The Whitby Witches Trilogy

by Robin Jarvis

Swearing and grumbling under his breath, Silas kicked his legs in the water and began to swim after the little boat.

  ‘Your lackey will never reach them in time,’ said Miss Boston confidently. ‘You have lost.’

  Rowena did not reply, directing all her powers of concentration elsewhere. She bent her thoughts towards the little aufwader boat and in the black maze of her mind, the scene was revealed to her.

  Hesper looked questioningly at Aunt Alice. ‘But why should this human desire the moonkelp?’ she asked. ‘It will not aid her.’

  Aunt Alice thought she knew the reason. ‘I think Mrs Cooper would disagree with you there,’ she replied. ‘No doubt it possesses certain qualities vital to particular rituals.’

  Suddenly Rowena sighed, and the vision which she had conjured up melted before her eyes. ‘Excellent,’ she cried. ‘They have not found it yet.’ She turned to the group beside her and caught the gist of what they were saying.

  ‘The moonkelp!’ she roared, throwing back her blonde head. ‘Is that what you think, you old hag? Pathetic! How amusing the feeble-minded can be!’

  This cruel derision made Jennet furious. She moved forward, but Aunt Alice’s arms held her tightly. ‘Peace, dear,’ said the old lady softly. ‘Ignore her and she may ignore you.’

  Rowena’s thin, twisted lips pulled wide apart and revealed all her teeth. ‘The moonkelp is not my goal,’ she told them. ‘What use to me is such a weed?’

  ‘Then what do you want?’ asked Hesper.

  Rowena touched the star pendant at her throat. ‘I seek my freedom,’ she answered in a hushed voice. ‘Once I return the wretched moonkelp to the Lords of the Deep I shall have it—the power to control and destroy will be mine alone to wield.’

  ‘The Deep Ones will not aid you in that, witch woman!’ protested Hesper. ‘If you think to obtain some of their might, then you shall perish. For their craft is too great for any mortal—it would consume you.’

  ‘I want none of their baseness!’ Rowena snorted. ‘But they alone know the precise location of what I seek. Somewhere in this squalid, dingy little town a most wondrous thing was hidden and forgotten many ages past—an artefact charged with the magic of the ancients.’

  ‘Balderdash!’ retorted Miss Boston. ‘Whitby is full of legends, but I’ve never heard anything to suggest that before. Absolute rubbish!’

  Rowena prowled before her and the old lady teetered on the brink of the pier. ‘Have you not?’ she growled with menace. ‘What of Hilda?’

  ‘St Hilda?’ said Aunt Alice, in a voice which had lost its confidence. Somewhere in the back of her mind there was an idea… if only she was less flustered. But the sound of the sea slapping the wall below scattered her thoughts and she glanced down warily. The heels of her brogues were only just on the pier; if Rowena compelled her to move back any more then she would certainly fall. The old lady shuffled her feet forward and desperately groped amongst her memories. ‘St Hilda,’ she repeated. ‘What has this absurd fantasy got to do with her?’

  ‘Saint Hilda!’ scoffed Rowena. ‘Before she came here, Hilda was a sorceress! If she had not found your God she could have ruled absolutely with the power that she possessed.’

  Miss Boston uttered a cry as finally it came to her. ‘And she cut off the heads of the serpents,’ she said, fearfully repeating the old legend, ‘with a whip or… staff.’ The old lady glanced at Rowena and trembled, momentarily losing her balance. ‘Can it be true?’ she stammered.

  Rowena Cooper swept the short, bleached curls off her forehead. Forming her bloodless white lips into a horrible smile she laughed softly and murmured, ‘Yes! Tonight the staff of Hilda will be mine.’

  Ben’s eyes smarted. They ached from staring at the endless stretch of water and he had rubbed them until they were bloodshot. ‘Is it much further?’ he groaned. His initial excitement had worn off and the chill wind of the open sea numbed his cheeks and had turned his fingers purple.

  Sister Bridget was absorbed in studying the night sky. There were too many clouds for her to be certain—if only she could get a clear view of the stars. ‘I feel it is near,’ she said.

  Nelda ceased rowing, for her arms were tired. She gazed about them, but all was dark—not a sign of the moonkelp anywhere.

  The novice caught her doubtful glance. ‘Patience,’ she told her. ‘The moonkelp will not show itself until I speak the charm of the cold realm.’

  She put her hands together and rested her chin upon them. Then, quietly at first, she began to recite the words her mother had sung to her. Her voice grew in strength as she repeated the strange-sounding charm. Cutting through the blackness of the night like a blade, it rose to a shout. Words of power challenged the spells of darkness that Irl had wrapped about the moonkelp long ages past and which blinded their eyes to it still.

  Ben looked all around him. The air was charged with expectation and he held his breath—something was definitely beginning to happen.

  A faint glimmer appeared about the boat. High above, the clouds moved quickly, fleeing to the far rim of the world, and in the clear expanse blazed the moon. It was swollen and full, bright as the sun but cold and ringed with a halo of frosty light. The icy rays poured down and the sea became molten silver.

  Ben and Nelda looked at each other in wonder as sparks danced over the timbers of the boat. They pulled their tingling hands away from its sides hastily. The shining water crackled and a flash of green lightning streaked through the waves, encircling them in a mesh of magical fire which radiated outwards, weaving a dazzling net upon the calm sea.

  Abruptly Sister Bridget stopped chanting. She collapsed into Nelda’s arms, gasping for breath. Her work was done.

  Nelda felt her pulse. ‘She will recover quickly,’ she told Ben. ‘You keep a watch for the moonkelp.’

  The boy leaned out of the boat and scanned the shimmering sea. The quality of the light was changing—it became softer, and when he looked at the waves he noticed that they were now edged with gold.

  From the deep, empty reaches of the sea-bed the moonkelp rose. Beneath the silver sea a rich yellow glow welled up. Bubbles of flame erupted on the surface and burst against the keel of the aufwader vessel. With a hiss of steam, the treasure of the Deep Ones surged upwards and met the air.

  Ben fell back at the incredible sight. The many strands of the moonkelp shone gold and green. The light which pulsed from them was like midday at high summer and it laced the surrounding sea.

  ‘Hurry,’ Nelda instructed Ben. ‘Gather it before it sinks again.’

  He reached over the side and put his hand into the water. It was deliciously warm and when his fingers brushed the waving weed, all weariness left him. Quickly the boy began to haul the moonkelp out of the sea. Fiery jewels dripped from it. The marvellous light flooded his face when he held the treasure in his hands and the boat brimmed over with its glory.

  Sister Bridget stirred in Nelda’s arms. She raised her head and the sight of the moonkelp invigorated her. With its brilliance mirrored in her eyes, she turned to the aufwader. ‘Send it back to them,’ she said urgently. ‘Claim the reward and release your people.’

  Nelda could not quite believe what was happening. She felt as though she was inside one of the old legends that Hesper had told her. Hastily she foraged in the canvas bag by her side and brought out a large scallop shell. ‘Place it on this,’ she told Ben. ‘I must call to the Deep Ones and despatch their treasure.’

  Ben did as he was told, leaning forward to put the glowing moonkelp into the shell. Nelda took a deep breath, hesitating until Sister Bridget gave a nod of encouragement.

  The aufwader faced north and held the shell aloft.

  ‘Hear me,’ she shouted into the wind. ‘Listen to my words, ye Lords of the Deep and Dark. Let my voice journey to your cold realm and may you—’

  The boat tipped suddenly. Ben was thrown to one side and the novice screamed. Terrified in case they fell into the water, she gripped the sides and sobbed with fear.
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  Above her frantic cries a harsh voice said, ‘May the deeps swallow the lot o’ yers!’

  Nelda lowered the shell and forgot everything; the shock of what she saw overwhelmed her. For, clinging to the boat, drenched and malevolent, was the uncle she had presumed dead.

  ‘Silas!’ she exclaimed.

  Just as Ben had gathered the moonkelp, Silas had caught up with them. Silently he had swum closer, gloating in the sure knowledge that they were unaware of his approach. This was going to be too easy, he had told himself.

  Ben stared at Silas fearfully. ‘I thought this was your father,’ he told Nelda.

  ‘No,’ she muttered tearfully. ‘He is my uncle, and a murderer.’

  ‘Shut yer whinin’!’ Silas roared, and his rough hand snaked out and struck the side of her face. It was a vicious slap and Nelda yelped with the force of it. The shell and its golden treasure dropped from her grasp and crashed to the floor of the boat.

  Ben sprang forward but was too slow. With a sideways dig of his elbow, Silas shoved him down, winded and spluttering. The little craft lurched, threatening to capsize. Sister Bridget, petrified with terror, could do nothing to prevent Silas from reaching in to snatch the moonkelp away.

  He laughed as his grubby fingers clawed up the shining prize and he spat at each of them in turn. ‘A curse on all,’ he growled. ‘Man, kin and halfblood—yer fishbait now.’ With a cackle he rocked the boat deliberately. Sister Bridget sobbed and Ben held on tightly.

  Anger to the point of madness furied up inside Nelda. Still stinging from his last blow, she lashed out at her evil uncle. ‘You killed my father!’ she screamed.

  Silas pushed her down once more, enjoying watching them suffer. A few more rocks and the boat would tip over completely. Then, to his surprise, Nelda staggered forward again. Lunging at the hand which held the moonkelp, she seized it in her own, bared her teeth and bit deeply into his skin.

  ‘Aaaaaaggghhhh!’ he screeched, tearing his hand from her mouth. ‘You’ve drawn blood,’ he yelled, gazing at the torn flesh. ‘Well, you’ll not do that again!’ With his other hand, he punched his niece for all he was worth.

  Nelda reeled backwards and, as she fell, her head struck the side of the boat with a dull crack. She slumped senseless to the bottom.

  ‘You’ve killed her!’ cried Ben. He stared at Silas, appalled, then turned to Sister Bridget. ‘Can’t you do anything?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t waste yer breath askin’ ‘er,’ sniggered Silas. ‘Afraid t’step in a puddle, that one is.’ He scooped up a handful of seawater and threw it at the novice. She shrieked when it hit her. ‘That’s what comes of mixin’ the two,’ Silas snarled mockingly. ‘I’ll wager there’s weaker stuff in her veins.’

  Sister Bridget raised her head and glared at Silas reproachfully. He did not notice the perilous look which had crept into her eyes. Very softly, she began to hum.

  ‘Barmy, she is,’ Silas grunted. ‘Hark at her—cracked as an old bog pot.’

  Ben did not listen. He was cradling Nelda’s head in his arms and did not care what happened to them any more.

  Silas sucked the back of his hand and eased himself back into the water; it was time to return to Rowena. Let them sail where they wanted—they were not important now. Besides, if they thought they could escape they were mistaken. After tonight nowhere would be safe. Keeping the glowing moonkelp over his head, Silas pushed himself away from the boat and began swimming to the far shore.

  Sister Bridget stroked Ben’s hair. For a moment the tune died on her lips. ‘Do not worry,’ she told him. ‘Nelda is not dead—she will awaken.’

  The boy looked up at her. ‘Why didn’t you do anything to help?’ he asked. ‘Why didn’t you stop him?’

  ‘I was afraid,’ she replied. ‘All my life I have been afraid. Yet it is strange, is it not, that the moment he threw the water at me and I tasted the bitterness of its salt, all my fears vanished.’

  Ben stared after the determined figure of Silas as he swam away. ‘It’s too late now,’ he said.

  ‘I think not,’ she answered secretively. ‘He will never reach the shore. For Oona was my mother and I am proud of that, for she taught me much that day when she sang to me. Now I know it was not I, her child, whom she could not bear, but the thought of returning to the life of an aufwader. That is why she left me in human care. Finally, I understand.’ With a deadly smile, the humming resumed.

  Ben watched Sister Bridget doubtfully. Perhaps Silas was right—maybe she had gone mad. Why else would she behave like this?

  Almost imperceptibly, words began to creep into the tune. It grew stronger until Sister Bridget was singing loud and defiantly. Ben felt a chill pass over him. The song was unsettling and made him want to get away. But how could he?

  Suddenly the melody changed: the tone became harsh and prickled the hairs on his neck. A shadow fell over the novice’s face but her voice continued. The discord mounted, seeming to jar every bone in Ben’s body until he covered his ears in an attempt to block it out.

  The silver moonlight faded and all around them the sea darkened threateningly, as if responding to the sister’s song. The gentle wind now blew in strong gusts that whipped up the waves and crowned them with foam. The boat spun round as the breakers smashed into its sides. Ben stared at Sister Bridget—somehow she was responsible for this.

  ‘Weathercharming!’ he cried. ‘You’re singing up the storm.’

  The waves swelled all the more. Huge volumes of water reared up and raged towards Silas. The aufwader cried out but his voice was lost amid the tumult as hammering waves swept him up, then hurled him down again. Silas fought to keep afloat, with the moonkelp held over his head. He gulped down deep breaths and the sea battered into him. The full fury of the mounting tempest was focused on him and he floundered in its wrath.

  Ben thought the piercing notes were going to burst his eardrums. Though the storm was at its height he could still hear the shrill song and it pounded in his head.

  With one final shriek that seemed to madden the wild blasting gale. Sister Bridget stopped. Take the oars,’ she shouted to Ben. ‘You have to row to him.’

  ‘Into that?’ spluttered the boy. ‘You must be mad. We’ll be dashed to pieces!’

  ‘Do it!’ she commanded. ‘It is our last chance to retrieve the moonkelp.’

  Ben seized the oars and plunged them into the churning water. The current snatched at them and the rough wood rubbed the skin from his palms. With his teeth clenched, the boy clung on determinedly and began pulling the boat through the frothing waves.

  They rode the boiling sea, skimming bravely between the steep water valleys, gaining with every dreadful moment upon the toiling figure of Silas.

  ‘Closer,’ demanded the novice. ‘Hurry, boy!’

  Ben heaved on the oars but they bucked and tugged at his arms. It was like riding a mad horse. ‘I can’t,’ he yelled. ‘I’m not strong enough.’ But even as he said these words, the wind drove the craft into the centre of the tempest.

  The light of the moonkelp was dimmed by the black brine which rained down as the waves broke over Silas, but it was still firmly in his hands.

  ‘Hold her steady,’ Sister Bridget called to Ben as they rammed through the water.

  Silas was almost within reach now. He turned his stricken face to them and battled against the waves. Never had he been so afraid, but although his heart rejoiced to see the boat he cursed the novice with all his strength. ‘Damn her!’ he cried. ‘Damn her to her Deep!’

  But neither she nor Ben heard him. Sister Bridget stretched out her hand. ‘I have it!’ she shouted as her fingers closed about the moonkelp in Silas’ clutches.

  But the aufwader would not let go, and with the waves crashing over his head he grimly held on. Suddenly the boat lurched, carried by the foaming tide. Sister Bridget cried out as she was yanked back. For an instant her fingers slipped from the moonkelp, but she leant out even further and caught it again.

  Si
las tried to pull the treasure free of her grasp but most of his energies had been spent labouring in the waves. With dismay he saw the novice wrench the moonkelp from his fist.

  Sister Bridget sat back in the boat and waved the shining treasure over her head. ‘At last,’ she cried triumphantly.

  Ben cheered with relief, but he turned guiltily to the aufwader, still struggling in the water.

  ‘Help,’ spluttered Silas. ‘Don’t leave me here. I can’t make it—’ His head disappeared beneath the waves and when he bobbed up again his eyes were wide with despair. ‘I’m drowning!’ he screamed.

  Ben glanced at the novice. ‘We can’t leave him,’ he said.

  Sister Bridget looked at the boat uncertainly—it wasn’t big enough for the four of them. Silas would just have to hang on to the side. ‘Here,’ she said to the boy, ‘take the moonkelp. I shall pull him from the water.’

  ‘Be careful,’ warned Ben as she leant over the side once more.

  Silas waved his arms in panic as he went under for the third time. ‘Save me,’ he gargled. ‘I’m done fer!’

  ‘Take my hand,’ called the novice, stretching out as far as she dared.

  Silas reached up and grabbed the offered hand. ‘Got you now, halfbreed!’ he snarled, dropping the pretence.

  Too late. Sister Bridget realised she had been tricked. ‘No!’ she pleaded. ‘I beg you!’ But it was no good. Using his last reserve of strength, the aufwader dragged her out of the boat. ‘Time to come home,’ he yelled, as she fell into the sea.

  A great spout of water flew up when she hit the seething waves. ‘You’ll not be welcome where you’re going,’ Silas bawled.

  Sister Bridget was gasping and choking when she reappeared. Terror was graven on her face and she splashed hopelessly, gagging on the salt water she had swallowed.

  ‘Are you all right?’ shouted Ben, too worried about her to notice Silas swimming towards him.

  A change came over the blackened sea. Far below a sickly greenish light began to pulse, as if her presence in the water had triggered some strange alarm. From the fathomless depths, a great bell began to toll. Sister Bridget wailed when she heard it and her tears mingled with the sea.