The Whitby Witches Trilogy

by Robin Jarvis

  "Aha!" came the proud reply. "Now this truly is a useful trinket, and is all mine. I found it, I used it." She threw Nelda a quizzical glance and smirked. "Did Tarr ever tell you of the time before the Mother's Curse came upon us?"

  "Of course he did—I know all about our histories and lineage."

  "Bah! Not that bilge!" Parry snorted. "I'm talking of me. Did he tell you what I did before we were doomed?" She raised her eyebrows and laughed horribly on seeing the girl's blank face. "I was the midwife!" she murmured.

  "Into this sorry world did I deliver the infants, yet never a one did I have of my own and then Oona disgraced us and it was too late for me. Yet brides still loved their husbands and life was made, so a new task was I needed for."

  Leaving the tombstone, she beckoned to Nelda and passed further into the graveyard.

  The girl hesitated. "Where are we going?" she asked.

  Parry gave a hissing laugh through her teeth. "There's nowt to fear," she assured her. "Only the dust of landbreed bones lies beneath the sod; the shade of no human do I fear."

  "I am not afraid," Nelda insisted. "I often come here to sit and think, but why are we here now?"

  "You shan't ever know if'n you don't follow."

  Nelda gazed into the gloom-ridden graveyard; the lamps that illuminated the church were dark and the top of the exposed cliff was forbidding, cloaked in watchful shadows. She could imagine all sorts of terrors lurking in the long grass that swayed and rustled in the wind. Many strange beings had dwelt in Whitby throughout the ages, many dangerous wild creatures with razor teeth and murderous hearts.

  Old Parry had nearly disappeared into the darkness and feeling suddenly alone and vulnerable, Nelda hurriedly stepped from the path and ran through the grass after her.

  Into the engulfing black shade of the church they plunged. The church of Saint Mary was vastly different at night and Nelda kept looking over her shoulder uncomfortably. The squat, square bulk of the building towered over her; no more the cosy place of worship, it was almost a crouching ogre preparing to spring—waiting until its victims were close enough. More than once she thought she could see something flit behind the panes of its unlit windows and her pace quickened to escape the range of their hollow stare.

  Old Parry was totally at her ease however, and strolled casually between the forests of headstones.

  The graveyard stretched in all directions, vanishing into the night whichever way Nelda turned. She had been here countless times before but at that moment the aufwader could almost believe she was standing in a country of the dead, and felt that she was a trespasser upon their peace.

  Parry observed her disquiet and bared her brown teeth in a repulsive grin to show that there was nothing to fear. Then she held up the glass disc and tittered.

  "Thirteen times has this been steeped in the reflection of the full moon," she explained, "once for every month that we carry the unborn within us. Forbidden words have I spoken over this shiny glass and with it I spared many of our tribe from their agonies."

  "I don't understand," Nelda breathed, still looking around nervously. "What does it do?"

  Parry lifted the disc to her eye again. "'Tis a boon to sight," she answered. "Through this lens can be seen much that is hidden from even we fisherfolk. Beneath the moon some things grow which it is better we do not see, yet at certain times in certain places, there is a plant—the bitterest little herb which only the glass can disclose. It is the moon's gift to us, her merciful balm sprung from the tears of her compassion at our plight."

  With that, she left Nelda's side and began hunting between the headstones, parting the long grass with her eager fingers, questing the gloom like a hound after a scent.

  Then, emitting a crow of delight, she called to Nelda and with a bony finger pointed at the shadowy ground.

  They were standing beside a grave that was smaller than the others and Nelda felt her skin crawl in revulsion at the callousness of her companion.

  "Behold!" Parry cried. "Peer through this, child, and see your salvation."

  With shaking hands, Nelda took the lens from her and put it to her eye.

  At first there was only a green darkness, and then as her eyes adjusted to the glass, her vision cleared and she drew her breath in sharply.

  There, growing from the centre of the grave was a small, sickly looking plant.

  Nelda lowered the glass and stared again but she could see no trace of the ugly weed.

  "The moonlight blinds your eyes to it," Parry whispered in her ear. "Not for all is the fruit of her pity."

  Nelda gazed through the lens a second time and studied the weed more closely.

  It was a vile and repugnant growth. The feeble stem was a pallid and ghostly grey—the colour of putrefying death and decay. Bunched around the base were clusters of tiny blade-shaped leaves and wispy threads of spiralling tendrils wound themselves about the frail stalk as though they were trying to strangle the sap from it.

  But the herb's most awful aspect was the flower. It too was leprously grey in hue, yet each of the five petals was shot through with a diseased vein of putrid red. Together they formed a spikey cup and from the centre of this loathsome vessel two long stamens wafted in the breeze.

  Suddenly Nelda covered her nose and mouth. From the flower a nauseating reek was rising and she had to gulp down the clean air to prevent herself being sick.

  "Is it not the daintiest bloom?" Old Parry softly sang. "See how the petals strive up to bathe in the moonlight, whilst the delicate creepers attempt to murderously choke and drag it down."

  "It repels me!" Nelda gagged. "I do not think I shall ever be rid of the stench! What vileness of Nature is it? What horror have you shown me this night? See how it flourishes upon that small grave—how far do the roots reach into the earth? On what soil do they feed?"

  "Don't you trouble to worry about that," the crone cackled, "for this bitter weed is your friend."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Exactly that—this tiny herb can save you. Hither have I brought many whose fears were no less than your own. The remedy to your woes is at hand. Simply taste one drop of the plant's juice and it is done. The life-leeching infant will be cast away and you shall live."

  Nelda stumbled against the weathered headstone. "What are you saying?" she cried aghast. "Stop! I shall hear no more!"

  Parry caught hold of the girl's hand and pulled it towards the sickening plant but she wrenched it free and backed away.

  "Be not too hasty," the crone told her. "'Tis but a moment's work. Pluck the blossom and lay a petal upon your tongue. Others have done it before you and lived to thank me afterwards."

  "Did you bring my mother here?" Nelda whispered in bewilderment.

  "I did," Parry replied, "though she was too stubborn and craven to partake of the juice. Come child, one morsel, that is all. I shall tell no one we came hither or what passed between us. Who shall know save thee and me of this night's work? Do you want to die in a torment of raving and be devoured by the salt which will blister through your veins?"

  Nelda shook her head slowly. She was terrified of dying in such agony so, with a quivering hand, she reached down.

  A cold sweat pricked her forehead and as the fetid odour assaulted her nostrils again she opened her fingers to take the flower from the ground.

  "Why hesitate?" Parry goaded. "Save yourself. Why must you both perish instead of one? That's it. Lift the herb, lift it."

  Nelda faltered; the flower was too disgusting to look at and the mere thought of actually touching it made her want to retch. A sudden gust of wind caused the plant to stir, the diseased leaves twirled and the stinking perfume blew fully into the aufwader's face. Caught in the draught, the flower swayed and its stamens whipped around and brushed against Nelda's hand.

  "NO!" she shrieked, desperately wiping her stinging fist on the wet grass. "I cannot! What am I thinking of? My mother could not do this evil deed—why then should I? I cannot kill the life which is inside
me. Get away, let me pass!"

  With tears streaking down her face, she staggered through the churchyard, sobbing in utter despair. Appalled and ashamed of what she had been about to do, the girl lumbered away desolate and wretched.

  Behind her, Old Parry shouted and snarled. "Fool! What will the tribe think when I tell them of the danger you bear? Does Tarr know? I shall tell him—you should have been rid of the bairn. I'll not help again!"

  The hag spat on the ground, then a smile every bit as repulsive as the flower disfigured her face. Nelda was still in possession of the lens.

  Throwing back her head, she let loose a horrible laugh. "Better make use of the glass soon!" she screeched. "Afore it's too late!"

  3 - Newcomers

  February gave way to March and in that time Miss Boston grew steadily stronger. Consulting the Book of Shadows, she directed Edith Wethers in the application of weird ointments and poultices to her withered limbs and kept to a strict diet of her own devising.

  The sickroom was turned into a veritable garden of sweet-smelling and virtuous plants that the children had picked under her guidance. Tucked beneath her pillows were dozens of sachets containing secret mixtures of dried roots and seeds, and sometimes the old lady burned an exquisitely fragrant incense which she inhaled in great gulps.

  "Got to fill my lungs," she would declare. "Only way to purge all the confounded poison that fool Adams poured into me."

  Following this unusual regime, Miss Boston would wake just before the dawn and sing an incantation until the first rays of the sun stole into her room. Then she would invoke the forces of life, calling on them to bestow upon her some of their vigour and energy, and would spend the rest of the day either in deep study or performing what exercises her fragile strength allowed.

  During this time, Miss Wethers was kept extremely busy. What with buying the ingredients for the poultices and following peculiar recipes, she was rarely allowed to rest.

  Doctor Adams made regular visits, just to make certain that his patient was not killing herself with these strange remedies, but he was reluctantly forced to admit that she was actually making progress.

  Slowly but surely, Miss Boston began to resemble her former self. The weary, haggard look that had so disfigured her face completely vanished and was replaced by a familiar robustness in those soft and wrinkled jowls.

  After three weeks it was obvious that strength was returning to her wasted arms and the poor doctor was at a loss as to how to account for it. Though he plied the old lady with many questions she would only laugh at him and say that it would need a broader mind than his to comprehend.

  Doctor Adams had countered with a grave warning. "If you are not careful," he told her, "you will overreach yourself. I've seen it many times—people push themselves too far. The heart can only bear so much strain, you know; yours has been inactive for some time now and you're piling on the pressure too fast too soon!"

  Miss Boston's reply to what she termed his "professional jealousy" had been brief and cutting. So, with his medical tail between his legs, Doctor Adams had left the sickroom thinking that perhaps he ought to take her advice and retire after all. On an impulse, as he passed Edith Wethers in the hallway, he invited her to a tea dance that afternoon and the overjoyed spinster accepted almost before the words were out of his mouth.

  Focusing her attention only on getting well, Miss Boston paid no heed to the other minor business of the town. Those small, mundane events which once would have so enthralled her now kindled no interest whatsoever.

  After many years, Mr and Mrs Gregson finally patched up the quarrel with their son Peter who lived in Huddersfield and saw their grandchildren for the first time. The little bookshop was finally sold and the former owners reopened in Scarborough. This was not welcomed by most of the townsfolk, who found the new proprietor grandly aloof, unhelpful and on occasion, downright rude. Sister Frances had tried to jolly her along but not surprisingly she failed in her mission. On the West Cliff, along Pier Road, another café opened which served excellent cream teas and one of the curio shops was taken over by what Edith described as an exotic-looking woman.

  None of this thrilling news aroused even the slightest curiosity in Miss Boston and she continued to bury herself wholeheartedly in the matter of her recovery.

  On a rare fine afternoon that brought the tourists pouring in to the town, the old lady was sitting in her garden behind the cottage. It had been a tiring day. Impatient at what she considered to be her snail-like progress, Miss Boston had pushed herself harder than she had yet dared.

  For three whole hours without any rest, the invalid had raised her arms as high as she could, flexed her fingers until the knuckles ached, rotated her shoulder joints, occupied herself with co-ordination exercises and shouted mysterious words at the top of her voice.

  Now she was exhausted and realised she had done too much, for the breath rasped in her throat, her arthritis throbbed painfully and her chest felt uncomfortably tight.

  "Rash!" she scolded herself. "You'll be fit for nothing if you keep this up, Alice. Let us hope the fresh air will prove beneficial."

  Sitting in her wheelchair, with the pale March sunshine beaming upon her face, the old lady gasped and struggled to breathe.

  It was truly a gorgeous day. Spring had come early to her garden, every flower had opened and the colours danced before her weary eyes. She could not remember a time when they had been more beautiful and even as she sat, panting with fatigue, their scent grew more powerful.

  Blown on the lightest of breezes, the fragrance wrapped itself around her form, clinging to it like a sticky vaporous cloud. The heady perfume was rich and intoxicating, stealing the very breath from her mouth and Miss Boston gave a wide, drowsy yawn.

  Upon that garden alone, the sun seemed to shine more brightly than in any other part of Whitby, and through her watering eyes, the old lady saw the colours flare and become more intense than ever. So brilliant were the flowers that they dazzled and their heads became as flames turning the garden border into a river of fire that was painful to look at. Soon the lawn was entirely enclosed by this vivid blaze and even the grass shone like one enormous emerald.

  Her breath still rattling in her chest, Miss Boston blinked—for everything was blurred and shimmering. But the struggle to keep awake was too much and her head lolled to one side.

  The garden glowed about her, regardless of the season; every flower opened and contributed its glory to the blinding display. Overhead, the March sky was a fierce blue devoid of cloud or shade and gradually the world fell silent, only a haunting and joyful bird song floated on the warm breeze as all other noises faded and became dumb.

  In one corner of the garden, from behind a rose bush that was burgeoning with immense ruby-coloured blooms, a small figure emerged. Slowly, it stepped from the border that was burning with daffodil flames and snapdragon fires and placed two small pink feet on to the verdant grass.

  The spiky lawn tickled ten tiny bare toes and a happy, gurgling laugh sounded in the garden.

  At once Miss Boston was awake and she stared at the figure in astonishment.

  A young child gazed back at her and the old lady shook her head in surprise.

  The boy could not have been more than four years old. His face was round and crowned with a tangle of curling, golden hair. Above the chubby cheeks his eyes shone with a light all their own—as blue as the fierce sky. A warm and friendly smile crinkled in the child's face which deepened every dimple and made Miss Boston gasp in delight, for the infant was the most beautiful child she had ever seen.

  Never had she beheld a vision of such innocence. Untouched by the harshness of life, it was as if the pure sunlight had taken human shape.

  With his merry, twinkling eyes fixed brightly upon her, the small boy took a step forward.

  He was dressed in an old-fashioned nightgown made of a white, gossamer material that flowed about his form like smoke.

  Miss Boston frowned with concern. Wh
ere had he come from? His parents must be terribly worried.

  "Are you lost?" she asked. "However did you climb over the fence? Where are your mummy and daddy?"

  The boy made no answer; he seemed perfectly happy and as he passed the radiant flowers he paused to hold a blossom to his small nose. At each new scent he would smile and in this slow, meandering way came ever closer to the old lady in the wheelchair.

  "Are you lost?" Miss Boston repeated.

  He lifted his golden head and the brilliant eyes blazed at her. Then in a soft, and infinitely reassuring voice, he said, "I am not lost. I have come for you."

  As soon as he uttered those words, the old lady felt the pain in her chest disappear and her breathing grew easier. A blissful calm washed over her and she knew what the strange child wanted.

  "Will you come with me?" he asked.

  "Yes," she answered in a whisper, "I'll come."

  Smiling, the infant stretched his small arms out and approached her. "Take my hand," he said gently, "I shall guide you."

  All the fears Miss Boston had ever had vanished completely and as she held out her arthritic hands towards him a perfect peace settled upon her soul.

  The sunlight glimmered in the boy's hair as he stepped nearer, forming a halo of gold about his head.

  "No," Miss Boston cried, abruptly letting her hands drop to her sides, "I cannot go with you—I am not finished here. There is still so much I have to do."

  "Your labours are over," the child said lightly. "Please, all your earthly woes will vanish."

  "But the children," she insisted, "I must be here for them—they need me."

  "Do not worry, those concerns are ended and all cares are past. Come and you shall see. Joy everlasting is waiting for you."

  The old lady raised her hands again and a contented smile spread over her face as the child drew close. His fingertips reached for her own and the sunshine bathed both of them in a wonderful glow.

  "Yes," she sighed, "I am ready."

  "AUNT ALICE!" shrieked a voice suddenly.