by Robin Jarvis
The bicycle wobbled and suddenly the dogs caught up with it. Running alongside, they snarled and jumped up to snap at the nun's pedalling legs.
Jennet wailed and screwed her eyes up, expecting the bicycle to be dashed aside, but Frances' face was stern and she put on an extra spurt of speed that shot them clear of the pack and she crowed with triumph at the top of her voice.
"Don't worry, Jennet," she shouted right in the girl's ear, "I think we're going to be all right. Look, there are lights ahead. I'll warrant those nasties won't chase us through the villages."
She was right, for as they hurtled along the road, the old bicycle soon began to leave the yowling dogs way behind. Snarling and full of unspent malice, with a final frustrated bark the brutes turned their massive heads and the gleaming eyes vanished in the darkness.
Lingering for a moment in the middle of the road, the smallest member of the pack watched the speeding figures of Jennet and the nun fade into the distance amidst cottages and parked cars, and a pink tongue lolled from its jaws. Then, with a toss of its head, the creature hurried after the others and the dark instincts she had kept under control for so long at last took possession of the sleek midnight dog and Pear howled as viciously as the rest.
Eventually, when the lights of civilisation shone around them and Sister Frances could pedal at a more leisurely pace, Jennet was consumed by shock, and her horror at what she had seen engulfed her.
The bicycle came to a juddering halt as the girl's despairing sobs threatened to completely overturn the contraption and Sister Frances held her tightly.
"You let it all out," she advised. "Do you the world of good, but don't overdo it. The danger's over now so no moping or you'll get maudlin. Got to pick yourself up and start all over again, as the song goes."
"I'm okay," Jennet sniffed, wiping her tears on the frilly sleeves of her devastated dress, "but it was so awful—if you only knew—I don't believe it myself, the things I saw."
"If you don't believe it, then there's no point thinking about it, is there?"
"You don't understand."
"Don't I? Well, look, if you don't stop blubbing we'll never get home this side of Christmas—buck up, there's a good girl."
As Frances resumed her pedalling, a curious thought occurred to Jennet. "What were you doing out there with Aunt Alice's bike?" she asked.
Looking casually at the buildings of Ruswarp as they sailed sedately by, the nun replied, "Well, I haven't got one of my own. I had to borrow it, didn't I?"
"That's not what I meant," Jennet said, "and you know it. Why were you out riding at this time of night in the middle of nowhere?"
"I might as well ask what you were doing out there," the nun answered blithely.
Jennet was too tired for Frances' renowned playfulness. "All right," she muttered, "if you don't want to tell me, I won't go on about it."
The bicycle trundled on and soon the lights of Whitby shimmered in the distance.
"Here we are, Jennet," Frances told her, "this is your home. You don't belong with those poor misguided wretches. I think that today you should be glad that you were always the bridesmaid and never the bride. You have a real family here who cares and loves you—never forget that."
"How did you..?" Jennet began, but the nun had started to hum to herself and refused to listen.
When they came to Church Street they dismounted and Sister Frances escorted the girl to the alley entrance that led to the cottage. "Here," she said, "I'd best entrust you with the return of this worthy steed to its rightful place."
Jennet took the bicycle from her and looked into the nun's serene face. "Thank you," she said simply.
Frances smiled, then she shook herself and gave the girl a puzzled look. "Cripes!" she groaned. "Mother Superior will really have my guts for garters this time—whatever can the time be? Oh Jennet, you do look dreadful. Whatever happened to that swanky frock? It's all ruined. Well, I can't stay here, can I? Up to my neck in hot water again—oh dear!"
And with that she hurried away, leaving a stunned and bewildered Jennet gawping after the nun's retreating figure.
10 - The Lords Of The Deep And Dark
Miss Boston and Ben had only just returned to the cottage from the wedding reception, and had not even had time to look into Jennet's room to see if she was feeling any better, when an angry knock rapped on the front door.
"Gracious! Who can that be?" Aunt Alice cried, nearly pricking herself with the enormous pin she was carefully removing from her hat. "Could you answer it for me Benjamin, dear? If it's Edith returned having decided wedding bliss is all too much, then I'm afraid she'll not be getting her old room. I'm moving back in there tonight—and the place can return to normal at last."
She sucked her teeth disagreeably and shook her quivering chins. "I don't know where Cicily Drinkwater gets her unpalatable marzipan from, but it isn't the highest quality, that's for sure. The cake was rather dry too—though I imagine the reason for that was Edith's parsimony, too mean to put more than two drops of..."
The old lady frowned and wondered where the boy had got to. Hobbling on her walking stick, she followed him into the hall. "Who was it at the door, dear?" she called. "Upon my word!"
Holding the front door open, Ben turned to stare and began to say something, but Miss Boston was too fascinated by the slightly out of focus shape she saw stamping on the step.
"You should have said, Benjamin," she gently scolded. "Don't let your aufwader chum remain out there. Where are your manners? Let Nelda in."
Old Parry spat into a flower pot. "Is she barmy?" she croaked. "I ain't that trollopy Grendel!"
Aunt Alice peered at her closely and apologised for the mistake. "I beg your pardon, I'm afraid my perception isn't as gifted as Benjamin's. Don't be offended, come inside."
"I won't never set foot inside one of these poxy smell-holes!" Parry snorted. "What do you take me fer?"
"A very rude and disagreeable personage indeed," Aunt Alice muttered under her breath.
"Gar!" Parry scowled. "Just get a move on and be quick about it!"
"Get a move on where?"
"Is the old bird feeble in the head?" Parry hissed, jabbing Ben in the ribs. "Where else does yer think you'd be a trottin' off to at this hour? I've been sent to fetch yer. The messenger of the great Triad is wantin' a word an' I would'na keep him waitin'."
Aunt Alice let out an impressed whistling breath. "How thrilling!" she clucked. "Whatever can he want with me?"
But Old Parry had accomplished her errand and was already shuffling through the courtyard.
"Wait a moment!" Miss Boston called. "Quick, Ben, my hat and cloak."
"I'm not going to see the fisherfolk in this getup!" the boy protested.
The old lady tutted at the kilt and buckled shoes. "I'm afraid you'll have to," she told him. "There isn't time to change—just put your coat on."
"What about Jen?" the boy asked, glancing up the stairwell. "Should I go and tell her where we're going?"
"Good heavens no. She's probably fast asleep by now anyway—we can tell her all about it in the morning."
Jamming her everyday hat down over her woolly head, she twirled a tweed cloak over her shoulders and hurried Ben out of the cottage.
"Come on," Aunt Alice urged, "that unpleasant character is way ahead of us."
Limping slightly, the old lady left the courtyard and, with the silver buckles of Ben's shoes glinting as he ran after her, they made their way to the shore.
In the short span of time that had passed since Old Parry's grudging departure, neither Tarr nor the huddled figure in the boat had uttered a word. Yet the leader of the aufwader tribe remained ever watchful and wary of the herald. Why had he insisted on seeing Miss Boston? It made no sense whatsoever—the fate of his granddaughter had nothing to do with her.
Old Parry's cracked and grumpy voice broke in on his troubled thoughts.
"The landbreed cripple's a-comin'," she told the herald, ignoring Tarr comple
tely, "and that plaguey nuisance of a brat too."
"Ben?" asked Nelda, turning to see two familiar figures emerge from the gloomy shadows of the rocky shore.
"Well met! Well met!" Miss Boston cheered, stopping to wave the walking stick boisterously. "How splendid this is, and what an honour to be sure!"
Waddling into the semi-circle of fisherfolk, she nodded a greeting to everyone and they, in respect for all that they owed her, bowed.
The old lady beamed and, as she drew level with Tarr and Nelda, gazed at the water's edge where the small craft bobbed silently upon the languid waves. The blue light of the lantern shone over the herald of the Deep Ones and Miss Boston took a further step forward in her enthusiasm to get a better peep at him.
"Your Excellency!" she cried, attempting a clumsy curtsy. "I am deeply touched and gratified to be invited here."
Behind her, Ben eyed the figure cautiously. He had seen him once before, when the herald came to ban the marriage of Nelda and Esau. The boy had not liked the look of him then and he certainly didn't like it now. Without thinking, he moved close to Nelda and she turned a worried face to him.
"What's happening?" he whispered.
But before she could reply Tarr struck the rocks with his staff.
"Reet!" he shouted at the herald. "The Boston's 'ere now an' I demand to be heard. Too long have we paid for the mistake of Oona these many years. Too many wives and mothers have perished 'neath the cruel might of the curse an' too many bairns have gasped an' died afore they've had chance to breathe. Now, are them three what dwell in the deeps gonna let my Nelda go the same way? Am I nivver to hear the first cries o' her babe or must I smash this contrivance and wake old Morgawrus?
"Look at us!" he bellowed. "This paltry few is all that's left of the many tribes which once thrived along this coast. Must every black boat be burned afore them nazards o' the brine see how cruel they've been? A foul damnation on 'em, ah says—an' ah'll bring that about if'n it's the last I do!"
Throughout this impassioned and volatile speech, the messenger said nothing, but when Tarr had finished and stood quaking with rage, comforted by Nelda and Miss Boston, the figure in the boat stirred.
"Verily", he intoned, "the time has indeed come for the grievances of thy race to be taken before the Lords of the Deep."
"Then do it!" Tarr roared. "Tell 'em of our sorrows and what'll happen if the curse isna lifted!"
The herald crouched forward and in a hushed voice answered, "No, I shall not."
"But you just..."
"I shall not take thy haughty and proud ultimatum before the thrones of my masters! If thou wishest to be heard, then thou must deliver the message thyself!"
The fisherfolk drew their breath and stared at one another in shocked amazement. No one since the days of Irl had ventured down to that cold and deadly realm.
"Dare you accompany me into the fathomless waters, Tarr Shrimp?" the messenger asked. "Hast thou the valour to face the dread powers of the world and speak as thou hast done to me?"
Tarr's face fell. He had not expected this and his spirit balked at the very thought.
"What sayest thou?" murmured the herald. "Is the leader of this meagre tribe as craven as he is overbold and rash?"
Disconcerted, Tarr lowered his eyes and gazed at Nelda. The contours of his granddaughter's face were graven with fear and dread.
"Don't listen to him," she said. "You mustn't go."
Tarr stroked her leathery cheek with his aged hands and the angry resolve returned to burn in his heart.
"Aye!" he snapped back at the herald. "Ah'll come! What new torture can them divils contrive we ain't already sufferin'?"
A low chuckle issued from beneath the seagreen cowl. "Much," it whispered. "As yet thou knowest naught of the torments my masters can devise. Yet forewarned of this, art thou still set on stepping into this vessel with me?"
"I am."
"No, Grandfather!" Nelda wept, flinging her arms about his neck and clinging to him despairingly. "I won't let you go! I won't! They'll destroy you!"
Tarr pulled away from her and placed her hands into Ben's. "Ah mun, lass," he said simply, "'tis the one chance we've looked fer down the years—what leader'd throw that aside?"
"Please don't leave me—you're all I have left!"
"And tha's all I've got," he said sadly, "and that's why it mun be done. Here—take the guardian and keep it safe. Ah'm not daft enough to take that down theer wi' me. If I dinna come back by dawn, smash the thing to bits. Swear now."
"I swear."
"Reet," Tarr announced, glaring back at the messenger and stepping towards the water's edge. "Ah'm ready."
"Stay a moment," the herald commanded. "Did I not say that thy voice alone would not be heard?"
Tarr's brow corrugated with irritation. "Nay!" he shouted. "Ah’ll not let Nelda to come!"
"And neither would I wish it," the voice snapped back from the hidden depths of the hood. "One of thy race is quite enough."
"Then who?" Tarr mumbled.
For an instant the light of the lantern was mirrored in the messenger's clustering eyes and everyone saw that they were staring straight at Miss Boston.
Astounded, the old lady clapped her hands. "Do you mean to say," she began hesitantly, "do you honestly mean that I too am to journey with you both—all the way down there to have an audience with the ruling Triad?"
Amusement was in the herald's voice when he replied, "Such is mine offer; travel the ancient paths and stand at the feet of the three thrones, Alice Boston."
Her face was a rapturous picture of elation and, leaning on the walking stick she gave an exhilarated jig of rejoicing.
"Happy day!" she grinned. "Oh Benjamin, isn't this exciting?"
But Ben was as unhappy at the prospect of her leaving as Nelda was about Tarr's departure. She seemed to have no regard for the terrible danger she was placing herself in and behaved as if she was simply going for a boat trip around the harbour. He tried to tell her not to go but Aunt Alice would not listen, her mind was made up.
"Use your intelligence, Benjamin dear," she said. "The Deep Ones wouldn't have asked to see me merely to keep me prisoner down there or something worse. Besides, they bear me no grudge, I've never had any dealings with them. This is a mighty honour. If I refused then I would regret the decision for the rest of my life and that would be intolerable."
The hooded figure of the herald called out impatiently. "Hurry," he said, "we have far to travel this night—far away is the realm of my masters. Step into the boat."
Miss Boston raised her eyebrows at Tarr and held out her hand to him. "Shall we go down to the water together?" she asked. "I should really have brought my Wellingtons."
Tarr glanced back at Nelda. "Remember thy promise," he told her. "Dawn tomorrow."
Tearfully she nodded and drew closer to Ben as both her grandfather and Aunt Alice waded out towards the boat and clambered aboard.
When they were seated opposite the strange messenger, the small wooden craft spun around and pulled away from the shore.
"Good fortune go with you!" Nelda shouted.
"Take care," Ben cried.
Tarr held up his staff in farewell and with a sudden notion Miss Boston cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled, "Benjamin! Don't forget to feed Eurydice!"
Then the boat picked up speed and it sailed swiftly over the open sea.
"That's the last we'll see of them," Old Parry's spiteful voice mewled. "None of us'll ever see their faces again in this world. They've gone to meet their doom."
***
Over the immense cold sea the rowing boat flew, slicing through lazy waves—cleaving an ever-widening wake in the great grey waters.
The cliffs of Whitby and the lights of the harbour had long since vanished over the rolling horizon and Miss Boston settled down to enjoy this fascinating and rare opportunity to the utmost.
Beside her, with his staff placed across his lap, Tarr stared impassively past the cro
uching shape of the herald and out into the distance beyond.
No muscle twitched on his face to betray his thoughts or feelings and with his arms folded, he endured the journey without saying a word.
All around them, the bright moonlight shimmered and danced over the moving surface of the water. Wobbling stripes of milky light were reflected over and into the little craft and Miss Boston craned her neck from side to side in childish amusement. It was all so marvellous, she wanted to drink in and remember everything—she still couldn't believe what was happening and tiny chortles of pleasure quaked inside her bosom.
Suddenly Tarr stirred and he lifted his hand to his brow as he peered into the far horizon.
"Nine times bless me!" he murmured. "What be that yonder?"
The old lady followed his concerned gaze and her wrinkled eyes grew wide with delight and astonishment. "Stupendous!" she cried. "What a spectacle!"
Upon the rim of the wide salty world, a tremendous tumult was churning and thrashing the waters. As they watched in stunned silence, the sea erupted and enormous spouts burst high into the night, glittering beneath the moon like a blizzard of cascading frosty fire.
The ferocity of the explosions boomed over the rumbling ocean, and gigantic shock waves sped outwards in massive rings of foaming water that tossed the little boat like a cork in a storm.
Miss Boston and Tarr gripped the sides of the vessel desperately as freezing spray stung their faces and the aufwader yelled his fury at the herald. "We'll be drowned!" he raged. "Ah should 'ave reckoned theer'd be no parley wi' the Triad! Well, they'll not be laughing when the serpent is loosed."
"Fear not!" the cloaked figure shouted above the seething din. "The way is merely being prepared for us—we shall not be harmed."
"Does tha mean we're headin' straight fer yon tempest?"
"Into its very heart."
Towards the crashing waters the wooden craft sailed, smashing through the walls of froth that stampeded against them and riding the rampaging, tormented surf.