Sea Change

by Francis Rowan

  Charles coughed and took a few shallow, rasping breaths.

  "So Cedric was in a bind. He had to be seen to banish the Hob. But he knew that if he did, the village would lose its luck, and the boats would come home with empty nets, and plagues would take their toll, and Saltcliff would be a sadder, darker place. "

  "So he found another way," John said.

  Charles arched an eyebrow.

  “He made it look as if the Hob was gone.”

  "Smart lad," Charles said. "That he did."

  "So what happened next?" John said. “And I don't understand how the dog fits into it?"

  "I'm getting there, have patience lad. So Cedric, he banishes the Hob, but not from this world altogether, just from the part of it we can see. He banished it to the bottom of the Hole, and he took much of its power, so Oswald could not sense that it was still here. Cedric took most of the power of the Hob, and he bound it into a piece of Whitby jet as big as your hand, and he buried it somewhere up on the cliffs above the village, where it still lies to this day. The story says that anyone with evil in their heart can’t take the jet from where it lies, to stop them from getting hold of the power of the Hob that's held in there, and that no ordinary man can even see it is there, only someone who is touched with a gift. But while the jet's still there, the Hob stays trapped in its Hole, and it cannot reach far beyond—which is why you have the tradition of the circling round the hole for luck—because that's still in what power it has left to give."

  "So if someone got the rock..." John said.

  "It would give them the power of the Hob,” Charles replied. "Or so the story goes. All that power, the power of this place, the dreams of Saltcliff and those who have lived here, stored up over a thousand and more years. They could take it all, bind the Hob to their will too—and do great evil, if that was in their mind. Which is why Cedric protected the jet, so that no-one of evil heart could take it from the ground. But he did one other thing too. He set his dog, his loyal servant, to stay in the village to be the eyes and the ears of the Hob, to show his gratitude for it having saved his life that time. And though the dog disappeared after a time, and everyone thought that it had died...well, later on people saw it from time to time, walking the village. Watching. Guiding them on to the right path. And they have done to this day, hundreds of years since."

  "So the dog's not dangerous—I mean, I know it's just a story," John said quickly. "But the shuck, the stories are that it's not something you'd want to meet."

  "That's Parnaby for you," Charles said. "Misses the real legend, the interesting one, and writes some guff down that turns Hob's dog into some spectral beast from hell."

  "Wow," John said, and then felt straight away that it had been a stupid thing to say, and that Charles would be disappointed in him. But he could not think of anything more intelligent to say, because all that he wanted to tell Charles was that he had seen the dog, he had seen it and it was protecting him but he did not know what for. Then Charles went on, and John was suddenly glad that he had not interrupted more.

  "Long time since anyone showed as much interest in that legend as you. Won't forget the last one who was obsessed with it. Miserable, nasty piece of work, came here from Wales, I think it was, or maybe the Lakes. Rented a house down in the village, always creeping round at night, forever haunting the bookshop asking me if I had this or that which might shed any light on it. Spent a fortune on old maps, walking the cliff tops with divining rods, wanting to know where I thought the jet might be, if any of the legend was true. He was a one for magic. Not this new age nonsense like your sister's crystals—no offence—but the dark, unpleasant side of things. Crowley and his depraved circle. Books on prolonging life, eternal life, all that too, bought anything that came into the shop. Nasty piece of work he was, though I try not to judge, there was just something about him that was wrong, like a bad smell. He was just wrong."

  "Is—" John began to speak and then stopped.

  "Spit it out, lad." Charles coughed, and this time it went on for what seemed like minutes. When he finished, he gestured at John, who heard Alan's footsteps on the stairs. "Go on then. I can see that something's troubling you."

  John took a deep breath. "This man. Is his name Elias?"

  Charles stared at him, and although the old man's body was weak, the gaze of his clear blue eyes was strong, and made John feel as if any pretence was being stripped bare.

  "Now how do you know that name, young John?" he said very quietly. "I'm wondering how you know that name. It might have been from Davey Allthrop, but then again it might not. No call for him to mention Elias." He coughed again, and this time reached for a tap on the oxygen cylinder and adjusted it.

  "I, um..." John said. "I ran into him, I think."

  "You think, eh?" Charles said, his voice still quiet. "I hope not. I very much hope not. Because that man died thirty year ago or more."

  The door opened, and Alan came in. "Glad to see the two of you are getting on so well. See, he's not as scary as he makes out to be, is he John? Bark worse than his bite you know. Always has been. But dad, sorry, if I can hear you coughing like that from downstairs in the shop, then I'm afraid you need to be getting some rest. D'you mind John?"

  Charles started to protest, but Alan was having none of it. "Sorry, I'm going to insist. John, if you want to have a look round the shop, you're more than welcome, but I'm afraid you'll have to continue your chat with Dad another time.

  "Do," Charles said with emphasis, his breath coming shallow and rasping now, as if he were really having to fight for each lungful of air, but his wide, staring at John. "We need to talk some more, John. In the mean time, you be careful. You must trust in those who are your friends. If you are ever in any trouble, you must trust in those who are your friends."

  "I will," John said, and he felt the thrill of thinking yes, I can do that because I have friends here, friends who I can trust.

  "You all right, John?" Alan said, ushering John towards the door. "Trouble?"

  "Just talking about things back at school," John said. "At home. It's fine, there's no problem, but it's been good to talk." He looked back as he left the room. Charles was lying down again, his eyes closed, his face nearly as white as the pillow that he lay on. The hissing of the air from the oxygen tank was nearly drowned out by the halting wheeze of his breath.

  "Sorry," John said to Alan when they were back down in the shop. "I'm really sorry. We must have talked too much."

  "Nonsense," Alan said. "He'll have loved it. Will have done him the world of good. He gets like this sometimes, it's nothing to do with you. Good days and bad days, good hours and bad hours. Don't be put off, come back and see him again. I appreciate you spending the time with him."

  "It's no bother," John said. "I enjoyed talking to him. Really. About the old legends."

  "Ah well, he's your man for that. Someday I'm going to have to put all his notes in order. Write them up in the book he's never got round to doing. Never done it yet because...well, keep thinking he might do it himself. One day."

  "With luck," John said. "When's he's better."

  "Yes," Alan said. "When he's better."

  There was a long silence, and then Alan said, "Well, anyway, feel free to browse if you like," just as John said, "Better be going," and they both laughed, but neither of them sounded as if they meant it.

  "Thank you," John said. "I will another time. But right now I need to go and see my friends. I think I've got something to tell them."

  Chapter Eleven

  "Dead?" Simon said, and there was a very long silence.

  In the end, John shrugged and said, "I know how it sounds." He smiled at Sal, but she just looked away, and John felt as if he had been slapped.

  They were in Simon's room, Sal and Simon sitting on the bed, John leaning against Simon's desk, too nervous to sit down. He looked around the room at Simon's Leeds United posters, at the chaotic mess of comics and books dumped in a pile at the end of the bed, at anythi
ng other than Sal so he didn't have to see how she was not meeting his eye.

  "I know how it sounds, too,” Simon said. "Sounds like you've had a bang on the head."

  "Si," Sal said, but she did not say it with much conviction.

  “Well, come on, Sal. A ghost dog from thousands of years ago and a spooky bad man, who no-one else ever sees, who just turns out to be dead? I told more convincing stories when I was four.”

  "Look," John said, "I know you haven't seen what I've seen, how all this must be coming across. But believe me Simon, if you had seen Elias, just once, you'd understand, you'd know."

  "Know what?" Simon stood up, angry. "Know that you think we're a couple of gullible mugs because you've come up from the city, and we’re just dumb country kids who don't know any better, and besides, we believe in Hob's Holes and all that sort of thing, so you can show us how stupid we are by making up some stupid story of your own and laughing at us when we fall for it? Oh yeah, I can see that, ha ha Simon, ha ha Sal, really had you going there. What do you need to do this for, eh?"

  "I'm not," John said, "I wouldn't," but it was lost in the torrent.

  "Showing off to Sal or something? Trying to make out you're all mysterious and cool? Hey, look at me, I'm battling the dark forces of the undead, coming soon to an X-Box near you. Nice try, John. I don't know what the hell for, or why, but nice try. We're not having it though."

  "Simon," John said. "Get real. Why would I lie? What reason would I have to make something up that sounds this stupid?"

  "You tell me," Simon said, pointing a finger in John's face. "You're the one who's come up with it. You get real."

  "I haven't come up with anything," John said, "I know it sounds mad, I know it sounds stupid, but it's true."

  Simon snorted, folded his arms, and turned away.

  "Hang on Si," Sal said, and John thought thank you, thank you, thank you. "Maybe it's not made up, not like how you said.”

  "Don't you start," Simon said.

  "No, come on, John's right. Why would he trick us like that? He's not that sort of person."

  I could kiss you right now, John thought. Even more than I do every moment I’m around you.

  "He's had something really scary happen to him, some old dosser harassing him, you know what the village can be like for them that aren't used to it, it's a maze—"

  "Hang on," John said, but Sal ignored him and carried on.

  "—and don't tell me you've never been spooked when the mist rolls in and you're wandering through the ginnels on your own. Now imagine somebody's big dog comes looming out the mist, and then some weirdo starts hassling you, for god knows what, it would frighten the hell out of me. As it would you Si, and don't you deny it."

  "S'pose," Simon said, and he turned back round. "Should make allowances. Seeing as you're not from round here. Still think it's stupid though."

  They looked at him. John looked at Sal, then at Simon, then back at Sal, wide-eyed, not able to believe what he was hearing.

  "You think that's what it is?" he said in the end, his voice rising. "You really think that little of me? That I'm some townie mouse who gets frightened by his own shadow and invents some story to make everything all right again? Like I'm an eight year old, still nervous without mummy's hand? Is that really what you think?" He was shouting now.

  "Oh, John," Sal said, but Simon just shrugged and said, "Well, take your pick. Because if it ain't that, then we're back to you making it up as a stupid trick, and if that's how you want it, then I don't want any more to do with someone who'd try that one on with me and my sister, make out like we're stupid."

  "For God's sake," John yelled. "You are being stupid, because you just won't listen to me. I wouldn't lie to you, I wouldn't, I'm telling you—"

  Simon walked to the door of his room and opened it. His cheeks were burning red. "Stupid eh? Just the stupid kids of a stupid, dead fisherman. Not smart like you. Beneath you. Well, don't let us take up any more of your precious, smart time. We know what it’s like to see dead people too. Every time I think about our dad, I see one. Every time.”

  "Si," John said.

  "Si," Sal said.

  "Out! Or I'll throw you down the stairs, I swear I will. Get out of our house!"

  John pushed past Simon and down the stairs towards the front door, trying desperately to control the hot sting of tears in his eyes, not wanting to give Simon the satisfaction.

  "Watch out for the monsters, mind," Simon shouted after him. John scrabbled at the latch, fingers useless, everything consumed by the anger and frustration and pain that he felt. Then the door opened, and he was out into the clear cool air of the night. He slammed the door behind him so hard he heard the glass rattle in the frame, and he walked away.

  If I hear the door open by the time I get to the end of the street, he thought, it means she's come after me. He realised he was walking slowly, and hated himself for it, but didn't walk any faster all the same. If I hear it open, it means she cares. We can talk, sort it out. She'll convince Simon. I'll have them on my side. I won't be alone. I won't be alone.

  John reached the end of the street, and there was nothing but silence and the night and the bitter taste in his mouth. He hesitated for a moment, took a deep breath, then another, trying to still the panic and fear and sadness that flowed through him like his blood.

  I'm alone, he thought. Again. I can't fight Elias alone. I can't.

  A mist started to creep into the street, thin, tenuous, the first strands sneaking in from the sea. The silent street mocked him.

  I can run, John thought. Back to Laura, then back to my family. Let Elias find someone else here to help him. Or take them into the mist and darkness if they don't. It's not my village, not my fight.

  He walked off, going nowhere, just walking, his last words echoing in his mind, the narrow streets like a corridor, like that corridor. He thought about the scorn in Simon's voice, the way Sal turned her head and wouldn't meet his eye. You can leave this place, he thought, but will it leave you? Everything we do we take with us, and that includes the things we haven't done.

  John felt a terrible longing for normal things, for his dad's occasional bad temper and the smell of cigar smoke by the back door where mum made him stand to smoke, for his room, posters on the wall that were tattered and peeling at the edges, the dull ordinary familiarity of the street they lived on, where nothing dramatic happened except the everyday play of people's lives. It had always seemed boring to John, something to rebel against. For a moment though, nothing seemed more desirable.

  "No more running," John said, his voice full of tears. "No more. I'm sorry, Alex. No more."

  He stood in the empty street, and called out, "Elias".

  Footsteps echoed behind him and he spun round. A man walking up the street carrying two shopping bags gave John a curious glance. John looked away, embarrassed, and tried hard to pretend as if he were waiting for someone. The man disappeared around the corner, and John was left alone in the street once more.

  "Elias," he shouted again, but nothing happened. For all that he knew he was wasting his time. Perhaps the old man would not know that he was being called; John wondered whether there were dark incantations that he should be performing, mysterious rites to be carried out after collecting secret ingredients from graveyards at the height of a full moon. I'm stuffed if there are, he thought, and just whispered "Elias" again to an empty street. For reasons that he could not understand he was at the centre of things, and whatever he did the world would not be the same. Elias needs you, he said to himself. Despite whatever he is, whatever he can do, he needs you. He wouldn't have been so angry otherwise. Make use of that need. For whatever reason, you matter. For once, you matter.

  After a few minutes of waiting, he decided to roam the back alleys. It was there that Elias had found him before. John hesitated at the entrance to an alley, aware of how dark it was in the alleyway and how loud his heart sounded, jumping in his chest. He did not want to go down there
. It made him think of the other times, of that dry, whispering voice and the way that it sent shivering fingers of ice inside him.

  It wasn't like it was in books, when the hero steeled himself and forgot his doubts, put aside his fear. John felt as if he wanted to go to the toilet, very desperately wanted to go to the toilet, and his mouth was dry like it was filled with sawdust and if he did not keep his fists clenched so tight he knew that his hands would be shaking. But still he walked forward, into the darkness, and he thought to himself that maybe this was what bravery was, not like in the books, just ordinary people, terrified, but somehow just carrying on. Then he laughed at himself for considering himself brave or on a par with others doing brave things, and he just concentrated on not tripping over anything in the darkness and on trying to will Elias into existence.

  For an hour or more John wandered through the village, until he thought that he had covered every alley, every lane, and was worried that one of the villagers would phone the police, thinking that he was a prospective burglar on the prowl. He had passed a few people, some of whom had said hello or good evening, some of whom had just given him a curious look, as if to say who are you, you're not from here, we know everyone from here. When he passed them, John had just tried his best to look as if he knew where he was going. It was harder each time. In the end, he came out on the road above the village. The dusk had stolen in and wrapped the village around completely, so that when he looked down now he could not make out anything but a huddle of dark shapes, lit up here and there by lights that seemed so small, so fragile against the darkness.

  "I give up,” John said to the night, and walked off along the cliff path, wanting open space after spending so long between walls that seemed to press close upon him. Every so often he passed a standing stone, jutting out of the grass next to the path like broken teeth. John thought that they might be markers of some kind, perhaps to show the path in the snow, but he could not work out why anyone would want to walk the cliff path in the snow. They seemed old too, far too old to be anything laid down by local tourist authorities, or industrious Victorians.