She had to do it….
'Abby!' Mrs Hunter and Charlie both snapped at once.
Abby startled. 'Okay.'
Abby knelt down and picked up the bracelet, covering her hand with her sleeve so her skin did not touch it.
She had no choice now, right? She had to do this. She had to jump off the top of the burning tower and meet death and the fool on her way down to solid ground.
Adventure doesn't pick you, Ms Crowthy would say, it shanghais you – punching you firmly in the gut and dragging you away by your collar.
Now Abby could feel it, and she could not pretend it did not exist anymore. She was being swept up in an Adventure – her, Abigail Gail the Witch of Bridgestock.
What a bother.
Chapter 3
~~~Pembrake Hunter~~~
Bridgestock, the morning of the Storm of the Century….
Pembrake Hunter sighed once more. It was becoming a habit, a bitter, gut-twisting habit. Bridgestock was killing him and all he could do was sigh.
Pembrake climbed the stairs, his feet pounding heavily against the rough stone. It was disconcerting being on solid land, not feeling the slightest sway of the ocean underneath. But the unnerving solidity couldn't distract his mind too long. Noticing the change of a familiar shop front, or how a street had been renamed to celebrate the Colonel – these things weren't enough to distract him forever.
As Pembrake climbed the final stair he pinched the bridge of his nose. At least the end was in sight. If he played his cards right, he would never have to come back to this place again.
Pembrake always felt strange when he came back to Bridgestock. In a way it was quite different to the other places he'd visited. And no, it wasn't the buildings, the unique layout of the city built into the hill as it were, or even the way it smelt - it was the way it felt. Oppressive was the only word that came to mind, like the sky was going to fall in on him.
Pembrake always wore his uniform in Bridgestock. It had a dual purpose – it would serve to impress and it would serve to protect. The women of Bridgestock were the finest in all the lands, except perhaps for the leggy wonders of the South Islands, or the long-lashed dark-eyed beauties of Elogia. Nevertheless, Bridgestockian women weren't all that bad, and they always fell for a man in uniform. But Pembrake had a much keener, much less roguish need to keep the white uniform of the Royal Navy visible at all times – to stop the stares, the snake-like comments, and the barely-concealed hostility. It was the colour of his skin; and coming back to Bridgestock, his hometown, was the only place it ever seemed to matter.
Pembrake had sailed the world with the Navy and nowhere did his appearance seem to matter so completely as it did in Bridgestock. Even in Elogia they did not care so much about the colour of his skin as his allegiance to the Westlands. He was their enemy, not because of what he looked like, because of something he had no power to change, but because of the simple fact they were soon to be at war. Grievances that begin conflict – border disputes, assassinations, resource grabs – these are all matters that can be resolved. But it is impossible to 'resolve' appearance because it cannot be changed.
So coming back to Bridgestock, hearing his feet pound sullenly along the saturated beams of the dock – always saw an empty ache settle in Pembrake's stomach. There was something wrong about Bridgestock, something you couldn't notice until you'd been away for a long time.
And whatever it was that made Bridgestock so claustrophobic and unwelcoming, well, it was only getting worse. Every time the Royal Blue docked at Bridgestock, Pembrake found his chest constricting a touch tighter, his jaw setting a touch squarer, and his mind becoming a touch harder.
It was destroying him to even step foot in this town. Nowhere else did the destiny of one city seem so doomed and wrapped up in bitterness. Nowhere else were divisions and bigotry so pronounced and celebrated.
More and more, Pembrake grew to hate this place, to hate its people, its history, its very existence.
So he flicked his eyes along the street that had opened up before him for the tenth time and receded further under the protection of his stiff, white cap until its shadow completely covered his face. It was time to move from this city and never return. It was time to move on with his own destiny and leave Bridgestock to implode by itself.
This city had never done anything for him, so he did not owe it a thing.
Growing up in Bridgestock had not been fun. To survive he had had to deny, lie, and change. Twist to the wants of his friends to gain even a touch of acceptance, and even then at the price of self-humiliation.
For all Pembrake Hunter cared, Bridgestock could go to hell.
8 years ago, Bridgestock
'You smooth pleck!' Ensign Western slapped Pembrake on the back and gave a wild laugh. 'Another object of prey has fallen to the hunter, hey?'
The other lads chuckled and Pembrake couldn't help but join I;, he'd been the one who'd gone bragging to them, after all. He couldn't complain when they were just carrying on with his joke.
'Tell me, Pearson,' Western turned to the strapping Northlandian, acting as the ringmaster in the circus of masculine ego, 'why does Hunter get all the girls?'
Pearson looked around at the gathered ensigns, building up the moment even though they all knew what his answer would be. 'Why that would be on account of his tan, contrasts nicely with his white suit.'
They all laughed and, once again, Pembrake forced himself to join in, even as he felt the humiliation twist around his gut. 'Hey, come on, guys, I've told you before,’ he said through a hearty, but forced laugh, 'both my parents are from Westland, seriously,' each word was like slapping himself.
Western, the striped blue and white of his regulation shirt stretching over his shoulders, laughed like a crazed drunkard. 'We know, Pembrake, you keep telling us.'
The others renewed their guffaws at the pointed answer, but Pembrake just licked his lips and slowly forced himself to release the tight fist he had made behind his back.
As the boys rounded the corner to the wide street a terrible shriek rang out like a shot, making the last of their chuckles die in their throats. The noise brought people pouring out of the shops and taverns lining the street and they all turned to watch as several guards walked imperiously towards them.
'Make way for the witch,' the leader spat, moving to one side slightly to reveal a wild woman being restrained by two of the guards
They dragged the old witch between them like she was a piece of meat as she spat and screamed, hurling strange, hissed words at her captors before turning her bright yellow eyes on the crowd. 'You'll regret thisss!' She said in the standard tongue, her s's long and g's heavy. 'All of you, all of you.'
The two muscular guards that gripped her, laughed with an assured callousness. 'Speaks Standard, does she? That's a big feat for a witch. Look, Bill,' one guard motioned to his mate, 'this one isn't a complete idiot.'
The other guard chuckled, his fat neck jiggling like a bowl of jelly. 'Yeah, Sarge, I had a cousin what married a goat once – I reckon she's at least as smart as him, if not smarter.'
'Now, now, Bill, don't be mean to your cousin.'
The old women howled. Her ragged hair, that was twisted and knotted around beads, beat against the guards' arms as she thrashed.
Pembrake watched uncomfortably. Some of the lads beside him were howling with laughter again, their tones cruel and their comments crueller.
'God, they should have gotten rid of the old hag earlier – she looks likes she's been rotting in her hut.'
'They'll have to demolish her hovel and build something over it, a tip, maybe, to improve the view,' Ensign Western was almost crying with laughter.
But Pembrake couldn't bring himself to join in. He knew he should laugh, he knew he should pretend this was the funniest thing he'd ever seen. But he simply couldn't bring himself to do it.
'Go on, Pembrake, what do you think?' Western jabbed him hard in the ribs.
He couldn't describe w
hat he was feeling. It wasn't so much revulsion as terror. The pit of his stomach was so cold it felt like he'd jumped into the iciest ocean. He wanted his mind to come up with something, to either condemn or laugh wildly. But he couldn't. All Pembrake Hunter knew was that the fear was snaking through his veins like a poison.
'Hunter!' Western grabbed his shoulder and pulled him up onto the cobbled pavement out of the way of the guards and their prisoner. Pembrake had been so caught up in the scene, in the terror and fear, that he hadn't resisted Western's pull.
'Hey, you're unusually pale,' Western always had a jovial tone, even when he was proclaiming the dirtiest of insults.
He knew what Western was, yet again, insinuating and it was the one fear that could trump the frigid numbness that had arced across Pembrake's back. 'She's,' Pembrake began slowly, shifting his eyes from the thrashing woman and settling them on a tuft of grass sprouting through the cobbles, 'even uglier than the Lieutenant's mother. And I wouldn't bother building a tip over her house; it would make all the rubbish smell too bad.'
This drew a laugh from all his friends and the guards too. Western slapped him on the back several times as he guffawed with a sound like a drowning frog.
The old woman stopped shrieking abruptly, her last hiss ending like a shot of steam. She tucked her head down onto her chest as if she were falling asleep. Then, with a slow roll she let her face angle up, her yellow eyes resting on Pembrake. 'You.'
There was no question: she was talking to him. The fear hit him again like a blast of sea spray in a storm.
'You! The past, the future, the present!' her eyes widened, rimming her pupils with a thick band of white. 'Walking through time, up and down, round and round,' her head lolled in great circles, 'got a chance like no other, chance to change, to break, to fix again. But this time,' her voice descended into a growl, 'don't break my window!' She struggled wildly against the guards' hold and they had to stop laughing to shore up their grips. 'Fix it all!' She screamed so loudly a window behind them rattled.
Then she broke free with an enormous snap like a bent-over sapling returning to its true position, but, rather than rush at the crowd wildly like everyone expected, she just stood there and stared at Pembrake as the guards behind reigned in their surprise.
'Fix it!' she spoke with a horrific finality, with a weight behind her words that seemed to make the world tilt on its axis.
Then, with a terrible, almost wet snap, the Sergeant smacked his baton hard across the back of the witch's head and she fell, her collapse viewed by the onlookers with as much import as a drop of rain falling into the ocean.
'Careful, son,' the Sergeant said as he dealt another vicious blow to the clearly comatose woman, 'sounds like she likes you.'
Pembrake's face was frozen in shock, hideous, amazed shock. Numbly he turned away.
The Sergeant and his guards continued to laugh sadistically behind him as they dragged the old woman's now lifeless body through the streets.
Ignoring his friends' ribald comments, Pembrake turned his back on them and walked back to the ship alone.
He had never met that woman in his life. What had she wanted from him?
6 months ago, Royal Blue, docked outside Bridgestock….
'A career in the Navy is something to be proud of, son,' Captain Jefferson stared at Pembrake, his eyes grey and steady like a windless ocean.
Pembrake nodded. A career that promised him a lifetime away from Bridgestock was worth all the gold in the world.
'I want you to know you've earned this. It's been a hard journey for you, I can appreciate that. But I want you to know that you have become a fine sailor and an even finer Officer.'
Pembrake's chest was puffed out about as far as he could push it. It wasn't everyday that the Captain pulled you into his office to compliment you.
The Captain paused for a moment and picked at a stain on the edge of his desk. 'I received a dispatch from Base this morning. It seems they received your application to the Academy,' the Captain slowly fixed his eyes on Pembrake and kept his gaze keen and unwavering. 'The Admiral there is a friend of mine.'
Pembrake maintained his posture, perfectly straight and stiff like a newly-carved mast. His belly may have been churning with excitement, but he wasn't about to let the Captain know that. But waiting for the Captain to tell him whether his application was successful or not, was terrifying. If, through some miracle, his application was granted, then Pembrake could kiss Bridgestock goodbye and never have to return to this godforsaken place.
'Your application was successful,' it appeared the Captain had little interest in drawing the matter on too long. 'You will assume position at the Royal Naval Academy is seven months.'
Pembrake couldn't control his mouth any longer, and a huge grin spread across his face. He felt like jumping for joy; finally he'd be free.
The Captain joined in with a more measured smile. 'You have earned this. Though, I fear perhaps that you are not doing this for the right reasons, it is still a valuable career move on your part.'
A touch of cold spread across Pembrake's back. 'Sorry, sir,' he said quickly before he could contain himself, 'what do you mean, sir, when you say that I'm not doing it for the right reasons?'
The Captain did not reprimand him for his insubordination, after all, it was not Pembrake's place to second guess his Captain. 'I fear that, and do not take this as an insult – you are running away from Bridgestock.'
Pembrake tried to maintain an even, unaffected look, but the Captain's comment riled him. 'Permission to speak freely, sir?'
The Captain waved him on.
'I am not running away, I am simply running towards something more challenging. There's nothing Bridgestock can offer me anymore.'
The Captain nodded slowly, as if he agreed, at least in principle, with what Pembrake was saying. 'The Academy will be good for you, son, I'm sure of it. But I still fear that you have given up on her, your home. Just because she has spiralled into a dark depression, doesn't mean you should turn your back on your homeland.'
Pembrake fought down the desire to raise his voice. 'Forgive me, sir, but Bridgestock is a death trap. It speeds further and further towards destruction every year. Its people are more and more vicious, bile-filled, and hateful each time I go back. And soon the Colonel will assume control, I'm sure, and then it really will have reached the point of no return.' Pembrake's cheeks flushed and he found his fingers digging hard into his palms.
The Captain, always unflappable, did not seem to mind the energy crackling through his First Officer's tone. 'Is not the racist the one who shows hatred to a group he considers irredeemably different to himself? You speak of the bile of Bridgestock, yet speak of it yourself with bile-filled words. You speak of them as hating others, yet you hate them in response. And worst of all, you think, you claim, you believe that they can never change.'
Pembrake recoiled slightly, not at the Captain's delivery, which was soft and eloquent, but at the realisation his words brought.
'You've given up on them,' the Captain said clearly, 'and you have no right to. You figure, perhaps rightly, that there is no way that you can change this situation, that you alone cannot heal the wound that poisons your city. But, Pembrake, unless you try, then you will only be right.'
Pembrake straightened his back, pulled himself up as tall as he could, but did not say a word.
'Take your position. But remember, don't turn your back on Bridgestock. Don't become bitter, don't become twisted, and if you see an opportunity to fix your city – then take it.'
Bridgestock, 6 months ago….
He took off his new, crisp white hat and hid it under one arm. He knocked again.
Finally he heard several quick footsteps behind the door.
He took a deep breath. He didn't know why. He wasn't nervous.
The door opened a crack and his mother sighed. 'Pembrake.'
'Mother.' He couldn't pretend not to notice the wariness cloud over her eyes like fog over
the bay.
'Please come in.' She opened the door fully and stepped backwards courteously. It was as if she were greeting an esteemed dignitary, not her own son.
She had grown formal, more so on every visit he bothered to make. It was like every rank he climbed in the Navy was a notch he lost in her heart.
He didn't care; she didn't have to be proud.
'I wasn't expecting you,' for a second her smooth façade broke and she blinked quickly, 'is everything alright?'
Though it showed she was still alive somewhere under those fancy white clothes and pearls, he couldn't ignore the cold annoyance that built in his gut. That she would show such obvious concern after she'd offered her cold greeting was hardly reassuring. 'Fine.' He tried to calm his mind, to gain full control of his voice. He'd practiced this several times on the way over, it should be easy. 'I have some news actually.'
His mother's eyes widened slightly and she put an aged but manicured hand to her chest.
She thinks I'm getting married, doesn't she? She couldn't come out and say it of course, but that's what she's thinking.
Let her stew.
'Oh… that's… really?' she stammered.
Only he could seem to do this to her, make her stammer her words like a common servant, not the dignified leader of the community she was supposed to be.
‘Well I guess I'd best make us both a cup of tea.' She turned and retreated quickly down the wide corridor and into the kitchen.
He walked behind slowly, casting his eyes over his once-familiar house. House, not home, his picture of home had been replaced with a small cabin with nothing but a hammock and desk for decorations.
His mother's house wasn't quite so austere; bedecked, as it was, in sandstone, wrought iron and stained glass. It had ivy climbing up the walls and a sun room where she grew orchids and read in the winter. It was huge, far too large for an old lady living on her own, but she still had the windows open to all the rooms in summer and beat out the rugs regularly, as if she were preparing for planned guests that never came.
He walked past the ornate dresser as he turned towards the kitchen, but he purposely did not look down at the photos that sat there in their intricate gilded frames.
Abby the Witch Page 4