The Whitby Witches Trilogy

by Robin Jarvis

  From what he had already managed to overhear, the boy was extremely afraid. He wasn't sure who Nathaniel was talking to—he thought perhaps it was one of the fisherfolk and that alone disturbed him, but what was all this talk of evil? Carefully, Ben stole nearer, the phantom light falling on his young face. He stealthily came as far as he dared then curled into a ball, intent on the voices which drifted up from the crypt.

  "The oldest of the guardians is with the aufwaders," the head was telling Nathaniel, "and from this shall the nature of the evil be known. Irl bore it to the deepmost regions of their realm before the Deep Ones punished him for his crime and hid it therein. Who now knows of its existence? No one perhaps, but in the caverns beneath the cliff it surely lies and this only would Irl reveal as he was dragged into the sea to answer for the theft of the moonkelp. The guardian is engulfed in sorrow—that is all he would say, even as the water poured into his mouth and filled his lungs."

  Slowly, and with little pleasure, Nathaniel considered this information—so that one at least was out of his reach. "And the second guardian?" he demanded.

  "Is a wooden tablet," the head told him, "inlaid with pearl. The irresistible force of the waxing moon is its strength and is mightiest when it is full in the sky. Many and dreadful were the incantations muttered over this, and terrible were the promises sworn to the goddess. The man who made it perished as soon as it was done, having poured his entire soul into his creation."

  "Yes, yes!" stormed Nathaniel impatiently. "But where can I find it?"

  "The second guardian was entrusted to a Whitebi family," the head replied, "and since pagan times they have kept it safe and secret from all others, passing it down through generation after generation."

  "Their name!" the warlock cried. "What is their name?"

  "In former times their house was called Hegenfrith, but the sands shift and names alter. What they may be called now I do not know. All I can sense is that the guardian is still safe. After all this time it continues to do its work, enriching and fortifying the might of the others, drawing on the power of the moon at its zenith."

  "Hegenfrith," Nathaniel muttered, committing it to memory. "So, there we are," he licked his lips and sniggered. "Tell me, oh oracle, what would happen if all the guardians were destroyed?"

  The flint eyes stared at him incredulously, the man's voice had altered and was no longer friendly. "Then darkness would reign!" the head cried. "Evil would waken and the land laid waste. Without our continued protection Ragnarok would come."

  "Such melodrama," Nathaniel scoffed. "Do you really expect me to believe that? It may have kept the primitive peasants in check but it won't deter me. No, I am a master of control and domination—there is nothing on this earth I cannot make yield and bow before me. Whatever this force is, evil or not, it shall be mine to command."

  "No!" shrieked the head. "You must not believe that! I tell you it is beyond your futile strength. If you awaken this thing then be assured you shall be the first to die—it cannot be controlled! No one has dominion over evil, it consumes all who try to master it."

  "I think I've heard enough now, thank you," Nathaniel retorted. "You have done your duty—for far too long in my considered opinion."

  "What are you doing?" the head shouted. "Are there such madmen loose in the world?" But it was too late, it realised how it had been tricked and there was nothing it could do.

  "Bleat all you can," the warlock laughed, "for your time is over. Nathaniel has come to deliver you from your woe. This night I shall end your dreadful labour." With a deriding laugh he hurled the head to the ground and chips of stone sparked from the flagged floor.

  "Hearken to me!" begged the guardian in fear as it saw Nathaniel open the large bag at his feet and bring out a sledgehammer. "This is madness!"

  But the warlock paid no attention to its beseeching cries. "Into dust we all must depart," he chuckled. "Isn't it about time you did the same?"

  With one swift swing of his arms he raised the sledgehammer over his head and brought it crashing down.

  "NOOOOO!" came a heart-rending scream.

  In his hiding place Ben covered his ears. He was terrified at what he had heard and, as the vicious blows fell, he sprang to his feet.

  The scene in the crypt was screened by the pews and he was thankful that he could not see what was happening. Yet the eerie green light that still flickered about Nathaniel threw his shadow upon the wall and that was enough. Down came the hammer, dashing the head to smithereens. Its plaintive screeches rocked the church and Ben felt them thump inside his brain.

  "A curse on thee, human!" howled the voice in its agony. "May the forces thou hast unlocked hound thy black soul unto the end of time!"

  Nathaniel's laughter welled up and he roared, bringing the sledgehammer down in yet another crushing blow. There came one last piercing scream that tore through the very foundations of the church, shaking the rafters and rifling up into the tower where the bells vibrated and sang out a dreadful, discordant chime. And just when Ben thought he could stand no more, the voice was finally silenced forever.

  Like a thing possessed, Nathaniel continued. Relentlessly pounding the pieces to powder, leaving not a fragment on the floor and crowing with horrendous savagery.

  Ben hurtled from the church as fast as he could. Everything he had heard flew round inside his mind in a confused whirl and, leaping over gravestones, he charged back down the path for all he was worth.

  When he reached the top of the abbey steps the ground shook. Ben heard Nathaniel's laughter ring from the church as the last pieces of the head were pounded to dust. The entire cliff trembled and the boy spun round.

  From the church of St Mary there came a deafening explosion. The leaded roof buckled as a gaping hole was blasted out of it and through this shot a stream of golden light. With a great rush of dazzling sparks, the searing bolt soared into the dark sky and was sucked high into the cold void. Ben could only stare as the force boiled ever upwards, towering over the sleeping town, raging furiously towards the stars. And then it vanished. As suddenly as it had erupted from the church, it disappeared into the heavens and all was calm as if nothing had happened. Only an ugly great rent remained in the leaded roof.

  Ben gaped in stunned astonishment, his eyes straining to follow the course of that blinding light. But all was dark now and when he lowered his face and saw the damage to the church he remembered that Nathaniel was still in there, for the man's laughter had not ceased yet.

  Sickened and horrified, the boy turned back to the town which lay below him. Whitby seemed darker than before, the street lamps were dimmer and the cold closed sharply in. Shaken, the boy threw the church of St Mary one final glance before he tore down the steps and fled home.

  In the crypt, Nathaniel drew his finger across the grey powder which now covered the flagstones. From his pocket he took out the plaster fragment once more and examined it carefully. There were now only three symbols inscribed there, and one of those was the obsolete mark of Hilda. Because of him, the sign of the last guardian had been completely erased. He grinned and slipped it back into his pocket.

  "One down, two to go," he quietly chortled.

  8 - Torn From The Deep

  Whitby awoke to a fine November morning. It was one of those rare bright days of late autumn which the year occasionally indulges in to remind herself of the summer that has past. The sky was clear and, though weak, the sun valiantly did her best, dancing brightly over the water and bouncing off windows as they opened to receive her. Of course, as the morning unfolded and the townsfolk bestirred themselves, it being Sunday, a great commotion soon gathered around the church where all gazed in dismay at the yawning fissure which grinned at them from the roof. When the police arrived, they found the vicar sitting desolately in a pew. After organising a cup of tea for him, they began surveying the wanton destruction. Apparently vandals had broken in and, after scattering hymn sheets and knocking the cross from the altar, a condition which the vicar
had at once rectified regardless of any concern for the disturbance of clues, they had somehow managed to punch a hole through the roof. It was a lamentable commentary on the youth of today and the reverend was so angered by the brutal exhibition that he forgot himself and uttered a few choice words normally alien to a man of his calling.

  At least nothing was stolen and when he had pulled himself together, he set about trying to find a tarpaulin large enough to cover the offending hole. Once the police had dusted for fingerprints, they departed to interview those in the youth hostel nearby to see if they had heard or seen anything suspicious the previous night. Eventually the service commenced and the vicar abandoned his chosen sermon for an impromptu and impassioned speech on vandalism in the community. Tempers were extremely frayed that morning, and the congregation almost cheered him on. The desecration had hit the very heart of Whitby and all were grieved that anyone could have committed such an outrage. But perhaps it was more than that, for not once did the thought of forgiveness enter anyone's mind—the destruction of the third guardian had already wrought an unpleasant change in the townsfolk.

  ***

  Ben lurched out of bed, his eyes ringed with dark circles. As soon as he had returned from the church last night he had gone into Jennet's room, but she was sleeping so peacefully that he could not bring himself to wake her. Besides, he wasn't exactly sure what Nathaniel's discourse with the stone head had meant. So, instead of disturbing his sister, he decided to let it wait until the morning—by then he might be less confused.

  For the rest of the night he had lain awake as snatches of the strange conversation came back to him... One thing was certain, Nathaniel Crozier was not what be pretended to be—he was as dangerous as Rowena Coop «r had been and Jennet should be told first thing. With his head full of questions and doubts, the boy, already exhausted by his nocturnal adventure, slipped into an uneasy sleep just as the dawn edged into the sky.

  It was past ten o'clock when he dragged his clothes on and dashed on to the landing. "Jen!" he cried. "Jen, you'll never believe me!" He ran into his sister's room but it was empty. Ben made for the stairs. "Guess what I saw last night!" he shouted excitedly. "It was awful!"

  An answering call floated up the staircase. "Down here," came his sister's voice, "we're in the kitchen."

  Ben jumped the last two steps and hurried to tell her what he had witnessed. "I know I shouldn't have," he gabbled breathlessly, "but when I saw him leave with that great big bag I couldn't stop myself. He's bad Jen, I mean really bad. All the way to the church I followed him and heard everything!"

  Suddenly the boy's stomach turned over and a violent knot twisted in his guts. Standing in the kitchen, chatting amiably to his sister, was Nathaniel Crozier.

  Jennet looked away from the man for a moment as her brother slumped against the door and stared across in mute horror. "Ben?" she said, puzzled at his extraordinary expression. "Are you all right? You don't look well, what were you saying?"

  Nathaniel's eyes slowly looked up from the coffee he was drinking and blazed out at the boy. Ben's heart quailed under their burning gaze. Mr Crozier now knew that he had not been alone in the church. Ben took a deep breath and shook his head to dispel the black fear which was creeping over him. "What's he doing here?" he asked bluntly.

  Jennet was taken aback by this rudeness. "Ben!" she hissed.

  Her brother only glared back at the man. "Well?" he demanded.

  Nathaniel lowered his coffee cup. "Jennet," he said smoothly, "it would seem your brother does not like me."

  "I'm sorry," she hastily apologised, "he isn't usually as bad-mannered as this." She gave Ben a hateful glance that told him he would be sorry, then turned her attention back to her guest. "Another biscuit, Nathaniel?" she asked.

  "Mmm, thank you," he took the proffered digestive and bit into it, his eyes holding Ben the whole while.

  The boy did his best to ignore those flashes of malice which stabbed out at him. "Where's Miss Wethers?" he asked his sister.

  "Gone to church," she replied. "Thought it best to leave you in bed. She'll be back soon. Your breakfast's already on the table."

  "I'm not eating it with him here."

  "Ben!"

  "Tell him to go!" her brother insisted.

  Mr Crozier finished his coffee and took a step towards Ben and the door. "Perhaps it would be better if I left," he murmured. "I seem to be distressing the little boy."

  "Don't pay any attention to him!" Jennet stormed. "He's being a baby, that's all. Honestly, if Aunt Alice were here she wouldn't let him get away with that. You just stay here and have another coffee, Nathaniel."

  "If you insist," the man relented but, as Jennet turned her back to rinse the cup, he gave Ben a venomous and deadly look.

  "I'm off out!" the boy said abruptly. "See you later, Jen." In a trice he had nipped out of the kitchen and was through the front door.

  "Ben!" she called after him. "Come back here and eat your breakfast this minute!"

  "Unusual boy," observed Nathaniel.

  Jennet apologised for his behaviour again. "I don't know what's come over him," she sighed. "He's not usually so rude."

  "Perhaps he had a nightmare," the man suggested. "Actually, would you forgive me if I declined that second coffee? I really must get going, there seems to be more work in store for me today than I had at first realised. Good morning."

  Jennet showed him to the door, to prove to Mr Crozier that she, at least, had manners. "Goodbye, Nathaniel," she said warmly. "Perhaps I'll see you this afternoon—if your work permits it, of course."

  "But of course," he smiled, tenderly taking her hand and squeezing it tightly, "I shall make certain of that."

  Jennet flushed, he really was charming. She watched him return to the Gregsons' before closing the door with a delighted and dreamy look on her face.

  ***

  Miss Wethers trotted down Church Street feeling totally irritated and disgruntled towards her fellow man—or woman. The vandalism of St Mary's was a sight she thought she would never have seen and the vicar had whipped everybody up into such a state of agitation that for the first time in her life the postmistress was itching for a fight—a verbal one, of course.

  "Disgraceful," she twittered like a deranged canary, "to think there are such wretches, and here in Whitby too! I never did, in all my days. May they rot! Hanging's too good for them!" This was strong stuff from Miss Wethers and her eyes darted to and fro, peering suspiciously at everyone who went by, as if they were the heinous culprits. Only when she had vented her steaming temper in an unprovoked attack on a passing tourist, calling him an insidious interloper who was ruining the fabric of the community, did she return to her normal self. Everybody in the street gawped at her and the unfortunate man hurried away from what was obviously the local lunatic. Miss Wethers hastily collected herself and gave a forlorn chirp as she realised what she had done. Quickly she ran after the innocent tourist to beg his forgiveness, but he thought she was wanting to continue where she had left off and scurried away as fast as he could. This made her feel even more ridiculous and she scolded herself sharply.

  "Edith!" she said. "What has come over you? My oh my, what a spectacle you've made of yourself." Sheepishly she recommenced her journey towards Miss Boston's cottage—her face, appropriately for a postmistress, as red as a pillar-box.

  It was whilst slinking into the alley, glancing round to see if anyone was staring at her, as she was sure they must be doing, that she walked into Ben coming the other way.

  "Miss Wethers!" he cried, pleased to see her.

  "Oh," was all she could manage for the moment.

  "That man," he continued, "he's with Jennet. You've got to listen to me..."

  "What man?" she said distractedly. "Really Ben, I've had a most disagreeable morning, I've just done the silliest thing, and you wouldn't believe how wicked somebody has been—the poor, poor church..."

  "Yes!" Ben interrupted. "That man! Mr Crozier!"

&nbs
p; The postmistress fluttered her hands over the buttons of her cardigan. "Is he with Jennet now?" she asked. "Oh, I'm not sure I approve of this. Alice Boston why did you leave me in charge? What I need is a good lie-down!"

  "But..."

  "Be a good boy," she yapped dismissively, "and have a nice play on the seashore, or whatever it is you do. Only keep yourself clean and no bringing back any more... dead little friends, hmm? See you at dinner time."

  With a nervous twitch of her hand she pattered off to the cottage leaving Ben just as anxious as before. Who would he tell? If only Aunt Alice were here, she would listen to him. Miss Wethers was useless, the last thing he wanted to do was go and play on the beach...

  At that Ben tore from the alley and raced up Church Street, turning down to Tate Hill Pier and charging on to the sands.

  Nelda would help him, she would believe what he had to say. Over the rocks he scrambled, hurrying under the concrete supports of the bridge which joined the cliff to the pier. Luckily the tide was out and only two other people stood by the shallow pools at the foot of the cliff. Ben took no notice of them, cupped his hands round his mouth and shouted "Nelda! Nelda!"

  The couple turned to look at him but thought he was calling for his dog.

  "Nelda!" the boy shouted again. "It's me, Ben. Can you hear me?"

  There was no reply; the steep cliff reared high and silent above him and though he knew where the secret entrance to the aufwader caves lay, there was no answering call and the doors did not open. His throat was sore by the time he gave up. "Please answer," he mumbled into the breeze. "It's very important, please."

  But after half an hour it was plain that either none of the fisherfolk had heard him, or Nelda was refusing to come out. "Why won't you listen to me?" he breathed unhappily. "There's no one else I can tell. Something must be done about Mr Crozier." Dragging his feet, the boy left the beach, gave the cliff face one last, hopeful look then climbed the stairs back into Church Street.