The Beachcomber

by Ines Thorn

  Arjen didn’t answer or argue because he had the same fear. He turned the sled on its side to create a bit of a shelter from the wind, and they squeezed together for warmth. He tried to protect them both with his body, but they couldn’t sleep, not even for a moment. They listened to the roaring of the storm, shivering with cold and fatigue, and the boy murmured prayers. When morning came, they were so tired they could barely stand. The storm had abated in the night, but it had also splintered the wide expanse of frozen sea. Cracks a hand’s width or larger kept widening; they couldn’t continue to Cross Bay.

  Arjen could see his companions’ exhaustion, and he knew it was his fault. If he’d paid attention to the weather, they might have been able to return to the English ship before the storm had struck. Now it was too late. The boy could barely keep his eyes open, his cheeks glowed red, and he shivered so hard that his teeth chattered. The other sailor wasn’t in much better shape.

  “Lie down on the sled,” Arjen ordered them. “We have to get out of here. The ice could give way any time.”

  “What will you do?” the younger man asked.

  “I’ll bring you back to our ship. Trust me! There’s no other way.”

  They did as Arjen ordered. He put the leather band across his chest and leaned into the wind. Then he walked. On and on he went. He was hungry, but he ate nothing; he was thirsty, but there was no time to melt snow for water. He walked the entire day and through the next night. Once he lost his bearings, but with his cross-staff he quickly found the right direction. As the morning came, he saw the ship on the horizon in front of him. He stopped, just to catch his breath, but he fell to his knees, exhausted, and remained lying there, his cheek pressed against the ice, his eyes closed. He was so tired he no longer felt cold, hunger, or pain. He fell into darkness.

  Suddenly he was shaken awake. He felt someone grab him under the arms and pull him across the ice. He wanted to say something, but his lips were so cracked and bloody that he couldn’t get a word out. His eyes kept closing. He thought he felt someone slapping his face and wondered who was hitting him, but couldn’t lift a hand to defend himself. He felt his clothes being pulled off his body and his skin being rubbed with snow. At first he thought he would shatter from cold, but then he grew warm. Hot. Hotter than the hottest summer day. He opened his eyes and saw that he was on the brig, and his father was rubbing him with ice. “The others?” he asked with difficulty, his voice cracking.

  “Don’t worry about them,” his father said. “Now we have to take care of you.”

  Later, he was in his father’s cabin with a cool vinegar-soaked cloth on his forehead. His toes burned as though someone were holding hot coals to them. He opened his eyes and saw his father sitting beside him.

  “What happened?” he whispered.

  “We found you. The ship’s boy saw you from the crow’s nest. Six of us came out to get you. We brought you back.”

  “And the others?”

  “Don’t worry about them. You have to sleep now.”

  Arjen shook his head. “How can I sleep when I don’t know their fate?”

  His father swallowed. “The boy is dead. He froze. The other is in the next cabin. He’s recovering well.”

  “It’s my fault,” Arjen murmured. “I didn’t pay attention to the sky the way you taught me.”

  His father was silent. He didn’t argue or try to comfort his son, but he didn’t reprimand him either. Arjen closed his eyes. He was ashamed. He was ashamed of what his father must think of him and was horror-struck by the consequences of his actions. I have a life on my conscience, he thought. He wanted to sob and shout, to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness, but he knew none of that would help. So he gathered his courage and forced himself to look into his father’s eyes.

  “I have a heavy debt,” he said. “A debt I can never repay. But I swear to you it will never happen again.”

  His father nodded mutely and stood up. “You have to stay here anyway. Your toes are frostbitten. Unless you’re lucky, you’ll never be able to walk as you used to.”

  But Arjen healed and became healthier and stronger than he’d ever been before. He labored on the ship until he almost collapsed with exhaustion. He did as much work as he could because only then did he not think of the life he had on his conscience.

  The storm had driven the pack ice apart, so they sailed for home. The nearer they got, the happier the men became. They’d had a good catch. And a good catch meant good money. They could hardly wait to get to Amsterdam. They wanted to get drunk, visit whores, buy gifts for their families, and then go home. Only Arjen was miserable. He thought only of the boy. He’d been from Sylt. Arjen would have to tell the boy’s mother what had happened. He would have to tell her that her son was dead, and that it was his fault. He wouldn’t be able to sleep soundly until he’d done it. As the brig approached Amsterdam’s harbor, he didn’t celebrate with the others. He stayed in the inn while the others browsed the markets and chatted with doxies. And when the ship had finally been unloaded and the smak was ready to set sail for Sylt, he got on board with his heavy sea chest. His father remained in Amsterdam because he had business to settle with the shipping company. Arjen, too, would have liked to stay longer in the city, would have liked to delay his arrival on the island. But he was no coward.

  When the smak arrived in Sylt’s harbor, he looked for the boy’s mother, but he couldn’t find her. The next day, he made his way to Munkmarsch, to her home. No one opened when he knocked on the door. The shutters were closed and the yard was empty.

  A neighbor opened her window. “Who are you looking for?” she asked.

  Arjen took a deep breath. “I must see Mrs. Bansin.”

  The neighbor shook her head. “Mrs. Bansin is dead. She died two weeks ago of the bloody cough. We’d hoped that she’d live long enough to see her son once more, but she didn’t make it. Her son will be here soon. You can tell him what you wanted to tell his mother.”

  “He won’t . . . ,” Arjen said, “he won’t return from sea.”

  The neighbor nodded again. “Then it’s just as well his mother died first.” With those words, she closed her window.

  Arjen just stood there, not knowing where to turn. He was both relieved and ashamed of his relief. He had planned to give the boy’s mother his entire payment from the voyage so at least she wouldn’t be in need. He had hoped this would pay a tiny part of the debt that weighed on his soul. But he couldn’t do even that now. He turned and left, walking along the edge of the salt marshes. He didn’t see the birds gathering to fly south for the winter. He didn’t see the fishermen or the shellfish catchers. He was completely lost in thought, and his feelings of guilt weighed even more heavily on his shoulders.

  When his father returned, he asked to speak with him privately. “I can’t go to sea again,” he said. “I failed. I didn’t live up to my responsibility.”

  His father nodded, filled his pipe, and looked thoughtfully at his son. “We’ve always gone to sea. Every man in this family.”

  “Then I will be the first who does not.”

  “Are you trying to avoid responsibility?”

  Arjen shook his head. “I want to be a blacksmith. I want to make harpoons better than any you’ve ever seen. And there’s something else.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “On the English ship, I saw a device that could be a thousand times better than the cross-staff and astrolabe for navigational measurements. But it’s not complete. I want to develop it; I made sketches. Only when I’ve finished that task will his death be atoned for.”

  His father nodded again. “I understand,” he said, putting out his pipe and standing up. “I understand, but that doesn’t mean I agree. We have always gone to sea. Do you truly want to be the first in our family who doesn’t become a whaling captain?”

  “I want to be the first to make a new navigation device. It will be able to save many lives.”

  CHAPTER 6

  “I don�
�t want to do it,” Inga told her father that evening. But her quavering voice made it clear that she wasn’t sure about her decision.

  “Oh? What convinced you to stand by those heathens? You’ve taken a step closer to the fires of hell. Not that I care what’s happening in your empty head, but I prayed for you last night and I’d like to know if the Lord heard my prayers, or if he knows you’re a lost sheep. Which is it?”

  Inga gazed down at the dirty tabletop, where the last crumbs from their evening meal lay. Once more, there had been only bread for supper. Her father had eaten the rest of the cheese, and she’d gotten just a dry heel of bread. She didn’t know why their household was so destitute. She had often seen women from the village bring various offerings, such as a pot of lard, a few onions, a piece of smoked bacon, or salted sheep’s milk cheese. And her father was paid a salary by the church, yet they lived in bitter poverty. Her dress was faded and frayed at the hem. While others had wooden clogs for summer and leather boots for winter, she wore clogs year round. Others slept in feather beds with their heads on soft pillows, but she had only a scratchy straw pallet. If that had been all, it would have been enough for Inga to walk through Rantum blushing with shame. But her father enjoyed flaunting his poverty at every opportunity. Whenever there was a knock at the door, he invited whomever it was inside.

  “We have no need for worldly things,” he would say. “All trappings and trumpery. Our Lord lived in poverty, so we won’t fatten ourselves or indulge in vanity.”

  Still, Inga would have liked to know what happened to the gifts people brought. The villagers probably had no idea the pastor’s daughter went hungry so often. And actually, Inga didn’t want people to know. Only Etta seemed to suspect, because whenever she visited the Lewerenz house, the old lady would slip sweets into her pocket, invite her for meals, fill her plate with second helpings, pour cream in her tea, and cut the sausage in extra-thick slices. But she wasn’t grateful to Etta. Instead, she felt ashamed, but she was so desperately hungry she accepted the offerings anyway.

  “So you don’t want to do it. You would rather renounce your father and your God. Why? For one who calls you friend but laughs at you behind your back,” her father said callously. Inga didn’t reply. She had one hand in the pocket of her dress, fingering the rune she’d found the day before on the floor of Etta’s house. No one knew about it. She’d decided not to tell her father. She didn’t know why, because her father would have been delighted. Perhaps yesterday she had felt some affection for her friend which made her hesitate, but today she had learned that Arjen had kissed Jordis. Why did he have to kiss her? Inga had dreamed of Arjen for so long. “Why are you interested in Arjen, of all people?” she would’ve liked to ask Jordis. “There’s only one man for me on this island. You could have anyone you want. Why him?” But she hadn’t let on, hadn’t asked any questions. She had just fingered the rune in her skirt pocket. Since then, her head had been buzzing with thoughts like bees in a hive. She hated Jordis for that kiss, and she would’ve done anything to turn back time. On the other hand, she didn’t want to be selfish and jealous. She found it terribly difficult to be Inga Mommsen just then, and had no idea what to do.

  “If I do as you ask, how exactly would I go about it?” she asked her father.

  He looked at her, surprised by her sudden change of heart. “You will go to service as usual. When I’m about to begin Holy Communion, you will slip out of the church and hide on the stairs to the bell tower. And you know what you have to do after that.”

  Inga nodded. Then she gathered all her courage. “But isn’t this plan a sin?”

  The pastor sprang off his chair and glared at his daughter. “A sin? You’ve lost your mind. Are you possessed by the Devil?”

  Then he grabbed a piece of wood from the hearth and thrashed her so thoroughly she couldn’t sit down for days.

  Inga lay on her side on the straw pallet because she was so sore she couldn’t lie in any other position. She cried quietly, and whenever a racking sob forced itself from her throat, she covered her mouth. She didn’t want her father, snoring on his own straw pallet beside her, to hear.

  But she wasn’t crying about the beating. She was crying for Arjen, whom she had lost forever. He’d kissed Jordis. Everyone knew what that meant. If a girl returned the kiss, the young man could be sure that she liked him. If she rejected him, he’d have to try his luck elsewhere. But Jordis hadn’t rejected Arjen. She had even accepted his gift. When Inga thought about it, her heart ached. She was crying not just for Arjen but because no one would ever set her free from her misery.

  There were only a handful of marriageable young men in Rantum. Aside from Arjen, there was Crooked Tamme, who was crippled, and young Everett, the son of Everett the salvager, who’d been promised to his neighbor Levke ever since they were children. Aside from them, there was only Piet Knusten, a sickly dwarf, and tall, handsome Bendix, whom all the unmarried women had designs on. He was supposed to be exceptionally good at comforting young widows who’d lost their men to the sea. Maybe she could marry little Piet or Crooked Tamme, but she didn’t want to. Not for all the money in the world! She’d have to work for Tamme even more than she had to serve her father, because he couldn’t work. She would even have to chop wood because his back made it impossible for him. He wouldn’t be able to provide for her. He lived off the generosity of others. And little Piet was the most frequent guest in the Rantum tavern. He was a fisherman, but since the shoals of herring had moved away, he didn’t catch much, barely enough for him and his mother to live on. He took what money was left over and spent it on drink.

  Inga’s sobs grew louder as she thought about all that. So loud her father woke up.

  “What are you whining about?” he demanded.

  “Nothing,” Inga whispered.

  “Don’t lie to me. You’re a lustful whore, aren’t you? You can hardly wait to be led to the altar. Believe me, I, too, long for that day.” He was silent again, and at this new humiliation, Inga burrowed farther under her blanket.

  Then her father sat up, leaned on his elbows, and regarded her. A half-moon was shining through the kitchen window and into the sleeping alcove, so she could see her father’s eyes. They were hard and emotionless, as usual, but he lifted his hand and stroked her curly hair almost gently. “No one will ever give you what you want. You can pray until your hands bleed. If you want something, you have to take it for yourself.”

  Inga repressed a sob and sniffled softly. “How do I do that?”

  Her father immediately drew back his hand, and Inga heard him sigh. “Don’t be as stupid as your mother was,” he said. Then he turned onto his other side and fell asleep again.

  Inga thought about his words. “Don’t be as stupid as your mother was.” She could barely remember her mother. Inga had been four when her mother died. Sometimes, when she closed her eyes, could she see a careworn woman with big hungry eyes. Like Inga, she hadn’t been a great beauty. Young men weren’t lining up to marry her either. Her father, Inga’s grandfather, was also the Lutheran pastor, and he promised his daughter he would pass the position only to a successor who would marry her. It turned out that young Mommsen hadn’t been able to find a position as a pastor after completing his studies on the mainland, where he’d been born. He hadn’t been a very good student. He’d talked back to his teachers as though he knew everything better, so no one had wanted to write him a letter of recommendation. The only position open to him, and at a price, was at the Church of Saint Peter in Rantum on the remote island of Sylt. So he did as the old pastor asked: he married Inga’s mother to inherit the position. It was clear from the start that the marriage would not be a happy one. Almost every night, Inga’s father showed her mother he hadn’t married her for love. He beat her at the slightest excuse, kicked her, and even once threw hot food into her face because he didn’t like what she’d served. Would Inga’s marriage be that way too? She didn’t know. But she was so exhausted from crying that she finally fell asl
eep.

  When she awoke the next morning, she knew what she had to do. She washed her hair, rinsed it with vinegar so it would be shiny, pinched her cheeks to make them pink, brushed her dress, cleaned her shoes, and made her way to the smithy. She walked through the village, past poor fishermen’s huts where nets were hung in the yards to dry. An old fisherman, pipe in his mouth, was repairing a net with a big wooden needle that looked like a weaver’s shuttle. Women aired their bedding in the windows and hung fluttering laundry to dry on the lines in their yards. A cat stretched in the sun on a doorstep, a sheep bleated, a child cried, a man cursed. Two old women sat on a bench in front of their house, taking the opportunity to warm their tired bones in the autumn sun.

  “Good morning,” Inga called in greeting, and the women waved kindly. “Good morning, Inga of Rantum,” one replied as Inga waved back.

  Then she reached the edge of the village, where, past the humble huts among the dunes, a few large Frisian houses were built. These belonged to the whalers, at least to some of them. Some who were very rich had moved to Keitum, but there were still a few who didn’t want to leave the village of their birth. Inga stopped to catch her breath. She’d been walking quickly, afraid she might change her mind and give up.

  The dike rose to her right, and to the left, behind the houses, heather-covered dunes separated the village from the sea. The road that ran along the bottom of them was packed sand, which became as soft as a feather bed in the rain. The road was full of deep ruts, and just then a coachman whistled for her to make room for his cart. A three-legged dog sniffed at her ankles and trotted away. She was only a few steps from the smithy. She could already see the smoke rising from the chimney, blanketing the village with the scent of beech smoke.