right.
The Norgaard farm. This had to be it.
She’d traveled too far and too long to be in the wrong spot.
Seeming displeased, the man shoved back the sleeve cuffs of his plaid shirt, and finally he thumbed over his shoulder.
Apparently the lad hadn’t the gift of the gab.
And why she was thinking of him as a lad was beyond her. The man seemed more grown than she at her one and twenty. Looking nearly as sturdy as the tree behind him, he had more than a few stones on her as well.
His gaze freeing her own, he angled away and thumbed farther up the lane again.
Aye. She should be moving on . . . that way, it seemed. She gave a quiet thank-you and he nodded, his brown-eyed gaze on her as she passed by. ’Twas but a few steps ahead that Aven halted. This man had the same brow as her Benn. One bearing the noble angles of Norse blood. Though the stranger’s hair was a far cry from Benn’s pale locks, she saw something in his manner. That same strapping stance and pensive look.
“Might you be one of the Norgaards?” She hoped her accent wasn’t too thick for him. It seemed Americans had a hard time with her dialect.
With two buckets apart from the rest, he stacked them. The gaze that landed back to her was apprehensive. He had a wildness about him, and combined with his silence, her unease only grew. But then he nodded. Aven smiled a little. No stranger, but family.
“I’m Aven. Widow to Benn.”
The man nodded again as if having known as much.
Perhaps this was an uncle to the children. But why Dorothe didn’t mention an uncle . . .
“So . . .” Aven pointed past him, and when a strand of rust-colored hair whipped into her face, she twisted it away. “I’m to walk this way?”
He dipped his head once more, which had her smiling again.
“I thank you, Mr. Norgaard.” Clutching the handle of her carpetbag tightly, she continued down the lane, feeling his eyes on her. Strange bloke.
She walked on another few moments, then she spotted a large, red house up ahead. Faded and weather-beaten, it looked more like a giant barn than a home, but with its porch swing and laundry line, ’twas clearly the latter.