by Ines Thorn
“I don’t know,” Etta replied. “But the rune also says you must not sink into self-pity, because that will weaken you and others around you. Be strong and brave, and in the end you will come to no harm.”
Jordis lowered her eyes. “It’s going to be difficult for us, isn’t it?”
Etta nodded. She reached across the table and took her granddaughter’s hand. “We will be strong, you and I. As strong as the storm that is raging over the island tonight.”
Then they sat there in silence, listening to the howling of the wind and the thunder, watching flashes of lightning. It seemed as though God himself were casting the bolts, as though God himself were roaring with the thunder. The rain poured down and the wind tore at every corner of the house. Etta and Jordis saw only total darkness through the cracks in the shutters, occasionally broken by jagged bolts of lightning. They heard the sea raging and knew the waves were breaking high on the shore. In the barn nearby, the sheep bleated anxiously. Jordis still didn’t know what to think. The cross in the church . . . What if it really was her fault that the Christ had fallen? What if the storm was her fault too? But how could a girl like her be responsible for a storm? No, it was impossible. It couldn’t be her fault. But still, she was rigid with fear. The fear settled in her limbs. She could no longer move her legs, and her arms hung next to her body limply.
The storm raged through the entire night, the following day, and a second night. It flattened the beach grass and reeds, tore the blossoms off the heather, and shredded the bushes. It raised such a high tide that several fishing boats were destroyed despite having been pulled far above the high waterline. On the second morning, it finally broke into a gentle breeze. The sand had been forced through cracks in the door, and Jordis had trouble opening it. Sand was piled knee-deep against the door. She climbed over the miniature dune and got a broom to sweep it away. She saw that slats had been torn from the fence and blown away, and reeds on the roof hung down loosely in several places. She worried that next time it rained, water would come into the house.
The poles that held the clothesline were broken, and the line lay tangled on the ground. Everything around Jordis seemed to have lost a terrible battle. Everything was destroyed, broken, dented, tattered, and disheveled. She felt so helpless and alone facing the wreckage that she couldn’t stay. She walked along the dune path toward the village. She was scared, but she had to see Arjen. He would tell her that everything was going to be all right again. Arjen wasn’t just the man she was going to marry; he was now her only connection to the people of the village, and her only hope. She saw from a distance that there was no smoke rising from the chimney of the smithy. She passed other homes. The same terrible image of destruction was everywhere. Crooked Tamme was patching up a hole in the reed roof on the first house she passed. At the next house, a young widow was nailing a broken shutter back together. Across the way, an old fisherman was pulling his nets out of the gorse. Next door, a woman was shoveling sand away from a barn door.
Jordis could see that the storm’s waves had risen over the dike in several places. Two dead sheep lay in puddles. The sand under her feet was wet and sticky. She greeted everyone she saw, but no one other than Tamme returned her greeting. On the path, there were broken fence slats, entire bundles of roof reeds, even a dented washtub. Small children played in the puddles, but even they had dark rings under their eyes from two sleepless nights.
Finally, she arrived at the smithy and was taken aback at the scene of destruction there. The forge was broken and the workshop was covered in a thick layer of ash. Arjen was kneeling in front of the forge, trying to fix the unfixable. She called his name softly, but he didn’t hear her. She called him again, and then a third time, before he finally turned around. She expected to see him smile at the sight of her, but Arjen wasn’t smiling. Instead, it seemed as though he was grinding his teeth, his lips pressed into a thin line. Slowly and hesitantly, Jordis took a step closer to him. “Is it bad?” she asked quietly.
“Everything is destroyed,” Arjen replied. “The forge has broken in half, and without a forge, there can be no smithy.” He sounded despondent.
“Can it be fixed?” Jordis asked.
“If you have tiles. But there are probably only tiles on the mainland now. And they’ll be much more expensive after this storm.”
“I see,” Jordis said softly, and lowered her eyes.
“What do you see?” Arjen stepped closer and gently stroked her cheek with his finger.
“Now we won’t be able to get married,” Jordis explained. “You’ll have to repair your workshop first.”
Arjen took her in his arms, pulled her close, and stroked her back and hair. “No, we will be married as planned.”
Jordis wrapped her arms around his waist and raised her head from his chest to look at him. “Really?”
Then he smiled. “Of course. We promised each other. There are always storms on Sylt. That’s no reason to delay our plans.”
Jordis swallowed, then lowered her eyes again.
“What are you trying to tell me?” Arjen asked.
“Nothing. It’s nothing.”
He put a hand under her chin so she had to look him in the eyes. “What’s bothering you? Tell me.”
“Pastor Mommsen was supposed to announce our betrothal. But then the cross fell, and . . .” She didn’t know how to put her fear into words.
Arjen pulled her close again. “I know what you mean. But just because he didn’t announce our betrothal doesn’t mean that we aren’t promised to each other. We will marry, even without an announcement from the church.”
“But what if it brings misfortune?” There was still a flicker of fear in her eyes. She looked down at the toes of her shoes.
“We will be happy together,” Arjen replied unwaveringly, and nodded in affirmation. Then he put his hand gently under her chin again, bent down, and kissed her. His kiss tasted as sweet as ever, and it soothed Jordis more than any words could have.
They cleaned up the smithy together. Aside from the forge, the storm hadn’t caused any irreparable damage. The anvil was still in one piece, as were the finished harpoons. Jordis swept up the ashes while he cleaned his tools.
“I have to go to Tønder as soon as possible,” he said when they were both sitting on the bench behind the smithy, drinking water out of iron cups. “I have to buy tiles for the forge. I can only support a family if the smithy is working. Do you understand?”
He took her hand in his own and looked into her eyes, and Jordis recognized not only great tenderness in his gaze, but also worry. “I have to go,” he sighed. “Today, I’ll go to Westerland and Keitum, and see if I can find someone there who can spare a few tiles, so I won’t have to go to the mainland. I’m sorry, I’d much rather be with you.”
Jordis stood up. “Yes, of course. I have plenty of work waiting for me too.”
They kissed, and then Arjen went back into the smithy, and Jordis made her way to the little shop a few houses over, to buy oil, barley, flour, soap, and other basics.
As she entered the shop, all conversation stopped immediately. The tavern keeper’s old mother quickly gathered her shopping and left without a word of greeting. The pastor’s housekeeper, who had been talking intently, went silent and her cheeks reddened. She wordlessly reached in her pocket and laid a few coins on the counter.
Jordis stood in the doorway. To her left were a few barrels of sauerkraut and pickled herring. On a shelf behind them were sacks of dried beans, lentils, peas, and barley. In front of the next wall was a wooden shop counter. Mrs. Sorenson, the merchant’s wife, sat behind it. There was an open cupboard next to her holding some cans of oil, some pottery dishes, and a few bales of rough linen. On the other side of the room, several willow brooms leaned against the wall, along with a couple of shovels, a rake, a pile of fence posts for fencing off pastures, and various rolls of cord and rope in different thicknesses.
“What do you want?” Mrs. Sorenson asked with a grim
expression.
The pastor’s housekeeper turned toward Jordis. “Speak of the Devil . . . ,” she said pointedly. Then she packed her shopping into a willow basket and hurried away.
Jordis was left alone in the shop with Mrs. Sorenson. The merchant’s wife came out from behind her counter. “What do you want?” Now that the two of them were alone, her voice sounded friendlier.
“To shop. As usual,” Jordis replied.
“What do you need? Quickly, before another customer comes in.”
“Oil, a sack of barley, flour, a new broom, some soap, and a pot of lard.” Mrs. Sorenson placed everything on the counter with blinding speed.
“Why are you in such a hurry?” Jordis asked.
Mrs. Sorenson cast a quick glance out onto the street. “It will be better if people don’t see you here.”
Jordis’s brow furrowed. “Why not?” She thought she knew the answer but hoped she was wrong. It couldn’t be true that the people of Rantum were going to treat her like an outcast.
Mrs. Sorenson touched Jordis’s arm. “I don’t believe it, but the villagers . . . you know how they are.”
Jordis understood. “They told you that if you sold things to us, they wouldn’t shop here anymore. Is that it?”
“Not all of them, child. Not all of them.”
“But most of them?”
The woman shrugged. “Perhaps Arjen can bring you the things you need.” Then, as an apology, she added a small package of extra flour to Jordis’s purchases and gave her a sympathetic smile. “It’s because of the pastor, you know,” she continued. “He said anyone who had anything to do with the disbelievers would be bound for hell. People are just afraid.”
Jordis paid and was packing her basket when the door flew open. Inga burst into the room, but froze as though rooted to the ground when she saw Jordis. Then she acted as though Jordis weren’t there at all.
“Mrs. Sorenson,” Inga said, “is your husband at home?”
“No, child. He went to Westerland to buy new fishing nets and needles to mend the ones that didn’t get blown away.”
“All right. Please tell him he should go to the tavern this evening.”
“Why?” Mrs. Sorenson asked.
Inga cast a sideways glance at Jordis, who was waiting for her friend to greet her. Then she continued. “It’s a meeting about an incident in the village, and how it should be handled. I’m not allowed to say anything else. He’ll learn about it this evening.”
CHAPTER 10
The Dead Whale Tavern was bursting with patrons. The benches were full and the barmaid rushed back and forth, barely able to keep up. The air smelled of beer, and bluish clouds of tobacco smoke hung like a thick layer of fog below the tavern ceiling.
The room was filled with the kind of noise that groups of men made when they sat around tables drinking. Some cursed, some laughed, some roared over bawdy jokes, some argued with their neighbors, and some pounded their fists on the table so the beer steins jumped. One man who hadn’t found a seat yet complained that he’d leave if the meeting didn’t begin soon. The tension in the room was palpable. It wasn’t just a normal get-together over beer and tobacco. Everyone knew what the meeting was about, but no one spoke of it. Instead, they talked about the storm damage, the weather, and the fishing. Some of them worried about finding enough wood for the coming winter.
“It’s high time there was another shipwreck on our shores,” one man who seemed to be deep in his cups said. “Then we could get some wood for heating. Last year, I had to burn sheep shit, and my better half cursed me because she thought I was farting.”
The others broke into bawdy laughter.
“My wife added soap flakes so it wouldn’t stink so much,” the man across from him said.
The others laughed again, but then all eyes turned toward the door as it opened.
“Is Arjen here yet?” Crooked Tamme asked as he walked in, glancing around the tavern.
“No,” someone replied. “Not even he knows if he wants to come. I, for one, don’t think he will.”
The others nodded and murmured among themselves. Then the door opened again and the pastor entered, glancing confidently from one face to another. Some of the men slid over to make space for him, and he sat.
“Get me grog, woman, right away!” he shouted at the barmaid. She hurried to place the steaming drink on the table in front of him. Pastor Mommsen blew briefly to cool the drink and took a healthy gulp. At that moment, the door opened again and Arjen walked in. He remained standing in the door frame. “What’s going on here?” he said, speaking directly to the pastor. “Since when does the church host its congregation at the tavern?”
Mommsen frowned. “The church has invited the congregation to a meeting, but they pay for their own beer.”
An indignant muttering began among the guests. They had already drunk quite a bit, and now it turned out they had to pay for it themselves. Crooked Tamme stood up. “You told us to come here, didn’t you, Pastor?” he demanded.
“Sit down, Tamme,” his neighbor said, yanking on his sleeve. “This is about our future. It doesn’t matter who pays for the beer. And you sit down too, Arjen. You can always get up and leave if you don’t like what you hear.”
Arjen sat down right next to the pastor. The pastor took another swallow of grog and then raised his hand. “Silence, please. I want all of you to listen. You all know what happened in church on Sunday, I think.”
The men murmured in assent and nodded, and one chuckled, which earned him a hard poke in the ribs from his neighbor.
“The cross fell when I was about to offer Jordis communion. It was the Lord himself who made it happen. He let the cross fall on our congregation because we were about to allow a heretic to drink the blood that the Lord Jesus shed for our sins.”
The pastor took a meaningful pause and gazed into their faces. Crooked Tamme raised a finger and cleared his throat. “You say the Lord himself made the cross fall, Pastor. But if what you say is true, why didn’t he make it fall directly on Jordis and her grandmother?”
A few men nodded. The pastor glared at Crooked Tamme angrily. “Inscrutable are the ways of the Lord,” he hissed. “You, of all people, should not question the Lord’s ways. You have enough sins on your conscience.”
Crooked Tamme lowered his eyes guiltily. Up until then, he’d believed his nightly beachcombing activities had gone unnoticed, but now he felt as if he’d been caught in the act.
“You all know what happened on Sunday. And now I say to you that it must be understood as an urgent warning from God. Anyone who tolerates disbelievers in the church is in league with Satan. Anyone who tolerates disbelievers in this village is in league with Satan. Anyone who speaks to the disbelievers and looks them directly in the eyes is in league with Satan.”
Suddenly Arjen leapt to his feet. “Are you saying that Jordis and Etta are the disbelievers? And you, Pastor, are telling the citizens of Rantum not to speak with them and to cast them out?”
“Is the storm that came that same evening not proof enough that they are witches?” the pastor spat back.
There was a sudden silence. A few men shifted uneasily on their benches, and others scratched their chins. Arjen had gone deathly pale. It was the word that had shocked them, the word witch. So far, no one had dared say it aloud. Of course they’d heard of witches rumored to live on the mainland. They were old, hunchbacked women who could conjure hailstorms, keep cows from producing milk, and even put curses on people.
An old fisherman raised his hand and spoke. “When I was young, I heard of a witch who could keep a woman from fulfilling her marital duty to her husband. As though she were sewn together.”
People’s eyes went wide with horror, and most of them immediately imagined the consequences such a thing would have for them. An old sailor stood up. “I once heard of a witch who could make ships sink, send plagues, and cause men to dream of the Devil every night.”
Another seaman spoke. “There
was a witch in Amsterdam, and she was burned. It was long ago, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any witches anymore. She could bewitch a man so he would clean the house and do laundry like a woman.”
The first tales had been bad enough, but the men were visibly shocked at this. They stared at each other, mute with fear.
Arjen glared at them angrily. “What a bunch of nonsense!” he cried. “Maybe there used to be witches, but there aren’t any left. In my lifetime and my father’s, no witches were ever burned. Why would Etta and Jordis have conjured a storm, especially one that would damage their own home?”
Crooked Tamme nodded. “The smith is right.”
“Keep your mouth shut, Crooked Tamme!” the tavern keeper bellowed from the bar. “They had to put themselves in harm’s way so no one would suspect they were responsible for the storm.”
Crooked Tamme shook his head. “I’m leaving,” he said. “I’ve never heard worse nonsense. Arjen is right. There are no witches, there are no ship’s kobolds, and there’s probably no Devil either.”
“Go then, Crooked Tamme,” the pastor said. “But let me remind you that even here on Sylt there have been tragedies that could only have been caused by witchcraft.”
Tamme’s forehead creased. “What do you mean, Pastor?
The pastor looked around meaningfully and caught the eye of old Hauke, who had once been the schoolmaster. “Tell us about Inga of Rantum,” he demanded.
The old man scratched his gray hair. “Well, this story isn’t about a witch, it’s about a merman. But you can judge for yourself.
“The merman Ekke Nekkepen had become weary of his ornery merwife, the sea goddess Rán, and wanted a pretty young human girl instead. So he came ashore at Hörnum and wandered along the beaches of Sylt, dressed as a sailor. That evening near Küssetal, he met a maiden called Inga of Rantum.
“The merman immediately fell in love with her and began to act like a drunken carouser, showering her with compliments. The girl was embarrassed, and the more he tried to woo her, the more fearful Inga became. The merman put a golden ring on her finger, fastened a golden necklace around her throat, and said, ‘Now we are bound; now you must be my bride.’ The maiden wept and begged him to set her free but wouldn’t give back his golden ring and necklace. The merman said to her:
