by Robin Jarvis
She was the most vindictive and downright nasty member of the aufwader tribe, whom the boy always avoided if he saw her upon the beach. The viciousness of her tongue was well known to him and he had learnt that she was always eager to speak poison about others. Tarr barely tolerated her and she always drove Nelda to distraction with her sneaky and malicious ways.
The girl stirred as she heard her and dried her eyes. The last thing she wanted was for the creature to go spreading tales among the rest of the tribe.
Tentatively, Old Parry sniffed the air around Ben and pretended to choke in disgust.
"Consortin' wi' the landbreed again," she observed through tight lips. "No wonder yer blubber so."
"I wasn't crying," Nelda retorted defensively. "I merely caught my foot on a stone—it pained me, that's all."
The other waggled her head in amusement. "Tell it to the sea," she huffed, "only make it quiet—I've a mind to go pool wading this night and I'll not be disturbed by your screeching! Can't a body have any peace? There's cramp and clamour enough in the great hall without any pesterin' from the likes of you!"
Nelda drew herself up and thought of a good many things to say to the interfering old nuisance, then she had a different idea and her angry face became wrapped in smiles.
"Oh," she exclaimed with feigned interest, "what are you wading for?"
Old Parry eyed her uncertainly. "Just shells," she mumbled, "to tie in my hair, and aught else I find, though it don't concern you."
"It's been such a long time since I foraged in the pools," Nelda enthused. "May I join you?"
"You," uttered Old Parry in complete surprise, "wade wi' me?"
"I should love to."
The astonished female shrugged, then glanced back at Ben. "But no stinkin' landbreed!" she warned. "I'll not share the waters with none of that race! Tell him to crawl back to his hut!"
Guiltily, Nelda looked across at the boy and bit her lip. "You would not mind if I tarried here?" she said.
"I thought you wanted to tell me what the matter was," he answered, puzzled as to why she would want to spend any amount of time with that hatchet-faced crone.
With a shake of her head, Nelda dismissed the notion that she had been upset. "Don't worry so," she told him. "Is it not time for you to return? I shall see you soon, no doubt."
Ben could not understand her behaviour and felt hurt at the way she was treating him. Rejected and miserable he gave a sulky grunt, spun on his heel and made for the town.
Feeling worse than ever, Nelda watched him leave.
"Thought you'd tire of human company," Old Parry said haughtily. "They're not worth the water they bathe in. It's well to see you come to your senses at last. 'Tain't proper for us to mingle; look what happened to Oona."
"Yes," breathed Nelda, "it was she who brought the wrath of the Deep Ones upon us by wedding one of the landbreed."
"And sealed our fate with the laying of the Mother's Curse!" added Old Parry. "Naught but trouble and grief comes of mixing wi' them."
"A terrible punishment for so simple and blameless a crime."
The old aufwader waited until the figure of Ben had disappeared in the dark distance before she began to hunt among the rocks for a suitable pool to dip into.
"Ooh yes," she agreed as she peered into the water, "a fouler end them Lords of the Deep could not have devised."
Nelda followed her to the next rockpool, trying not to betray the anxiety she felt. "What... what exactly happens under the curse?" she murmured.
Old Parry bent low over a dish-shaped stone and whirled her fingers through the water it contained. "Death o' course," she burbled.
"Yes I know, but how exactly?"
The scourge of the fisherfolk lifted her eyes to the girl and her eyebrows twitched curiously.
"So," she crooned, "you want to know the full extent of the Mother's Curse?"
"I... I want to know what happened to my mother."
"Tarr not told you? Nah, he wouldn't, but I was there—I know."
"Will you tell me?"
Old Parry's eyes glinted. "'Tain't no pretty tale," she muttered darkly, "but I can see there's no denying you. Sit here."
Stiffly, Nelda sat upon the cold wet stone beside her and the crone chuckled horribly to herself.
"Never had I seen such pain," she began, recalling that hideous time. "Your mother was a headstrong, foolish creature who listened to no counsel but her own. We all told her it was in vain but still she tried to give her husband a child. Not for many centuries had an infant been born to our kind, not one that lived, that is.
"Determined and wilful she was, and stubborn as the cliffs themselves. Strong was the bond 'twixt she and your father and for his sake she bore you. But as the time went by and her belly swelled, her agonies steadily increased.
"Every time the moon waxed and was full in the heavens, you could hear her screams rent the night and echo through every tunnel and chamber. Now, as you know, few wives survived beyond the first three months so when she lingers on past the eighth, with only four more remaining we all wondered if the curse had lost some of its power.
"But the Lords of the Deep and Dark showed their displeasure in ways various and plenty lest any other wife dared flout their might. Shoals of rotting fish were washed ashore and storms raged at sea so that no boats could set sail for many weeks. 'Twas an evil time full of such signs and portents and your mother was to blame."
Old Parry paused to gauge the effect her tale was having upon Nelda. The girl looked pale and ill so she gladly resumed the tragic story, revelling in the gruesome details.
"No one living can describe the torture that your mother endured for your sake and that of Abe your father. For when her time came it was beyond aught I had yet seen. As soon as you were born she began to die."
"How?"
"By the most evil of means. For when it became apparent that by some miracle you were to live, your mother let loose a sickening screech. Such is the fell manner of the curse that the very blood in her veins did change and under the enchantment of the Deep Ones, it turned to brine."
"No!" Nelda gasped, stricken with horror and disgust. "It cannot be true!"
"On my Joby's watery grave," the other swore, spitting into the rockpool, "that was the way of it.
"Into a blazing fever your mother swooned, the salt water creeping through her body, burning and blistering through her flesh until her very wits were eaten away."
"She... she went mad?"
"Raving!" came the cackling response. "An agony of madness was hers, and not even her own husband's father did she know. Wounded to the heart was Tarr and he stumbled through the caverns like one blinded. Yet not swiftly was she taken—oh no, for nigh on two whole weeks did your mother linger and by the end she was like a salted slug. No black boat carried her into the sea. There was naught remaining—only a briny sludge with Abe weeping over it."
Nelda staggered to her feet. It was worse than she had dreaded. For now she knew the precise nature of her mother's demise whereas it had only been hinted at before, and she wept for the parent she had never known. Yet more bitterly did she weep for herself, for that same fate would undoubtedly wreak its terrible vengeance upon her.
"Don't go," Old Parry sniggered as Nelda hurried unsteadily away. "Let me tell you of others that perished and of the countless bairns that did not survive. How their first sweet cries were changed into shrieks as they crumbled into dust!"
But Nelda was too distraught to hear her and the spiteful old crone clutched her sides at the sight. Her brutal and raucous laughter echoed over the shore, rebounding off the cliffs, as if they too mocked the poor aufwader girl.
***
"Oh come on, Jennet! It'll be a good laugh."
"I said no, all right?"
Sarah Wellings tried one last time. "Martin Gravsey will be there."
"So what?"
"He fancies you!"
"Oh leave me alone—I don't care what you do, just leave me ou
t of it!"
Sarah flicked her damp fringe from her eyes and pushed Jennet savagely. "If it wasn't for you we wouldn't have had that detention!" she said. "I'm not going to have time to put some make-up on now. God, Laurenson, what's up with you anyway?"
"Look, I don't want to hang round the arcade or be chatted up by a group of spotty lads with bad breath who wear too much cheap aftershave. Is that so hard to understand?"
Sarah sneered at her. "You're mad, you!" she shouted. "Tracey and Clare were right, they said you'd gone as loony as your brother. Well I've had it, okay? From now on don't bother speaking to me."
She stomped off over the wet cobbles and chanted at the top of her voice, "Laurenson, Laurenson, lordy, lordy what a loony!"
Jennet rubbed her arm where Sarah had punched her. She was a pretty girl with dark brown hair and a pleasant oval face. At first she had been popular at school but that had all changed. Over the past few months the friends she had made in Whitby had gradually abandoned her. She knew it was her own fault; she was indifferent to them and hated their incessant, ridiculous talk about boys and music. Jennet was interested in neither of these, not since she had come under the influence of Nathaniel Crozier.
For a twelve-year-old girl whose thirteenth birthday was only a matter of months away she seemed old before her time and withdrew into herself a little further every day.
Glumly, Jennet walked along Church Street towards Aunt Alice's cottage. At last the rain had ceased and the narrow road glistened in the lamplight. Overhead, the window-sills and projecting signs dripped amber jewels but the girl was oblivious to the beauty of the clean, washed world. Through the puddles she traipsed, scattering the reflections and dwelling on the idiotic night her former friends would have.
"Who wants to do that anyway? I certainly don't. Boys are stupid!"
Passing one of the shop windows, Jennet came to an abrupt halt and stared through the glass. It was a photographer's studio and examples of his art were on display to entice prospective customers inside.
A large print of a surprised baby sitting amongst a quantity of pink silk met Jennet's eyes but she ignored it and looked at the one by its side. There, upon textured paper to make it resemble a painting on canvas, was a photograph of a bride and groom. The girl studied it thoughtfully as her breath fanned out over the window-pane. It reminded her of a picture she had of her parents' wedding day.
"Oh Mum," she uttered in a hoarse whisper, "why aren't you and Dad here?"
The couple before her beamed back, and the girl dragged herself away. Swinging her school bag over her shoulder Jennet resumed the short walk home.
Just as she was about to turn into the alleyway that led to the cottage, she saw Ben trudging along the street from the direction of the shore.
Jennet did not need to ask where her brother had been.
"How was Nelda?" she asked.
Ben made no reply but brushed past and tramped through the courtyard to the cottage door.
"Charming," Jennet remarked. "I don't know why I bother."
Hungry for his tea and keen to be rid of the dry, salty taste in his mouth, Ben leapt up the doorstep and knocked loudly.
At once the door was torn open and the courtyard was filled with yellow light. A woman in her fifties, with greying hair that looked as though it had been sat on, was framed in the doorway. With one hand clinging to the handle and the other positively squeezing the life from a bunch of tissues which she dabbed to her nose, she let out a squeak and ushered the children inside.
"Oh, where have the pair of you been?" she twittered in distraction. "What a day to go roaming off. Look at the state of your clothes, Ben—oh dear!"
The boy dragged his sopping coat off and sniffed expectantly. "What's for tea?" he asked, unable to detect any of the usual smells.
"Oh dear!" Miss Wethers exclaimed again. "Your teas, I clean forgot!" And she threw an agitated glance at the door of the sickroom.
Jennet was watching her closely. Dithery Edith seemed more preoccupied than normal and she sensed that something was wrong.
"What's the matter?" she asked. "Aunt Alice! Has something happened to her?"
Miss Wethers flapped her hands as the girl made for the sickroom and only just managed to pull her back in time.
"You can't go in there yet," she told her, "not until the doctor's finished."
"The doctor?" Jennet cried. "Is she all right?"
Desperately, Ben stared at the closed door and his empty stomach turned over. What if the old lady had died?
"Alice is fine," Edith hastily explained as she saw the colour rising in the children's faces. "She got a little agitated this afternoon, that's all—over-excited herself for some reason."
Before she continued, the tissue flew about her nose like a fat butterfly. "I had only popped upstairs for a little lie down," she trilled, "when suddenly the storm awoke me and I heard a crash from downstairs."
Here she paused to catch her breath as if reliving the moment when she tore down the stairs. "When I entered the sickroom I found Alice sprawled on the floor. The silly old thing had tried to stand, can you imagine? Lord alone knows what got into her! Oh it was awful, and do you know what else? Sand! Everywhere there was sand. It dripped from the chimney and made a fine mess all over the place. How do you account for that? I'm sure I don't know! And covering the windows was a heap of seaweed. It was like one of those uncanny events you read about—when it rains frogs or sardines. Took a long time to be rid of it too. Anyway, there Alice was—sprawled."
Her report complete, Edith gulped the air exhaustedly then added in a respectful whisper, "Of course I ran to telephone Doctor Adams immediately. He's just finishing his examination; shouldn't be too much longer."
The children looked at one another nervously, and wished they had both been here sooner.
Within the sickroom, Doctor Adams closed his medical bag and shook his head at the patient.
"You are nothing but a stubborn old nuisance," he told her in his most professional voice. "Getting up from your chair indeed! You should have a little more consideration for the people who care for you than to persist in these foolhardy ventures. You're not a young woman; people of your age should do as their physicians tell them."
Doctor Adams had practised in Whitby for nearly twenty years and was nearing the age when his thoughts turned towards taking an early retirement. He was a tall, pink man with rather too much flesh on him than was healthy. His thinning hair was swept over his domed head and slicked down by generous applications of pomade so that no sudden gust of wind could send the long wisps flying.
Miss Boston stared at him, and if looks could maim then he would have been the one in need of medical attention.
She was now lying in bed with the pillows properly fluffed up by Edith and her coverlet neatly tucked in all around.
"You should be thankful there's no damage done," the doctor concluded. "Old bones are very fragile, you know. One of my patients in Bagdale had a hip replacement last week and he's thirty years younger than you. Just don't think you can gad around any more."
Giving Miss Boston a final, disapproving look, he went to the door and told Edith that he had finished.
At once, Jennet and Ben pushed past him and put their arms about Aunt Alice's neck.
"Careful," the doctor scolded. "She's an invalid, remember, and it's been a tiring day for her. She needs as much rest as possible and plenty of peace and quiet—don't excite her."
Miss Wethers drank in the doctor's words and privately resolved that she would try harder as a nurse.
"Is there anything more I should be doing for her, Doctor?" she squeaked.
Doctor Adams gave her a pleased smile and revealed in the expansive pink face were his little, perfect, pearly teeth.
"I wish all my patients were so well tended to," he praised her. "Alice Boston should count herself lucky to have such a good friend. If she were a little less selfish and reconciled herself to her infirmities she mightn't
put you under this unnecessary strain."
On the bed, Miss Boston snorted, but Edith blushed and nervously rushed into the kitchen to make the doctor a cup of tea.
"Now then," he said to the children, "remember what I said, no excitement for her." And with that he followed the flustered ex-postmistress from the room.
As soon as she was rid of him, Miss Boston urgently tried to speak to Jennet and Ben. But all that issued from her paralysed mouth was a series of incoherent grunts.
"What are you trying to say?" Jennet asked her. "I can't understand."
"Do you want something, Aunt Alice?" guessed Ben.
The old lady puckered her face into a scrunched-up mass of wrinkly skin as she battled to force the words from her mouth.
"Careful," Jennet warned her. "Remember what the doctor said."
The old lady's head flopped against the pillows and tears of frustration sprang from her eyes.
Ben's heart went out to her. "Perhaps if you pointed at something," he suggested, "we could work it out from there—a bit like charades."
Miss Boston's face brightened at once and again she summoned her feeble strength.
Her right arm twitched and for a brief second she managed to indicate one of the shelves in the alcove.
"Is it up here?" Jennet asked, jumping from the bedside and running to the collection of bizarre objects that Miss Boston had gathered about herself over the many years.
The old lady nodded and Jennet quickly ran through a list of all she could find upon the shelf.
"Corn dolly, jar with—pooh what's in there? Not that? Carved piece of stone, bird's nest, three old bottles—no? Lace pin cushion, candlestick, another little jar, (I'm not looking in that one), row of books..."
Miss Boston raised herself from the pillow and her eyes grew large with excitement.
"One of these, then?" breathed the girl as she began to read what was written on the spines.
"Greek Legends and Other Myths, Translations from the Celtic Manuscripts; Is Anybody There?, The Spirit Guides of the Ancients; Passion on the High Seas—I think that's one of Miss Wethers'. I can't read this one, it's too tatty. The next is Legacy of the Witches; Angelic Messengers of the Old Testament; Magic and Superstition in the Modern World..."
