The Whitby Witches 3: The Whitby Child (19 page)

Ben grimaced and clenched his teeth, screwing up his face in anticipation of the cold murder that was about to take place. But what happened next made his heart cease beating and he let out a petrified howl that silenced the squawking gulls around him.

Down the cliff face he scrambled, hurrying as fast as he safely could.

"What's the matter?" Nelda cried, sensing his panic and growing fearful. "Are you bitten?"

In a moment he was at her side but even that was not enough. The boy jumped from the boulders and hurried over the shore to be as far from the shadow of that ledge as possible.

Nelda hastened after him. "Tell me!" she yelled. "Ben! Let me help you—show me the wound!"

The boy turned to her and she saw that the blood had drained from his face. He had not been bitten—he had been terrified.

"The egg!" he panted. "When it hatched! It was vile! Oh, Nelda! The snakes—there was no chick inside! It was full of snakes! They came out of the gulls' own eggs! They were actually inside them! How can that be?" He paused for breath, trembling in disbelief.

"The birds must have been sitting on them when the first clutch hatched!" he wailed. "And those filthy things wriggled out to strangle them—it's horrible! How could snakes come from birds' eggs? It isn't possible!"

Nelda stepped back and lifted her eyes to where the gulls were still zooming about the ledge.

"Tis a jest of the Deep Ones' devising," she uttered coldly. "Thus are other mothers destroyed by their offspring. It is a grim sign to warn me of their displeasure, a terror to reveal unto me how mighty is their power—as if I needed the reminder."

"They did that?" Ben cried. "It's sick!"

"It is, though I doubt if that shall be the last sign. I fear there will be many more. Who next will suffer for me and my unborn child? Who else am I placing at risk?"

"What are you going to do?" the boy asked, recovering slightly from the shock. "Will you come and stay with us? You can't stay here. It just isn't safe—who knows what they'll do next?"

A strange look clouded Nelda's face. "No Ben," she replied mildly, "I shall be quite all right for at last I have decided for myself." She gazed at him briefly then picked up his schoolbag and handed it over. "Time you were returning home," the aufwader told him. "Go now."

"I'm not leaving you here!"

"Please, it's what I want."

Knowing there was no arguing with her, Ben swung his bag over his shoulder. "Shall I see you tomorrow then?" he asked.

"Perhaps."

Giving the cliff one final dubious and scared glance, Ben bade farewell and began the return walk over the shore towards the town.

When she was quite alone, Nelda took from her pocket a disc of polished green glass and held it close to her chest.

"Tonight," she whispered.

***

High over the church of St Mary the crescent moon shone cold and milk-white. Its pale beams glowed over the long grasses that rustled before the midnight airs and ringed the edges of the headstones with frosty haloes.

Through the dismal graveyard Nelda made her way, and though this time she did not have Old Parry to spur her on, she was not afraid. Engulfed by the huge black shadow of the church her pace neither quickened nor faltered—a grim determination was upon her and no vague fears would stop the aufwader that night.

Clasped firmly in her hands was Old Parry's lens, and when she reached a grim yet familiar spot she put it to her eye and began to search.

The churchyard was still and silent, yet upon that raw and exposed clifftop, Nelda was not alone.

Some distance behind her, following the precise route she had taken between the tombstones, a figure came. It was tall and wreathed in shadow, dressed in flowing black robes which merged into the gloom and made the stranger almost invisible. Like a swirling shred of the night's own fabric it stole stealthily after the aufwader. Its footfalls were as noiseless as a cat's and beneath a deep cowl, two eyes watched the small foraging shape intently.

Nelda was too wrapped up in the dim green world of the glass disc to realise she had been followed. Her anxiety to find what she sought drove out every other concern, so she failed to notice the shadow that flitted over the graves, stealing closer with every moment.

Impatiently, she parted the dense growth of weeds but the object of her frantic searching was nowhere to be found. Lowering the lens, she cast around the cemetery to see if she was indeed at the correct grave. Yes, it was smaller than the rest, but that repugnant and sickly little herb was not there.

Desperately, she peered through the glass again and dragged the obscuring grasses aside, tearing them up by the roots—and then she found it.

Beside the weathered headstone and hidden by the large thorny leaves of a thistle, she saw the ugly, grey growth. Nelda was filled with the same loathing but she reached out her hand and without a moment's hesitation plucked the bitter weed from the ground.

The stem of the hideous plant was cold to the touch, and whether it was the breeze or some uncanny force all its own she could not tell, but the thing moved in her fingers. The spiralling creepers unfurled and fluttered about her hand as the repellent flower raised itself and the two clattering stamens began to wag madly, diffusing the nauseating scent which polluted the night more than ever.

"It's as if it's glad I took it," Nelda muttered. "It wants me to taste the infernal juice. Oh, Deeps take me, is all the world ranged against this child? How witless I have been, to think I could be the bearer of new life. I should have put your petals upon my tongue when Parry led me here before, and smacked my lips in gratitude for your deliverance of me. Oh, how I wish that I had."

Her hands shaking with apprehension and dread, Nelda lifted the vile herb to her mouth. "Forgive me, my unborn babe," she sobbed. "There truly was no other way."

Nearby, concealed behind the crumbling slab of a tombstone, the robed figure stirred.

Nelda's trembling fingers moved to her lips and she closed her eyes as the flower touched her tongue.

"NO, LASS!"

A stern and forceful voice barked out at her and from the dim shadows a dark shape sprang and knocked her hand away, wrenching the foul plant from her mouth.

With tears rolling into his whiskers, Tarr Shrimp flung the weed to the ground and crushed it beneath his feet.

"Grandfather!" Nelda cried. "What are you doing? Stop!"

Tarr looked at her, his face a tormented confusion of anger, shame and pity.

"Oh, Nelda!" he blurted, throwing his arms about her. "Can tha ever forgive such an old fool?"

"I've missed you so much!" she wept. "I felt so alone I didn't know what to do."

"Hush now, Ah'm here now. We ain't beaten yet; theer must be a way. Ah'll not let owt take thee from me, not while theer's life in my bones."

"But the curse—I cannot escape that."

Tarr hugged her forlornly, then his tears dried and his despair was replaced by a fierce resolve. The leader of the aufwaders drew back from his granddaughter and stared defiantly out to the dark vastness of the sea.

"Only one hope have we now," he murmured. "At the time of the next full moon ah shall summon the herald of the Lords of the Deep."

Nelda buried her face in his shoulder and the two fisherfolk clung grimly to one another.

Retracing its footsteps, the robed figure slipped silently through the dismal gloom. It had witnessed all that had occurred and a serene smile appeared beneath the deep hood of its robes.

It was a week of excitement and revelations in Whitby. With the aid of two walking sticks, Miss Boston began hobbling about the town and ordered that the wheelchair be returned to the hospital as she no longer required it. Gleefully she tottered into shops and renewed those old animosities which had once been so vital to her. Everyone was pleased to see the progress she had made and Mrs Noble in the fish shop even gave her two free kippers.

Aunt Alice revelled in her joyous reception wherever she went. Those dreary months of hard work and intensive study were worth that first morning alone. Jutting her chins in the air, she held her head with unashamed pride and carefully made her way to each familiar battleground. Now the whole town could see that her illness had not conquered this independent, strong-minded ninety-three-year-old, and people hailed her in the streets with friendly smiles and words of encouragement. Even Doctor Adams was pleased to have been mistaken about his most troublesome patient and congratulated her enthusiastically.

At the end of that first day of successful roaming, Miss Boston glowed with satisfaction but wondered how long it would be until she could manage with just one stick and then without any assistance at all. In fact she was so engrossed in this matter that when Edith Wethers told her she and the doctor were planning to retire to the Isle of Wight and would spend their honeymoon there to look for a suitable property, the old lady hardly showed any interest whatsoever in this most absorbing news. Edith left her to 'brew her potions' and departed to continue organising and drawing up numerous lists for the impending wedding day.

She and the doctor had decided that a short engagement would be best, for he had tactlessly said that there was no point in hanging around at their age. The date they had fixed however was galloping closer at a frightening speed and Edith started to suffer from dreadful attacks of blind panic and was forced to take a pill in order to sleep at night. In the daytime she would spend long, indecisive hours fretting about the slightest problem, working herself into such a tense jangle of nerves that she had to go for long walks to calm down.

Miss Boston seemed blissfully unaware of her friend's daily traumas and spent unending hours contorted in weird positions as she exercised and strengthened her leg muscles.

One evening as she lay on her back with a bunch of freshly picked herbs and flowers held close to her nose, Ben confided to her all that Nelda had told him.

The old lady inhaled deeply, raised her left foot off the ground, lifted it as high as she could, then lowered it again before taking another great breath and repeating the process with her other leg.

When Ben had finished the tragic tale, Aunt Alice waved the posy around her head three times then tore off a handful of leaves and rubbed them vigorously on her knees.

"Dear, dear," she tutted, "the poor creature. What an iniquitous business it is. And you say there is nothing the other fisherfolk can do? How unjust and undeserving—she is but a child herself. Those Lords of the Deep must be infamous beyond belief to allow such cruelty."

"At least she's made it up with Tarr," he said. "I don't know about the rest of the tribe."

Miss Boston's eyebrows perked up as a new thought struck her. "Nevertheless," she whispered, "perhaps this has something to do with Prudence's warning. Is this to prove the danger which we are to face? Maybe, maybe."

Putting the now straggly bunch of flowers and herbs aside, she said, "Thank you, Benjamin. Would you kindly keep me informed of any further development?"

The boy agreed but he left the room feeling disappointed. In the past Aunt Alice would have stormed straight to the caves and demanded to involve herself in the matter, whether the fisherfolk wanted her help or not. It was as if she didn't really care what happened to Nelda and the baby unless it directly affected her. Scowling with this new and uncomfortable opinion of the old lady, Ben left the cottage and went to seek his aufwader friend.

***

On the Friday before the wedding, a bored Jennet trailed over the swing bridge and wound her way through the West Cliff. The girl had nothing to hurry back to the cottage for, and if Dithery Edith asked her to try on that appalling bridesmaid's dress one more time she would tell her exactly where she could stick it. Miss Wethers had paid no attention to her protests that she was too old to be dressed up like a china doll.

"Don't be silly," the oblivious bride-to-be had commanded. "You'll look so pretty."

In despair Jennet had looked to Aunt Alice for support, but the old lady had been too busy to take any interest in the matter and decided that it was better to leave it all up to Edith.

The girl's cheeks still burned when she thought how ridiculous she looked in that monstrous, sugary creation—decked out in yards of pink satin. She was sorely tempted to take a pair of scissors to the ghastly outfit, snip off the rippling frills which fringed the neck and shoulders, and turn up at the registry office in her jeans and a T-shirt.

At least Ben had not escaped, and indeed would be made to suffer such a humiliating indignity that Jennet vaguely thought the entire fiasco would be worthwhile. For her brother, Edith had chosen a kilt, and the girl was looking forward to seeing his mortification in front of the whole town.

Standing beneath the great whalebone arch, she gazed down at the harbour and across at the ragged pinnacles of the abbey on the opposite cliff, with a sullen and dismal expression clouding her face.

Jennet positively hated it here now. She felt as though the town was smothering her and she longed to be in some distant place, far away from small minds and petty attitudes.

If she had the chance she would leave tomorrow and forget this dreary shrine to tedium that was perpetually locked in a bygone and backward age. Away from here she felt sure she would be able to forget, and the yearning dreams would fade completely.

"I just can't help but remember
him
here," she murmured. "God—when will I be free?"

Flicking her hair over her shoulders, Jennet descended the steps and began walking back towards the bridge.

At the quayside she halted and let the fresh salty air wash over her and lost herself in the sight of the sparkling water. The flashing sunlight was hypnotic and the rebellion was lulled within her. Of course she wished Miss Wethers every happiness and was pleased that at last she had found someone who would cherish and adore her.

"If only that had happened to me," she whispered with regret.