by Robin Jarvis
At The White Horse, Scaur Annie threw open the door of the private parlour, only to find it empty.
‘Where is he?’ she snapped when a curious Mary Sneaton appeared on the landing, bearing a candle.
‘What uproar is this?’ the landlord’s daughter demanded. ‘I thought robbers had broke in.’
‘Where is the lord of deceit?’
‘His lordship is most likely in the outbuilding. He often keeps ungodly hours in there at his labours.’
‘His labours!’ Annie spat in contempt as she pushed past her and Mary was alarmed to see the cold fury in her eyes.
‘What has occurred?’ she called. ‘Annie, what is it?’
But the young witch was already through the door and marching across the stable yard.
In the workshop, Melchior Pyke leaned back and surveyed the treasure in his hands. It was the most ravishing object he had ever seen, the crowning achievement of his life. He had made so many sacrifices to reach this glorious moment, but they had been worth it. His fingertips caressed the scrolling gold lovingly, touching the many symbols on its glittering surface.
‘What shall be the first trial?’ he asked. ‘What wonder will I bid it to perform?’
It was then the door swung open and Annie stood on the threshold. She stared at the golden object in his hands.
‘What have you there, my love?’ she asked.
Melchior Pyke was so enamoured of his great work he did not notice the steel in her voice.
‘You cannot begin to imagine,’ he said proudly.
‘Tell me.’
‘It is that which has consumed thirteen years of my life. It is the embodiment of all the secret knowledge of the ancients. This is my great work that you so desired to see. Is it not magnificent? See how the lantern light dances and flares over it. But the greatest wonders are concealed within.’
‘Are the serpent’s tears in there?’
‘How clever you are. Yes, that was all it lacked. Now it is done – is it not the most beguiling prize under heaven?’
‘It looks like a golden heart.’
The man laughed. ‘It is the hazelnut of wisdom and inspiration,’ he corrected. ‘But yes, if viewed the other way, it could resemble a heart. And what could be more fitting? A passion greater than love has gone into its making.’
‘You have made a cold, hard heart.’
‘There is fire within, I assure you. This miracle is now capable of performing unbelievable feats. Nations would wage war to possess it, but only he who wields this glittering thing would be victorious. No enemy could withstand its power. And see, here, behold the word I have this very hour inscribed upon its ravishing surface.’
Annie stepped into the workshop.
In the yard outside, Cherry Cerise had finally caught up with her. She saw the young witch enter the outbuilding and dashed after.
Wrapped in a deadly, glacial calm, Annie gazed down at the word cut into the precious metal.
‘What does it say?’ she asked. ‘I do not know my letters. You were going to teach me, my love.’
‘So I was, but no matter. I had always intended to engrave the Greek word Kallisté, which in antique myth was written upon the apple of discord and means most beautiful. But that is no longer adequate.’
‘What then have you written?’
‘Nimius!’
‘What does that mean? I am but an ignorant witch of this dirty town called Whitby. Here, let me pour you some wine. This is a moment of celebration, is it not?’
‘No moment more worthy,’ he agreed. ‘We must make a toast, to the pinnacle of my endeavours! The word Nimius means beyond measure. It could not be more appropriate.’
‘Then Mister Dark spoke truly,’ she said.
‘What does that surly villain know of it?’ he snorted.
‘Enough to bring me back here, one last time.’
Cherry watched Annie take a jug from the shelf. Melchior Pyke was too engrossed in gazing at the Nimius to see her slip a small bottle from her sleeve and tip the black contents into the wine.
‘’Tis a night for toasts,’ Annie said, swilling the liquid round the jug before pouring it into two goblets. ‘This shall be the second that Annie has overseen, but this one she shall relish far more. Here, my lord. To your Nimius and a golden future.’
Unable to take his eyes off the gleaming treasure, Melchior Pyke drained the goblet.
‘To the glory that is the Nimius,’ he said, not noticing she hadn’t touched any of her own wine. ‘The word flew into my head whilst I was making my final . . . calculations. As . . . soon as . . .’
He coughed and cleared his throat. ‘The wine burns strangely,’ he said. ‘I feel . . . I am unwell. A sharp tightness across the chest. Agh, there is a fire in my veins!’
‘Two drops for sleep,’ Annie told him. ‘Six for death. I betrayed my true friends, the aufwaders, with two drops. But you, my love, have had the whole bottle.’
‘What?’ his voice rasped. ‘What have you done?’
‘Here at the very instant of your triumph,’ she spat. ‘The ragged witch of Whitby denies you its sweetness. You shall not break another girl’s heart.’
Melchior Pyke’s eyes filled with terror and black bile spilled from his lips. With the Nimius still clutched in his hand, he crashed to the floor.
‘Retch your way to the grave, m’lord,’ she said. ‘And take my undying curse with you! May you find neither rest nor peace.’
‘Nimius!’ his gargling voice gasped as he died at her feet. ‘Nimius . . .’
Standing by the door, Cherry closed her eyes and turned away. But the horrors were not over yet.
Above the stable yard sounded an unmistakable mewling cry.
‘Catesby!’ Annie said, jerking her head around. ‘Then Mister Dark will be close behind! He must not get the Nimius. None must have it! ’Tis too mighty a thing. It must be hid!’
Crouching, she tried to take the Nimius from the dead man’s hand. But Melchior Pyke’s fingers gripped it like a vice. The poison had locked them rigid. She could not wrench it free. Outside, Catesby’s wailing cry sounded once more and she heard footsteps hurrying into the yard. There was only one thing to do.
She reached across the workbench and snatched a hacksaw from the ordered array of tools. In her haste she knocked over a large jar of sulphur. The glass shattered and great quantities of yellow powder spilled out.
‘Dear Lords!’ Cherry exclaimed when she saw what Annie did next.
Within moments Scaur Annie had cut the hand off at the wrist. Carrying it and the Nimius she fled the workshop – and ran into Mary Sneaton.
‘Is all well?’ the innkeeper’s daughter asked. ‘I thought I heard our Catesby. Has he come back? He doesn’t sound too good. Annie! What is that you ha–?’
Mary screamed when she realised what the young witch was carrying. Annie pushed her aside and fled into the street. Mary stared after her, then turned to the open door of the workshop. Soon she was screaming again.
‘Help! Murder!’ she screeched, racing into the inn to rouse her father. ‘Murder! She’s killed his lordship!’
In the workshop, Cherry Cerise shook her head. Everything was clear to her now.
‘Annie will bury the Nimius up on the cliff someplace,’ she murmured. ‘And it’ll stay hid for four hundred years. Accordin’ to the story, just before dawn John Ashe and his rabble will find Annie stumblin’ along the lanes. He’ll drag her to Sandsend and they’ll hang her from a tree. This is how hatred endures beyond the grave.’
Utterly beaten, Cherry knew it was time to leave this harrowing memory and return to her own time. It had been a wasted effort. She had learned nothing that could help save Whitby and it was too late to try. Casting a final despairing glance around the workshop she prepared to leave.
Then something on the bench caught her eye. It was Melchior Pyke’s journal. The book lay open and Cherry bent over it to read the last words he had written. ‘Oh brother!’ she cried
as she stared at the pages. ‘That’s it! That’s the answer!’
‘An answer that must remain unspoken,’ a threatening voice said behind her.
Cherry turned to see Mister Dark standing in the doorway, with Catesby on his shoulder.
‘You!’ Cherry shouted. ‘All of this is your doing! You want the Nimius for yourself, don’t you?’
‘Of course,’ he said with an ugly smile. ‘Who would not want to possess the marvel of this or any other age? He who operates it has the power of a god. It will be mine; it has been promised. When Whitby lies beneath the cold waves, the Nimius will be given unto me. A fresh young life is already waiting so that I may live again.’
Cherry shook her head. ‘No,’ she said defiantly. ‘I’m gonna end this right now.’ Her eyes blazed blue and she willed herself out of this nightmarish memory, back into her own cottage.
‘I told you, you are no match for the power of dark.’
Cherry uttered a horrified gasp. She was unable to leave the workshop. ‘I’ve trapped you here,’ the manservant said, closing the door behind him as he stepped closer. ‘What a pity there are no bright colours in this drab outbuilding to give your petty powers a little boost. But then you’re better off here. The Whitby of your time has only a few minutes left. The warring spirits of Annie and Pyke will make the people of the two cliffs annihilate one another, and then the sea shall roar in to destroy what remains. Your real body won’t feel any pain. You won’t know when the monstrous waves come crashing into your cottage; you’ll simply blink out of existence, the same as that child did. You should thank me really.’
He began to laugh, a horrible taunting laugh. Cherry stepped away from him. Then a desperate idea came to her.
‘I hope that Nimius is good at Botox,’ she said, ‘cos you sure need a whole heap of work on that ugly mug of yours, sweetheart. What’s the point of being all powerful if you’ve got a face that would scare a gargoyle? Not gonna look good on the stamps of your new empire, is it? Who’s gonna want to lick them? Dark really is the best place for you; no one should have to see that mush in the daylight. And that pet of yours ain’t gonna win no best-in-show rosettes neither. They’ll have to invent new names for that freaky feline – it’s not a pretty kitty. Meow Monster, that’s what they’ll call it, or Frankenpuss. Yeah, Frankenpuss, that’s the one.’
Taunting it with jerky hand movements and barking like a dog, she hopped from side to side, giving the craziest, most antagonising performance of her life.
On Mister Dark’s shoulder, Catesby hissed and flexed its claws. Then it flew at her in a rage. Cherry kept close to the bench as the creature dived, slashing at her and spitting, the leathery wings beating furiously.
‘Call it off !’ Cherry begged. ‘I’m sorry! Call it off !’
Mister Dark’s scarred lip curled unpleasantly as he grinned. He let Catesby harry her some moments more, then whistled a command and rubbed his fingers together. The sparks crackled around them.
Too late, he realised how Cherry had tricked him. The air was now filled with clouds of sulphur dust, sent swirling by Catesby’s wings, and the sparks from his fingers ignited it.
There was an ear-splitting explosion and the outbuilding was blown apart. The chemicals stored in the workshop erupted in flames of different brilliant colours.
Cherry yelled out and leaped back. She fell against the wicker chair hanging from her ceiling and knocked over her green tea that was now cold. Her mind was back in her body, inside her cottage.
Breathing hard, she stared at the chaise longue. It was empty and the front door was wide open.
The moment Lil’s exhausted mind vanished from the memory of that fateful night, Scaur Annie’s spirit was in complete control. The possessed girl left Cherry’s cottage, and made straight for the Wilsons’. Once there she entered Lil’s room and stood before the dresser mirror. The reflection bulged and the skull came floating from the undulating glass. It drifted forward and the jaw swung open. The long, wet hair churned thickly as if caught in an infernal breeze. It wrapped tightly about the girl’s head and the old bones merged with the girl’s living flesh. The skin that was already withered turned paper-thin and the sunken eyes were red-rimmed and staring. It was a horrific, loathsome sight.
‘The hour is upon us,’ Annie’s voice declared.
On the bed, Sally’s nose began to twitch and the little dog awoke. Her milky eyes peered at the frightful apparition before her. Although it was wearing Lil’s clothes, it reeked of the grave. The Westie began to bark, frantic and frightened.
Scaur Annie ignored her and left the bedroom. It was time for the climactic battle between the ragged witch and the despicable scholar who had deceived her, Sir Melchior Pyke. But this time they would not face one another alone.
‘Step forth,’ she called as she descended the Wilsons’ stairs. ‘Step forth. You are all Whitby witches now!’
Mr and Mrs Wilson emerged from their bedroom, cloaked and wearing white make-up on their blank faces. In obedient, spellbound silence they followed her. Sally barked as never before.
The skull-faced girl strode up Henrietta Street, summoning the residents from their beds. Every person was wearing dramatic gothic make up and had backcombed hair, even the children and the pensioners, and those without genuine cloaks had torn down curtains and cut up duvet covers to make them.
At the bottom of the 199 steps, Scaur Annie halted. She raised a skeletal hand and cried out.
‘Join us!’
Dawn was breaking. Darkness was giving way to a leaden half-light and a blanket of mist lay over the ancient churchyard. At Annie’s summons, the graves burst open and withered corpses clambered up into the chill air. Stretching their creaking joints and cracking their soil-fused spines, they came down the steps, a cascade of marching bones, and the mist flowed with them.
Annie continued into Church Street. Every door she passed was pulled open and the inhabitants of the East Cliff swelled the ranks of her army as they made their way towards the swing bridge.
Verne was standing on the quayside of the West Cliff, wearing one of Clarke’s crash helmets. It was crisscrossed with electrical wires and cogs and the Nimius had been attached to the front, ensuring the link with Melchior Pyke could not be broken. Verne’s true personality and will were utterly crushed and under his domination.
The boy’s family stood alongside him. Impeccably coiffured and manicured, his mother was dressed in her steampunk gear, fully working proton blaster at the ready. Mr Thistlewood was making final adjustments to a flame-thrower fitted to the Vespa and Clarke was kitted out in protective clothing, ready to ride across the bridge. With them, thronging the quayside and the roads that led down to it, was the entire population of the West Cliff. Each of them had brought something built under the influence of the Nimius. But this time there were no whimsical devices, only weapons. There were missile launchers made from drainpipes and old cookers, bazookas that used to be exhaust pipes and microwaves, which now fired plasma grenades. An array of robots, from small toasters that trundled along the ground on baby-buggy wheels to human-sized contraptions made from items scavenged from sheds and garages, formed two ranks either side of the bridge. In their midst was a hulking, five-metre-tall tank commando made from a converted minibus, with headlamp eyes and rockets on its wide shoulders.
Somewhere in that huge, expectant crowd, Jack Potts led a convoy of ambulatory tea urns and cake trolleys, dispensing refreshment to all who required it.
The forces of the West Cliff were ready. Usually at this hour the air would be teeming with squawking gulls, but not today. They remained on their roosts to watch the unnatural morning unfold. When one flew out incautiously, someone in the crowd aimed a particle pistol; a green ray shot up and the gull fell to the ground, roasted to perfection.
Sailing high overhead above the harbour was a two-man airship with a tin-bath gondola, armed with an automatic blunderbuss. When it sighted the enemy advancing through the East Cliff, it
signalled the approach with a trumpet blast.
All eyes and brass goggles fixed upon the east side of the bridge. Jack Potts ceased pouring tea and waited, sugar tongs poised.
Verne took up a megaphone, but the voice that issued from his lips was that of Sir Melchior Pyke.
‘We must not fail this day,’ he addressed the West Cliff. ‘The ragged witch would have this world dragged back into ignorance. She would extinguish the bright flame of science and replace it with the old ways of spell casting and augury.’
Angry cries erupted around the quayside.
‘She is driven by malice,’ Melchior Pyke continued. ‘A foul, black-hearted murderess. We cannot let her rise again. Her vicious evil must not take root and flourish. Our cause is righteous. We fight for liberty and learning. The day of the witch is dead. It is our solemn duty to ensure no man ever has to fear the darkness again. We are soldiers of the light, champions of enlightenment. Reason shall never be vanquished by hate and superstition!’
The crowd cheered with approval and then roared with anger when Scaur Annie and her army came into view across the river, as they strode down Bridge Street.
‘Seal off the town!’ Melchior Pyke instructed. ‘Let no outsider enter!’
At that command, Mr Thistlewood raised a phase gun and discharged a short blast of violet energy that boiled through the sky. It was the signal for a series of deflectors made from satellite dishes and kitchen appliances positioned on rooftops around the West Cliff to be activated.
The air crackled with electricity as an arc of impenetrable force formed around that half of Whitby.
‘Now let the ragged witch face us,’ Melchior Pyke said, making Verne lower the megaphone and turn to the east side.
Scaur Annie led her legion of followers to the bridge. Immediately behind her was the host of skeletons from the graveyard, and hot on their heels were the residents she had summoned from their beds. Grey mist surged about them and curled around Annie.
