Call of the Wraith

by Kevin Sands

  “Joseph Rawlin,” Willoughby said. “This is his lordship, the Baron of Chillingham.”

  Rawlin bowed a little. “An honor, my lord.”

  I nodded coolly, like I imagined the Baron of Chillingham would. “I have some questions for you, if you have the time.”

  “Certainly. I was just about to take my dinner . . . ?”

  He motioned to the tables, but I didn’t want to talk here. “Why not join me in my room?” I said. “I’ll have your meal brought up.” I remembered what Willoughby had told me about the man. “And some warm spiced ale, if that suits you.”

  He gave me an oily sort of smile. “Well, now, my lord. That suits me just fine.”

  • • •

  He looked about my room curiously as he entered. “Lived in Seaton nigh on sixty years,” he said. “Don’t think I’ve ever been in here.”

  I motioned for him to join us at the table near the fire.

  “My lady,” he said to Sally. He nodded to Tom, then smiled at Moppet, all teeth. “Here’s a little darling—”

  She flinched as he reached out to ruffle her hair.

  He pulled back. “Apologies. Meant no offense. Should keep my hands to myself, that’s what I should do.”

  “It’s all right,” I said. “You don’t recognize the girl, do you?”

  He peered at her. “Can’t say as I do. Should I?”

  “She was found wandering around Robert Dryden’s farm.”

  “Know it well. Good man, our Robert.” He studied Moppet more closely now. The girl shifted in Tom’s arms, uncomfortable under his scrutiny. “She’s not from around here,” he said finally.

  “You’re sure?” Sally said.

  “I’ve seen every soul that’s drank from the River Axe. Never laid eyes on that one.” He leaned back in his chair, troubled. “She’s not where she’s supposed to be.”

  “Where should she be?” Tom said.

  “Somewhere else, boy. Somewhere else.”

  “What does that mean?” I said.

  There was a knock on the door. Tom opened it, and Willoughby entered with Rawlin’s meal. The innkeeper’s daughter brought more spiced ale, a mug for each of us, and milk for Moppet.

  Rawlin stayed silent until they were gone. Then he asked, “Might I ask the whereabouts of Chillingham?”

  Sally answered him. “Not far from London.”

  “Ever been round these parts before? Any of you?” When we shook our heads, he said, “This isn’t the east, my lord. Strange things happen here. Very strange things.”

  “You’re talking about the White Lady,” I said.

  He looked at me with interest. “So you know of her.”

  “Have you seen her?”

  “No. And I pray I never do. She’s evil, my lord. Unrelenting evil. And she’s returned to feed on children’s souls.”

  CHAPTER

  20

  TOM HELD MOPPET CLOSE. I shivered as I thought of what Robert had told me. The demon. He’s stolen your soul.

  “Who is the White Lady?” I said.

  “A spirit from long ago,” Rawlin said, as he stirred his stew. “She returns, from time to time, and takes children to keep her warm in the cold.”

  Tom looked at me, eyes wide.

  “I know of one child who’s gone missing,” I said. “Emma Lisle. My man said you claim there are more.”

  “Five,” Rawlin said. “There are five who’ve disappeared.”

  “Five?” Sally said.

  “Five of twelve.”

  “What do you mean, twelve?” I said.

  “That’s what she takes. That’s the White Lady’s payment. Twelve pure souls, to light her way back to hell.”

  My blood was ice. Five missing children. Five souls gone.

  Or did mine make it six?

  I cleared my throat. “You said you’ve never seen the White Lady. How do you know she’s the one taking the children?”

  “Because she’s left her mark.”

  We stared at him, uncomprehending.

  “At Crook’s Hollow,” he said, “on the river, a half mile north of the Dryden farm. They found the mark on a stone.”

  “What mark?”

  “A symbol, written in blood.”

  “What did it look like?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know. Don’t want to know. Marks of wickedness are evil in themselves. Just looking upon them blackens your soul.”

  “If you’ve never seen it, how do you know it’s the mark of the White Lady?”

  “Whose else could it be? There’s no doubting it’s dark magic. If it’s not the White Lady’s, then it came from the witch.”

  “There’s a witch nearby?” Tom said.

  Rawlin nodded. “Lives in the woods, just south of the Darcy place.”

  I recalled the directions Robert had given me. “You’re talking about Sybil O’Malley.”

  “You know her?”

  “Robert said she’s a cunning woman, not a witch.”

  Rawlin shook his head. “Robert Dryden’s a good man—maybe too good. He always thinks the best of people, even when they don’t deserve it.”

  “But she helped me.”

  The old man looked at me curiously. “Did she now? And how did she do that?”

  “She brought me out of an illness.”

  “Ah. And you’re all right now, then, are you, my lord?”

  My skin prickled. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Because you might think she helped you, but she didn’t. She does nothing for the sake of goodness. She took something from you, I guarantee it.”

  I couldn’t answer. It was like my tongue was frozen.

  Rawlin looked vindicated. “Aha, you see? I am right.” Suddenly he remembered whom he was talking to. He fidgeted in his chair. “Meant no offense, my lord. You’ll be in my prayers tonight, I swear.”

  “Never mind me,” I said sharply. “How do you know Sybil’s a witch?”

  “Everyone knows.”

  “Robert Dryden doesn’t.”

  “I told you, my lord, he’s too trusting. Go see Baronet Darcy. He’ll tell you. He used to be a witchfinder. That’s why that . . . woman . . . moved here. To wreak vengeance on behalf of her coven.”

  “Vengeance for what?” I said.

  “I don’t involve myself in wickedness. All I know is that since the witch came, bad things have been happening.”

  “Like what?” Tom said.

  “Disease. Rotting crops. Terrible storms. It’s the witch’s work, mark my words. Though this time, she’s gone too far. Her evil has awakened the White Lady.”

  I thought of what Robert had told me. His cattle, falling ill to the quarter evil. Lean years of harvest. And the storm. The storm that wrecked our ship. I shivered. “You still haven’t told us who the White Lady is.”

  “It’s an old tale.” Rawlin spooned the last of the stew into his mouth, then sat back in his chair. “Some two hundred years ago, a knight came to Devonshire. His name was Sir Tristram, and he made his home in the village of Hook Reddale. A prosperous little hamlet, some ways to the north.

  “Everyone loved Sir Tristram. He was the truest of knights: brave, loyal, kind, pious. Rich, too. But unlike your typical lord—uh . . .” He looked at me uncomfortably. “I’m sure . . . I mean, I have no doubt—”

  “Just go on,” I said.

  “Well . . . he used his wealth to help the town. Anyway, he had a pair of sons, twin boys, but his wife died giving birth to them. So he petitioned the king to allow him to marry a woman he’d seen while at court: a lady of unearthly beauty, dressed in the purest of shimmering samite.

  “Now the king knew this woman, and he was troubled. ‘This lady is not for you,’ he said. ‘I have in mind the daughter of Islington: She is beautiful, and sweet, and faithful to God and Crown.’

  “But Sir Tristram’s heart was set. The lady in white’s beauty had won it, and he would have no other. For a full month did the king try to convince Sir Tristram
to choose someone else, for he loved his loyal knight, and he knew the soul of the lady in white. But Sir Tristram would not relent. So the king did. ‘You shall have her,’ he said, ‘though I pray God forgive me for this mistake.’

  “Sir Tristram married her, then returned home. Over the years, he’d built a tower at the center of the village, so when his lady became his bride, she could stand atop it, and see the land all around, and know how good and peaceful it was. And when they returned to the village, the lady did go up that tower, and her heart did soar. But not because she saw the beauty of the land. No, she saw only its wealth.

  “She knew then, that wealth must be hers—not as is shared between a husband and wife, but all for herself. She knew Sir Tristram’s only family was his twin boys, so that very night, she poisoned them all with their drink. He died, his boys with him, and now she owned everything.

  “The king despaired; though he had no proof, he knew what she had done. But the Divine Lord, who sits in judgement of all, took His own revenge. The lady’s parents, whom she had brought with her to Hook Reddale, were cursed with pestilence, while the lady herself remained untouched. Her parents died, and the villagers fled.

  “Now she was alone—truly alone, for she could not even retreat to the satisfaction of her wealth. Not a soul in the kingdom would take it; for they knew God had cursed every penny. Her stores ran low, her clothes turned to rags, until she had nothing remaining but that samite dress. Realizing what she had done, the lady donned that gown, ran to the top of the tower, and threw herself from the parapet.

  “But God had cursed her well. Though her body broke, death was denied her. She lay there, pleading for mercy, but none were left to come to her aid. Until she heard another voice call.

  “It was the voice of evil. The voice of the Devil. It called to her from the water. ‘Come to me,’ it said. ‘Serve me. And you shall live forever.’

  “And, so, abandoned and alone, she began to crawl. Inch by inch, she dragged her broken body through the snow to the river. And she disappeared under the waves.

  “For most, that would be the end of the story. But evil kept its promise, and in the most wretched way. For the lady did not die in those icy waters. The power of the Devil kept her alive, lost and alone, hungering for warmth. She tried to leave the river, but discovered that her spirit kept her bound to the water. And when the snow falls, the White Lady walks the rivers still, calling to young children who, in their innocence, cannot understand the lies that lurk within her embrace. She feeds on them, feeds on their souls, until they are nothing but hollow husks.”

  Rawlin drained the last of his ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “That’s where those children are, my lord. Do not look for them. For that witch O’Malley has called upon the White Lady. And the White Lady gives nothing back.”

  CHAPTER

  21

  TOM LOOKED TERRIFIED. SALLY, HER face pale, took my hand, holding me so tightly it hurt my fingers.

  “Surely,” I said, “there must be something we can do to save them?”

  The storyteller regarded me curiously. “Why do you care?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re not your children, my lord, not your charge. Why would you set yourself against the wraith?”

  Because I have no choice, I thought. If it was souls the White Lady was taking . . . well, where was mine?

  “Has anyone seen her?” Tom asked breathlessly.

  “You don’t look upon the White Lady, boy. Not if you want to keep your soul. But a man in the hamlet where the blood mark was found said he saw a light near the river that night.”

  “Did he try to follow it?” I said.

  “He knew better than that.”

  “But if no one can look upon the White Lady, how can we stop her?”

  “You can’t,” he said. “All you can do is go after the witch. Put an end to her black magic. That might send the White Lady back to sleeping.”

  “But the children—”

  “Are gone. Forgive me, my lord, but you didn’t hear me. I told you: The White Lady gives nothing back.” He sighed. “A boy not much older than you once thought different. No one thinks so anymore.”

  “What happened?” Tom said.

  The man settled back in his chair. “It was a long time ago, not long after the lady cast herself into the river. Everyone knew the village was cursed; none would go near it. But this boy was foolish, and he dreamed of easy riches. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘Hook Reddale was abandoned, the people taking nothing when they fled. So the village will be full of things to sell.’ He thought of the knight’s tower; imagine the weapons he could find for the taking!

  “The boy was married. His young wife begged him not to go. ‘Think of me,’ she said. ‘Think of your children.’ But the boy wouldn’t listen, and one gray morning, he stole off to the village of Hook Reddale.

  “He found it just like he’d imagined: as if all the people in town had simply vanished. He went to the tower, standing at the village’s heart, and there he found his dream: old, polished guns; fine English longbows; swords of tempered steel.

  “He took one of those swords and brought it home. He showed the weapon to his wife. He thought she’d be pleased; the blade was worth more than everything they owned. But she begged him to take it back.

  “He refused. When she told the rest of the village what her husband had done, they came to persuade him as well. ‘That blade is not worth anything,’ they said, ‘for no one will buy it.’ The boy didn’t care, because secretly, he’d already decided: The sword was too beautiful to sell. He’d return to get another. This one, he’d keep for himself.

  “He polished it, put it aside, then went to bed. In the morning, when he rose, he went to work his lord’s fields, as usual. He planned to go back to the village afterward, to plunder all that he could. But as he was leaving his home, he caught a glimpse of the sword, resting against the wall. So he stayed, and he polished it once again.

  “The same thing happened, day after day: He planned to return to Hook Reddale, and instead spent the evening with his sword. Until one night his wife awoke to discover he hadn’t come to bed. She rose and found him in the cellar, polishing the weapon. And he was talking to it.

  “She confronted him. He scoffed at her and put the sword away. But the next night, she found him doing the same thing. He was talking to the sword—and more frightening, she discovered he was listening to it, as well.

  “She begged him to throw it away. He didn’t laugh this time. He simply put the sword down and came to bed. That wasn’t enough for his terrified wife.

  “ ‘You’ll get rid of that sword tomorrow,’ she said.

  “ ‘Yes,’ he said, and she thought that was the end of it. And, in a way, it was. For that night, the boy rose from his bed. He went downstairs, took up his sword, and murdered his wife. Then he gave it one final polish and went down to the river. He lay in the water, the sword on his chest, and was carried away—into the woods, which glowed with unearthly light.”

  Rawlin’s voice faded, until there was nothing but the crackling of the fire.

  “I see my story has quieted you,” he said. “I’m sorry if I’ve given you troubled thoughts. But there’s nothing to be done here. What the White Lady claims, she will keep. Even to the basest metal. You cannot take from her. Not a blade—and certainly not a child.

  “So go home, my lord. Go home to where you’ll be safe. And pray you never hear of the White Lady again.”

  TUESDAY, DECEMBER 22, 1665

  i t p t e q n r e r

  u b d u q d s u

  CHAPTER

  22

  IF RAWLIN HAD MEANT TO scare me, he’d done a marvelous job. I tossed and turned all night, and when I finally did begin to drift off, only the icy plain of my nightmares waited for me. It woke me with a gasp.

  I sat there, on my bed, in the dark, helpless. Rawlin’s words had turned everything upside down. Robert had said Sybil
would help me—had already helped me. But if Rawlin was right, then she’d been duping the farmer all along. After all this time, could she actually be responsible for his troubles: cursing—or even poisoning—his cattle, and then coercing his payment to “fix” it? And what did that mean for me?

  She took something from you, Rawlin had said. I guarantee it.

  I didn’t know what to do anymore. Yesterday I was desperate to see the old woman. Now I was desperate to leave. Part of me wished I’d gone with Captain Haddock, just escaped this whole hexed shire—except, of course, I couldn’t escape. I could leave, but my stolen memories wouldn’t follow me home.

  And if I did go, what then of the missing children? Five of twelve, Rawlin had said. Seven more children to disappear. The visions in my dreams had made it clear: We were bound, those children and I, in ways I didn’t understand. And to understand them, I’d need to talk to Sybil.

  But what if she really was a witch?

  “It’s not just me who thinks so, my lord,” Rawlin had said before he’d left. “There are many angry folk about. She’d do well to flee, before they bring her to trial. Or worse.”

  I thought of those dead cats, lying in a heap outside the village. I knew, now, what had happened to them. The villagers had rounded up every one in Seaton and butchered them. They were afraid the cats were familiars.

  Rawlin had a similar warning for me. “Think twice about consorting with the witch, my lord. Folks won’t look on it too kindly.”

  But I needed to see Sybil. I needed my memories back. I needed to know what she knew.

  You must go to Crook’s Hollow, Master Benedict said. You must see that mark first.

  Why? I asked.

  Symbols are keys to the unknown. Every symbol is placed for a purpose. You cannot unlock this mystery without knowing what it is.

  I rose, sleep lost for good. I looked over at my roommates with envy. Tom slumbered on the palliasse in the corner, Moppet sprawled on his back like he was a mattress. Her arms hung down, her drool soaking into the cloth of his shoulder. Late last night, out of nowhere, the poor girl had broken into tears again. She wouldn’t speak; she’d just sobbed in Tom’s arms until she’d cried herself to sleep.