The Whitby Witches 2: A Warlock In Whitby

by Robin Jarvis

  The Whitby Witches 2:

  A Warlock In Whitby

  Robin Jarvis

  First published in the UK in 1992.

  This epub is version 1.1, released August 2014.

  Introduction

  Whitby slept: the autumn darkness in which it cosily huddled was calm and still. Not a Christian soul ventured outside the snug caverns of bedclothes and the only shadows that roamed the dim narrow lanes were those of cats who prowled into the blackest recesses of night in search of prey and passion. A solemn and contented peace lay heavily over all.

  A mild breeze stirred the midnight waters of the harbour into wave after gentle wave that rolled lazily up the shore only to return languid, sighing and spent. Save for the drugged, murmuring voice of the sea, Whitby was silent.

  Upon the East Cliff, the silhouette of the abbey challenged the domain of the frosty moon, spearing the night with the jags of its ruin, more beautiful in its crumbling decay than ever it had been at the height of its glory.

  Between broken pillars and gaping windows, the soft breeze moved, touching and stroking the weathered walls whose stones had withstood war and winter and become charged with the power that dwells in all ancient things.

  But further along the abbey plain, just clear of the ragged shadows, the quiet calm was about to be broken.

  Before the breeze, wild grasses bowed, slowly sweeping into a dry expanse which mimicked the rippling water of the harbour. Yet beneath the swaying, seeding heads the sleep of uncounted years was finally coming to an end.

  Presently the soil began to pulse, bulging upwards as if it were alive. Then the grass parted as its thick, knotted tangle of roots stretched and ripped apart.

  There came a frantic and urgent scrabbling in the hole that had appeared and then it was through!

  Into the cold night a hideous claw emerged. The silver moonlight glistened on the barbed hooks as they tore away the soil to widen the fissure. Soon a pale, scale-covered arm reached up and thrashed wildly at the ground. The promise of release was the force which drove it. To be out in the wide world once more was its sole intention, away from the cloying chains of slumber and oblivion. Up, up out of the suffocating earth it came—worming and pushing until at last it was able to haul itself from the pit.

  A vile, misshapen creature threw its hump-backed body upon the grass, gargling a mixture of phlegm and soil. The exertions of its escape were almost too much. For a while it lay wheezing and choking, its gills jerked open and shut, waiting for the old instincts to re-establish themselves. The underbelly heaved violently, gulping the sweet air down into forgotten lungs—filling them once more. Only when the breaths became less laboured did it think to look at its surroundings.

  At once it sprang to its deformed and webbed feet, the stumpy legs trembling unsteadily at the effort. If there had ever been a demon to plague the fishes of the sea then surely this was it. A more repellent creature there never was. Two large round eyes stared out from the head, glowing with the sickly luminescence of those who dwell in the deepmost regions of the ocean where sunlight never penetrates. Up at the ageless stars these eyes glared, before swivelling round to fix on the abbey. The shining eyes blinked and three rows of needle-like teeth were bared and ground together.

  The fish demon whirled about and beheld for the first time in over a thousand years the estuary of the river Esk. The world had changed much since those baleful eyes had last lit upon the settlement of Whitebi. Now, instead of the few huts that had sheltered under the protection of the cliff and the monastery, the banks of the river were crammed with buildings, and harsh orange lights blazed in the streets.

  A horrible gurgle issued from the creature's throat as it pattered forward for a better view. The reeking species of mankind had smothered the land it had known and the fin on the top of its head fanned open as it hissed its hatred. The stale memories were flooding back now and the confusion was slowly clearing.

  The years peeled away and before its luminous eyes the fish demon—last of the savage Mallykin race—remembered it all.

  The strings of lights round the harbour blurred and flickered, becoming the blazing torches that had pursued it to the cliff back then. And there she stood, the veiled woman-beast. How boldly she had cornered it and how fearsome were the cries of the villagers who gathered behind her. The flames of their burning brands were painful to look on, yet even more deadly was the sound of her cold, ringing voice. Cringing to the ground, the creature dropped the limp remains of its meal; somewhere it heard another of the wretches cry out and then the staff was raised and came crashing down. After that it knew only the black emptiness of the earth as it gaped open to swallow it.

  How many years had passed until the term of its imprisonment had come to an end? How many centuries had painfully stretched by?

  The breeze that ruffled its fins was chill and the fish demon slowly returned to the present. With narrowing eyes, it backed slowly from the bitter lights of Whitby. All was lost now, how could it survive in a world that was so filled with enemies? Miserably and with a waddling hop, it hurried from the grievous sight.

  Suddenly it froze—it was not alone upon the abbey plain. Amongst the grasses some other creature was prowling; a small, warm blooded creature.

  A growl came from the Mallykin's stomach as it realised how ravenous it was. No food had passed into its gullet for longer than it could imagine and now the desire for fresh meat overwhelmed it, brushing aside all other concerns. The mouth lolled open and a pink, pointed tongue drooled over the chin. With nostrils questing the air, it searched for the animal in the grass. There—it could sense the rapid beating of a tiny heart.

  With a frightful yell, the fish demon leapt forward. A horrific squeal rang out, then the creature disappeared into the night to devour the still wriggling meal in some darker, less open place.

  1 - After The Witch

  Whitby mornings are a constant. Nothing changes. Each one begins with the shriek of gulls and the return of fishing boats to the harbour, followed by the auction of the catch on the quayside. Today was no exception.

  The hours moved slowly on. Bed-and-Breakfasts sizzled with eggs and bacon whilst shopkeepers lifted shutters to await the first customers of the day. Gradually the traffic on the small roads increased and the autumn holiday makers braved the keen November wind muffled in anoraks and tightly wound scarves.

  With a gentle shudder, the morning train slid into the town. Out poured the children commuting to school from Ruswarp and Sleights. Along the platform they jostled one another, tugging at bags and duffle hoods, testing themselves on French vocabulary for the lesson later that day and hastily swapping answers to maths homework. After the children had barged and hurried out of the train the other passengers alighted and set off towards the barrier. There were those late for work, several day-trippers, a well-groomed young woman carrying a briefcase, a pair of rucksack-laden walkers who staggered under the weight of their canvas burdens, grumbling at one another for forgetting something vital and, lastly, a short, plump woman carrying a large sketchpad, a box of watercolours and a fold-up seat.

  This colourful stampede surged away from the train, eager to be out of the confines of the station. Each one of them filled with wildly differing thoughts, from the antiquities of New Zealand contained in the museum, to the best place to get a cup of tea. But no, not all hurried down the platform; there, in one of the carriages, a single figure remained.

  With deliberate slowness the man collected his luggage together; one battered suitcase and a small travelling bag. He stepped from the train and the morning sun fell upon his face.

  He was a dark-haired man with a w
iry, unkempt beard that framed his sunburned face. He wore no overcoat to keep out the wind, only a short tweed jacket that had seen better days. The elbows had at one time been patched with ovals of brown leather but one of these now wagged in the wind like a rude tongue. On most people this, combined with the slightly old-fashioned shirt, the collar of which was frayed and rather grubby, would have aroused feelings of sympathy or good-natured humour—but not on this particular gentleman; no one would have dared to laugh at him.

  His eyes were like pieces of midnight, jewels of darkness in which no glint of day ever shone. Casually he put down his luggage and gazed after the last of his fellow passengers as they struggled to leave the station. Those deep dark eyes roamed from one person to another until at last they came to rest on the retreating figure of the smart young woman with the briefcase.

  Just as light can vary from a dim glow to a blinding intensity, the same is true of darkness. For now those eyes blazed blacker than ever before as they lingered over the woman's finely sculpted form, following the outline of her slim shape and drinking in the gold of her hair.

  Emma Hitchin, late for her job at the solicitor's office, shivered unconsciously, shuddering with a feeling that was more than mere cold. All thoughts of the apology she was carefully constructing for that miserable old Mr Hardcorn and his sour-faced son flew from her mind. At her shoulder blades that chill came stabbing in, tugging and searching. Curious, she turned her blonde head and her own hazel eyes caught sight of the bearded man standing by the train.

  A look of amusement formed on her lips, but this quickly melted. There was something unusual about the man—he was certainly by no stretch of the imagination handsome, but he possessed a certain powerful charm and she found herself holding her breath under his continual gaze. Those impenetrable shadows beneath his brows beat out at her and the colour rose in her cheeks. Her lips curled into a girlish smile and the blood thumped in her temples.

  The man returned the smile, then followed it up with a polite and formal bow. But all the time his eyes held her prisoner. For a few moments more he kept her bound to him and then she was released.

  Emma reeled backwards as he dismissed her and the chains of his will left her. Flustered and sweating, she clutched at the collar of her blouse then, with one final, fearful glance at the stranger, she fled from the station.

  Alone on the platform, the man grinned. Delving into the pocket of his tatty jacket he brought out a slim gold case. Taking a cigarette he struck a match and cupped his hands round his mouth. The sheltered flame, brought so close to his face, made no reflection in those raven-black eyes.

  Deep he drew on the cigarette, inhaling the smoke and hissing it out through his lips until a thick, ethereal cloud had gathered about him. A difficult and dangerous trial lay ahead. He knew that the next few days were to be the greatest test of his cunning and endurance. He had prepared for every eventuality, however, and when this ordeal was over all the risks he had chanced would prove to have been worthwhile. Silently he reprimanded himself for indulging his ego back then. For the moment he must not attract attention—his enemies were everywhere. If they knew he had returned to England all would be lost. For that reason secrecy was paramount, but if his researches and suspicions were correct, then it would not be for long.

  The nicotine fog stirred when he threw the cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath his patent leather shoe. He was ready.

  As the smoke billowed and dispersed around him, he moved to return the cigarette case to his pocket. In the bright, morning sunshine the words engraved on the gold flashed and glowed up into his bearded face.

  To my darling Nathaniel,

  obediently yours

  —Roselyn.

  The man's thin mouth twisted suddenly and the shimmering gold shone upon his teeth, discolouring and staining them. For a fraction of a second his face was a distorted vision of evil and cruelty and a cold chuckle resounded in his throat.

  Nathaniel Crozier: historian, philanderer, warlock, high priest of the Black Sceptre, and the unseen hand behind countless unsolved burglaries of religious relics from all round the world. So infamous was he that some had dedicated their lives to tracking him down and putting an end to "the most evil man on Earth". Yet here he was, he who always worked through others, he who never risked himself had hazarded much just to step on British soil once more. The widower of the late Rowena Cooper had arrived in Whitby at last.

  ***

  "Missing Cats Mystery" read the headline of the Gazette. Since the beginning of October many pets had disappeared. At first, when rabbits had been wrenched from their hutches, the culprit was believed to be a fox—or perhaps that large dog which had been heard roaming the streets in the dead of night. But no one had heard that hollow, baying voice for some time now and when the number of missing animals continued to rise, suspicions were turned elsewhere. The popular theory of the moment was that an unscrupulous furrier was to blame—it was not unusual for cat skins to be used in the fur trade and as most of the vanished Tiddles and Toms had been fine specimens with luxuriant coats this seemed most likely. Cat owners had become extremely careful when they put their loved ones out at night. Some even tied them to long pieces of string to prevent them straying too far. The indignant cat-calls could be heard all over town when the time came for the poor pusses to be yanked back indoors.

  Perhaps it was this concern for the well-being of the family pet that first started it all. One thing was certainly true however—Whitby had changed. For whatever reason, the seaside town was not the same place. Whereas, only a month ago, the inhabitants would greet each other with a friendly wave or stop in the street for a chat, now they merely nodded a terse acknowledgement. Over both the West Cliff and the East there was a brooding tension and a general sense of anxiety filled the hearts of everyone.

  Norman Gregson lay slumped, stuffed in the only armchair capable of accommodating him. Over the bass drum of his stomach a pair of black braces strained, circumnavigating a bulk greater than they had been made for. Mr Gregson had gobbled enough breakfast to fill a giant walrus and that was precisely what he looked like. This most unpleasant and laziest of the Black Horse regulars had washed the four rounds of toast, two fried eggs, frazzled rashers of bacon and gristly sausages down with a bottle of stout. This was then followed by two pieces of bread which his wife, Joan, in a rare moment of domesticity, had fried in the same fat as everything else. Now he snorted and wheezed in his sleep, grease still dribbling from his open mouth and congealing on his pink, fleshy chin.

  This contented, snoring oaf had only two passions in life, namely the aforementioned Black Horse, where the old joke was that he ran from one nag to another, and the vegetable patch in the back garden. Between rows of onions and cabbages Norman was a different person. All the tenderness he denied his wife and the world was lavished upon his darling, uncritical vegetables. Within the well-weeded confines of his very own realm, and safely screened by the lattice of runner beans, his heavy bulk could rest, away from the tart tongue of Mrs Gregson and the unfinished jobs in the house.

  But that morning the armchair had his undivided attention because his harpy of a wife was pegging out the washing. On such days it was impossible to seek sanctuary outdoors. With sheets and nightgowns flapping and that carping voice screeching like fingernails down a blackboard it was better to pass the time unconscious. In his dreams his onions were the size of footballs and rosettes smothered the garden like a forest of sunflowers.

  A large, wet smile creased his round face and he uttered whimpers of pleasure when one of his cabbages was so huge that he actually hollowed it out and turned it into another potting shed. People came from miles around just to look at this marvel and there were rumours of a knighthood in the offing. All over Whitby the church bells were ringing in his honour and he swelled with paternal pride.

  The doorbell rang again. Norman shifted uneasily, the empty bottle in his hand escaped from his plump fingers, rolled down the hi
llside of his belly and dropped on to the floor.

  "NORMAN!" came a voice from the garden loud enough to alert ships at sea. "Norman! Answer the flaming door!"

  The giant cabbage suddenly sprouted wheels, became a caravan and trundled far away. Mr Gregson grunted then woke up.

  Once more the doorbell jingled angrily. He drew his fingers over the high, polished dome of his head, yawned and blinked.

  "Get that! You big dollop of lard!" shrieked the klaxon from the garden.

  Norman pulled a face and swore under his breath. "Shut up, you silly old mare," he mumbled drowsily. "I'm getting it."

  Stretching, and imperilling the braces even further, he hauled himself from the chair. However, before he went to the front door, he did exactly what his wife would have done—he peered through the net curtain.

  "Who's that then?" he grumbled, staring at the bearded man on the step. "What's in them cases? If it's brushes he's after sellin' he's had that!"

  Unfortunately Norman was not as deft a lace-twitcher as Mrs Gregson for the stranger saw him.

  Two dark eyes turned to stare at the round face in the window and for a moment Norman felt an inexplicable twinge of fear. Hastily he withdrew and shuffled to the door to see what the nuisance wanted.

  "Well?" he demanded throwing the door open wide to intimidate the man by the size of his stomach. "What does yer want? I ain't gonna buy nowt, an' if'n it's charity yer after I don't hold wi' it!"

  "My name is Crozier, Mr Gregson," came the soft reply, "Nathaniel Crozier. And there's no need to worry, I don't believe in charity either."

  "'Ere," Norman put in, "how comes yer knowed my name? From the Social Security, are yer? Wastin' my time snoopin' round askin' questions—it's me back an' me heart, Doctor says. Unfit for work I am, I told 'em before—now get out of it!"

  But the stranger remained on the step and when he next spoke his voice was calm yet insistent. "Mr Gregson," he said, "why don't you invite me in—just for a moment?"