by Robin Jarvis
The man turned back to the house and frowned.
***
The tide was on the turn and the afternoon drawing to a close when the bell finally rang and the primary school children poured out of the gates where mothers waited for the younger ones. In one quarter there was a flurry of paper as the results from the afternoon's art lesson were held aloft in triumph. There was laughter, a game of "Tick" spontaneously commenced, someone bounced a tennis ball along the playground and a group of girls spoke in hallowed whispers of ponies and expensive dolls.
Only one child was alone. Amongst all the cheerful, carefree crowd he had no one to meet or talk with. He was never invited back to anyone's house to play or have tea. Nobody ever kicked the football in his direction and when he walked by a group at break-time he would hear them snigger. In the playground he was always the solitary figure leaning against the wall, watching the others having fun and playing games. No one liked him, in fact there was something about the child that frightened them.
When he had first arrived at the beginning of term they had tried to make friends with him, but he said such odd, disturbing things that they soon learnt to leave him be. Lately, however, several of the older ones had started to pick on him and two in particular had begun to make his life a misery. It was the same wherever he went—he was a freak, the others knew and so did he.
"You've got the Laurenson touch!" shrieked a girl involved in the game of "Tick". "You're 'It' now!" she squealed to the child she had caught. "You're the loony—Ben, Ben can't catch me!"
"Ssshh!" someone hissed. "He's over there!"
Ben turned to look at them. They were eight years old, the same as him—the girl, Mandy Littleton, was in his class. She gaped at him for a second then giggled and pelted away, screaming his name in ridicule at the top of her shrill voice. Ben pushed through the crowd gathered at the gates, he cast one bitter look at the parents still waiting for their children and ran up the lane.
There was someone he could turn to, someone who would understand—apart from his sister and Aunt Alice she was his only friend.
By the shore, the failing daylight glimmered over the moving waters and long shadows stretched down the sand. Upon one of the boulders, beneath the cliffs, a solitary figure sat gazing out to the darkening horizon where sea met sky.
Nelda's eyes remained fixed upon that distant rim of the world, straining through the gathering dusk until it was too dark to see, even for an aufwader. Eventually she covered her face with her hands and sighed.
She was a strange-looking creature, youngest of the sole surviving tribe of fisherfolk who dwelt in caves under the cliffs of Whitby. Her face was as wrinkled and weathered as any human of advanced years, yet to the rest of her people she was merely a child. She knew what it was like to be alone, for there were no others of the aufwader race her age and there never would be. The females of the tribe were cursed; they either died carrying the unborn child or perished with the infant at birth. Such was the terrible punishment of the mighty Lords of the Deep who reigned in the fathomless reaches of the ocean, and so the numbers of the aufwaders dwindled and decreased over long, barren years.
The evening chill deepened but it was some time before Nelda was aware of it. There were too many worries weighing on her mind, too many uncertainties to notice the numbness in her fingers.
"Hoy!" came a voice behind her. "Nelda!"
The aufwader stirred from her troubled thoughts and looked over her shoulder. A human boy was running across the sands towards her. She made room on the boulder and waited for him.
"I wasn't sure if you'd be here," Ben cried when he drew near, "I haven't seen you for weeks."
Conscious now of the cold, Nelda huddled into her gansey and pulled the sleeves of it over her fists. "There has been much to attend to," she replied averting her face from the boy's questioning eyes.
"I thought it was something like that," he said. "I expect with winter coming there's lots to do, storing up your food in the caves..."
"We are not squirrels!" she told him sharply. "The sea knows no lack, there is no dearth in the waters—or there would not be if it were not for your kind." Nelda turned away and glared into the gloom. "What do you know of my life beyond what you see here?" she cried. "Of the caves you know nothing. You have only stood in the entrance chamber—within those tunnels there is much you would not understand. There are places where even I have never been and where I hope never to have to tread. Inside those caverns there is more than the sound of water dripping over stone. Jealousies fester there, dark eyes watch, biding their time, burning with hideous fires that would consume me utterly and which I could never quench. A hunger lives down there! A vile, creeping horror, and it frightens me!"
The boy said nothing, for her outburst startled him and he did not know what to say. As she gazed at the waves washing over the stones he waited in awkward silence but when she turned to him again there was almost a smile on her small, curved mouth.
"Forgive me," she sighed, "I am out of tempers this day. It is nothing—it will pass." Nelda swept the hat from her head and rubbed her tangled hair. "But take care, Ben," she began, adopting a false, light-hearted tone, "you must not hail me so loudly. What if another were to hear you? Unless they are blessed with the sight as you are—they would think you crazed."
"I don't care!" he said. "What if nobody else can see you? I can and that's all that matters. Do you know I've been here every day after school looking for you?"
She lowered her large grey eyes and her face creased into a warm grin. "Have you truly?" she asked.
"Yes, I even thought of shouting your name outside the hidden entrance, but I didn't want to get you into any trouble with the elders."
Nelda shuddered. "Then I thank you for not doing so," she said quickly, "I have no wish to anger them at present. The less dealings I have with the Triad the better."
"What's wrong?"
"You asked me that once before, do you remember?"
He nodded, "Back then you were worried about your father. You were afraid your uncle had killed him."
"And did the truth not reveal itself to be even so?"
"Yes, but what is it now?"
"Me," she replied softly, "I fear for myself."
"Can't I help?"
"Not this time, no, I must face this alone."
A gull flew overhead and Nelda paused to watch it soar over the cliff. When it had disappeared from view she slid from the boulder and stood on the sand, a solemn expression on her face.
"It is said that an aufwader's heart is a sure guide," she told the boy, "and mine is full of despair and dread. Listen to me, Ben, hear me now lest I am unable to tell you in later times. You have been a true friend. In the short time I have known you, you have done nothing but try to aid both me and the tribe. Never shall I forget your bravery in the search for the moonkelp."
Ben shook his head. "What are you trying to tell me?" he interrupted.
Nelda took his hand. "This is what my heart foretells," she answered, "there will be a parting of the ways—our meetings will end, the two races of man and aufwader will be sundered for ever. We shall not set eyes on each other again—not till the seas are lost and the bones of the land broken."
"I don't understand," he mumbled. "Why can't we go on meeting? Has someone forbidden it? Are you ill? You're not telling me everything."
But she was looking up at the sky. It had grown dark and she pulled the hat on to her head once more. "I must return," she said quietly, "back to whatever doom lies in wait. Look for me, Ben, here at this time, when the sun is low. If I am at liberty to come—I shall." And with that she hurried over the rocks and disappeared round the cliff.
Ben knew she had gone to one of the secret entrances which led to the aufwader tunnels. He felt miserable. "Nelda!" he feebly called after her. "Nelda."
Immediately his cry was taken up by two other voices. "NELDA!" they screeched. "NELDA!"
A sickening knot twisted in Ben's
stomach as he spun round. There on the shore, where they had been spying on him, were Danny Turner and Mark Stribbit; the two boys who bullied him at school.
"Who yer talkin' to Laurenson?" hooted Danny.
"Nelda, Nelda!" crowed the other.
Danny swaggered forward, he was an ugly boy of ten years whose sole delight was in frightening those smaller and weaker than himself. He had the face of a thug with a skinhead haircut and the manners of a dung beetle—no, worse than that even. Throughout the school his name was a byword for terror and dismay. He was the one the other children dreaded and who the teachers talked about in the staff room.
He knew just about every swear-word that ever fouled the air and had made up a few of his own for good measure. During assembly he would break wind during the Lord's Prayer, much to the distress of those unfortunate enough to be seated near him. His was the mouth which always cheeked the teachers and blew chewed-up pieces of paper through straws at them when their backs were turned. Then there was the infamous day when Susan Armitage took her coat from the cloakroom and discovered that someone had left "a present" in one of her pockets. No one knew how it had got there and although nothing could be proved, everyone suspected Danny. The coat had to be destroyed. Another of his favourite pastimes was travelling on buses and flinging eggs at pedestrians. Recently though he had mastered the dubious skill of spitting through his teeth and launching a thick yellow glob a full ten feet. He was one of the most unpleasant little yobs ever to have dreamt of having his knuckles tattooed.
The teachers despaired, for nothing they could do would change him. He steadfastly refused to be reformed. They had cajoled, bribed, even threatened, but the boy was out of control and in the past few weeks he had become worse.
Last Monday he punched little Mary Gibbons when she refused to hand over her dinner money, on Thursday he caught a seagull and wrung its neck, and now he and his stupid sidekick were concentrating their nastiness upon Ben.
"He's mad, ain'tcha, Pleb?" he said. "We thought yer was but now we know. Always talk to yersen, does yer?"
"Oooh Nelda, cooee!" tittered Mark.
Ben slithered off the rock and eyed the boys nervously. If he could only dash by them and make it over the sand to the pier steps.
"Yer frikened Laurenson?" Danny pouted mockingly. "Ain'tcha gonna tell us any more ghosty stories then?"
"Where's Old Bag Boston now?" sniped Mark. "She's as cracked as you are! Danny, tell 'im what we'll do to that three legged moggy o' theirs if we catch it."
"Tie it to a rocket on bommy night!"
"Or stick a banger up its bum!"
"Better still, build the bommie round it and roast the fleabag alive."
Ben darted forward, neatly sidestepping the first of his enemies, but Mark was ready for him and his quick fingers snatched his jumper.
"I've got him, Danny!" he yelled.
"Hold him!" snarled the other.
The two of them grabbed Ben's arms and pulled him round until his legs buckled and he tripped. Down on to the wet sand Ben went sprawling. In an instant he was struggling to his feet again but Danny was not finished with him yet.
"Stay down, yer goz-eyed loony!" he bawled, kicking his victim and pouncing on top of him.
Ben groaned as the full weight of the Turner boy flattened him against the sand. "Get off!" he shouted. "Let go!" squirming he managed to roll over until Danny was sitting on his chest and with his small fists tried to lay into him.
At once Mark seized his hands and pinned them down under his knees. Ben started to flail his legs in the air, trying to hit Danny in the back. One sharp punch to the ribs soon put a stop to that and Ben let out a hoarse grunt.
"Take off his shoes," Danny told Mark. In a trice it was done and the Stribbit boy flung them into the sea before returning to kneel on Ben's arms.
"That's better," hissed Danny. "Only donkeys kick, Laurenson, and yer not a donkey are yer?" He smirked and winked at his friend. "Us know what to call the likes of you—people what talk to thesselves are Cretins ain't they? What are you then? Yer a stinkin' little Cret—say it."
Ben said nothing so Danny slapped his face and Mark pressed down harder with his knees.
The boy cried out and in his suffering he wretchedly mumbled, "I... I'm a Cret."
Both tormentors were overcome with laughter and Ben could feel every quaking cackle vibrate through his body. He closed his eyes and wished they were dead.
The vicious mirth subsided and the next stage of the bullying began. "Right then, Cret!" said Danny. "Time for yer to have a wash. But us all knows that Cretins don't use water—they're too gormless for that."
"What do they use then, Danny?" Mark asked in feigned innocence.
"Sand!" came the triumphant reply and the two of them scooped up great handfuls of the stuff then rubbed it into Ben's hair and pushed it into his face.
Ben spluttered and Danny shoved some into his mouth. The boy choked and retched whilst the other two fell about laughing hysterically.
"Look who's balkin'!" roared Danny.
"He's red as a tomato!" added Mark, "an' them's tears in his eyes. The Cret's cryin'!"
"So would I if I lived in a nuthouse like 'im. Here, Cret, let me help yer get the 'orrid old sand off." Danny brought his face close to Ben's and spat venomously. "That's fer bein' weird, yer snotty little weed! No wonder yer an orphan—yer mum an' dad prob'ly topped thesselves to get away from yer! AAAARRGGG!"
Suddenly Danny flew backwards, screeching at the top of his voice. Ben felt the weight disappear off his chest and he craned his neck to see what was happening.
"Danny!" wailed Mark in surprise.
"Let him go!" came a fierce voice.
"Jennet!" gasped Ben.
Danny rubbed his neck angrily. It was Ben's sister who had sneaked up behind them. The girl had yanked him violently by the collar and a livid red mark was already glowing across his throat. He glared at her, she was a couple of years older than him and Mark but she was still only a girl.
"Right!" he stormed. "You'll be sorry for that!" With a loud yell he hurled himself at her, but his attack was shortlived for Jennet swung her schoolbag by its strap and brought it crunching into his face.
The boy let out an awful howl and stumbled about blindly, cursing with his head in his hands.
Jennet stepped towards Mark but he took one fearful look at his friend and decided not to tackle the girl on his own.
Blood began trickling through Danny's fingers. "Me nodes!" he bawled. "You'b bust me nodes!"
"Clear off or I'll break something else!" she growled.
The two boys stared at her—this was too much, to be chased away and by a girl too! Danny's temper was boiling but the blood dribbling down his arm alarmed him. "You'll keep, Cret!" he said to Ben. "Ad' dex tibe you'll dot 'ave that dog of a sister to save yer."
Jennet rushed at them and the boys ran off.
Ben wiped his face and staggered to his feet. He felt ashamed. Silently he waded into the sea and retrieved his shoes.
"You all right?" his sister asked.
He nodded but said nothing to her.
"They're little hoodlums they are," she continued. "What did you get mixed up with them for? He's a baddun that Turner lad—everyone says so, even his sister Rachel."
Ben poured the seawater out of his shoes and squeezed his feet into them. Jennet watched him and shook her head in disbelief.
"What are you doing?" she asked, "You'll catch a death putting them back on. Honestly, Ben, you're hopeless!"
"Shut up!" he shouted. "Just leave me alone!"
Jennet couldn't believe her ears. "Well excuse me!" she cried. "Who was it rescued you back then? God knows what would have happened if I hadn't stopped those two!"
Ben turned on her. "They would have got bored and stopped!" he screamed. "But now you've gone and made it worse! They'll never leave me be now! What did you have to go and hit Turner for? He won't be happy till he beats me up—or worse. If that's
what you call helping me, Jen, then thanks, but don't bother doing it again!"
He stomped off up the shore, leaving Jennet to sigh—she hadn't stopped to think her brother might not want to be saved. He was right; she had only made matters worse. Danny now had a score to settle.
"Ben," she called, "wait a minute—I'm sorry." Quickly she ran after her brother and put her arm around him. "I only did it because... because you're all I've got."
"You're not my mother!" he snapped, shaking her off.
"Ben!"
The boy looked at her—that had hurt. It had been a mean thing to say and he was already feeling guilty. "Sorry," he said.
Jennet took his hand. "Come on," she murmured, "let's go home."
Up the pier stairs they trailed, until they came to Church Street. It was empty. All the locals were indoors having tea and the shops were getting ready to close for the day. They met only one other person on their way back to Miss Boston's cottage; Mrs Rigby was one of the women who ran the wool shop and as the children passed her she stopped them.
She was a short, stocky woman with no neck to speak of. Her hair was blonde and curly and several moles peppered her face, although occasionally she tried to hide them under brush-loads of blusher. This was not one of those times and Mrs Rigby resembled someone who had been spattered with mud.
"Hello, Luvs," she hailed the children, "I don't suppose you've seen my Mokey have you?"
Jennet liked Mrs Rigby—or rather she liked to see what new knitted creation the woman was wearing. Today it was a white turtle-neck with patch pockets, covered in gold triangles and bizarre, bumpy lumps of wool. The girl stared at it for a moment. She had to admire the woman's courage for no one else would have dared to be seen dead in it, then she collected herself. Mokey was Mrs Rigby's cat.
"No," she replied, "we haven't. Has he gone missing?"
It was only then that she noticed how dreadful the woman looked. Her face was haggard and there was a desperate edge to her voice. Mokey meant a lot to her. Mrs Rigby twisted one of the fluffy bobbles on her turtle-neck. "He's been gone all afternoon," she said distractedly, "I just don't know what can have happened. He's usually such an obedient little character."
