The Whitby Witches 3: The Whitby Child Page 6

Doctor Adams was out of the front door as fast as his legs could take him and Miss Wethers stared after his receding figure with a vexed and injured look on her face.

  "My!" said Sister Frances, slipping into the hall. "He's in a whirl today, isn't he? I wanted to prevail upon him and see if there were any more of his patients I could cheer up."

  Edith gave an angry squeak and thrust the biscuit plate into the nun's hands—much to her delight.

  "Well really, Alice!" the unhappy woman whined, charging into the sickroom. "How could you be so rude?"

  Miss Boston looked at her crossly. "Oh, stop fussing, Edith!" she bellowed, making up for lost time. "Things are going to change around here. Don't just stand there, I want a cup of herbal tea—there's a packet at the back of the cupboard! Then you can take that wheelchair from the garden shed. I'm not going to be cooped up any longer!"

  Miss Wethers' anger dissolved before this commanding presence and she meekly hurried away to comply.

  "Poor Edith," Aunt Alice chuckled mischievously. "I'm afraid she won't have a minute's peace. We'll show her and that jumped-up stethoscope twirler, won't we, Benjamin?"

  The pair of them laughed and, standing alone by the door, Jennet watched for a moment before she disappeared to her room.

  ***

  When night stole over the town the rain clouds finally dispersed, and in the clear heavens the stars shone coldly. A frost-haloed moon blazed pale and white, its ghostly beams shimmering a wide path over the sea and turning the sand upon the shore to silver. Below the cliffs, the world was lost in deep shadows, but between the black rocks, two small figures slowly clambered.

  "The very air bites tonight," Nelda said with a shudder. "Will you tell me now? Why did you wake me and draw me from my warm bed?"

  Her companion said nothing but continued to lead the aufwader over the rocky shore.

  Tired and cold, Nelda was in no mood for games. "If you refuse to tell me," she said, "I shall turn back!"

  In front of her, Old Parry whirled around. Her untidy hair had been brushed and pulled into a straggly, branching mass laden with newly-found shells and the occasional gull feather. This bizarre and wild formation made her shadowy silhouette weird and grotesque. It was as though some deformed shrub had come to life and pulled itself up by the roots to go roaming in the night.

  Fingering her bristly nose, she regarded the youngster and shook her head, rattling the shells which dangled there. "Not wise," she warned. "Your loss would that be—hearken to me, child, I know."

  "But what is it that you know?" Nelda asked. "You creep into our quarters and tell me not to wake my grandfather..."

  "This ain't no business of menfolk!" Parry spat. "Them can't know all. Some secrets we mun keep to ourselves."

  "You said it was important," the girl protested, "yet all we have done is climb over rock and boulder."

  Coming to a ring of craggy stone that was filled with sea water, Old Parry made herself comfortable and told Nelda to do the same.

  "Are you set on pool-wading this night?" the girl cried, "for if so, I have no wish to join you."

  "No, child," the other answered mysteriously, "it is not shells I look for, not this time."

  There was a strange edge to Parry's voice and Nelda sat upon one of the rocks, wondering what the spiteful creature was up to. From the other side of the pool the aged eyes gleamed at her and she shivered under their intense scrutiny.

  "Short have been the years of your life," the cracked voice began, "and from the hour of your birth I have watched you grow. You are the only bairn to have survived the curse laid upon us. Have you never wondered at that? I have. Aye, many long nights and bitter days have I dwelt upon that most abnormal chance."

  Nelda hung her head. Throughout her life she had been forced to endure the resentment of the seawives. No one knew why she alone had escaped the power of the Mother's Curse—least of all herself.

  "Many times have I heard these grudging words," she muttered. "If you have brought me hither merely to assail me with them once more then I bid you goodnight!"

  "Stay!" Old Parry snapped. "My words have a purpose!"

  "Indeed! To gratify your base spite, no doubt! You do naught else."

  "There is much you do not know of me! Aye, much—although your mother knew some of it well enough."

  Sucking her peg-like teeth, Old Parry waited—she was enjoying confounding Nelda. The Shrimp brood had always been above itself and it galled her that Tarr was now leader of the tribe, but his granddaughter at least was, for the moment, in her power.

  "What do you want?" Nelda asked.

  A wide grin split the wizened face opposite and a low cackle issued from the crabbed lips.

  "Why, child," Old Parry murmured, "to be a mother to ye. No, hear me out. Have you never heard of scryin' the waters?"

  Nelda nodded warily. Just what was the foul hag up to? "Yes," she answered, "Hesper spoke of it often. It is something I should have liked to have played with my mother."

  "Ah, Hesper!" Parry clucked with disdain. "And did your aunt ever glimpse your fortunes?"

  "No," the aufwader girl said sadly, "she was too absorbed in finding the Moonkelp to waste time in such trifles."

  Parry chuckled, "I thought no one had scried for ye. By rights 'tis the mother's task to peer for her daughter's fortunes, but I'm willin' to undertake it."

  Nelda spluttered in amazement. "You?" she asked. "You wish to do that for me—but why?"

  "'Tis as I said. I have watched you since the hour of your birth and have no offspring of mine own. Would you permit?"

  The young aufwader had never liked Old Parry and she was sure the ugly crone despised her all the more. There was no reason to trust her but what harm could it do?

  She knew that scrying the waters was a simple game that mothers used to play with their children. She had often heard the barren seawives talk of the dark nights when they had been led to a rock pool by their mothers. When they spoke of it they would weep and lament in the knowledge that they would never have any children to gaze the water for, but no-one had ever offered to do it for Nelda—until now.

  It was only ever a harmless amusement and the fortunes glimpsed would invariably include husbands and fishing nets that knew no lack. This was why Nelda was suspicious; Old Parry would not have gone to all this trouble merely to indulge in some pretended devotion to herself, yet though she racked her brains she could not see what harm it could do.

  "Very well," she agreed, "look into my future. Will I be a bride again?"

  Parry tutted at her mockery. "No game do I play," she muttered in all seriousness. "The frolics of gazing nights were founded in ancient tradition. In every tribe there was one who could really part the curtain of time and look beyond tomorrow."

  "And you are one of those?" Nelda asked, not believing a word.

  The other sniggered and took from around her neck an egg-shaped pebble threaded on to a piece of string. "No," came the unexpected answer, "but this bauble did belong to one and sometimes, if it allows, I can see days yet distant. Now be silent and still."

  Twirling the string in her fingers, she held it over the rock pool and slowly lowered the stone into the inky water.

  Nelda did not have to ask how Parry had acquired the stone. She was like a magpie and did not scruple to thieve anything she took a fancy to.

  "There now," the crone gurgled in a sing-song voice as she swirled the trinket through the pool. "Remember thy mistress—'tis I, Idin. Thou knowest me, my pretty stone—awake and show unto me this night. Tell thine secrets, oh stone so round and smooth. Let out thy knowledge, Idin commands."

  The disturbed water remained dark to Nelda's eyes, but Old Parry crouched over the rippling surface and peered keenly into the shallow depths as she released the stone and let it sink to the bottom.

  "Ah," she hissed, "it clears. I see a lone figure—a child. Why! 'Tis no other than yourself, Nelda. Yet your face is grim. Oh, is there naught merry to show me? See, a clou
d of darkness and despair is closing around you—oh unhappy bride, what evil stalks you? Ever tighter it binds; you are in direst peril and ever your voice is raised in cries of pain and woe."

  Slyly, her eyes slid round to look at the young aufwader and she knew she had guessed correctly. "But the sea does drown your calls," she continued with a sneering leer spreading over her face, "and you are shrouded in its doom."

  Nelda grabbed a large pebble and flung it into the centre of the rock pool. The water exploded into Parry's face and the wicked hag fell backwards, coughing and spluttering on the brine.

  "Harridan!" the girl yelled. "Begone before I strike you! That stone never belonged to Idin the far-seeing, though I believe you would have stolen it from the very black boat she was laid upon before it set sail. What vile glee does your twisted mind enjoy? Why taunt me?"

  Parry pointed a knobbly finger at her and gloated maliciously. "'Tis true then," she wheezed. "You have come under the curse! A bairn is growing inside your belly—'twere your words that set me on it, asking how your mother perished. Hah! 'Tis your own death you fear. Into agonies undreamed of will you be plunged. Many other hands than mine are needed to count the mothers who have died that way. They were the foolish ones—they would not listen."

  Nelda grimaced in disgust, but she was afraid of what the crone would do—would she tell the rest of the tribe? Of course she would. Old Parry delighted in the pain of others. Struggling to remain aloof and not admitting that the guess was correct, Nelda said, "I have wasted too much time in your company already. Do not speak to me again, and if you wish to remain safe and well then keep a hold on your evil tongue."

  But it was an empty threat and the hag knew it. "Horror and death," she repeated coarsely, "horror and death. All them seawives a-dyin' with them infants inside them. None would listen to me—not even your mother. Oh no, not her!"

  "Don't you dare speak about my mother!" Nelda shouted. "Or the next rock I throw will be aimed at your head!"

  Parry took no notice. "Only the clever ones survived," she intoned. "Only those who hearkened to me saved themselves. Weren't no other way."

  Nelda had begun walking back to the cliffs but she halted and turned round once more.

  "What do you mean?" she asked. "How did they manage to survive?"

  "I could show you," the crone suggested, "though I don't sees as why I should, you being so hostile like."

  "Please yourself," the girl wearily replied. "It's probably another of your tricks. I'm too tired for any more."

  "No tricks!" Parry promised. "On my dear dead Joby's life this ain't." She lifted her eyes and stared at the waxing moon that shone with an icy brilliance. "Aye, 'tis the proper time; you're fortunate, child—come."

  She scrambled to her feet and hurried over the rocks towards the sand and the direction of the town. "If'n you want to live to see another winter you'd best be with me."

  Nelda hesitated. She still did not trust her, but soon found herself following.

  Over the steps of Tate Hill Pier the aufwaders climbed and Nelda marvelled, for the crone loathed anything to do with the humans and would never normally walk amongst their ugly huts. But through the streets they went until they came to the foot of the abbey steps. Immediately, Parry hastened upwards, her eyes darting to and fro, in case they should meet one of the infernal landbreed. But at that late hour the one hundred and ninety-nine steps were deserted.

  When she reached the summit Parry sat upon a tombstone and waited for Nelda to catch up. The breeze was strong on top of the cliff and her wild hair writhed about her head like a hundred snakes.

  Whilst there, she took a leather purse out of her pocket and from this she carefully removed a small disc of sea-polished green glass and held it to one of her eyes.

  Eventually Nelda appeared, but she was puffing and panting and had to rest before she could speak.

  "See how the lifestealer within you already drinks your strength," Parry commented, "otherwise you would have raced to the top and left old me toiling below."

  Still out of breath, Nelda leaned against the rail and looked down at the rooftops of Whitby. Somewhere nearby was the cottage that Ben lived in, but she could not recognise it from up here and shifted her gaze to the wizened aufwader upon the tombstone.

  "What is that?" she asked, pointing to the circle of glass.

  "Aha!" came the proud reply. "Now this truly is a useful trinket, and is all mine. I found it, I used it." She threw Nelda a quizzical glance and smirked. "Did Tarr ever tell you of the time before the Mother's Curse came upon us?"

  "Of course he did—I know all about our histories and lineage."

  "Bah! Not that bilge!" Parry snorted. "I'm talking of me. Did he tell you what I did before we were doomed?" She raised her eyebrows and laughed horribly on seeing the girl's blank face. "I was the midwife!" she murmured.

  "Into this sorry world did I deliver the infants, yet never a one did I have of my own and then Oona disgraced us and it was too late for me. Yet brides still loved their husbands and life was made, so a new task was I needed for."

  Leaving the tombstone, she beckoned to Nelda and passed further into the graveyard.

  The girl hesitated. "Where are we going?" she asked.

  Parry gave a hissing laugh through her teeth. "There's nowt to fear," she assured her. "Only the dust of landbreed bones lies beneath the sod; the shade of no human do I fear."

  "I am not afraid," Nelda insisted. "I often come here to sit and think, but why are we here now?"

  "You shan't ever know if'n you don't follow."

  Nelda gazed into the gloom-ridden graveyard; the lamps that illuminated the church were dark and the top of the exposed cliff was forbidding, cloaked in watchful shadows. She could imagine all sorts of terrors lurking in the long grass that swayed and rustled in the wind. Many strange beings had dwelt in Whitby throughout the ages, many dangerous wild creatures with razor teeth and murderous hearts.

  Old Parry had nearly disappeared into the darkness and feeling suddenly alone and vulnerable, Nelda hurriedly stepped from the path and ran through the grass after her.

  Into the engulfing black shade of the church they plunged. The church of Saint Mary was vastly different at night and Nelda kept looking over her shoulder uncomfortably. The squat, square bulk of the building towered over her; no more the cosy place of worship, it was almost a crouching ogre preparing to spring—waiting until its victims were close enough. More than once she thought she could see something flit behind the panes of its unlit windows and her pace quickened to escape the range of their hollow stare.

  Old Parry was totally at her ease however, and strolled casually between the forests of headstones.

  The graveyard stretched in all directions, vanishing into the night whichever way Nelda turned. She had been here countless times before but at that moment the aufwader could almost believe she was standing in a country of the dead, and felt that she was a trespasser upon their peace.

  Parry observed her disquiet and bared her brown teeth in a repulsive grin to show that there was nothing to fear. Then she held up the glass disc and tittered.

  "Thirteen times has this been steeped in the reflection of the full moon," she explained, "once for every month that we carry the unborn within us. Forbidden words have I spoken over this shiny glass and with it I spared many of our tribe from their agonies."

  "I don't understand," Nelda breathed, still looking around nervously. "What does it do?"

  Parry lifted the disc to her eye again. "'Tis a boon to sight," she answered. "Through this lens can be seen much that is hidden from even we fisherfolk. Beneath the moon some things grow which it is better we do not see, yet at certain times in certain places, there is a plant—the bitterest little herb which only the glass can disclose. It is the moon's gift to us, her merciful balm sprung from the tears of her compassion at our plight."

  With that, she left Nelda's side and began hunting between the headstones, parting the long grass with h
er eager fingers, questing the gloom like a hound after a scent.

  Then, emitting a crow of delight, she called to Nelda and with a bony finger pointed at the shadowy ground.

  They were standing beside a grave that was smaller than the others and Nelda felt her skin crawl in revulsion at the callousness of her companion.

  "Behold!" Parry cried. "Peer through this, child, and see your salvation."

  With shaking hands, Nelda took the lens from her and put it to her eye.

  At first there was only a green darkness, and then as her eyes adjusted to the glass, her vision cleared and she drew her breath in sharply.

  There, growing from the centre of the grave was a small, sickly looking plant.

  Nelda lowered the glass and stared again but she could see no trace of the ugly weed.

  "The moonlight blinds your eyes to it," Parry whispered in her ear. "Not for all is the fruit of her pity."

  Nelda gazed through the lens a second time and studied the weed more closely.

  It was a vile and repugnant growth. The feeble stem was a pallid and ghostly grey—the colour of putrefying death and decay. Bunched around the base were clusters of tiny blade-shaped leaves and wispy threads of spiralling tendrils wound themselves about the frail stalk as though they were trying to strangle the sap from it.

  But the herb's most awful aspect was the flower. It too was leprously grey in hue, yet each of the five petals was shot through with a diseased vein of putrid red. Together they formed a spikey cup and from the centre of this loathsome vessel two long stamens wafted in the breeze.

  Suddenly Nelda covered her nose and mouth. From the flower a nauseating reek was rising and she had to gulp down the clean air to prevent herself being sick.

  "Is it not the daintiest bloom?" Old Parry softly sang. "See how the petals strive up to bathe in the moonlight, whilst the delicate creepers attempt to murderously choke and drag it down."

  "It repels me!" Nelda gagged. "I do not think I shall ever be rid of the stench! What vileness of Nature is it? What horror have you shown me this night? See how it flourishes upon that small grave—how far do the roots reach into the earth? On what soil do they feed?"