the hum of voices, clatter of footsteps: the uncity’s clangor, of Vineta. His church is broken and the crisis is here. The moment has come again. This time Jörg knows what must be done.
A dim rumble rolled across the Achter-Wasser, through the narrow strait of Twelen, was squeezed by Gormitz and the Gnitz and funneled in a muddy roar to reach Wilfried Ploetz sleeping in his hovel. No light reached down the chimney hole, and with no birdsong or screeching of gulls to break the ensuing silence, he rubbed his eyes, yawned, realizing that dawn was hours off yet and he was fully awake. Now he would be denied his rightful rest and instead of snoring would toss and turn until dawn squeezed some light out of the stubborn autumn skies and he rose hollow-eyed to reluctantly embrace the day. Such injustices never arrived by chance: a big noise of some kind, perhaps a distant storm. He yawned and stretched. Yes, his mind was turning over, whatever it was still rumbling around in his head; unbidden, unwelcome, unexplained. Ploetz cursed.
The question still vexed him as he tramped across the island some sleepless hours later, still irritated him as he reached the Brüggeman farmhouse, knocked, waited for Mathilde to rouse her husband, Ewald, his employer, faded to an irksome itch while they dragged the boat down the foreshore, was forgotten in the tedium of disentangling nets, and might never have been remembered if Ewald had not turned the boat to starboard, heading northeast along the coast, instead of to port, where the fishing was easier. Who was he to argue? His father had never argued, and if he had, Ewald’s father would have thrown him off the boat. But the morning mists were thicker here and the waters more difficult; the nets would snag and sometimes tear.
Ewald signaled for him to cast. He threw, but clumsily, felt the water pull as the net cords grew sodden. Ewald shifted to the starboard side; he felt the boat lean over, then right herself as he hauled up the catch, the two men balancing to hold the boat true. He bent, heaved, and then the load was aboard, the bottom of the boat alive in a moment with a glittering spillage of herring and sprat. But a quarter of a barrel, no more than that. Ewald frowned, and Ploetz thought back to the moment before. To drop the nets then would tilt the whole boat; Ewald would fall and be over the side. The balance of a boat was a delicate matter.
They moved farther up the coast, and the mist grew thicker. The nets were cast and drawn in once again, both men sweating in the clammy morning air. Three more weeks and the boat would be beached for winter. Ploetz felt firm, slippy herring-bodies sliding about his ankles as he took the oars to row the next hundred yards. They would be passing Koserow by now, but the coast was invisible, still clouded out. In came the nets, out went the nets; Ploetz worked to a rhythm. An hour passed, another, and the fog began to thin. A plank floated past. Brüggeman was busy sorting herring from sprat, and the tide was inaudible, negligible, little more than drift. Neither man noticed their nearing the coast. Ploetz threw a dace back over the side, pulled some weed from the net, then stood to piss off the back of the boat. The splash of his urine was the only sound. Another plank drifted into view. Then another, and another. Soon the boat was surrounded by them. Not planks, though. Beams. A floating lumberyard all bobbing in the water. Ploetz stared, then frowned. Brüggeman was intent in the bottom ofthe boat. The first beam bumped, Brüggeman started, and both men looked up. A vast dark shape loomed vaguely above them.
Their boat had drifted beneath the jut of a cliff, and on Usedom there was only one. They had reached Vineta Point.
Ploetz knew this cliff, a sheer face of clay shored with crude, massive beams and the back of the church just visible atop. But the overhang was changed, its shoring swept away, and the base of the cliff had disappeared,
A dim rumble rolled across the Achter-Wasser, through the narrow strait of Twelen, was squeezed by Gormitz and the Gnitz and funneled in a muddy roar to reach Wilfried Ploetz sleeping in his hovel. No light reached down the chimney hole, and with no birdsong or screeching of gulls to break the ensuing silence, he rubbed his eyes, yawned, realizing that dawn was hours off yet and he was fully awake. Now he would be denied his rightful rest and instead of snoring would toss and turn until dawn squeezed some light out of the stubborn autumn skies and he rose hollow-eyed to reluctantly embrace the day. Such injustices never arrived by chance: a big noise of some kind, perhaps a distant storm. He yawned and stretched. Yes, his mind was turning over, whatever it was still rumbling around in his head; unbidden, unwelcome, unexplained. Ploetz cursed.
The question still vexed him as he tramped across the island some sleepless hours later, still irritated him as he reached the Brüggeman farmhouse, knocked, waited for Mathilde to rouse her husband, Ewald, his employer, faded to an irksome itch while they dragged the boat down the foreshore, was forgotten in the tedium of disentangling nets, and might never have been remembered if Ewald had not turned the boat to starboard, heading northeast along the coast, instead of to port, where the fishing was easier. Who was he to argue? His father had never argued, and if he had, Ewald’s father would have thrown him off the boat. But the morning mists were thicker here and the waters more difficult; the nets would snag and sometimes tear.
Ewald signaled for him to cast. He threw, but clumsily, felt the water pull as the net cords grew sodden. Ewald shifted to the starboard side; he felt the boat lean over, then right herself as he hauled up the catch, the two men balancing to hold the boat true. He bent, heaved, and then the load was aboard, the bottom of the boat alive in a moment with a glittering spillage of herring and sprat. But a quarter of a barrel, no more than that. Ewald frowned, and Ploetz thought back to the moment before. To drop the nets then would tilt the whole boat; Ewald would fall and be over the side. The balance of a boat was a delicate matter.
They moved farther up the coast, and the mist grew thicker. The nets were cast and drawn in once again, both men sweating in the clammy morning air. Three more weeks and the boat would be beached for winter. Ploetz felt firm, slippy herring-bodies sliding about his ankles as he took the oars to row the next hundred yards. They would be passing Koserow by now, but the coast was invisible, still clouded out. In came the nets, out went the nets; Ploetz worked to a rhythm. An hour passed, another, and the fog began to thin. A plank floated past. Brüggeman was busy sorting herring from sprat, and the tide was inaudible, negligible, little more than drift. Neither man noticed their nearing the coast. Ploetz threw a dace back over the side, pulled some weed from the net, then stood to piss off the back of the boat. The splash of his urine was the only sound. Another plank drifted into view. Then another, and another. Soon the boat was surrounded by them. Not planks, though. Beams. A floating lumberyard all bobbing in the water. Ploetz stared, then frowned. Brüggeman was intent in the bottom ofthe boat. The first beam bumped, Brüggeman started, and both men looked up. A vast dark shape loomed vaguely above them.
Their boat had drifted beneath the jut of a cliff, and on Usedom there was only one. They had reached Vineta Point.
Ploetz knew this cliff, a sheer face of clay shored with crude, massive beams and the back of the church just visible atop. But the overhang was changed, its shoring swept away, and the base of the cliff had disappeared,
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