by Robin Jarvis
"What... what are you saying, Grandfather? Are you agreeing with this mad rabble? I must know. Do you also wish my unborn child—your grandchild—do you wish it dead?"
Stung by this, Tarr lifted his face but it was set and grim. "Don't fling that at me!" he snapped. "Ah know what we're askin' and ah ain't proud o' it. But reckon this—what are we to eat if'n the fish desert our waters? Wheer are we to shelter if the sea crashes agin the cliff and drags it into the deep?"
"Is that the measure of your concern?" asked Nelda sadly.
"Tha know it ain't! Oh Lass—ah were theer when thy mither bore thee! Ah saw all that happened to her—ah nivver wish to look on such horror agin! For thy sake if not fer the tribe—think on!"
Nelda recoiled from him. She was bewildered and a stinging sense of betrayal tore through her heart. The young aufwader bit her lip and shuddered wretchedly.
"Come now," Old Parry piped up. "I shall look after you. Poor little Nelda, let Parry help and assist in what must be done."
At that moment a cold anger seized Nelda and all her hurt was forgotten.
"How dare you!" she yelled. "How dare all of you! What right have you to order the death of my child? Listen to yourselves! You speak of the most innocent of all things as though it were some reeking foulness! To what base level have you sunk? You disgust me—each and every one!"
Tossing her head defiantly, she whirled around, incensed and furious. "Listen now to me—I will carry this child for as long as I am able, and if it is fated that we perish together then so be it. That is my decision and no one—not even my so-called family—can deter me now! Exile me or do what you will—I have finished with you all and want no part of the tribe for as long as I and my baby live!"
Tarr clung to his staff until the wood bit into his palm as his granddaughter thundered from the chamber.
Around him the aufwaders shouted but all had been taken aback by Nelda's inflamed temper, and though they had not changed their minds about what she should do, many were already feeling guilty for the things they had said.
With her arms folded, Old Parry sneered. "She'll come to it in the end," she predicted acidly, "for all her fine talk. The bitter herb will be picked—I'll wager everything on it."
Too distraught to say anything, Tarr bowed his head to weep, but so intense were his shame and grief, the tears would not come.
***
May's glorious weather continued and the tills of Whitby rang merrily as trippers continued to squeeze into the small town. Never had the souvenir shops known such business and the tea-rooms and restaurants were always overflowing. The Sandy Beach Café had reopened shortly after the mysterious disappearance of the proprietor and a tall, reedy-looking woman now ran the establishment. But she proved to be extremely unpopular with those customers who had grown to love Susannah's cream teas.
On one occasion, Doctor Adams took Edith Wethers there but they were both dismayed by the slovenly manner of Miss Gilly Neugent, the new owner. Slouching up to their unwiped table, she unceremoniously shoved two cups of tepid dishwater before them followed by a plate of walnut-like scones which were as tough as cork and tasted of cardboard. After a miserable half-hour, the doctor and Miss Wethers left the place and vowed never to return.
They were becoming closer than ever, and Conway frequently brought flowers round for the delighted ex-postmistress and once, in a mad, unthinking moment of passion, she had given him a peck on the cheek.
During this time, Miss Boston continued to regain her old vigour. Her arms were as strong as they had ever been and she would often spend the warm evenings sitting in the wheelchair, bowling cricket balls for Ben in the garden.
As the month progressed, the old lady became increasingly agitated and had circled a date on the calendar. When Ben had asked her about this she had vaguely replied, "The Horngarth is approaching."
The boy had thought no more about it, assuming that Aunt Alice was talking about astrology or equinoxes as usual. Then, one Saturday morning, he awoke early and trailed downstairs in search of breakfast, only to discover that the old lady was well wrapped up and ready to wheel herself outdoors.
"Ah, Benjamin!" she cried. "I wasn't sure whether to wake you or not; still you had better change out of your pyjamas if you wish to join me. I'm afraid Edith has no taste for it—do you, dear?"
In the kitchen, her mind fixed on other matters and thoroughly out of humour, Miss Wethers stirred a pan of thick porridge and answered in an impatient tone. "That I haven't," she twittered. "It's a thing I've seen far too many times—why don't they liven it up a bit? Any change would do, just to make it interesting or mildly entertaining. It really is very dull."
Aunt Alice scowled. "Not to me it isn't," she replied.
"Oh well, we can't all find dreary little hedges enthralling, can we?"
"Had a bit of a falling out with Doctor Adams yesterday evening," Miss Boston whispered confidentially to Ben. "Be no use to anyone today, will our Edith."
"But where are you going?" the boy asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
"Why! To see the Horngarth, of course!" she exclaimed, screwing up her face and chuckling gleefully. "It's the morning of Ascension Eve and there's only one place you'll find me then. Best hurry, for I shall be gone if you're not ready in time. You might pop in and see if Jennet wants to come too—I'm sure she'd find it all very intriguing."
Ben doubted that, but he dutifully ran back upstairs and peered into his sister's room.
Jennet was still sound asleep and he wondered if he dared awaken her. She had been so unpleasant to him lately that he no longer enjoyed the rare times they spent together. Eventually, however, he plucked up courage and shook her gently.
"Oh get lost," she mumbled, hiding her face in the pillow. "It's a Saturday. Leave me alone."
Ben tried again. "Jen, Aunt Alice wants us to go to see the Horngarth—are you coming? It might be fun."
Grunting with impatience, the girl rolled over and peered through the dark hair which hung untidily over her eyes. "I'm not interested, all right? I just want to be left alone. Now get out!"
Her brother did as he was told and hurried back to his own room where he quickly pulled on his clothes, then dashed downstairs.
"She doesn't want to come," he told Aunt Alice.
The old lady pulled a sorrowful face. "What a pity," she said. 'Jennet doesn't appear to want to do anything any more. I hope it's merely a phase she's going through and she will return to her normal self soon. Growing up really is a nuisance, it gets in the way of so many things—I remember how foolish I was at that age."
"If you ask me you still are foolish," Edith mumbled, then called out, "It's a quarter to nine, you'll miss it."
Aunt Alice gripped the wheels of the chair and propelled herself towards the front door. "Let us be off then, Benjamin. To the Horngarth!"
When they reached the street, Ben asked, "So where exactly are we going?"
"To the harbour," the old lady replied, "straight down Church Street."
"And that's where this Horngarth is?"
"Exactly! Gracious me, cobbled roads were never made for wheelchairs. What a most unpleasant juddering!"
Ben fell silent. Aunt Alice was being deliberately mysterious. Once they had passed the swing bridge he could see that an immense crowd of people had gathered by the harbour wall a little way ahead.
"Into the fray!" Miss Boston barked with determination as the wheelchair shot forward.
Ben had to run to keep up with her. He was burning with curiosity now, and eagerly wanted to know what everyone had come to look at.
Hundreds of people were assembled by the railings of the harbour wall and all their faces were cast down towards the river. As Aunt Alice slowed to a halt behind them, Ben stood on tiptoe and jumped as high as he could to try and see what was so fascinating.
"I... I can't see anything," he said crossly.
Aunt Alice winked at him. "Don't worry, Benjamin dear," she clucked, "we'll
get a good view." She gave a pathetic sounding cough then called to the people in front of them. "Excuse me, can I get by? I'm an invalid."
After some embarrassed and awkward shufflings, the human obstacles squirmed aside and allowed Miss Boston and the boy to the front.
"There now," she chirped, triumphantly scrunching her face into a mass of wrinkles, "that wasn't so difficult."
"Oh jolly dee!" trilled a voice beside them. "It is good to see you out and about, Miss B."
At once Aunt Alice's pleased face vanished as she noticed for the first time the person who was standing at her side.
"Sister Frances," she mumbled dismally, "how... how fortuitous. Fancy bumping into you—of all people."
"I never miss the Penny Hedge," the nun gushed. "Sort of professional interest you might say, and it really is so quaint and darling. What do you think of it, young man?"
But Ben was not listening, for his full attention was commanded by the scene which was taking place below.
Upon the muddy shore of the river, a group of townsfolk were building a peculiar and flimsy looking fence. They had stuck nearly a dozen sticks into the squelching ground and were now weaving thinner and more pliable strips of twig between them. It was an extremely odd structure that hardly came up to their waists and could not have been much over a metre in length. Ben had no idea why they were toiling over such a ridiculous object. It wasn't even connected to anything—they had just planted it in the middle of the shore with only two sticks propped against each end for support.
"That'll fall down," he said, bemused by the strange goings on.
"It's supposed to," Aunt Alice whispered next to him, "but not just yet—it's got to withstand three tides first, you see."
The boy rested his chin upon the railings and breathed a puzzled sigh.
Miss Boston chuckled. "I can see you don't understand. You see, it all began long, long ago."
Ben laughed, "Doesn't everything here?"
"Just so," she agreed, "yet this ceremony is older than all our other festivals. Very ancient is this funny little ritual and totally unique to Whitby."
Gazing dreamily down at the figures building the fence, she laced her fingers and began.
"Like all great legends, the story of the Penny Hedge begins far in the forgotten past—a little time after William the Conqueror, when Henry the Second was upon the English throne. In those rugged days, three wealthy gentlemen were hunting a wild boar through the forest which covered much of this land. Imagine it: three arrogant nobles riding their horses through the trees, their hounds baying before them in hot pursuit of the terrified creature that they had already sorely wounded.
"Hard they bore down upon that unfortunate animal, crashing through the woods of Eskdaleside and hollering terrible oaths—wild and greedy for the kill.
"Now there was at that time a certain holy man who lived as a hermit in the forest. Upon that fatal day, the monk was praying within the chapel when through the open door the frightened boar comes charging. The poor animal is close to death. Exhausted and bleeding it collapses and dies at the hermit's feet, and the man hears the hounds draw close. Quickly he shuts the chapel door and returns to his meditation and prayers as the dogs fling themselves against the barred entrance, howling and whining.
"Then come the noblemen. They see that their quarry has escaped them and are so outraged that the monk should spoil their sport that they batter down the door, then set about the man with their boar staves.
"The holy man is mortally wounded, and the nobles fear for their own lives for the Abbot demands they be punished. Yet before he dies, the monk forgives them and spares their wretched necks but only on one condition.
"Every year, on Ascension Eve, they and their descendants must do a simple penance. With the aid of a knife costing a penny, they must build a small hedge at this appointed spot, strong enough to withstand three tides. With stakes, stout stowers and yedders must the hedge be built, and if those who come after fail in this then their lands shall be forfeit."
Miss Boston grew silent then shook herself. "Of course, two of the families have since bought themselves free of the task but it is a lovely quirky ceremony."
At her side a voice began to recite softly:
When Whitby's nuns exulting told
How to their house three barons bold
Must menial service do...
Sister Frances gave a gauche shrug and thrust her arms behind her back. "Sir Wally Scott," she told them. "Marmion, don't you know? Oh yes, I adore this day. Just to think, throughout all those centuries this has been going on every year—simply splendid. And what magnificent forgiveness the hermit showed. It's a lesson to us all."
Aunt Alice gave Ben a nudge. "Of course the legend is complete balderdash," she added wickedly.
"Oh don't say that," whined the nun. "What a spoil-sport you are, Miss B."
"I'm so sorry, dear," the old lady apologised without a trace of repentance, "but you see the ceremony goes back a lot further than the legend would have us believe."
Sister Frances twisted her head aside in the manner of a sulking infant. "Tommy-rot," she protested. "Where did it come from then, I should like to know?"
"Why, from our pagan past," Miss Boston uttered with relish. "No one will ever know the true origin of the Penny Hedge, but I shouldn't wonder if it was already well established long before Hilda came. You see it seems to me that it's much more likely to be a votive offering to the sea than anything else. Monks of the Dark Ages were always attributing religious explanations to matters they were afraid of."
"An offering to the sea?" Ben murmured.
"Or a guard against it," she replied. "You see 'garth' means an enclosure."
"But what does the 'horn' bit mean?"
The old lady made no answer but pointed down at the shore where the Penny Hedge was now complete.
Ben watched as a man stepped up to it and put to his lips a curved horn of great age.
The blasting note trumpeted over the river then the man yelled at the top of his voice, "Out on ye! Out on ye! Out on ye!"
A cheer rang out from the hundreds of onlookers, followed by much applause.
"Why did he shout that?" the boy asked.
Sister Frances butted in before Aunt Alice could speak. "I always thought it was to call shame on the family of those dreadful noblemen, but who am I to comment? I'm sure Miss B has a far more outlandish interpretation, however misguided it may be."
Miss Boston chortled to herself. She was in an elated mood, and as the crowd began to disperse she came to a swift decision.
Without any warning, she lumbered from the wheelchair and placed her feet firmly upon the ground, gripping the railings for support.
"Aunt Alice!" Ben cried as the old lady turned and took two shambling steps.
"Great heavens!" Sister Frances exclaimed. "How absolutely super! You're walking!"
"Be careful!" Ben urged.
"Oh yes," the nun agreed, "we don't want you to overdo it, do we?"
"Nonsense!" Miss Boston roared, lumbering confidently against the rail. "I'm perfectly... Oh!"
The old lady's weak legs buckled beneath her. The harbour spun before her eyes and her whole body went limp.
Ben darted forward and grabbed her quickly. Just as her head was about to strike the sharp corner of the metal railings he snatched her back and she reeled against him.
"Oh my," she spluttered, clutching the boy's shoulders, "I don't know what came over me. I think I had better sit down."
She returned to the wheelchair then patted Ben's hand. "Thank you, dear," she said gratefully. "I might have cracked my skull open back there. Let us go home; I feel in need of a strong cup of tea."
"I think you should get Doctor Adams out to see you," Frances advised. "A funny turn is nature's way of telling you something isn't right."
"Oh, stop talking out of the back of your wimple," Aunt Alice said tersely. "Haven't you got someone to annoy with your Jolly Cheer-Up
Bag today?"
The nun beamed, "Rather," she enthused. "Young Mr Parks' sister has gone away for the weekend so I'm spending the day with him to keep his spirits up. He's been most unwell you know, terribly under the weather, so I've rooted out my best jigsaws and Mother Superior gave me a fabulous puzzle book, to keep me quiet, she said—wasn't that nice? We'll have oodles of fun today I'm sure."
"How pleasant for you," Miss Boston commented. "Well, come on, Benjamin; I long for a brew."
A little distance away, standing half in the soft blue shadows cast by the morning sunshine, a white-gowned infant sadly hung its curly head and retreated into a dim alleyway.
By now the crowd had almost totally dispersed,yet a few stragglers remained to gaze at the Penny Hedge and take more photographs to finish off their rolls of film.
Forming an odd trio beside an intrepid ice-cream van, Hillian Fogle, Miriam Gower and the new owner of the café—Gilly Neugent—lingered longer than most. With their eyes trained on the boy pushing the wheelchair back up Church Street, they waited, exchanging meaningful glances. Then they too left the harbour and returned to their businesses.
***
Back at the cottage, Ben and Miss Boston found Doctor Adams sitting in the parlour with Miss Wethers. At first Aunt Alice thought Sister Frances had called him, but this was not the case.
"Oh Alice!" Edith trilled, leaping to her feet and dabbing her nose with a tissue. "You'll never guess, you never will in a million years."
"I'm sure I won't," the old lady replied, bewildered. "Whatever is it, dear? Do stand still—you look as though you've sat on an ant hill."
Miss Wethers clasped her hands in front of her and let out a squeal of pleasure. "Conway," she gurgled, "Conway has asked me to marry him!"
Aunt Alice and Ben gaped at her, then stared at Doctor Adams. The fleshy man was bright pink and the top of his domed head, where the long strip of hair had slipped somewhat, shone as though it had been buffed with a duster.
"Congratulations," Miss Boston managed at last. "I hope you'll be very happy."