The Whitby Witches Trilogy

by Robin Jarvis

  Out came a magazine. It was one of those dreary publications full of recipes, helpful hints, problems and short stories which always find their way into dentists' waiting rooms.

  "Can you guess what I'm going to do?" she piped up. "That's right, I'll read it to you. Just relax and enjoy."

  Miss Boston opened her eyes, mortified by the unrelenting torments of her visitor. As the nun turned the first page, after reading aloud the title of the magazine and what delights lay in store—she felt that truly she could bear no more.

  Quivering with impotent fury, Miss Boston's hands clenched into fists and her face turned purple.

  "How I grouted my kitchen tiles in one afternoon" the dreadful creature read with a light-hearted lilt in her voice.

  The dastardly monologue continued and Miss Boston could feel the blood vessels thump and pound in her forehead.

  "'Dear Norma—I have an unsightly blemish on my chin which is most upsetting. I am very conscious of it at social events and have taken to wrapping a scarf around my face when I go out. Can you help me? Spring is coming and I shan't be able to wear the scarf in warmer weather.' "

  Miss Boston shook all over and her one good hand gripped the chair arm so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Her breath snorted down her nostrils like that of a horse and she opened her mouth to scream.

  "'Three mouth-watering ways to use red cabbage—inflame your salads and make others green with envy..."

  That was it. In a voice that had not been heard for three whole months and with a trumpeting shout so loud that the windows trembled a second time—Miss Boston roared.

  "GET OUT!" she yelled. "GET OUT OF MY SIGHT, YOU STUPID IMBECILE!"

  Sister Frances dropped the magazine and stared incredulously at the old lady.

  "You... you spoke!" she exclaimed, "Oh! How fabulous!"

  ***

  That afternoon, when the children returned from school they were disappointed to find Sister Frances still at the cottage and even more dismayed to hear that Doctor Adams was once again examining Aunt Alice.

  "Has she fallen again?" Jennet asked fearfully.

  They were gathered in the small kitchen. Miss Wethers was trying to arrange some biscuits on a plate for the doctor but she was in such a fretful state that they kept breaking in her twitching hands. She was too busy to answer so Jennet directed her question to the nun instead.

  Sitting upon a stool, with her long legs stretched out in everybody’s way Frances breathed a great sigh. "It really is miraculous!" she informed the children. "I feel so honoured that I was the one to witness such a momentous event."

  Jennet looked across at her brother. They had not spoken since the girl's angry outburst and though she regretted it, Ben was not prepared to forgive her yet. Ignoring his sister, he screwed up his face and regarded the nun with annoyance.

  "But what has happened?" he asked.

  Sister Frances put a finger on her lips and signalled for them to listen.

  The sound of Doctor Adams's voice floated from the sickroom.

  "Well, Miss Boston," he said in a resigned sort of way, "I'm afraid there's no explanation for it. None whatsoever."

  Ben held his breath. Whatever it was it sounded extremely serious. Perhaps the old lady had had a relapse, and he glanced worriedly up at Miss Wethers.

  "There now," the woman soothed when she saw his concerned face, "have a bourbon. There's nothing to..."

  Before she could finish, to both Ben's and Jennet's amazement and disbelief, they heard Aunt Alice's answering retort to the doctor.

  "Of course you have no explanation!" she cried. "I always thought you were a quack, Adams—now I know for certain! Don't you think you should step aside and let a younger fellow take over? Well overdue for retirement you are."

  Ben forgot that he was not speaking to Jennet and pushed her aside as he ran from the kitchen. "It's Aunt Alice!" he shouted. "She can talk again!"

  In the sickroom Doctor Adams was preparing to flee from the vicinity of the restored voice when the boy burst through the door and rushed at Miss Boston.

  "Benjamin, dearest!" she laughed, and the sound was wonderful to hear. "Oh my, what a commotion! It's nothing to get excited about. I was just telling Incompetent Adams here that from now on there is nothing to worry about. Ho—look at him, he's completely foxed! Hasn't a clue how I managed it."

  Jennet entered the room just in time to see the doctor shift his weight from one foot to the other and hold his medical bag before him. He looked decidedly uncomfortable and felt as though he was back at school in the headmistress's office. Miss Boston's tongue was just as disconcerting as it had always been.

  "It seems all I can do is congratulate you," he said with a nervous cough. "If you recall, I did say that you might one day speak again—only not so quickly as this."

  "Pooh!" scorned Aunt Alice. "You'd given me up totally—another month or so and it would have been some home or other, to be sure. Well, you can take all your charlatan paraphernalia out of here and do whatever you like with it. I have no further need of your services, thank you very much."

  The doctor knew it was hopeless to argue with the old battleaxe so he mumbled his farewells and hurried to the door, bumped into Jennet on the way, then was caught by Edith who pounced on him as he passed the kitchen.

  "You're not going?" she simpered, bearing her tray of broken biscuits. "I was going to make a nice pot of tea."

  "Not today," he snapped.

  Edith's tissue dabbed her nose. "Next time then," she whimpered hopefully.

  Doctor Adams was out of the front door as fast as his legs could take him and Miss Wethers stared after his receding figure with a vexed and injured look on her face.

  "My!" said Sister Frances, slipping into the hall. "He's in a whirl today, isn't he? I wanted to prevail upon him and see if there were any more of his patients I could cheer up."

  Edith gave an angry squeak and thrust the biscuit plate into the nun's hands—much to her delight.

  "Well really, Alice!" the unhappy woman whined, charging into the sickroom. "How could you be so rude?"

  Miss Boston looked at her crossly. "Oh, stop fussing, Edith!" she bellowed, making up for lost time. "Things are going to change around here. Don't just stand there, I want a cup of herbal tea—there's a packet at the back of the cupboard! Then you can take that wheelchair from the garden shed. I'm not going to be cooped up any longer!"

  Miss Wethers' anger dissolved before this commanding presence and she meekly hurried away to comply.

  "Poor Edith," Aunt Alice chuckled mischievously. "I'm afraid she won't have a minute's peace. We'll show her and that jumped-up stethoscope twirler, won't we, Benjamin?"

  The pair of them laughed and, standing alone by the door, Jennet watched for a moment before she disappeared to her room.

  ***

  When night stole over the town the rain clouds finally dispersed, and in the clear heavens the stars shone coldly. A frost-haloed moon blazed pale and white, its ghostly beams shimmering a wide path over the sea and turning the sand upon the shore to silver. Below the cliffs, the world was lost in deep shadows, but between the black rocks, two small figures slowly clambered.

  "The very air bites tonight," Nelda said with a shudder. "Will you tell me now? Why did you wake me and draw me from my warm bed?"

  Her companion said nothing but continued to lead the aufwader over the rocky shore.

  Tired and cold, Nelda was in no mood for games. "If you refuse to tell me," she said, "I shall turn back!"

  In front of her, Old Parry whirled around. Her untidy hair had been brushed and pulled into a straggly, branching mass laden with newly-found shells and the occasional gull feather. This bizarre and wild formation made her shadowy silhouette weird and grotesque. It was as though some deformed shrub had come to life and pulled itself up by the roots to go roaming in the night.

  Fingering her bristly nose, she regarded the youngster and shook her head, rattling the shells which da
ngled there. "Not wise," she warned. "Your loss would that be—hearken to me, child, I know."

  "But what is it that you know?" Nelda asked. "You creep into our quarters and tell me not to wake my grandfather..."

  "This ain't no business of menfolk!" Parry spat. "Them can't know all. Some secrets we mun keep to ourselves."

  "You said it was important," the girl protested, "yet all we have done is climb over rock and boulder."

  Coming to a ring of craggy stone that was filled with sea water, Old Parry made herself comfortable and told Nelda to do the same.

  "Are you set on pool-wading this night?" the girl cried, "for if so, I have no wish to join you."

  "No, child," the other answered mysteriously, "it is not shells I look for, not this time."

  There was a strange edge to Parry's voice and Nelda sat upon one of the rocks, wondering what the spiteful creature was up to. From the other side of the pool the aged eyes gleamed at her and she shivered under their intense scrutiny.

  "Short have been the years of your life," the cracked voice began, "and from the hour of your birth I have watched you grow. You are the only bairn to have survived the curse laid upon us. Have you never wondered at that? I have. Aye, many long nights and bitter days have I dwelt upon that most abnormal chance."

  Nelda hung her head. Throughout her life she had been forced to endure the resentment of the seawives. No one knew why she alone had escaped the power of the Mother's Curse—least of all herself.

  "Many times have I heard these grudging words," she muttered. "If you have brought me hither merely to assail me with them once more then I bid you goodnight!"

  "Stay!" Old Parry snapped. "My words have a purpose!"

  "Indeed! To gratify your base spite, no doubt! You do naught else."

  "There is much you do not know of me! Aye, much—although your mother knew some of it well enough."

  Sucking her peg-like teeth, Old Parry waited—she was enjoying confounding Nelda. The Shrimp brood had always been above itself and it galled her that Tarr was now leader of the tribe, but his granddaughter at least was, for the moment, in her power.

  "What do you want?" Nelda asked.

  A wide grin split the wizened face opposite and a low cackle issued from the crabbed lips.

  "Why, child," Old Parry murmured, "to be a mother to ye. No, hear me out. Have you never heard of scryin' the waters?"

  Nelda nodded warily. Just what was the foul hag up to? "Yes," she answered, "Hesper spoke of it often. It is something I should have liked to have played with my mother."

  "Ah, Hesper!" Parry clucked with disdain. "And did your aunt ever glimpse your fortunes?"

  "No," the aufwader girl said sadly, "she was too absorbed in finding the Moonkelp to waste time in such trifles."

  Parry chuckled, "I thought no one had scried for ye. By rights 'tis the mother's task to peer for her daughter's fortunes, but I'm willin' to undertake it."

  Nelda spluttered in amazement. "You?" she asked. "You wish to do that for me—but why?"

  "'Tis as I said. I have watched you since the hour of your birth and have no offspring of mine own. Would you permit?"

  The young aufwader had never liked Old Parry and she was sure the ugly crone despised her all the more. There was no reason to trust her but what harm could it do?

  She knew that scrying the waters was a simple game that mothers used to play with their children. She had often heard the barren seawives talk of the dark nights when they had been led to a rock pool by their mothers. When they spoke of it they would weep and lament in the knowledge that they would never have any children to gaze the water for, but no-one had ever offered to do it for Nelda—until now.

  It was only ever a harmless amusement and the fortunes glimpsed would invariably include husbands and fishing nets that knew no lack. This was why Nelda was suspicious; Old Parry would not have gone to all this trouble merely to indulge in some pretended devotion to herself, yet though she racked her brains she could not see what harm it could do.

  "Very well," she agreed, "look into my future. Will I be a bride again?"

  Parry tutted at her mockery. "No game do I play," she muttered in all seriousness. "The frolics of gazing nights were founded in ancient tradition. In every tribe there was one who could really part the curtain of time and look beyond tomorrow."

  "And you are one of those?" Nelda asked, not believing a word.

  The other sniggered and took from around her neck an egg-shaped pebble threaded on to a piece of string. "No," came the unexpected answer, "but this bauble did belong to one and sometimes, if it allows, I can see days yet distant. Now be silent and still."

  Twirling the string in her fingers, she held it over the rock pool and slowly lowered the stone into the inky water.

  Nelda did not have to ask how Parry had acquired the stone. She was like a magpie and did not scruple to thieve anything she took a fancy to.

  "There now," the crone gurgled in a sing-song voice as she swirled the trinket through the pool. "Remember thy mistress—'tis I, Idin. Thou knowest me, my pretty stone—awake and show unto me this night. Tell thine secrets, oh stone so round and smooth. Let out thy knowledge, Idin commands."

  The disturbed water remained dark to Nelda's eyes, but Old Parry crouched over the rippling surface and peered keenly into the shallow depths as she released the stone and let it sink to the bottom.

  "Ah," she hissed, "it clears. I see a lone figure—a child. Why! 'Tis no other than yourself, Nelda. Yet your face is grim. Oh, is there naught merry to show me? See, a cloud of darkness and despair is closing around you—oh unhappy bride, what evil stalks you? Ever tighter it binds; you are in direst peril and ever your voice is raised in cries of pain and woe."

  Slyly, her eyes slid round to look at the young aufwader and she knew she had guessed correctly. "But the sea does drown your calls," she continued with a sneering leer spreading over her face, "and you are shrouded in its doom."

  Nelda grabbed a large pebble and flung it into the centre of the rock pool. The water exploded into Parry's face and the wicked hag fell backwards, coughing and spluttering on the brine.

  "Harridan!" the girl yelled. "Begone before I strike you! That stone never belonged to Idin the far-seeing, though I believe you would have stolen it from the very black boat she was laid upon before it set sail. What vile glee does your twisted mind enjoy? Why taunt me?"

  Parry pointed a knobbly finger at her and gloated maliciously. "'Tis true then," she wheezed. "You have come under the curse! A bairn is growing inside your belly—'twere your words that set me on it, asking how your mother perished. Hah! 'Tis your own death you fear. Into agonies undreamed of will you be plunged. Many other hands than mine are needed to count the mothers who have died that way. They were the foolish ones—they would not listen."

  Nelda grimaced in disgust, but she was afraid of what the crone would do—would she tell the rest of the tribe? Of course she would. Old Parry delighted in the pain of others. Struggling to remain aloof and not admitting that the guess was correct, Nelda said, "I have wasted too much time in your company already. Do not speak to me again, and if you wish to remain safe and well then keep a hold on your evil tongue."

  But it was an empty threat and the hag knew it. "Horror and death," she repeated coarsely, "horror and death. All them seawives a-dyin' with them infants inside them. None would listen to me—not even your mother. Oh no, not her!"

  "Don't you dare speak about my mother!" Nelda shouted. "Or the next rock I throw will be aimed at your head!"

  Parry took no notice. "Only the clever ones survived," she intoned. "Only those who hearkened to me saved themselves. Weren't no other way."

  Nelda had begun walking back to the cliffs but she halted and turned round once more.

  "What do you mean?" she asked. "How did they manage to survive?"

  "I could show you," the crone suggested, "though I don't sees as why I should, you being so hostile like."

  "Please y
ourself," the girl wearily replied. "It's probably another of your tricks. I'm too tired for any more."

  "No tricks!" Parry promised. "On my dear dead Joby's life this ain't." She lifted her eyes and stared at the waxing moon that shone with an icy brilliance. "Aye, 'tis the proper time; you're fortunate, child—come."

  She scrambled to her feet and hurried over the rocks towards the sand and the direction of the town. "If'n you want to live to see another winter you'd best be with me."

  Nelda hesitated. She still did not trust her, but soon found herself following.

  Over the steps of Tate Hill Pier the aufwaders climbed and Nelda marvelled, for the crone loathed anything to do with the humans and would never normally walk amongst their ugly huts. But through the streets they went until they came to the foot of the abbey steps. Immediately, Parry hastened upwards, her eyes darting to and fro, in case they should meet one of the infernal landbreed. But at that late hour the one hundred and ninety-nine steps were deserted.

  When she reached the summit Parry sat upon a tombstone and waited for Nelda to catch up. The breeze was strong on top of the cliff and her wild hair writhed about her head like a hundred snakes.

  Whilst there, she took a leather purse out of her pocket and from this she carefully removed a small disc of sea-polished green glass and held it to one of her eyes.

  Eventually Nelda appeared, but she was puffing and panting and had to rest before she could speak.

  "See how the lifestealer within you already drinks your strength," Parry commented, "otherwise you would have raced to the top and left old me toiling below."

  Still out of breath, Nelda leaned against the rail and looked down at the rooftops of Whitby. Somewhere nearby was the cottage that Ben lived in, but she could not recognise it from up here and shifted her gaze to the wizened aufwader upon the tombstone.

  "What is that?" she asked, pointing to the circle of glass.