The Whitby Witches 2: A Warlock In Whitby Page 16

  His dark eyes opened wide and the full might of his power came shooting out of them. "Now," he hissed, "tell me."

  Mr Roper gasped and dropped to his knees. It was as though a tremendous weight was pinning him down, crushing and grinding him into the floor. Bolts of searing pain lashed his body, stabbing, scalding, breaking, he uttered a feeble wail then hid his face in his hands. The torture intensified, his skin bubbled and his muscles wasted on the bone. When he next opened his mouth, no sound came from it, and he fell prostrated before his enemy, crippled with agony.

  Nathaniel leaned forward, taking a sadistic delight in the pensioner's suffering. His baleful eyes continued to blast out their power and he wondered how much longer the man could last before surrendering.

  A thousand daggers pierced Mr Roper's flesh and an army of stinging ants went creeping into the wounds. A stream of acid trickled from above, splashing on to his back, smouldering through the clothes and eating into his spine. That was it. The old man lifted a trembling hand and pointed to the open parlour door. "Kitchen..." he whimpered, "under the floor." And he slumped on to the carpet, his torments over. "God forgive me," he blubbered, "forgive me."

  "Congratulations," Nathaniel said admiringly, "you lasted longer than many half your age." Stepping over him, he strolled casually into the hall and entered the kitchen, where, kneeling, he tugged at one corner of the faded linoleum and ripped a great chunk out of it.

  "Under here," he chanted ecstatically, "under here!"

  The floor covering was old and brittle, already cracked in places, it was only the work of seconds to rip it to shreds. Nathaniel held his breath with excitement, revealed amongst the tatters were large flagstones and upon one of them...

  The warlock cleared the remaining scraps of lino away. Carved into the centre of the largest stone was a symbol of the crescent moon. Hastily he fished in his pocket and brought out the plaster fragment. Sure enough, the mark corresponded to one of those inscribed there. Quickly, he took a knife from the drawer and levered the flagstone up an inch. Then he slid his fingers underneath and lifted it clear.

  "What is this?" he bawled, staring into the space beneath. "It's empty!" His lip curled into a snarl and he whirled about. "Roper!" he shrieked. "Trick me would you?"

  He was furious and charged back to the parlour, only to find that empty too. Even as he gazed incredulously round the wrecked room, a chill draught touched his cheek—the front door was open.

  Down the dark ginnel, Mr Roper fled. He wasn't sure where he would go, he just had to escape. The memory of his agonies under Nathaniel still loomed large in his mind and, panting, he limped further into the echoing alley. Ribbons of grey mist swirled about his feet, whisking into turgid flurries as he staggered by, his frantic breathing steamed from his mouth and the blood sang in his ears. He must get free, away from that evil man, away to safety, away from pain—he had endured too much.

  Suddenly a cold, hard voice rang out in the ginnel. It cut through the whirling mist, sounding hollow and dreadful.

  "HALT!" it commanded.

  Mr Roper cried out in alarm. Horrified, he swayed back and to but his feet refused to take another step forward. It was as if the mist had turned to glue and was holding him captive. Try as he might he could not wade through the clinging, foggy strands. His old heart quailed as the sharp sound of footsteps came to him out of the darkness and slowly he turned to face his fear.

  The mist behind him billowed and curled, forming a spectral tunnel of smoke and framed at the far end of it, prowling slowly towards him, came Nathaniel.

  "Old man," he sang, his voice bleak and sinister, "old man, I said I wouldn't play games, but I had forgotten what the night was. In these parts you call it Mischief Night don't you? A time of tricks and deception. Are you really this brave or merely senile? I shall ask you once more and this time you shall tell me the truth."

  "Keep away," Mr Roper murmured, "keep away."

  The mist eddied before the warlock as he strode closer, gathering thickly about his arms as he raised them and pointed at the trapped old man. This time it was different, there would be no entertainment, no lingering gloat over the physical pain. Just one, severe thrust with his mind, slashing through the flabby brain of his victim to extract the information he needed.

  "Where is the second guardian?" he demanded.

  Mr Roper howled as a black sword seemed to pierce his skull. He fell against the wall and his eyes grew large and wide. There was no resistance to that kind of mental power, he had lost.

  As the darkness leaked into the old man's head, his teeth ground together and he slid to the wet ground. Nathaniel walked over to him, the mist wrapped around his shoulders like a great cape. Sneering, he thrust once more with the might of his mind and the broken figure below him groaned.

  "B... Ben," gurgled Mr Roper helplessly, "Ben has it."

  Nathaniel scowled. "You entrusted one of the most precious artefacts in the world to an eight year old boy?" he rumbled in disbelief.

  The old man convulsed as yet another intangible blade lanced his mind and searched for the truth. "Yes," he gibbered, "he's the one, I swear it."

  "Then he must be made to give it up," said

  Nathaniel coldly. "I must have a nice chat with him, like the one we're having now."

  "Can't," wheezed Mr Roper, "you can't attack him. He's touched the moonkelp, the only... the only living creature apart from the Deep Ones who has. Your spells would be... be useless!"

  Nathaniel gave a cruel little snort and the black sword twisted viciously in his victim's mind. "Don't be too sure, old man," he spat, "there are other methods at my disposal."

  Mr Roper held his head in his hands, it felt as though it was going to explode. "Stop the pain," he grovelled, "make it stop."

  A sickening smirk crept on to the warlock's face, "As you wish," he murmured, "I have learnt all I can here. You have my permission to die."

  Mr Roper, kindly and mild, a gentleman always and keeper of the second guardian, perished in the cold mist.

  10 - The Briding

  The vast shape of the cliff reared massive and black above Ben's head. The moon was hidden by cloud so there was no light to guide him, and twice he slipped on the moss-covered rocks. Some way in front, Nelda's grandfather plodded on unerringly, making straight for the hidden entrance to the aufwader caves. Tarr was more sure-footed than any goat and could pick his way over boulders and between the pools of freezing water blindfold.

  When Ben slipped for the third time, the old aufwader glanced over his shoulder and mumbled tetchily into the neck of his gansey, "Stop dawdlin' lad, we'm almost theer."

  "Sorry," the boy replied. His hands were covered in green slime from the moss and he wished he had put his gloves on before they had set off. Wiping his palms on his coat he delved into his pockets to rectify the situation, but could only find one crumpled glove, the fingers of which were stuck together by an old boiled sweet. Ben grumbled to himself, he was always losing things.

  Tarr called to him and they moved further round the black volume of the rock until the distant lamps of Whitby were hidden behind the spur. Gradually, Ben became aware of a pale radiance shining over the moss-covered ground and glimmering on the surface of the spreading pools. Looking up, he saw that the great stone doors of the aufwader caves were open wide and many of the fisherfolk were gathered at the entrance with lanterns in their hands. A low babble of talk began as they approached and Ben stopped a moment to hear what they were saying.

  "'Ere's Tarr now," a voice drifted down.

  "Is the human with him?" asked another.

  "Come an' see for thissen," replied the first.

  "Uurrgh—nasty creature! Them's so ugly."

  Ben's ears burned, and could feel their eyes boring into him. He had never seen the whole tribe together before, except from a distance at the funeral of Nelda's aunt. His nervousness at the prospect of meeting them steadily increased and this, mingled with his excitement made it imposs
ible for him to concentrate on where to place his feet. For the fourth time he slithered and fell, grazing his hands on the wet shingle. High above derisive laughter broke out and the boy gazed ruefully at them.

  Nelda's grandfather shook his head and retraced his steps back to Ben. "Now then," he said gruffly, "what ails thee? Tha's flappin' about like a crow wi' one wing."

  Ben struggled to his feet, embarrassed to have looked so foolish. "I'm sorry," he said, "it's just so dark down here."

  From the entrance, one of the aufwaders called, "Get brisk Tarr! The waters'll be over thy head afore long."

  Tarr grunted disagreeably and waved his staff in the air. "Prawny Nusk, hold yer tongue and shine a light down 'ere. This poor tyke can't hardly see his hand in front of his face."

  One of the figures held up its lantern and the silvery rays illuminated a small area of the shore. Tarr turned to Ben; the aufwader was outlined by the lamplight which shimmered along the edges of his large ears, glinted in his whiskers and formed a frosty halo all around him.

  Holding out a knobbly hand, he said in a kindly voice, "Dunna pay no heed to them, folk'll hoot at owt if'n they's boggled enough. And mark me—us are all scared toneet."

  So, helped by Tarr, Ben began to climb up the cliff face. Slowly, they ascended, finding footholds and scrambling on to small ledges until a number of weathered hands came grasping at the air above their heads. As the boy reached out for them he felt many fingers tighten about his arms and draw him upwards.

  "Easy, easy," Nelda's grandfather shouted to them, "'umans ain't strong, dunna break 'im."

  Ben had seen it once before, but was still overawed by the size of the chamber. The main entrance to the aufwader caves was cluttered with small boats and kreels that leaned against the rough walls and festoons of weighted nets entirely curtained off one corner, making it look like the cocooned nest of some immense insect. Overhead hung the giant mechanism which operated the huge stone doors. This was a rusted jumble of enormous cogs, iron pulleys and long chains.

  Evidently some effort had been made to try and decorate the chamber in honour of the occasion. Here and there, lamps had been hung from a piece of corroded metal and, strung between these were garlands of seaweed—laced with bright shells and smooth pebbles of iridescent, sea-polished glass. But the overall effect was a cheerless and disjointed hotch-potch. A dismal failure that was unpleasant to look on, and a more oppressive, funereal display would have been hard to imagine.

  The fisherfolk who had hauled Ben inside, set him on his feet then backed away nervously. Few of them had ever been so close to a human before, let alone actually touched one.

  They eyed him warily, as though he might spring at them any moment and some even clasped fishing poles and boat hooks in readiness.

  In turn, Ben stared at them. Most of the tribe were assembled there; with weathered faces, scored by deep wrinkles and burnt by the wind. All wore ganseys, patterned according to his or her family, though a few added to this thick woollen shawls or an oilskin found washed up on the shore. The womenfolk were generally smaller than their partners, and kept their hair long and loose down their backs, but some preferred to braid it with seaweed and tie it round with discarded seagull feathers.

  One of the sea wives who had helped Ben up, brushed her hand against her cheek and murmured, "Its skin is so soft!" She gazed at the strange creature with wide eyes that were full of regret and sadness, and sobbed, "It's like... like a babe's."

  Several of the other females went over and comforted her, throwing curious glances at the human child. A desperate emptiness showed in all their faces.

  "What's the matter?" he asked. "Have I done something wrong?"

  The sea wives shuffled forward, first circling the boy, then closing in on him. As they reached out their hands, Ben felt an overwhelming desire to turn back and jump out of the cave.

  "A bairn!" they uttered sorrowfully.

  "Let me touch it!"

  A squat figure, with a necklace of shells and an eyepatch, pressed nearer to him and gently caressed his skin. A solitary tear sprang from her good eye and she hastened away to mourn in a dark corner.

  A dozen other hands came stroking and patting, but all were soft and tender, like the flutter of autumn leaves floating past his face. And then they fell back and he found himself in a ring of weeping women who rocked silently to and fro, their hearts broken and bleeding for what had never been.

  Quietly, Tarr came up behind the boy and put his hand on his shoulder. "Nivver you mind them," he whispered in his ear, "remember, the curse of the Lords of the Deep lies heavy on us all. No bairn's bin born to us since Nelda—and her mother only did that for the great love she had for my son Abe." Silently he recalled the agonies Nelda's mother had suffered. The torture of the birth had been dreadful and it was a miracle his granddaughter had survived, no other baby ever had. "A lingering death it is," he lamented, "and the poor lass endured it for nearly two whole weeks afore she passed on—wasted and spent into the shadows."

  Ben turned to look at him and found that Tarr, crotchety and bluff as he was, was crying.

  "I'm sorry," said Ben.

  "'Tain't thy fault," muttered Tarr, wiping his eyes on his sleeve, "but the cruel hard hearts o' them what lives in the deep waters."

  The boy fell silent and stared at the ground. It was his fault. If it wasn't for him, the mother's curse would have been lifted and hope would have returned to the tribe.

  Tarr coughed and cleared the lump from his throat. "It's time," he said solemnly, "ah mun go t' fetch Nelda." He patted the boy on the back and limped from the entrance chamber.

  Ben looked from one kippered old face to another. Now the initial shock had worn off, the male aufwaders were regarding him with resentment. Here was a member of the hated and untrustworthy human race, who had done them so much wrong in the past. Their thoughts turned to all the legends in which "sighted" men had played a part. In those tales landfolk had always betrayed and done only harm to their people. It was mostly due to them that they were forced to live in secret and underground. Only one aufwader dared to smile benignly at the boy and Ben guessed this to be Tarr's friend, Prawny Nusk.

  "Over here," he beckoned to the boy, "watch with me the tide a creepin' up the shore."

  Ben turned gladly from those reproachful eyes and the chill sea breeze ruffled his hair. He smiled in gratitude at Tarr's friend and filled his lungs with the keen salt air.

  The view looking out from the entrance was one vast stretch of water. The dark sea reached far into the invisible horizon, a mighty realm where wild things lived and bided their time. Deep and black was the night and the sky seemed to blend with the rim of the watery world, curving down into the distant waves, taking darkness into that cold, foam-topped world.

  "She'm fillin' the pools now," remarked Prawny as he raised his lantern, "sithee down yonder, the tides racin' in. Won't be long, an then the poor lass'll be wed."

  "I don't understand," said Ben. "Doesn't Nelda want to get married?"

  Nusk only shook his head and the mane of sand-coloured hair shivered about his shoulders.

  Only then did Ben understand Tarr's unhappiness. Appalled, he stared out at the expansive, rising waters, feeling sick and cold.

  ***

  With a comb clamped between her teeth, Old Parry leaned back and squinted at what she had done. "Tha's lovely," she admitted after removing the comb, "a right, fair maid." The normally acid-tongued aufwader dabbed at her eyes and gulped back a cry. It was over three hundred years since she had wed her Joby and he had taken that final voyage on the black boat only fifty years after that.

  Nelda stood still as stone near the entrance to her chamber. At that moment she was the most beautiful aufwader ever to have lived; her hair had been teaseled and combed free of sand and now a coronet of rare, underwater flowers sat lightly upon her brow and more were woven into her long tresses. She was arrayed in a richly-embroidered dress which all the womenfolk had been at pains
to complete in time, sitting up throughout the night to accomplish the delicate task. It was a glorious, blue-green colour that shimmered like the sea itself when she moved and, in the stitches, traced her lineage down many generations. About the neck tiny pearls had been sewn and around her waist was a belt of silver decorated with the three-pronged symbol of the Lords of the Deep.

  It took three sea wives to fuss over and groom her in all her bridal finery. Old Parry was one of these, the other two were Maudlin Trowker and a toothless crone known only as Baccy because all she ever did was suck on a clay pipe and cackle to herself. If the truth be known, the latter did very little in helping Nelda to get ready, she only wanted to make sure she didn't miss out on anything interesting and sat nearby, hunched on a bunk sucking her gums and muttering battily to herself.

  Maudlin fiddled with a stubborn bloom which refused to stay put in the young aufwader's hair, then she too stood back and heaved a great sigh. "Why," she said, "you'd outshine the moonkelp itself were it here."

  Old Parry snorted. "Puh!" she exclaimed. "If it were here the girl wouldn't have to wed at all."

  At this, Baccy the crone gave a prolonged cackle and the pipe rattled between her blackened gums. Maudlin gave both of them an irritated glare then turned, smiling, back to the bride.

  "Dinna fret yourself," she said, "it's a new life that's waitin' for you. At the close of the night you'll be Nelda Grendel. I know it ain't what you wanted..."

  "It's not what anyone would want," Parry chipped in.

  Maudlin carried on as though she hadn't spoken. "But it may not be so bad. Aye, Esau was wrong to force this upon you but what's done is done. Look you to the future now—prepare for what lies ahead."

  Old Parry stuck the comb into her tangled mass of grizzled hair where it wagged like the tail of a dog. "Bah," she grimaced, "dinna fill the maid's head wi' such claptrap! That Esau's an evil, covetous nazard who wants his face slappin' an' if'n he weren't the eldest of us all I'd do it missen. 'Tain't right any of this, why she's nowt but a lass, barely a babe and tricked into wedlock!"