A Witch In Winter (15 page)

He stopped and looked down at his bitten nails again. I waited for him to go on. The silence stretched, filled only with the crash of waves and the mew of gulls. Then Seth drew a breath.

‘And then this guy said, “No he was [ ‘n’t.” ’ There was a catch in his voice and he bit down on one thumbnail before continuing. ‘I didn’t know what he meant at first, so he spelled it out, and said some other, other stuff about my mum. And then after that, well, I don’t really remember much more. I remember when the police turned up though. And being hauled off down the cells. And my mum being rung up at three a.m. It dragged on for ages – for a long time it looked like they were going to prosecute and I’d probably have got a record. In the end I got let off with an official caution because there weren’t enough witnesses.’ I must have looked puzzled because Seth added wryly, ‘Selective amnesia. Not that I asked anyone to do me a favour, but I guess they all made their own decisions. I was very lucky not to end up in court, but I got suspended from school, and Reg got a pretty severe fine for letting me in the pub.’

He sighed again and stretched out his long legs.

‘So I was not very popular with Reg, and not very popular at school and not very popular at home, for quite a while. It wasn’t the best time, all in all.’

He trailed off and we sat in silence for a long time, listening to the crashing surf and feeling the sun on our limbs and faces. I don’t know what Seth was thinking. I was turning his words over in my head, my heart aching with pity for him, for the troubled fifteen-year-old he’d been, and for the burden he now carried, and I felt my own secrets rise in my throat like gall. I thought of Simon’s advice to tell Seth everything. Should I? Could I?

‘Seth,’ I said, hesitantly. He turned his head. And then there was a screech of damp-swollen wood and Bran limped out to stand over us.

‘The wind’s changing. You’d best go now, if you don’t want to spend three hours tacking into harbour.’

Seth nodded and picked up my pack.

‘Shall we come back next week?’

‘If you like.’ Bran gave a shrug with his good shoulder, then struck Seth’s foot with his crutch. ‘Come on now, boy, this isn’t the time for prattle.’

We hurried down the rocky path, Seth leading the way, and Bran limping after, grimacing with every step.

‘I’ll run on ahead and get the sails up,’ Seth called over his shoulder. He disappeared round the corner, and Bran and I limped on towards the jetty.

We were in sight of the landing when the old man suddenly spoke, his voice terse with what I guessed was pain from his leg.

‘What do you want?’

‘Sorry?’ I turned to him, startled at his blunt tone.

‘You heard me.’

‘You know what we want; it’s a History project.’

‘Not that.’ He gave an impatient gesture. ‘You know what I mean. Our kinds don’t mix, you know that as well as I do. No good ever came of it. Oil and water.’

As we reached the jetty he grabbed my hand, stopping me from going any further.

‘Whatever you want with him, no good will come of it. Leave him alone. Leave us be.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ I shook my arm free and stumbled towards the boat, where Seth was obliviously shaking out sails and stowing our bags. ‘Seth, are we ready?’

‘Yup, let’s get going.’

I jumped into the boat and Seth cast off. As I glanced back at the shore, Bran was standing there, leaning on his crutch, his hair wild in the wind.

‘Remember what I said,’ he called, his voice ripped and torn by the winds. ‘Witch!’

CHAPTER NINE

T
he wind whipped across the bows, sending slops of cold surf and spray into the boat, and the sky to the north was turning an ugly bruised purple. Seth was crouched by the rudder, wiping salt water from his eyes. He wore an expression of fierce concentration, and every few minutes he changed course with a flurry of ropes and sails, forcing the little boat to tack yet again, weaving back and forth across the harbour mouth in the teeth of the wind. Waves slapped and smacked us from all sides. And all the time the dark clouds from the north loomed nearer.

I crouched at the other end of the boat with Dad’s anorak hood pulled up, my eyes streaming with the stinging salt wind and my wet hair whipping in rats’ tails across my face. I felt very glad of the life jacket strapped tightly around my chest. Seth was wearing his now, too. Mingled with the howls of the wind I seemed to hear Bran’s voice following us. Had he really said what I’d heard?

At last Seth shouted something and I shook myself out of my thoughts.

‘Sorry, what did you say?’

‘I said, we’re not making any headway. The wind’s dead against us – we’ll never get into the harbour at this rate. Can you hold the tiller while I drop the sails? I’m going to try the engine.’

I crawled over the rocking, bucking boat and took the tiller from his hand.

‘Aim for that headland,’ Seth shouted.

It trembled and strained like a live thing in my hand, buffeted by the waves. I hadn’t realized, until I took it, what steady strength was needed to keep the course straight and how the little boat would resis ^ight=des. Andt my attempt to keep its head to the wind. I held on as best I could while Seth lowered the sails, then he elbowed me out of the way and dropped the outboard motor.

He pulled at the starter, once, twice. Nothing happened. The third time there was a grinding choke and he ripped desperately at the cord again and again, but nothing. After that there were no more engine sounds, only silence as he yanked at the cord and swore and the boat drifted before the wind, nearer and nearer to the rocky shore. Seth looked up at the cliffs and yanked again, the muscles on his arms taut with the effort. Then he pulled up the motor and beckoned me back. ‘I’ll row,’ he called above the wind. ‘But I can’t row us into the harbour in this wind. I’ll make for the beach. Can you steer?’

‘I’ll try.’ I wiped the wet, salt-draggled hair out of my eyes. ‘Where should I aim?’

‘See that spot on the cliff, to the right of that rocky outcrop that looks like a nose? Aim for there. There’s a path up the cliff.’

‘OK.’

We shifted round the boat, which rocked wildly with every movement. It was impossible to keep a grip on the wet, heaving planks and I slipped and fell. Seth barely noticed, he was too busy manoeuvring the oars out from under the seat and fitting them into the rowlocks, trying not to lose them overboard in the sucking waves. At last they were fitted, and he began to row with steady, powerful strokes, patiently forcing us into the teeth of the gale. After a few minutes his gasps were audible even over the roaring of the wind.

The boat inched painfully across the waves. Above Seth’s panting breaths and the crack and crunch of the oars in the rowlocks, I could hear the far-off crashing of the surf against the shingle beach, terrifyingly loud even at this remote distance. The sight of the white breakers tearing up the beach made my knees feel weak.

‘Are we going to be able to land?’ I called, trying not to let the fear show in my voice.

‘I hope so,’ Seth said tersely, but his strained face showed his doubts. ‘I’m sorry, Anna—’ he spoke in jerks between great heaves at the oars, ‘I’ve never known a storm blow up so fast … I’d never have taken you out … if I’d known … There was no warning forecast though … It’s like a complete freak of nature … a total freak storm.’

His words stirred an echo in my mind, and I tried to think where the memory had come from. Then it came to me – Maya’s voice discussing manifestations of power: ‘Weather disturbances are common, freak storms …’

It was as if something clicked in my mind, a sudden awareness that while the upper half of my mind was concentrating on steering the boat and desperately hoping the weather wouldn’t worsen, down below some atavistic part of me was relishing the storm, releasing all my anger and confusion in the tearing winds and boiling clouds. The turmoil set off by Bran’s words was finding an outlet in the violence of the weather.
I
was causing this. And if I didn’t get a grip my emotions were going to kill us both.

Horror filled me and I dropped the tiller, causing the boat to yaw and swing. Lightning split the sky – Seth swore again and I grabbed for the tiller as the rolling crash of thunder rumbled out.

‘Sorry, sorry, I lost concentration,’ I gabbled.

But he was barely listening, his whole being was concentrated on rowing, fighting the storm, fighting to get us to safety. Fighting
me
.

I forced myself to be calm.

If I was causing this, I could stop it. I shut my eyes and looked inside, into the rolling turmoil that was finding its echo in the turbulent weather. Be calm, I told myself desperately, feeling the thunder build inside. I breathed in through my nose, then exhaled. A tiny part of the confusion and anger subsided.

Be calm. Breathe. Inhale, exhale.

I repeated the words to myself like a mantra, and felt my breathing slow, and the roaring in my ears subside a little.

When I opened my eyes the sea had calmed slightly. There was a stiff breeze but nothing like the tearing gale of a few moments before. The waves were still racing along in great rollers, but the surf had subsided a little. On the horizon the dark clouds were shifting, parting. A thin stream of sunshine broke through.

Seth paused for a moment, looking at the small patch of sunshine as if hardly daring to hope – and he resumed rowing, making progress now that he didn’t have to battle the vicious wind. Then suddenly there was a crunching grind, and I felt shingle under the keel of the boat. Seth yanked off his life jacket and shoes, and pulled up first the rudder, then the keel. Then, before I’d fully realized what he was about to do, he leapt out, into the freezing, crashing surf. For a moment he was waist deep in the sucking back-draft, clinging on with his fingers to the stern, then the next second he was staggering forward, submerged to the neck in creamy, boiling surf. Without his weight the boat floated on the incoming wave, and he put his shoulder to the stern, heaving with all his might, thrusting the boat as far up the shingle as his strength would take it. Another wave, another thrust, up to the weedy belt halfway up the beach. Then he fell, panting, on to the sand, and just lay there, drenched from his head to his bare feet.

I climbed painfully out, stiff from my hunched vigil at the rudder, and knelt beside him. His curls were plastered to his skull, and his head looked like a wet seal. His chest rose and fell with painful gasps beneath the soaking fabric of his T-shirt. For a long moment he lay with his eyes closed and his head flung back, gasping for breath. I could see a vein beating furiously in his arched throat.

At last he spoke, his voice hoarse.

‘Thank God that’s over. I’ve never seen a storm blow up so fast, and I hope I never do again.’

‘Are you OK?’ I asked. My c I oat. voice shook. He nodded, still gulping for breath.

‘I’m so sorry, Anna, I should never have taken you out. Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine,’ I said. I felt incredibly guilty. ‘Honestly. Please stop apologizing, it wasn’t your fault.’

‘It was; I should’ve double-checked the storm forecast for today. It was clear last night but these things can blow in from nowhere. You think you know a place, that’s the thing. It’s a trip I make ten times a month. You get complacent.’

‘Will your boat be OK here?’

He nodded again, wearily.

‘It’ll be fine. I’ll drag it above the high-water mark and come back for it tomorrow. I’m not sailing anywhere else tonight, my muscles feel like wet spaghetti.’

He was shivering. I took off Dad’s anorak and put it around his shoulders, swallowing against the lump in my throat. He made a protest for a moment, but he was too tired to argue and we sat in silence for a while, watching the surf while he got his breath back. Then he put on his shoes, and we dragged the boat as far up the beach as possible, and started on the climb up the cliff.

Seth led the way. He insisted on shouldering my backpack, but I could see that his legs were trembling with the effort of the climb and halfway up I made him give it back. We carried on, in silence. Seth was too exhausted and I was too guilt-ridden to make small talk. My throat felt as if I’d swallowed one of the flint pebbles on the beach – it stuck in my craw, cold and smooth and suffocating.

At last we reached the top of the cliff. The storm had completely cleared and the sky was a beautiful opalescent twilight. Only the hint of dark clouds at the horizon and the great waves still crashing on the beach below gave a clue that the day had been anything but calm.

We stood for a moment, catching our breath, then Seth wordlessly handed me Dad’s anorak.

‘Seth, thank you for everything. You were amazing,’ I said, meaning it more sincerely than I could say. He shook his head.

‘No, I was stupid. But luckily it turned out OK. Thank God you kept your head and kept calm. I couldn’t have dealt with someone screaming and shouting on top of it all. I’m so, so sorry it turned out like that.’

Stop being so nice! It was my fault, you idiot!
I wanted to shout. I felt like a traitor – Seth’s apologies only adding to my guilt.