by Robin Jarvis
Hesper’s face was pale when she turned round to her niece. ‘I said go fetch him,’ she said quietly. ‘Now.’
Nelda’s heart fluttered, while her eyes looked past her aunt into the darkness beyond the netting. Hesper grabbed her shoulders fiercely and pushed the young aufwader off the rock. ‘Don’t look,’ she said in a voice that she was struggling to control.
Frightened, Nelda stared at Hesper, then ran, weeping, to her grandfather.
The net was held down by large, round weights. Hesper leaned over and, with difficulty, hauled some of it away. ‘Nine times bless me!’ she exclaimed and clapped a hand over her mouth in horror. For there, revealed beneath the chaotic jungle of net and weed, was a body.
Tarr strode up as fast as he could. ‘Shut yer blutherin’,’ he snapped at Nelda. But behind a mask of irritation he too was afraid. What had his daughter found? he asked himself. As he drew near to where Hesper was kneeling, he could hear her cries of despair and saw that she had removed her hat.
‘Stay ’ere,’ he told Nelda when they reached the rock. ‘Tha’s too young t’look on what she’s found.’ With an effort he pulled himself up and gazed down into the hollow. ‘Deeps take me!’ he gasped.
Hesper clasped his hand and squeezed it tightly. ‘I can’t bring myself to uncover any more,’ she sobbed. ‘What if both are in there?’
Tarr’s old face hardened, for he had seen death before. Anyway, there was not enough time to run back to the caves for the others. Already the sun was edging over the rim of the world and the gulls were waking. ‘Ah’ll see t’this,’ he said gruffly. ‘Get thissen down theer wi’ Nelda.’
His whiskered jaw was set like granite and Hesper did not hesitate. Down the rock she slid and held on to her niece, waiting for the worst.
With his staff, Tarr cleared the rest of the netting away to uncover more of the gruesome remains. Grimly he continued, though his face was awful to see. Finally, he rocked back and turned his head from the horrible sight.
‘Theer’s just the one,’ he told the others.
Both Nelda and Hesper clung to each other – who was it: Nelda’s father or Silas?
Tarr shook his head at them. ‘Ah canna tell, ’e’s in a reet state.’ He shivered and said softly, ‘’Ed’s all battered in, like. ‘Is own mother nivver’d know ’im.’
He stretched his legs over the side so that he could drop down beside the body. There was only one way of identifying such a grisly corpse: by the pattern on its jersey. For many years the jersey – or gansey, as the fisher folk called it – was not merely an item of clothing. The arrangement of the ribs and cables upon each was like a family crest. One close look would tell him who it was.
As he bent down to examine the gansey, Tarr could not help seeing the terrible mess above the neck once again. ‘Tha’s nivver the work o’ rocks,’ he told himself bitterly. ‘Thissun’s bin done in.’ Ugly images flashed into his head; there must have been a bloody fight between Silas and Nelda’s father, Abe. With a trembling hand he rolled the body over – Abe was his son.
‘Nah,’ he whispered as he inspected the complicated rows, ‘them’s Gull stitches, reet enough.’ Here then was Silas Gull, the black sheep of the tribe – a rascal descended from rogues. There would not be many, he told himself, who would weep over his loss. Only Hesper, perhaps.
Tarr whistled softly to himself as the significance of this discovery sank in. So it was Silas who had been murdered and, from the looks of things, by Nelda’s father. A fierce scowl formed on Tarr’s face. ‘Tha’s in deep, dark waters, Abe lad,’ he murmured, ‘an’ tha canna hide ferivver.’
The heels of Miss Boston’s shoes clicked over the beautifully polished wooden floor. She had brought the children to the museum and was thoroughly enjoying showing them round.
Jennet had always grouped museums, art galleries and exhibitions into a great big yawn-making lump. She had only agreed to come along today because she couldn’t bear the tension in the house any more, and she prepared herself for a dull and boring morning.
It was with great surprise, therefore, that she discovered the Pannet Park Museum to be a fascinating place, jam-packed with curios and wonders. It was like some magnificent jumble sale of the imagination. Glass cases proudly flaunted their treasures: painstaking models of ships, Victorian dolls, a small Noah’s ark with a parade of wooden animals trailing down the gangplank, intricate works in jet, old costumes, a collection of boats in bottles, and a flock of stuffed birds.
Aunt Alice watched Jennet’s expressions with satisfaction. They lingered by the display of jet, and the girl was dazzled by the craftsmanship of the tiaras and brooches. The old lady beamed and rubbed her hands together; soon all that unpleasantness would be forgotten. So long as she stuck to her side of the bargain, all would be well. Still, she cast a wistful eye at Ben and sighed; it was a pity the meetings of the circle had to end.
‘And here,’ she began, bubbling with joy, ‘is one of our most wonderful masterpieces – Dr Merryweather’s Tempest Prognosticator!’ With a flourish of her hands, she introduced a grand glass dome which housed a very peculiar mechanism indeed. At the top were lots of little bells, attached to long strings which hung down into small glass jars about the base.
Jennet looked into the jars and grimaced: they contained revolting furry grubs. Aunt Alice saw her and laughed. ‘Leeches,’ she informed the girl. ‘Apparently those slimy little creatures could tell when a storm was coming and would jiggle about in their jars, causing the bells to ring. Isn’t it a marvellous thing altogether?’ And she clasped her hands together and heaved a great sigh.
‘It’s disgusting,’ remarked Jennet. ‘They could have cleaned the jars out.’
On any normal day Ben would have been fascinated by the mouldy remains of long-dead leeches, but he merely twitched his eyebrows and waited for the tour to end. He had stared at all the exhibits without enthusiasm because his mind was crammed too full of his meeting with Nelda. For most of the previous night he had lain awake, wondering if she would come to the cliff-top the next evening as arranged. He could not bear the painfully slow movements of the clock on the museum wall and threw it a suspicious glance to see if it was working properly.
They left Dr Merryweather’s brainchild and wandered round to a scale model of the abbey. Jennet looked at it and realised that something was not quite right. Of course, it showed the building at some earlier time.
Miss Boston eyes were sparkling as she explained. ‘This is how the abbey looked before the great west window collapsed in 1794, and the central tower fell in 1830.’
‘Was anyone hurt?’ asked Jennet.
‘Bless you, no,’ Aunt Alice explained. ‘Why, nobody ever went there much in those days, except artists and dogs.’
Jennet frowned. ‘Dogs?’
‘Why, yes. Apparently after the tower collapsed they discovered the crushed body of a large dog under the rubble.’
‘How sad, the poor thing.’
Some distance away, Ben licked his top lip and stared down wide-eyed. For the first time that morning his interest was engaged. He had wandered off, leaving his sister and Aunt Alice, for something unusual had caught his eye. In a glass case, all on its own, was one of the most hideous objects he had ever seen: a severed human hand.
It must have been very old, for the skin was dry and grey, but you could still see the fingernails and the wrinkles on its knuckles. A delighted shiver ran down Ben’s back. He loved macabre horrors like this.
Jennet and Miss Boston soon joined him. The girl pulled a face and the old lady’s chins quivered as she explained what the ghastly thing was.
‘A Hand of Glory,’ she uttered in a thrilled whisper. ‘This unpleasant little item was used as a charm by witches and burglars many years ago.’
‘What as?’ asked Jennet grimly. ‘A back-scratcher?’
Aunt Alice cackled. ‘It was believed in those times that this charm, if used properly, could put to sleep an entire household so that a
thief could ransack the place without anybody stirring.’ She paused and waited for encouragement to continue; there was none, so she rattled on regardless. ‘A true Hand of Glory had to be cut from a man while he was still dangling from the gallows. It then had to be pickled and dried and the fingers set alight –’ Aunt Alice stopped in mid-sentence, for Jennet had baulked and was looking ill. ‘I’m so sorry, dear,’ she said in alarm, ‘did I go too far?’
‘I think I’ll sit outside, if you don’t mind,’ Jennet said quietly. ‘I need some fresh air.’
Miss Boston blinked and assumed her guilt-ridden face. ‘Oh dear,’ she murmured.
‘Tell me more about the gallows,’ asked Ben eagerly.
The old lady coughed. ‘I think it’s time we left too, Benjamin.’
For the rest of the day Ben was restless and fidgety. He drifted about the town like a lost soul, counting the hours till it was time to meet Nelda again. The afternoon dragged on and he was so out of sorts that he totally forgot about visiting the lifeboat museum.
To celebrate their truce, Aunt Alice and Jennet went into a small café for a cream tea. There they met another of the old lady’s friends. Mr Roper was a soft-spoken old man, smelling of Brilliantine and mothballs. He pulled his chair over to their table and proceeded to tell them the morning’s gossip. Jennet listened to him politely but felt sorry for the old man; he was obviously lonely and had nothing better to do than take part in the scandal-mongering of the Whitby busybodies. Among the useless titbits he divulged was one interesting fact, however – a Mrs Rowena Cooper had just moved into the empty house on Abbey Lane.
Aunt Alice frowned at the news. Surely the house was far too damp and dilapidated to live in. She stirred her tea vigorously and pondered on the character of Mrs Cooper, who was quickly becoming a mysterious figure. She sipped her brew in silence and stared over the rim of her cup out of the window at the passers-by, in case the focus of her thoughts was among them.
At last the evening came. With his heart in his mouth, Ben ran up the hundred and ninety-nine steps and stared about the graves.
There she was, the youngest of the fisher folk, sitting on the same tombstone and staring at the white-crested waves far below. She turned as she heard Ben running towards her and the face he saw was marked with worry and pain.
‘I cannot stay,’ she told him at once. ‘I should not be here at all, but I did promise. Now I must go.’
‘Wait a minute,’ gasped Ben. ‘What’s happened?’
She looked away and shrugged. ‘My uncle has been found,’ she muttered.
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘what does that mean? Was he hiding? Had he done something horrible to your father?’
She pulled the woollen hat from her head and let the wind seize her hair. ‘Silas was dead when we found him,’ she answered simply. ‘It was he who had been killed.’
For a moment Ben struggled to understand what she was saying and then it dawned on him. ‘You mean your father did it?’
Nelda squeezed her large grey eyes tight shut and spoke with anguish. ‘Never!’ she cried. ‘He is kind and gentle – my father would not harm anything.’ Then she sobbed bitterly into her sleeve. Ben waited till the emotion subsided and produced a handkerchief from his pocket. Nelda took it and wiped her face. ‘Already the tribe shuns me and my grandfather. In their eyes the blood which stains the hands of my father touches us also. I do not know what will befall us. The kin of a murderer must take some of the blame – that is the law and we must suffer it.’
‘Sounds like a stupid law to me,’ Ben remarked.
A slight smile tugged at the corners of Nelda’s mouth; she liked this human child and found his company comforting. ‘I think you are right,’ she answered, ‘for the old laws have never brought anything but pain. What use are they now to us wanderers of the shore? The number of our years grows ever shorter. One day we shall leave both sea and sand forever and none shall remember us.’
A gull screeched overhead and its voice reminded Nelda that she did not have time to talk at length. ‘I must go now,’ she told Ben. ‘There is much to do, for we send Silas on his way tonight. The black boat has been prepared all day for this, his final journey. I slipped away to see you but I shall soon be missed. I am out of favour already, I do not wish for any more –’
She was suddenly interrupted by a shocked voice. ‘NELDA!’ it shrieked.
The aufwader jumped off the tombstone as though stung and stared round in terror. Coming up the grassy slope was her aunt.
Ben was overjoyed to see yet another of the strange creatures. This one looked quite comical, and delightedly he drank the sight in: the oilskin hat, the cork lifebelt, the satchels, the fishing net on the pole . . . Then he remembered Nelda’s words. If any of her tribe were to discover that she was talking to a human, she would be severely punished. He held his breath as he saw the stern expression on the newcomer’s face and waited for her to clamber up. Nelda shrank back against the tomb as her aunt approached, wondering how she would react towards Ben.
Hesper was waving her arms about like a demented windmill and her wrinkled face had turned a peculiar shade of purple. ‘A human child with the sight!’ she squealed in panic as she ran to her niece, skirting round Ben as though he were a bomb that might explode at any moment. ‘Nelda, I thought you were wiser than to mix with such creatures. And today of all days!’ She pulled up the lifebelt which had fallen round her knees and continued. ‘Come away this instant, the prayer is ready to be spoken.’
‘Don’t blame her,’ Ben piped up. ‘I made her talk to me.’
Hesper’s crinkled face studied him distastefully for a moment before turning back to her niece. ‘Give thanks it was I who found you,’ she said. ‘Old Parry desired to come, and you know what a barbed tongue she has. Return with me now and we shall speak of this no more.’
Nelda threw her arms around her aunt’s neck. ‘You mean you won’t tell? Oh, thank you.’
Hesper gave a little gasp as she struggled to get free. ‘Come away! Words must be said by all the tribe over the black boat before it burns.’
‘Won’t I see you again, then?’ Ben asked miserably.
Nelda shot a hasty glance at her aunt. Hesper pursed her lips and shook her head firmly. ‘Our worlds must not mix,’ she said with force. ‘Tragedy has ever occurred when such attempts are made.’ She gripped her niece’s hand and squeezed it urgently. ‘Would you have the curse tighten ever more about us?’ she asked. ‘Is the doom that awaits us not enough, that you would seek more?’
Nelda hung her head and prepared to say farewell to her human friend. She knew Hesper was right – it was wrong for her to hope of seeing Ben again. And yet . . .
A strange feeling swept over her, like nothing she had ever experienced before. Her head swam and the light of the setting sun faded to darkness. Nelda’s eyes opened wide and they were blacker than jet, black as the pathless voids into which her thoughts voyaged. Out of her body she drifted and visions of things to come flashed past her. She saw a white, billowing shape high on the cliff-top and heard the beat of pagan drums. A glowing form shimmered from the depths of the sea and she uttered a cry of astonishment when she recognised . . . With a sickening lurch, the scene was snatched away and her blood turned to ice. A huge, gaping maw rushed towards her. She heard the vicious hatred in its voice as a nightmarish growl issued from the scarlet throat.
Nelda screamed and tumbled backwards, waving her arms before her face to fend off the evil which attacked her.
Hesper and Ben knelt down by the aufwader’s side. Hesper rummaged quickly in one of her satchels and produced a leather flask. ‘A little liquor distilled from limpets,’ she explained to Ben as she poured it into her niece’s mouth. In her concern, all suspicions about the boy were forgotten.
‘What happened?’ asked Ben fearfully. ‘Will she be all right?’
Even as he spoke, Nelda’s eyes flickered open. Hesper examined them; they were soft and grey once more. ‘All will be
well,’ she said, nodding with satisfaction. ‘It is the strain taking its toll, nothing more.’
Nelda choked back a cry and she clutched her aunt’s arm. ‘I have seen!’ she exclaimed frenziedly. ‘I saw it, Hesper, out under the waves. The time is near – you were right all along.’
Hesper caught her breath and leaned back. ‘What did you see?’ she asked in a trembling voice, not daring to hope.
Nelda took hold of her shoulders and shook her joyfully. ‘That which you have sought so long – the moonkelp!’
Hesper gawped at her in disbelief for a second, then let loose a terrific squeal of glee.
Ben covered his ears and wondered why they were so excited. Finally Nelda remembered him and hurriedly told her aunt, ‘I know not how this vision came to be, but I am sure this human child is caught up in our plight. Hesper, do you not see? It is written for him to play a part in this. Do not ask me how, but my heart knows his life is entwined with that of the tribe. Spurn him now and the curse will engulf us all.’
Her voice and her words were powerful, and Hesper did not doubt that Nelda had been shown a glimpse of the future. The wisdom of the cold deeps had touched her for a moment. ‘Then we must tell the child of our woe,’ she said simply.
Hesper struggled to her feet and looked at Ben. ‘Listen to me, unhappy man-pup,’ she told him soberly. ‘All that you hear from this moment on must not cross your lips into another’s hearing – you understand?’ Ben mumbled that he did, not sure if he was prepared for what she was about to tell him.
Hesper pulled the oilskin hat further over her eyes so that they were lost in its shadow. She gazed into the distance and began. ‘The land has changed since our remote grandsires first harvested the waters here and wandered by the shore. It was wild hereabouts; the rocks were sharper and the cliffs reached further into the clean sea. Your kind was scarce then, I believe, but there were many tribes of our folk.’ She faltered, regretting that she had not been born in such a time. ‘But all things must change,’ she continued. ‘The stones of your dwellings were laid here and more of your folk made their way over the moor and over the water to settle at the river mouth. It is said that when first they came, our tribes welcomed them, but the two races were never at ease with each other. There were quarrels and fights. Never was there a more frightened creature than Man – like a rabbit he is, afraid of anything which walks under the moon.’
