by Robin Jarvis
Sadly, Ben remembered that cold night when the funeral boat containing Lorkon's body had sailed out to sea in a blaze of fire. The aufwaders had gathered upon the shore and as they sang the Song of the Dead the boy had wondered what would become of them.
It was difficult for that proud race to accept this new life, for now they were like refugees in their own land. Even Ben's friend Nelda had grown disheartened and he sorrowfully recalled that she had hardly spoken to him on that solemn occasion. Perhaps she, like many of the other aufwaders, had started to feel bitter towards mankind.
It was with some trepidation therefore that he approached the towering cliffs.
"Nelda!" Ben called. "It's me! Nelda! Can you hear me?"
There was no answer, and the boy stared up at the sheer wall of shale that reared above him. The fisherfolk had been extremely busy disguising the entrances to their new caves—even his eyes could not see them.
Rain splashed on to his face, and irritably he wiped away the water with his sleeve.
Nothing stirred, no large eyes stared down at him and no voice was raised in greeting. All was strangely silent and Ben realised that there were no gulls flying overhead. It was an unnatural calm and he shuddered and almost fled, for in the fading light the place took on a sinister aspect and the cliffs seemed threatening—with menace lurking in every shadow.
"Don't be silly," he told himself. "You're too old to be scared of the dark."
Eyeing the boulders before him, Ben tried to recall the route he had taken on his last visit. The rocks were wet and slippery, but undeterred, the boy began to climb.
Very slowly he made his cautious way upward, though not at all sure of the correct path; he found the going exceedingly difficult.
The knees of Ben's school trousers were quickly soaked as he scrabbled over wet moss that stained them a livid and indelible green. A shameless grin lit his face as he imagined Miss Wethers' face when she saw the state of them; he enjoyed inflicting little upsets upon Dithery Edith.
The trousers became greener and dirtier as he ascended, but after a while he paused to catch his breath and inspect how far he had clambered. The boy was disappointed to discover that he had hardly made any progress at all and he put out his bottom lip in annoyance.
"Just have to try harder," he said aloud.
Standing upon a narrow shelf of rock, he saw that to his left a series of treacherous looking footholds were notched into the cliff face. Confident that he recognised them, Ben pushed the toe of his shoe into the nearest and warily continued.
But the rain had made the way perilous and it was not long before the boy wished he had never attempted the dangerous climb. Twice his fingers slid over the shale and he pressed himself desperately to the rock, breathing rapidly and longing to be standing upon the shore once again.
"Why do I always get myself into these messes?" he fumed. "You really are a Cret, Benjamin Laurenson!"
With an effort, he lifted his right foot and placed it into the next cleft. But this one was shallow and when he put his weight upon it he slipped.
Out into the empty air his leg swung and the boy lost his balance. Shrieking, he struggled to cling on but his fingers were torn from the rock and he knew that he was going to fall.
"Help!" he wailed as he fell backwards.
"Up tha comes!" bawled a gruff voice. A strong brown hand flashed from the shadows above and caught Ben's wrist. "What addled daftness be this? Weer did tha reckon tha wert headin'?"
Tarr Shrimp, present leader of the fisherfolk tribe and the grandfather of Nelda, hauled the boy to safety with one hand then clipped the back of his head with the other.
"Th—thank you," Ben gasped. "I nearly..."
"Aye, yer girt gawby mad allick—tha mun be witless a comin' out on such a day as thissun. Get thee inside afore tha catch a death."
Taking the boy by the arm, he led him up a gently rising ledge then mounted a rocky outcrop that served as a natural flight of steps.
Now Ben was sure of the way; the entrance to the Shrimp dwelling was just a little distance ahead.
Up to a tall and narrow crevice, Tarr went and waited for the human child to follow.
"Skip to it, lad!" he snapped. "Ah doesna' wish t'chase Lorkon to t'grave."
Ben squirmed into the seemingly shallow gap, then twisted sharply to the left where the rock behind him suddenly opened out and he found himself standing inside the cliff face.
At once Ben's eyes began to water as they were filled with woodsmoke and it was some moments before he could see clearly.
The cave was small and its walls were roughly hewn. Hanging in great swathes from the rocky ceiling were many fishing nets and from these, two tiny lamps were hung. The steady flames that burned within them threw confused criss-crossed shadows into the furthest corners and in their light, Ben saw the cause of his streaming eyes.
In the middle of the meagre chamber, a pathetic fire was burning, and the damp wood that had been placed upon it gave off a continual thread of steam and smoke. Sitting before these miserable flames, with her back turned towards the entrance—was Nelda.
The aufwader girl was staring into the fire, lost in her own thoughts, and so intense was her concentration she did not hear Ben or her grandfather enter.
Over her huddled frame the lamplight danced, rejoicing in her large sea-grey eyes and glowing in the soft curves of her lined, leathery face. Nelda's dark, tangled hair trailed over her shoulders and as the waving tresses flowed down the back of her gansey, the lanterns picked out hidden strands of copper and made them glint and shine.
The youngest of the fisherfolk was undoubtedly one of the fairest ever to have graced any tribe, yet she was also the unhappiest.
In silence she gazed into the heart of the flickering flames and brooded upon the deadly secret that she had not dared tell to anyone. For months now she had kept it from even her grandfather, not knowing what to do or where to turn. If only her Aunt Hesper was still alive, she would have listened and hugged her.
A solitary tear of despair fell from Nelda's lashes, as she realised that soon her secret would be all too obvious. For inside her, the unborn child of Esau was growing and eventually her swelling stomach would betray her.
"Stir thissen, lass," barked Tarr gravely. "Us've got usselves a visitor."
Nelda hastily wiped her eyes and turned around.
"Hello," Ben said. "Thought I'd come and see how you are, before Miss Wethers realises where I've got to. It's pouring down outside."
"Take thy drippin' coat off," Tarr told him. "Ah'll put it near t'fire. Sit thee down."
Nelda managed a faint smile for the boy as he wormed his way out of the sodden coat and handed it over to her grandfather.
"It is good to see you again," she said, glad to be distracted from her dismal thoughts. "Come, sit by me and I shall put more wood on the fire to cheer us."
Mechanically, she thrust another piece of driftwood into the flames whilst Tarr settled himself upon a low stool and took up his pipe.
"Reet fain am I t'sithee," he remarked to Ben. "Our Nelda's been no company. Fair mardy she be gettin'. Ah nivver did think it o' the lass. Nigh on a month she's been a mopin' wi' 'er face a draggin' on t'floor."
No reply came from his granddaughter. Throwing him an angry glance, she stared sullenly back at the fire.
Ben said nothing but felt horribly uncomfortable. He had obviously walked in upon some family squabble and wondered how long it would be before his coat was dry enough to wear again.
From a pouch at his belt, Tarr pulled out a hunk of dried fish and began to chew it, offering a piece to Ben.
"Womenfolk!" he mumbled, scratching his white whiskers. "Nivver knowed wheer ye be wi'em. Either chelp or chunter, ain't no middle track."
Ben sniffed the morsel of dried fish and tasted it dubiously. It was like eating a stringy piece of carpet that grew no smaller no matter how long you persisted in gnawing and biting. He felt that it would be too impolite to spi
t the offensive lump from his mouth, even though the amount of salt in it made him want to retch. For a long time, he occupied himself in trying to swallow but this was impossible so, like a hamster, he tucked it inside his cheek to dispose of later.
"How are the rest of the tribe?" he finally asked. "Are they a bit more settled now after Lorkon's funeral?"
"Settled as them can be in these pokey holes," Tarr grumbled. "Most of 'em found it too harsh and found a way in to th'old caverns."
"I thought all those were destroyed!" Ben cried.
"Aye, that's reet enough, them was. But the main entrance chamber is still theer behind the girt doors which are sealed ferivver, and a new way were delved to enter it. The death of Lorkon put the wind up 'em, see. So now them sits in that one place, crowded t'gither like skeered sheep. A sorry sight 'ave us become."
Tarr drew on his pipe and gazed across at Nelda but she would not look at him and he puffed out a ring of blue smoke that drifted past her eyes, yet still she said nothing.
"Well, then, lad," Tarr began, "how's thy aunt doin'? Any tidings theer?"
Ben shook his head. "No," he sadly replied. "Aunt Alice is just as poorly as she was before. I don't think she will ever get better and there are times when she looks... terrible. It's so awful, I don't know what me and Jen would do if she died. If only I could do something. Miss Wethers doesn't help either; she treats her like a baby and I can tell Aunt Alice detests it."
"Aye," agreed Tarr sombrely, "'tis a sore trial for all. Much does we owe that aunt o' thine. She'll allus be remembered by us; so long as the tribe lasts, her name'll be honoured."
The old aufwader reached for his staff which was leaning against the wall and nudged his granddaughter with it. "Now theer's one wi' summat t'despair of—not thee, lass. What ails thee? Nowt so bad as that, ah'll be bound—so buck up."
Nelda had to bite her tongue to keep from telling him there and then and with a tremendous effort changed the subject.
"What of your sister, Ben?" she asked through clenched teeth. "She is well, I trust?"
Ben shrugged. "I don't know what's got into Jen," he replied. "She isn't the same as she used to be. She just isn't any fun these days."
"None of us are the same as we used to be," Nelda muttered grimly. "Both you and Jennet have grown, you have seen and learnt a great deal since the death of your parents."
"I suppose," the boy agreed, but he was reluctant to talk about his mother and father and said no more.
Nelda, however, seemed strangely eager to hear all she could. "Is it really three winters since they were killed?" she asked.
Ben gave the slightest of nods then fidgeted with his school tie.
Tarr scowled at his granddaughter but she would not be silenced.
"Do you know how they died?"
"Stop it," the boy said in dismay.
"Was their passing quick?" she morbidly persisted. "Do you think they suffered much?"
"Yes!" Ben cried. "They must have. Mum and Dad were drowned—all right? The car ran off the road and crashed into a river. They couldn't get out in time so—yes, they suffered."
"Nelda!" shouted Tarr angrily. "Why badger the lad? See how he is upset!"
"Forgive me, Ben," she said, putting her hand over his, "but you and I are alike. We are orphans we two, yet at least you know the manner of your mother's end. It is best to know all, not be left to conjure up demons in the mind to feed on ignorance and fear." She spoke the final words for Tarr's benefit but her grandfather slammed his staff furiously upon the floor and rose to his feet.
"Enough!" he demanded. "Will tha not cease? Ah've told thee many times—ah shall not speak of that time! Nivver!"
Nelda glowered at him. "How did my mother die?" she shrieked. "Tell me!"
"NO!" he yelled, pointing a trembling finger at her. "Ah warn thee, dunna pursue this. Them days were evil—ah forbid thee to speak on it!"
"Why will you not tell me what her final hours were like? Have I not that right? It was for me that she died—I demand to know!"
"NIVVER!" he bawled, and such was the force of his voice that she knew it was pointless to continue.
Ben sat awkwardly between them. He had never seen either Tarr or Nelda so impassioned before and to witness them now with their tempers boiling alarmed him greatly. Each aufwader glared at the other, the elder positively quaking with rage and the other near to bursting with a frenzied obsession that the boy found weird and macabre.
"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 ter
rified 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.
