The Beachcomber (The Island of Sylt Book 2)

by Ines Thorn

  Inga hesitated. She bit her lower lip, eyes fixed straight ahead on the smithy. Should she risk it? Yes. There was no other way for her to escape her father. Her heart pounded and she pressed her hand to her chest. Then she took another deep breath, smoothed her curly, freshly washed hair, and walked into the smithy. Although it was already the beginning of October, Arjen stood bare chested under a leather apron at the anvil, gleaming with sweat. Inga watched his shining body with interest, observing the play of his muscles. His hammering drowned out her words of greeting, so she waited until Arjen had finished making the harpoon tip. It was hot in the workshop, and Inga felt her cheeks flush. She gazed at the fire, which glowed brightly, and at Arjen, who was beating the iron with powerful strokes of his hammer. She could have stayed that way forever. She hadn’t said anything yet, but she felt that her deliverance was near. There was still hope inside her. Hope, and even a little joy. But then Arjen turned around, laid the heavy hammer aside, and plunged the red-hot piece of iron into a bucket of water; it hissed loudly.

  “Inga! What are you doing here?” His voice wasn’t unkind, but his tone made Inga realize that she had disturbed him.

  “I need to speak with you about something,” she said, and hoped that her curly hair wasn’t completely limp from the heat, that no stains were showing on her dress, and that her face wasn’t bright red. Her heart raced. She knew very well that this was improper. But, yes! She must simply do it. Her throat was so dry that she believed she wouldn’t be able to speak a single word.

  “What is it?” Arjen asked.

  The heat had risen through her clothes and made it difficult to breathe, so Inga pointed to the back door leading out to the yard that faced the dike, where there was a bench.

  “Let’s sit out there,” she begged. “It’s hotter than the fires of hell in here.”

  Arjen smiled, checked the fire, wiped his hands on a gray rag, rubbed his wet forehead with his forearm, and nodded. They sat next to each other, and Inga would have loved to close her eyes and imagine that they would be that way forever. “What is it, Inga? What did you want to tell me?”

  She regarded him carefully and saw no expectation, just friendly curiosity in his face, as though she had come to give him some news from the pastor that Arjen wasn’t particularly interested in anyway.

  The blacksmith filled a wooden cup with water from a bucket beside the bench and handed it to Inga. “You’re so pale,” he said. “Is everything all right?” Again, she detected only friendly interest in his voice, no care, no concern. But still, Inga had to do what she had planned. She took a deep breath, fixed her eyes on the green grass on the dike, and the words burst out of her. “Arjen, marry me.”

  “What?” Arjen spun to face her. “What did you say? What gave you that idea?”

  “Marry me,” Inga repeated, but now her voice was softer and more tentative. It had cost her a lot to speak those words.

  “But . . . what makes you think I would?” Arjen’s surprise was obvious.

  Inga shrugged. Even though her throat was completely dry, she spoke slowly and clearly. “What made me think so? Well, I’ve been sixteen for three months, and I can marry now, like any other young woman on Sylt. Why should we wait any longer?”

  Arjen was silent, and Inga could see he was searching for words. She knew what his answer would be, and she didn’t want to hear it. “Look,” she said to stop him. “You and I are of the right age. We could have children, boys who will one day inherit the smithy. I’m good at running a household. I can cook, bake, and knit. I would do anything you asked, and that’s more than other girls would. I would take good care of you and keep your house spotlessly clean and the larder well stocked. I would be true to you no matter what. You would never have to reprimand me, I promise. Besides . . .”

  “Shh!” Arjen interrupted her. Then he took her small perspiring hands in his large dry ones. “Inga, I like you. But it’s not enough for an entire lifetime,” he said softly and not without pity. “And I’ve already chosen my bride. I’m sorry.”

  Inga nodded. Not only had she suspected it, she had known it. But she’d had to at least try. Even now, she didn’t want to give up.

  “Do you love her?” she asked.

  “Yes, I do. Someday soon I will ask her to be my wife.”

  Inga nodded again. She didn’t need to ask; she knew he meant Jordis. “Love doesn’t always last,” she countered, “but friendship lasts forever. And true faith is even more important than love or friendship. Because only when you do what pleases the Lord can you be happy and rest one day at the Lord’s feet.”

  Arjen raised his eyebrows and regarded her skeptically. Up until that moment, it had seemed as though he at least pitied her, but now there was something suspicious about his gaze. She couldn’t quite put a finger on it. “What pleases the Lord?” he repeated.

  “Yes.”

  “And what pleases the Lord most is the pastor’s daughter, is that what you’re saying?”

  Inga blushed. Oh God, how low have I fallen, she thought. But it didn’t matter. Right now she felt humiliated, but once Arjen was her husband, she would quickly forget it. She sat up straight and lifted her chin defiantly. “The bride’s father doesn’t matter,” she said. “Only true faith matters.”

  Arjen’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?” For the first time since they had sat down, he looked at her carefully. Inga was immediately aware of her dull, lusterless hair. It felt as though the shabby parts of her dress were burning her skin, and her homely face turned beet red.

  “About what?”

  “About the true faith.” His voice sounded slightly suspicious.

  “Well, the true faith is belief in our Lord Jesus Christ, God the Father, and the Holy Ghost. You know that, don’t you?”

  Arjen nodded, but his eyes showed that he had seen through her ploy.

  “There are those in Rantum who’ve strayed from the true faith,” Inga said. She was desperate and wanted to keep Arjen talking, even though she knew her effort was in vain. She couldn’t leave things as they were. She simply had to convince Arjen that she was the only one for him. “They will soon be struck down by the wrath of God.”

  Arjen pulled away from her. “Tell me who you are talking about, right now.”

  Inga paused, searching for the right words. She couldn’t just say Jordis’s name. Besides, she was already sure that Arjen knew exactly whom she meant.

  “There are some who cling to the old beliefs and do things that are a thorn in our Lord’s flesh.”

  “Aha. And what do they do?”

  Inga suddenly changed her mind; she didn’t want to say any more, but what choice did she have?

  “Jordis and Etta follow the old Norse religion. They consult oracles with runes and try to undermine God’s authority by claiming to be able to see into the future.” Inga raised a finger. “But only God can do that, and his ways are inscrutable for mortals.”

  Arjen gave a grim smile, and Inga thought he looked very condescending. Then he began to clap, slowly and sardonically. The clapping rang in her ears. She had lost. Anger flooded her senses. Cold, bitter anger. She stood up and looked down at Arjen. “I’ve warned you,” she said. “And I will warn you one last time: you have a choice. Make the right one, because anything else will be your undoing. And not yours alone.”

  With that, she turned and left his yard with her nose in the air. She felt Arjen’s eyes boring into her back; she felt his disdain, but she threw her shoulders back and held her head high. Inside, Inga was more humiliated than she had ever been in her life. Her heart was broken. “He’ll pay for that,” she whispered to herself.

  CHAPTER 7

  Jordis was in the yard plucking a chicken that she’d just slaughtered. She held the headless body between her knees and tore off the feathers. It was a job she didn’t particularly like. Her dog, Blitz, was curled up at her feet, asleep. Etta was mixing sheep dung into a sandy patch they used as a garden, so the kale, the main sta
ple of the Sylt winter diet, would yield a good harvest that year.

  The wind had been mild all day, but it had picked up enough to blow Jordis’s bright platinum hair into her face. Clothing fluttered on the line, and sheets and tablecloths were spread out on the sand to bleach in the sun. Next to the door stood a large basket full of sheep wool waiting to be washed, carded, and spun.

  Although she had been expecting him for some time, Jordis was still surprised when Arjen walked around the corner. He was wearing his best deerskin britches and a white linen shirt that was a little too tight for him, emphasizing his muscular shoulders. His hair was tied back in a braid, and he carried a beach rose. He greeted the two women and asked permission to sit down next to Jordis. As they sat on the bench together, Jordis suddenly felt so shy she barely knew what to do. She still held the dead, half-plucked chicken between her knees, but Etta took it from her and invited Arjen inside. They all sat around the kitchen table, and Arjen finally worked up the courage to give Jordis the rose. Jordis took it but didn’t know what to do with it. Etta gently took the flower from her, filled a cup with water, and put the rose in it. Then she sat down across from Jordis and placed her hands on the table, giving Arjen a friendly smile. “What can we do for you, blacksmith?” she asked.

  Arjen cleared his throat and glanced briefly at Jordis, who was blushing and looking down at her hands. “I . . . I’ve come to ask Jordis for her hand in marriage,” he stammered. His eyes flickered nervously from Etta to Jordis and back, and then he turned to Etta. “And, of course, I wish to ask you for your permission.”

  Etta smiled. She reached across the table and took Jordis’s hand. “So, my child, what do you say?”

  Jordis swallowed. She still didn’t dare to look up. Her cheeks glowed. “Yes, I want to marry Arjen,” she whispered hoarsely.

  Etta smiled and turned to Arjen. “I give my consent,” she said. Then she stood up. “I’d best get back to the kale. The two of you have plenty to discuss.” She left the kitchen, still smiling.

  Jordis had dreamed about this day for years. It had all happened so fast. She wasn’t wearing her best dress, her hair was disheveled from the wind, and there were chicken feathers sticking to her hands. But she was happy anyway. Her heart raced with joy, her eyes gleamed, her lips reddened. Arjen took her hand and squeezed it. “I’m so happy you want to be my wife,” he said softly, and Jordis could tell by his voice that he was just as moved as she was.

  Inga had been sitting on top of a dune for a long time, staring out to sea, blinded by her tears. Hours had passed since she’d run away from the smithy. She hadn’t heard Arjen calling after her, she hadn’t returned the neighbors’ greetings, she’d even ignored the coachmen’s whistles on the road. A little girl had been herding geese on the dike, and Inga had just shoved her way through the flock, scattering the geese. She had paused briefly at the church. She couldn’t go home; she didn’t want to face her father like this. So she had left, hurrying over the dunes and down to the beach, stopping only when her wooden clogs filled with cold seawater.

  Inga had gasped and leaned forward, hands resting on her knees. The waves pounded at her feet. The air smelled of salt and seaweed, and the spray settled on her face and hair. After a while, she managed to calm down, but her shame still burned hotter than Arjen’s forge. He didn’t want her. That hurt. She felt even more unattractive than usual. His words had hurt too. And his condescending smile. And above all, the applause. He’d acted as though she were a jester in a traveling show. Inga had never seen a traveling show, but she’d heard about them and knew that jesters weren’t treated with respect. She envied the travelers for their freedom. Inga envied almost everyone at that moment; she felt she was the unhappiest person on earth. She wished she could just walk into the water and drown. She never wanted to have to see Arjen again. Or Jordis either. She didn’t want to exist or bear being with her father anymore.

  But suicide was a deadly sin. Inga had seen what happened when someone took their own life. She knew that Jordis’s mother was buried where others emptied their waste. She knew, too, that Nanna would burn in hell forever. Surrounded by horrible dancing devils who taunted her. No, she couldn’t do it. But what could she do? How could she go on living after this disgrace?

  She turned and looked up at the dunes, and thought she saw a figure in the distance. A figure with bright platinum hair. A hot fury gripped her, fury that was focused on Jordis. The anger flared in her stomach, rose up her throat like a flame, and burned her tongue. “It’s your fault!” Inga raged at the figure in the distance. “It’s all your fault! If it weren’t for you, I could marry Arjen! If I were Arjen’s wife, my father would have to treat me differently. You are the one who destroyed my happiness. You!”

  Inga didn’t realize that she’d bitten her lips until they were bleeding. Even when the figure drew closer and Inga saw it wasn’t Jordis, but a fisherman’s wife with a white head scarf, her anger didn’t dissipate. She stamped her foot so hard that sand flew to all sides, and if Jordis had been there, Inga didn’t know what she would have done in her rage. She also hadn’t noticed that a fishing boat was approaching from Hörnum. When Crooked Tamme came limping along the beach, she jumped with surprise.

  “Ho, Inga, how are you today?” Crooked Tamme asked, giving her a crooked smile. He was missing one of his front teeth; he had lost it in a fight in the tavern. He faced her, smoothed his hair, and smiled at her. “It’s nice to see you here. It’s always nice to come ashore when a woman is waiting.”

  “What did you say?” Inga snarled at him.

  “I said it would be nice to have a woman waiting for me.” He was still smiling.

  “Shut up!” Inga shrieked. “Don’t you dare speak to me that way!”

  Crooked Tamme snapped his mouth closed and his forehead creased in puzzlement. “But I like you. Perhaps I’ve never found the right words to tell you so.”

  “Be quiet!” she cried. “I don’t want to hear another word from you.” Then she spun and fled along the dune path, to the top of the highest dune. From there, she could see all of Rantum. First the Lewerenzes’ Frisian house, then two other houses where widows lived, and then the church, and next to it the parsonage. She stood there without the slightest idea where she should go. Back to the beach and Crooked Tamme’s ridiculous attempt to woo her, or home to her father, the pastor, who must never discover what she’d done? She sank down into the sand, gazed from the beach to the parsonage and back, then pulled up her knees, laid her head on her arms, and wept harder than she’d ever wept before. She wept out of shame, anger, and envy. They were bitter tears that soaked the dress over her knees. They were tears that brought no relief. Inside her, everything was black and empty. She had no past or future, only the dreadful, horrible present. The beach grass swayed in the wind, she smelled the scent of heather, and a large ship sailed past on the horizon. The sea whispered softly, little waves danced along the beach, and the sky was blue, but Inga didn’t notice any of it.

  She sat there a long time, and only when twilight began to show on the horizon did she stand up, her knees trembling, and return to the parsonage more exhausted than she’d been in her whole life. She went into the kitchen and found her father sitting at the table working on his Sunday sermon. His forehead was creased, and he dipped his goose quill into the ink repeatedly, covering the sheet of paper with his spidery black writing.

  He had a small ink spot on his chin, and his hair stood out in all directions around the bald crown of his head. When Inga entered the room, he didn’t even look up but just snorted once to show his displeasure at being disturbed.

  She sat down heavily on the shabby kitchen bench across from him. “I’ve made up my mind,” she said. “I’ll do it.”

  Her father looked up slowly. Had Inga hoped for praise? Had she hoped for some bit of kindness to soothe her suffering? Maybe. But her father offered no kindness, no matter what she said or did.

  “You will? Or will you change your mind
at the last minute? Will you agree now, only to abandon me at the crucial moment?”

  “No. I’m sure. I will do what you asked. It’s high time the villagers’ eyes are opened to the evil in their midst.”

  “And how will you get the heathens to church this Sunday?” her father asked.

  Inga rested her lower arms on the table with her fingers interlaced. “That’s your job. You can insist that they come. It’s Harvest Festival. No one will be suspicious. You probably won’t have to anyway; the Lewerenzes have always come to church for Harvest Festival.”

  Her father had opened his mouth to protest, but Inga interrupted him. “Worry about it when your treacherous plan works. After I do this, I don’t want to be part of your plans anymore.”

  Then she gazed around the kitchen and saw the disorder and grime with great clarity. The windows were smeared and greasy. A broken milk pitcher stood on a shelf with two flies buzzing around it. Dented, fire-blackened pots hung over the rusted stove. Ashes took to the air with every gust of wind in the chimney, and spread out over the kitchen. The floor was sticky, the water buckets were empty, and the smell of spoiled food and human waste hung in the air. She glanced into the box bed where she and her father slept, and wondered when the last time was that the straw pallets had been refilled. The pillows were lumpy and clearly filthy around the edges, and for a moment, Inga was tempted to clean up. If there was no happiness in her life, at least there might be order in the household. But she had no energy for it. She grimaced in disgust and then pointed a finger at her father. “I’ll do as you ask. But afterward, things are going to change around here. And you won’t stop me.”