The Beachcomber

by Ines Thorn

  Arjen’s brow creased. “How do I know you’ll keep your word?”

  “You don’t, of course. But think of it as a business deal. I want to marry you to escape my father. You want to protect Jordis. Once I’m your wife, I’ll be free of my father. Why should I keep the stone once I’ve gotten what I wanted?”

  Arjen took a deep breath, and his head pounded as he desperately tried to come up with a solution. He decided the best tactic would be to play for time. “I’ll have to think about it,” he said.

  But Inga shook her head. “I can’t afford to wait. You might try to leave the island with Jordis. But that isn’t going to happen. Either you break your betrothal to her today and get engaged to me, or I will give the stone to my father immediately.”

  “How?” Thoughts raced through Arjen’s head, but he couldn’t think of any way to stop Inga from realizing her plan.

  “It’s simple. We’ll go to Jordis now, together. You’ll tell her that you can’t marry her because you’re in love with me. Then we’ll go to my father, and you can ask him for my hand.”

  Arjen closed his eyes. He put his hands over his face and sighed, and then he looked up. “I’ll give you anything you want.” He got up and dug around a trunk in the sitting room. He came back and put a small bag on the table. “This is filled with silver coins. It’s everything I’ve saved to begin my life with Jordis. Take it, give me the stone, and disappear.”

  Inga laughed derisively. “What would I do with money? Buy a few nice frocks? Oh, no! I want you for my husband.” She took the rune out of her pocket again and weighed it in her hand. Arjen was tempted to tear the rune away from her, but Inga quickly stuffed it into her bodice between her breasts. “Don’t even try,” she said threateningly. “Don’t even try to take it from me. If you do, I’ll tell my father. Then not only will we have witches in Rantum, but a sorcerer too!”

  “You can’t prove anything without that stone,” Arjen said, and noticed that the sun was beginning to rise over the horizon.

  Inga realized that Arjen was right, but before her desperation could show, she came up with a lie. “I’m not stupid,” she replied. “I showed it to a friend. I can prove with a witness that it existed, even if you steal it from me and destroy it.”

  “Oh, yes? And if I’m not a good husband to you, you’ll call your witness, and Jordis will be in as much danger as before. Is that your plan? Why do you think anyone would believe you and your witness?”

  Inga shrugged. “I’m the pastor’s daughter, and he would believe me. No one dares to disagree with the pastor,” she said flippantly. “I had to ensure my plan would work. I’m sure you understand.”

  Arjen searched desperately for a way out, but could think of nothing.

  Inga stood up. “So, now that everything is clear, let’s pay Jordis a visit.”

  Arjen looked up at her, his eyes shining with tears. “I can’t do that to her,” he said.

  Inga stared at him. “Then she’ll be arrested immediately,” she said. “And don’t think you would have time to run away with her before it happened. With the stone as evidence, my father could get the villagers stirred up in a matter of moments, and they would take her prisoner until she could be sentenced.”

  Arjen got up and paced around the kitchen like a caged animal. He couldn’t believe what was happening. He tore his hair; he pleaded and begged. He even fell to his knees. But Inga just stood there, arms crossed over her chest, and shook her head.

  It took some time, but Arjen finally realized that there was no bargaining with her. His heart was breaking and his headache had worsened. He couldn’t do this to Jordis. He wanted to crawl back into bed, pull the blanket over his head, and discover it had all been a horrible nightmare. He briefly imagined putting his hands around Inga’s throat and squeezing, but he was no murderer. So he sighed and nodded. “So be it,” he said. “I’ll go with you. But don’t think for a moment I will ever be able to love you.”

  CHAPTER 12

  As he walked, Arjen still searched desperately for a solution, but found none. He had to marry Inga to protect Jordis. And he loved Jordis so much he would do anything for her. He would have to make the greatest sacrifice of his life for her: give up her love to save her life.

  Inga walked at his side, occasionally prodding him when his steps slowed. They didn’t exchange a single word. Arjen couldn’t imagine speaking to Inga ever again.

  She walked next to him, her face a frozen mask, her pale mouth pressed into a thin line, her eyes narrowed to slits. If Arjen had glanced at her, he would have seen that Inga, too, was making a sacrifice: marrying a man who had nothing but contempt for her. He might have seen how terribly she must have been suffering under her father’s tyranny if she would rather marry a man who didn’t even like her than remain in the parsonage.

  As they walked through the village, they encountered Crooked Tamme. He stopped and greeted them. “Where are the two of you going this fine morning?” he asked. He was smiling, but his eyes were troubled.

  “We have business to take care of,” Arjen responded briefly, and sighed. Crooked Tamme glanced at Inga and nodded, as though he knew exactly what she had planned. He put a hand on Arjen’s shoulder.

  “We don’t live in particularly hard times, but they aren’t particularly good either,” he said. Then he walked away, and Arjen watched him go.

  “I wonder what he meant by that,” Arjen said, more to himself than to Inga.

  She replied anyway. “It doesn’t matter what Crooked Tamme thinks,” she said harshly.

  At that moment, he knew exactly what marriage to Inga would be like. It would be full of their antagonism for one another, they would pick each other apart, and it would be a living hell. They would never laugh together, never offer one another strength or courage. He could see it all clearly before him. He stopped abruptly.

  “Come on,” Inga said, and pulled at his sleeve.

  “No,” Arjen said. “Not before I say what must be said.”

  Inga sighed impatiently. “Everything has been said.”

  Arjen shook his head. “No. There is still something I must say to you.”

  Inga crossed her arms over her chest, as though to protect herself from the words he was about to say. “Well?”

  “We will live together in a house, sit together at a table, and share a bed. But the whole time, I will be pretending that you are Jordis. If I pick beach roses and bring them to you, I will actually be bringing them to her. In bed I will see her face, taste her kisses, and feel her skin. Everything I say, think, and do, I will do for her. And you will suffer. You will be my wife, but you will be farther from me than the moon. Any kind word I might say to you will be meant for Jordis. Nothing will be for you. I will not see you, hear you, or feel you. Marriage with me will be worse than hell for you. This is the hell you have chosen.”

  Inga stood, arms crossed, eyes closed, her mouth a grimace of pain. She knew Arjen meant what he said. For an instant, she was tempted to turn around and leave him where he was standing. But she had come too far, and it was too late. She fought the impulse. “You’re angry at me now,” she said. “But you won’t always be angry. One day, you will realize that I saved you. I’m saving both of us.” She dropped her arms. “Now, let us go!” she said, and began to walk again.

  They arrived at Jordis’s house. It was Inga who knocked, and it was she, too, who spoke when Jordis opened the door. When Arjen saw Jordis, he glowed as though the sun had risen in his heart.

  “How nice to see you both,” Jordis said, stepping aside so they could enter the house. “Come in!”

  Inga shook her head. “We’re only here to tell you something. We don’t need to come in.”

  Jordis’s expression clouded, and she frowned. She tilted her head. “What is it?”

  Inga poked Arjen, but he kept his lips pressed firmly together. “Say something!” she ordered, but he shook his head. “All right, then, I’ll say it. Arjen and I have come to tell you that
he’s breaking his betrothal to you. Arjen is going to marry me instead, and the announcement will be hung on the door of the church today.”

  Jordis’s confused frown turned into an expression of horror, but then she laughed tensely. “You’re jesting, surely!”

  “No,” Inga replied coldly. “We make no jest.”

  Jordis gazed at Arjen questioningly. “Tell me if it’s true. Tell me yourself if you are going to marry Inga.”

  Arjen looked up, and his eyes were filled with pain. Then he nodded slowly.

  “Why?” Jordis said, and the word was almost a cry.

  Inga raised her arms in a helpless gesture. “He realized that he simply doesn’t love you.”

  Jordis shook her head. “No! No! I can’t believe it. Arjen, look me in the eyes and tell me if Inga is speaking the truth.”

  This time, Arjen kept his eyes lowered. He scuffed his feet in the sand. “Inga’s right,” he said quietly. “I’ve come to break the betrothal. I’m going to marry her.”

  Jordis went white. She opened her mouth to speak but found no words. Then she turned around and stumbled back into the house.

  “Well, that’s been taken care of,” Inga said. “Now we must go and tell the pastor.”

  Jordis swayed into the kitchen and collapsed on the bench. Etta came out of the larder and poured some lentils into a bowl of water to soak them. “What’s wrong, child? You’re as white as a sheet.”

  Jordis opened her mouth to explain, but she still couldn’t speak; she couldn’t put the inconceivable facts into words. She pointed to the door. Etta looked out and saw Arjen walking heavily away on the path with a shuffling step, and Inga beside him, her steps light and exhilarated.

  “Arjen and Inga were here?” Etta asked, sitting down across from her granddaughter on the kitchen bench.

  Jordis nodded.

  “What did they want?”

  Jordis started, as though she were waking from a bad dream. “He broke our betrothal. He’s going to marry Inga instead.”

  Etta’s eyes went wide. She didn’t ask why; she didn’t say she was sorry. She just reached across the table and took Jordis’s hand and held it tightly.

  A few houses away, Crooked Tamme sat next to the fire and thirstily drank the grog that Antje had brewed for him. Antje was his older sister, and if there was anyone on the island Tamme trusted, it was her. She pushed the hair off her forehead. It was blond and shiny and fell below her shoulders. She had the same blue eyes as her brother and the same fine-boned face. She leaned against the door frame and watched her brother drink.

  “It’s rare for you to take grog in the morning,” she said. “What happened?”

  Tamme put down the cup. “Last night there was a meeting in the tavern. All the men were there. The pastor wanted to speak to them.”

  “Was it about the cross again?”

  “Yes. The pastor called Etta and Jordis witches. He wants everyone to ostracize them. He wants them gone from the island completely.” He paused and wiped away the ring the cup had left on the clean table. “I’ve been trying to figure out why he’s doing it, because neither Etta nor Jordis have ever harmed anyone. He’s always made trouble for those who follow the old religion. And they will always be around because the church is not very dependable.”

  “Did you come to any conclusions?”

  “I think he’s afraid of their influence. The women prefer to go to Etta rather than the pastor for advice. And it’s mostly the women who still go to church. The men don’t think much of the pastor; I’ve heard them say he’s a weakling. And when people stop going to church and there are less offerings, Mommsen will have to answer to the bishop. He’ll never be able to get to the mainland that way.”

  “What makes you think he wants to leave?” Antje asked.

  “His wife died long ago. He’s looking for a new wife. But either the women in Rantum don’t want him, or he doesn’t want them. He wants to be in a city on the mainland where he’ll have more influence and power. He’s not an islander, and he never will be one of us. He knows that. And besides, he needs to marry off his daughter.”

  “You would take Inga to wife, would you not?”

  Tamme nodded. “I would. But she doesn’t want to marry a cripple. ‘I’d rather die an old maid’ is what she once said to me.”

  “She doesn’t have it easy with a father like that,” Antje replied. “She lives in deeper poverty than the poorest widow of Rantum. What was decided at the meeting?”

  “At first, not very much. The pastor’s goal was to paint Etta and Jordis as disbelievers and witches. His evidence was that the cross fell and the storm came on the same evening. Many villagers now believe the two women had something to do with those events. The pastor wants them ostracized. But I think that’s just the beginning of his plan. Mommsen seems to think that without them, his influence will begin to grow again.”

  Antje stepped back into the larder and fetched a pouch of dried herbs. Then she got her shawl. “I’m going to visit Etta and Jordis.”

  Tamme’s forehead creased. “What do you intend to do there? Do you want to find out how they feel about it? You can save yourself the effort; they don’t know about yesterday’s meeting.”

  “No, that’s not it. I want them to know they haven’t been written off by everyone. Etta and Jordis have always been kind to me, and to you, too, when others made fun of your hunched back. They need to know that there are still some in the village who aren’t going to avoid them.” Then she slipped the pouch of herbs into her skirt pocket and left. Tamme watched her go, smiling with pride.

  CHAPTER 13

  The wedding of Arjen and Inga was cause for celebration in Rantum. The whole village was invited, and the pastor, who paid for the wedding, wasn’t being stingy for once. There was an entire roast boar on a spit, the table groaned under bowls of barley and kale, there were rows of cakes and sweets, and the beer and Branntwein flowed generously.

  The women stood together and gossiped. “Soon an infant will be cooing in the parsonage. God grant that it mellows old Mommsen,” one said.

  Another woman shook her head. “Just look at the two of them. I would never have believed that they’d be a pair.” She made a meaningful pause before she continued. “He was betrothed to Jordis. I wonder if he married Inga because the Ice Women tried to poison him with their pagan beliefs?”

  “No, the smith isn’t like that. He has his own stubborn streak. He even defied his father, the captain, to buy the smithy. He must have had a good reason for marrying Inga.”

  The men whispered too. “Arjen did well to choose her,” Everett said. “She’s ugly and poor. The smith won’t need to make any effort; Inga will feel even the smallest kindness as a gift. Clever young man, he understood what it took me years to figure out.”

  The man next to him shook his head. “Well, I’ve heard that the ugly ones are more pleasing in bed than the pretty ones.”

  “Yes, that’s what I mean,” Everett replied. “They have to try harder in bed than other women. The smith made the right decision.”

  Then someone began to play a fiddle and another shook a tambourine, and the dancing began. The men were boisterous and sang loudly, danced wildly with their women, and drank and ate until they were sick.

  After the wedding, Rantum changed. If even the honest smith Arjen had turned from Jordis, there must have been something to the accusations of witchcraft. That was what the villagers thought once their hangovers finally subsided. None of them greeted Etta or Jordis anymore, and the grocer’s wife shook her head when Jordis asked for oil, even though there were plenty of full cans on the shelf. So they made the long journey to Westerland to buy what they needed. Until then, they’d gone to Westerland only to sell what they’d found from shipwrecks, bringing pottery, wood, fabric, and sometimes even tobacco or cocoa to the market there. With their earnings, they bought things they needed: oil, barley, lard, bacon, and lamp oil.

  Now it was November. Every morning, fog
hung over the island, washing out the landscape and sky. The sheep still grazed on the dikes, and it hadn’t snowed yet, but winter was at the door, and no one knew how hard it would be. The poor widows combed the beach every morning for driftwood and walked along the dike to collect sheep dung to burn for fuel. It was dark much of the time and rained often, so the village women stayed indoors and spun wool.

  When the church bells had rung for the wedding of Arjen and Inga, Jordis hadn’t wanted to hear them. She’d gone to the beach to let the roaring waves drown out the sound. She sat there the entire night. She wept loudly and vehemently, more than she ever would have allowed herself to weep in front of Etta, so as not to cause her grandmother more pain. When she finally climbed the dunes again, she heard the music, laughter, and celebrating from the tavern. It hurt terribly. Her head pounded, and it was hard for her to breathe. Her feet seemed heavy as lead, and her heart felt as though it were bleeding. She had always spent lots of time alone, and it hadn’t bothered her much. But now, she felt as though she’d been deserted. She was lonely and abandoned. She didn’t know what she had done to deserve such a terrible punishment.

  Now Jordis, too, did what the other women in the village were doing. She spun wool while Etta sat next to her at the kitchen table, knitting. “How shall we go on?” Jordis asked her one evening.

  Etta shook her head. “I don’t know, child. But the villagers will soon forget what the pastor drummed into them. You’ll see, everything will be better in the spring.”

  Jordis frowned. “The council meets in February. Do you think we’ll be accused?”

  Etta shrugged. “I don’t know.” Then she opened the secret drawer in the kitchen table and took out the velvet sack with the rune stones. She shook the bag and cast the runes on the table. “Would you like to choose? After all, it’s your question.”

  Jordis nodded. She closed her eyes and let her hand hover over the stones. Etta started in surprise. “You’ve chosen the sun rune,” she said softly. “It’s a very good rune. This is the rune poem: