The Amber Crane

3. Effie-1

3

Effie

A breaker crashed onto the beach.

Peter jerked upright. He shook his head. What a strange dream.

It was late. He must have slept longer than he realized. His hand was stiff and cramped from holding on to the amber. He glanced around to see whether the beach watchman had come back, but all he could see was the gleam of the sea in the moonlight and the dark expanse of the shoreline. Quickly he stuffed both pieces into his pocket and stood up, brushing the sand off his clothes. Just for a night, he repeated to himself. He would toss them back into the sea the next day. Nobody would see him.

Quickly, he retraced his steps across the dune toward the path back to town.

Rustling in a clump of trees just ahead of him. A blur of movement. A fox? No, this was too large.

Peter’s steps faltered. Then he softly moved to the side, away from the moonlight that made the sandy path look like a band of silver. He could not let anybody see him here, so close to the beach. He tried to quiet his breathing. There was a swishing sound, evoking the soft folds of a woman’s skirt, followed by a chuckle, loud in the darkness. A whiff of scent reached him, spicy, with a hint of roses. It stirred a thought, but then he forgot about it. Two shapes melted apart and made their way down the hill. Peter could hear low murmuring as they walked in the direction of the town. He shivered. Had they seen him? It seemed unlikely. The moon had disappeared behind a bank of clouds and he could barely see the path ahead of him.

Peter started jogging toward the road that led to his father’s house at the edge of town.

He slowed down as he got closer. The next day was All Hallows’ Eve, and he dreaded the tramp to the cemetery to pray over his mother’s grave. His brother was not buried there. He had died far away from home.

Lorenz had always been the favorite son. Taller than Peter by half a foot, with broad shoulders and a head of golden reddish curls, vivid and full of laughter, he had charmed everyone. His parents’ eyes had lit up whenever Lorenz had come home. Peter might as well have been invisible. Next to Lorenz, Peter had felt puny, with his mousy brown hair and slender frame, and his habit of running into things and stumbling as he walked along the road, lost in thought.

Sometimes when Peter thought about his brother, he was close to tears. He would give anything to again hear his brother’s baritone, which stood out among other voices during the Sunday church service, and to see his wide-open smile, changing to exuberant laughter at the slightest provocation. He missed the warmth that stole over him when Lorenz would sling an arm around his shoulders and cuff his head. Since the news of Lorenz’s death, it was as if storm clouds had blotted out the sun.

Lorenz had served in a regiment of Queen Christina of Sweden. In the room they had shared, he had often talked to Peter about great armies of the past and shining heroes who died for their cause. He had revered King Gustav Adolph, the father of Christina, who had been killed in the battle of Lützen in 1632.

Over and over, he told Peter the story of the king’s final battle and death on the field after he rode astray behind the enemy lines in the mix of fog and gun smoke from the burning town of Lützen.

Lorenz apparently considered this the pinnacle of glory. It made no sense to Peter, but he did not say that, bewitched by his brother’s passion and even slightly envious. He had never himself felt such zeal and enthusiasm.

“I wish I could have been his flag bearer,” Lorenz exclaimed, his eyes burning. “I would not have gotten separated from the king on the field of battle.”

However, Lorenz had not died in battle as he had envisioned. Bitterest of ironies, he died in an accident. His regiment had been crossing a stream when the rickety bridge collapsed. He and other foot soldiers fell into the stream below. Knocked unconscious, Lorenz drowned in the shallow water of the stream before his comrades realized what had happened.

His parents only knew he was dead because one of his friends in the regiment had come back to tell them. Peter’s mother had listened to the young soldier without showing any reaction. When he stopped speaking, she said, “Thank you,” and slowly climbed the stairs to her room. She never came down after that.

She died within a few months after news of Lorenz’s death had reached them, overcome by fever and coughing.

“She died of grief,” the neighbors said, nodding sagely as if that would make it better.

Peter cringed when he heard them. It was such a pointless thing to say. Perhaps grief played a role, but the food shortages, rampant diseases that seemed to strike so many people, and sheer exhaustion from years of war certainly had a lot to do with her death. She was hardly the only one who died recently.

Peter’s father was a shipping merchant. Several years ago, he had suffered several losses—two ships had sunk and all merchandise they had carried in their holds was lost.

Even so, Peter could not understand why his father dismissed one of their two servants last year. Jenrich Glienke was one of the most successful merchants in the town. Surely, he could afford another servant. He was too stingy and careful.

Fortunately, Clare Betke, who had worked for the family for years, stayed. She cooked and cleaned tirelessly, and she kept an eye on Effie.

The roadway was badly rutted, and Peter cursed as he stumbled into a mud puddle. Most of the houses appeared drab and unkempt. After years of war, people had given up trying to take care of them. It seemed a waste of time and energy since, at the next moment, either the Imperials or the Swedes could come pouring into the town, destroying everything all over again.

His father’s house, imposing with its sturdy walls of red brick held together with timber beams typical for buildings in the area, looked out onto a large front yard with a storage house where, in better times, merchants would come with their wagons to discuss shipping charges with his father. Several times soldiers had broken into the storage house, taking whatever they found useful and callously destroying the rest. At least his father’s house had not been burned down. When the Swedish troops had forced the Imperial soldiers out of Stolp, they had gone on a rampage, destroying, looting, and burning down houses to drive home they were now in control.

Today, it was quiet. Peter opened the gate and headed for the main door. Before he could walk through, he heard Clare call to him from the servants’ entrance.

“Where have you been?” Her headscarf had loosened, releasing strands of greying hair. She rubbed her hands on her apron.

“I walked around.” For a moment, Peter’s hand touched the amber in his pocket. “Anyway, I’m here now. What’s the rush?”

Clare came toward him, leaving the door to the kitchen open behind her. Peter could smell barley soup and cabbage.

“You’re covered with sand.” Clare reached out and brushed her hands over his coat. “You went to sit on the beach again. One day, the beach watchman will find you and teach you a lesson.” She talked as if her mind was on something else. “I have to go back so your supper will not be burned. Just go inside. Your father will be glad to see you safe and sound.”

“I doubt that,” Peter muttered.

Reluctantly, he opened the front door and walked into his father’s study. His father did not look up from his desk, sitting slumped over with his head resting on his hand and his eyes closed.

For a moment, Peter gazed at him.

Throughout Peter’s childhood, Jenrich Glienke had been an imposing figure, solidly built, with broad shoulders that belied his short stature, the bearing of a tough captain from his seafaring days. Relentless and unforgiving of weakness in others, he frequently admonished Peter about his posture. “You slouch too much, son. People will not respect you when you slouch.” Holding himself with rigid discipline, he had never shown any tiredness, despite the unending struggle to keep the business going throughout the war years.

His father seemed to have shrunk into himself. With a pang, Peter realized he had gone grey. His formerly thick, glossy brown hair had thinned and faded to the color of cold ashes in the hearth.

“Father?” Peter asked hesitantly.

“Peter.” His father raised his head and rubbed his hands over his face.

One word only, and yet there was something in his voice Peter had never heard before. His father sounded glad he was home.

“What is it?” Peter was shocked by his father’s lined face.

“Something happened to your sister. She came back from a walk this afternoon, completely disheveled and dirty, and now she just sits in her room, staring at the wall.”

“Shall I check on her?”

“Yes, please do.”

Peter put his hand on the doorknob.

“Peter, wait.”

He turned back.

“I know the last year hasn’t been easy.” His father’s voice faltered. “Since your mother died, it all has been a bit of a struggle.”

“I know,” Peter muttered, embarrassed and uncomfortable. He waited to see if his father would say anything else, but there was nothing.

The floorboards creaked as he walked upstairs. He told himself that he was trying to tread lightly so as not to make too much noise, but he knew it was reluctance more than anything else.

Effie was one year younger than Peter. When she was a little girl, she had had a series of seizures. That’s what Mother had told him. Those seizures hurt her somehow, even though one could not see it from looking at her—large for her age, with thick brown tresses of shiny hair, curling generously when not pinned back under a scarf, and dark eyes with thick lashes. She never talked, moving about the house and the yard like a ghost. When she got frightened, she rocked, weaving back and forth for hours on end.

Lorenz used to read to her. Humming contentedly in response, she stabbed her fingers at images in the books. Sometimes her eyes wandered, seeming to disappear into her own world. Lorenz would nudge her gently and wave the book in front of her eyes until she resurfaced.

Lorenz was fiercely protective of Effie. She was the only person whom he never treated dismissively. With a gift for biting comments, Lorenz was frequently careless and quick to mock people, but his parents did not mind. His laughter charmed them, and it was as if they and everybody else fed on his vivacity. But when he was with Effie, he was quiet and patient.

Suddenly Peter remembered something, and it filled him with longing for Lorenz. Not long before his brother’s death, during his last visit home, the sound of cannon fire had gone on for several days near the town. Effie had run into her room and sat on the floor, rocking back and forth with her eyes closed as if trying to drown out all other sensations of sight and sound. Peter had watched her from the doorway, fighting an urge to laugh—to no avail—when Lorenz stepped up behind him and cuffed him, pushing him out of the way.

Ashamed, Peter watched Lorenz go into the room and sit down on the floor right next to his sister. Without saying anything, he moved his torso alongside Effie, matching his rhythm to hers. He began to hum. It was one of the songs of their childhood. Maybe it was just as well he did not say the lyrics—all about the three riders leaving for war and their girls gazing out of the window, weeping. Meanwhile, the melody was cheerful, almost bouncy.

Three riders passed through the gate, farewell!

Their lady loves looked out of the window, farewell!

If we must be parted,

Then give me back your golden ring!

Death drives us apart, farewell!

Leaving breaks our hearts!