Sea Witch
It’s ironic: the same townspeople who come to her when they burn their skin, grateful for her ancient medicinal treatments, turn little wooden replicas of our ancestors to ash each year on this date. And she just laughs in their faces like it’s nothing. As hundreds rush the fire, I sink back down to the sand and wipe my hands on my skirts. It’s just sweat, but it almost feels like blood.
When every last witch has been tossed, the crowd retreats. Nik has stepped a measure in front of his parents to the most prominent spot on the sand, the bonfire at his back. Even in the ochre light, his skin is unnaturally pale. I make my gaze as heavy and focused as possible, not even so much as blinking until he catches my eye. I give him a smile and a nod.
You’ll be splendid.
His lips curl up, and he clears his throat with a deep breath.
“Good people of Havnestad, welcome to the opening night of Lithasblot, when we honor Urda and give thanks for her blessings and bounty, be it from the sea or from land.”
The fire crackles happily behind him, the tallest flames licking at the stars. Despite the crush of people, only that crackle and the lapping of the sea fills in the practiced pause in the traditional speech. We all know it by heart—and could join Nik in its recital, if it were appropriate. Most days, he’s one of us. Just Nik. But tonight he’s our crown prince, and our duty as subjects outweighs our familiarity.
So we are quiet.
Nik glances up at his pause and meets my eye again. I nod him forward even though his color has suddenly returned.
“These next four days are a celebration. Games, races, songs, and feasts in our goddess’s name. Let us not forget that it is all for her. It is fun. It is merry. But it has a utility—a reason. Urda.”
There is an audible gasp in the crowd—Nik has gone off script. He’s speaking from the heart, and I couldn’t be prouder.
“Last year, we did the same as we will do this week,” Nik goes on, his voice gathering strength. “We pelted our thinnest with bread. We sang to Urda. We watched as I carried the heaviest rock down the beach.”
At this, he flexes a bicep and flashes a smile—all his nerves replaced with bravado. A few chuckles carry through the crowd, but there is only one heavy guffaw—issued by Tante Hansa, from her corner at the table reserved for the ancients.
Nik rounds on her with a pronounced grin and then pulls his brows together. His tone swings back to serious. “Yes, I am aware my scrawny feats of strength are quite hysterical. But those are on display daily”—he grins again—“and they are not why we do this year after year. We do this for Urda. And some years she teaches us a lesson and reminds us of her power.”
Nik pauses, the air heavy and silent. Not even the bonfire dares to crackle.
“My father stood on this exact spot a year ago and recited the very same speech he has said for thirty years. Which his father before him recited for thirty years before that. Yet we were in the thick of the Tørhed—the third year running. And did it improve when we came together to sing songs about Urda until our voices were rough and fingers bleeding on our guitarens? No. Did it improve when I defeated all you weaklings in the rock carry? No.”
Only Tante Hansa is brave enough to cackle this time. But no one turns her way. All eyes are on our crown prince. Even the king and queen are hanging on his every word.
“Let us remember that though we celebrate her, Urda owes us not a morsel. Just like the tide that laps our shores—her tide, her shores—she can take as swiftly as she can give.”
Nik pauses, his coal-dark eyes on the harbor over our heads. I realize he’s referencing Anna too. Honoring her as something Urda claimed for her own, the sea doing the goddess’s bidding.
“So, let us honor Urda this week, not just celebrate her name, but truly honor her. She is our queen—forgive me, Mother. The land that gives us bounty. The sea that brings us our supper as much as coins in our pocket. She is more than a goddess—she is us. Havnestad. And all the people within it. Without her, we are nothing. No magic can trick her. No words can ply her. No will can sway her. She is queen, and we are simply her subjects.”
He comes to a full stop, eyes on the waves beyond the crowd, posture firm and tall—regal.
Perhaps stunned by his originality and honesty, it takes the whole of Havnestad a few moments to process that he’s finished. I stand and begin to cheer and clap. Nik’s eyes find me, and there’s a wink of relief that brushes across his features before my view of him is blocked—every last person leaping to their feet, hoots at their lips and applause gone wild. And somehow it feels as if he’s leagues away.
7
IT’S IMPOSSIBLE TO SEE HIM AFTER THAT.
All the people want to shake his hand. Tell him how awed they are by his thoughtfulness. About how poised he was. How kingly he sounded. How impressed they were and are.
Nik is swallowed by their affections.
And though I wait on the beach for him to resurface, he doesn’t. Whisked away for the night in a crowd of his subjects. Every other creature eventually peters out for the night too. A rush and then a trickle in exit until it’s just me, a hot pile of kindling, and a few poor souls who have lost the battle of alertness to free hvidtøl and a patch of soft sand.
I stand, legs stiff in my boots, eyes toward the harbor, breathing in the sharp, salty air. My throat tightens and tears threaten my eyes.
He’s going to be king, Evie.
I want to laugh at my foolishness for thinking I’d always have him. Of course everything is going to change.
The moon is so bright that I can see the length of the beach without any other aid. Too bright for my dark mood, but maybe a walk will do me good. Clear my head. I should be happy for him, after all.
I make my way down the docks first, taking the worn planks in careful steps as ships large and small clank and bump at the sea’s discretion.
Naturally, the royal dock is the largest in the harbor—with room for the king’s giant steamer, my father’s craft, and a dozen other royal ships, boats, schooners, and skiffs. There’s a pole at the end that is empty, though—the spot where the king’s steamship should be.
I stare at the water there for a moment, wishing for the second time tonight that his boat would materialize among the gentle rolling waves. Just suddenly appear with Iker aboard, a shine in his eyes and laughter on his lips. That he’d jump off the bow before anchoring, not able to hold himself back from me a moment longer. That he’d pull me in deeply into his arms for another kiss.
I blink and the thought has vanished.
The pole is still untethered.
There is not a single ship on the horizon.
I step off the dock, my back to the waves that took Anna, my head and heart throbbing with the wish that she would return, too. That I’d have my friend back. That I wouldn’t feel the need to pin my hopes on boys who I should’ve known all along would only care about me until they hit that invisible line in the sand—blood—and then let me down. Though maybe, being highborn, Anna would’ve felt the same way.
I am too restless to run home to bed. To nod and smile at Hansa’s drunken tale of her grand evening with her grand friends—as if those friends didn’t just burn thousands of us. So I walk along the water to the cove side, the moonlight guiding my steps, catching on the shimmering flecks of sand to create a brilliant path along the shoreline.
I don’t have a plan, and I don’t need one. I just need a chance to wear myself out enough that I fall asleep unencumbered by the sadness dragging my heart down to my ankles.
I do have friends who aren’t royal. I do.
I have the kids from school who tolerate me for Nik’s sake, but only really when their prince is around. But for the most part, all I see when I greet their faces is the disapproval reflected in their eyes.
That girl—couldn’t save her mother.
That girl—lived while her best friend drowned.
That girl—thinks her father’s job gives her keys to the castle.
That girl—thinks herself more than a passing fancy for the playboy prince.
I meet the first rocks of the cove and stand there, letting the salt air toss my curls about my face. The wind here always seems so cleansing—like it sweeps away grime both physical and mental with one exhale from the Øresund Strait.
Tonight the cove is calm. The waves lap gently about the shore, kissing both the sand and the rock formations with the same delicate precision. There is no one else in sight, and this dress isn’t anything special—nothing I have is special—so I yank off my boots and stockings and place them carefully on a patch of beach not likely to be touched by the tide. The sand sticking to my toes, I hop onto the first footstep island and leap from stone to stone until I make it to Picnic Rock.
Though it’s damp from the recent high tide, the slab isn’t so wet it’s uncomfortable. I gather my skirts, pull my knees to my chest, and sit there with my eyes closed, letting the sea’s charge wash over me.
Finally, my heartbeat slows, and I can feel exhaustion creeping in. But I can’t sleep here. I force myself to stand on stiff legs and grab my things. There’s barely a breeze, but a tingle runs up my spine. I cross my arms over my chest, but I can’t get rid of the cold. I squint into the night, at the shadow where the sea meets the rock formation splitting the cove, when I swear I see a flash of white skin.
“Hello?” I call, my body shivering.
Only the wind answers, gently gaining strength from well past the harbor and deep within the sea.
I am suddenly awake, and I turn my attention again to the rock wall. But there’s nothing to see but shadow and waves.
Maybe it was the octopus who’s made the cove his home, taunting me the same way he taunts Tante Hansa, who would like nothing more than to bottle every last drop of his ink.
But probably not. My eyes are playing tricks on me again.
Just as they must have on Nik’s birthday.
“Perhaps you need to avoid the cove when the moon is strong, Evelyn,” I mutter. The moon can do funny things to a witch.
I can hear it now, another strain in the chorus of pity: That girl—seeing apparitions in the moonlight.
FOUR YEARS BEFORE
The boy heard the splashes, one right after another, and stood, piccolo forgotten, eyes only on the sea. He held his breath, waiting for the first one to surface. They were both strong swimmers, but the raven-curled girl made a habit of winning.
It was a hundred yards to the sandbar. A worthy swim on any day, but as the boy surveyed the sea again, he knew this was not just any sea. These were not just any waves.
The sea was angry.
The boy held his breath and took a step toward the water, careful not to get too close—his mother had often lectured him on the damage salt water could do to his fine leather boots.
The blond girl surfaced first. She pulled in a deep breath and then went back under, the sandbar in her sights, still seventy-five yards away.
The boy scanned the water for dark hair. Took a breath. Squinted right at the spot where she should’ve surfaced. Still nothing.
The blonde bobbed up again. Now ten yards closer to the sandbar and not looking back.
No dark hair to be seen.
He took another step forward. A wave took full advantage and marked his foot. On reflex, he glanced down. Yes, the leather was completely soaked. But he didn’t care. Eyes immediately back on the sea. Heart pounding. The wet boot already coming off.
There. In the distance, thirty yards out. Not the crown of a raven-haired head.
A single hand, reaching for air.
The boy dove in, full breath cinched in his lungs, and opened his eyes. Nothing but the murky deep and the sting of salt.
Thinking of the girls, of the hand, he surfaced early. He would keep his stroke above the waves, his head close to the surface. He was a strong swimmer, and his new height had not diminished his natural strength, but the undertow was fiercer than he’d ever felt, constantly tugging at his pant legs. A force from the deep pulling him toward the harem of mermaids all Havnestad children were told lived at the bottom of the sea.
At the surface, he saw nothing. Not a strand of hair, nor a flash of hand. But he knew where they were. He knew where he must go.
Twenty more yards and he opened his eyes to the sea again. Looked down. Where the undertow had pulled him.
Black hair curled up like a cloud of ink, pale fingers stretched toward him. Her face hidden. He dove, hoping it wasn’t too late.
Lungs burning for air, he surfaced, one arm hooked under her shoulders. The force of the swim had pushed the curls from her face. Her features bordered on blue, and he couldn’t tell if she was breathing.
All he knew was that he had her.
“Come on, Evie. Come on.” He prayed to the old gods as well as the Lutheran one when he had the breath, his body fighting the tow for them both, the shoreline distant but in his sights.
Moving forward, he turned his head as much as the weight and struggle would allow, hoping for a flash of blond safely at the sandbar.
He saw nothing.
On the shore, he called as loud as he could for help. He set Evie on the sand, brushing back her curls, ear to her mouth.
No breath.
He rolled her over and pounded on her back. Salt water streamed from her lips and nose, dribbling onto the beach.
People came then. Men from the docks, women from the sea lane. They crowded around, speaking in whispered tones about the girl. They never had nice things to say about her, even with her this way.
The boy told the men that there was one more. Pointed them toward the sandbar and empty waves. Barked orders of rescue. The men listened. Because of the boy’s name.
The boy blew air into the girl’s lungs and pounded her on the back again, moving her hair out of the way to make more impact. More water came forth, this time in a great gush, along with the rasp of a breath.
Her eyes blinked open, dark and worn.
“Nik?”
“Yes! Evie, yes!”
Smiling briefly, he hugged her close then, even if it was inappropriate, with her bare-shouldered in her petticoat and him a prince. But he didn’t care because she was alive. Evie was alive.
“Anna?” she asked.
They turned their eyes to the sea.
8
HAVNESTAD THRUMS WITH ENERGY.
The brightness of summer and the thrill of Urda’s festival combine to create the kind of charge one usually witnesses with a coming storm. It has me up early, feeling light and free after such a black night.
As I walk down to the harbor, amethyst in my pocket, I see Nik’s carriage pass by. I wave my hand, but I can’t tell if he’s seen me. He’s surely headed into the valley to visit the farmers in his father’s stead, a Lithasblot tradition. We give thanks to Urda but also to those who work our fields.
The ships in port are empty, but I run my closed palm along their lengths, spelling them though they won’t be headed anywhere this day or the next. On a morning as glorious as this one, it is not hard to conjure the words for Urda, yet I can’t help but think back to Nik’s speech. No magic can trick her. No words can ply her. No will can sway her. Is my spell a trick? A panic suddenly seizes me. My heart beats fast and my feet feel like lead. The dock begins to spin before my eyes. Is this my punishment? I close my eyes to right my balance. I’m being silly. My magic is not meant to deceive. My words are intended to honor Urda, honor her sea. Bring life. Surely she knows that. My heart rate starts to slow and I leave the docks. I need a distraction.
Nik isn’t supposed to return from the farms until midafternoon, and while the streets will soon be alive with festival visitors, the real party doesn’t get started until suppertime, when Nik will have to judge the livestock. So I walk down Market Street and gather a late breakfast, paid for on Father’s account—fat strawberries, a stinky half-wedge of samsø, a jar of pickled herring we call slid, and a crusty loaf of rye bread so dense it could pass as a sea stone—and return to the Havnestad Cove.
It’s quiet here, just a few couples trailing along the rocks, none taking any notice of me. I remove my shoes and stockings and place them in the same spot as yesterday, and I hop between the smaller footstep islands to the big one, Picnic Rock earning its name yet again. The strong sun and calm tide has made the rock almost completely dry, so I lie on my back, face to the sky, and shut my eyes.
Though I don’t want it to, my mind shifts to Iker. He still hasn’t returned. I am already anxious, and the same panicky feeling quickly returns.
What if something’s gone wrong?
What if the steam stack exploded?
What if the whale crashed into the ship’s hull upon capture?
Am I at fault?
I know I’m being ridiculous, but worst of all, we would never know. All of us are here, for once our eyes inward instead of turned to the sea.
That sends my mind into a downward spiral about Father, and then suddenly a shadow falls across the backs of my eyelids, the direct sun blotted out by a passing cloud. It’s as if the weather worries too—
“Excuse me, miss?”
That voice.
My eyes pop open, searching for the face of a friend who I know in my heart is long gone.
But there, leaning over me, is the girl.
The girl from the porthole.
The one who rescued Nik.
Yet that can’t be right, either. I really am losing my senses today.
I sit up and rapidly blink my eyes in the sun, but when they refocus, the same girl remains. She shifts back, long blond hair swinging.
Her face is like the singsong of her voice—so much like Anna’s, but more mature. The smattering of freckles around her nose is familiar too. She wears a gown that’s nicer than all of mine put together, and her shoes shine with new leather.
Shoes. Feet. No fin—she can’t be what I saw. My stomach sinks, but I don’t know why.
“This is quite embarrassing, but . . .” The girl’s eyes fall to the strawberry in my hand. “I haven’t eaten in more than a day.”
I’m so stunned, I just hand over the strawberry. She isn’t ready for it and bobbles it in her fingertips before taking a bite. I shove my whole meal toward her.
Anna loved cheese and fruit.
“Oh, no, you don’t have to, I—”
“I insist,” I say, and I’m surprised that’s what comes out because there are so many other words on my tongue. So many questions. But I’m almost terrified to ask them because I know what word will fall out—Anna.
The girl eats, and I try to figure out what to say next.
Did you save Nik?
Were you a mermaid?
Are you Anna?
Don’t you remember me?
All would make me run if I were her. So, as she chews a hunk of rye bread, I open the jar of slid.
“Do you feel better?” I ask.
“Yes, much. Thank you. I’m so sorry. I’m done.”
I shake my head and tilt the open jar toward her, the little herring bobbing in their brine. “Eat, please.”
She sees the fish and recoils, waving her hands in front of her face. I pull out a herring and eat it myself, yanking the bones out by the tail before discarding them into the cove. She looks at me as if I’ve just bitten off her ear.
I used to do the same thing to Anna. She didn’t like slid either. I smile, but on the inside, the sadness is suffocating. I have to stop looking for the dead in the living.
“Are you sure you aren’t still hungry?” I try. “There’s more cheese.”
“No. I’ll be fine.” A sob swallows the word fine. Her brow furrows and the skin under her lashes reddens; there are no tears, but she looks exactly like she should be weeping.
My hand flies to her shoulder to comfort her. When the girl catches her breath, she begins talking again, her voice almost a whisper. She doesn’t seem to mind me touching her. “I ran away from home.”
“Oh, Anna—”
The girl’s eyes fly to mine. “Annemette. How’d you—”
“I didn’t . . . I just . . . you remind me of someone I used to know.”
She coughs out a sob-laugh. “I wish I were that girl.”
“No you don’t,” I say quickly as this girl—Annemette—wipes her nose.
“Was her father a liar? Weaving tales about where he’s been and what he’s done, selling off all our livestock and not bringing a coin home?”
I shake my head because I don’t know what to say.
“I’ve had to sell half our fine things to pay his debt and put food on the table. I couldn’t take it anymore. I took off running over Lille Bjerg a day ago.”
Her words are off. They seem forced. I can’t help it—I stare at her face. I’ve seen thousands of faces since Anna failed to surface, but I’ve never seen one so similar. Never heard a voice with the same timbre. If I hadn’t touched her, if this girl weren’t clearly made of flesh and bone, I’d think she was a ghost.
She scrubs her face with her hands, nails clean and shaped. Her eyes blink open and then she takes my hands. “I’m terrible. Here I am, barging in on your breakfast, stealing your food, dumping my problems in your lap, and yet I haven’t even asked your name.”
“It’s Evie,” I reply.
“Evie,” she repeats, testing my name out on her tongue. “British?”
“Evelyn, yes. My mother fell in love with the name in Brighton.”
“I can see why.” Annemette smiles, her teeth clean and straight, like that of a princess or a dairymaid.
I tell myself again that she’s not Anna. She’s not even the girl from the porthole or the beach or anywhere else. She’s a farm girl from the other side of the pass. My cheeks grow hot. Annemette squeezes my hands. “Thank you for your generosity, Evie—it’s a gift. Truly.” Her eyes sting red again and her lip trembles. “I doubt I’ll be so lucky again.”
I don’t know what to do with this openness. This odd feeling blooming in my stomach. “You really have nothing and nowhere to go?”
Annemette waves her hands across her body. “Only my clothes and my pride.”
I can’t explain this girl or my feelings or why I have the need to believe her, but I do. And I want to help. “Come with me.”
9
THE LITTLE HOUSE THAT MY FATHER BUILT ISN’T THAT far from Havnestad Cove—it’s practically waterside itself, the cottage at the end of a lane in the shadow of Øldenburg Castle. It backs up to a thatch of trees that buffer it from a rocky cliff jutting out into the sea.
“It’s so quaint,” Annemette says.
“It’s home,” I answer, and push through the front door. It’s been a long time since I’ve introduced someone to our tiny cottage. When I was little, we’d often take in children while their parents were away at sea. But that stopped after Mother died.