by Ines Thorn
“If it weren’t for you, I could marry Thies as soon as Wilms dies, and we could live off what I inherit from him.” Her words weren’t as harsh as usual, rather quiet and almost pleading. Although Grit’s dress wasn’t the latest mainland fashion, and Wilms never paid for even a single round of Branntwein at the tavern, rumor had it that he had a considerable amount of money tucked away under his pillow.
Maren laughed, unkindly and loudly. She threw her head back and spread out her arms. “Your husband is still alive, and Thies is still available. And that includes his mother and sister. We aren’t engaged. Not officially, at least. But Wilms will have to hurry up and die, because I’m the one going to the Biikebrennen with Thies.”
Maren took her basket and left Grit standing there. She walked back to Thies, who continued to help her collect apples. From a distance, she cast a glance that was a mixture of pity and triumph. “Did you hear what Grit said?” Maren wanted to know. “That the two of you have been together since the May Ball? And that she wants to marry you as soon as old Wilms dies?”
She laughed again, and hoped that Thies would join her, but he shook his head and watched Grit thoughtfully as she walked away. “Leave her be. She hasn’t exactly had it easy. And there are good things about her too.”
Maren would’ve liked to argue, but her gaze fell on Captain Boyse, who was still standing high on the dunes, smiling down at her. Suddenly she felt as though she’d been caught doing something wrong. Hopefully, he didn’t hear what Grit and I were saying, she thought. The idea was absurd, given the powerful waves still pounding the shore. But Captain Boyse was the winter god of Sylt. He could hear anything that had been whispered on the island, if he wanted to. But it didn’t work the other way around, and so Maren didn’t hear when the captain said to himself, “Very good, my dear. Very promising.”
CHAPTER 2
Captain Rune Boyse was looking out of his living room window at the gray clouds hanging over the island as they slowly began to break up. The wind blowing in from the southwest meant the day would be dry. The cloud cover might even clear completely, and the sun would transform the last remnants of snow into glittering jewels. Boyse wasn’t usually so romantic, and he didn’t usually like the snow. He was always surrounded by snow while hunting for whales near Greenland. But today was special. Despite being on land, Boyse wore his captain’s uniform. Tonight was the Biikebrennen. Tonight the fire would burn, tonight the winter would turn toward spring, and tonight he would do what he’d been waiting to do for years. He ran a cloth over his brass buttons so they would shine and thought about his plans.
At sea, he’d forgotten how to believe in God. Otherwise, he might have prayed for guidance. Neither did he believe in Odin, the old god of sea and storm, as many on Sylt secretly did. And so he didn’t believe in the power of the Biikebrennen, a fire which was lit every year to drive the winter away and honor Odin. But he did believe in the council, and the hearing that would take place tomorrow, before the whalers made their way to Hamburg or Amsterdam. Not many cases would be heard. A few persistent beach robbers, reported by the beach overseer, would have to pay for their crimes, and Old Meret had been accused of witchcraft again. They said she spoke to the dead and still worshipped the old gods. Rune Boyse knew this to be true, but Old Meret didn’t have to worry. On Sylt, people stuck together, and as long as she didn’t hurt anyone, no one would hurt her. There was something else that should be discussed. Rather, something that had to be dealt with. But only Rune Boyse and one other person on the island knew of it, and they didn’t want to reveal their secret, at least not yet. The captain was a clever and patient man; he knew the time would come. But that time was not yet at hand.
He dipped the cloth in whale oil and began polishing his boots, whistling absentmindedly. When he finished, he looked around the room, proud of all he’d attained. The room was big, and heated by a fine delft tile stove. Around a large cherrywood table stood six high-backed chairs with leather seats. Boyse had an eye for beauty, and some of the beautiful things he’d brought back from his travels were displayed on shelves around the room: a meerschaum pipe with a porcelain bowl, dishes from China, a knife from the Mediterranean, bowls carved of olive wood, tankards and boxes of silver, gleaming candleholders, and a Bible bound in saffron-colored leather. Laid out on the terra-cotta floor tiles were Oriental rugs that Boyse had bought in Amsterdam, and the elaborately carved grandfather clock—as tall as a man and with gold-plated hands—stood by the wall and chimed every hour. Under the windows sat wide, beautifully painted chests covered with pelts and cushions. In the corner was an English secretary desk as tall as Captain Boyse himself, with a comfortable chair in front of it. It gleamed with fresh polish. In its numerous drawers were other little treasures and coins from many different countries. A row of ink bottles, including one made of sterling silver, sat on the table, and a wooden stand filled with carefully sharpened goose-feather quills stood next to them. Over the desk hung the nautical chart where Boyse marked all the routes he’d traveled. Lined curtains of thick green wool hung at either side of the windows to keep out the drafts in winter. Yes, Captain Boyse had a truly beautiful, comfortable home, rich with the scents of beeswax candles and lavender potpourri. A home that was meant for a family. Feeling satisfied with himself, he whistled a new song he’d learned about a sailor who was waiting for his true love.
The maid in the kitchen raised her eyebrows. The captain was whistling. He almost never did that. But when he did, one could expect surprises.
Maren was feeling as though ants had been crawling around in her stomach all day. The tingling was making her nervous. And clumsy. After her usual breakfast, gruel with watered-down beer, she dropped a bowl and broke it. Then she caught her pinafore on the door handle and tore it, and, to top it off, she pricked her finger with the needle while mending the hole.
“What’s wrong with you, child?” Finja Luersen watched her daughter with quiet annoyance. “You’re not usually so scatterbrained.”
Maren laughed and then stuck her bleeding finger in her mouth. “The Biikebrennen is tonight,” she said. “It’s the most important festival on Sylt. The entire island is excited. How shall I stay calm?”
“Ah. So. You’re nervous about the Biikebrennen.” Finja cast a glance at her husband, but Klaas kept filling his pipe, pretending he hadn’t heard anything. “Do you know something I don’t?” she asked him.
Klaas drew on his pipe, exhaled a cloud of smoke, and smiled, making crinkly little lines form around his eyes. “I know just as much about the Biikebrennen as you do.”
“You know what I mean.”
Klaas glanced at his daughter, and Finja understood his meaning. “Maren, please go pick the last of the kale so we can have a full pot for tomorrow’s meal.”
Maren, finger still in her mouth, nodded, left the warm kitchen, and went out to the tiny garden. Every spring, Klaas brought an entire wagonload of soil from the next village to fill the plot so her mother could plant something. Kale, at least. The ground at the foot of the dunes was nothing but sand, and nothing could grow in it except a few scrubby bushes and scratchy heather.
The door had hardly closed behind Maren when Finja said, “So, what did you hear in the pub? Which matches will be made? Which girls will be engaged tomorrow?”
Maren heard her clearly, and she paused just beyond the door to listen, her burning curiosity outweighing her guilt.
There was a pause. Like most of the islanders, Klaas was a quiet man. “I heard the captain wants to marry,” he finally said.
There were many captains on Sylt, at least eighty of the island’s nearly three thousand citizens. But Maren knew immediately which captain he meant, because there was only one captain with that much power and influence over the islanders, almost as much as God had himself. No one really remembered why Boyse had so much power on Sylt, but everyone knew it was his job to make the decisions. But when Maren thought about it, she realized no one knew him well. He was a recluse. Although it
was rumored that he had a lover in every harbor, here on the island he hadn’t shown interest in anyone. He was handsome, but in a very different way than Thies was. Thies was sensitive, understanding, and sometimes even a little indecisive, but Boyse seemed to be wild, stubborn, and stern. It was easy to imagine what might happen if he were crossed: he’d square his already chiseled jaw, and his smoke-gray eyes would darken until they seemed almost black.
Maren had once heard Old Meret calling her mother’s attention to the distinct Cupid’s bow of his upper lip: “Our captain is a fine specimen of a man, still young and untamed. His wife won’t be very happy during the day, but at night she will be rewarded.”
The old woman had giggled, and a pink blush had stained Finja’s cheeks. “Don’t be silly,” Finja had said. “As though a little dimple could have an effect like that.” Old Meret had peered at her closely.
“There was once another man who had the sign of love on his face, and I think you remember him well.”
Finja’s cheeks had reddened even more. “That was a long time ago,” she’d said quietly. “No one remembers anymore. No one wants to remember.”
Maren didn’t like Boyse, but she couldn’t say why. Sometimes she felt as though he could look directly into her soul and know all her thoughts and feelings. Thoughts that she wouldn’t dare face herself, even under cover of the quiet night. Feelings that made her blush with shame. Yes, Maren believed that Captain Boyse could see into people’s minds. It scared her, especially because he didn’t reveal his own thoughts. Nothing was hidden from him: no secret tryst, no quarrel between neighbors, no tiny act of thievery. And if someone was in trouble, Captain Boyse intervened without making any fuss about it. Yes, Maren thought, he behaves as though the entire island belongs to him. The island and all its people.
Still, she felt almost compelled to watch him at festivals or in the church. He was so dark, so mysterious, and the other whalers often spoke of his heroic deeds at sea out near Greenland. They said he caught more whales than any other captain. That he was the only one who dared explore waters that others avoided. That he didn’t show concern for his men or himself while hunting. And that in harbors like Amsterdam or Hamburg, he could drink vast quantities of Branntwein without slurring or staggering, not even a little. There was a lot of talk about Boyse. When he became the subject of conversation, only the men who’d actually been to sea with him kept silent and smiled.
Thinking about Boyse made Maren uncomfortable, and she turned and rushed to the kale patch, her cheeks burning. She knew her parents’ words had not been intended for her ears.
Finja and Klaas continued their conversation in private, unaware that they’d been overheard.
“Who does Rune Boyse intend to marry?” Finja asked.
Klaas shrugged. “Some say one thing, others say something else.”
Finja, beginning to lose her patience, sat down beside her husband on the kitchen bench. “I want to know exactly who said what.” She clearly didn’t believe what her husband was telling her. Rune Boyse and marriage? It was unimaginable! Why would a man who could have any woman on Sylt and a woman in every harbor tie himself down? He was almost thirty, but marriage and children—hearth and home—didn’t seem to suit him. He’d always been an adventurer. He was just as much at home on the sea as he was on Sylt. Or had he settled down? Was he ready to start a real home? Finja had seen many girls cry for him because he was uninterested in them. “I’m not made for marriage,” he had told every one of them. And now he wanted to marry?
“I don’t know much. But I heard that he’s interested in someone from Rantum.”
Finja raised her eyebrows. “Someone from our village? There aren’t even very many marriageable girls here. Why not someone from Keitum, where the captains’ daughters live?”
Klaas shrugged silently, and at that moment, Maren returned, her cheeks red from the wind, her arms filled with kale. Shouts followed her in from outside. Finja, happy for the distraction, hurried to the window. A group of boys were pulling a wooden wagon piled high with firewood up the highest dune. Two others approached the house. Finja turned. “Do you have anything for the bonfire?”
It wasn’t just expected that everyone on Sylt would contribute something to the Biikebrennen; it was a religious obligation—even more sacred than the yearly Christmas donation for the sea captains’ widows and orphans. Since wood was so scarce on the island, four whole weeks ago, everyone had begun collecting the driftwood that washed ashore. They searched their barns and stalls for spare boards, or, if they had no wood, they gave a few bundles of straw or rags. When the boys knocked, Klaas went with them to the west side of the house, which served as stall, storage room, barn, and smokehouse, and gave them a few old ship’s planks.
“Do you have a jar of whale oil, so our Rantum fire will burn even higher and longer?” little Hauke asked. His father was one of the whaling ship officers who would be leaving for Hamburg in the next few days.
Klaas sucked on his pipe again. “What do you think, boy? I’m a herring fisherman. I have no whale oil. Ask those who work on the whaling ships.” But he gave him a jar of rapeseed oil anyway. “Be careful. Don’t spill it.”
He watched the boys go, and then he climbed the dune behind his house and peered over at the larger dune where the fire was being laid. It was a complicated task, and all the young men participated, while the older men watched and gave advice. Klaas smiled as Old Meret climbed toward him carrying a bundle of dried seaweed.
“Do you remember when you were a little boy?” she asked, gazing over at the heap of wood. “Back then, you still believed in the old gods. And what do you believe in now, Klaas Luersen?”
Klaas didn’t answer, but Old Meret didn’t seem expect him to either. On the other dune, with a great deal of loud cheering, the big straw figure that symbolized winter was just then being stuck onto a pole in the middle of the pyre.
“Who remembers the old traditions now?” Old Meret said. “Which of the young people know that the fire is lit in honor of the great god Odin? The winter must be driven away, and the spring must be awakened. Then, foolish boys will jump over the sacred flames because they believe they will be rewarded with health or love.” The old woman giggled a little. “Do you still remember, Klaas, how you used to jump? You jumped for Finja. Farther and higher than all the others. And you got her. But you’ve never thanked Odin for it.”
“If he’s as powerful as you say, he doesn’t need my thanks.”
Old Meret started at his words. She raised a finger. “Do not sin, Klaas Luersen. Those who do not give Odin his due will suffer misfortune.”
After Klaas left the house, Finja hurried from the kitchen into the parlor. There, in the best room of the house, stood her old hope chest. Her father had made it for her, and he had built a hidden compartment in it. “Every girl must have a secret now and then,” he’d said, tilting the chest and showing her the false bottom. Finja had no secrets from Klaas. No secrets but one: there was one thing that he didn’t know, couldn’t ever be allowed to know. She pulled up the bottom and removed a small velvet-covered wooden box. The seal and name of a good Sylt household gleamed on the lid. Rán Hüüs was the house of Rán, the Norse goddess of the sea. Inside the box was a signet ring with an image of Rán and a large, heavy gold pendant in the shape of the sea goddess. She examined the items carefully, weighed them in her hand, and then sighed. A dark sense of foreboding crept in, as it had for years. Whenever Finja thought it was finally gone, it reappeared again. She pressed the gold to her breast and heaved another sigh. Then she said a fervent silent prayer and hid the box again.
Maren had put on her best clothes, a traditional white knee-length skirt, red stockings, a red bodice, and, over it, a warm vest made from the pelt of a young seal. She had brushed her blond hair until it shone and had plaited it into a thick braid. She had even stained her lips and cheeks with a little red beet juice. Klaas grimaced when he saw her. “What’s all this about, Maren? You�
�re not going to a wedding.”
Maren giggled. “Maybe I am.”
Finja spoke. “What are you planning?” She tilted her head and peered at Maren suspiciously. “You’re sixteen. Your time hasn’t come.” She’d spoken harshly, but Maren continued to smile.
“Other girls my age are already married. Grit, for example. She’s been sharing old Wilms’s bed for two years.”
“But you don’t need to be. You have time. Besides, you’re two years younger than Grit.” Finja rarely spoke so severely; usually she couldn’t stand to deny Maren anything.
Even Klaas was surprised. “Leave her be, Finja. She may be young, but she’s not stupid. Don’t you remember the old saying? ‘Happy is the wooing that is not long doing.’” His mouth stretched into a smile. “Just remember how young you were.”
Finja stared at Maren as though she’d never seen her before and then shook her head. “Child, you have no idea what you’re doing. I know that you think we’re hopelessly old-fashioned. But let me tell you, take your time with men. Many a girl has unknowingly invited sorrow in far too quickly.”
Maren swallowed. Her mother’s words made her feel uncertain. No, it wasn’t the words so much as the tone of her voice. Finja was a gentle woman. She didn’t often try to control her husband and daughter. But now her manner was firm and strict.
“But I want to go to the fire with Thies,” Maren explained.
“You’re going with us,” her mother declared. “You know the custom. You’re only allowed to go to the Biikebrennen with a sweetheart once you’re engaged. And as far as I know, you’re not engaged. If you don’t want to go with us, you can stay home. Now get dressed properly if you want to go. The others are all on their way already.”
Maren looked at her father, crushed. She had imagined climbing the dunes hand in hand with Thies, for everyone to see. Grit above all. Now she’d be walking behind her parents like a child. But Finja and Klaas would soon see that she was grown up. Ready to live the life of a woman.
