The Whispering Rocks

by Sandra Heath

  “Yes, I have since I—almost since I first met him.”

  He took her hand, “Then be careful. Don’t do anything you may later regret.”

  A blush swept hotly over her and she snatched her hand away. “I think I may be trusted to behave myself, thank you!”

  He stood once more, nodding. “I meant no insult, Sarah. I only sought to—to ...” He shrugged and turned away, swinging his riding crop to slice at the leaves of the poplar tree. She watched him until he was out of sight.

  She stood up, still feeling the hot flush on her face as she walked back toward the house to change her gown. As she reached the doorway she heard Jack’s voice and turned. He was standing by the gatehouse where Martin was inspecting the foreleg of his horse. He saw her and crossed the courtyard toward her.

  “What’s happened to your horse?” she asked.

  “I hadn’t long gone when it went lame. I walked back with it. I hear that your visit to the Blue Fox has been canceled.”

  “Yes, there was a fire there this morning.”

  He took her hands and her anger at Paul was dispelled immediately. It would be deliciously wicked to contemplate misbehaving with Jack....

  Loosening his excellent cravat, Jack smiled. “Then shall we take fresh mounts and ride together?”

  Her eyes brightened. That would be marvelous. “I would love to, except—”

  “Except what?”

  “Well, I don’t think Paul would appreciate such an unescorted ride.”

  His eyes clouded with anger and he thumped the trunk of the ash tree beneath which they now stood. “And why should his objections carry any weight?”

  “Because I am placed under his protection. Jack, I dare not flout his wishes. It would not be right.”

  “No, but it’s perfectly acceptable for you to go picking flowers alone with him?” There was an edge to his voice.

  She slipped her arms around his neck and leaned against him, ignoring Martin’s interested gaze. “I’m not in love with Paul—there is the difference.”

  His arms tightened around her immediately and he held her close. “Then how can we manage our ride? There must be some way.” His lips were against her hair and a shiver of delight ran through her.

  “Janie and Martin,” she said, catching sight of Martin. “They could come with us.”

  Jack laughed. “But surely they too would rather be alone? They are ‘courting strong,’ or so I believe.”

  “Yes, but Janie’s mother is very strict. I think they would welcome the chance of riding with us, and then we can all chaperone each other and all impropriety will be eliminated.” She smiled up at him and he kissed her again. She could hear nothing but the thundering of her pulse and she knew that Paul’s warning had been justified; her love for Jack passed common sense and verged on the willful. Why, oh why, could her future not be with him instead of Edward?

  A short while later she and Janie were in the kitchens rifling the cook’s cupboards and shelves. It was like playing truant, thought Sarah, as she packed a warm loaf into the hamper.

  The sun was still high in the sky as the four rode up the village street toward the moor. Janie and Martin rode side by side, chattering together cheerfully, the hamper bumping against the shoulder of Martin’s sturdy horse.

  Before them spread the glittering, sun-drenched moor, crowned by the pinnacle of Hob’s Tor.

  Chapter Twenty

  An ancient bridge of stone crossed a wide stream which babbled lazily over pebbles, splashing and sparkling in the sun. The horses paused by the water, dipping their muzzles into the cool stream.

  Sarah breathed in deeply the mixed smells of the wild countryside. Bracken, heather, foxgloves, and moss all intermingled with the perfume of gorse; combined they made Dartmoor. Hob’s Tor seemed unexpectedly near as she looked at it. Each boulder on its rocky tip could be discerned and the heat made the hill dance. It seemed to be trying to attract her attention, she thought, immediately shaking her head at such a foolish notion.

  “What hill is that?” Jack pointed with his crop.

  Martin looked at it. “ ‘Tis Hob’s Tor, sir.”

  “Hob’s Tor? Is it a place of magic then?” Jack was grinning.

  Martin looked back at him seriously. “They say it’s a place where the hobgoblins go, sir. I wouldn’t know about that, but one thing is certain: it’s an evil place. Things used to happen there, bad things.”

  Jack was interested. “What sort of things?”

  “Well, I can’t say for certain, sir, but things to do with witchcraft—you know, sir, the Old Religion. ‘Tis not so long since the Old Religion was followed hereabouts. At certain times of the year they made sacrifices on Hob’s Tor. And other things were done.... Anyway, the place has a bad name now, and no one will go there unless they have to.”

  “What a lot of nonsense. It’s only a hill like any other hill. It doesn’t look far—shall we ride there and prove everyone wrong?” Jack turned his horse and looked toward the tor.

  Janie looked dismayed. “I’d rather not, sir, please.”

  “Sarah?”

  Sarah stared at the tor, feeling its curious mute beckoning and the strange appeal of the whispering rocks. She felt suddenly that she must go there. She glanced at Janie and Martin. “Oh come on, you two. It cannot harm us to go there. Perhaps we can have our picnic somewhere on its slopes.”

  Jack waited no longer; he spurred his horse forward through the stream, ignoring the bridge. The water sprayed up in shining droplets which spattered over Sarah as she followed him. Very reluctantly, Janie and Martin rode across the stream and toward Hob’s Tor.

  The heat played them false for the tor was further than it seemed and it was fully two hours before they reached the lower slopes. Sarah was hot and thirsty, but still determined to have the picnic on the tor. No one had noticed that the sun had become less intense. The shadows of their horses were blurred now and not sharply defined as they had been. From behind them came spreading across the skies an angry bank of yellow storm clouds. The blue of the sky was turned to gray.

  Unexpectedly the land sloped downwards before them to a small, deep valley which could not be seen from further away. Sarah reined in abruptly, for an unpleasant sensation was moving over her, tingling across her scalp and resting coldly on her damp skin. Jack glanced at her in surprise. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know.” She spoke truthfully. Something about that little valley disturbed her. Beads of perspiration stood out on her forehead as she stared down into the grassy hollow; but there was nothing there, nothing which could cause her such alarm.

  Martin moved his horse alongside. “Miss Melissa drowned down there.” He pointed into the valley.

  Sarah held her breath, almost overcome by the malevolent sensation which swept over her in wave after wave of revulsion. Melissa.

  Jack looked down into the hollow. “It’s hard to credit that anyone could drown in there. You can’t see a trace of the pool.”

  “Aye, but it’s there right enough.” Martin spoke in a hushed voice, almost as if someone or something might hear him.

  Jack nodded. “Between those two rocks, isn’t it?”

  Surprised, Martin glanced at him, filled with a new respect for the townsman whose keen eyesight could see the almost invisible. “That’s right, sir. It’s bounded on the far side by that broken tree and on this side by the gorse bush.”

  Jack gathered his reins. “Well, I see that the tree is an ash, so I begin almost to believe your tales of witchcraft and sacrifice, Martin. Come on or it will be dark before we even begin to eat.”

  His horse began to descend, stones crunching and rattling beneath its hooves. As she followed him, Sarah felt as if she was descending into the pit of hell. She could almost hear the wild fluttering of her fear as they went lower and lower toward the floor of the valley. High above loomed Hob’s Tor, towering and immense now they were so close. She wished that she had sided with Martin and Janie, for everythi
ng about this place was horrible.

  The valley was silent. No birds seemed to frequent it and none of the small moorland creatures scuttered before the horses as they had done before. It was as if nature shunned such a place. Even the flowers were subdued, hardly moving their bowed heads in the breeze which was picking up as the storm overhead mushroomed across the heavens. But the breeze seemed to avoid the bottom of the valley, for everything was still and breathless there, not a blade of grass moved.

  Sarah stared at the motionless expanse of green before them. Not a ripple showed the presence of that evil pool; the green was flawless, solid-looking, and infinitely deceitful. Was Melissa there? Was she? Sarah glanced warily at the broken ash tree—only an ash tree would grow in such a place, she thought.

  The horses were uneasy, moving forward unwillingly. They knew, thought Sarah, sinking further into the realm of superstition; the animals knew.... This valley was bad.

  “Well, one thing is certain: we cannot ride up there.” Jack was looking up the steep slope of the tor. “We’ll have to eat here.”

  “Eat here? I couldn’t.” Sarah’s eyes were huge.

  “Nor I.” Janie swallowed, edging her horse closer to Martin’s.

  Martin sighed reluctantly. “I don’t like the place but I must agree with Mr. Holland. We cannot go any further without eating. Besides ...”—he indicated the gathering storm—”the storm’s coming quicker than I thought and we’ll have to get to some sort of shelter before long.”

  They dismounted, tethering the horses to the gorse bush whose golden flowers were somehow duller than its fellows on the open moor. Sarah looked at the flowers and was not surprised; she felt, like the gorse, drained of sparkle and vitality, as if the pool was sucking everything from her.

  Silently they ate, with only Jack showing any great appetite. He poured himself a glass of wine and then stood up, wandering a little way up the tor amongst the huge rocks and boulders which littered the ground. A vague rumble of thunder in the distance gave the first hint that the storm was almost over Dartmoor. Martin glanced up at the yellow-gray clouds which billowed angrily high above.

  “We’ll not get to shelter, I fear, so we’d best resign ourselves to getting wet.” As if it heard him, the storm released the first heavy raindrops. Janie hurried to pack away the food in the hamper and Sarah helped her.

  Jack shouted suddenly, “There’s a cave here, with shelter enough for us till the storm’s over.” He hurried down the slope, scattering dust and pebbles before him. “Make the horses fast and then we can get inside before the rain really comes down.”

  The wind picked up with a warm gust, lifting Sarah’s light skirts and bringing with it the smell of the moor surrounding this awful valley. She stared toward the hidden cave. Mother Kendal’s cave. She felt cold and sick. A slow, insidious hissing sound spread over the little valley and Sarah’s heart seemed to tighten in her breast.

  “Listen.” She held up her hand and the others fell silent as a new sound filled the air.

  They could all hear it. A stealthy murmuring, whispering sound as if there was some hidden enemy nearby. The sound moved around the valley, seeming to come from every direction at once. Goose-pimples prickled all over Sarah’s body and something akin to terror rushed over her. The horrible, unintelligible whispering grew louder and she bit her lip to hold back the whimper which trembled near.

  “It’s the whispering rocks.” Martin’s voice came as a surprise. It was so ordinary and normal after the unearthly rustling of that other sound.

  “No wonder everyone stays away from here.” With wide eyes Sarah stared around the valley, and she would not have been surprised at anything just then. Every primeval instinct was aroused, every sense and fiber quivering with fear.

  Jack saw her alarm and took her hand firmly. “Come on, let’s get to that cave.”

  The rain was pattering on the dry earth as they passed the edge of the hidden pool. Sarah’s feet dragged and she looked from the corner of her eye at the ash tree whose dead and dying branches lay jaggedly against the green. Melissa was there; Sarah knew it suddenly. The pool threatened her and she felt Melissa’s presence as surely as if the girl stood next to her. That same hatred which had always been with Paul’s lovely sister was here now, and it touched Sarah.

  On the ledge before the cave Jack paused, his hand tightening over hers. They both looked down at the flat, smooth stone by their feet. The large drops of rain were already washing the blue and red chalk drawing away, but it still clearly showed a blue fox engulfed in red flames. Janie and Martin scrambled up the incline without seeing the drawing, and Martin’s muddy boots obliterated the vestiges of chalk.

  Jack glanced at Sarah’s pale face and then pulled her past the stone and into the cave. Neither of them mentioned what they had seen, an unspoken bond keeping them inexplicably silent.

  The entrance to the cave was low, but it opened into a fairly large chamber. Sarah clung to Jack’s hand as they stood inside, and she could not help glancing fearfully behind her ... as if ... She shook herself. Nothing was creeping behind them—nothing at all! Take a grip on yourself, Sarah Jane Stratford!

  The storm broke at last. Peal after peal of thunder rippled over the skies, the sound muffled to their ears by the cave and the immense weight of Hob’s Tor above them.

  The cave smelled musty, but it was dry. There were traces of someone having been there recently, and Sarah remembered James Trefarrin’s talk of the man who had been stealing his sheep. He must have used this cave.

  Across the entrance the endless rain slanted down, tamping noisily on the stones until they shone like polished jewels. The scent of the wet earth crept in to join the mustiness of the cave, soon smothering it altogether. Sarah shivered and Jack put his arm around her, pulling her down to sit beside him.

  Martin and Janie were huddled together, and all four were silent and subdued. The afternoon’s ride on the moor had somehow gone very wrong, and no one was enjoying the outing. Outside, unheard from the cave, the whispering rocks hissed and menaced, the eerie sound hanging in the stormy air like an evil presence.

  It was a long time before Sarah noticed the tiny fragment of cloth caught on a spiky rock. It flapped a little in the cold stream of air from the mouth of the cave. Emerald green. Brilliant and clear. She looked at it, stretching out her fingers and then stopping as she recognized it. With a gasp she sat up, pulling away from Jack’s arms. Melissa’s riding habit—her emerald green riding habit which had been torn! She had been here, in this cave!

  She scrambled to her feet, the revulsion becoming too much for her taut nerves. She pointed at the cloth, unable to speak at first. The little piece of emerald green seemed frightening to her, like Melissa herself.

  Jack stared in the direction of her pointing finger, reaching out and lifting the cloth from the rock. He said nothing, but studied it closely.

  Martin too was staring at it. “That’s from her riding habit, from Miss Melissa’s riding habit.” Janie gasped and hid her face in his shoulder.

  Jack dropped the cloth as if it had become a writhing worm. Filled with blind panic, Sarah ran toward the mouth of the cave. She must be free of this place— The greasy mud outside was treacherous and she could not hold her balance, slipping on the flat surface of the stone where the chalk drawing had been.

  The earth crumbled away, made unsafe by the downpour. Lightning flashed brilliantly over the moor and she gripped the huge boulders by her side to steady herself. They rocked beneath her hands as the slippery earth shifted, and in a moment an avalanche of rocks and mud was falling away down toward the valley.

  Jack shouted Sarah’s name as he dived forward to grab her arm, pulling her back from the edge of certain death. He stared down the side of the tor to where the rockslide crashed into the waiting arms of the Green Pool. It pierced the cloak of green and exposed the naked waters beneath. The ash tree splintered beneath the weight of the rocks, but still its determined roots held firm and it
hung over the pool. He clasped Sarah’s shaking body near to him as he led her back into the safety of the cave. She hid her face in his shoulder, holding him tightly and whispering his name over and over again.

  He pushed her away gently, putting his hand to her chin and raising her face toward his. He kissed her gently, and then more insistently and she returned the embrace. His closeness was a comfort she needed so very much. She opened her eyes to look at him and a brilliant flash of lightning illuminated his face for a moment, reflecting from the cave walls behind him.

  The smile died on her lips as she saw the things on the cold gray stone. They swung slowly in the cool air from the entrance. The lightning was bright, striking again and again, sending slanting electric blue lights over the dolls. Jack turned sharply to follow her gaze and she felt his body stiffen in her arms.

  “My God, my sweet God in heaven,” he murmured, unable to take his eyes from the witch gewgaws decorating the unholy place.

  Martin stood still, his arm firmly around Janie, who stared with frightened eyes at what they could all now see, even without the aid of the lightning. Even in the darkness of the storm light they could make out the little images, the three hideous likenesses.

  Martin held Janie tightly. “This is Mother Kendal’s place!”

  Janie pointed. “Look, the one on the left. It’s old Mrs. Ransome. The doll is dressed in some cerise silk I remember.” The maid crossed herself in horror. “So the old lady was witched to her death. They all said she had been, but I’d never really thought it until now. And look how well they’re preserved, for all the world as if they had just been made. Who are the others, Martin?”

  Sarah knew. “The one with the nail through its leg is meant to be my father.” She closed her eyes briefly and could almost see her father with his ebony cane and his grumblings about his knee. “The other dolls look new because they are new, Janie. They aren’t the work of Mother Kendal.”