by Ines Thorn
Jordis could no longer remain hidden either. She was terrified for Blitz. She had to keep the beachcombers from hurting her dog. Shrieking, she leapt out onto the beach, ran along it, tripped, fell, got up again, and kept running. She shouted for her dog until her throat was sore. The men stopped as the sailor reached his hand out of the grave again with his last strength. As Jordis approached, she saw one of the men take a small ax from his belt and cut off the hand. All at once, her fear dissolved. She was furious. She ran directly at the men, shrieking like an avenging angel. Her silvery hair glinted, her mouth was an open abyss, and her loose dress fluttered wildly around her body. Jordis didn’t know that at that moment she looked exactly the way islanders imagined the vengeful sea goddess Rán to look. The men dropped everything they were carrying and fled in terror, back in the direction of Westerland, where they had come from.
Gasping, Jordis reached the grave. Her dress clung to her body and her hair hung in damp strands around her face. She trembled, but not with cold. She trembled with fury over what she’d seen. She sank to her knees, and with both hands she dug in the sand, pushing it quickly aside. First, she uncovered the man’s face and cleaned the sand out of his mouth and eyes. Then she took her water flask from her skirt pocket and put it to the man’s mouth. The first drops ran over his closed lips, but then he opened his mouth, swallowed twice, and let his head sink with exhaustion. Blood streamed from his arm where his hand used to be and dyed the sand red. Jordis tore a piece off the hem of her dress and tied it tightly around the bleeding wound. Then she dug out the rest of the man’s body and half carried, half dragged him back to her hut, panting and groaning with the effort.
CHAPTER 4
As the sun rose, the fog dissipated and a fresh breeze blew away the last shreds of cloud. The whole village seemed to be out and about.
The storm had raged so strongly in the night that Inga had crawled into her husband’s box bed, feeling both fear of the storm and resentment that she needed him. She had buried herself under the blankets and nestled against his back. Of course she noticed that his back had stiffened, so she stroked his hard shoulders over and over. Then Arjen turned around.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m scared of the storm,” she whispered.
Arjen grabbed her wrist, pulled her hand away, and looked her in the eye. Although it was dark in the box bed, the remains of the coals in the fireplace cast weak shadows on the wall, and she could see the glitter of anger in his eyes.
“There’s no point in seeking refuge with me,” he growled, still holding her wrist tightly.
“You’re hurting me,” Inga whimpered, but Arjen didn’t let her go.
“You are not my wife!”
“We spoke our wedding vows before the Lord our God.”
“That’s true. But the Lord also knows why I went to the altar with you. Now go. Go to your bed and leave me in peace.”
Inga swallowed. How long would he punish her for having forced him to marry her? She didn’t realize that she’d asked the question aloud.
“I’m not punishing you,” he said hoarsely. “I just don’t want to be your husband.”
Inga began to cry. Her sobs shook her heavy body, and large tears rolled down her cheeks. “A child,” she moaned. “I just want a child from you. Is that too much to ask from a husband?”
“It’s not too much to ask from a husband, but it’s too much to ask from me,” Arjen replied.
Inga clung to him and pressed her face to his chest. “Please . . . I can’t live like this anymore.”
Arjen pushed her away. He sat up, climbed over Inga’s body, and got out of the bed. “If you won’t leave, then I will,” he said.
Inga watched with tears in her eyes as he dressed, took the key to the smithy off its hook, and left the house.
The next morning, he didn’t return. She cooked barley gruel and even beat two eggs into it and added some butter, but Arjen didn’t come. She sat in the kitchen, not knowing what to do. Should she go to the smithy with his breakfast in a basket? What if someone saw her? What if someone figured out that her husband hadn’t slept with her? No, she wouldn’t allow herself to be the brunt of such scandal. So she sat in the kitchen and waited. The butter melted on the gruel and hardened again after a while. The gruel grew cold, and the hot milk grew skin on its surface. Inga knew that Arjen wouldn’t come, but she couldn’t stop waiting for him. So she stood up, moved to the window, and watched the street.
She expected to see people on their way to the church. At least, those who hadn’t been to the midnight service the night before. She saw a few villagers, but no one was carrying a hymnal. They stood on the street corners and talked excitedly to each other. Something must have happened, because such a gathering was unusual on Christmas Day. Inga opened her window and leaned out. She saw Everett leaving his house.
“What’s going on?” she called to him. “Did something happen?”
Everett pointed toward the beach. “A big schooner sank last night,” he said. “Apparently, there was an incident.”
“An incident?”
“I don’t know anything else about it either,” he replied.
Inga closed the window, picked up her basket, wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, put on a sealskin cap, and left the house. Antje was standing on the next corner with a few other women. Excitedly, Inga walked toward them. She had continued gaining weight, and walking had become difficult for her. Her thighs chafed, her knees ached, and after taking just a few steps, she was out of breath.
“What happened?” she panted as she approached them. She put her basket down between her feet and mopped her sweating face with a handkerchief. Her gaze fell on Antje, who seemed to be regarding her with annoyance. “What are you staring at?” she snapped.
“Nothing,” Antje said.
“Don’t lie to me!” Inga hissed. She had never been unkind to Antje before. At least not in public. It wouldn’t have been seemly for the pastor’s daughter. But after everything she’d been through, she couldn’t walk through town with a smile on her face anymore.
Antje crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, if you want to know, I was wondering if you’re pregnant.” She smiled kindly and put a hand on Inga’s arm. “Your body has grown soft and round, and your mood is unpredictable. You’re pale in the morning and out of breath with the slightest exertion. I just wanted to congratulate you.”
Inga gazed at Antje in bewilderment but saw only kindness in her face. The other neighbors, too, gave her friendly glances. “It’s about time, isn’t it?” one of the others said. “You’ve been married long enough. When is the baby due?”
Inga was at a loss. What should she say? That her husband had touched her only once? That he despised her and wished for her to disappear? No, she couldn’t admit that. So she nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I’m expecting a child.”
They all began to speak at once. “When is it due? Have you already made the clothes? Have you had morning sickness? Is Arjen excited?”
Inga heard the questions. She wanted to smile, but she couldn’t. “In the summer,” she said. “The child will be born in July.” Then she turned and left her neighbors. She crossed the road with her basket on her arm, and her whole body trembled with trepidation. She had pretended to be pregnant. She could stall for a month or so, but then her lie would become obvious. She could pretend to lose the child. She wouldn’t be the first woman in Rantum, but some people thought it was God’s wrath when a woman lost a child. The wrath of God for the pastor’s daughter? No! Her father would know she’d lied. And what would Arjen say? She stopped in horror on the road. A coachman behind her whistled for her to move aside so he could pass, but she didn’t hear him. She couldn’t move. The fear spread through her body and crawled over her sweaty back. She couldn’t lift her feet. Her breath came in gasps. The coachman cursed, but Inga didn’t notice. She thought about Arjen and what would happen when he found out. Would he laugh and say it was
impossible? Would he tell all the villagers that Inga had lied? Would he even bother? Inga was about to collapse when she felt a hand supporting her elbow from behind.
“Come along,” someone said softly. “Here, let me help you.”
Those simple, kind words brought Inga to tears. The tears streamed down her face and soaked the cloth of her bodice. She let herself be led like a lost child. When she reached the edge of the road, Inga collapsed onto the bench in front of her house, put her face in her hands, and began to cry. Her rescuer sat next to her and stroked her back gently.
But it didn’t help. Inga felt as though God and the whole world had abandoned her, even more than ever before.
“Don’t worry. Everything will be as it should.” Finally, Inga looked up and saw Crooked Tamme sitting next to her. He leaned closer. “Are you all right now?” he asked quietly.
Inga nodded tentatively. “Yes, I’m all right. It’s just that some things move me to tears.” Then she got up and left.
Inga went to the grocer, to find over half a dozen villagers crowded into the shop. Everyone was talking all at once.
“The beach overseer cordoned everything off,” a man said.
“I knew that was no regular shipwreck!” a woman replied.
“My husband went down this morning to offer his services as salvager, but the beach overseer said there was nothing to salvage. But the ship had a full load. I heard there were bolts of silk and velvet,” another said.
Another waved her hand dismissively in the air. “Silk and velvet, that’s absurd! I heard the ship was carrying gold. Six tons of it.”
“How could that be?” an old man said. “If it was coming from England and bound for Denmark, how could there be gold? I’d wager it had nothing but wood on board.”
“Then why did the beach overseer stop the salvaging? It should have started already.”
An old sailor held a finger in the air. “The beach overseer must stop the salvaging if someone survived. That’s what the beach ordinances say.”
Another spoke. “If someone died on the beach, the salvaging would be stopped too. We’ll just have to wait until the inspector from Tønder arrives and authorizes the salvaging.”
Inga normally would’ve joined in the conversation, but now everything was different. She’d told people she was with child. She didn’t have the faintest idea how to disentangle herself from her web of lies. She looked around, half-joyful and half-fearful at the prospect of finding Arjen there too, but he wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Then Crooked Tamme walked in.
“So, you old beachcomber,” Everett said to him jovially. “You must’ve been on the beach last night. Tell us what happened.”
Crooked Tamme waved dismissively. He looked tired. His eyes were red and there were dark circles beneath them. His chin and cheeks were covered in stubble. He looked as though he hadn’t slept at all.
“I don’t know what happened,” he said.
“But you must’ve been there,” said an older woman holding a little girl by the hand.
“Yes, I was. But the fog was so thick I couldn’t see a thing.”
The others nodded and the conversation moved to someone else. But Inga looked at Tamme’s face and clearly saw his despair.
CHAPTER 5
Jordis hadn’t slept at all that night; she’d been busy nursing the wounded man. She’d almost fainted at the sight of his stump. The wound was crusted, full of salt and sand. Jordis heated water, tore strips from a bedsheet, and began to carefully clean the wound. The man’s eyes were closed, but occasionally he groaned so terribly she wasn’t sure if he was unconscious. When she finished cleaning the stump, the terrible wound still continued to leak blood. Jordis knew that he would die if she couldn’t stop the bleeding. She looked around her hut. Her grandmother had told her that in Iceland, healers covered wounds with spiderwebs to help the blood to clot.
Jordis got up and searched every corner of the room, even around the window and door, but her hut was so clean she couldn’t find the smallest spiderweb. She wouldn’t have any luck outside either. It was winter, not the right time of year for spiders. Suddenly she had an idea.
She took the man’s wet clothing off of him, being careful not to touch the wound. Under his tunic, she found a small leather pouch hanging around his neck. She pulled it off and placed it on the table. She covered the wound with clean pieces of linen from the bedsheet and put a blanket over him. “Hold on,” she said. “I’ll be right back.” She wrapped a sheepskin around her shoulders and quickly made her way to the village.
Jordis wasn’t surprised that the streets were full of people talking. As she approached the first group, she noticed the conversation suddenly stop. She greeted them politely, but most of them turned away from her. She was still the witch, the outsider, different from the others. She walked on and finally arrived at the smithy. She hadn’t seen or spoken to Arjen for a long time. He had hurt her so badly she would’ve preferred to avoid him for the rest of her life. But now she needed his help. She had no choice.
“Good day, Arjen,” she said loudly over the sound of pounding metal as she entered the smithy. For a moment, she was surprised he was in his workshop on this holy day.
Arjen, standing at the anvil, turned with his hammer in his hand. His face blossomed into a smile. “Hello. I’m so glad to see you.”
Jordis didn’t reply. She looked around the smithy, peering into the corners and sweeping her hand over a piece of masonry.
“What can I do for you? Is your cooking pot dented?” Arjen came closer, and Jordis took a step backward.
“Not the cooking pot. I need spiderwebs.”
“Spiderwebs?”
“Yes. Spiderwebs.”
Arjen gestured toward the corners of the room. “Please, help yourself. I have more than I need. But tell me, why do you need them?”
Jordis’s brow creased, and she hesitated. She knew she couldn’t nurse the strange man back to health by herself. She didn’t have enough food or enough fuel for heating.
“So? Why do you need spiderwebs?” Arjen was persistent.
“I need them . . .” He’d already betrayed her once. Could she trust him with this secret? “I’m going to knit something based on their pattern.” She breathed a sigh of relief, glad to have thought of an explanation.
Arjen raised his eyebrows skeptically. “You want to knit a spiderweb pattern?”
“Will you give me the spiderwebs? Or shall I go somewhere else?” Jordis heard the sharpness in her voice.
Arjen stepped back. “Please, take whatever you need.”
Jordis could tell he didn’t believe her. She pulled webs carefully from the corners and laid them across one arm and then the other, until both her forearms were covered with the sticky white threads. Arjen watched her silently.
“Thank you,” she said when she was done, and turned to leave.
Arjen put a hand on her shoulder. “Wait, please,” he said.
“Why?” she asked stiffly.
“I want to know how you are.”
“You mean you want to know how I’m doing since my fiancé betrayed me, the bailiffs burned down my house, my grandmother died, and now I’m struggling to survive? The answer is, I’m doing well. And I hope you aren’t.”
“You’re right.” Arjen’s voice was quiet. “I’m not doing well. And it’s all because . . .”
“Stop!” Jordis held up her hand. “I don’t care. You chose your own fate. I didn’t have that luxury.”
“I know.” Arjen paused and closed his eyes for a moment. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Jordis’s brow creased. She’d decided that she wanted no more help from Arjen. But he hadn’t woven the spiderwebs himself, so they didn’t count. “I need a little honey too.” It sounded more like a demand than a request.
“I’ll bring it to your hut.”
“Fine. Just leave it by the door.”
She turned brusquely and left the smithy. She look
ed neither left nor right, had to jump out of the way of a man pulling a cart, and almost tripped over a cat playing with a mouse. She also didn’t see Inga sitting on a bench with Crooked Tamme. She went straight home and put the spiderwebs on the man’s wound. He was moaning and burning with fever.
“I hate her,” Inga muttered, watching Jordis leaving the smithy. Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Why can’t she just leave him alone?”
Crooked Tamme heard what she said, but he didn’t respond. Inga got up and shot Tamme a look of indifference. “I have to go home and prepare my husband’s midday meal,” she said.
Tamme opened his mouth to say something, but Inga had already turned and was walking away.
Inside, she collapsed on the kitchen bench. I told them I’m pregnant, she thought. An icy chill ran down her back. Outside, a man cursed and cracked a whip, and a horse whinnied. Inga started in surprise. For a moment, she had thought that Arjen was home. At the same time, she was afraid he wouldn’t come home at all. So she just sat there staring straight ahead, wondering how to go on and wondering who was to blame for her constant misfortune.
Finally, Arjen came. He tore open the door so hard it slammed against the wall, swung back, and fell into the latch behind him. Then he stormed into the kitchen. He stopped in front of Inga, still sitting at the table, so exhausted she couldn’t even stand. She looked up at her husband, grim faced. “So you’ve heard,” she inferred.
“That you’re with child? Is that what you said?”
Inga nodded. “Let me explain—”
“Stop!” Arjen interjected. “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t care who you take your pleasure with. I will take care of the child. But I will never accept it as my own.” He spoke with a calm he maintained with difficulty, his eyes gleaming dangerously, a blue vein pulsing on his forehead.