by Robin Jarvis
‘Not all,’ Hesper put in. ‘See, some have crept out unseen.’
The old lady stared down and there, fleeing barefoot through the undergrowth, came the women and children. Crouching low, they ran to the cliffside and scrambled up.
‘Are they aware of us?’ murmured Hesper curiously.
Miss Boston shook her head. ‘I doubt if they can see you,’ she said, ‘or me either, for that matter. No, it is sanctuary they are seeking. Look!’
Upon the cliff-top Hesper saw the Anglo-Saxon abbey with the smaller monastery buildings clustered round it. This abbey was not as tall as the later one, but a proud and noble structure nonetheless. Hidden in the deep shadows, a solitary figure watched and waited.
‘Will these folk be safe in there?’ Hesper asked Miss Boston.
‘No, the Norsemen had no respect for the Church. They will chase those poor people up here and kill them, then the abbey will be robbed of its treasures and razed to the ground. I’m afraid we are an extremely barbaric species.’
Hesper looked at the villagers clambering towards them, very close now. The hair of the women was braided and they wore coarse, woollen garments pinned at the shoulder by large brooches.
From the ruin of the settlement, the raiders emerged. Blood smeared their faces and the swords they held aloft were scarlet. This was too easy: there was little honour in slaughtering peasants. They lifted their heads and gazed at the true prize—abbeys were always full of gold plate and silver chalices. As one, they rushed up the cliffside howling for glory.
‘Come!’ cried Hesper. ‘We must run. A spear does not have to see its target to slay it.’
But at that moment, the villagers were upon them. Blind to the two strangers, they surged on regardless. Many stumbled into the old lady or tripped over Hesper, cursing the unseen obstacles in their fright. But so wildly were they driven by their fear that the frenzied rush of their bodies swept the aufwader and Miss Boston with them up the cliff.
‘Hesper!’ called Aunt Alice as she tried to drag herself out of the panicking crowd. ‘Hurry, we must go the other way. Don’t let them carry you to the abbey, it’s too dangerous there.’ A fat Saxon woman with matted hair unwittingly barred the old lady’s way so Miss Boston gave her a hard shove. ‘Sorry, my dear,’ she apologised, even though the woman could not hear her.
The spears of the Vikings were launched into the night. From the back of the thronging group a voice gasped and a body tumbled, lifeless, down the slope.
Finally Aunt Alice broke free of the crazed villagers. She scurried and skidded to the right, out of the pursuing invaders’ path. Sliding through the mire she ran for cover. Only when she had dived behind a thick hedge of brambles did she realise that she was alone.
‘Hesper!’ she shouted in dismay.
Above the heads of the shrieking Saxons the old lady saw the nets of the aufwader’s fishing poles bob up and down—she was still trapped amongst them.
More victims fell, with spears embedded in their backs. Hesper staggered over the ground, too small to barge her way through the humans. She was hemmed in on all sides and could not stop running, for if she did they would trample her to death. They herded her further up the cliff and her piteous cries went unanswered.
The bells of the abbey began to ring, warning the surrounding country of invasion. Startled out of sleep, monks hurried from their cells and pushed open the great doors to let the villagers in. Spurred on by hope, they made for the blessed sanctuary and streamed inside.
Hesper whirled upon the threshold, battling against the human tide, suffering the knocks from careless elbows and knees. When the last of the villagers had fled into the abbey, the oaken doors slammed shut violently and she was left out in the grim dark.
‘Quickly,’ Miss Boston shouted, ‘over here. The Vikings are coming.’
In terror, Hesper saw the Norsemen raging nearer, storming with their axes and swords raised towards the abbey entrance. She was caught in the middle.
‘Run,’ cried Aunt Alice.
Hesper hitched up the lifebelt which had fallen around her ankles and dodged out of the way just as the fury of the Danes crashed into the doors. The oak splintered before them and they lunged inside.
Down the slope to Miss Boston, Hesper scampered. She was nearly there when a faint noise brought her to a halt: a child’s voice was whimpering. She spun round and saw a figure lying face-down in the mud. It was a boy, about four years old. Evidently in the panic to find safety within the abbey walls he had tripped and been left behind.
Terrible sounds issued from the abbey entrance and Hesper shuddered at the thought of the butchery taking place within. Soon all the innocents would be dead and the Vikings would swagger back down the cliff, taking their spoils with them.
She dithered on the slope, not sure what to do. It was sheer luck that this boy had been overlooked in the first place. If those murderers came out now he would not escape with his life.
Hesper rushed hastily to the child and turned him over. He groaned and opened a bleary eye. ‘I know that you cannot hear me,’ the aufwader said, ‘but you must not remain here. Go hide till the danger passes.’ Stooping low, she slid her hands under his shoulders and hauled him to his feet.
The boy stared about him, too awestruck to utter a single word. It was as if the angels themselves were lifting him.
One of the Vikings dragged a sack laden with clinking treasure through the doorway of the abbey. The massacre was still raging within but he had slaked his thirst for blood and the axe in his belt dripped a gory trail on the hallowed threshold. He was swigging back the abbot’s finest wine, but choked when he saw a Saxon boy rise unaided from the ground. The Norseman started and shook his ugly head. A foul curse rang from his lips and he reached for his spear.
Hesper set the boy down. ‘Now you skedaddle,’ she whispered into his unhearing ears. The child refused to budge, for the fear of God was on him, and he nearly fell to his knees. Hesper scowled. ‘Menchildren,’ she grumbled, ‘always the worst,’ and she gave the boy a kick on the backside to start him on his way. With a yelp, he scarpered along the cliff.
An infuriated roar came from the abbey behind and Hesper whirled round to see the tall red-haired man draw back his spear, his sight fixed on the escaping child.
‘No!’ she screamed, and ran forward. Not caring for her own safety, she darted between the Viking and the boy. Removing the fishing pole from her pack, she charged towards the pagan brute, thrashing the stick before her as though it were a rapier. ‘You leave him be!’ she yelled gallantly.
The spear hurtled from the Viking’s grasp and plunged into the aufwader’s chest, throwing her down.
The Dane spat on the floor with disgust. That was a bad spear; it did not fly straight and true, so let it rot in the ground where it had fallen.
Miss Boston stumbled over to the wounded aufwader. The weapon had gone right through her and was embedded in the soil beneath. Hesper felt the darkness tighten all around and her large eyes looked imploringly up at Aunt Alice.
The old lady knelt beside her in the reddening mud and gently lifted her head.
‘Did the child get away?’ Hesper asked.
Miss Boston nodded, the tears trickling down her wrinkled face.
‘Good. It is fitting that I give my life for one so young,’ Hesper whispered. ‘Weep not for me, my troubles are ended. Save your sorrow for your own kind.’ Her voice grew weaker and her features twisted in agony. ‘I go now on that loneliest of voyages,’ she murmured, ‘but no black boat shall sail into the night with Hesper Gull on board.’
The aufwader closed her eyes and died in Miss Boston’s arms.
Flames crackled up through the roof of the abbey and their flickering light banished the shadows from its walls. The one who had been watching all this time stepped forward at last. Rowena Cooper’s bleached hair glowed in the dancing firelight. She raised the staff in her hand and the flames vanished.
The abbey shifted throug
h the ages once more whilst below the town of Whitby jolted into view.
Upon the hundred and ninety-nine steps. Miss Boston, stained with the mud of long ago, laid Hesper down. The havoc of the present assailed her ears once again.
‘Don’t waste your grief on that!’ sneered Rowena contemptuously.
Aunt Alice glared up at her. Never had she been moved to such anger and outrage. ‘How dare you!’ she yelled. ‘How dare you!’
She sprang up and rushed at the witch, lashing out in spite of her fears. So fierce and unexpected was the attack that it took Rowena utterly by surprise. Miss Boston’s hands seized her robe and yanked her sideways. With a startled shriek, she fell and the staff flew from her clutches.
The old lady made a grab for it but the witch recovered swiftly. She bristled with wrath and a vicious growl rumbled in her throat. Savagely she leapt up and, thrusting Miss Boston aside, snatched the staff once more.
Aunt Alice rolled backwards, clasping her stomach, for Rowena’s shove had winded her. She was too old for physical combat and she scolded herself crossly. ‘What do you think you’re doing wrestling at your age, Alice?’ she wheezed. ‘Your body’s clapped out, so use your brains.’
‘Hag!’ screeched Rowena. ‘I should kill you now!’ Trembling with anger, she raised the staff and brought it smashing down. Miss Boston scuttled backwards as it drove into the soil, which burst into flames.
‘Temper, temper,’ puffed the old lady. ‘What’s the matter, my dear? Everything getting out of hand, is it?’
Rowena hissed through gritted teeth, ‘Have a care! One command from me and you will suffer untold torments.’
‘Oh, I do beg your pardon,’ Miss Boston rallied. ‘I thought you’d already tried that.’
Sable lightning flashed from the staff and Rowena shrieked with fury. ‘You haven’t seen a thousandth of my power!’ she snapped.
‘Your power!’ scoffed Aunt Alice. ‘Don’t flatter yourself, madam. The staff obeys no one now. It was made for Hilda alone to wield but even she became afraid to use it. That is why she had to hide the thing: it started to take over. It has a will of its own, can’t you see that?’
Rowena’s confidence was not shaken. ‘Don’t be absurd,’ she laughed. ‘I am in full control. Hilda was weak; she listened too long to the whinings of the bishops and abandoned the way of the night, that is all.’
The old lady struggled to her feet. ‘Use your head, woman,’ she said. ‘If that were true then Hilda would have had the staff destroyed. The fact that it still exists must tell you something. The staff is invulnerable—it cannot be broken. Over the centuries it has increased in strength, waiting for another to discover it. If you pursue this folly then you shall be bound to it forever. It is using you—it needs a human vessel to work through and you shall be utterly enslaved.’
The witch looked uncertainly at the staff in her hands. Could the old fool be right? Is that why she desired this so much; was it really the staff tricking her into subservience? Then an unpleasant smile crossed her lips and she tossed her head. ‘Be silent,’ she told Miss Boston. ‘I am the Empress of the Dark, the staff of Hilda obeys me!’
‘Does it?’ shouted Aunt Alice desperately. ‘Look around you, you poor deluded woman. Is that what you call control?’ And she pointed at the town to convince her.
Whitby was still lurching in and out of time, confusion everywhere. In the sky the sun and the moon traversed the heavens, wheeling great arcs of light and darkness about the world. Winter and summer mingled in the chaos, trees shrank into the ground and buildings glimmered through the spinning ages. The Norman abbey rose about them. For the briefest of instants they were enclosed within its covered walls, then these fragmented and they stood amid ruins once more.
‘It’s a mess!’ Miss Boston declared. ‘The staff is out of control.’
Rowena studied the town with suspicion. At first she had enjoyed watching it gallop into the past, but now it irritated her. ‘I will have order,’ she barked. ‘I have the mastery.’
‘Never,’ goaded Aunt Alice. ‘The staff won’t listen to you any more—you have become its servant.’
The witch rounded on her. ‘Name a time,’ she demanded. ‘Name a year, a day if you wish, and you shall see who rules here.’
The old lady seemed taken aback. ‘A time?’ she asked in a fluster.
The witch ground her teeth impatiently; she was being pushed too far by this senile idiot and she advanced on her menacingly. ‘Come on, hag—choose!’ she barked.
Miss Boston stammered and shuffled backwards. ‘Er… let me see, any time did you say?’ She counted on her fingers and scratched her woolly head idiotically. ‘Nineteen, no… six, dear me, no—of course, June the 25th, 1830,’ she said at last, ‘my grandpapa’s birthday, don’t you know.’
Rowena threw back her head and held the staff high in the air. ‘Hear me!’ she announced. ‘Show your devotion, acknowledge my sovereignty.’
At once the wind died down, the sun slowed and came to rest in the bright blue sky of a hot June afternoon. The hazy images of Whitby stabilised and fused into a solid collection of houses. The harbour was filled with whaling ships; seagulls flew over the church of St Mary and flapped lazily round the cliff, riding the air currents and crying with contented voices. From the streets below, the bustling sound of a busy town drifted up and the majestic abbey ruins shone rich and gold in the sunshine.
Miss Boston was overawed at the speed of the transformation—Rowena really was in control. The witch smirked, greatly pleased with herself. She could see that the old lady was impressed, for that know-it-all look had been completely wiped from her face. The smile broadened as she thought of an even more conclusive way to prove the extent of her powers.
With the end of the staff, she tapped the ground three times and closed her eyes. ‘From the very jaws of death I snatch thee,’ she muttered.
A blaze of purple fire burst over the grass and out of Whitby’s history crashed three figures. Ben and Nelda gasped for breath; they were soaked to the skin and icy seawater dripped from them on to the summer grass. They flopped on to their backs and gulped down the sweet air. Jennet crouched nearby still with her fingers in her ears and her eyes squeezed shut.
Miss Boston was overjoyed. She longed to run to them but her difficult task was not yet finished. For the moment at least, they were safe. Her eyes rolled cautiously upwards as she turned back to Rowena. ‘A good four or five metres to go yet,’ she told herself quietly.
The witch was glowing with satisfaction as she smugly gazed at the tranquil scene around them. ‘See how wrong you were,’ she breathed. ‘I have total control over absolutely everything.’
‘Yes,’ Aunt Alice mumbled, ‘I rather think you have.’ She stole another glance at the children and the aufwader. Ben and Nelda were recovering already and Jennet was tending to them. Good—so long as they stayed there all would be fine. The old lady wrung her hands and, in a small, frightened voice, asked Rowena, ‘What will you do with me now? Have mercy, I beg you.’ Very slowly, she started to shuffle away through the high archway below the central tower.
Rowena stalked after her. ‘The time has come for me to end my business in Whitby,’ she said with a sneer. ‘I have other matters to attend to, but as for you—you have been a thorn in my side for too long, old crone. Before I leave I shall deal with you in my own way.’
Miss Boston cowered further back. ‘Please,’ she cried, ‘have pity. I’ll do anything you ask—just spare me!’
The witch laughed. Her teeth were long and sharp and when Aunt Alice saw her eyes they were red as blood. ‘Only now do you understand,’ howled Rowena. ‘Look at me and die!’ Her face was pulled into a dreadful snarl and hackles prickled from her neck. The fingers which held the staff twisted into claws and in a deep, rumbling voice she roared, ‘Your life is over.’
The old lady recoiled. ‘No!’ she blubbered pathetically.
Jennet and the others watched in disbelief as Mi
ss Boston grovelled and pleaded for her life.
Rowena’s hellish laughter rang round the abbey ruins as she summoned all her black powers and the ancient stones shook around her. ‘I’m going to rip you apart!’ she screamed.
With her jaws slavering, the witch sprang at Miss Boston. But the old lady was not as cowed as she had pretended to be. She stepped nimbly aside and, as the terrible creature lunged, she gave it a mighty stab with her hat-pin. Rowena howled and yammered, but then she turned again on her prey. Miss Boston looked hurriedly at the vaulted ceiling above; why was it taking so long?
Rowena prowled towards her, half woman—half hound. She had Aunt Alice pressed into a corner and advanced with her teeth snapping. A stone rattled down and bounced over the ground by her feet but the witch ignored it. The muscles in her shoulders tensed and she prepared to pounce.
As the fiery eyes blazed malevolently at her. Miss Boston bellowed, ‘I’ve waited a long time to do this!’ and punched the witch for all she was worth.
The blow had little effect, but that little was enough. Rowena stared at her, not believing the audacity of it. Seizing her one chance, the old lady bolted for the archway.
‘You can’t escape me now,’ screeched the witch. ‘I am the hunter of souls!’
From the structure above there came an ominous crack—the great arches were splitting. Rowena looked up warily; her burning eyes widened with shock as she realised that she had been tricked. In a thundering crash, the central tower collapsed. A shrill howl pierced the deafening tumult as Rowena Cooper was crushed beneath the tons of falling masonry that toppled and smashed down. A cloud of dust billowed out and, when it cleared, all that remained of the tower was a mound of rubble.
Beyond the vast pile of broken stones the children and Nelda were standing with fearful looks on their faces. Where was Aunt Alice? Jennet and Ben rushed forward, calling her name.
‘What do you think you are doing?’ came a voice. Miss Boston’s head popped up from behind a wall and she peered at the devastation.
‘We thought you were under there,’ cried Jennet.