The Whitby Witches 3: The Whitby Child Page 7

  "Don't you trouble to worry about that," the crone cackled, "for this bitter weed is your friend."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Exactly that—this tiny herb can save you. Hither have I brought many whose fears were no less than your own. The remedy to your woes is at hand. Simply taste one drop of the plant's juice and it is done. The life-leeching infant will be cast away and you shall live."

  Nelda stumbled against the weathered headstone. "What are you saying?" she cried aghast. "Stop! I shall hear no more!"

  Parry caught hold of the girl's hand and pulled it towards the sickening plant but she wrenched it free and backed away.

  "Be not too hasty," the crone told her. "'Tis but a moment's work. Pluck the blossom and lay a petal upon your tongue. Others have done it before you and lived to thank me afterwards."

  "Did you bring my mother here?" Nelda whispered in bewilderment.

  "I did," Parry replied, "though she was too stubborn and craven to partake of the juice. Come child, one morsel, that is all. I shall tell no one we came hither or what passed between us. Who shall know save thee and me of this night's work? Do you want to die in a torment of raving and be devoured by the salt which will blister through your veins?"

  Nelda shook her head slowly. She was terrified of dying in such agony so, with a quivering hand, she reached down.

  A cold sweat pricked her forehead and as the fetid odour assaulted her nostrils again she opened her fingers to take the flower from the ground.

  "Why hesitate?" Parry goaded. "Save yourself. Why must you both perish instead of one? That's it. Lift the herb, lift it."

  Nelda faltered; the flower was too disgusting to look at and the mere thought of actually touching it made her want to retch. A sudden gust of wind caused the plant to stir, the diseased leaves twirled and the stinking perfume blew fully into the aufwader's face. Caught in the draught, the flower swayed and its stamens whipped around and brushed against Nelda's hand.

  "NO!" she shrieked, desperately wiping her stinging fist on the wet grass. "I cannot! What am I thinking of? My mother could not do this evil deed—why then should I? I cannot kill the life which is inside me. Get away, let me pass!"

  With tears streaking down her face, she staggered through the churchyard, sobbing in utter despair. Appalled and ashamed of what she had been about to do, the girl lumbered away desolate and wretched.

  Behind her, Old Parry shouted and snarled. "Fool! What will the tribe think when I tell them of the danger you bear? Does Tarr know? I shall tell him—you should have been rid of the bairn. I'll not help again!"

  The hag spat on the ground, then a smile every bit as repulsive as the flower disfigured her face. Nelda was still in possession of the lens.

  Throwing back her head, she let loose a horrible laugh. "Better make use of the glass soon!" she screeched. "Afore it's too late!"

  3 - Newcomers

  February gave way to March and in that time Miss Boston grew steadily stronger. Consulting the Book of Shadows, she directed Edith Wethers in the application of weird ointments and poultices to her withered limbs and kept to a strict diet of her own devising.

  The sickroom was turned into a veritable garden of sweet-smelling and virtuous plants that the children had picked under her guidance. Tucked beneath her pillows were dozens of sachets containing secret mixtures of dried roots and seeds, and sometimes the old lady burned an exquisitely fragrant incense which she inhaled in great gulps.

  "Got to fill my lungs," she would declare. "Only way to purge all the confounded poison that fool Adams poured into me."

  Following this unusual regime, Miss Boston would wake just before the dawn and sing an incantation until the first rays of the sun stole into her room. Then she would invoke the forces of life, calling on them to bestow upon her some of their vigour and energy, and would spend the rest of the day either in deep study or performing what exercises her fragile strength allowed.

  During this time, Miss Wethers was kept extremely busy. What with buying the ingredients for the poultices and following peculiar recipes, she was rarely allowed to rest.

  Doctor Adams made regular visits, just to make certain that his patient was not killing herself with these strange remedies, but he was reluctantly forced to admit that she was actually making progress.

  Slowly but surely, Miss Boston began to resemble her former self. The weary, haggard look that had so disfigured her face completely vanished and was replaced by a familiar robustness in those soft and wrinkled jowls.

  After three weeks it was obvious that strength was returning to her wasted arms and the poor doctor was at a loss as to how to account for it. Though he plied the old lady with many questions she would only laugh at him and say that it would need a broader mind than his to comprehend.

  Doctor Adams had countered with a grave warning. "If you are not careful," he told her, "you will overreach yourself. I've seen it many times—people push themselves too far. The heart can only bear so much strain, you know; yours has been inactive for some time now and you're piling on the pressure too fast too soon!"

  Miss Boston's reply to what she termed his "professional jealousy" had been brief and cutting. So, with his medical tail between his legs, Doctor Adams had left the sickroom thinking that perhaps he ought to take her advice and retire after all. On an impulse, as he passed Edith Wethers in the hallway, he invited her to a tea dance that afternoon and the overjoyed spinster accepted almost before the words were out of his mouth.

  Focusing her attention only on getting well, Miss Boston paid no heed to the other minor business of the town. Those small, mundane events which once would have so enthralled her now kindled no interest whatsoever.

  After many years, Mr and Mrs Gregson finally patched up the quarrel with their son Peter who lived in Huddersfield and saw their grandchildren for the first time. The little bookshop was finally sold and the former owners reopened in Scarborough. This was not welcomed by most of the townsfolk, who found the new proprietor grandly aloof, unhelpful and on occasion, downright rude. Sister Frances had tried to jolly her along but not surprisingly she failed in her mission. On the West Cliff, along Pier Road, another café opened which served excellent cream teas and one of the curio shops was taken over by what Edith described as an exotic-looking woman.

  None of this thrilling news aroused even the slightest curiosity in Miss Boston and she continued to bury herself wholeheartedly in the matter of her recovery.

  On a rare fine afternoon that brought the tourists pouring in to the town, the old lady was sitting in her garden behind the cottage. It had been a tiring day. Impatient at what she considered to be her snail-like progress, Miss Boston had pushed herself harder than she had yet dared.

  For three whole hours without any rest, the invalid had raised her arms as high as she could, flexed her fingers until the knuckles ached, rotated her shoulder joints, occupied herself with co-ordination exercises and shouted mysterious words at the top of her voice.

  Now she was exhausted and realised she had done too much, for the breath rasped in her throat, her arthritis throbbed painfully and her chest felt uncomfortably tight.

  "Rash!" she scolded herself. "You'll be fit for nothing if you keep this up, Alice. Let us hope the fresh air will prove beneficial."

  Sitting in her wheelchair, with the pale March sunshine beaming upon her face, the old lady gasped and struggled to breathe.

  It was truly a gorgeous day. Spring had come early to her garden, every flower had opened and the colours danced before her weary eyes. She could not remember a time when they had been more beautiful and even as she sat, panting with fatigue, their scent grew more powerful.

  Blown on the lightest of breezes, the fragrance wrapped itself around her form, clinging to it like a sticky vaporous cloud. The heady perfume was rich and intoxicating, stealing the very breath from her mouth and Miss Boston gave a wide, drowsy yawn.

  Upon that garden alone, the sun seemed to shine more brightly than
in any other part of Whitby, and through her watering eyes, the old lady saw the colours flare and become more intense than ever. So brilliant were the flowers that they dazzled and their heads became as flames turning the garden border into a river of fire that was painful to look at. Soon the lawn was entirely enclosed by this vivid blaze and even the grass shone like one enormous emerald.

  Her breath still rattling in her chest, Miss Boston blinked—for everything was blurred and shimmering. But the struggle to keep awake was too much and her head lolled to one side.

  The garden glowed about her, regardless of the season; every flower opened and contributed its glory to the blinding display. Overhead, the March sky was a fierce blue devoid of cloud or shade and gradually the world fell silent, only a haunting and joyful bird song floated on the warm breeze as all other noises faded and became dumb.

  In one corner of the garden, from behind a rose bush that was burgeoning with immense ruby-coloured blooms, a small figure emerged. Slowly, it stepped from the border that was burning with daffodil flames and snapdragon fires and placed two small pink feet on to the verdant grass.

  The spiky lawn tickled ten tiny bare toes and a happy, gurgling laugh sounded in the garden.

  At once Miss Boston was awake and she stared at the figure in astonishment.

  A young child gazed back at her and the old lady shook her head in surprise.

  The boy could not have been more than four years old. His face was round and crowned with a tangle of curling, golden hair. Above the chubby cheeks his eyes shone with a light all their own—as blue as the fierce sky. A warm and friendly smile crinkled in the child's face which deepened every dimple and made Miss Boston gasp in delight, for the infant was the most beautiful child she had ever seen.

  Never had she beheld a vision of such innocence. Untouched by the harshness of life, it was as if the pure sunlight had taken human shape.

  With his merry, twinkling eyes fixed brightly upon her, the small boy took a step forward.

  He was dressed in an old-fashioned nightgown made of a white, gossamer material that flowed about his form like smoke.

  Miss Boston frowned with concern. Where had he come from? His parents must be terribly worried.

  "Are you lost?" she asked. "However did you climb over the fence? Where are your mummy and daddy?"

  The boy made no answer; he seemed perfectly happy and as he passed the radiant flowers he paused to hold a blossom to his small nose. At each new scent he would smile and in this slow, meandering way came ever closer to the old lady in the wheelchair.

  "Are you lost?" Miss Boston repeated.

  He lifted his golden head and the brilliant eyes blazed at her. Then in a soft, and infinitely reassuring voice, he said, "I am not lost. I have come for you."

  As soon as he uttered those words, the old lady felt the pain in her chest disappear and her breathing grew easier. A blissful calm washed over her and she knew what the strange child wanted.

  "Will you come with me?" he asked.

  "Yes," she answered in a whisper, "I'll come."

  Smiling, the infant stretched his small arms out and approached her. "Take my hand," he said gently, "I shall guide you."

  All the fears Miss Boston had ever had vanished completely and as she held out her arthritic hands towards him a perfect peace settled upon her soul.

  The sunlight glimmered in the boy's hair as he stepped nearer, forming a halo of gold about his head.

  "No," Miss Boston cried, abruptly letting her hands drop to her sides, "I cannot go with you—I am not finished here. There is still so much I have to do."

  "Your labours are over," the child said lightly. "Please, all your earthly woes will vanish."

  "But the children," she insisted, "I must be here for them—they need me."

  "Do not worry, those concerns are ended and all cares are past. Come and you shall see. Joy everlasting is waiting for you."

  The old lady raised her hands again and a contented smile spread over her face as the child drew close. His fingertips reached for her own and the sunshine bathed both of them in a wonderful glow.

  "Yes," she sighed, "I am ready."

  "AUNT ALICE!" shrieked a voice suddenly.

  Into the garden charged Ben and the golden-haired infant drew back, upset and tearful at the interruption.

  Ben glared at him and for nearly a minute, they stared at one another. Then the infant took a hesitant step forward again.

  "Keep away!" Ben cried, guessing what the "visitor" had come for.

  "Her time is done," the cherub replied, disconcerted that the mortal could see him. "I must take her."

  "I won't let you!" Ben snapped angrily and he placed himself directly between them.

  The child peered around him to see Miss Boston, then stared long and hard at the savage intruder.

  "I must take her," he insisted. "I must."

  "Don't you dare!" Ben shouted furiously. "I will not let you! I will not let you!"

  Such was the force behind his voice that the infant recoiled, sensing a hidden and angry strength that it dared not challenge.

  A look of thwarted disappointment appeared on the child's heavenly face.

  "Go back!" Ben commanded forcefully.

  The stranger pouted and with a sad shake of the head began to retrace his steps. Whimpering forlornly, he returned to the flower-bed and as the sun turned pale, the divine figure faded and was no more.

  Immediately Ben threw his arms about Miss Boston's neck. She was in a deep, deep sleep and he had to shake her and call her name before she stirred.

  Eventually the old lady's eyes flickered open and she glanced sharply about the garden almost as though she had lost something.

  "Oh Benjamin!" she breathed. "I was having such a lovely dream, only I can't for the life of me recall what it was about. All I know is how splendidly restful it was. I do wish you hadn't woken me. What is it you want, dear?"

  The boy grinned and kissed her cheek. "Just to tell you that I'm back from school," he answered mildly, and the anger which had begun to burn within him dwindled as he hugged her tightly.

  "So I see," she mumbled. "Oh, do be a good fellow and wheel me indoors. It's grown so chill out here and I'm very tired. My, my, don't the flowers look cold and sad?"

  ***

  March slipped into April and Jennet's thirteenth birthday drew ever closer. She had no friends left at school now; all had deserted her and she had become the brunt of their jokes. And yet the girl did not care, for not one of them could possibly understand the conflicts that simmered within her. Who could she ever tell that after all this time she still dreamed of Nathaniel Crozier?

  That sadistic and callous man would often plague her sleep and, though she utterly despised his memory, she knew he would always be with her.

  The dreaded birthday finally arrived and, without any enthusiasm, Jennet opened her cards before leaving for school. One was from Aunt Alice, whose handwriting was rapidly improving. Another was from Ben and the girl was glad that their row had now been forgotten. The third was from Miss Wethers who twittered around her as she slid it from the envelope, and the fourth was from the children's great-aunt who lived in an old folk's home in Lancashire.

  To Jennet's dismay she learnt that a small celebration had been planned in her honour that evening.

  "Do bring all of your chums round," Aunt Alice called after her as Jennet left early for school. "The more the merrier for when you open your presents."

  Jennet closed the front door without answering or waiting for her brother and wondered if it was possible to stay out late. But miserably she realised that there was nowhere she could go. With a sullen look on her face, she left the courtyard and wandered through the street beyond.

  It was a blustery morning, the wind rampaged through the narrow lanes and the signs which projected over the shop windows swung madly on their hinges.

  Gloomily, Jennet trudged the way to school. The street was still quiet, for few busines
ses opened before ten o'clock and her solitary footsteps rang off the cobbles.

  Outside the new curio shop, the girl paused and gazed inside. A section of the window display was full of unusual jewellery and beautifully made little trinkets. Longingly, she contemplated the silver then the carved coral and finally rested her forehead against the glass as she studied the local jet.

  Jennet drooled over the brooches made of this deliciously black material and she idly hoped that when she opened her presents that evening one of them would contain something small and precious like this. It was a vain wish, however, and she knew she might as well pine for the moon. With a final, lingering glance at the unattainable, she raised her eyes and started in surprise.

  Within the shop, someone was watching her.

  Sitting behind the counter, a dark-eyed, exotic-looking woman with short black hair viewed the girl over the rim of her spectacles. With an air of indifference, she arched her elegantly plucked eyebrows then shifted her gaze back to the accounts she was efficiently sorting into order.

  Jennet considered herself dismissed and the girl slowly resumed the boring walk to school.

  When she had departed, Hillian Fogle, new resident of Whitby and owner of the curio shop, lifted her large brown eyes once more. "So," she uttered with a faint and husky accent, "it was she."

  Later that morning, the woman turned the sign on the door to read CLOSED and stepped from the shop, locking it behind her.

  She was dressed in clothes more appropriate for the director of a successful company than the proprietor of a glorified junk shop. By the cut and the way it fitted her slightly plump, short figure, it was obvious the outfit had been tailored especially for her and was hugely expensive. Everything about the woman denoted her extravagant taste and style, from the immaculate make-up which lightly covered her olive skin, down to the handmade Italian shoes that tapped nimbly down the street.

  Amidst the tourists, who were already ambling through the East Cliff in their weatherproofs and sturdy boots, Hillian was an incongruous sight. A few anorak-wrapped people turned to gape at her crisp, chic figure before returning to ogle the fudge bombs and enormous chunks of cinder toffee in the sweet emporium.