The Devil’s Paintbox

by Robin Jarvis

  ‘Which balance is that?’

  ‘The one between you and your daughter. That is the blade that truly cuts you deepest: the fact she has a natural aptitude for witchcraft. Is that not why you resent her so very much?’

  Cassandra’s expression froze. She struggled to deny it, but couldn’t. Horrified that her innermost, secret feelings had been uttered aloud, she whirled about and stumbled away.

  ‘This was a mistake!’ she cried out. ‘I can’t do this. I don’t want it.’

  The phantom watched her flee the graveyard and go hurrying down the many steps. Around him the other spectres vanished. Jack Potts lowered his arms and raised his head.

  ‘A bravura performance,’ the automaton congratulated. ‘I was most impressed.’

  Queller rubbed his thumb and forefinger together and filaments of electricity sizzled between them. His grin changed into an ugly leer as the handsome face dissolved. A long scar sliced up from the chin to the right eye and his neck became crooked.

  ‘Easier to bag than a stunned rabbit,’ he gloated. ‘What a stupid creature she is, so ripe, so desperate.’

  ‘Should I go after her?’

  ‘No need. She will return soon enough. Before this night is over, she’ll bite the bait fully.’

  Jack Potts bowed low. ‘As you wish, Mister Dark,’ he said.

  Lil hadn’t taken long to crochet a hand-sized heart shape out of blue wool. She knew from conversations with Cherry that it was the colour of tranquillity, bestowing calm and healing. With every stitch, she had chanted, ‘Clarke be well, Clarke be well,’ and tried to focus her power. Finally, she trimmed it with a white border for protection, then crept downstairs and slipped outside.

  Lil hurried through the empty streets, which reeked of disinfectant. Running over the swing bridge, she was soon haring along Pier Road and, minutes later, banging on the Thistlewoods’ door.

  Verne’s father let her in, looking fraught and dishevelled.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he said sternly. ‘They’re telling everyone to remain indoors.’

  ‘I want to see Clarke,’ she insisted.

  ‘You can’t. He’s . . . he’s bad with it. Listen, on your way over, did you see any ambulances or medical teams? They should have been here hours ago.’

  Lil shook her head. ‘I saw flashing lights, way off, but I think they were police cars.’

  ‘What’s keeping them?’ he ranted. ‘My boy needs treatment!’

  ‘That’s why I’ve got to see him!’ Lil explained, brandishing the crocheted heart. ‘I made this. It might help. Where’s Verne? He’ll tell you.’

  Mrs Thistlewood appeared at the top of the stairs. She looked alarming, dressed in a cagoule with the hood pulled tightly about her face, rubber gloves and with a tea towel covering her mouth and nose.

  ‘Have you witched it?’ she asked bluntly.

  Lil nodded.

  ‘Then for heaven’s sake, Dennis, let her up!’ Noreen yelled.

  Dennis relented, but first took Lil to the kitchen, where he gave her a pair of washing-up gloves and a tea towel that had been sprayed with antibacterial cleaner to breathe through.

  Lil ascended the stairs and Noreen ushered her into Clarke’s room.

  Even though Mrs Thistlewood had tried to disinfect everything in the room, including the walls, Lil could still smell the sickness.

  Clarke looked deathly. Lil had never seen anyone so ill. His skin had a yellow, waxy translucence and she could almost see his skull through it. A fever drenched his body in sweat, but his lips were cracked and dry. Beneath their half-closed, crusted lids, his sunken eyes were floating from side to side, but he was oblivious to his surroundings.

  ‘Clarke?’ Lil said. ‘It’s me, Lil, Verne’s friend.’

  There was no response.

  ‘He was fine this afternoon, till about five,’ his mother said, her voice wavering. ‘Now look. What’s going on? Verne’s so upset he’s locked himself in his room and won’t come out.’

  Lil took a step closer to the sickbed. Faced with the stark reality of the unnatural illness, her crocheted heart seemed absurd. How could anything she did possibly have an effect on this? It was cruel to raise Noreen’s hopes even a little.

  ‘Please, Lil.’

  She glanced round. Mr Thistlewood was now standing behind his wife and his eyes were glistening.

  The girl took a deep breath. She had to at least try.

  ‘Clarke,’ she said again. ‘I’ve brought something for you. Something I made. It’s special. I’m going to give it to you now. Keep tight hold and don’t let go.’

  Very gently she clasped his left hand. It was limp and clammy.

  ‘Be well,’ she whispered as she placed the charm in his fingers. Closing her eyes, she tried to summon any power she might have. And then, from some remote place, deep inside, she found her strength and uttered words that weren’t her own.

  ‘By the secret flame within me, that burned before the Three beneath the sea, by moon and steering star, by the legacy of the long sisterhood of witches, I bid thee. Abjure the chains that bind thee close. Stray no longer upon that shadow shore. Heal and be hale. I cast my net and haul thee home. Return to those who love thee dear. So mote it be!’

  Clarke’s parents watched anxiously. They saw pinpricks of silver light shine out from the crocheted stitches. Then a radiance welled up in Clarke’s hand, glimmering through the veins and bones like moonlight behind winter branches. He heaved a rattling breath.

  ‘Clarke!’ Noreen cried, ripping the tea towel from her mouth and rushing forward to hold him.

  Lil stepped away, feeling groggy.

  ‘Look!’ Mrs Thistlewood called to her husband. ‘I’m not imagining it, am I? There’s a bit of colour in his cheeks. Oh, Lil, bless you. Thank you!’

  Dennis gave the girl a rejoicing hug. ‘You’re better than any medicine!’ he shouted.

  ‘Have you cured him?’ asked a familiar voice.

  They turned to see Verne, who had finally emerged from his room.

  ‘Come see!’ his mother said. ‘There’s a difference!’

  Verne looked at his brother and agreed he appeared less ghastly than before.

  ‘You going to knit a charm for everyone in Whitby then?’ he asked Lil. ‘Because we’re all going to need one. So that’ll be, what, over thirteen thousand of them? I know you’re fast, but you’ll never make that many in time.’

  ‘Verne, what’s the matter?’ Dennis asked. ‘Lil’s worked a miracle for your brother.’

  The boy stared at Lil and she saw grief and guilt in his eyes as he said, ‘That’s great for us, it really is, but they’ve just announced on the news that the two most serious cases have died. One miracle isn’t enough.’

  Lil choked and clutched his hand for support.

  ‘Dead?’ she uttered, aghast. ‘Actually dead?’

  ‘And there are other critical patients now,’ he said. ‘Probably a lot more they don’t know about because they’ve not been able to get round many houses. They’re calling it a plague now.’

  Leaving his parents to tend to Clarke, Verne led Lil into his room where she sat on his bed, numb with shock. His computer was streaming live news.

  Images of the overcrowded hospital flashed up, then footage of the quarantine barricades on the roads, which were now being guarded by the army.

  ‘We did this,’ Verne said. ‘We as good as murdered those two people and we’re going to kill hundreds if not thousands more.’

  ‘Do your mum and dad know about the paintbox?’ Lil asked.

  ‘You joking?’

  ‘You’re not to blame at all! You tried to stop me.’

  ‘I could’ve tried harder. And we both jumped about like monkeys as we watched that yellow filth spread over the town. Can’t believe how stupid we were.’

  Verne reached into his top drawer and took out the Nimius.

  ‘I shut myself in here because I was trying to see if this could help,’ he said.
‘Old Pyke must’ve included a healing function. But I can’t work out what symbol it might be, or if you have to press two or more, like this afternoon. Do you think Jack Potts would have a clue?’

  ‘He might.’

  ‘I feel like a caveman trying to start the Hadron Collider.’

  Running his fingers over the scrolling gold, Verne stared at the grim news footage on the computer monitor.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said slowly. ‘This isn’t a normal plague. I don’t think it’s something the doctors can cure. What if . . . what if the people who die . . .’

  ‘Please tell me you’re not going to mention the z word. This is serious; as serious as it gets.’

  ‘That out there looks pretty apocalyptic to me,’ he answered. ‘This might be how it starts.’

  Lil rose.

  ‘I need to go,’ she said. ‘I have to talk to Cherry. Maybe there’s something she can do, although if there is, she’s probably already doing it.’

  ‘Can I come?’

  It was a testament to their friendship that Lil didn’t hesitate to agree, even though she would have preferred to see Cherry on her own.

  Verne hid the Nimius back among his socks and they looked in on Clarke to see how he was doing.

  ‘The fever’s going down,’ Mrs Thistlewood said, with a relieved smile. ‘I can’t ever thank you enough, Lil. You saved him. You’re an absolute angel.’

  The girl lowered her eyes; she didn’t deserve any praise.

  ‘And tell your mum I’m sorry,’ Noreen continued. ‘Soon as I can leave Clarke, I’ll go see her and make it up.’

  ‘I’ll tell her,’ Lil promised. ‘Mum’s not been herself. She obviously misses you like mad too; you’ve been friends forever.’

  ‘Be careful on your way home,’ Mr Thistlewood cautioned. ‘It’s got dark early. Want me to drive you?’

  ‘It’s only over the river, Dad,’ Verne told him. ‘Besides, we’re both going. We need to see Cherry.’

  His parents began to protest, then Dennis caved in and surrendered.

  ‘What’s the point?’ he said, holding up his hands. ‘You two are a law unto yourselves and, one thing I’ve realised, you’re stronger together.’

  The children hurried down the stairs and were soon walking through the empty streets. Hearing nothing but the subdued chatter of TV news and the coughing of the sick in the huddled houses, the two friends headed for Cherry’s cottage.

  ‘OK, first of all,’ Cherry Cerise ordered when she opened her door, ‘smack them glum faces clean off, or you don’t come in. I know what you’re thinking, Lil, doing the whole guilt-trip thing, but forget it. This is not down to you.’

  Lil and Verne followed her into the parlour. Papers and books were strewn everywhere and they had to clear a space before they could sit down.

  ‘Of course it’s down to me,’ Lil disagreed. ‘I should’ve left well alone.’

  ‘Nuh-uh, sweetheart,’ Cherry corrected. ‘There’s no way you could’ve stopped yourself using that paintbox. I been doing some research. This is one heck of an elaborate multi-hex. It’s so complicated I melted my wig trying to get my brain round it. Soon as you touched that thing, you was snared. There was no way you wouldn’t have put water on that paint. You was made to do it, just as you was made to think it was all your own idea.’

  ‘Made? Why and by who?’

  ‘The “why” is all over the news, honey. This is an attack. But the “who”? Well, that’s even more obvious. They failed in the spring to destroy this town so now They’re having another go. This plague is just the opening barrage to soften us up.’

  ‘You mean the Lords of the Deep and Dark?’ asked Lil. ‘You’re always talking about them, but you never explain who or what they are.’

  Cherry eased herself into the hanging wicker chair and put her hands between her knees as she tried to describe the indescribable.

  ‘OK,’ she began. ‘Forget everything science or religion ever told you about how the universe was made. At the start, all there was was a never-ending emptiness – and the First Mother, who crawled in from outside.’

  ‘Outside?’ asked Verne.

  ‘You mean outside this dimension?’ said Lil.

  ‘Hun, I’m just repeating a way old tradition, and trying to keep it simple. Call it another dimension, reality, existence, beyond, whatever. Our clumsy words aren’t up to the job. Just imagine a creature, galaxies wide. She’s called the First Mother because She gave birth, but She impregnated herself, so go figure.’

  ‘Wait, the Lords of the Deep were Her children?’ asked Lil.

  ‘Yep, or three of ’em anyways; She kinda splurged out a whole mess of bambinos. That’s the cataclysmic event scientists call the Big Bang. The Big Push would be more accurate. Anyway, it killed Her and what the offspring didn’t eat – yeah, gross – They formed the universe with.’

  ‘They made the earth?’ gasped Verne. ‘The solar system?’

  ‘Kick-started it, let it do its own thing, until it got interestin’. Then They moved in and ever since They’ve played around with it, like kids with plasticine. That’s what we’re up against: creatures so old, so powerful and terrible, we’d be out of our puny minds to even dream of getting mixed up with Them. We shouldn’t even know They exist.’

  She paused and raised her eyebrows.

  ‘How we doin’ so far?’ she asked. ‘Handling this OK? I know it’s a mind bender.’

  Verne shrugged. ‘Actually, I think it makes a funny sort of sense,’ he said. ‘Well, about as much as everything else around here.’

  ‘So why are we mixed up with Them?’ Lil asked. ‘What is it about Whitby They hate so much?’

  ‘You’re looking at her, babe. And of course there’s you too now. It’s us witches. They really don’t dig what They can’t control and our sisterhood has been kneein’ Them in the tentacles for a long, long time. No one else has ever stood up to Them and gotten away with it.’

  ‘If They’re so great and mighty, how has that been possible?’ asked Verne.

  ‘Because the feminine energies we call on are the residual echoes of the First Mother’s mojo. It’s still ricocheting round the cosmos, but for some reason it resonates real strong here in Whitby. The Three got no clout over that, so there’s been a wary truce. But every now and then They try to subvert the ancient laws. That’s what the paintbox is – the latest sneaky way to cheat the rules. I shoulda realised, but They was devious and played a long game with this one.’

  ‘A Trojan horse,’ Verne said.

  ‘Is there anything we can do to stop the sickness?’ Lil asked. ‘I crocheted a spell of healing for Clarke, but I can’t do that for everyone. Surely there’s something else we can do?’

  ‘Not till the rest of it plays out,’ Cherry answered. ‘Like I said, this is a multi-part assault. It won’t end till each stage is gone through.’

  ‘The label under the lid!’ Verne blurted. ‘Remember, it said there was a colour a day and it wouldn’t be over till they were all washed away – or something like that.’

  ‘We’ve got to use up every paint block?’ Lil asked in dismay. ‘But that’s another five days! The sick can’t wait that long. And what will the other colours do? The next one along is red. Is that going to be the Red Death? A bloodbath? And what about the black?’

  Cherry shook her head. ‘I got no answers,’ she said. ‘We’re just gonna have to get through it, face each new threat best we can and hope it don’t kill us.’

  ‘If each colour is as bad as the yellow,’ Lil murmured, ‘it’ll be horrific.’

  ‘I know, babe,’ Cherry said grimly. ‘So we better brace ourselves. The paintbox was created for our humiliation and destruction, so chances ain’t lookin’ good for us.’

  They sat in silence as this frightening prospect hit home. Then Verne stood up.

  ‘We’re going to need a good night’s sleep if we start on the red paint tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I’ll get on back. What time does
it kick off ?’

  Cherry beamed at him. ‘You might look like a stick insect, kid,’ she said admiringly, ‘but you gotta truckload of guts and you give me hope. I’d like to begin early. Can you be here at 7 a.m?’

  He nodded and Lil said that wasn’t a problem for her either.

  Cherry showed them to the door.

  ‘Almost forgot,’ she said, as they were leaving. ‘You left that hanky behind earlier. Did you see the initials embroidered on it?’

  Taking it from her pocket, she showed it to Lil.

  ‘N B,’ the girl read. ‘Who was that?’

  Cherry had already popped back into the parlour and returned with a leather-bound book open at the back page. There was a list of names. Apart from the first three, they were written in different hands.

  Batty Crow

  Maudie Dodd

  Nannie (Nellie) Burdon

  Myrtle Warters

  Elsie Knaggs

  Sylvia de Lacy

  Irma Swales

  Adeline Weatherill

  Alice Boston

  Cherry Cerise

  ‘A register of Whitby witches,’ Lil guessed.

  ‘Only goes back to the early nineteenth century,’ Cherry said, ‘but that kinda continuity is real comforting. All those game gals doing their witchin’ thing, watching over this town. And that’ll be Nannie Burdon’s hanky. Some of the names have dates next to them. Hers says 1868–1892. That’s her time as resident witch.’

  ‘It’s more than comforting,’ Verne declared. ‘It’s proof Lil makes it through this. Those first three names are in her handwriting again.’

  ‘I started this register,’ Lil murmured. ‘Or rather I’m going to. But what about you, Verne? And you, Cherry? What happens to you?’

  ‘Let’s see what this week dishes out to us,’ Cherry told her. ‘Now you two get that shut-eye and be here on the dot. Sooner we find out what form the next wave of the attack takes, the better.’

  Lil parted from Verne in Church Street and they went in opposite directions to return to their homes. When she opened the door of the Wilsons’ cottage she smelled the same fetid reek that had fouled Clarke’s room and her heart pounded.