The Beachcomber (The Island of Sylt Book 2)

by Ines Thorn

  Then everything went black. She tasted smoke on her tongue before she fell to her side and succumbed to darkness.

  Etta wrapped her arms around her and rocked her gently. Heavy tears fell onto her granddaughter’s dress. As Etta gasped for air, two figures broke away from the group on the dunes and ran toward them, not allowing the gorse thorns to slow them. They careened toward the burning house, grabbed Jordis and Etta, and pulled them as far away as possible. Flames shot through the shattered windows and up the walls. When the whale-oil lanterns exploded inside, Jordis and Etta were already far away, so they didn’t see the grandfather clock fall, hear the dishes crack, or see the chests, cupboards, and carpets disappear into smoke.

  When Jordis finally came around, the first thing she smelled was smoke. It clung to her clothes, her hair, and her hands. She felt a damp cloth on her forehead. She lay in an unfamiliar box bed, and a narrow beam of light shone through the slightly open door. The air smelled reassuringly of whale oil and bacon fat. She sat up slowly and waited with her eyes closed until the dizziness subsided. Then she pushed the door open. She saw a humble, clean kitchen. The chairs around the wooden table were roughly hewn and without cushions. Over the fireplace hung one dented cast-iron pot, and though the walls had once been whitewashed, they were yellowed and partly blackened by soot from the fireplace, and had no decoration or tiles. Rough pottery stood on a shelf on the wall; one cup was broken, and a plate was cracked. The kitchen was empty. Only a small oil lamp cast flickering shadows against the walls.

  “Where am I?” Jordis said softly, and then called a little more loudly. “Hello?”

  The door opened and Antje came in with her brother, Crooked Tamme. Antje rushed to her immediately, took her arm, and guided her to the kitchen bench. “You’re with us, Jordis. You’re safe now.”

  “What about Etta?” she cried, and felt a cold trickle of sweat run down her back. “Where’s my grandmother?”

  “Come here,” Antje said, and gently caressed her hair. “Have some water. You must be very thirsty.”

  Jordis shook her head, even though her throat was burning. “Where is my grandmother?”

  Crooked Tamme sat down next to her and took her hand. “Etta is dead, Jordis. She breathed in too much smoke. We couldn’t help her.”

  Jordis’s eyes went wide, and she opened her mouth as though she were about to say something, do something, scream, or throw herself to the floor, but she just sat on the edge of the bench, frozen. She heard Antje speaking to her, but she didn’t understand the words. She felt Crooked Tamme tug on her arm, but she couldn’t move. As she stared at the flickering shadows of the lantern, it all came back to her. The hissing fire, the smell of burnt horsehair, the heat reaching for her like a hand.

  “Dead?” she repeated, turning to look at Antje.

  “Yes. Etta is dead.”

  Antje pulled her close and stroked her back while Jordis leaned against her warm, soft chest.

  “She’s dead,” Jordis whispered. Tears filled her eyes and they overflowed, soaking into Antje’s dress. “Now I have no one. Now I’m completely alone.”

  PART 2

  CHAPTER 1

  Jordis lived with Antje and Crooked Tamme all spring. She helped Antje with her daily chores, stuffing goose feathers into pillows to sell at the market in Westerland. They packed the well-stuffed pillows into a cart and set out for the market in the early morning. The spring had been wet and cold, and as they walked, sea fog crawled up the dunes and wrapped the landscape, the cart, and the women in a gray shroud.

  “A leap year is a cold year. That’s what my husband always said,” Antje told her, and laughed a little. But her laughter didn’t sound happy. Antje had been widowed two years ago. She’d been married less than a year when her husband lost his life during a whaling voyage. She hadn’t remarried because there weren’t enough men on Sylt; so many died at sea that the women far outnumbered them. The men that were there didn’t usually marry widows anyway. That’s why Antje lived with Crooked Tamme and had given up any hope of having her own family with children. Still, she held her head high, smiled at anyone she met, and was friendly and helpful, fair and kind. Until recently she had been well liked in Rantum, but now Jordis’s cloud had fallen over her.

  “What if we can’t sell any pillows?” Jordis asked.

  “Well, we’ll see,” Antje replied. “We just have to make sure they stay dry until we get to Westerland.”

  When they arrived, they went to the market manager to pay the fee and be assigned a stand, but the man shook his head. “We don’t have room for two more. The market is full.”

  Antje walked around and discovered several free places. “What about the stand at the back? Or the one in the third row, next to the food cart?”

  The market manager frowned. “I said there’s too little space for the both of you.” He pointed at Jordis. “Next time, come without her. Then you’ll get a stand.”

  Jordis spoke up immediately. “I’m going back to Rantum right now. Please, give her the stand. I’m leaving now.”

  The man scratched his neck. “Too many people have seen you together. She won’t be able to sell anything. Save yourselves the fee and leave.”

  Jordis realized he was right, but she didn’t want to accept it. “Please, just a small stand for Antje. I’ll never come here again, I promise.”

  The heavy man sighed. “Too many have seen you. She won’t be able to do any business today.”

  Antje stood stiffly, looking hopeless, and Jordis felt so guilty that she reached for the man’s hand to plead with him. He twitched away as though she were contaminated. “All right. But I’ve warned you.” He pointed to the stand next to the food cart. “You can have that one.” Then he turned and left.

  “I’m so sorry,” Jordis said. “The stand next to the food cart is the worst one. The pillows will smell of rancid oil afterward.”

  Antje shrugged. “Maybe it would be best if you leave now.”

  Jordis touched Antje’s arm in apology and left. She walked back along the dune path; the fog had finally receded and the blooming heather glowed bright purple. The sea lay still like polished lead, and the sun peeked from between fading clouds, adding golden flecks of light to the landscape. A few seagulls circled; two widows were collecting driftwood on the beach below. Everything was as it had always been. And yet, everything was different.

  Jordis sat down in a sunny patch. She wrapped her arms around her knees and reflected on what had happened. She couldn’t stay with Antje and Crooked Tamme any longer. The two of them had done so much for her, but now her very presence was threatening their livelihood. But where could she go? Her house had been burned to the ground.

  She stood up, sighed deeply, and made her way back to Rantum, to where Etta was buried outside the graveyard wall. Outside because everyone believed she wasn’t a Christian. But that meant she was buried next to her daughter, right beside Nanna. With no cross or flowers.

  Jordis sat facing the unmarked graves. She wrapped her arms around her knees and thought, but she didn’t know how to go on. If she’d had the runes, she would have asked them, but the runes had been burned along with her home. She was only seventeen, and anyone who had anything to do with her had a dark shadow cast over them.

  The pale sun had a thin veil of cloud over its face when Jordis finally got up. She had made a decision: she would return to her house. She wouldn’t let herself be driven away. At the end of the garden was a little wooden shed the bailiffs hadn’t burned. Her grandfather and her father had stored their sea chests and hung their fishing nets to dry there. Now it was empty, except for a broom and a wooden rake. The winter was over, and it would be summer soon. She wouldn’t need a fireplace or oven, and by the following winter, she would surely have found a way. Jordis was a little frightened of the idea of living alone in the shed, but she had no other choice. She never considered leaving Rantum. She knew the pastor wanted nothing more than for her to go, but she was determined
to stay.

  She crossed the dunes, sliding back and forth a little in the wooden clogs that Antje had given to her. The hem of her dress was frayed, but it was the only dress she owned. It was true: she had nothing but the clothes on her back. When she reached what was left of her home and comprehended the extent of the destruction for the first time, she stopped dead and gave a shriek of anger. There was nothing left of the pretty white house but a few sooty stones. Ashes were strewn everywhere, and the smell of cold smoke still clung to the area. In the middle, she found a cast-iron pot and, nearby, a brass candlestick. She began to search through the rubble. She found a hand from the big clock, a charred clay bowl with a crack, and two blackened bricks that had warmed the foot of their beds in the winter. Jordis collected everything that she might be able to clean and use. She pushed charred rubble aside and knelt in the ashes to retrieve a spoon, and was happy when she also found a dented pitcher. Then she stood up, turned, and looked at the old shed. She froze in shock. The wooden walls had been gray and faded with age, but now they were painted white. It had never had a fireplace, but now a stone chimney poked through the roof. She approached slowly. Wooden shutters hung beside the single window, and the window itself was covered with a piece of oilcloth to keep out the cold.

  Tears came to her eyes. Had someone taken even the shed from her? Had someone made themselves at home there while she had been living with Crooked Tamme and Antje? Was she really to lose everything? She sank to her knees, and the small amount of courage she’d gathered with such difficulty at the graves of her mother and grandmother disappeared. She wept, but without tears, robbed of her last strength. Sobs shook her whole body. As she lay on the ground, she felt the cool dampness soaking through her dress, but she didn’t care. She wanted to die there and finally be with her mother, her father, and Etta.

  Suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder. Someone called her name, but she just lay there without the strength to look up and see who it was. She felt herself being sat up and a blanket being wrapped around her shoulders. Then she was held against a man’s chest and was rocked gently, while he stroked her back. She opened her eyes and looked up—into Arjen’s face. She wanted to ask what he was doing there, but all at once he seemed so comfortable to her, and it felt so right to be lying in his arms. She closed her eyes and surrendered to his warmth and gentle touch.

  “You have to get up,” Arjen whispered, and pushed her hair off her face. “Your dress is soaked through. You’ll catch your death if you stay out here any longer.”

  He pulled her to her feet, but she didn’t have the strength to walk, so he lifted her in his arms and carried her. She closed her eyes and let him. She heard the soft creak of a door, and then she was laid on something soft and warm. She opened her eyes slowly, blinking in surprise. She was in a room. The walls were covered in sackcloth as insulation against the cold, and in the middle of the room there was a table with a whale-oil lamp on it. Arjen reached down and put a few pieces of beech wood in the newly built stone oven. Jordis was lying on a wooden platform attached to the wall and covered with a well-stuffed straw pallet; she was under a warm sheepskin, with her head on a soft pillow.

  Arjen turned when he heard her sit up and smiled tentatively. “Are you feeling better?” he asked, putting another piece of wood on the fire. “The chimney draws well, but you shouldn’t go out as long as wood is actively burning, at least at first. Wait until there are coals.”

  “Not go out?” Jordis asked in confusion.

  Arjen laughed quietly. “This is your home. It’s not especially elegant, but Tamme and I hoped you’d like it anyway.”

  Jordis blinked and looked around. The hut had a packed-earth floor covered by a few dark sheepskins. Next to the fireplace there was a wooden shelf attached to the wall with two plates and two cups on it. Aside from that, there was the table that she’d already seen, and next to it was an old armchair with badly damaged upholstery and a stool.

  “My home?” she asked in disbelief.

  Arjen sat down beside her and put a finger to his lips. “Shh,” he said. “Don’t ask so many questions.”

  Then Jordis finally understood. “You and Tamme did this?”

  Arjen smiled. “Yes. You’re not as alone as you might think.” He pointed at a trunk that stood next to the bed. “There’s another dress in there, a warm shawl, a pair of socks, and a blanket. Those are from Antje. Not new, but in good condition.”

  At that, tears sprung to her eyes. She took Arjen’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed with her eyes lowered and didn’t know what to do next.

  “What does Inga think about all this?” she finally asked, and waved a hand at her surroundings. “Did she donate a dress too?” The last words sounded bitter.

  Arjen sighed. “No, Inga doesn’t know anything about it. Only Antje, Tamme, and I. We didn’t want you to be bothered in your new home.” He put an arm around her shoulder, but Jordis twisted away from his touch.

  “What’s wrong?” Arjen asked.

  “Go to your wife!” she demanded. “Go where your heart leads you.”

  “Then I would have to stay here,” Arjen replied. “I love you. Inga means nothing to me. She never meant anything to me. But we made vows that can’t be broken so easily.”

  Jordis jumped up, strengthened by her anger, and put her hands on her hips. “Are you mocking me? It’s not enough for you that I lost everything I had? You built this home for me so you could watch me struggle? So you and your wife can laugh at me?”

  Arjen’s face went completely white. He raised his hands defensively. “No! You’ve got it all wrong. I only want to help you.”

  “Help me? You left me, betrayed me, and now you come to remind me of my sorrow.” She pointed to the door. “Go! Go, and don’t come back!”

  Arjen got up. “It’s not what you think,” he said. “It’s all different. I never betrayed you!”

  Jordis shook with anger. “What did you think? That I’d become your mistress out of gratitude? That I would be the other woman, hidden and kept secretly? You made your decision. You chose Inga. Now go to your wife!”

  Arjen tried to speak again, but Jordis continued to shout. “Save your breath! And never come here again!”

  Arjen left, his head drooping, and Jordis fell back onto the bed and began to weep. But this time, they weren’t tears of desperation or hopelessness, but of anger and disappointment.

  CHAPTER 2

  The summer came, and it was just as damp as the spring had been. Rain clouds darkened the horizon, and the summer wind swept strong gusts over the island. The sheep grazed on damp ground, and the lambs stayed small and thin. The few vegetables that could be grown in the sandy soil, kale and carrots, almost drowned in the constant rainstorms. It was the kind of summer that every farmer, fisherman, and sailor feared. Every morning began with a dusky-red sunrise that stained the clouds and sea the color of blood. “Red sky at morning, sailors take warning,” people said, and gazed anxiously at the sky. Some sailors’ wives wept and left their Bibles open on their kitchen tables. The church was fuller than it had been for a long time. And although the pastor attributed good attendance to the exposure and punishment of the two Rantum witches, the women knew they were going to church only to pray for their men. The fishermen came to pray for a good catch, and the young girls came to beg God to send them a man despite the constant threat of death that hung over the sailors. The collection basket was well filled, and the pastor even occasionally had a smoked herring or a piece of bacon on his table. Everything he preached seemed to fall on fertile ground. But he didn’t know that the women stood with each other and sighed as they thought about their men.

  He also didn’t know that some women visited Jordis and asked her to cast runes for their men. But Jordis no longer had any runes, and she didn’t want to predict the future either. Once the runes had predicted a golden future for her. And what had h
appened? She couldn’t believe in the runes anymore, and she didn’t believe in a God in heaven. She didn’t believe in anything or anyone. But she needed to eat and drink. She couldn’t fish to support herself, so she went into the salt marsh every other day to collect seagull eggs and mussels and pick berries from the sandy bushes, and she traded driftwood she found on the beach for bread or lard. Once she found a basket in front of her door with a few eggs, a sack of barley, a dish of butter, and a little can of whale oil. She knew Arjen had left it. Although she sometimes went hungry, she couldn’t accept his gifts. She put the basket in the back corner of her little house and went down to the beach every morning instead to collect what the sea washed up: a little wood and sometimes even sea chests from shipwrecks, in which she found things like old sea charts or a little cloth. When she was very lucky, a brig lost part of its cargo in a storm, and if Jordis went down to the beach on the night of the storm, she sometimes found barrels of food such as sauerkraut or ham. She got by. Her meals were meager and she got thinner, but she was never truly starving.

  This morning, too, she climbed up to the top of a dune and gazed out to sea. The wind had picked up, and the rising sun had stained the sea red once more. There were whitecaps on the waves. She climbed down to the beach and looked around. It was so early that the villagers were just sitting down to breakfast. In the night, the sea had washed up quite a bit of driftwood, and Jordis collected as much as she could carry. She had always known what she was doing was forbidden. It was beachcombing, and there were serious punishments for it. If someone caught her, it would be the death of her. As an accused witch, she had come away with her life. But now, given her past, any breach of the law would be the final straw. Sylt was part of the dukedom of Schleswig-Holstein, an area between Denmark and Germany, and Danish law applied. Everyone on the island knew the beach ordinance of 1705: