by Robin Jarvis
Flourishing a crowbar, he marched up to the great door and thrust one end deep into a slender crevice inches above the handle. Then, the man pushed against the iron bar with all his might. The wood let out a long, protracted groan as splinters flew and the metal teeth sank in—deep and brutal. The door quivered as though in pain and Nathaniel's hands tightened about the crowbar—his knuckles shining white and his face alive with impatience.
"Yield!" he snarled. "Open for me, the ordinary laws do not apply here. This is a public place where all are welcome—yes, even I. Allow my entry!"
At that the lock was torn from the wood and the door shook violently. Nathaniel gave it a contemptuous kick and it swung slowly inwards.
Stopping only to pick up the bag, the man entered—still brandishing the crowbar in his hand.
Within the church of St Mary all was shadow. Even in the daytime the interior, like most things in Whitby, was striking and unusual but now all was forbidding and severe. The odd arrangement of pew boxes were like square cages which penned in beasts of pitch and shade and the walls seemed carved from jet. A brooding atmosphere filled the place, as if it were alive and watching, inflamed at this irreverent intrusion. The very air was tense and so overpowering that Nathaniel had to lean against the wall before he could bear to venture any further.
"Settle yourself, Crozier," he murmured, "it's nothing you haven't encountered before. Ancient sites of worship develop a certain... presence, you know that." He ran his hand over the stone and half-closed his eyes. "This is most holy ground," he whispered. "Even before the Christ was venerated here it was a sacred shrine. The land remembers and old stones are charged with that knowledge. You must tread with care this night."
He took a few, tentative steps towards the central aisle and the noise of his movement resounded throughout. At the far end, upon the altar the gold cross gleamed coldly and Nathaniel hesitated, but only for an instant.
"Enough," he spat, "I will pass." And with that he pushed deeper into the church. At the altar he gave a malicious sneer before turning aside and passing between a row of pews.
The crypt of St Mary's was simply a small area in one corner reached by a cramped flight of wooden stairs. It was perhaps the oldest part of the building and contained many artefacts, found during excavations, which dated from the original Saxon church. In a tiny box, mounted on the wall, there was even a piece of the actual wattle and daub used in that earlier building. All around there were irregular chunks of carved stone, sections of pillars and slabs of floor tiles—these had been pushed against the walls in a wonderfully haphazard jumble. From a large window the dim moonlight slanted in, touching the stonework and illuminating the descriptive labels pinned to the boards. Peculiar triangles of darkness were cast between the stones, angular slices of night that wove through the carvings and spiked over the floor.
Down into this crowded level Nathaniel came. Glancing briefly at the biblical extracts painted on panels that covered the walls, he put the bag and crowbar on the ground. He could sense the accumulated age of everything in there, the long silent centuries lay heavily over all and he breathed deeply, relishing their history.
Nathaniel delved into his pocket and brought out the plaster fragment he had taken from the Banbury-Scotts' house. Holding it in the shaft of moonlight, he studied the four strange signs inscribed there. All day long he had examined them, trying to decipher their meaning and apart from the mark of Hilda only one other was now clear to him.
"Somewhere here," he told himself, "somewhere in all this disorganised lumber. I must have read the sign correctly—it can be nowhere else." He spread out the fingers of his left hand and quickly ran them over the stones at the front of the pile. "Nothing," he cursed. "Come on, come on, Nathaniel has come for you my little beauty."
Irritated, he drew himself up and held the plaster fragment in both hands. "Must I jab you out of hiding?" he growled. "Then so be it." He closed his eyes and began to chant under his breath.
A strange stillness descended over the church and the moon disappeared behind a cloud. All outside noise was extinguished, the faint glare that the night absorbed from the lights of the town was snuffed out and an impenetrable blackness seeped in. Nathaniel continued to chant, his voice gradually rising.
A breeze began to stir, the brass chandelier which hung from the ceiling slowly began to swing and a hymn sheet fluttered from the three-tiered pulpit. Still Nathaniel chanted, and the air churned about him. The warlock's hair streamed in the growing gale, his coat flapping wildly and the rush of the wind filled his ears as it tore around the church. The chandelier was spinning madly now and hymn sheets flew through the air like flocks of rustling birds.
"Unveil yourself!" Nathaniel cried. "Show yourself to me! I, Nathaniel Crozier, High Priest of the Black Sceptre, command you!"
Suddenly there came a terrible crash as the cross on the altar was hurled to the ground. The gale screamed up the aisle and the broken door slammed shut with a tremendous, thundering bang.
The warlock opened his eyes, his face pulled taut with the raging storm he had summoned. He opened his hands, stared down at the plaster fragment and smiled.
One of the symbols inscribed there was glowing, a golden light beat out of it, pulsing with life and energy. He held it above his head and the magical rays poured down.
"Excellent," he laughed. "Now, where are you my little rabbit? Pop out of your bolthole."
From the depths of one of the many dark shadows, there came an answering throb of golden radiance.
Nathaniel threw back his head in triumph then began to haul the surrounding rubble aside. It was arduous work; the stones were heavy and he tore his fingernails in his eagerness to clear them. The ground trembled as each slab was thrown down but eventually the way was made and Nathaniel reached in to retrieve what he sought.
It was a life-size head of stone, most of the features had been worn away but the eyes and mouth could still be discerned. For years it had lain forgotten and disregarded against the wall, covered and hidden by the rest of the ancient carvings in the Saxon crypt—but now Nathaniel had it. He took the head in his hands and the beautiful light which emanated from it shone in his face.
"Now you are mine," he marvelled, "and now you shall answer me." The stone pulsated with magical force, its light reaching high into the church, spreading over the balcony of pews that ran along the walls, giving everything a beautiful, glistering glow. The unnatural gale that the warlock had created died down and a delicious warmth rippled out into the night. Nathaniel had awakened the power of the head and a desperate thought clutched at his heart—what if he were unable to control it? All his designs would go astray—all his hopes and desires would come to nothing.
"Be still!" he shouted in the midst of his panic. "Cease this at once!"
But the head continued to pour out its energy. The inside of the church blazed with glory and dazzling beams shot from the windows, piercing the night outside. The powerful forces blasted high over the cliff like one of the beacon fires of old.
"Stop!" commanded Nathaniel, trying to shield his eyes from the blinding light. "STOP!" Even at this time of night someone was bound to see what was happening. He had been relying on secrecy and the cover of darkness to achieve his goal but this was like having a neon sign flashing to the world. His plans were in jeopardy—he would be discovered and his enemies alerted. He had to put an end to it and, with clenched teeth, called on all his dark powers. "Aid me!" he demanded. "Come to me—help me in this desperate hour! Give me the strength to counter, conquer and rule."
For a moment nothing happened and the golden light continued to flood out of the church, cascading over the graves, in an ever-swelling stream and gilding them in its wake. But then, very slowly, another glow began to appear. It was a sickly, greenish hue and it flickered about Nathaniel's hands as he called for aid. When the two opposing forces met, they crackled and spat, flashes of lightning roaring through the church.
"Subm
it to me," the warlock cried as the green light flowed over him. "You will answer—you must answer."
And then the contest was finished. The power of the head began to dwindle, the golden energy faded, engulfed in Nathaniel's all-devouring hatred. The brilliance died down and it became dark—except for the putrid luminescence that wrapped itself about the evil man.
The last glowing rays danced around the stone eyes then disappeared. The carving was nothing more than a stone head and the power of the warlock surrounded it.
"That is better," he said, "now, it's time for you to hear me, oh ancient one, answer to Nathaniel." He grinned horribly and commanded, "Speak unto me!"
Deep within the stone there came a grinding and a creaking. Nathaniel's dark eyes gleamed and the evil forces wound more tightly about the head. The noise grew louder, until the carved mouth began to move—the weathered lips parted and a hollow voice rang out.
"Hath the time now come?" it asked. "Is the end of all things arrived? Is Ragnarok upon us?"
"The end is not yet here," replied Nathaniel, "but that hour may not be far away."
"The staff is gone!" called the disembodied, echoing voice. "She has taken it back—the walls are breached!"
"Peace," calmed the warlock, "all is not yet lost, there may still be hope."
The stone eyes rasped open to reveal two almond-shaped slivers of flint. They studied Nathaniel closely and the voice asked, "Who art thou? Why didst thou invoke me?"
"My name is Crozier. The world is in peril and I must do what I can to help. Many years have passed since you were laid down, the knowledge of the ancient ones is long forgotten—only a few now have the skill to do what must be done."
"Then hail to thee, master of stone," said the head. "What dost thou wish from me?"
"I am a seeker after that knowledge," replied Nathaniel excitedly. "There are many questions which only you can answer if I am to prevent the darkness creeping over the land—tell to me all your wisdom, how did you come to be here? Who made you?"
The eyes closed slowly, and when the voice began it was filled with melancholy. "I am the oracle of the stone," it intoned, "and long have I done my work. A torment of emptiness have those years been. Hadda the elder made me, although I have worn many shapes, and set me above the lintel of the church that was before this. When the land was green and the circling seas uncharted."
"What was your purpose?" pressed Nathaniel in fascination.
The head replied mournfully. "The third guardian am I," it said, "defender of the weak against the power that sleeps and must not stir."
"Power?" repeated the warlock. "Explain—what power do you speak of?"
"Thou canst not understand," lamented the head. "None now can know of the pain and horror which rests. The world has moved on, even legends fade and are forgotten."
Nathaniel lifted the carving close to his own face. "Please," he asked in a silky, persuasive voice, "I want to know. Tell me of that distant time."
The flints regarded him keenly before the head answered. "Hear me, oh human," it proclaimed. "You wish to learn of those dark days? Then listen and I shall speak of deeds great and noble and woes beyond number. Of the time before the dragon ships set sail, before the stones of the abbey were laid, before Saxon kings were buried in this haven and before Hild blessed it with her footsteps."
The head then recounted the history of Whitby, events that occurred many ages ago and recorded by no one. While it spoke Nathaniel listened, concealing the greed and malice that boiled within him.
"It was a wild land then," the carving continued, "the five tribes of the aufwaders lived along all the coast and man was as yet a stranger in this sea-lashed place. Since the time of waking, evil has stalked the world in all its guises, yet here in Whitebi the dark one had indeed made its home. For aeons there was nothing but horror here, and terror was the lot of those who dwelt nearby. The hills were a desolate wasteland, and Death a constant wanderer of the shore. The aufwaders suffered much and prayed unceasingly to the Lords of the Deep who did hear their woe and take pity. In those early days they still had dealings with the upper world and had not withdrawn to their vast realm beneath the waves."
"So what did their Marine Majesties do to deliver them from this peril?" asked Nathaniel sarcastically.
"There came a fearful day when the sun shone red with war and they arose from the foaming deep surrounded by a host of tritons ready for battle. In a deadly encounter that threw down cliffs and forged new mountains they did attack, but the enemy was mighty and blew poisonous rain upon them. Their vast army was almost vanquished in the cruel onslaught and the sea became awash with blood, yet finally they won through and the Great Lord himself grappled with the evil, deposing it in bitter combat.
"Then did the golden horns of the Deep Ones sound and their joyous trumpeting was heard unto the furthest corners of the world. All rejoiced, but even as their lord prepared to deal the deathblow his heart forewarned that the battle would not be won that day. Though the enemy be slain and fed to the scavengers of the ocean, it could never be destroyed and would in time return and conquer, bringing about the ruin of all. Thus he stepped aside and though the clamour rose about him he refused to dispatch the enemy. So, to the dismay of all, the evil was spared but the Deep Ones would not suffer it to despoil the land once more. Using all their craft and skill, they bound it in chains of enchantment and it passed out of knowledge, entering the distant legends of the time.
"An interesting myth," interrupted Nathaniel with little enthusiasm. "Almost every culture can claim a similar tale. What has an archaic legend to do with your presence here?"
Ignoring his scepticism, the head began again. "Even the strongest chain shall weaken," it told him, "and fall into ruin under the relentless march of years. So did the bonds of enchantment wither and they who first felt the rumour of the returning evil did realise the truth of the old tales and were afraid. Irl, mightiest of all aufwaders in skill and cunning, sought to strengthen the enchantment of the Deep Ones and wrought a talisman, instilling it with all his power to keep the evil one at bay. For this undertaking he did steal the moonkelp and so was punished, but not till he completed his task and carried off the thing he made. There, hidden from the five tribes, this sacred artefact kept strong the enchanted bonds and the world was safe again."
Nathaniel's eyes gleamed as he began to understand and the lust which smouldered within him burst into flame.
"But power fades," sighed the head, "and a day came when Irl's guardian was not enough. Evil grows wherever it lies and so it was with this—another shield in the armour of Whitebi was required. This was fashioned by the first of the human settlers who learned of the danger from the five tribes before they were estranged. A wise man was he, steeped in the lore of a fallen civilisation and he made a sign of the moon, calling on the goddess herself to guide his work—and so was his guardian added to the defences and all was well for a time."
"And then?"
"Who can measure the rate of a canker that spends itself not and, resting, grows mighty in repose? The time came when another guardian was needed and so was I brought into being. The first bishops hallowed me and called on the Lord to protect them. So have I guarded the town throughout the centuries, constantly challenging and striving with that which sleeps, binding the ancient enchantment about it and adding to the sum of the other guardians' power." The head fell silent and the eyes closed sadly.
Nathaniel nodded, assuming a gentle, wise countenance. "And in the time of Hild another guardian was needed," he added, "and so she surrendered her staff?"
"Verily," returned the head, "when Hild came, already my labours were too great and evil was beginning to escape. A Mallykin had evaded my vigilance and slithered into the waking world. It was she who drove it back into forgetfulness and sacrificed her power for the safety of the world. Yet the staff is no more. It has gone from this place and it was the strongest guardian of us all. Without it we are weakened and the walls are
breached. Once more the evils which were bred in the youth of the world are stirring. The Mallykin walks abroad again and the old enchantment decays with each passing moon. Soon shall the evil waken and all will plunge into darkness and despair."
"Is there nothing that can be done to prevent this disaster?" asked Nathaniel.
The head groaned, "Who now can forge and craft a device to protect us all? What of the old skills remain in this modern world? Who now can stop the enemy awaking?"
The warlock gave a small, unpleasant laugh. "Perhaps I can," he said.
"You?" the head muttered. "Can you in truth do this? Are your talents a match for what is needed?"
"I believe so," came the arrogant and self-assured reply. "I have absolute faith in my abilities."
"Then waste no time," urged the carving, "begin at once. For pity's sake commence the work—it is rousing. Have I not felt the shackles of sleep fall away?"
Nathaniel rubbed his chin as though mulling the idea over. "Yes," he mused, "I suppose I could do something. What I must really achieve is some way of uniting all the existing guardians and building upon their proven strength. But where am I to find them? They have been hidden for thousands of years."
"I can help!" the head cried. "I know where they were bestowed."
"Oh good," smiled Nathaniel. "You know, I was rather hoping you'd say that."
Behind him, a shadowy figure crawled along the aisle, slipping silently behind the pew boxes. Ben had followed the man up to the cemetery, keeping well out of sight as Nathaniel strode round to the back of the church. When he saw the man break in, he nearly ran to fetch the police but was too intrigued to learn what he was doing in there. At first he had thought that Mr Crozier was a burglar and was after the church silver, but when the strange lights had begun to shine Ben drew closer. Now he crept towards the vile, spectral gleam which emanated from the crypt, straining to catch what the voices said, yet anxious not to be discovered.