by Robin Jarvis
Blinking mildly, Mr Roper's face held the expression one might show to a boasting child. "Are you so sure of yourself?" came his astonishingly cool reply.
The bearded man's eyes were filled with fury and his face was graven like stone. Seizing the pensioner by the arm, he dragged him from the kitchen and into the parlour. "It's only a matter of time!" he said. "Do we really need to undergo this charade? You will tell me. It just depends how much pain you're willing to suffer beforehand. I applaud your defiance, I wasn't expecting anything less, but enough is enough, you've made a stand, now tell me."
Mr Roper looked critically at his collection of salt-and-pepper pots, he was glad that he had dusted them today, for under the electric lights they were sparkling merrily. A gratified smile lit his face, yes all was in order.
Then he turned to Nathaniel and began talking of something else. "After all this time," he sighed, "all these generations, the work of countless lifetimes... a sacred treasure passed down the centuries—it takes yer breath away don't it?"
His eyes glazed over, staring beyond the confines of his cluttered parlour, his voice was filled with wonderment and awe, speaking softly and with reverence. "Can you imagine how ancient it is or how many of my ancestors have lived and died in its service? Through plague, plunder, war and disaster we have protected it, and in turn it has guarded us." Mr Roper lowered his misted eyes, a wan smile lighting up his face. "What a frightening responsibility it has been, and yet each of us, from the first to the last has never begrudged our duty." He laughed faintly, and shook his head. "It has been a sacred trust," he whispered, "and I'm not about to betray that merely for the likes of you."
A madness gripped Nathaniel, he released his grip on the old man and stared wildly round the room. "Well let's see," he said breathless with anger, "what shall we start with?" He grinned maliciously then cooed, "what a magnificent collection, you must be very proud of them." Snatching a cut-glass pepper-pot he examined it closely, handling it with extreme delicacy, then with a shout hurled it against the wall where it exploded in a shower of powdered crystal.
Mr Roper's heart quailed, this evil man could do anything he liked to him but not to his beautiful collection.
"Please don't," he begged.
"Didn't catch that," mocked Nathaniel, taking up another piece and smashing it the same way. "I really am most dreadfully sorry."
"No!" sobbed the old man.
Nathaniel then turned his attention to a glass cabinet in which at least a hundred cruet sets were displayed. With a laugh, he pulled it away from the wall and the contents went toppling down in a splintering crash.
"Stop!"
The warlock had lifted the set made in the shape of fireworks and was about to dash them against the fireplace but refrained from doing so. "You'll tell me?" he asked.
Mr Roper looked desperately at the chaos and destruction around him and thought with anguish of all those lovely pieces lost forever. Ever since Ben had left, he had been preparing himself for this encounter but he never thought it would be so cruel, he had been prepared to die to keep the family secret, but to have his life destroyed before his eyes was too bitter for him to stand.
"I'm waiting," said Nathaniel, the china rockets swinging precariously from his fingers.
"I... I can't," the old man wept.
Shrieking with rage, Nathaniel flung them against the tiles of the hearth then rampaged from shelf to shelf destroying everything in sight. Mr Roper cried in despair as the horrendous clamour blared in his ears.
Nathaniel wiped the sweat from his brow and dragged his fingers through his unruly hair. The devastation was over and the parlour half-demolished.
"Damn you, Crozier," said the old man when he found his voice, "may you burn in the eternal fires."
"Thank you," he answered, not in the least out of breath, "I'm sure I would enjoy such a temperate climate. I do so prefer hot countries, they bring out the animal in one so much more easily I find."
"Do you think I'll tell you where it is now?" asked Mr Roper. "I'd rather die than help you."
Nathaniel burst out laughing. "Oh I know that!" he chuckled. "That's the whole point you see—so much better to wound you first though. After all, I deserve a little enjoyment from this. I can't go around killing people just like that, where would the entertainment be in such a drab little exercise? No, I like to hurt them first, and I think I've succeeded here, wouldn't you agree?"
"You're insane."
"Now why is it everyone tells me that? Ever since I was small I've heard that over and over again." He made himself comfortable on the upturned display cabinet and rubbed his hands together. "Now then," he said brightly, "are you going to tell me where the second guardian is hidden?"
"Never."
"Well, at least you're consistent," he said but the smile had vanished from his face. "You do realise that I am going to force you to disclose its whereabouts? It will not be pleasant. Much better to tell me straight away."
"My family's kept that holy thing safe and secure for too long," replied Mr Roper. "I've sacrificed a lot to stay here and take care of it. What right have you got to take it now?"
"The right of conquest," answered Nathaniel coldly, "but you're wrong, you relinquished your stewardship of the guardian many years ago, when you married a barren woman. You should have had sons to take on this burden and look after you in your dotage. They would never have invited a warlock into their house. You've been a fool, Roper."
His dark eyes opened wide and the full might of his power came shooting out of them. "Now," he hissed, "tell me."
Mr Roper gasped and dropped to his knees. It was as though a tremendous weight was pinning him down, crushing and grinding him into the floor. Bolts of searing pain lashed his body, stabbing, scalding, breaking, he uttered a feeble wail then hid his face in his hands. The torture intensified, his skin bubbled and his muscles wasted on the bone. When he next opened his mouth, no sound came from it, and he fell prostrated before his enemy, crippled with agony.
Nathaniel leaned forward, taking a sadistic delight in the pensioner's suffering. His baleful eyes continued to blast out their power and he wondered how much longer the man could last before surrendering.
A thousand daggers pierced Mr Roper's flesh and an army of stinging ants went creeping into the wounds. A stream of acid trickled from above, splashing on to his back, smouldering through the clothes and eating into his spine. That was it. The old man lifted a trembling hand and pointed to the open parlour door. "Kitchen..." he whimpered, "under the floor." And he slumped on to the carpet, his torments over. "God forgive me," he blubbered, "forgive me."
"Congratulations," Nathaniel said admiringly, "you lasted longer than many half your age." Stepping over him, he strolled casually into the hall and entered the kitchen, where, kneeling, he tugged at one corner of the faded linoleum and ripped a great chunk out of it.
"Under here," he chanted ecstatically, "under here!"
The floor covering was old and brittle, already cracked in places, it was only the work of seconds to rip it to shreds. Nathaniel held his breath with excitement, revealed amongst the tatters were large flagstones and upon one of them...
The warlock cleared the remaining scraps of lino away. Carved into the centre of the largest stone was a symbol of the crescent moon. Hastily he fished in his pocket and brought out the plaster fragment. Sure enough, the mark corresponded to one of those inscribed there. Quickly, he took a knife from the drawer and levered the flagstone up an inch. Then he slid his fingers underneath and lifted it clear.
"What is this?" he bawled, staring into the space beneath. "It's empty!" His lip curled into a snarl and he whirled about. "Roper!" he shrieked. "Trick me would you?"
He was furious and charged back to the parlour, only to find that empty too. Even as he gazed incredulously round the wrecked room, a chill draught touched his cheek—the front door was open.
Down the dark ginnel, Mr Roper fled. He wasn't sure where he would
go, he just had to escape. The memory of his agonies under Nathaniel still loomed large in his mind and, panting, he limped further into the echoing alley. Ribbons of grey mist swirled about his feet, whisking into turgid flurries as he staggered by, his frantic breathing steamed from his mouth and the blood sang in his ears. He must get free, away from that evil man, away to safety, away from pain—he had endured too much.
Suddenly a cold, hard voice rang out in the ginnel. It cut through the whirling mist, sounding hollow and dreadful.
"HALT!" it commanded.
Mr Roper cried out in alarm. Horrified, he swayed back and to but his feet refused to take another step forward. It was as if the mist had turned to glue and was holding him captive. Try as he might he could not wade through the clinging, foggy strands. His old heart quailed as the sharp sound of footsteps came to him out of the darkness and slowly he turned to face his fear.
The mist behind him billowed and curled, forming a spectral tunnel of smoke and framed at the far end of it, prowling slowly towards him, came Nathaniel.
"Old man," he sang, his voice bleak and sinister, "old man, I said I wouldn't play games, but I had forgotten what the night was. In these parts you call it Mischief Night don't you? A time of tricks and deception. Are you really this brave or merely senile? I shall ask you once more and this time you shall tell me the truth."
"Keep away," Mr Roper murmured, "keep away."
The mist eddied before the warlock as he strode closer, gathering thickly about his arms as he raised them and pointed at the trapped old man. This time it was different, there would be no entertainment, no lingering gloat over the physical pain. Just one, severe thrust with his mind, slashing through the flabby brain of his victim to extract the information he needed.
"Where is the second guardian?" he demanded.
Mr Roper howled as a black sword seemed to pierce his skull. He fell against the wall and his eyes grew large and wide. There was no resistance to that kind of mental power, he had lost.
As the darkness leaked into the old man's head, his teeth ground together and he slid to the wet ground. Nathaniel walked over to him, the mist wrapped around his shoulders like a great cape. Sneering, he thrust once more with the might of his mind and the broken figure below him groaned.
"B... Ben," gurgled Mr Roper helplessly, "Ben has it."
Nathaniel scowled. "You entrusted one of the most precious artefacts in the world to an eight year old boy?" he rumbled in disbelief.
The old man convulsed as yet another intangible blade lanced his mind and searched for the truth. "Yes," he gibbered, "he's the one, I swear it."
"Then he must be made to give it up," said
Nathaniel coldly. "I must have a nice chat with him, like the one we're having now."
"Can't," wheezed Mr Roper, "you can't attack him. He's touched the moonkelp, the only... the only living creature apart from the Deep Ones who has. Your spells would be... be useless!"
Nathaniel gave a cruel little snort and the black sword twisted viciously in his victim's mind. "Don't be too sure, old man," he spat, "there are other methods at my disposal."
Mr Roper held his head in his hands, it felt as though it was going to explode. "Stop the pain," he grovelled, "make it stop."
A sickening smirk crept on to the warlock's face, "As you wish," he murmured, "I have learnt all I can here. You have my permission to die."
Mr Roper, kindly and mild, a gentleman always and keeper of the second guardian, perished in the cold mist.
10 - The Briding
The vast shape of the cliff reared massive and black above Ben's head. The moon was hidden by cloud so there was no light to guide him, and twice he slipped on the moss-covered rocks. Some way in front, Nelda's grandfather plodded on unerringly, making straight for the hidden entrance to the aufwader caves. Tarr was more sure-footed than any goat and could pick his way over boulders and between the pools of freezing water blindfold.
When Ben slipped for the third time, the old aufwader glanced over his shoulder and mumbled tetchily into the neck of his gansey, "Stop dawdlin' lad, we'm almost theer."
"Sorry," the boy replied. His hands were covered in green slime from the moss and he wished he had put his gloves on before they had set off. Wiping his palms on his coat he delved into his pockets to rectify the situation, but could only find one crumpled glove, the fingers of which were stuck together by an old boiled sweet. Ben grumbled to himself, he was always losing things.
Tarr called to him and they moved further round the black volume of the rock until the distant lamps of Whitby were hidden behind the spur. Gradually, Ben became aware of a pale radiance shining over the moss-covered ground and glimmering on the surface of the spreading pools. Looking up, he saw that the great stone doors of the aufwader caves were open wide and many of the fisherfolk were gathered at the entrance with lanterns in their hands. A low babble of talk began as they approached and Ben stopped a moment to hear what they were saying.
"'Ere's Tarr now," a voice drifted down.
"Is the human with him?" asked another.
"Come an' see for thissen," replied the first.
"Uurrgh—nasty creature! Them's so ugly."
Ben's ears burned, and could feel their eyes boring into him. He had never seen the whole tribe together before, except from a distance at the funeral of Nelda's aunt. His nervousness at the prospect of meeting them steadily increased and this, mingled with his excitement made it impossible for him to concentrate on where to place his feet. For the fourth time he slithered and fell, grazing his hands on the wet shingle. High above derisive laughter broke out and the boy gazed ruefully at them.
Nelda's grandfather shook his head and retraced his steps back to Ben. "Now then," he said gruffly, "what ails thee? Tha's flappin' about like a crow wi' one wing."
Ben struggled to his feet, embarrassed to have looked so foolish. "I'm sorry," he said, "it's just so dark down here."
From the entrance, one of the aufwaders called, "Get brisk Tarr! The waters'll be over thy head afore long."
Tarr grunted disagreeably and waved his staff in the air. "Prawny Nusk, hold yer tongue and shine a light down 'ere. This poor tyke can't hardly see his hand in front of his face."
One of the figures held up its lantern and the silvery rays illuminated a small area of the shore. Tarr turned to Ben; the aufwader was outlined by the lamplight which shimmered along the edges of his large ears, glinted in his whiskers and formed a frosty halo all around him.
Holding out a knobbly hand, he said in a kindly voice, "Dunna pay no heed to them, folk'll hoot at owt if'n they's boggled enough. And mark me—us are all scared toneet."
So, helped by Tarr, Ben began to climb up the cliff face. Slowly, they ascended, finding footholds and scrambling on to small ledges until a number of weathered hands came grasping at the air above their heads. As the boy reached out for them he felt many fingers tighten about his arms and draw him upwards.
"Easy, easy," Nelda's grandfather shouted to them, "'umans ain't strong, dunna break 'im."
Ben had seen it once before, but was still overawed by the size of the chamber. The main entrance to the aufwader caves was cluttered with small boats and kreels that leaned against the rough walls and festoons of weighted nets entirely curtained off one corner, making it look like the cocooned nest of some immense insect. Overhead hung the giant mechanism which operated the huge stone doors. This was a rusted jumble of enormous cogs, iron pulleys and long chains.
Evidently some effort had been made to try and decorate the chamber in honour of the occasion. Here and there, lamps had been hung from a piece of corroded metal and, strung between these were garlands of seaweed—laced with bright shells and smooth pebbles of iridescent, sea-polished glass. But the overall effect was a cheerless and disjointed hotch-potch. A dismal failure that was unpleasant to look on, and a more oppressive, funereal display would have been hard to imagine.
The fisherfolk who had hauled Ben inside, set hi
m on his feet then backed away nervously. Few of them had ever been so close to a human before, let alone actually touched one.
They eyed him warily, as though he might spring at them any moment and some even clasped fishing poles and boat hooks in readiness.
In turn, Ben stared at them. Most of the tribe were assembled there; with weathered faces, scored by deep wrinkles and burnt by the wind. All wore ganseys, patterned according to his or her family, though a few added to this thick woollen shawls or an oilskin found washed up on the shore. The womenfolk were generally smaller than their partners, and kept their hair long and loose down their backs, but some preferred to braid it with seaweed and tie it round with discarded seagull feathers.
One of the sea wives who had helped Ben up, brushed her hand against her cheek and murmured, "Its skin is so soft!" She gazed at the strange creature with wide eyes that were full of regret and sadness, and sobbed, "It's like... like a babe's."
Several of the other females went over and comforted her, throwing curious glances at the human child. A desperate emptiness showed in all their faces.
"What's the matter?" he asked. "Have I done something wrong?"
The sea wives shuffled forward, first circling the boy, then closing in on him. As they reached out their hands, Ben felt an overwhelming desire to turn back and jump out of the cave.
"A bairn!" they uttered sorrowfully.
"Let me touch it!"
A squat figure, with a necklace of shells and an eyepatch, pressed nearer to him and gently caressed his skin. A solitary tear sprang from her good eye and she hastened away to mourn in a dark corner.
A dozen other hands came stroking and patting, but all were soft and tender, like the flutter of autumn leaves floating past his face. And then they fell back and he found himself in a ring of weeping women who rocked silently to and fro, their hearts broken and bleeding for what had never been.
Quietly, Tarr came up behind the boy and put his hand on his shoulder. "Nivver you mind them," he whispered in his ear, "remember, the curse of the Lords of the Deep lies heavy on us all. No bairn's bin born to us since Nelda—and her mother only did that for the great love she had for my son Abe." Silently he recalled the agonies Nelda's mother had suffered. The torture of the birth had been dreadful and it was a miracle his granddaughter had survived, no other baby ever had. "A lingering death it is," he lamented, "and the poor lass endured it for nearly two whole weeks afore she passed on—wasted and spent into the shadows."