The Beachcomber (The Island of Sylt Book 2)

by Ines Thorn

  “‘Now I want you and must have you.

  If you want me, you’ll have me too.

  If you don’t want me, you’ll have me anyway,

  For Wednesday is our wedding day.

  But if you can learn my name,

  I’ll set you free and make no claim.’

  “Inga promised she would give him an answer by the next evening, and then he let her go. She was determined to find out what his name was, but wherever she asked, no one knew him. She walked all through Rantum, Westerland, and Keitum, but no one had ever seen the stranger before. The following evening, she was so desperate she sat on the beach and wept. Then she walked until she came to Thorsecke, near Hörnum, and she heard someone singing in the dunes. She recognized the stranger’s voice:

  “‘Today I brew,

  Tomorrow I bake,

  The next day is my wedding day.

  My name is Ekke Nekkepen,

  And Inga is my chosen one.

  No one knows but me!’

  “When Inga heard him, her heart grew light and she hurried back to Küssetal to wait for him. When he came, she said, ‘Your name is Ekke Nekkepen, and I shall remain Inga of Rantum!’ Then the maiden ran home, still wearing the golden ring and necklace. Since then, Ekke Nekkepen has been angry at the people of Rantum and has sent harm to them whenever he could. He made his wife grind salt round and round in her mortar, which caused such a maelstrom that many ships sank. The noise of the grinding was so loud that it muffled the sailors’ desperate cries for help. Rumor has it that his wife ground so much salt the entire sea became salty.”

  Crooked Tamme laughed. “Pastor, did you name your daughter after Inga so she would be immune to the charms of the mermen, like the Inga in the story?”

  The pastor cast him an angry glance. “Well, on Sylt there’s always been mystery and legend. I know that many of you still believe in it and especially in the old gods: Rán the sea goddess, Odin the god of magic and wisdom, Thor the god of thunder, the trickster Loki, and the others. But we’ve already known for a long time that these are only gods of legend. There is only one true God, and he is our father in heaven.”

  Crooked Tamme spoke again. “Tell me, Pastor, why your God is better than the Norse gods.”

  Pastor Mommsen narrowed his eyes. He would have liked to give Crooked Tamme a thrashing, but he realized that none of the others seemed to know the answer either. Everyone was looking at the pastor. “That’s simple,” he replied, and took another sip of his grog. “The Norse gods, well . . . how shall I say it? They’re just—”

  “So you don’t know,” Arjen said with satisfaction.

  But Mommsen wouldn’t let himself be cornered so easily, especially when he saw doubt in the eyes of his flock. All at once he knew what to say. “Well, have any of you ever heard about a Norse heaven? A place where the souls of believers reside? A Norse paradise? A life after death? No, you have not, because it doesn’t exist. Whoever has an immortal soul shall live forever in paradise. That’s the message of the holy scriptures. The scriptures of those who believe in the Norse gods are called Edda. There is nothing written there about life after death.” He glanced around with satisfaction. The people of Sylt didn’t want a hard life here without the reward of paradise. No one wanted to die and be dead forever. A quiet murmuring began, and their eyes began to look friendlier to him.

  The pastor continued. “You’ve all heard the story of Rungholt. And if you understand it, you know what could happen if Etta and Jordis’s godless practices aren’t stopped.” Then he stood up and waved a finger sanctimoniously in the air. “I will tell you about the Great Drowning again. Listen closely. The tale of the sinking of Rungholt was written down for the first time almost a hundred years ago. In 1666, Anton Heimreich reported in his North Frisian Chronicle about the terrible storm tide of 1362. It flooded the entire area that lies to the southwest of the island of Pellworm. According to him and many of his contemporaries, the flood was a fitting punishment for the sinful ways of the people of Rungholt. The tale tells that the gluttonous and drunk citizens of Rungholt played a blasphemous trick on their pastor. They called the pastor to tend to a sick person, but when he arrived, the people tried to force him to give communion to a sow. The pastor refused. Afterward, the monsters poured beer over the holy host and beat and insulted the servant of the Lord.

  “Once he managed to get back home, the pastor begged God for help and revenge. That same night, in a dream, he was sent a warning. ‘Go with your family into the hills because Rungholt will soon disappear under the waves,’ the Lord told him. And so it happened. The town sank in the raging flood of a powerful storm. The sunken town was not destroyed but to this day remains at the bottom of the sea. When the water is very low, you can still see the church tower rising out of the sea, and hear the ghostly tolling of the bells . . .”

  This time, the men’s silence lasted longer. Every one of them had heard the tale of Rungholt. They knew its destruction had been brought about by the godlessness of its citizens. None of them wanted it to happen again.

  One of the more successful fishermen, who caught more than just herring, stood up. “What should we do, Pastor? What do you suggest?”

  The pastor shook his head regretfully. “We must tell the governor of Sylt what happened. He holds the highest office on the island. He’ll know what to do.”

  “So you’ll be free of responsibility?” Arjen cried. “You won’t have to be the one who punishes Etta and Jordis. You’re a coward, Mommsen.”

  The pastor waved a hand to dismiss Arjen’s objection as though it were a bothersome fly. “You may leave if you disagree,” he said. “No one here will stop you.”

  Arjen crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m staying. I want to hear what is being said with my own ears. I want to know exactly what you’re planning to do to Etta and Jordis.”

  “Don’t be dramatic,” an old sailor cried. “We aren’t planning anything. The pastor is right, the governor should decide.”

  Crooked Tamme spoke again. “Do you have any proof?” he said.

  “The cross and the storm,” the pastor replied. “Isn’t that enough?”

  Several people shook their heads. It was one thing to blame the two women for the storm, but it was another to report them to the governor.

  “I think we should have proof before we speak to the governor,” said Jan the sheep shearer.

  “What kind of proof?” the pastor asked. “Aren’t recent events enough?”

  The room erupted. People separated into two groups. One was Arjen, Crooked Tamme, and several sailors who had seen something of the world. The other formed around the pastor and consisted, above all, of older villagers. The first group argued as loudly as they could, giving reason after reason why Etta and Jordis couldn’t have summoned the storm. A man from the other group countered that when Etta had walked past his house, the cow had stopped giving milk. And one man said he’d heard chains rattling in the chimney when he walked past their house late one night.

  They shouted back and forth at each other. Throats were dry, and the barmaid was suddenly very busy again. The pastor ordered another cup of grog. His fingers wrapped tightly around the cup, and he gazed at his flock in satisfaction.

  Arjen poked him in the side. “Now you think you’ve done it, don’t you? Don’t go thinking that you’ve won.”

  Pastor Mommsen regarded Arjen with quiet disdain. “Don’t you go thinking that you and your bride Jordis Lewerenz will be joined in holy matrimony in my Christian church.” Then he stood up and addressed the crowd again. “What say you, men? I suggest that we search for evidence, everyone in their own way. And when we have it, we will turn the case over to the governor. Until then, I advise you to be wary of the witches and stay away from them if you don’t want to share their fate.”

  Most of the men in the room nodded. Some seemed satisfied not to be too quick to judge, and others seemed to think it was smart to keep an eye on the witches of Rantum.
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  But Crooked Tamme disagreed. “I’ll have no part in this nonsense,” he announced, and pointed to his hunched back. “I’ve been heckled since I was a child. Only Etta and Jordis have always been kind to me. They helped me in times of need, and I won’t be involved when you turn against them.”

  Arjen cleared his throat. “Jordis is the woman I intend to marry. Nothing you say will lessen my love for her. So do what you will, but know that I will always defend my bride.” With that, he made his way through the crowd to the door.

  “We’ll see about that,” the pastor muttered to himself. After Arjen and Crooked Tamme left, two other men stood up, nodded briefly to the pastor, and disappeared into the darkness.

  CHAPTER 11

  Inga had heard everything. She’d hidden in the barn built against the tavern, where there was a small hole in the wall.

  Later, she lay in bed, arms folded beneath her head. To love God is what matters most, she thought. Those words had been with her as long as she could remember. But only recently had she finally understood that they were an excuse to do anything. Say you lied. Not so bad because you still loved God most. You betrayed the trust of your neighbor. Not nice, but not a catastrophe as long as your love for God was strong. If you prayed to other gods, you were lost. But anything you did while you praised the true God couldn’t be that bad.

  She turned and reached under her pillow, pulling out the rune stone. She turned it around in her fingers, even sniffed it, and contemplated it. She had proof. The proof her father needed to take to the governor and lock Jordis and Etta away. But what good would that do? Her rival would be gone, but would Arjen’s heart then be open to her? She doubted it. Arjen was loyal; he would wait until Jordis was free. Who knew how long that would be, but here in the north, witches weren’t judged as harshly as they were in the south. It was unlikely Jordis and Etta would be put to death. And actually, Inga didn’t want them to be. Only for them to be gone from the island. But then Arjen would follow her . . .

  Inga sighed. Her thoughts were running in circles, and she always came back to the same point. She stuffed the rune back under her pillow. As she closed her eyes, she made a decision that helped her sleep soundly and deeply.

  It took Arjen a long time to fall asleep that night too. He stood at the window and gazed out into the darkness. The moon slipped between the racing clouds and the brisk wind rattled the shutters. The village lay in innocent silence between the dunes and the dike. Smoke rose from a few chimneys, and he could see flickering oil lamps in two cottages. Otherwise, all was still. But a storm was raging in Arjen’s heart. He knew the danger Jordis would be facing. And he knew he’d have to protect her from it. He’d loved her for so long he couldn’t remember a time he hadn’t loved her. But he was five years older than she, and he’d had to wait. He’d had brief liaisons with a few young widows but had made no promises to them. He’d been to sea, studied the science of navigation, and survived storms and Arctic pack ice. The entire time, he had loved Jordis. He had cast his plumb line into the waters of the North Atlantic during storms. He’d studied the constellations and had followed the North Star. He’d hunted whales and earned his living, and he’d thought of Jordis the whole time. He had also thought about her when he had stopped going to sea and taken over the Rantum smithy. He’d made harpoons and plumb bobs. And now he stood here knowing that someone was trying to take his beloved from him.

  He looked around his sitting room and glanced at the blue-and-white tiles and the chests under the window covered with sheepskins. There was something missing that would make the room truly cozy, but Arjen had always been sure Jordis would know what it was. His gaze fell on the silver candelabra he’d bought in Amsterdam, and then on the cheap whale-oil lamps he’d bought in Westerland. But Jordis wasn’t there to share the house with him, so it had no meaning. Should they run away together? Could he just pack everything up and leave the island with her? Why not? The ties he had here were less important than Jordis. He could take Jordis and Etta to Amrum. Or to one of the other Frisian islands, Föhr or Pellworm? Or even better, to the mainland? Perhaps to Tønder? As a smith, he could make a living anywhere. But wouldn’t it still feel as though he’d cut off his roots? Arjen sighed. He didn’t know what to do, so he decided to talk to Jordis and Etta the next day. He wouldn’t tell them what had happened in the tavern. He wouldn’t tell them about the threat hanging over them. But he would insist on leaving Rantum. Perhaps they wouldn’t even have to leave Sylt. Perhaps it would be enough just to move to the other end of the island, to List.

  The night finally turned to morning, and Arjen awoke with heavy limbs and an aching head. It was still dark, but he could see the first gray and pink rays of dawn on the horizon. He walked through the kitchen, still drowsy, and splashed his face with water from a bucket. He stirred the fire from the coals, put a pot of barley gruel on the stove, mixed a bit of watered-down beer into it, and was carrying the pot to the table when there was a loud knock on the door. Arjen put a hand to his head. The pounding behind his temples hadn’t improved. He sighed and opened the door. There stood Inga.

  “What do you want?” he asked crossly, without greeting her.

  Inga pursed her lips in disapproval. “You should be nicer to me,” she said. “I want to talk to you.”

  “Can’t we talk later?”

  Inga shook her head. “It must be now.”

  “I have a headache,” Arjen replied brusquely.

  “I can’t do anything about that,” Inga said without pity, and pushed past him into the kitchen. She sat down at the table without being invited, wrinkled her nose at his breakfast, and swiped a hand over the tabletop. “It’s sticky,” she said. “It’s time you took a wife to put your household in order.”

  Arjen didn’t reply. He pushed the bowl aside and sat down. “So, what do you want from me?” he asked, and it was clear he wasn’t particularly thrilled to see her.

  Inga pursed her lips again and looked carefully around the kitchen. There was a pot hanging above the stove. She pointed at it. “That pot desperately needs to be scrubbed. If you want, I’d be happy to do it.” For a moment, she thought of the greasy pots in the parsonage, and the grime in the kitchen she was so ashamed of. If her father had allowed her to do the housekeeping, she would have happily done it. But her father had a housekeeper. Though Inga didn’t exactly know what the housekeeper did, since she never cleaned, she knew her father would never let himself be talked into letting Inga run the household, certainly not by Inga.

  Arjen narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you dare,” he said.

  Inga laughed with annoyance and narrowed her own eyes. “You really should be nicer to me,” she repeated, unable to repress her irritation.

  “Why?” Arjen asked, rubbing his temples again.

  “Because I’m Jordis’s friend,” she replied.

  Arjen regarded her skeptically. “Tell me why you came.”

  Inga reached into the pocket of her skirt and pulled something out, hidden in her fist. “I’m Jordis’s friend,” she repeated, “and I’m worried about her.”

  “Ha!” Arjen said. “And that’s why you wanted me to marry you? Why should I believe you?”

  “I’ll prove it to you.” Inga opened her hand and let the rune stone drop to the table.

  Arjen reached for it. “What’s this?” he asked.

  “It’s proof that Etta and Jordis not only believe in the old gods, but even practice divination.”

  Arjen’s brow furrowed as he examined the rune. Then he studied Inga’s face carefully before he answered. “What do you want?”

  Inga grabbed the stone and slipped it back in her pocket.

  “Give it to me,” Arjen demanded.

  “What would you offer me for it?” Inga asked.

  “What do you want? Money?”

  Inga laughed. “Money? Oh, no, you’re not getting away from me that easily.”

  “What, then?” Arjen peered into her face, but all he could read ther
e was satisfaction. And that scared him more than anything she could have said.

  “What do you want?” he repeated.

  “Marry me, and you can have it.”

  “What?” Arjen leapt up and grabbed her arm, looming over her. “What did you say?”

  Inga’s eyes went wide with fear. Then she laughed scornfully because she knew he would never use force against a woman like her father did. She could use that to her advantage. “Let go of me,” she hissed. “Let go of me right now, or I’ll never give it to you.”

  He let her go abruptly and glowered at her, his eyes dark with anger and his hands balled into fists.

  Inga leaned back again and crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s simple,” she said. “Marry me and you’ll get the stone. If not, I’ll give it to my father. He’ll give it to the governor. And then whatever happens to Jordis will be your fault.” She laughed harshly. “You hold her fate in your hands. You determine her future. Even if it’s not the way you wanted.”

  Arjen seethed with anger. He would’ve liked to wipe the smirk off Inga’s face, but she had him at a disadvantage, at least for the moment. So he forced himself to be calm. “How do you imagine that would work? You want me to marry you, though you know I can’t possibly love you?”

  “I’m not worried about that,” Inga said, dismissing his objections. “Love will come in time. It will grow. And even if you never love me, you will still be my husband.”

  Arjen sank back into his seat. He could pretend to go along with her and see if he could get her to surrender the stone to him. “All right,” he said. “I’ll marry you. Now, give me the rune stone.” He stretched a hand out over the table.

  Inga shook her head. “Do you really think I’d hand it over now, and just trust your word? You’ll get the stone after our wedding.” She smiled. “It will be my morning gift to you.”