Mistress of the Storm

by M. L. Welsh

  Verity pushed on the familiar red double doors, then beamed ecstatically as the right-hand one opened.

  Henry shuffled in after her with the air of one who has grave misgivings. ‘I’d like it to be known that I’m going along with this against my better instincts,’ he grumbled.

  ‘I think that’s obvious,’ replied Verity. They stood together by the entrance desk.

  ‘Well, the heating’s on,’ conceded Henry.

  Miss Cameron was standing on a set of library steps in the corner of the main room, dusting a top shelf. She looked round calmly at the sound of visitors. Nothing ever discomposed Miss Cameron. ‘Ah, Verity,’ she said, with no outward show of surprise. ‘You’ll find your friend in the reading room.’

  Verity and Henry looked at each other in astonishment. Who could she mean?

  ‘Martha.’

  Verity and Henry stood by the entrance to the reading room, absorbing the fact that the other person seeking refuge was their fellow outsider. Martha was sitting in a threadbare green wingback chair with her legs tucked under her. Two more upholstered chairs that had seen better days were arranged around a worn and faded rug near the fireplace. A small blaze was cracking and popping quietly, letting out a comforting glow and the fragrant scent of wood smoke. Verity was astonished: Miss Cameron never lit a fire in this room.

  She had never paid much attention to the library’s reading room before, but now it looked like the most welcoming place she’d ever seen. The dark burgundy walls and wooden panels gave it a warmth that contrasted with the bitter weather outside. The portraits of Wellow residents past smiled kindly down on the three children.

  ‘What are you two doing here?’ Martha asked in surprise. Then, checking herself, added, ‘Sorry. That came out wrong. I just thought you’d both be at home. Like everyone else.’

  Verity stood by the fire, enjoying the heat. ‘Christmas didn’t go well at our house,’ she admitted.

  Martha pulled a sympathetic face.

  ‘You too?’ Verity asked.

  The other girl shrugged unhappily. ‘I decided to go for a walk after Mother started throwing crockery at Father because he didn’t agree with her theory on erythrocytes and reticulocytes.’

  Henry was pulling off his hat and unwrapping his scarf. ‘This is all right,’ he said approvingly. ‘There’s a fire … and chairs.’ Striding around, examining the facilities, he grew more jubilant by the minute. ‘And a backgammon board too,’ he added excitedly.

  Verity sat down in one of the chairs, her feet tingling and itching as feeling was gradually restored. Henry and Martha moved furniture around to accommodate a table next to the armchairs. Henry went over to the window and climbed up to stand on the windowsill.

  ‘Brilliant view from up here,’ he said. ‘You can see the Storm as clear as anything.’

  Martha pulled a chair over and stood on it. ‘She’s quite amazing, isn’t she? And isn’t it strange that she’s returned after all these years?’

  Henry shrugged, unwilling to admit the wonder of anything related to smuggling.

  ‘Henry doesn’t approve of the Gentry,’ said Verity drily.

  Martha looked at him in astonishment. ‘But don’t you think they sound terribly thrilling?’

  He threw Verity a dirty look. ‘There’s nothing exciting about being murdered or robbed,’ he said firmly.

  ‘You mean the wreckers?’ said Martha. ‘But the Gentry weren’t all scavengers. I believe they made quite a distinction between the two things.’

  ‘How do you know so much about it?’

  Martha looked surprised. ‘Well, obviously when I found out we were moving to Wellow I made an effort to read up on its history.’

  ‘Obviously,’ Henry grumbled.

  ‘Naturally I won’t know as much about it as you two,’ Martha conceded, which made Verity laugh.

  Henry huffed disapprovingly as she launched into a detailed explanation of recent events, including the strange acquisition of the red leather-bound book, her grandmother’s arrival and her father’s increasingly odd behaviour.

  ‘How fascinating,’ said Martha. ‘I wonder why your father never mentioned that he’s Rafe Gallant’s son?’

  ‘And how could Rafe possibly have been married to the woman who claims to be my grandmother?’ Verity was thrilled to have found someone who didn’t think the whole thing was just one big coincidence.

  ‘It all started when you found the captain of the Storm here, in this library?’ asked Martha.

  ‘Yes,’ said Verity, perking up. ‘Peculiar, isn’t it? Why would he give me the book?’

  Henry scoffed loudly. He was over by the fire again now, setting up the backgammon board. ‘The only strange thing is that you spend so much time concocting a web of intrigue from a series of totally unrelated events.’

  Verity felt a flash of irritation. ‘It’s easy for you to criticize,’ she said crossly. ‘You’re not the one having to live with a terrifying relative who turned up out of the blue … Your father isn’t acting really oddly either.’

  Martha put a comforting hand on her arm. ‘Why don’t we have a cup of tea?’ she said. ‘Miss Cameron gave me a kettle and a hook for the fire and I took some cake while Mother was smashing the bowls.’

  Tucked away in the library’s reading room – hidden from the eyes of Wellow – Verity, Henry and Martha spent the next fortnight happily playing backgammon, chatting and reading.

  Perhaps in a spirit of seasonal goodwill, Miss Cameron relaxed her usually careful approach to the spending of library funds. Each day a fire was lit before they arrived, with a basket of chopped logs set in the hearth to keep it going. Nor did she appear concerned about the usually stringent rules on talking in the library.

  Following the additional introduction of a toasting fork, their new kingdom was complete. Henry brought in supplies from his mother:

  ‘She’s packed bread, butter, milk, jam, cheese, eggs, pickle, preserves, ham, liver paste and tomatoes,’ he listed, revealing their booty. ‘Do you think that’s going to be enough?’ His brow furrowed at the thought of so little food to last a full day.

  ‘I think it will just about do,’ said Verity with a grin.

  It was like having their own sitting room – a home away from home. Each afternoon they pulled the thick red curtains shut when it got dark, and it felt like the safest place in the world; nothing could possibly hurt them in this oasis of calm and warmth. Gradually Martha became more comfortable with her new friends: less likely to gabble and more likely to think before she spoke – until the three of them were completely at ease in each other’s company.

  In addition to backgammon, Henry introduced Verity and Martha to a Turkish game called Okey, played with chips of different colours and numbers. Both girls picked it up quickly and they spent hours playing, eating toasted crumpets and drinking tea.

  Martha sighed and leaned her head back against the wingback chair. ‘It’s so peaceful here,’ she said appreciatively. ‘So much nicer than being at home.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Verity nodded happily. The Gallant home – for the moment at least – felt a million miles away.

  ‘The eye of the storm,’ Henry said, looking appreciatively around at their hideaway. ‘Much better than the chaos at our house, I can tell you.’

  Verity and Martha look at him, puzzled.

  ‘It means the calm at the centre of the gale,’ he explained. ‘A Gentry phrase.’

  Verity smiled. ‘It does feel like that,’ she agreed. She could cheerfully have stayed there for the rest of her life.

  ‘Have you read the book?’ asked Martha one morning. Verity looked up. ‘The book – the one Abednego gave you on the beach.’

  Henry sighed. ‘Oh, she’s read it all right. About a million times.’

  ‘It’s an interesting book,’ Verity retorted.

  ‘I could have a look through it,’ said Martha. ‘I might be able to spot something – a clue to why Abednego gave it to you. My parents have bee
n using me as an unpaid assistant since I could read.’ She tried unsuccessfully to keep the bitter tone out of her voice. ‘I may as well put my skills to some use for my friends now that I have some … That’s, um, I mean—’

  Henry leaned over and shoved her affectionately on the shoulder. ‘Well, of course you’re a friend,’ he said. ‘You don’t think I’d fritter away my holidays playing backgammon with any old riff-raff?’

  ‘Definitely,’ agreed Verity earnestly.

  Martha beamed, her freckled face radiant with happiness. ‘Well, um, that’s …’ She tucked a strand of hair behind her right ear and looked slightly flustered.

  ‘Why not now?’ said Verity, moving over to her bag and carefully removing the book.

  ‘Don’t tell me you carry that thing around with you?’ Henry said incredulously.

  Verity glowered. ‘I just don’t trust Grandmother not to snoop in my room. She threw away all my other books. Carrying it with me is a … sensible precaution.’

  Martha reached out to take the red book. Verity passed it over, suppressing her irrational worries about letting it out of her possession.

  Martha stared at it in astonishment. ‘Is this a joke?’ she asked.

  Verity and Henry frowned at her, puzzled.

  She smiled in wonder. ‘You don’t know what this is, do you?’

  Verity felt a little irritated. ‘I think Abednego was reading it because it talks a lot about the Mistress of the Storm,’ she replied.

  ‘I think Abednego was reading it because it’s not often you come across a book that famously doesn’t exist,’ contradicted Martha drily.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘This is On the Origin of Stories. By Hodge, Heyworth & Helerley.’

  Verity nodded. It said that on the cover.

  ‘For a literary scholar,’ said Martha, ‘finding this would be a bit like … tracking down the Golden Fleece. My parents would just die if they knew you had a copy of it in your school bag.’ She giggled.

  Verity looked slightly alarmed.

  ‘Don’t worry. There’s no way I’d tell them. They’d probably chain me to a desk and make me research it for the next twenty years,’ Martha added slightly sourly. ‘The authors of this book had a theory about folklore and fairy tales,’ she explained. ‘They believed that some stories – which were told in many different countries around the world – came from one original source. Their claim was that these – Original Stories, they called them – were history, not fiction, and that they appeared to be repeated over and over again. Even more bizarrely, they believed there were places around the world where a story could be read aloud, and then become true.’

  ‘That’s what it says in the Prologue,’ Verity agreed excitedly.

  ‘Oh, for crying out loud,’ grumbled Henry. ‘Not both of you.’

  ‘Shut up, Henry,’ said Martha without rancour. ‘So they travelled the world, cataloguing incidences of different stories, and apparently looking for these “magical” locations. Unsurprisingly, nobody paid any attention to them.’

  ‘Oh, really,’ said Henry sarcastically.

  ‘When they returned,’ Martha continued, ‘they couldn’t find a publisher who would take on the book, so eventually they printed a hundred copies themselves. And then … they disappeared. Which has made them a source of literary intrigue ever since. Most people don’t believe they ever existed,’ she added.

  ‘Disappeared?’ asked Verity. ‘The authors disappeared?’

  ‘The authors and the books. All three authors. And all one hundred copies.’

  Verity looked at the book with renewed interest. ‘And all the time, one was sitting in Wellow library,’ she said.

  ‘Which just goes to prove that you really are the only person who comes here,’ commented Henry. He turned to Martha. ‘It must be a hoax. Someone made it and left it here as a joke.’

  Martha turned the volume over in her hands, inspecting it. She pulled a face. ‘It could be,’ she conceded. ‘I’m no expert. But this yellowing appears to be genuine ageing. If it’s a fake, it’s an old one.’ She examined the spine and frowned, holding the book up above her head. ‘I think there’s a section missing,’ she said.

  Verity’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Really?’ she asked, gazing at the book anxiously.

  Martha nodded. ‘See this gap in the binding?’ she said. ‘It looks as if there should have been an additional chapter there: some kind of introduction perhaps?’

  ‘But why?’ Verity was angry now that anyone could damage her precious book.

  ‘You’d be astonished at the amount of vandalism that occurs in libraries,’ said Martha.

  ‘Positive dens of iniquity,’ said Henry sagely. ‘This is why I stay away from them.’

  ‘What are the stories about?’ Martha asked. ‘Perhaps the thief wanted one in particular.’

  ‘A girl who can control the wind,’ said Verity. ‘She and her three sisters were created to harness the elements, but it’s really all about her. Sometimes she’s called the Mistress – as in the Mistress of the Storm. I thought that’s why Abednego came for the book – that he might have been reading about her.’

  Martha was flicking through the book with interest. ‘The Keepers,’ she said, nodding.

  ‘That’s right. Have you heard of them?’

  ‘They’re a myth that crops up in many different countries,’ said Martha. ‘Let me fetch a reference book …’ She trotted out to the main room.

  ‘Here they are,’ she continued, returning a few minutes later, ‘in this collection of mariner’s folk tales from around the world.’

  Verity took the proffered book. There were illustrations and pictures in the centre section. She leafed through them: strange creatures carved in whale bone, models made of driftwood and walrus tusk, etchings of mythical ships and scenes. On the final page was a woodcut illustration of a terrifying-looking creature towering over a group of cowering sailors. The swirling lines around them conveyed a formidable wind.

  ‘There she is,’ said Martha. ‘That’s the Keeper of the Wind.’

  Henry looked over the two girls’ shoulders. ‘Looks like your grandmother.’ He grinned, then took a bite of his apple.

  Verity stared at the picture. The banshee’s face was twisted and distorted but she looked … just like Grandmother did when she lost her temper. Verity had a very peculiar feeling in her stomach – as if everything in it were draining out. As if she were scared. Her heart was beating rapidly.

  ‘I was joking,’ said Henry. ‘She doesn’t look that bad.’

  ‘Not normally, no, but when she’s angry, her face changes and that’s exactly what she looks like.’

  ‘It’s just a woodcut, Verity,’ Martha reassured her.

  Suddenly they heard the soft click of the door closing. The three children turned round. It was Miss Cameron. Had they been making too much noise? they wondered.

  ‘I think it’s time we talked,’ she said calmly.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Time we talked?’ repeated Verity, wondering if the librarian felt they had outstayed their welcome in the reading room.

  ‘About your grandmother,’ said Miss Cameron, smoothing down the front of her skirt.

  Verity’s blood ran cold. Was Miss Cameron a friend of the old lady’s? Perhaps she’d heard them being rude about her? ‘Do you know my grandmother?’ she asked carefully.

  ‘About the fact that your grandmother is indeed the subject of your book,’ Miss Cameron continued, as if they were discussing library lending policies.

  Verity, Henry and Martha stared at her in shock.

  ‘All these years of silence and books – it can’t be good for you,’ said Henry.

  ‘I’m perfectly sane, thank you, Henry Twogood,’ replied Miss Cameron crisply. ‘I’m afraid, Verity’ – she returned immediately to her main concern – ‘that there are things you need to know. And the first of these is that your grandmother – your grandfather’s estranged wife
, that is – is in fact the Mistress of the Storm. Or the Keeper of the Wind, as she was previously known.’

  ‘The Mistress of the Storm is a Gentry fairy tale,’ said Henry, as if talking to a simpleton.

  ‘She is much older than that,’ corrected Miss Cameron. ‘They merely took her legend and retold it in their own way.’

  ‘No,’ said Verity vehemently. ‘She can’t be the character in my book. The Keeper of the Wind was beautiful and charming, and popular.’

  ‘She was. But over time she became many other things too.’

  Verity sat there silently, staring at the librarian. Her sensible plaid skirt and neatly styled hair seemed to emphasize the unreality of the situation all the more.

  ‘The authors believed the stories were true,’ said Martha thoughtfully. ‘If the Mistress did exist – and the Gentry knew that – how artful of them to pretend they’d invented her.’

  Henry frowned at Martha. ‘Not you too,’ he said crossly.

  ‘Henry,’ said Martha patiently, tapping the red book, ‘this is a mythical object.’

  ‘So?’ he demanded.

  ‘So perhaps we should consider other possibilities that might previously have seemed far-fetched,’ she pointed out calmly.

  Miss Cameron turned to Verity. ‘She is enchanting, isn’t she? Absolutely captivating. Often, when I read the book, I find myself dreaming of her for days afterwards.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘Occasionally I dream I am her …’

  Verity’s heart skipped a beat in recognition. The nightmares were terrible. But sometimes … sometimes she woke wishing she could go straight back to her dream. She studied the librarian carefully. There was no trace of anything other than the eminently sensible and reliable woman with whom she had probably spent more time than her own family. She thought of the intimidating guest who had taken over her home; of her mysterious ability to appear silently without warning; of the way she could knock Verity over or pin her up against the wall without even touching her; and of her terrifying appearance when angry.

  In that moment Verity knew that she believed Miss Cameron. No. She knew that Miss Cameron was telling the truth. It was time, she realized, to stop listening to people who told her that the strange events and coincidences of recent months could be explained by something other than this. Because they couldn’t.