by Robin Jarvis
A miserable collection of people was mooching around the church and he heard the dull drone of their voices, although he did not sit up to see them. One of the group was evidently a child—a boy. He was asking questions to someone who Ben presumed was his mother, and she was answering with a voice full of irritation. Curiously he turned on his side just to make sure.
There they were trailing along the path, a family of three, and all dressed in totally inappropriate clothes for this sort of weather. They were obviously trippers who had not come prepared for anything other than sunshine. The father was walking a little ahead with his hands thrust into his pockets and the mother was trying to control her flapping summer dress with one hand whilst clinging on to her son with the other.
The boy was roughly around Ben’s age. He wore red shorts and his legs looked pinched and cold. An extra strong gust caught the woman unawares and she shrieked as her skirt blew right up. Her son seized his chance and escaped from her clutches.
Into the forest of gravestones he scarpered and, squealing his name at the top of her shrill voice, his mother chased after him. The boy knew his freedom would be shortlived, so he looked round for something to take his temper out on.
‘Get lost, Dracula!’ he bawled, raising his foot and giving the nearest headstone a mighty kick.
His mother screeched as she snatched him up once more. ‘Don’t you ever do that again!’ she yelled. ‘If your father catches you he’ll cripple you. Show some respect!’ With that she slapped his legs and the boy let loose a dreadful howl.
Ben winced; that must have hurt—especially with it being so cold. He lay back in the grass once more and found himself thanking his stars that he and Jennet had never been sent to people like them.
The family passed along the path nearby. The boy stared unhappily at Ben, shamed by the red mark which glowed on his leg.
Chewing a piece of grass, he contemplated the previous night’s happenings. He was not exactly sure why Jennet had been so cold towards Aunt Alice that morning, but it must have had something to do with what he had seen. If only he was like everyone else.
The evening was drawing in but he had no desire to go back yet, especially if the atmosphere had not lifted. He propped himself up on his elbows and looked down on the harbour. A fishing boat was sailing out to sea, defying the rough waves. Ben remembered that he had still not visited the lifeboat museum and promised himself that treat for tomorrow. His gaze followed the progress of the boat as it sailed out to sea; as he turned his head to do so something startled him.
On one of the tomb slabs sat a small figure.
It was silhouetted against the horizon and, until his eyes adjusted to the light, Ben could not make it out. It was as large as a child, and wore a dark-blue fishing jersey. A battered canvas bag was slung over one arm and poking out of it was a slimy bundle of seaweed. The head of the figure was hunched deep into its shoulders and the neck of the thickly-knitted garment had been pulled up over its ears. Its back was turned to Ben so he could not see the face. To make identification even more difficult, a black woollen hat obscured most of the head. A thick tangle of brown hair fluttered in the wind below the wide turn-up of the hat, suggesting perhaps the figure was a girl.
Something buzzed inside his head. Ben shook himself and rubbed his eyes. He was not certain, but he thought it was one of his ‘visitors’. The boy was at once afraid and yet greatly interested. Although he remembered the horror of last night, he realised he had only been terrified because there were so many of them.
Ben continued to stare until curiosity overpowered him. Very quietly, he got up and stretched. With the tip of his tongue pressed over his top lip in concentration, he stepped over the grass towards the tomb where she sat. Closer and closer he crept, his heart pounding. Then, just as he came within reach, the figure moved and turned her face full on him.
Ben froze. He had never beheld anything like it before; the creature was not human. Her face was like soft leather. The nose was large and upturned, with a small mouth shaped like the crescent moon and cheeks burnt brown by the wind. Yet it was her eyes that transfixed the boy. They were as big as his fists and as grey as the stormy sea, and the wrinkles which framed them spread about her brow like ripples on the shore.
They faced each other in silence but the space between them was electrified. Ben gulped.
The other kept her fathomless eyes upon him. She too swallowed nervously, but as a cornered animal might. Finally her lips parted and she spoke; her voice held the cry of the gulls and the lulling of the sea.
‘You see me, human child,’ she said simply, and something close to a smile hovered about her mouth.
Ben could only nod in reply.
The creature averted her eyes and he felt as though invisible chains released him. ‘Never have I met one with the sight,’ she said, breaking into a grin.
‘What… who are you?’ he stammered at last.
‘I am Nelda,’ she answered teasingly, ‘but that was not your meaning.’ She lifted her eyes again and the sea stirred in the very heart of them. Can a human child understand? she asked herself. For a moment she considered the situation, then shrugged. ‘I am a wanderer of the shore,’ she told him. ‘Our folk dwell by the sea and have done so long before your kind came.’
Ben frowned. ‘But why haven’t I heard of you before? Nobody’s ever mentioned you to me.’
Nelda smiled. ‘That is because man no longer remembers or believes in us. We are figures of legend now and it is better so.’ She brushed the wild, unkempt hair off her face and looked down to the harbour. ‘We fade away,’ she muttered darkly. ‘Aufwader was the name which once you gave to us. But who now recalls it? Very few, I think.’
Ben still did not understand. Shaking his head he asked, ‘But why have they—I mean, we—forgotten? Surely people must see you when—’ Even as he said the words, he realised what she meant: only people like him could see them. ‘Oh,’ he uttered slowly.
She laughed, swinging her legs off the tomb and leaping to the ground. ‘That’s right, human child,’ Nelda gurgled. ‘No one will believe you if you tell them—they shall think you mad.’
The strange creature prepared to leave but Ben caught her arm. With a shock, he realised she was real and alive, not one of his visitors at all.
‘Don’t go yet,’ he pleaded. ‘My name’s Ben.’
The aufwader considered him for a moment and the smile flickered over her face again. ‘Why should I linger here?’ she asked mildly. ‘Already I have dared much just to speak with you. Our races are apart, Ben—yours is strong and has conquered the world, but the tally of our years might soon come to an end.’ Nelda stared out to sea and hung her head as if overwhelmed by some terrible grief. ‘I must go,’ she said in a husky voice.
Ben did not want her to leave just yet; there were so many questions ricocheting round his head. How many of her kind were there? Where did she come from and would he see her again?
Nelda began walking down the path and he could think of nothing that would make her stay. He felt useless and watched helplessly as she approached the steps. Then, as she turned to nod farewell, the boy caught sight of a raw emotion in her eyes and was jolted out of his dumbness. There was something troubling her.
Quickly, he cupped his hand round his mouth. ‘Won’t you tell me what’s the matter?’ he shouted after her.
The departing figure hesitated on the steps. Nelda lifted her head and the face which had shown those teasing smiles was now brimming with sorrow.
Ben ran up and put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Can’t I help?’ he asked.
Nelda studied him. How could a human child know of her pain, she wondered. Perhaps the elders were wrong and some of them could be trusted.
‘What age do you reckon me?’ she asked him suddenly.
Ben shrugged. He was not very good at guessing people’s ages and it usually upset them when he got it wrong. He looked at the network of wrinkles which scored her face. If it
wasn’t for those he would have assumed she was a child too; she was only as tall as he was. Could she be fifty, sixty? He plumped for the former because it was more complimentary.
‘I am seventy of your years,’ Nelda corrected him. ‘Yet I am the youngest of my tribe—a mere whelp am I to them. Though I have lived in this world since before your father was born, you and I are probably of similar age to our blood kin.’
‘I haven’t got a father,’ Ben told her. ‘He’s dead.’
A quick succession of expressions passed over Nelda’s face. She was wondering whether she could stay for just a little while longer; no one need know. ‘So be it,’ she said aloud once the decision had been made. ‘Let us talk, you and I.’
She led him over the gravestones to where the cliff sloped grassily down to the backs of houses; there they sat down. Delicious-smelling kipper smoke came from one of the chimneys and the wind seized it eagerly, scattering the tantalising scent over the town. Nelda nuzzled her chin into the wide neck of her jersey and embraced her knees until she was curled up like an urchin.
Ben waited patiently. He was content to just sit there, breathing the kippery air next to the remarkable aufwader. A middle-aged couple trudged up the church steps while he waited. They smiled at him pleasantly as they passed by. Ben bit his lip with excitement—they had not seen Nelda. It was all a marvellous secret and one which he realised had to be kept. If he told his sister she might have another argument with Aunt Alice and threaten to leave again. No, he would tell no one about Nelda.
‘I fear my father is dead also,’ she said suddenly.
Ben started and glanced at her. ‘Don’t you know?’ he asked.
She put her head on one side and replied thoughtfully, ‘My heart knows and that is enough.’
Ben did not understand. How could she not know whether her father was alive or dead?
Nelda saw his confusion. ‘My father has not been seen for over two weeks now,’ she explained.
‘Doesn’t mean he’s dead, though.’
Nelda pressed the fingers of her left hand against her brow and sighed. ‘Oh,’ she began, ‘it does not end there—my uncle is missing also.’
Ben nibbled his lip uncomfortably; he was not sure what to say. ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured quietly.
At this Nelda snorted. ‘Pah! I care not for him; he is nothing to me.’ She paused to spit on the ground with disgust. ‘Like the scum which floats now on the water he is!’ she said, shuddering. ‘None like Silas, my uncle. The elders only suffer him for the sake of my aunt. No, my belief is that Silas has done a black deed; I fear he has murdered my father.’
There was a silence in which Nelda glared at the sea. Ben opened his mouth in shock. Murder? She must be mistaken. ‘Are… are you sure?’ he stuttered feebly. ‘Can’t they just have… well, gone away?’
‘My father would not have left like that,’ she said firmly. ‘On the last day they were seen, they quarrelled. No one knew what the argument was about—my father would not tell me. Never had I seen him in such a mood. No, he is dead, I feel it, and my uncle hides in some dark corner—the craven mudworm.’
In part, Ben understood what she was going through. Human or not, she still had feelings. ‘Both my parents were killed in a crash,’ he said simply, ‘but at least I knew they were really dead and not just missing. It must be awful not to know.’
‘Then we are both orphans, Ben,’ she breathed. ‘I never knew my mother; she died when I was born—as do all mothers now.’ Nelda fell silent as though she had said too much, then squinted at the pale sun. It was time for her to go. She got to her feet and said, ‘I must return to my people.’
‘Do you have to?’ Ben protested. ‘Can’t you stay just a bit longer?’
The smile pulled at the corners of her crescent mouth once more. She liked this human boy—there was an understanding between them. Would it hurt if she met him again, Nelda wondered. But what if such a meeting was discovered by the elders? Mixing with humans was strictly forbidden. The penalty for disobeying one of the prime laws was exile from the tribe and Nelda did not want to risk that. It would be better if she left now and stayed in the caves for a while.
Yet she looked down at Ben and rashly said. ‘Tomorrow—when the sun is as now.’ And with a quick, desperate look, Nelda dashed to the steps and sped down them.
Ben stayed where he was. Now that she was gone he doubted if Nelda had ever existed—had he imagined it all? He remained seated for some time, staring at the harbour. Everything seemed so normal and everyday now, as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. But a slow grin spread from ear to ear. He had touched another world that nobody knew anything about. The boy could hardly wait for the next day.
5 - A Grisly Catch
The gulls were not yet awake and the night fishermen were still out at sea. A dismal grey half-light lit the water on the horizon, but inland the shadows were deep and velvety black. All Whitby slept and the streets were as still and silent as death.
The waves fell softly against the shore, dragging the sand down as they retreated. The tide was going out, and behind Tate Hill Pier, dark and deadly rocks were beginning to emerge. Vicious boulders, they had sunk many unwary ships in their time. They were the teeth of the East Cliff, always eager to grind and splinter timbers.
On the treacherously smooth, slippery shore, three small figures appeared. They seemed to step out of the sheer cliff face, though in the gloom it was impossible to see properly. They were three aufwaders.
Those families who have worked and lived in Whitby for generation after salty generation might recall the old tales of the fisher folk, or the ‘old whalers’, as some called them. They were mysterious beings in legends told to wide-eyed children as they lingered in the tobacco smoke filled parlours before traipsing off to bed. Creatures from half-forgotten stories brought home by sea-weary fishermen; remembered late in the night, if at all, when the wind howls down the chimney like the wail of the Barguest and the fire burns low. Then these childhood fancies return to haunt the aged and disturb their nodding sleep.
The three indistinct forms clambered over the boulders. Slowly and deliberately they went, pausing only to peer into rock pools that the tide had left behind and to part the thick clumps of weed washed ashore. They were searching for something.
Nelda’s grandfather prodded a loose heap of shale with his staff, as he had done every morning for the past fortnight. His old bones ached and he grumbled to himself, ‘Us’ll nivver find owt now. Bin too long, ah says, them’s gone fer good.’ His face was even more crinkled with age than Nelda’s; whiskers bristled over his chin and his wiry, white hair was tied back in a long hank. The ears of all male aufwaders are large and bat-shaped; Tarr’s were no exception. He scratched one with his grubby fingers and stared along the shore at Nelda and Hesper. ‘Them won’t nivver gi’ up,’ he muttered with a groan. ‘Canna tell them nowt.’
Hesper was his daughter. She was also the missing Silas’s wife and Nelda’s aunt. A kindly soul, everyone liked her—or was it pity they felt? She had married the leering Silas Gull against her father’s wishes nigh on two hundred years ago. The more he forbade the union, the more stubborn she had become, and in the end he had relented. But a foul, black-hearted fellow Silas had remained and nothing Hesper could do would ever change that.
She climbed over the rocks with her niece, a battered old oilskin hat perched comically on her head and her light, sand-coloured hair hanging down over one eye as usual. Her face had the texture of a pickled walnut, but the lines that had etched themselves so deeply there were the marks of sorrow and care. To the rest of the tribe she was a tragic figure, solitary and quiet, speaking to none but her family. Even she did not know if she still loved Silas; whatever had first attracted her to him had quickly disappeared. However Hesper’s heart was kept aflame by her true passion: her unceasing search for that which could lift the curse from them forever.
Nelda lifted a thick, dripping curtain of weed and
a startled crab scuttled into the nearest shade. She looked across at her aunt and shook her head. ‘Nothing,’ she sighed.
Hesper hitched up the cork lifebelt as it slipped down over her stomach. She was always ready for emergencies: a length of rope was tucked under one arm, two ancient satchels were slung over each shoulder and threaded through the straps of these at her back was a small fishing net attached to a long pole. She wiped her sea-green eyes and scanned the rocks and boulders. She had not had a wink of sleep all night and a wide yawn suddenly split her face in two.
‘You should not be out,’ Nelda told her. ‘You do too much.’
Her aunt scooped up a handful of sea water and splashed it over her forehead. ‘Someone must keep the vigil,’ she answered resignedly. ‘Who else would go out as I? None. There is not one in the whole tribe who will go in my stead.’
Nelda smiled gently. ‘That is because they do not believe in what you seek. To them it is a fanciful tale, nothing more. The doom will never be lifted.’
Hesper did not reply. She was accustomed to the ridicule her quest invited, and her faith was never shaken. At this moment, however, she had just noticed a tangled mass of green nylon net in the hollow between two huge boulders. Hesper climbed on to one of the smooth wet rocks and looked down into the untidy mess.
She furrowed her brows and stooped. Was it a trick of the shadows? Beyond the twisted drapes of fishing net and seaweed she thought she saw…
Hesper breathed in sharply. ‘Nelda,’ she uttered in a fearful voice, ‘fetch Tarr at once.’
Nelda frowned, curious to know what her aunt had discovered. She glanced back along the shore to where old Tarr hobbled along, leaning on his staff, and waved for him to hurry. ‘What is it?’ she asked her aunt, pulling herself on to the boulder.
