The Whitby Witches Trilogy

by Robin Jarvis

  The new owner, Susannah O'Donnell, wiped down the last table and surveyed the shining interior of her café with undisguised pride.

  She was a plain, stunted-looking woman with a dull face that held no sparkle or redeeming feature which might have lifted her from the trough of ugliness. Her eyes were small and positioned too far apart under her heavy brows where they blinked alarmingly at anxious and nervous moments. Between these a misshapen lump of freckled gristle poked into the air—it was more of a snout than a nose and burdened her with the fact that it was always shiny and on cold days looked just like a polished radish.

  A mass of wiry ginger hair framed this unlovely countenance and the coarse sprouting had been cut with so little attention or skill that it seemed to grip her head like a tight-fitting helmet.

  From early on in her life, Susannah had realised that she was never going to be beautiful and had taken to sinking her chin into her chest and walking with a stoop to try to go unnoticed in the world. This habit had resulted in an unpleasant curvature of the spine and now her hunched shoulders and slightly rounded back were aspects of her appearance that she could no longer control.

  No, when she forced herself to gaze in the mirror, she knew that there was nothing a man might find attractive about that sorry reflection, and had resigned herself to that fact long ago. Yet every time Susannah O'Donnell opened her mouth to speak she turned the heads of everyone who heard her.

  She possessed one of the most exquisitely enchanting voices ever to have sang outside a nightingale's throat. With her lilting Irish accent, every sentence that she uttered was a marvellous music that made the fortunate listener smile with pleasure. Once Susannah had harboured the aspiration to become a professional singer but her father had forbidden that, for it would never have done for his ugly daughter to make a spectacle of herself in public. And so the dream withered inside her and she retreated further into his grand house, for her family was rich, and when her father died she had become one of the wealthiest women in Ireland.

  It was too late then, however, to fulfil her childhood ambition, for whatever meagre confidence she once nurtured had been mercilessly trampled and killed.

  By the time she was thirty-nine years old, Susannah had become a recluse and the family residence rang with the echoes of her unhappiness.

  Briskly, she shook the cloth out of the café door then pulled the rubber gloves from her hands.

  "A come-down this is," she sang lightly. "To think, O'Donnell, there were servants aplenty in that rambling old house o' father's." But as she said this a smile was irresistibly curving over her mouth and she wandered slowly through to the kitchen where the cloth and gloves were consigned to the appropriate drawer.

  "Ah, but you love it, sure you do," she eventually added with a spellbinding laugh, "and when were you so happy? 'Tis a time I can't remember."

  As she removed her overall, the woman paused and she did indeed recall such an occasion.

  "That was it," she lamented, "that first day when he came sailing into my life—all grin and blarney. Oh yes, that were a sunny chance and no mistake."

  Susannah became lost in a fair memory, that unforgettable day when the only man who had ever noticed her confessed his adoration, and from the moment she beheld those blazing eyes she was lost. Since that time she had followed him half-way around the world, and though he had proven faithless and cruel she had remained insanely devoted to him.

  "Nathaniel," her voice chimed softly, "oh my sweet, sweet love."

  For six years Susannah had been a member of the Crozier coven and during those witching years the high priest had squandered most of her fortune. But she had not cared. She knew that he had never had any affection for her and only used her when it suited him, but that did not matter. Nathaniel had let her stay by him and that was all she craved.

  She was not the only coven member to be so ensnared; she could list at least two others whom he had seduced merely for their wealth. Others were procured because they possessed some skill or talent that he could pervert and enslave to do his bidding. Only one of Susannah's "sisters" was brought into the coven because of her beauty, and she had heard dreadful tales from the others of how he had dealt with those who resented the lovely newcomer.

  He had been a selfish and arrogant devil who made certain that he got his own way in all matters, and those who disobeyed him were barbarously punished. But that had happened ten years before she had joined and every one of his disciples since that time had remained steadfastly loyal.

  As she hung the overall behind the kitchen door and began to pull on her overcoat she smiled ruefully.

  "A frightful man and that's the honest truth," she chirped. "It's mad I must have been to traipse from country to country, dodging the authorities. To what end has it brought me, I ask myself? An O'Donnell waiting on tables and wiping up grease and tea slops."

  A look of fright froze over Susannah's face and she shook herself angrily.

  "Of what am I thinking?" she gasped, fumbling with the collar of her coat. "Ah, that's better, much better. Be calm now, Little Carrot, think of him—that's it, remember his eyes. Remember his voice, hear it from your heart... ah yes, there he is—that gorgeous man."

  Throughout all this Susannah had been fingering a necklace of wooden beads and as she touched it she was reassured. The obedience to Nathaniel had begun to falter but now it was just as strong as it had ever been.

  "All will be well," she chanted solemnly. "We shall succeed and all will be well."

  Striding through the café she placed her hand upon the light switch but hesitated for one final look around the cheery room.

  "'Tis an indignity right enough," she admitted, "but mild compared to most of the things I've done these last years. Come on, O'Donnell, I said before as how you love it. Wouldn't be so bad a life running this place."

  She glanced across at the menu written in large colourful letters on the far wall and wondered if she ought to change it slightly for the following week. But all such thoughts were frivolous and futile—she might not even be here then.

  Quickly, she left the premises and locked them behind her. Then, hunched over more than ever, she walked along the quayside and drank in the pleasant sight of Whitby after dark.

  "It's a mercy that pile of stinking fish has been washed away," she observed as she crossed the swing bridge. '"Tis a grace I had any customers at all this evening with that foul reek a-wafting from the beach. Sure, me cream teas must be improving."

  Before she set foot upon the West Cliff, Susannah turned in a full circle, taking in the entire town which glittered beneath the buzzing street lamps.

  "'Tis a rare place," she murmured tunefully. "A most precious community with a history as fancy and noble as any other I've seen." She lifted her eyes past the rooftops to the shadowy stones of the church and tilted her head thoughtfully to one side. "More so perhaps," she added, "a quiet dignity resides up there—hmmm."

  The woman smiled regretfully then disappeared into one of the dark lanes beyond the bridge, her lovely voice humming a charming song from the old country.

  Inside The Whitby Bookshop, Miriam Gower looked at her watch and pursed her blood-red lips.

  "Nearly half eleven," she said tersely. "What are they up to?"

  The shop was in darkness for she did not wish to invite prying eyes; besides, she was perfectly at ease sitting in the pitchy gloom. As she sipped at a cup of strong, sweet tea, the large painted woman stared out at the street and waited.

  A little time ago, she had heard the stragglers leave the public houses at the foot of the abbey steps and saw them lumber past the window, clapping one another on the shoulders and laughing raucously or tottering by on white slingbacks with arms folded and moussed hair defying the breeze. Once a bony, bespectacled man who was out walking a yapping terrier had peered in at the bookshelves and Miriam drew her round figure deeper into the shadows until he and the dog had continued on their way.

  Now the street was
deserted and she tapped her watch grimly until the sound of furtive footsteps drew near and Miriam recognised the ridiculous noise at once.

  "Dear little Quas," she snapped, "about time too."

  Rising, she emerged from the gloom and unlocked the door just as Susannah was about to tap upon the glass.

  "Get in," Miriam ordered. "It's nearly midnight—what have you been doing?"

  Susannah hurried inside the building and tried to peer into the darkness. "Is Hillian here yet?" she asked. "Have I missed anything?"

  "No and no," came the curt response. "Oh, don't just stand there like a Belisha beacon for everyone to see—go upstairs."

  From her greater height, Miriam looked down upon the red-haired woman who stood awkwardly in full view of the window and pulled her towards the spiral staircase.

  "Take that horrible coat off first and leave it on the chair—don't spill that tea! Now come this way."

  The cast-iron steps shivered and groaned as the owner of the bookshop stomped over them, but when Susannah followed it was as if a ghost had floated by.

  On the tiny first floor Miriam had cleared all the books to one side and created a reasonable space in the centre of the carpet where three black candles were flickering.

  "You have been busy," Susannah praised her. "Did you shift those shelves by yourself? 'Tis a strong arm you have."

  Miriam let out an offended snort and promptly primped the frills that covered her muscular shoulders.

  "I hope there's enough light up here," she said archly. "I don't want you tripping over everything, do I?"

  Susannah shifted with unease and wished that Hillian would arrive soon. She never felt comfortable around Miriam—especially if they were alone together. The woman seemed to delight in making her feel small and inadequate.

  "Your nose has gone purple," Miriam commented.

  '"Tis mighty cold out there."

  "You're blinking again, Susie darling," the other remarked, forcing a horrible smile on to her broad face. "Maybe if you tried a little make-up you wouldn't look so peculiar. I'd let you have some of mine but I detest waste in all things. You should stop biting those nails too—it looks repulsive. I'm sure it would quite kill my appetite to see those chewed-up stumps serve me an iced bun or whatever it is you sell over there."

  Susannah felt as though she was being scrutinised under a magnifying glass and she could not bear it. "Have you heard from any of the others?" she blurted, trying to change the subject. "How goes it with them?"

  "Each has a part to play/" rapped the answer. "All will be gathered in the end—how many times have you been told this? Can't you remember anything?"

  "I wish we weren't all scattered, that's all—we work best together."

  Miriam waved her large hands airily. "Blame that on Hillian," she said. "This is her great plan. I only hope she knows what she's doing—I would have done it very differently."

  "Ah," crooned Susannah, "but then you weren't chosen to lead us, were you?"

  The large woman glared at her, but before she could spit out the gall that had bubbled inside her they were both disturbed by a knock upon the door below.

  "Here she is," Miriam sneered, moving towards the staircase once more, "and I think we'll just wait until we are successful to see who'll lead the sisters."

  Susannah leaned over the rail and pulled an insulting face at the great descending back. Then she heard the door open and Hillian's excited voice speaking breathlessly.

  "I have it!" she cried. "The contact is made. Where is Susannah?"

  "Upstairs."

  Nimbly, Hillian pattered to the first floor and when Miriam caught up with her, proudly showed them both the wooden chest that the sea had given to her.

  "Straight here have I come," she said, kicking off her mud-caked shoes and placing the box in the centre of the three candles.

  The chest looked ancient. It was made of black wood, carved with images of the deep oceans and bound around by two wide bands of rusting iron.

  Susannah did not lean forward admiringly like the others; the box reminded her of those ugly relics that Nathaniel had so cunningly acquired during his lifetime. Usually they had been foul artefacts stolen from some primitive tribe or taken from museums and her skin always crawled to see them.

  "Open it," Miriam urged, "quickly!"

  With the candlelight picking out a frenzied glint in her eyes, Hillian tore at the two iron clasps then carefully lifted the lid.

  A musty smell filled the room and Susannah swallowed as she blinked nervously and wrung her hands together.

  The chest was filled with dry straw and the three witches exchanged surprised glances.

  "Is there anything else in there?" Susannah ventured.

  "Only one way to find out," said Hillian, beginning to part the straw and search inside.

  "Perhaps it's a snake," Miriam said, "or a nest of scorpions."

  Hillian's fingers twitched gingerly as she contemplated these suggestions but dismissed them quickly. "No," she whispered, as her hand touched something round and hard. "Is it a dried gourd? No! See, my sisters!"

  Reaching in with both hands, she brought out what she had found and emitted a short, delighted laugh.

  Miriam's almond-shaped eyes shone and her sharp tongue peeped between her lips and licked them in rapture.

  "Delectable," she purred. "Let me touch it."

  "Look, Susannah!" Hillian exclaimed, showing her the contents of the box. "What a dainty we have been given."

  The red-haired woman looked at the thing which her coven-sister held in her hands and shivered.

  It was a horrible, mummified creature and Susannah instantly wished she was far away. The wizened nightmare was part fish, part monkey.

  Over the small ape skull a brown, papery skin still retained its features although they were shrivelled and withered by great age. Below the domed forehead two scrunched up circles indicated where the eyes had once been and a grimacing beast-like mouth scowled from the shrunken jaws.

  This foul head was perched upon a spindly neck which had contracted around the bones of the spine that protruded along the creature's humped back, ending in a small brittle tail fin.

  It was like a preserved freak of nature that had crawled from the pickling jar, and two emaciated arms were locked in a perpetual gesture of aggression and clawing attack.

  Almost as if the abhorrent specimen were a young child, Miriam cooed and stroked the clumps of fur which still clung to the parchment-dry flesh.

  "What a sweetheart," she murmured, preening the tangled hairs and blowing it kisses.

  Hillian put the creature on the carpet, then took from the box three small pouches of dark red cloth.

  "Incense," she commented, opening one of the bags and taking a wary sniff. "Each one is the same and look, there is a bronze dish to burn it in."

  Susannah ran her fingers through her coarse hair. "I don't understand," she muttered. "How can that dried-up thing possibly help us?"

  Miriam patted the fishmonkey's head and regarded the woman haughtily. "Really!" she tutted.

  "None of that!" Hillian rebuked the owner of the bookshop. "You are as puzzled as she. Even I am not certain how we are benefited by this novelty—charming though he is. Now, I think we had all best sit on the floor. That's it—form the circle."

  "With only three of us?"

  "It will have to do, Miriam. There, I take the dish and pour one pouch of incense on to it." Hillian closed the box and lifted the mummified creature on to the lid, then she placed the burner on the carpet just in front and lit the powder with a match.

  At once the incense spluttered and red sparks spat into the air.

  "A little damp perhaps," Hillian mumbled, as a thread of sickly green smoke began to rise from the crackling substance.

  "It's a dreadful smell that stuff has," Susannah said. "Like rotten kippers and old seaweed—and it stings my eyes."

  Miriam beamed across at her. "Now you really do have something to
blink for," she leered.

  "Hush!" breathed Hillian. "See what is happening!"

  The fine stream of smoke rose ever upwards, yet it was not dispersed by the heat of the candle flames, nor by the draught of the three witches' excited breathing. Up the smouldering trail steadily climbed until it reached a point just above the fishmonkey's head, and then the acrid fog curled down and began to flow over the shrivelled form.

  Around the frozen limbs it wound, under the spiny fins, covering every inch of wafery skin and engulfing the disfigured head in an impenetrable cloud.

  Into the pinched, flattened nostrils the smoke pushed, washing over the wizened eye sockets and filling the frightening mouth.

  Miriam stared in beguiled fascination, smearing her immaculate lipstick as she pressed her lips together and felt the familiar glamour of coven business steal over her.

  No one dared speak, for even as they watched a rasping gasp issued from the creature's mouth whilst the smoke poured into its lungs, and soon it began coughing shrilly.

  Then, inhaling the noxious fumes of the incense in one great breath, the papery eyelids snapped open and two yellow eyes shone in the candle-light.

  Susannah covered her mouth in case she screamed as the hideous head twisted upon the scrawny neck and the fishmonkey stretched its puny arms to pull itself up and glare at each of them in turn.

  The wrinkled mouth fell open and a vicious cluster of needle-like teeth was revealed to them. For a short while it continued to gasp and stare at its surroundings, then in a cold, sharp voice the mummified creature spoke.

  "I am the mouthpiece of the Allpowerful," came the chilling declaration. "He has heard your entreaty and does consent to bestow upon you your dearest longing."

  Three cries of joy issued from the witches and even Susannah forgot her fear of the disgusting apparition.

  "Through this animated vessel alone," it continued, "the master can give you aid, for his hand must not be recognised in this work. Spies are all about and watchful eyes are trained on this place.