The Whitby Witches 2: A Warlock In Whitby

by Robin Jarvis

  Nathaniel smiled smugly and sat in the chair. He was totally in control and savoured his authority. With a hollow purr, the Mallykin curled up round his feet.

  "Say hello, Ben," said Jennet sitting on the sofa, "show Nathaniel you're not rude all the time."

  Her brother dragged his wide eyes momentarily from the fish demon, just long enough to see the girl sitting calmly and utterly oblivious to what was really going on.

  "Can't you see it?" he asked.

  Jennet gave him a puzzled look. "Don't start that again," she warned him trying to sound superior and mature. "Honestly, Nathaniel, before you arrived, he was talking the most ridiculous, babyish drivel."

  The warlock pretended to listen attentively to her, but his dark eyes were on Ben the whole time—malice flowing steadily from them.

  Jennet cupped her chin demurely in her hand and lavished upon the man her warmest smile. "I'm so glad to see you. Isn't the news terrible?" Nathaniel seemed not to have heard her. "The dreadful news," she repeated.

  "Yes, dreadful," he said distractedly before breaking the beam of smouldering hatred directed at Ben. "Oh, the boy on the cliff you mean? Yes, a singularly frightening incident." The warlock seemed to relish the words and he gave a knowing smirk, which only the boy saw, and his eyes wandered down to the fish demon.

  "A veritable nightmare," Nathaniel resumed and Ben knew that his words were meant for him. "I fear that we all live in an uncertain world. Just when you think you are safe something—or someone—comes along and proves you wrong. The human body is very poorly designed, don't you think? We are all so very fragile, the slightest injury can defeat us, and it can happen so, so easily."

  He tapped his fingers on the chair and at once the Mallykin lurched to its clawed feet and advanced towards the unwitting girl. Ben started forward but the creature hissed at him and began pacing around her threateningly.

  "Stop making that silly noise," Jennet told her brother. "You know Nathaniel," she continued, "we were planning to have a bonfire tonight but it was knocked down yesterday. A shame, because I wanted to invite you to it—we could have had a lovely time. Still, the wood's all there. If you'd help we could build it up again. With your strong hands we'd do it in no time."

  "Remember, remember," the warlock chanted, completely ignoring her request, "the fifth of November. Do you know why we light fires?"

  "The gunpowder plot," Jennet enthused.

  Nathaniel's eyebrows raised and he shook his head. "No," he said in a whisper, "that's what they teach you now but it's not true at all. It's merely an excuse, a decoy from the truth if you like and one cleverly masterminded by the oh-so-pious Christian church. People have always lit fires round about this time of year, long before sixteen hundred and five—and do you know why?"

  Ben watched as the fish demon stood menacingly before Jennet's unsuspecting face, waving its claws dangerously close to her eyes.

  "Bonfires," Nathaniel continued, revelling in taunting the boy, "the answer is in the word itself, bonfire—bonefire. In almost every culture, this is traditionally a time of slaughter. The Anglo-Saxons called it Blotmonath—the month of blood."

  The Mallykin spread its claws wide and twined them in Jennet's hair. The girl gave a flick of her hand, thinking a fly was tangled there.

  "This was the time of great feasting," the warlock muttered watching the boy intently, "when all the beasts who would not make it through the coming winter were butchered to conserve the stored feed for the rest."

  "Ooh, it sounds spooky," cooed Jennet, enraptured by the man's melodic voice.

  Nathaniel gave a slight, insidious chuckle and, turning to her, added, "But the carnage wasn't confined to cattle alone. Often the infirm, weaker members of tribes would be slaughtered—the sickly and the old, anyone who did not contribute to the community. An efficient policy, don't you agree? No wasters and idlers there "

  He clicked his fingers and, at once, the fish demon clambered on to the back of the sofa, stretching its deformed arms out and bringing its gaping jaws down to the back of her skull, encircling Jennet in a ring of death.

  "What great pyres there must have been in those forgotten times," Nathaniel persisted, "What splendid and unashamed barbarity."

  "With all the deaths last night," Ben interrupted, "it looks like times haven't changed that much. Seems there are still a few barbarians left."

  Nathaniel gave him a threatening stare, then he grinned horribly and said, "Jennet, be a good little love and make me a cup of tea."

  "Of course," she said, only too willing to serve him. The girl left the room and the fish demon toddled fiendishly behind her.

  As soon as she was gone, Nathaniel pressed the tips of his fingers together and asked in a harsh, teasing voice, "Well boy, what do you think of my pet?"

  "It's just the sort I'd expect you to have," Ben replied, sounding braver than he actually felt. His heart was in his mouth. The thought of his sister alone in the kitchen with that foul abomination made his skin crawl and his palms were drenched in sweat. "If anything happens to Jen..." he muttered.

  "No need to be concerned," the warlock assured him, "the little fellow is entirely under my control, although I did make the mistake of allowing a measure of free will last night. That unfortunate boy on the cliff was meant to be you."

  "Danny?" Ben gasped.

  "Was that his name? It doesn't really matter, what does however is a certain device I believe your doddery friend gave to you. Be thankful that today I have decided to try a different tack to obtain it."

  Ben sneered, his hatred for Mr Crozier distorting his features. "It was you who killed Mr Roper, wasn't it?" he accused.

  Nathaniel beamed and said in a disgustingly casual way, "The old fool was too stubborn for his own good—I do hope you're not going to make the same mistake."

  Ben had had enough, merely talking to the man made him feel dirty. "Call your monster in here!" he demanded. "Get it away from my sister."

  "Tut, tut," remarked Nathaniel in disappointment, "now that isn't how it works is it? You give me what I want and I spare pretty little Janet."

  "Jennet!" he corrected angrily.

  "If you keep me waiting much longer, she won't need a name. Listen to me boy, all I have to do is relax my concentration and my cat will jump at the mouse. The Mallykin has a most voracious appetite."

  There was nothing else Ben could do—it was either surrender to Nathaniel or let him murder his sister. Faced with this terrible dilemma, the boy had no option but to fetch the second guardian from his room. Leaving the parlour he glanced briefly into the kitchen, then dashed upstairs.

  The fish demon was shadowing Jennet closely, pattering after her and mirroring her every move, always watching and gloating over her. Once it stood on her foot and she pulled away, staring at the empty air below in surprise. The vile creature hopped about madly, jumping on to the table where it gazed directly into the girl's face. The saucer-round eyes shone with a covetous, green light—how it would love to feast on her. Already last night's gorging was fading into a dim memory and its glistening pot-belly hungered for more.

  When Ben came downstairs his sister was sitting back in the parlour and both she and the warlock were sipping at cups of tea.

  Mr Crozier's eyes flickered over the boy as he entered and roved to the velvet bag he carried behind his back.

  "Have you any biscuits to go with this?" Nathaniel asked the girl to get rid of her.

  "Oh, I'm sorry," she apologised hastily, "I'll just get some." Jennet hurried into the kitchen, followed once more by the fish demon. As soon as she was out of sight, Ben handed the second guardian over and the man snatched it from him.

  "At last," he breathed, thrusting it into his jacket pocket. "A wise decision boy. Now, if you wish to keep your sister out of danger I suggest you stay out of my way."

  "What will you do?" Ben asked. "Will you destroy it like you did the one in the church?"

  "You already know the answer to that. All th
e guardians must be dispensed with."

  "There's only one more to find now, isn't there?" Ben said. "Well, you won't find it—even the fisherfolk don't know where it is. And they wouldn't give it to you if they did!"

  "We'll see about that," Nathaniel spat in annoyance. "A cat is a useful pet my lad. Set it amongst pigeons and any resistance is rapidly quashed."

  "What do you mean?"

  The warlock laughed wickedly, "How strong do you think the aufwaders are child? Are they prepared, do you think, for a confrontation with my little demon? He'll set them bolting down their filthy holes and it won't be long before the guardian made by Irl is uncovered."

  Ben was horrified, "You can't let that thing loose down there!" he cried. "The fisherfolk would all be killed, they won't be able to defend themselves!"

  "Ben?" said Jennet, coming in with a plate of biscuits. "What are you going on about now?"

  Nathaniel twitched his fingers and the fish demon capered over to rest at his feet again. "What a delightful baby brother you have, dear Jennet," he told her, "we were just getting acquainted. He really does have the most intriguing imagination."

  "I hope he hasn't been bothering you," she said, throwing Ben a moody glance.

  Nathaniel helped himself to a digestive. "Not at all," he answered rising from the chair, "it's been most—rewarding, but now I really must get going." Giving Ben one last smile, he patted his jacket pocket and sang under his breath, "Remember, remember the fifth of November."

  When they were in the hall, it amused Nathaniel to kiss Jennet lightly on the forehead. "Until next time," he said to her, "if you care to see me again that is."

  "Of course I do," she said desperately. "Nathaniel I...I..."

  "Yes?" the warlock asked, delighting in her torture.

  "I love you!"

  "Do you indeed?" he laughed mockingly. "How sweet in one so young."

  "I do," she insisted, "really."

  In the parlour, the fish demon hesitated a moment, spitting hatefully at Ben, then scurried out after its master. With relief the boy heard the front door close and let out a great sigh.

  "Thank God that's over!" he shuddered.

  Jennet lingered for a while in the hall, pressing her fingers against her lips. Trance-like she wandered back to the room, a delirious smile traced over her mouth.

  Ben couldn't believe it. "Are you so potty over that... that awful man?" he cried. "Can't you see how blind you've been?"

  The girl blinked as though stirring from a heavenly sleep. "What's up with you?" she asked.

  "Crozier!" Ben stormed. "Didn't you hear what he was saying—or see how he treated you?"

  Jennet regarded him with bemused astonishment. "Oh stop showing off," she said coldly, "it's not clever—you're only after attention. Well I won't stay here and listen, I'm going to finish my book in my room!"

  "He's evil, Jen!" Ben cried, but the parlour door had already slammed behind her.

  ***

  Joan Gregson knelt beside her husband and stirred the baby food around in the jar. She was haggard. All her life the woman had been a scourge and a scold but now Nathaniel had tamed her.

  Timidly she obeyed his every word, cooked his meals and washed up after him. He was a terrifying guest to have under her roof and for the first time since the day of her wedding she longed to have her husband comfort her.

  "Oh Norman," she said, her chin trembling, "what are we to do? Just what will become of us?"

  Her husband made no reply. Ever since the warlock had forced him into his chair, he had been unable to move or speak. Staring fixedly into space, he was a shadow of his former self.

  Mrs Gregson scooped up a spoonful of creamed banana and pushed it into his mouth. This laborious work was the only way to feed her husband—and, though most of the runny mixture dribbled obstinately out again, she felt that at least she was doing her best for him.

  "If he ever lets us go," she promised, "I swear never to shout at you again. You can go to the pub any time you like and sit in your vegetable patch all day if you want."

  The words fell on deaf ears—Norman Gregson could just as well have been a wax dummy.

  "Please swallow some of this, dear," she implored and coaxed him. "You have to eat something!"

  After several minutes, the distraught woman broke down and sobbed her heart out against her husband's shrinking stomach.

  "Don't leave me on my own, Norman," she wept, "don't die on me."

  "Really, Mrs Gregson," came a dissatisfied voice, "this house is a midden!"

  Quickly, she jumped to attention—her guest had returned. "I'm sorry," she cried, "I haven't had time to do any tidying."

  Nathaniel kicked over a pile of gardening magazines and they slithered over the floor. "Then I suggest you make time!" he scolded. "It's not fit to live in."

  "Yes, sir," she agreed humbly. "I'm most awful sorry."

  The warlock strode over to the fireplace. "At least you keep a cheery hearth," he remarked, "that's something, I suppose. Mind you, I imagine that's for your dullard of a husband's benefit and not mine."

  "Why no, Mr Crozier," she protested, "I wouldn't want you comin' back to a cold house."

  He chuckled softly to himself and slipped his hand into his pocket. "Well I hope you're not neglecting your spouse," he said. "Remember what I said about bathing his eyes regularly, without the blink reflex they'll dry up."

  "Oh no, sir," she answered, "I've been seein' to that all right. But what I was thinkin'... well, you see, Mr Crozier, I was only wondering, if your stay was going to last much longer?" She shuffled away, expecting to be rebuked and made to suffer some terrible punishment, but to her surprise Nathaniel only nodded.

  "Don't you worry," he said in a whisper, "I assure you I shall soon depart. My stay in Whitby is almost over, there remains but one thing more for me to accomplish and that is already in hand."

  Mrs Gregson brightened at this news till a sudden doubt seized her. "You will set my Norman free when you go, won't you?" she asked.

  "Dearest Joan," laughed Nathaniel, "believe me, when I get what I want, both you and your husband will be completely released from all your troubles." And he threw back his head to laugh at her.

  "Now," he said, growing serious again, "would you like to see some fireworks, dear lady? It seems entirely appropriate for today."

  "Whatever you wish," she murmured, fearing the cause of his horrible laughter.

  The warlock took the second guardian from his jacket and turned it over in his hands.

  "That's pretty," she ventured. "Looks expensive—antique is it?"

  "Priceless," he informed her, "more ancient than your dull and flabby brain can imagine. See here? It says, 'STREONA MEC HEHT GEWYRCAN'—'Streona had me made'. The craftsman who made this died over fifteen hundred years ago, perhaps more. What a truly beautiful marvel—it must have taken him ages to complete. A painstaking, lovely piece of art—so very, very exquisite and infinitely precious."

  With that, he let the wooden tablet fall from his fingers and crash into the fire below.

  "Sir!" warned Mrs Gregson, reaching for the poker.

  "Let it be!" he told her. "Let it burn. Its time is over."

  The flames crackled furiously over the guardian, rapidly consuming the ancient wood, spluttering and fizzing as it charred and turned to ash.

  Nathaniel stared down with satisfaction as the magical device withered from the world. His face was illumined by a lurid, orange glow and he chuckled happily to himself.

  Soon there was only a blackened piece left, a defiant chunk which refused to burn away completely. Nathaniel took the poker from his hostess and rammed it into the heart of the fire, splitting the stubborn fragment into many splinters which the flames then devoured.

  A blinding light burst from the hearth, blowing soot and flames into the living-room. Mrs Gregson shrieked in fright but Nathaniel stood his ground and watched gleefully as a tremendous rush of golden sparks rushed violently from the grate
and soared up the chimney.

  "It is gone!" he cried. "The second guardian is no more!"

  The woman stared dumbly at him, not understanding what he had done. Then the room grew dark.

  "What's happening?" she whimpered.

  In his hand, Nathaniel held the plaster fragment where the sign of the crescent moon glowed briefly and was gone. Beside the mark of Hilda only one other symbol remained. "Night has come early to Whitby," the warlock muttered.

  Rushing to the window, Mrs Gregson cried, "The day is failing! It's as if the sun has died!"

  Upon the mantelpiece, her ornaments began to tremble, then a china dog jerked and danced along a shelf until it fell off the edge and shattered on the floor. The window panes cracked and an ominous tremor rumbled beneath the cliff, shaking the very foundations.

  Mrs Gregson leaped away from the window as the glass broke free of the frame and came crashing down in a million deadly splinters.

  "It's an earthquake!" she screamed.

  Outside, the yard rippled like the surface of turgid water and the length of Church Street buckled, spewing out its cobbles. The shrill clamour of windows exploding cut the air and great cracks zig-zagged through many buildings. Dislodged mortar rattled down and the door of the post office was torn from its hinges and fell with a crash out on to the pavement.

  Mrs Gregson ran over to her husband and threw her protective arms about him. "You've done this!" she howled at Nathaniel. "Make it stop! Make it stop!"

  But the warlock was too thrilled to hear her. It was starting already—it was waking. "I must see!" he cried. "I must get out there!"

  "No," Joan panicked, "free Norman first. If we stay in here we'll die—the roof will collapse. You can't leave us!"

  Nathaniel gave the woman a cruel smile. "Better to die quickly now," he scorned, "than shrivel before what I have awoken." And with that he left Mrs Gregson to scream alone, clinging on to the motionless body of her husband.

  After an eternity of enchanted sleep and constraint, the hour of destruction had come at last.

  13 - The Waking Of Morgawrus