The Whitby Witches Trilogy

by Robin Jarvis

  "The doctor?" Jennet cried. "Is she all right?"

  Desperately, Ben stared at the closed door and his empty stomach turned over. What if the old lady had died?

  "Alice is fine," Edith hastily explained as she saw the colour rising in the children's faces. "She got a little agitated this afternoon, that's all—over-excited herself for some reason."

  Before she continued, the tissue flew about her nose like a fat butterfly. "I had only popped upstairs for a little lie down," she trilled, "when suddenly the storm awoke me and I heard a crash from downstairs."

  Here she paused to catch her breath as if reliving the moment when she tore down the stairs. "When I entered the sickroom I found Alice sprawled on the floor. The silly old thing had tried to stand, can you imagine? Lord alone knows what got into her! Oh it was awful, and do you know what else? Sand! Everywhere there was sand. It dripped from the chimney and made a fine mess all over the place. How do you account for that? I'm sure I don't know! And covering the windows was a heap of seaweed. It was like one of those uncanny events you read about—when it rains frogs or sardines. Took a long time to be rid of it too. Anyway, there Alice was—sprawled."

  Her report complete, Edith gulped the air exhaustedly then added in a respectful whisper, "Of course I ran to telephone Doctor Adams immediately. He's just finishing his examination; shouldn't be too much longer."

  The children looked at one another nervously, and wished they had both been here sooner.

  Within the sickroom, Doctor Adams closed his medical bag and shook his head at the patient.

  "You are nothing but a stubborn old nuisance," he told her in his most professional voice. "Getting up from your chair indeed! You should have a little more consideration for the people who care for you than to persist in these foolhardy ventures. You're not a young woman; people of your age should do as their physicians tell them."

  Doctor Adams had practised in Whitby for nearly twenty years and was nearing the age when his thoughts turned towards taking an early retirement. He was a tall, pink man with rather too much flesh on him than was healthy. His thinning hair was swept over his domed head and slicked down by generous applications of pomade so that no sudden gust of wind could send the long wisps flying.

  Miss Boston stared at him, and if looks could maim then he would have been the one in need of medical attention.

  She was now lying in bed with the pillows properly fluffed up by Edith and her coverlet neatly tucked in all around.

  "You should be thankful there's no damage done," the doctor concluded. "Old bones are very fragile, you know. One of my patients in Bagdale had a hip replacement last week and he's thirty years younger than you. Just don't think you can gad around any more."

  Giving Miss Boston a final, disapproving look, he went to the door and told Edith that he had finished.

  At once, Jennet and Ben pushed past him and put their arms about Aunt Alice's neck.

  "Careful," the doctor scolded. "She's an invalid, remember, and it's been a tiring day for her. She needs as much rest as possible and plenty of peace and quiet—don't excite her."

  Miss Wethers drank in the doctor's words and privately resolved that she would try harder as a nurse.

  "Is there anything more I should be doing for her, Doctor?" she squeaked.

  Doctor Adams gave her a pleased smile and revealed in the expansive pink face were his little, perfect, pearly teeth.

  "I wish all my patients were so well tended to," he praised her. "Alice Boston should count herself lucky to have such a good friend. If she were a little less selfish and reconciled herself to her infirmities she mightn't put you under this unnecessary strain."

  On the bed, Miss Boston snorted, but Edith blushed and nervously rushed into the kitchen to make the doctor a cup of tea.

  "Now then," he said to the children, "remember what I said, no excitement for her." And with that he followed the flustered ex-postmistress from the room.

  As soon as she was rid of him, Miss Boston urgently tried to speak to Jennet and Ben. But all that issued from her paralysed mouth was a series of incoherent grunts.

  "What are you trying to say?" Jennet asked her. "I can't understand."

  "Do you want something, Aunt Alice?" guessed Ben.

  The old lady puckered her face into a scrunched-up mass of wrinkly skin as she battled to force the words from her mouth.

  "Careful," Jennet warned her. "Remember what the doctor said."

  The old lady's head flopped against the pillows and tears of frustration sprang from her eyes.

  Ben's heart went out to her. "Perhaps if you pointed at something," he suggested, "we could work it out from there—a bit like charades."

  Miss Boston's face brightened at once and again she summoned her feeble strength.

  Her right arm twitched and for a brief second she managed to indicate one of the shelves in the alcove.

  "Is it up here?" Jennet asked, jumping from the bedside and running to the collection of bizarre objects that Miss Boston had gathered about herself over the many years.

  The old lady nodded and Jennet quickly ran through a list of all she could find upon the shelf.

  "Corn dolly, jar with—pooh what's in there? Not that? Carved piece of stone, bird's nest, three old bottles—no? Lace pin cushion, candlestick, another little jar, (I'm not looking in that one), row of books..."

  Miss Boston raised herself from the pillow and her eyes grew large with excitement.

  "One of these, then?" breathed the girl as she began to read what was written on the spines.

  "Greek Legends and Other Myths, Translations from the Celtic Manuscripts; Is Anybody There?, The Spirit Guides of the Ancients; Passion on the High Seas—I think that's one of Miss Wethers'. I can't read this one, it's too tatty. The next is Legacy of the Witches; Angelic Messengers of the Old Testament; Magic and Superstition in the Modern World..."

  "Jen!" Ben called. "Stop!"

  The girl looked round and saw that Miss Boston was tapping her hand upon the bedclothes and nodding her head frantically.

  "Which?" asked Jennet. "The last one or the one about angels?"

  "No," said Ben as Aunt Alice shook her head, "it was that scrappy one she wanted."

  Jennet eased the volume from the shelf but the binding had deteriorated and several loose pages fluttered to the floor. Picking them up, she handed the untidy sheaf to the old lady, who spread her arthritic fingers over the cover and gave a grateful sigh.

  Ben peered at the jumble of yellowing pages sandwiched between the two faded covers and pulled a puzzled expression.

  "It looks as though it's been ripped apart and thrown back together," he said. "Is it an old diary, Aunt Alice? There's handwriting on that bit, and a funny drawing there."

  "Ooh, Doctor Adams," Edith's fluting voice twittered towards them from the kitchen. "I'll make sure she doesn't exert herself again. Do you know it's just like when I was looking after Mother—quite nice to be caring for the sick again. I'll see you to the door, Doctor. Thank you so much for coming over. Yes, I'll see to it she takes the new medication."

  Miss Boston and the children listened as the doctor and Edith left the kitchen and padded down the hall. Quickly Miss Boston lifted her hand and Jennet, catching her intention, picked up the book and hid it beneath the bedclothes by the old lady's side.

  "Here we are, then," said Miss Wethers as she returned to the sickroom. "Doctor Adams is just off, Alice, and you children should let her get some rest. Come on—out you go. Oh Ben, your trousers! They've made a horrid wet patch on the coverlet. Go and change at once."

  The children kissed Aunt Alice goodnight, but as they filed through the doorway Ben glanced back at her and to his delight she gave him an encouraging wink.

  Briskly, the doctor bade his patient farewell then Miss Wethers showed him out and flitted back to the invalid.

  "I imagine you feel much better now," she cooed, bending at the knees as if she were talking to a three-year-old. "Isn't
he marvellous with his little black bag? So solid and reassuring, don't you think? Now then, it's medicine time for you before bobos."

  Vanishing into the kitchen for a moment to fetch a glass of water, Miss Wethers returned carrying two tablets between her fingers.

  "The doctor's given you some new pills. He says they'll keep you a little bit more settled, stop you getting fractious and fretting so much. 'The carer's friend' he calls them, isn't that lovely? Now open up, Alice."

  The old lady gave her attendant demon a mutinous glare then was forced to open her mouth when Edith pinched her nose.

  "Be a good girl," admonished Miss Wethers. "We must take our tablets, mustn't we? There, now have some water to wash them down. Mother was just the same, she hated taking the medicine but I knew what was best for her. All done! Who's clever then? I'll leave you to doze while I make the children's tea, then I'll turn the light off."

  Edith tiptoed from the sickroom and gently closed the door behind her.

  Miss Boston gave a contemptuous grunt, then she spat the tablets from her mouth and laboriously hid them in the pocket of her bedjacket.

  When this was done, she slowly drew the tattered volume from under the blankets and held her breath. Here it was, the most precious thing in a witch's possession—the Book of Shadows.

  Patricia Gunning had entrusted it to Miss Boston with her dying breath, but since her return to Whitby she had not given it a single thought.

  Now the old lady's hand trembled with excitement. If this really did hold the key to her recovery then Patricia had been more powerful than she had ever suspected.

  Holding her breath, she felt a thrill of expectancy and wonder tingle throughout her entire being. Carefully, she lifted the cover and turned the first page.

  Written in silver ink, in a familiar, ostentatious style that took her back to her lecturing days at the ladies' college, she read the following inscription:

  I, Patricia Eliander Gunning, do commit to these pages all the lore I have learned in my lifelong study of the Craft. I pray that the powers of light keep it from those who pursue the dark road, for contained herein is much secret and sacred knowledge. In the name of the great Mother Goddess I devote this work and charge you who read it to bring neither hurt nor harm to any other.

  Blessed be.

  Miss Boston smiled sadly as she remembered her former pupil. The voice of that exuberant young girl seemed to call to her from the distant past and the old lady hesitated before she studied the Book of Shadows in greater detail. She had no idea what it would reveal to her—Patricia had been one of the most powerful and respected white witches in the country.

  With her heart fluttering in her breast, she began to read.

  ***

  Later that night, red and glowing after a hot bath, Ben wrestled into his pyjamas. With the main light still switched on, he crawled into bed and stared thoughtfully at the sloping ceiling.

  "What was bothering Nelda?" he drowsily murmured to himself. "And why did she want to talk to that awful Parry?" The boy yawned, then rolled over and reached across to the chest of drawers where he picked up a small piece of stone.

  The ammonite that Ben had found in the first week of his time in Whitby had become one of his favourite possessions. To him, it symbolised a steady continuity, a permanent thing in a world that was always changing. Some nights, when he felt especially vulnerable or if he had rowed with his sister, he would go to sleep with the fossil grasped tightly in his hand. Tonight was one of those occasions. Nelda's curt dismissal was troubling him and Ben traced the snake-like, spiral pattern of the ammonite with his fingers to reassure himself.

  "Ben," Jennet's voice suddenly hissed from behind the door, "are you asleep?"

  Before the boy could answer she was in the room and Ben noticed with some surprise that she was carrying a photograph album. He recognised it at once but said nothing, for an odd look was spread over Jennet's face.

  "Mind if I sit down for a while?" she asked, already sitting upon the end of the bed.

  There was a pause as Ben waited to hear what she wanted but the girl seemed reluctant to mention the album and chattered instead about Miss Boston.

  "She was very keen to get that book," Jennet remarked without any real enthusiasm. "It's been on that shelf for months now—why the sudden interest?"

  The boy made no answer; they both knew that Jennet had not come to talk about Aunt Alice.

  Jennet gave a nervous cough. "I was leafing through this," she mumbled, indicating the album that was still clutched tightly in her hands. "I just wanted to see them—you know."

  A deep furrow appeared in Ben's forehead as he tried to guess what his sister was up to. She never let him see the family photographs—why was she doing it now?

  Jennet hesitated before she opened the album, then a peculiar smile fixed itself to her face as she turned the first page.

  "There's Mum and Dad when they were married, there's the honeymoon, me when I was a baby—my first birthday..." Her voice began to tremble and the girl lowered her head so that her long hair curtained off her face and Ben knew that she had started to cry.

  Patiently, he waited until she had recovered before saying anything. Even after all this time the grief could take you by surprise; he had experienced it himself and there was nothing to be done except let it pass.

  Presently his sister composed herself and swept the hair over her shoulders again. Her eyes were redder than before but she continued as though nothing had happened.

  "And there you are," she uttered in a husky voice. "Do you remember that holiday? How young we both were!"

  Throughout all this, Jennet had kept the album close to herself, hugging and guarding it jealously—hardly letting Ben have so much as a glimpse. Not once did she look at him; all her attention was focused upon the photographs, but now she shifted her gaze to her brother.

  A moment passed as she stared. It was obvious that she was troubled by something and did not know how to tell him. This in itself was unusual, for Jennet had always been the direct one who made her views and opinions known.

  "It's good to have the pictures," she eventually said. "It's nice to be able to see them, isn't it?"

  Ben wanted to say that he rarely saw the photographs. When he did it was only because he had sneaked into Jennet's room whilst she was out. But he kept silent and waited for her to continue.

  "Sometimes," she said, "sometimes I get confused—do you know what I mean? Their faces—Mum and Dad's—they sort of fade and get jumbled in my head. I forget what they looked like." The girl shuddered at this admission and cast her eyes down as though she had betrayed her dead parents.

  "That's... that's why I have to open the album now and then," she breathed, "just to reassure myself and remember."

  "I know that," Ben finally managed to say. "I like to see them too, but you hide the album from me."

  Jennet snapped the pages shut and reared her head, determined to ask what had been burning there for many months.

  "I want you to tell me," she began. "I want to know and this will be the only time I'll ever ask." She took a deep breath. It was difficult for her to broach this subject; she had always hated her brother's second sight, because it made him different and had only caused them trouble in the past. But this was important and the girl had to know for certain.

  "Tell me," she said again, "do you still see them? Do you see the ghosts of Mum and Dad?"

  There, she had said it and the relief she felt once the rush of words had tumbled out was immense.

  Ben could only gape at her. She never willingly talked about his "visitors" as he called them, and the question took him by complete surprise.

  "Well?" she demanded. "Do you? Do they still come to you at night like they used to? Are they concerned about us? Have they changed in any way? Do they look the same as on the day they died—the same as they did in these photos?"

  Jennet was shivering now and her eyes shone with a wild and frantic light that al
armed and bewildered her brother.

  "I... I don't know," he stammered.

  "What do you mean?" she snapped back. "Have you or haven't you? Do they still care about us? Do they care about what happens? What about me—do they ever mention me? I must know! It's important—tell me!"

  "No!" the boy yelled. "No, I haven't seen them. The last time was that night Aunt Alice had a séance when we first arrived and I saw Mum."

  "But that was ages ago!" she shouted back. "Are you trying to tell me they haven't been back since? I don't believe you! Mum and Dad loved us—they loved me! They'd want us to know they still cared. You're a liar! You have seen them! You have!"

  Tears streamed down her face but her heart was filled with anger. Fiercely, Jennet seized Ben by the shoulders and shook him violently.

  "You're a foul, spoilt monster!" she bawled. "Is it because I won't let you see the album? Is that why you're telling me these lies? I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! I wish you'd died with them!"

  "Jen!" her brother wailed. "You're hurting! Stop it!"

  "What's all that noise?" called Miss Wethers from downstairs. "Go to sleep the pair of you!"

  In disgust, Jennet threw Ben against the pillows, snatched up the album and stormed from the room..

  Ben winced as the door slammed shut and rattled in its frame. From Jennet's room there came the sound of her stomping, then the bed groaned as she cast herself upon it, followed by a flood of bitter and miserable tears.

  As the night deepened, sleep washed over both children and they were lost in fitful slumbers.

  Whitby grew dark; only the buzzing street lamps shone in the town, for every house light was extinguished as all inhabitants sought their rest. The small houses that balanced upon the brink of the river now stared with unlit windows down at their reflections and silence spread through the swaddling night.

  The mouth of the River Esk was calm and still. In the harbour, countless fishing boats bumped softly against each other, bobbing languidly upon the high tide. A group of gulls lazily rode the swollen waters and with mournful voices they gossipped and jeered.