by Ines Thorn
The salvager has a right to half the value of whatever is found on the open sea after a shipwreck with no immediate survivors, and half the value must be kept for the owner.
The salvager has a right to one-third the value of whatever is found on the beach if there are no survivors, and two-thirds the value must be kept for the owner.
If crew members of a wrecked ship have survived, the salvage fee shall be paid upon amicable agreement between the parties. If no agreement is reached between the survivors and the salvagers, then the salvage fee will be set by the authorities, taking consideration of the necessary salvage effort and the danger involved, as well as the value of the cargo. The salvager may receive a maximum of one-third of the cargo’s value.
The evening before, Jordis had found a few demijohns of whiskey, which were probably from a British brig bound from London to Denmark. The week before, she hadn’t even found driftwood, just some seaweed that she dried to use for heating in the winter. Sometimes, she walked over the grass-covered dike and collected sheep dung, which she also dried for heating, even though it smelled bad.
She had just filled her second basket with pieces of driftwood when she saw someone coming over the dunes and down to the beach. If it was the beach overseer, she’d have to hide her haul immediately. Anyone else posed no danger; if they were on the beach at that time of day, they were doing the same thing she was. When she saw it was a woman who picked her way down the dune slowly and even fell once, Jordis turned her attention back to the sea. She squinted and peered at the horizon. She could see a fishing boat and a single Dutch smak on a course from Amrum to Sylt, but nothing that gave her any cause to hope that good things would be washed up onto the beach.
“Jordis!”
Jordis turned around. It had been a long time since anyone had called her by name. Inga stood a few paces away from her. Her face was flushed and she was breathing heavily. Jordis hadn’t seen her former friend in months, and now she stared in surprise. Inga had grown fat. Her cheeks were red and round, her huge bosom trembled, and her little mouth looked grim over her large double chin.
“What do you want?” Jordis asked brusquely, taking a step backward.
“I need your help,” Inga said, and took an awkward step closer to her.
“Whatever it is, I can’t help you,” Jordis replied, recoiling with indignation.
“You have to help me. I’ll pay you well.” Inga took a little leather bag out of her basket and shook it so it jingled.
“What do you want?” Jordis asked again. Even though her voice was harsh, she felt a twinge of pity for Inga. Her marriage to Arjen seemed to have made her sick.
Inga came closer. The bitter scent of sweat came with her. “I need your help,” Arjen’s wife said, panting and holding a hand to her chest. Her dress was soaked through with sweat.
Jordis didn’t answer. She waited while Inga sat down in the sand with a groan. Inga looked up at Jordis from where she sat, and her face was the picture of despair. “I truly believe I’ve been hexed,” she said once she’d caught her breath.
“There’s no one who would do such a thing to you,” Jordis replied.
“Yes, there is. You’re only saying that because it was you who hexed me.”
Jordis, too, sat down in the sand but kept her distance. “I didn’t hex you, even though I’d have good reason to do it. You took the man I was going to marry. Because of you, our house was burned and Etta died. You have her life on your conscience.” For a moment, Jordis thought about Etta. Her grandmother had always said that forgiveness was a good way to lead a happy life. Jordis knew that forgiveness was the way forward if she didn’t want to poison her life with hatred. She had to forgive Inga to save her own life.
“The cross,” Inga groaned. “The cross in the church . . . I made it fall.”
“What?” Jordis stared at Inga with horror, but her former friend lowered her eyes, poked her fingers into the sand, and nodded.
“Yes. My father made me do it. He told me to wait on the catwalk below the bell tower until he’d offered you the blood of Christ. Then I cut the rope that held the cross. It fell, and the whole village believed it was a sign from God. But it was me. I’m so sorry, Jordis.” She sounded miserable, and she looked like a dog that had been kicked.
“But why?” Jordis asked. Her heart began to race. She didn’t want to believe that Inga had betrayed her. “Why did you do it? Back then, we were still friends.”
Inga shrugged. “Father told me to do it. What else could I do?”
“You could have refused.”
Inga shook her head. “No. I couldn’t do that then. I can’t even do it now. Who am I anyway? A dumb, fat, ugly woman who’s good for nothing.”
“Who says that? Your father? Or your husband?”
“My father. At least he speaks to me. My husband doesn’t bother.”
“And what do you expect me to do about it?” Jordis said.
“Take the hex off me.”
“I didn’t hex you. There is no hex. Everything that’s happened to you is your own fault. You’ve done this to yourself.”
Inga leaned toward Jordis. “I’m never satisfied. I have to eat all the time. But no matter what I eat, I’m still hungry. It’s as though there’s a voracious animal inside of me that is constantly demanding to be fed. At night I get up secretly, slip into the larder, and eat whatever I can find. I sometimes crack raw eggs and drink them directly out of their shells. I eat sauerkraut, kale, sheep’s milk cheese, and even drink cooking oil. I don’t wait until the bread has cooled; I just tear it into pieces right after it comes out of the oven and devour it. I eat the ham I’ve prepared for my husband’s dinner before he comes to the table.”
Jordis remained silent.
After a while, Inga continued. “You know I take collection in the church on Sundays, don’t you?”
Jordis nodded.
“Well, I steal a few coins every Sunday for myself and secretly go to the grocer. I buy sweets. Deep-fried crullers and anything else the shopkeeper has. I can hardly wait for her to hand me the packages. I can’t even manage to wait until I get home. I eat everything as soon as I’ve left the shop.”
“It sounds as though you’re carrying that cross that fell from the church ceiling, even now,” Jordis said quietly.
“Do you think so?” Inga’s eyes went wide, but then she shook her head. “No! That’s not it. You hexed me. You cursed me with insatiable hunger!”
Jordis wrapped her arms around her knees. “I can’t do things like that.”
Inga slid closer and reached for Jordis’s arm. “If you can forgive me for dropping the cross, then I won’t be hungry all the time anymore.”
“It won’t be easy to forgive you,” Jordis replied coldly. “You are the source of all my misfortune. If you hadn’t dropped the cross, no one would’ve believed we conjured the storm that came that night. And if no one had believed that, the council would never have decided to burn our home. And Etta might still be alive.” Jordis spoke calmly, as though Inga’s offenses were far in the past. But in her heart, she raged and wept. She wept for Etta, for their home, for Arjen, and for everything else she had lost.
Inga came closer, but Jordis backed up again. “It’s a Christian duty to forgive,” she said, “but you’ve accused me of not being Christian. So you can’t expect me to do that duty now.” Jordis stood up and shook the sand out of her dress. “You’ll have to take care of your own problems.”
But Inga threw herself into the sand at Jordis’s feet. “Don’t be cruel!” she begged. “I beg you with all my heart.”
Jordis was tempted to push her former friend away, but she restrained herself. “Stand up!” she finally cried. Her heart felt cold and hard. She saw Inga at her feet, elbows burrowed into the sand, heavy bottom in the air. She smelled Inga’s sweat and saw her damaged soul with perfect clarity. She searched her heart for pity and forgiveness, but found none.
“Stand up!” she ordered. �
�Come to my hut. I’ll give you what you need.”
Inga kissed her ankle, and then Jordis did push her away. “Stop it! You have no reason to thank me.” Then she walked away, nimbly climbing the dunes, and heard Inga panting and gasping behind her.
She arrived home and sat down to watch Inga approach. She came over the top of the dune, her face bright red, her dress soaked with sweat, her damp hair sticking to her head. In her mind, Jordis could hear her mother and grandmother. Don’t torture her, they said. Give her what she needs. You can’t change the past anyway. Don’t allow her to poison your heart! Forgive her!
Finally, Inga came into the yard and sat down on a crate against the side of the hut. “Will you forgive me?” she asked breathlessly.
“I will give you what you need, and I will even forgive you, but I will never forget.” Then she went into her hut and brought out all the food that Arjen had left at her door. It was a whole basketful. A basket which contained a green, moldy piece of ham, a thick slice of greasy sheep’s milk cheese, a rancid dish of butter, a rock-hard loaf of bread, rotten eggs, and also a few fresh biscuits, a sack of barley, and a little bottle of wine.
Jordis carried it outside and put it at Inga’s feet. “You can eat all of this. Stuff yourself with it. And go! Leave and never come back.”
CHAPTER 3
The days had grown shorter and the nights longer, the wind colder and the sea rougher. The autumn had passed, and the sailors had returned to the island. The winter brought powerful storms. Every morning, just before dawn, Jordis went down to the beach and collected what the sea tossed up. Arjen didn’t leave anything else at her door. She sometimes got a little piece of bacon or some salt from Crooked Tamme, but he and Antje didn’t have much either.
Jordis climbed the dunes and peered down through the receding darkness. The sea was calm and blue gray in the pale light of dawn. The fishing boats were lying far above the tide line; it was low tide.
She climbed down, slipped out of her wooden clogs, and went barefoot in the damp, cool sand. She hitched up her skirts and walked along the low waterline, hoping to find something the tide had left behind. She found a few tiny pieces of amber that were too small to be sold. She found two shattered boards that were completely waterlogged and saw a tiny crab that was too small to eat. After she’d walked a good ways and found nothing useful, she sat down on the beach and gazed at the sky. It wasn’t bright yet, but there were a few sulfur-yellow rays of light visible on the horizon. On the edge of the horizon, a ship approached. Jordis licked a finger and held it in the air. The wind came from the northeast. If the ship stayed on course, it would sail past the island.
She turned around and saw Crooked Tamme in the distance, bending over to collect a few scraps of wood. He was her friend. He and Antje were the last friends she had. Jordis knew that Crooked Tamme lived from beachcombing. Everyone knew it. And because he was her friend, Jordis didn’t want him to see her picking up flotsam before he had a chance to get to it. She had watched her friend and knew exactly what time he left his hut with his basket to walk down to the beach. He came precisely at dawn—when the light was wan and pale but strong enough to show silhouettes—and collected whatever he could find, always vigilant, peering around warily. He returned home quickly to hide his spoils when his basket was full and then came back to the beach in the early-morning sun and walked, sometimes toward Westerland, sometimes toward Hörnum. He collected berries, chatted with the widows who were looking for flotsam, and observed the weather. If the sky was covered with clouds, then Crooked Tamme would sit on top of the dunes and wait until it was dark.
When it was dark, and the beach was empty and everyone sat at their evening meals in their homes, Tamme would hide in the dunes and keep watch.
If the wind grew stronger and the beach grass was flattened by the gusts, if the ocean spray left a layer of salt on his skin, the seagulls sought cover, and sand flew through the air, then Crooked Tamme would often be able to observe someone carrying a lantern. He had come to realize that it was another beachcomber, and he knew what was going on. The beachcomber would walk along the dunes while keeping an eye on the village, and swing the light in circles. He would walk a long distance toward Hörnum, and then quickly turn around and hurry back toward Rantum. When he was back where he started, he would begin again. He did it to confuse the big sailing ships and lure them to the rocks.
Tamme had watched him and had noticed how he was always vigilant and would quickly cast the lantern to the ground if anyone returned to the beach. Maybe a fisherman who wanted to pull his boat higher above the tide line, an old woman who couldn’t sleep, or a young couple exchanging their first kisses in the cover of the dunes. Then the beachcomber would crouch down and wait until they had been chased home by the cold, light his lantern again, climb back to the top of the dune, and swing his light, still keeping an eye on the village.
Crooked Tamme knew the man could face the death penalty for what he was doing. He also knew that by watching and doing nothing, he was in some way an accomplice to the crime. But he couldn’t put a stop to it. With his crippled back, he’d have no chance against the man in a fight. And even if he did, he and Antje might starve to death if there were fewer shipwrecks. So he watched it happen.
He also knew that the beach overseer was not well liked in Rantum. He’d been appointed by the Danish king to make sure the authorities received their third of the flotsam and salvaged goods from shipwrecks. The poor fishermen regarded the beach overseer as an enemy who took away what little the sea spat out at their feet. A few years ago, the former beach overseer, Nils Bohm had brought three men and one woman before the council for beachcombing. Later, he’d been stabbed by an unknown person during the revelries at his own wedding.
But this night was December 24, 1712, Christmas Eve, when families spent the evening together in front of warm fires. Crooked Tamme felt relatively safe. That’s why he didn’t notice Jordis, who waited in a sandy depression insulated by dried seaweed, in the lee of a large dune.
The wind grew stronger, the waves crashed high on the beach, and the rain flew horizontally through the air, but neither Crooked Tamme nor Jordis were bothered by the weather. Jordis had her dog with her; Blitz nestled against her side and kept her warm. The wind whipped sand over the island, tore at the crests of the dunes, and covered the landscape with a thin gray layer of grit. Then the fog rose and grew thicker, until Jordis could barely see her hand in front of her eyes, let alone see what Crooked Tamme was up to. As she lay in the sand and listened, she heard a violent cracking sound that was a ship foundering on the rocks. She was tempted to leap up and see the ship, but a feeling of foreboding kept her securely in her hiding place.
Below her on the beach, three men crept through the fog. They’d come from the direction of Westerland, and Jordis wouldn’t have been able to see them even if she had been looking. The men didn’t speak, because though the sea roared like a rabid animal, they were afraid of being heard. They looked around warily, occasionally stopped, and finally found the wreck in the fog in front of them.
In the meantime, Jordis had left her hiding place. Blitz followed at her heels as she climbed carefully down to the beach. The fog parted briefly, and Jordis, too, could see the wrecked schooner rocking in the waves. She heard wood cracking and the heavy sails flapping, heard the masts breaking and falling into the roaring sea. She wanted to rush down to see if anyone could be saved. She was a beachcomber, but human life mattered more to her. She told Blitz to stay and took three careful steps forward in the fog. The ghostly shapes of men appeared in the mist in front of her. They stood silent and motionless, staring at the wreck. Although Jordis didn’t recognize them, she knew why they were waiting there: they were waiting for the last survivors to surrender their lives to the pounding surf. They didn’t call to the castaways or try to help them; they just stood there and waited for them to die. Anyone who survived could lay claim to the cargo. The fog lifted slowly, and after a while, the wind
drove the heavy clouds away. Jordis saw that the three men were still waiting there, staring at the wreck. There were no signs of life. No voices could be heard, no cries for help. The three men were talking, but the surf was so loud on the sand that Jordis couldn’t hear what they were saying. The men finally began to move toward the wreck. Then a figure rose from the water near the beach and staggered to shore. Jordis held her breath, and the three men stopped. The stranded man stuck his arms out toward them, pleading for help. The men hesitated and exchange glances. Then the shipwrecked man collapsed. He sank first to his knees, his arms still reaching in a silent plea, and then fell face first into the icy water. The next wave washed over him.
Jordis was seized by a sense of horror when she heard the men’s malicious laughter. All her instincts urged her to help the castaway, but she didn’t dare. If she did, there was a good chance that the three men would kill her.
A moment later, she saw one of them raise a stout cudgel and strike the prone body of the sailor. They dragged him onto the beach and ransacked his pockets. One triumphantly held a money pouch aloft, and another pulled a knife out of the man’s boot. Jordis began to tremble with indignation and rage.
Suddenly the sound of a dog barking broke the night. Blitz raced down from the top of the dune to the beach. The three beachcombers stopped. Jordis saw one of them speaking to the others, and then they dragged the body of the man, who was no longer moving, into the dunes. The dog barked again and raced along the beach. The three men moved deeper into the dunes. Jordis could see them restraining the sailor, who had just regained consciousness. He tried to free himself, but he collapsed again after another blow from the cudgel.
Blitz was running back and forth on the beach, barking loudly, while the beachcombers tried to bury the unconscious man alive in the sand. The sailor managed with difficulty to free an arm from the sandy grave, but one of the men struck it so hard the bones shattered. At that moment, Blitz picked up their scent and rushed into the dunes, barking and growling wildly.