The Power of Dark Read online

  Lil barely noticed. Plant pots were shooting from the unroofed shed like rockets and one of the walls had lifted off the base. It flipped over the garden wall and sailed sideways.

  ‘Unreal,’ she breathed.

  Sally let go of the denim. She barked some more, but when that had no effect, she pushed her nose under the trouser leg and nipped the girl’s ankle.

  Lil yelped as the dog reclamped her jaws to her jeans and started to drag her away from the window, forcing the girl to hop after.

  There was an almighty rumble, louder and deeper than any sound Lil had ever heard. It juddered right through her and the pain in her ankle was forgotten. The house shook as a massive slice of the cliff face calved away and came thundering down the slope, on to the Wilsons’ garden. Soil and stones slammed against the cottage and Lil’s bedroom window exploded inwards. The spot where she had been standing only moments before was speared with broken glass and rubble. The gale came screeching into the room, whipping up the bedding, wrenching the curtains from the rail and scattering yesterday’s birthday cards.

  Sally resumed her urgent, frightened barking as she backed against the door, with Lil frozen and gawping by her side. As she stared, a text beeped into Lil’s phone.

  Finally back!!! OMG u won’t believe what just happened!!!!

  In the midst of her fear, Lil almost laughed. She looked around at the devastation and prepared to take a photo of it to send to Verne. Then she saw the scene outside the gaping window and her mouth fell open.

  The darkness was choked with swirling debris, and other things that had been seized by the unnatural hurricane. Ancient coffins had been ripped from the exposed ground high above. They bounced down the collapsed cliff, rupturing and splitting open, spilling their occupants and surrendering them to the ferocious wind. Now dozens of nightmarish figures were flying in the sky. Old bones, some still wrapped in the tattered remnants of the clothes they had been buried in, were whirling through the air like autumn leaves. Skeletons somersaulted and tumbled on the wind, colliding, entangling, spinning round each other as though performing some ghastly, supernatural dance. Sticklike arms flailed, legs kicked and skulls were thrown back as jaws sprang open. They appeared gruesomely alive.

  Lil raised her phone and started filming that eerie waltz. This was better than Verne’s zombie apocalypse. But it was too dark for the figures to show up on the screen. Lil scowled and moved a little closer to the shattered window. She changed the camera settings and the shapes began to emerge. Zooming in, it showed billowing, ragged shrouds and rotted scraps of Sunday suits streaming like ribbons. The unearthly gale made marionettes of the skeletons. They pirouetted in a maniacal ballet, swooping low over the garden, then plucked up once more to spin above the roofs.

  ‘Now that is mirificus,’ the girl murmured.

  The funnelling wind tore round and round and the collisions became more violent. The bodies began to disintegrate as the brittle, mummified flesh and sinew that bound them snapped in the storm. Arms fell out of sleeves and heads spun away from necks.

  Anxious not to miss a moment, Lil continued to record. The one body that remained intact seemed to be looking straight at the lens. There was something foul and wicked about that dead face with its long, lank hair and Lil didn’t like it. There was malice in the blank eye sockets and the jaw was waggling as if with laughter. Lil tried to keep from shivering with revulsion to maintain a steady picture. Verne would never believe it. She didn’t believe it herself.

  The phone began to zoom in on that hideous skull and Lil frowned in irritation and tried to correct it. Too late the girl realised it wasn’t the phone at all – the skeleton was racing towards her.

  The fearful corpse came crashing through the broken window, bony hands reaching out. Lil didn’t have time to scream. That terrible face smacked into hers. The skull struck her forehead so violently she was thrown to the floor. A blast of decay blew from the open mouth into her own and the mane of dirty hair wrapped about her head. The phone slid from Lil’s fingers and she lay unconscious, insensible to the storm and Sally’s frantic barking – and yet she was aware of a creeping, unnatural cold that entered her mind, and with it a hissing voice.

  ‘Know me,’ it said. ‘In life, I was Scaur Annie. See that what my eyes saw; make my ears yours. Drink full my spite and hate. We two shall be one. Melchior Pyke’s power is waking. We must stop him. He shall not win, not this time. Scaur Annie will thwart him again.’

  ‘Scaur Annie . . .’ Lil murmured.

  ‘Live them days long buried, long dead,’ the voice inside her head commanded. ‘You be Scaur Annie. See what I saw. Hear what I heard.’

  ‘I . . .’ Lil breathed. ‘We . . . us . . . be Scaur Annie.’

  Outside, the squalling gale began to die down. Lil’s head lolled to one side and she remained motionless as her mind went journeying back, to relive the events of a summer night that was filled with anger and fear four hundred years ago.

  She opened her eyes to savage, angry yells, and scrambled backwards on all fours. But she wasn’t Lil any more and she wasn’t in her bedroom. Hundreds of years had peeled away. She was Scaur Annie, a seventeen-year-old barefoot girl in a coarse woollen kirtle and a tattered smock.

  A guttering rushlight illuminated the interior of a humble wooden shack, built on the grassy slope of the cliff, with ragged hangings to keep out the biting gales. Bunches of drying herbs and seaweed were suspended from the sloping roof; beautiful shells and the skeleton of a two-headed lamb dangled among them. Clay pots and jars were ranged against one of the walls, and a rough straw mattress covered in sacking lay by another. It was dark outside, but harsh voices filled the night.

  ‘Come out, you filthy-faced hag!’

  ‘Best you do, or we must come in and fetch.’

  ‘Shall we drag you out by your hair an’ beat you with sticks?’

  ‘Step out and make answer!’

  ‘Witch!’

  Scaur Annie scrambled into a corner of the hut, pulling her knees under her chin.

  ‘Get gone from my door!’ she cried. ‘Get gone, masters – else I’ll have at you. I’ll pray long an’ loud at Them what rule under the waves. Them’ll send shadows to pull you under. Your boats’ll be upended and you’ll drown in the cruel salt deep. Nowt but widows and bairns’ll be left. Think on it!’

  The hostile shouts and threats outside turned to anxious murmurs.

  ‘She’s workin’ up to ill-wish an’ grief-charm us,’ one of them said fearfully.

  ‘We must stop her ’fore she spells it!’

  ‘Aye. Burn the witch in her den. Fire will staunch her evil. Lob your lanterns at it.’

  Annie heard a lantern crash against her door. The oil splashed across the timbers and at once greedy flames leaped between them. Another lantern struck the roof and rolled all the way across, dropping down behind the back wall, leaving a burning trail in its wake.

  The girl shrieked and clutched at the talisman of three ammonites around her neck.

  ‘Save us!’ she implored. ‘O Ye mighty powers of the deep, Ye Three Lords under foam and wave – save this Your servant, Scaur Annie. Deliver her from fires. Send a knight to shield and guard her. Hear me, an’ ever more I’ll do Your bidding, by sky, sand and sea – I swears it.’

  The flames were roaring around her now. Choking black smoke stung her eyes and her long, matted hair was smouldering in the intense heat. The shack began to buckle and collapse. One of the blazing roof planks came crackling down inside. Annie screeched and her tattered skirts caught fire.

  In that terrifying, scorching moment, she heard a stern, commanding voice yell out and the burning door was ripped away. A tall, cloaked figure braved the leaping flames and strode into the inferno. She felt strong hands rip the fiery rags from her body, then carry her outside.

  Cold night air filled her gasping lungs and her eyes were blurred and streaming. The rescuer carried her down the steep slope to the beach and laid her gently on the sand
. Then he removed his cloak and covered her nakedness.

  Peering up, Annie tried to look on him, but her vision was watery. All she could make out was an imposing figure in a high black hat. Behind him, on the grassy ridge, her hovel blazed fiercely and nearby was a crowd of scared and angry men, bearing sticks and boathooks.

  ‘Peace be on you, mistress,’ her saviour said. ‘None shall harm you now. You have my solemn pledge.’

  ‘She’s a witch!’ the mob cried. ‘Cast her back into the flames. Let her evil be scourged from our land.’

  Drawing his sword, the stranger rounded on them.

  ‘Whosoever lays hands on this girl will feel the bite of my steel,’ he promised. ‘What is this madness?’

  The men eyed the weapon doubtfully. They were simple fishermen and farmers, unused to facing gentlemen with swords. The flames shone brightly over the blade and the sight cut through their righteous fury. Lowering their eyes, they grew silent and shuffled their feet – except for one.

  ‘Who are you to flout the Almighty’s justice?’ a sharp voice demanded.

  The crowd parted and the unmistakable figure of a Puritan strode forward. His face was grim and sour and he was uncowed by the blade that swung round to point at him.

  ‘I am Sir Melchior Pyke, natural philosopher, scholar and, at this moment, a whisker’s breadth away from adding butcher to my accomplishments,’ Annie’s protector thundered, and the authority in his voice caused many to gasp and stare. ‘What justice is here? I see none. Here is but a wretched girl cruelly wronged.’

  ‘Wronged?’ the Puritan cried. ‘Did you not hear? That foul hussy is in the devil’s service. Her mother was a witch and so is she. She is an abhorrence in the eyes of the Lord.’

  ‘I heard naught but frightened sheep bleating foolish accusations, and now I perceive that you are the shepherd who drives them to commit murder.’

  ‘Shepherd?’ the Puritan repeated with pride. ‘Aye, I am John Ashe, licensed preacher, and this is my flock.’

  ‘Whitby folk?’

  ‘Nay, Master,’ Annie spoke up from the folds of the cloak. ‘Them’s from Sandsend and yonder. There’s none in Whitby would hurt their Annie.’

  ‘Stay silent, witch!’ the preacher commanded, flinging sand at her face.

  ‘Do that again and I shall fillet you,’ her saviour growled.

  ‘You spoke of sheep,’ the Puritan said, undaunted. ‘Amen to that. Tom Brooksby, stand forth.’

  A stout, bald-headed man edged forward, not daring to meet the stern gaze of the man with the sword. Muttering under his breath, he explained he farmed a modest plot near Goathland. With a quick glance at Annie, he related how, yesterday, he caught her trespassing and chased her away. That night he was tormented by evil dreams in which she danced with a black ram and that morning he found two of his sheep dead.

  ‘’Twas her doing an’ no mistake,’ he said bitterly.

  ‘And them’s not the first to be killed in the dead of night!’ called another. ‘There’s many who’ve lost livestock.’

  ‘A wild dog is the most likely cause,’ Melchior Pyke stated. ‘As for your dreams, Tom Brooksby, they are the busy night’s work of your own conscience and ale-soaked fancies.’

  ‘All know she’s a witch and more!’ the preacher declared hotly.

  ‘And I say unto you, where are your proofs of malice? It’ll be the assizes for all if you dare harm this girl – and thence the drop.’

  ‘Proofs?’ the preacher cried. ‘There are ways of obtaining such proofs. Stand aside and I shall provide them. I have learning in these matters.’

  The sword jerked to the man’s throat and nicked a ribbon of blood from his neck. The preacher recoiled and the crowd murmured unhappily.

  ‘The law of King James allows it,’ the Puritan spluttered indignantly. ‘His own work, his Daemonologie, is most clear . . .’

  ‘Do not throw His Majesty’s name at me! I am lately come from Scottish Jimmy’s court. I know the king well and account him friend and patron. Before you cite any more of the king’s works, know that I assisted with the translation of his own Bible!’

  The claim drew astonished cries from everyone and any lingering resistance was quashed.

  ‘Friend of the king,’ they whispered in awe. ‘An’ a right holy one at that.’

  John Ashe studied the man’s face as if for the first time. He was surely not yet thirty years of age, his handsome features were strong with character and an intelligence as keen as his sword blade glinted in his steel-grey eyes.

  ‘I must yield to your greater learning,’ the Puritan said humbly. ‘Pray forgive any imprudence on my part.’

  ‘I do not call an attempted burning “imprudence”,’ the man replied sternly. ‘Yet you beg pardon of the wrong person. It was not I whom you wronged.’

  The Puritan looked down at the cloaked girl with displeasure.

  ‘The Almighty has watched over you this night,’ he said coldly. ‘Give thanks for His boundless mercy. Take learning from it and leave the paths of wickedness.’

  Annie glowered up at him and spat.

  ‘That was no apology,’ her rescuer agreed. ‘Now get gone from this place; you have done enough evil work this night. But hear me, all of you: restitution must be made. You will catch no fish, nor tend your beasts, till you have built a new home and furnished it to this lady’s liking. You will begin at first light, so bring timber and tools. Am I understood?’

  The crowd grumbled and John Ashe shook his head in defiance.

  ‘And you, preacher,’ Melchior Pyke instructed, ‘will bear the expense of those things that are not so easily replaced or remade, from your own purse.’

  ‘You overreach yourself !’ he objected.

  Many in the crowd agreed with him and their initial fear of the stranger was beginning to fade.

  ‘He can’t make us do that,’ some of them mumbled.

  ‘Oh, I can,’ he assured them. ‘If you are not here tomorrow, I will send my manservant to fetch each and every one of you. For your own sakes, I pray you, do not compel me to send him on that errand. He is not so patient as I – are you, Mister Dark?’

  He had called out, past the crowd, and they turned to see whom he was addressing.

  A tall, wiry-looking man in a long black coat had crept up silently behind them and they drew in their breath when he stepped into the firelight.

  No one had ever seen flesh so grey and cadaverous on a living man. His eyes were set deep under heavy brows, across which thick black hair bristled in a single unbroken line. His nose was long but crushed to one side and his mouth was wide and downturned, with thin, cruel lips. Grains of gunpowder were embedded in his cheeks like seeds, and a rough, jagged scar ran down the right side of his face, through his lips and down to his chin. Bound about his throat, tucked under his collar, was a thin scarf of grubby green silk, but it couldn’t disguise his misshapen neck. A nub of bone protruded from under the skin, where the marks of an old rope burn were still clearly visible.

  At the sight of him, half the mob hurried away and the rest followed when he pulled a snaplock pistol from his belt.

  John Ashe was visibly shaken and he turned back to Melchior Pyke.

  ‘Now I know you, my lord,’ he declared. ‘There has been talk of this crook-necked man. He has gained an ungentle reputation in the alehouses, and what is it you do, locked away in your rooms behind The White Horse?’

  ‘Science,’ Melchior Pyke answered flatly.

  ‘Science, is it?’ the Puritan snorted. ‘What science could guide you to Whitby?’

  ‘I was invited here to discover a more efficient method of extracting alum from the local shale.’

  ‘Is that why those foul, sulphurous reeks hang over The White Horse?’

  ‘Verily, sulphuric acid is essential to the process. Or are you ignorant enough to believe I was summoning Old Nick in those outbuildings?’

  The Puritan blustered and pointed an accusatory finger at Mister Dark.
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  ‘What manner of science drives your trained walking corpse to tramp the shore at night?’ he demanded. ‘He has been sighted; do not deny it.’

  At that moment, there was a flash and a small explosion as Mister Dark fired the pistol close to the Puritan’s head.

  John Ashe sprang back and glared at them both.

  ‘King’s friend ye may be,’ he said, ‘but King James is a long way from here. Tread with caution, my lord. I have you under my observance now. John Ashe shall know what truly brings you hither, with such a misbegotten creature as this – and why you give protection to witches. Aye, these things I shall discover.’

  He turned his back in a deliberate snub and strode off towards Sandsend, following the fleeing crowd.

  ‘There’s the fuse of trouble set smouldering,’ Melchior Pyke observed. ‘’Tis a blessed fortune my work here is almost done.’

  Looking down at the girl he had rescued, he helped her to stand.

  ‘All that were mine in this world were in there,’ she uttered, staring at the dying flames. ‘Weren’t much, but it were mine.’

  ‘Then until those villains make reparation, we must disregard the proprieties and invite you to our lodgings, mistress,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I know there is a supper waiting, to which you are most welcome, and we shall hunt you out fresh clothing. Come, take my arm.’

  Scaur Annie wasn’t used to kindness from lordly folk. She gazed into his handsome face and tried to read his purpose.

  ‘I saved your life,’ he reminded her gently. ‘I have travelled through many countries; in some of them, that very act decrees you are now my property.’

  The girl pulled away. ‘I can flit fast as a rabbit,’ she boasted defiantly. ‘You’ll never catch me. I know places where no one would never find me.’

  Melchior Pyke laughed. ‘Calm yourself. I seek only to feed and clothe you – naught else. There is no reason to be afraid.’

  So Annie allowed herself to be coaxed and she walked beside him, along the sands, towards Whitby.

  Behind them, the sinister Mister Dark cast his eyes up and down the shore and over the grassy cliff. He thought he caught sight of a small, weather-beaten face watching from behind a rock, but it was gone in an instant.