The Whitby Witches 1 - The Whitby Witches (29 page)

On the steps beneath. Jennet staggered to a halt. She howled her brother's name but he had vanished into the whirling void. 'Ben, Ben,' she sobbed, falling to her knees.

The maelstrom crackled and spun towards her prostrate form. Jennet stared up at the awful vision that threatened her with oblivion. Springing to her feet, she ran down the steps but the wind tore at her hair and dragged her backwards. Jennet clung to the railing as the gale lifted her off the ground and the spiralling maw of night closed on her. She felt her fingers slip from the rail then, with one final cry, was lost.

Rowena crowed with amusement. 'Back you go,' she laughed, 'out of reach forever!'

Miss Boston's breath rattled and wheezed in her throat. She glared at the empty steps below and threw her hat down in dismay. 'Cooper!' she cried. 'May God forgive you!'

Hesper was distraught. 'Nelda!' she wept bitterly. 'What has happened to her?'

'I don't know,' murmured the old lady. 'I just don't know.'

Whitby was almost completely destroyed—gone were the houses and only the River Esk glinted between the rippling shadows on either of its muddy banks. The menacing waves of power crept over the bottommost steps and they melted beneath it, dissolving into clay and shale.

The sound of Rowena's laughter broke into the night. 'Fools,' she cried. 'See how easily I vanquish you.'

From out of a shimmering rent in the fragmented heavens there suddenly came a fierce burst of gunfire. Above the valley two aircraft appeared, locked in combat, their engines roaring in the shredded clouds.

Miss Boston looked up incredulously. 'Good Lord,' she muttered.

The planes swooped low over the cliffs. Hugging the ground, they zoomed perilously close to Aunt Alice and Hesper and a blizzard of lead hailed from their spluttering guns. Sparks rang off the steps and the bullets plunged into the soft soil beyond. That was too close for comfort and Miss Boston staggered back. One of the planes bore a swastika: they were witnessing the dogfight which had taken place over the rooftops of Whitby during the Second World War. Rowena had snatched the planes out of time to fight again.

'She's toying with us,' declared the old lady, 'using history itself to do her dirty work!'

The aircraft soared upwards, gaining height and preparing for another strike.

'Run,' Aunt Alice shouted to Hesper.

The aufwader turned but even as the Nazi fighter bore down on them and lethal rain blasted the steps, the air trembled and both planes faded from the sky. Miss Boston looked uncertainly across to Rowena. She knew what the witch was up to: taking them to the brink of disaster and dragging them away again. Dangling the inevitable before their eyes, watching them squirm and beg for mercy. 'Well, I'll not gratify her ego,' declared Aunt Alice firmly. 'I won't play her games—if I die then so be it, but I shan't abase myself before that one!'

'You may not have to,' cried Hesper at her side. 'Look!'

The creeping darkness that had swiftly consumed Whitby finally reached them. Boiling mud bubbled up through the cracks in the stonework and the steps sank into a mire of soft clay. Before they had a chance to escape, the ravenous time floe devoured them.

Everything was dark—an eternity of blackness seemed to have passed since Ben and Nelda had been swept into the twisting gulf. He felt an icy wind rush up to meet him, then his feet struck something solid and his legs gave way.

It was bitterly cold. Sleet hammered into Ben's face, driven by a savage north-easterly gale, and the freezing air hurt his lungs. His mind was reeling—where was he? Stinging ice pelted his cheeks and chapped his skin. He shivered and the veil before his eyes began to lift.

The lifeboat crashed through the sea and huge grey waves smashed over its bow. Twelve bush-bearded men wearing lifejackets of cork pulled on the oars whilst another grappled with the rudder.

'Put yer backs into it, lads,' he boomed. 'We've done aright so far this evil day.'

'Ben,' a voice called, 'what's happening?'

He shifted uneasily and turned. Through the drizzle that the breakers threw at them he recognised the aufwader at his side. 'I... I'm not sure, Nelda,' he replied with a shout.

'You there!' bawled the coxswain. Ben jumped and looked round but the man seemed to look straight through them. 'Henry Freeman, pull yer weight! Want them folk to die on that schooner, does yer?'

The man he was addressing glowered and his clenched teeth showed white within the frost-dripping beard. 'I'll clout thee over t'side, John Storr,' he growled. 'I've done as well this day as all t'others 'ere.' His great hands tightened round the oar and he bellowed like a bear as he heaved it through the squalling water, his face turning purple with the strain and the cold.

'Aye, five crews we've saved a'ready,' the coxswain shouted to the rest of his valiant men, 'so we're not gonna let thissun confound us. Heave on it, we'll get through!'

Nelda held on to Ben and stared ahead as the boat smashed into the towering, ice-capped waves. They were making for a ship that had been driven ashore but the surf was treacherous and pummelled their boat ferociously. Nelda squinted over her shoulder at the East Cliff. It was shrouded in mist but the sight of an aufwader is sharp and hers was no exception. Very briefly the fog parted, and there was Rowena Cooper.

The witch invaded all times now. She was the one fixed point about which all this confusion spun: a beacon of despair that shone only misery and death.

Nelda turned away and studied the faces of all the doughty, stern men at the oars—they were from an earlier time. She nudged Ben. 'They can't see you,' she told him hoarsely. 'We are phantoms here.'

Ben didn't feel like a ghost, but he was in no mood to argue. It took all his strength to hold on to the side of the boat and he felt violently sick. At that moment he didn't care whether anyone could see him or not. The storm was filthy—a veritable devil's tempest.

He choked back a cry as that phrase surfaced in his mind. Where had he heard it before?

'Nelda,' he yelled, 'what's the name of that ship?'

'Does it matter?' she cried.

'Just tell me! Can you make it out?'

She stared at him for a second, then shielded her eyes from the constant battering spray. 'It is called
Merchant
,' she told him. 'What does that signify?'

'Oh no!' Ben wailed. 'Nelda, we're done for!'

He knew exactly what was going to happen, for he had been told the whole story before. All but one of these men were going to die.

Ben was too terrified to look at them. With the seawater flattening the oilskin hats against their skulls and their faces drenched and pinched with cold, the lifeboatmen seemed drowned already.

'Watch out theer,' warned the coxswain as a giant wave rolled towards them. 'Hold hard, theer's another girt beggar this side.'

This was it! Ben clutched Nelda's frozen hand and waited, with his round eyes defying the smarting spray. The storm-mad sea charged at them. With a terrible crash, the two waves smashed into one another and the lifeboat was hurled into the air upon a massive spout of water. Fifteen souls were cast into the freezing brine, their cries smothered by the tumult.

Nelda struggled in the water. The tide was too strong to swim against and, although her race was suited to a harsh life, the dreadful cold numbed and pained her.

Overwhelmed by the mountainous waves, Ben could not remain afloat. The sleet-covered sea filled his mouth and poured into his ears, cutting off all sound from the world above. Swiftly he sank beneath the surface and his frantic thrashings grew weaker until he moved no more.

'Ben!' called Nelda. 'Ben!' But soon her voice too was drowned.

Jennet fell on to the cool turf and the last traces of the shadowy void curled away from her, swirling into the night. She rubbed her head, dazed, and her thoughts a disordered jumble. Then she remembered her brother.

Scrambling to her feet, the girl looked around desperately. The abbey reared up behind her, but without its floodlights it seemed unfriendly and larger than before. She was standing near the edge of the cliff but there was no sign of Ben. Everything seemed back to normal and she wondered how this could have happened. There was Whitby sleeping peacefully below. It was a calm December night and columns of smoke rose from the many chimneys. Jennet frowned: something was not quite right. Where was the hospital and what had happened to the amusement arcades? Gradually she realised that she was looking on some bygone time, before she was even born.

A black figure stepped from the shadows under the church. Rowena Cooper was tall and monstrous, transformed into something beyond humanity. A nightmare to harry the waking world.

The witch turned slowly and faced Jennet, her eyes glinting sinisterly. 'I do not believe you have met
Derflinger
and
Von der Tan,'
she cried. 'Allow me to introduce them to you.'

Jennet wondered what she was talking about until Rowena stretched out her hand and gestured to the sea. Two dark shapes were on the water. The girl peered at them—they almost looked like battleships.

A small explosion burst from one of the vessels. Overhead something whistled through the darkness and suddenly the cliff-top was ablaze with flame. Jennet dropped down as the ground shook from the force of the blast. Another missile screamed through the sky, this time hitting the cliff face, and large chunks of rock fell into the sea. The ships were firing on Whitby.

The air seemed alive as shells exploded. Flowers of death flashed and flared, as dazzling blooms of yellow and orange fire raged above the cliff. Jennet crawled along the ground, trying to get under cover quickly. With her head down she wriggled towards the abbey; if she could only reach the west wall she would be safe. Flying shrapnel sliced through the grass around her and streams of liquid flame showered down.

Seconds felt like hours as she laboured along the ground towards the high walls of the ruin. She breathed a thankful sigh when she passed under the tall arches and cowered against the pillars of stone within.

The abbey flashed beneath the volleys of fire that erupted around it, a well-lit target for the German cruisers to bombard. In a deafening blast one of the mortars struck the west wall and the stones flew apart. The place Jennet had chosen to shelter behind was blown out of existence.

Shrieks of death stabbed into the gloom and the dragon boat rammed on to the beach. Brandishing fiery torches the raiders jumped ashore, spears and swords flashing in their hands.

From the small collection of wooden and stone huts built near the marshy estuary there came a shout. 'Northmen! The Northmen are come!'

Panic and fear filled the air. Out of the small buildings women and children poured. 'To the abbey!' they called to one another.

With their eyes blazing and their faces hungry for war, the raiders charged through the village. Torches were thrown into the thatches and soon the huts were aflame. The menfolk had few weapons to defend themselves with and the thirsty swords of the invaders eagerly drank their blood.

On the slope of the cliff, Miss Boston and Hesper slithered in the soft clay. Harsh war cries resounded in their ears and they looked fearfully on the burning settlement below.

Miss Boston clapped her hands with wonder at the unfolding scene. 'Extraordinary!' she exclaimed. 'Positively marvellous—a real Viking raid.'

Hesper was not so enthusiastic. 'We must not linger here,' she said urgently. 'Listen to those screams, they are the sounds of death.'

Aunt Alice blinked. 'Heavens,' she muttered, 'how dreadful. I don't know what came over me. You're right, people are dying down there.'

'Not all,' Hesper put in. 'See, some have crept out unseen.'

The old lady stared down and there, fleeing barefoot through the undergrowth, came the women and children. Crouching low, they ran to the cliffside and scrambled up.

'Are they aware of us?' murmured Hesper curiously.

Miss Boston shook her head. 'I doubt if they can see you,' she said, 'or me either, for that matter. No, it is sanctuary they are seeking. Look!'

Upon the cliff-top Hesper saw the Anglo-Saxon abbey with the smaller monastery buildings clustered round it. This abbey was not as tall as the later one, but a proud and noble structure nonetheless. Hidden in the deep shadows, a solitary figure watched and waited.

'Will these folk be safe in there?' Hesper asked Miss Boston.

'No, the Norsemen had no respect for the Church. They will chase those poor people up here and kill them, then the abbey will be robbed of its treasures and razed to the ground. I'm afraid we are an extremely barbaric species.'

Hesper looked at the villagers clambering towards them, very close now. The hair of the women was braided and they wore coarse, woollen garments pinned at the shoulder by large brooches.

From the ruin of the settlement, the raiders emerged. Blood smeared their faces and the swords they held aloft were scarlet. This was too easy: there was little honour in slaughtering peasants. They lifted their heads and gazed at the true prize—abbeys were always full of gold plate and silver chalices. As one, they rushed up the cliffside howling for glory.

'Come!' cried Hesper. 'We must run. A spear does not have to see its target to slay it.'

But at that moment, the villagers were upon them. Blind to the two strangers, they surged on regardless. Many stumbled into the old lady or tripped over Hesper, cursing the unseen obstacles in their fright. But so wildly were they driven by their fear that the frenzied rush of their bodies swept the aufwader and Miss Boston with them up the cliff.

'Hesper!' called Aunt Alice as she tried to drag herself out of the panicking crowd. 'Hurry, we must go the other way. Don't let them carry you to the abbey, it's too dangerous there.' A fat Saxon woman with matted hair unwittingly barred the old lady's way so Miss Boston gave her a hard shove. 'Sorry, my dear,' she apologised, even though the woman could not hear her.

The spears of the Vikings were launched into the night. From the back of the thronging group a voice gasped and a body tumbled, lifeless, down the slope.