by Robin Jarvis
The old lady stepped carefully through the wreckage. ‘Don’t be silly, dear,’ she said. ‘Give me a hand here, would you?’
Ben and Jennet dashed over and threw their arms round Aunt Alice’s neck.
‘Oh, Benjamin,’ she said with a grimace, ‘you’re all wet.’
‘I thought you were dead,’ the boy cried.
Miss Boston pulled the children from her and became serious. ‘Quickly,’ she told them. ‘We must search through this rubble and find the staff of Hilda—it is our only link with the future. If we don’t find it then we may be stuck in this time for good.’
She and Jennet began pulling the stones from the great mound but Ben did not join in. He was looking for Nelda. ‘Where is she?’ he asked. ‘Did you see where she went?’
The old lady straightened her back and glanced past the church—Nelda was there and she knew what she had found. ‘I believe she is on the steps,’ she said, a little croakily. ‘She is with Hesper—leave her alone for a while, Benjamin.’
Aunt Alice clasped her hands together and stared at the ground. A forlorn, soul-wrenching cry floated on the warm breeze, and the old lady covered her face so that the children would not see her weeping.
Jennet dragged a huge square stone from the pile and sent it rolling on to the dusty grass. ‘Aunt Alice,’ she shouted excitedly, ‘I think I’ve found it—look!’
She had uncovered a corner section of the ruined tower. It was balanced precariously on one of the fallen pillars but, in the shade beneath, the carved end of the staff was plain to see.
‘Wait,’ said Miss Boston, drying her eyes and scrabbling anxiously over the debris. ‘No, Jennet, don’t you touch it.’
The girl reached in and her fingers closed round the black wood. ‘It’s all right,’ she told her. ‘I’ve got it,’ Jennet tugged at the staff but it was held fast. ‘It must be wedged under all this. Just one more…’
She staggered down the side of the heap and stared, horrified, into the hole—the staff was in the grip of a large black paw.
‘Hush, dear,’ Miss Boston whispered in the girl’s ear, ‘don’t let Benjamin know.’
‘But that’s the hound,’ Jennet stammered, ‘the Barguest. Where is Rowena—what happened to her?’
‘You’re looking at her, dear,’ Aunt Alice answered mildly. ‘That was Rowena’s true nature.’ She patted Jennet’s arm and stooped down to retrieve the staff herself. It came free in her hands and, reverently, she held it up.
‘Oh, what a divine creation,’ she breathed, examining the intricate carving. ‘Simply marvellous.’
‘Do you really know how to use it?’ Jennet ventured. ‘I mean, it’s not as if you’re a witch like Rowena.’
Aunt Alice smiled. ‘I seem to remember somebody saying otherwise not too long ago. I think I told you then that I preferred the term “wise woman”.’
She held the staff before her, but a call from Ben interrupted her concentration. ‘Look up there!’ he cried.
In the east windows of the abbey a white light shone. At first they thought it was only an illusion, but then the blurred shape took form and the old lady gasped in wonder. So intense was the radiance that it cast long shadows over the abbey lawns and the summer sun seemed pale by comparison.
‘My word,’ murmured Miss Boston and humbly bowed her head.
Jennet shielded her eyes but found that she could look into the light quite easily without it hurting. The girl blinked; for a second she thought she had seen the figure of a woman.
Miss Boston lifted the staff and offered it to the dazzling vision. ‘Take it,’ she said respectfully. ‘It is too dangerous a thing for this world.’
Briefly the light welled up and then was extinguished. Jennet gawped stupidly; everywhere seemed dull and chill. Aunt Alice lowered her hands, which were empty. The staff had gone back to its rightful owner. ‘All is as it should be,’ she sighed, ‘thank the Lord.’
‘But how will we get home without it?’ asked Ben.
The old lady chuckled. ‘Look about you, dear,’ she said.
It was a grey September dawn and the town was waking. Cars lumbered down Church Street and the fish market was about to start on the West Cliff. Just another ordinary day in Whitby.
Miss Boston wrapped her muddy cloak round the two children and they wandered slowly out of the abbey grounds. Wearily, the three of them passed through the churchyard and on the hundred and ninety-nine steps they found Nelda waiting. The body of her aunt was in her arms and she huddled her close, brushing the sand-coloured hair from Hesper’s peaceful face.
‘It is over,’ Miss Boston told her.
The aufwader stared at the leaden sea and nodded.
Requiem
In the dead of night. Aunt Alice, Jennet and Ben stood upon the pier, while in the distance a small black boat sailed over the water, wreathed in flames.
‘What will the fisher folk do now?’ asked the girl.
Miss Boston shrugged. ‘I’m afraid there is no hope for them,’ she replied sorrowfully. ‘They are doomed to extinction.’
From the exposed shore beneath the cliff, a sad lament began. The whole tribe was gathered there. All was forgiven and they mourned the passing of Hesper Gull together. The Song of the Dead drifted through the calm night and Nelda held on to her grandfather desolately.
Ben watched the burning craft drift into the dim horizon until the fires died and it was gone.
‘Goodbye, Hesper,’ whispered Miss Boston. She coughed and briskly rubbed her hands. ‘Now then, let’s get you two tucked into bed.’
She led them down the pier but Ben could not help staring at the sea.
‘Come on,’ said his sister kindly, ‘we’re going home.’
The boy trailed behind them, silently. He knew that one day he would have to atone for his failure to lift the curse of the Deep Ones.
The Whitby Witches 2:
A Warlock In Whitby
Robin Jarvis
First published in the UK in 1992.
Introduction
Whitby slept: the autumn darkness in which it cosily huddled was calm and still. Not a Christian soul ventured outside the snug caverns of bedclothes and the only shadows that roamed the dim narrow lanes were those of cats who prowled into the blackest recesses of night in search of prey and passion. A solemn and contented peace lay heavily over all.
A mild breeze stirred the midnight waters of the harbour into wave after gentle wave that rolled lazily up the shore only to return languid, sighing and spent. Save for the drugged, murmuring voice of the sea, Whitby was silent.
Upon the East Cliff, the silhouette of the abbey challenged the domain of the frosty moon, spearing the night with the jags of its ruin, more beautiful in its crumbling decay than ever it had been at the height of its glory.
Between broken pillars and gaping windows, the soft breeze moved, touching and stroking the weathered walls whose stones had withstood war and winter and become charged with the power that dwells in all ancient things.
But further along the abbey plain, just clear of the ragged shadows, the quiet calm was about to be broken.
Before the breeze, wild grasses bowed, slowly sweeping into a dry expanse which mimicked the rippling water of the harbour. Yet beneath the swaying, seeding heads the sleep of uncounted years was finally coming to an end.
Presently the soil began to pulse, bulging upwards as if it were alive. Then the grass parted as its thick, knotted tangle of roots stretched and ripped apart.
There came a frantic and urgent scrabbling in the hole that had appeared and then it was through!
Into the cold night a hideous claw emerged. The silver moonlight glistened on the barbed hooks as they tore away the soil to widen the fissure. Soon a pale, scale-covered arm reached up and thrashed wildly at the ground. The promise of release was the force which drove it. To be out in the wide world once more was its sole intention, away from the cloying chains of slumber and oblivion. Up, up out of the suf
focating earth it came—worming and pushing until at last it was able to haul itself from the pit.
A vile, misshapen creature threw its hump-backed body upon the grass, gargling a mixture of phlegm and soil. The exertions of its escape were almost too much. For a while it lay wheezing and choking, its gills jerked open and shut, waiting for the old instincts to re-establish themselves. The underbelly heaved violently, gulping the sweet air down into forgotten lungs—filling them once more. Only when the breaths became less laboured did it think to look at its surroundings.
At once it sprang to its deformed and webbed feet, the stumpy legs trembling unsteadily at the effort. If there had ever been a demon to plague the fishes of the sea then surely this was it. A more repellent creature there never was. Two large round eyes stared out from the head, glowing with the sickly luminescence of those who dwell in the deepmost regions of the ocean where sunlight never penetrates. Up at the ageless stars these eyes glared, before swivelling round to fix on the abbey. The shining eyes blinked and three rows of needle-like teeth were bared and ground together.
The fish demon whirled about and beheld for the first time in over a thousand years the estuary of the river Esk. The world had changed much since those baleful eyes had last lit upon the settlement of Whitebi. Now, instead of the few huts that had sheltered under the protection of the cliff and the monastery, the banks of the river were crammed with buildings, and harsh orange lights blazed in the streets.
A horrible gurgle issued from the creature's throat as it pattered forward for a better view. The reeking species of mankind had smothered the land it had known and the fin on the top of its head fanned open as it hissed its hatred. The stale memories were flooding back now and the confusion was slowly clearing.
The years peeled away and before its luminous eyes the fish demon—last of the savage Mallykin race—remembered it all.
The strings of lights round the harbour blurred and flickered, becoming the blazing torches that had pursued it to the cliff back then. And there she stood, the veiled woman-beast. How boldly she had cornered it and how fearsome were the cries of the villagers who gathered behind her. The flames of their burning brands were painful to look on, yet even more deadly was the sound of her cold, ringing voice. Cringing to the ground, the creature dropped the limp remains of its meal; somewhere it heard another of the wretches cry out and then the staff was raised and came crashing down. After that it knew only the black emptiness of the earth as it gaped open to swallow it.
How many years had passed until the term of its imprisonment had come to an end? How many centuries had painfully stretched by?
The breeze that ruffled its fins was chill and the fish demon slowly returned to the present. With narrowing eyes, it backed slowly from the bitter lights of Whitby. All was lost now, how could it survive in a world that was so filled with enemies? Miserably and with a waddling hop, it hurried from the grievous sight.
Suddenly it froze—it was not alone upon the abbey plain. Amongst the grasses some other creature was prowling; a small, warm blooded creature.
A growl came from the Mallykin's stomach as it realised how ravenous it was. No food had passed into its gullet for longer than it could imagine and now the desire for fresh meat overwhelmed it, brushing aside all other concerns. The mouth lolled open and a pink, pointed tongue drooled over the chin. With nostrils questing the air, it searched for the animal in the grass. There—it could sense the rapid beating of a tiny heart.
With a frightful yell, the fish demon leapt forward. A horrific squeal rang out, then the creature disappeared into the night to devour the still wriggling meal in some darker, less open place.
1 - After The Witch
Whitby mornings are a constant. Nothing changes. Each one begins with the shriek of gulls and the return of fishing boats to the harbour, followed by the auction of the catch on the quayside. Today was no exception.
The hours moved slowly on. Bed-and-Breakfasts sizzled with eggs and bacon whilst shopkeepers lifted shutters to await the first customers of the day. Gradually the traffic on the small roads increased and the autumn holiday makers braved the keen November wind muffled in anoraks and tightly wound scarves.
With a gentle shudder, the morning train slid into the town. Out poured the children commuting to school from Ruswarp and Sleights. Along the platform they jostled one another, tugging at bags and duffle hoods, testing themselves on French vocabulary for the lesson later that day and hastily swapping answers to maths homework. After the children had barged and hurried out of the train the other passengers alighted and set off towards the barrier. There were those late for work, several day-trippers, a well-groomed young woman carrying a briefcase, a pair of rucksack-laden walkers who staggered under the weight of their canvas burdens, grumbling at one another for forgetting something vital and, lastly, a short, plump woman carrying a large sketchpad, a box of watercolours and a fold-up seat.
This colourful stampede surged away from the train, eager to be out of the confines of the station. Each one of them filled with wildly differing thoughts, from the antiquities of New Zealand contained in the museum, to the best place to get a cup of tea. But no, not all hurried down the platform; there, in one of the carriages, a single figure remained.
With deliberate slowness the man collected his luggage together; one battered suitcase and a small travelling bag. He stepped from the train and the morning sun fell upon his face.
He was a dark-haired man with a wiry, unkempt beard that framed his sunburned face. He wore no overcoat to keep out the wind, only a short tweed jacket that had seen better days. The elbows had at one time been patched with ovals of brown leather but one of these now wagged in the wind like a rude tongue. On most people this, combined with the slightly old-fashioned shirt, the collar of which was frayed and rather grubby, would have aroused feelings of sympathy or good-natured humour—but not on this particular gentleman; no one would have dared to laugh at him.
His eyes were like pieces of midnight, jewels of darkness in which no glint of day ever shone. Casually he put down his luggage and gazed after the last of his fellow passengers as they struggled to leave the station. Those deep dark eyes roamed from one person to another until at last they came to rest on the retreating figure of the smart young woman with the briefcase.
Just as light can vary from a dim glow to a blinding intensity, the same is true of darkness. For now those eyes blazed blacker than ever before as they lingered over the woman's finely sculpted form, following the outline of her slim shape and drinking in the gold of her hair.
Emma Hitchin, late for her job at the solicitor's office, shivered unconsciously, shuddering with a feeling that was more than mere cold. All thoughts of the apology she was carefully constructing for that miserable old Mr Hardcorn and his sour-faced son flew from her mind. At her shoulder blades that chill came stabbing in, tugging and searching. Curious, she turned her blonde head and her own hazel eyes caught sight of the bearded man standing by the train.
A look of amusement formed on her lips, but this quickly melted. There was something unusual about the man—he was certainly by no stretch of the imagination handsome, but he possessed a certain powerful charm and she found herself holding her breath under his continual gaze. Those impenetrable shadows beneath his brows beat out at her and the colour rose in her cheeks. Her lips curled into a girlish smile and the blood thumped in her temples.
The man returned the smile, then followed it up with a polite and formal bow. But all the time his eyes held her prisoner. For a few moments more he kept her bound to him and then she was released.
Emma reeled backwards as he dismissed her and the chains of his will left her. Flustered and sweating, she clutched at the collar of her blouse then, with one final, fearful glance at the stranger, she fled from the station.
Alone on the platform, the man grinned. Delving into the pocket of his tatty jacket he brought out a slim gold case. Taking a cigarette he struck a match and cupped h
is hands round his mouth. The sheltered flame, brought so close to his face, made no reflection in those raven-black eyes.
Deep he drew on the cigarette, inhaling the smoke and hissing it out through his lips until a thick, ethereal cloud had gathered about him. A difficult and dangerous trial lay ahead. He knew that the next few days were to be the greatest test of his cunning and endurance. He had prepared for every eventuality, however, and when this ordeal was over all the risks he had chanced would prove to have been worthwhile. Silently he reprimanded himself for indulging his ego back then. For the moment he must not attract attention—his enemies were everywhere. If they knew he had returned to England all would be lost. For that reason secrecy was paramount, but if his researches and suspicions were correct, then it would not be for long.
The nicotine fog stirred when he threw the cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath his patent leather shoe. He was ready.
As the smoke billowed and dispersed around him, he moved to return the cigarette case to his pocket. In the bright, morning sunshine the words engraved on the gold flashed and glowed up into his bearded face.
To my darling Nathaniel,
obediently yours
—Roselyn.
The man's thin mouth twisted suddenly and the shimmering gold shone upon his teeth, discolouring and staining them. For a fraction of a second his face was a distorted vision of evil and cruelty and a cold chuckle resounded in his throat.
Nathaniel Crozier: historian, philanderer, warlock, high priest of the Black Sceptre, and the unseen hand behind countless unsolved burglaries of religious relics from all round the world. So infamous was he that some had dedicated their lives to tracking him down and putting an end to "the most evil man on Earth". Yet here he was, he who always worked through others, he who never risked himself had hazarded much just to step on British soil once more. The widower of the late Rowena Cooper had arrived in Whitby at last.