by Robin Jarvis
‘“Dark! Dark!” he shrieked as he convulsed and kicked upon the slab. “Naught but dark!” And that is how I named him, for he has no memory of his existence before the noose, nor even what crime he had committed to warrant the drop. His mind had been washed clear. Electricus is a marvellous enigma; we do not yet know all its virtues and caprices. But the residue is still within him. He can cause tiny sparks of blue fire to leap from his fingers. I will get him to demonstrate when he returns. The King of Bohemia and the Mughal Emperor have admired and been amazed by that singular talent.’
‘I don’t want to see it,’ she said vehemently. ‘You did a foul deed cutting him down and setting a power in him he never ought to have owned.’
‘Skimble-skamble superstition!’ he answered. ‘Mister Dark has been in my service these seven years and I’ve never known a more loyal servant. The fellow is uncommon clever too and has been of great assistance with my experiments. His blanched mind was a sponge for learning and he has the strength of five hale men.’
‘Nay,’ Annie said. ‘You call it what you will. There’s a cold winter in him, a dead badness. Dark be his name and darker still be his nature. Your man has wandered evil paths and you don’t know what’s hiding in his heart. There ain’t a squeeze of good in his soul – if he’s still got one. If he serves anyone, it ain’t you.’
‘You’re beginning to sound like that ignorant Puritan.’
Annie spat in the fire. ‘John Ashe were right about one thing,’ she said. ‘Your man do prowl about the shore and cliffs at night when goodly bodies ought to be abed. Most times he ain’t alone neither. He got some owl or tame bat or summat. I seen them together, a way off – and seen him at other times, on his own, watching and spying on me.’
‘And what are you doing, roaming through the night? Aren’t you a goodly body?’
Annie shrugged.
‘Looking for them plants what only flower under the moon,’ she answered. ‘And them things what don’t crawl or creep under the sun.’
‘For what possible purpose?’
The firelight danced in her eyes and she let out a gurgle of laughter. ‘It were two things John Ashe were right about,’ she confessed. ‘Scaur Annie is a witch, like her mam before her.’
Before he could comment, the innkeeper’s daughter, Mary Sneaton, came bustling in, carrying a mutton pie, a loaf and a jug of ale. Behind her, more sullen than usual, was Mister Dark. He was draped in an assortment of Mary’s old gowns and shifts that she had thrust at him hastily and he wasn’t amused. She was a dumpy, scurrying type of woman, several years older than Annie, and kept the tipplers of the public bar in order with sharp words and a ready clout.
‘Now out you go, m’lord,’ she shooed, ‘whilst Annie attires herself. This isn’t a bawdy house; ’tweren’t seemly for you to bathe her naked arms and legs.’
Laughing, Melchior Pyke left the room along with his manservant.
‘Yon lordship is a true gallant and double handsome with it,’ Mary told Annie as she gathered the extra fabric of her old kirtle in pleats round the young witch’s slender waist and began securing them with pins. ‘But you have to think of your reputation.’
Annie shrugged and took a swig of ale. ‘There’s plenty who already reckon I’m worse than I am!’ she said.
‘Not here in Whitby there aren’t, so don’t you go giving idle tongues cause to doubt it. There’s a dry attic here with a cot you can make use of till you gets fixed. But beware that manservant. He’s a vile fartleberry and has the very devil of a temper when drunk. He’s fallen foul of everyone and Father won’t serve him no more, or suffer him to sleep under our roof, so he beds down in the outbuilding. I don’t know how his lordship stomachs his company. I can’t abide the way he stares at me, hungry like. Gives me the shudders. The horses don’t like sight nor smell of him neither, or we’d have put him in the stables.’
‘Animals have sense,’ Annie said.
‘Even our cat, the big one we called Catesby because he was always lurking in the cellars, like that traitor with the gunpowder, he disappeared the very first night they arrived and hasn’t been seen since. Best ratter we ever had, he was.’
Mary stood back.
‘There,’ she said, with pins in her mouth. ‘How do that feel?’
Annie looked down at herself. She’d never worn anything before that didn’t have holes in it.
‘I feels like the Queen of the whole North Riding!’ she declared.
‘It’s a poor royal majesty who has such a tangled rook’s nest on top of her head. Come look at yourself in the glass.’
Annie stepped over to the mirror and gazed at her reflection. She was astonished to see her face so sharp and clear for the first time and almost jumped aside in alarm.
‘What cleverness,’ she said. ‘And no waving weeds or crab belches spoiling it. I like it better than rock pools.’
Her wonder was cut short as Mary tried to pull a comb through her hair.
‘Oooowww!’
‘Hold still and stop shrieking!’
‘Owww! You’ll rip my scalp clean off. Oowww!’
Annie swung round and slapped Mary across the face. Mary roared, drew back her hand and gave as good as she got. They crashed against the table, sending books and scientific instruments flying.
The door burst open and Melchior Pyke charged inside.
‘Here’s a merry dogfight to wager on!’ he cried. ‘My coin is on the wild stray; she looks accustomed to bloody knuckles. What say you, Mister Dark?’
The tall, gaunt man entered and grinned. His master stepped forward and dragged Scaur Annie clear of Mistress Sneaton.
‘Yet I’ll not have you turn my private room into a bear garden,’ he said sternly. ‘My books are worth more than your broken heads.’
Annie glared at him. A red handprint glowed angrily on her cheek and her hair was even more of a chaotic, matted snarl than ever, and now a comb was lodged in it.
‘You keep it and make good use,’ Mary told her, storming out. ‘I must be getting back to the public bar, else there’ll be lewd songs ringing loud.’
Melchior Pyke grinned then turned back to a fuming Annie.
‘Thou art more jester than witch,’ he commented, regarding her appearance.
‘That’s all you know!’ she replied hotly. ‘I speak truly – and you, my fine, fancy lord, aren’t in Whitby just for them reasons you pretended. You’re up to mischief, you and that knot-necked servant. But mark what Scaur Annie tells thee now: you won’t profit by it and, before all’s done, you’ll learn there’s more to this world than what’s in books. Aye, and much more in Whitby that you won’t never know about, and if you did, your mind would break.’
‘Do not presume to know the strength of my mind, mistress. I have beheld such things on my travels as would turn your tangled hair white. What would you know of the powers that dwell in forsaken temples beyond the edge of maps, or the dire knowledge contained within ancient writings?’
‘There’s more than all that in this here town. The cliffs keep deep, dark secrets, as old as can be.’
Melchior Pyke gave a disbelieving laugh. ‘I’ve a mind to show you my real work here,’ he told her. ‘That would curb your empty boasts, to see a true miracle in the making. But no, for the moment it must remain hidden.’
‘Annie was raised by miracles, my lord,’ she answered.
‘There are none to compare with the one created by Sir Melchior Pyke,’ he declared. ‘It will astound the world.’
‘Astound the world! ’ Verne repeated in his sleep as his own familiar bedroom reappeared around him.
With his eyes closed, the boy rose from the bed, pulled on his dressing gown, reached under the pillow and went downstairs.
Across the river, in the Wilsons’ cottage, Sally was snoring softly and Lil was also fast asleep. The old curtains had gone the way of the carpet and the new window was uncovered, but there was no moon. In the darkness, the mirror showed as an ellipse of pal
e silver on top of the dresser. Within the oval frame a shape was growing and it was not the reflection of something in the room. It came closer and closer until a foul, evil face pressed against the underside of the glass as if it was a window. It was the missing skull.
The hideous object angled round so the empty eye sockets could gaze at the sleeping girl. The jaw opened in a ghastly grin and the surface of the mirror began to ripple like water. As it shimmered, tendrils of hair came bleeding through, writhing like seaweed under the waves. They flowed into the bedroom, followed by the head.
Floating out of the mirror, the skull rose above the dresser, hair seething, and began to drift across the room.
On the window sill, the two herb pouches that Mrs Wilson had placed there to ward off dark forces began to tremble. The dried agrimony they contained smouldered and a thread of smoke curled up through the cloth. Above the headboard, the Nightmarechaser twitched and its black feathers scraped the wall. The powder inside the small glass phials sparkled and burned and the bells tinkled, but Lil remained sound asleep and Sally could not hear them. As the skull approached, the Nightmarechaser jiggled wildly, yet it was no match for that advancing power. The hook worked free of the wall and the Nightmarechaser fell down behind the bed.
Lil shifted in her sleep and gave a small, unhappy murmur. The skull moved over the bedclothes to reach her upturned face. Poised above the girl’s pillow, its empty eyes stared down and the jaw opened wider.
A hissing voice, filled with spite and malice, issued from the dead mouth.
‘You are my vessel,’ it snarled. ‘Through you, I shall work my vengeance. Melchior Pyke can’t never rise again. His miracle must stay hid.’
‘Scaur Annie . . .’ Lil breathed.
The skull hissed again and the writhing hair brushed across the girl’s face.
It was a warm summer night and a calm lay over the sea. Annie was sitting on the moonlit shore, digging her toes in the sand and drawing swirls and circles around her.
At her side, gazing at the glimmering waters, was a strange, child-sized creature with large grey eyes and a nose like a shrivelled apple. Dried starfish were threaded in the loose mane of her long, shaggy hair and a string of shells and polished pebbles was around her neck. Her name was Nettie and she was an aufwader, one of the supernatural gnome-like people who lived inside the cliff.
‘Speak to me of this man who has stolen you from us,’ she said, her wrinkled face creasing with a gentle smile. ‘We have seen you walking, arms entwined, over the cliffs. Hesper saw you kissing! Even old Esau has heard of it and his face grows the sourer daily. You know he has a liking for you.’
Annie continued drawing in the sand. ‘Then we are the gossip of Whitby’s every nook and corner,’ she said. ‘Up in the town and down in the caves of the fisherfolk. Are the hidden people as shocked as those whose tongues clack with displeasure above ground? ’Tis a great scandal – the ragged witch and her gentleman. John Ashe, the Puritan, believes I have bewitched my lord and denounces me to all who would listen. Even those I counted as friends now turn their faces as we pass.’
The aufwader reached out to clasp her hand.
‘There is naught you could do to turn our hearts against you, dearest Annie,’ she said earnestly. ‘Your mother was my beloved friend and, when we took you in, you captured our love completely.’
‘Never was there a luckier child,’ Annie said gratefully. ‘In your caves there was no lack of lullabies or embraces.’
‘Then be not angry if we worry overmuch. Have patience with our fussing and foolishness.’
Annie lifted her face and stared into the night. ‘My gentleman is the star I must follow,’ she answered simply. ‘You should hear of the distant lands he has seen. I drink in every word. There is a rare delicacy, eaten by Arabian princes in the hottest desert: frozen snow flavoured with roses. Ain’t that the most marvellous wonder? Melchior has promised I shall taste it one day.’
Nettie squeezed her hand. ‘If he is truly the one for you, then you have my blessing,’ she said.
‘I love his very shadow,’ Annie answered. ‘And yet . . . there ain’t total trust with us. I cannot tell him of you and the other fisherfolk, and he . . .’
Her voice trailed off and she dug at the sand impatiently.
‘And he?’ Nettie prompted. ‘What does he not speak of ? Is it his fearsome servant? Beware that creature, my little loveling.’
Annie shook her head. ‘Mister Dark is a foul wretch, but he ain’t the cloud between us.’
‘Then what?’
‘It is Melchior’s great work. My gentleman will not say what keeps him so busy in the outbuildings of The White Horse. If he loved me as much as he swears, then why don’t he show me? Why is it secret? What do he do in there?’
Nettie frowned at her.
‘You must leave this jealous path,’ she instructed. ‘It will take you no place good. If you love him, then you must have faith. Trust is a delicate and hallowed thing; once it is broken it can never be mended.’
Annie nodded and gave her a ready grin. ‘You are right, of course, as ever,’ she said brightly. ‘I will bridle my curiosity and press him no more.’
Nettie hugged her.
‘Will we see you tomorrow night?’ she asked. ‘All eyes will be looking for the Whitby witch. Please attend. I think Silas is going to ask Hesper to be his bride. I hope she says no; she would be too good a wife for him.’
‘Another festival of the summer moon,’ Annie reflected. ‘How quick they come round each year. Aye, I shall be there.’
‘For the feast – and the moon songs on the water after,’ Nettie urged. ‘You were always so excited to be in the boats when you was small.’
Annie nodded. The aufwader kissed her forehead, then hurried over the shore towards the rocks, disappearing in the shadows beneath the cliff.
Alone, Annie ceased digging in the sand and stared at the implement she had been using. It was a large iron key. She had stolen it that very afternoon.
‘Just one brief glance within,’ she told herself. ‘None shall ever know and I won’t never doubt him again.’
A short while later, Annie was standing barefoot in the stable yard of The White Horse inn. She glanced around uneasily. The moon cast deep, slanting shadows over the cold cobbles and Annie darted to the largest outbuilding. In a moment, the lock had been turned and she was inside.
The place was steeped in gloom, but a single lantern was hanging from one of the beams. By the dim light, Annie saw benches and tables laden with diverse tools, tall jars of coloured powders and cloudy liquids. Some of the larger jars contained preserved specimens of unusual animals from foreign lands. There was a small forge and iron crucibles. Charts and diagrams papered the walls. Weirdly shaped fragile glass vessels, connected by fine copper pipes, were ranged down one side of the room, and delicate brass instruments, scales and measures were neatly positioned along another. Magnifying lenses were angled over open books whose pages were crammed with exquisite and precise designs that meant nothing to Annie.
She gazed at everything in wonder, but still had no idea what Melchior was creating there.
As she roamed through the workshop, a pair of amber eyes shone down from the beams above.
Then, on a table all to itself, Annie saw a beautiful circular box, richly inlaid with exotic veneers, with a golden handle and standing on two feet carved like lion paws. She knew this had to be it. Smiling, she reached out her hand.
She was halted by a screeching wail and a terror flew down from the ceiling. Leathery wings beat in Annie’s face as a black-furred fiend with claws and glaring eyes hissed and snapped savagely at her neck.
She cried out and stumbled back, but the demon sank its talons into her bodice and bit her. Annie grabbed its neck and dragged it off, hurling it across the benches, smashing the bottles and jars in its way. The creature righted itself and flapped its large wings, ready to attack again.
Annie turned to flee, onl
y to find Sir Melchior Pyke and Mister Dark standing in the doorway.
‘Call it off,’ Melchior told his manservant.
Mister Dark gave a shrill whistle. The creature made a mewling shriek and flew to his shoulder.
Annie stared in horror.
The creature arched its back, glowering murderously and dragging its claws through the leather of Mister Dark’s jerkin. It was a large black cat, but one that had been surgically altered. Long scars were visible through the patchy fur where the great wings of a tropical bat had been sewn to its back. Mister Dark rubbed his thumb and forefinger together and bright blue sparks crackled about his hand. The horror pressed its head against his palm revealing four silver staples in its skull.
‘What is that foul demon?’ Annie cried.
‘The alchemists of the east would call it a Takwin,’ Melchior Pyke said. ‘We simply call it Catesby. He is our most excellent watchdog, which is ironic, considering he used to be the inn’s cat. Mister Dark took a fancy to the beast when we arrived and wanted to practise his needlework skills. We had a particularly fine example of a great golden bat in one of our jars and Mister Dark combined the two admirably. He’s very adept with all things bloody. You’d think his big hands would be fit only for strangling horses, but they’re remarkably dainty with fine tools.’
‘It’s as unnatural as him!’
‘Unlovely they both may be,’ he said, ‘but at least they are loyal. What are you doing here, mistress? Was it your intent to rob me? Have you been playing me for a gull this whole time?’
‘You think me a thief ? No, my love!’
‘And yet here you are, in a place forbidden, with a stolen key. What further proofs could there be for burglary? A justice would have no doubt of it.’
Annie shook her head desperately.
‘I did but want to uncover your secret work, that I might know you better!’ she swore. ‘I desired only complete understanding between us.’
‘Then why do you keep secrets from me?’
‘I do not!’
