The Power of Dark

by Robin Jarvis

  ‘Are there not swathes of your life that you refuse to speak of ? I have been honest in my dealings with you. Save for those questions that touched on my work, I have answered you with full and open frankness, because I have grown to love the Whitby witch. Yet your past is a mystery to me and you shine no light upon it, though we have spoken long about many matters. Who were those special folk who took you in after your parents died of plague? Why do you never talk of them? What are the deep mysteries about this town that you have hinted at? What are you hiding from me?’

  Annie closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘Those secrets ain’t mine to share,’ she said unhappily. ‘I am the witch of Whitby, ’tis my sacred duty to keep certain things hid and safeguarded. Do not blame me for that.’

  The nobleman looked hurt. ‘Then I have been mistook and we have naught between us,’ he told her sadly. ‘Leave this place and do not seek me out again.’

  Annie saw the pain in his eyes and knew she had wounded him. She could not bear it.

  ‘Come up to the cliff with me,’ she begged. ‘This witch will break her oaths and tell you all.’

  A deep purr began to vibrate in Catesby’s throat and the electric sparks from Mister Dark’s fingers glittered in its eyes.

  Lil woke with a start. She was back in her bedroom and the phone was buzzing in her sock.

  Sitting up, she removed the mobile and turned the alarm off. It was 3 a.m. Momentarily bemused, her thoughts were tangled with the shreds of an unpleasant dream about a winged cat that was already fading. Lil rubbed her forehead as the last traces evaporated and she was left with a peculiar hankering for rose-flavoured ice cream.

  With bleary vision, she looked about her darkened room and shook the sleep from her head. Was the mirror moving, rippling like a small pool into which a stone had been dropped? Wiping her eyes, she stared again, and the mirror seemed to be its usual solid and unremarkable self.

  Lil thought no more about it. She slipped from the bed and pulled on her trainers, twitching her nose at the bad smell in the room and wondering if she should give Sally a change of diet.

  Taking a black cloak from the wardrobe, she fastened it round her neck. Then, with an affectionate glance back at the still sleeping Westie, she picked up her rucksack and stole from the room.

  As silently as possible, she crept past her parents’ bedroom, opened the child gate at the top of the stairs, put there to keep Sally safe, and closed it behind her. So far so good. Reaching the hall, she let herself out of the front door and stepped into Henrietta Street. It was a calm night without a breath of wind, and the scent of smouldering oak chippings, emanating from Fortune’s kipper smokehouse nearby, threaded through the narrow ways of the East Cliff.

  ‘Here we go,’ she whispered to herself, glancing left and right to make sure the street was deserted before setting off. ‘Lil Wilson, yarn guerrilla, it’s time to put your plan into action and start jazzing up this gloomy goth Mecca.’

  Pulling the hood of her cloak over her head, she melted into the deep gloom beneath the huddled buildings and hurried towards the town.

  An hour and a half later, Lil let herself back into the cottage. She had seen no one while she was out and was certain no one had seen her either, so she was feeling exhilarated. Grinning, she climbed the stairs and found Sally curled up behind the child gate. The little dog felt her footsteps through the floorboards and lifted her head to greet her.

  ‘Oh, Sal,’ Lil whispered, cupping the small, furry face in her hands. ‘You shouldn’t have jumped off the bed. You might’ve hurt yourself.’

  Sally pawed her and wagged her tail in welcome. Any time away from Lil was too long. The girl picked her up and they returned to her room, where Lil settled her down on the bed.

  ‘Mission accomplished, Sal,’ she said softly. ‘I was stealthy like a ninja and managed to put up every last piece. I can’t wait for tomorrow to see what the reaction is!’

  Still smiling, she gave Sally a treat, then pulled out her knitting bag, feeling too fired up to sleep. Her needles were soon clicking busily. She wanted to continue with phase two as soon as possible.

  The mirror on the dresser remained dark and still.

  When the town of Whitby awoke and the early risers began their Sunday, they were startled to see what had appeared overnight. Throughout the East Cliff, colourful decorations now brightened the black bollards and railings. Spandrels of crocheted flowers webbed the corners of the narrow passages leading to the courtyards, but most impressive of all were the grey stone pillars of Market Place. They were now sleeved in vivid stripes.

  People paused to stare, and smiles lit their faces. The woollen additions to the town were charming and delightful. Familiar walks through the East Cliff became a treasure hunt and were filled with fresh interest.

  Lil spent the first part of the morning giving Sally a bath, which the little dog greatly enjoyed. When they set off for the Wilson’s shop, the Westie walked alongside her mistress with a skip in her step and her fur white and silky.

  Lil was delighted to see the positive reaction to her handiwork; even the grumpiest Yorkshireman lifted his brows in amusement. She had wanted to brighten up the place, but hadn’t been sure how her yarn decorations would be received. She almost laughed when she saw local residents taking photographs of themselves next to the jolly adornments, as though they were suddenly tourists in their own town, and everyone agreed how cheerful the knitting made them feel.

  No one knew who was responsible and Lil wanted to keep her secret for as long as she could. Many tried to guess and whispered about that strange woman who wore those outlandish clothes. When Cherry Cerise emerged from her cottage in vintage orange Biba boots, yellow hot pants and a pink wig, she wondered why the locals were staring at her more than usual. Even odder, they were nodding and giving her conspiratorial winks.

  When she saw the covered pillars, she gave a raucous yell and punched the air, rattling her plastic bangles.

  ‘Oh, far out!’ she cried. ‘That is so funky. Lookin’ good, Whitby, lookin’ good!’

  Reaching out to stroke the glorious knitting, she gave a little gasp and raised her sunglasses.

  ‘Now ain’t that interestin’,’ she murmured. ‘I never expected that!’

  The window of Whitby Gothic, like every other shop in the town, was in the process of getting a seasonal makeover in time for Easter. Instead of yellow chicks and cute bunnies, Lil’s mum was dedicating the display to Eostre, the goddess of spring and fertility. A large papier-mâché hare, in full leap, spanned the entire space. Coloured eggs dangled below it and gleaming crystals were suspended above.

  Lil pushed the door open and a tuneful jingle of hanging bells announced her.

  ‘How does she look from outside?’ her mother asked, concentrating on tying up the remaining crystals.

  ‘Like she’s pooing eggs,’ Lil replied.

  ‘Do you think I should put up the poster of Astarte as well, or would that be a bit much?’

  ‘Umm . . . since when has that stopped you?’

  ‘My thoughts exactly! There’s a sweet figurine of her in the back. I’ll prop it up in the corner.’

  Cassandra Wilson extricated herself from the window and beamed at her daughter.

  ‘Did you see what someone’s done with all that knitting round the town? It’s caused quite a sensation.’

  Lil answered carefully. ‘Yeah, it’s fun,’ she said, trying her best to sound casual. ‘The photographer from the Gazette was taking pics in Market Place just now.’

  ‘Ooh!’ Mrs Wilson leaned into the window again and craned her neck round, but couldn’t see that far up the street.

  Lil settled Sally in a basket behind the counter and sat herself on the stool. She let her gaze wander round the shop, hoping her mother wouldn’t go on about the knitting.

  Whitby Gothic was crammed with everything a modern witch could wish for. There were wands of every shape and size, made from quartz, metal or carved wood. The ra
nge of incense took up eight shelves and scented candles filled another five. There were pewter goblets, trinkets, talismans, pendants, dowsing pendulums, ornate candlesticks, scrying glasses, deity totems, wind chimes, clothing, books and posters. Then there were the more touristy items: the tea towels, witch dolls on broomsticks, cauldron-shaped crockery, jelly frogs and newts and plush black cat familiars.

  ‘Have they got any idea who it was?’ Mrs Wilson wondered.

  Lil kept her face as straight as possible. ‘Don’t think so,’ she said.

  ‘You could’ve done that, you know.’

  Lil’s eyes widened a little. ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you’re so creative and great at knitting. Maybe you should decorate the outside of the shop and get the local paper over. We could pretend we didn’t know anything about it and look up, amazed, in the photos. What do you reckon? This is my “amazed” face.’

  Lil relaxed as her mother practised gobsmacked expressions. She obviously didn’t suspect a thing.

  ‘I’m not going to knit stuff for the outside of the shop,’ Lil said firmly. ‘Besides, haven’t we had enough publicity this weekend already?’

  Cassandra Wilson clapped her hands with glee. ‘Our website’s had over a million hits!’ she exclaimed. ‘Your video of those skeletons has gone viral and the online business quadrupled overnight. We’ll have to employ a part-timer to help if it continues.’

  She gave the window another critical look.

  ‘I’ll put some of your tea cosies on show anyway,’ she decided out loud. ‘It’ll be a great link to the mystery knitter and we might do well out of it, so you’d best rustle up some more this week. Could you do some more badges too?’

  ‘How many hands do you think I’ve got? What would you like them to be of, witches knitting?’

  ‘Oh, that would be perfect! Or toads in scarves. Or black cats in bobble hats.’

  ‘Kittens in mittens?’

  ‘Ooh, fabulicious! A couple of dozen if you’ve got time.’

  ‘I’ve gone off cats. I had a horrible dream about one last night. Really freaky.’

  But her mother was no longer listening. She was arranging a small display of Lil’s handiwork to one side of the papier-mâché hare. The tea cosies were ingenious designs: shaped to look like funny skulls, or black with silver webs surmounted by a fluffy spider, or a Hallowe’en turnip lantern.

  Watching her mother fuss with the window, adding egg cosies that looked like severed thumbs and hooked noses, Lil allowed herself a smile. Mrs Wilson never let an opportunity to push the business slip by. Making more scary-themed tea cosies for the shop would give Lil the perfect cover to create more decorations. The knitting ninja was determined to strike again as soon as she could.

  Taking out her phone, she realised she hadn’t heard anything from Verne. She was longing to tell him she was responsible for the big event of the day.

  You OK? she texted.

  It took longer than usual for him to reply.

  Been a bit weird here.

  There’s a lot of it about. How weird?

  Massive.

  Been odd here too. Come over and have a look. Got something to tell you.

  Too busy.

  Lil frowned. Now that was weird. She decided to stop texting and called him instead.

  ‘You sure you’re OK?’ she asked when he answered.

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  ‘Something really mad. I . . . I can’t talk right now.’

  The call ended and Lil stared at her phone, troubled. A moment later, the bells above the shop door jingled noisily as she dashed out. She had caught an edge of fear in her friend’s voice and nothing else mattered. She had to go and see him.

  ‘Oh, Lil, hello.’

  Noreen Thistlewood was usually a cheerful, well-groomed woman, but that morning when she opened the door to Lil, she seemed distracted and her hair was still damp from the shower, not its normal perfectly coiffed, heavily lacquered self.

  ‘Is Verne in?’ Lil asked. ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘Verne? Oh yes, he’s in; most definitely Verne is in. No doubt about that.’

  ‘And he’s fine, yeah?’

  Mrs Thistlewood didn’t answer.

  ‘You want to see him?’ she asked after a pause.

  Lil raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Course you do, sorry. It’s been a bit . . . odd here today. Come through and mind where you step.’

  She wafted the girl inside and showed her into the living room.

  Lil blinked at what she saw there. Mrs Thistlewood was compulsively house-proud and had the men in her life well trained. There was never a coffee cup out of place or a renegade sock anywhere but the laundry basket. Today however their home looked almost as bad as Lil’s bedroom after the freak hurricane. The TV, DVD player and music system were strewn across the floor in various dismantled states, as were all sorts of other electrical items from the kitchen. Lil recognised parts of a food mixer, half a toaster, an egg slicer, corkscrew and many bent and twisted forks and spoons. The open carcass of a hair dryer explained Mrs Thistlewood’s damp appearance.

  Mr Thistlewood, Clarke and Verne were in one corner, surrounded by scattered tools and sheets of paper covered in squiggles and diagrams. Verne was still in his pyjamas and dressing gown.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Lil exclaimed. ‘Were you burgled?’

  ‘He happened!’ Clarke told her, jerking his thumb towards his younger brother.

  Their father, Dennis, gave a confirming nod. ‘Yep,’ he said. ‘Our Verne did this, made this mess, took apart just about every gadget we’ve got. What a tyke, eh?’

  ‘He’s a mindless vandal is what he is,’ Clarke put in with a smirk.

  ‘We don’t know where to start cleaning up,’ Mrs Thistlewood lamented. ‘The hoover’s in bits as well!’

  Lil was too shocked to say anything. This was crazy. It wasn’t like Verne at all. Even odder, the Thistlewoods seemed more baffled than cross. Why weren’t they livid?

  ‘I didn’t do it on purpose,’ Verne explained. ‘I was asleep.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Honest! I sleepwalked.’

  ‘Get away!’

  ‘Sounds mad, but it’s true,’ Dennis told her. ‘I wouldn’t believe it either if I hadn’t seen it for myself – I came down first thing and found him, screwdriver in one hand, soldering iron in the other. I was about to yell at him when I realised his eyes were shut.’

  ‘We didn’t know what to do,’ Noreen said. ‘They say you’re not supposed to wake sleepwalkers. So we sat and watched him finish what he was doing. Ooh, it was peculiar. I didn’t like it.’

  ‘I couldn’t believe it,’ Dennis continued. ‘Young Klumsythumbs here was so fast and precise. There he was, eyes tight shut, bending bits of wire, soldering them, fitting them. Then, when he’d done, he lay down and had another half-hour’s kip, innocent as a lamb, until Clarke woke him up yelling for his breakfast.’

  ‘If I’d done something like this at your age, I’d have been roasted alive,’ Clarke said, laughing as he playfully punched his brother on the arm.

  ‘It’s not my fault!’ Verne snapped back. ‘I can’t remember a thing!’

  ‘So what were you making?’ Lil asked.

  Verne looked embarrassed.

  ‘Oh, show her!’ Clarke said, nudging him. ‘It’s freakin’ amazing!’

  The boys and their father moved aside and there behind them was the wooden cabinet containing the old automaton.

  ‘I’ve been trying to get that thing working for years,’ Dennis said. ‘Then, in his sleep, our Verne doesn’t just fix it, he makes it do stuff it was never meant to.’

  ‘Just show her!’ Clarke cried enthusiastically. ‘Come closer – you have to put the money in yourself. Trust me, it’s incredible!’

  Still doubtful, Lil stepped through the debris. It didn’t look any different to her. Within the art-deco cabinet was the lurid diorama o
f an execution by electric chair. Little wooden figures surrounded the seated condemned man. They were dressed in crudely made doll-sized clothes. There was the prison warden, a priest and a guard with his hand on the big knife-switch. A woman in a black frock and hat, presumably the prisoner’s wife, was perched on a bench.

  Mr Thistlewood handed Lil an old penny.

  ‘Wait a minute!’ Noreen interrupted. ‘You’re not the nervy sort, are you, Lil? You don’t have a heart condition we don’t know about?’

  ‘No,’ Lil said, totally mystified.

  ‘Go on,’ Clarke urged her. ‘Put the penny in.’

  ‘No, don’t,’ Verne spoke up. ‘It’s too weird.’

  ‘Well now I’ve got to!’ Lil answered.

  ‘Seriously,’ Verne warned. ‘Don’t do it.’

  His friend gave him a scowl, then pushed the coin into the slot. Verne drew back and turned away.

  Lil had seen the other automata in the collection many times before and wasn’t expecting much. Their movements were rudimentary, driven by a single motor, with waggling heads and flipping arms. They were basic and comical and that’s why she liked them.

  The light in the cabinet came on and the figures commenced their routine. But there was nothing jerky or primitive about the way the priest held up his Bible, his painted wooden head moving ever so slightly as if reading from it. Standing close to the electric chair, the warden was nodding gravely, while the guard by the fatal switch seemed to be enjoying the awful moment. His shoulders moved up and down as though he was chuckling. Seated in the electric chair, the prisoner appeared to be struggling against his restraints and staring fearfully at the upside-down metal bowl suspended above his head. On the bench, his wife was sobbing and dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.

  Lil found herself caught up in the tension of this bizarre drama. Even though the performers were only dolls, they conveyed their emotions so convincingly, she almost cried out when the priest lowered the Bible and bowed his head. It was so compelling, she felt it pulling her in. Then her head began to swim.