by Ines Thorn
CHAPTER 8
“Do we really have to go to church?” Jordis asked with a frown. “I’m scared of the pastor. He only preaches about death and disaster. And whenever he does, it feels like he’s looking right at me.”
Etta smiled. “Don’t listen to a word he says. But we do have to go. It’s the first Sunday after Michaelmas, Harvest Festival. We haven’t been to church all summer. Now we must go or people will begin to talk. Especially if you intend to be married soon. The pastor spoke to me today when I was at the market. He specifically invited us to come. Half the village heard him. If we don’t go now, we’ll give them reason to gossip.”
Jordis sighed. She put on a clean blue linen dress with a high waistline that hung loosely below her bosom. She brushed her hair, tied a ribbon the color of her dress around her head, and slipped into her shoes. Normally, she wore her wooden clogs like all the other villagers, but for church she had polished her good leather shoes with goose grease so they were clean and shiny.
The path to the Rantum church was full of people heading to the Harvest Festival service. The women wore beautiful traditional formal wear, and the men wore richly embroidered shirts. The children’s freshly scrubbed faces glowed and their hair was neatly combed. Even the seagulls’ silvery feathers seemed to gleam in the sunlight.
The Rantum church was built of massive granite blocks and brick. The apse was fitted with leaded glass windows, and the bell tower soared above it. Jordis had always wanted to climb the tower to see the island from above, and Inga had promised that she’d secretly borrow the key, and that they could climb the stairs in the vestry to the wooden catwalk in the ceiling above the altar to reach the bell tower. She had even asked her father once, but he had harshly refused. “You’re certainly not going to trample around above the Lord’s head,” he’d said, referring to the free-hanging cross, with the silver figure of Jesus, affixed to the beams of the catwalk.
The church was already full, and Jordis and Etta found a place near the back. Arjen stood up immediately and greeted them both, and handed Jordis a little clay pot with a stopper in it.
“What’s this?” she asked.
Arjen smiled. “Honey from my bees. After all, today is Harvest Festival.”
Jordis looked up at him, directly into his eyes. His gaze seemed to be caressing her face. “Thank you,” she said. A warm feeling spread through her body. She glanced at his lips and would have liked to kiss him, but of course that wouldn’t be proper in church. Instead, she reached for his hand and squeezed it.
Arjen cleared his throat. “I’ve asked the pastor to announce our betrothal today. I hope that’s all right with you. We could marry soon, once the sailors have sold their cargo and have settled down for the winter. Near the first Sunday of Advent, as is the tradition. What do you think?”
“So quickly?” Jordis had been overflowing with joy ever since Arjen had proposed, but she hadn’t yet started thinking about what would happen after the wedding. It was already October, and she could count the weeks to Advent on the fingers of both hands.
“Would you rather wait?” he asked.
Jordis glanced at Etta, who smiled and looked in the other direction. “What will happen to her?”
“She’ll live with us, of course. She will want for nothing.”
The church had gradually grown quiet. A moment before, the congregation had been whispering, laughing, and murmuring, but once the altar boys brought out the chalice and communion plate, the villagers had gone silent. It was Jordis’s first opportunity to take a look around. The altar at the front of the church was decorated with large orange pumpkins and red apples, with baskets of eggs, sacks of flour, and bottles of Branntwein. Wreaths woven from sheaves of wheat hung next to the pulpit, and above the altar hung a huge cross of a dark-red wood, decorated with a silver Christ and studded with gems that wealthy whaling captains had donated.
The bells pealed, and then there was an expectant silence inside the church. Jordis looked for Inga, who normally sat in the front row and later walked through the pews with the collection plate. But her seat was empty.
Jordis sang hymns along with the congregation, her voice light and high. Then the pastor stepped up to the pulpit. He spread his arms grandly, and it seemed to Jordis as though he were looking directly into the faces of every single villager at the same time. A reverential silence filled the room.
“Today,” the pastor said in a sonorous tone, “I will speak of the first commandment. ‘I am the Lord thy God. Thou shalt have no other gods before me.’” He fell silent, as though waiting for a reaction. Then he pointed an accusatory finger directly at Jordis and Etta. “‘Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them: for I the Lord thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me; and shewing mercy unto thousands of them that love me, and keep my commandments.’”
Again, he glared directly at Etta and Jordis, and several of the villagers followed his example. Etta sighed and smiled innocently. But Jordis lowered her head in embarrassment. The pastor went on. “There are those among us who disobey the first commandment. The Lord will punish them, and those who unite themselves with sinners shall be punished as well. They shall be punished who pay heed to the words of other gods, and they who take part in pagan rituals, and they who seek counsel from sinners instead of turning to their church for advice. The Lord will destroy them all! He will bring storms and tidal waves of destruction. Plagues will rise, and there will be great suffering and lamentation!”
The congregation bowed their heads under the weight of the pastor’s thundering proclamation, and some of them folded their hands and murmured the Lord’s Prayer. They all searched their consciences for dark stains, and some of them trembled because they believed themselves to be guilty. Others looked around self-righteously, and one woman glared disdainfully at Etta and Jordis.
Etta reached for her granddaughter’s hand, and Jordis squeezed hers in return. She knew that what she and her grandmother did wasn’t wrong. And yet, she felt uneasy. Even if both she and Etta knew it, the pastor was preaching the opposite from the pulpit, and Jordis knew despite her youth that the loudest usually won. She tried not to listen to the pastor’s tirade and kept her eyes lowered so she wouldn’t have to see the scornful looks of the others. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the sermon was over. The congregation praised the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost in full voice and song. Then there was a short Bible reading about Harvest Festival, and afterward the pastor invited his flock to take communion. “But only those who are pure of heart shall come,” he said, almost threateningly. “Anyone who has a dispute with a brother shall return home and reconcile it with him first. And those who worship false idols shall first go and free themselves before they eat of the Lord’s body and drink the blood that our savior Jesus Christ shed for them.”
Everyone in the front row stood and formed a half circle in front of the altar, and the pastor offered them the sacrament. He continued and people approached one row at a time.
Jordis sat in the pew and wrung her hands. “We’re not going to take communion, are we?” she whispered to Etta.
“Of course we are!” her grandmother replied. “We must. Otherwise people will believe the pastor’s nonsense. We are faithful to God and we obey the Ten Commandments as best we can. But there’s so much more between heaven and earth than just the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.” Then she stood proudly, her chin held high, and made her way forward to stand with the others before the altar, her gaze fixed on the cross which hung high above it. Jordis followed suit, full of fear, but with her back straight and her chin up.
The pastor hesitated as he approached Jordis with the chalice and then turned around as though looking for something. But then he held the cup for her. “The blood of Christ.” He was holding the chalice to her lips when the cross careened to the floor with a loud crash. It rang hollowly through the
stone building and shook the souls of the faithful to the core.
The cross splintered, and pieces shot through the apse. The silver figure of Jesus lay on the altar where it had fallen, beside the candles, and it seemed as though he were lying in the Rantum church after having died a second time.
A ghostly silence took hold of the room. The pastor stood in front of Jordis, motionless with shock, holding the chalice in the air. His eyes were wide, his mouth pursed in surprise. The congregation, too, was frozen. After what seemed like an eternity, someone shrieked, and chaos broke loose. Some people screamed and ran out of the church as though the Devil himself were dancing on the altar, and others prayed aloud. Two small boys crawled under the pews, fathers herded their wives and children toward the door, old women held Bibles pressed to their bosoms, and the group in front of the altar fled. The people rushed away, hurried to their pews, grabbed their bags and kerchiefs, and dashed out of the church.
But Jordis just stood there and stared at the silver Jesus. She didn’t notice that Etta’s hand was on her shoulder. “Come, child, let’s go,” she murmured. Jordis paused, all at once overtaken by an intangible sense of horror. Jesus had fallen from the cross when she had been about to drink his blood. Her eyes flew to the pastor, who had set down the heavy chalice. He pushed back his hair, and the expression he wore looked as though he were facing the Last Judgment. Then he sensed Jordis’s gaze and whirled to face her. He pointed directly at her, his eyes dark, his hair wild, and his mouth pressed into a thin line of sheer hatred.
“You are the Devil incarnate,” he hissed. “It’s your fault. You dared to offend the Lord with your presence. You have desecrated this church. You are Satan!”
Jordis flinched back, but she couldn’t turn away from him.
The pastor’s hatred rolled over her like thunder. “You shall be annihilated! The Devil will tear the flesh from your bones!”
Jordis, white as a sheet, her eyes wide with terror, and her hand pressed against her open mouth, could only shake her head. Etta grabbed her granddaughter’s hand and pulled her outside. The villagers had gathered in the churchyard, flanked on either side by the cemetery. They stood together in tight knots, like animals that had sensed danger. They had their backs pressed against the wall of the graveyard where their loved ones lay, forming a barrier in front of it as though they wanted to protect their dead, or seek protection from them. Their expressions were twisted with horror. Small children cried desperately and clung to their mothers’ legs, women wrung their hands, and men scratched their chins in confusion and put their arms around their wives and children. They whispered and murmured, but when Etta and Jordis came out of the church, they all went silent and stared at the two women.
Etta raised her arms in exasperation. “Do you really believe the cross fell because of Jordis? You’ve known us for years. You have all come to me for a glimpse of the future. You thanked me, sometimes even on your knees. And now you think we serve the Devil?” Her gaze swept the crowd. Everyone was silent. Some of them looked at the ground and scuffed their shoes in the sand, and others stared unblinkingly at the sky. Several women turned away in embarrassment, but most of the villagers regarded Etta and Jordis angrily. The owner of the Dead Whale Tavern broke away from the crowd and spat at their feet. “Leave this place, Devil’s women!” he shouted. And soon other voices followed.
“Yes, go away, get out of this village!”
Someone threw a stone. It hit Jordis on the back of her head, and she reeled in shock. She touched her head in surprise and saw blood on her hand. Arjen leapt between her and the raging crowd. “Stop!” he demanded. “You know these women as well as I do. You know they don’t serve the Devil.” But there was no turning back. The villagers threw horse dung, shouted curses, and screamed insults. The women shrieked and howled, the children were out of control, and the men bellowed, reddened with rage. Arjen took off his jacket and spread it over Jordis, sheltering her with his broad back from stones and horse dung.
“Arjen, come back to us!” one man cried. “Or the Devil will get you too!”
Arjen hesitated for a moment, and Jordis turned to him.
“Go, if you want to,” she said. But Arjen shook his head and gave her a gentle push to make her walk.
Crooked Tamme stepped out of the crowd and stood by Etta’s side. “What’s wrong with you people?” he cried. “She’s one of us!”
But the crowd disagreed. “She’s not one of us, and never will be!” a woman replied, and the others roared.
“Go back to where you came from!” someone shouted.
CHAPTER 9
The storm came. Etta had known it would come since early that morning. There was no dew on the grass, and that meant it would rain soon. On the way to church, she had seen the thickening white clouds and sighed. It wasn’t a good sign to have a storm on Harvest Festival. Old sailors said it meant there would be a long, hard winter. Etta didn’t know if that was true or not. She only knew a storm was coming.
She stood on top of the dunes with Jordis, who still looked pale and shaken. She watched the sea and noticed the whitecaps were still relatively small. The fishermen, too, knew bad weather was approaching. They pulled their boats high up the beach, almost to the dunes. When a squall came, there would be a storm surge and a particularly high tide. Jordis reached for Etta’s hand. Her eyes flickered nervously over the dunes, as though she were looking for something.
“No one will follow us,” Etta said. “They’re all busy preparing for the storm. Getting their sheep into barns, taking their washing down, and hanging their fishing nets in sheds, tying the shutters closed with strong cord. And they’ll have to put out the fires, so the wind won’t blow hot coals all over the kitchen. Some will sit at their tables and read the Bible. Others will crawl into their box beds and pray.”
“And what about us? What will we do?” Jordis asked, her voice tight with anxiety.
“We’ll do what everyone else is doing: we’ll go home, close the shutters, and wait.”
Her grandmother was keeping something from her, and Jordis had a feeling she knew what it was. Since the cross had fallen from the church ceiling, nothing would be the same.
“I hope the storm won’t be too bad,” Etta said after a while, and sighed. Then she stroked Jordis’s hair. “Come, let’s go home.”
Jordis sighed too. A strange weight had settled on her shoulders. She didn’t know why the cross had fallen at the exact moment the pastor had offered her the communion chalice. At first, she had thought of it as an unfortunate coincidence. But then the expressions on the faces of the villagers had made it clear to her that the citizens of Rantum didn’t think it was an accident.
“They think it’s my fault,” she murmured.
Etta squeezed her hand. “Yes, they do. Many of them, at least. They’re looking for an explanation that makes them feel better. Maybe they’ll forget it in a few days.”
“Do you really think so?” Jordis asked, and Etta just shook her head. Then they herded their sheep off the dike, got the chickens and geese into the barn, took the washing from the line, closed the shutters, smothered the fire, and filled a few buckets with water, just in case.
They sat at the kitchen table and listened to the wind howl. It tore at the door, rattled the reeds on the roof, and hurled sand at the shutters, blowing grains through the cracks.
“Will the storm bring us great harm?” Jordis asked nervously. “Or maybe everything will work out for the best.”
Etta opened the secret drawer under the kitchen table and pulled out their runes. “We’ll ask the oracle,” she said, and shook the contents of the little black velvet bag onto the table.
Taken aback, Jordis covered the runes with her hand. “We mustn’t!” she said fearfully.
Etta pushed Jordis’s hand back gently and gave it a squeeze, looking into her eyes. “I grew up with the Norse gods and the runes. Everyone in Iceland was raised that way, and none of us came to any harm because of it.
I don’t intend to deny my gods just because the pastor says I should.”
“But the cross!” Jordis reminded her in a high, thin voice.
“It fell. So what? Maybe the hook was loose. Things like that happen.”
Jordis frowned doubtfully. “But our futhark is incomplete. Inga has a rune. You said yourself that you can’t consult the oracle with an incomplete runic alphabet.”
Etta glanced at the runes. “If there’s an answer to our questions anywhere, then it will be in the runes. The best, most hopeful rune is gone. But we won’t need that rune today, so I will consult the oracle without it.” Then she closed her eyes, let her hand hover over the pile, and finally touched one of them.
Jordis stepped back in shock. “It’s the Ur rune, but it’s reversed.”
Etta nodded and sighed. She picked up the rune and considered it for a long moment. “This is the rune poem for Ur:
“Rain is the cloud’s lamentation,
The hay harvest’s devastation,
And for shepherds an abomination.”
Jordis’s eyes went wide. “We’re going to lose everything, aren’t we?” she said fearfully. “The harvest, the sheep, the ducks, and the geese.”
Etta didn’t answer her granddaughter but gazed at the rune instead. It looked almost gray in the light of the whale-oil lamp. “Ur. It also represents the aurochs,” she said. “It stands for strength and fierceness.”
“But it’s turned against us! The rune is upside down!” Jordis waited for Etta to contradict her. She was afraid, deeply afraid, but she couldn’t have said exactly where the fear came from. Was it the fallen cross or the coming storm, or both? And then there was something she couldn’t quite put a finger on. Something in the church had been different. But what?
“The upside-down rune indicates the disintegration of a relationship between two people,” Etta said.
Jordis looked shocked. “Arjen?” she asked in disbelief. “Will Arjen leave me?”
