by Robin Jarvis
‘Your mom and dad are irresponsible, publicity-hungry blockheads. That can’t be news to you surely? They’re puttin’ everyone in this town at risk with that store of theirs.’
‘And I think you should keep your rude opinions to yourself, you . . . dayglo nutter! I’m going.’
Lil gave Sally a tap and the little dog followed her through the graveyard, back towards the steps.
Cherry watched them leave.
‘Dumb kid’s got no idea what’s goin’ on,’ she murmured. ‘There’s a necklace of three ammonites round her neck and I bet she don’t even know it’s there. Why did Scaur Annie have to pick on her? I’m surprised the little lady’s held out so long already. She should be dead by now. Another day or two will do it.’
Replacing her sunglasses, she stared out to sea once more. ‘And the same for the rest of us poor saps,’ she added. ‘When it hits, it’s gonna be savage and without mercy. None of us won’t stand a chance and, to my shame, I can’t think of a single thing I can do about it. This old witch is fresh outta ideas.’
Lil spent the rest of the afternoon in a temper. She was angry at what the crazy woman had said, especially as some of it rang true. She was angry at herself too; she had allowed herself to like Cherry Cerise.
Sally lay curled up on the fleecy blanket next to her and Lil’s knitting needles clacked furiously. She still hadn’t heard from Verne, which made everything worse. Eventually she fell asleep with her knitting on her lap.
The bare light bulb above fizzled and failed. Soon her room was in darkness. On the dresser the mirror began to ripple and the hideous skull came through the molten glass. With its lank hair snaking round it, the foul face advanced towards the sleeping girl. The jaw opened and the voice came hissing urgently.
‘The Nimius grows in might! Melchior Pyke’s strength is waxing. Annie must pour out her power. The East Cliff must be protected. Surrender to me; I must possess you completely. Do not fight me, child. I must have dominion. See how the villain used and tricked me.’
‘Dominion . . .’ Lil whispered. ‘Surrender to Scaur Annie . . . pour out her power . . .’
The years unravelled and she was the seventeen-year-old ragged witch once more, walking barefoot under the moonlight through the long grasses on the cliff. Melchior Pyke was beside her. The tension between them was brittle.
‘If you are to know my secret,’ she said at last, ‘you must swear never to speak it to another. Only the witches of this town have known the truth of it.’
‘You have my solemn word as a gentleman, and as the man who loves you.’
‘Then I shall surrender my secret unto you. ’Neath this cliff there be tunnels, and a hidden folk who none can see, save them what’s blessed with the sight.’
‘A hidden folk?’
‘Aye,’ she said keenly. ‘Aufwaders they call themselves and there’s nowt they don’t know about the sea and her moods. When my mam died of plague, it was them who came and took me in till the pestilence burned itself out in Whitby. They’re my family now.’
Melchior Pyke hung his head.
‘That’s why I couldn’t tell you!’ she said. ‘I couldn’t give them away.’
‘Aufwaders,’ he repeated.
‘Aye, fisherfolk. The best and biggest-hearted friends I ever knowed. You should hear their tales of olden days.’
‘Faeries?’ he asked. ‘You’re telling me you visit sea faeries? Are there Oberons and Titanias of the waves?’
‘I didn’t say such. You . . . you don’t believe me.’
‘These are but infants’ fancies.’
‘They are real as you and me!’ she said vehemently. ‘Ask your leering manservant. He’s seen them often enough. They’ve told me as how he’s spied on them. He scares them. They see the badness in him.’
‘Mister Dark would think his master’s wits were wandering if I asked such a question. If this is all you have to say then I will return to the inn. The hour is late and I have much to do on the morrow. This will be my final week in Whitby. My work here is almost completed.’
‘My lord!’ she cried, clutching his hands. ‘On my life, I swear it. May the Three punish me if I speak false.’
‘You talk of uncanny friends that I cannot see,’ he said, with disappointment in his voice. ‘When you brought me up here, I had hoped you were going to open your heart to me at last. My feelings for you are sincere and yet you still do not trust me.’
Annie watched him walk away.
‘My love!’ she implored. ‘I speak truly!’
‘Fevered fables,’ he called back.
‘They do dwell down there!’ she insisted, running after him. ‘Galder, Hesper and Nettie – they are dear as sisters to me.’
‘And Puck, Peaseblossom, Caliban and Ariel are my brothers,’ he sighed with a shake of his head. ‘I have been teased enough this night.’
But Annie would not give up. ‘The lord Esau is their chief elder,’ she continued. ‘In his chamber there is a pool where the tears of a monstrous serpent, named Morgawrus, collect.’
Melchior Pyke turned to her. ‘Is there no end to this?’ he asked sorrowfully. ‘Must you persist? I had longed to take you to my grand house near London, but now that cannot be. You spurn the open honesty I offered and have bruised my reckless heart. When I depart Whitby, I shall voyage to a far country and never return.’
‘No!’ she pleaded. ‘I will do anything! Do not leave me. I would never deceive my first and only love.’
‘A pool of serpent’s tears!’ he scoffed.
‘I have seen it with mine own eyes!’
‘Then collect some in a bottle and bring it to me for study,’ he suggested with a laugh.
Annie drew away in horror at the idea.
‘I could not do that,’ she murmured, aghast.
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘Of course not. You’re as like to spin a rainbow from the beards of fish.’
He had reached the top of the church steps and began striding down them, leaving her behind.
‘I will do what you ask!’ she called after him in a pitiful voice. ‘I will fetch you proof !’
In Lil’s bedroom Sally was snapping at the skull, leaping over Lil to bite the trailing hair. The hideous head rose up and hissed at the little dog, but the empty eye sockets saw something perched on the bedpost. The same tiny something that had nudged Sally to awaken her – a mouse with pale blue eyes.
The skull snarled and shook its mane of tangled hair.
Lil groaned and stirred, muttering, ‘Serpent’s tears . . .’
The skull retreated back to the mirror, where it sank into the rippling glass. Sally barked and fell off the bed, then barked even more, jumping up at the dresser and scrabbling at it with her paws.
Disoriented, Lil sat up.
‘Sally,’ she scolded. ‘Hush, stop that.’
The girl picked the dog up and soothed her.
‘Did you fall off the bed and frighten yourself ?’ she asked. ‘Poor Sal.’
The Westie’s barks eased, but she continued to glare at the mirror with her milky eyes.
‘Silly old dog,’ Lil said. ‘There’s nothing there.’
Her room looked the same as ever. Even the mouse had gone.
Across the harbour, Verne had spent the day helping his father and brother clean up the mess. At bedtime, he entered his room apprehensively.
There was a faint smell of lavender. Changing into his pyjamas, he discovered several pouches of the stuff dotted about his pillows. His mother had been taking tips from Mrs Wilson. The boy pulled a face and put them in a drawer.
The gleam of gold shone up into his eyes. That strange treasure glittered among his socks. Verne stared at it. He didn’t know what it was, but it had to be responsible for his freaky sleepwalking.
‘You’re not going to make me do that again,’ he told it. ‘You’re going back to the beach tomorrow. Or I might even chuck you in the river.’
He suddenly felt extremely foolish, snarli
ng at his socks and underpants. Reaching into the drawer, he took out the Nimius.
‘I’m cracking up,’ he said. ‘You’re probably just some fancy snuffbox. Lil’s always telling me there’s no such thing as magic. She should know.’
The light winked and glanced off the richly decorated surface as he turned the precious object over. It really was an impressive marvel of craftsmanship and Verne was certain it was worth thousands of pounds. Then he noticed one of the symbols was raised higher than the others. He was sure it hadn’t been like that earlier. Curious, he ran his fingertip over it. It was a triangle with a straight line cutting through the topmost point. Verne wondered what it meant.
Lil would know, or at least she could look it up in one of the books in the shop. While Verne was fiddling with his phone to take a photo to send her, his thumb pressed the symbol accidentally and it clicked down.
The boy felt the treasure judder and he almost dropped it. Something was happening. His eyes grew round and wide and he stared at it intently. There was a movement inside. The Nimius was trembling and shaking, as if an internal gyroscope was spinning furiously. He could feel it pulling upwards.
Verne gripped the object with both hands. He was feeling strange, almost giddy, and his heart was pounding. Next moment his head struck the ceiling and he realised he had risen off the floor. He was floating in the air.
‘No way!’ he gasped. ‘Ow!’
Pushing against the ceiling with one hand, he held out the golden treasure with the other. At once he slid across the room and crashed against the wall. The Nimius fell from his hands and he dropped like a stone on to the bed below.
Breathless with shock and excitement, Verne grabbed it again and up he rose.
‘OK,’ he said cautiously. ‘Let’s try this . . .’
Clasping the Nimius firmly, he experimented by moving it from left to right and found he could roughly steer it. When he lowered it, his slippers bobbed across the carpet. He lifted it and was headbutting the ceiling again.
Verne started giggling. He held the Nimius out in front of him and floated forward, then he rolled it over slowly and did a somersault.
‘Yes!’ he cried. ‘I’m flying! I knew there was magic – I knew it, knew it, knew it!’
His laughter was cut short as the bedroom curtains were suddenly yanked apart and the window lock unfastened itself. The window was flung wide open and Verne shot into the night like a bullet.
The lights of Whitby were gleaming in the darkness. With the salt sea air streaming into his face, the panicking boy soared over the quayside. Flying above the rooftops of the West Cliff, he clutched tight hold of the Nimius, terrified in case it pulled free of his hands and he fell to his death. Verne was no longer in control and he was mortally afraid. He tried closing his eyes, but not seeing where he was going was even worse. Magic might be real, but it was also incredibly alarming!
Swooping between chimneys and scattering their smoke, he rushed over the pantiles, startling roosting gulls. Some launched themselves at him, shrieking in his ears, but he was too swift. He whisked away over the quaintly named Khyber Pass, then over the Royal Crescent, where Bram Stoker had stayed long ago and dreamed of Dracula.
The Sunday night streets were almost deserted. The few souls who wandered did not glance up, so no one saw the young boy flying under the stars. With every wonderful moment, Verne’s terror gradually faded. There was so much to see and it was glorious.
The steeple of St Hilda’s Church swept into view and Verne found himself circling it three times. He flicked the weathervane with his slippered toes and sent it spinning. Then he was off again. The bare trees and lawns of Pannett Park spread below him. When he reached the museum at the centre, his progress slowed and he descended gently, bobbing just above the lead roof.
The boy felt a pang of disappointment. Was this the end of his aerial tour? He had no idea how he was supposed to get down. He clasped the Nimius tightly to his chest as he gazed around. As he rose in the air once more, he realised with a grin that he was back in control.
Verne spent the next half hour swooping round the deserted park like a giddy swallow. Keeping low to the ground, he practised every manoeuvre he could think of. When he felt confident, he raised the Nimius high and left the park behind. He had seen enough of the West Cliff. Now he wanted to zoom across the river – it was time he paid Lil a visit on the old side of town.
Returning over the rooftops, keeping the sea on his left, he couldn’t resist flying under the whalebone arch. Then, floating higher, he stood on the plinth next to the statue of Captain Cook. Leaning on a bronze arm, Verne took a moment to gaze across the harbour and drink in the view.
The ragged crown of the abbey towered majestically in the distance, rearing high over the glittering lights of the eastern shore. There was a local legend that no birds could fly over those holy ruins. Verne wondered if that rule applied to boys in pyjamas. How incredible it would be to dart up there and weave in and out of the gaping windows, maybe even land on the very top and yell out in triumph, claiming the spot as his very own.
With a cheeky salute to the captain, he headed towards the river, imagining the shock on Lil’s face when he knocked on her window.
Sailing past the street lamps, Verne drew close to the quayside and was just pondering whether to dart in and out of the masts of the fishing boats, or skim the calm waters of the harbour like a dragonfly, when he felt the air around him crackle then thicken like glue. A powerful force was pushing against the Nimius. It punched into his stomach and he was sent scooting backwards.
Verne spun round. He didn’t understand what had happened. He held the treasure out in front of him again and flew forward, but as soon as they reached the harbour wall, the same resistance bounced them away. Verne felt the magical device tremble in his hands, as if it was just as surprised and bewildered as he was.
Flying along the river’s edge, he discovered there was no way through the mysterious invisible barrier. Trying another tactic, Verne rose higher and higher, testing the unseen wall with his feet. The town of Whitby dwindled below, but there was still no way through to the East Cliff.
‘Weird,’ Verne muttered as he came drifting down again.
In his hands he felt the Nimius buzz and turn. Verne found he had lost control again as he rocketed back along the river, towards the sea. The boy saw the pale sands of the shore rushing beneath. The long stone causeway of the West Pier whizzed by and then he was flying to the lighthouse at the far end.
Spiralling up round the weathered, sandstone tower, Verne landed on the high balcony that surrounded the lantern room. Why had he been brought here?
He didn’t want to wait and find out. This was a dark, lonely spot, jutting out into the North Sea. He was suddenly tired and bitterly cold. All he wanted was to return home and collapse in his warm bed.
Lifting the Nimius, he was disconcerted when nothing happened. The magical device refused to obey. Within the golden casing, an intricate mechanism was clicking and whirring softly. Verne felt another of those strange symbols pushing up from the surface.
Cautious, in case it flew off without him, he parted his fingers in time to see a small design slide aside to allow a purple and orange ametrine crystal to rise up.
The crystal had been cut and polished into an oval lens. Verne held his breath and marvelled as a beautiful glow welled up inside it. Moments later, the top of the lighthouse was ablaze with a ravishing gold and purple light. It shone over the waves, reaching down into the deep, then it flared and flashed and furled up like a fan, focusing into a slender beam that sliced through the darkness. Shining a path across the water, it passed over the sand, then up the West Cliff, over the grand hotels and beyond.
Amazed, Verne watched it dance along the buildings like a jittery searchlight, moving rapidly from house to house. The enchanted beam glittered in every window, from the North Terrace to the East, over the Khyber Pass and then down to the quayside, gleaming across his own h
ome above the arcade and as far down Pier Road as his eyes could see.
‘What are you looking for?’ he murmured. But even as he spoke, he knew there was some other purpose behind this bizarre display, one he couldn’t guess at. The brilliant ray swung towards the harbour wall, to shine across the river and the dwellings of the East Cliff. But it met the same invisible power that had prevented Verne flying over there earlier. The beam flickered and trembled. It burned more brightly than ever, but the impenetrable force thwarted every attempt to pierce it. The purple and golden light could not pass beyond the edge of the quay.
‘Whatever that is,’ Verne whispered, ‘it’s just as strong as you.’
The Nimius clicked, almost as if in agreement, and the light in the crystal faltered and died. The lens hinged down smoothly into the casing.
Verne blinked at the sudden darkness and colourful dots popped across his vision. When he lifted the Nimius to look at it, his slippers rose from the balcony and he sailed up into the air again.
‘Time to go home,’ he said.
Soon Verne was gliding through his bedroom window. Before he returned his golden treasure to the drawer, he examined it carefully, wondering what other marvels this incredible device was capable of. He searched the surface for the symbol that had given him flight, but it had blended in with the surrounding jumble of strange signs once more and was impossible to find.
Tracing his fingertips over the scrolling letters that spelled Nimius, Verne recalled that it meant ‘beyond measure’. He considered the implications of that. There might be no limit to what it could do. He tried twisting it, to wind the hidden mechanism, but it wouldn’t budge. Maybe it had done enough for one day.
Burying it under his socks again, he closed the drawer. A thousand thoughts and guesses were running through his mind. Here was undeniable proof that magic – proper, fantastic magic – was real. It would change the way everyone looked at the world, forever. That prospect and the grave responsibility of it all made him frown, but that misgiving vanished when he remembered the sheer joy of flying over Whitby.
