by Robin Jarvis
Nelda was in a sorry state and Ben thought that she was beginning to look like Old Parry.
"Is Tarr okay?" he asked, politely ignoring her unkempt aspect.
The faint smile faded. "I have not seen him for many weeks now," Nelda told Ben. "I no longer dwell with my grandfather, nor do I speak to any other member of the tribe."
"But why? What's happened?"
The aufwader gazed at him for a moment then looked down at her stomach. "Can you not tell?" she murmured. "Does not this declare my woe?"
Ben frowned, Nelda had grown quite fat. "You been eating too much?" he began. "You should see how Sister Frances puts it away... oh!"
"Aye," she affirmed, "'tis true, I bear the child of Esau. Forgive me, I have shocked you. If you wish you can depart and think no more of me—do as the others have done."
"Nelda!" he cried.
She covered her eyes with her hand and breathed heavily. "Again I am sorry," she said. "It is difficult to recognise friendship. Perhaps my solitude has driven me mad—either that or the curse is already at work. Oh Ben, I have spoken to no one these many weeks—shall I tell you all that has happened?"
"Only if you want to," he encouraged gently.
And so Nelda proceeded to tell him all that had occurred, of Esau's evil bargain and the anger of the tribe and her ultimate doom.
When she had finished, Ben was horrified. "I'm so sorry," he mumbled. "Is there really nothing anyone can do for you?"
Nelda shook her head. "No," she said, "only the Lords of the Deep and Dark can save me and my baby. 'Twas they who placed the Mother's Curse, thus 'tis they who must remove it. Yet I fear that is an act of compassion that they will never make. Their hearts must be blacker than the deepest pit—they know nothing of mercy or pity."
Ben bit his bottom lip. It was difficult to believe what she had told him, but one thing he knew for certain—he was to blame. "It's all my fault, isn't it?" he whispered guiltily. "I had the chance to ask for the removal of the curse but failed."
"No," Nelda told him, "Rowena Cooper was the one. She it was who stole the boon from you—you could not have withstood her power. Oh Ben, you must stop assuming blame—did you not see Esau's debauched claim upon me as your own fault also? You are my true friend, I harbour no grudge towards you."
All the same, Ben felt dreadful. Nelda and her unborn child were going to die and he could have prevented it. Why did everyone he love always have to leave him?
"What will you do?" he asked eventually.
Nelda shrugged. "I do not know. Spend what days are left in what comfort I can. But no one shall order my life for me; whatever happens shall be on mine own terms with none saying yea or nay. My decisions are my own and I am willing to pay what price I must for that freedom."
"So where are you living? Surely not outside? What about when it rains?"
"There are many caves cut into the cliff," she explained. "I have made a new home for myself in one of their number. Do not fear, I shall not hunger nor be chill when the weather turns."
"But to do it all on your own," Ben remarked, "isn't it very lonely?"
"It is," she answered desolately, "yet what choice remains? I want nothing more to do with the others and they are of the same mind."
Ben sucked his teeth. "Even so," he added, "I'm surprised at your grandfather—how could he be so cruel?"
The aufwader said nothing and he could tell that Tarr had hurt her deeply. Ben scowled at the ground then brightened and looked up.
"I know!" he cried. "Why don't you come and live with us? Aunt Alice would love it and Dithery Edith is getting married soon so she can't object, and as Jennet isn't able to see you anyway..."
Nelda held up her hand to stop him. "No," she said, "that is not the answer, generous though the offer may be. I am an aufwader, Ben. I do not belong in your world nor you in mine. 'Twould be a grave mistake. Is it not enough for my kind alone to be bound by the curse? If I were to dwell with humans then they too would be embroiled—the sufferings must end. I am a wanderer of the shore, descended from the many tribes which once thrived here before your kind built the first huts and populated the land. Do you not understand? My place is here."
The pair fell into uneasy silence, one contemplating her plight and the other racking his brains for something to say or do that might be of comfort or assistance.
Suddenly the heavy peace was shattered as the sky became filled with raucous shrieks and yammering screeches that cut straight through them like the bitter wailings of a hundred cats in pain and anguish.
Nelda glanced up at the cliffs. "The gulls!" she cried. "Something has happened to the gulls! Listen how afrighted they are!"
The air was swarming with white wings. It was as if every sea bird in Whitby was flocking overhead and whirling in tight circles, filled with alarm and panic. Their fearful voices croaked and screamed so loudly that Ben jammed his fingers in his ears whilst he stared up at the chaotic jumble of feathers that thrashed before the cliff face.
"What are they doing?" he shouted to Nelda.
The aufwader shivered, for the dreadful shrieks reminded her of the voices she had heard in the conch shell and she closed her eyes in an effort to blot out that hideous memory.
"I cannot tell," she finally answered, "for though my late husband knew the language of gulls, he did not teach it to me."
"Well, I hope they settle down soon; it's deafening!"
But the birds continued to scream and fly in confused and frenzied groups, and every so often their screeches would increase as though some fresh nightmare had terrorised them.
Nelda became uneasy. "This is no ordinary squabbling," she uttered; "there must be something up there which they fear."
"Well, why don't they just fly off?" Ben cried. "They must be pretty dim!"
"Come," she said, carefully scrambling from the concrete ledge, "we must discover what assails them."
Doubtful, Ben trotted after her. "What?" he asked. "Climb all the way up there? Have you gone barmy too? For one thing you're pregnant, for another I'll break my neck trying. Besides, we haven't got any ropes and stuff."
"Don't worry," she assured him, "my race know the ways of this cliff well. There is a path, not too difficult, and you will not have to climb far—see how the gulls mass just over there?"
"What do you mean I won't have to climb far?" Ben asked with a nervous laugh.
"As you reminded me, I am pregnant—I could not clamber up yonder. Do not look so unhappy; I shall guide you."
"Oh, thanks."
Up they went, over the first of the great rocks and then a little further until Nelda could manage no more.
"Now," she insisted, "place your foot there and hold on to that outcrop with your right hand. That's it, now reach over to that cleft and shift your weight to the other foot."
"I don't think this is such a good idea," he shouted down. "Can't we just let the gulls get on with whatever it is and leave them alone?"
But Nelda was insistent, for some dark instinct was telling her that this was her concern and she had to discover the cause of the squalling disturbance. So warily Ben edged his way up to where the screaming birds rode the wind feverishly, their demented cries growing painfully louder with each cautious move the boy made.
Soon Ben was close enough to be able to see that above him there was a narrow ledge heaped with twigs and dried grasses.
"I think their nests are up there!" he called to Nelda.
"Then that is why they do not leave," she shouted back. "Their eggs will not have hatched yet. But what is it they fear there?"
Ben had the disturbing suspicion that he was about to find out. The gulls were flapping all around him now and his ears rang with their wild shrieks. One bird flew too close and the tip of its wing slapped him in the face.
"Get off, you stupid Nelly!" he bawled. "I'm only trying to help!"
Pulling himself upwards the boy lifted his head level with the ledge and peered over.
Horrified, Ben's fingers slithered on the rock but he recovered quickly and forced himself to look again.
Inside the scruffy nest, squirming between the fragments of two gull's eggs, was a writhing knot of snakes. They were slender and long, covered in dark brown scales spattered with black diamonds, and moved constantly like animated strips of liquorice. The serpents hissed and wound their dry scaly bodies about each other as the boy peered down at them.
With their black, reptile eyes they stared back at him, and long tongues flicked swiftly from their mouths while their flat heads bobbed from side to side.
Ben shuddered in revulsion. He wasn't afraid of snakes, but there was something uncanny about these creatures; they seemed to be driven by one mind, for when one serpent moved the others mirrored the movements exactly.
"Those things would frighten anyone," he mumbled. "No wonder the birds aren't happy."
"What is it?" Nelda's voice called up to him.
He edged further along the rock and away from the nest before answering.
"Snakes! They've been eating the gulls' eggs!"
Below him Nelda raised her hands to her mouth but said no more.
Ben prepared to climb down again. "Well, I'm not touching them," he muttered. "They might be poisonous for all I know. Yeuk! The daft birds'll just have to find somewhere else and lay more..."
His words vanished, for as he glanced along the nesting ledge he noticed for the first time the sprawled bodies of many seagulls. Their wings were spread open as though they had struggled and tried to take to the air before they died, and as he looked closer he saw that a vicious and bloody ring was cut around each limp neck.
"What can have..?"
Amidst the bodies there came a movement and at first Ben thought that one of the gulls was still alive—then he knew.
Twined tightly about the creature's neck was a snake. Spasmodically constricting and loosening its coils the serpent made the broken corpse twitch and jerk until finally the bird's spine gave a hideous snap.
"They've strangled them!" Ben gasped. "The snakes have throttled the poor things!"
But the worst was yet to come. Within one of the nests a single egg lay whole and undamaged, and even as the boy turned his eyes from the gruesome spectacle of the strangled corpses he saw the shell judder and splinter.
The nest was empty of snakes but as the egg began to move, every sharp head turned and the tongues flicked out more rapidly than ever. At once a deadly stream of serpents flowed towards the nest, rearing up in expectation. With silent intent they surrounded the egg, swaying like reeds before its jarring, rocking movements as the chick within struggled to free itself.
"No!" Ben whispered, "This is awful." Yet he knew there was nothing he could do.
A piece of the eggshell fell into the nest and the waiting hunters swirled around it. Then a small hole appeared, followed by another.
Ben grimaced and clenched his teeth, screwing up his face in anticipation of the cold murder that was about to take place. But what happened next made his heart cease beating and he let out a petrified howl that silenced the squawking gulls around him.
Down the cliff face he scrambled, hurrying as fast as he safely could.
"What's the matter?" Nelda cried, sensing his panic and growing fearful. "Are you bitten?"
In a moment he was at her side but even that was not enough. The boy jumped from the boulders and hurried over the shore to be as far from the shadow of that ledge as possible.
Nelda hastened after him. "Tell me!" she yelled. "Ben! Let me help you—show me the wound!"
The boy turned to her and she saw that the blood had drained from his face. He had not been bitten—he had been terrified.
"The egg!" he panted. "When it hatched! It was vile! Oh, Nelda! The snakes—there was no chick inside! It was full of snakes! They came out of the gulls' own eggs! They were actually inside them! How can that be?" He paused for breath, trembling in disbelief.
"The birds must have been sitting on them when the first clutch hatched!" he wailed. "And those filthy things wriggled out to strangle them—it's horrible! How could snakes come from birds' eggs? It isn't possible!"
Nelda stepped back and lifted her eyes to where the gulls were still zooming about the ledge.
"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 cr
eepers 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."
