“What are you doing?” Thomas asked.
“Covering the walls with wool.” Textiles and nonwovens
“With fleece?”
Ingred hammered another nail into the mass of fibers, securing it to the boards. “Lanolin repels moisture. The corrugation traps air. Air doesn’t conduct heat. Cold can’t get through.”
Thomas entered. He touched the wall where she’d already covered a section, running his fingers over the compressed wool. It was dense and elastic, and his fingers remained greasy.
“This will attract pests,” he said. “Mice, moths, anything that eats wool.”
“Lanolin repels them, too. Bugs don’t like the taste.”
“You don’t know.”
“I know my grandmother lined the walls this way. I know Mongolian shepherds have been using felt insulation for 3,000 years. I know newspaper in these spaces is useless, and the wood I can afford will last eight weeks, and winter lasts four months.” Weather
Textiles and Nonwovens
Thomas was silent for a moment. He looked at the walls, at the crack where daylight still filtered through, at the pile of damaged wool waiting to be applied.
“You’re using scrap wool,” he said. “Are the Grandes giving it to you?”
“They told me to burn it. No merchant will buy it because it’s worthless.”
“Because they don’t know what it’s worth.”
Thomas shook his head. He was a practical man, cautious in the way six Montana winters had taught him to be cautious.
“Ingrid, I’ve seen huts collapse. I’ve seen shepherds freeze to death. This isn’t Norway. This isn’t the Mongolian steppe. You don’t understand the cold here yet. Come January, when the temperature drops to -40 degrees, the stove will burn all day and ice will still form in the water bucket. Wool can’t stop that cold.”
“It can slow it down.”
Textiles and Nonwovens
“That’s not enough. You’re wasting your time. You should chop wood. You should find a family to spend the winter with. You should be—”
“I should do what?” Ingrid turned to him, hammer still in hand. “Find a husband? Give up my claim? Go back to Norway and admit I’ve failed?”
He shook his head.
“I have 240 sheep. I have this cabin. I have two cords of wood and 40 pounds of wool. I’ll line these walls and burn the wood slowly and survive the winter. If I’m wrong, I’ll die and it won’t matter. If I’m right…”
She didn’t finish her sentence. There was no need.
Thomas stood there for a long time, looking at her. Then he nodded once and headed for the door.
“I hope you’re right,” he said. “I’ll contact you in November. If you’re still alive, maybe I’ll ask you how it’s done.”
He left. Ingred turned to the wall and hammered another nail. The calendar read September 27th. The first hard frost was expected in three weeks.
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