by Robin Jarvis
"I... I think I'd best go home now," he uttered quietly.
Tarr held his granddaughter's eyes for a moment longer then whipped round and stood with his back to the pair of them.
"Remember me t'thy aunt," he said curtly.
"I will, Mr Shrimp. Er... goodbye."
"Aye."
The boy took up his coat; it was still damp but he was only too glad to put it on. The atmosphere in the cave was unbearable and he pulled on the garment as fast as possible.
Nelda fumed at her grandfather's back then sprang to her feet. "Wait," she called to Ben. "I will walk with you—the air here is stale. I stifle in it!"
When they had gone, Tarr kicked the stool across the floor. "What divil has seized hold o' the lass?" he ranted. "Why rake it all up now?"
Fumbling for his pipe, he thrust it into his mouth and waited for his temper to cool. "Womenfolk!" he spat. "Won't ever reckon 'em."
Standing in the open air Nelda breathed deeply and pulled her woollen hat down over her ears. The daylight had faded completely but the rain was still flooding from the sky.
Ben stuck his hands in his pockets and waited until she had collected herself. "What was that all about?" he ventured.
"My grandfather thinks of me as a bairn and naught beyond," she said. "Sometimes I fear the gulf between us is too great."
"He is very old," the boy said carefully, "and in the eyes of your kind you are practically the same age as me—even though you are seventy."
"Perhaps," she muttered, "yet I was considered age enough to wed with Esau Grendel."
"Only because he was barmy and none of the others dared oppose him! Nelda, you're still only a child—don't go all funny like Jennet."
The aufwader glanced past him to the dim edge of the great dark sea and shook herself. "I am sorry," she said. "Times are grim, yet it is wrong of me to inflict my woe upon you."
"Won't you tell me what's the matter?" he asked gently. "You've done it before, remember?"
In spite of herself Nelda smiled, then she looked down at the sands and began to descend the cliffside.
"It is nothing," she said unconvincingly. "Let us leave this high place and wander by the fringe of the tide awhile."
Bowing their heads beneath the drizzle, the two of them slowly made their way downwards, then side by side, they strolled over the level rocks towards the shore.
Between the great weed-covered boulders that had ripped into the bows of many ships, they carefully stepped. Where possible, they avoided the shallow pools in which the rain splashed but neither of them spoke and the silence began to prey upon Ben's nerves. Twice he caught an odd look stealing over Nelda's face as if she was plucking up the courage to say something. But each time her resolve failed and she cast her eyes to the ground to avoid his gaze.
Eventually, the boy could bear it no longer. "Look," he said flatly, "just tell me—I know you want to."
Nelda raised her eyes. "My troubles are now four months old," she began in a wavering voice. "You recall the nature of my late spouse?"
Ben shuddered; Esau had been a vile and grasping creature.
"Just so," she sorrowfully agreed, "yet from him I did buy the knowledge of the third guardian and brought it safe from the clutches of the Mallykin."
Ben had no idea where this was leading but nodded encouragingly.
Nelda pulled the neck of her gansey up over her chin and turned shamefully from him. Her tears mingled with the rain and she covered her eyes as finally she blurted out the awful secret which so terrified her.
"None have I told," she murmured, "no one knows the heinous price that accursed Esau placed upon that knowledge. Nor do they suspect that I, Nelda, was fool enough to pay it—but what else could I have done?"
"What did you do?" the boy asked, a horrible suspicion beginning to form in his mind. "Listen, Nelda," he said gently, "without the guardian, Nathaniel and the serpent would have destroyed everything." He stared at her reassuringly and pressed her cold hands in his. "Esau is dead," he whispered. "Let him be forgotten—no one will ask how he died, nor will they blame you."
Nelda pulled her hands away and a chilling, mad laugh erupted from her small mouth. "You... you think I killed him?" she cried in disbelief. "You think that in fear for his own wretched neck my husband told me where the guardian lay? Oh Ben, did I then slit his throat or throttle the breath from him? Tell me which—for dearly would I have done that deed and regretted it never. No sleep would I have lost and no meal turned aside if that were the happy truth. His very blood would I steep myself in if I could undo what I have really done!"
Ben took a step backwards; she was almost hysterical and he looked over his shoulder to the cliff face, wondering if he should fetch her grandfather.
"Ha!" she wailed. "Can it be so repugnant and contrary to nature that you really cannot guess? Alas, I see that it is, and poor Nelda is damned with the doom she has brought upon herself."
Hiding her face in her hands, she threw herself against a rock and wept desolately.
Ben did not know what to do. He did not have the faintest idea what she had done and clumsily tried to console the unfortunate aufwader girl.
"Don't worry," he said. "I'm sure it will be all right, Nelda—please don't cry."
"Blether, blether, blether!" snapped a sharp voice from the surrounding shadows.
Ben looked up, but it was too dark and he waited for the stranger to approach.
"What's that scrawny whelp squawkin' fer now? Always makin' a racket and squeal, squeal, squeal!"
From the gloom a small, round figure emerged. Old Parry narrowed her sly eyes and wrinkled her spiteful face up at Ben. She hated all humans but despised him especially because he had the favour of the Lords of the Deep.
She was the most vindictive and downright nasty member of the aufwader tribe, whom the boy always avoided if he saw her upon the beach. The viciousness of her tongue was well known to him and he had learnt that she was always eager to speak poison about others. Tarr barely tolerated her and she always drove Nelda to distraction with her sneaky and malicious ways.
The girl stirred as she heard her and dried her eyes. The last thing she wanted was for the creature to go spreading tales among the rest of the tribe.
Tentatively, Old Parry sniffed the air around Ben and pretended to choke in disgust.
"Consortin' wi' the landbreed again," she observed through tight lips. "No wonder yer blubber so."
"I wasn't crying," Nelda retorted defensively. "I merely caught my foot on a stone—it pained me, that's all."
The other waggled her head in amusement. "Tell it to the sea," she huffed, "only make it quiet—I've a mind to go pool wading this night and I'll not be disturbed by your screeching! Can't a body have any peace? There's cramp and clamour enough in the great hall without any pesterin' from the likes of you!"
Nelda drew herself up and thought of a good many things to say to the interfering old nuisance, then she had a different idea and her angry face became wrapped in smiles.
"Oh," she exclaimed with feigned interest, "what are you wading for?"
Old Parry eyed her uncertainly. "Just shells," she mumbled, "to tie in my hair, and aught else I find, though it don't concern you."
"It's been such a long time since I foraged in the pools," Nelda enthused. "May I join you?"
"You," uttered Old Parry in complete surprise, "wade wi' me?"
"I should love to."
The astonished female shrugged, then glanced back at Ben. "But no stinkin' landbreed!" she warned. "I'll not share the waters with none of that race! Tell him to crawl back to his hut!"
Guiltily, Nelda looked across at the boy and bit her lip. "You would not mind if I tarried here?" she said.
"I thought you wanted to tell me what the matter was," he answered, puzzled as to why she would want to spend any amount of time with that hatchet-faced crone.
With a shake of her head, Nelda dismissed the notion that she had been upset. "Don't worry
so," she told him. "Is it not time for you to return? I shall see you soon, no doubt."
Ben could not understand her behaviour and felt hurt at the way she was treating him. Rejected and miserable he gave a sulky grunt, spun on his heel and made for the town.
Feeling worse than ever, Nelda watched him leave.
"Thought you'd tire of human company," Old Parry said haughtily. "They're not worth the water they bathe in. It's well to see you come to your senses at last. 'Tain't proper for us to mingle; look what happened to Oona."
"Yes," breathed Nelda, "it was she who brought the wrath of the Deep Ones upon us by wedding one of the landbreed."
"And sealed our fate with the laying of the Mother's Curse!" added Old Parry. "Naught but trouble and grief comes of mixing wi' them."
"A terrible punishment for so simple and blameless a crime."
The old aufwader waited until the figure of Ben had disappeared in the dark distance before she began to hunt among the rocks for a suitable pool to dip into.
"Ooh yes," she agreed as she peered into the water, "a fouler end them Lords of the Deep could not have devised."
Nelda followed her to the next rockpool, trying not to betray the anxiety she felt. "What... what exactly happens under the curse?" she murmured.
Old Parry bent low over a dish-shaped stone and whirled her fingers through the water it contained. "Death o' course," she burbled.
"Yes I know, but how exactly?"
The scourge of the fisherfolk lifted her eyes to the girl and her eyebrows twitched curiously.
"So," she crooned, "you want to know the full extent of the Mother's Curse?"
"I... I want to know what happened to my mother."
"Tarr not told you? Nah, he wouldn't, but I was there—I know."
"Will you tell me?"
Old Parry's eyes glinted. "'Tain't no pretty tale," she muttered darkly, "but I can see there's no denying you. Sit here."
Stiffly, Nelda sat upon the cold wet stone beside her and the crone chuckled horribly to herself.
"Never had I seen such pain," she began, recalling that hideous time. "Your mother was a headstrong, foolish creature who listened to no counsel but her own. We all told her it was in vain but still she tried to give her husband a child. Not for many centuries had an infant been born to our kind, not one that lived, that is.
"Determined and wilful she was, and stubborn as the cliffs themselves. Strong was the bond 'twixt she and your father and for his sake she bore you. But as the time went by and her belly swelled, her agonies steadily increased.
"Every time the moon waxed and was full in the heavens, you could hear her screams rent the night and echo through every tunnel and chamber. Now, as you know, few wives survived beyond the first three months so when she lingers on past the eighth, with only four more remaining we all wondered if the curse had lost some of its power.
"But the Lords of the Deep and Dark showed their displeasure in ways various and plenty lest any other wife dared flout their might. Shoals of rotting fish were washed ashore and storms raged at sea so that no boats could set sail for many weeks. 'Twas an evil time full of such signs and portents and your mother was to blame."
Old Parry paused to gauge the effect her tale was having upon Nelda. The girl looked pale and ill so she gladly resumed the tragic story, revelling in the gruesome details.
"No one living can describe the torture that your mother endured for your sake and that of Abe your father. For when her time came it was beyond aught I had yet seen. As soon as you were born she began to die."
"How?"
"By the most evil of means. For when it became apparent that by some miracle you were to live, your mother let loose a sickening screech. Such is the fell manner of the curse that the very blood in her veins did change and under the enchantment of the Deep Ones, it turned to brine."
"No!" Nelda gasped, stricken with horror and disgust. "It cannot be true!"
"On my Joby's watery grave," the other swore, spitting into the rockpool, "that was the way of it.
"Into a blazing fever your mother swooned, the salt water creeping through her body, burning and blistering through her flesh until her very wits were eaten away."
"She... she went mad?"
"Raving!" came the cackling response. "An agony of madness was hers, and not even her own husband's father did she know. Wounded to the heart was Tarr and he stumbled through the caverns like one blinded. Yet not swiftly was she taken—oh no, for nigh on two whole weeks did your mother linger and by the end she was like a salted slug. No black boat carried her into the sea. There was naught remaining—only a briny sludge with Abe weeping over it."
Nelda staggered to her feet. It was worse than she had dreaded. For now she knew the precise nature of her mother's demise whereas it had only been hinted at before, and she wept for the parent she had never known. Yet more bitterly did she weep for herself, for that same fate would undoubtedly wreak its terrible vengeance upon her.
"Don't go," Old Parry sniggered as Nelda hurried unsteadily away. "Let me tell you of others that perished and of the countless bairns that did not survive. How their first sweet cries were changed into shrieks as they crumbled into dust!"
But Nelda was too distraught to hear her and the spiteful old crone clutched her sides at the sight. Her brutal and raucous laughter echoed over the shore, rebounding off the cliffs, as if they too mocked the poor aufwader girl.
***
"Oh come on, Jennet! It'll be a good laugh."
"I said no, all right?"
Sarah Wellings tried one last time. "Martin Gravsey will be there."
"So what?"
"He fancies you!"
"Oh leave me alone—I don't care what you do, just leave me out of it!"
Sarah flicked her damp fringe from her eyes and pushed Jennet savagely. "If it wasn't for you we wouldn't have had that detention!" she said. "I'm not going to have time to put some make-up on now. God, Laurenson, what's up with you anyway?"
"Look, I don't want to hang round the arcade or be chatted up by a group of spotty lads with bad breath who wear too much cheap aftershave. Is that so hard to understand?"
Sarah sneered at her. "You're mad, you!" she shouted. "Tracey and Clare were right, they said you'd gone as loony as your brother. Well I've had it, okay? From now on don't bother speaking to me."
She stomped off over the wet cobbles and chanted at the top of her voice, "Laurenson, Laurenson, lordy, lordy what a loony!"
Jennet rubbed her arm where Sarah had punched her. She was a pretty girl with dark brown hair and a pleasant oval face. At first she had been popular at school but that had all changed. Over the past few months the friends she had made in Whitby had gradually abandoned her. She knew it was her own fault; she was indifferent to them and hated their incessant, ridiculous talk about boys and music. Jennet was interested in neither of these, not since she had come under the influence of Nathaniel Crozier.
For a twelve-year-old girl whose thirteenth birthday was only a matter of months away she seemed old before her time and withdrew into herself a little further every day.
Glumly, Jennet walked along Church Street towards Aunt Alice's cottage. At last the rain had ceased and the narrow road glistened in the lamplight. Overhead, the window-sills and projecting signs dripped amber jewels but the girl was oblivious to the beauty of the clean, washed world. Through the puddles she traipsed, scattering the reflections and dwelling on the idiotic night her former friends would have.
"Who wants to do that anyway? I certainly don't. Boys are stupid!"
Passing one of the shop windows, Jennet came to an abrupt halt and stared through the glass. It was a photographer's studio and examples of his art were on display to entice prospective customers inside.
A large print of a surprised baby sitting amongst a quantity of pink silk met Jennet's eyes but she ignored it and looked at the one by its side. There, upon textured paper to make it resemble a painting on canvas, was a phot
ograph of a bride and groom. The girl studied it thoughtfully as her breath fanned out over the window-pane. It reminded her of a picture she had of her parents' wedding day.
"Oh Mum," she uttered in a hoarse whisper, "why aren't you and Dad here?"
The couple before her beamed back, and the girl dragged herself away. Swinging her school bag over her shoulder Jennet resumed the short walk home.
Just as she was about to turn into the alleyway that led to the cottage, she saw Ben trudging along the street from the direction of the shore.
Jennet did not need to ask where her brother had been.
"How was Nelda?" she asked.
Ben made no reply but brushed past and tramped through the courtyard to the cottage door.
"Charming," Jennet remarked. "I don't know why I bother."
Hungry for his tea and keen to be rid of the dry, salty taste in his mouth, Ben leapt up the doorstep and knocked loudly.
At once the door was torn open and the courtyard was filled with yellow light. A woman in her fifties, with greying hair that looked as though it had been sat on, was framed in the doorway. With one hand clinging to the handle and the other positively squeezing the life from a bunch of tissues which she dabbed to her nose, she let out a squeak and ushered the children inside.
"Oh, where have the pair of you been?" she twittered in distraction. "What a day to go roaming off. Look at the state of your clothes, Ben—oh dear!"
The boy dragged his sopping coat off and sniffed expectantly. "What's for tea?" he asked, unable to detect any of the usual smells.
"Oh dear!" Miss Wethers exclaimed again. "Your teas, I clean forgot!" And she threw an agitated glance at the door of the sickroom.
Jennet was watching her closely. Dithery Edith seemed more preoccupied than normal and she sensed that something was wrong.
"What's the matter?" she asked. "Aunt Alice! Has something happened to her?"
Miss Wethers flapped her hands as the girl made for the sickroom and only just managed to pull her back in time.
"You can't go in there yet," she told her, "not until the doctor's finished."
