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The Whitby Witches Trilogy

Page 27

by Robin Jarvis


  "What do they use then, Danny?" Mark asked in feigned innocence.

  "Sand!" came the triumphant reply and the two of them scooped up great handfuls of the stuff then rubbed it into Ben's hair and pushed it into his face.

  Ben spluttered and Danny shoved some into his mouth. The boy choked and retched whilst the other two fell about laughing hysterically.

  "Look who's balkin'!" roared Danny.

  "He's red as a tomato!" added Mark, "an' them's tears in his eyes. The Cret's cryin'!"

  "So would I if I lived in a nuthouse like 'im. Here, Cret, let me help yer get the 'orrid old sand off." Danny brought his face close to Ben's and spat venomously. "That's fer bein' weird, yer snotty little weed! No wonder yer an orphan—yer mum an' dad prob'ly topped thesselves to get away from yer! AAAARRGGG!"

  Suddenly Danny flew backwards, screeching at the top of his voice. Ben felt the weight disappear off his chest and he craned his neck to see what was happening.

  "Danny!" wailed Mark in surprise.

  "Let him go!" came a fierce voice.

  "Jennet!" gasped Ben.

  Danny rubbed his neck angrily. It was Ben's sister who had sneaked up behind them. The girl had yanked him violently by the collar and a livid red mark was already glowing across his throat. He glared at her, she was a couple of years older than him and Mark but she was still only a girl.

  "Right!" he stormed. "You'll be sorry for that!" With a loud yell he hurled himself at her, but his attack was shortlived for Jennet swung her schoolbag by its strap and brought it crunching into his face.

  The boy let out an awful howl and stumbled about blindly, cursing with his head in his hands.

  Jennet stepped towards Mark but he took one fearful look at his friend and decided not to tackle the girl on his own.

  Blood began trickling through Danny's fingers. "Me nodes!" he bawled. "You'b bust me nodes!"

  "Clear off or I'll break something else!" she growled.

  The two boys stared at her—this was too much, to be chased away and by a girl too! Danny's temper was boiling but the blood dribbling down his arm alarmed him. "You'll keep, Cret!" he said to Ben. "Ad' dex tibe you'll dot 'ave that dog of a sister to save yer."

  Jennet rushed at them and the boys ran off.

  Ben wiped his face and staggered to his feet. He felt ashamed. Silently he waded into the sea and retrieved his shoes.

  "You all right?" his sister asked.

  He nodded but said nothing to her.

  "They're little hoodlums they are," she continued. "What did you get mixed up with them for? He's a baddun that Turner lad—everyone says so, even his sister Rachel."

  Ben poured the seawater out of his shoes and squeezed his feet into them. Jennet watched him and shook her head in disbelief.

  "What are you doing?" she asked, "You'll catch a death putting them back on. Honestly, Ben, you're hopeless!"

  "Shut up!" he shouted. "Just leave me alone!"

  Jennet couldn't believe her ears. "Well excuse me!" she cried. "Who was it rescued you back then? God knows what would have happened if I hadn't stopped those two!"

  Ben turned on her. "They would have got bored and stopped!" he screamed. "But now you've gone and made it worse! They'll never leave me be now! What did you have to go and hit Turner for? He won't be happy till he beats me up—or worse. If that's what you call helping me, Jen, then thanks, but don't bother doing it again!"

  He stomped off up the shore, leaving Jennet to sigh—she hadn't stopped to think her brother might not want to be saved. He was right; she had only made matters worse. Danny now had a score to settle.

  "Ben," she called, "wait a minute—I'm sorry." Quickly she ran after her brother and put her arm around him. "I only did it because... because you're all I've got."

  "You're not my mother!" he snapped, shaking her off.

  "Ben!"

  The boy looked at her—that had hurt. It had been a mean thing to say and he was already feeling guilty. "Sorry," he said.

  Jennet took his hand. "Come on," she murmured, "let's go home."

  Up the pier stairs they trailed, until they came to Church Street. It was empty. All the locals were indoors having tea and the shops were getting ready to close for the day. They met only one other person on their way back to Miss Boston's cottage; Mrs Rigby was one of the women who ran the wool shop and as the children passed her she stopped them.

  She was a short, stocky woman with no neck to speak of. Her hair was blonde and curly and several moles peppered her face, although occasionally she tried to hide them under brush-loads of blusher. This was not one of those times and Mrs Rigby resembled someone who had been spattered with mud.

  "Hello, Luvs," she hailed the children, "I don't suppose you've seen my Mokey have you?"

  Jennet liked Mrs Rigby—or rather she liked to see what new knitted creation the woman was wearing. Today it was a white turtle-neck with patch pockets, covered in gold triangles and bizarre, bumpy lumps of wool. The girl stared at it for a moment. She had to admire the woman's courage for no one else would have dared to be seen dead in it, then she collected herself. Mokey was Mrs Rigby's cat.

  "No," she replied, "we haven't. Has he gone missing?"

  It was only then that she noticed how dreadful the woman looked. Her face was haggard and there was a desperate edge to her voice. Mokey meant a lot to her. Mrs Rigby twisted one of the fluffy bobbles on her turtle-neck. "He's been gone all afternoon," she said distractedly, "I just don't know what can have happened. He's usually such an obedient little character."

  "Maybe he's been got at," put in Ben. Jennet groaned and squeezed his hand till he yelped and pulled away from her. "He might have, mightn't he?" the boy protested. "Loads of others have."

  Mrs Rigby trembled. "Oh the poor creature," she wept. "Oh my poor Mokey!"

  "Don't worry," Jennet tried to reassure her, "We'll keep an eye out for him. He's a marmalade cat isn't he?"

  "That's right, a lovely coat he's got—oh, good God, how awful! To think that could be why he's been taken. To be skinned!"

  "You should have put him on a string," Ben told her.

  Mrs Rigby took from her pocket a length of twine and held it up for them to see. One end of it had been chewed and bitten through. "But I did," she whispered, "I did."

  3 - In The Chamber Of The Triad

  The passage was dark and narrow; here and there the rough, rocky floor was covered in slimy weed and only those sure of the safe path had ever dared venture down it. This was one of the oldest of all routes to the aufwader caves—unlike the others, this natural entrance had never been widened and made completely secure. In places it was almost impassable, it had always been a tight squeeze even for the smallest of the fisherfolk.

  Only Nelda now used this tunnel and because of that she considered it to be her very own—somewhere secluded to escape to when life in the main caves grew unbearable. During the last couple of months she had spent a lot of time just sitting in the quiet, cramped darkness, alone with her thoughts and fears.

  Some distance along the path there was a low outcrop of moss-covered stone which she used as a seat, and it was on this she now sat. An hour had passed since she had said farewell to Ben on the shore, but she had not yet had the courage to return to the rest of the tribe.

  Slowly she rocked back and forth, her head resting in her hands. A great burden lay heavily on her spirit and she was at a loss to know how to escape what must come.

  "Peace," she eventually said aloud to dispel the black mood which was stealing upon her. "Can I not be free to choose my own destiny?" Her voice rang in the tunnel, echoing round until it faded on the last word. "Destiny, destiny..." it repeated.

  Nelda peered into the gloom, just to be certain that it was indeed an echo and not someone hiding and playing tricks. Anything was possible and she was wise to be suspicious.

  "No," she told herself after a long silence, "'tis nothing. Have I then come down to this, where I jump at shadows and the slyn
ess of my own mind?" She tried to laugh but the sound was artificial and forced. It was no use, she could not shrink from it any longer, it was time to join the others.

  Nelda rose and moved further up the passage, stooping then crawling until it opened out into one of the main aufwader halls.

  Standing upon the more even ground, Nelda stretched and looked about her. The place was deserted. At that time in the evening most of the other fisherfolk would be in their chambers mending nets or cooking a meal over the fire.

  Through the empty tunnels which connected the main halls she slowly wound her way. The caves were lit by oil lamps, set into niches in the rocky wall or suspended from the ceiling on chains. The lamps themselves were diverse shapes and sizes: mostly plain bronze bowls, but some had been fashioned into the shapes of fish with the flame licking from the mouth, and in one crevice a dragon's head glared out with blazing eyes. The light they radiated was soft and it flickered before the slight draughts, rippling over the green walls, creating the illusion that all was submerged beneath the sea.

  It was not long before Nelda realised that something was wrong. Although she could hear the usual sound of crackling fires, and the scent of steaming broth and roasting fish tantalised her nostrils, there was nothing else. No aufwader voices drifted through the salty air and by now she ought to have bumped into at least one of the other inhabitants. A frightening disquiet crept upon Nelda—what had happened to the rest of the tribe—where were they?

  With mounting concern she hurried to the nearest cell. It was the home of Prawny Nusk, a friend of her grandfather. He was a good-natured soul who spent most of his time smoking his pipe and whittling pieces of driftwood. She ducked under the fishing nets which festooned the ceiling, but the cell was empty. The cooking fire had been left unattended and was gradually dying; above it the iron cauldron which contained Prawny's supper bubbled and seethed. The broth within was spoilt and it splashed over the edge, hissing as it trickled down the sides, forming a black, sticky goo that dripped and fizzed on the hot embers. Nelda gazed round at the deserted room. Prawny's knife lay by his stool, next to a heap of wood parings, even his pipe had been left behind to smoulder on the rush-matted floor.

  "Mr Nusk," she called, knocking out the glowing tobacco and stamping on it. Only the spluttering cauldron answered her.

  Nelda ran out and in a louder voice shouted, "HELLO!", but all she heard was the echo of her own voice ringing through the tunnels. Hastily Nelda ran the rest of the way to her family's quarters, anxious and afraid.

  When she reached the low entrance she paused before pulling aside the dividing curtain—what if there was no one here either?

  Taking a deep breath, she threw back the cloth and stepped inside.

  It was horribly cold and the lamp was not lit. But, in spite of the darkness, Nelda could discern a figure seated by the heap of ashes in the centre of the chamber. The figure was hunched and still, staring into the charred remains of yesterday's fire—as if waiting for some oracle to speak from the cinders. When Nelda entered he lifted his head.

  "Grandfather!" she cried. "What is it? Where is everyone?"

  Tarr reached for the staff which lay at his side and hauled himself from the rushy floor. His eyes fixed on her and at once she saw they were filled with pain and despair. "Lass!" he uttered thickly. "Ah wish tha hadna come back." The old aufwader rushed towards his granddaughter and caught her in a desperate embrace, clinging to her for dear life.

  And then Nelda knew; all those weeks of doubt and uncertainty were finally confirmed. As the coils of her doom wound tightly around her she felt nothing; of all reactions this was the last she had expected.

  "The summons bell has been rung," she said flatly. "That is why they are all absent."

  Tears were running down Tarr's ancient brown face and dripping from his wiry whiskers on to her cheek. 'Theer was nowt ah could do," he sobbed, "nowt! Deeps take me if'n ah didn't do all ah could. But theers nowt to be done, he'll nivver be gainsaid."

  Slowly Nelda pulled away from him. "Strange," she said, "I did think I would be more upset than this. Why am I not weeping and tearing out my hair?" She pulled the hat from her head and let it fall to the floor. "Grandfather," she began in a wavering voice, "a part of me has died this night—inside I am numb."

  "Then ah'll weep fer us both," he answered huskily. "Come, lass." He held out his rough, calloused hand and she took it in her own. They left the chamber in silence, the only noise coming from Tarr's grief-ridden chest as it let loose all his sorrow.

  Down the dim labyrinth of tunnels they made their way, hand in hand. Nelda knew where they were headed. She had been resigned to making this solemn journey for months now. It was, after all, her own rash words which had brought about this evil moment and there was no escape. Nothing could release her from the fate which was waiting—nothing except death.

  Deeper under the cliff the two fisherfolk went, down the steep Ozul Stair to remote and seldom visited caverns. Only once before had Nelda been down there: when Hesper, her late aunt, brought her to see the fossilised bones of long-dead monsters. Again she walked the eerie gallery beneath them, that crowded host—like the hellish legions of a skeletal army.

  Nelda and her grandfather left the fossils behind them and came to the Gibbering Road. This was a slender bridge of stone that stretched across a wide chasm. It was said that the gaping gulf it spanned was bottomless and contained the tormented souls of those drowned at sea. On stormy nights you could hear the hollow voices wailing in anguish. Occasionally the horrible shrieks had reached as far as the living quarters high above and all were forced to stop up their ears. Few of the aufwaders, even Old Parry, dared listen to those nightmare cries, for those who had were driven insane.

  In single file they began to cross, with Tarr leading the way. As Nelda stepped on to the perilous bridge she happened to look down. It was a mistake; the world fell away and the blackness below was so impenetrable it seemed to have a substance all its own. Nelda pinched herself and concentrated on reaching her grandfather who was already on the other side. She wanted him to speak reassuring words but if the legends were true then any noise might arouse the souls of the dead. With her heart fluttering in her breast she hurried across and seized Tarr's hand once again.

  They were getting close to the ancient heart of the aufwader realm. Through a series of dank grottos and evil-smelling tunnels they continued, whilst all the time the sound of running water grew in their ears. Nelda stared about her as they came to a huge cavern, larger than any she had ever seen.

  It was filled with stalagmites that towered up to the dripping ceiling, forming immense, natural pillars of glistening rock. Underground springs foamed along deep channels worn into the floor and waterfalls cascaded over the emerald-coloured walls. It was a spectacular place, where land met sea in harmonious perfection, the joyous rush of water over stone was like music and it gave comfort to them both.

  Since the time when the churning waters brought forth the land, this wondrous, subterranean cathedral had been sacred to the aufwaders. Even before man had driven them underground they had worshipped here and spoken of it with reverence. The Lords of the Deep were rumoured to have built it and some still clung to the belief that anything spoken here would be heard by them. A devoted few would still venture down at certain times of the year to plead for the aufwader cause and beg the mercy of the Deep Ones. If their prayers were ever hearkened to, however, they went unanswered—for the terrible curse was never lifted. Yet it remained a glorious, hallowed place.

  Between the gurgling rivers of seawater, Tarr and Nelda walked until a great arch reared up before them. Huge columns of smooth rock supported the sweep of its curved roof which was encrusted with ammonites. An immense, heavy curtain of woven seaweed barred the way. It had been made in days long gone, by cunning hands whose skill had never been matched. Upon that intricate tapestry were symbols of the moon and sea and in nine panels it depicted the creation and destruction of the wo
rld, from its birth out of darkness to its return.

  From behind the curtain they heard the buzz of many whispering voices. Tarr glanced at Nelda: was it too late to turn back? Could she bear the agony of living outside the tribe? For a second her breaths faltered and beads of sweat sprang from her forehead. No, she had already decided there was no way out. It took a while for her to compose herself but when she had, a slight nod to her grandfather told him she was ready for what lay beyond. Leaning on his staff he put out his hand but the curtain was drawn aside before he could touch it.

  "Enter, Tarr," summoned a croaking but powerful voice, "and welcome, Nelda."

  The cave was smaller than the one which preceded it, yet no less important. Here sat the Triad, those elders of the tribe who ruled all the others. Their word was law and woe betide any who disobeyed them.

  Every member of the tribe was there and as the two figures entered they turned, their hushed whispers dying. All eyes were on Nelda and she gripped Tarr's hand more tightly. The assembled fisherfolk parted, clearing a path down the centre of the chamber. As Nelda passed by they hung their heads, too ashamed to meet her gaze. The atmosphere was electric and all shifted uncomfortably, for this was a black day in their history. Through this corridor Nelda and Tarr moved, coming finally to where the elders sat in judgement.

  The Triad sat upon three grand thrones. The two outer ones were decorated in patterns resembling the sea and stars but they paled in comparison to the one in the centre. The middle throne was magnificent, it dwarfed those beside it, rising grandly from the living rock, its broad back thrust upwards to the ceiling, where it clove in two to support a great silver lamp. Nelda stared up at it in wonder. The lamp was the shape of a boat riding waves of glittering crystal which absorbed the light from the tapering flame at the prow and scattered it throughout the chamber. It was dazzling, like the sun on the sea, and Nelda had to lower her eyes.

 

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