The Whitby Witches 3: The Whitby Child (33 page)

Tarr looked at the herald and bowed his head in respect. "Ah would ask tha to join us," he said. "A mighty honour would it be for Irl to come amongst the descendants of his folk."

"No," the cloaked figure refused, "and if thou dost indeed honour and revere my old name, then forget this meeting. Irl died an age and more ago—let not his esteemed memory be clouded with the horror I have become. Go to thy people, Tarr, but mention me never."

The aufwader understood and with a quick nod, he clutched his staff and clambered from the boat.

"Thank you for all you have done," Miss Boston said.

"Heed my warnings," the herald urged her, "for thy peril is mounting. My masters will not be content until thou hast done their bidding. I say to you, Alice Boston—beware."

"Where will you go now?" she asked.

"Back to them, back to the world of darkness and cold—such is my punishment."

The old lady made to scramble from the boat, but at the last minute she reached forward and before the herald could stop her, reached into the shadows beneath the hood.

"Goodbye," she said warmly, as her hand caressed the scaly flesh hidden within.

A strangled cry broke from the herald's mouth as the unexpected and unlooked for touch pierced his heart.

"Go now," he murmured thickly.

Miss Boston smiled and with Tarr's help alighted from the boat.

With the water lapping about their knees, they waited until the wooden vessel had turned and sailed into the distance before wading on to dry land and speaking to the others.

Nelda needed no explanation. She could see from her grandfather's sombre expression that she and her unborn child were going to die and she staggered into his outstretched arms.

"Come, lass," he croaked, "let us return to our cave."

The fisherfolk covered their faces as they too understood and one by one they trailed back to the cliffs.

"Wouldn't they listen?" Ben asked in dismay. "Aunt Alice, what happened?"

Miss Boston stooped down and hugged him fiercely. "Oh Benjamin!" she murmured. "I think we should return home too. At this moment I want to feel safe and surround myself with my familiar clutter—a strong cup of tea wouldn't go amiss either. It won't be long before dawn, why don't I tell you everything over breakfast?"

With her tweed cloak hanging heavy and wet from her shoulders and the boy's arm wrapped around her waist, Miss Boston wandered over the gloomy shore into Whitby.

The early crying of the gulls jolted Jennet from an uneasy sleep. Nightmare visions of the coven had pursued her throughout the night and, looking into the bedside mirror, she saw that dark circles rimmed her raw, swollen eyes.

When she had returned, the girl had found the cottage empty, and thinking that Aunt Alice and Ben were still enjoying themselves at the wedding reception, Jennet had gone straight to bed. But she had spent most of the night weeping into her pillow and the feelings of betrayal, horror and isolation were just as strong in the bright sunshine of the morning.

Slung over the end of her bed were the tattered remains of the bridesmaid dress and the girl quickly snatched at them and stuffed the ripped mass of satin into a drawer.

Mechanically, she pulled on her clothes—wincing as her jeans dragged over the yellow bruises and scabbed scratches that covered her legs. Then, yawning, she opened the door of her room and went downstairs.

In the kitchen she found that her brother and Miss Boston had already eaten their breakfast and the old lady was busily recounting her astounding experience beneath the waves, with many wild sweeping gestures of her hands.

Aunt Alice paused as the girl entered and greeted her profusely. "Jennet dear!" she exclaimed. "I do hope you're feeling better this morning—help yourself to toast and there are some scrambled eggs in the pan, if you feel up to them."

The girl hastily recalled the lie she had told to excuse herself from the reception. "I'm fine," she lied again, "but I'll just stick with the toast, thanks."

Taking a seat at the table she thoughtfully chewed her breakfast and was so preoccupied with her own worries that it was only after several minutes that she noticed the circles around Ben's eyes were larger and darker than her own.

"Are you all right?" she asked. "Ben, you keep nodding off."

With his head resting on his hand the boy gave a weary grunt and Jennet looked to Miss Boston.

The old lady poured herself another cup of tea then folded her arms upon the table. "I'm afraid neither of us has had any sleep," she said.

Jennet put her toast down and a dreadful thought struck her—what if she had cried out in the night about what had happened? "Why... why was that?" she stammered. "Did something keep you awake?"

"That's putting it mildly," Aunt Alice replied, eager to tell her all about the Lords of the Deep.

"I'm sorry," Jennet said hastily, "I had a nightmare, that's all."

"Did you, dear?" Miss Boston clucked. "You poor thing, I thought you looked a trifle peaky—and have you done something with your hair? Anyway, let me tell you what happened to us!"

The girl listened in astonishment as the old lady gabbled about the Deep Ones and what they had said—she did not however disclose what she had learnt about the children's parents.

"And this", Aunt Alice announced, slamming a small green jar on to the table, "is what they gave me to anoint Benjamin's eyes—can you believe such a thing?"

After her own terrifying ordeal Jennet thought that she could believe anything. But she merely shook her head and let Aunt Alice continue.

Yet it was Ben who spoke first. Staring thoughtfully at the jar and peering at its contents, he said, "Why don't they want me to see Nelda again?"

"Is she really going to die?" asked Jennet. "Was there nothing you could do?"

Miss Boston shook her jowls regretfully, "Alas no," she muttered, "I'm afraid the fisherfolk are doomed."

Ben pushed his plate away and stared at the floor.

"Why don't you go to bed?" Aunt Alice told him. "You must be shattered. I'll wake you this afternoon and if you feel any brighter you can go and call on Nelda."

When the boy had risen from the table and shambled out of the kitchen, Miss Boston tutted. "It'll be a most difficult time for him when Nelda dies," she said. "She's the only young friend he's got."

"He's got me," Jennet murmured, but she knew that was not true for her recent unkindness had driven Ben away from her and now they hardly ever talked to one another. Swilling the toast down with a gulp of tea, she said in an apologetic whisper, "Aunt Alice, I've been a pig lately—I'm sorry."

The old lady smiled at her. "Don't be silly, dear," she said, "I haven't noticed..." Miss Boston faltered as she remembered one of the accusations the Lords of the Deep had charged her with. "Neglect..." she whispered, "yes, perhaps I have been guilty of that."

Shaking herself, she snapped out of the unpleasant memory and took hold of the girl's hand. "Don't you worry," she cried, "it's going to be very different around here from now on. Jennet dear, I've been so preoccupied with my ailments that, to my shame, I haven't made any time for you. Is there anything you'd like to tell me? How are you getting on at school? Wasn't there some talk of your work slipping—is that because of me?"

"No," Jennet quickly replied, "that's all sorted out—it was my fault but I'm going to try harder from now on."

"So what have you got planned for today? It's another beauty. Am I mistaken or did that fool of a nun mention you'd made friends with a group of musicians? Will you be seeing them this weekend?"

Jennet shivered. "I don't think so," she said. "In fact I'd be quite happy to stay in until school on Monday."

"As you wish," Miss Boston muttered clearing the breakfast dishes into the sink.

"I'll do them," the girl offered.

Mildly surprised, Aunt Alice stepped back and allowed Jennet to take over. "Goodness," she grinned, "we are eager to please this morning."

"I just want to make up for the past few months," Jennet shrugged. "If there's anything else I can do..."

"Well, if you really want to help, I was going to turn that sickroom back to how it was before my illness. Heaven knows where Edith put half the stuff I had in there. At least a dozen of my ornaments and corn dollies are missing—I bet she threw them in the loft or put them in the church bazaar. Do you remember what she did with Prudence's African souvenirs—the ones she left me in her will? You know, the moth-eaten zebra skin and the Zulu shield with the spear? Why, Jennet, wherever did you get that necklace?"

The girl's hands flew to the beads around her throat as Aunt Alice stepped forward to admire them.

"They appear to be most awfully tight," she observed. "Isn't that terribly uncomfortable? Here, let me adjust the..."

"No!" Jennet snapped. "It's all right, honestly."

The old lady blinked at her in astonishment—the girl's mood had changed drastically.

"Well, if you're certain," she relented. "Is that what all the youngsters are wearing now?"

"Only the select few," Jennet replied grimly.

Miss Boston's eyebrows twitched quizzically and for the first time she realised just how much Jennet had changed. She was no longer a child and, unsure of what to say to her, Miss Boston took herself off to the sickroom and turned on the radio.

Alone in the kitchen, Jennet leaned against the sink and buried her face in her sud-covered hands. She had tried to remove the beads before she had come downstairs, but the necklace seemed to sense her intention and had almost strangled her. Was Pear right? Was she really the same as the rest of the coven?

"Please no," she whispered. "I'm not like them, I'm not."

When Aunt Alice returned, Jennet was busily drying the dishes, and hoped the old lady would not realise that she had been crying.

"Most distressing," Miss Boston declared. "There never seems to be any good news these days—I've a good mind to take the plug off that instrument. You only ever hear about earthquakes or air disasters—why don't they broadcasting something chirpy for a change?"

"You should tune into the local stations," said Jennet, trying to sound cheerful. "They're good for tame, heartwarming stories."

"But I did. That was Radio Middlesbrough, and very nasty it was too."

Jennet took another plate from the rack and wiped it with a dishcloth. "What was it today?" she asked, "Naughty vicars or crooked landlords?"

"Oh, it wasn't anything like that—something quite grisly and downright vicious. A flock of sheep have been slaughtered on a remote farm."

"Isn't that what they're reared for?"

"That isn't what I meant. No, the poor creatures were slain in the fields—the farmer found them this morning and very horrible it was too, by his account. Too dreadful to be the work of vandals or hoodlums. The police believe a pack of wild dogs is responsible. Can you credit it, in this day and age!"

The plate fell from Jennet's hands and smashed upon the floor.

"Jennet!" Miss Boston cried. "You're white as a sheet!"

***

For the rest of the weekend the girl refused to leave the cottage and filled her time doing those chores which she normally loathed. No job was too dull, whether it was weeding garden borders, helping Aunt Alice sort out the front room, or washing the windows—so long as it took her mind off Pear and the coven that was all that mattered.

The girl's unexpected enthusiasm for these mundane household duties disconcerted Miss Boston, but Jennet absolutely refused to be persuaded to step outside the front door and the old lady began to suspect that she was avoiding something.

"Perhaps she has fallen out with her new friends and doesn't want to bump into them," she surmised, brushing all too near the truth.

Ben however was hardly at home and spent long hours with the fisherfolk. Nelda had grown very weak and when Miss Boston learned this she became grave, knowing that the Deep Ones had accelerated the aufwader's time.

On Sunday afternoon, the old lady went to the cliffs herself and was saddened to see how poorly Nelda had become.

The youngest member of the tribe could no longer walk and she lay upon the floor of the cave suffering from painful spasms.

She and Tarr exchanged mournful glances, but they spoke encouragingly to the child though they knew their words were hollow. Miss Boston wished there was something she could do for her and when she returned home, searched through The Book of Shadows for a salve or lotion that would at least ease the aufwader's pain. But there was nothing and the old lady tossed the volume aside, then threw herself vigorously into the housework.

Ben stayed at Nelda's side for most of the day and grew ever more dejected and morose. He could tell that she did not have long, yet could not imagine his life without her. Eventually, when the shadows deepened outside the cave, Tarr instructed the boy to return home and in a trembling voice, Ben bade them goodnight.

On Monday morning, the atmosphere in the cottage was one of glum despondency. Jennet did not relish the thought of walking to school, afraid that the coven would be waiting for her to step outside the front door and snatch her again. But she couldn't lock herself away forever, so she put on her uniform and waited for her brother.

Ben, however, was too upset to go anywhere. He refused to leave for school and would not touch any breakfast until Aunt Alice assured him that as soon as he ate something they would both visit the caves.

Jennet watched him sorrowfully swirl his spoon around a bowl of cereal. His strange friendship with the fisherfolk was a mystery that she would never share, but she could understand and feel his grief as surely as if it were her own.

"Give my love to Nelda," she said to him. "I'll see you this afternoon."

Ben continued to brood over his breakfast. "I will," he muttered, "if she's still alive."

Miss Boston had given up attempting to be jolly and, following Jennet to the door, whispered, "If she still lives then these will undoubtedly be her final hours. The poor mite was failing fast yesterday; you could almost see her deteriorate before your eyes—a dreadful tragedy."