The Witch of the Arder Dunes

It was a sunny Sunday in Gaiety, and as always the children of the borough gathered themselves around the borough’s poet, who told them stories and tales from times long past. The borough’s priest deeply condemned them, as in his eyes such tale-telling was unbefitting a life of hard work and piety –especially since the poet often told tales of witchcraft and other unholy subjects.

But tales and poetry were part of a strong tradition of Gaiety, and therefore it was no wonder that the poet was member of the borough’s aldermen –as was the priest, by the way, and the two often clashed during their gatherings. Of course, that tradition also explained why the poet always had an audience, especially considering that the children had been forced by their parents to attend church. After having been threatened by hell and damnation, after having mind and spirit numbed by boring preaches, the telling of a good tale was often welcomed by parent and children alike.

So the poet always had a good audience, as he had today. And today, he told the tale of a woman who lived on one of the islands that lay before the coast.

“It is a sad tale, the tale of Rixt,” the poet said to his audience, in a hushed voice. “She lived long ago, when the Kings and Queens still ruled our lands and our fair borough was renowned for its art, literature, and philosophy. Nevertheless, Rixt left the borough with son and husband, and they settled on one of those islands. And it is there where our tale brings us.”

And so he told.

--

In the summer, the east coast of the island was characterised by rough, capriciously shaped dunes, with seagulls swaying with broad, powerful wing beats over the blinking dune tops. The cluster pines would wave merrily on the rhythm of a pleasant summer’s breeze. But summer is followed by autumn, and with autumn come the fierce storms and heavy rains, reshaping the placid hideaway into an inhospitable place. Then the gale-force winds of autumn and winter blew thunderously through the valleys of the sea dunes; the white-crested waves of the sea rolled with savage pace over the sandy shore, bouncing against the dune foot, thereby returning to both dune and shore their capricious, sometimes ominous shapes.

In one of those valleys stood, bordered by burnet rose bushes and pines, all twisted and turned by the dominant, rain-bringing western winds, a shabby hovel. There lived a skinny, tawny woman, her often patched clothes hung loose and sloppy around her body; in her eyes lay a gloomy, peculiar glow.

She had come to the island years ago, together with her son and husband, but none of the islanders knew where they had come from. They thought they had come from Gaiety, the borough that lay on the mainland, and that she had been either banished or bullied away. Of her husband the islanders did not speak ill, nor of her son, who was ever so polite and handsome. But they did about her, and even more so after her husband had perished on sea on one of his journeys on sea trade.

Since then the islanders told stories to each other; stories that claimed that the woman changed into a gaunt tomcat –those who met the cat on their path could soon expect troublesome times. All misfortunes that took place on the island were believed to be of her hand: when the milk would not give cream in the churn; when the fishermen’s’ nets remained empty; when otherwise healthy children suddenly got ill, languished away, and died. She was the cause of calamities that struck the island: poor harvests and dike breaches.

And so it was that once, during a carnival’s night, the drunken fishermen, staggering of beer and spirits, set out to revenge themselves on the woman. On time she fled with her son into the boat by which they had come years before, and sailed away from the hamlet in which they had made their home without knowing their destination. The sea knew, however: it brought them east to the island, towards the Arder Dunes, where they build their hovel under the elder tree. The material they used came from their now sole possession: their boat, and what they came short of they found in the form of wreckage on the sandy shores of the Arder beach. Ever since they wandered daily over those shores in search of valuables the sea gave back to the land after having taken it from the ships that sailed its waves. And when the other beachcombers discovered that even the finder’s mark held no importance to them, they did not show themselves any longer on that particular beach. Her son, Sigwald, brought their findings to the hamlet, where he sold them.

But the islanders now increasingly treated the boy with the same mistrust as they had been treating his mother. And sinister he found the work that he and his mother performed, when they once more rooted in the pockets of the dead sailors washed ashore, in search of gold and money. So it was that Sigwald began to long for the sea; that he came to wish to sail on the seas, towards the shores and harbours of the Fire Lands, like his father had done. When he talked about his longings with his mother, she enraged fiercefully –then the thunderous winds and fierce waves of the sea were nothing compared to her rage. But the day came that Rixt, as the woman was named, could no longer resist her son, who left for Gaiety in search for a ship and captain willing to take him in service.

And so Rixt was left alone, and so became her name and the Arder one. Henceforth it was known as the place where the shrew ruled, abandoned by her son and shunned by all. No longer did she show herself in the island’s hamlet; no longer did she set out to scavenge the Arder shores. Left alone, her strength perished, the loss of her son churning in her chest. When she walked over the sandy shores, she looked at the passing ships with a veiled hope in her crestfallen eyes. But however much she craved, Sigwald did not come.

Scorned and shunned as she was, hunger would eventually become her companion, together with a stray cow, the owner not willing to retrieve it from the dunes to which the animal had walked. It had given her milk daily the first year, but scorned and shunned as she was, her company would eventually be complemented by hunger. And none cared for the shrewd woman, who had brewed so much ill will.

And so it was that on a gloomy day in autumn spite and greed returned in her dark heart. One time more she would scavenge the Arder strands!

--

Massive waves blustered and bounced against the dune foot, while the winds with force and violence whistled around and through the creaking hovel. Grey, colossal clouds swept across the welkin. The foul woman had taken her lantern and fastened it on her cow’s neck. She waited, smirking and shuddering of excitement, for the evening. When darkness had fallen she sneaked up to the highest dune of the Arder, where she bound her cow to a lone pine tree, proudly challenging the wind. The lantern wallowed and dangled on the rhythm of the wind, but the flame, spreading a golden-yellow glow, did not quench.

--

Mother Nature rages with deafening noise over the Arder. Terrible is the sight of the witch: her grey hair flattering over her withered face; her eyes are glowing, longing for vengeance and spoils. Shifting sands prickle her eyes, but she cares not. With renewed strength she sings strange songs to the sea, while her animal companion is mooing loudly and fearfully. Her wrinkled face turns to smile with every gust of wind.

--

A ketch fights its way through the raging seas, struggling against wind and waves. The faces of the sailors are hardened of tension: for their lives they fight, they know their doom near in this storm. But then they discover the small, rocking light, which they believe to come from a safe harbour. Quickly, they set their sails for that safe place, with high speed they close on the Arder dunes. And then a terrible blow could be heard through the whistling winds, soon followed by cries of help from the sailors. Plunging waves finish the sight, claiming the ship that crashed on the sandbanks. And ever on the lantern wallows and dangles on the wind’s rhythm, the flame spreading its golden-yellow light.

--

The next morning the storm has died; the horizon gleams scarlet. In this early light Rixt walks over the strand, littered with wreckage, cargo, and the dead bodies of the stranded ship’s crew. Rixt exults silently, complimenting herself on her guile. She carries cargo back to the Arder dunes: filled crates and bottles, baskets, wood, burying it underground to sort it out later. Next are the sailors, because their lifeless bodies carry gold and money in their pockets. Her skinny fingers ferret around in their pockets. Just one seaman is left, when she has finished searching him, her work is done.

She bends over the dead body of the young man, which lies on the beach with his legs stretched, with mat eyes that stare into nothingness. Then her face hardens, her smile fades away and she retreats her sinewy arms, raising them in despair.

The dune witch recognised her son.

A shrill scream echoes over the beach:

“Sigwald! My dearest, poor Sigwald!”

The ill-fated woman remains for a long time on the beach, holding the dead body of her son in her arms. Some beachcombers near the scene, amazed when they see how the witch tears the filthy rags from her body and runs across the strand to the water, submitting herself to the waves. Even after her body has vanished under the waves, the combers still hear that awful cry:

“Sigwald! Sigwald!”

--

Soon the ramshackled hovel has disappeared. That what was not broken down by wanton youth was destroyed by wind and weather. But the elder still stands. And the tales have endured.

Because when Boreas rages once more over the island, when gigantic waves bounce against the foot of the dunes, then you can see yonder –always yonder –a roaming, golden-yellow light. If you look well enough, you can see a human form roaming the beach, carrying a long, hooked pole with a lantern fastened to it. In the shifting sands you can recognise the shapes of a skinny figure; in the white-crested heads of the waves you can perceive the peculiar face of a woman. And when those fierce northern winds blow, you always hear, through bone and marrow, that awful cry of despair echoing over the entire island:

“Sigwald! Sigwald!”

''Story based on the tale of Ritskemooi, a local legend told on the island of Ameland (Netherlands). Picture credited to Jan Helzinga. ''