The Whitby Witches 3: The Whitby Child

by Robin Jarvis

  Ben pushed her from the parlour back to her sickroom and, laughing together, they left Jennet sitting alone.

  The girl gazed sorrowfully around the room and slowly began to clear the table. In the distracting spectacle of Sister Frances, they had completely forgotten to give Jennet her birthday presents.

  The sun was still just above the horizon and pale shadows filled the streets and lanes of the West Cliff. A cool breeze blew in from the sea and, as Sister Frances staggered unsteadily over the cobbles she felt extremely giddy.

  "What ish the matter with me?" she burbled aloud. "Don't feel at all... I say, why is the street spinning round?"

  Lurching against a wall, she tried to balance herself and drew a hand over her brow.

  "Mosht unlike me, thish ish," she rambled on. "Wonder if it was something I ate? Praps if I sat down for a while? No—fresh air, that'sh the chappy. Get some good air in you, Frances, that'sh the ticket—do you a power of good. If I shtand on the shore for a few minutes it'll all clear."

  Carefully, she made her way down the steps of Tate Hill Pier, holding on to the wall with one hand and her reeling head with the other.

  The world was revolving in the most disagreeable manner and she lifted her eyes to the sky but that too was whirling. When her feet sank into the soft sand the nun halted as she tried to control her rubbery legs. Then she took several steps down the gentle slope, slithering only once, and breathed deeply.

  "Aarghkk!" she coughed, wildly backing away with her fingers pinching her long nose.

  The effects of the alcohol disappeared immediately as a most putrid and disgusting stench filled her nostrils and the poor woman turned a livid green colour.

  "What is it?" she shrieked, the back of her throat burning from the bile that she could not keep down.

  Sister Frances' eyes grew wide and round as she stared about her.

  The entire beach had turned silver. Covering the shore were hundreds upon hundreds of dead fish.

  It was a bizarre and grotesque sight. The countless scaly bodies trailed right down to the water's edge where the waves relentlessly washed over them, churning up more of the glittering corpses and disgorging them on to the stinking sand.

  With her hand covering her mouth as well as her nose, the now sober nun stooped to peer at the grisly shoal that surrounded her and shuddered in horror and revulsion.

  The fish were the most grotesque creatures she had ever seen. They were hideously mutated, with cancerous bulges and weeping ulcers peppering the silver skin. Many were deformed monsters of spine and fin with rows of savage teeth and dead, staring eyes. Others had weird horns growing behind the gills or barbed, vicious-looking lower jaws that curved upwards over the fishes' pointed faces.

  The scene reminded Sister Frances of old religious paintings that depicted the saints tormented by similar demons. No, not even they had imagined anything so vile as these foul carcasses. It was as if even the sea could not bear to hold them and had flung the unholy shoal at the land to be rid of its unclean presence.

  Overhead the gulls screeched in alarm, but none of them dared alight upon the ghastly shore. No bird would dare feed off that flesh and the air was thick with their agitated flapping.

  "Sweet Lord," Frances uttered as she crossed herself in despair, "deliver us!"

  Yet as she retraced her steps back to the pier stairs, the nun caught sight of the most revolting malignance she had yet witnessed.

  In shape it resembled the other fish but there the similarity ended. The creature was a bloated terror and halfway up the flabby body it split in two, possessing a pair of loathsome heads which lolled over the other corpses and filled Frances with nausea.

  Each was coated in a phosphorescent slime that glimmered in the fading light. The wide mouths gaped up at her and the three eyes which protruded from each deformed head seemed to follow her movements.

  Sister Frances backed away and to her distress she realised that the thing was not quite dead.

  A clawed fin jerked upon the ulcerated side and one of the mouths gave a deep, gasping moan.

  That was too much. The nun gave a distressed scream and bounded up the steps, gulping for breath as the fish had done.

  Along the curving shore, sitting behind a large, weed-covered boulder, was Nelda.

  The young aufwader had been there for some time. She had seen the horrific multitude wash on to the sands and her blood had run cold.

  "'Tis a sign," she wept. "Thus do the Deep Ones reveal their displeasure. What other terrors will come to pass? What new foulness shall be shown before my time comes?"

  Bowing her head, she brought from her pocket Old Parry's disc of polished glass and clutched it desperately as the tears flooded from her eyes.

  4 - The Whitby Witches

  In the rugged miles of coast that lie between Whitby and the hill-hugging town of Robin Hood's Bay, the exposed clifftop path is a magnet for ramblers and the hardy tourist.

  In places the dirt track disappears completely where the ground has slipped into the ravaging sea far below and the intrepid traveller is forced to cut through fields where placid cows graze and plod through the well-clipped grasses.

  That evening, as the inland farms faded in the encroaching dusk, a solitary figure hurried over the pathway.

  Hillian Fogle cursed her own foolishness for the umpteenth time. Unwisely she had forgotten to change her shoes and the spikes of her heels continually plunged deep into the mud, impeding her progress.

  "Ninety-five pounds," she uttered, heaving the Italian leather from the mire yet again, "ruined totally."

  She had left Whitby some distance behind and here, amongst the twisted hawthorn hedges and cow pats, her designer clothes looked even more incongruous.

  "Preparation," she intoned, grimacing at the mud spatters that stained her skirt. "Not enough prepared—this will teach you. What did he always used to tell? 'Prepare and succeed, blunder and fail.' 'Tis true, I shall not let it be happening again. Those who fail do not wear the amethyst."

  Pushing her spectacles further up her nose, the woman squinted along the path, then peered down at a piece of paper she held in her hand.

  It was now too dark to see the map, so from the smart bag which had once matched the shoes she brought out a torch and shone it upon the paper.

  "Not far," she breathed, "yet it was more distant than I was anticipated."

  Waving the bright beam before her, she carefully negotiated the squelching route for a further fifteen minutes then consulted the map once more.

  "Here, I am certain," she said, looking down at a large, irregular-shaped stone that jutted from the ground and was scored by three weathered lines.

  Cautiously, Hillian shone the torch over the edge and saw that below her the cliff face dropped less severely to the shore and in a tight zigzag, a precarious pathway wound down the steep slope beyond the reach of the light beam.

  Tucking the map back into her pocket, she began to descend, and here again she was obliged to curse her expensive footwear.

  Quietly lapping the shore, the dark sea was still and at peace. Behind the lazy waves that rolled almost wearily on to the stretching sands no ripple marred the smooth surface and out into the far distance the waters merged with the smothering night.

  From the shallows, a massive column of black rock rose dramatically into the sky like a tower sacred to heaven that had been roughly hewn in the lost, pagan ages of the world.

  Into this secluded place, Hillian came hobbling. When her shoes sank into the sand, she slipped her feet from them and continued the rest of the way with them dangling from her fingers.

  Curiously she gazed up at the rearing pillar of rock and satisfied herself that it was indeed the correct spot, then switched off her torch.

  An air of expectancy charged the salty atmosphere, as though the sea had been waiting for her arrival, and she felt a chill tingle travel along her spine.

  Gravely, she placed her belongings upon the sand and stood as s
till as the immense rock which loomed nearby as she composed herself. For some moments she listened, but the only sounds were those of the waves upon the shore.

  Flinging out her arms she stared fixedly at the invisible horizon then cried, "Hearken to me!" and the sudden noise of her voice tore the waiting peace into shreds.

  "Here have I come," Hillian called. "This is the meeting place of your devising—show unto me that our efforts have not been in vain. Disclose the contact that we seek and are promised this night. In the name of he who has passed over and by the coven of the Black Sceptre I summon you!"

  Keeping her arms raised until they ached, she waited for an answering sign, but only the soft murmuring sea called to her and Hillian's nostrils twitched in irritation and impatience.

  "He keeps me lingering," she muttered, "yet bide here I shall. Does he test my endurance? More than this would any of us suffer."

  Lowering her arms, she buttoned her elegant jacket and thrust her hands deep into the pockets, for the exposed shore was cold and it was not long before the chill entered her very bones.

  When twenty minutes had gone by, Hillian lit a cigarette and sat upon the damp sand, for her feet were totally numb and she rubbed them vigorously.

  "A waste of time this is," she told the empty shore. "Why delay further?"

  Another half an hour dragged by and with an annoyed snarl, she finished the packet of cigarettes and threw the screwed up box into the water.

  "Were we deceived?" she yelled. "What joke was this? Many months in the planning I spent—was it only for your amusement? Why do you not answer?"

  Even as she uttered the last question she became aware that the wind had changed and was swiftly growing stronger.

  From the blackness of the open sea it blew, whipping the foam from the waves and driving them against the shore with increasing violence.

  "Yes!" Hillian roared as she sprang to her feet. "Show me, oh Mighty Majesty! Reveal thy will!"

  At last it was happening. Rejoicing at the raging gale, the woman leaned into the squall and with her mud-splashed, sand-encrusted silk and linen clothes flapping madly about her she raised her arms in exultation.

  From the furthest reaches of the sea, the storm came thundering. Huge waves crashed against the column of rock, venting a hellish fury about its solid bulk until it seemed as if it would topple and smash into the savage waters below. Upon the shore the sand was ripped up and hurled against the cliff, gouging deep cuts into its sloping face.

  Hillian's short black hair streamed flat against her skull as the tempest screamed about her, yet she withstood it fearlessly and bawled back into the howling wind.

  "Show me now!" she screeched. "Show me!"

  From the wild darkness above, a torrent of hailstones suddenly pelted from the sky and pounded the tortured shore. Then from the deep, seething waters, a spout of icy water exploded to the surface as a small, square object shot from the waves.

  Hillian clapped her hands as she watched it fly through the night in a perfect arc towards her.

  Spinning and twisting, the shape tumbled down. Through hail and sleet it sliced a curving path until, with a tremendous thump, it hit the beach and was half buried in the sand directly in front of the gleeful woman.

  Eagerly, she kneeled to dig it free with her bare hands and stared at the object excitedly.

  It was a wooden box, no larger than a small suitcase, and Hillian snatched it up greedily.

  "I thank you!" she cried into the wind. "Now we can begin to do thy bidding. Be assured that no task shall we balk at—for if we are granted that which is promised then there is nothing we will not commit."

  The sea roared about the towering rock and Hillian put the shoes back upon her feet. With a final glance at the raging waters, the plump woman carried the box up the narrow pathway and set off back to Whitby.

  ***

  On the East Cliff, situated along the Pier Road beside the gaudy, chattering amusement arcades, The Sandy Beach Café looked bright and cheerful in its clean peppermint paint and golden letters. The establishment had only been open for a few weeks but already it was luring many regular customers away from their old haunts and had proven a firm favourite with the early holiday makers.

  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.