The Whitby Witches Trilogy

by Robin Jarvis

  "Tis a jest of the Deep Ones' devising," she uttered coldly. "Thus are other mothers destroyed by their offspring. It is a grim sign to warn me of their displeasure, a terror to reveal unto me how mighty is their power—as if I needed the reminder."

  "They did that?" Ben cried. "It's sick!"

  "It is, though I doubt if that shall be the last sign. I fear there will be many more. Who next will suffer for me and my unborn child? Who else am I placing at risk?"

  "What are you going to do?" the boy asked, recovering slightly from the shock. "Will you come and stay with us? You can't stay here. It just isn't safe—who knows what they'll do next?"

  A strange look clouded Nelda's face. "No Ben," she replied mildly, "I shall be quite all right for at last I have decided for myself." She gazed at him briefly then picked up his schoolbag and handed it over. "Time you were returning home," the aufwader told him. "Go now."

  "I'm not leaving you here!"

  "Please, it's what I want."

  Knowing there was no arguing with her, Ben swung his bag over his shoulder. "Shall I see you tomorrow then?" he asked.

  "Perhaps."

  Giving the cliff one final dubious and scared glance, Ben bade farewell and began the return walk over the shore towards the town.

  When she was quite alone, Nelda took from her pocket a disc of polished green glass and held it close to her chest.

  "Tonight," she whispered.

  ***

  High over the church of St Mary the crescent moon shone cold and milk-white. Its pale beams glowed over the long grasses that rustled before the midnight airs and ringed the edges of the headstones with frosty haloes.

  Through the dismal graveyard Nelda made her way, and though this time she did not have Old Parry to spur her on, she was not afraid. Engulfed by the huge black shadow of the church her pace neither quickened nor faltered—a grim determination was upon her and no vague fears would stop the aufwader that night.

  Clasped firmly in her hands was Old Parry's lens, and when she reached a grim yet familiar spot she put it to her eye and began to search.

  The churchyard was still and silent, yet upon that raw and exposed clifftop, Nelda was not alone.

  Some distance behind her, following the precise route she had taken between the tombstones, a figure came. It was tall and wreathed in shadow, dressed in flowing black robes which merged into the gloom and made the stranger almost invisible. Like a swirling shred of the night's own fabric it stole stealthily after the aufwader. Its footfalls were as noiseless as a cat's and beneath a deep cowl, two eyes watched the small foraging shape intently.

  Nelda was too wrapped up in the dim green world of the glass disc to realise she had been followed. Her anxiety to find what she sought drove out every other concern, so she failed to notice the shadow that flitted over the graves, stealing closer with every moment.

  Impatiently, she parted the dense growth of weeds but the object of her frantic searching was nowhere to be found. Lowering the lens, she cast around the cemetery to see if she was indeed at the correct grave. Yes, it was smaller than the rest, but that repugnant and sickly little herb was not there.

  Desperately, she peered through the glass again and dragged the obscuring grasses aside, tearing them up by the roots—and then she found it.

  Beside the weathered headstone and hidden by the large thorny leaves of a thistle, she saw the ugly, grey growth. Nelda was filled with the same loathing but she reached out her hand and without a moment's hesitation plucked the bitter weed from the ground.

  The stem of the hideous plant was cold to the touch, and whether it was the breeze or some uncanny force all its own she could not tell, but the thing moved in her fingers. The spiralling creepers unfurled and fluttered about her hand as the repellent flower raised itself and the two clattering stamens began to wag madly, diffusing the nauseating scent which polluted the night more than ever.

  "It's as if it's glad I took it," Nelda muttered. "It wants me to taste the infernal juice. Oh, Deeps take me, is all the world ranged against this child? How witless I have been, to think I could be the bearer of new life. I should have put your petals upon my tongue when Parry led me here before, and smacked my lips in gratitude for your deliverance of me. Oh, how I wish that I had."

  Her hands shaking with apprehension and dread, Nelda lifted the vile herb to her mouth. "Forgive me, my unborn babe," she sobbed. "There truly was no other way."

  Nearby, concealed behind the crumbling slab of a tombstone, the robed figure stirred.

  Nelda's trembling fingers moved to her lips and she closed her eyes as the flower touched her tongue.

  "NO, LASS!"

  A stern and forceful voice barked out at her and from the dim shadows a dark shape sprang and knocked her hand away, wrenching the foul plant from her mouth.

  With tears rolling into his whiskers, Tarr Shrimp flung the weed to the ground and crushed it beneath his feet.

  "Grandfather!" Nelda cried. "What are you doing? Stop!"

  Tarr looked at her, his face a tormented confusion of anger, shame and pity.

  "Oh, Nelda!" he blurted, throwing his arms about her. "Can tha ever forgive such an old fool?"

  "I've missed you so much!" she wept. "I felt so alone I didn't know what to do."

  "Hush now, Ah'm here now. We ain't beaten yet; theer must be a way. Ah'll not let owt take thee from me, not while theer's life in my bones."

  "But the curse—I cannot escape that."

  Tarr hugged her forlornly, then his tears dried and his despair was replaced by a fierce resolve. The leader of the aufwaders drew back from his granddaughter and stared defiantly out to the dark vastness of the sea.

  "Only one hope have we now," he murmured. "At the time of the next full moon ah shall summon the herald of the Lords of the Deep."

  Nelda buried her face in his shoulder and the two fisherfolk clung grimly to one another.

  Retracing its footsteps, the robed figure slipped silently through the dismal gloom. It had witnessed all that had occurred and a serene smile appeared beneath the deep hood of its robes.

  7 - The Ballad Of Molly Werbride

  It was a week of excitement and revelations in Whitby. With the aid of two walking sticks, Miss Boston began hobbling about the town and ordered that the wheelchair be returned to the hospital as she no longer required it. Gleefully she tottered into shops and renewed those old animosities which had once been so vital to her. Everyone was pleased to see the progress she had made and Mrs Noble in the fish shop even gave her two free kippers.

  Aunt Alice revelled in her joyous reception wherever she went. Those dreary months of hard work and intensive study were worth that first morning alone. Jutting her chins in the air, she held her head with unashamed pride and carefully made her way to each familiar battleground. Now the whole town could see that her illness had not conquered this independent, strong-minded ninety-three-year-old, and people hailed her in the streets with friendly smiles and words of encouragement. Even Doctor Adams was pleased to have been mistaken about his most troublesome patient and congratulated her enthusiastically.

  At the end of that first day of successful roaming, Miss Boston glowed with satisfaction but wondered how long it would be until she could manage with just one stick and then without any assistance at all. In fact she was so engrossed in this matter that when Edith Wethers told her she and the doctor were planning to retire to the Isle of Wight and would spend their honeymoon there to look for a suitable property, the old lady hardly showed any interest whatsoever in this most absorbing news. Edith left her to 'brew her potions' and departed to continue organising and drawing up numerous lists for the impending wedding day.

  She and the doctor had decided that a short engagement would be best, for he had tactlessly said that there was no point in hanging around at their age. The date they had fixed however was galloping closer at a frightening speed and Edith started to suffer from dreadful attacks of blind panic and was forced to take
a pill in order to sleep at night. In the daytime she would spend long, indecisive hours fretting about the slightest problem, working herself into such a tense jangle of nerves that she had to go for long walks to calm down.

  Miss Boston seemed blissfully unaware of her friend's daily traumas and spent unending hours contorted in weird positions as she exercised and strengthened her leg muscles.

  One evening as she lay on her back with a bunch of freshly picked herbs and flowers held close to her nose, Ben confided to her all that Nelda had told him.

  The old lady inhaled deeply, raised her left foot off the ground, lifted it as high as she could, then lowered it again before taking another great breath and repeating the process with her other leg.

  When Ben had finished the tragic tale, Aunt Alice waved the posy around her head three times then tore off a handful of leaves and rubbed them vigorously on her knees.

  "Dear, dear," she tutted, "the poor creature. What an iniquitous business it is. And you say there is nothing the other fisherfolk can do? How unjust and undeserving—she is but a child herself. Those Lords of the Deep must be infamous beyond belief to allow such cruelty."

  "At least she's made it up with Tarr," he said. "I don't know about the rest of the tribe."

  Miss Boston's eyebrows perked up as a new thought struck her. "Nevertheless," she whispered, "perhaps this has something to do with Prudence's warning. Is this to prove the danger which we are to face? Maybe, maybe."

  Putting the now straggly bunch of flowers and herbs aside, she said, "Thank you, Benjamin. Would you kindly keep me informed of any further development?"

  The boy agreed but he left the room feeling disappointed. In the past Aunt Alice would have stormed straight to the caves and demanded to involve herself in the matter, whether the fisherfolk wanted her help or not. It was as if she didn't really care what happened to Nelda and the baby unless it directly affected her. Scowling with this new and uncomfortable opinion of the old lady, Ben left the cottage and went to seek his aufwader friend.

  ***

  On the Friday before the wedding, a bored Jennet trailed over the swing bridge and wound her way through the West Cliff. The girl had nothing to hurry back to the cottage for, and if Dithery Edith asked her to try on that appalling bridesmaid's dress one more time she would tell her exactly where she could stick it. Miss Wethers had paid no attention to her protests that she was too old to be dressed up like a china doll.

  "Don't be silly," the oblivious bride-to-be had commanded. "You'll look so pretty."

  In despair Jennet had looked to Aunt Alice for support, but the old lady had been too busy to take any interest in the matter and decided that it was better to leave it all up to Edith.

  The girl's cheeks still burned when she thought how ridiculous she looked in that monstrous, sugary creation—decked out in yards of pink satin. She was sorely tempted to take a pair of scissors to the ghastly outfit, snip off the rippling frills which fringed the neck and shoulders, and turn up at the registry office in her jeans and a T-shirt.

  At least Ben had not escaped, and indeed would be made to suffer such a humiliating indignity that Jennet vaguely thought the entire fiasco would be worthwhile. For her brother, Edith had chosen a kilt, and the girl was looking forward to seeing his mortification in front of the whole town.

  Standing beneath the great whalebone arch, she gazed down at the harbour and across at the ragged pinnacles of the abbey on the opposite cliff, with a sullen and dismal expression clouding her face.

  Jennet positively hated it here now. She felt as though the town was smothering her and she longed to be in some distant place, far away from small minds and petty attitudes.

  If she had the chance she would leave tomorrow and forget this dreary shrine to tedium that was perpetually locked in a bygone and backward age. Away from here she felt sure she would be able to forget, and the yearning dreams would fade completely.

  "I just can't help but remember him here," she murmured. "God—when will I be free?"

  Flicking her hair over her shoulders, Jennet descended the steps and began walking back towards the bridge.

  At the quayside she halted and let the fresh salty air wash over her and lost herself in the sight of the sparkling water. The flashing sunlight was hypnotic and the rebellion was lulled within her. Of course she wished Miss Wethers every happiness and was pleased that at last she had found someone who would cherish and adore her.

  "If only that had happened to me," she whispered with regret.

  With her eyes half closed, letting the vibrant, dazzling patterns shine through her lashes, she contemplated her young life and wished it belonged to someone else. It was a warm afternoon and Jennet blinked drowsily—was she dreaming or could she hear music?

  Very faintly, brief snatches of a lilting tune were carried to her on the river breeze and it was so delicious that the girl hardly breathed, in case she lost the sound forever.

  The music appeared to be coming from the East Cliff and, filled with curiosity and the desire to hear more, Jennet hurried over the bridge.

  In Market Place a crowd of tourists were gathered, and when Jennet hastened up Sandgate she squeezed her way to the front and let the delightful music flood through her.

  Encircled by the appreciative onlookers was a small female folk band. One of them breathed sensual life into a wooden flute, and her joy at the glorious earthy tones that it oozed was sculpted on her ecstatic face. At her side a younger but much more serious woman concentrated on the fiddle that was wedged firmly beneath her chin, and when the bow flew across the strings, the notes made Jennet's heart leap and she tapped her toes unconsciously. The third musician possessed one of the most beautiful faces the girl had ever seen. She was both graceful and delicate, dexterously playing a sweet-sounding concertina, her elegant fingers nimbly moving over the ivory buttons as her lovely face nodded to the rhythm. Her long hair hung in a great corn-coloured sheaf that glinted with veins of deep gold when it caught the evening sunlight and, aware of this, she stood a little apart from the others to remain within the slanting rays.

  They were all dressed in richly-coloured and flowing clothes, with tiny mirrors sewn around the full skirts and bright tapestry waistcoats with tie-dyed scarves and bandanas knotted loosely about their hips, and, joining in with the instruments, a multitude of bangles, necklaces and bracelets chimed and rattled against one another.

  Together the women weaved a harmonious display of melody and brilliance and Jennet was enchanted. It reminded her of those first happy weeks when she and Ben had just arrived in Whitby and explored the town during its annual folk festival.

  With a combined shout, the trio ended their music and bowed as the audience showed its approval. Each woman handled the enthusiastic applause differently. The flautist went quite red in the cheeks and glanced at the ground bashfully, whilst her friend with the fiddle was too busy retuning to take much notice of anything. Grandly stepping forward however and basking in the adulation, the golden-haired beauty laughed and shook her burnished mane. With a flamboyant sweep of her arm, she took up a tambourine and beat it to focus everyone's attention solely upon herself.

  "Shall we play you one more before we finish for the day?" she asked.

  The people nodded keenly and clapped in time with the beat of the tambourine.

  "What shall we give them?" she called to her companions.

  Brushing her own mousy and rather neglected hair from her flushed and freckled face, the flautist in a shy voice muttered, "'Bobbing and Ducking'?"

  "'The Moon in her Eyes'," suggested the fiddler.

  Dismissing both of these, the beauty unleashed her ravishing smile upon the crowd and every man gawped and yearned for her.

  "No, no," she said huskily, "I've a mind to bring in my daughter on this one. Pear! Pear, where are you?"

  On the opposite side of the audience from Jennet, a girl not much older than herself had been sitting cross-legged on the ground, but at her mother's s
ummons she skipped into the centre of the area and took the tambourine from her.

  She was as raven as her mother was fair. The girl's hair was sleek and dark and the two contrasted starkly with each other even though she was attired in the same hippy fashion. Tiny Indian bells tinkled around the hem of her purple cheesecloth dress and beneath them a pair of grubby, dusty feet tripped lightly over the stone flags.

  "What is it to be?" the fourth member of the troupe cried, playing up to the crowd.

  "'The Ballad of Molly Werbride'," her mother answered, taking hold of the concertina once again.

  At a signal from her the other musicians began to play and her daughter waited for the cue.

  This tune was different to the one that had gone before. It was a slow, haunting lament and the flute whistled faintly like the wind over the moors as the strings of the fiddle began to moan, suggesting a human voice wailing in despair.

  Then the concertina introduced the main theme and the girl called Pear opened her mouth and started to sing.

  She had a fabulous, throaty voice which at times mirrored the high notes of the flute and soared up to the sky entwined with its purity. Abruptly it then merged with the resonant chords of the fiddle—matching it until the two sounds were impossible to separate.

  Jennet listened to it spellbound. The ballad was a dark and cautionary tale of a young maiden who went "a-roaming" over the moors and was seized by the hunting spirits of the wild, never to be seen again.

  The singer performed it marvellously and no one in the audience made a sound. Even the children in pushchairs were dumbfounded, and as the sublime music carried into the streets the milling traffic of shoppers and trippers were so moved that they caught their breath and momentarily forgot about postcards and the price of souvenirs.

  When the song was over, the applause was tremendous and lasted several minutes with much ringing of the change that was tossed into the upturned and clattering tambourine.

  "That's all for today," the girl's mother told everyone, "though we will be here tomorrow if you fancy a second helping. I thank you!"