The Whitby Witches Trilogy

by Robin Jarvis

  Miss Boston shifted in her seat, for Prudence was talking excitedly now, inspiring her with her words.

  "Remember who you are," she continued. "Remember what you are. You have a skill far beyond that of ordinary people; use that knowledge now—heal yourself."

  The white woolly head shook in despair; her condition was too severe for those humble ways.

  Mrs Joyster slapped the arm of the chair and sprang to her feet in annoyance. "Don't be ridiculous, woman!" she cried. "I don't expect you to do it all by yourself! Have you utterly forgotten what you brought from London? That most precious thing Patricia Gunning entrusted to you?"

  An expression of complete bewilderment passed over Miss Boston's face as she finally remembered—the Book of Shadows!

  "There!" Prudence exclaimed. "How could you have neglected such a treasure as that? Use the book wisely, study it and make yourself strong again..."

  The spectre paused and looked up sharply, as if she had heard something that alarmed her. Miss Boston strained to listen but the only noise was that of the rain.

  "So soon?" Prudence gasped in a voice fraught with dread. "But there is still much to tell!"

  A concerned look, almost one of fear, now fixed itself over her ghostly features and when she next spoke, her words were hurried and filled with urgency.

  "Listen!" she said. "My time here is almost over. I have not yet explained the real reason for my presence. Oh, damn them—I feel His thought reaching out to us! Alice, there is great danger, I came to warn you. Plans are being laid—terrible, evil plans."

  Prudence shuddered as she spoke, twisting her head the entire time, and those pale blue eyes darted from side to side as though she expected some frightful horror to spring at her from the shadows. Evidently her fears were growing for her voice quickly rose until she was practically shouting.

  "Alice!" she shrieked. "A day will come when you will need all of your strength. You sit there, thinking that the hazards and nightmares are over—well, they are not. I promise you, the worst terrors are yet to come. You have no idea of the peril that is creeping closer with every passing day."

  At that moment the rain beat more loudly upon the window and Prudence jumped in fright. Reaching out her ghostly hand, she tried to clutch the gnarled arthritic mitten that was Miss Boston's.

  "Against the forces which are mounting," she cried, "little can survive! There will be no salvation—no refuge! Think of yourself and those children that are so dear to you!"

  The old lady glared at her. What did she mean by that?

  "If you are not able to defend them," Prudence warned, "then Jennet and Ben will most certainly die!"

  Miss Boston uttered a pitiful whimper but outside the cottage the rain was torn aside as a sudden gale whipped through the courtyard. Plant pots crashed to the ground, scattering their earth into the ferocious wind which hurled it against the window panes. Prudence gave a yell of panic and leaped backwards as an unseen force flung her across the room. Like a cornered animal she stared wildly at the storm and cast an anxious look at her stricken friend.

  "Don't give up, Alice!" she wailed. "Use the book—but above all, beware!"

  Then, carried upon the squalling gale, came the roaring sound of the sea. Its effect upon Prudence was startling. Covering her ears, she shrieked and her terrified voice rose above the thunderous weather.

  Suddenly, from the fireplace, came a blast of freezing, salty air and the room was at once filled with dust and ash.

  With a final, agonising scream, the ghost of Prudence Joyster crackled and vanished.

  Almost immediately, the storm subsided and the gentle drizzle resumed its monotonous drumming upon Whitby. But in the cottage, Miss Boston shook and trembled as she stared fearfully around her.

  Covering the now dead embers, the hearth was filled with wet sand and more of it was still trickling down the chimney. The old lady lifted her eyes to the dark windows and uttered a cry of shock, for pressed against the glass and obliterating the world outside was a solid wall of dripping seaweed. It was as if the ocean itself had tried to invade the cottage and Miss Boston shuddered, remembering Prudence's ominous words.

  1 - A Secret Four Months Old

  Ben pulled the hood of his coat over his dark mousy hair and hurried along the shore. It had been several weeks since he had last visited the fisherfolk, for Miss Wethers was not keen to humour this fanciful notion of his and kept him indoors as much as possible.

  "How could there be such creatures living in tunnels beneath the cliffs?" she had asked, not wishing to listen to any more of his nonsense. "And you shouldn't encourage him, Jennet. I don't like him wandering on the beach alone and nor should you. He's only eight, remember."

  The boy pulled a wry face; he had tried to explain about the fisherfolk but she would never understand.

  For countless years, the aufwaders had dwelt in their vast warren below the town. Once there had been many different tribes, but over time their numbers had steadily dwindled until only one was left, made up of the gleanings of the others.

  Yet the ancient home of the fisherfolk had been destroyed by Morgawrus and since then the tribe was forced to seek shelter in other, more shallow caves set in the East Cliff.

  All of the aufwaders mourned the loss of their former homes. Now they were exposed to the worst ravages of the weather and shivered inside the dank new holes. It had been a severe and biting winter and for one of the eldest members of the tribe it had proved too much.

  Lorkon was the only survivor of the ancient ruling triad and his death was taken as an omen of their impending doom and extinction.

  Sadly, Ben remembered that cold night when the funeral boat containing Lorkon's body had sailed out to sea in a blaze of fire. The aufwaders had gathered upon the shore and as they sang the Song of the Dead the boy had wondered what would become of them.

  It was difficult for that proud race to accept this new life, for now they were like refugees in their own land. Even Ben's friend Nelda had grown disheartened and he sorrowfully recalled that she had hardly spoken to him on that solemn occasion. Perhaps she, like many of the other aufwaders, had started to feel bitter towards mankind.

  It was with some trepidation therefore that he approached the towering cliffs.

  "Nelda!" Ben called. "It's me! Nelda! Can you hear me?"

  There was no answer, and the boy stared up at the sheer wall of shale that reared above him. The fisherfolk had been extremely busy disguising the entrances to their new caves—even his eyes could not see them.

  Rain splashed on to his face, and irritably he wiped away the water with his sleeve.

  Nothing stirred, no large eyes stared down at him and no voice was raised in greeting. All was strangely silent and Ben realised that there were no gulls flying overhead. It was an unnatural calm and he shuddered and almost fled, for in the fading light the place took on a sinister aspect and the cliffs seemed threatening—with menace lurking in every shadow.

  "Don't be silly," he told himself. "You're too old to be scared of the dark."

  Eyeing the boulders before him, Ben tried to recall the route he had taken on his last visit. The rocks were wet and slippery, but undeterred, the boy began to climb.

  Very slowly he made his cautious way upward, though not at all sure of the correct path; he found the going exceedingly difficult.

  The knees of Ben's school trousers were quickly soaked as he scrabbled over wet moss that stained them a livid and indelible green. A shameless grin lit his face as he imagined Miss Wethers' face when she saw the state of them; he enjoyed inflicting little upsets upon Dithery Edith.

  The trousers became greener and dirtier as he ascended, but after a while he paused to catch his breath and inspect how far he had clambered. The boy was disappointed to discover that he had hardly made any progress at all and he put out his bottom lip in annoyance.

  "Just have to try harder," he said aloud.

  Standing upon a narrow shelf of rock, he saw that t
o his left a series of treacherous looking footholds were notched into the cliff face. Confident that he recognised them, Ben pushed the toe of his shoe into the nearest and warily continued.

  But the rain had made the way perilous and it was not long before the boy wished he had never attempted the dangerous climb. Twice his fingers slid over the shale and he pressed himself desperately to the rock, breathing rapidly and longing to be standing upon the shore once again.

  "Why do I always get myself into these messes?" he fumed. "You really are a Cret, Benjamin Laurenson!"

  With an effort, he lifted his right foot and placed it into the next cleft. But this one was shallow and when he put his weight upon it he slipped.

  Out into the empty air his leg swung and the boy lost his balance. Shrieking, he struggled to cling on but his fingers were torn from the rock and he knew that he was going to fall.

  "Help!" he wailed as he fell backwards.

  "Up tha comes!" bawled a gruff voice. A strong brown hand flashed from the shadows above and caught Ben's wrist. "What addled daftness be this? Weer did tha reckon tha wert headin'?"

  Tarr Shrimp, present leader of the fisherfolk tribe and the grandfather of Nelda, hauled the boy to safety with one hand then clipped the back of his head with the other.

  "Th—thank you," Ben gasped. "I nearly..."

  "Aye, yer girt gawby mad allick—tha mun be witless a comin' out on such a day as thissun. Get thee inside afore tha catch a death."

  Taking the boy by the arm, he led him up a gently rising ledge then mounted a rocky outcrop that served as a natural flight of steps.

  Now Ben was sure of the way; the entrance to the Shrimp dwelling was just a little distance ahead.

  Up to a tall and narrow crevice, Tarr went and waited for the human child to follow.

  "Skip to it, lad!" he snapped. "Ah doesna' wish t'chase Lorkon to t'grave."

  Ben squirmed into the seemingly shallow gap, then twisted sharply to the left where the rock behind him suddenly opened out and he found himself standing inside the cliff face.

  At once Ben's eyes began to water as they were filled with woodsmoke and it was some moments before he could see clearly.

  The cave was small and its walls were roughly hewn. Hanging in great swathes from the rocky ceiling were many fishing nets and from these, two tiny lamps were hung. The steady flames that burned within them threw confused criss-crossed shadows into the furthest corners and in their light, Ben saw the cause of his streaming eyes.

  In the middle of the meagre chamber, a pathetic fire was burning, and the damp wood that had been placed upon it gave off a continual thread of steam and smoke. Sitting before these miserable flames, with her back turned towards the entrance—was Nelda.

  The aufwader girl was staring into the fire, lost in her own thoughts, and so intense was her concentration she did not hear Ben or her grandfather enter.

  Over her huddled frame the lamplight danced, rejoicing in her large sea-grey eyes and glowing in the soft curves of her lined, leathery face. Nelda's dark, tangled hair trailed over her shoulders and as the waving tresses flowed down the back of her gansey, the lanterns picked out hidden strands of copper and made them glint and shine.

  The youngest of the fisherfolk was undoubtedly one of the fairest ever to have graced any tribe, yet she was also the unhappiest.

  In silence she gazed into the heart of the flickering flames and brooded upon the deadly secret that she had not dared tell to anyone. For months now she had kept it from even her grandfather, not knowing what to do or where to turn. If only her Aunt Hesper was still alive, she would have listened and hugged her.

  A solitary tear of despair fell from Nelda's lashes, as she realised that soon her secret would be all too obvious. For inside her, the unborn child of Esau was growing and eventually her swelling stomach would betray her.

  "Stir thissen, lass," barked Tarr gravely. "Us've got usselves a visitor."

  Nelda hastily wiped her eyes and turned around.

  "Hello," Ben said. "Thought I'd come and see how you are, before Miss Wethers realises where I've got to. It's pouring down outside."

  "Take thy drippin' coat off," Tarr told him. "Ah'll put it near t'fire. Sit thee down."

  Nelda managed a faint smile for the boy as he wormed his way out of the sodden coat and handed it over to her grandfather.

  "It is good to see you again," she said, glad to be distracted from her dismal thoughts. "Come, sit by me and I shall put more wood on the fire to cheer us."

  Mechanically, she thrust another piece of driftwood into the flames whilst Tarr settled himself upon a low stool and took up his pipe.

  "Reet fain am I t'sithee," he remarked to Ben. "Our Nelda's been no company. Fair mardy she be gettin'. Ah nivver did think it o' the lass. Nigh on a month she's been a mopin' wi' 'er face a draggin' on t'floor."

  No reply came from his granddaughter. Throwing him an angry glance, she stared sullenly back at the fire.

  Ben said nothing but felt horribly uncomfortable. He had obviously walked in upon some family squabble and wondered how long it would be before his coat was dry enough to wear again.

  From a pouch at his belt, Tarr pulled out a hunk of dried fish and began to chew it, offering a piece to Ben.

  "Womenfolk!" he mumbled, scratching his white whiskers. "Nivver knowed wheer ye be wi'em. Either chelp or chunter, ain't no middle track."

  Ben sniffed the morsel of dried fish and tasted it dubiously. It was like eating a stringy piece of carpet that grew no smaller no matter how long you persisted in gnawing and biting. He felt that it would be too impolite to spit the offensive lump from his mouth, even though the amount of salt in it made him want to retch. For a long time, he occupied himself in trying to swallow but this was impossible so, like a hamster, he tucked it inside his cheek to dispose of later.

  "How are the rest of the tribe?" he finally asked. "Are they a bit more settled now after Lorkon's funeral?"

  "Settled as them can be in these pokey holes," Tarr grumbled. "Most of 'em found it too harsh and found a way in to th'old caverns."

  "I thought all those were destroyed!" Ben cried.

  "Aye, that's reet enough, them was. But the main entrance chamber is still theer behind the girt doors which are sealed ferivver, and a new way were delved to enter it. The death of Lorkon put the wind up 'em, see. So now them sits in that one place, crowded t'gither like skeered sheep. A sorry sight 'ave us become."

  Tarr drew on his pipe and gazed across at Nelda but she would not look at him and he puffed out a ring of blue smoke that drifted past her eyes, yet still she said nothing.

  "Well, then, lad," Tarr began, "how's thy aunt doin'? Any tidings theer?"

  Ben shook his head. "No," he sadly replied. "Aunt Alice is just as poorly as she was before. I don't think she will ever get better and there are times when she looks... terrible. It's so awful, I don't know what me and Jen would do if she died. If only I could do something. Miss Wethers doesn't help either; she treats her like a baby and I can tell Aunt Alice detests it."

  "Aye," agreed Tarr sombrely, "'tis a sore trial for all. Much does we owe that aunt o' thine. She'll allus be remembered by us; so long as the tribe lasts, her name'll be honoured."

  The old aufwader reached for his staff which was leaning against the wall and nudged his granddaughter with it. "Now theer's one wi' summat t'despair of—not thee, lass. What ails thee? Nowt so bad as that, ah'll be bound—so buck up."

  Nelda had to bite her tongue to keep from telling him there and then and with a tremendous effort changed the subject.

  "What of your sister, Ben?" she asked through clenched teeth. "She is well, I trust?"

  Ben shrugged. "I don't know what's got into Jen," he replied. "She isn't the same as she used to be. She just isn't any fun these days."

  "None of us are the same as we used to be," Nelda muttered grimly. "Both you and Jennet have grown, you have seen and learnt a great deal since the death of your parents."

>   "I suppose," the boy agreed, but he was reluctant to talk about his mother and father and said no more.

  Nelda, however, seemed strangely eager to hear all she could. "Is it really three winters since they were killed?" she asked.

  Ben gave the slightest of nods then fidgeted with his school tie.

  Tarr scowled at his granddaughter but she would not be silenced.

  "Do you know how they died?"

  "Stop it," the boy said in dismay.

  "Was their passing quick?" she morbidly persisted. "Do you think they suffered much?"

  "Yes!" Ben cried. "They must have. Mum and Dad were drowned—all right? The car ran off the road and crashed into a river. They couldn't get out in time so—yes, they suffered."

  "Nelda!" shouted Tarr angrily. "Why badger the lad? See how he is upset!"

  "Forgive me, Ben," she said, putting her hand over his, "but you and I are alike. We are orphans we two, yet at least you know the manner of your mother's end. It is best to know all, not be left to conjure up demons in the mind to feed on ignorance and fear." She spoke the final words for Tarr's benefit but her grandfather slammed his staff furiously upon the floor and rose to his feet.

  "Enough!" he demanded. "Will tha not cease? Ah've told thee many times—ah shall not speak of that time! Nivver!"

  Nelda glowered at him. "How did my mother die?" she shrieked. "Tell me!"

  "NO!" he yelled, pointing a trembling finger at her. "Ah warn thee, dunna pursue this. Them days were evil—ah forbid thee to speak on it!"

  "Why will you not tell me what her final hours were like? Have I not that right? It was for me that she died—I demand to know!"

  "NIVVER!" he bawled, and such was the force of his voice that she knew it was pointless to continue.

  Ben sat awkwardly between them. He had never seen either Tarr or Nelda so impassioned before and to witness them now with their tempers boiling alarmed him greatly. Each aufwader glared at the other, the elder positively quaking with rage and the other near to bursting with a frenzied obsession that the boy found weird and macabre.