The Beachcomber

by Ines Thorn

  “On Sylt, we know nothing about a war. What is it?”

  “The Great Northern War started in 1700. It’s essentially about controlling the Baltic Sea. The Russian czardom, Saxony-Poland, and Denmark-Norway formed an alliance and attacked Sweden in the early spring of 1700. Swedish King Charles XII was only seventeen, but the Swedes triumphed, and the Danes were forced to withdraw from the alliance. The Saxons and Poles withdrew a little later. Then five years ago, King Charles XII invaded Russia, but at the Battle of Poltava in July 1709, the Swedish lost badly. Those losses changed everything. The Saxons and Danes rejoined the war, and they’re still fighting bitterly against Sweden.”

  It seemed unreal to Jordis that the surrounding countries could be at war, and no one on Sylt had realized anything about it. We’re living in another world, she thought. And since we’re so far away, we’re fighting each other instead.

  “The plans are so smeared now that no one could read them,” Jordis said. She took one of the sheets off the table and handed it to Lian. “Here, look.”

  The Icelander took the sheet and studied it carefully. Then he glanced at the bandaged stump where his right hand used to be. “I can’t redraw the plans anymore,” he said quietly, and he closed his eyes. Jordis noticed he was swaying a little.

  “You must lie down again,” she told him. “Are you in much pain?”

  Lian nodded and sighed.

  “First, you have to heal. Then we’ll take care of the plans,” Jordis said, and fluffed his pillow.

  “I have to redraw them,” Lian said.

  “But . . . you’ve lost your right hand,” Jordis said gently.

  Lian cursed softly in Icelandic. “I don’t know how I’ll do it, but it must be done. There must be someone on this island who’s a navigator and can draw.”

  Lian had barely finished speaking when Jordis began to think of Arjen. If anyone was a good navigator, it was he. But she tried to drive away all thoughts of Arjen.

  “Sleep, now,” she said softly, but Lian went on as though he hadn’t heard her.

  “Someone has to bring the plans to Iceland. I’m afraid if they don’t, Iceland will be destroyed by being caught in the middle of the war . . .” His eyes closed, and he fell asleep before he could finish his explanation.

  Jordis sat on the edge of the bed and carefully unwrapped the linen bandages from his wound. Lian moaned in his sleep. When the last strips of cloth had been removed, she almost screamed. The edges of the wound were black, and it had a terrible smell. Jordis knew it wouldn’t be bailiffs knocking at her door next time looking for Lian, but death.

  CHAPTER 9

  Inga couldn’t smile anymore. The sky was gray when she got up that morning. She did the laundry, and the day didn’t brighten. She cooked supper, and evening became even darker than the day had been. Everything she did was overshadowed by unbridled shame. She couldn’t stop thinking about Tamme, and for the first time in her life, she didn’t think of him as Crooked Tamme. He probably thought she hadn’t noticed his pain, but she had. When she’d looked into his eyes, which had suddenly seemed like deep pools, she realized how deeply she’d hurt him. If she’d asked any other man on the island, she would have been ridiculed or even driven away. But that wouldn’t have been as bad as seeing the wounded look in Tamme’s eyes. Something had become clear to her: she’d never noticed Tamme. He had always just been there, like the saltshaker on the table. But she’d never actually seen him. Now she saw him constantly in her mind’s eye and even at night in her dreams.

  She saw him lowering his head and saying, “No, Inga.” And when she had asked him why he wouldn’t lie with her, he had just shaken his head. She was so obsessed with finally having a child that she hadn’t accepted his decision.

  “Why not?” she asked over and over again. First softly, and then louder and louder. She grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, and he let himself be shaken, avoiding her eyes. Then she let him go and broke into tears. For a while, she wept almost silently, the tears sliding freely down her face.

  Then Tamme took her into his arms and stroked her back. Oh, how long it had been since she had been caressed! Her mother had done it when Inga was a small child, but no one had touched her lovingly since. Although she was overwhelmed by desperation and hopelessness, his touch did her good. There had been a lump as heavy as lead sitting in her stomach for years. His touch melted it like ice in the sun. She nestled against him and wished he’d never stop. She wondered how she could go on living now that Tamme had awoken memories of tenderness inside her. She continued to sob long after all her tears were spent. Tamme whispered comforting words to her and held her. Then he let her go. He put his hands on her shoulders and leaned back so she had to look into his eyes. He sighed and stroked her cheek.

  “Don’t ask this of me, Inga,” he said. “I would do anything for you, but not this. Not this. Because once I touch you that way, I will never be able to let you go again. It would break my heart.” She wanted to lower her eyes in shame, but Tamme held her chin so she couldn’t look away. “I love you, Inga,” he said softly, but so clearly that she understood every single word. “I have always loved you. Do you understand? That’s why I can’t lie with you. Unless you don’t just want me to sire a child for you but will also be my wife.” Then he stood and left. She sat alone on the beach and watched him go with longing in her heart. He loved her. Inga had known it, but she had never thought about what it really meant. Someone loved her. Not just someone. Tamme loved her. As she watched him go, she suddenly felt that everything she’d ever done in her life was wrong.

  During the night, Lian’s fever rose again. He burned with heat, accompanied by such a cold sweat that Jordis feared the worst. Earlier, she’d examined the wound again and was shocked at how the gangrene had spread. She had to stop it or he would die. She paced the hut, thinking. She’d once heard an old sailor talking about how gangrene was treated aboard a ship. The afflicted limb was amputated. Two men held the person down and the ship’s doctor would come with a saw. The patient would be given enough Branntwein to make him insensible, and then the doctor would saw off the limb. Sometimes, this method worked, but it often didn’t. In Iceland, it was different. If someone had gangrene, they would go to the graveyard and dig up the most recent body, collect the maggots from it, and put them on the gangrene to eat the decayed flesh away. Many had been healed that way, Etta had told her, but Jordis was horrified by the idea. Besides, how could she do that by herself? She wasn’t strong enough to dig up a grave alone or lift the cover of a coffin to get maggots. Not to mention how disgusting the method was. And if anyone caught her, her days on Sylt would surely be numbered. She would be called not only a witch, but a grave robber. But where could she find maggots in winter?

  As the lantern was burning low, she finally got an idea. A manure pile! She needed a manure pile. She would dig into the middle of it, where it was warm even in winter, and there she would find maggots. But who had a manure pile in Rantum? The sailors and fishermen didn’t. Jordis took a mental inventory of the entire village, and she remembered seeing a manure pile. A big one, with enough household refuse in it to encourage maggots, and enough manure from a cow and two sheep that spent the winter in a stall to keep the refuse warm. The pile belonged to Arjen and Inga. Should she risk it? She glanced at Lian, who moaned and tossed restlessly in his sleep. Then she refilled the lantern, called her dog, and set off for the village.

  The new moon was a bright silver sickle in the sky, casting sharp-edged shadows on the earth. A few shreds of cloud blew past it, but otherwise the night was cold and crystal clear. The dunes were coated in frost, and Jordis’s breath formed little white clouds. It was cold, but the wind was still, so the chill didn’t creep under her clothes. Jordis hurried through the village, which lay in complete silence. No smoke rose from the chimneys, the streets were dead and empty, and even the Dead Whale Tavern had closed its shutters. A dog barked somewhere, a cat crossed the street in front of her, an
d a few lonely ravens perched on roof peaks.

  Jordis left the main road, walked along the alley behind the houses, and soon reached the compost pile. There were wilted cabbage leaves and other kitchen refuse on top of it, but underneath was the manure from the stall. Jordis put down her lantern, told her dog to sit and wait quietly, and then climbed onto the manure pile. She sank in up to her ankles. The stench brought tears to her eyes, but she persisted. First, she dug in the manure with the toes of her shoes, but then she bent over and began to dig with her hands. Soon she was covered with filth, but she didn’t give up. Most villagers slaughtered an animal at Christmas. The well-to-do would slaughter a sheep or calf, and the poor would at least have a chicken. Christmas had been only a week ago. It was enough time for the remains of Arjen and Inga’s Christmas dinner to have attracted maggots that would still be there.

  All at once, Blitz began to bark. “Shh!” Jordis called, but the dog wouldn’t be pacified. Ten paces away, a cat sat on the roof of a shed. Blitz forgot his mistress’s orders, streaked toward the shed like the lightning he’d been named for, and continued to bark. Jordis froze and looked at the house in panic to see if lights appeared. She had finally found the bones of the Christmas roast. She needed only to get her lantern and collect the maggots; it would take no more than ten minutes. But Blitz kept barking, and a light flickered on in the house. Shortly afterward, the door flew open.

  Jordis froze, hoping she’d go unseen. Inga stood in the doorway. Her nightgown was thin, her hair in tangles. “Who’s there?” she cried, and Jordis heard fear in her voice. “Show yourself, or I’ll fetch my husband.”

  Jordis breathed a sigh of relief. So Arjen wasn’t home, but he must be in the smithy. She knew he’d never allow his wife to face danger alone, whether he loved her or not.

  “Who’s there?” Inga called again. The fear in her voice had grown. She took two steps away from the stoop and held her lantern out into the darkness. Blitz continued to bark. Inga waddled across the yard, grabbed Blitz by the scruff, and shook him. “You disgusting creature! Shut up!” She shook him again, and Blitz began to whimper.

  Jordis couldn’t hold herself back any longer. “Let him be!” she cried angrily.

  Inga whirled around in surprise and let Blitz go. She raised her light, and Jordis could see her brow crease in confusion. “Who’s there?” she asked again, this time threateningly.

  “It’s Jordis.”

  Inga held up the lantern and approached slowly. When she finally saw Jordis on the manure pile, she stopped. “You? What are you doing here?”

  “I’m looking for maggots,” Jordis replied calmly.

  “Maggots?”

  “Yes.”

  “What for?”

  “What do you usually do with maggots?”

  “You tell me,” Inga insisted.

  “I wanted to go fishing. In the salt marsh.”

  “And you’re searching for maggots in our manure pile?”

  “I didn’t know where else to find maggots in January.”

  “Why didn’t you come during the day and just ask?” Inga held the light so high that Jordis turned her face away from the glare.

  “Why do you think? Because I was embarrassed.”

  Inga pursed her lips. “Is that the truth?”

  “So help me God.”

  “Ha!” Inga tossed her head skeptically. “As if that makes you more believable.”

  While they were talking, Jordis had knelt down in the manure and collected as many maggots as she could find. She slipped them into a little box she had brought. “Fine, don’t believe me. But I don’t know what you think I’m going to do with maggots if I’m not using them to fish.”

  She stood up, brushed off her dress as best she could, and climbed down from the pile. She called Blitz and showed Inga the box. “Look! They’re just maggots. I thank you for them.”

  “You stole those maggots,” Inga said indignantly. “If I wanted, I could report you to the governor.”

  Jordis laughed. “The governor? You want to tell him you caught me stealing maggots from you? The punishment would be drastic. Can you imagine? I’d have to give the maggots back.”

  “It’s robbery!” Inga cried, and stamped her foot. “You’re a thief.”

  Jordis stuck the box into her skirt pocket. “Well, I may be a maggot thief, but I never destroyed a cross in church. I wasn’t responsible for people dying and losing everything they had, like you are. I think the theft of a few maggots is the lesser crime, but I’ll make you an offer: as far as I’m concerned, we’re even now.” Jordis nodded once more to Inga and left with her dog.

  CHAPTER 10

  Jordis was on the beach. Another ship had foundered, but this time there were no survivors. It was dark, but soon the beach overseer would arrive and call salvagers. Everyone tried to get the job of salvaging because the payment was a third of the value of the cargo.

  Jordis knew that the beach guards had been on the dunes for hours, watching the shipwreck. But she also knew that the beach overseer couldn’t concentrate on his task without a good breakfast. A few moments ago, she’d seen him walking away over the dunes with his assistant. Now she crept forward in the water and fished out whatever she could find: a little barrel, a big piece of sailcloth, a sea chest, several wooden planks, and a sack full of something she couldn’t recognize in the dark. She packed everything into the piece of sail and shouldered it. Groaning a little under the weight, she carried everything up the dunes and back to her hut.

  Lian was awake when she returned. Jordis sat down on the edge of the bed beside him. “You have gangrene,” she said to him gently, and put a careful hand on his injured arm. “I got maggots during the night, and now I’ll make a wrap with them. The maggots will eat the dead flesh, and if we’re lucky, that will heal the gangrene.”

  Lian made a face. “Must you?” he asked. “Is there no other way?”

  Jordis shook her head. “Maggots are the best method. We could try to scratch mold off bread and put it on the wound, but it doesn’t often work.”

  “How do you know all this?” Lian asked. “Are you a healer?” He was still pale. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his lips were cracked with fever, although Jordis had always rubbed them with lard when she’d had it.

  “My grandmother taught me. She came from Iceland, like you. She always said that Iceland is rugged and lonely. In order to survive, one has to know how to help oneself.”

  Lian laughed softly. “Your grandmother is right. Mine told me that too.” Then he leaned back against the wall again. “Make the wrap for me,” he said, and closed his eyes.

  Jordis filled a cup with whiskey and gave it to Lian. He drank until tears came to his eyes, coughed, sputtered, and drank again until he’d drained the cup completely. Then he turned his eyes to the wall, and Jordis could see he was clenching his teeth. She unwound the bandages from his stump, spread a new cloth under the arm, and shook the maggots onto it. Then she folded the cloth neatly over the stump and bound it with yarn.

  “Now we can only pray,” she said.

  Inga didn’t go to her father, because she didn’t think of him as her spiritual advisor. She’d heard about Catholics who simply went to their priests, confessed, and were freed of all their sins. Since talking with Tamme, Inga had been pensive. She needed to purify herself. Not to wash her body with soap and water, but to cleanse her soul. She felt that it was sticky and dirty, and that she herself had sullied it. A pure soul, she thought, laughing bitterly. Does it even exist? The soul became tainted as soon as children outgrew their baby shoes. It couldn’t be any other way.

  At first, she had wanted to walk to Westerland to ask the priest there for his forgiveness. But she wasn’t Catholic. The priest would just tell her to make peace with God in her own way. But it wouldn’t help very much if God forgave her. She had sinned against Jordis and Arjen, and then against Tamme. They were the ones who had to forgive her if she ever wanted to know peace again.<
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  Her longing for peace was greater than it had ever been because she had seen something she had never imagined: she had seen love. True love from deep inside the soul. She had seen it in Tamme’s eyes. Her world had suddenly changed; she wanted to be worthy of Tamme’s love. Nothing mattered more to her now, and she knew why. She had loved Arjen, but her love had not been returned. She knew how it felt to implore one’s beloved for a word, a single glance, and not receive it. She’d always received the wrong glances and the wrong words. Now she wanted to do everything right. Forgiveness was part of it. Only once she had been forgiven could she begin with her life the way God had intended it to be.

  She stood at the window and gazed out. The sky was covered in thick dark clouds. A few wild geese flew overhead, honking loudly. Occasional snowflakes fell from the sky. It wasn’t as cold as it had been, and the flakes melted as soon as they hit the ground. Inga dressed, wrapped a warm scarf around her neck, and left the house to take the first step in finding forgiveness.

  Men and women crowded the corners of the village street, talking excitedly. “What’s going on?” Inga asked her neighbor.

  “Didn’t you hear?”

  “What?”

  “Yesterday morning, Danish soldiers landed in List. Apparently, they’re searching the whole island for a man who survived the shipwreck at Christmas. They want to bring him to Denmark.”

  “Oh, really?” Inga shrugged. “Where do they think he’s hiding?”

  “They think he’s here in Rantum. The bailiffs searched for him, but they didn’t find anyone. Now the Danish soldiers want to see for themselves.”

  “Well, Godspeed to them,” Inga said. She was so satisfied with her plan that she had no room in her heart for gossip. She crossed the street, saw smoke rising from chimneys all over in Rantum, and smelled the perfume of burning wood. A fat goose that survived Christmas crossed her path. Through an open window, she heard a baby cry. When she finally arrived at the smithy, she paused to gather her courage and then opened the door. Arjen, who was at his workbench polishing a harpoon tip, looked up.