Date: 2000-01-01 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Middle Grade; Adventure; Fiction; Paranormal; Witches; Supernatural; Horror; Young Adult; Fantasy; Childrens
Description: Publisher: Simon & Schuster Date of Publication: 1995 Binding: paperback Edition: Condition: Near Fine Description: 0750005815 cover worn
Publisher: Modern Classics
Rights: Copyrights as per source stories

The Whitby Witches Trilogy

Robin Jarvis

First published in the UK in 1991, 1992 and 1994 as The Whitby Witches, A Warlock In Whitby and The Whitby Child.

This epub is version 1.0, published in August 2014.

The Whitby Witches 1:
The Whitby Witches

Robin Jarvis
First published in the UK in 1991.

The Inhabitants Of Whitby

BEN
An eight-year-old boy who comes to Whitby with his sister. Ben unnerves the people around him because he sees things they do not.

JENNET
She is Ben’s older sister and has looked after him since the death of their parents. Jennet will not stand for any of his nonsense, however, and refuses to talk about the strange things he sees.

ALICE BOSTON
An eccentric old lady who adopts the children. Most of the people in the town think she is an interfering busybody, but there is more to her than they realise.

PRUDENCE JOYSTER
Like most of Alice Boston’s friends, Mrs Joyster lives alone. Her late husband was in the army and his strict, military manner rubbed off on her.

MATILDA DROON
Known to her friends as ‘Tilly’, Miss Droon is renowned for her love of cats and keeps umpteen of the creatures. Consequently her house reeks and there are cat hairs all over her clothes.

DORA BANBURY-SCOTT
Not only is she the richest woman in Whitby but also one of the fattest. Mrs Banbury-Scott refuses to grow old gracefully and has the most revolting peach-coloured hair that money can buy.

EDITH WETHERS
She works in the post office and is a terrible ditherer. She suffers from all sorts of allergies and would be lost without a tissue tucked up her sleeve.

ROWENA COOPER
A mysterious stranger who arrives in the town, she is keen to usurp Alice Boston’s position as leader of the ladies’ circle.

SISTER BRIDGET
A novice from the convent who wanders on the cliff-top at night, she harbours a sad secret and weeps to herself.

NELDA SHRIMP
The youngest of the strange fisher folk who live in caves deep below the cliffs. She is concerned for her father who has disappeared.

HESPER GULL
Nelda’s aunt and Silas’ wife, she is a comical figure who collects seaweed and shells but is driven by her search for the mythical moonkelp.

TARR SHRIMP
Hesper’s father and Nelda’s grandfather, his greatest pleasure is sitting before a fire smoking his pipe with nobody fussing round him.

SILAS GULL
The black sheep of the fisher folk tribe, he is missing along with Nelda’s father, but it is not long before he reappears.

Introduction

Look, look! Down on the sands of Tate Hill Pier; see there, my friend. Three small, strange figures—do you not see them? Listen to them calling to the cliff. Ah, the sound is lost on the wind. But, there, you must see them—they are searching for something. One of them stops and turns to us—its jet-black eyes glare up at me.

It is not quite dawn and the light is poor, perhaps that is why you cannot see. You tell me to come indoors, you say the damp morning has chilled me and take my arm. I glance back; the figures have gone. Can I have seen the fisher folk? The old whalers of Whitby town?

The boats will soon return with their catches. I must speak to no one. I shall let the fisher folk be and try to forget them. Perhaps when I sit by the fire, as my toes uncurl and my head begins to nod, that face shall haunt my dreams.

No, they are but childhood fancies and I am too old. The kettle whistles on the stove and I draw on the pipe which trembles in my shaking hand. Yes, it is a cold morning and I am chilled.

1 - Difficult Cases

Mrs Rodice perched herself on the edge of her spartan desk and sucked her watery afternoon tea through sullen lips. She was relieved, for two of her more trying charges had left today—she had put them on the train personally. A delicious shudder ran down her spine as she sank her small, irregular teeth into a dunked digestive. This was her favourite part of the day—a special, secretive hour when she could close the door and relax with her Royal Doulton and the occasional romantic novel.

Margaret Rodice ran a hostel for children, those whose parents were dead, indifferent or ‘inside’. It was a difficult, demanding role: trying to manage a maximum of sixteen young people while at the whim of the local authority grant policy. If only Mr Rodice had not departed from the world so shortly after their wedding. She wondered how different her life would have been; perhaps there would have been children of her own—even a grandchild by now.

Mrs Rodice rattled the cup on its saucer in agitation and placed them both on her desk. She really must stop dwelling on the past. Donald was a vague shadow from her youth and she rarely thought of him now—up until recently, that is. But now that creepy little boy had gone and she hoped things would get back to normal. Oh, for the run-of-the-mill occurrences: the runaways, the girls who pinched, even (God forbid) nits would be welcome after the turmoil of the last three months.

She rose to peer out of the narrow window and watched the rain streak down over Leeds. After some minutes of contemplating, Mrs Rodice returned to her desk, but refrained from draining her cup. The tea leaves at the bottom would only remind her of the recent troubles.

‘Of course I was right to send that letter,’ she reassured herself. ‘Even if the old bat does know someone on the board, she had to be aware of what she was letting herself in for.’ Mrs Rodice shook her head at the folly of the old woman in question.

‘At her age! I ask you,’ she addressed the table lamp. ‘Well, it won’t last—it never does with them.’ A thin smile twitched her mouth. ‘Still,’ she muttered, shuffling her papers, ‘whatever happens, they’re not coming back here.’

She bent her greying head over the spread of forms and took up her pen purposefully, then with a tut of consternation looked up at the ceiling and groaned. ‘I hope Yvonne won’t wet again tonight.’

* * *

Ben stared out of the window and watched the green landscape race by. He pressed his face against the glass and the motion of the train vibrated through his nose.

‘Don’t do that,’ sighed the girl beside him, as she pulled him back to his seat.

The boy squirmed and plucked crumbs of sausage roll from his sweater. ‘Bored, Jen,’ he grumbled.

Jennet fished a comic out of a large, blue canvas bag beside her and shoved it under her brother’s nose.

‘I’ve read it,’ he said, without bothering to look.

The girl let the comic sprawl on the table and turned away. Ben’s eyes flickered over the colourful pages. He pursed his mouth with his usual show of contempt and returned his attention to the window. A curtain of silence and resentment fell between the children.

The train slowed and pulled into Middlesbrough. Ben twisted on his seat, his eyes following the people who got off. He was eight years old, a serious-looking boy with mousy hair and eyes which were set unusually deep below his frowning brows. His sister, Jennet, had the same oval face and unremarkable, blobby nose, but her long, waving hair was darker and her eyes were less troubled.

The guard strode by, slamming the doors of the carriages, and Ben kicked the seat impatiently with his heels. Jennet said nothing but looked at him disapprovingly. Ben considered himself scolded and the kicks subsided.

‘We nearly there?’ he asked suddenly.

‘I don’t think it’s far now,’ she answered.

Ben abandoned the delights of the window and faced his sister. With one of his disconcerting stares, he asked her soberly, ‘Jen, what do you think it will be like this time? Will we be there long?’

The girl shrugged. ‘Miss Boston’s old, that’s all I could get out of the Rodice.’

At the mention of that name Ben screwed up his face. ‘I hated her,’ he said passionately. ‘I’m glad we’re not there now. She used to frighten me.’

‘Not as much as you frightened her,’ remarked his sister dryly. ‘Listen, remember what I said.’ A warning note crept into her voice. ‘You’re not to talk of that with this one, right?’

Ben nodded and hastened to change the subject. ‘Will we really live near the sea, Jen?’

‘Yes, I think I heard Rodice say Whitby was on the coast—it’s the end of the line, anyway.’

‘And did Peter Pan live there too?’

Jennet picked up his discarded comic and flicked through it herself. ‘Peter Pan?’ she asked, puzzled.

‘Yes. Mr Glennister who put them flags down last week told me Captain Hook came from there.’

‘He must have been pulling your leg, then,’ said Jennet flatly.

‘Oh.’ Ben was deflated and slouched back.

‘Didn’t like them flags anyway,’ he mumbled. ‘There’s no grass left now.’

‘Rodice said it would be cheaper in the long run,’ said Jennet distractedly. Then she raised her head and, imitating Mrs Rodice’s humourless nasal tones, added, ‘Grass needs regular mowing in the summer and in the winter the passages are covered in mud.’

Ben chuckled; he approved of anything that made fun of the dreaded Rodice. He rubbed his eyes, then asked, ‘Don’t you know anything else about this place?’

But Jennet was trying to concentrate on the comic, and ignored him. A year—perhaps eight months—before she would have been nervous and excited at the prospect of moving to somewhere new. She might even have looked the place up in the library to learn something about it beforehand. But that was four different foster homes ago.

‘I think I’ll like the sea,’ continued Ben. ‘Have I been to the seaside before, Jen?’

‘When you were five.’

‘Were they there too?’

She coughed and stared at the comic intently. ‘Yes,’ she replied curtly.

Ben frowned and put on his most serious face. ‘What I mean is…’ he struggled to choose the right words, ‘were they really there?’

Jennet threw the comic down and snapped sharply, ‘You’ve seen that photo of us, haven’t you?’

Ben’s eyes grew large and pleading. ‘Not for a long time, Jen—you won’t show me the photos any more. Couldn’t I see just one of them now?’

‘No, they’re at the bottom of the bag. Besides, you don’t need to see photos of Mum and Dad, do you?’ It was an accusation, spat out bitterly. She folded her arms crossly and stared down the carriage at a toddler sleeping in his mother’s arms. Ben began to kick the seat again and rested his head sulkily on the window.

Jennet was tense. In the past they had always met the foster families before going to stay with them, but this time everything was different and rushed. Mrs Rodice was probably only too glad to get them off her hands and no doubt had hurried the procedures along. Still, it was very odd. The first Jennet had heard of this Miss Boston was two weeks ago, but presumably negotiations had been going on long before that. Jennet was curious. Why would an old woman go out of her way to foster two children she had never even seen, and why would the authorities let her? If only the Rodice had said more. But then Jennet had not bothered to probe into the matter very deeply. She and Ben had never had much say about where they were shunted off to, and now that they were categorised as ‘difficult cases’ they had none at all.

Jennet was now beginning to regret her lack of interest. Miss Boston seemed such a mysterious figure. All she knew about her was that she was old. Would Miss Boston be there in person to meet them at Whitby station, she wondered, and just how old was she?

Jennet allowed a smirk to spread over her face; perhaps some wizened hag in a bath chair would be waiting for them. A new thought struck her: maybe the old lady had money. That would explain the haste with which their fostering had gone through the system. The bath chair vanished abruptly from beneath the imaginary figure and was replaced by an ancient Rolls Royce, with a chauffeur in grey livery holding open the door. Inside was the same old woman, now swathed in furs, her wrinkled hands dripping with diamonds.

If money was involved Jennet wondered whether she would be sent to a posh school. That’s what rich people did with children. It was an unwelcome thought and she mulled it over miserably. She and Ben had not been separated since the accident. Jennet could not imagine life without her brother, however much trouble he caused.

The stations the train stopped at were becoming smaller, their names spelled out in whitewashed stones on well-mown slopes. Some even had hanging baskets dangling from the eaves. It was like taking a journey back to the age of steam and Jennet half-listened for the ‘chuff chuff’ she had heard in old films.

The scenery was beautiful. Wild expanses of rolling moorland dotted with sheep shot by, then a dense pine forest, some farm buildings with a gypsy caravan parked outside, and then more wide acres of heather, cut through by a little brook.

The railway track became a single line. Just how far away was Whitby? It seemed as if they were going beyond the reaches of the civilised world. Jennet wondered how regularly the trains went there and wished she had thought to look at a timetable when they had changed at Darlington.

‘Look,’ said Ben excitedly, ‘there’s a river and there’s a boat, see!’

A ribbon of water ran parallel to the track. For some moments it was obscured by dense trees, then it was revealed once more, wider than before. Buildings clustered on the far bank and the river swelled into a marina, with yachts. Jennet caught a glimpse of a high cliff, then the vision was snatched from view and the train, wheezing with exhaustion, finally drew into Whitby station.

‘I saw the sea,’ declared Ben, jumping up and down on the seat. ‘And there were lots of fishing boats. Listen to the seagulls, Jen.’

She grunted an acknowledgement and stuffed the wreckage of the journey into her large blue bag. She left the empty can of lemonade and two brown apple cores on the table and told Ben to put his coat on.

‘But it isn’t cold,’ he protested obstinately.

‘Put it on,’ she insisted.

Ben mumbled a sentence, but the only word Jennet could catch was ‘bossy’. When he had fastened the top button of his coat, she guided him in front of her and swung the heavy bag over her shoulder.

There were only a few other passengers on the train; they filed past the children with neat little suitcases and holdalls, smiling as they gave their tickets to the man at the barrier. Ben stared at the sky. The rain had left behind a bright August day with big white clouds rolling inland. The seagulls circled high above and cried raucously.

‘I can’t see anyone,’ said Jennet, looking up the platform. ‘Come on, maybe she’s waiting for us outside in her car.’

They trudged up to the barrier and Jennet began to rummage in her pockets for the tickets. The ticket collector cast a weary glance their way and held his hand out impatiently. Ben stared up at him and pretended to pick his nose. The man set his jaw and glared down icily. Jennet, meanwhile, was still rifling through her pockets.

‘Come on now, miss,’ said the man.

Jennet was flustered; she could not think what had happened to the tickets.

‘Has it arrived, George?’ came a brisk female voice.

The ticket collector turned and nodded to the newcomer. ‘Aye, an’ three minutes early. Miss Boston.’

Jennet looked up sharply. There, with her hands clasped firmly behind her back, stood a stout, white-haired woman. She wore a jacket of sage-green tweed with a matching skirt, and on her head sat a shapeless velvet hat. The cobweb lines around her grey, bird-like eyes suggested the old lady’s age to be about seventy but her stance was like someone much younger.

‘Ah, three minutes, is that so?’ Miss Boston spoke challengingly and raised her eyebrows at the ticket collector. ‘Well, well, what a day for wonders, to be sure.’

Then the old woman saw the children and her face lit up. The eyes blinked and disappeared and the rolls of skin beneath the chin shook like jelly. ‘Oh, these must be mine,’ she cried, clapping her hands together like an eager child.

‘Yours, Miss Boston?’ asked the ticket collector, baffled.

‘Yes, yes, George. Now let them through that wretched thing.’

‘But they an’t give me their tickets.’

‘Oh stuff!’ she exclaimed in exasperation. ‘Let them through at once, they’re with me.’ And she stamped her foot and gave the man a look which no one would have dared to disobey.

‘This is most irreg’lar,’ he said as the children squeezed past him, ‘most irreg’lar.’

Miss Boston clucked gleefully as she ran her keen eyes over Jennet and Ben. ‘Let me have a good look at you,’ she demanded. ‘So, you’re Jennet.’

‘Yes,’ the girl replied, returning the interested stare.

‘Pretty name—far better than Janet or Jeanette. Now I believe you are twelve, is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mmm. You look older—act it too. Not surprising, really.’ Miss Boston nodded as though satisfied with the girl and turned her attention to the boy.

‘And this is Benjamin, I presume.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

The child stared back and said nothing.

‘He’s shy with strangers,’ put in Jennet.

‘Of course he is,’ the woman returned. ‘All sensitive children are timid.’

‘Ben’s not sensitive, just shy,’ corrected Jennet firmly.

‘Ah, yes—you must forgive me.’ Miss Boston’s face looked like someone guiltily sucking a boiled sweet. ‘Well,’ she went on, ‘I trust I shan’t be considered a stranger for very much longer—by either of you.’ Her smile was warm and genuine. ‘Now, come,’ she cried, waving them out of the station, ‘let us retire to my home and have a bite to eat before you unpack.’

As they left the station Jennet saw for the first time the town of Whitby. The girl stood stock still and absorbed the sight breathlessly. The station was close to the quayside and the harbour was filled with fishing boats, from large fat vessels with wide hulls and tall radio masts down to the simplest coble, painted red and white. Close by there was a long red boat which ran fishing trips for the tourists.

On the far side of the harbour was a jumble of buildings with roofs of terracotta tiles, nestling snugly alongside each other like a queue of nervous bathers waiting for someone to take the first leap into the water. They were built on a steep cliffside and the hotchpotch of sandstone and whitewash somehow seemed to be a natural feature of the landscape. They felt right, as though they had been there from earliest times and without them the land would be naked and ugly.

Jennet’s eyes scanned up beyond the houses, to where the high plain of the cliff reached out to the sea. She gasped and stared. For there, surmounting everything, was a ragged crown of grey stone—the abbey.

The building was in ruins, but that did not diminish its power. The abbey had dominated Whitby for centuries and waves of invisible force flowed down from it. The ruin was a guardian, watching and waiting, caring for the little town that huddled beneath the cliff. It was a worshipful thing.

Miss Boston nodded. ‘Yes,’ she sighed dreamily, ‘the abbey. It is indeed lovely. There has been a church on that site for at least fourteen hundred years. One gets a marvellous sense of permanence, living under such an enduring symbol of faith. If one believes in the genius loci— the spirit of place—then surely therein dwells something divine. The Vikings came, Henry did his best to destroy the abbey with the Dissolution of the Monasteries and in the Great War German ships bombarded it. Yet still it stands—stubborn and wonderful. They say a true inhabitant of Whitby is lost if he cannot see the abbey.’ She paused and looked at the ground. ‘Well,’ she went on again breezily, ‘there I go, off at tangents again. You two may have eaten but I have not. Come, tea awaits.’

Jennet dragged her eyes from the cliff and glanced about the road. ‘Where’s your car?’ she asked curiously.

Miss Boston puffed herself up indignantly. ‘A car?’ she cried, her chins wobbling. ‘I don’t need a car. Whitby is not big enough to warrant the use of an automobile, child. However, I do have transport, now you mention it.’ She strode round to where an old black bicycle was leaning against the station wall.

Jennet bit her lip to stop herself cracking up with laughter at the thought of the old woman riding round on that. Had she and Ben come to stay with the local nutter?

Miss Boston announced that she would not ride but walk, for the sake of the children. ‘Now, this way,’ she declared, setting off. The bicycle clattered and whirred beside her.

Ben had been silent since they had met but by now he had decided that the old woman was harmless and much friendlier than the Rodice. There were none of those phoney smiles and patronising looks which were a feature of the Rodice’s way with children. He was also relieved that this adult had not tried to pat him on the head or ruffle his hair, like some others had done.

Now his excited eyes saw the fishing boats with their gleaming paintwork, orange nets and lobster pots. A twinge of pleasure tugged at his insides when he thought of actually sailing in one of them. It was not impossible. If the old woman liked him and Jennet and if he kept quiet about certain things, they might stay here just long enough.

Ben was already beginning to find Whitby a thrilling place, full of possibilities. Suddenly he remembered again what Mr Glennister had told him. As he walked behind his sister along New Quay Road a determined expression crossed his face and, forgetting his bashfulness, he pulled at the old woman’s sleeve.

‘Where’s Peter Pan?’ he demanded.

Miss Boston stopped and blinked. ‘Whatever does the dear boy mean?’ she asked Jennet in surprise.

‘He was told Captain Hook lived here,’ explained the girl in an apologetic tone.

Miss Boston hooted loudly and frightened some gulls on the quayside. ‘Bless me, Benjamin,’ she chuckled, ‘it’s Cook, not Hook. Captain Cook lived here.’

‘Oh,’ murmured Ben. He felt babyish and all the shyness returned in a great flood. He waited for the old woman to call him stupid, but instead she said something quite unexpected.

‘Peter Pan, eh?’ Miss Boston mused to herself. ‘Do you know, young man, you have crystallised something I have felt without realising. For some time I have sensed that there is—oh how shall I say?—something special about this place of ours. It almost seems to have been neglected by time. Oh yes, we have motor cars passing through and amusement arcades on the West Cliff, which scream of the twentieth century, plus of course the summer visitors snapping their cameras, yet… there is an aspect of the town which belongs to the past. Never-Never Land is a good comparison… yes, most interesting. How perceptive you are.’

She wheeled her bicycle on once more. Ben looked up at Jennet, who gave him a frosty stare.

‘Just don’t be too perceptive,’ she whispered harshly.

‘Captain James Cook was a very famous mariner,’ Miss Boston called to them over her shoulder. ‘He lived for some time in Grape Lane on the East Cliff—we shall pass by there on the way to my cottage. He discovered Australia, you know. Still, we must not hold that against the man.’

They came to a bridge spanning the river. It was only wide enough to take one line of traffic at a time and was jammed with pedestrians, swarming everywhere.

‘Our busiest time of year,’ Miss Boston explained as she ploughed her way through. ‘We’ve just got over our regatta and the Folk Week starts in two days.’

‘Folk Week?’ queried Jennet.

‘Yes, with lots of morris dancing—people come from miles away. The town is always packed with bearded men who black their faces and walk about in clogs—such fun.’

When they were halfway across the bridge, Ben glanced back. The road they had left was just beginning to get interesting. He heard the crackle of electronic guns and the amplified voice of the bingo caller. A row of glittering arcades stretched out towards the sea beneath another cliff.

‘That is the West Cliff,’ said Miss Boston as she negotiated her way through a crowd of giggling girls. ‘Traditionally the East Cliff was for the fishermen and the West for the holidaymakers. Of course it’s got a little mixed up over the years; most of the fishermen can’t afford to live here any more so they have to travel in.’

They reached the far side of the river. ‘Down there is Grape Lane,’ indicated Miss Boston, waving her hand.

The buildings of the East Cliff were more densely bunched together than Jennet had at first thought. They had been built in the days before planning permission was heard of and their higgledy-piggledy clusters formed a vast number of dark alleys, lanes and yards. The Whitby of the East Cliff was gazing at the world from an earlier time all its own.

Miss Boston led them up a narrow cobbled road called Church Street. It was the main thoroughfare of the East Cliff, yet still cars had difficulty making their way down it. Old buildings hunched over on either side in a forbidding manner, and tiny lanes led off through sudden openings to unseen doorways.

‘Afternoon, Alice.’ A thin, elderly woman greeted Miss Boston courteously. She had the palest blue eyes that Jennet had ever seen and her silvery hair was scraped tightly over her head, to be bound in a fist-sized bun at the back. She wore a grey cardigan over a lemon-yellow blouse, fastened at the neck by a cameo brooch, and clasped a brown handbag primly in front of her.

‘Oh, Prudence,’ returned Miss Boston hastily. ‘Did you manage to come across that book?’

The other shook her head and sniffed. ‘Sorry, Alice—must have thrown it out with Howard’s things after all. Never kept much of his stuff you know.’ Her voice was clipped and precise. Then she regarded the children and waited for an explanation.

‘My guests. Prudence: Jennet and Benjamin.’

‘Yes, well. They’re younger than I thought. I hope you know what you’re doing.’ She then continued the conversation, ignoring the children completely. ‘Actually, Alice, I have just come from your cottage. That Gregson woman told me you were not at home.’ She shook herself and adjusted the cameo. ‘So I was about to take myself off to call on Tilly. Haven’t seen her for over a week—more kittens, I imagine. It’s all getting too ridiculous. Well, must cut along. Goodbye.’ And with that, she walked briskly away.

‘Don’t forget Sunday,’ Miss Boston called after her.

Without slowing her brisk stride the woman raised her hand dismissively and called back, ‘Naturally.’ Then she was lost in the crowds.

Miss Boston turned back to the children and sucked her breath in sharply. ‘That was Mrs Joyster,’ she informed them. ‘Rather a cold woman. I’m afraid—husband was army and it rubbed off on her. Sometimes I feel as though I’m being drilled when she talks to me. Mind you,’ she added, ‘she can be very pleasant at times.’

The bicycle began to clatter once more. ‘I recall how I used to hate it when adults pretended I wasn’t there; dear me, that was a long time ago now. Do you prefer blackberry or raspberry jam? I confess I have a passion for both—especially on hot scones. My cottage is not far now.’

Jennet and Ben were beginning to find Miss Boston’s abrupt changes of thought bewildering. It did, however, occur to them that they would have no difficulty polishing off a plate of jammy scones.

An odd, square building on the left caught their attention. It was set a little apart for one thing. Pillars supported the upper storey and right at the top, in the middle of the roof, was a clock tower and a weather vane shaped like a fish.

‘This is Market Place,’ said Miss Boston, waving a proud hand. ‘If you’re keen, you could go on this.’ She pointed to a black sign with white letters advertising a Ghost Tour.

Ben’s eyes widened and he swallowed nervously. The sign drew him like a powerful magnet. Jennet pulled him roughly away as if from a fire.

‘No!’ she told the old woman. ‘We don’t like that sort of thing at all.’

If Miss Boston was surprised by the severity of Jennet’s outburst then she did not show it. ‘Really, dear?’ she said mildly. ‘Then I’m afraid you have come to the wrong place entirely. You know I sometimes think Whitby has more ghosts than living residents.’ She waggled her chins at the sign and muttered, ‘Just as well, really—I’ve been banned from going on the tours anyway. Well, the young man who runs them seemed to resent my chipping in. Got quite irate once when I corrected him. He gave me my money back on the proviso I never bothered him again. Astounding state of affairs.’

They had come to another of those sudden openings and Miss Boston wheeled her bicycle through it. After about five metres the alley opened out into a spacious yard. She walked up to a flight of steps, rested her bicycle against a rail, opened a green door and said, ‘Well, come in then.’

Jennet was downstairs, talking to Miss Boston. Ben lay on an embroidered quilt and stared at the primroses on the wallpaper. It was a small room but just big enough for him, and, for a change, he had it all to himself. There was a bed, a small wardrobe and a chest of drawers next to it with a lamp on top. He licked the jam from his chin and rolled over to gaze at the sloping ceiling.

It was a funny house. There were lots of weird prints on the walls and old sepia photographs of Victorian Whitby. There were also a good many corn dollies hanging up all over the place. A table in the hall was reserved for things Miss Boston had found while out walking: pine cones, bright orange rosehips, a bunch of heather, sheep’s wool found in a hedge, complete with twigs and fragments of leaf, the broken shell of a blackbird’s egg, several interesting pebbles, a gnarled piece of driftwood and a white gull’s feather.

This was not what he or Jennet had expected, and it certainly disproved the idea that Miss Boston was rich—unless she kept a secret stash of tenners under the mattress. It was not the sort of house you would expect an old lady to live in, whether she was rich or not. There were no china shepherdesses or rows of dainty cups, no bits of fussy lace, no piles of women’s magazines heaped in the corner, no obvious signs of knitting, no fat lazy cat sprawled on the sofa clawing away the cushions and—best of all to Ben—the place did not smell of lavender. He thought he would like it here. Miss Boston was not an average old lady; there was something vital and a little bit eccentric about her.

An idea came to him as he lolled on the bed. Gingerly, he crept out of his room and went into Jennet’s. He could still hear the faint hum of voices downstairs so he knew he was safe.

Ben fumbled with the zip on the blue canvas bag and delved through piles of neatly folded clothes and small treasures. There, right at the bottom, his groping fingers touched what felt like a book. Gently, he slid the photograph album out of the bag and stroked it lovingly with his hands. With great care and reverence he opened it and turned the pages. This was a hallowed thing to him and Jennet, and lately she had been withholding it from him.

There were his mother and father on their wedding day, smiling up out of the album, about to cut the cake. Another page and there they were on honeymoon in Wales. Ben’s father was a tall man with thick, dark hair and a broad grin. His mother, a petite blonde, had blinked at the wrong moment, and here she was, frozen into an eternal doze. The opposite page showed Jennet when she was a baby, sitting on her father’s lap.

Ben examined the photographs carefully. Here they were: images of his parents locked in happy events—birthdays and holidays sealed into the album forever. But the eyes staring out at him were unseeing. They were focused on the person taking the photograph and that had never been Ben. His mother and father were looking out at someone else, not him. He was confused. The memories of who they had been—everything they were—were now transferred to six inches by four of glossy paper.

He turned the last page. There was the photograph he sought above all. A younger version of himself sat astride a donkey on the sands of Rhyl, and beside him were his mother and father. Jennet must have taken the picture. Try as he might, Ben had no memory of the occasion. He imagined sitting on a donkey and hearing his father’s voice, but no—there was nothing there. The photograph had been taken on the final day of their last holiday together. Six months later both his parents had been killed in a car accident.

Ben closed the album, then frowned and chewed his lip. He understood that his parents were dead. He and Jennet had gone to the funeral and had watched the coffins being lowered into that deep hole. He remembered that because he had worn those shoes that pinched and Jennet had cried a lot and had to be put to bed. Yes, his parents were dead; everyone told him that. So why was it that every now and then, in a mirror or at the end of his bed before he went to sleep, he could see his mother and father smiling at him?

2 - Eurydice

I knew your dear mama’s aunt,’ said Miss Boston, above the buffeting wind.

Jennet sat on the tombstone and hugged her knees. ‘Great Aunt Connie?’

Miss Boston held on to her hat and nodded. ‘She was one of my pupils,’ she said. ‘A good student but never made any use of her education—shameful waste.’

‘And you say she wrote to you about Ben and me?’

‘Yes, over the years we have kept a correspondence going. She was very fond of your mama, you know, and when she heard about the accident, well…’

They had climbed the hundred and ninety-nine steps to the top of the East Cliff in order to see the abbey, only to find it was too late and the man in the office had gone home. Still, there was plenty to see.

At the top of the steps was St Mary’s church, a solid building surrounded by ancient graves whose stones were nearly worn smooth. They had settled themselves on a large, mossy tomb while Ben ran off to play among the stones and lean into the strong wind.

There was a magnificent view of the town below. On the West Cliff, directly opposite, bedroom lights were flickering on and the glitter of the arcades was becoming more noticeable in the gathering dusk. Dark night clouds were moving in from the sea and the sun was pale and low, catching a last, weak glint from the tiled roofs before it set.

Miss Boston, wrapped in a tweed cloak, stared at the horizon and said, ‘Of course, if Constance had not been in that home she would have taken you and Benjamin in herself.’

Jennet spoke into the darkening sky, tilting her head back and sweeping the hair out of her eyes. ‘She couldn’t have coped with Ben and me, she’s too old.’

Miss Boston snorted. ‘Too old? My dear girl, Constance is a mere sapling compared to me.’

‘But Aunt Connie’s seventy and walks with a frame.’

Miss Boston puckered her face up and asked, ‘How old do you think I am, child?’

Jennet looked at the figure blanketed in sage-green tweed. Only the face was visible and it was difficult to put an age to it. Miss Boston’s skin was lined, yet one grin could banish the wrinkles. Only the tufts of white woolly hair poking out beneath the hat gave any real clue to her age.

‘Seventy-five?’ Jennet ventured uncertainly.

Miss Boston closed her eyes and raised her head. ‘I am ninety-two,’ she solemnly informed her. ‘Don’t be alarmed, dear—some of us do survive for that length of time.’

‘But you’re not frail or anything,’ Jennet declared in surprise.

‘As to that,’ Miss Boston lifted a finger to her nose in a gesture of secrecy, ‘I have little methods all my own. Old age is terribly unfair. Usually either the mind or the body succumbs. Hospitals and nursing homes are filled with shambling near-cadavers who still possess all their marbles: intelligent people who can’t go to the bathroom by themselves or even get out of bed, in some cases. Then there is the other variety: the sprightly gibberers, I call them, senile but with perfectly healthy bodies. What a cruel joke old age is, to be sure.’

A flock of gulls soared out over the sea, spreading their wings and hanging on the air. Miss Boston followed their course with interest. ‘They’re not supposed to be able to fly over the abbey, you know,’ she told Jennet. ‘Legend says that if they try, they are overcome and fall to the ground. There they must pay homage to St Hilda, the founder of the abbey, until she releases them.’

‘That’s silly,’ said Jennet.

Miss Boston agreed. ‘I suppose so, but it is a lovely notion, don’t you think? St Hilda was a remarkable woman, after all.’

They sat in silence for some time, listening to the wind rushing through the grass and hearing Ben’s squawks as he chased the gulls.

‘Why now?’ asked Jennet, breaking the calm. ‘Why didn’t you send for us before? Why wait over two years?’

The old woman put her hand on Jennet’s and explained. ‘After the accident, Constance wrote to me and told me you had gone to stay with your father’s brother.’

‘Uncle Peter, yes—and Aunt Pat, his snotty wife.’

‘You were with them for just three months, were you not?’

Jennet stared at the ground and mumbled, ‘Aunt Pat said she couldn’t cope with… well, with us.’ She hesitated before adding, ‘Ben was having a bad time, and there were other things.’

‘I see.’ Miss Boston turned to watch Ben playing. ‘So they put you both into care.’

‘Yes, then we were put with another family who actually wanted to adopt Ben and me, until… well, it didn’t work out that way.’

‘No.’ Miss Boston narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. ‘Nor did it work out with three other families after that. You asked why I had not sent for you before now. My dear child, I was hoping that you would find a good home with a family who would care for you.’ She sighed loudly. ‘Alas, it was not to be, so I decided to enter the fray and applied a little pressure here, called in some old favours there. Well, here you are; stuck with a terrible old woman like me. I’m sorry, but I could not stand by and let you stay in that hostel until you were sixteen.’

Jennet shifted uncomfortably on the tombstone. This woman had no idea why they had been unable to fit in. She looked round for Ben and suddenly saw that he was dangerously near the cliff edge. ‘Will he be all right there?’ she asked in alarm.

‘I think your brother has brains enough not to go leaping off cliffs,’ remarked Miss Boston. ‘Of course, he might get blown off. The wind is notoriously strong up here.’ She raised a hand and called the boy to them. ‘Do you know it gets so violent sometimes that it actually lifts the lead off the church roof? Last winter the vicar had to cancel the service because of the noise.’

Ben began to make his roundabout way towards them. Miss Boston cleared her throat and said to Jennet, ‘I think I ought to tell you something before he rejoins us. It’s only fair you should know. You’ve a sensible head on your shoulders, too sensible perhaps at times.’

‘What should I know?’

‘I received a letter from Mrs Rodice.’ Miss Boston pulled a sour expression. ‘Nasty, spiteful letter it was too. It concerned Benjamin. What an unpleasant creature she must be.’

The colour drained out of Jennet’s face and she dug her nails into the palms of her hands. ‘What did the letter say?’ she asked shakily.

Miss Boston snorted her contempt. ‘She is obviously an ignorant woman—unbalanced too, I shouldn’t wonder. She accused Benjamin of certain things which I refuse to believe. I threw the wretched piece of paper on the fire—wish I could do the same to her.’

The girl glanced up and found Miss Boston looking at her steadily. Now was the time to tell her everything. If that was the end of their stay in Whitby, then so be it; at least she could put the old woman straight. Lord knows what the Rodice had put in that letter.

‘Ben has dreams,’ she stammered. ‘Sometimes he has them in the daytime and he gets muddled up. He used to think Mum and Dad came to see him after the accident. That—that’s not all. He used to tell some of the other kids at the hostel funny stuff that frightened them. We had a new girl come who used to live with her gran before she died and Ben told her that he could see an old woman sitting next to her when she was in the TV room, stroking her hair. Apparently that’s what this grandmother used to do. Yvonne started to wet the bed after that and the other kids used to look at Ben like he was some kind of freak.’

‘Go on,’ Miss Boston prompted her gently.

‘Well, that’s why we never settled down with the foster families. With Aunt Pat, the last straw came during one of her posh dinner parties. Ben came running downstairs saying he’d seen Mum. Aunt Pat went dead red; she hated the embarrassment of it, she didn’t want anyone to think she had a retarded relative in the house. I heard her and Uncle Peter talking one night—their room was next to mine and the walls were thin. She said she couldn’t stand it any more, and Uncle Peter had to go along with her. It was horrible listening to them discussing us like that. I wanted to shout out that I could hear them but I never did.

‘The other families were the same. One lot were really religious and thought Ben was possessed or something and the others just looked at us funny.’

‘You did not fully understand yourself. You are a very brave girl.’

At this point Ben sauntered up to them. ‘Come here, Benjamin,’ said Miss Boston. ‘Get under my cloak and I shall tell you a tale. You too. Jennet.’

The children huddled up to the old woman and sheltered from the bitter wind like chicks under their mother’s wings.

‘Do you see that?’ she asked them, nodding to a tall, thin cross. ‘That is Caedmon’s cross.’

‘Who’s he, then?’ Ben wanted to know.

‘Ah,’ Miss Boston explained, ‘Caedmon was a cowherd, long before the Normans came. He used to tend the cattle on the plain back there when the abbey was just a monastery. He was painfully shy and awkward, poor fellow. In the winter when fires were lit and songs were sung around them, all the other servants of the monastery would do their party pieces, except Caedmon. He felt so unhappy because he could not sing that he would retire early and his friends would shake their heads and feel sorry for him.

‘Then, one night, a vision came to him in a dream. It was an angel, which bade Caedmon sing of the glories of God the Maker. Do you know, when he awoke he felt confident as never before and began composing his own verse. Caedmon is recognised as the first English poet.’ And Miss Boston ended her tale with a satisfied sigh.

‘That’s soppy,’ sneered Ben, greatly disappointed.

‘You impudent rascal,’ cried Miss Boston with mock severity. ‘And what kind of stories do you like, may I ask?’

‘Scary ones—with monsters,’ he whispered conspiratorially.

Miss Boston’s face became grim as she shook her head and gasped, ‘You mean you don’t know? Have you come here unprepared? Did you not pack your garlic?’

Ben squirmed happily on the tomb, shaking his head. ‘Why?’ he giggled.

‘Because, child,’ she moaned in a horrified voice, ‘the most dreadful monster ever created came ashore at Whitby—Dracula himself. King of Vampires!’

‘He didn’t!’

‘Oh yes he did, young man—he changed himself into a great black dog and jumped from the doomed ship Demeter as she ran aground, just down there.’ Miss Boston paused for dramatic effect and they all stared down at the rough sea. ‘Now,’ she said in a bright, cheerful manner, ‘it’s getting colder—let us return home. Don’t pretend to be a vampire, Benjamin, you haven’t got the cloak for it.’ And she flapped her own, although she resembled a large green chicken more than a bat. Benjamin, however, was still staring down at the rocks below. He seemed to be watching something.

The old woman squinted down and saw a blurred shape move quickly over the stones. ‘So,’ she whispered to herself, ‘he sees the fisher folk also.’ A slow smile spread over her face.

Jennet waited for them at the top of the steep flight of steps. ‘Did Dracula really live here?’ she asked nervously.

Miss Boston chuckled. ‘Dracula is but a character of fiction. His creator, Bram Stoker, came here in 1890, a dozen or so years before I was born. Mind you, the black dog was a grisly creature of legend he borrowed from the locals—the Barguest. As big as a calf with fiery red eyes, it was supposed to stalk through the streets of Whitby at the dead of night. Anyone who heard it howling was doomed.’

Jennet shivered. ‘That’s horrible. Miss Boston.’

The old lady sighed. ‘Really, Jennet, you must stop calling me Miss Boston; I gave up lecturing a long time ago. My name is Alice.’

‘I can’t call you that. It doesn’t sound right.’

‘Then how about Aunt Alice? Will that do?’

Jennet simply smiled in reply and slid her hand automatically into Aunt Alice’s.

The seagulls woke Ben up; for a moment he wondered where he was and then he remembered. Hastily, he pulled his clothes on and ran downstairs to the kitchen, where he found Jennet finishing off a boiled egg.

‘Those seagulls are a bit loud, aren’t they, Jen?’ he said chirpily.

Jennet blinked at him wearily. ‘It’s seven in the morning,’ she answered grumpily. ‘I’ll never get used to this.’

‘Where is she?’ asked Ben, heaving himself on to a stool.

Jennet emptied the eggshell into a pedal bin and rinsed her plate under the tap. ‘She went out ten minutes ago. Says she always goes for a walk before breakfast.’

‘Where’s mine?’ demanded Ben hungrily.

His sister poured some milk into a bowl of cereal and passed it to him. Ben picked up a spoon; it was an odd colour and he sniffed it suspiciously.

‘It’s nice here, isn’t it, Ben?’ said Jennet as she watched him munch his breakfast.

‘Um,’ he agreed, with his mouth full.

‘I hope we can stay here for a while; she’s a nice old lady. I feel a bit funny calling her “Aunt” though.’

The latch on the front door rattled and Aunt Alice stepped in looking windswept and rosy. She stayed in the hall to hang up her hat and coat.

‘Don’t like these spoons, Jen,’ hissed Ben, waving his in the air.

‘Shush! They’re probably made of silver and very old—behave.’

Aunt Alice entered, undoing the top button of her blouse. ‘There,’ she puffed. ‘I like to climb the hundred and ninety-nine steps, whatever the weather. Blows the sleepy cobwebs away, it does.’ She bent down and opened the door of an old-fashioned refrigerator. ‘Now,’ she mumbled, ‘will it be kippers today or scrambled eggs? Kippers it is!’

Ben liked the smoky smell of the kipper but the taste was too strong for him—he preferred fish fingers, and said as much. Aunt Alice roared that he would get no fish fingers from her as long as he stayed in Whitby. He could eat fresh fish or none at all.

Twenty minutes later, she was dabbing the corners of her mouth with a hanky and praising the art of a Mr Bill Fortune. ‘Well now, children,’ she addressed them as she pushed the plate away, ‘what do you intend to do today?’

They shrugged and looked at her blankly.

‘Explore?’ suggested Jennet. ‘If you don’t mind, that is.’

‘Why should I mind, child? I hope you enjoy yourselves. I shall want to know what you have discovered when you return.’

‘Oh,’ said Jennet disappointedly, ‘aren’t you coming too?’

Aunt Alice raised her eyebrows. ‘Certainly not, I have far too much to do. You can look after yourselves—you won’t get lost in a small town like this.’ She rose and scraped the kipper bones into the pedal bin, then washed her plate with Ben’s breakfast things. ‘Now I think you ought to brush your teeth, don’t you?’

Jennet was the first one down from the bathroom and she took her coat from the peg in the hall. ‘When should we come back. Aunt Alice?’

‘Oh, whenever you like, dear. I have to go out myself.’

‘But how shall we get in if you’re not here?’

Aunt Alice came into the hall, dangling a key to the front door between her fingers. ‘A spare,’ she said.

Jennet thanked the old woman. It had been a long time since anybody had trusted her like this and she appreciated it.

‘Just come back when you get hungry,’ beamed Aunt Alice. ‘I should be here by lunchtime.’

Ben struggled into his coat while Jennet wiped the toothpaste from his mouth, then all three left the house. The weather looked promising. Aunt Alice waved goodbye to them and set off purposefully towards the West Cliff.

It was still early and Jennet and Ben wandered through the narrow streets, gazing into shop windows which were filled with pieces of Whitby jet. It had been fashioned into all sorts of jewellery—rings, pendants, bracelets and tie-pins. Jennet looked longingly at a pair of jet earrings and stroked the glass dreamily. Ben tutted in disgust and walked away, muttering about the dullness of shops.

Then he spied a joke shop. He pressed his face against its windows and uttered little yelps of delight. It had everything, from black-face soap to horrific rubbery masks. There were sugar cubes that turned to worms when placed in tea and ghastly sets of false teeth. He wondered what he could afford—maybe Aunt Alice would buy him something. He drooled over the possibilities until his sister came to look for him.

Eventually the children came to the harbour and watched some late fishing boats return. A fresh, salty tang was in the air and they ran across the bridge to see the fish auction. It was being held in a large covered area on the West Cliff. Wooden crates filled with silvery fish were stacked into high piles, whilst an official in a white coat gabbled away, faster than they believed possible.

Jennet wrinkled her nose at the strong, fishy smell. Ben peered into one of the crates and tried, unsuccessfully, to outstare the dead fish, until a gruff man in a black coat shooed them away.

They walked along the Pier Road, but as it was only half past eight they could not go into the lifeboat museum. Instead, they chased each other along the sandy beach. The morning wore on, shops opened and the holidaymakers strolled out of hotels and bed-and-breakfasts.

Jennet ran up to the green door and searched in her pockets for the key. Outside Aunt Alice’s cottage was an old barrel which overflowed with geraniums and above the door itself hung a curiously shaped stone with a hole worn into it.

‘Mornin’,’ said a voice suddenly. Jennet dropped the key in surprise.

Leaning against one of the other doors in the yard was a thick-set, dark-haired, surly-looking woman. A cigarette was balancing on her bottom lip, and when she spoke it stayed in place as though it were glued on. Her face showed disdain as she looked Jennet up and down. She folded her bare, fleshy arms and said, ‘You one of them what’s come to stay wi’ her?’

Jennet nodded, mesmerised at the acrobatic skill of the cigarette.

‘Given you a key as well, ‘as she? Me an’ my Norman know what she gets up to, her an’ them friends of hers. Oh, she thinks she’s so clever, bossing everyone about.’ The woman blew through the curling blue cigarette smoke. ‘Anyway, you make sure you keep your hands to yourself, you hear me? I know your sort, lass—don’t you come thievin’ round here. She might be daft as a brush, but I’m not.’

Jennet was so taken aback by the woman’s outburst that before she could think of anything to say the dreadful creature had gone back into her house and slammed the door. Jennet stuck her tongue out and turned the key in the lock.

Inside there was no sign of Aunt Alice. Jennet took off her coat, wondering whether she was in the parlour, having a nap. She knocked but there was no answer, so she turned the brass handle and peeped in.

The parlour was papered a rich burgundy and fined with shelves full of dusty volumes. A large round table dominated the centre of the room and in the corner a tall grandfather clock monotonously ticked the time away.

Jennet went into the kitchen and decided to make a cup of tea to await the old lady’s return. Just as the kettle began to whistle, there came a furtive knock on the front door.

‘You took your time, Ben,’ she began. ‘What happened to—’

But when the door opened she saw that the new arrival was not her brother after all. Another old lady blinked in surprise at her.

‘Oh dear,’ said the stranger. ‘I suppose you must be Janet.’

‘Jennet,’ the girl corrected.

‘Of course. I’m Miss Droon—a friend of Alice’s. Is she in?’

‘No, but she should be back soon.’

‘Shall I come in, then, and wait? Thank you.’ And she barged through to the kitchen, where the kettle was whistling for all it was worth and steaming up the windows.

Miss Droon was an odd-looking woman. Her hair was dark grey and very wiry, like a pan scrub. She wore thick, black-rimmed spectacles and a chunky blue sweater which was covered in short, white hairs. As she passed by. Jennet noticed a strong whiff of cats. This was rather appropriate, because Miss Droon had whiskers; they stuck out above her top lip and bristled along her chin. It was quite a struggle to keep from staring.

Miss Droon made a pot of tea and helped herself to the Gypsy Creams. She planted her bottom on a stool and tapped the table distractedly; evidently there was something on her mind.

‘I’m sure Aunt Alice won’t be long,’ said Jennet, noticing the hairs that had fallen to the floor from Miss Droon’s sweater.

‘I hope you’re right, girl,’ she returned, ‘for Eurydice’s sake.’ She looked out of the window desperately.

‘Eurydice?’

‘Yes. She’s wandered off again and she could go into labour any minute.’ Miss Droon wrung her hands together anxiously.

Jennet had visions of some woman roaming round Whitby, ready to give birth. ‘Maybe she’s gone to the hospital,’ she suggested hopefully.

Miss Droon looked at her as if she were mad and opened her mouth. But at that moment, the front door opened and in came Aunt Alice with Ben. They had met in Church Street and Ben was giving her a detailed account of the morning’s activities. ‘Then we saw a statue of that Captain Cook and two huge whale bones made into an arch and I found a fossil thing on the beach—see?’

‘That’s an ammonite, Benjamin; there are lots of them round here.’

Miss Boston removed her hat before the mirror in the hall. ‘Sounds like you two have been busy,’ she said. ‘You and Jennet must be ravenous. Oh,’ and she paused in the kitchen doorway, ‘hello, Tilly. What can I do for you? I’ve just been over to Pru’s, looking for that wretched book she cannot find—said she’d seen you yesterday. Everything well?’

‘It’s Eurydice!’ Miss Droon burst out.

‘Again!’ whistled Aunt Alice. ‘How many this time?’

‘No, she’s gone off and they’re due any minute.’

‘How tiresome,’ tutted Miss Boston, winking at Jennet. ‘And you would like me to find her for you, is that it?’

‘Please, Alice—I’ve brought Binky along.’ Miss Droon pulled a well chewed woollen mouse from her pocket. ‘I just can’t bear to think of her coping alone.’

‘She probably wanted to get away from your ham-fisted interference, Tilly dear. Do help yourself to biscuits, by the way.’

Miss Droon guiltily licked the crumbs from her moustache. ‘Oh, Alice,’ she pleaded, ‘there may be very little time.’

Miss Boston sighed and filled a jug with cold water. ‘Very well. Come into the parlour, Tilly—and don’t forget Binky. Oh, Jennet, could you and Benjamin stay here for a while and be very quiet?’ The children nodded, greatly puzzled. ‘Excellent. Now, in you go, Matilda.’

Ben looked at Jennet. ‘Who’s that, then?’ he wanted to know.

‘A friend of Aunt Alice’s, I think,’ she replied.

‘What have they gone in there for?’

Jennet brushed hairs off the stool lately occupied by Miss Droon and shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I think she’s a bit loopy.’

‘What did Aunt Alice want with the water, Jen? There’s no plants in the parlour.’

‘Maybe she’s going to pour it over Miss Droon’s head,’ she answered sarcastically. ‘How do you expect me to know?’

The sound of voices filtered through the parlour door, so the children kept quiet and listened.

‘Do shut up, Tilly,’ boomed Aunt Alice. ‘I need to concentrate.’

‘What can they be doing?’ breathed Jennet.

After a short while the door was opened and Miss Droon bustled out. Aunt Alice called after her, pulling back the curtains, ‘It’s either the old barn again or that empty house on Hawkser Lane—sorry, Abbey Lane. Yes, I’m certain she’ll be there.’

‘I must go to her! Poor little Eurydice,’ cried Miss Droon, fumbling with the front door latch.

Aunt Alice emerged from the parlour and remarked wryly, ‘I’d hardly call her “little” in her condition.’ But Miss Droon had fled from the house.

‘Oh, confound the woman,’ said Miss Boston. ‘It’s no good. I shall have to go with her. Do you children want to come? It isn’t far, but perhaps you need your lunches right away?’

Ben began to say that he did but Jennet elbowed him into silence and said of course they would go.

‘Good,’ said Aunt Alice, putting her hat back on. Jennet watched her and Ben leave the house whilst she put her coat on again. Then, on a sudden impulse, she ran into the parlour.

A sweet, heavy scent laced the air; on the table was the jug of water and an empty black lacquered bowl. Jennet went up to it and ran her fingers around the rim. It was wet.

‘So, Aunt Alice filled the bowl with water, drew the curtains, then poured the water back into the jug,’ she said slowly to herself. ‘But why? And what is that sickly smell?’ Jennet was mystified; how could all these things, not forgetting Binky, lead to Aunt Alice’s conclusion that Eurydice was in some empty house?

She left the parlour and ran outside, closing the front door behind her. Ben and Miss Boston were in Church Street before she caught up with them.

‘The Blakelocks used to live in the house but they moved out two years ago and went to live in Wakefield, I believe,’ Aunt Alice was telling Ben. ‘The house has been empty since then. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to buy it now, too run-down and probably overrun with fieldmice. Perfect for Eurydice, though.’

‘Why’s that?’ asked Jennet.

‘Oh, didn’t she tell you? Eurydice’s a cat.’

Jennet laughed. ‘No wonder she gave me an odd look when I mentioned the hospital.’

‘Yes,’ continued Aunt Alice, ‘Tilly already has twelve of the perishing things, most of them Eurydice’s offspring. Too popular with the local toms she is—Eurydice, not Tilly. But will she get her seen to? Not on your life. There’s hardly a stick of furniture in her house that hasn’t been used either as a claw sharpener or—well, a convenience. The place positively reeks.’

The empty house they were heading for was just off the lane that ran behind the abbey, so up the hundred and ninety-nine steps they had to go. Halfway up they encountered a breathless Miss Droon. She was finding the climb rather too strenuous.

‘Oh my,’ she wheezed, ‘I hope you’re right, Alice—I don’t want to have staggered up these ruddy steps for nothing.’

Finally they reached the summit and walked through the graveyard to get on to Abbey Lane. The stately ruin of the abbey towered up on their right as they followed the small road which circled round it.

‘There it is,’ said Miss Boston, pointing to a long, two-storied building. It was an ugly house with mean little windows, quite secluded. Jennet shuddered at the thought of living there; at night it would be pitch dark, for there were no streetlamps. It was a dismal, lonely place.

‘Goodness me!’ exclaimed Aunt Alice. ‘Look at that sign. Somebody’s actually bought it.’

The ‘For Sale’ notice which had stood outside the house for two years now bore a garish red stripe proclaiming ‘SOLD’, for all the world to see.

‘They haven’t moved in yet, though,’ Miss Droon observed. ‘Let’s slip in and get Eurydice.’

Miss Boston opened the garden gate, which creaked and groaned in protest. ‘Dear me,’ said the old lady, ‘what a state this is in.’

Ben was the last through the gate, and studied a grimy nameplate nailed on to the wood as he went through. ‘The Hawes,’ he read aloud.

The garden round the house was wild: grass and weeds had choked the flower-beds and only the taller roses had survived. The house itself was shabby and dark, with several of the downstairs windows boarded up.

‘Such neglect,’ commented Miss Boston sadly. ‘And look at the path, completely overgrown. We shall have to wade through—mind the nettles, children.’

Miss Droon tottered behind, calling out, ‘Eurydice, Eurydice—come on darling, there’s a love, now. Oh, no, maybe she’s had them already. What shall I do?’

Jennet looked back at the overgrown path thoughtfully. ‘Aunt Alice,’ she began, ‘if no one’s been here for ages—how come someone’s bought the house? I mean they can’t have been to see it, can they?’

‘Good heavens, child,’ said Miss Boston, ‘you are sharp today. How curious; I wonder who can be moving in?’

‘Might be council, Alice,’ suggested Miss Droon. ‘Perhaps they’re going to knock it down and rebuild.’

‘I shall go round to Olive and Parks the estate agent this afternoon and solve this mystery,’ Miss Boston decided. ‘I’ll see if they’re going to rebuild or not.’

Ben’s voice called to them from around the back. He had found the kitchen door and the wood was rotten. There was a large hole at the bottom.

‘Deeps damn her!’ bellowed the aufwader suddenly. His blow went astray and he turned his head towards the cliff, apparently having heard something that Ben had not. His concentration was broken and the hypnotic snare destroyed.

Ben seized his chance. He kicked the aufwader in the stomach and his knife spun through the air as the creature doubled up in agony. Grabbing a handful of sand, the boy flung it into his opponent’s gasping face. Then he scrambled back over the beach for dear life and did not stop until he was safely indoors and in a startled Aunt Alice’s arms.

‘Eurydice,’ cried Miss Droon, going down on her knees and calling through the gap. ‘Puss, puss.’

‘It’s no use calling,’ Aunt Alice told her, ‘she won’t come. I certainly wouldn’t. The poor thing doesn’t want to have you fussing about and being a nuisance. You always annoy her when she’s expecting, Tilly.’

‘But I can’t leave her here,’ wailed the crouching Miss Droon.

‘Shall I go in?’ asked Ben. ‘I could easily squeeze through there if we made the hole a bit bigger.’

‘Certainly not,’ said Miss Boston sternly, ‘that’s breaking and entering.’

‘Oh, let him go in, Alice. You never liked Renie Blakelock anyway.’

‘That’s hardly the point, Matilda. The property no longer belongs to her.’

Miss Droon clicked her tongue in annoyance. ‘But as it’s going to be knocked down anyway, I can’t see what’s the harm.’

‘We don’t know that for certain. That was just your idea.’

Miss Droon countered with her master stroke. She looked squarely at Aunt Alice through those thick glasses and said, ‘What about that umbrella Renie borrowed and never returned to you—your mother’s, wasn’t it?’

Miss Boston relented at once. ‘On the other hand,’ she said stiffly, ‘it is an emergency and if Benjamin really doesn’t mind…’

Ben pulled away more of the crumbling door and wriggled through. A dingy, yellow-brown light filtered through the filthy kitchen windows. The room was bare and the noise of his movements echoed around as he searched for the troublesome cat. He looked in the low cupboards and out of curiosity inspected the drawers also, but they only contained a broken fish slice and quantities of brown paper bags. Eurydice was not in the sink either.

In the hall, the exposed floorboards moved as he walked on them; they had warped and no longer fitted properly. He put his head round the door of the front room, but only a collection of empty tea-chests stood morosely in the middle of the gloom.

The whole house smelt damp and musty. Ben shivered. What a horrid, dank place it was—he found it hard to believe that someone had actually lived there. The entire house reminded him of a large dungeon and that made him think of other things, Whitby’s most frightening visitor for one.

‘Eurydice, Eurydice,’ he called out feebly as he stood at the bottom of the stairs. Then he heard a noise. ‘You would have to be up there, wouldn’t you.’ He gritted his teeth and hoped it was the cat who had made the noise and not some vampire opening the lid of its coffin. He tried to control his rising panic, but it was some minutes before he was able to put his foot on the first step.

The stairs still possessed their carpet—too worn to be worth removing, it was damp and spotted with black mould. Ben took hold of the banister and crept very slowly up the steps.

It was dark on the first floor, for there was no landing window and all the bedroom doors were shut. There were five doors; he opened the nearest. Only a bathroom. The next led into an empty pink bedroom. As he went, Ben left the doors open behind him to illuminate the landing; in the growing light he noticed a square opening in the ceiling.

‘Must be the attic,’ he whispered to himself. He did not like the look of that deep black hole. It made him uneasy as he passed beneath it. ‘I hope you’re not up there, you daft moggy,’ he mumbled as he quickly opened the next door. Another bedroom, blue wallpaper this time. Then a toilet, and finally a room done out in lime stripes. This was full of cardboard boxes and old yellowing newspapers which the mice had chewed.

Ben tiptoed over to the boxes. There was a sudden movement and he stepped back in alarm. A furry white head popped up.

‘Eurydice!’ sighed Ben, relieved. The cat miaowed crossly, staring at him with one green eye and one blue. ‘Come on, puss,’ he said soothingly. Eurydice let him stroke her and Ben slipped his hand down to her tummy. At least she hadn’t had the kittens yet. Then he frowned; something was wrong. As he tickled the cat’s stomach, she rolled over and he discovered that she only had three legs. What a peculiar animal.

He picked up the box she was in and Eurydice glared at him. ‘It’s all right, puss,’ he said, carrying her out of the room. Only then did Ben begin to wonder: who had shut that door in the first place?

On the landing, Eurydice grew agitated and her ears pressed flat against her skull. She began to hiss and spit, but not at Ben. The boy turned cold. As he passed under the dark loft opening, all the hairs on the back of his neck prickled and rose. He felt sure something was up there, watching him from the shadows—the same something that could close bedroom doors.

He made for the stairs quickly but as he ran down them two at a time, he chanced to turn back and was horrified to see a small, dark figure drop silently to the landing and begin creeping after him.

Ben bolted for the kitchen and thrust the box through the gap, scrabbling frantically after it.

‘Look at your clothes,’ sighed Aunt Alice, ‘all dusty and cobwebby.’

‘Eurydice, you naughty girl,’ scolded Miss Droon, ‘don’t do that again. I shall lock you in my room from now on.’

In the sunlight Ben’s fear seemed irrational; he must have imagined the whole thing. Either that or the figure was one of his ‘visitors’, although he had never felt frightened in their presence before. He decided not to mention it to anyone.

‘What was it like in there?’ Jennet asked him.

‘Smelly and damp,’ he replied, shaking the dust out of his hair.

‘Must have been cold too,’ she added. ‘You’re covered in goose pimples.’

Miss Boston put her arm round him and said, ‘This young man has earned his dinner—come on. Tilly, do stop messing with that wretched cat and make sure you do keep an eye on it until the kittens are born.’

‘Eurydice has only got three legs,’ Ben told his sister.

‘Really?’ asked Jennet, staring at the two ears which bobbed up and down above the box.

‘She lost one when she was a kitten herself,’ crooned Miss Droon dotingly. ‘A window sash broke and the frame crushed her leg beyond repair. The vet had to amputate to save her, poor darling. Now I can’t take her anywhere near the vet’s—simply goes berserk. Don’t you, Eurydice darling?’

‘And that’s why she’s always expecting,’ said Miss Boston, ‘and of course why she’s so popular with the toms.’

‘Because she has three legs?’ asked Jennet. ‘I don’t see the connection.’

Aunt Alice laughed wickedly. ‘Well, she can’t run as fast as the other lady cats.’

The children roared and Miss Droon looked away.

3 - The Ladies’ Circle

Ben turned the ammonite over in his fingers and stared intently at it. It was the same size as a fifty-pence piece and charcoal in colour. Miss Boston had told him that it was incredibly old, older than the human race, in fact. Ben held it tightly. It felt safe to touch something so ancient—there was very little permanence in his turbulent life and this small, time-polished fossil was like a magic talisman, a sign that perhaps things would be different from now on.

It was late and the three of them were sitting in the parlour. The curtains were drawn and Aunt Alice had lit a fire as the night had grown chill. Now the children lounged on the wide sofa and sipped hot chocolate.

Jennet looked across at the old lady, whose face glowed in the flickering firelight.

‘Shall I tell you the legend of the ammonites and St Hilda?’ Aunt Alice asked them.

Ben pushed himself further into the cushions and nodded.

The old lady gazed into the fire and began. ‘In the olden times, when Caedmon was alive, the Abbess of Whitby was the niece of a great northern king. They were dark, severe days and most of the people were still pagan, worshipping cruel gods on the moors and at the river mouth.’

Her quiet voice lulled Jennet’s senses and she began to drift far away. The old lady’s words conjured up vivid pictures and she shivered, imagining the horrible things that must have happened in those savage times.

‘Well,’ continued Aunt Alice, after she had drained her mug, ‘it is said that the cliff-top where the abbey now stands was alive with snakes. They were such a nuisance that the Lady Hilda took up a whip or staff and drove them all into the sea where, by her prayers, they were turned to stone. However, the three largest serpents had escaped her anger, and they rose out of the grass to strike her. Furiously, she hit out first and cut their heads clean off, while their bodies sailed through the air and were embedded in the wall of a house at the bottom of the hundred and ninety-nine steps. They are still there to this day, if you care to look.’

Ben groaned—yet another soppy story. He liked the bit about the snakes, though. He examined his fossil once again and hissed softly to it.

Jennet stirred a little but still gazed at the flames through narrowed eyes. ‘Is any of that true?’ she asked. ‘I mean was Hilda really the niece of a king?’

‘Oh yes,’ Aunt Alice assured her earnestly. ‘Edwin of Northumbria was her uncle, though some say father. She was a princess, in any case. Word got around that one of royal blood was coming to Whitby and gossip confused the true facts—rather like Chinese whispers, I imagine. Eventually half the population believed Hilda was a great sorceress, but we actually know very little about the real woman. The story of the snakes is obviously allegorical, the serpents representing the pagan religion which Hilda overcame. Still, it is a quaint tale.

‘Now I think it is time for you both to go to bed. You’ve had a busy day and so have I, what with troublesome cats and barmy old Tilly.’

Jennet dragged Ben from the cushion cave he had made for himself and his pet snake. Hissing like a puncture, the boy ran up the stairs. His sister followed behind him and turned to Aunt Alice, who was carrying the three empty mugs into the kitchen. ‘Did you go to the estate agent’s?’ she called down sleepily.

‘Indeed I did,’ answered the old lady, raising her voice above the sound of the running tap as she rinsed the cocoa dregs away. ‘The house is not going to be knocked down. A woman has bought it. They weren’t going to tell me but I know the mother of the young man behind the desk. He told me a Mrs Cooper had purchased the place. Has ideas of turning it into an antiques shop—ridiculous notion. We have far too many of those already and the house is too far off the beaten track to make it worthwhile.’

Miss Boston emerged from the kitchen and smiled up at Jennet. ‘Well, goodnight, dear,’ she said.

The next day was Saturday and the beginning of the Folk Week. Early in the morning the two children raced round the West Cliff, looking at the odd assortment of people who were turning up. They spent an interesting half hour watching cars and vans squeeze through the town while they tried to guess what sort of people were inside.

There were morris dancers, a whole gaggle of bagpipes, long-haired hippies with guitars and peace stickers, a fleet of flutes and penny whistles, a group of mummers dressed in the most outlandish costumes Ben had ever seen, and even two belly-dancers.

Whitby was heaving with people. Jennet laughed as she realised how true Aunt Alice’s words had been—there were a lot of bearded men and they all seemed to have the same sort of clothes on. It was like some kind of uniform: a good thick jumper with a clean white shirt underneath, then brown corduroy trousers, and, for the really serious, the ultimate accessory was a pewter tankard, attached to the belt.

A jolly, fat lady with cheeks like two beetroots clambered, with difficulty, out of a beaten-up old Mini. Then she leant in once more and hauled out an accordion as big as a coffee table. She beamed at the children as she passed by. Ben stared after her eagerly. This really was the most extraordinary place he had ever been—something always seemed to be happening.

The morning shadows dwindled and lunchtime drew near. Ben’s stomach growled and he reluctantly agreed with his sister to head back home. The town was seething, its streets thick with enthusiasts, musicians, tourists, and the poor locals trying to do their Saturday shopping. It took an incredibly long time to reach the bridge and crossing that was another Herculean task.

Jennet sighed with relief as the narrow streets of the East Cliff closed round her, but even here the crowds were phenomenal. She gripped Ben’s hand tightly in case he was washed away on the tourist tide and launched herself into the flow.

It was while she was passing the small post office in Church Street that a thought came to her, and she dragged her brother inside. It was jam-packed with people but if she didn’t do this now she would probably forget.

‘What are we doing here?’ Ben demanded. ‘I want my dinner.’

‘I’m going to send Aunt Connie a postcard,’ Jennet replied, gently pushing through the bodies till she came to the rack.

‘Can’t I go home now? I’m starved.’

Jennet ignored him and studied the collection of cards. It was a picture of the abbey that she eventually chose and she squirmed with it through to the counter. Strangely enough, nobody else seemed to be buying anything. Jennet put her postcard down and looked through the glass at the postmistress.

‘Can I have this and a first-class stamp, please?’ she asked.

The woman was about fifty. Her greying hair resembled a dilapidated haystack and the sides of her mouth twitched nervously. Jennet eyed her neat, beige cardigan. There was a crumpled tissue poking out from one sleeve, in case of emergencies. There was no wedding ring on the woman’s finger and Jennet guessed that here was one of the town’s spinsters, and smiled unconsciously.

The postmistress blinked in confusion, not sure why the girl had smiled at her. Up went her ringless hands, fluttering before her like frightened birds.

‘A stamp,’ the woman repeated in a flustered voice as she searched under the counter. ‘Dear me, no—television licence stamps.’ She twiddled with the chain around her neck, attached to which were her glasses. ‘Oh fly!’ she muttered. ‘I had them a minute ago.’

Jennet smiled again. The woman was a terrible ditherer; how had she ever got the job?

‘Ah,’ came a grateful sigh, ‘there you are, you terrible thing.’ She pulled a large book of stamps towards her and put on her glasses before wading through it.

‘There you are, dear,’ the woman breathed wearily. ‘That’s forty-five pence, please.’

Jennet counted out her change, and while the woman waited, the tissue flashed out and dabbed at her nose, then was just as speedily consigned to the sleeve once more.

Jennet took her stamp and postcard, thanked her and looked round for Ben. He was not there. Then from the street came a terrible commotion; a car horn was blowing harshly and voices were raised in anger. Jennet put her hand to her mouth and ran outside, thinking the worst.

A large old Bentley was attempting to plough down Church Street and the driver was being none too gentle. Jennet found Ben on the pavement, laughing at the surprised and angry looks of the people who were thrust aside. A girl in a bright orange and purple dress that had little mirrors sewn around the hem shouted equally colourful abuse at the occupants of the car and shook her tambourine at them furiously.

Once Jennet had got over the relief of finding her brother in one piece she shook him roughly and angrily told him, ‘Don’t you ever, ever do that again! Do you understand?’

But Ben was not really listening. He was still staring at the car, which had pulled up outside the post office. The driver was a bluff Yorkshire man in grubby gardening clothes, but on his head he wore a chauffeur’s cap. He got out and walked to one of the rear doors.

”Ere we are, madam,’ he said gruffly as he opened it. Both Ben and Jennet peered inside to see who his passenger might be.

A large, flabby lady in a silk print dress and a fur stole stepped heavily on to the pavement. Her hair was a pale peach colour and there seemed to be an inch-thick layer of make-up covering her face. Her lips were smeared a sickly orange to match her rinse, but it just made her look ill. She wore a necklace of pearls and her podgy hands were bejewelled with rings.

Jennet thought she looked like a fat pantomime fairy. Ben began to giggle as the apparition waddled gracelessly towards the post office and brushed past them. Her perfume was incredibly pungent—he could almost taste it.

The woman peered down her nose at the children and gave a peculiar excuse for a smile. Ben scowled. This was one of those phoney acknowledgements, the sort the Rodice used to dole out. Jennet nodded at her and shuddered as she wobbled into the post office; there had been lipstick all over her teeth.

‘Come on,’ she said to her brother, ‘let’s go and have lunch.’

They found Miss Boston already in the kitchen making ham sandwiches for them and, as they sat down to eat, they told her what they had done that morning. The old lady listened attentively, clucking now and then in wonder or approval. She laughed as they described the morris dancers and sucked in her cheeks at the disgraceful behaviour of the Bentley.

‘That Banbury-Scott woman really is too much!’ she snorted. ‘Thinks she owns the town, she does.’

‘You know that fat lady with all the cack on her face, then?’ asked Ben, forgetting his manners.

Aunt Alice spluttered at this description, pursing her lips and raising her eyebrows to disassociate herself from it. ‘Yes, I know her,’ she said. ‘She just happens to be one of the wealthiest women in the town. Married well, you see—married twice, actually, but both her husbands are dead now. Mrs Banbury-Scott is a very important person; her home is one of the largest and probably the oldest around here.’ Miss Boston sighed wistfully and took another bite of her sandwich.

‘She’s very fat,’ Ben said again.

Jennet kicked him under the table but Aunt Alice nodded in agreement. ‘Yes, she is a bit of a pig,’ she admitted. ‘Far too greedy. I’m afraid.’

Ben chuckled with surprise and appreciation—he had not expected her to agree with him.

‘I didn’t like her,’ said Jennet flatly.

‘Not many do,’ confided Aunt Alice, ‘but because she’s rich they put up with her. Very useful to have her on the board of this and that if she makes a contribution to the funds now and again. Of course she’s got terribly above herself—putting on airs and graces. She might be able to fool some of them round here with her fancy ways but I remember what she was like before she got married. Plain Dora Blatchet she was then, father lived in the yard opposite—simple fisherman.’ She leaned back and stared into space for a moment. ‘Oh, but she was a lovely creature then—prettiest little thing in Whitby. Another cruel trick of age.’

Ben licked the crumbs off the plate and looked round for something else. Miss Boston gave him an apple but he looked at it woefully; he had been hoping for some chocolate biscuits.

‘She can’t have any real friends, then,’ said Jennet thoughtfully. ‘How awful to be liked just because you have money.’

‘Oh, but she does have friends, dear,’ Aunt Alice quickly put in. ‘There’s Edith Wethers, the postmistress; Mrs Joyster, Tilly Droon and…’ here she paused, then added guiltily, ‘…and there’s me. In fact Mrs Banbury-Scott will be coming here tomorrow evening. Our ladies’ circle meets once a month.’

She cleared the plates away while Jennet puzzled over her words. The way Aunt Alice had mentioned the ladies’ circle was strange, as if she was embarrassed and did not want to talk about it.

‘Is it a party?’ Ben asked with interest.

Miss Boston gave a nervous laugh and shook her head quickly. ‘Oh no, Benjamin,’ she said. ‘Just a collection of dreary old woman like me—extremely dull, I’m afraid.’

Jennet looked across at her brother. It was obvious they were not wanted at this meeting and she wondered what they were supposed to do during it.

By a strange coincidence. Aunt Alice was thinking exactly the same thing. The old lady stuck out her chins and chewed the problem over in her mind. It would never do for the children to find out what happened at these meetings and discover her little secret, she told herself. Jennet watched her and a suspicion began to form in the back of her mind, but for the moment she said nothing.

The rest of the afternoon was spent listening to the various little pockets of folk music that sprang up wherever a clear space could be found. Ben enjoyed this immensely and joined in the clapping and cheering. There was so much to see that the time passed very quickly and the children were exhausted by the time they eventually clambered into their beds.

Another loud chorus of screeching gulls startled Jennet out of her sleep the next morning. She glanced at her watch: it was half past six. With an exasperated groan she turned on her side and lifted the edge of her bedroom curtain.

The day was wet and windy, with gulls riding the gusts and circling overhead. Jennet’s room looked out on to the yard but nothing stirred there. She fumbled with the catch and opened the window.

At once the drizzly Sunday morning crowded into her bedroom. The clamour of the sea birds rang in her ears and the warm wind blew salt and rain into her face. From somewhere, the delicious and enviable smell of frying bacon tantalised her senses. Quickly pulling her clothes on. Jennet stumbled downstairs to make her breakfast.

In the kitchen she found that Miss Boston was already up and about. She had evidently just returned from her morning walk, as her white hair resembled the collection of sheep’s wool and twigs on the hall table.

‘Hello, dear,’ she said, looking up from the kipper on the plate before her. ‘Sleep well?’

Jennet nodded. ‘Yes, thank you.’ She slotted a piece of bread into the toaster and decided it was time to ask what had been preying on her mind. ‘Aunt Alice,’ she began casually.

The old lady pulled a fishbone from her lips and glanced up. ‘Hmmm?’

‘When will your friends be coming today?’

Aunt Alice coughed and hastily covered her mouth. ‘Gracious!’ she exclaimed in a fluster. ‘I must have swallowed a bone by mistake—tiresome thing!’ She took a drink of coffee, wondering all the while what the girl would ask next. ‘They usually arrive after tea, Jennet dear,’ she answered eventually. ‘Why?’

‘I just wanted to know if you wanted Ben and me around,’ Jennet replied as the toast popped up. ‘We could stay upstairs, if you like.’

Miss Boston took hold of Jennet’s hands, which by this time were holding the butter knife and the toast. ‘Oh, do you think you could, dear?’ she said gleefully, puckering up her wrinkled face. ‘That really would be such a help. Some of the circle are not very fond of children and we do need to concentrate, you see.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Jennet said. ‘I’ll take Ben on a long walk this afternoon to tire him out. You won’t hear a peep from him all night.’

‘Oh, you are considerate, thank you again.’ But Miss Boston’s face as she bent her head over her plate once more seemed far from happy.

The girl turned back to the toast and grinned. She had guessed correctly: the ladies in the circle were secret gamblers.

Nothing titillates old ladies more than gambling for money, be it Bingo or Bridge. Jennet decided that Aunt Alice was being so furtive because she was too embarrassed to admit it. She crunched through her breakfast and stared out of the window. I wonder what they play? she thought to herself. It must be cards, she decided. Gin Rummy or Whist, perhaps, or maybe even Poker. The thought of all those old women sat around a table playing Poker like cowboys in a wild west saloon greatly amused her. She imagined Mrs Banbury-Scott in a ten-gallon hat and nearly spat out the toast with her laughter.

Aunt Alice frowned to herself. Could Jennet have found out somehow? Perhaps it was not too late to cancel tonight’s meeting. She took another gulp of coffee and fixed her eyes on the remains of the kipper as though it were to blame in some way. I must make this the very last meeting of the circle, she insisted to herself. It will get too dangerous if the children become involved—especially for Benjamin.

Ben was sleeping soundly with his ammonite clasped firmly in his hand. He had been dreaming of snakes and dragons all night—he was the valiant hero who slew them. The dream was just coming to a ridiculous conclusion, as his usually did, with a grand parade of headless serpents wriggling behind him on brightly coloured leads whilst he fed cat munchies to the heads bouncing round his ankles.

‘Ben, Ben,’ shouted one of the heads, ‘wake up, you lazy lump!’

He rolled over and pulled his bedclothes higher.

Jennet was in no mood for this today. ‘Wake up, thickhead!’ She dragged the blankets off him and he flapped about like a headless serpent himself. Then he glared at his sister and brought his bottom teeth over his lip to show annoyance.

‘You and me are going for a long walk today,’ she told him sharply. ‘So come downstairs and help me make a packed lunch.’

‘Where we going?’ he asked, wishing he could stay in bed all day. But she had already left the room.

The drizzling weather was soon blown inland and by mid-morning the sky was blue. Aunt Alice waved the children off, but her heart was troubled and she watched them leave with a guilty look on her face.

It was late when they returned, making their way through the town. The children crossed the bridge to the East Cliff and wearily tramped up Church Street.

‘My dears!’ Aunt Alice sighed with relief as they opened the front door. ‘You’ve been gone an age; I was beginning to worry.’ The old lady stared at their tired faces and tutted. ‘My goodness, you are a dozy pair, and look at the state of you both. I’ll turn the immersion on so there’ll be plenty of hot water.’

Some time later Ben lounged in his bed. He had been fed, had bathed himself and was now reading a brand-new comic which Miss Boston had bought for him. It was a warm night so he had only put on his pyjama bottoms. The sheets were crisp and clean, smelling of the linen cupboard, and he felt new all over as he wormed into them, tired and contented. From the bathroom he could hear Jennet stepping out of the bath and downstairs Aunt Alice was setting out her best china cups on a tray. She was humming to herself and the sound drifted up to his room.

Ben’s window did not overlook the yard so he missed the arrival of the old lady’s guests. A sharp knock on the front door vibrated through the cottage and startled him. He sat up and listened to see if he could hear who it was as Miss Boston let the newcomer in. A brisk, abrupt voice dragooned up the stairs—that must be Mrs Joyster, he thought to himself. Just then his own door opened and Jennet, wrapped in a towel with another turbaned around her wet hair, looked in.

‘Was that the army woman?’ he asked her.

Jennet glanced behind her and shrugged. ‘I think so,’ she said. ‘Now, have you got everything you want? You’re not to go downstairs tonight, do you understand?’

Ben nodded but Jennet recognised the look in his eyes and waved a warning finger towards him. ‘If you so much as sit on the top step there’ll be trouble, OK?’

Ben threw himself on his back and raised the comic over his head sulkily. Jennet closed the door and went to her own room. She heard some more guests arrive, and recognised Miss Wethers’ voice and that of Miss Droon.

The postmistress was sneezing and asked for a glass of water. ‘I just can’t sit next to Tilly tonight,’ came the muffled twitterings. ‘All that cat fur brings on my—achoo!’

Jennet smiled to herself; the tissue would have its work cut out tonight. She dried her hair and began thinking about the card sharps downstairs. This time she wondered what the stakes were—just how much did the old dears play for? Perhaps it was only ten or twenty pence. What if it was more than that—a pound or two? Maybe the gambling fever was so strong that a whole week’s pension was frittered away in one night. A new idea came to her as she tugged at a tangled clump of hair with her brush. What if Aunt Alice was in league with the others to swindle Mrs Banbury-Scott out of all her money? Jennet smiled at her own fanciful imaginings and just hoped the cards would favour Aunt Alice tonight. It was probably nothing worse than a game of Happy Families, she concluded, putting the hairbrush down.

The light faded outside Ben’s window and the shadows deepened in his room. The boy fell into a light, uneasy sleep which was invaded by unpleasant dreams. In them he was walking down a long, narrow corridor which seemed familiar, but he couldn’t think where he had seen it before. His feet were heavy in the dream and though his legs were moving he never got anywhere. Beads of sweat pricked Ben’s forehead as he turned over and his breath came in short gasps.

He knew there was something behind him but he could not turn his head round to look. He could feel its presence dogging his every footstep, its eyes burning into his back; he sensed the tension in the air as it prepared to spring. A howl boomed inside his head, a weird, unearthly sound that slashed the watchful night. With a hideous growl, the unseen beast bore down on him.

The boy whimpered in his sleep, trapped in a nightmare which was rapidly approaching its gruesome end. His face was screwed up in fear. ‘Go away,’ he mumbled tearfully, ‘make it go away!’

But the horror continued. The creature was snapping at his heels and with a shriek he called out, ‘Mum! Mum!’

Ben found himself sitting up in bed, drenched with sweat. The room was dark, yet he could make out the figure sitting beside him quite clearly.

‘Mum,’ he whispered.

The figure smiled at him, as any mother might do to comfort her child in the night. Ben put his arms out to embrace her but she rose and backed away. It was then that he remembered she was dead.

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and wondered how he could have mistaken this vision for something real. A thread of silver light ran around her outline, flickering like sunlight over water. His mother opened her mouth, but Ben could not hear the words she was speaking. He averted his eyes quickly when he saw the pattern on the wallpaper through the darkness, where the roof of her mouth should have been. He knew there was nothing to fear but it unnerved him and he found himself wishing she would leave. Watching his own mother mouthing dumbly like an actress in some crackly silent film was horrible.

The boy hid his eyes and waited for her to disappear—his visitors usually left if he ignored them. But when he looked up she was still there. She had moved to the end of the bed and was kneeling down with her face turned sadly towards him. She had stopped trying to talk, as if she realised that it was upsetting him. Instead, she shook her head at her son with that gentle smile on her lips which he remembered so well. That was better; Ben smiled back at her. She then inclined her head towards the door, beckoning Ben with her hands.

Puzzled, the boy clambered out of bed and shivered; his sweat had become cold and he was chilled. Stepping up to the door, he looked up at the shade of his mother and asked her with the expression in his eyes what she wanted.

The figure pointed at the doorknob. Trembling, Ben reached out a hand, slowly opened the door and peered out.

He was totally unprepared for what was on the other side and gasped in disbelief.

There, crammed on the small landing, was a multitude of ‘visitors’. They were sitting on the banisters and crowded down the stairs. Ben could only shake his head and stare; he had never seen this many together before. The ghosts of over a hundred people were there. There were young faces and old, some wearing old-fashioned costumes and others dressed in clothes more familiar to him. But they all seemed to be waiting for something. A long line of them trailed down into the hall and gathered outside the closed parlour door.

Although Ben did not understand why he saw his ‘visitors’, they sometimes seemed as real and ordinary as the rest of the world—the Rodice’s husband had been one of these. But he could tell these forms were phantoms. Some of them were transparent as glass, whilst others were just indistinct shapes made of grey mist.

As he opened the bedroom door a little wider to get a clearer view, they suddenly became aware of him and all their faces turned in his direction. For a moment Ben felt afraid and he pulled himself back into the bedroom. But his qualms disappeared as the light which flickered around the apparitions welled up and illuminated the stairwell from top to bottom with a beautiful radiance.

The blaze lit his face and he glanced up to find his mother. She was no longer at his side and it was some moments before he caught sight of her again in the hall below, motioning for him to follow.

Ben stepped on to the landing and instantly regretted it. Every soul rushed towards him. They gathered thickly round, pressing in on all sides, their eyes imploring him to help them. They wrung their hands piteously before his face, their expressions desperate with the need to communicate with the living. He never actually felt them touch him, but it was suffocating all the same and he hated it. It was like being surrounded by beggars and knowing you had nothing to give them. The pleading faces were images of sorrow and regret that burnt into him, and a claustrophobic panic began to bubble up inside. He had never experienced anything like this and it frightened him; what were these spirits doing here and what did they want? It was as if they had been dragged here against their will and were beseeching him to release them.

‘I can’t hear you,’ he wailed helplessly. ‘Stop it, stop it!’ The boy closed his eyes tight shut and struggled along the landing. He had to escape from this clamouring madness and he groped for the door to Jennet’s room. The throng of spirits parted before him like scythed corn.

There it was, the doorknob. He fumbled for a moment, opened his eyes and flung himself inside.

‘What’s up?’ asked his sister in mild surprise. She was reading one of Aunt Alice’s books in bed and had obviously not heard a thing. But once she saw how pale and frightened her brother was, she hastily put the book down and held out her arms to him.

‘Oh, Jen!’ he howled, throwing himself at her. ‘They won’t leave me alone, Jen, I can’t hear what they’re trying to say. Tell them to go away, will you? I’ve never seen so many of them before.’ He sobbed into the large T-shirt she used as a nightie and the rest of what he said was unintelligible.

Jennet stroked his hair and tried to soothe him. It was a long time since Ben had had one of his turns and she wondered that he should have one now—he seemed to be so happy here.

‘Are you… are you seeing things again, Ben?’ she ventured.

He nodded into her shoulder. ‘Mum’s here, too,’ he cried. ‘There’s so many, Jen.’

Jennet pushed him away from her and looked steadily into his eyes. For a moment all her old suspicions about his visions had flooded back, but no, he was really scared. ‘Don’t worry,’ she told him calmly. ‘I’ll take a look outside and make sure there’s no one there.’

She got up and crossed to the door but Ben sprang past her and slammed himself against it violently. ‘Don’t go out!’ he begged. ‘You’ll let them in!’

Jennet was beginning to get worried; he had never been this terrified before. She wondered if she ought to go and ask Aunt Alice’s advice. Would she mind the interruption? This certainly seemed urgent enough.

‘Don’t worry, Ben,’ she said, pulling him from the door. ‘I won’t let anyone in, I promise.’

The boy backed towards the bed as she turned the knob and opened the door. She could see nothing out there—but he could. On the landing the crowd of souls raised their arms and surged forward. Ben screamed and collapsed on the bed.

Jennet was horrified. She raced down the stairs, calling for Aunt Alice at the top of her voice. Up to the parlour door she ran and, without knocking, thrust it open and charged inside.

A red light fell on her. For a moment the girl was confused by it, but as she looked around to find its infernal source, the truth of the situation she had stumbled into was revealed.

Seated at the round parlour table was the ladies’ circle: Miss Wethers, Mrs Joyster, Miss Droon, Mrs Banbury-Scott and Aunt Alice. They were all holding hands and looked extremely startled by Jennet’s entrance. She had interrupted a seance.

For a second Jennet could only stare back at them. Miss Wethers made an uncomfortable squeaking noise and pulled her hands away from the table to reach for a tissue.

Aunt Alice sucked her cheeks in guiltily. ‘Oh dear,’ she began, but did not know what else to say.

Jennet was speechless. She watched as Mrs Joyster tutted at her inconvenient arrival and left the table to switch on the main light. Then she leaned over the small lamp which had been fitted with a red bulb and clicked it off. ‘We’ll get no more tonight,’ she huffed disagreeably, and fixed the girl with a withering glare.

Anger quickly replaced the surprise which Jennet had at first felt. All this time Aunt Alice had deceived her! She felt cheated and used—the old woman wasn’t interested in her at all, she just wanted Ben because of his gift. Her resentment welled up until she could contain it no longer.

‘I hate you!’ she stormed. ‘You’re nothing but a load of old witches!’

She slammed the door shut and stomped upstairs to pack her things and Ben’s. They weren’t going to stay in this house any longer; she didn’t care where they went just so long as they got away.

‘Who was that?’ asked the fat Mrs Banbury-Scott, as she reached over to a plate of scones and crammed one into her gaping mouth.

‘That young lady has completely ruined the sitting,’ repeated Mrs Joyster, snorting in disgust.

Another scone disappeared into the Banbury-Scott cavern. ‘Most disagreeable child. Mmmmm… didn’t I see her outside the post office yesterday?’ She paused to give her tongue an airing as it came across a most peculiar taste. ‘What did you put in your jam, Tilly darling—catnip?’

Miss Wethers stared at the closed door unhappily. ‘Oh my,’ the mouse whined. ‘She didn’t seem very happy.’

Aunt Alice wiped her moist eyes. ‘No, she didn’t, did she?’ And the old lady covered her face in shame.

4 - The Aufwader

Jennet cradled Ben in her arms and held him tightly.

The boy mumbled under his breath and opened one bleary eye. Jennet had left the door to her room ajar and over her shoulder he could see on to the landing—it was dark and empty.

‘Good,’ he breathed with relief, ‘they’ve gone.’

‘Are you all right, Ben?’ his sister asked gently. He nodded and wiped his forehead. Jennet looked at him to make sure, then pulled her large blue bag from underneath the bed.

‘Come on,’ she said firmly. ‘We’re leaving. Go and fetch your stuff.’

Ben stared miserably at her. He had done it again; yet another chance had been ruined by his behaviour. He pouted and rubbed his eyes, for he had liked Whitby. ‘Where will we go now?’ he asked in a small voice.

‘I don’t know and I don’t care,’ the girl fumed, ‘but we’re not staying here a minute longer.’

He ran into his own room and the tears started to fall. Jennet had not told him what she had seen downstairs so he assumed she was angry with him.

In the parlour Aunt Alice was shooing her guests out. ‘Hurry up,’ she cried frantically. ‘No, leave that, Edith—I’ll put it away, thank you.’

‘Adolescent histrionics,’ Mrs Joyster remarked dryly as she went into the hall and took her coat off the peg. ‘Girls like that are only seeking attention.’

‘Well I’ll make sure she receives some, then,’ Aunt Alice barked back at her.

‘Wasn’t worth leaving Eurydice and her little babies,’ grumbled the whiskered Miss Droon. ‘Did I tell you she had three of the little beauties?’

‘Achoo!’ sneezed Edith Wethers as she squeezed by.

Miss Boston shepherded them out of the front door, ignoring the protests and grumbles. She was the undisputed leader of the ladies’ circle and her authority was absolute. Mrs Banbury-Scott was not at all pleased though, as, scone in hand, she trundled out of the yard and looked for her Bentley.

Aunt Alice closed the front door and gazed uneasily up the stairs—this was going to be extremely difficult.

Jennet emptied the contents of her chest of drawers on to the bed and stuffed her clothes into the bag. Her thoughts were a jumble of confused strands. What was she to do now? Where could she and Ben go? It was all very well to run away if you had somewhere to run to but they had nowhere. The hostel was out of the question; no way would she go back there. The Rodice wouldn’t let them, anyway, the mean old crow.

‘May I come in?’ Miss Boston stood timidly on the landing with her hands clasped to her chest. She looked like a small child waiting outside the headmaster’s office.

Jennet continued her packing without looking up. ‘It’s your house,’ she muttered in a dull tone.

Aunt Alice glanced at the large bag which the girl was filling. She clutched at the door frame and asked fretfully, ‘But my dear, what are you doing? Are you going somewhere?’

‘You lied to me,’ Jennet snorted. ‘You let me think you wanted me here. How long would it have been before you involved Ben in your dodgy games?’ She threw the last of her clothes in the bag and whirled round to face the old woman. ‘I could report you, you know—tell the Sunday papers or something. They’d love this, wouldn’t they? Imagine the headlines: “Coven of Geriatric Witches Exposed”.’

Miss Boston stared at the carpet, thoroughly abashed. ‘Yes, I suppose I deserve that,’ she said meekly. ‘What I have done is unforgivable—I’m sorry.’

‘Too late for that now. You frightened Ben half to death.’

The old lady raised her eyebrows eagerly. ‘Really? Why, what did he see?’

‘You don’t stop, do you?’ Jennet gasped incredulously. ‘You just don’t care—he might have been sent round the twist and all you’re interested in is what sort of ghosts he saw!’

Aunt Alice shook her head. ‘That isn’t true,’ she denied vehemently. ‘Of course I’m concerned.’

At that moment Ben appeared. In his arms he carried a bundle of belongings and his cheeks were stained with tears. He gazed up at Miss Boston miserably. ‘Why don’t you like us any more?’ he asked in a tremulous voice. ‘I don’t want to go.’

She yelped as though wounded. ‘Oh, but I do like you, Benjamin,’ she cried, ‘and I don’t want you to leave.’

‘Give me your stuff, Ben,’ Jennet said coldly.

The boy looked from Aunt Alice to his sister, his unhappy face betraying his emotions. He was torn between love and loyalty to Jennet and reluctance to leave the one place he had felt at home since the death of his parents. Miss Boston saw his pain and decided that enough was enough.

‘Go back to bed, Benjamin,’ she told him kindly. ‘We’ll sort this out.’

Jennet glared at her and was about to speak, but Aunt Alice puffed herself up and spoke in such a forceful voice that for a moment the girl was startled into silence. ‘Let Benjamin go,’ she instructed firmly. With one hand on his shoulder she guided the boy out of the room, then closed the door and turned to his sister.

‘What right have you got—’ Jennet began.

But now it was Miss Boston’s turn to speak. ‘I have every right,’ she declared. ‘I am now legally responsible for both of you and if you think I am going to let you run off in the middle of the night, you’re not the clever girl I thought you were.’ She jutted her chins out determinedly, daring the girl to disagree.

Jennet sat down heavily on the bed and sobbed bitterly.

Aunt Alice’s expression softened and she sat next to her. ‘Let me explain. Jennet dear,’ she said gently. ‘When I was a young girl, not much older than yourself, I saw things I didn’t understand.’

‘Like Ben, you mean?’

‘Exactly so, but at the time my mama forbade me to mention them. In those days children were not spared the rod and I soon learnt to save my poor hands from the cane by ignoring what I saw.’ She stared for a moment at her palms, remembering the weals that had once marred them, then she thrust her hands under her knees. ‘A gift such as I possessed goes into decline if neglected,’ Aunt Alice resumed sadly, ‘and I neglected it for very many years.’

‘So what were you doing downstairs?’ asked Jennet, totally unmoved.

Miss Boston heaved a great sigh. ‘I do wish you would be a little less prickly. Jennet dear. I’m afraid that what you saw downstairs was one of my attempts to regain the gift. The circle meets every month for what Mrs Banbury-Scott jokingly calls “spirits and scones”. More often than not it ends up as just a little social chit-chat—our dear departed don’t always feel inclined to come through, you know.’

‘You had a good turnout tonight though, didn’t you?’ Jennet put in. ‘Practically a full house.’

The old lady clucked uncomfortably. ‘You must believe me, child, I had already made up my mind that tonight’s little get-together would be the very last.’

‘So you say.’

‘I swear it on my life. Jennet; there will be no more meetings of the circle.’

Jennet remained wary and distrustful but she realised that there were no other options open to her. ‘All right,’ she said slowly, ‘we’ll stay—providing there are no more “spirits and scones”.’

‘There won’t be.’ The old lady brightened, confident that the situation had been resolved. ‘Well, it’s time you got some sleep now,’ she smiled, getting to her feet and crossing to the door.

Jennet did not reply.

As she left. Miss Boston hesitated. ‘Oh, and by the way,’ she added, ‘you need thirteen for a coven, and I prefer the term “wise woman”. Goodnight, dear.’

A wild and windy Monday kept most of the tourists indoors, to the irritation of the landladies and the profit of the arcade owners. The north wind blasted in off the sea and even the buildings seemed to shiver and shrink closer into the cliffs.

In the afternoon Ben went for a walk alone. Jennet was brooding in her room and he sensed the tension between her and Aunt Alice, but at least they were staying in Whitby. He stood on the church steps and leant on the handrail. Set into the wall of one of the houses below, he noticed three large ammonites, just above the lintel. Ben grinned—it was just as the story had said.

He looked up at the gulls and stretched out his arms like wings. After drawing a deep breath he squawked, mocking them as loudly as he could, and tore up the steps. When he reached the top, Ben threw himself on the grass around the gravestones and rolled over so he could see the sky.

A miserable collection of people was mooching around the church and he heard the dull drone of their voices, although he did not sit up to see them. One of the group was evidently a child—a boy. He was asking questions to someone who Ben presumed was his mother, and she was answering with a voice full of irritation. Curiously he turned on his side just to make sure.

There they were trailing along the path, a family of three, and all dressed in totally inappropriate clothes for this sort of weather. They were obviously trippers who had not come prepared for anything other than sunshine. The father was walking a little ahead with his hands thrust into his pockets and the mother was trying to control her flapping summer dress with one hand whilst clinging on to her son with the other.

The boy was roughly around Ben’s age. He wore red shorts and his legs looked pinched and cold. An extra strong gust caught the woman unawares and she shrieked as her skirt blew right up. Her son seized his chance and escaped from her clutches.

Into the forest of gravestones he scarpered and, squealing his name at the top of her shrill voice, his mother chased after him. The boy knew his freedom would be shortlived, so he looked round for something to take his temper out on.

‘Get lost, Dracula!’ he bawled, raising his foot and giving the nearest headstone a mighty kick.

His mother screeched as she snatched him up once more. ‘Don’t you ever do that again!’ she yelled. ‘If your father catches you he’ll cripple you. Show some respect!’ With that she slapped his legs and the boy let loose a dreadful howl.

Ben winced; that must have hurt—especially with it being so cold. He lay back in the grass once more and found himself thanking his stars that he and Jennet had never been sent to people like them.

The family passed along the path nearby. The boy stared unhappily at Ben, shamed by the red mark which glowed on his leg.

Chewing a piece of grass, he contemplated the previous night’s happenings. He was not exactly sure why Jennet had been so cold towards Aunt Alice that morning, but it must have had something to do with what he had seen. If only he was like everyone else.

The evening was drawing in but he had no desire to go back yet, especially if the atmosphere had not lifted. He propped himself up on his elbows and looked down on the harbour. A fishing boat was sailing out to sea, defying the rough waves. Ben remembered that he had still not visited the lifeboat museum and promised himself that treat for tomorrow. His gaze followed the progress of the boat as it sailed out to sea; as he turned his head to do so something startled him.

On one of the tomb slabs sat a small figure.

It was silhouetted against the horizon and, until his eyes adjusted to the light, Ben could not make it out. It was as large as a child, and wore a dark-blue fishing jersey. A battered canvas bag was slung over one arm and poking out of it was a slimy bundle of seaweed. The head of the figure was hunched deep into its shoulders and the neck of the thickly-knitted garment had been pulled up over its ears. Its back was turned to Ben so he could not see the face. To make identification even more difficult, a black woollen hat obscured most of the head. A thick tangle of brown hair fluttered in the wind below the wide turn-up of the hat, suggesting perhaps the figure was a girl.

Something buzzed inside his head. Ben shook himself and rubbed his eyes. He was not certain, but he thought it was one of his ‘visitors’. The boy was at once afraid and yet greatly interested. Although he remembered the horror of last night, he realised he had only been terrified because there were so many of them.

Ben continued to stare until curiosity overpowered him. Very quietly, he got up and stretched. With the tip of his tongue pressed over his top lip in concentration, he stepped over the grass towards the tomb where she sat. Closer and closer he crept, his heart pounding. Then, just as he came within reach, the figure moved and turned her face full on him.

Ben froze. He had never beheld anything like it before; the creature was not human. Her face was like soft leather. The nose was large and upturned, with a small mouth shaped like the crescent moon and cheeks burnt brown by the wind. Yet it was her eyes that transfixed the boy. They were as big as his fists and as grey as the stormy sea, and the wrinkles which framed them spread about her brow like ripples on the shore.

They faced each other in silence but the space between them was electrified. Ben gulped.

The other kept her fathomless eyes upon him. She too swallowed nervously, but as a cornered animal might. Finally her lips parted and she spoke; her voice held the cry of the gulls and the lulling of the sea.

‘You see me, human child,’ she said simply, and something close to a smile hovered about her mouth.

Ben could only nod in reply.

The creature averted her eyes and he felt as though invisible chains released him. ‘Never have I met one with the sight,’ she said, breaking into a grin.

‘What… who are you?’ he stammered at last.

‘I am Nelda,’ she answered teasingly, ‘but that was not your meaning.’ She lifted her eyes again and the sea stirred in the very heart of them. Can a human child understand? she asked herself. For a moment she considered the situation, then shrugged. ‘I am a wanderer of the shore,’ she told him. ‘Our folk dwell by the sea and have done so long before your kind came.’

Ben frowned. ‘But why haven’t I heard of you before? Nobody’s ever mentioned you to me.’

Nelda smiled. ‘That is because man no longer remembers or believes in us. We are figures of legend now and it is better so.’ She brushed the wild, unkempt hair off her face and looked down to the harbour. ‘We fade away,’ she muttered darkly. ‘Aufwader was the name which once you gave to us. But who now recalls it? Very few, I think.’

Ben still did not understand. Shaking his head he asked, ‘But why have they—I mean, we—forgotten? Surely people must see you when—’ Even as he said the words, he realised what she meant: only people like him could see them. ‘Oh,’ he uttered slowly.

She laughed, swinging her legs off the tomb and leaping to the ground. ‘That’s right, human child,’ Nelda gurgled. ‘No one will believe you if you tell them—they shall think you mad.’

The strange creature prepared to leave but Ben caught her arm. With a shock, he realised she was real and alive, not one of his visitors at all.

‘Don’t go yet,’ he pleaded. ‘My name’s Ben.’

The aufwader considered him for a moment and the smile flickered over her face again. ‘Why should I linger here?’ she asked mildly. ‘Already I have dared much just to speak with you. Our races are apart, Ben—yours is strong and has conquered the world, but the tally of our years might soon come to an end.’ Nelda stared out to sea and hung her head as if overwhelmed by some terrible grief. ‘I must go,’ she said in a husky voice.

Ben did not want her to leave just yet; there were so many questions ricocheting round his head. How many of her kind were there? Where did she come from and would he see her again?

Nelda began walking down the path and he could think of nothing that would make her stay. He felt useless and watched helplessly as she approached the steps. Then, as she turned to nod farewell, the boy caught sight of a raw emotion in her eyes and was jolted out of his dumbness. There was something troubling her.

Quickly, he cupped his hand round his mouth. ‘Won’t you tell me what’s the matter?’ he shouted after her.

The departing figure hesitated on the steps. Nelda lifted her head and the face which had shown those teasing smiles was now brimming with sorrow.

Ben ran up and put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Can’t I help?’ he asked.

Nelda studied him. How could a human child know of her pain, she wondered. Perhaps the elders were wrong and some of them could be trusted.

‘What age do you reckon me?’ she asked him suddenly.

Ben shrugged. He was not very good at guessing people’s ages and it usually upset them when he got it wrong. He looked at the network of wrinkles which scored her face. If it wasn’t for those he would have assumed she was a child too; she was only as tall as he was. Could she be fifty, sixty? He plumped for the former because it was more complimentary.

‘I am seventy of your years,’ Nelda corrected him. ‘Yet I am the youngest of my tribe—a mere whelp am I to them. Though I have lived in this world since before your father was born, you and I are probably of similar age to our blood kin.’

‘I haven’t got a father,’ Ben told her. ‘He’s dead.’

A quick succession of expressions passed over Nelda’s face. She was wondering whether she could stay for just a little while longer; no one need know. ‘So be it,’ she said aloud once the decision had been made. ‘Let us talk, you and I.’

She led him over the gravestones to where the cliff sloped grassily down to the backs of houses; there they sat down. Delicious-smelling kipper smoke came from one of the chimneys and the wind seized it eagerly, scattering the tantalising scent over the town. Nelda nuzzled her chin into the wide neck of her jersey and embraced her knees until she was curled up like an urchin.

Ben waited patiently. He was content to just sit there, breathing the kippery air next to the remarkable aufwader. A middle-aged couple trudged up the church steps while he waited. They smiled at him pleasantly as they passed by. Ben bit his lip with excitement—they had not seen Nelda. It was all a marvellous secret and one which he realised had to be kept. If he told his sister she might have another argument with Aunt Alice and threaten to leave again. No, he would tell no one about Nelda.

‘I fear my father is dead also,’ she said suddenly.

Ben started and glanced at her. ‘Don’t you know?’ he asked.

She put her head on one side and replied thoughtfully, ‘My heart knows and that is enough.’

Ben did not understand. How could she not know whether her father was alive or dead?

Nelda saw his confusion. ‘My father has not been seen for over two weeks now,’ she explained.

‘Doesn’t mean he’s dead, though.’

Nelda pressed the fingers of her left hand against her brow and sighed. ‘Oh,’ she began, ‘it does not end there—my uncle is missing also.’

Ben nibbled his lip uncomfortably; he was not sure what to say. ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured quietly.

At this Nelda snorted. ‘Pah! I care not for him; he is nothing to me.’ She paused to spit on the ground with disgust. ‘Like the scum which floats now on the water he is!’ she said, shuddering. ‘None like Silas, my uncle. The elders only suffer him for the sake of my aunt. No, my belief is that Silas has done a black deed; I fear he has murdered my father.’

There was a silence in which Nelda glared at the sea. Ben opened his mouth in shock. Murder? She must be mistaken. ‘Are… are you sure?’ he stuttered feebly. ‘Can’t they just have… well, gone away?’

‘My father would not have left like that,’ she said firmly. ‘On the last day they were seen, they quarrelled. No one knew what the argument was about—my father would not tell me. Never had I seen him in such a mood. No, he is dead, I feel it, and my uncle hides in some dark corner—the craven mudworm.’

In part, Ben understood what she was going through. Human or not, she still had feelings. ‘Both my parents were killed in a crash,’ he said simply, ‘but at least I knew they were really dead and not just missing. It must be awful not to know.’

‘Then we are both orphans, Ben,’ she breathed. ‘I never knew my mother; she died when I was born—as do all mothers now.’ Nelda fell silent as though she had said too much, then squinted at the pale sun. It was time for her to go. She got to her feet and said, ‘I must return to my people.’

‘Do you have to?’ Ben protested. ‘Can’t you stay just a bit longer?’

The smile pulled at the corners of her crescent mouth once more. She liked this human boy—there was an understanding between them. Would it hurt if she met him again, Nelda wondered. But what if such a meeting was discovered by the elders? Mixing with humans was strictly forbidden. The penalty for disobeying one of the prime laws was exile from the tribe and Nelda did not want to risk that. It would be better if she left now and stayed in the caves for a while.

Yet she looked down at Ben and rashly said. ‘Tomorrow—when the sun is as now.’ And with a quick, desperate look, Nelda dashed to the steps and sped down them.

Ben stayed where he was. Now that she was gone he doubted if Nelda had ever existed—had he imagined it all? He remained seated for some time, staring at the harbour. Everything seemed so normal and everyday now, as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. But a slow grin spread from ear to ear. He had touched another world that nobody knew anything about. The boy could hardly wait for the next day.

5 - A Grisly Catch

The gulls were not yet awake and the night fishermen were still out at sea. A dismal grey half-light lit the water on the horizon, but inland the shadows were deep and velvety black. All Whitby slept and the streets were as still and silent as death.

The waves fell softly against the shore, dragging the sand down as they retreated. The tide was going out, and behind Tate Hill Pier, dark and deadly rocks were beginning to emerge. Vicious boulders, they had sunk many unwary ships in their time. They were the teeth of the East Cliff, always eager to grind and splinter timbers.

On the treacherously smooth, slippery shore, three small figures appeared. They seemed to step out of the sheer cliff face, though in the gloom it was impossible to see properly. They were three aufwaders.

Those families who have worked and lived in Whitby for generation after salty generation might recall the old tales of the fisher folk, or the ‘old whalers’, as some called them. They were mysterious beings in legends told to wide-eyed children as they lingered in the tobacco smoke filled parlours before traipsing off to bed. Creatures from half-forgotten stories brought home by sea-weary fishermen; remembered late in the night, if at all, when the wind howls down the chimney like the wail of the Barguest and the fire burns low. Then these childhood fancies return to haunt the aged and disturb their nodding sleep.

The three indistinct forms clambered over the boulders. Slowly and deliberately they went, pausing only to peer into rock pools that the tide had left behind and to part the thick clumps of weed washed ashore. They were searching for something.

Nelda’s grandfather prodded a loose heap of shale with his staff, as he had done every morning for the past fortnight. His old bones ached and he grumbled to himself, ‘Us’ll nivver find owt now. Bin too long, ah says, them’s gone fer good.’ His face was even more crinkled with age than Nelda’s; whiskers bristled over his chin and his wiry, white hair was tied back in a long hank. The ears of all male aufwaders are large and bat-shaped; Tarr’s were no exception. He scratched one with his grubby fingers and stared along the shore at Nelda and Hesper. ‘Them won’t nivver gi’ up,’ he muttered with a groan. ‘Canna tell them nowt.’

Hesper was his daughter. She was also the missing Silas’s wife and Nelda’s aunt. A kindly soul, everyone liked her—or was it pity they felt? She had married the leering Silas Gull against her father’s wishes nigh on two hundred years ago. The more he forbade the union, the more stubborn she had become, and in the end he had relented. But a foul, black-hearted fellow Silas had remained and nothing Hesper could do would ever change that.

She climbed over the rocks with her niece, a battered old oilskin hat perched comically on her head and her light, sand-coloured hair hanging down over one eye as usual. Her face had the texture of a pickled walnut, but the lines that had etched themselves so deeply there were the marks of sorrow and care. To the rest of the tribe she was a tragic figure, solitary and quiet, speaking to none but her family. Even she did not know if she still loved Silas; whatever had first attracted her to him had quickly disappeared. However Hesper’s heart was kept aflame by her true passion: her unceasing search for that which could lift the curse from them forever.

Nelda lifted a thick, dripping curtain of weed and a startled crab scuttled into the nearest shade. She looked across at her aunt and shook her head. ‘Nothing,’ she sighed.

Hesper hitched up the cork lifebelt as it slipped down over her stomach. She was always ready for emergencies: a length of rope was tucked under one arm, two ancient satchels were slung over each shoulder and threaded through the straps of these at her back was a small fishing net attached to a long pole. She wiped her sea-green eyes and scanned the rocks and boulders. She had not had a wink of sleep all night and a wide yawn suddenly split her face in two.

‘You should not be out,’ Nelda told her. ‘You do too much.’

Her aunt scooped up a handful of sea water and splashed it over her forehead. ‘Someone must keep the vigil,’ she answered resignedly. ‘Who else would go out as I? None. There is not one in the whole tribe who will go in my stead.’

Nelda smiled gently. ‘That is because they do not believe in what you seek. To them it is a fanciful tale, nothing more. The doom will never be lifted.’

Hesper did not reply. She was accustomed to the ridicule her quest invited, and her faith was never shaken. At this moment, however, she had just noticed a tangled mass of green nylon net in the hollow between two huge boulders. Hesper climbed on to one of the smooth wet rocks and looked down into the untidy mess.

She furrowed her brows and stooped. Was it a trick of the shadows? Beyond the twisted drapes of fishing net and seaweed she thought she saw…

Hesper breathed in sharply. ‘Nelda,’ she uttered in a fearful voice, ‘fetch Tarr at once.’

Nelda frowned, curious to know what her aunt had discovered. She glanced back along the shore to where old Tarr hobbled along, leaning on his staff, and waved for him to hurry. ‘What is it?’ she asked her aunt, pulling herself on to the boulder.

Hesper’s face was pale when she turned round to her niece. ‘I said go fetch him,’ she said quietly. ‘Now.’

Nelda’s heart fluttered, while her eyes looked past her aunt into the darkness beyond the netting. Hesper grabbed her shoulders fiercely and pushed the young aufwader off the rock. ‘Don’t look,’ she said in a voice that she was struggling to control.

Frightened, Nelda stared at Hesper, then ran, weeping, to her grandfather.

The net was held down by large, round weights. Hesper leaned over and, with difficulty, hauled some of it away. ‘Nine times bless me!’ she exclaimed and clapped a hand over her mouth in horror. For there, revealed beneath the chaotic jungle of net and weed, was a body.

Tarr strode up as fast as he could. ‘Shut yer blutherin’,’ he snapped at Nelda. But behind a mask of irritation he too was afraid. What had his daughter found? he asked himself. As he drew near to where Hesper was kneeling, he could hear her cries of despair and saw that she had removed her hat.

‘Stay ‘ere,’ he told Nelda when they reached the rock. ‘Tha’s too young t’look on what she’s found.’ With an effort he pulled himself up and gazed down into the hollow. ‘Deeps take me!’ he gasped.

Hesper clasped his hand and squeezed it tightly. ‘I can’t bring myself to uncover any more,’ she sobbed. ‘What if both are in there?’

Tarr’s old face hardened, for he had seen death before. Anyway, there was not enough time to run back to the caves for the others. Already the sun was edging over the rim of the world and the gulls were waking. ‘Ah’ll see t’this,’ he said gruffly. ‘Get thissen down theer wi’ Nelda.’

His whiskered jaw was set like granite and Hesper did not hesitate. Down the rock she slid and held on to her niece, waiting for the worst.

With his staff, Tarr cleared the rest of the netting away to uncover more of the gruesome remains. Grimly he continued, though his face was awful to see. Finally, he rocked back and turned his head from the horrible sight.

‘Theer’s just the one,’ he told the others.

Both Nelda and Hesper clung to each other—who was it: Nelda’s father or Silas?

Tarr shook his head at them. ‘Ah canna tell, ‘e’s in a reet state.’ He shivered and said softly, ”Ed’s all battered in, like. ‘Is own mother nivver’d know ‘im.’

He stretched his legs over the side so that he could drop down beside the body. There was only one way of identifying such a grisly corpse: by the pattern on its jersey. For many years the jersey—or gansey, as the fisher folk called it—was not merely an item of clothing. The arrangement of the ribs and cables upon each was like a family crest. One close look would tell him who it was.

As he bent down to examine the gansey, Tarr could not help seeing the terrible mess above the neck once again. ‘Tha’s nivver the work o’ rocks,’ he told himself bitterly. ‘Thissun’s bin done in.’ Ugly images flashed into his head; there must have been a bloody fight between Silas and Nelda’s father, Abe. With a trembling hand he rolled the body over—Abe was his son.

‘Nah,’ he whispered as he inspected the complicated rows, ‘them’s Gull stitches, reet enough.’ Here then was Silas Gull, the black sheep of the tribe—a rascal descended from rogues. There would not be many, he told himself, who would weep over his loss. Only Hesper, perhaps.

Tarr whistled softly to himself as the significance of this discovery sank in. So it was Silas who had been murdered and, from the looks of things, by Nelda’s father. A fierce scowl formed on Tarr’s face. Tha’s in deep, dark waters, Abe lad,’ he murmured, ‘an’ tha canna hide ferivver.’

The heels of Miss Boston’s shoes clicked over the beautifully polished wooden floor. She had brought the children to the museum and was thoroughly enjoying showing them round.

Jennet had always grouped museums, art galleries and exhibitions into a great big yawn-making lump. She had only agreed to come along today because she couldn’t bear the tension in the house any more, and she prepared herself for a dull and boring morning.

It was with great surprise, therefore, that she discovered the Pannett Park Museum to be a fascinating place, jam-packed with curios and wonders. It was like some magnificent jumble sale of the imagination. Glass cases proudly flaunted their treasures: painstaking models of ships, Victorian dolls, a small Noah’s ark with a parade of wooden animals trailing down the gangplank, intricate works in jet, old costumes, a collection of boats in bottles, and a flock of stuffed birds.

Aunt Alice watched Jennet’s expressions with satisfaction. They lingered by the display of jet, and the girl was dazzled by the craftsmanship of the tiaras and brooches. The old lady beamed and rubbed her hands together; soon all that unpleasantness would be forgotten. So long as she stuck to her side of the bargain, all would be well. Still, she cast a wistful eye at Ben and sighed: it was a pity the meetings of the circle had to end.

‘And here,’ she began, bubbling with joy, ‘is one of our most wonderful masterpieces—Dr Merryweather’s Tempest Prognosticator!’ With a flourish of her hands, she introduced a grand glass dome which housed a very peculiar mechanism indeed. At the top were lots of little bells, attached to long strings which hung down into small glass jars about the base.

Jennet looked into the jars and grimaced: they contained revolting furry grubs. Aunt Alice saw her and laughed. ‘Leeches,’ she informed the girl. ‘Apparently those slimy little creatures could tell when a storm was coming and would jiggle about in their jars, causing the bells to ring. Isn’t it a marvellous thing altogether?’ And she clasped her hands together and heaved a great sigh.

‘It’s disgusting,’ remarked Jennet. ‘They could have cleaned the jars out.’

On any normal day Ben would have been fascinated by the mouldy remains of long-dead leeches, but he merely twitched his eyebrows and waited for the tour to end. He had stared at all the exhibits without enthusiasm because his mind was crammed too full of his meeting with Nelda. For most of the previous night he had lain awake, wondering if she would come to the cliff-top the next evening as arranged. He could not bear the painfully slow movements of the clock on the museum wall and threw it a suspicious glance to see if it was working properly.

They left Dr Merryweather’s brainchild and wandered round to a scale model of the abbey. Jennet looked at it and realised that something was not quite right. Of course, it showed the building at some earlier time.

Miss Boston’s eyes were sparkling as she explained. ‘This is how the abbey looked before the great west window collapsed in 1794, and the central tower fell in 1830.’

‘Was anyone hurt?’ asked Jennet.

‘Bless you, no,’ Aunt Alice explained. ‘Why, nobody ever went there much in those days, except artists and dogs.’

Jennet frowned. ‘Dogs?’

‘Why, yes. Apparently after the tower collapsed they discovered the crushed body of a large dog under the rubble.’

‘How sad, the poor thing.’

Some distance away, Ben licked his top lip and stared down wide-eyed. For the first time that morning his interest was engaged. He had wandered off, leaving his sister and Aunt Alice, for something unusual had caught his eye. In a glass case, all on its own, was one of the most hideous objects he had ever seen: a severed human hand.

It must have been very old, for the skin was dry and grey, but you could still see the fingernails and the wrinkles on its knuckles. A delighted shiver ran down Ben’s back. He loved macabre horrors like this.

Jennet and Miss Boston soon joined him. The girl pulled a face and the old lady’s chins quivered as she explained what the ghastly thing was.

‘A Hand of Glory,’ she uttered in a thrilled whisper. ‘This unpleasant little item was used as a charm by witches and burglars many years ago.’

‘What as?’ asked Jennet grimly. ‘A back-scratcher?’

Aunt Alice cackled. ‘It was believed in those times that this charm, if used properly, could put to sleep an entire household so that a thief could ransack the place without anybody stirring.’ She paused and waited for encouragement to continue; there was none, so she rattled on regardless. ‘A true Hand of Glory had to be cut from a man while he was still dangling from the gallows. It then had to be pickled and dried and the fingers set alight—’ Aunt Alice stopped in midsentence, for Jennet had baulked and was looking ill. ‘I’m sorry, dear,’ she said in alarm. ‘Did I go too far?’

‘I think I’ll sit outside, if you don’t mind,’ Jennet said quietly. ‘I need some fresh air.’

Miss Boston blinked and assumed her guilt-ridden face. ‘Oh dear,’ she murmured.

‘Tell me more about the gallows,’ asked Ben eagerly.

The old lady coughed. ‘I think it’s time we left too, Benjamin.’

For the rest of the day Ben was restless and fidgety. He drifted about the town like a lost soul, counting the hours till it was time to meet Nelda again. The afternoon dragged on and he was so out of sorts that he totally forgot about visiting the lifeboat museum.

To celebrate their truce, Aunt Alice and Jennet went into a small café for a cream tea. There they met another of the old lady’s friends. Mr Roper was a soft-spoken old man, smelling of Brilliantine and mothballs. He pulled his chair over to their table and proceeded to tell them the morning’s gossip. Jennet listened to him politely but felt sorry for the old man; he was obviously lonely and had nothing better to do than take part in the scandal-mongering of the Whitby busybodies. Among the useless titbits he divulged was one interesting fact, however—a Mrs Rowena Cooper had just moved into the empty house on Abbey Lane.

Aunt Alice frowned at the news. Surely the house was far too damp and dilapidated to live in. She stirred her tea vigorously and pondered on the character of Mrs Cooper, who was quickly becoming a mysterious figure. She sipped her brew in silence and stared over the rim of her cup out of the window at the passers-by, in case the focus of her thoughts was among them.

At last the evening came. With his heart in his mouth, Ben ran up the hundred and ninety-nine steps and stared about the graves.

There she was, the youngest of the fisher folk, sitting on the same tombstone and staring at the white-crested waves far below. She turned as she heard Ben running towards her and the face he saw was marked with worry and pain.

‘I cannot stay,’ she told him at once. ‘I should not be here at all, but I did promise. Now I must go.’

‘Wait a minute,’ gasped Ben. ‘What’s happened?’

She looked away and shrugged. ‘My uncle has been found,’ she muttered.

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘what does that mean? Was he hiding? Had he done something horrible to your father?’

She pulled the woollen hat from her head and let the wind seize her hair. ‘Silas was dead when we found him,’ she answered simply. ‘It was he who had been killed.’

For a moment Ben struggled to understand what she was saying and then it dawned on him. ‘You mean your father did it?’

Nelda squeezed her large grey eyes tight shut and spoke with anguish. ‘Never!’ she cried. ‘He is kind and gentle—my father would not harm anything.’ Then she sobbed bitterly into her sleeve. Ben waited till the emotion subsided and produced a handkerchief from his pocket. Nelda took it and wiped her face. ‘Already the tribe shuns me and my grandfather. In their eyes the blood which stains the hands of my father touches us also. I do not know what will befall us. The kin of a murderer must take some of the blame—that is the law and we must suffer it.’

‘Sounds like a stupid law to me,’ Ben remarked.

A slight smile tugged at the corners of Nelda’s mouth; she liked this human child and found his company comforting. ‘I think you are right,’ she answered, ‘for the old laws have never brought anything but pain. What use are they now to us wanderers of the shore? The number of our years grows ever shorter. One day we shall leave both sea and sand forever and none shall remember us.’

A gull screeched overhead and its voice reminded Nelda that she did not have time to talk at length. ‘I must go now,’ she told Ben. ‘There is much to do, for we send Silas on his way tonight. The black boat has been prepared all day for this, his final journey. I slipped away to see you but I shall soon be missed. I am out of favour already, I do not wish for any more—’

She was suddenly interrupted by a shocked voice. ‘NELDA!’ it shrieked.

The aufwader jumped off the tombstone as though stung and stared round in terror. Coming up the grassy slope was her aunt.

Ben was overjoyed to see yet another of the strange creatures. This one looked quite comical, and delightedly he drank the sight in: the oilskin hat, the cork lifebelt, the satchels, the fishing net on the pole… Then he remembered Nelda’s words. If any of her tribe were to discover that she was talking to a human, she would be severely punished. He held his breath as he saw the stern expression on the newcomer’s face and waited for her to clamber up. Nelda shrank back against the tomb as her aunt approached, wondering how she would react towards Ben.

Hesper was waving her arms about like a demented windmill and her wrinkled face had turned a peculiar shade of purple. ‘A human child with the sight!’ she squealed in panic as she ran to her niece, skirting round Ben as though he were a bomb that might explode at any moment. ‘Nelda, I thought you were wiser than to mix with such creatures. And today of all days!’ She pulled up the lifebelt which had fallen round her knees and continued. ‘Come away this instant, the prayer is ready to be spoken.’

‘Don’t blame her,’ Ben piped up. ‘I made her talk to me.’

Hesper’s crinkled face studied him distastefully for a moment before turning back to her niece. ‘Give thanks it was I who found you,’ she said. ‘Old Parry desired to come, and you know what a barbed tongue she has. Return with me now and we shall speak of this no more.’

Nelda threw her arms around her aunt’s neck. ‘You mean you won’t tell? Oh, thank you.’

Hesper gave a little gasp as she struggled to get free. ‘Come away! Words must be said by all the tribe over the black boat before it burns.’

‘Won’t I see you again, then?’ Ben asked miserably.

Nelda shot a hasty glance at her aunt. Hesper pursed her lips and shook her head firmly. ‘Our worlds must not mix,’ she said with force. ‘Tragedy has ever occurred when such attempts are made.’ She gripped her niece’s hand and squeezed it urgently. ‘Would you have the curse tighten ever more about us?’ she asked. ‘Is the doom that awaits us not enough, that you would seek more?’

Nelda hung her head and prepared to say farewell to her human friend. She knew Hesper was right—it was wrong for her to hope to see Ben again. And yet…

A strange feeling swept over her, like nothing she had ever experienced before. Her head swam and the light of the setting sun faded to darkness. Nelda’s eyes opened wide and they were blacker than jet, black as the pathless voids into which her thoughts voyaged. Out of her body she drifted and visions of things to come flashed past her. She saw a white, billowing shape high on the cliff-top and heard the beat of pagan drums. A glowing form shimmered from the depths of the sea and she uttered a cry of astonishment when she recognised… With a sickening lurch, the scene was snatched away and her blood turned to ice. A huge, gaping maw rushed towards her. She heard the vicious hatred in its voice as a nightmarish growl issued from the scarlet throat.

Nelda screamed and tumbled backwards, waving her arms before her face to fend off the evil which attacked her.

Hesper and Ben knelt down by the aufwader’s side. Hesper rummaged quickly in one of her satchels and produced a leather flask. ‘A little liquor distilled from limpets,’ she explained to Ben as she poured it into her niece’s mouth. In her concern, all suspicions about the boy were forgotten.

‘What happened?’ asked Ben fearfully. ‘Will she be all right?’

Even as he spoke, Nelda’s eyes flickered open. Hesper examined them; they were soft and grey once more. ‘All will be well,’ she said, nodding with satisfaction. ‘It is the strain taking its toll, nothing more.’

Nelda choked back a cry and she clutched her aunt’s arm. ‘I have seen!’ she exclaimed frenziedly. ‘I saw it, Hesper, out under the waves. The time is near—you were right all along.’

Hesper caught her breath and leaned back. ‘What did you see?’ she asked in a trembling voice, not daring to hope.

Nelda took hold of her shoulders and shook her joyfully. ‘That which you have sought so long—the moonkelp!’

Hesper gawped at her in disbelief for a second, then let loose a terrific squeal of glee.

Ben covered his ears and wondered why they were so excited. Finally Nelda remembered him and hurriedly told her aunt, ‘I know not how this vision came to be, but I am sure this human child is caught up in our plight. Hesper, do you not see? It is written for him to play a part in this. Do not ask me how, but my heart knows his life is entwined with that of the tribe. Spurn him now and the curse will engulf us all.’

Her voice and her words were powerful, and Hesper did not doubt that Nelda had been shown a glimpse of the future. The wisdom of the cold deeps had touched her for a moment. ‘Then we must tell the child of our woe,’ she said simply.

Hesper struggled to her feet and looked at Ben. ‘Listen to me, unhappy man-pup,’ she told him soberly. ‘All that you hear from this moment on must not cross your lips into another’s hearing—you understand?’ Ben mumbled that he did, not sure if he was prepared for what she was about to tell him.

Hesper pulled the oilskin hat further over her eyes so that they were lost in its shadow. She gazed into the distance and began. “The land has changed since our remote grandsires first harvested the waters here and wandered by the shore. It was wild hereabouts; the rocks were sharper and the cliffs reached further into the clean sea. Your kind was scarce then, I believe, but there were many tribes of our folk.’ She faltered, regretting that she had not been born in such a time. ‘But all things must change,’ she continued. ‘The stones of your dwellings were laid here and more of your folk made their way over the moor and over the water to settle at the river mouth. It is said that when first they came, our tribes welcomed them, but the two races were never at ease with each other. There were quarrels and fights. Never was there a more frightened creature than Man—like a rabbit he is, afraid of anything which walks under the moon.’

At this point Nelda interrupted. It was decided that we should withdraw from your world, Ben,’ she said. ‘The tribe elders asked the advice of the Lords of the Deep and so the prime laws were made.’ A frown crossed her face as she wondered how much he needed to know.

‘If he is to aid us the child must be told all!’ Hesper muttered gravely.

Nelda swallowed and resumed the tale. ‘For many years my people obeyed the strict rules of the elders and Man forgot us, or we were consigned to stories for the amusement of children. All was well and we prospered, but not as quickly as you. How crowded became the harbour and how tall became your ships. Yet you knew nothing of the sea; though you girdled the world, still you learnt nought. You were ignorant of the mysteries which lie in the deeps, of the Lords who could end everything if they so wished. Yes, your kind grew strong but your might was used for bloodshed and conquest, as you slaughtered all who dared to oppose you. Our forefathers were glad indeed that they had retreated from your race.’

‘Until that fateful day,’ Hesper broke in, ‘that day which all rue now.’

‘What happened?’ asked Ben, overawed.

‘The two races mingled,’ Nelda answered darkly. ‘A fisherman with the same sight you possess took to wife one of our kind and a child was born.’

‘A creature that did not belong in either world,’ said Hesper sadly. ‘The moment it breathed its first breath, the Lords of the Deep were aware of it and knew the laws which they had made had been broken. When the fisherman next set sail to cast his nets they rose against him and dragged his boat under the waves. On hearing this, the child’s mother became mad with grief. She threw herself off this very cliff and was dashed to pieces on the rocks below.’

‘There is more,’ said Nelda. ‘Cheated of their revenge, the Lords vented their wrath on all women of our race. We were cursed and the fate of our kind was sealed.’

‘What did they do?’ ventured Ben.

‘Our doom is a grim one,’ said Hesper tearfully. ‘Nelda’s mother was one of the many who have fallen victim to it.’

Ben did not like to ask any more questions, but it was Nelda herself who explained. ‘The curse of the Deep Ones is thus, Ben: they condemned every female of our kind to die in childbirth. A bitter vengeance it is, that destroys love.’

Hesper laid her hand gently on Nelda’s arm. ‘Now you see why we are doomed, for we cannot prosper and our future is bleak. Our tribes dwindled in number, and now only one remains. A time will come when the last black boat blazes over the sea—but who will make it and oversee its departure, I wonder?’

Ben stared miserably at the ground. It was a horrible story and one he wished he had not heard.

‘Do not grieve yet,’ Nelda cried, ‘for there is hope, although before this night I had not believed in it myself. Only my aunt had faith and so it is right that she should tell you of it.’

A dreamy look stole over Hesper’s face. ‘The moonkelp,’ she murmured longingly. ‘That which haunts my waking hours and invades my sleep—the moonkelp. For most of my life I have suffered ridicule because of my faith in it. It appears in one of our many legends, the saga of Irl in the darkness. I heard that story by the fireside when I was younger than Nelda. Oona was a great teller of tales. Very wise she was—in many ways, save the one. All my weed and shell lore I learnt under her guidance. She too believed in the moonkelp, the treasure of the Deep Ones that was stolen by Irl from their dark, cold realm. Only once in nine hundred years does it bloom and then for one night only, when the moon is brightest in the sky. It was Oona’s favourite tale and mine also.’

‘But how does that help?’ said Ben, shaking his head in confusion.

‘Because whoever finds the lost treasure of the Lords of the Deep may ask of them anything that is in their power to give,’ blurted out Nelda. ‘Do you not see? If we can discover it we could ask them to lift the curse.’

‘I see,’ Ben whistled. ‘But how can I help?’

‘Just how you are involved I am not certain,’ Nelda told him excitedly. ‘But for an instant back then I saw the moonkelp and… and you were holding it, human child!’

6 - Cream Cakes And Death

The following few days were extremely busy. Ben secretly met Nelda and Hesper and together they searched the shallows for the moonkelp. Jennet began to wonder what he found to do between tea and supper, but all inquiries yielded no clues. She even offered to go with him, but these suggestions were always firmly refused. Jennet was mystified but too tired to press him any further, for she had not been sleeping at all well lately. An animal was howling in the night, keeping her awake. It was a horrible sound and she shivered in her bed, remembering the legend of the Barguest which was supposed to roam the midnight streets.

Jennet would have talked about it to Aunt Alice but the old woman seemed to be having problems of her own. After she had swept the ladies’ circle out of her parlour on the night of the seance. Miss Boston had been confident that such an action would quickly be forgiven. However, some of the others were not inclined to forget the incident so readily.

Mrs Joyster did not harbour a grudge; she dismissed the whole affair in her usual military manner. She had no time for such petty grudges and greeted Miss Boston cordially when they next met in the street. Miss Droon was another who forgot the whole affair, although her motives were totally different. She was far too busy fussing round Eurydice and the kittens to harbour any ill feelings, especially as Eurydice was already showing signs of restlessness and lack of interest in her offspring.

No, it was Mrs Banbury-Scott and Miss Wethers who were snubbing Aunt Alice. Mrs Banbury-Scott swore never to set foot in that house again, for she had had to suffer the indignity of walking home that night: her chauffeur had driven the Bentley back to the rambling old house for a quick bite of supper. Miss Wethers, the postmistress, was also in a twist with herself about Alice’s behaviour. The furthest she came to showing her annoyance, though, was a pert and aloof manner when Miss Boston ventured into the post office for her pension. But for dithery Edith, that was a pretty powerful declaration of annoyance.

Aunt Alice felt her position as leader of the circle was under threat. Things would no doubt calm down eventually and they could all settle back into the routine of visiting one another for an afternoon cup of tea. That is what she had hoped—until the arrival of Rowena Cooper.

Speculation raged over the best china during the next few days. How could the newcomer bear to live in that terrible damp mess of a house? Surely there was a mountain of work for decorators and builders to do, yet the word was that none of the local contractors had been approached. The whole thing was very intriguing and fuelled the gossips for some time.

Miss Boston rammed the old shapeless hat on to her head and threw the sage-green cloak over her shoulders. ‘I’ll see her today, by God!’ she fumed passionately.

Everybody, it seemed, had met the confounded Mrs Cooper except her. For some reason she always missed the wretched woman, and what a fuss they all made over her. It seemed the newcomer was a paragon in every respect: she had already made large donations to the church fund and the hospital appeal, and everyone she met described her as a warm and sincere individual. Even Aunt Alice’s neighbour, the disagreeable Mrs Gregson, had succumbed to Mrs Cooper’s charms. It was maddening to hear all these tales second-hand, without actually having met the heroine of them. More than that, it was becoming positively embarrassing, as though some conspiracy was at work to deny her access to this marvel.

With the front door slamming behind her. Miss Boston crossed the yard and strode determinedly into Church Street, a bloodhound expression on her face.

‘Morning, Alice,’ Mrs Joyster saluted briskly.

Miss Boston shook herself out of her thoughts and returned the greeting. ‘Hello, Prudence,’ she said. ‘Might I have a word?’ If there was anyone in Whitby who would give her an unbiased opinion, it was Prudence Joyster. She led her aside, out of the hustle and bustle of the tourists, and came straight to the point. ‘Prudence, dear, what do you make of this Cooper woman?’ she demanded.

Mrs Joyster clasped her handbag with both hands and clicked her heels together, as though brought to attention by some superior officer. ‘Don’t really know, Alice, to tell you the truth,’ she replied. ‘Only saw her the once yesterday and that was brief.’ She knitted her brows as though trying to remember. ‘There was something…’ she began slowly. ‘No, it’s gone—sorry.’

Miss Boston sighed. ‘Pity,’ she said.

Mrs Joyster glanced at her watch and scowled at the time. ‘Expect I’ll remember this afternoon,’ she said. ‘Must dash now—lots to do before then.’

‘This afternoon?’ echoed Miss Boston. ‘And what is happening then?’

Prudence was already marching away. ‘The ladies’ circle,’ she called. ‘We’ve all been invited to Mrs Cooper’s for tea.’

Aunt Alice’s mouth dropped open. So this Mrs Cooper had asked the circle—her circle—to tea, without inviting her. This was tantamount to a slap in the face and she would be a laughing stock in the town. Was this woman deliberately trying to provoke her? With her jaw set and all her chins trembling. Aunt Alice stormed back to her cottage.

‘Damn the creature!’ she yelled, as the front door smashed into the frame once more. Even though she had not yet met Mrs Cooper, she had built up a violent dislike towards her. ‘The audacity,’ she raged, ‘the sheer—’

An envelope on the floor suddenly caught her eye; it must have been stuck in the letterbox and her slamming of the door had sent it fluttering on to the carpet.

The letter was addressed to her but she did not recognise the confident, flowing script. Curiously, she opened the envelope and raised her eyebrows as she read its contents.

Dearest Miss Boston,

I hope you will not think this letter intrusive, but I have heard so many interesting and curious things about you and as yet we have not been introduced. You must be the one person I have not met. Everybody is so welcoming in this amusing little town of yours, I feel quite at home already. Would you do me the honour of joining myself and a few friends for tea this afternoon, say a quarter to four?

Sincerely yours
Rowena Cooper

‘Good gracious,’ muttered Miss Boston in surprise. ‘A most peculiar invitation, to be sure.’ She read it again and exclaimed, ‘What does she mean, “interesting and curious things”? She makes me sound like a pet monkey.’ The more she studied the letter the more incredulous she became. “The “few friends” must be the rest of the ladies’ circle, yet she mentions them as though they were strangers to me.’ Aunt Alice crushed the piece of paper in her hands. ‘I’ve a good mind not to go! That will show her—tiresome woman!’

At half past three. Miss Boston’s cloaked figure trundled up Abbey Lane. The desire to see Mrs Cooper for herself, and the knowledge that her absence would be grist to the mill for certain tongues, had conquered her resolve not to go.

The dark bulk of The Hawes reared before her and the old lady held her breath in astonishment. It could have been a different house, so drastic was the change. The jungle of weeds and nettles had been transformed into a neat garden and the ground-floor window, which only last week was boarded up, had been replaced and now bore the words ‘Cooper’s Antiques’, in large red and gold letters. Miss Boston peered through it and blinked in bewilderment. Inside, all looked immaculate; various well-polished tables and chairs, old paintings and silverware were on display. She could not understand how Mrs Cooper had managed it all in such a short time.

‘Alice,’ an awkward voice called. It was Edith Wethers, waving half-heartedly from the rear of the house. ‘This way,’ she mumbled into her tissue. It was the most Miss Wethers had said to her since the seance.

Miss Boston trotted down the path to the kitchen, where she noticed that the door had been replaced too. Edith shuffled back inside. ‘Rowena’s busy with the tea upstairs,’ she explained dutifully, ‘so she sent me down to guide you in—the front’s for business only. This way.’

Aunt Alice stepped over the shining linoleum; the kitchen was dazzlingly unreal. Pans of decreasing size gleamed from hooks on the wall and everything was spotless.

‘Except for this, all the ground floor is the shop and Rowena lives upstairs,’ Miss Wethers prattled as she led her into the hall.

Miss Boston shuddered as she followed Edith up the stairs. There was something creepy about the place: everything was in order and yet…

They had reached the landing and Miss Wethers pushed open the door of what had once been a bedroom. ‘Here she is, Rowena,’ the postmistress declared. ‘Alice Boston.’

The old lady entered the room. It had been tastefully furnished to serve as a parlour, and, sitting on the plush armchairs were all the ladies’ circle—and Rowena Cooper.

She was a striking woman, tall and slim, with short, strawberry-blonde hair and pale, almost translucent skin. Late forties to early fifties. Aunt Alice guessed. She wore a loose purple sweater with black slacks; her feet were bare and the toenails painted a garish pillar-box red.

‘Delighted,’ Mrs Cooper cooed, rising from her seat and stretching out her arms theatrically. ‘At last we meet. I feel we shall be such friends, you and I.’

Aunt Alice managed a smile, although she instantly disliked this gushing woman. ‘That would be… lovely,’ she found herself saying.

‘Marvellous,’ breathed Mrs Cooper. She pressed her hands together as though in prayer, then placed her two forefingers between her teeth as she studied Miss Boston. ‘You’re such a darling antique,’ she said, with a laugh in her voice.

The old lady stared at her incredulously. Nobody had ever called her that before. She unwrapped her scarf. ‘I beg your pardon?’ she asked.

Mrs Cooper rushed forward, her bare feet padding over the swirling blue carpet. ‘Do let me take your things,’ she begged. ‘What a quaint cloak! I had no idea people still wore these—how funny and twee.’

Miss Boston looked round at her friends for support. Prudence leant back in her chair and shook her head with disgust—she hated silly women. Tilly Droon was on the sofa next to Mrs Banbury-Scott, absorbed in a book on the psychology of cats which Mrs Cooper had lent her. Mrs Banbury-Scott was still ignoring Aunt Alice and pointedly diverted her attention towards a mouth-watering array of goodies on the coffee table. Her fat ringed fingers hovered over the meringues, but swooped down on the cream cakes and snatched up a chocolate éclair. Edith Wethers sidled past Rowena, drinking in her words as she squeezed by, and sat as far away from the cat-haired Miss Droon as she could manage.

‘You must call me Rowena,’ Mrs Cooper oozed to Miss Boston as she hung up the old lady’s hat and cloak, ‘and I shall call you Alice. Do sit down and have some tea.’ Her voice was level and precise, breaking into little girlish laughs now and then which, to Miss Boston’s ears, sounded false and strangely chilling. Nevertheless, she did as she was bid and took up the cup provided.

‘Dora was just telling me about her delicious house,’ Rowena drooled in an envious tone. ‘Do continue, please. I long to know everything there is to know.’ There were no seats free, so she sat on the arm of the sofa and rested her chin on her hand, whilst playing with an amethyst ring on her finger.

Mrs Banbury-Scott patted the corners of her mouth and gave a little amused cough. ‘My Bobo left it to me,’ she said thickly, as her voice was still clogged with chocolate. ‘He was my second hubby, you know. It had been in his family for years, one of the oldest round here.’

Rowena shivered ecstatically. ‘Sounds gorgeous. How I’ve always wanted a house like that—you must invite me round to see it some time.’

Miss Boston let the flow of conversation wash over her. She drank her tea quietly and exchanged despairing glances with Prudence; both longed for the ordeal to be over. Rowena and Mrs Banbury-Scott dominated the talk, the one shamelessly flattering the other.

‘You must tell me who does your hair,’ Rowena treacled. ‘That peach tint suits you so well.’

Mrs Banbury-Scott fluttered her false eyelashes and giggled coyly as she reached for another éclair.

‘Do you like the chocolate on those?’ Rowena asked. ‘I must admit I’m a real chocoholic too. Sometimes I think I’ve got cocoa in my veins instead of blood.’ She waved her fingers excitedly and cried, ‘Don’t move, I must let you have one of these. Excuse me a moment, everyone.’ Mrs Cooper slipped out of the room.

When she had gone Miss Boston let out a great sigh. ‘Preposterous!’ she snorted indignantly.

Miss Wethers sniffed and turned her head to one side. ‘Well, I think she’s very nice,’ she observed acidly.

‘So warm, so friendly,’ added Mrs Banbury-Scott. ‘What do you think, Tilly?’

Miss Droon dragged her eyes away from the book and peered at them over her thick glasses. ‘Seems pleasant enough,’ she replied mildly. ‘Done wonders with this place.’

Prudence was staring into space. There it was again, that strange feeling. Try as she might she could not define her suspicions, but in the back of her mind, a little whisper of disquiet was nagging at her.

‘Here we are.’ Rowena came bursting back into the room, carrying a small, gold cardboard box. ‘I have a friend in Belgium,’ she explained, ‘who sends me these, knowing my passion for them.’

She handed the box to Mrs Banbury-Scott. The fat pig-woman took it greedily and peered inside.

‘Handmade chocolates,’ Rowena informed the others. ‘Frightfully expensive but absolutely heavenly. Do help yourselves.’ She hesitated and looked at Mrs Joyster. ‘Prudy, I do believe you are staring. Is there something the matter?’

Prudence pulled herself together. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she stammered. ‘Not like me at all, but for a moment I could have sworn… Never mind, it was nothing.’

‘Wonderful!’ Mrs Banbury-Scott declared, with her mouth full of truffles and coffee creams. ‘These are sublime.’

Another painful hour crawled by. Mrs Banbury-Scott hogged the chocolates and wolfed them all but Rowena did not seem to mind. Miss Boston was bored and stared dismally out of the window. Rowena lounged on the chair arm, laughing at all the fat woman’s feeble jokes. Edith Wethers watched her pathetically, like a dog waiting for scraps to be thrown its way.

Prudence, meanwhile, scrutinised Mrs Cooper through half-closed eyes, as though she were trying to see what the woman might have looked like twenty or thirty years ago.

Finally Miss Boston decided it was time for her to return home and see to the children’s tea. She rattled her cup impatiently on to its saucer and said to her hostess, ‘A most enlightening afternoon. So glad to have met you, but I really must get back and see to Jennet and Benjamin.’

Rowena looked at her blankly for a moment as if she had forgotten she was ever there. ‘Must do this again, Alison,’ she said, swinging her legs off the chair arm and stretching.

‘Don’t bother to see me out,’ Miss Boston said, ignoring the mistake and taking her things down from the coat-stand.

At that moment Prudence Joyster rose to leave also. ‘Yes, a very… interesting time,’ she muttered distractedly. ‘Are you coming too, Tilly?’

Miss Droon thanked Rowena for the loan of the book and made her farewells.

‘But Dora, dearest,’ cried Rowena to the Buddha-like figure which dwarfed the sofa, ‘say you’ll stay. Don’t abandon me as well, promise you’ll stay just an eensy teensy bit longer.’ Mrs Banbury-Scott agreed amiably.

Miss Wethers would have stayed too if Rowena had not suddenly said to her, ‘Darling Edie, how nice—do come again.’ So the postmistress reluctantly put her coat on as well.

Rowena padded out to the landing after the four departing ladies. Miss Boston looked up at the hole in the ceiling which led to the attic whilst the others made their way downstairs.

‘Must get that seen to,’ Rowena said quickly, following her gaze. ‘Afraid my little home is nowhere near as nice as Dora’s.’

‘Strange,’ murmured Miss Boston, her eyes still fixed upwards, ‘thought I saw a movement up there. Have you got bats?’

The change in Rowena was immediate and startling. The smile vanished from her face and she almost snarled at the old woman. Quickly, though, she regained her composure, yet her voice was more false than before. ‘Don’t alarm me so, Alison dear,’ she cried with a thin, harsh laugh. ‘I shouldn’t get a wink of sleep if I thought that.’

Miss Boston uttered a last farewell and turned to go down the stairs. That was most interesting, she thought to herself. I wonder what she has up there she doesn’t want anyone to know about? Very suspicious indeed.

In the lane she walked alongside Mrs Joyster. ‘Well, Prudence,’ she said, arching her brows, ‘what did you make of that?’

‘I don’t like it, Alice,’ her friend whispered, so that Miss Wethers could not hear. ‘There’s something decidedly wrong about that woman. I don’t know what it is but… No, it’s gone again.’

Aunt Alice pursed her lips in concentration. ‘Curious,’ she observed softly, ‘how Mrs Cooper likes to give the impression that she is a stupid creature. All those ridiculous affectations—she called you “Prudy”, for heaven’s sake. Nobody talks like that—most bizarre and perplexing. And yet for all this, or perhaps in spite of it, I believe that she is a very clever woman. Was it all an act, I wonder? But if so, then for whose benefit? She must have something to hide. I think that is a distinct possibility. Do you know anything about her husband—is he dead or are they separated?’

Prudence brought herself to a standstill and clasped her handbag to her chest. ‘Husband!’ she repeated. ‘Of course, the husband!’ Her face clouded over and she became very troubled indeed.

‘Whatever is it?’ inquired Miss Boston.

‘I can’t say,’ Prudence replied. ‘I’m not certain yet, but… Well, it just won’t do if I am right about this.’

Prudence Joyster headed for home. She lived in one of the houses behind the railway station on the West Cliff. It had belonged to her late husband’s sister, who had left it to them in her will. A perfect place to retire to, although it had taken some time to get used to the bracing sea air after the hot winds of Kenya.

She turned the key in the front door and marched past the spears and shields made of stretched zebra hide which decorated her hallway. Into the dark study she strode and cast her handbag aside fretfully. Still wearing her coat, she knelt by a panel of shelves and ran her fingers along the spines of the books. She knew it had to be there; this was the one thing of her husband’s she had made a point of keeping.

‘Ah!’ Prudence grunted. ‘There you are.’ She eased out a leather-bound book and turned the first page.

‘Diary of Major Howard Joyster—1959 to 1967,’ she read quietly to herself. Prudence held her hand in front of her face, momentarily breathless. It had been a long time since she had dared to open this. It was enough just to know its reassuring presence was there on the shelf—a comforting relic of their blissful time in Africa.

‘The hours you spent writing this, dear,’ she said aloud to the spirit of her husband which she felt sure was always with her. Page after page of well-ordered, disciplined handwriting flicked beneath her searching fingers. Oh, if she could only remember the correct year.

The time wore on and outside the light failed. Prudence rubbed her eyes as they strained in the gloom and when she looked at the clock was startled to discover it had turned nine.

The diary brought it all flooding back. Although she had meant to skim through it to find the page she wanted, odd paragraphs or just sentences seemed to leap out at her and she would end up reading the whole passage. All those memories, places and people she had not thought of for many years.

With the study lamp switched on, she continued. Days long gone unfolded before her; she almost felt the sun burn the nape of her neck and heard in the far away of her mind the rumble of the jeep as it bounced over the hot red earth and the loud buzz of the crickets in the evening. And then the diary yielded its secret at last.

Monday, 12 July. Came across old Natty Pelridge this afternoon—chap who left the regiment to go native. Tells me the Masai are uneasy and could I do anything about it. Seems that couple who were chased out of Nairobi have started up again. Drove to the Masai village with Pru but only saw the wife. Nasty piece of work, that, and mouth like a sewer—damn near struck the blasted woman. If I believed just half of what people say about them I would have brought her in there and then. Don’t know why the Masai haven’t chased her and her God-awful husband out already but Natty tells me they’re too scared of them. Can’t understand it—just hope I’ve warned them off. Came back and there’s more of this dratted paperwork to do. The job isn’t what it was…

Thursday, 15 July. Bad news. Middle of the night. Natty comes over, white as a sheet and shaking like a leaf. Never seen him like that before and it put the wind up me. Terrible business at the village, he tells me, after I give him some brandy. That ruddy couple have got half the Masai involved in some foul ceremony. Seems those stories were true after all. Drove over with a small show of force but by the time we arrived it was all over. Never heard such a commotion and the wails of the women is a sound I shan’t ever forget. Glad I never brought Pru this time. Why the villagers allowed it is a damn mystery, can’t get any sense out of them. They keep talking about a big dog or something—scared to death they looked, too. I’ll have to start a full investigation but it looks like the birds have flown. Not a sign of that hellish pair. They won’t get far, though; I’ll get a message to the neighbouring commissioners. Nathan and Roslyn Crosier deserve to hang for this.

Mrs Joyster laid the book on her knee, feeling sick. Roslyn Crosier—that young, evil woman she had met all those years ago—was none other than Rowena Cooper!

An angry look crossed Prudence Joyster’s face; she thought of what they had done and her hands trembled with fury Slamming the diary on the floor, she stormed out of her house.

Her intention had been to go to the police station, which was not far away, but as she strode down Windsor Terrace, the emotion which was seething inside her took charge. Past the police station marched Mrs Joyster, up the New Quay Road and over the bridge to the East Cliff. The pubs were just closing as she hurried up Church Street to the hundred and ninety-nine steps. Grimly she began to climb. Her face was like thunder and she felt ready to burst.

A mist was coming in off the sea, drifting over the churchyard and shrouding the lamps, softening the light which lit her way up the stone stairs. Finally she reached the top and purposefully made for The Hawes.

There were no lights on in the ugly house; for a second it seemed to shimmer and the renovations disappeared. Tangled weeds overran the garden once more, the front window was boarded up and a smell of damp and decay greeted Mrs Joyster as she pushed the rusted gate open. Then, suddenly it was back to normal. It was as if she had caught the house off-guard momentarily. The window displayed its red and gold letters and the lawn was neat again.

Prudence took no notice. It would take more than night-time imaginings to cool her temper. She went briskly to the kitchen door and hammered violently on it. A light snapped on upstairs and she heard footsteps coming down the hall.

‘Prudence!’ exclaimed a surprised Mrs Cooper. ‘What can I do for you? I was just about to go to bed.’

‘You can stop pretending!’ snapped Mrs Joyster furiously. ‘I know who you are—Roslyn!’

Mrs Cooper’s face froze. ‘Rowena,’ she corrected coldly.

‘Don’t bother denying it,’ spat Mrs Joyster. ‘I knew there was something—you and that devil of a husband, wherever he is.’ Her pale-blue eyes were like two frosty diamonds that glinted and shone in the darkness.

Rowena ground her teeth together and an unpleasant sneer curled her mouth. She realised it was useless to deny anything now. ‘I thought you might have forgotten,’ she said. Her voice was totally different from that of the person she had been that afternoon. It had a cruel, malicious edge, harder than steel and more bitter than death.

‘Forgotten!’ blazed Mrs Joyster. ‘How could I forget what you and your husband did! I don’t know how you live with yourself, you evil creature!’

Rowena smiled wickedly and her teeth gleamed. ‘What will you do now?’ she asked with calculating calm. ‘Have you called the police?’

Prudence glared back at the woman. ‘Not yet,’ she said, ‘but I shall and don’t think you can escape this time.’

The smile on Rowena’s face widened into a harsh, menacing grin. ‘You had better do your duty like a good citizen should,’ she growled as her lips pulled back even further.

Mrs Joyster pointed a steady, assured finger at her. It would take more than that to frighten her. ‘I’ll wipe that smile off your face, you remorseless—abomination!’ she cried defiantly. She whirled round and her sensible shoes rang over the path as she left.

Framed in the doorway, Rowena heard the older woman’s footsteps disappear into the mist. She threw back her head and let loose a horrible laugh. ‘Run, Prudence!’ she called wildly. ‘Hurry home—if you can.’

Mrs Joyster heard the muffled shrieks seeping through the fog. ‘Woman’s unhinged,’ she told herself, but then she would have to be.

The ruins of the abbey rose out of the mist to her left as she approached the churchyard. The gravestones were like little islands poking up from a smoky sea as she strode by. The police station was her goal now. It would probably take some time to convince them but fortunately she was well-respected in the town.

The hundred and ninety-nine steps trailed into darkness below as the fog swirled about her ankles and concealed the streets of Whitby. She might have been standing on the roof of the world, for all she could see. A shudder ran down her spine and she glanced back nervously.

‘Pull yourself together,’ she scolded herself. It was unlike her to be afraid of the dark; she was far too practical for such ridiculous fancies. Resolutely, she began the long descent. It was tough going, for the fog lay thickly over the steps and made it impossible to see them. With one hand she gripped the rail tightly and she covered her throat with the other.

The night was cold yet Mrs Joyster’s forehead dripped with perspiration. She felt afraid; someone was watching her. It was as if a sharp blade was being pushed between her shoulders. Countless times she looked round nervously up to the top of the steps, to try and catch a glimpse of whoever it was. But there was always nothing there, which seemed to make it worse, somehow.

Her heart pounded in her breast as she neared the halfway point. It thumped like the drums she had heard in Kenya, tribal beats that echoed into the night. Prudence was breathing hard; the blood in her temples pumped in time to the drums and her footsteps faltered.

There it was again, that uncomfortable feeling at her spine. With an overwhelming sense of dread, she turned and looked back once more.

‘No!’ she cried in terror. ‘No!’

But it was too late. There on the topmost step was the most horrifying sight she had ever witnessed. Under the dim glow of the lamp, she saw an immense hound. It was as large as a calf, blacker than midnight, and its red, fiery eyes burned into her.

Prudence screamed as she tore down the steps as fast as she could. With a blood-freezing growl, the monstrous hound bounded after her. Steaming breath issued from its huge nostrils and its mighty jaws slavered viciously.

‘Help! Help!’ Prudence shouted at the top of her voice. But there was no one to hear her.

The demon dog took the steps five at a time and bore unerringly down upon the petrified woman. Prudence felt its hot breath on the back of her legs. She spun round to face it. The infernal eyes crackled and blasted towards her.

‘Nooooo!’ she wailed, raising her arms before her face as the beast snarled and prepared to spring.

Its muscular shoulders tensed, then the creature launched itself straight at her. With a last, piteous cry, Prudence Joyster fell back into the fog.

7 - The Figure On The Cliff

Miss Boston sat down and mechanically sipped the hot sweet tea Jennet had made for her. ‘Poor Prudence,’ she said shakily.

The body of Mrs Joyster had been discovered early that morning. She had evidently lost her footing whilst descending the steps in the fog the previous night; at least that is what the police thought. There was nothing to suggest otherwise, and Doctor Adams wrote ‘accidental death’ on the certificate.

Aunt Alice saw the ambulance drive down Church Street on her pre-breakfast walk and heard the terrible news from a burly police sergeant.

There was a great deal to be done. Miss Boston telephoned the only relative Mrs Joyster had, a nephew in Halifax, and assured him that she would look after everything until his arrival. Then she went round to the dead woman’s house. Some time ago. Prudence had given her a spare key and she used this now to let herself in. Oddly enough, the police had been unable to find any keys on Mrs Joyster’s person.

Miss Boston found the house just as her friend had left it the night before. The lamp in the study was still on and the old diary lay sprawled on the floor. ‘Curious,’ the old lady murmured as she examined the book. ‘I wonder what Prudence was doing reading this—it used to upset her so.’ She recalled how strange Mrs Joyster had been yesterday when they parted. There had been something troubling her—something to do with Rowena Cooper. If only she had said more at the time. A nasty suspicion was forming in Miss Boston’s mind. The steps were on the way to Mrs Cooper’s house; perhaps Prudence had paid a second visit to the dreadful woman last night. She stuffed the diary into her capacious handbag to read later, deciding there had to be some sort of clue in there. One thing was certain—Prudence Joyster had not died in any accident.

‘I don’t care what the police say,’ Aunt Alice told Jennet when she was sitting in her own kitchen once more, ‘Prudence was far too sensible to go out in a fog for no good cause—she was never one for solitary walks.’

‘What do you think she was doing, then?’ the girl asked.

Aunt Alice flattened her chins against her chest and muttered mysteriously, ‘Confrontations.’

Jennet looked puzzled.

‘Prudence could never bottle things up,’ Miss Boston explained. ‘She would always tell you exactly what she thought. I can still hear her barking voice… unbelievable to think that it has been silenced forever. She was a good friend to me, you know,’ Jennet held out her hand and the old lady took it thankfully. ‘I’m so very glad you and Benjamin are here,’ she said.

The rest of the day was spent visiting the rest of the ladies’ circle to share with them the grief and sense of loss. Edith Wethers was beside herself and had to take the day off work. Miss Droon was sitting with her, handing out the tissues. She was so upset she never mentioned Eurydice or her offspring at all. It was an unpleasant time, but all appreciated one another’s company.

‘I think I had better go round to Dora’s now,’ said Miss Boston, swinging her cloak over her shoulders. ‘I don’t know why she isn’t here.’

The other ladies, one whiskered, one snivelling, feebly waved goodbye.

The comical figure of Miss Boston on her rickety old bicycle rode to the outskirts of the town.

Mrs Banbury-Scott’s house was a solid, grand building. Nobody knew exactly how old it was, although architects had squabbled for years over its probable age. The grey stones were mottled with moss and lichen and the west-facing walls had been totally claimed by ivy.

Miss Boston waggled from side to side as she pedalled up the gravel drive. In one wobbly movement, she dismounted from the bicycle and rested it against the porch. The iron bell-pull jangled in her fingers and she waited patiently for admittance.

Mrs Banbury-Scott kept three servants: Grice, her gruff chauffeur and gardener; Mrs Rigpath, the cook; and a dumpy little maid called Rachel Turner. It was the last who opened the door.

‘Oh, hello. Miss,’ Rachel said brightly on seeing Aunt Alice. ‘Come in. Madam has got a visitor but I shouldn’t think she’d mind if you joined them. They’re in the morning room.’

Miss Boston removed her outdoor things and made her way down the oak-panelled hall. ‘And how is your mother, Rachel dear?’ she asked the maid chattily. ‘Still devoted to her garden?’ They exchanged a few pleasantries before Aunt Alice asked, as they stood outside the morning room, ‘By the way, just who has she got in there?’

‘Why, Mrs Cooper, Miss,’ Rachel replied. ‘Didn’t I say?’ She knocked and opened the door whilst the old lady winced and pulled a disagreeable face—she had not expected this.

‘Miss Boston, Madam,’ announced Rachel.

The morning room was comfort itself; it had a general air of doziness about it, a perfect place to nod off. The chairs were of old, worn leather and the pile of the rugs was soft and deep. The curtains were heavily embroidered and very thick, to shut out the cold winter nights. Miss Boston had spent many a cosy afternoon in this room. Now, though, she was ill at ease and braced herself for this meeting. Her suspicions about Rowena Cooper gnawed at her as she entered.

There in the snug armchair was Mrs Banbury-Scott. Her small, pig-like eyes were puffy and red—she had been crying. Rowena perched on a cushion in front of the hearth, soaking up the fire’s heat. She was feeding the fat woman chocolates from another of those gold cardboard boxes.

‘Alice,’ burbled Mrs Banbury-Scott anxiously. ‘Poor Pru—Prudence,’ and she descended into a fit of hysterical tears and woeful grunts.

‘Such dreadful news,’ Rowena Cooper broke in. ‘I was deeply shocked when I heard and rushed straight round to Dora’s. She is such a sensitive soul, she feels this loss most deeply. Why, when I first arrived she was inconsolable.’

Miss Boston sat down and eyed the blonde woman shrewdly. All she said had a false ring to it. She puckered her lips and the question which had been burning her tongue leapt out on its own. ‘Did Prudence visit you last night, Mrs Cooper?’

Rowena fluttered her eyelashes and answered smartly—and rather too readily—‘Why, no. Why should she do that?’

Mrs Banbury-Scott lowered the handkerchief of Nottingham lace which she had been wailing and spitting chocolatey phlegm into. ‘Rowena’s been marvellous, Alice,’ she breathed hoarsely. ‘I feel quite ill myself now. I don’t know what I would have done without her.’ She took the box and her pink, sausage-shaped fingers rooted about in it.

‘More chocolates?’ murmured Miss Boston mildly. ‘My goodness, you do seem to have an inexhaustible supply, Mrs Cooper.’

‘If they comfort dear Dora then they are a small price to pay,’ she replied with sickening humility.

An idea suddenly struck Aunt Alice. ‘And what do you think of her house now?’ she asked abruptly.

A momentary look of distress appeared on Rowena’s face. ‘Why… it’s a darling residence,’ she eventually cooed. ‘I am green with envy.’

The inconsolable Mrs Banbury-Scott stuffed another chocolate into her face and waved the hanky again. ‘I shall show you round,’ she told Rowena gratefully.

Miss Boston got up to leave, feeling as though she was intruding upon the pair of them. She was surprised at how quickly Rowena had ingratiated herself with Dora. But then, the fat woman had always been prone to flattery.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘now I must be going. I only came to see if you’d heard the news.’

The others hardly turned round to see her go. Miss Boston hesitated at the door and took one last look at Rowena as the woman threw back her head and laughed too loudly at something Mrs Banbury-Scott had said. Just what was she up to?

Jennet rammed her hands into the deep pockets of her coat. The town of Whitby lay behind her and she scanned the beaches for signs of Ben. He had gone out directly after tea again; it was a most annoying habit of his. She had no idea where he got to, but he usually came back in time for supper. Tonight, however, he had not returned. It was now half past ten and she was worried. Aunt Alice had gone over to Miss Droon’s some time ago and she had not come back either, so Jennet went out to look for her troublesome brother alone.

The wind was cold and she wished she had a Thermos of hot soup with her. She walked along one of the piers that stretched, pincer-like, into the sea. From here she thought she would be able to see a good deal of the coast, but it had grown too dark now; even if Ben was on the beach, her eyes could not penetrate the gloom.

Whitby twinkled before her. The lights of the amusement arcades sparkled and the street lamps were like tangled necklaces of fiery gems. Jennet turned her head to the East Cliff and gazed at the abbey. Her eyes wandered to the church, and then she gasped.

Fluttering among the gravestones was a figure in white. Jennet wondered if Ben had taken a sheet from his bed and was playing ghosts up there. She was furious. After all that had happened to him, Ben was still drawn to phantoms and the supernatural? Jennet hurried back along the pier and ran to the steps.

The wind was stronger on the cliff, and as Jennet entered the churchyard it snatched her breath away. She glanced round but there was no sign of the white figure; it must have moved behind the church. Great arc lights were positioned on the ground to illuminate the building and, as she made her way between the tombs, her shadow was flung against the great stone walls. It was a monstrous, distorted shape and in the corner of her eye she could see it mimicking her movements. Jennet shivered. It was extremely creepy up here at night. Beyond the blinding lights there were impenetrable wells of darkness where anything could be hiding.

‘Ben must be mad to come here,’ she said to herself.

She followed the narrow path round to the far side of the church and scanned the expanse of headstones for her brother. There it was, the figure in white. Jennet stared at it for some moments before she realised that it was too tall to be Ben. A sudden urge to discover more gripped the girl and, as quietly as she could, she crept closer and crouched down behind a gravestone.

The figure was near the cemetery wall, staring out to sea with the wind tugging at its white robes. The garment was oddly familiar, but as it flapped in the wind it was difficult to be sure. Suddenly Jennet bit her lip in surprise—the stranger was one of the sisters from the convent!

What was one of the novices doing up there in the dark? the girl wondered. Breathlessly she watched motionless and silent in the shadow of the gravestone.

The novice lifted her downcast head and turned it slightly to one side. Her face was extraordinary—not pretty yet too unusual to be plain. Her eyes were almond-shaped and the moonlight danced in them, but her mouth was too wide—it almost went from one side of her face to the other. Then the head was turned away once more, the shoulders drooped and the novice rested her elbows on the wall. She lowered her head and covered her eyes. Very quietly, she began to weep.

The soft whimpers floated into the night and, in her hiding place, Jennet felt miserable. She had never heard such a sound before; it wrenched at her heart and tore into her soul. The absolute desolation of those pathetic sobs left her feeling empty and cold.

The anguish was unbearable; it was as if the grief of centuries came pouring out in one fierce torrent of despair. Jennet trembled as the novice’s voice rose and the weeping became a horrible scream. Every terrible emotion was contained in that hideous wail.

Images of grief filled Jennet’s mind. She thought of her parents and remembered the day of the funeral. The ghastly, raw hurt she had felt then returned in a vicious rush. The girl hid her face and covered her ears, until she could bear it no longer.

‘Stop! Stop!’ she cried suddenly.

The woman whirled round in surprise, her face stricken with fear. She watched Jennet come out of her hiding place and her eyes were wide with fright.

‘It’s all right,’ Jennet said gently. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.’

The novice flattened herself against the wall as the girl approached. She said nothing, but stared about wildly.

‘I only want to help,’ Jennet assured her.

But before she could say anything else, the sister darted away. Through the maze of graves she ran, as though a demon were after her. She fled past the arc lights and in their glare the white habit blazed as if it were on fire. Her billowing, dazzling shape resembled that of a moth which had fluttered too close to a candle flame. And then she was gone, vanished into the darkness as if the light had consumed her.

Jennet found herself shaking, whether from the cold or from nerves, she couldn’t say. Shivering, she walked home. There, she found Ben and the old lady finishing off their cocoa in the parlour. Jennet did not mention the novice to Aunt Alice, for she was not proud of the way she had spied on the poor woman. After she had drunk the steaming cup of hot chocolate which was waiting for her, the girl wearily went straight to bed, without even asking Ben where he had been.

The room was pitch dark when she awoke and for an awful moment Jennet thought she had been buried alive. But gradually her eyes adjusted and could make out the walls of her bedroom. She sighed with relief but twitched back one of the curtains to make sure. Moonlight poured in and she squinted sleepily at her watch—it was two in the morning.

Jennet knew why she had awoken in the middle of the night. She vaguely remembered the dream she had been having and pulled up the bedclothes to dispel the unpleasant memory. A dark shape had been stalking her. Its cry was terrifying and she was glad to have escaped the nightmare.

‘I don’t know what’s the matter with me,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Can’t seem to sleep properly any more.’

She rolled on to her side and stared at the stripes and flowers on the wallpaper. They made her feel comfortable and safe, locked cosily inside Aunt Alice’s house, where no evil thing could enter.

From the moonlit world outside there came a sound which banished all such thoughts. A dreadful howl boomed into the night, shattering the illusion of calm.

Jennet jumped to the window—it was the sound she had been hearing in her dreams. A sickening fear gripped her stomach as she realised they had not been nightmares after all. There was something prowling the streets of Whitby at night.

Peering over the windowsill, she gazed down on to the yard below. The light from one of the lamps in Church Street slanted in through the narrow alleyway, its pale tip just touching the sleeping geraniums by the front door. Jennet stared over the rooftops. Somewhere in the dark, narrow lanes the creature howled again. It was closer now.

Jennet felt very afraid. She tried to tell herself that she was being stupid and that it was probably just somebody’s dog crying to be let in. But deep down she knew it was more than that.

All at once the light in the yard was cut off, eclipsed by a large, black shape which blocked the alley. Its shadow stretched into the yard—it was that of an enormous hound. The beast paused and, as Jennet watched, the huge nostrils of the shadow sniffed and quested the air. For one awful moment she thought that it was searching for her, hunting for her scent and preparing to strike.

The shade grew blacker and larger as the beast crept further into the alley towards the yard. In that narrow tunnel of darkness, two points of red light glimmered malevolently. Jennet stepped back and clasped her hands tightly over her mouth to stop herself screaming.

The shadow lengthened, flowing over the doorstep and up to the lock. But when it reached the curious stone which hung above the lintel, it halted abruptly.

A deep growl vibrated through the air. Jennet shrank back and so did not see a faint blue radiance pierce the yard. The round, hollow stone over the front door was madly dancing on its thread, jerking and banging against the wall as if trying to get free. Small sparks of blue fire crackled from the hole at its centre and splashed down on to the threshold of the cottage like a waterfall of flame. The green door was lit up eerily and the solid darkness of the shadow suddenly fractured.

The eyes retreated back down the alley and a hideous snarl reverberated about the yard. The calm returned, broken only by the distant sound of claws as they clattered up the abbey steps.

The screeching of the gulls heralded a new morning. Miss Boston tiptoed down the stairs, careful not to wake the children.

She gazed at her reflection as she put on her hat and tutted: she was feeling her age today. All this sad business about Prudence had unsettled her. She felt sure she ought to have come across some clue as to how her friend had really died, but all her efforts had been useless. She had read some of the diary, though it was extremely boring; she had pestered Doctor Adams in case he had missed anything, but he had just been very rude to her; she had even questioned Prudence’s neighbours to see if they knew why she had gone out that night—but it was all to no avail. Prudence Joyster was being buried tomorrow afternoon and Miss Boston knew she had failed.

There was, of course, one other avenue she had not pursued and it was the most promising of them all. If only she could get the circle together and hold just one more seance. What better person to ask than Prudence herself? Miss Boston was sorely tempted to try, but the promise she had made to Jennet did not allow it.

Sighing with resignation, she slung the cloak over her shoulders and opened the front door.

‘Great heavens!’ she exclaimed.

The doorstep was covered in a fine coating of ash and cinders. The old lady looked up to where the stone had hung but only the thread remained and that was black and charred. Her face became grave. ‘I see,’ she said in a whisper. ‘So that is what I am dealing with. I should have guessed as much.’

Aunt Alice swept the mess from the step before she went on her walk. There was hardly a breeze that morning, which was a pity, as she felt she had a great many cobwebs that needed blowing away. As she passed the spot where Mrs Joyster had died she paused. ‘I wish I knew what was going on. Prudence dear,’ she sighed.

‘Alice! Alice!’ called a voice.

The old lady looked heavenwards and a great smile lit her wrinkled face. ‘Prudence?’ she asked with delight.

Alas, it was not the spirit of Mrs Joyster, only the grisled reality of Matilda Droon. She came panting down Church Street with a worried expression on her whiskered face and a well-chewed toy mouse in her hand. ‘Alice!’ she cried again.

Miss Boston hid her disappointment and noticed that Tilly had not bothered to get dressed properly. Her cardigan was buttoned incorrectly and she was still wearing her old carpet slippers. She raised her eyebrows curiously but waited for her to come closer.

‘Tilly, dear,’ Aunt Alice said, smiling indulgently at her friend, ‘whatever is the matter? You don’t usually get up this early.’

Miss Droon was out of breath. She waved Binky, the toy mouse, and puffed, ‘She’s gone, went off just like that. How can she leave her babies? She’s a terrible mother!’

Aunt Alice wearily rolled her eyes. ‘Eurydice?’ she ventured.

Tilly nodded anxiously. ‘Whatever shall I do?’ she asked unhappily.

‘Don’t worry, dear, she won’t have gone far. You know all her favourite haunts—try one of those.’

‘I suppose I could,’ Tilly said slowly. ‘But where to start?’

‘Well, what about the last place we found her?’

Miss Droon’s face brightened at once. ‘Of course—Mrs Cooper’s house. I shall go there at once.’ And she immediately began to climb the abbey steps.

Aunt Alice frowned. ‘Be careful, Tilly dear,’ she called after her—but Miss Droon took no notice.

Miss Boston was in no mood for her walk now. She sauntered back along Church Street but didn’t take the alley that led to her cottage. She was troubled, and walked with her eyes fixed on the ground as though it might yield up some clue to the mystery of Prudence’s death.

The old lady crossed the bridge, wrapped in thought. She was not aware of the direction she was going, but when she looked up she found herself outside the police station. It seemed to be exceedingly busy inside for this early hour. Miss Boston pushed open the door and went inside.

‘Good morning. Constable,’ she said to the young man behind the reception desk.

He looked up and wished he was on duty elsewhere—everyone in the station knew Miss Boston. ‘Morning, madam,’ he said civilly. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’

Aunt Alice was looking at all the coming and going behind the glass doors to the left. ‘I say,’ she inquired, ‘has something exciting occurred?’

Constable Mayhew liked a quiet life. He knew that if he pretended he had not heard the question, the old dragon would only ask it again and make a nuisance of herself. Besides, it wasn’t confidential business. He leaned forward and whispered, ‘Burglary last night at Pannett Park.’

‘The museum?’ gasped the old lady. ‘Good heavens—what was stolen?’

‘Only one exhibit was removed from the premises, madam—the Hand of Glory.’

Miss Boston said nothing but her face was a picture of bewilderment which gradually changed to one of concern. ‘I see,’ she said quietly.

Constable Mayhew allowed himself a little smile. Really, these old ladies were so nosey. That was obviously all she had come in for—to see if there was anything interesting to gossip about. He picked up a sheaf of papers and tapped them tidily on the desk like a newsreader, to appear busy. ‘If that’s all, madam,’ he said briskly, ‘I do have work to do.’

Miss Boston nodded and made for the door, but turned round again when she reached it. ‘Oh, Constable,’ she began, ‘how did the thieves break in? I do hope nothing was damaged.’

‘Actually, no,’ he replied. ‘The locks weren’t forced and the alarm never went off—it’s as if the thieves had a set of keys to the place.’

‘Oh, but they did,’ the old lady said mildly, and with that she left.

8 - Knife And Tooth

That afternoon Miss Boston was sitting in Tilly Droon’s little sitting room, a cup of tea in one hand and a half-eaten Bourbon in the other.

It was a poky little place, cluttered further by the sleeping cats which seemed to cover every available surface. There were tabbies on the chair arms, tortoiseshells underfoot, and a fat marmalade specimen squatting before the fire, glaring at two black felines who were getting dangerously close. Everything was covered in hair; the carpet had long since disappeared beneath the sea of countless moults. There was precious little left of the chair backs, either, which had been used as claw sharpeners for years.

The worst aspect of Miss Droon’s house, though, was the smell. She always swore blind that she could not detect any odour, but this opinion was challenged by her lack of human visitors. Only Aunt Alice and Mrs Joyster had ever ventured in more than once. Mrs Banbury-Scott did promise to return one day but there was always some excuse; Miss Wethers was more honest about it and refused even to peep through the letterbox.

‘Move over, Chunky,’ Tilly told the marmalade cat. ‘Let Inky and Jet feel the fire.’ She eased herself into a tatty armchair and slurped her tea. ‘That Cooper woman,’ Tilly said, resuming the story she had begun before pottering into the kitchen to make the tea.

‘Oh yes,’ Miss Boston murmured, with interest.

‘Well, you should have seen her face when I went over this morning to find Eurydice. Never seen anyone so put out and unpleasant.’ She chewed on a rather stale Bourbon, before continuing. ‘She wouldn’t let me go and find her myself, but darted upstairs like a bullet. Anyway, five minutes later she brings Eurydice down and the poor dear was petrified. She didn’t like the woman one little bit—terrible state she was in.’

‘At least she’s safe now, Tilly,’ Miss Boston remarked. ‘And what was this other news you dragged me in to hear?’

Miss Droon licked her moustache. ‘Well, it was about lunchtime and I hadn’t a tin of cat-food in the house, so I dashed out to the shop and who do you think I saw?’

‘Haven’t a clue.’

‘Kenneth Grice!’

Miss Boston put her cup down. ‘Dora’s handyman—what is so curious about that, dear?’

‘Well, he stopped me. Made a point of it, he did, crossed the road especially.’

‘Really? How strange; he’s such a rude, gruff man as a rule. What did he say?’

‘Dora’s not well. Told me Doctor Adams had been to see her that morning.’

Miss Boston shook her head. ‘But she always has some illness, or thinks she has—she likes to be fussed over. Where’s the news in that?’

‘But that’s just it, Alice. She isn’t faking it this time, there really is something wrong with her.’

‘Poor Dora. Whatever’s the matter?’

‘Grice said it was something to do with her heart, high blood pressure—not as strong as she was. He said the doctor was quite concerned.’

‘Oh dear,’ tutted Aunt Alice. ‘We shall have to go round and cheer her up. She must be feeling very low.’

Tilly banged her fists on the chair arm in frustration and in doing so knocked a startled tabby to the floor. ‘No, no, no,’ she cried. ‘That’s the point, you see; that’s why Grice came and spoke to me. He says Dora’s not to have any visitors for a few days—doctor’s orders. She needs complete rest. So she’d told him to tell us.’ She leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘Thing is, though, Grice wasn’t very happy because after telling me that, he said he was to go and fetch Mrs Cooper. Seems Dora wants to see her in spite of what the doctor said.’

‘But that’s outrageous,’ said Miss Boston, flabbergasted. ‘Do you mean to say that she can’t see old friends like us but is quite capable of having visits from that Rowena person?’

‘Exactly! Grice thought it was dreadful, too—never seen him look so awkward before.’

Miss Boston’s chins wobbled in annoyance. ‘I think we have been snubbed, Tilly dear,’ she said. ‘And I believe Dora will live to regret allowing that woman into her house.’

The baked potato was still too hot to touch. Jennet could feel the heat from it radiate through the lining of her coat. The girl had been thinking about the previous night all day long. She could not forget that tragic figure in white pouring out her grief in the churchyard. It had had a profound effect on Jennet. She knew what it was like to suffer and grieve, but at least she had Ben. The poor woman obviously had no one. She hoped the novice would return tonight. There had to be something she could do to help. The woman might not be so frightened this time.

The stone of the tomb slab was cold and she shifted uncomfortably. She had come armed against the pangs of hunger: in one pocket there was the baked potato and in the other, one of Aunt Alice’s forks. It was dark now and only the pubs round the harbour seemed alive, all the tourists having deserted the streets for cosier entertainments. It was going to be a cold night; there was a musty, autumn scent in the air. Jennet shivered and decided it was time to eat.

Wisps of steam curled out of the potato as she broke its brown, papery skin with the old silver fork. It smelled delicious and she waited for a moment before digging in. It was still hot and Jennet had to suck in the cold night air to prevent her mouth being burned.

The sea lapped against the cliff face; all was calm and the waxing moon rode above the few dim clouds that reached over the horizon. Jennet finished the last fragments of baked potato and replaced the fork in her pocket. She felt better for that and was marvellously warm inside. It was ten o’clock and she was all alone in the graveyard.

A seabird flew overhead and was caught in the beams of the arc lights. Jennet watched it falter, then regain its balance. When she lowered her eyes, something white caught her attention.

There she was, the sister from the convent. Just as she had done the night before, the woman crossed the cemetery and stood by the wall, where she gazed out to sea.

Undetected, Jennet rose and began to walk over to her. She could see the woman’s shoulders shaking with emotion as the miserable weeping began; the pitiful whimpers filled her ears.

Suddenly Jennet dropped to the ground—someone else was there. A figure dressed in black had emerged from the darkness, strode quickly over the graves and grabbed the novice by the wrist.

Jennet scrambled behind a headstone and waited. She was confused. What was happening? And why should she feel the need to hide? It was ridiculous; she wasn’t doing anything wrong, yet she felt it would be safer if she were not observed.

A voice drifted over the tombs to her dark sanctuary. It was a wheedling, fawning voice but one that contained a hidden power which might erupt at any moment. For some reason, Jennet was afraid. The sound of that voice made her shudder; it was ugly and menacing. She wiped her forehead and plucked up enough courage to peer round the stone.

By the wall the white form of the novice was trying to pull away from the intruder. Her small, frightened face was screwed up in misery as she tugged to release her arm.

Jennet reared up a little higher, for she could not quite see the other person. A little more and there, dressed in black, with her short blonde hair gleaming under the moon, was Rowena Cooper. Jennet had never met the woman before but Aunt Alice had given her a perfect description. It could be no other.

The two women struggled with each other but Rowena was the stronger and she laughed triumphantly. ‘You don’t get away that easily, my little mule,’ she sneered.

Jennet was fascinated. All her instincts warned her and tiny alarm signals jangled in her head, but she had to find out what was going on. Ignoring her better judgement, she crawled through the grass and drew closer.

Ben trudged to the bridge, yawning and stumbling. Another evening had gone by and still there was no sign of the moonkelp. He hated leaving Nelda and Hesper to continue the search without him, but what would Aunt Alice and Jennet say if he stayed out all night?

He had enjoyed the past week. Once they had gone out in a tiny rowing boat and Hesper had told him a great many things. She had warmed to Ben and, although the threat of discovery by the rest of the tribe still caused her to panic every now and again, at other times she would chatter to him quite freely.

The boy was learning a great deal about the fisher folk. He knew that they honoured the sea and were keepers of great mysteries. They guarded the secrets of the magic tides and had once been able to consult the Lords of the Deep, who lived in the dark, cold realm under the water. Hesper told him many old tales: of the Weathercharmers who controlled the winds and waves by singing the Song of the Moon, of the Shorebrides who rejected tribal life and became solitary coast wanderers, and of the Gullspeakers who knew the tongues of all seabirds. To Ben’s delight, she also told him of the hideous serpents and other monsters which used to inhabit the waters round Whitby.

While Hesper was telling him of the Weathercharmers, a salty tear trickled down her nut-brown cheek. They were out in the small aufwader boat, and she stopped rowing and gazed dreamily into the distance.

‘Oona was the mightiest of these,’ she said. ‘It was only the womenfolk who practised the art. Very great in all lore was she and the Song of the Moon was never sung better than when it issued from her lips. Her talent excelled so that no others could compete against it and the craft was forgotten by all save she. Oona might have been a tribal elder if she had had a mind. All respected her—some were even a little afraid—but she was a gentle creature and did not crave to rule others.’ Slowly Hesper dipped the oars into the water and continued the tale sadly.

‘A Shorebride Oona was close to becoming, and though I was young I can remember the light in her eyes when she spoke of the moonkelp and I knew that she yearned to find it. I believe she knew when and where it would bloom, but they were secrets she kept to herself. Not even I was entrusted with that knowledge.’

‘What happened to her?’ Ben asked. ‘It’s a pity she isn’t here now.’

Hesper bowed her head and said no more. It was Nelda who explained to him. ‘But if Oona was here,’ she said, ‘then there would be no need to find the moonkelp. For she it was who fell in love with the fisherman and bore the halfchild. It is through her that we are all accursed.’

Ben’s head spun with all he had learnt. He was too tired to take most of it in and his feet dragged beneath him. Crossing over the bridge, he headed down Church Street for home. When he came to the alleyway, something caught his eye. He turned round and through the gap between the houses opposite he looked down on the sands of Tate Hill Pier.

A figure was crouching on the shore; although it was dark, it was unmistakably an aufwader. The boy grinned. His excitement expelled all traces of weariness and he hurried over the road and sped down the steps which led to the beach.

The aufwader had his back to him. He was dressed pretty much the same as Nelda: a woollen hat, a gansey and an old worn pair of oilskin waders. Ben could hear him muttering but could not make out the words. The tone, however, did not sound pleasant.

He was not sure if he wanted to meet this aufwader after all. What if he had been spying on Nelda and Hesper and was going to tell the elders of the tribe? Ben might make it worse if he went right up to him and introduced himself.

‘Garr!’ spat the guttural voice of the stranger as a wave rushed in unexpectedly and covered his feet. Ben didn’t like the sound of him. He stopped in his tracks and prepared to turn back, but it was too late. The aufwader spun round and saw the boy.

He was an ugly character. A great sneer scarred his face and his large ears were ragged and torn from many fights. His side-whiskers were black and wiry, framing his leering head like the legs of a huge poisonous spider, and his large dark eyes slid slyly from side to side in the shadow of scowling brows.

Ben backed away but he could not stop staring at the creature. Even in the dim light of the street lamps, he could recognise the pattern on the gansey—it was the same as Nelda’s. This evil-looking creature was her father!

The aufwader paced to one side, not sure if the child could see him. The sneer widened, however, when he saw Ben’s gaze follow him. He opened his wrinkled, tobacco-stained mouth and hissed, ‘A human whelp wi’ the sight, is it?’

The black eyes glinted and as Ben looked into them he felt invisible bonds tighten round him, just as they had when he had first met Nelda. He was unable to move, caught in the aufwader snare—a restraining power which froze his tongue and turned his feet to lead. He could only watch as the foul figure crept ever closer to him.

The creature took a sharp knife from his belt and held it up to the boy’s face. ‘Come to pry again ‘ave ya, landbreed? Always poking yer nose in where it’s not wanted, ain’tcha?’ The deadly blade touched Ben’s cheek and he shuddered with fear. The aufwader cackled menacingly. ‘Ain’t no cats round ‘ere fer yer to rescue, laddy.’

Then Ben remembered his experience in The Hawes, when he had gone upstairs to find Eurydice. He was now facing the thing that had dropped from the opening to the attic.

‘Know what I does wi’ smart little brats like you?’ the aufwader asked, bringing his face closer to Ben’s.

The boy tried to turn his face away from the stale breath which stank in his nostrils, but the snare held him fast.

‘I don’t like bein’ seen by maggots like you!’ snapped the creature. ‘And to make sure ya won’t nivver make that mistake again, I’m gonna poke them charmed little eyeballs out fer ya!’

He clasped the handle of his knife even tighter and drew his hand back to strike. Ben tried to call out in terror but his voice was stuck in his throat.

The glittering blade sliced down.

‘Deeps damn her!’ bellowed the aufwader suddenly. His blow went astray and he turned his head towards the cliff, apparently having heard something that Ben had not. His concentration was broken and the hypnotic snare destroyed.

Ben seized his chance. He kicked the aufwader in the stomach and his knife spun through the air as the creature doubled up in agony. Grabbing a handful of sand, the boy flung it into his opponent’s gasping face. Then he scrambled back over the beach for dear life and did not stop until he was safely indoors and in a startled Aunt Alice’s arms.

Jennet squashed herself against the headstone and listened.

‘I can help you,’ said the voice of Rowena Cooper.

The novice made no reply. She tried to prise the other woman’s fingers from her wrist, without success.

‘I shan’t release you till the bargain is made,’ Rowena growled.

The novice stopped struggling and eyed her suspiciously.

‘That’s better,’ cooed Rowena. ‘There’s nothing to fear—yet.’ She gave a sharp little laugh, then smiled, showing all her teeth. ‘I know a great many things,’ she said. ‘I know who you are and I know why you come here every night to weep and bemoan your fate.’ With her free arm she made a grand, sweeping gesture to the sea. ‘I know why you ache for the water and why you dare not go near it.’

For the first time the novice spoke; it was a fragile voice full of fear. ‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘How could you know such things?’

Rowena’s eyes opened wide. ‘It is my business to discover secrets,’ she declared importantly. ‘Forbidden knowledge has always been my passion. That is why I can help you. There are ways around your predicament, my dear. Allow me to assist in easing your burden.’ Her words were coaxing and full of promises; they seemed to reach out and subdue the will. Even hiding some distance away. Jennet felt the power of that voice as it oozed and persuaded.

‘Tell me what I need to know,’ Rowena’s honeyed tone continued. ‘It cannot mean anything to you now. Tell me where I may find what I seek and we shall both profit by it.’

‘There is nothing you can give me,’ replied the novice coldly. ‘I must live with my sins.’

Rowena showed signs of displeasure. ‘Tuh! I do not believe there is such a thing. How long will you cower like an insect in the miserable life you have chosen? I don’t think you could have picked a more pathetic role.’ She threw back her head and laughed in mockery. ‘What a fool you are! Anything could have been yours—you are unique. But what do you do? You hide yourself away all this time, hoping to escape from that which awaits you. But the years rolled on, didn’t they? You grew weary of running and so here you are at last. The wanderer has returned.’

She twisted her lip in scorn and shook the novice’s wrist harshly. ‘Tell me what I want to know or I shall be forced to compel you.’

‘There is no torment you can inflict upon me which I have not already suffered a thousand times over,’ the novice answered defiantly. ‘Now let me go!’

She pulled her arm back sharply, throwing Rowena off balance and making her tumble backwards. Released from the iron grip, the sister fled away, past the church and down the steps. Rowena picked herself up from the grass where she had fallen, her face white with rage. She marched over to the edge of the cliff and called out impatiently.

Jennet was cold and frightened. She had understood very little of what had passed between these two, but one thing was certain—Rowena was the vilest person she had ever heard of. She just hoped she could make her way back to the steps without being seen by that awful woman. She began to wriggle along the ground as silently as she was able.

‘Where have you been?’ Rowena demanded angrily. ‘Why were you not here?’

Jennet pressed herself into the grass. Surely Mrs Cooper wasn’t speaking to her? Quickly, she squirmed round to see.

Rowena’s imposing figure was silhouetted against the night sky but she was not looking in the girl’s direction. She appeared to be having a conversation with herself, or at least that is how Jennet perceived it.

‘I don’t care if you were seen,’ Rowena snorted. ‘A human child with the sight can do no harm. Just be sure you obey my instructions tonight. The novice told me nothing. We shall have to proceed with the original plan—’ She broke off as though interrupted. ‘You don’t have to tell me that, I know it could take days to find… Well, if we don’t, my husband will have to deal with it, but I am loath to involve him more than necessary.’

Jennet was intrigued. Was the woman mad? Just who did she think she was talking to? The girl raised her head a little to make sure that somebody wasn’t hiding over there.

At that precise moment, Rowena looked round and spotted her. ‘Who’s there?’ she screamed furiously.

Jennet did not stay to tell her. Like a hare, she leapt over the graves and charged towards the steps.

Mrs Cooper’s face was a mask of rage. She stormed over to where Jennet had been hiding and said coldly, ‘The girl has heard too much.’ Something rustled through the grass and seemed to stop beside her. ‘She’s not for your knife,’ Rowena told the unseen companion. ‘There is a more… appropriate way of silencing her.’

Jennet shielded her eyes from the fierce glare of the arc lamps as she ran past the church. It was not far to the steps now and she hurried over the graves to reach them.

‘Aagh!’ the girl cried as her shin struck the sharp edge of a tomb and she fell. Her arms flew out to save herself but it was too late; she cracked her knees on the stone and the top layer of skin was scraped from her hands.

Frantically Jennet sat up and nursed her bruised knees. Her palms felt as though they were on fire and she blew on them in panic. She did not have time to cry, even though it hurt like mad. The girl turned her head quickly—where was Rowena? She staggered to her feet and looked about cautiously. Nothing; only the grass stirred between the headstones. It was too quiet.

Suddenly a terrible howl rent the night air. Jennet breathed faster as the sound of her nightmares thundered through the darkness. She whirled round but still could not see anything.

The howl went up again. Jennet began nervously limping towards the steps and the shadows closed in on her. The light from the arc lamps crackled and flashed like lightning. With a loud crash, the bulbs exploded and glass splintered out on to the path. The cliff-top plummeted into total darkness.

“Oh no, oh no,’ Jennet muttered to herself. ‘This isn’t happening, it can’t be happening.’ She hurled herself forward but in her fear the headstones seemed to rear up before her, barring the way to the steps. She dodged one way and then another.

A third fearsome howl cut into the night—it terrified Jennet so much that she ran blindly. In the dark Jennet did not realise she was going in the wrong direction. She had totally lost her bearings, and when she stopped running found that she was in the centre of the cemetery, completely surrounded by graves.

She leant against one of the stones and tried to quell her panic. The church now lay between her and the steps but the nightmare creature could be anywhere. Jennet’s stinging hands trembled as they automatically clenched into fists; the breathing of a large animal was drawing nearer.

To her horror. Jennet saw two gleaming red eyes appear in the deep dark ahead. The full glare of their malice was focused on her and she felt faint at their baleful stare. The eyes came closer and then vanished behind one of the headstones: the creature was circling her. She caught glimpses of those hideous, fiery points as it stealthily stalked round, preparing for the kill. Jennet whimpered and the beast stole into view.

It was the worst moment of her life; her heart leapt into her mouth. The enormous, black hound bared its teeth and its growl rumbled like an earthquake through the cliff. It shifted the weight from paw to paw and tensed itself.

Then it sprang.

Jennet screamed as loudly as she could. The beast slammed into her and the defenceless girl was thrust backwards over a gravestone. The world tumbled upside down and she could not move, pinned mercilessly to the ground by the hound’s tremendous weight. Its claws dug deeply into her shoulders.

Jennet tried to struggle. She flailed her arms and kicked with her feet, but it was no good. Her efforts were puny and ridiculous set against that huge bulk. It lowered its head and the hellish eyes burned into her. Hot breath steamed down on to her face as the hound snapped its frothing jaws together.

A trickle of saliva dripped on to the girl’s cheek, and she made one last attempt to escape. It was useless. The hound snarled and pressed its wet snout against her throat. Jennet waited for the end and her fists uncurled. Something cold and metal touched her outstretched fingers. It was the fork, which had fallen out of her pocket.

The hound reared its head and opened a slavering mouth as it lunged for her neck. Jennet swung her arm up and stabbed the fork into its jowls, ramming it as far in as she could.

The reaction was incredible. The beast yelped and fell back, lurching awkwardly and yammering in pain. Jennet could not believe her eyes; it was impossible for her to have inflicted so much pain on the creature. It spun round, whining in agony and pawing at its cheek till the fork fell to the ground. As soon as it was free the hound leapt away and disappeared into the darkness, yelping madly as it went.

Shaken, Jennet got to her feet. On the ground the fork burst into blue flames and vanished. The girl tore to the steps and ran home.

9 - ‘But A Little Time To Live’

Ben and Jennet sat on the sofa in Aunt Alice’s cosy parlour. The old lady stood in front of the fireplace with her hands clasped behind her back. She had dressed the girl’s cuts and bruises and given them both a hot cup of tea with biscuits. When she had made sure they were comfortable, she made them tell her exactly what had happened.

Ben had been reluctant to explain why he had come rushing back in such panic; it would mean telling her about the fisher folk. For a while he stared miserably at the floor, but Aunt Alice was insistent—he had never seen her in this mood before. Slowly Ben mumbled about meeting Nelda and Hesper and how they were searching for the moonkelp. Finally he got around to the evil creature he had met on the beach that night.

Miss Boston stood stiff and stem throughout his tale. Her face was scrunched up in such a way that it was impossible to tell what she was thinking. Jennet, however, gawped at her brother as though he had gone mad. She had never heard such a load of old rubbish. Fisher folk, indeed!

Aunt Alice now turned to her. Jennet guiltily told how she had spied on the novice in the churchyard the previous night and how she had gone out that evening with the same intention. Aunt Alice’s brows raised a little on hearing this and she pursed her lips in disapproval. Jennet then related the events which had led up to the appearance of the hound and described how it had attacked her. When her story was over, the girl kept her eyes fixed on Aunt Alice. She realised her tale sounded almost as ridiculous as Ben’s—would the old lady believe her?

Miss Boston studied them both for a few moments. Ben was dejected about breaking his promise of silence and Jennet looked unhappy.

Aunt Alice cleared her throat and rocked on her heels. ‘A most perilous time you pair have had,’ she said eventually. ‘I must say that I am rather disappointed in you both for having kept these things to yourselves.’

Neither of the children made an answer. They both felt awful.

The old lady stooped to pick up the poker and gave the dying fire a few irritated and vigorous thrusts. ‘There,’ she said when that was done. Her mood had changed back to normal. ‘Now the main thing is, what are we to do about this situation?’ She rubbed her hands together excitedly. Both Jennet and Ben looked at her, bewildered.

‘First of all,’ Aunt Alice began, ‘I must tell you, Benjamin, that you haven’t really betrayed a trust in telling me about your aufwader friends. You’re not the only one who can see them, you know. Of course to me they’re a little blurred, as my gift is not as sharp as it should be. I have seen them many times although I have never had the courage to go up and actually speak to them, as you did. Do close your mouth, dear, or you’ll catch a fly in it.’ She chuckled to herself at the expressions on the children’s faces. Ben was amazed but his sister was annoyed.

‘You don’t mean you believe all that twaddle about goblins on the beach?’ Jennet asked incredulously. ‘I don’t understand you at all. Why let Ben go on imagining things—isn’t it bad enough already?’

Miss Boston glared her into silence. ‘Really, I’m surprised at you, Jennet,’ she remarked. ‘I thought you had accepted the fact that Benjamin could see things you do not. There are many things in this world which are hidden from us, and the fisher folk are just one of them. Tell me, if you close your eyes now, do you think we have disappeared? Of course not. You know that we are still here; your common sense tells you that. Benjamin merely has an extra sense which most people do not possess.’

Jennet was still doubtful, until suddenly she remembered the way in which Rowena had appeared to be speaking to thin air. ‘Then Mrs Cooper has the sight as well,’ she cried suddenly. ‘It wasn’t herself she was talking to, it was—’

‘The disagreeable aufwader who tried to murder your brother,’ Miss Boston put in. She sucked her cheeks and murmured thoughtfully, ‘I am afraid that Rowena Cooper is a very dangerous person indeed.’

‘Do you think that dog was hers?’ the girl asked. ‘You ought to tell the police she wants locking up.’

Aunt Alice shook her head. ‘The constabulary would laugh at us, my dear,’ she said. ‘You must remember that Mrs Cooper has made herself very popular in the town—who would believe that she threatens nuns and keeps a huge, mad dog?’

Jennet could see that, put like that, it did sound rather silly. ‘And as for whether the dog is hers,’ the old lady concluded, ‘I’m not too sure about that either.’

‘But it must belong to her!’ the girl protested.

Aunt Alice did not reply. She looked across to Ben, who had fallen fast asleep on the sofa, and checked the time. It was very late. ‘We can discuss this tomorrow,’ she said to Jennet, ‘but right now I think you ought to get some rest. You’ve had quite a harrowing ordeal.’

A little while later. Miss Boston tucked Ben into bed. She was dying to learn more about the fisher folk and their way of life but that would have to wait till another time. ‘Sleep well, Benjamin,’ she said softly before closing the door. ‘Dream not of darkness.’ With that, she made a curious sign in the air, which she repeated outside Jennet’s room.

Later that night, on the outskirts of Whitby, mysterious lights flickered behind the windows of Mrs Banbury-Scott’s grand house and a foul smell laced the air. A terrible series of crashes and bangs rang through the old building. But in her pink, chiffon-curtained bed, Mrs Banbury-Scott slept soundly.

Miss Boston had a very busy day ahead of her. Prudence was to be buried that afternoon and she had taken it upon herself to do all the baking for the small buffet which was to be held in the late woman’s house after the service. The nephew from Halifax had arrived the day before, but he was such an incapable man that she decided it would be best if he left it all up to her.

By the time Jennet and Ben came downstairs, she had already baked sausage rolls and two trays of scones and was taking a cake from the oven. The children’s mouths watered but she told them that they had to have a proper breakfast.

Ben eyed the sausage rolls greedily as the milk from his cereal dribbled down his chin and on to his shirt.

‘Can I help, Aunt Alice?’ Jennet offered when she had finished hers.

‘Thank you, dear. Yes, you make the sandwiches, if you like. I need that loaf buttering. Oh botheration, I used the last of the butter to make the cake. I shall have to nip out to the shops as soon as they open.’

Jennet played with the spoon in her bowl. She turned it round and round before saying quietly, ‘Do you want Ben and me to come to the funeral this afternoon?’

Miss Boston smiled. ‘That isn’t necessary, dear, you never really knew her. Besides, I think you have been to enough of those sad occasions, don’t you?’

Jennet nodded. She didn’t know if she could have coped with it, anyway; it would have reminded her too much of her parents’ death. She stared into her empty bowl for some time and then said, ‘You think Mrs Joyster was murdered, don’t you?’

Aunt Alice was not at all startled by this statement. She took off her oven gloves and calmly replied, ‘Yes, I do. I think Prudence found something out and had to be silenced.’

‘Something about Rowena?’

‘Yes—but what can I do about it? As I said last night, one can’t go round accusing people without proof. I shall just have to be careful, that’s all.’

At half past nine Miss Boston ventured out to buy some butter. On passing the post office, a little squeak caught her attention.

Miss Wethers was in the window, waving madly at her. ‘Come in,’ she mouthed through the glass.

‘Whatever can she want?’ muttered the old lady in surprise.

The postmistress came to the door and dragged her inside. ‘You’ll never guess,’ she cried. ‘The most wicked thing has happened.’

‘My dear Edith,’ said Aunt Alice, ‘are you quite well?’

‘Burglars!’ Miss Wethers babbled hysterically. ‘Vandals and hooligans! Ripped the carpets, tore the books from the shelves, kicked in the panelling!’ She blew her nose and fiddled with the top button of her grey cardigan.

‘Edith, you’re not making any sense,’ said Aunt Alice. ‘Are you saying that you’ve had burglars?’

The flustered woman wrung her hands in distress. ‘Not me,’ she gabbled, ‘Dora! It’s her house that was ransacked—a shocking mess by all accounts.’

At once Miss Boston became very serious. She took hold of Edith’s shoulders and gripped her firmly. ‘Now start at the beginning for heaven’s sake.’

The postmistress took a deep breath and began. ‘Well, about ten minutes ago, I was just opening up when Mrs Turner goes by in a terrible state. Of course I asked what the matter was and she tells me that there’s been the most dreadful occurrence at Mrs Banbury-Scott’s house, where her daughter Rachel works. As you know, Dora likes all her staff to live on the premises, so Mrs Turner is rightly worried. Rachel telephoned her just after she had called the police.’

Miss Boston interrupted. ‘But why? You still haven’t told me what has happened.’

‘I was coming to that,’ Edith sniffed indignantly. ‘Some time last night, one person, maybe more, broke into Dora’s house and wrecked it from top to bottom. They smashed that lovely old wooden mantelpiece into splinters and ripped up some of the floorboards.’

‘But why weren’t the police called in sooner?’ asked Miss Boston, horrified.

‘Because nobody heard a thing! They slept through it all. It’s quite unbelievable, isn’t it? Mrs Turner was very concerned and I’m not surprised. There’s something fishy about the whole business, if you ask me. I hope the police get to the bottom of it—I won’t feel safe in my bed until they do. Burglars crashing about making a din and no one hearing them! It’s not natural.’ She broke off and dabbed her nose reassuringly.

‘Nobody heard a thing,’ repeated Miss Boston thoughtfully. ‘How curious. There must have been a dreadful racket going on.’ She rubbed her chin and then gasped, ‘But what about poor Dora? She must be horribly upset.’

Edith nodded. ‘I think Mrs Turner said Doctor Adams had been called out. It must have been a terrible shock.’

‘I think we should go and see how she is,’ Aunt Alice declared.

At this. Miss Wethers stiffened. ‘No need for that,’ she said with bitterness. ‘Rowena came by just as Mrs Turner left. Apparently Dora had phoned and asked her to go round. When I offered to close the post office and come along too that woman had the temerity to suggest that I would only upset Dora all the more.’

Miss Boston could not help but smile at the way Edith’s devotion to Mrs Cooper had completely dissolved. ‘Dear me,’ she clucked, ‘yet another rebuff. I wonder if we shall see Dora at the funeral this afternoon?’

‘Well, I shall be there at any rate,’ said Miss Wethers. ‘Poor Prudence.’

Aunt Alice patted her hand as she took her leave. Before she reached the door, she asked, ‘By the way, Edith, was Mrs Cooper carrying anything when you saw her?’

Miss Wethers frowned. ‘Why yes, she was. She had a little square box in her hand. I couldn’t see what it was because she had wrapped it up—said it was a gift for Dora. Why do you want to know?’

‘Oh, no reason. Goodbye.’

The children had the afternoon to themselves. It was a bright, warm day and Jennet was glad to feel the sun on her face. The dark horrors of the night seemed an age away. She and Ben were together in Whitby and that was all that mattered. She was in such a good mood that she told Ben he could have the pick of the day. This was a game they had played when they were younger: one of them had the honour of choosing what they were both to do for the whole day.

Ben was thrilled. It was not often he could boss his sister about, but under the rules of the game she had to go along with him. As they wandered through the town he scratched his head and tried to think what he would most like to do.

‘Oh, look,’ said Jennet suddenly. ‘It’s that Banbury-Scott woman.’

The Bentley was bullying its way down the narrow road. As usual, Grice was driving and in the back, heavily veiled and festooned in black mourning, was the fat woman. The car drove slowly by until the weight of traffic forced it to stop altogether. It was now directly opposite the children.

The obese shape in the back popped something into her mouth and, as she moved her arm, a second passenger was revealed beside her. It was Rowena Cooper.

Jennet pulled Ben into a shop when she saw her, but Mrs Cooper did not seem to notice them. She was too busy talking to Mrs Banbury-Scott.

‘Banbury-Scoff, Banbury-Scoff!’ chanted Ben rudely as he saw the podgy fingers return to those orange lips and stuff something else inside. His words faltered, however, when he caught sight of the second passenger. He had never seen Rowena before. She leaned further forward and said something to Grice, and in doing so he saw the side of her face. Four jagged streaks of silver light were shining on her cheek. They were so bright that they actually lit up the inside of the car.

The Bentley pulled away once more and Ben stared after it. ‘Jen,’ he asked, ‘who was that woman, with the scar?’

‘She doesn’t have a scar, Ben,’ Jennet told him. ‘That was Mrs Cooper.’

The boy said nothing.

The Bentley disappeared around the corner. ‘I suppose they’re off to the funeral,’ said Jennet. ‘Anyway, Ben, have you decided what we are going to do?’

A wide grin split the boy’s face.

The lifeboat museum was contained in one large room. Dominating the whole length of it was one of the old rowing lifeboats and in front of this was a counter that sold souvenirs and booklets. Against the rear wall was a roll-a-penny game and beside that was a finely detailed model of a sinking ship. The mast was broken and the waves pounded over the half-submerged deck. Around the display were yellow newspaper clippings of the time which told the whole story. Ben wished he was better at reading.

Jennet was not really interested in boats, sinking or otherwise. She gazed at the souvenir counter and looked in her pockets for some change to put in the collection box. After that, she was rather bored.

Ben moved round the cases. He longed to be able to make a model ship like one of these. He loved the painstaking detail of the intricate rigging and all the tiny brass fittings, and dawdled past each and every display. Just when he thought he had finished, something else grabbed his attention.

The exhibit was like no other. It was a large stump of wood which, when Ben drew closer, he could see had been carved. But the sculpture was an alarming piece of art. Drowning men floundered amid the wooden waves whilst above them, a capsized lifeboat rode the churning sea. Ben shivered when he saw the terrified faces of the lifeboatmen and he resolved not to get into the little aufwader boat with Hesper again.

”Tain’t pretty, is it, lad?’ said a voice.

Ben turned round. A red-faced, stout man with white hair was standing behind him.

‘Know what that is?’ the man asked.

Ben shook his head.

‘It shows the lifeboat disaster of 1861,’ said the stranger. He crouched down to the boy’s level and pointed at the carved curling waves. ‘It were a bitter February,’ his rumbling voice went on. ‘A raw gale had been blasting in for nigh on a week. Three times the lifeboat was launched that day, battling into the storm-mad waters, defying the devil’s tempest. Three times the lifeboat returned, safe with the rescued crews of dying ships.’ The man’s eyes bored into the sculpture as he told the tale, while Ben pictured the horror of it all in his mind.

‘In the early afternoon,’ the man continued, ‘the schooner Merchant was hurled ashore. Tired from their earlier valiant efforts, the lifeboatmen doggedly launched their rescue boat for the fourth time. The gale ravaged down and the sea rose against them. Two great waves collided beneath the boat, overturning it and throwing the crew into the seething waters.’

The man put his hand on Ben’s shoulder and whispered sombrely, ‘Of the thirteen souls that set out in that lifeboat, only one came back.’

It seemed to have grown very cold and Ben rubbed his goose pimply arms. The man chuckled to himself and left the boy to shiver. Ben thought how horrible it must be to feel the freezing water fill your ears and close over your head. He drew his breath in sharply.

Jennet had been watching all of this. She smiled to herself and silently crept up behind her brother. ‘BOO!’ she shouted.

Ben jumped. ‘That’s not funny,’ he yelled. ‘Just you wait till I catch you!’

Jennet ran laughing out of the museum.

Miss Boston sat back in the pew and closed her hymn book. ‘Jerusalem’ had always been a favourite of Prudence’s. She wiped the tear from her eye and bowed her head in silent prayer.

It had been an admirable service and the church was nearly full of those wishing to pay their last respects. The vicar had paid tribute to Mrs Joyster most commendably, mentioning her involvement with the Whitby Heritage Committee and her sterling work for the Literary and Philosophical Society of the Pannett Park Museum.

Miss Boston half-closed her eyes and pondered these remarks. Yes, Prudence had been a leading light of that particular society. She had even had a set of keys to the museum, which she kept on the same ring as those to her house. The very same bunch of keys that the police had been unable to find.

The service was coming to an end and Miss Boston looked at the man sat on her right. It was the incapable nephew, a dull, colourless man of about fifty. He sat bemused and awkward on the front row next to her. He hadn’t really known Prudence and Miss Boston recalled that in her turn Prudence had never been very fond of him.

The rustle of coats and the shuffling of feet soon followed the coffin down the aisle. Into the sunlight the congregation trailed.

Miss Boston took second place behind the nephew and after her came others of the ladies’ circle.

Miss Wethers covered her face with a handkerchief, no doubt fearing that a simple tissue would not stand up to the rigours of her grief. Miss Droon was holding on to her arm and for once the postmistress showed no signs of sneezing. Behind them came the gentle Mr Roper to whom Prudence had been so kind when his beloved Margaret had passed on. With him came the assorted worthies of Whitby: His Worship the Mayor, Doctor Adams, the curator of the Pannett Park Museum and the Chief Inspector of Police. Prudence Joyster had been held in high esteem by many.

A fitful bout of sniffling rose from the rear of the group. Out of the church came Mrs Banbury-Scott, her face hidden by a veil and a sable coat hanging from her shoulders. Her ample bosom heaved under the black drapes of her dress as she wept emotionally into a dainty square of lace. Rowena Cooper was beside her. She wore a neat suit of black silk and projected an image of serene elegance; not a trace of sorrow could be seen on her cool, dispassionate face.

The mourners gathered at the graveside and watched as the coffin was lowered into the ground.

‘Goodbye, Prudence dear,’ whispered Miss Boston softly as the vicar gave the final farewell.

Edith Wethers leaned heavily on Tilly Droon’s arm and wrung her hands. ‘It’s just like when Mother went,’ she uttered miserably.

Miss Droon stuck out her hairy chin and clenched her teeth to keep from crying.

‘Oh, oh, oh,’ whined Mrs Banbury-Scott, ‘it’s too much. I can’t bear it.’ She put a hand to her chest and her lips trembled. It had been a dreadful day for her, starting with waking up from that unpleasantly heavy sleep and discovering that her house had been vandalised. She did not feel at all well; the stress was tremendous and her face looked ill even through the thick layers of make-up.

Doctor Adams shot her a professional glance. He had warned her against coming here this afternoon—she was just not up to it.

Rowena Cooper bent her head and pretended to mourn for Prudence Joyster. She even managed to squeeze out a solitary tear. For the first time that afternoon. Miss Boston managed to get a good look at the woman. She rubbed her eyes and looked again. On Rowena’s cheek something was faintly shimmering. It was like glimpsing a fine beam of light through a very dense fog. Miss Boston squinted at the hazy blur, which seemed to be some sort of scar. She sucked her teeth and nodded to herself; that was no ordinary mark and she knew that nobody else present would be able to see it.

Rowena put her hands together—a deft, graceful movement which allowed her to discreetly check her wristwatch. It would probably not take too much longer, she thought to herself.

Miss Boston cast some earth into the grave. Edith and Tilly did the same, followed by the mayor and the other mourners. Only Mrs Banbury-Scott abstained; she did not feel capable of stooping to pick up some soil. She flapped the lapels of her sable and fanned herself with her handkerchief—why was it so warm suddenly? Beads of sweat appeared through the make-up on her forehead and the powder began to slide off her face. She found it increasingly difficult to breathe and there was an awful tightness in her breast.

‘Help!’ she croaked, throwing off her furs and bending double with the pain.

‘Dora!’ cried Rowena smartly. ‘What is it?’

‘Let me through, let me through,’ called Doctor Adams.

Everyone watched him ease the fat woman on to the grass, where he banged her chest with his fist. Aunt Alice shook her head in disbelief as Mrs Banbury-Scott gasped on the ground like a fish out of water. She could not bear to witness any more, and dragged her eyes away. How pale everyone had become—everyone, that is, except Rowena.

Mrs Cooper had stepped back from the main group and was studying the sky as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Aunt Alice scowled, her temper boiling. Rowena gazed down at her shoes and tutted at a smear of mud on them before looking back to where Doctor Adams fought for Mrs Banbury-Scott’s life.

An expression of genuine concern crossed her face, but that was soon dispelled when Doctor Adams raised his head and said slowly, ‘I’m sorry, she’s gone.’

10 - Eurydice Again

A week had passed since the sudden death of Mrs Banbury-Scott. Surprisingly enough, her demise aroused less emotion than that of Prudence Joyster—business seemed to get in the way of grief. The numerous civic bodies of which she had been a member missed her donations more than herself and the dead woman’s lawyers were kept very busy sorting through her affairs. Mrs Banbury-Scott had no relatives, so the bulk of her estate was to be divided between the various charities she had been fond of. Grice, her handyman and chauffeur, was left a small amount of money in her will, as were her cook and Rachel Turner, the maid. What surprised most people, though, was the revelation that she had left her house and its entire contents to Rowena Cooper.

As soon as she heard this outrageous news. Miss Boston stormed furiously over to Doctor Adams’ surgery, demanding he investigate the cause of death more fully. The doctor chased the old woman out of the building. Mrs Banbury-Scott had died of a heart attack, he shouted at her. There was absolutely nothing suspicious about it whatsoever, considering her age, weight and lack of exercise. But Aunt Alice was undeterred. She strode straight to the police station, announced that Dora had been murdered and asked what they were going to do about it. The police were kind but suggested that she went home and had a nice cup of tea.

The grandfather clock ticked dully in the corner of the parlour. Miss Boston gave it a withering glance and drummed her fingers on the chair arm. It had been a very trying day and she had been sorely tempted to knock the policeman’s helmet off. It was a pity that he had not been wearing one.

She felt useless. First Prudence and now Dora—she was sure that Rowena had had a hand in both deaths. ‘Oh, if only I had proof of some sort,’ she grumbled. ‘But where am I to get it?’

Miss Boston rose and took a book down from one of the shelves: the diary of Howard Joyster. Once again she attempted to read the regimented handwriting and once again she was forced to put it down after several minutes. What a dull, humourless man he had been.

She sat glum and despondent. Perhaps Doctor Adams and the police were right, and she was a silly old woman who ought to mind her own business and not go stirring up trouble. The children had gone out for the day as the past week had been so wet and bleak that they had been forced to stay indoors. She could have done with their company right now. The house was extremely quiet and she could almost feel the silence settle, in layer upon stifling layer.

‘How empty it is without those two,’ she said to herself. T’ve never noticed it before. Strange to think that only a few weeks ago they were not a part of my life and now they belong here more than I do, in some ways.’ The silence was beginning to get on her nerves.

It was quiet as the grave—but that comparison jolted the old lady out of the dismal humour she had been wallowing in.

Pulling herself up smartly, she said, ‘Come on, Alice, apply yourself! Don’t give in because everyone else tells you to.’ She threw on her hat and cloak once more and strode determinedly out of the front door.

The office of the Mother Superior was rather like that of a headmistress. It was a small room, painted an antiseptic green, containing a wide desk with neat piles of paper arranged on one half and a black wartime telephone dominating the other. An old Bakelite radio nestled in one corner beside a large potted plant and on the sill of the tiny window stood a plaster figure of Our Lady.

‘Please sit down,’ the Mother Superior said kindly. She was a small woman, in her late sixties, with button-like eyes that peered through her spectacles with the keenest interest at whomever or whatever she was addressing. The strength of her faith was indomitable. To her, the cares of the world were there to be conquered; her chief weapon for this was often humour. She was one of those rare people with an intense zest for life and she inspired the same in those around her.

Sitting behind the desk, she studied the old lady opposite with benign interest. ‘What can I do for you. Miss Boston?’ her warm voice asked. ‘Is it something spiritual or do you want to offer your services for the jumble sale tomorrow afternoon?’

Aunt Alice settled herself into the seat provided. ‘Er, no, not exactly,’ she said.

The little black buttons peeked through the lenses curiously. For a moment she seemed confused but then her expression changed and she smiled with glee. ‘Marvellous!’ she cried. ‘At long last. I always knew you would take the veil one day. What a glorious nun you will make!’ she clapped her hands together, then said soberly, ‘You have left it rather late, though.’

Miss Boston was never sure when the Mother Superior was joking; she really had a most disconcerting sense of humour sometimes. ‘That isn’t what I came for either,’ she stammered with embarrassment.

The Mother Superior waved an apologetic hand at her. ‘Forgive me,’ she chuckled, ‘Couldn’t resist it. Now, tell me what I can do for you.’

‘I was wondering if I might have a word with one of the novices here,’ Miss Boston asked.

‘But of course,’ the Mother Superior replied. ‘That is, if I can find her. Which one is it? If it was Sister Clare or Sister Agnes you were after I’m afraid you will be disappointed, they are visiting the sick in hospital this afternoon.’

Miss Boston gave an awkward cough. This was the difficult part—she had no idea who Jennet had seen on the cliff. ‘No, I don’t think it was either of those two,’ she said slowly.

The Mother Superior smiled at her patiently. ‘Then who? Surely not Sister Frances—nobody ever wants to talk to her, not even me.’

But Miss Boston was in no mood for this whimsey today. ‘I believe you have a novice staying with you who is not of your order,’ she said. ‘Would I be right in assuming she has not been here very long?’

‘I find time a very difficult thing at my age,’ the Mother Superior breathed wistfully. ‘Before I know where I am the year seems to get pulled from under me. I had no idea it was nearly September—it seems only last week we were—celebrating Easter.’ She laughed and thumped her hands on the desk. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to help with the jumble sale? The white-elephant stall still has no one to organise it and Sister Frances refuses point-blank to abandon her tombola in favour of the dreadful thing.’

Miss Boston watched her in surprise. Why was she avoiding the question? She asked it again.

The Mother Superior could not ignore it this time. ‘Not been here very long?’ she repeated. ‘I don’t think there is…’

‘You must be mistaken,’ snapped Aunt Alice, with force. What was the woman hiding? Did she know something of this business?

All the merriment left the nun’s face; it was useless to pretend any longer. She pushed herself away from the desk and looked at the old lady warily. ‘Yes… there is one newly come amongst us,’ she answered in a cautious voice. ‘Sister Bridget.’

‘May I speak with her?’ Miss Boston asked.

There was a pause and the small woman frowned as she solemnly considered the matter. She had not expected this. She had hoped her guest would have gone undetected. What if it all reached the ears of the bishop? The Mother Superior looked up to the window as if for inspiration, then, with her hands laced together, she stared at Aunt Alice and said softly, ‘Of course, I cannot forbid you to see Sister Bridget if that is what you wish, but may I know what the matter concerns?’

This was difficult. Miss Boston could hardly tell her what she suspected—and yet maybe the Mother Superior knew more about it than she did. ‘Shall I just say that it is of the gravest importance,’ she said. ‘I hope I shall not have to go to a higher authority.’

A look of understanding passed between them and the other sighed. ‘How much do you know of this?’

‘A little,’ answered Miss Boston, ‘but I have also guessed a great deal.’

The nun laid her hands on the table. ‘Let me explain before you confront her,’ she said. ‘Sister Bridget is a timid, frightened creature. I took her in because she needed my help—she has always needed our help.’

‘Always? Has she been here before?’

‘Sister Bridget once lived in this convent, though long before I came here.’

‘But you’ve been here for forty years!’ Miss Boston exclaimed.

‘Yes,’ smiled the small woman, ‘but our records mention her.’ She gazed up at the window again and the soft light fell on her face. ‘I recall that the previous Mother Superior warned me—very insistent she was—and sat me down in this same office to tell me. What an earful I had that day; she was a tough old bird but she had the heart of a saint and I have never forgotten what she said to me.’

She closed her eyes and repeated, word for word, what she had been told all those years ago. ‘There are many wonders in this world, glories and miracles abound, yet there are also the unfortunate ones: the sick, the poor and those who need our help. Surely these souls deserve our greatest love and care. It is your sworn duty to give mercy and protection to any creature, however strange the circumstance.’

The button eyes opened again and the smile returned. ‘I don’t think I really understood what she was trying to tell me back then, but it was as if she were preparing me. Only now do I understand fully. I told you of the records, Miss Boston. Our files date back to 1738 and in the earliest of them—a tattered old thing it is, too—a Sister Bridget is mentioned.’

‘But surely it cannot be the same woman?’

‘I am certain that it is,’ the nun said firmly. ‘I now know the whole of her tragic story.’ She shook herself and rose from her seat. ‘Come, then,’ she said, ‘let us see if we can find her.’

She led Miss Boston out of her office and through the refectory hall, then into a corridor which smelled of floor polish. There were many doors on either side of the passage and these led to the small bare cells of the sisters.

When they reached one of the doors, the Mother Superior halted and raised her hand to knock. This is the cell of Sister Bridget,’ she explained.

Miss Boston put her hands behind her back and waited for her to tap on the door. But instead the nun said, ‘Perhaps I have erred in taking her in again, but I did what I thought was best.’ She looked steadily at Aunt Alice. ‘Are we not all creatures of God?’ she asked.

‘Indeed we are,’ said Miss Boston gently, ‘and I’m sure it was the only Christian thing to do.’

The Mother Superior gave a weak laugh. ‘So now I am her guardian, like all those before me.’

Miss Boston rubbed her chin thoughtfully. ‘Do you know why she has returned?’

The small woman seemed about to speak but she checked herself. ‘That you must ask her,’ she said and raised her hand once more. She knocked and entered the room beyond.

‘It’s all right. Sister,’ she said reassuringly to the figure in white who backed away, startled. ‘There’s someone here who would like a word with you, that’s all.’

The novice looked fearfully over the Mother Superior’s shoulder to see who the visitor was. When she saw that it was only an old lady, she relaxed and the hunted look left her face.

Miss Boston entered the room. It was so small that three of them were quite squashed inside it. It contained the absolute minimum of comforts: a bed, a wooden chair and a table. There was a Bible open on the table and Aunt Alice cast her eyes over the passage Sister Bridget had been reading.

And God created the great whales and every living and moving creature which the waters brought forth, according to their kinds, and every winged fowl according to its kind. And God saw that it was good.

‘Shall I leave you two alone?’ asked the Mother Superior.

The novice glanced at Miss Boston curiously and then nodded.

‘Very well then, I’ll be just outside.’

The door closed.

Miss Boston smiled. ‘I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced,’ she said. ‘I know that you are called Sister Bridget. My name is Alice Boston—delighted to meet you.’

The novice did not respond. She eyed the stranger doubtfully then sat down, motioning for the old lady to do the same.

Miss Boston perched on the hard bed. The woman was obviously still very unsure of her, but then the feeling was mutual. Now that they were alone she looked at the novice with undisguised interest and realised just how strange she actually was. Those almond-shaped eyes glittered like nothing she had ever seen before and the curiously wide mouth was hardly human. But that was not all. Aunt Alice blinked and took a second look. A faint green light surrounded the woman, so pale that at first she thought it was her imagination. No, it was definitely there—for those who could see.

‘May I ask you some questions?’ she inquired politely.

There was no reply; the novice merely stared dumbly at her.

It would take more than that, however, to put Miss Boston off. She cleared her throat. ‘I think I know who you are,’ she said.

The woman made no answer.

‘I should like to know why you have come back to Whitby after all this time,’ continued the old lady, ‘and I should also like to know what Rowena Cooper has said to you.’

Again there was nothing, but the novice had tensed on hearing that name.

‘You see,’ Miss Boston carried on, ‘I believe you know who she really is and what she is looking for—she has come to Whitby to find something, hasn’t she? Would that be the same thing you are seeking? I hope you are not planning to help her.’ She leaned forward and the loose flesh under her chin quivered with passion. ‘Rowena is a dangerous woman,’ she said. ‘Two of my friends are already dead. If there is anything you can tell me which will prove her guilt, you cannot withhold it. Rowena must be stopped before anyone else perishes!’

The novice lowered her eyes. ‘I cannot help you,’ she said quietly.

‘There is no such word as “cannot”,’ Aunt Alice retorted. ‘Say what you mean, tell me that you will not! Let me hear you condemn another poor soul to Rowena’s cruelty.’

The novice shrank back from the force of the old lady’s outburst. Her whole frame shook with fear and she hid her face. ‘I cannot help you,’ she wailed.

Miss Boston regained her self-control and puffed out her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, my dear,’ she apologised. ‘I did not mean to frighten you,’ She realised that further conversation was useless; the woman was too afraid to talk. Wearily she crossed to the door. ‘I hope you can live with yourself when all is done,’ she said.

In the corridor, the Mother Superior asked nervously, ‘Did she tell you what you wanted?’

‘No, she told me nothing.’

‘I am sorry,’ she said earnestly. ‘Perhaps it has all got out of hand. Things are not as simple as once they were. I’m terribly afraid for Sister Bridget—the danger she faces increases every day. The good Lord alone knows how she managed to return here without being discovered, the poor creature.’

Miss Boston slung her scarf around her neck. ‘I fear that there are many in danger because of her refusal to speak. I don’t know what I am to do now. There is evil at work in this town and it is steadily growing in strength.’

The Mother Superior clasped her hands together. ‘God go with you,’ she said.

Aunt Alice received the blessing gravely. ‘I believe I may need all the guidance He can give,’ she said.

She was not under the chair, nor hiding on top of the wardrobe as she sometimes did. She was not even in the airing cupboard. Miss Droon was exasperated with the bothersome animal and threw Binky down in disgust. It had happened again. Eurydice was missing.

Tilly had only nipped to the post office to have a word with Edith, but unfortunately one of the windows in the kitchen had been left open. Miss Droon knew at once that Eurydice had made a dash for it, but that did not stop her turning the house upside down just in case.

Her little sitting room was a hopeless wreck, the threadbare cushions had been yanked off the chairs, the contents of the cupboards were strewn over the carpet and the tall pile of wildlife magazines which had once towered in the corner now resembled a colourful volcano.

The rest of Miss Droon’s menagerie knew enough to get out of her way when this frenzied panic seized her. Under the table cowered a dozen felines, their squabbles momentarily forgotten. Their green and golden eyes watched the whiskered woman dart in and out until, finally, she threw herself at the cushionless couch.

From the upstairs bedroom, pathetic little mews wailed.

‘Oh, the poor darlings,’ cried Tilly. ‘How could she leave them again?’

The truth of the matter was that Eurydice would have needed the nose of a tracker dog to find out where her newest offspring were. Tilly was continually moving them. Either it was too cold in the kitchen at night or she was afraid of jealous attacks from the others if they were left unsupervised in the sitting room. The poor, bewildered kittens had seen every inch of her poky house by now and Eurydice had given up trying to discover where they had been deposited. Every time she got out of the basket to have a drink or something to eat. Miss Droon came along and whisked it away.

Now the kittens were in the bedroom and, in her frantic search for their mother, Tilly had completely forgotten about them.

‘All God’s little fishes!’ she cried as she galumphed up the stairs to rescue the little dears from their loneliness.

The small, furry bundles huddled together in the basket when the bedroom door flew open and the Droon whirlwind gusted in. She scooped up the kittens in her arms and rubbed her furry cheeks against their little bodies.

‘There, there,’ she said dotingly, ‘don’t you worry now. Aunt Tilly’s here.’ After a few minutes of her suffocating cuddles she returned them to the basket and decided it ought to be moved downstairs once more.

The kittens peered dizzily over the side of the basket as she carried it down to the kitchen. ‘You must be starving, poor darlings,’ Miss Droon purred at them. She heated some milk in a saucepan and waited for it to cool. Then she rummaged in a drawer for an old pipette which she used to feed them in these emergencies.

It was a long, laborious business and most of the milk went everywhere except in the kittens’ mouths, but in the end they seemed satisfied enough. Her inept feeding technique had exhausted them, and one by one they fell asleep.

Miss Droon was pleased with herself. ‘That’s right, darlings,’ she whispered. ‘You get forty winks, my poppets.’

She eyed the basket uncertainly. Perhaps it would be warmer in the bedroom after all. Before she could make up her mind, she became aware of a faint scratching sound. It was coming from the front door and with a scowl Miss Droon strode into the hall—she knew exactly what that noise was.

She opened the door and sure enough, there was Eurydice.

‘You wicked thing!’ Tilly exclaimed. ‘Just where have you been?’

The three-legged cat darted between her feet and ran into the sitting room.

‘Oh no, you don’t, my girl,’ blustered Miss Droon. ‘You don’t get off that easily. I’ve looked high and low for you.’

Eurydice leapt into one of the open cupboards and curled round with her back to the world. She was carrying something in her mouth and now she put it down to have a good sniff and inspection. What an afternoon it had been—she had got no peace anywhere. Even her favourite refuge was no longer safe, for the smell of dog was strong there. Still at least she had managed to find this intriguing little titbit.

‘Got you! You little madam!’ Miss Droon’s strong hands closed about her and she pulled the cat out of the cupboard.

Eurydice mewed in protest but Miss Droon took no notice.

‘You bad girl!’ she scolded. ‘It’s time you lived up to your responsibilities. From now on. I’m going to lock you in my room with your babies.’

She began taking the squirming cat out into the hall, but then she noticed the strange object that had fallen to the floor.

‘What’s this?’ she murmured, stooping to pick it up. Eurydice’s trophy was extremely unusual. It appeared to be a weirdly shaped piece of wood and parchment that had been dipped in wax at one end and set in a small pewter holder at the other. The whole thing was very small and light. Miss Droon examined it thoughtfully. She assumed that the wooden part was a carving of some kind that had been covered in parchment, for some reason, and perhaps had held a candle. Now though, it was all a mangled mess, except for the ring of metal fixed round the base. Hammered into that were esoteric symbols and hieroglyphs that made up a bizarre pattern.

She glared accusingly at the cat under her arm. ‘Where did you find this, you naughty girl?’ she demanded. Of course there was no answer. Suddenly Tilly gave a little shriek. ‘Did you go to Mrs Cooper’s house this afternoon? Is that where you got it?’

What was she to do? The artefact was probably a valuable antique from Mrs Cooper’s shop.

‘Oh, Eurydice,’ she said, ‘just look at it—you’ve spoilt the ruddy thing.’ Miss Droon was very worried: if Rowena noticed that it was missing she might phone the police. ‘I’m an accessory to theft,’ she moaned, and visions of tall policemen knocking on her door flooded through her mind. She would have to go to court. What if they suspected her of training Eurydice especially for crime?

‘Matilda Droon, head of the cat burglars,’ she mumbled idiotically.

Eurydice wriggled to free herself and her desperate movements brought Miss Droon to her senses.

‘I must take this back to Mrs Cooper at once,’ she said to herself. ‘Maybe I could offer to pay for it. I hope it wasn’t too expensive.’

She went into the kitchen, where she stuffed the troublesome cat into the basket with her kittens.

‘I’m going to lock you in my room,’ she said as she pounded up the stairs with her precious cargo. ‘Now you just stay in there and look after your babies.’ Tilly slammed the door. ‘And behave!’ she added.

Wearing her dark-blue, cat-haired sweater. Miss Droon ran out of the house and made for the hundred and ninety-nine steps.

She hated toiling up the wretched things. Halfway up, she had to rest and sat on one of the benches to regain her breath. The steps were quite busy just now. People in bright anoraks swinging cameras were descending and gave the panting figure on the bench pitying looks as they passed by. It was nearly tea-time and everyone was returning to the main part of town to find a chip shop or restaurant. Tilly watched them go by, keeping the strange little artefact tucked under her jumper where no one could see it.

When her breather was over, she hauled herself to her feet once more and resumed the uphill slog.

‘Never again,’ she spluttered, once the summit had been reached. ‘That cat will be the death of me.’

Miss Droon trotted through the graveyard and out into the car park behind the abbey. The chill of evening wrapped around her as she hurried along the lane to Rowena’s house.

The Hawes looked blank and dreary as she approached. It was a cheerless, uninviting place and she wondered how Rowena could bear to live in it. She opened the gate and crossed to the large window of the antique shop. With her hand shading her eyes as she pressed against the glass. Miss Droon stared inside.

Nothing stirred; the shop was closed. She pattered round to the kitchen door and knocked loudly, waited for a minute or so, then knocked again.

‘She must be out,’ Miss Droon muttered, disappointedly. She took a few steps back and looked up at the first-floor windows. A movement at one of them caught her attention; a net curtain was swinging back into position as though it had just been released. Was someone in, after all? Were they peeking out to see who had been knocking and stepped back suddenly when she looked up?

Miss Droon stroked her moustache. ‘Should I knock again?’ she wondered. ‘Maybe Rowena was having a nap and I’ve disturbed her.’ She knew how annoying it was to be woken up—Eurydice often jumped on her stomach in the middle of the night. ‘Yes,’ she decided, ‘I’ve come all this way up them perishing steps. She’ll just have to come down.’

She took the object out from beneath her sweater and tutted at the fluff which was now stuck to it. ‘Damn it,’ she cursed.

Expecting Mrs Cooper to open the door at any moment. Miss Droon hastily began picking off the fluff. She was none too gentle at the task, for, as Alice Boston had often said, she really was ham-fisted. Then it happened. As she dug her nails into the wax to remove a stubborn hairy bundle, she pulled too hard. There was brittle ‘snap’ and a large fragment flew over the garden fence.

‘Blast!’ she yelped. ‘What have I done?’ She brought the thing up to her face and lifted the black-rimmed spectacles off her nose to get a better look at the damage.

A wide section of parchment had been torn off, revealing more of the wooden carving beneath. Miss Droon shook her head and groaned. ‘You idiot, Matilda!’ she hissed.

But then the recrimination died in her throat. She peered closer and her eyes opened wide. Tilly nearly screamed as she recognised at last the foul thing in her hand.

What she had assumed to be carved wood was in fact finger bones and the parchment was dried human skin. The object Eurydice had brought out of Mrs Cooper’s house was the stolen Hand of Glory!

There was very little of it left. Most of the fingers were missing and it was almost unrecognisable. With a sickening shock. Miss Droon realised that it must have been used. She remembered how Mrs Banbury-Scott’s house had been ransacked the night before her death, although no one had heard a thing—this grisly charm was the reason why.

She threw it down in disgust and glanced nervously at the kitchen door. ‘My God,’ she breathed, ‘it was Rowena!’

Tilly ran down the path and out of the gate. Her mind was in a turmoil of fright and confusion. What was she to do? Everything seemed to fall into place now. Rowena’s interest in Mrs Banbury-Scott’s house and the way she had ingratiated herself into the fat woman’s affections all snapped together. Hidden in that old house was something that Rowena was prepared to steal for. Miss Droon gasped. Not only that: Rowena had probably killed Mrs Banbury-Scott after that night of desperate searching had failed to yield what she was after.

Tilly stumbled down the lane, horrified at these sudden revelations. Rowena had even persuaded Mrs Banbury-Scott to change her will, and so she had signed her own death warrant in the process. Just what had been in those special chocolates Rowena had force-fed her with?

‘Damn, damn,’ Tilly wailed. ‘Alice was right all the time!’

At The Hawes a short figure with an evil, leering face slipped out of the kitchen and hurried after the elderly woman. She had reached the steps and was striding down them. ‘I must tell Alice,’ she wheezed to herself. ‘She’ll know what to do.’

Dusk had crept up over Whitby. There was no one about now; all had gone in search of food. In the town the cafés were alive with light and the happy chatter of contented families but the streets were deserted.

Tilly was nearly at the bottom of the steps. She took the last three in one jump and set off down Church Street. Her bristled face showed her fear and her footsteps were quick and nervous. Miss Boston’s cottage was not far, just through this opening and—Miss Droon halted, turned her head and listened. What was that?

Above the heaving of her breath a plaintive whine echoed down the street. It was a high-pitched wail, like that of a small child. Tilly uttered a cry of pity—that was no child, it was the sound of a cat in pain.

The pitiful mewling continued and Tilly’s heart ached as she recognised the voice. It was Eurydice! Somewhere her beloved Eurydice was suffering. It was as if someone was deliberately torturing the poor animal.

‘Eurydice, darling!’ she shouted. ‘Stay where you are. Mummy’s coming.’

Forgetting everything else. Miss Droon hurried up the road, tormented by the dismal shrieks which beckoned her on. Tears sprang to her eyes. How could anyone hurt a small creature like this? It was horrible to hear.

‘Leave her alone!’ she bawled as the cries became more urgent. ‘Stop it, you bully, she hasn’t done any harm.’

The cat was almost squealing now. Miss Droon could not bear it; she hurried along into Henrietta Street with her hands over her ears.

On she sped towards that hideous screech, down the narrow street which ended at the cliff edge. The unnatural, piercing sound drew her forward; it had reached inside and taken command of her reason. Nothing could hold her back from finding Eurydice, not even the wire fence which prevented the unwary tourist from straying too near to the sheer drop.

Tilly pulled herself through this obstacle. She was sobbing with anguish for her loved one and did not feel the wire rake through her hair and scratch her legs. Only the life of Eurydice was important—she simply had to save her.

The wind was strong on the cliff edge, buffeting against her, and Miss Droon swayed back unsteadily. Desperately, she cast around for any sign of her cat but could only hear the crashing of the sea far below and the rushing of the wind in the grass. The crying had stopped.

‘Eurydice?’ she called. ‘Eurydice?’ But there was no answer. She wept into her sleeve. The madness that had spurred her to this deadly spot was ebbing away now and she glanced round miserably. There was nowhere for the cat to hide: the grass was short and there was no cover anywhere.

Miss Droon was puzzled. Why had the noise stopped? There was no sign of either Eurydice or her torturer. An awful thought crept up on her: what if the poor creature had fallen? In her panic Eurydice might have fled away from her attacker and not realised until too late that…

It was too terrible to contemplate. Anything that fell from that dizzy height would be smashed to pieces on the jagged rocks below. Tilly felt ill and the strength left her legs. Her sobs choked her as she plucked up enough courage to peer over the edge, preparing herself for the distant sight of a small, furry body floating on the water.

The ground was treacherously soft and spongy as she stepped up to the precipitous brink. The wind sang in her ears and tried to drag her back, but she had to know. Standing on the very edge of the cliff. Miss Droon stared down.

‘No!’ she screamed.

Directly beneath her, clinging to the vertical cliff face like a spider on a wall, was Rowena Cooper. It was impossible for anyone to do that. No human being could hold on so effortlessly; so casually. Tilly stared at her, stricken with horror.

Rowena threw back her head and looked up. ‘Miaow,’ she cried mockingly, and the voice was identical to Eurydice’s.

Tilly whimpered as she tried to understand. Eurydice must still be safe at home. Rowena had impersonated her to lure Miss Droon to the cliff edge—but why?

Even as the question formed in her mind, Rowena scuttled further up the sheer cliff and stretched out a claw-like hand. It grabbed Tilly’s ankle and gripped it fiercely.

‘No, no!’ she cried in terror.

Rowena laughed into the wind. ‘Fool!’ she scorned and Tilly knew she was finished as the evil, derisive laughter cut through her.

‘Look what the cat’s dragged in!’ cackled Rowena as she pulled viciously.

Tilly’s leg was snatched from under her and, with a last shriek, she toppled over the cliff and plummeted downwards. Far below the pounding waves surged and crashed, but the air above was filled with raucous, uncontrollable laughter.

11 - The Half Child

Rachel Turner anxiously surveyed the morning room; it was the best she could do until the workmen arrived. The house of the late Mrs Banbury-Scott was still in chaos, for the damage wrought by those mysterious burglars had not yet been repaired. The large holes in the floor had been temporarily covered with boards by Grice, the scarred oak panelling had been cunningly hidden by pictures and tapestries, but the beautiful old fireplace was ruined. It had taken an awful lot of elbow grease to make the place even remotely habitable again.

The terms of Mrs Banbury-Scott’s will were plain: Rowena Cooper inherited not only the house, but also the servants if she desired. So far she had shown no sign of wishing otherwise.

Rachel patted a cushion into place and went to join Mrs Rigpath in the hallway. Ayleen Rigpath was a stout woman who bustled about her kitchen with her sleeves rolled up and her face covered in flour or jam, or whatever it was she happened to be making. For twelve years now she had cooked for Mrs Banbury-Scott and she was not happy at the prospect of a new employer. She was not one to try out fancy new recipes; her menus had stayed the same for as long as she had been there and if this Mrs Cooper didn’t like them, well, she would have to find someone else.

‘I can’t do no more in there,’ Rachel said.

Mrs Rigpath sniffed impatiently. ‘Grice has been gone a while, he ought to be back with her by now. How much longer do we have to stand here?’

Rachel sighed. ‘I’ve been dreadin’ this, you know. I’m not sure if I like that Mrs Cooper—don’t know what the Madam saw in her.’

Ayleen puffed out her chest and folded her arms. ‘I’ll give her three weeks,’ she said dryly. ‘If she hasn’t shaped up by then. I’m off. I’ll have enough to retire on, what with the money I was left.’

‘You’re lucky—I didn’t get very much.’

‘I’m not lucky,’ Mrs Rigpath replied bitterly. ‘Just look at me: fifty-three years old, no husband, no kiddies and no home to call me own—some luck that is.’

Rachel had often wondered how someone with Mrs Rigpath’s talent for making delicious desserts could be so utterly sour for most of the time. Such questions had to wait, however, for at that moment both women heard the sound of tyres on gravel.

‘About time,’ grumbled Ayleen. ‘S’pose we’d better get on with it.’

The Bentley pulled up outside the great, grey house and Grice dutifully stepped out to open the door for its passenger. Rowena Cooper wore one of the widest smiles he had ever seen. She had been grinning on the back seat all the way from The Hawes.

‘Thank you,’ the woman murmured as he helped her out. For a moment Rowena stood quite still. At last, she thought to herself, this ugly pile of stone belongs to me. With a satisfied smirk, she crossed to the front door, where her new staff were waiting to greet her.

‘Welcome, Mrs Cooper,’ began Rachel cheerfully. Rowena eyed both her and Mrs Rigpath icily. ‘I wish to see you all in the morning room in ten minutes’ time,’ she said. And with that she pushed past them and strode down the hall.

Mrs Rigpath stared after her, open-mouthed. ‘Well, I never did!’ she exclaimed. ‘I might not give her those three weeks’ trial after all.’

‘Expect she’s nervous,’ said Rachel. ‘Probably never had staff before.’

Grice slammed the door of the Bentley and came indoors. ‘Bad accident down by the cliffs,’ he told them. ‘Ambulance and police were there.’

‘What happened?’ asked Rachel.

‘That Miss Droon—found her body this mornin’, they did. Seems she fell off the edge some time last night.’

‘Poor soul,’ said Rachel sadly. ‘She was dotty about them cats of hers, wasn’t she? I wonder what’ll happen to them now.’

Mrs Rigpath, however, was considering a different mystery. ‘Didn’t Mrs Cooper bring no luggage, then?’ she asked curiously. ‘Is she not stopping tonight?’

In the morning room, Rowena positioned herself in front of the covered fireplace and glanced round. ‘Somewhere here,’ she whispered. ‘I know it has to be here! I don’t care if I have to demolish this vile place and sift through the rubble, I must have it. Somewhere in this disgusting relic, concealed for centuries from prying eyes—’

‘Excuse me, Mrs Cooper.’

Rowena turned round, startled. ‘Yes?’

Rachel smiled at her from the doorway. ‘Ten minutes have gone. Madam.’

Rowena nodded coldly. ‘Come in.’

The three staff filed into the morning room.

Rowena began loftily, ‘What I have to say is merely this: I’m afraid that I have decided against keeping you all on. Now, I know that you were all provided for in dear Dora’s will, so this news will be no real blow—I’m sure you will all manage quite admirably.’

There was a stunned silence. Rachel stared round at the room she had spent the past few days clearing up and shook her head in disbelief. Grice rubbed his frowning forehead and muttered to himself, whilst Mrs Rigpath bristled and her chest inflated as she prepared to give vent to a tirade of abuse and a mighty dollop of her mind. Before she could let loose one single syllable, however, Rowena raised a hand and delivered another devastating piece of news.

‘Naturally I shall not expect you to remain here. You must vacate your rooms by tomorrow afternoon, at the latest. Now you may go.’

‘Tomorrow?’ spluttered Rachel, and Mrs Rigpath was too shocked even to protest.

‘I believe that is reasonable,’ said Rowena. ‘After all, I have no contract with you to uphold. Now I think you had better start packing. Good day.’

Later that afternoon, Rachel struggled down the stairs with her suitcases. She wasn’t going to spend another minute in that house. Mrs Rigpath was still in her room, wondering where she could go, and Grice was sitting in the shed, dolefully gazing at the gleaming tools he must leave behind.

The cellars of the old house were filled with the accumulated junk of centuries: armchairs, lampshades, picture frames, empty tea chests, bundles of newspapers bound with string, hideous jugs, cracked vases, a mouldy leather flying helmet complete with goggles, a metal gauntlet from a suit of armour, and many other bits of useless rubbish.

A naked light-bulb glared from the vaulted ceiling, throwing stark shadows on to the walls, but Rowena had no time to notice them. With a torch in her hand, she peered into the dark corners and pulled boxes and papers roughly aside.

Cobwebs netted her short blonde hair and the disturbed dust glued itself to the fine, sticky strands. The grime from years of neglect streaked down her face as she drew her grubby hands over her brow. Insects who had never seen the light fled in terror as the fierce torch beam shone into their dark territories. Brittle beetle backs crunched beneath Rowena’s careless feet as she waded deeper into the junk mounds, swearing and shrieking with impatience.

‘Where is it?’ she screamed. ‘Where?’

With unrelenting violence she flung everything aside, then began tapping the walls with the handle of her torch. For an hour she paced about the cellar, picking at the bricks with her broken fingernails and clawing at the mortar to see if there were any hidden doors or passageways.

When she was satisfied that the walls and floors were solid and free of any secret openings, Rowena stomped up the cellar steps. ‘It must be somewhere here!’ she growled.

In a wild fit of temper, she threw herself against the panelled walls of the hall and snatched down the tapestries and pictures which were hiding the damage from the break-in. She scraped her fingers down the splintered wood and peered into the space between it and the bricks beyond. But the holes were too few and too small for her to see properly.

‘If I have to demolish the vile place…’ Her own words returned to haunt her and she dashed outside to the shed.

The unquestionable kingdom of Grice was an outbuilding situated against the rear wall of the garden. It was a small stone hut, probably as old as the house itself, with one narrow window. The solid oak door was hung on rusting iron hinges and needed a good shove to open.

Grice was still there when Rowena forced her way in. She stared at him for a moment as if she had forgotten there was anyone in the world apart from herself. And in his turn Grice stared at her: she looked as though she had been having a dust bath.

‘Axe,’ she demanded. ‘Give me an axe.’

The ex-handyman had never lent his beloved tools to anyone before, but then, they didn’t really belong to him any more. Garden shears, hammers and rakes hung, clean and polished, in tidy rows on the plastered walls. Every conceivable implement was there and he took a great pride in keeping them all in mint condition.

‘What fer you want an axe?’ he asked slowly.

Rowena drew herself up. ‘That is none of your concern,’ she snarled. ‘Give it to me!’

Grice removed the gleaming axe from its hook on the wall and passed it over in silence. Rowena snatched at it and charged back to the house. With a crazed yell she brought the axe blade crashing down into the oak panels. Fragments of splitting wood filled the air as she hewed and chopped. A mad light was in her eyes and she was consumed by the desire to destroy.

‘It will be mine!’ she cried. ‘It must be mine!’

In her room, Mrs Rigpath the cook heard the terrible noise and changed her mind about not wanting to leave. ‘Perhaps it is for the best after all,’ she told herself. ‘That Cooper woman’s definitely round the twist.’

Ben stared out of his bedroom window. It looked down on to Aunt Alice’s little garden, where a fat blackbird was stealing the raspberries that grew against the cottage wall. Beyond, the steep grassy slope of the cliffside reared up over the rooftops, and melted into the afternoon haze.

The boy rolled over on to his bed and glared at the primroses on the wallpaper. He was bored and in a foul mood. Ever since that night on the beach when the evil aufwader had attacked him, Ben had been forbidden to go out after dark. Of course he had complained and protested—what about Nelda and Hesper? He had an important part to play in the hunt for the moonkelp for, according to Nelda’s vision, without him they would be unable to find it. Miss Boston, however, had stood firm on this; on no account was he to leave the house at night—it was far too dangerous out there now.

So Ben had suffered indoors all this time, without even a chance to tell Nelda about her father. In the daytime he had roamed along the shore and searched on the cliff-top, but had not been able to find her. It was so unfair; they probably thought he was deliberately avoiding them.

Miserably, Ben sucked his top lip. At first he had appealed to Jennet to help him slip out, but that had been a big mistake, for she had immediately told Aunt Alice. After that they doubled their efforts to keep him indoors at night, making sure that when he went to bed he stayed safely in his room. It was like being a prisoner when the evening fell and he hated it. He could not even go to the toilet without one of his jailers keeping an ear open.

He pushed his hand under the pillow and fished out the ammonite he had found. Idly he turned it over in his fingers. ‘Poor Nelda,’ he murmured. ‘She must think I don’t care. What if the moonkelp has bloomed whilst I’ve been stuck in here? They’ll never get the curse lifted if that’s happened.’

The door to his room opened and Jennet looked in. ‘Aunt Alice isn’t back yet,’ she told him, ‘so what do you want for tea?’

Ben shrugged. ‘Nothin’,’ he mumbled.

‘Fine by me,’ his sister answered. She was fed up with his sulks—he had to learn that he could not go off on his own any more. She closed the door and went downstairs. The boy stuck his tongue out at the closed door and muttered rebelliously to himself.

Jennet returned to the parlour where she had been reading a book on the history of Whitby. She didn’t feel hungry either. It had been a sad, quiet day. They had heard the tragic news about Miss Droon the first thing that morning and Aunt Alice had wept a great deal. Nearly all her friends were gone now and Jennet felt very sorry for her. After a while. Miss Boston went round to see how Edith Wethers was taking the news and they mourned their loss together. Whitby had become a very sad place since the arrival of Rowena Cooper.

With a sigh. Jennet sat back in the armchair and picked up the book once more. The hours passed slowly. She stifled several yawns and tried to keep awake. The book waded stodgily through names and events over the centuries, from Hilda to Scoresby, Caedmon to Cook, listing them all with dry detail. Wearily she flicked through its pages, skipping over Whitby’s whaling days and a horrible account of the lifeboat disaster. A small passage told how the abbey had been damaged in the First World War by two German cruisers that opened fire on the town, but there were no pictures to enliven the dreary text and Jennet’s eyelids slid down heavily. Into the subconscious murk of dreams she sank; whales burst out of the sea and exploding shellfire lit the sky.

With a jolt. Jennet snapped awake. The light outside had failed and the parlour was filled with shadow. She looked at the grandfather clock: she had been asleep for nearly two hours.

An empty rumble echoed through her stomach and she decided that it was time to eat. ‘Ben must be starved,’ she tutted as she went into the hall.

‘Do you want your tea now, Ben?’ she called up the stairs. There was no reply. ‘Stop sulking,’ she shouted. ‘I’m doing some beans on toast if you’re interested.’ There was still no sound. Jennet was suddenly suspicious. She ran up to his bedroom and flung open the door. It was empty.

He must have gone out when I was asleep, she told herself. Just wait till I catch him! But she was more afraid than angry. Somewhere, Ben was alone in the dark.

Jennet charged down the stairs, plucked her coat off the hanger and dashed out of the front door. She had no idea where Ben could be, but she ran on to the beach and called his name. Only the rush of the incoming tide answered her. The shore was empty of people, so Jennet ran over the bridge to the West Cliff and searched in all the amusement arcades. It was no good—Ben was nowhere to be found.

The girl left the deafening roar of the amusements and sat on one of the benches at the quayside. The fishing boats bobbed on the black, calm water below and a group of gulls rode the gentle waves. Jennet watched them in despair. What if her brother had met that evil aufwader again? She raised her head to look at the floodlit ruin of the abbey and the squat shape of the church. Then she blinked and looked again; in the cemetery stood a shining white figure whose robes blazed like flames.

Jennet rose. For a moment the legend of St Hilda flitted through her mind. Aunt Alice had told her that sometimes the bright outline of the abbess could be seen in one of the abbey windows, but this figure was in the churchyard.

Suddenly Jennet realised that she was looking at the novice up there. Sister Bridget was deliberately standing in front of the arc lights. It did not make any sense; Jennet could not imagine why that timid, frightened woman should draw attention to herself like that.

The distant, radiant figure stretched out her arms. The glare of the arc lights bounced off her robes and dazzled the girl far below on the quayside.

‘She’s beckoning to me,’ Jennet murmured in astonishment. ‘She wants me to go up there. Perhaps she knows what’s happened to Ben.’

Jennet ran to the bridge and sped over it. She was excited yet afraid, knowing that the novice had left the safety of the convent that night, not to weep at the sea but to speak to her. Maybe it was a warning; perhaps Rowena had threatened her again and let slip something about Ben. Jennet tried to forget the terror she had felt the last time she had gone to that churchyard in the dark. But the image of the hound as it pounced on her was ingrained in her mind and the nearer she drew to the hundred and ninety-nine steps, the clearer that memory became.

She hurried down Church Street where the usual well-fed tourists were wandering happily before the darkened shop windows—a last stroll to aid their digestion and tire the children. What a pleasant time they were having, blissfully unaware of the evil that haunted this picturesque town by night. Their smiling faces annoyed Jennet. They saw only what they came to see; the sinister side of Whitby did not interest them. Even if they had been disturbed by the chilling cries of the Barguest as it howled into the night, they chose to ignore it and rolled over in their cosy guesthouse beds dreaming of kippers for breakfast.

Jennet became impatient as she squeezed between the chatting families who idly gabbed and blocked the road. If only they knew, if only they had seen those hellish eyes.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, pushing through the crowd. ‘Excuse me.’

It seemed that everyone had decided to pop out that evening and dawdle about in Church Street. Jennet grew anxious. What if the novice could not wait for her?

A particularly tight knot of people barred her way to the steps. She tried to dodge in between but it was very difficult and she was forced to push quite roughly to get by.

‘Do you mind!’ snapped a woman whose heel she had just stepped on.

Jennet ploughed on oblivious. She wormed and elbowed her way to the steps and just as she began to climb the steps, a hand caught her arm.

‘Where’s the fire?’ demanded a voice.

The girl turned round, and there was Aunt Alice. The old lady looked tired, for it had been a long and dismal day for her. Those bird-like eyes were red and swollen, a testament to her grief over Tilly’s death. She had spent most of the afternoon with Edith Wethers, then had gone to feed Miss Droon’s ravenous cats, and had had an argument with a policeman on the way. Nobody wanted to investigate poor Tilly’s death—to the police and Doctor Adams she was just another old woman who had missed her footing. Miss Boston had grown very angry and retorted in the doctor’s face, ‘That’s three old women in as many weeks. Doesn’t that arouse the slightest suspicion in you, for heaven’s sake, you dithering old quack?’ Needless to say, she was guided to the door.

To cool her head and sort out her thoughts she had decided to walk to the cliff before returning home, and that was when she saw Jennet rampaging through the crowd like a bull elephant.

‘Whatever is the matter, Jennet dear?’ she asked. ‘What’s the hurry and where is Benjamin?’

Jennet was so relieved to see her that she threw her arms about the old lady’s neck. ‘Ben’s missing,’ she said quickly. ‘I fell asleep and when I woke up, he had gone. I looked everywhere for him—on the beach, in the arcades—and then I saw the novice.’

‘Sister Bridget?’

‘Yes, she’s up there now. She was standing right in front of the lights and I’d swear she was beckoning to me.’

Miss Boston frowned and looked up the steps. ‘Most peculiar,’ she said. ‘I wonder if she has changed her mind? Come, let us see if she can throw any light on Benjamin’s whereabouts.’

Together they began the long, upward climb. The full moon appeared from behind the scudding night clouds and bathed the graveyard in silver. The headstones were edged with the pale, milky light and Jennet wavered on the edge of the cemetery—it looked more ghostly there than ever before. What if the hound appeared again? She gulped and held back; to cross the path and enter that place needed more courage than she thought she possessed. But the plump figure of Aunt Alice trotted on ahead and the sight of her spurred Jennet forward.

The church of St Mary’s seemed to fill the night. The arc lights gave to its solid, square walls a warm, golden glow which made it look like a magical, gilded fortress.

Miss Boston shielded her eyes from the bright lights and glanced round. Sister Bridget was nowhere to be seen. ‘Are you sure she was here?’ she asked Jennet.

‘Yes, I’m positive.’

The old lady chewed her lip. ‘Maybe she was afraid to remain in the light for too long,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Unless, of course, she was seen by someone other than yourself.’

‘You mean Rowena?’

Aunt Alice merely raised her eyebrows. ‘Who can tell?’ she said. ‘Perhaps a group of visitors walked past and startled her.’ She rubbed her eyes and wandered down the path. ‘Come out of those blinding lamps, child,’ she said. ‘I do not wish to be seen either.’

They walked around the church and left the arc lights behind. For a while coloured swirls danced before their eyes until they became accustomed to the dark once more. Jennet halted and stared out to sea. There by the cemetery wall stood the novice. She nudged Miss Boston and the old lady squinted keenly.

Sister Bridget was looking straight at them. Her hands were clasped tightly before her and the look of worry on her face lifted only momentarily with the relief of seeing them. She took a few hesitant steps forward, then stopped to look around nervously.

Aunt Alice and Jennet approached slowly, careful not to frighten her. The novice looked warily at the shadows beyond and put her hands to her mouth. ‘Hurry!’ she called. ‘There is little time!’

Jennet and Miss Boston were surprised by her uncharacteristic outburst and wondered what she had to say.

‘I must talk with you,’ Sister Bridget told them urgently.

‘Do I take it that you have changed your mind?’ asked Miss Boston.

She nodded. ‘You were right—forgive me. When I heard about the death of your friend this morning I knew that I could keep silent no longer. I do not want the blood of innocents on my hands. Too many have already died and the toll will rise if she finds what she seeks.’

‘I presume you refer to Mrs Cooper?’ said Aunt Alice.

Sister Bridget shuddered and turned her head to be sure they were alone. ‘Listen to me,’ she whispered in a rush. ‘That woman is dangerous. Beware of her, shun her in the street, have nothing to do with her. I have looked into her heart and found it black and rotten, while pure evil courses in her veins.’

Jennet did not like this sort of talk. She felt uncomfortable when the novice’s eyes fell upon her; the urgency and dread in them was alarming. Silently she took hold of Aunt Alice’s hand.

Miss Boston listened to Sister Bridget’s words but rejected her warnings. ‘I have no intention of skulking about,’ she declared. ‘The time has come to confront Mrs Cooper. If the police refuse to listen to me I shall have to do it myself. She must be stopped!’

The novice took hold of the old lady’s shoulders. ‘You must not cross her!’ she cried. ‘It is perilous to allow even so much as her shadow to touch you. She is too powerful an adversary for one such as you.’

Aunt Alice took a deep breath. ‘I might just surprise her if she tries to do away with me,’ she snorted. ‘I haven’t lived ninety-two years for nothing, you know.’

‘Hear me!’ shouted Sister Bridget. ‘I am aware that you are not like others, but whatever talent you may think you have, whatever source you draw from, know now that Rowena Cooper is beyond your strength. She has transcended her human flesh and surrendered humanity to the powers of the dark. Take my advice, old woman: leave her to those best suited for such a task.’

Miss Boston stroked Jennet’s hair as the girl pressed closer to her. ‘Are you referring to yourself?’ she asked with a laugh in her voice. ‘I’m sorry, but so far you have not shown much aptitude in that direction. Besides, I have faith in my gifts.’

The novice lowered her eyes. ‘I have found that faith is not enough,’ she murmured. ‘Not for me, at least.’

Aunt Alice smiled and said gently, ‘Did your trust in God fail, I wonder, or was it faith in yourself that you lacked?’ She touched Sister Bridget’s downcast face and asked, ‘How long have you hidden yourself away, little one? How many years have you wept alone? A convent is no place for a child to grow up. What a wretched life you have led.’

A tear sparkled on the novice’s cheek and she hastily wiped it away. ‘Then you do know my history,’ she said. ‘Who told you?’

‘Well, I confess that Benjamin told me some of it, but I guessed the rest.’

‘Benjamin?’ repeated Sister Bridget. ‘That is the boychild’s name? He searches with the aufwaders along the shore, does he not? Have the prime laws altered? Do humans consort freely with the fisher folk now? Was all my suffering in vain?’

Jennet pulled herself away from the folds of Aunt Alice’s cloak. She did not understand. Did Sister Bridget have the sight too? ‘What do you know about my brother?’ she asked. ‘Have you seen him tonight—is he with those things again?’ Miss Boston tried to shush her, but Jennet would not be kept quiet. ‘One of those creatures tried to kill him. If you know where he is, you must tell me.’

The corners of Sister Bridget’s mouth twitched into a slight smile. ‘I do not know where your brother is,’ she said.

For some reason Aunt Alice began apologising to her. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Jennet does not know. I’m sure she would not have—’

The novice held up her hand and broke in. ‘It is nothing. I have heard worse descriptions and from those with wiser heads on their shoulders.’

Jennet looked at Aunt Alice, confused by all this—had she offended the woman in some way?

Sister Bridget smiled at her. ‘The time has come to cast aside all pretence,’ she said. ‘I shall hide no longer. If Rowena Cooper succeeds, then such secrets are useless. The world that remains if we fail will not care who I am.’

Miss Boston put her arm round Jennet and drew her back a little. The novice raised her hands and methodically removed the pins which kept the white veil in place. She threw them to the ground and, with a great, glad sigh, she tore the veil from her head.

Jennet gasped in amazement while Miss Boston clapped her hands gleefully. ‘Welcome back,’ she said.

Sister Bridget stretched out her arms and let out a cry like nothing the girl had ever heard. Centuries of torment and fear roared into the night, released at last. The hair which she shook loose was a thick tangle of dark green that grew far back on the top of her head. She swept the heavy, seaweed-like hanks over her shoulders and, as she did so, Jennet saw the scales beneath her scalloped ears glisten in the moonlight.

‘You… you’re not human!’ she stammered.

‘Tut tut, Jennet,’ chided Aunt Alice. ‘Don’t be so rude.’

‘Do not be afraid, child,’ assured the novice. ‘I will not harm you.’

‘Of course she won’t,’ said Aunt Alice. ‘Remember that story Benjamin told us—the one about the aufwaders?’

Jennet could not think clearly and shook her head.

‘I stand before you the first and last of my kind,’ Sister Bridget told her. ‘My father was a fisherman. A good soul, yet cursed with the sight. Cursed because it ruined his life. He saw and fell in love with an aufwader and together they defied the wishes of the Lords of the Deep.’ She turned and stared out to the calm black sea. ‘I was the result of their union,’ she said. ‘The sin of my parents was borne out in me. A freak of nature I am, a hideous crossbreed that should never have been allowed to draw breath.’

‘Well, I think you look marvellous,’ piped up Aunt Alice, unable to conceal her enthusiasm any longer.

The novice shrugged. ‘Then you are the only one,’ she said. ‘Even Oona, my mother, could not bear to see me once my father was taken to the deeps. It was she who entrusted me to the care of the nuns, leaving me outside the convent gates as an infant. Never had they seen such an ugly child. In those times they believed that inner evil was betrayed in the flesh. I must have seemed like the very devil to them. Still, they were as kind to me as their courage allowed. I was fortunate they did not burn me for a witch’s brat.’

Jennet felt her eyes prick with tears; she felt so awful about calling the aufwaders ‘creatures’ and ‘things’. ‘I’m sorry,’ she cried. ‘I didn’t realise.’

‘It matters very little now,’ Sister Bridget replied. ‘The years have taught me much; there were many bitter lessons to learn and I survived them all. But the hatred of mankind was easier to bear than this yearning for the sea which binds my heart. Do you know what it is to ache for what you cannot have? All my life I have been mesmerised by its beauty. It plagues my dreams and torments my soul—if indeed I possess one,’ She closed her eyes and said softly, ‘How well I know the sights and smells of the sea. How many times have I watched it, that slumbering beast which waits for me? Yes, it is waiting—it knows that the day will come when I can resist no more and must give myself to the waves. Perhaps that moment is coming. For many long, weary years I have tried to suppress my desire and have prayed for redemption. Alas, my attempts to keep away have failed. I fear that one day soon I may walk into the water and not return.’

‘That would be a tragic waste,’ said Miss Boston.

‘No,’ murmured the sister, ‘it would merely mark the end of my life. No one would mourn my going and the Deep Ones will rise to drag me to their dark realm.’

Aunt Alice touched her hand sympathetically. But it was not pity that Sister Bridget wanted. ‘I have dared all tonight to bring you here,’ she said. ‘Now that I have surrendered my secret the number of my days is short, but before I take the cold road I must be certain that Rowena Cooper is thwarted.’

‘May we know now what she said to you that night?’ asked Miss Boston. ‘What was she after?’

‘She is a desperate woman,’ the novice replied; ‘inside she is eaten away. The pain I feel for the sea is nothing compared with her lust for greater power—it is that which she seeks. That is why she attempted to enlist me in her service, first with promises she could not fulfil and then with threats. I would never have aided her—you did not have to fear that. What she wanted was too much for any mortal.’

Aunt Alice held Jennet tightly. ‘And what did she ask?’ she ventured.

The sister fanned out her fingers and spread her hands before her, motioning to the invisible horizon of the sea. ‘She seeks the moonkelp,’ she answered simply.

‘But that’s what Ben’s looking for!’ exclaimed Jennet. ‘He said it was to save the aufwader tribe. What can she want it for?’

‘The moonkelp is a great treasure,’ returned Sister Bridget. ‘The Lords of the Deep would pay any reward that is in their power to get it back. Rowena undoubtedly has a deadlier prize in mind than the lifting of the Mothers’ Curse.’

Miss Boston peered at the novice with twinkling eyes. Quietly, she said, ‘You know when and where it will bloom, don’t you?’

The sister nodded. ‘There are many memories one carries from childhood—who knows, perhaps a halfchild can recall more than most. I remember when my father was alive, before the day he set sail to cast his nets and caught only death.’ She paused and a strange light glimmered in her eyes as she cut through the centuries of adulthood. ‘I can still hear the rain battering against the walls and hammering on the roof,’ she began. ‘The noise of the thunder was frightening and to allay my fears, Mother sang to me. Her face was lovely; I remember the softness of her cheeks and the scent of her hair as she held her face against mine to lull me to sleep. That memory of that precious afternoon when I was loved and cared for is the one thing that I have clung to down the years. The following day my father set out in his boat and was lost.’

‘What did Oona sing to you?’ asked Miss Boston.

‘Rhymes of lore, chants to raise the tide and stir the waves. Everything she knew she put into song to ease her child. You see, she must have loved me that day.’

‘And one of the songs was about the moonkelp,’ said Jennet.

‘Yes, only she knew the time and place of its flowering.’ The novice looked at them both and lifted her head proudly. ‘It is time to share that secret with you,’ she said. ‘See how the moon rides full in the sky; soon it will be at its height and then we must be ready. For the treasure of the Deep Ones blooms tonight!’

For a moment Jennet and Miss Boston were speechless. ‘Tonight?’ the old lady repeated eventually. ‘Gracious, what can we do?’

‘We must claim the wish and lift the Mothers’ Curse. That way Rowena Cooper will never achieve her goal.’ Sister Bridget glanced down at the shore and moved quickly back to the path. ‘Come, we dare not delay any longer, for the moonkelp will not wait. If we miss its flowering tonight then never in our lifetimes shall we see it again!’ With her robes billowing behind her she hurried to the steps, followed by Jennet and Miss Boston.

Jennet tugged at the old lady’s cloak. ‘She can’t go into the town looking like that!’ she said. ‘Why doesn’t she put her veil back on? People will stare.’

‘Do you still not understand?’ Aunt Alice asked. ‘None of that matters now. The moonkelp is the only thing that can stop Rowena from growing more powerful. If she gets her evil claws into it and her wish is granted then I shudder to think what will happen. There are more important things at stake here than I think you realise, and Sister Bridget has sacrificed her secret to help us. I do not think she will ever wear that veil again.’

As they reached the church steps Jennet muttered, ‘I wish I knew where Ben was.’

The churchyard was still, but in the wells of darkness behind the arc lights, two narrow slits gleamed.

‘There’s a tidy bit o’ news,’ croaked a sneering voice. ‘So daft old Hesper were reet all along. I’d better tell ‘er sharpish.’

A dark shape emerged from the shadows. The evil aufwader who had tried to murder Ben shot a poisoned glance at the sky. ‘Gonna be a deadly night,’ he cackled, before darting between the graves to run in the direction of The Hawes.

12 - Once In Nine Hundred Years

Ben’s feet were soaked, so he sat down on the sand and emptied the water from his shoes. Ever since leaving Jennet fast asleep at Aunt Alice’s house, he had spent hours searching for Nelda and Hesper. At first he had gone directly to the agreed meeting place but found that deserted. There he had waited till long after the light failed. He assumed that they had abandoned all hope of seeing him again and no longer came to check whether he would turn up.

So Ben had decided to go looking for them, but so far he had been unsuccessful. He could not see the little aufwader boat on the water and he had hunted far along the shore of the West Cliff. But all he found was a courting couple who chased him away. Now it was getting very late.

Ben had only wanted to tell Nelda that her father was alive, and had intended to slip back to the cottage without Jennet realising that he had been out at all.

‘She’s bound to have woken up by now, though,’ he mumbled sadly. ‘She’ll be so mad. I bet she tells Aunt Alice on me. Prob’ly won’t see Nelda ever again.’

The boy kicked the sand wretchedly as he walked home. It was no use hurrying as he was already in so much trouble that being late would not matter. His ears were filled by the soft sound of the waves as they washed over the shore and dragged away the sand in their retreat.

It was a beautiful night. When the moon appeared through the clouds, it shone with brilliant silver fire. Long, tapering shadows were cast along the beach and the wet sand glittered about Ben’s feet, mirroring the moon’s rays in a magical way. It was like walking on a carpet of tiny stars and he grinned broadly at the wonder of it.

He turned his head. A great silver road shimmered and sparkled over the sea. The gentle waves absorbed the light and, as they broke against the land, the moonbeams fractured and scattered a million pearls in the air.

Ben was enthralled and stared breathlessly at the moon; the enchanted light glimmered on his face. Then, through the sighing rush of the sea, another sound began. It was the sweetest music he had ever heard and he looked round to see where it was coming from. Abruptly the sound was snatched away and the light was extinguished. Another cloud glided before the moon and the shadows swallowed the glowing sands completely.

Ben was in the dark. It was a shock to his senses and he stumbled forward blindly. The world seemed to have been plunged into black despair and he longed to see that mysterious light once more. He shivered in his damp shoes and wondered if he had dreamt the whole thing.

The shore was grim. Now that it had been deprived of the moonlight it was a dismal place and even the lapping of the waves sounded harsh and cruel.

Slowly the boy began to realise what was happening. The light and the music had been a signal, like a herald’s fanfare of trumpets. The time had come—the moonkelp was in bloom.

With a yell, Ben jumped up and down and danced on the sand. At last, somewhere out there the marvellous treasure was flowering. Once in nine hundred years Hesper had said and that was tonight.

Ben became serious. ‘I’ve got to tell them,’ he said to himself. ‘They have to find the moonkelp before it’s too late.’

He began to run over the sand. There was only one thing to do: the aufwaders must be told and that meant venturing into their caves, ignoring every warning.

Ben was not certain exactly where the caves were, but he knew from what Hesper had said that beneath the East Cliff there was a warren of tunnels and grottos. He had to find the entrance: if he failed then the tribe was doomed to extinction.

Desperately he stormed across the harbour and dashed on to Tate Hill Pier. He felt ready to burst as he scrambled down the old stone wall and dropped on to the flat, slippery rock below.

The sea had not yet flooded the shore beneath the cliff face, but already its creeping outriders were filling the rock pools. It was a treacherous place to be caught by the tide and even the strongest of swimmers had met their end there. But Ben was too inflamed by the importance of his news to think about the danger and he ran into the deep cliff shadow, calling at the top of his voice, ‘Nelda! Hesper! Can you hear me? It’s Ben!’

Behind him the water gurgled up through the channelled rocks and flowed ever closer, while in front the sheer wall of shale reached into the night sky over the boy’s head. It contained many clefts and crags that in the darkness resembled eyes and mouths. They seemed to stare down at him balefully, laughing at the little voice which went unheeded in that lonely spot. It was as if the whole cliff was mocking him and he felt microscopic compared with its black vastness.

Ben tried to push these thoughts to the back of his mind and attempted to explore the large fissures and crannies that were within his reach. It did not take long for him to find out that they were only shallow gouges in the rock and not real caves at all.

‘Nelda, where are you?’ he shouted.

Only the incoming sea answered him. Ben whirled round and, to his horror, saw that the way back to the pier was totally cut off. The path was now flooded—he was trapped.

Orange firelight flickered over the rough cave walls. Bunches of drying weeds were suspended from the fishing nets which were draped from one side to the other, and they gave a sweet, salty tang to the damp air. These were Hesper’s quarters and they suited her admirably. Since the decline of the tribes there was plenty of room for everyone—too much room. The ancient galleries had not been visited for many years and the long halls were bereft of song. Some passages had even been blocked up because they were no longer needed and this saddened the kindly aufwader. Beyond those blockades were the wondrous ammonite caverns where, in days long gone, important festivals were celebrated. The revels had been high then; sometimes there was music and light for a whole three days.

Hesper brought herself back to the present and peered into the flames. Tarr sat cross-legged on the rush-matted floor beside her, his wiry white hair untied and tucked beneath him. He drew on his pipe and watched his daughter thoughtfully. The net which lay across her knee would not be mended tonight, he told himself.

‘Tha’d better put it down if’n that’s the best ya can do,’ he said. ‘Get thee to bed. Theer’s nowt worth stayin’ awake fer.’ He jabbed the air with his pipe and pointed at Nelda, who was idly pulling the loose rushes from the mat. “Tha too,’ he told her.

Nelda looked across at Hesper. This was the first night they had stayed in the caves. It seemed pointless to go on searching for the moonkelp without the human boy. She had no idea what had happened to Ben or why he had stopped meeting them in the evening. Perhaps she had been wrong about him. Were the elders right after all—could no humans be trusted?

‘Ah’m to kip,’ said her grandfather grumpily. He reached for his staff and pulled himself up. With the briefest of nods, he bade them goodnight and hobbled out.

‘It is over,’ Hesper said miserably. ‘Oona was wrong, there never was any moonkelp. I have fooled myself all this time. We are all to die and our kind will disappear.’

Nelda hung her head and said nothing.

In the passage beyond, Tarr slowly made his way to his own quarters. He could never understand what went on inside the heads of his children. Why, for instance, had they remained in the caves that night? They had been so despondent over the past few days, too. If he lived to be six hundred, which seemed likely, he would never work them out.

The ringing of heavy boots brought him to a halt. Someone was coming down the tunnel.

‘Prawny?’ he called. ‘If’n tha’s come t’pinch me baccy, Prawny Nusk, tha can—’

But it was not the aufwader Tarr had expected. Out of the gloom hurried a squat, busy-looking female. She was a scowling, bad-tempered creature who loved to put others in their place and wore a string of beaded shells on her brow to show her self-importance. Old Parry, the tribe called her—a nasty, small-minded widow with a sharp tongue and ears that flapped at any conversation she was not a party to.

‘Oh,’ muttered Tarr, ‘it’s thee, Parry.’ He quickened his limping pace and spluttered, ‘Ah canna stop, sithee tomorrer.’

But old Parry was determined, and she caught hold of Tarr’s sleeve. ‘Don’t you scaddle off yet, Tarr!’ she told him fiercely. ‘Come listen what I’ve heard—gives me great gladness it do, but I don’t think you’ll like it none.’

Tarr sighed. ‘What be it?’ he groaned, hoping this was not another petty scheme of hers.

She led him down the tunnel to a point where it opened out into a high, echoing chamber. This was the Hall of Whispers, the one place in the aufwader caves where you could hear the outside world. In here the fisher folk would gather at times of storm and listen to the roaring tempest of the sea as it hurled its fury against the cliff. Old Parry, however, was fond of this spot because it was not just the sea you could hear from it. If she stayed very quiet and kept her ears glued to the rock, she could listen to humans walking along the shore. She hated those ugly land animals and blamed them for everything, but her enmity did not prevent her eavesdropping on them.

Tarr looked round huffily. He wanted to go to sleep. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘what be it?’

Old Parry drew him to the rock wall. ‘Do you not hear?’ she asked with a giggle.

He regarded her disdainfully. There was nothing unusual out there, just the noise of the tide coming in. ”As tha gone doolally?’ he barked. ‘Theer’s nowt—’

Tarr’s words failed as his large ears caught the sound. It was a human voice crying in panic; someone was trapped by the tide. He turned away, disgusted. Old Parry was a cruel piece of work.

‘Ah dunna want t’hear such,’ he muttered. ‘Tha’s got a heart o’ stone.’

‘Puh!’ she snorted. ‘ ‘Tis only a human boy. Just one less of them—won’t make no difference, there’s so many.’

‘A life, all t’same,’ Tarr spat as he shambled out. ‘Thee’s gone bitter ‘n’ twisted, Parry. Jus’ cos thee canna’ave bairns, dunna gloat when others perish.’

This struck a nerve and she countered with all her petty spite. ‘You dare preach at me, Tarr Shrimp?’ she squealed. ‘Look to yer own door afore you lord it!’

He glared at her and demanded, ‘What’s thee on about?’

‘Where’s yer son?’ she shouted accusingly. ‘Who killed Silas Gull and where do Hesper and Nelda vanish to at night? Taking vittles to Abe, are they?’

He gnashed his teeth and raised his staff fiercely, but she laughed in his face and dodged to one side. ‘A curse on your line, Tarr!’ she sneered. ‘Childless I may be but it’s folk like you that made me so.’ She lifted her hand and triumphantly declared, ‘There, hear now the voice that condemns your own children!’

From the outside world the cries of the boy were growing fainter but they could still make out the words. ‘Help!’ came the pitiful shouts. ‘Nelda, Hesper, it’s Ben—help me!’

Tarr charged back along the tunnel with Old Parry’s taunts ringing in his ears. ‘Get you gone from this place,’ she called after him. ‘It’s to the elders I’m bound. Consortin’ with the humans! Your folk are a disgrace to the tribe. It’s exile for you till the end of your days—you and your family!’

Ben stood on a tiny island of rock, but it was rapidly shrinking. He had climbed as high as he could to escape the encroaching water and was now truly stuck. He had called for help until it hurt his throat and his voice was weak and croaky. All he could do was watch as the sea rose steadily and lapped ever closer. He screwed up his face and sobbed with despair. One big wave was all that it would take to sweep him off and drag him under. The boy’s fingers gripped the shale tightly as he waited for the inevitable.

Suddenly the cliff trembled. A loud cracking and grinding issued from the darkness above and a shower of small pebbles rattled down.

The doorway to the aufwader caves was opening.

A familiar voice called, ‘Ben, take my hand.’ It was Nelda.

After leaving old Parry, Tarr had stormed back to Hesper’s quarters and demanded to know why a human child was calling for them outside. They did not stop to tell him but jumped up and sped to the entrance.

Ben reached up and clasped the small aufwader’s hand, then, helped by her aunt, she began to haul him up. He scrabbled over the sharp rock, scuffing his shoes and cutting his knees, but at last he was safe. As he lay gasping on the threshold of the aufwader caves, a large wave crashed on to the ledge he had just left. The spray hit their faces and they staggered back.

They were in a damp chamber, dominated by a primitive mechanism overhead that operated the two huge slabs of stone which were the main doors to the fisher folk dwellings. When closed, they fitted so precisely that it was impossible to see them from the outside and they made a perfect seal against the sea. Stacked in rows on the near wall were the little wooden boats the aufwaders used and beside them the nets and weights needed for fishing. Ben took it all in, then remembered what had driven him here.

‘Close the entrance,’ urged Hesper quickly. ‘The others will be here soon. They will throw the boy into the sea if they can.’

Nelda ran to one of the two rusty chains which dangled from the lofty ceiling and tugged with all her strength. The massive doors began to swing back into position.

Ben staggered to his feet. ‘Stop!’ he said. ‘We haven’t got much time.’

‘We know that, boy,’ sniffed Hesper. ‘Oh, nine times bless me! They will be here all too soon—hurry, Nelda.’ She turned on Ben and said scoldingly, ‘Do you realise the trouble you’ve caused us, child? The penalty for merely talking with you is great enough, but now you have stepped inside our domain, where no human has ever been.’ She buried her face in her oilskin hat and paced about in a circle, nibbling the brim.

‘No, you don’t understand,’ said Ben. ‘It’s the moonkelp! It’s time!’

Nelda released the chain and Hesper ceased her pacing. The cork lifebelt slid down to her ankles but she took no notice. ‘Tonight—are you sure?’

‘Positive!’

Hesper stared at her niece and let loose a terrific hoot of happiness. ‘It’s true after all!’ she cheered. ‘It’s true, it’s true—Oona was right!’

Nelda looked at Ben. ‘I knew you would be the one,’ she said. ‘I fear that when you stopped meeting us I thought—’ She stopped, seeing the boy’s troubled face. ‘Why do you turn away?’ she asked.

‘It’s your father,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve seen him.’

‘You have seen my father?’ she cried joyously. ‘Where? Was he well?’

A vivid image of that night flashed into Ben’s mind. He remembered the cruel lines that scored the aufwader’s face and the glint of the knife that he had raised. He shivered and for the umpteenth time wondered how such a wicked creature could possibly be Nelda’s father.

When Ben looked back at Nelda he realised that she was waiting for an answer. He nodded, but before he could tell her any more the tramp of many feet filled the chamber. The tribe was approaching, running down the tunnels to the entrance.

Hesper yanked up her lifebelt, ran to the row of boats and dragged one to the doorway. ‘We have not the time to explain our actions,’ she said. ‘For three hours only does the moonkelp bloom—we must not miss it. Nelda, the gap is not wide enough for me to get the boat out.’

Nelda ran to the other chain and heaved hard. The doors opened a little more and the craft was through.

The sea had risen a great deal. Now it was not far below the doorway and Hesper studied the waves keenly. ‘A calm tide,’ she said. ‘We shall be safe. Fetch me the oars, Nelda.’

Ben watched as the funny little aufwader stepped aboard, took the oars from her niece and gave the signal.

‘Push!’ she shouted.

Ben and Nelda put all their weight behind the small boat. Lurching, it slid along the ledge and flew through the air, landing with a great ‘smack’ on the water. Expertly, Hesper steadied the tiny craft and brought it as close to the threshold as the current permitted. ‘You next, boy,’ she called. ‘All you have to do is step down. Do not be alarmed, it’s perfectly safe.’

Ben was not sure—it didn’t look safe at all. Taking a deep breath in case he fell into the water, he stepped out. With a bump, he found himself sprawled in the boat at Hesper’s feet. He pulled himself up gingerly as the vessel tilted from side to side.

Hesper laughed. ‘There, that caused you no hurt, did it?’ She looked up at Nelda. ‘Now you, child.’

But her niece was not looking at them. She had turned away and was staring into the chamber. Hesper frowned. What was she up to? At that moment the clamour of angry voices burst into the night and Hesper realised that the rest of the tribe had arrived.

On the threshold Nelda faltered as the fisher folk poured in. There were thirty-five of them, the sole survivors of the aufwader race. They made no attempt to rush forward but shouted and screamed their contempt. She was caught. Trapped by the aufwader snare, she could neither speak nor run. Nelda had never seen them stirred to such anger before; the light in their eyes was terrifying.

Abruptly the noise died down and the crowd parted, making a clear path down the centre. ‘Esau approaches,’ they whispered reverently.

Through the assembled fisher folk moved a single figure: Esau, oldest of the ruling triad. His face was withered and the burden of eight centuries lay heavily upon his gnarled brow. Thick white whiskers trailed from his chin, knotted and threaded with stones and shells. Seaweed twined amid his bristling hair and hanging about his neck was a single pearl. Of all the elders he was the most respected. He seldom spoke—only in the direst emergencies, when judgements or important decisions were needed, had he been known to utter a word.

Grimly, and with his twisted back bowed by age, he crept closer. Nelda watched dumbly as he halted just three paces in front of her. The atmosphere was tense. Everyone held their breath and waited for him to proclaim the judgement.

Nelda knew that the elders had the power of life or death over wrongdoers. It was a power they rarely wielded, as such a severe punishment was reserved for only the most heinous crimes like murder or treason. An ice-cold dread stole over her—in the condemning eyes of Esau she had betrayed the tribe.

In silence, the elder raised his wizened arm and pointed an accusing finger at her. ‘Treachery!’ came his cracked old voice. ‘Thou art a traitor to thy kind.’ His words rang harshly round the chamber and he waited for the echo to die down before turning his back on her. ‘All bear witness to my judgement,’ he cried. ‘Henceforth the line of Tarr is banished from this place—let no one give them aid.’

Everybody hissed and began to stamp on the ground. At that moment Nelda felt the snare release her, but instead of leaping into the boat below she rounded on Esau. ‘Be silent, you old fool!’ she shouted defiantly.

Everyone gasped at this disgraceful behaviour—had she no respect? ‘Insolence!’ they roared.

But she had not finished with him yet. She stood her ground and cried, ‘For years we have hidden away from the world and bemoaned our lot. Our numbers have dwindled, and why? All you elders can do is huddle together, despising any who try to bring about change.’ She threw back her head and proclaimed triumphantly, ‘Tonight the moonkelp blooms, and when we find it the curse of the Deep Ones will be lifted for ever.’

Esau stared at her incredulously. ‘It cannot be so,’ he muttered. ‘It is but a legend. The moonkelp does not exist.’

Nelda snapped her fingers at him. ‘Yes it does. Long Whiskers,’ she said.

‘Impudent whelp!’ snapped the elder. For a moment he glared at her, then he relaxed and said with a shrewd smile, ‘Very well, child. If thou do indeed bring back the treasure of the Deep Ones, I shall lift my judgement. But if thee return empty-handed, then expect the full measure of my wrath and abide by my decision.’

Nelda agreed. ‘So be it,’ she said, and with that she leapt off the threshold.

Hesper chuckled and rowed away from the cliff. ‘Well done, Nelda,’ she said. ‘Imagine Old Parry’s face when we succeed.’ The two aufwaders looked back to the cliff entrance where the tribe was watching them leave and laughed. Then Hesper turned to Ben. ‘Tell me,’ she asked. ‘Just where may we find the moonkelp?’

Ben bit his lip; he had been dreading that question. ‘I don’t know,’ he answered flatly. ‘Out here somewhere, I suppose.’

Jennet, Miss Boston and Sister Bridget ran down the alleys that led to the beach. Most of the summer visitors were snugly downing their final pints in the pubs, but those that were still wandering in the streets stared at the novice with goggling eyes. She was certainly a striking figure, with her dark-green hair streaming behind, stark against the dazzling whiteness of her habit.

Jennet saw how the people were staring. The last thing they wanted was a crowd of spectators following them, so she smiled at every passer-by and said in a casual voice, ‘Fancy dress,’ That seemed to satisfy everybody and they reached the sands of Tate Hill Pier with no one in tow.

It was quiet on the gloomy shore. Sheltered by the two piers, the waves which were driven on to the sand were small and gentle.

‘Will we require a boat for this?’ asked Miss Boston, eyeing the dark water uncertainly.

Sister Bridget said nothing but stared out beyond the harbour entrance towards the horizon. The old lady followed her gaze. Something was slowly moving over the water; it was a strange, hazy sight and she wished she had brought her binoculars with her.

Jennet also looked, but although her vision was stronger than Aunt Alice’s, it was not as sensitive. What she saw made her shake her head and look again. It appeared to be a small figure hovering over the surface of the sea. Jennet was taken aback, but when she turned her eyes upon it a second time she saw that the figure was actually sitting in a little boat.

‘It is an aufwader vessel,’ said Sister Bridget unexpectedly. Her sight was the keenest of the three and quickly she identified those on board. ‘I see two of their folk,’ she murmured. ‘One wears an oilskin hat, the other is younger, and beside her there is a human child.’

‘Is it Ben?’ asked Jennet.

The novice nodded. ‘Yes,’ she confirmed, ‘it is your brother. They are searching for the moonkelp—they will never find it without my guidance.’

‘Then we must attract their attention,’ said Miss Boston excitedly. ‘Soon they will pass out of sight. Come along.’ With her cloak flapping madly, she ran over the sand to the pier and clambered up the few stairs which led on to it. Along the flat stretch of stone she scurried, unwinding the scarf from her neck and waving it madly in the air. ‘Hello!’ she called to the boat in the distance. ‘Hello, Benjamin!’

Jennet caught up with the old lady just as she had reached the end of the pier.

‘Jump up and down. Jennet dear,’ cried Aunt Alice desperately. ‘They must see us.’

‘Do not worry,’ came the voice of Sister Bridget as she joined them. ‘Look—the boat has changed course.’

Gradually the small aufwader vessel came closer. It was Hesper who had seen them and she gazed curiously at the tall figure dressed in white.

Miss Boston let out a great breath of relief and wrapped the scarf about her neck once more. Eagerly she waited as the boat drew near. ‘How splendid,’ she cooed when she discerned the two strange figures beside Ben. She had never before had the chance to examine an aufwader closely, and it was a thrilling prospect. The craft bumped against the side of the pier far below and Aunt Alice stooped and glanced over the side. ‘Oh, what a pity,’ she tutted in disappointment. To her the fisher folk were still blurred and fuzzy. ‘Botheration,’ she tutted.

Jennet had watched the boat approach with mounting concern. The poor girl could not see the aufwaders at all; the only things real to her were Ben and the boat. She had no idea how the vessel was being steered or how the oars moved through the water. Her brother looked up at her and waved cheerfully. ‘Just you wait,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘I’ll teach you to run off like that.’

Miss Boston pattered along the pier to where iron rungs were set into the stone. ‘Come up here, you little marvels,’ she shouted at the fisher folk.

Hesper and Nelda stared up at the old lady and the girl on the pier. Nelda was not sure if this was such a good idea. She leaned over to her aunt and said, ‘We waste precious time here. I still do not see why you were so set on this—the moonkelp must be our main concern.’

‘So it is,’ Hesper replied, ‘so it is.’ She gave her niece the oars and stood up in the boat to see if she could get a peek at the figure who had so fired her interest. Above her, Sister Bridget appeared and gazed down. ‘As I thought,’ nodded Hesper. ‘Look, Nelda. Now do you see?’

Nelda looked at the novice and immediately saw the faint shimmering aura that surrounded her. Confused, she turned to her aunt for an answer to this riddle.

‘Behold the daughter of Oona,’ Hesper announced, ‘after all this time. Hurry, Nelda, take us to the ladder.’

The oars dipped into the sea and swiftly Nelda brought the boat alongside the lowest rung. Hesper checked that her lifebelt was secure then clambered up. Ben was not sure if he should follow. He was certain that if he tried to stand up in the boat it would probably capsize.

‘Delighted to meet you,’ chatted Miss Boston as Hesper climbed up beside her. ‘And whom do I have the honour of addressing, may I ask?’

‘There is no time for that,’ interrupted Sister Bridget suddenly. ‘Only an hour remains. I must take your place in the boat.’ She brushed past Hesper and began to climb down the ladder.

The aufwader fell to her knees and called after her, ‘Eska, Eska—you must not venture on the open sea!’

Sister Bridget paused in the descent and threw her head back. The face she turned to her was pale but grim. ‘I no longer recognise that name,’ she said, trembling. ‘For many years I have been Bridget and that I will remain—whatever happens.’ She looked away and concentrated on the rungs of the ladder once more.

When she reached the bottom, the novice glanced at the deep water all around and shuddered. Nelda and Ben stared at her from the boat in surprise. ‘Are you really the daughter of Oona?’ asked Nelda.

‘For my sins,’ she returned solemnly. ‘Now hold the craft steady and make room for me.’

Nelda and Ben squashed themselves against the sides of the boat. ‘You coming with us, then?’ asked the boy.

Clinging to the ladder with one hand. Sister Bridget crossed herself and replied, ‘If my courage allows.’ With her heart pounding in her breast, she reached out her foot and stepped into the aufwader vessel.

Ben gripped the sides in alarm as the boat rocked uncontrollably. Sister Bridget cast her eyes despairingly upon the surrounding water. For the first time in her long life she was putting herself at the mercy of the waves. It was a chilling sensation. She knew full well the consequences if she were to fall in—the Lords of the Deep would claim her.

‘Hurry, child,’ she called to Nelda. ‘I shall be your guide now.’

Nelda put the oars into the water and struggled to pull away from the pier. High over their heads Jennet called to her brother, ‘Be careful, Ben!’ He gave an answering shout and the boat sailed out on to the dark wide sea.

Miss Boston put her arm around the girl’s neck. ‘Don’t worry, dear,’ she said. ‘He is in excellent hands.’

Hesper stamped her foot with irritation. ‘All this time I have wandered the shores to find it!’ she snorted. ‘Now I shall never see the moonkelp.’

They watched the little craft move away, so engrossed that they failed to hear the footsteps which approached from behind.

Miss Boston smiled at the blurred shape next to her. ‘You have played your part,’ she told the aufwader. ‘Now it is up to them.’

‘All the same,’ added Hesper quietly, ‘I would wish that Eska had remained here—the sea is no place for her.’

Miss Boston disagreed. ‘Oh no,’ she replied mildly, ‘she had to go. Not just because she knew where to find the moonkelp, you understand. No, Sister Bridget has endured her entire life for this one night—it’s what she was born for. I pray she survives.’

Hesper bowed her head. ‘Poor Oona, I wish she had brought her daughter to me—I would have gladly left the tribe to look after her.’

‘Things are as they should be,’ muttered Aunt Alice darkly.

Jennet had taken her eyes from the boat which was now in the distance and had been listening to this exchange with growing annoyance. To her it was a one-sided conversation. Not only could she not see Hesper, but all that she said escaped her hearing.

‘What a charming little scene,’ a sneering voice broke in.

The three of them whirled round. Silhouetted against the lights of Whitby was Rowena Cooper.

13 - Struggle At Sea

The woman was dressed in black robes which were tied round the middle by a thick purple cord. On a chain about her neck she wore a five-pointed star that gleamed against the midnight material. She played with the amethyst ring on her finger and mocked the group before her, laughing at the dismay on their faces.

‘A child, a shore vagrant and a senile old woman,’ she spat contemptuously. ‘What a ridiculous combination.’

Hesper moved forward, bewildered. ‘Yet another human with the sight,’ she said. ‘Is the gift not as rare as once it was?’

Miss Boston put her hand on the aufwader’s shoulder. ‘Beware,’ she whispered, then cleared her throat and said aloud, ‘I do believe Mrs Cooper is showing her true colours at last. What do you think. Jennet? A little too crude for my taste, perhaps, but then what can one expect from a black witch?’

‘A witch?’ repeated Jennet and she gaped at Rowena. The woman seemed to have grown. In her black robes, she was like a great dark cloud. Even Aunt Alice seemed to have shrunk in comparison.

Miss Boston folded her arms. ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Mrs Cooper—though I doubt if that is her real name—has been using her treacherous arts from the moment she arrived.’

Hesper removed her oilskin hat. ‘Is there such a breed left in the world of man?’ she asked in astonishment.

Rowena sneered at her and moved a little closer. She was now effectively blocking the way back and they were caught between her and the end of the pier. She glared at the horizon, the boat now only a small speck upon it, and tossed her head with anger.

‘They are out of your reach now,’ smiled Miss Boston blithely. ‘I’m so sorry, but we couldn’t wait, you see.’

Rowena hissed venomously at her, ‘Old crone, I am not defeated yet!’ She took a step nearer, forcing them dangerously close to the pier edge—one quick shove and they would all topple backwards. The woman seemed to consider this for a moment, flexing her fingers with anticipation, but for some reason she decided against it and, instead, cupped her hands around her mouth. ‘Gull!’ she shrieked. ‘Come here, Gull!’

Hesper clutched her hat anxiously. With wide eyes she watched as a short figure hurried along the pier towards them. The leering aufwader, knife in hand, ran to Rowena’s side and licked his brown teeth. He shot a despising glance at Hesper and wiped his nose on his sleeve. She could only stare at him, utterly horrified, as the truth dawned.

‘Cat bit yer tongue, Hesper?’ he asked. ‘Not like you, that—always ‘ad a word or three t’say, you did. Ain’tcha glad t’see me, then?’

Hesper’s heart grew cold. ‘Hello, Silas,’ she said eventually. ‘I thought you were dead.’

‘Hoped I was, ya mean!’ he laughed. ‘But that’s what I wanted yer to think.’

She looked at his gansey—it belonged to Nelda’s father. ‘Never was there a more loathsome worm,’ she said. ‘I curse the day I wed you, Silas Gull.’

He spat on the ground. ‘Dunna fret yerself, me darlin’. Abe weren’t worth any tears. Poked ‘is nose a bit too far into my affairs—‘e ‘ad to be kept quiet.’

‘So you took his life and robbed his clothes,’ she said with disgust. ‘The black boat which we burned contained my brother, yet his name has become reviled by the tribe.’

Silas chuckled maliciously. ‘Hah, I ‘oped it would. Serve ‘im right I says, fer all them times ‘e shamed me.’ He grinned and added in a whisper, ‘Listen to this, Hesper my love. If I ‘ad the chance I would gladly throttle your ‘oly brother nine times over.’

Hesper flew at him. Whipping out one of her little fishing poles she beat Silas on the side of his head.

Her husband fell back but immediately sprang to his feet and flourished the knife before him. ‘No one does that t’me no more!’ he yelled.

‘Enough!’ snapped Rowena suddenly. She seized Silas’ knife and threw it into the water below. He rounded on her but the look in the witch’s eyes daunted him. ‘There will be time for this later,’ she barked. ‘But first things first.’ Rowena pointed out to sea. ‘Out there that halfbreed could already be claiming the wish. You must stop her!’

‘What d’yer expect me t’do?’ he asked. ‘We ain’t got no boat, ‘ave we?’

‘You can swim, can’t you?’ Rowena snarled back at him.

Silas stared at the black, uninviting water and shivered. ‘I’m not goin’ in theer!’ he said firmly.

‘You will do precisely what I command!’ shouted Rowena, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck. ‘I haven’t put myself through all this for nothing. If we don’t find it tonight then neither of our lives shall be worth living. But know this. When my husband discovers that I have been plotting behind his back, rest assured that before he arrives to tighten the leash about my neck I shall dine off your putrid flesh.’ With a fierce push, she thrust him over the edge and he tumbled into the sea.

Silas floundered in the waves. His whiskers were plastered over his spluttering face and he looked like a drowned weasel. Coughing up the brine, he glowered at Rowena, hating her yet fearing her more.

‘Bring the moonkelp back to me,’ she called down to him.

Swearing and grumbling under his breath, Silas kicked his legs in the water and began to swim after the little boat.

‘Your lackey will never reach them in time,’ said Miss Boston confidently. ‘You have lost.’

Rowena did not reply, directing all her powers of concentration elsewhere. She bent her thoughts towards the little aufwader boat and in the black maze of her mind, the scene was revealed to her.

Hesper looked questioningly at Aunt Alice. ‘But why should this human desire the moonkelp?’ she asked. ‘It will not aid her.’

Aunt Alice thought she knew the reason. ‘I think Mrs Cooper would disagree with you there,’ she replied. ‘No doubt it possesses certain qualities vital to particular rituals.’

Suddenly Rowena sighed, and the vision which she had conjured up melted before her eyes. ‘Excellent,’ she cried. ‘They have not found it yet.’ She turned to the group beside her and caught the gist of what they were saying.

‘The moonkelp!’ she roared, throwing back her blonde head. ‘Is that what you think, you old hag? Pathetic! How amusing the feeble-minded can be!’

This cruel derision made Jennet furious. She moved forward, but Aunt Alice’s arms held her tightly. ‘Peace, dear,’ said the old lady softly. ‘Ignore her and she may ignore you.’

Rowena’s thin, twisted lips pulled wide apart and revealed all her teeth. ‘The moonkelp is not my goal,’ she told them. ‘What use to me is such a weed?’

‘Then what do you want?’ asked Hesper.

Rowena touched the star pendant at her throat. ‘I seek my freedom,’ she answered in a hushed voice. ‘Once I return the wretched moonkelp to the Lords of the Deep I shall have it—the power to control and destroy will be mine alone to wield.’

‘The Deep Ones will not aid you in that, witch woman!’ protested Hesper. ‘If you think to obtain some of their might, then you shall perish. For their craft is too great for any mortal—it would consume you.’

‘I want none of their baseness!’ Rowena snorted. ‘But they alone know the precise location of what I seek. Somewhere in this squalid, dingy little town a most wondrous thing was hidden and forgotten many ages past—an artefact charged with the magic of the ancients.’

‘Balderdash!’ retorted Miss Boston. ‘Whitby is full of legends, but I’ve never heard anything to suggest that before. Absolute rubbish!’

Rowena prowled before her and the old lady teetered on the brink of the pier. ‘Have you not?’ she growled with menace. ‘What of Hilda?’

‘St Hilda?’ said Aunt Alice, in a voice which had lost its confidence. Somewhere in the back of her mind there was an idea… if only she was less flustered. But the sound of the sea slapping the wall below scattered her thoughts and she glanced down warily. The heels of her brogues were only just on the pier; if Rowena compelled her to move back any more then she would certainly fall. The old lady shuffled her feet forward and desperately groped amongst her memories. ‘St Hilda,’ she repeated. ‘What has this absurd fantasy got to do with her?’

‘Saint Hilda!’ scoffed Rowena. ‘Before she came here, Hilda was a sorceress! If she had not found your God she could have ruled absolutely with the power that she possessed.’

Miss Boston uttered a cry as finally it came to her. ‘And she cut off the heads of the serpents,’ she said, fearfully repeating the old legend, ‘with a whip or… staff.’ The old lady glanced at Rowena and trembled, momentarily losing her balance. ‘Can it be true?’ she stammered.

Rowena Cooper swept the short, bleached curls off her forehead. Forming her bloodless white lips into a horrible smile she laughed softly and murmured, ‘Yes! Tonight the staff of Hilda will be mine.’

Ben’s eyes smarted. They ached from staring at the endless stretch of water and he had rubbed them until they were bloodshot. ‘Is it much further?’ he groaned. His initial excitement had worn off and the chill wind of the open sea numbed his cheeks and had turned his fingers purple.

Sister Bridget was absorbed in studying the night sky. There were too many clouds for her to be certain—if only she could get a clear view of the stars. ‘I feel it is near,’ she said.

Nelda ceased rowing, for her arms were tired. She gazed about them, but all was dark—not a sign of the moonkelp anywhere.

The novice caught her doubtful glance. ‘Patience,’ she told her. ‘The moonkelp will not show itself until I speak the charm of the cold realm.’

She put her hands together and rested her chin upon them. Then, quietly at first, she began to recite the words her mother had sung to her. Her voice grew in strength as she repeated the strange-sounding charm. Cutting through the blackness of the night like a blade, it rose to a shout. Words of power challenged the spells of darkness that Irl had wrapped about the moonkelp long ages past and which blinded their eyes to it still.

Ben looked all around him. The air was charged with expectation and he held his breath—something was definitely beginning to happen.

A faint glimmer appeared about the boat. High above, the clouds moved quickly, fleeing to the far rim of the world, and in the clear expanse blazed the moon. It was swollen and full, bright as the sun but cold and ringed with a halo of frosty light. The icy rays poured down and the sea became molten silver.

Ben and Nelda looked at each other in wonder as sparks danced over the timbers of the boat. They pulled their tingling hands away from its sides hastily. The shining water crackled and a flash of green lightning streaked through the waves, encircling them in a mesh of magical fire which radiated outwards, weaving a dazzling net upon the calm sea.

Abruptly Sister Bridget stopped chanting. She collapsed into Nelda’s arms, gasping for breath. Her work was done.

Nelda felt her pulse. ‘She will recover quickly,’ she told Ben. ‘You keep a watch for the moonkelp.’

The boy leaned out of the boat and scanned the shimmering sea. The quality of the light was changing—it became softer, and when he looked at the waves he noticed that they were now edged with gold.

From the deep, empty reaches of the sea-bed the moonkelp rose. Beneath the silver sea a rich yellow glow welled up. Bubbles of flame erupted on the surface and burst against the keel of the aufwader vessel. With a hiss of steam, the treasure of the Deep Ones surged upwards and met the air.

Ben fell back at the incredible sight. The many strands of the moonkelp shone gold and green. The light which pulsed from them was like midday at high summer and it laced the surrounding sea.

‘Hurry,’ Nelda instructed Ben. ‘Gather it before it sinks again.’

He reached over the side and put his hand into the water. It was deliciously warm and when his fingers brushed the waving weed, all weariness left him. Quickly the boy began to haul the moonkelp out of the sea. Fiery jewels dripped from it. The marvellous light flooded his face when he held the treasure in his hands and the boat brimmed over with its glory.

Sister Bridget stirred in Nelda’s arms. She raised her head and the sight of the moonkelp invigorated her. With its brilliance mirrored in her eyes, she turned to the aufwader. ‘Send it back to them,’ she said urgently. ‘Claim the reward and release your people.’

Nelda could not quite believe what was happening. She felt as though she was inside one of the old legends that Hesper had told her. Hastily she foraged in the canvas bag by her side and brought out a large scallop shell. ‘Place it on this,’ she told Ben. ‘I must call to the Deep Ones and despatch their treasure.’

Ben did as he was told, leaning forward to put the glowing moonkelp into the shell. Nelda took a deep breath, hesitating until Sister Bridget gave a nod of encouragement.

The aufwader faced north and held the shell aloft.

‘Hear me,’ she shouted into the wind. ‘Listen to my words, ye Lords of the Deep and Dark. Let my voice journey to your cold realm and may you—’

The boat tipped suddenly. Ben was thrown to one side and the novice screamed. Terrified in case they fell into the water, she gripped the sides and sobbed with fear.

Above her frantic cries a harsh voice said, ‘May the deeps swallow the lot o’ yers!’

Nelda lowered the shell and forgot everything; the shock of what she saw overwhelmed her. For, clinging to the boat, drenched and malevolent, was the uncle she had presumed dead.

‘Silas!’ she exclaimed.

Just as Ben had gathered the moonkelp, Silas had caught up with them. Silently he had swum closer, gloating in the sure knowledge that they were unaware of his approach. This was going to be too easy, he had told himself.

Ben stared at Silas fearfully. ‘I thought this was your father,’ he told Nelda.

‘No,’ she muttered tearfully. ‘He is my uncle, and a murderer.’

‘Shut yer whinin’!’ Silas roared, and his rough hand snaked out and struck the side of her face. It was a vicious slap and Nelda yelped with the force of it. The shell and its golden treasure dropped from her grasp and crashed to the floor of the boat.

Ben sprang forward but was too slow. With a sideways dig of his elbow, Silas shoved him down, winded and spluttering. The little craft lurched, threatening to capsize. Sister Bridget, petrified with terror, could do nothing to prevent Silas from reaching in to snatch the moonkelp away.

He laughed as his grubby fingers clawed up the shining prize and he spat at each of them in turn. ‘A curse on all,’ he growled. ‘Man, kin and halfblood—yer fishbait now.’ With a cackle he rocked the boat deliberately. Sister Bridget sobbed and Ben held on tightly.

Anger to the point of madness furied up inside Nelda. Still stinging from his last blow, she lashed out at her evil uncle. ‘You killed my father!’ she screamed.

Silas pushed her down once more, enjoying watching them suffer. A few more rocks and the boat would tip over completely. Then, to his surprise, Nelda staggered forward again. Lunging at the hand which held the moonkelp, she seized it in her own, bared her teeth and bit deeply into his skin.

‘Aaaaaaggghhhh!’ he screeched, tearing his hand from her mouth. ‘You’ve drawn blood,’ he yelled, gazing at the torn flesh. ‘Well, you’ll not do that again!’ With his other hand, he punched his niece for all he was worth.

Nelda reeled backwards and, as she fell, her head struck the side of the boat with a dull crack. She slumped senseless to the bottom.

‘You’ve killed her!’ cried Ben. He stared at Silas, appalled, then turned to Sister Bridget. ‘Can’t you do anything?’ he asked.

‘Don’t waste yer breath askin’ ‘er,’ sniggered Silas. ‘Afraid t’step in a puddle, that one is.’ He scooped up a handful of seawater and threw it at the novice. She shrieked when it hit her. ‘That’s what comes of mixin’ the two,’ Silas snarled mockingly. ‘I’ll wager there’s weaker stuff in her veins.’

Sister Bridget raised her head and glared at Silas reproachfully. He did not notice the perilous look which had crept into her eyes. Very softly, she began to hum.

‘Barmy, she is,’ Silas grunted. ‘Hark at her—cracked as an old bog pot.’

Ben did not listen. He was cradling Nelda’s head in his arms and did not care what happened to them any more.

Silas sucked the back of his hand and eased himself back into the water; it was time to return to Rowena. Let them sail where they wanted—they were not important now. Besides, if they thought they could escape they were mistaken. After tonight nowhere would be safe. Keeping the glowing moonkelp over his head, Silas pushed himself away from the boat and began swimming to the far shore.

Sister Bridget stroked Ben’s hair. For a moment the tune died on her lips. ‘Do not worry,’ she told him. ‘Nelda is not dead—she will awaken.’

The boy looked up at her. ‘Why didn’t you do anything to help?’ he asked. ‘Why didn’t you stop him?’

‘I was afraid,’ she replied. ‘All my life I have been afraid. Yet it is strange, is it not, that the moment he threw the water at me and I tasted the bitterness of its salt, all my fears vanished.’

Ben stared after the determined figure of Silas as he swam away. ‘It’s too late now,’ he said.

‘I think not,’ she answered secretively. ‘He will never reach the shore. For Oona was my mother and I am proud of that, for she taught me much that day when she sang to me. Now I know it was not I, her child, whom she could not bear, but the thought of returning to the life of an aufwader. That is why she left me in human care. Finally, I understand.’ With a deadly smile, the humming resumed.

Ben watched Sister Bridget doubtfully. Perhaps Silas was right—maybe she had gone mad. Why else would she behave like this?

Almost imperceptibly, words began to creep into the tune. It grew stronger until Sister Bridget was singing loud and defiantly. Ben felt a chill pass over him. The song was unsettling and made him want to get away. But how could he?

Suddenly the melody changed: the tone became harsh and prickled the hairs on his neck. A shadow fell over the novice’s face but her voice continued. The discord mounted, seeming to jar every bone in Ben’s body until he covered his ears in an attempt to block it out.

The silver moonlight faded and all around them the sea darkened threateningly, as if responding to the sister’s song. The gentle wind now blew in strong gusts that whipped up the waves and crowned them with foam. The boat spun round as the breakers smashed into its sides. Ben stared at Sister Bridget—somehow she was responsible for this.

‘Weathercharming!’ he cried. ‘You’re singing up the storm.’

The waves swelled all the more. Huge volumes of water reared up and raged towards Silas. The aufwader cried out but his voice was lost amid the tumult as hammering waves swept him up, then hurled him down again. Silas fought to keep afloat, with the moonkelp held over his head. He gulped down deep breaths and the sea battered into him. The full fury of the mounting tempest was focused on him and he floundered in its wrath.

Ben thought the piercing notes were going to burst his eardrums. Though the storm was at its height he could still hear the shrill song and it pounded in his head.

With one final shriek that seemed to madden the wild blasting gale. Sister Bridget stopped. Take the oars,’ she shouted to Ben. ‘You have to row to him.’

‘Into that?’ spluttered the boy. ‘You must be mad. We’ll be dashed to pieces!’

‘Do it!’ she commanded. ‘It is our last chance to retrieve the moonkelp.’

Ben seized the oars and plunged them into the churning water. The current snatched at them and the rough wood rubbed the skin from his palms. With his teeth clenched, the boy clung on determinedly and began pulling the boat through the frothing waves.

They rode the boiling sea, skimming bravely between the steep water valleys, gaining with every dreadful moment upon the toiling figure of Silas.

‘Closer,’ demanded the novice. ‘Hurry, boy!’

Ben heaved on the oars but they bucked and tugged at his arms. It was like riding a mad horse. ‘I can’t,’ he yelled. ‘I’m not strong enough.’ But even as he said these words, the wind drove the craft into the centre of the tempest.

The light of the moonkelp was dimmed by the black brine which rained down as the waves broke over Silas, but it was still firmly in his hands.

‘Hold her steady,’ Sister Bridget called to Ben as they rammed through the water.

Silas was almost within reach now. He turned his stricken face to them and battled against the waves. Never had he been so afraid, but although his heart rejoiced to see the boat he cursed the novice with all his strength. ‘Damn her!’ he cried. ‘Damn her to her Deep!’

But neither she nor Ben heard him. Sister Bridget stretched out her hand. ‘I have it!’ she shouted as her fingers closed about the moonkelp in Silas’ clutches.

But the aufwader would not let go, and with the waves crashing over his head he grimly held on. Suddenly the boat lurched, carried by the foaming tide. Sister Bridget cried out as she was yanked back. For an instant her fingers slipped from the moonkelp, but she leant out even further and caught it again.

Silas tried to pull the treasure free of her grasp but most of his energies had been spent labouring in the waves. With dismay he saw the novice wrench the moonkelp from his fist.

Sister Bridget sat back in the boat and waved the shining treasure over her head. ‘At last,’ she cried triumphantly.

Ben cheered with relief, but he turned guiltily to the aufwader, still struggling in the water.

‘Help,’ spluttered Silas. ‘Don’t leave me here. I can’t make it—’ His head disappeared beneath the waves and when he bobbed up again his eyes were wide with despair. ‘I’m drowning!’ he screamed.

Ben glanced at the novice. ‘We can’t leave him,’ he said.

Sister Bridget looked at the boat uncertainly—it wasn’t big enough for the four of them. Silas would just have to hang on to the side. ‘Here,’ she said to the boy, ‘take the moonkelp. I shall pull him from the water.’

‘Be careful,’ warned Ben as she leant over the side once more.

Silas waved his arms in panic as he went under for the third time. ‘Save me,’ he gargled. ‘I’m done fer!’

‘Take my hand,’ called the novice, stretching out as far as she dared.

Silas reached up and grabbed the offered hand. ‘Got you now, halfbreed!’ he snarled, dropping the pretence.

Too late. Sister Bridget realised she had been tricked. ‘No!’ she pleaded. ‘I beg you!’ But it was no good. Using his last reserve of strength, the aufwader dragged her out of the boat. ‘Time to come home,’ he yelled, as she fell into the sea.

A great spout of water flew up when she hit the seething waves. ‘You’ll not be welcome where you’re going,’ Silas bawled.

Sister Bridget was gasping and choking when she reappeared. Terror was graven on her face and she splashed hopelessly, gagging on the salt water she had swallowed.

‘Are you all right?’ shouted Ben, too worried about her to notice Silas swimming towards him.

A change came over the blackened sea. Far below a sickly greenish light began to pulse, as if her presence in the water had triggered some strange alarm. From the fathomless depths, a great bell began to toll. Sister Bridget wailed when she heard it and her tears mingled with the sea.

‘Don’t just sit there, boy!’ spat Silas, grabbing hold of the side of the boat. ‘Don’t yer know what that is? It’s the Lords o’ the Deep—they’re comin’ fer’er.’

Ben put down the oars and stared at the horizon. In the dim distance, there rose an immense wall of water in a thunderous rush. It reached into the night sky and savage lightning flickered round its towering height. It was like a mountain of glass that fed on the surrounding darkness, sucking up the sea and ever increasing in size.

With a rumble that shook all the oceans of the world, the nightmarish spectacle roared towards them.

‘They know I am here,’ the novice cried. Ben held out an oar to her but she pushed it away. ‘Flee!’ she shouted. ‘All is lost. Save yourself—it is too late for me.’

‘You ‘eard ‘er,’ bellowed Silas, fearfully looking over his shoulder. The vast wave was sweeping nearer and he trembled when he caught sight of those contained within.

Sister Bridget knew she faced death. All those years of cringing from the world were finally over. The wrathful Lords of the Deep had found her, just as they had found her father, and they had come to claim her. It was the end of everything. She sobbed hopelessly—had it all been for nothing?

‘Row, damn you!’ Silas screamed at Ben. ‘I’ll not be ‘ere when they come—I’ll not be dragged to the cold regions.’

But Ben was petrified, and could not move; the awful vision of the Deep Ones in all their fury paralysed him. Silas swung one leg over the side. ‘I’ll do it myself,’ he growled. But the other leg refused to follow—in fact it pulled him down again.

‘What the..?’ He stared down at his foot and what he saw made him squirm maniacally. ‘Leave go!’ he screeched.

Below him. Sister Bridget laughed. It was a terrible sound, filled with doom and despair. Her hands were fastened about his ankle and she held on tenaciously. ‘Come, stunted one!’ she cried. ‘Let me embrace you.’

Just as he had pulled her, she dragged Silas out of the boat. He fell into the water with a great howl of fear. ‘Keep away from me!’ he begged.

But she merely laughed all the more. ‘Come to me,’ she taunted. ‘I only wish to hold you.’

Silas kicked out at her, truly panicking now. Flailing his arms in the water, he tried to escape, but she was too quick. Her strong fingers grabbed the gansey he had taken from the body of Nelda’s father and hauled him back down. He was caught like a fish on a hook.

The huge wave was almost upon them, its deadly pinnacles rearing over their heads. With a fierce light in her eyes. Sister Bridget turned to Ben. ‘Row, fool!’ she shrieked. ‘Row!’

The boy snapped out of his terror and strained at the oars. The novice watched the boat pull away and dragged Silas in the opposite direction.

‘Curse you!’ he whined, but his protests died in his throat as he looked up.

The sheer wall of water towered over them and within its ominous bulk he saw three shadowy figures. The Lords of the Deep wore crowns of glowing green stars. Their eyes were huge, lidless discs that glared down at Sister Bridget accusingly, and the hair which cascaded from their bloated, coral-crusted heads was like the branches of great trees. A deafening thunderclap issued from their mouths and they revealed row upon row of sharp, jagged teeth.

‘Wait,’ screamed Silas. ‘I am not to blame—let me go free.’

The novice laughed at his futile efforts. “They do not hear you,’ she cried.

‘Nooo!’ he begged. ‘For pity’s sake.’

But she took no notice and grimly wrapped her arms about him. ‘Take the cold road with me, Silas Gull,’ she hissed in his ear. ‘Let them drag us down together!’

With terrible violence, the Deep Ones smashed down on them. The sea convulsed at the impact and shock waves sped inland and smote the cliffs of Whitby.

The aufwader boat was tossed like a matchstick on the water. On board, Ben clung to Nelda for dear life—in its ruin he had seen monstrous tentacles writhing and thrashing in the wake of the wave. For several minutes he lay shaking on the bottom of the boat, then it was all over.

The sea became calm and when Ben peered over the side, it was as though nothing had happened. Only the empty sea met his gaze—there was no sign of Sister Bridget or Silas anywhere. He stared at the dark water—they had been taken below. It was a horrible thought.

A painful groan came from the still form by his side. Ben patted Nelda’s face and she opened her eyes, but the pupils were unseeing and she sank into unconsciousness again.

What am I to do? he thought. He was cold and exhausted and the night seemed to press round him. At his feet the moonkelp was dying, for the time allotted to its flowering was nearly over. Carefully Ben picked it up. The treasure which had been so hard to win and had cost so many lives was disintegrating before his very eyes. The golden light which pulsed through its stems waned and grew weak.

‘Oh, no!’ he said and, searching in the cold water that sloshed in the bottom of the boat, he brought out the large shell. It was chipped but still whole. Maybe it isn’t too late, he told himself. If only I knew what to do.

Quickly he put the shrivelling moonkelp on the shell and held them both aloft. ‘Listen to me. Lords of the Deep,’ he shouted to the bleak expanse of the sea. ‘Take back this treasure and let me have my wish.’

The moonkelp suddenly burst into flames and a tongue of yellow fire soared into the sky. The Lords of the Deep had heard him.

On the pier Aunt Alice squeezed Jennet’s hand. They had all seen the terrible wave rise up, but had no idea what was happening. Then the sea flung itself upon the cliff and fierce waves battered against the pier. Miss Boston took hold of Hesper and, with Jennet, pushed past Rowena. They ran to the old lighthouse and clung to its rails as the waves crashed over the edge.

While the spray foamed up over the stone, Rowena pressed her fingers to her temples. ‘I must see,’ she whispered.‘I must know.’ Locking her muscles until they were rigid she sent her thoughts flying over the water towards the aufwader boat once more.

There, Ben was standing in the craft, the brilliant thread of flame scorching upwards from the shell in his hands. The wish was his now. Rowena’s thought returned to her body and she staggered back.

‘You idiot. Gull!’ she cried. It was hopeless. The reward would go straight to the boy, he would save the tribe and she would never know where the staff of Hilda was concealed.

Then an awful smile flashed over her lips. ‘There is a way,’ she murmured.

She threw her arms wide and screwed her face up, summoning every ounce of power. ‘Channel through me, ye demons that feed off my soul,’ she cried. ‘Put my voice in his mouth, let my words be his—for evil’s sake!’

Unholy laughter boomed across the sky and, with her black robes flapping madly in the gale, Rowena’s face turned white as she strove to control the forces she had unleashed.

Nelda grunted; she touched the tender lump on her skull and winced. Very slowly her eyes fluttered open. The world was swirling and strange voices echoed inside her head. She did not know where she was, but something bright was shining above her and she blinked to bring everything in focus.

The last sparks from the moonkelp drifted up from the shell in Ben’s hands and then she remembered. She realised that she had awoken just in time, for the boy was about to lift the curse. This was the vision Nelda had seen on the cliff-top and she held her breath with anticipation. At last the tribe would be able to grow and children would be born again.

But the smile froze on her mouth—something was wrong. The boy looked ill. His face was drawn and he swayed like one in a trance. ‘Hear me, ye Lords of the Deep and Dark,’ he shouted, in a voice that sounded forced and unfamiliar. ‘Grant to me the reward you promised ages past for returning to you your treasure.’

A cloud of soft grey ash blew out of the shell and hovered in the air. ‘Hear now my wish!’ he cried. The sea became smooth—not a ripple marred its perfect surface. Everything was silent, waiting for his demand.

‘Reveal unto Rowena Cooper,’ he uttered hollowly, ‘the precise location of Hilda’s staff!’

The shell fell from his hands. It shattered on the side of the boat and the cloud of ash was snatched away by the breeze.

‘What… what have you done?’ stammered Nelda.

Ben fell to his knees and the spell which had bound him melted. He stared at Nelda in disbelief. ‘What did I say?’ he cried. ‘What did I say?’

On the pier, Rowena Cooper shuddered. In the far northern sky a point of light appeared. A slender shaft of green slanted down over the sea and shone on the witch’s forehead. It burned into her mind the knowledge she so desperately sought and Rowena crowed with delight—at last she knew.

Spinning on her heels, she threw Miss Boston and the others a triumphant glance, then hurried back to the town with her robes billowing behind her.

14 - The Empress Of The Dark

The gables of the late Mrs Banbury-Scott’s house cast odd, angled shadows on the lawn. With no lights behind its mullioned windows, the building was a sorry sight. There was no one at home, for both Grice and Mrs Rigpath had fled from Rowena that afternoon as she had rampaged through every room. Panels had been splintered, hangings torn, and the attic spaces poked and peered into, but without success. She had not found what she sought and now the house settled uneasily on its foundations, its ancient timbers creaking and complaining.

The serene peace did not last long—Rowena had returned. Eagerly she let herself into the house and stormed through the hall, leaving the front door wide open. Charging through the debris that littered the floor, she kicked open the french windows and hurried into the garden.

Grice’s shed was lost in shadow, nestling against the garden wall. Rowena ran up to it and pushed open the heavy door. She fumbled for a switch and clicked on the electric light. The walls were covered in tools and on one side there were three shelves stacked with tins containing nails and tacks, nuts and bolts and old bits of wire.

Rowena sneered at all the patient hours the man had spent in this place and with one sweep of her arm, knocked every tin to the floor. ‘There!’ she whispered. ‘The mark of Hilda.’ On the bare wall between two of the shelves was a curious sign gouged into the plaster. Circling it were three others, but they were meaningless to her and she ignored them. ‘All these years,’ she said admiringly, ‘and no one knew. All this time locked away here—a perfect hiding place. Grand houses are easy targets, yet who would notice a hut like this? Even I overlooked it.’

She ran her fingers lovingly over the mark. ‘And now you’re mine,’ she snorted. ‘I have beaten you, Hilda!’

The witch threw spanners and screwdrivers to the ground as she looked for something to break through the plaster. The axe she had borrowed was still in the house and she was too impatient to fetch it, so she seized a pair of garden shears and drove them into the wall.

The plaster was dry and crumbled easily, as she hacked and stabbed with the blades.

‘Oh, Hilda,’ Rowena said, ‘you should have destroyed your staff instead of sealing it in a wall for me to find. Were you so unsure of your newfound God? How its very existence must have tormented you—how you must have longed to wield it once more.’

A ragged gash now grinned in the whitewash. With the next strike of the garden shears, the plaster gave way. A sound like a rifle firing blistered through the hut and all along the wall hairline cracks appeared.

Rowena stood back as the cracks widened and in an avalanche of dust and dirt the whole lot slid down.

When the choking cloud settled she wiped her eyes and laughed. At her feet, half hidden in the rubble of long buried centuries, was the staff of Hilda.

It was a long piece of polished black wood, carved round the handle with Celtic snakes that twined into knots and swallowed their tails. A beautiful thing, it had been untouched by age since the day Hilda herself had walled it up. Rowena could feel the power beating from it. She licked her dry, dusty lips and held out a quaking hand.

‘Mine,’ she said softly as she felt the magic of the ancients surge through her. ‘It really is mine.’ The witch threw back her head and laughed madly.

Miss Boston watched the little boat drift closer. At her side, Hesper was fretting. ‘I see only Nelda and the boy. Where then are Eska and Silas?’

Jennet waved to her brother as the craft sailed into hearing distance. ‘Ben, Ben,’ she called out.

He looked up but did not return the wave.

Aunt Alice clasped her hands behind her back and her chins shook querulously. ‘I fear all is not well,’ she said.

‘But Rowena’s gone,’ Jennet told her. ‘That must mean she’s failed.’

The old lady said no more, but that last look of triumph on the witch’s face had been troubling her. The only thing they could do was wait for the boat to return and learn the truth.

The aufwader vessel bumped against the side of the pier and Nelda slowly rowed to the iron rungs. Ben scrambled up the ladder. When he was safely on the pier he ran to his sister and flung his arms round her. ‘It’s all my fault,’ he cried. ‘It’s all my fault.’

Jennet stared at Aunt Alice. What did he mean?

Hesper pattered over to the edge of the pier and helped her niece up next. ‘My heart rejoices to see that you are safe,’ she said, ‘but what happened to Eska? Why is she not with you?’

Nelda raised her head and Hesper saw that tears were streaming down her cheeks. ‘So the Deep Ones took her,’ she murmured. ‘Well, perhaps she is happy at last.’

Miss Boston removed her hat and gazed at the ground. ‘Then Sister Bridget is no more,’ she clucked sorrowfully.

Nelda wiped her eyes. ‘They took Silas too,’ she put in, ‘and… and that is not all,’ She glanced quickly at Ben and hung her head.

‘Weep not for Silas,’ Hesper said, trying to comfort her. ‘I was a fool to think he would ever change. A rogue he was when I wed him and a rogue he remained. The shore is a cleaner place without him.’

Aunt Alice looked from Ben to Nelda, trying to understand their despair. She moved forward and tapped Hesper on the arm. ‘I think there is more to this than we know,’ she told her.

‘But what else might there be?’ Hesper returned. She gasped suddenly as a suspicion crept into her mind. ‘No!’ she exclaimed. ‘Nelda, tell me I am wrong. Tell me you found the moonkelp and returned it to the Lords of the Deep.’

Nelda did not reply—she avoided her aunt’s eyes and stared at the ground.

It was Ben who answered for her. He let go of Jennet and said in a wavering voice, ‘It’s my fault. I had it in my hands but instead of, instead of asking for the curse to be lifted…’ He was too ashamed to complete the sentence.

‘Then what did you ask for?’ Hesper cried angrily.

Ben felt rotten. ‘I’m not really sure,’ he mumbled feebly.

‘Not sure!’ shouted Hesper. ‘How can you not be sure? Are you a total simpleton, boy? The moonkelp was our only chance—have you doomed us to extinction, human?’

Miss Boston covered her face. ‘Of course,’ she groaned. ‘Rowena—I thought she looked too happy.’

‘What has that witch woman got to do with this?’ snapped Hesper. ‘Do you not understand that this child has betrayed our trust in him?’

‘Nonsense,’ Aunt Alice retorted. ‘Don’t you see? He was a victim of her devilish arts.’ She laid her hands on the boy’s shoulders and looked him squarely in the face. ‘Tell me, Benjamin,’ she began, ‘what was it you asked for? Was it for the whereabouts of Hilda’s staff to be revealed to Mrs Cooper?’

‘How did you know?’ he asked.

Miss Boston groaned again and stuffed her hat back on. ‘Then we have all failed,’ she said. ‘If that staff is as powerful as Rowena believes it to be, nothing can stand in her way.’

They fell silent, for the situation seemed hopeless. Miss Boston was deep in thought. If there was a solution to all this then it eluded her.

Nelda chanced to look into the sky, where heavy clouds were now gathering. ‘The weather is changing,’ she said. ‘I think a storm is coming.’

‘A storm is coming,’ Aunt Alice affirmed, ‘but not the kind you were thinking of.’

Nelda continued to look at the dark heavens. She had never seen clouds quite like these; they seemed to ooze overhead like thick treacle. Her gaze followed their slow, deliberate progress over the harbour and towards the East Cliff.

Suddenly Nelda cried out. ‘Look!’ she shouted, pointing to the church.

Miss Boston, Hesper and Ben turned and fixed their eyes upon the floodlit building.

‘Gracious,’ breathed the old lady.

Curious as to what her brother and Aunt Alice were staring at, Jennet peered up at the church.

Standing before the arc lights, as Sister Bridget had done hours earlier, was Rowena Cooper—and the staff of Hilda was in her hands.

Even from that distance they heard her harsh, gloating laughter. Rowena was insane with joy and she revelled in the new-found strength which flowed through her veins.

‘Now we’ll see,’ she yelled. ‘The time has come for you to serve a new mistress.’ With both hands clasped firmly about the staff she raised it over her head. ‘Obey me!’ she screeched.

A jagged streak of black lightning erupted from the staff. It crackled upwards and split the night sky apart. With a mighty roar the clouds exploded and ripples of destruction radiated out to the far reaches of the world.

Rowena hugged herself. She was amazed—the power of the staff was greater than she had ever dreamed. The thrill of it was delicious. She looked down on the little town of Whitby which would have the honour of being the first place to suffer. ‘I am Empress of the Dark,’ she exulted. ‘Armies shall fall before me and nations tremble at the mention of my name.’

Down on the sands. Miss Boston was appalled. ‘She’s testing the staff’s powers!’ she exclaimed.

Whitby flickered beneath the flashes of darkness that issued from Hilda’s staff. The very fabric of the night seemed to swirl over the rooftops and the heavens were alive with black thunderbolts. Rowena laughed all the more, her shrieks of mirth carried on the gale that tore round the graveyard. Her voice ricocheted off every headstone and it seemed as though the dead themselves were rejoicing with her.

‘Now for a true demonstration of your power,’ she cried.

The staff blazed with evil energy and she flourished it in the air. A large whirlpool of shadow began to form above her. It spiralled out, growing larger with every swing and changing everything it touched.

The tombstones blistered and moss fell from them as the ancient magic passed over. The weathered inscriptions glowed with purple fire until they were as clear and sharp as the day they had been carved. Still the staff poured out its might. The solid, immovable shape of St Mary’s quivered as the coils of blackness pounded its walls and the years fell away from it.

Rowena looked around at what she had done, impressed and delighted. Even as she admired her handiwork, the expanding web of darkness engulfed the abbey. The majestic ruin shimmered and its ragged walls switched in and out of past ages. For an instant it was the grand structure it had once been, whole and with light shining through its high stained-glass windows, and the next it was partially built. Then it disappeared entirely, replaced by a collection of smaller buildings. Rowena was unravelling time.

Lowering her arm, the witch pointed the staff at the huddled houses below her and screeched with glee. The twisting helix of magic spun towards the town. It blasted through the narrow lanes and confusion rampaged in its wake. Street lamps dimmed as they became gas lights and then they too were whisked away. Paved roads buckled and the tarmac split apart as cobbles forced their way to the surface. Modern buildings vanished and the surrounding houses grew shabby, while in the harbour the fishing boats were replaced by high-masted whaling ships.

On the sands of Tate Hill Pier five figures gazed at the town, bewildered.

‘What’s happening?’ asked Jennet in disbelief. ‘The houses are changing.’

‘Rowena is dragging Whitby back through its own history,’ said Aunt Alice. ‘But this is only the beginning. If she is not stopped then everywhere will be plunged into chaos.’ The old lady held on to her hat and darted over the beach. ‘We must take that staff from her,’ she told them, ‘whatever the cost.’

‘How?’ Jennet began, but Miss Boston was already scampering up the path towards the hundred and ninety-nine steps. Hesper ran after her, closely followed by Ben and Nelda.

Jennet was scared; anything might happen to them. ‘Stop!’ she shouted. ‘Wait, you won’t be able to take it from her. Stop!’ But they were caught up in the urgency of the moment and did not hear her.

The girl glanced wildly at the town. Whitby continued to judder through the past, but the rate at which the centuries devoured it was not constant. Some areas were still untouched by the crackling power of the staff whilst others were totally devastated. Primitive stone huts stood beside Victorian houses and next to them an arcade sparkled.

Jennet looked at the church steps. As yet they were unchanged and she saw Aunt Alice striding up them with her brother close behind. There was nothing she could do to make them turn back, so, with her heart pounding, she rushed after them as fast as she could.

Upon the bleak, empty cliff, where the churchyard had once been, Rowena Cooper flung her arms open and embraced the glorious spectacle below. As the town hurtled down the ages, she contemplated, with relish, the new life that stretched before her. ‘No more will you rule me, Nathaniel!’ she hooted ecstatically. ‘No more will I be bound to you. I am free at last—free to do whatever I choose—and you shall cringe before me.’ She breathed a great sigh of contentment and drank in the devastation all around. Her glittering eyes swivelled from barren marshland to the rapidly shrinking piers and along the wide expanse of cliff. There her gaze was arrested as it fixed upon the five figures that toiled up the steps.

Miss Boston had almost made it to the top; Hesper was at her side and below them came Ben and Nelda, while Jennet was right at the bottom of the steps. And even if she ran for all she was worth she would never catch up.

Rowena regarded them as she might a collection of insects. ‘Futile creatures,’ the witch spat. ‘How they plague me. Will they never learn that I have beaten them?’ She pounded the staff on the ground in irritation, then smiled cruelly. ‘Perhaps I could have some sport with them.’ Filled with evil purpose, she raised the staff and pointed it at Ben and Nelda.

The boy and the young aufwader were running side by side. The clamour of the tormented night was rising behind them but neither dared to look on the horror that Whitby had become. Ben’s ribs ached and the blood thumped in his head. He felt responsible for everything—if only he had not succumbed to the enchantment Rowena had put on his tongue. If he had been stronger, then none of this would have happened. Tears of guilt trickled down his cheeks and he blamed himself with each step.

The anguish Nelda had felt before was nothing compared to this. If the alternative was living in a world of Rowena’s making, the curse of the Deep Ones was a thing to be welcomed. In all the legends of the tribe there was never a more deadly threat than that vile witch woman. Nelda glanced quickly at Ben, feeling the torture of his guilt. Suddenly her face fell and she stumbled.

‘Ben!’ she screamed. ‘Look out!’

Too late. A twisting jet of power streamed down from the staff and cannoned into them with staggering force.

Ben and Nelda were plucked off the steps and swept into the air. Torrents of unstable time thrashed about them as the full fury of Rowena’s might was unleashed. The staff blazed and a yawning fissure opened in the sky above their heads.

‘Jennet!’ the boy shrieked as the swirling chasm widened over him. Hideous forms rushed through the cyclone of darkness that bore him into the heavens and the coils of the past seized him utterly. Nelda yelled and kicked but the gaping mouth bore down on them both. With a flash of purple fire, they were sucked into its spinning centre and their cries were swallowed by the night.

On the steps beneath. Jennet staggered to a halt. She howled her brother’s name but he had vanished into the whirling void. ‘Ben, Ben,’ she sobbed, falling to her knees.

The maelstrom crackled and spun towards her prostrate form. Jennet stared up at the awful vision that threatened her with oblivion. Springing to her feet, she ran down the steps but the wind tore at her hair and dragged her backwards. Jennet clung to the railing as the gale lifted her off the ground and the spiralling maw of night closed on her. She felt her fingers slip from the rail then, with one final cry, was lost.

Rowena crowed with amusement. ‘Back you go,’ she laughed, ‘out of reach forever!’

Miss Boston’s breath rattled and wheezed in her throat. She glared at the empty steps below and threw her hat down in dismay. ‘Cooper!’ she cried. ‘May God forgive you!’

Hesper was distraught. ‘Nelda!’ she wept bitterly. ‘What has happened to her?’

‘I don’t know,’ murmured the old lady. ‘I just don’t know.’

Whitby was almost completely destroyed—gone were the houses and only the River Esk glinted between the rippling shadows on either of its muddy banks. The menacing waves of power crept over the bottommost steps and they melted beneath it, dissolving into clay and shale.

The sound of Rowena’s laughter broke into the night. ‘Fools,’ she cried. ‘See how easily I vanquish you.’

From out of a shimmering rent in the fragmented heavens there suddenly came a fierce burst of gunfire. Above the valley two aircraft appeared, locked in combat, their engines roaring in the shredded clouds.

Miss Boston looked up incredulously. ‘Good Lord,’ she muttered.

The planes swooped low over the cliffs. Hugging the ground, they zoomed perilously close to Aunt Alice and Hesper and a blizzard of lead hailed from their spluttering guns. Sparks rang off the steps and the bullets plunged into the soft soil beyond. That was too close for comfort and Miss Boston staggered back. One of the planes bore a swastika: they were witnessing the dogfight which had taken place over the rooftops of Whitby during the Second World War. Rowena had snatched the planes out of time to fight again.

‘She’s toying with us,’ declared the old lady, ‘using history itself to do her dirty work!’

The aircraft soared upwards, gaining height and preparing for another strike.

‘Run,’ Aunt Alice shouted to Hesper.

The aufwader turned but even as the Nazi fighter bore down on them and lethal rain blasted the steps, the air trembled and both planes faded from the sky. Miss Boston looked uncertainly across to Rowena. She knew what the witch was up to: taking them to the brink of disaster and dragging them away again. Dangling the inevitable before their eyes, watching them squirm and beg for mercy. ‘Well, I’ll not gratify her ego,’ declared Aunt Alice firmly. ‘I won’t play her games—if I die then so be it, but I shan’t abase myself before that one!’

‘You may not have to,’ cried Hesper at her side. ‘Look!’

The creeping darkness that had swiftly consumed Whitby finally reached them. Boiling mud bubbled up through the cracks in the stonework and the steps sank into a mire of soft clay. Before they had a chance to escape, the ravenous time floe devoured them.

Everything was dark—an eternity of blackness seemed to have passed since Ben and Nelda had been swept into the twisting gulf. He felt an icy wind rush up to meet him, then his feet struck something solid and his legs gave way.

It was bitterly cold. Sleet hammered into Ben’s face, driven by a savage north-easterly gale, and the freezing air hurt his lungs. His mind was reeling—where was he? Stinging ice pelted his cheeks and chapped his skin. He shivered and the veil before his eyes began to lift.

The lifeboat crashed through the sea and huge grey waves smashed over its bow. Twelve bush-bearded men wearing lifejackets of cork pulled on the oars whilst another grappled with the rudder.

‘Put yer backs into it, lads,’ he boomed. ‘We’ve done aright so far this evil day.’

‘Ben,’ a voice called, ‘what’s happening?’

He shifted uneasily and turned. Through the drizzle that the breakers threw at them he recognised the aufwader at his side. ‘I… I’m not sure, Nelda,’ he replied with a shout.

‘You there!’ bawled the coxswain. Ben jumped and looked round but the man seemed to look straight through them. ‘Henry Freeman, pull yer weight! Want them folk to die on that schooner, does yer?’

The man he was addressing glowered and his clenched teeth showed white within the frost-dripping beard. ‘I’ll clout thee over t’side, John Storr,’ he growled. ‘I’ve done as well this day as all t’others ‘ere.’ His great hands tightened round the oar and he bellowed like a bear as he heaved it through the squalling water, his face turning purple with the strain and the cold.

‘Aye, five crews we’ve saved a’ready,’ the coxswain shouted to the rest of his valiant men, ‘so we’re not gonna let thissun confound us. Heave on it, we’ll get through!’

Nelda held on to Ben and stared ahead as the boat smashed into the towering, ice-capped waves. They were making for a ship that had been driven ashore but the surf was treacherous and pummelled their boat ferociously. Nelda squinted over her shoulder at the East Cliff. It was shrouded in mist but the sight of an aufwader is sharp and hers was no exception. Very briefly the fog parted, and there was Rowena Cooper.

The witch invaded all times now. She was the one fixed point about which all this confusion spun: a beacon of despair that shone only misery and death.

Nelda turned away and studied the faces of all the doughty, stern men at the oars—they were from an earlier time. She nudged Ben. ‘They can’t see you,’ she told him hoarsely. ‘We are phantoms here.’

Ben didn’t feel like a ghost, but he was in no mood to argue. It took all his strength to hold on to the side of the boat and he felt violently sick. At that moment he didn’t care whether anyone could see him or not. The storm was filthy—a veritable devil’s tempest.

He choked back a cry as that phrase surfaced in his mind. Where had he heard it before?

‘Nelda,’ he yelled, ‘what’s the name of that ship?’

‘Does it matter?’ she cried.

‘Just tell me! Can you make it out?’

She stared at him for a second, then shielded her eyes from the constant battering spray. ‘It is called Merchant,’ she told him. ‘What does that signify?’

‘Oh no!’ Ben wailed. ‘Nelda, we’re done for!’

He knew exactly what was going to happen, for he had been told the whole story before. All but one of these men were going to die.

Ben was too terrified to look at them. With the seawater flattening the oilskin hats against their skulls and their faces drenched and pinched with cold, the lifeboatmen seemed drowned already.

‘Watch out theer,’ warned the coxswain as a giant wave rolled towards them. ‘Hold hard, theer’s another girt beggar this side.’

This was it! Ben clutched Nelda’s frozen hand and waited, with his round eyes defying the smarting spray. The storm-mad sea charged at them. With a terrible crash, the two waves smashed into one another and the lifeboat was hurled into the air upon a massive spout of water. Fifteen souls were cast into the freezing brine, their cries smothered by the tumult.

Nelda struggled in the water. The tide was too strong to swim against and, although her race was suited to a harsh life, the dreadful cold numbed and pained her.

Overwhelmed by the mountainous waves, Ben could not remain afloat. The sleet-covered sea filled his mouth and poured into his ears, cutting off all sound from the world above. Swiftly he sank beneath the surface and his frantic thrashings grew weaker until he moved no more.

‘Ben!’ called Nelda. ‘Ben!’ But soon her voice too was drowned.

Jennet fell on to the cool turf and the last traces of the shadowy void curled away from her, swirling into the night. She rubbed her head, dazed, and her thoughts a disordered jumble. Then she remembered her brother.

Scrambling to her feet, the girl looked around desperately. The abbey reared up behind her, but without its floodlights it seemed unfriendly and larger than before. She was standing near the edge of the cliff but there was no sign of Ben. Everything seemed back to normal and she wondered how this could have happened. There was Whitby sleeping peacefully below. It was a calm December night and columns of smoke rose from the many chimneys. Jennet frowned: something was not quite right. Where was the hospital and what had happened to the amusement arcades? Gradually she realised that she was looking on some bygone time, before she was even born.

A black figure stepped from the shadows under the church. Rowena Cooper was tall and monstrous, transformed into something beyond humanity. A nightmare to harry the waking world.

The witch turned slowly and faced Jennet, her eyes glinting sinisterly. ‘I do not believe you have met Derflinger and Von der Tan,’ she cried. ‘Allow me to introduce them to you.’

Jennet wondered what she was talking about until Rowena stretched out her hand and gestured to the sea. Two dark shapes were on the water. The girl peered at them—they almost looked like battleships.

A small explosion burst from one of the vessels. Overhead something whistled through the darkness and suddenly the cliff-top was ablaze with flame. Jennet dropped down as the ground shook from the force of the blast. Another missile screamed through the sky, this time hitting the cliff face, and large chunks of rock fell into the sea. The ships were firing on Whitby.

The air seemed alive as shells exploded. Flowers of death flashed and flared, as dazzling blooms of yellow and orange fire raged above the cliff. Jennet crawled along the ground, trying to get under cover quickly. With her head down she wriggled towards the abbey; if she could only reach the west wall she would be safe. Flying shrapnel sliced through the grass around her and streams of liquid flame showered down.

Seconds felt like hours as she laboured along the ground towards the high walls of the ruin. She breathed a thankful sigh when she passed under the tall arches and cowered against the pillars of stone within.

The abbey flashed beneath the volleys of fire that erupted around it, a well-lit target for the German cruisers to bombard. In a deafening blast one of the mortars struck the west wall and the stones flew apart. The place Jennet had chosen to shelter behind was blown out of existence.

Shrieks of death stabbed into the gloom and the dragon boat rammed on to the beach. Brandishing fiery torches the raiders jumped ashore, spears and swords flashing in their hands.

From the small collection of wooden and stone huts built near the marshy estuary there came a shout. ‘Northmen! The Northmen are come!’

Panic and fear filled the air. Out of the small buildings women and children poured. ‘To the abbey!’ they called to one another.

With their eyes blazing and their faces hungry for war, the raiders charged through the village. Torches were thrown into the thatches and soon the huts were aflame. The menfolk had few weapons to defend themselves with and the thirsty swords of the invaders eagerly drank their blood.

On the slope of the cliff, Miss Boston and Hesper slithered in the soft clay. Harsh war cries resounded in their ears and they looked fearfully on the burning settlement below.

Miss Boston clapped her hands with wonder at the unfolding scene. ‘Extraordinary!’ she exclaimed. ‘Positively marvellous—a real Viking raid.’

Hesper was not so enthusiastic. ‘We must not linger here,’ she said urgently. ‘Listen to those screams, they are the sounds of death.’

Aunt Alice blinked. ‘Heavens,’ she muttered, ‘how dreadful. I don’t know what came over me. You’re right, people are dying down there.’

‘Not all,’ Hesper put in. ‘See, some have crept out unseen.’

The old lady stared down and there, fleeing barefoot through the undergrowth, came the women and children. Crouching low, they ran to the cliffside and scrambled up.

‘Are they aware of us?’ murmured Hesper curiously.

Miss Boston shook her head. ‘I doubt if they can see you,’ she said, ‘or me either, for that matter. No, it is sanctuary they are seeking. Look!’

Upon the cliff-top Hesper saw the Anglo-Saxon abbey with the smaller monastery buildings clustered round it. This abbey was not as tall as the later one, but a proud and noble structure nonetheless. Hidden in the deep shadows, a solitary figure watched and waited.

‘Will these folk be safe in there?’ Hesper asked Miss Boston.

‘No, the Norsemen had no respect for the Church. They will chase those poor people up here and kill them, then the abbey will be robbed of its treasures and razed to the ground. I’m afraid we are an extremely barbaric species.’

Hesper looked at the villagers clambering towards them, very close now. The hair of the women was braided and they wore coarse, woollen garments pinned at the shoulder by large brooches.

From the ruin of the settlement, the raiders emerged. Blood smeared their faces and the swords they held aloft were scarlet. This was too easy: there was little honour in slaughtering peasants. They lifted their heads and gazed at the true prize—abbeys were always full of gold plate and silver chalices. As one, they rushed up the cliffside howling for glory.

‘Come!’ cried Hesper. ‘We must run. A spear does not have to see its target to slay it.’

But at that moment, the villagers were upon them. Blind to the two strangers, they surged on regardless. Many stumbled into the old lady or tripped over Hesper, cursing the unseen obstacles in their fright. But so wildly were they driven by their fear that the frenzied rush of their bodies swept the aufwader and Miss Boston with them up the cliff.

‘Hesper!’ called Aunt Alice as she tried to drag herself out of the panicking crowd. ‘Hurry, we must go the other way. Don’t let them carry you to the abbey, it’s too dangerous there.’ A fat Saxon woman with matted hair unwittingly barred the old lady’s way so Miss Boston gave her a hard shove. ‘Sorry, my dear,’ she apologised, even though the woman could not hear her.

The spears of the Vikings were launched into the night. From the back of the thronging group a voice gasped and a body tumbled, lifeless, down the slope.

Finally Aunt Alice broke free of the crazed villagers. She scurried and skidded to the right, out of the pursuing invaders’ path. Sliding through the mire she ran for cover. Only when she had dived behind a thick hedge of brambles did she realise that she was alone.

‘Hesper!’ she shouted in dismay.

Above the heads of the shrieking Saxons the old lady saw the nets of the aufwader’s fishing poles bob up and down—she was still trapped amongst them.

More victims fell, with spears embedded in their backs. Hesper staggered over the ground, too small to barge her way through the humans. She was hemmed in on all sides and could not stop running, for if she did they would trample her to death. They herded her further up the cliff and her piteous cries went unanswered.

The bells of the abbey began to ring, warning the surrounding country of invasion. Startled out of sleep, monks hurried from their cells and pushed open the great doors to let the villagers in. Spurred on by hope, they made for the blessed sanctuary and streamed inside.

Hesper whirled upon the threshold, battling against the human tide, suffering the knocks from careless elbows and knees. When the last of the villagers had fled into the abbey, the oaken doors slammed shut violently and she was left out in the grim dark.

‘Quickly,’ Miss Boston shouted, ‘over here. The Vikings are coming.’

In terror, Hesper saw the Norsemen raging nearer, storming with their axes and swords raised towards the abbey entrance. She was caught in the middle.

‘Run,’ cried Aunt Alice.

Hesper hitched up the lifebelt which had fallen around her ankles and dodged out of the way just as the fury of the Danes crashed into the doors. The oak splintered before them and they lunged inside.

Down the slope to Miss Boston, Hesper scampered. She was nearly there when a faint noise brought her to a halt: a child’s voice was whimpering. She spun round and saw a figure lying face-down in the mud. It was a boy, about four years old. Evidently in the panic to find safety within the abbey walls he had tripped and been left behind.

Terrible sounds issued from the abbey entrance and Hesper shuddered at the thought of the butchery taking place within. Soon all the innocents would be dead and the Vikings would swagger back down the cliff, taking their spoils with them.

She dithered on the slope, not sure what to do. It was sheer luck that this boy had been overlooked in the first place. If those murderers came out now he would not escape with his life.

Hesper rushed hastily to the child and turned him over. He groaned and opened a bleary eye. ‘I know that you cannot hear me,’ the aufwader said, ‘but you must not remain here. Go hide till the danger passes.’ Stooping low, she slid her hands under his shoulders and hauled him to his feet.

The boy stared about him, too awestruck to utter a single word. It was as if the angels themselves were lifting him.

One of the Vikings dragged a sack laden with clinking treasure through the doorway of the abbey. The massacre was still raging within but he had slaked his thirst for blood and the axe in his belt dripped a gory trail on the hallowed threshold. He was swigging back the abbot’s finest wine, but choked when he saw a Saxon boy rise unaided from the ground. The Norseman started and shook his ugly head. A foul curse rang from his lips and he reached for his spear.

Hesper set the boy down. ‘Now you skedaddle,’ she whispered into his unhearing ears. The child refused to budge, for the fear of God was on him, and he nearly fell to his knees. Hesper scowled. ‘Menchildren,’ she grumbled, ‘always the worst,’ and she gave the boy a kick on the backside to start him on his way. With a yelp, he scarpered along the cliff.

An infuriated roar came from the abbey behind and Hesper whirled round to see the tall red-haired man draw back his spear, his sight fixed on the escaping child.

‘No!’ she screamed, and ran forward. Not caring for her own safety, she darted between the Viking and the boy. Removing the fishing pole from her pack, she charged towards the pagan brute, thrashing the stick before her as though it were a rapier. ‘You leave him be!’ she yelled gallantly.

The spear hurtled from the Viking’s grasp and plunged into the aufwader’s chest, throwing her down.

The Dane spat on the floor with disgust. That was a bad spear; it did not fly straight and true, so let it rot in the ground where it had fallen.

Miss Boston stumbled over to the wounded aufwader. The weapon had gone right through her and was embedded in the soil beneath. Hesper felt the darkness tighten all around and her large eyes looked imploringly up at Aunt Alice.

The old lady knelt beside her in the reddening mud and gently lifted her head.

‘Did the child get away?’ Hesper asked.

Miss Boston nodded, the tears trickling down her wrinkled face.

‘Good. It is fitting that I give my life for one so young,’ Hesper whispered. ‘Weep not for me, my troubles are ended. Save your sorrow for your own kind.’ Her voice grew weaker and her features twisted in agony. ‘I go now on that loneliest of voyages,’ she murmured, ‘but no black boat shall sail into the night with Hesper Gull on board.’

The aufwader closed her eyes and died in Miss Boston’s arms.

Flames crackled up through the roof of the abbey and their flickering light banished the shadows from its walls. The one who had been watching all this time stepped forward at last. Rowena Cooper’s bleached hair glowed in the dancing firelight. She raised the staff in her hand and the flames vanished.

The abbey shifted through the ages once more whilst below the town of Whitby jolted into view.

Upon the hundred and ninety-nine steps. Miss Boston, stained with the mud of long ago, laid Hesper down. The havoc of the present assailed her ears once again.

‘Don’t waste your grief on that!’ sneered Rowena contemptuously.

Aunt Alice glared up at her. Never had she been moved to such anger and outrage. ‘How dare you!’ she yelled. ‘How dare you!’

She sprang up and rushed at the witch, lashing out in spite of her fears. So fierce and unexpected was the attack that it took Rowena utterly by surprise. Miss Boston’s hands seized her robe and yanked her sideways. With a startled shriek, she fell and the staff flew from her clutches.

The old lady made a grab for it but the witch recovered swiftly. She bristled with wrath and a vicious growl rumbled in her throat. Savagely she leapt up and, thrusting Miss Boston aside, snatched the staff once more.

Aunt Alice rolled backwards, clasping her stomach, for Rowena’s shove had winded her. She was too old for physical combat and she scolded herself crossly. ‘What do you think you’re doing wrestling at your age, Alice?’ she wheezed. ‘Your body’s clapped out, so use your brains.’

‘Hag!’ screeched Rowena. ‘I should kill you now!’ Trembling with anger, she raised the staff and brought it smashing down. Miss Boston scuttled backwards as it drove into the soil, which burst into flames.

‘Temper, temper,’ puffed the old lady. ‘What’s the matter, my dear? Everything getting out of hand, is it?’

Rowena hissed through gritted teeth, ‘Have a care! One command from me and you will suffer untold torments.’

‘Oh, I do beg your pardon,’ Miss Boston rallied. ‘I thought you’d already tried that.’

Sable lightning flashed from the staff and Rowena shrieked with fury. ‘You haven’t seen a thousandth of my power!’ she snapped.

‘Your power!’ scoffed Aunt Alice. ‘Don’t flatter yourself, madam. The staff obeys no one now. It was made for Hilda alone to wield but even she became afraid to use it. That is why she had to hide the thing: it started to take over. It has a will of its own, can’t you see that?’

Rowena’s confidence was not shaken. ‘Don’t be absurd,’ she laughed. ‘I am in full control. Hilda was weak; she listened too long to the whinings of the bishops and abandoned the way of the night, that is all.’

The old lady struggled to her feet. ‘Use your head, woman,’ she said. ‘If that were true then Hilda would have had the staff destroyed. The fact that it still exists must tell you something. The staff is invulnerable—it cannot be broken. Over the centuries it has increased in strength, waiting for another to discover it. If you pursue this folly then you shall be bound to it forever. It is using you—it needs a human vessel to work through and you shall be utterly enslaved.’

The witch looked uncertainly at the staff in her hands. Could the old fool be right? Is that why she desired this so much; was it really the staff tricking her into subservience? Then an unpleasant smile crossed her lips and she tossed her head. ‘Be silent,’ she told Miss Boston. ‘I am the Empress of the Dark, the staff of Hilda obeys me!’

‘Does it?’ shouted Aunt Alice desperately. ‘Look around you, you poor deluded woman. Is that what you call control?’ And she pointed at the town to convince her.

Whitby was still lurching in and out of time, confusion everywhere. In the sky the sun and the moon traversed the heavens, wheeling great arcs of light and darkness about the world. Winter and summer mingled in the chaos, trees shrank into the ground and buildings glimmered through the spinning ages. The Norman abbey rose about them. For the briefest of instants they were enclosed within its covered walls, then these fragmented and they stood amid ruins once more.

‘It’s a mess!’ Miss Boston declared. ‘The staff is out of control.’

Rowena studied the town with suspicion. At first she had enjoyed watching it gallop into the past, but now it irritated her. ‘I will have order,’ she barked. ‘I have the mastery.’

‘Never,’ goaded Aunt Alice. ‘The staff won’t listen to you any more—you have become its servant.’

The witch rounded on her. ‘Name a time,’ she demanded. ‘Name a year, a day if you wish, and you shall see who rules here.’

The old lady seemed taken aback. ‘A time?’ she asked in a fluster.

The witch ground her teeth impatiently; she was being pushed too far by this senile idiot and she advanced on her menacingly. ‘Come on, hag—choose!’ she barked.

Miss Boston stammered and shuffled backwards. ‘Er… let me see, any time did you say?’ She counted on her fingers and scratched her woolly head idiotically. ‘Nineteen, no… six, dear me, no—of course, June the 25th, 1830,’ she said at last, ‘my grandpapa’s birthday, don’t you know.’

Rowena threw back her head and held the staff high in the air. ‘Hear me!’ she announced. ‘Show your devotion, acknowledge my sovereignty.’

At once the wind died down, the sun slowed and came to rest in the bright blue sky of a hot June afternoon. The hazy images of Whitby stabilised and fused into a solid collection of houses. The harbour was filled with whaling ships; seagulls flew over the church of St Mary and flapped lazily round the cliff, riding the air currents and crying with contented voices. From the streets below, the bustling sound of a busy town drifted up and the majestic abbey ruins shone rich and gold in the sunshine.

Miss Boston was overawed at the speed of the transformation—Rowena really was in control. The witch smirked, greatly pleased with herself. She could see that the old lady was impressed, for that know-it-all look had been completely wiped from her face. The smile broadened as she thought of an even more conclusive way to prove the extent of her powers.

With the end of the staff, she tapped the ground three times and closed her eyes. ‘From the very jaws of death I snatch thee,’ she muttered.

A blaze of purple fire burst over the grass and out of Whitby’s history crashed three figures. Ben and Nelda gasped for breath; they were soaked to the skin and icy seawater dripped from them on to the summer grass. They flopped on to their backs and gulped down the sweet air. Jennet crouched nearby still with her fingers in her ears and her eyes squeezed shut.

Miss Boston was overjoyed. She longed to run to them but her difficult task was not yet finished. For the moment at least, they were safe. Her eyes rolled cautiously upwards as she turned back to Rowena. ‘A good four or five metres to go yet,’ she told herself quietly.

The witch was glowing with satisfaction as she smugly gazed at the tranquil scene around them. ‘See how wrong you were,’ she breathed. ‘I have total control over absolutely everything.’

‘Yes,’ Aunt Alice mumbled, ‘I rather think you have.’ She stole another glance at the children and the aufwader. Ben and Nelda were recovering already and Jennet was tending to them. Good—so long as they stayed there all would be fine. The old lady wrung her hands and, in a small, frightened voice, asked Rowena, ‘What will you do with me now? Have mercy, I beg you.’ Very slowly, she started to shuffle away through the high archway below the central tower.

Rowena stalked after her. ‘The time has come for me to end my business in Whitby,’ she said with a sneer. ‘I have other matters to attend to, but as for you—you have been a thorn in my side for too long, old crone. Before I leave I shall deal with you in my own way.’

Miss Boston cowered further back. ‘Please,’ she cried, ‘have pity. I’ll do anything you ask—just spare me!’

The witch laughed. Her teeth were long and sharp and when Aunt Alice saw her eyes they were red as blood. ‘Only now do you understand,’ howled Rowena. ‘Look at me and die!’ Her face was pulled into a dreadful snarl and hackles prickled from her neck. The fingers which held the staff twisted into claws and in a deep, rumbling voice she roared, ‘Your life is over.’

The old lady recoiled. ‘No!’ she blubbered pathetically.

Jennet and the others watched in disbelief as Miss Boston grovelled and pleaded for her life.

Rowena’s hellish laughter rang round the abbey ruins as she summoned all her black powers and the ancient stones shook around her. ‘I’m going to rip you apart!’ she screamed.

With her jaws slavering, the witch sprang at Miss Boston. But the old lady was not as cowed as she had pretended to be. She stepped nimbly aside and, as the terrible creature lunged, she gave it a mighty stab with her hat-pin. Rowena howled and yammered, but then she turned again on her prey. Miss Boston looked hurriedly at the vaulted ceiling above; why was it taking so long?

Rowena prowled towards her, half woman—half hound. She had Aunt Alice pressed into a corner and advanced with her teeth snapping. A stone rattled down and bounced over the ground by her feet but the witch ignored it. The muscles in her shoulders tensed and she prepared to pounce.

As the fiery eyes blazed malevolently at her. Miss Boston bellowed, ‘I’ve waited a long time to do this!’ and punched the witch for all she was worth.

The blow had little effect, but that little was enough. Rowena stared at her, not believing the audacity of it. Seizing her one chance, the old lady bolted for the archway.

‘You can’t escape me now,’ screeched the witch. ‘I am the hunter of souls!’

From the structure above there came an ominous crack—the great arches were splitting. Rowena looked up warily; her burning eyes widened with shock as she realised that she had been tricked. In a thundering crash, the central tower collapsed. A shrill howl pierced the deafening tumult as Rowena Cooper was crushed beneath the tons of falling masonry that toppled and smashed down. A cloud of dust billowed out and, when it cleared, all that remained of the tower was a mound of rubble.

Beyond the vast pile of broken stones the children and Nelda were standing with fearful looks on their faces. Where was Aunt Alice? Jennet and Ben rushed forward, calling her name.

‘What do you think you are doing?’ came a voice. Miss Boston’s head popped up from behind a wall and she peered at the devastation.

‘We thought you were under there,’ cried Jennet.

The old lady stepped carefully through the wreckage. ‘Don’t be silly, dear,’ she said. ‘Give me a hand here, would you?’

Ben and Jennet dashed over and threw their arms round Aunt Alice’s neck.

‘Oh, Benjamin,’ she said with a grimace, ‘you’re all wet.’

‘I thought you were dead,’ the boy cried.

Miss Boston pulled the children from her and became serious. ‘Quickly,’ she told them. ‘We must search through this rubble and find the staff of Hilda—it is our only link with the future. If we don’t find it then we may be stuck in this time for good.’

She and Jennet began pulling the stones from the great mound but Ben did not join in. He was looking for Nelda. ‘Where is she?’ he asked. ‘Did you see where she went?’

The old lady straightened her back and glanced past the church—Nelda was there and she knew what she had found. ‘I believe she is on the steps,’ she said, a little croakily. ‘She is with Hesper—leave her alone for a while, Benjamin.’

Aunt Alice clasped her hands together and stared at the ground. A forlorn, soul-wrenching cry floated on the warm breeze, and the old lady covered her face so that the children would not see her weeping.

Jennet dragged a huge square stone from the pile and sent it rolling on to the dusty grass. ‘Aunt Alice,’ she shouted excitedly, ‘I think I’ve found it—look!’

She had uncovered a corner section of the ruined tower. It was balanced precariously on one of the fallen pillars but, in the shade beneath, the carved end of the staff was plain to see.

‘Wait,’ said Miss Boston, drying her eyes and scrabbling anxiously over the debris. ‘No, Jennet, don’t you touch it.’

The girl reached in and her fingers closed round the black wood. ‘It’s all right,’ she told her. ‘I’ve got it,’ Jennet tugged at the staff but it was held fast. ‘It must be wedged under all this. Just one more…’

She staggered down the side of the heap and stared, horrified, into the hole—the staff was in the grip of a large black paw.

‘Hush, dear,’ Miss Boston whispered in the girl’s ear, ‘don’t let Benjamin know.’

‘But that’s the hound,’ Jennet stammered, ‘the Barguest. Where is Rowena—what happened to her?’

‘You’re looking at her, dear,’ Aunt Alice answered mildly. ‘That was Rowena’s true nature.’ She patted Jennet’s arm and stooped down to retrieve the staff herself. It came free in her hands and, reverently, she held it up.

‘Oh, what a divine creation,’ she breathed, examining the intricate carving. ‘Simply marvellous.’

‘Do you really know how to use it?’ Jennet ventured. ‘I mean, it’s not as if you’re a witch like Rowena.’

Aunt Alice smiled. ‘I seem to remember somebody saying otherwise not too long ago. I think I told you then that I preferred the term “wise woman”.’

She held the staff before her, but a call from Ben interrupted her concentration. ‘Look up there!’ he cried.

In the east windows of the abbey a white light shone. At first they thought it was only an illusion, but then the blurred shape took form and the old lady gasped in wonder. So intense was the radiance that it cast long shadows over the abbey lawns and the summer sun seemed pale by comparison.

‘My word,’ murmured Miss Boston and humbly bowed her head.

Jennet shielded her eyes but found that she could look into the light quite easily without it hurting. The girl blinked; for a second she thought she had seen the figure of a woman.

Miss Boston lifted the staff and offered it to the dazzling vision. ‘Take it,’ she said respectfully. ‘It is too dangerous a thing for this world.’

Briefly the light welled up and then was extinguished. Jennet gawped stupidly; everywhere seemed dull and chill. Aunt Alice lowered her hands, which were empty. The staff had gone back to its rightful owner. ‘All is as it should be,’ she sighed, ‘thank the Lord.’

‘But how will we get home without it?’ asked Ben.

The old lady chuckled. ‘Look about you, dear,’ she said.

It was a grey September dawn and the town was waking. Cars lumbered down Church Street and the fish market was about to start on the West Cliff. Just another ordinary day in Whitby.

Miss Boston wrapped her muddy cloak round the two children and they wandered slowly out of the abbey grounds. Wearily, the three of them passed through the churchyard and on the hundred and ninety-nine steps they found Nelda waiting. The body of her aunt was in her arms and she huddled her close, brushing the sand-coloured hair from Hesper’s peaceful face.

‘It is over,’ Miss Boston told her.

The aufwader stared at the leaden sea and nodded.

Requiem

In the dead of night. Aunt Alice, Jennet and Ben stood upon the pier, while in the distance a small black boat sailed over the water, wreathed in flames.

‘What will the fisher folk do now?’ asked the girl.

Miss Boston shrugged. ‘I’m afraid there is no hope for them,’ she replied sorrowfully. ‘They are doomed to extinction.’

From the exposed shore beneath the cliff, a sad lament began. The whole tribe was gathered there. All was forgiven and they mourned the passing of Hesper Gull together. The Song of the Dead drifted through the calm night and Nelda held on to her grandfather desolately.

Ben watched the burning craft drift into the dim horizon until the fires died and it was gone.

‘Goodbye, Hesper,’ whispered Miss Boston. She coughed and briskly rubbed her hands. ‘Now then, let’s get you two tucked into bed.’

She led them down the pier but Ben could not help staring at the sea.

‘Come on,’ said his sister kindly, ‘we’re going home.’

The boy trailed behind them, silently. He knew that one day he would have to atone for his failure to lift the curse of the Deep Ones.

The Whitby Witches 2:
A Warlock In Whitby

Robin Jarvis
First published in the UK in 1992.

Introduction

Whitby slept: the autumn darkness in which it cosily huddled was calm and still. Not a Christian soul ventured outside the snug caverns of bedclothes and the only shadows that roamed the dim narrow lanes were those of cats who prowled into the blackest recesses of night in search of prey and passion. A solemn and contented peace lay heavily over all.

A mild breeze stirred the midnight waters of the harbour into wave after gentle wave that rolled lazily up the shore only to return languid, sighing and spent. Save for the drugged, murmuring voice of the sea, Whitby was silent.

Upon the East Cliff, the silhouette of the abbey challenged the domain of the frosty moon, spearing the night with the jags of its ruin, more beautiful in its crumbling decay than ever it had been at the height of its glory.

Between broken pillars and gaping windows, the soft breeze moved, touching and stroking the weathered walls whose stones had withstood war and winter and become charged with the power that dwells in all ancient things.

But further along the abbey plain, just clear of the ragged shadows, the quiet calm was about to be broken.

Before the breeze, wild grasses bowed, slowly sweeping into a dry expanse which mimicked the rippling water of the harbour. Yet beneath the swaying, seeding heads the sleep of uncounted years was finally coming to an end.

Presently the soil began to pulse, bulging upwards as if it were alive. Then the grass parted as its thick, knotted tangle of roots stretched and ripped apart.

There came a frantic and urgent scrabbling in the hole that had appeared and then it was through!

Into the cold night a hideous claw emerged. The silver moonlight glistened on the barbed hooks as they tore away the soil to widen the fissure. Soon a pale, scale-covered arm reached up and thrashed wildly at the ground. The promise of release was the force which drove it. To be out in the wide world once more was its sole intention, away from the cloying chains of slumber and oblivion. Up, up out of the suffocating earth it came—worming and pushing until at last it was able to haul itself from the pit.

A vile, misshapen creature threw its hump-backed body upon the grass, gargling a mixture of phlegm and soil. The exertions of its escape were almost too much. For a while it lay wheezing and choking, its gills jerked open and shut, waiting for the old instincts to re-establish themselves. The underbelly heaved violently, gulping the sweet air down into forgotten lungs—filling them once more. Only when the breaths became less laboured did it think to look at its surroundings.

At once it sprang to its deformed and webbed feet, the stumpy legs trembling unsteadily at the effort. If there had ever been a demon to plague the fishes of the sea then surely this was it. A more repellent creature there never was. Two large round eyes stared out from the head, glowing with the sickly luminescence of those who dwell in the deepmost regions of the ocean where sunlight never penetrates. Up at the ageless stars these eyes glared, before swivelling round to fix on the abbey. The shining eyes blinked and three rows of needle-like teeth were bared and ground together.

The fish demon whirled about and beheld for the first time in over a thousand years the estuary of the river Esk. The world had changed much since those baleful eyes had last lit upon the settlement of Whitebi. Now, instead of the few huts that had sheltered under the protection of the cliff and the monastery, the banks of the river were crammed with buildings, and harsh orange lights blazed in the streets.

A horrible gurgle issued from the creature's throat as it pattered forward for a better view. The reeking species of mankind had smothered the land it had known and the fin on the top of its head fanned open as it hissed its hatred. The stale memories were flooding back now and the confusion was slowly clearing.

The years peeled away and before its luminous eyes the fish demon—last of the savage Mallykin race—remembered it all.

The strings of lights round the harbour blurred and flickered, becoming the blazing torches that had pursued it to the cliff back then. And there she stood, the veiled woman-beast. How boldly she had cornered it and how fearsome were the cries of the villagers who gathered behind her. The flames of their burning brands were painful to look on, yet even more deadly was the sound of her cold, ringing voice. Cringing to the ground, the creature dropped the limp remains of its meal; somewhere it heard another of the wretches cry out and then the staff was raised and came crashing down. After that it knew only the black emptiness of the earth as it gaped open to swallow it.

How many years had passed until the term of its imprisonment had come to an end? How many centuries had painfully stretched by?

The breeze that ruffled its fins was chill and the fish demon slowly returned to the present. With narrowing eyes, it backed slowly from the bitter lights of Whitby. All was lost now, how could it survive in a world that was so filled with enemies? Miserably and with a waddling hop, it hurried from the grievous sight.

Suddenly it froze—it was not alone upon the abbey plain. Amongst the grasses some other creature was prowling; a small, warm blooded creature.

A growl came from the Mallykin's stomach as it realised how ravenous it was. No food had passed into its gullet for longer than it could imagine and now the desire for fresh meat overwhelmed it, brushing aside all other concerns. The mouth lolled open and a pink, pointed tongue drooled over the chin. With nostrils questing the air, it searched for the animal in the grass. There—it could sense the rapid beating of a tiny heart.

With a frightful yell, the fish demon leapt forward. A horrific squeal rang out, then the creature disappeared into the night to devour the still wriggling meal in some darker, less open place.

1 - After The Witch

Whitby mornings are a constant. Nothing changes. Each one begins with the shriek of gulls and the return of fishing boats to the harbour, followed by the auction of the catch on the quayside. Today was no exception.

The hours moved slowly on. Bed-and-Breakfasts sizzled with eggs and bacon whilst shopkeepers lifted shutters to await the first customers of the day. Gradually the traffic on the small roads increased and the autumn holiday makers braved the keen November wind muffled in anoraks and tightly wound scarves.

With a gentle shudder, the morning train slid into the town. Out poured the children commuting to school from Ruswarp and Sleights. Along the platform they jostled one another, tugging at bags and duffle hoods, testing themselves on French vocabulary for the lesson later that day and hastily swapping answers to maths homework. After the children had barged and hurried out of the train the other passengers alighted and set off towards the barrier. There were those late for work, several day-trippers, a well-groomed young woman carrying a briefcase, a pair of rucksack-laden walkers who staggered under the weight of their canvas burdens, grumbling at one another for forgetting something vital and, lastly, a short, plump woman carrying a large sketchpad, a box of watercolours and a fold-up seat.

This colourful stampede surged away from the train, eager to be out of the confines of the station. Each one of them filled with wildly differing thoughts, from the antiquities of New Zealand contained in the museum, to the best place to get a cup of tea. But no, not all hurried down the platform; there, in one of the carriages, a single figure remained.

With deliberate slowness the man collected his luggage together; one battered suitcase and a small travelling bag. He stepped from the train and the morning sun fell upon his face.

He was a dark-haired man with a wiry, unkempt beard that framed his sunburned face. He wore no overcoat to keep out the wind, only a short tweed jacket that had seen better days. The elbows had at one time been patched with ovals of brown leather but one of these now wagged in the wind like a rude tongue. On most people this, combined with the slightly old-fashioned shirt, the collar of which was frayed and rather grubby, would have aroused feelings of sympathy or good-natured humour—but not on this particular gentleman; no one would have dared to laugh at him.

His eyes were like pieces of midnight, jewels of darkness in which no glint of day ever shone. Casually he put down his luggage and gazed after the last of his fellow passengers as they struggled to leave the station. Those deep dark eyes roamed from one person to another until at last they came to rest on the retreating figure of the smart young woman with the briefcase.

Just as light can vary from a dim glow to a blinding intensity, the same is true of darkness. For now those eyes blazed blacker than ever before as they lingered over the woman's finely sculpted form, following the outline of her slim shape and drinking in the gold of her hair.

Emma Hitchin, late for her job at the solicitor's office, shivered unconsciously, shuddering with a feeling that was more than mere cold. All thoughts of the apology she was carefully constructing for that miserable old Mr Hardcorn and his sour-faced son flew from her mind. At her shoulder blades that chill came stabbing in, tugging and searching. Curious, she turned her blonde head and her own hazel eyes caught sight of the bearded man standing by the train.

A look of amusement formed on her lips, but this quickly melted. There was something unusual about the man—he was certainly by no stretch of the imagination handsome, but he possessed a certain powerful charm and she found herself holding her breath under his continual gaze. Those impenetrable shadows beneath his brows beat out at her and the colour rose in her cheeks. Her lips curled into a girlish smile and the blood thumped in her temples.

The man returned the smile, then followed it up with a polite and formal bow. But all the time his eyes held her prisoner. For a few moments more he kept her bound to him and then she was released.

Emma reeled backwards as he dismissed her and the chains of his will left her. Flustered and sweating, she clutched at the collar of her blouse then, with one final, fearful glance at the stranger, she fled from the station.

Alone on the platform, the man grinned. Delving into the pocket of his tatty jacket he brought out a slim gold case. Taking a cigarette he struck a match and cupped his hands round his mouth. The sheltered flame, brought so close to his face, made no reflection in those raven-black eyes.

Deep he drew on the cigarette, inhaling the smoke and hissing it out through his lips until a thick, ethereal cloud had gathered about him. A difficult and dangerous trial lay ahead. He knew that the next few days were to be the greatest test of his cunning and endurance. He had prepared for every eventuality, however, and when this ordeal was over all the risks he had chanced would prove to have been worthwhile. Silently he reprimanded himself for indulging his ego back then. For the moment he must not attract attention—his enemies were everywhere. If they knew he had returned to England all would be lost. For that reason secrecy was paramount, but if his researches and suspicions were correct, then it would not be for long.

The nicotine fog stirred when he threw the cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath his patent leather shoe. He was ready.

As the smoke billowed and dispersed around him, he moved to return the cigarette case to his pocket. In the bright, morning sunshine the words engraved on the gold flashed and glowed up into his bearded face.

To my darling Nathaniel,
obediently yours
—Roselyn.

The man's thin mouth twisted suddenly and the shimmering gold shone upon his teeth, discolouring and staining them. For a fraction of a second his face was a distorted vision of evil and cruelty and a cold chuckle resounded in his throat.

Nathaniel Crozier: historian, philanderer, warlock, high priest of the Black Sceptre, and the unseen hand behind countless unsolved burglaries of religious relics from all round the world. So infamous was he that some had dedicated their lives to tracking him down and putting an end to "the most evil man on Earth". Yet here he was, he who always worked through others, he who never risked himself had hazarded much just to step on British soil once more. The widower of the late Rowena Cooper had arrived in Whitby at last.

***

"Missing Cats Mystery" read the headline of the Gazette. Since the beginning of October many pets had disappeared. At first, when rabbits had been wrenched from their hutches, the culprit was believed to be a fox—or perhaps that large dog which had been heard roaming the streets in the dead of night. But no one had heard that hollow, baying voice for some time now and when the number of missing animals continued to rise, suspicions were turned elsewhere. The popular theory of the moment was that an unscrupulous furrier was to blame—it was not unusual for cat skins to be used in the fur trade and as most of the vanished Tiddles and Toms had been fine specimens with luxuriant coats this seemed most likely. Cat owners had become extremely careful when they put their loved ones out at night. Some even tied them to long pieces of string to prevent them straying too far. The indignant cat-calls could be heard all over town when the time came for the poor pusses to be yanked back indoors.

Perhaps it was this concern for the well-being of the family pet that first started it all. One thing was certainly true however—Whitby had changed. For whatever reason, the seaside town was not the same place. Whereas, only a month ago, the inhabitants would greet each other with a friendly wave or stop in the street for a chat, now they merely nodded a terse acknowledgement. Over both the West Cliff and the East there was a brooding tension and a general sense of anxiety filled the hearts of everyone.

Norman Gregson lay slumped, stuffed in the only armchair capable of accommodating him. Over the bass drum of his stomach a pair of black braces strained, circumnavigating a bulk greater than they had been made for. Mr Gregson had gobbled enough breakfast to fill a giant walrus and that was precisely what he looked like. This most unpleasant and laziest of the Black Horse regulars had washed the four rounds of toast, two fried eggs, frazzled rashers of bacon and gristly sausages down with a bottle of stout. This was then followed by two pieces of bread which his wife, Joan, in a rare moment of domesticity, had fried in the same fat as everything else. Now he snorted and wheezed in his sleep, grease still dribbling from his open mouth and congealing on his pink, fleshy chin.

This contented, snoring oaf had only two passions in life, namely the aforementioned Black Horse, where the old joke was that he ran from one nag to another, and the vegetable patch in the back garden. Between rows of onions and cabbages Norman was a different person. All the tenderness he denied his wife and the world was lavished upon his darling, uncritical vegetables. Within the well-weeded confines of his very own realm, and safely screened by the lattice of runner beans, his heavy bulk could rest, away from the tart tongue of Mrs Gregson and the unfinished jobs in the house.

But that morning the armchair had his undivided attention because his harpy of a wife was pegging out the washing. On such days it was impossible to seek sanctuary outdoors. With sheets and nightgowns flapping and that carping voice screeching like fingernails down a blackboard it was better to pass the time unconscious. In his dreams his onions were the size of footballs and rosettes smothered the garden like a forest of sunflowers.

A large, wet smile creased his round face and he uttered whimpers of pleasure when one of his cabbages was so huge that he actually hollowed it out and turned it into another potting shed. People came from miles around just to look at this marvel and there were rumours of a knighthood in the offing. All over Whitby the church bells were ringing in his honour and he swelled with paternal pride.

The doorbell rang again. Norman shifted uneasily, the empty bottle in his hand escaped from his plump fingers, rolled down the hillside of his belly and dropped on to the floor.

"NORMAN!" came a voice from the garden loud enough to alert ships at sea. "Norman! Answer the flaming door!"

The giant cabbage suddenly sprouted wheels, became a caravan and trundled far away. Mr Gregson grunted then woke up.

Once more the doorbell jingled angrily. He drew his fingers over the high, polished dome of his head, yawned and blinked.

"Get that! You big dollop of lard!" shrieked the klaxon from the garden.

Norman pulled a face and swore under his breath. "Shut up, you silly old mare," he mumbled drowsily. "I'm getting it."

Stretching, and imperilling the braces even further, he hauled himself from the chair. However, before he went to the front door, he did exactly what his wife would have done—he peered through the net curtain.

"Who's that then?" he grumbled, staring at the bearded man on the step. "What's in them cases? If it's brushes he's after sellin' he's had that!"

Unfortunately Norman was not as deft a lace-twitcher as Mrs Gregson for the stranger saw him.

Two dark eyes turned to stare at the round face in the window and for a moment Norman felt an inexplicable twinge of fear. Hastily he withdrew and shuffled to the door to see what the nuisance wanted.

"Well?" he demanded throwing the door open wide to intimidate the man by the size of his stomach. "What does yer want? I ain't gonna buy nowt, an' if'n it's charity yer after I don't hold wi' it!"

"My name is Crozier, Mr Gregson," came the soft reply, "Nathaniel Crozier. And there's no need to worry, I don't believe in charity either."

"'Ere," Norman put in, "how comes yer knowed my name? From the Social Security, are yer? Wastin' my time snoopin' round askin' questions—it's me back an' me heart, Doctor says. Unfit for work I am, I told 'em before—now get out of it!"

But the stranger remained on the step and when he next spoke his voice was calm yet insistent. "Mr Gregson," he said, "why don't you invite me in—just for a moment?"

"Invite you in?" Norman repeated with a sharp laugh. "Beggar off!"

Still the man did not move, he stared fixedly at the huge bulk in the doorway and took a step closer. "Ask me inside," he said again.

Mr Gregson had had enough. He didn't like the look of this weird bloke. That was the trouble with living in a holiday resort, it attracted all manner of peculiar characters, especially in the off-peak season. He made to shut the door in the man's face but at that moment his wife emerged from the garden to see what all the fuss was about and pounded up the hallway.

"Who is it?" she squawked, unable to see beyond her husband.

"No one," Norman replied.

"Shift yerself and let me see!" Joan Gregson growled, grabbing two handfuls of her husband's girth and pushing him aside. When she had managed to squeeze by, she looked at Nathaniel Crozier blankly. "Who did yer say it were?" she hissed back at Norman.

"Nobody, just some feller who won't clear off."

Joan assumed her natural stance of folded arms with eyebrows raised. "Well what does he want?"

"God knows!"

"Ruddy hopeless you are!" she snorted, clipping Norman round the ear with the back of her hand. "Couldn't yer be bothered to find out? My God but you're idle!"

A faint smile flickered over Nathaniel's face as the pair of them squabbled. This was more like it—he could easily manage Mrs Gregson.

"Dear lady," he began, "I was only trying to tell your husband..."

"And you can keep yer flamin' nose out!" she snapped back. "Who the 'ell do you think..." Mrs Gregson's voice faltered, the eyes of the man were so dark—she had never seen anything like them before. A curious tingling sensation caused her to shiver under the scrutiny of those lovely eyes and she found it quite impossible to remember what she had been about to say. "I... I'm sorry," was all she could manage.

Nathaniel smiled more broadly and the woman felt her face flush. "Good morning to you," he went on. "I am afraid you must forgive me if I stare, dear, dear lady."

Joan suppressed a girlish giggle and fidgeted with the clothes-peg she still clutched in one hand. Whoever the gentleman might be, he was certainly charming.

"May I come in?" he asked her, and to the beguiled Mrs Gregson it seemed the most natural thing in the world to invite this wonderful stranger into her house. To deny him entry would be unthinkably rude and impolite. Her face lit up, glad beyond measure to think that someone as fascinating as this would want to spend time with her.

"No you can't!" came the gurgling response from her husband, who was still lurking behind her.

Joan whirled round and cracked him on the head once more. "In yer chair!" she spat. "If I want to have visitors, I flamin' will!"

Norman rubbed his head, glaring at her murderously. He was amazed that she had fallen for that load of corny rubbish, but when his wife wanted something there was nothing he could do to stop her. "Please yerself!" he growled, making for the armchair.

Mrs Gregson turned back to the man on the doorstep—her doorstep. "You'll have to excuse my husband," she apologised in the voice she reserved for the telephone and the hairdresser. "He were never brought up proper and don't know how to behave with company."

"I understand," beamed Nathaniel, "now where were we?"

"You were coming in."

"Ah yes," he said and there was a touch of uncertainty in his voice. He glanced quickly down to where the step met the doorframe then cleared his throat and began more brightly, "So, am I invited?"

"Course you are."

"Then say it."

"Please, come in."

The smile on Nathaniel's face faded and was replaced by a repugnant expression of triumph and scorn. He stepped arrogantly over the threshold of the Gregson house and put his luggage down in the hallway as if claiming the dwelling for his own.

It was a dingy place, the last lick of paint having been reluctantly daubed over the walls nine years ago and that was a drab biscuit colour. Cheap prints in even cheaper frames were the only decoration in the dreary hall, apart from a gaudy brass clock set in a picture of Big Ben, and Nathaniel allowed a sneer to cross his face. The pretence was over now, he had achieved what he wanted.

Mrs Gregson, however was still oblivious to the drastic change that had come over her charming guest. She sailed into the parlour eager to show off her home.

"In here," she called encouragingly, this was quickly followed by a whispered, "and you'd better behave!" to her husband.

With his hands in his pockets Nathaniel strolled into the room. He glanced round at the China dogs that cluttered the mantelpiece and smirked.

"What about a nice cup of tea?" Joan asked, straightening the pile of gardening magazines by her husband's chair.

"Nice?" echoed Nathaniel ironically. "And how do you measure whether anything is 'nice'?"

"It's a new packet," she answered, mystified at his remark. "If you don't want tea, we've coffee—there's some Garibaldis too if you like."

"No there ain't," her husband chipped in, "them's all gone."

"Pig!" she mouthed at him before turning back to Nathaniel. "Well what about some nice fig rolls—I know we've some of those, Norman don't like them."

Nathaniel Crozier threw back his head and laughed—his contempt now plain to see. "There's that word again!" he roared. "Do you realise how ridiculous you are, you stupid hag? 'Nice'! Is that the only way you can describe anything? What about 'desirable', 'tantalising', 'insatiable'?"

Both Joan and Norman looked at him in astonishment.

"No," he continued with a shake of his head, "they're too passionate for your pallid tastes aren't they?" He gestured to the tacky ornaments around the fireplace, the coasters on the coffee table that depicted London landmarks and the striped, beige curtains. "Is this hideous litter really what you term 'nice'? You pathetic, tiny minded creatures. I had forgotten how witless people like you could be."

"'Ere!" erupted Norman from the armchair. "Who are you callin' names? Get out!"

Nathaniel ignored him but said to his wife, "You have a spare room here I believe. Have it made ready and take my luggage up for me."

This was too much for Mr Gregson. He dragged himself out of the chair faster than he had moved in a long time shouting, "Right! Your feet ain't gonna touch the floor, sunshine!"

He caught hold of Nathaniel's coat but the man whirled round and the blackness of his eyes stabbed out at him. "Get back in your chair!" he commanded. "I am in control now—return to your sty, you swine, before I lose my patience! Sit!"

Norman swayed unsteadily, the force behind that voice was unbearable, it fell on him like a great wall collapsing and there was nothing he could do to withstand it. Before he realised what he was doing, Mr Gregson sank back into the armchair and did not move again.

"Norman!" wailed his wife running over to him. "What's the matter, is it your heart? Speak to me!"

"He cannot," Nathaniel told her coldly, "I have paralysed him—the idiot, almost as odious as yourself, who would have thought there would be such a matching pair as you two in such a small town as this."

Mrs Gregson was bewildered. What had happened to the man? She had thought... but that foolishness was over now. She brushed the hair from her face and shook her husband one more time. He was like a rag doll, only the beating of his heart when she pressed her ear to his chest told her that he was alive.

"Who are you?" she asked looking up at Nathaniel. "Why have you done this? What is it you want?"

"My name is Crozier," he replied, "I told your husband but he was too stupid to listen. I have already made my requirements known to you—a spare room for a few days, that should be long enough."

"Long enough for what?"

He did not answer her but looked at his watch, "Come now Mrs Gregson, surely you don't want to irritate me like your husband did? You need to be seen around the town or people will grow suspicious. However, if you want to be difficult, a suitable arrangement can be contrived without much inconvenience to myself but with much pain and suffering for you, I'm afraid."

Joan glanced at her husband whose eyes were wide and staring. He looked dreadful, like one who stared death full in the face. "No," she murmured slowly, "I won't be difficult. The spare room's this way."

She led Nathaniel back to the hall where she picked up his luggage and toiled up the stairs with it. On the landing she pushed open a door and showed him into the bedroom beyond.

"This was our son Peter's," she explained nervously. "It's been empty since he married and moved to Huddersfield. I always keep it aired though."

Nathaniel brushed past her and strode to the window.

"Not a very good view, I'm afraid," she said wringing her hands in case that mattered, "the cliff rises so steep at the back of the garden, you can't see a thing other than what next-door are doing in theirs."

The man stared down out of the window. Mrs Gregson was quite right, you could see into the garden next door. He grinned to himself. For there, with a trowel in her hand, busily digging the weeds from a herbaceous border was a white-haired old woman.

"Excellent," he whispered before turning back to his frightened hostess. "The room is most satisfactory—I shall be perfectly happy here."

2 - Confrontations

Midday had come and gone and when Nathaniel set out to climb the one hundred and ninety-nine steps which scaled the cliff it was getting on for two o'clock.

At the summit he paused, not to catch his breath for he was remarkably fit for his forty-two years. No, he wanted to survey the town as his wife had done. To try and imagine what was running through her twisted and treacherous mind when she had stood there. "Oh Roselyn," he said quietly, "why did you try to break free? Without me you were nothing, it was my skill which released your true nature, my fine, dark, death-hound."

He tutted at the bustling streets below, where ignorant and unimportant people went about their humdrum existences. How he loathed such places. He despised those tiny narrow lanes surrounded by all those twee cottages. The sight repelled him, Whitby seemed so small and insignificant, yet here his wife had met her end. She who had faced untold peril in the remotest regions of the world and had been priestess under him in all their sinister ventures. It was difficult to believe and he wondered at it. "How could anyone in this seedy backwater have vanquished you?" he breathed. "Were you so hungry for freedom that you were blind to all else? What was it that caught you unawares—who was it?"

Silently he turned from the scene, the bleak November wind coursing through his hair and tugging at the loose leather patch at his elbow. Surely he wasn't feeling grief at Roselyn's demise? It was an unusual sensation and it surprised him, until of course he realised that what he felt was annoyance. She had been useful—and to find a suitable replacement would take valuable time.

Shrugging off this pensive mood, he took the lane that ran behind the abbey and made for the next target on his itinerary.

The derelict house was ugly and shabby, the large window at the front was boarded up and weeds choked the garden path. It looked as though no one had lived there for years. Nathaniel examined the rotting gate and read out the name. "The Hawes." This was the place.

Here his wife, under the alias Rowena Cooper, had lived but the spell she had woven over the fabric of the building had perished with her and it had fallen back into its grim slovenliness. Maybe here there would be a clue as to what had happened to her. He pushed open the gate and the hinges groaned a high-pitched protest.

Nathaniel hesitated. He had heard a noise above the squealing metal. The sound had come from the back of the house and he waited as the feverish clattering grew louder.

"You stay still, young lady!" came a stern voice. "I've had enough of this, it'll be a piece of string for you like every other cat round here. I'm not Tilly you know—I shan't put up with this rebellious behaviour! There, what a disagreeable hole to be sure. Why you keep on coming back is beyond me—just you behave from now on... Oh! Good afternoon."

From around the corner of the house an old lady appeared. A ghost of a smile twitched over Nathaniel's face—it was the Gregsons' neighbour. He had not expected to meet her quite so soon but there was nothing he could do to avoid it now.

Alice Boston, a blustering ninety-two year old, marched up the weed-throttled pathway. She was a comical sight; a sage-green tweed cloak was draped around her shoulders and upon her woolly head, perched at a precarious angle and covered in cobwebs, was a shapeless brown hat. When she blinked her eyes disappeared within the wrinkles that circled them and as she walked the spare flesh beneath her chin swung from side to side.

"Dear me," she called sheepishly, "it really is very dusty in there. Terrible neglect—disgraceful."

Nathaniel watched with some amusement as she drew near and then said, "Is this your house?"

Miss Boston looked horrified at the suggestion. "Heavens no!" she declared puckering her face up at the very idea. "I live just off Church Street." The man simply stared at her and she realised how it must look to him. "Forgive me," she cried, "I understand now, you must be wondering what I was doing in there."

"I have to confess to a certain amount of curiosity," he replied. "Why would anyone like you go crawling through the dirt in such a wretched place as this."

"Oh, Eurydice!" she said flatly as if that explained everything. "Look here she is, the confounded animal." From the folds of her cloak she brought out a disgruntled looking cat which only possessed three legs. "Always taking off and scuttling to this hideous ruin." Miss Boston rattled on. "Not the most amenable of felines I'm afraid, I really don't see how Tilly put up with her—Matilda Droon that is, or was. She used to own Eurydice you understand, until she passed on. Oh my dear chap, you look quite bemused—am I making myself at all clear? It really is most confusing, I suppose. Well, suffice to say that I have now taken charge of this little madam and her three latest offspring, although the first action I felt duty-bound to undertake was a visit to the veterinarian. She didn't like that I can tell you—no more litters for her, thank the Lord."

"I can see you are kept on your toes," observed Nathaniel. "But what an awful place to have to search through."

Miss Boston nodded and the hat lurched a little further down the side of her head. "Oh most certainly," she agreed.

"I don't suppose anyone has lived here for many years," he put in.

"On the contrary," she fiercely corrected, her chins wobbling adamantly, "only two months ago it was inhabited. Why I even had afternoon tea there! It was most certainly cosy enough then, I can assure you."

"Then what could have happened in two months to bring it to this sorry state?"

"I doubt if you would believe me young man. You'd only think I was a dotty old woman imagining things—most people do you know."

Nathaniel turned the power of his smile on her. "I'm not that young," he began, "and you're not that old."

Miss Boston clucked like a happy chicken, tucked Eurydice back into her cloak, leaned forward and looked from right to left in case anyone else was listening. "Well," she said excited to have an audience for her story, "the last owner of the house was not all she pretended to be. Totally mad she was and wicked to the core. I could tell you a few tales about that one which would curl your hair! Never has Whitby been host to a more evil person and she almost destroyed everything."

The old lady's face changed and an expression of fear and dread stole over her as she remembered that dark time.

"What became of this person?" asked Nathaniel softly.

"She... she died."

"How?"

"The tower. It collapsed."

"Explain!"

Miss Boston stared up at the man, he was almost shouting. Why was he so interested in Rowena Cooper? A terrible drowsiness began to creep into the old lady's muscles and he demanded once more that she tell him.

"I tricked her, manoeuvred her backwards in time to a point when..."

Suddenly the cat beneath the cloak began to struggle again and one of its claws snagged Miss Boston's skin. It was like a pin bursting a bubble. Nathaniel's control was banished from her mind as the sharp pain raked down her arm.

The old lady was free. She shook herself and shivered, wondering what it was she had been about to say. Then she recalled what had already been said—Miss Boston was appalled. Why had she been so careless? How could she have spoken to a total stranger about those matters? Taking a deep breath she reprimanded herself and stuck out one of her chins defiantly.

"I'm terribly sorry," she said, rubbing her arm and looking at her watch. "I must get back home—the children will be out of school soon and wanting their tea. Excuse me."

Nathaniel simply smiled at her, then opened the gate. "No doubt we shall meet again," he told her.

Miss Boston slipped by him. Her gabbling tongue had unsettled her and she had grown suspicious of this charming stranger. All she wanted to do was get smartly away from him in case she let anything else slip. "I'm afraid we probably shan't," she declared, "meet again—I mean. Not for a while anyway—Bother!"

A corner of her cloak had snagged on a nail and she fumbled with it in agitation. Nathaniel went to her assistance.

"It would seem the house is reluctant to let you leave," he laughed.

"Devil take the house!" fumed Miss Boston impatiently, "And Devil take this gate because I am leaving—leaving Whitby as a matter of fact! There! Oh blow, it's made a little hole."

"Leaving Whitby?" Nathaniel murmured. "For good?"

Miss Boston stared at him. What did she have to go and tell him that for? "No," she said with caution, "I shall only be gone for about a week. Tomorrow I leave for London." There was a pause, the man obviously wanted to know more—why should he, the nosey... "An old friend of mine is ill, you see," she found herself saying, "not expected to survive the week. Poor Patricia, such a waste."

She clicked her tongue as if switching the troublesome instrument off, then gave Nathaniel one last look. With a nod she bade him farewell and set off down the lane, hitching Eurydice under her arm.

The man turned back to the house and frowned.

***

The tide was on the turn and the afternoon drawing to a close when the bell finally rang and the primary school children poured out of the gates where mothers waited for the younger ones. In one quarter there was a flurry of paper as the results from the afternoon's art lesson were held aloft in triumph. There was laughter, a game of "Tick" spontaneously commenced, someone bounced a tennis ball along the playground and a group of girls spoke in hallowed whispers of ponies and expensive dolls.

Only one child was alone. Amongst all the cheerful, carefree crowd he had no one to meet or talk with. He was never invited back to anyone's house to play or have tea. Nobody ever kicked the football in his direction and when he walked by a group at break-time he would hear them snigger. In the playground he was always the solitary figure leaning against the wall, watching the others having fun and playing games. No one liked him, in fact there was something about the child that frightened them.

When he had first arrived at the beginning of term they had tried to make friends with him, but he said such odd, disturbing things that they soon learnt to leave him be. Lately, however, several of the older ones had started to pick on him and two in particular had begun to make his life a misery. It was the same wherever he went—he was a freak, the others knew and so did he.

"You've got the Laurenson touch!" shrieked a girl involved in the game of "Tick". "You're 'It' now!" she squealed to the child she had caught. "You're the loony—Ben, Ben can't catch me!"

"Ssshh!" someone hissed. "He's over there!"

Ben turned to look at them. They were eight years old, the same as him—the girl, Mandy Littleton, was in his class. She gaped at him for a second then giggled and pelted away, screaming his name in ridicule at the top of her shrill voice. Ben pushed through the crowd gathered at the gates, he cast one bitter look at the parents still waiting for their children and ran up the lane.

There was someone he could turn to, someone who would understand—apart from his sister and Aunt Alice she was his only friend.

By the shore, the failing daylight glimmered over the moving waters and long shadows stretched down the sand. Upon one of the boulders, beneath the cliffs, a solitary figure sat gazing out to the darkening horizon where sea met sky.

Nelda's eyes remained fixed upon that distant rim of the world, straining through the gathering dusk until it was too dark to see, even for an aufwader. Eventually she covered her face with her hands and sighed.

She was a strange-looking creature, youngest of the sole surviving tribe of fisherfolk who dwelt in caves under the cliffs of Whitby. Her face was as wrinkled and weathered as any human of advanced years, yet to the rest of her people she was merely a child. She knew what it was like to be alone, for there were no others of the aufwader race her age and there never would be. The females of the tribe were cursed; they either died carrying the unborn child or perished with the infant at birth. Such was the terrible punishment of the mighty Lords of the Deep who reigned in the fathomless reaches of the ocean, and so the numbers of the aufwaders dwindled and decreased over long, barren years.

The evening chill deepened but it was some time before Nelda was aware of it. There were too many worries weighing on her mind, too many uncertainties to notice the numbness in her fingers.

"Hoy!" came a voice behind her. "Nelda!"

The aufwader stirred from her troubled thoughts and looked over her shoulder. A human boy was running across the sands towards her. She made room on the boulder and waited for him.

"I wasn't sure if you'd be here," Ben cried when he drew near, "I haven't seen you for weeks."

Conscious now of the cold, Nelda huddled into her gansey and pulled the sleeves of it over her fists. "There has been much to attend to," she replied averting her face from the boy's questioning eyes.

"I thought it was something like that," he said. "I expect with winter coming there's lots to do, storing up your food in the caves..."

"We are not squirrels!" she told him sharply. "The sea knows no lack, there is no dearth in the waters—or there would not be if it were not for your kind." Nelda turned away and glared into the gloom. "What do you know of my life beyond what you see here?" she cried. "Of the caves you know nothing. You have only stood in the entrance chamber—within those tunnels there is much you would not understand. There are places where even I have never been and where I hope never to have to tread. Inside those caverns there is more than the sound of water dripping over stone. Jealousies fester there, dark eyes watch, biding their time, burning with hideous fires that would consume me utterly and which I could never quench. A hunger lives down there! A vile, creeping horror, and it frightens me!"

The boy said nothing, for her outburst startled him and he did not know what to say. As she gazed at the waves washing over the stones he waited in awkward silence but when she turned to him again there was almost a smile on her small, curved mouth.

"Forgive me," she sighed, "I am out of tempers this day. It is nothing—it will pass." Nelda swept the hat from her head and rubbed her tangled hair. "But take care, Ben," she began, adopting a false, light-hearted tone, "you must not hail me so loudly. What if another were to hear you? Unless they are blessed with the sight as you are—they would think you crazed."

"I don't care!" he said. "What if nobody else can see you? I can and that's all that matters. Do you know I've been here every day after school looking for you?"

She lowered her large grey eyes and her face creased into a warm grin. "Have you truly?" she asked.

"Yes, I even thought of shouting your name outside the hidden entrance, but I didn't want to get you into any trouble with the elders."

Nelda shuddered. "Then I thank you for not doing so," she said quickly, "I have no wish to anger them at present. The less dealings I have with the Triad the better."

"What's wrong?"

"You asked me that once before, do you remember?"

He nodded, "Back then you were worried about your father. You were afraid your uncle had killed him."

"And did the truth not reveal itself to be even so?"

"Yes, but what is it now?"

"Me," she replied softly, "I fear for myself."

"Can't I help?"

"Not this time, no, I must face this alone."

A gull flew overhead and Nelda paused to watch it soar over the cliff. When it had disappeared from view she slid from the boulder and stood on the sand, a solemn expression on her face.

"It is said that an aufwader's heart is a sure guide," she told the boy, "and mine is full of despair and dread. Listen to me, Ben, hear me now lest I am unable to tell you in later times. You have been a true friend. In the short time I have known you, you have done nothing but try to aid both me and the tribe. Never shall I forget your bravery in the search for the moonkelp."

Ben shook his head. "What are you trying to tell me?" he interrupted.

Nelda took his hand. "This is what my heart foretells," she answered, "there will be a parting of the ways—our meetings will end, the two races of man and aufwader will be sundered for ever. We shall not set eyes on each other again—not till the seas are lost and the bones of the land broken."

"I don't understand," he mumbled. "Why can't we go on meeting? Has someone forbidden it? Are you ill? You're not telling me everything."

But she was looking up at the sky. It had grown dark and she pulled the hat on to her head once more. "I must return," she said quietly, "back to whatever doom lies in wait. Look for me, Ben, here at this time, when the sun is low. If I am at liberty to come—I shall." And with that she hurried over the rocks and disappeared round the cliff.

Ben knew she had gone to one of the secret entrances which led to the aufwader tunnels. He felt miserable. "Nelda!" he feebly called after her. "Nelda."

Immediately his cry was taken up by two other voices. "NELDA!" they screeched. "NELDA!"

A sickening knot twisted in Ben's stomach as he spun round. There on the shore, where they had been spying on him, were Danny Turner and Mark Stribbit; the two boys who bullied him at school.

"Who yer talkin' to Laurenson?" hooted Danny.

"Nelda, Nelda!" crowed the other.

Danny swaggered forward, he was an ugly boy of ten years whose sole delight was in frightening those smaller and weaker than himself. He had the face of a thug with a skinhead haircut and the manners of a dung beetle—no, worse than that even. Throughout the school his name was a byword for terror and dismay. He was the one the other children dreaded and who the teachers talked about in the staff room.

He knew just about every swear-word that ever fouled the air and had made up a few of his own for good measure. During assembly he would break wind during the Lord's Prayer, much to the distress of those unfortunate enough to be seated near him. His was the mouth which always cheeked the teachers and blew chewed-up pieces of paper through straws at them when their backs were turned. Then there was the infamous day when Susan Armitage took her coat from the cloakroom and discovered that someone had left "a present" in one of her pockets. No one knew how it had got there and although nothing could be proved, everyone suspected Danny. The coat had to be destroyed. Another of his favourite pastimes was travelling on buses and flinging eggs at pedestrians. Recently though he had mastered the dubious skill of spitting through his teeth and launching a thick yellow glob a full ten feet. He was one of the most unpleasant little yobs ever to have dreamt of having his knuckles tattooed.

The teachers despaired, for nothing they could do would change him. He steadfastly refused to be reformed. They had cajoled, bribed, even threatened, but the boy was out of control and in the past few weeks he had become worse.

Last Monday he punched little Mary Gibbons when she refused to hand over her dinner money, on Thursday he caught a seagull and wrung its neck, and now he and his stupid sidekick were concentrating their nastiness upon Ben.

"He's mad, ain'tcha, Pleb?" he said. "We thought yer was but now we know. Always talk to yersen, does yer?"

"Oooh Nelda, cooee!" tittered Mark.

Ben slithered off the rock and eyed the boys nervously. If he could only dash by them and make it over the sand to the pier steps.

"Yer frikened Laurenson?" Danny pouted mockingly. "Ain'tcha gonna tell us any more ghosty stories then?"

"Where's Old Bag Boston now?" sniped Mark. "She's as cracked as you are! Danny, tell 'im what we'll do to that three legged moggy o' theirs if we catch it."

"Tie it to a rocket on bommy night!"

"Or stick a banger up its bum!"

"Better still, build the bommie round it and roast the fleabag alive."

Ben darted forward, neatly sidestepping the first of his enemies, but Mark was ready for him and his quick fingers snatched his jumper.

"I've got him, Danny!" he yelled.

"Hold him!" snarled the other.

The two of them grabbed Ben's arms and pulled him round until his legs buckled and he tripped. Down on to the wet sand Ben went sprawling. In an instant he was struggling to his feet again but Danny was not finished with him yet.

"Stay down, yer goz-eyed loony!" he bawled, kicking his victim and pouncing on top of him.

Ben groaned as the full weight of the Turner boy flattened him against the sand. "Get off!" he shouted. "Let go!" squirming he managed to roll over until Danny was sitting on his chest and with his small fists tried to lay into him.

At once Mark seized his hands and pinned them down under his knees. Ben started to flail his legs in the air, trying to hit Danny in the back. One sharp punch to the ribs soon put a stop to that and Ben let out a hoarse grunt.

"Take off his shoes," Danny told Mark. In a trice it was done and the Stribbit boy flung them into the sea before returning to kneel on Ben's arms.

"That's better," hissed Danny. "Only donkeys kick, Laurenson, and yer not a donkey are yer?" He smirked and winked at his friend. "Us know what to call the likes of you—people what talk to thesselves are Cretins ain't they? What are you then? Yer a stinkin' little Cret—say it."

Ben said nothing so Danny slapped his face and Mark pressed down harder with his knees.

The boy cried out and in his suffering he wretchedly mumbled, "I... I'm a Cret."

Both tormentors were overcome with laughter and Ben could feel every quaking cackle vibrate through his body. He closed his eyes and wished they were dead.

The vicious mirth subsided and the next stage of the bullying began. "Right then, Cret!" said Danny. "Time for yer to have a wash. But us all knows that Cretins don't use water—they're too gormless for that."

"What do they use then, Danny?" Mark asked in feigned innocence.

"Sand!" came the triumphant reply and the two of them scooped up great handfuls of the stuff then rubbed it into Ben's hair and pushed it into his face.

Ben spluttered and Danny shoved some into his mouth. The boy choked and retched whilst the other two fell about laughing hysterically.

"Look who's balkin'!" roared Danny.

"He's red as a tomato!" added Mark, "an' them's tears in his eyes. The Cret's cryin'!"

"So would I if I lived in a nuthouse like 'im. Here, Cret, let me help yer get the 'orrid old sand off." Danny brought his face close to Ben's and spat venomously. "That's fer bein' weird, yer snotty little weed! No wonder yer an orphan—yer mum an' dad prob'ly topped thesselves to get away from yer! AAAARRGGG!"

Suddenly Danny flew backwards, screeching at the top of his voice. Ben felt the weight disappear off his chest and he craned his neck to see what was happening.

"Danny!" wailed Mark in surprise.

"Let him go!" came a fierce voice.

"Jennet!" gasped Ben.

Danny rubbed his neck angrily. It was Ben's sister who had sneaked up behind them. The girl had yanked him violently by the collar and a livid red mark was already glowing across his throat. He glared at her, she was a couple of years older than him and Mark but she was still only a girl.

"Right!" he stormed. "You'll be sorry for that!" With a loud yell he hurled himself at her, but his attack was shortlived for Jennet swung her schoolbag by its strap and brought it crunching into his face.

The boy let out an awful howl and stumbled about blindly, cursing with his head in his hands.

Jennet stepped towards Mark but he took one fearful look at his friend and decided not to tackle the girl on his own.

Blood began trickling through Danny's fingers. "Me nodes!" he bawled. "You'b bust me nodes!"

"Clear off or I'll break something else!" she growled.

The two boys stared at her—this was too much, to be chased away and by a girl too! Danny's temper was boiling but the blood dribbling down his arm alarmed him. "You'll keep, Cret!" he said to Ben. "Ad' dex tibe you'll dot 'ave that dog of a sister to save yer."

Jennet rushed at them and the boys ran off.

Ben wiped his face and staggered to his feet. He felt ashamed. Silently he waded into the sea and retrieved his shoes.

"You all right?" his sister asked.

He nodded but said nothing to her.

"They're little hoodlums they are," she continued. "What did you get mixed up with them for? He's a baddun that Turner lad—everyone says so, even his sister Rachel."

Ben poured the seawater out of his shoes and squeezed his feet into them. Jennet watched him and shook her head in disbelief.

"What are you doing?" she asked, "You'll catch a death putting them back on. Honestly, Ben, you're hopeless!"

"Shut up!" he shouted. "Just leave me alone!"

Jennet couldn't believe her ears. "Well excuse me!" she cried. "Who was it rescued you back then? God knows what would have happened if I hadn't stopped those two!"

Ben turned on her. "They would have got bored and stopped!" he screamed. "But now you've gone and made it worse! They'll never leave me be now! What did you have to go and hit Turner for? He won't be happy till he beats me up—or worse. If that's what you call helping me, Jen, then thanks, but don't bother doing it again!"

He stomped off up the shore, leaving Jennet to sigh—she hadn't stopped to think her brother might not want to be saved. He was right; she had only made matters worse. Danny now had a score to settle.

"Ben," she called, "wait a minute—I'm sorry." Quickly she ran after her brother and put her arm around him. "I only did it because... because you're all I've got."

"You're not my mother!" he snapped, shaking her off.

"Ben!"

The boy looked at her—that had hurt. It had been a mean thing to say and he was already feeling guilty. "Sorry," he said.

Jennet took his hand. "Come on," she murmured, "let's go home."

Up the pier stairs they trailed, until they came to Church Street. It was empty. All the locals were indoors having tea and the shops were getting ready to close for the day. They met only one other person on their way back to Miss Boston's cottage; Mrs Rigby was one of the women who ran the wool shop and as the children passed her she stopped them.

She was a short, stocky woman with no neck to speak of. Her hair was blonde and curly and several moles peppered her face, although occasionally she tried to hide them under brush-loads of blusher. This was not one of those times and Mrs Rigby resembled someone who had been spattered with mud.

"Hello, Luvs," she hailed the children, "I don't suppose you've seen my Mokey have you?"

Jennet liked Mrs Rigby—or rather she liked to see what new knitted creation the woman was wearing. Today it was a white turtle-neck with patch pockets, covered in gold triangles and bizarre, bumpy lumps of wool. The girl stared at it for a moment. She had to admire the woman's courage for no one else would have dared to be seen dead in it, then she collected herself. Mokey was Mrs Rigby's cat.

"No," she replied, "we haven't. Has he gone missing?"

It was only then that she noticed how dreadful the woman looked. Her face was haggard and there was a desperate edge to her voice. Mokey meant a lot to her. Mrs Rigby twisted one of the fluffy bobbles on her turtle-neck. "He's been gone all afternoon," she said distractedly, "I just don't know what can have happened. He's usually such an obedient little character."

"Maybe he's been got at," put in Ben. Jennet groaned and squeezed his hand till he yelped and pulled away from her. "He might have, mightn't he?" the boy protested. "Loads of others have."

Mrs Rigby trembled. "Oh the poor creature," she wept. "Oh my poor Mokey!"

"Don't worry," Jennet tried to reassure her, "We'll keep an eye out for him. He's a marmalade cat isn't he?"

"That's right, a lovely coat he's got—oh, good God, how awful! To think that could be why he's been taken. To be skinned!"

"You should have put him on a string," Ben told her.

Mrs Rigby took from her pocket a length of twine and held it up for them to see. One end of it had been chewed and bitten through. "But I did," she whispered, "I did."

3 - In The Chamber Of The Triad

The passage was dark and narrow; here and there the rough, rocky floor was covered in slimy weed and only those sure of the safe path had ever dared venture down it. This was one of the oldest of all routes to the aufwader caves—unlike the others, this natural entrance had never been widened and made completely secure. In places it was almost impassable, it had always been a tight squeeze even for the smallest of the fisherfolk.

Only Nelda now used this tunnel and because of that she considered it to be her very own—somewhere secluded to escape to when life in the main caves grew unbearable. During the last couple of months she had spent a lot of time just sitting in the quiet, cramped darkness, alone with her thoughts and fears.

Some distance along the path there was a low outcrop of moss-covered stone which she used as a seat, and it was on this she now sat. An hour had passed since she had said farewell to Ben on the shore, but she had not yet had the courage to return to the rest of the tribe.

Slowly she rocked back and forth, her head resting in her hands. A great burden lay heavily on her spirit and she was at a loss to know how to escape what must come.

"Peace," she eventually said aloud to dispel the black mood which was stealing upon her. "Can I not be free to choose my own destiny?" Her voice rang in the tunnel, echoing round until it faded on the last word. "Destiny, destiny..." it repeated.

Nelda peered into the gloom, just to be certain that it was indeed an echo and not someone hiding and playing tricks. Anything was possible and she was wise to be suspicious.

"No," she told herself after a long silence, "'tis nothing. Have I then come down to this, where I jump at shadows and the slyness of my own mind?" She tried to laugh but the sound was artificial and forced. It was no use, she could not shrink from it any longer, it was time to join the others.

Nelda rose and moved further up the passage, stooping then crawling until it opened out into one of the main aufwader halls.

Standing upon the more even ground, Nelda stretched and looked about her. The place was deserted. At that time in the evening most of the other fisherfolk would be in their chambers mending nets or cooking a meal over the fire.

Through the empty tunnels which connected the main halls she slowly wound her way. The caves were lit by oil lamps, set into niches in the rocky wall or suspended from the ceiling on chains. The lamps themselves were diverse shapes and sizes: mostly plain bronze bowls, but some had been fashioned into the shapes of fish with the flame licking from the mouth, and in one crevice a dragon's head glared out with blazing eyes. The light they radiated was soft and it flickered before the slight draughts, rippling over the green walls, creating the illusion that all was submerged beneath the sea.

It was not long before Nelda realised that something was wrong. Although she could hear the usual sound of crackling fires, and the scent of steaming broth and roasting fish tantalised her nostrils, there was nothing else. No aufwader voices drifted through the salty air and by now she ought to have bumped into at least one of the other inhabitants. A frightening disquiet crept upon Nelda—what had happened to the rest of the tribe—where were they?

With mounting concern she hurried to the nearest cell. It was the home of Prawny Nusk, a friend of her grandfather. He was a good-natured soul who spent most of his time smoking his pipe and whittling pieces of driftwood. She ducked under the fishing nets which festooned the ceiling, but the cell was empty. The cooking fire had been left unattended and was gradually dying; above it the iron cauldron which contained Prawny's supper bubbled and seethed. The broth within was spoilt and it splashed over the edge, hissing as it trickled down the sides, forming a black, sticky goo that dripped and fizzed on the hot embers. Nelda gazed round at the deserted room. Prawny's knife lay by his stool, next to a heap of wood parings, even his pipe had been left behind to smoulder on the rush-matted floor.

"Mr Nusk," she called, knocking out the glowing tobacco and stamping on it. Only the spluttering cauldron answered her.

Nelda ran out and in a louder voice shouted, "HELLO!", but all she heard was the echo of her own voice ringing through the tunnels. Hastily Nelda ran the rest of the way to her family's quarters, anxious and afraid.

When she reached the low entrance she paused before pulling aside the dividing curtain—what if there was no one here either?

Taking a deep breath, she threw back the cloth and stepped inside.

It was horribly cold and the lamp was not lit. But, in spite of the darkness, Nelda could discern a figure seated by the heap of ashes in the centre of the chamber. The figure was hunched and still, staring into the charred remains of yesterday's fire—as if waiting for some oracle to speak from the cinders. When Nelda entered he lifted his head.

"Grandfather!" she cried. "What is it? Where is everyone?"

Tarr reached for the staff which lay at his side and hauled himself from the rushy floor. His eyes fixed on her and at once she saw they were filled with pain and despair. "Lass!" he uttered thickly. "Ah wish tha hadna come back." The old aufwader rushed towards his granddaughter and caught her in a desperate embrace, clinging to her for dear life.

And then Nelda knew; all those weeks of doubt and uncertainty were finally confirmed. As the coils of her doom wound tightly around her she felt nothing; of all reactions this was the last she had expected.

"The summons bell has been rung," she said flatly. "That is why they are all absent."

Tears were running down Tarr's ancient brown face and dripping from his wiry whiskers on to her cheek. 'Theer was nowt ah could do," he sobbed, "nowt! Deeps take me if'n ah didn't do all ah could. But theers nowt to be done, he'll nivver be gainsaid."

Slowly Nelda pulled away from him. "Strange," she said, "I did think I would be more upset than this. Why am I not weeping and tearing out my hair?" She pulled the hat from her head and let it fall to the floor. "Grandfather," she began in a wavering voice, "a part of me has died this night—inside I am numb."

"Then ah'll weep fer us both," he answered huskily. "Come, lass." He held out his rough, calloused hand and she took it in her own. They left the chamber in silence, the only noise coming from Tarr's grief-ridden chest as it let loose all his sorrow.

Down the dim labyrinth of tunnels they made their way, hand in hand. Nelda knew where they were headed. She had been resigned to making this solemn journey for months now. It was, after all, her own rash words which had brought about this evil moment and there was no escape. Nothing could release her from the fate which was waiting—nothing except death.

Deeper under the cliff the two fisherfolk went, down the steep Ozul Stair to remote and seldom visited caverns. Only once before had Nelda been down there: when Hesper, her late aunt, brought her to see the fossilised bones of long-dead monsters. Again she walked the eerie gallery beneath them, that crowded host—like the hellish legions of a skeletal army.

Nelda and her grandfather left the fossils behind them and came to the Gibbering Road. This was a slender bridge of stone that stretched across a wide chasm. It was said that the gaping gulf it spanned was bottomless and contained the tormented souls of those drowned at sea. On stormy nights you could hear the hollow voices wailing in anguish. Occasionally the horrible shrieks had reached as far as the living quarters high above and all were forced to stop up their ears. Few of the aufwaders, even Old Parry, dared listen to those nightmare cries, for those who had were driven insane.

In single file they began to cross, with Tarr leading the way. As Nelda stepped on to the perilous bridge she happened to look down. It was a mistake; the world fell away and the blackness below was so impenetrable it seemed to have a substance all its own. Nelda pinched herself and concentrated on reaching her grandfather who was already on the other side. She wanted him to speak reassuring words but if the legends were true then any noise might arouse the souls of the dead. With her heart fluttering in her breast she hurried across and seized Tarr's hand once again.

They were getting close to the ancient heart of the aufwader realm. Through a series of dank grottos and evil-smelling tunnels they continued, whilst all the time the sound of running water grew in their ears. Nelda stared about her as they came to a huge cavern, larger than any she had ever seen.

It was filled with stalagmites that towered up to the dripping ceiling, forming immense, natural pillars of glistening rock. Underground springs foamed along deep channels worn into the floor and waterfalls cascaded over the emerald-coloured walls. It was a spectacular place, where land met sea in harmonious perfection, the joyous rush of water over stone was like music and it gave comfort to them both.

Since the time when the churning waters brought forth the land, this wondrous, subterranean cathedral had been sacred to the aufwaders. Even before man had driven them underground they had worshipped here and spoken of it with reverence. The Lords of the Deep were rumoured to have built it and some still clung to the belief that anything spoken here would be heard by them. A devoted few would still venture down at certain times of the year to plead for the aufwader cause and beg the mercy of the Deep Ones. If their prayers were ever hearkened to, however, they went unanswered—for the terrible curse was never lifted. Yet it remained a glorious, hallowed place.

Between the gurgling rivers of seawater, Tarr and Nelda walked until a great arch reared up before them. Huge columns of smooth rock supported the sweep of its curved roof which was encrusted with ammonites. An immense, heavy curtain of woven seaweed barred the way. It had been made in days long gone, by cunning hands whose skill had never been matched. Upon that intricate tapestry were symbols of the moon and sea and in nine panels it depicted the creation and destruction of the world, from its birth out of darkness to its return.

From behind the curtain they heard the buzz of many whispering voices. Tarr glanced at Nelda: was it too late to turn back? Could she bear the agony of living outside the tribe? For a second her breaths faltered and beads of sweat sprang from her forehead. No, she had already decided there was no way out. It took a while for her to compose herself but when she had, a slight nod to her grandfather told him she was ready for what lay beyond. Leaning on his staff he put out his hand but the curtain was drawn aside before he could touch it.

"Enter, Tarr," summoned a croaking but powerful voice, "and welcome, Nelda."

The cave was smaller than the one which preceded it, yet no less important. Here sat the Triad, those elders of the tribe who ruled all the others. Their word was law and woe betide any who disobeyed them.

Every member of the tribe was there and as the two figures entered they turned, their hushed whispers dying. All eyes were on Nelda and she gripped Tarr's hand more tightly. The assembled fisherfolk parted, clearing a path down the centre of the chamber. As Nelda passed by they hung their heads, too ashamed to meet her gaze. The atmosphere was electric and all shifted uncomfortably, for this was a black day in their history. Through this corridor Nelda and Tarr moved, coming finally to where the elders sat in judgement.

The Triad sat upon three grand thrones. The two outer ones were decorated in patterns resembling the sea and stars but they paled in comparison to the one in the centre. The middle throne was magnificent, it dwarfed those beside it, rising grandly from the living rock, its broad back thrust upwards to the ceiling, where it clove in two to support a great silver lamp. Nelda stared up at it in wonder. The lamp was the shape of a boat riding waves of glittering crystal which absorbed the light from the tapering flame at the prow and scattered it throughout the chamber. It was dazzling, like the sun on the sea, and Nelda had to lower her eyes.

A hideous face was peeping up at her. It was only a carving beneath the seat of the main throne but above that crouched a figure that Nelda truly feared. He was more loathsome than any sculpted gargoyle, for he was the oldest of all the fisherfolk and leader of the Triad.

Esau had lived for eight centuries and each and every one of those years was etched on his face. He was a wizened, shrivelled creature, whose hands were more like claws. His matted forked beard was adorned with small shells and the long, unkempt hair which flowed down his humped back was tangled with seaweed and threaded with painted stones.

The talons of his fingers tapped the stone serpents that twisted around the arm of the throne. He was impatient and, as Nelda approached, leaned forward with undisguised anticipation. Though he was ancient his eyes were as sharp as ever they had been. They twinkled under the dancing light of the silver lamp and darted slyly round the chamber. He could see the expressions on all their faces—he knew what they were thinking. Well, let them, there was nothing they could do to stop him. He had waited a long time for this. Toying with the pearl that hung about his neck, he squinted at his fellow elders on either side—they too were powerless to stop him and he could not prevent a gleeful cackle issuing from his cracked lips.

Tarr let go of Nelda's hand, it was the law that she must face this on her own. She stepped forward and stared defiantly at the hunched figure.

"I have been summoned," she said, managing a bold, fearless tone. "What is it the Triad want of me? I stand here guiltless and await your judgement." So ran the words of the trial and she waited for the response.

The elders who flanked Esau swallowed nervously. Neither of them could look at the young aufwader and they mumbled into their beards. Both hated what they must do and they struggled to pronounce what they had been instructed to say.

"Daughter of Abe," muttered one of them, "thou hast been brought to this chamber to answer." He stole a glance at Esau and shuddered. His name was Johab and he was only a little older than Nelda's grandfather. His sea-grey eyes closed and his pity went out to her—he could not continue.

Esau jabbed at the other elder to complete the condemnation, who reluctantly cleared his throat. He fidgeted for a time then said, "Dost thou remember what occurred two moons since? And dost thou recall the words thou didst speak?"

Nelda did not look at him but continued to glare at Esau. He was the one behind all this. It was time to draw him out, the charade had gone on long enough.

"I remember calling you an old fool!" she snapped.

A murmur ran round the rest of the tribe, but this time they were not angry with her, they agreed.

"Be silent!" Esau gripped the arms of the great stone chair and barked at everyone, his eyes gleaming with malice. Then he swung round and pointed an accusing, gnarled finger at Nelda. "'Abide by my decision', I did tell thee!" he raged. "And didst thou not answer?"

"I did."

Esau hugged his knees, panting eagerly. "And thine own words were?"

"So be it."

"So be it!" he screamed triumphantly. "So be it!" He crawled from the throne and put out his bony hands to the surrounding crowd. "From her own mouth she doth freely admit the bargain!" he cried. "If she did fail to return with the moonkelp, then unto me she would surrender her fate. And without that treasure came she back to these caves!"

He took a pace closer to her and lowered his ugly, withered head. "Now have I decided," he breathed into her face, "and thou must obey."

Here it came, the final pronouncement of doom, the jaws of her dreaded fate were closing and she could do nothing to save herself.

Esau raised an emaciated arm and all held their breath.

"Hear me!" he commanded. "Witness this—my judgement. For years beyond the span of many have I sat in council upon this throne and long and lonely have those years proven to be. My heart shrieks out at me! How often have I felt it bleed? I have hungered, I have craved—but no more! The gnawing solitude is come to an end at last. Nelda Shrimp, thou shalt be my bride!"

There, it had been said aloud. The fears of the whole tribe had been brought into the light and the truth of his lust reviled them all.

Nelda did not move; throughout all this she had been in the possession of an icy dignity but now hot tears streaked down her face.

Esau hobbled closer and reached out one of his filthy claws. She flinched as he stroked her hair. "Fear not, my beloved," he feverishly cooed, "I shall never harm thee. For many years I have watched thee, many empty years—a soul cannot last alone. Be a companion to me in my dotage, that is all I ask of thee—nought else."

The leathery skin of his repulsive hand brushed against her cheek and Nelda drew quickly away. "Cease your pawing!" she demanded. "It's true you have the right to claim me, but I curse the day I uttered those foolish, ill-counselled words. Would that I could call them back!"

"I am fortunate thou canst not," he broke in. "Thou shalt be mine at the next full moon."

A horrified uproar erupted in the chamber. "The moon—she waxes even now!" the fisherfolk cried. "In only two days she will be at her zenith. Whither are your wits?"

"Tha canna intend to wed wi' me granddaughter two nights hence!" bellowed Tarr in outrage.

"I do indeed!" declared Esau clenching his crippled fists. "And there is nought you can do, Tarr. The law is with me on this. I have waited too long already—I shall not be kept from her another moon."

The clamouring continued and many vented their opinions on the lecherous elder. What he was doing was obscene. The only one who said nothing was Nelda herself. Through the turmoil her eyes met those of Esau and held them. In that brief instant, when the oldest of the fisherfolk stared at the youngest, their spirits strove for dominance. Each battled with the other and attempted to cast their snares, Nelda with the pure vigour of youth and Esau with the desperate tenacity of age. The air between their brows shimmered and once the elder took a step backwards, but he swiftly rallied and countered with such violence in his eyes that Nelda staggered and broke free.

"Enough," she gasped, "I submit. In two days I shall be yours."

The breath rattled in Esau's throat and he grasped the throne for support. She would be an excellent match for him and he gave a greedy, wheezing laugh.

Nelda, however, had not finished. "Yes, I shall marry you," she said, "but the ceremony must be attended by my human friend—the man child, Ben."

Esau snarled and he spun round like a whipped dog. "A human!" he cried. "Wouldst thou invite the entire accursed race into our halls?"

"I ask for one only," she replied. "If Ben is not here then there will be no wedding."

The elder licked his gums in annoyance, then he sneered and told her, "Verily thy friend shall attend. He is most welcome to witness our marriage—yet at that time say unto him all that thou wouldst, for in after days thou shalt never again see the human child. When thou art bound to me the upper world will be forbidden and thy friend shall be withered to death and rotting in his grave before the ban is lifted!" He turned his back on them all and returned to sit on the throne. The meeting was over.

The tribe glanced at Nelda uncertainly. One by one they gradually left the chamber and began the long trudge back to their homes, troubled in heart and mind.

Nelda shook her head sorrowfully. What she had feared was indeed coming to pass. Esau would keep her a prisoner down here, she would never see the daylight again and, after her wedding, Ben too would be a memory to be forgotten.

"Come, lass," Tarr softly spoke in her ear, "theer's plenty to see to."

With a final look at her future husband, Nelda followed her grandfather from the chamber.

Hunched on the throne, Esau fingered the pearl at his throat and wetted his dry lips at the thought of the forthcoming wedding.

4 - The Charming Man

"Where is that confounded thing!" cried an exasperated Miss Boston. She heaved the large suitcase from her bed and peered underneath. "Well, what are you doing there?" she demanded of her nightdress. Wearily she dragged it out and stuffed it into the already bulging case.

Her friend, Edith Wethers, peered in through the bedroom door. "Hurry, Alice," she fussed. "The train to Darlington leaves in an hour. If you don't catch it then you won't make your connection."

Miss Boston puckered her lips and tried to control herself. Miss Wethers had been making useful comments like that all morning. "Haven't you got a post office to run, Edith dear?" she muttered through gritted teeth.

"I told you, Alice, I asked Mrs Simpson to open today. I knew you'd need all the help you could get."

So far as Miss Boston could see, Edith had been no help whatsoever. Still she could not criticise, for her friend had agreed to look after the children while she was away.

"There!" the old lady sat on the suitcase and fastened it before it could spring apart again. "I do believe I have everything."

Miss Wethers examined her watch and tutted. "Fifty minutes," she observed.

Alice took a firm hold of her luggage and hauled it from the bed. "Oh my word!" she exclaimed, staggering under the weight. "It feels as though I'm off to climb Everest."

"Do stop dawdling," urged Edith impatiently. "Why do you always have to leave everything to the last minute, Alice? It really is most irresponsible. What sort of an example are you setting for those children?" With her hands fluttering over the neck of her blouse she descended the stairs, blind to the rude faces Miss Boston was pulling behind her.

Jennet and Ben were waiting for them in the hall; they had said nothing to Aunt Alice about Danny and Mark for they didn't want to worry her.

"Here's your cloak," said Jennet, putting the tweed wrap around the old lady's shoulders.

"Thank you, my dear," smiled Miss Boston. "My my, I do believe I'm ready for the off."

"And not before time," remarked Edith.

Miss Boston ignored her and gave each of the children a hug. "I shan't bother to ask you to be good for Miss Wethers," she told them. "I know you're both sensible enough to behave when I'm away. Jennet, I'm relying on you—remember."

The girl nodded, she wanted to tell the old lady to have a good time, but as she was visiting someone on their deathbed it hardly seemed appropriate. Instead she said, "Have a safe journey—we'll miss you."

"Oh nonsense," chirped Aunt Alice. "It's only four days—why, I shall be back before you know it."

"Well, I hope so," said Miss Wethers.

"Now don't forget, Benjamin," Miss Boston continued, "it's your job to take care of Eurydice and her little ones. You know how much to feed them, don't you? And when Madam goes out, put her on a string. I'm not having you traipsing off to that horrible house after her when I'm not here."

Ben smiled, he was looking forward to having Miss Wethers staying with them. He knew she was allergic to cat fur and had been collecting some especially.

"Now, Edith," Miss Boston said turning to her friend. "I trust you'll be all right?"

Miss Wethers looked at her doubtfully. "Actually," she began, "there were one or two things." Her hand reached inside the sleeve of her cardigan and brought out a crumpled tissue with which she dabbed her nose. "I really don't feel at all prepared for this," she said, "you did rather spring it upon me. I'm just not qualified to look after two boisterous children. What will it do to my nerves? What am I to give them to eat?" She lowered her voice and in a delicate voice added, "And what about bathtime? What am I expected to do then? I tell you, Alice, I don't know if agreeing to this wasn't all a terrible mistake!" She buried her face in the tissue and blew hard.

Miss Boston rolled her eyes to the ceiling and spent the last of her dwindling patience. "Oh for heaven's sake, Edith!" she sighed. "Pull yourself together! It's too late now to back out of it. I'm depending on you—the letter from Patricia only arrived a few days ago and there just wasn't time to arrange anything else. As for bathtimes, Jennet can see to herself and so can Ben. So don't get yourself in a tiz, you won't have to acquaint yourself with the male anatomy at all."

Edith choked at that but Aunt Alice rattled on. "And what do you think they eat? They're not parakeets or a rare type of monkey—give them the same as you!"

Ben rather fancied being a monkey and he bared his teeth at Miss Wethers whilst scratching himself under the arms.

The postmistress stared at him in alarm and dragged Miss Boston into the parlour. "Did you see that?" she whined. "What sort of a boy is he? Alice, I've only ever lived with my mother, and she was bedridden for thirty of those years. What if something horrendous happens—what am I to do? Never was good in a crisis. I'm not Prudence, you know. I won't be able to cope, I just won't!"

Miss Boston patted her on the shoulder. "'Course you will, Edith. Besides, I shall ring you every day at the post office and if there is an emergency you have the telephone number of Patricia's house. But what could possibly happen in four days? Goodness me, look at the time, only twenty minutes to get to the station. Come along—do you want me to miss this train?"

At last Miss Boston managed to leave the cottage. The children and Miss Wethers were to accompany her to the train station and after five minutes of reassuring Edith about this and that, they were able to set off.

As they passed the Gregsons' house, the door opened and Nathaniel Crozier smiled at them. "Good morning," he greeted them amiably.

Miss Boston almost tripped over Edith in surprise. "Gracious me!" she exclaimed.

"We meet again," he said. "I told you we would. Off to London now, are you? I hope Mrs Gunning recovers."

"Er, thank you," murmured Aunt Alice, but she looked at the man strangely.

Nathaniel beamed more broadly and Miss Wethers blushed. "Mr Crozier, isn't it?" she twittered into her hand. "You met me in the post office yesterday. Are you settling in?"

"Most admirably," he replied, "and it's a great pleasure to see you again."

Edith turned bright pink, but she could find nothing else to say to the winning man and hung her head, feeling cross with herself.

Even Jennet found the man's smile pleasant and she too felt the colour rise in her cheeks. Quickly she looked away in embarrassment.

"Less than fifteen minutes!" declared Miss Boston. "Come along!" She bustled them out of the yard and through the narrow alley that led to Church Street.

Ben had been watching his sister with some amusement, he had never seen her be coy before. Hanging back from the others he turned to steal a final glance at the man who had caused Jennet to blush. Nathaniel was still standing on the Gregsons' doorstep but the expression on his face had changed. It was like a storm cloud passing over the sun and Ben grimaced at the ugliness of it. Shuddering, he fled back up the alley and joined the others.

"What did you say his name was?" Aunt Alice was asking the postmistress.

"Mr Crozier," Edith replied dreamily, "isn't it a lovely name?"

But Miss Boston was frowning at something and it was Jennet who answered, "Yes," she agreed, "it is lovely."

Aunt Alice was too lost in her own thoughts to notice—where had she heard that name before?

***

Young Mr Parks was the junior partner of Olive and Parks, the estate agents. Actually he was not that young but as he had succeeded his father it was easier for the locals to identify him as such in conversation. His nose was rather long and it ended sharply like a beak. The pale green eyes which sat on either side of this unfortunate protuberance were just that little bit too close together and they made him resemble a vulture. Sadly, from the first, his manner had also been against him, he was too flippant; when he showed prospective clients around desirable residences he had a habit of making jokes about the condition of the roof or the state of the floorboards. He thought he was putting them at their ease and jollying things along, but no one ever realised that he was trying to be funny and in his time had put off many an eager purchaser.

His lack of success over the years had taken its toll. Now the only jokes were sarcastic ones and he had grown tired of the business and wished he had done something else with his life.

While he fumbled with the large bunch of keys, he took time to consider his latest potential client. The man was standing some distance away from the property, no doubt admiring its grandeur. His clothes left a lot to be desired but, from the few brief words they had exchanged he was obviously well-educated. He must have a lot of money too, to be so interested in this property, for only the very wealthy could possibly hope to afford it. Mr Parks ignored the sense of uneasiness that he felt—how he hated going into this house.

"Here we are," he grinned, flourishing the correct set of keys, "I'll have the door open in a jiffy, Mr Crozier."

Nathaniel was too busy surveying the grand building to answer. It was one of the oldest properties in Whitby, some parts of it dated back to the tenth century and perhaps further still. Over the ages it had been extended and embellished; the chimneys were Elizabethan, as were the latticed windows, but in other parts you could glimpse Georgian craftsmanship and Victorian heavy-handedness.

"Impressive, isn't it?" said the estate agent. "Yes, we're very pleased to have this one on our books. Been in the Banbury-Scott family for—ooh, many years this has. A real showpiece it was. Do you know, architects and historians came from all over the country just to have a look at it? Unusual for such a treasure to be in private hands really, you'd have thought the National Trust would have snapped it up but they don't seem interested." The large oak door opened and he waved Nathaniel from the lawn. "Now, you do understand about the damage?" he asked.

"Your partner told me the last owner made some structural alterations."

The smile froze on Mr Parks's face. He hated it when Christopher Olive dropped him in it. "Actually," he explained slowly, "there's a little more to it than that. Now, don't misunderstand me, the damage is only superficial. There's nothing in here that can't be repaired." He sailed indoors, hoping the worst areas were still covered by dust sheets. The hallway wasn't too bad, though of course the panelling still had horrendous rents in it—why hadn't they hung up a few pictures as he had suggested?

Personally he found the entire place incredibly creepy, when he thought about what had happened to it. He clapped his hands together and tried to dispel the icy tingle that was prickling the hairs on his neck.

"Yes," he began, "as you can see, there is rather a lot of splintered wood and what a desecration to this divine parquet floor. I understand that all this vandalism took but a few hours to achieve." He did not mention how it had been done—the thought of a mad woman racing round the house, swinging an axe was enough to put anybody off. He turned to add something more but was perturbed to discover that his client was still standing on the doorstep. "Oh dear," he said crestfallen, "is it really so bad, Mr Crozier? One gets accustomed to the devastation. I suppose it must be quite a shock to you."

Nathaniel raised an eyebrow. "Actually I was waiting to be invited in," he replied.

Young Mr Parks gaped like a goldfish for a moment then was full of apologies. "Oh forgive me!" he pleaded. "I didn't think, one meets so few people with true manners these days. The barbarity of the great unwashed tends to rub off. Please, come in."

The bearded man entered and gazed around with interest at the dreadful state of the house.

Mr Parks followed him from room to room, always two steps behind. "You can see the furniture is all intact," he boasted. "Oh don't look at the fireplace, that really is too awful. What a mess."

Nathaniel prowled round like a hound after a scent. When they had reached the drawing room his agitation was plain to see. "Mr Olive told me that the last owner did all this," he said. "In your opinion, what would drive someone to such destruction?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," answered Mr Parks, but he saw that the man was not satisfied. It was time to tell him the whole truth—he would hear it from someone sooner or later. Drawing closer, he lowered his voice. "By all accounts, Mrs Cooper was rather peculiar. As soon as she got her hands on this place she sacked all the staff and went on the rampage. Gives me the abdabs it does. Totally unhinged, not a doubt of it. You only have to look at her other house, the one on Abbey Lane—we handled the sale of that one too. I understood she had the place totally redecorated, but it's worse than this. That's the trouble nowadays, you never quite know who it is you're dealing with. She was obviously a mental patient of some sort. Still, she didn't murder anyone so that's something to be thankful for."

Nathaniel allowed himself a private smile and asked dryly, "Do you know what happened to her?"

"Disappeared," said the estate agent, snapping his fingers. "Vanished without a trace. The police couldn't find her anywhere. I think she threw herself into the sea—people like that do all sorts of silly things, don't they? I had an uncle who kept guinea-pigs, not in hutches mind—let them have the run of the house. Towards the end he had over a hundred of the brutes, it was like a miniature cattle ranch in there. Do you know what he did when he finally realised he couldn't afford to feed them all? He just left the front door wide open—caused chaos on the road. The last I heard he had developed an unhealthy interest in hanging baskets. Other people's, naturally—remarkable."

Nathaniel had had enough. There was nothing more to discover here, not with this idiot trailing after him like an unshakeable shadow. He made a point of looking at his watch and said that he had seen enough.

"Oh, but you haven't seen half of the property yet!" exclaimed a disappointed Mr Parks. "There're the lovely rooms under the gables and such an impressive cellarage. Why you haven't even glimpsed the garden at the back—it was always immaculately kept."

"I'm not interested."

"Oh well," Mr Parks sighed, leading him back through the ruined hall, "I suppose you're busy. Would you look at that poor banister, solid oak you know and frightfully difficult to replace." He stared glumly at the splintered length of wood before returning to his client. "Do you know that after she ransacked the house the demented creature went outside and almost demolished the garden shed? As if all this hadn't satisfied her. Frightening, isn't it, how mad the human race can get?"

Nathaniel had reached the front door and was about to pull it open, but he hesitated. "You know, Mr Parks," he said, turning and marching back through the wreckage, "I believe I will examine this garden of yours."

The garden of the Banbury-Scott residence was as grand as the building it surrounded. It had always been a source of tremendous admiration—and envy from those privileged to be invited to the garden fêtes held there. In summer the flower beds were awash with vibrant colour and the scent of the roses on an August evening was almost as strong as the cider the gardener used to drink. For decades, the sprawling lawns had been the pride of Grice. He had tended to the garden's needs through frost, drought and flood and its beauty was a testament to his care and innovation. But Grice had been dismissed along with the parlour maid and the cook, so for two months the garden had been neglected. The grass desperately needed cutting and dead leaves floated in the ornamental pond.

"We really ought to engage someone to see to this," commented Mr Parks, "before it gets totally out of control. Still, with winter coming I don't suppose we need worry too much. Come over here, Mr Crozier, there's a delightful secluded area, almost a secret garden and it gets all the sunlight in the summer. There's rather a nice statuette too, of... oh."

Nathaniel had wandered away from the prattling man and was heading for an old stone hut situated against the garden wall.

Mr Parks came running after him. "There's nothing over here of much interest," he gabbled. "Wouldn't you rather see the path made entirely from terracotta tiles flown in from Mexico?"

"Is this where Mrs Cooper went after she had torn up the house?" Nathaniel asked striding up to the heavy door of the outbuilding.

The estate agent confirmed that it was but failed to see why he was so interested in a converted pig pen when there were so many other more interesting sights to view.

Nathaniel ignored him and pushed the door open. It looked like a whirlwind had visited the place. The high, stacked shelves had been thrown to the floor and all the nails and screws which had been carefully stored in tins were scattered everywhere.

"Dear, dear," tutted Mr Parks, "God knows what was going through her mind—sheer lunacy. Grice used to love sitting in here, he was so, well shed-proud, I suppose. Funny, he's never been back you know, won't come near the place. Poor man, it must be awful to have your private world violated in this manner. Would you look at that wall, hacked to pieces, plaster everywhere. Mind you don't get it on your clothes, Mr Crozier."

Nathaniel picked his way through the rubble. The near wall had certainly been ripped open. Most of the plaster that had covered it now lay at his feet and he ran his fingers across the bare stone it had revealed. There was a long trough cut into it. Nathaniel's eyes narrowed and he immediately stooped to search amongst the dusty heaps of broken plaster.

"Well, really!" sniffed Mr Parks, stepping back as Nathaniel stirred up a cloud of dirt. "What are you doing?"

The other man did not reply but continued to rake through the debris. Mr Parks stepped outside to escape from the dust, a handkerchief over his mouth.

And then Nathaniel found it. He knew there had to be something and there it was. From the piles of rubbish he brought out a fragment of plaster as large as his hand. One side was smooth, except for four strange symbols that had been gouged into it. A look of understanding passed over his face.

"Oh, Roselyn," he breathed, "how could you have made such a fatal blunder? Did you really give no heed to these?" He blew the remaining dirt off and inspected the fragment more closely. "The central sign is the mark of Hilda," he observed, "but what of the three which circle round it? Why were you so blind?" He could hardly contain his excitement. This confirmed all his researches and made every risk worthwhile. Quickly he slipped it into his pocket and stepped back outside.

Mr Parks was busy brushing stray flecks of dust off his suit. When his client rejoined him the estate agent eyed him uncertainly. "What were you searching for in there?" he inquired.

"Oh," Nathaniel shrugged, "I thought I saw a rat dart from the rubbish—I thought there might be a nest."

Mr Parks was appalled and pulled a horrified face. "A rat!" he repeated. "And you were scrabbling after it?" He shivered and covered his mouth with the handkerchief once more.

"I think I've seen all I need to for the moment," Nathaniel continued. "Thank you for your time, it has been a most instructive morning."

"Yes... erm." Mr Parks had not quite recovered himself. "I'll show you out, then." His client, however, was already marching towards the house. "Rat nests," the estate agent muttered incredulously, "I ask you."

***

Jennet lay the book on her knee and ate a biscuit. It was blissfully quiet and peaceful as both Ben and Miss Wethers were out and she was alone in the cottage. Her brother had gone to see a friend of Aunt Alice's; not long ago Mr Roper had promised to help make a guy for bonfire night and the boy was keeping him to his word. The postmistress, after spending the entire day fussing over one thing and another, had discovered that she had run out of tissues. She had dithered for a full half-hour before deciding whether to leave Jennet on her own or not and by the time she had left the girl was worn out.

Munching on the chocolate digestive, Jennet wondered if she could stand a full four days of Miss Wethers. The thought crossed her mind that it was the postmistress who needed looking after, not Ben and herself.

After some minutes she turned her attention back to the book. Desert Amour was a romantic novel that Miss Wethers had brought with her. Jennet usually had no time for that sort of literature, but today she made an exception and was surprised to find herself enjoying it. Mrs Rodice, the ghastly woman who ran the hostel that she and Ben had once stayed at, used to read books like this too and Jennet could understand why. It was just the sort of escapism she craved; the heroine, Veronica Forthgood, was a dark-eyed beauty who continually suffered from the machinations of her half-sister Sonia. It was Sonia, of course, who had tricked the hero, Maximilian Strong, into joining the Foreign Legion, and Jennet was just reaching the point where Veronica had finally found him, delirious under the desert sun, when a knock sounded at the front door.

Jennet considered letting whoever it was go away, but the thought occurred to her that it might be Ben back early from Mr Roper's. Reluctantly she put down the book and left the parlour to investigate.

"Good afternoon," said Nathaniel, once she had opened the door, "isn't it a glorious day for November?"

Jennet tried to conceal her pleasure at seeing him.

"Mr Crozier, isn't it? Can I help you?"

"Please," he grinned, "call me Nathaniel." His deep black eyes shone out at her and Jennet felt weak under their unwavering glare. "I seem to be locked out of the Gregsons'," he lied. "As you know, I'm lodging with them for a time. When I went out I left the spare key in my room and now it appears they have gone out also." He shrugged his shoulders like an apologetic child. "So," he mumbled shyly, "I wonder if you would be so kind as to invite me into your house for the time being—until they return."

"Oh," said Jennet uncertainly, "I shouldn't. You see there's only me here and Aunt Alice told me..."

Nathaniel nodded, he knew all the time that she was alone, but said, "Then I wouldn't dream of bothering you any further. I quite understand and won't be in the least bit offended. I'll just sit on the Gregsons' step until they return."

He began walking back to the next door neighbours; but Jennet called after him, "No don't do that! I'm sure it's all right. You were talking to Aunt Alice this morning so she obviously knows you, it isn't as though you were a total stranger. Please, come in."

Nathaniel crossed the threshold into Miss Boston's cottage—that was boringly easy.

Jennet showed him into the parlour and the man looked about with interest. He was particularly taken with the books on the shelves and spent a few moments with his back to the girl, intently reading the spines. "Your aunt has an eccentric collection," he remarked, "an awful lot of mumbo jumbo here—does she really believe in this stuff? I hope such ridiculous faith doesn't run in the family. You seem far too intelligent for that supernatural nonsense."

Jennet shook her head. "She isn't really my aunt," she confided, "Ben and I just call her that, and no, I don't really believe in it—or I try not to. I don't even read the horoscopes in the paper."

"Very wise," he commented. "And what sort of thing do you read?"

"Oh, you know," she said airily, "all kinds. There are some history books up there I find quite interesting and..." Her voice faltered, for Nathaniel was glancing at the armchair where Desert Amour lay open in all its shameless glory.

Jennet felt herself blush. "That's Miss Wethers'," she blurted hastily. Nathaniel gave her a knowing look and she knew he guessed the truth—how embarrassing!

"I see," he said mildly, "so, the postmistress is a fan of Davina Montgomery. She is not alone in that, over half the women in Britain are addicted to such fiction. It is no crime to seek escape—how else could they cope with the drudge of their daily existence?"

"That's what I was thinking!" said Jennet.

"Were you indeed?" he asked. "Then you know there is no harm in dreams. Fantasies are as necessary to us as breathing—without them we should all perish. Each and every one of us must chase after our desires and embrace them. Do you not agree?"

"Yes."

He held her with his smile and Jennet found herself wanting to know all about this fascinating man. But his next question took her by surprise.

"Where are your parents?" he asked.

She looked down at the carpet before answering, "They... they died two years ago."

"That must have been very difficult for you."

"It was—still is."

"You have been very brave, I see that a great weight has been put on your shoulders. Your eyes tell me this; a great deal can be learnt from the study of one's eyes—they are the mirrors of the soul. When you meet someone for the first time, what is it you look at—his nose, his hair, his mouth? When two lovers stare across a table at each other, what are they staring at? It is the eyes, those small windows that betray the inner self. Nothing can hide in them. Of all the separate, unreliable pieces of mankind they are the most honest. Tell me, Jennet, what do you see in mine?"

Jennet was nervous; she wanted to look and yet deep down some basic instinct was warning her not to. "Beware," it cautioned her, "beware."

"Look at me, Jennet," Nathaniel pressed.

Slowly she raised her head and stared into his eyes. "They... they're so dark," she whispered, "black and cold, like splinters of black glass. I'll cut myself on them—oh!" she tried to wrench herself free but it was too late, Jennet was lost.

Nathaniel clicked his fingers in her face, the girl did not even flinch. "Sit down," he told her.

At once Jennet obeyed, she was completely in his power now and had no will of her own.

Nathaniel threw Miss Wethers' book on the floor and made himself comfortable on the armchair. "Tell me, child," he demanded, "tell me what you know of Rowena Cooper."

And so, Jennet told him everything. She spoke like an automaton, in a dead monotone and, with great detail, related the events that had occurred between Miss Boston and his late wife. How Rowena had searched for the magical staff of Hilda, murdering several of Aunt Alice's friends in the process and how she had at last found the staff, wielding it to the peril of everybody. When she had finished Nathaniel was not at all pleased.

"How could she have been such a fool?" he snapped. "Why did she not listen to me? The staff was not what I was after! How could she allow herself to be tricked—and by such a one as that senile amateur?" He rose from the chair and paced around the room, seething with fury until at last he turned back to Jennet. "And the staff of Hilda," he cried, "where is it now? Does Alice Boston possess it?"

"No," droned Jennet's reply, "it was taken from this world altogether."

The news seemed to be a great relief to Nathaniel and he relaxed. "Good," he said with a satisfied, unpleasant smile, "then that leaves the way clear. Thank you, my child, a most interesting little conversation, I can see you shall be very useful. It is perhaps unfortunate that your brother has the sight, even more worrying is the fact that it was he who discovered the moonkelp. Now he has the favour of the Lords of the Deep—that is a sobering circumstance. Still, I trust I can achieve my goal—one eight-year-old thorn in my side is something I can handle. There have been worse dangers. All will be well—for me at least."

Jennet rubbed her eyes, she had the most excruciating headache.

"Of course, when I was digging in Egypt, my group had the most awful case of jippy tummy I've ever experienced. Quite frightful it was. The location might have been exotic but all they saw for the first three days was the inside of the loo."

Dizzily, she stared across at the man in the armchair. He was mildly sipping a cup of tea and chatting away as if they had known each other for years. The pain was easing a little now, she had never suffered from headaches before. Try as she might she could not recall what they had been talking about—she could not even remember making the tea.

"Are you all right?" asked Nathaniel with concern. "You look almost green. I've been rabbiting on, haven't I? Forgive me, one tends to forget how boring these anecdotes can be to other people. Dear me, here's me trotting on about Nairobi, Peru and Egypt without even noticing the effect it's having on you."

"I'm sorry," Jennet apologised, "it's just a headache, it's clearing now. Please—go on."

He smiled at her. "You are kind," he said, "but I've taken up too much of your time already. The Gregsons must be back by now. Thank you so much for inviting me in. You have been a most enchanting hostess." Rising from the chair he gave the girl a formal bow. Jennet felt the butterflies flutter inside—Mr Crozier had to be the politest man she had ever met.

"Let me see you out," she offered eagerly, running to the front door.

"Au revoir," he told her, taking hold of her hand and kissing it.

Jennet laughed with delight and opened the door.

Nathaniel stared past her at the yard beyond. "Hello there," he called.

The girl turned in time to see Miss Wethers give him an answering wave with her handbag. "Why, hello to you, Mr Crozier," she cried, "are you coming in for tea?"

"No, thank you," he replied, "this young lady has seen to that already. Now I must be getting back to the Gregsons', I have some important work to see to."

"But I thought you were on holiday!" exclaimed the postmistress.

"Alas no," he returned, "would that I were. Now excuse me, ladies." Flashing his beguiling smile, Nathaniel left them and rang the bell of the neighbour's house. The door opened and Mrs Gregson hurriedly let him in.

"Dear me," Miss Wethers tutted, "Joan Gregson doesn't look very well. Did you see how pale she was? The fault of that layabout husband, no doubt. Come on, Jennet, Mr Crozier may have had a cup of tea but I haven't. I'm fair gasping for one."

They went indoors and Jennet put the kettle on the stove. "He's a nice man, isn't he?" she remarked happily.

Miss Wethers took some time before answering, as the cellophane on the packet of tissues refused to open. "Mr Crozier?" she eventually piped up from the hallway. "Yes, he is."

"He told me to call him Nathaniel."

Edith forgot about the tissues and wandered into the kitchen. "Did he?" she asked, a look of concern troubling her face. "Well, perhaps it would be better if you refrained from using his Christian name, Jennet dear."

"Why?"

"Well, it just isn't proper—and you shouldn't have invited him in like that. We hardly know the man."

"But he's so... charming."

Miss Wethers let out a small gasp of surprise. That word had struck a chord in her somewhere.

"What is it?" asked Jennet puzzled.

"I don't know," Edith replied quietly, "I've just remembered something my mother once told me. I haven't thought about it for years, but..."

The girl waited to be enlightened but the postmistress went searching for the tissues, flustered and feeling naked without one tucked in her sleeve to fiddle with. When she came back in the kitchen, Jennet was still waiting.

Edith dabbed her nose in distraction and relented. "A long time ago," she began haltingly, "when my father was alive and before I was born, times were bitterly hard. The only employment was fishing and my father would be at sea for days on end. Well, at one such time my mother was alone in bed and there was a lot of noise coming from the yard below her window. You've seen where I live, it's pretty much the same as here with a yard around which all the other cottages are built."

Miss Wethers stared out of the window as she remembered the story the way her mother had told it to her. "There were two terrible men at that time in Whitby—awful troublemakers whom no captain wanted aboard. You can only guess how they made a living, but what money they did have they drank or gambled away. Unfortunately they lived in the same yard as my parents and every so often, on fine nights, would hold their revels out in the open—this was a particularly fine evening.

"A few other ruffians were also there, drinking heavily and getting soused. All evening my poor mother heard them get drunker and drunker. Imagine how afraid she must have been, a frail woman totally alone with no one to call to should she need help. And then the gambling began. A pack of cards was produced and a table hauled from somebody's kitchen. At the sound of it being dragged across the yard, my mother dared to peek through the curtain and saw them all stupid with drink. She put a chair against the door and crept back into bed, pulling the blankets up under her chin, wishing my father would return.

"The rabble below continued playing cards well into the night and their voices grew heated with vile curses. My mother never got a wink of sleep and then something happened which made her blood run cold.

"On the wall, above the bedhead, a red light began to glow. She was scared witless and couldn't move an inch. Well, this light grew larger until it reached the ceiling and then a man stepped right out of it."

Miss Wethers paused for breath, her eyes wide with some of the fear her mother had felt all those years ago. "He was strikingly handsome, I remember her telling me. Dressed beautifully—all in black, one of those old-fashioned dinner suits with the tails and a large, silk bow tie. Anyway off the bed he steps, tugging at his golden cufflinks.

"My mother could only stare at him and finally she stammers, 'Are you the Devil?' Well, this man he just gives her a little smile and says, 'Don't worry, it's not you I've come for.' Then he turns and walks towards the window where he melts into nothingness again.

"At that point my mother passed out and when she awoke the next morning discovered that a fight had broken out between those two men, one of them had pulled out a knife and stabbed the other to death." Her voice trailed off, lapsing into a soft whisper. "And that's why she always used to warn me about charming gentlemen—because the devil himself is a charming man."

Miss Wethers became silent as she recalled all the barriers the memory of this story had thrown in the way of any men friends she might have had in her life. When she drifted back to the present she found that Jennet was staring at her as though she had gone mad.

"Oh my," muttered Miss Wethers forlornly, "I don't really know what I mean by telling you all this. It was just a story my mother used to tell me that's all, probably wanted to keep me with her after father passed on and then when she was ill... and yet I can picture her even now, relating that tale, her face whiter than the pillows she was propped up on."

Jennet handed her the cup of tea she had poured out for her and Edith took it hurriedly, the crockery rattling in time with her jangled nerves.

"Well, I still think Mr Crozier's charming," Jennet told herself.

5 - A Shock For Miss Wethers

Ben lay before the coal fire, tackling a bowl of wallpaper paste and a pile of torn newspapers. He had already covered one half of a balloon with the grey porridge-like substance and was busily applying more to the other half.

Mr Roper's front room was the perfect cosy spot to spend a rainy afternoon. It was like one of those exhibits in a museum which demonstrates how people used to live. The rose-patterned wallpaper had not been changed for thirty years and neither had the lemon yellow curtains—even the light switches were the out-dated, round type. The old man's furniture also hailed from the time his wife had been alive to choose it and, over the years, the table, chairs and sideboard had steadfastly occupied their rightful places, so much so that they almost seemed part of the fabric of the house.

Jammed between the fading photographs that crowded the mantelpiece was an ugly clock that sombrely ticked the time away and gave rhythm to his days. Mr Roper possessed no television, such an intrusion into his home would have been unthinkable, instead a large wooden radio dominated one alcove and he spent many a pleasant evening listening to the classical music programmes. The overall effect lent the room a warm, brown glow and when the fire crackled in the grate it was a delicious, snug nest that any tourist could peer in at and envy.

Mr Roper lived by himself on the West Cliff. For many years, since the death of his wife, he had become increasingly isolated from other people. Without his Margaret he found the world a bleak, confusing place and the struggle of existence a meaningless chore. When Miss Boston first met him he was in a lamentable state, unshaven and dirty, not caring how he looked or lived. It was she who shook him out of his despondency and snatched him back from the brink just in time.

Now he took pride in himself again and kept the house as Margaret would have wished. He had a lot to thank Miss Boston for and never forgot that fact, supporting her in all her endeavours—however bizarre.

When she had first mentioned that she was going to foster two unknown children, he was the only one in all her circle of friends who gave her encouragement and now he was glad that he had.

Ben and Mr Roper got on famously and once a week the boy would visit the old man. It was good to escape the female household of Aunt Alice and his sister once in a while. On fine days they would go fishing off one of the piers, but more frequently, when the rain kept them indoors, the old man would entertain Ben by recounting stories of his life and those of his family. All three of Mr Roper's elder brothers had been killed in the Great War and he himself had won a medal in the one that had followed. He kept this in the top drawer of the sideboard and only took it out on Remembrance Day and when Ben wanted to look at it. Although the stories he told about the war fascinated the boy, Mr Roper never went into too much detail. He had survived some ghastly experiences and Ben was wise enough to understand; he never insisted on hearing a tale if he saw that it troubled his old friend. For Mr Roper, many memories were still too terrible to recall, as if the mere utterance of them would awaken the pain and horror once more.

Ben dunked another scrap of paper into the paste and plastered it over the shiny surface of the balloon. He hated the feel of papier-mâché, it made his finger-tips pucker up and look like raisins, and if any splashed on to the backs of his hands or arms and dried, it became painfully glued to the hairs. The only good point about the messy process, as far as he could see, was that afterwards his flaking hands looked like the mummified remains of a grotesque zombie that had risen from a cold grave.

He wiggled his fingers menacingly before his eyes and gave a sepulchral moan—just as Mr Roper returned carrying a glass of lemonade.

"Ah, well done," said the old man setting the glass down by the boy, "you've nearly finished the first layer. I think two good'uns should be sufficient. He only has to last between here and the bonfire, remember." He eased himself into his favourite, battered armchair and watched as Ben slapped another layer all around.

"Did you manage to find any clothes?" the boy asked. "I've got an old jumper with holes in, but all my trousers are too good to burn."

Mr Roper nodded. "Don't you worry," he told him, "there's an old pair of trousers in the wardrobe upstairs. I'll fish them out in a minute—there's a couple of odd gloves in a drawer somewhere too, they'd look right grand on him."

"He's going to be the best Guy Fawkes in Whitby!" said Ben proudly.

"In Yorkshire!" corrected Mr Roper, putting some more coal on the fire. "Did I tell you I got another addition to my collection the other day? Hang on then, I'll just fetch it."

Ben continued spreading the papier-mâché over the balloon as the old man padded into the parlour. Since the death of his wife there had only been one love in his life and that was given wholly over to his beloved collection. Mr Roper collected cruet sets.

His parlour was a virtual shrine to salt and pepper pots of all shapes and sizes; there were china elephants, lighthouses, an entire pack of dogs, three cottages, a couple of penguins that wobbled when touched, an aeroplane, two cows, a glass camel, three people in a boat, a basket of fruit, comical bees set into a hive that contained marmalade, a Spanish flamenco dancer, spaceships, a miniature hatstand with the hats as the pots, a group of cartoon mice popping out of a Swiss cheese and many many more. Somehow he had managed to squeeze them all into his small parlour. They were displayed in glass-fronted cabinets, adorned the window-sills, huddled on shelves, jostled for position on the tops of cupboards and the aeroplane had even been suspended on a wire from the ceiling.

He loved them all and much of his ample spare time was now devoted to scouring the local antique and bric-a-brac shops for anything new to add to them. It was his little haven of joy, where his sole delight was inspecting and dusting them. In a way they were the children he had never had and he treated them with the same amount of care and attention.

"Now then," he chuckled with pride as he gently took hold of his latest charge, "let's show you to a young friend of mine." He hurried back to the front room where Ben held the now heavy balloon between his slippery fingers. "Have you finished lad?" he asked. "Well, what do you think of this little beauty? Quite appropriate, isn't it?"

Upon his tender palm were a pair of china salt-and-pepper-pots, both in the shape of fireworks. They had been delicately made to look like rockets with yellow stars and scarlet lightnings painted on them; there was even a sculpted twist of blue touch-paper that came away to enable the salt and pepper to be poured inside.

Ben stared at them admiringly. "They're beautiful," he said.

Mr Roper nodded, too honest to disagree. "I think they're my favourites at the moment," he sighed, "I've put them pride of place next to the penguins."

"I wish I could have some fireworks," muttered Ben enviously, "real ones I mean. I bet Miss Wethers won't let me have any."

The old man smiled. "She might at that," he said kindly. "Now, I must put these fellows back with the others." He returned to the parlour and called over his shoulder. "As you've finished, you'd best go and give your hands a wash and leave that rascal's head there to dry."

"When will I be able to paint a face on him?" asked Ben. "He will be ready in two days' time won't he?"

In the parlour Mr Roper laughed and came back to the front room. "Aye, he'll be ready. If you come back tomorrow he should be dry enough and you can paint the bounder." He gave a little chuckle then added, "Mind you, we shouldn't really be doing this you know, old Fawkes was a fellow Yorkshireman and a soldier to boot. It's Bob Catesby who should be stuck on the bonfire—were his idea after all."

"But you've got to have a Guy Fawkes," Ben started to protest, "if I can't have any fireworks, at least..." then he saw that the old man was not being serious.

"I'm only pulling your leg," smiled Mr Roper. "Now, where are them old trousers of mine?" He disappeared upstairs for a while and Ben could hear him pulling everything out of the wardrobe. The boy wandered into the kitchen where he washed his hands in the big square sink and thought about the face he would paint on the papier-mâché head.

"Here we are," said Mr Roper brandishing a pair of grey trousers that smelled of mothballs. 'I'll tie some string round the legs and then we can start stuffing them with that newspaper you've got left.

Ben dried his hands and waited while the string was tightly fastened. Then they took great handfuls of paper, scrunched them up, and thrust them down the trouser legs.

"Tell me about the war again," Ben asked.

"You don't want to listen to my boring stories," chortled the old man, "it's time you told me one of your own."

"I don't know any," came the reply, "please."

"You don't know any?" cried Mr Roper in disbelief. "Why don't you go telling me that in the short time you've been in Whitby Alice Boston hasn't been filling your head full of tales. I've never known that lady resist the chance of entertaining someone who's willing to listen. A wealth of stories she's got!"

Ben grinned but as he glanced out of the window he saw that it was growing dark. He groaned inwardly. Miss Wethers had told him to be back before nightfall and he dreaded to think what fuss she would make if he stayed out one minute later than he ought to.

Mr Roper knew what the boy was thinking. "All right lad," he said, "you'd best get going. I know what it's like to be on the receiving end of one of Edith Wethers' mithering lectures." He went into the hall and brought Ben's duffle coat from the peg. The boy was staring thoughtfully at the stuffed trousers and the lumpy papier-mâché head. "Don't you fret now," the old man told him, "Fawkes'll be dry by tomorrow—you come then and put as grim a face on him as possible."

Ben wriggled into his coat, fastening the toggles as he wandered from the cosy front room. "I'll bring that jumper of mine tomorrow as well," he said, "then he'll be totally finished."

Mr Roper opened the door and the chill November afternoon blew in as Ben wandered down the short path. When he reached the gate the old man called to him, "And make sure you remember a story to tell me—you'll not get out of it that easily."

Laughing, the boy waved and set off home.

Mr Roper closed the door and returned to the warmth of the fire. Switching on the radio, he sat in the chair once more and picked up a copy of The Dalesman to read. Presently he began to nod and slipped into a peaceful doze as the music of a bygone era swelled about him. To the sound of the big dance bands he held his Margaret in his arms once more and together they glided over the floor of his pepper-pot-scattered dreams.

Ben plunged his hands deep into his coat pockets, it was getting very cold. He quickened his pace, anxious to reach Aunt Alice's cottage in time. Gloom was gathering over Whitby, the narrow ginnel that ran down the side of Mr Roper's house was already filled with shadow. But for the crying of gulls it was eerily quiet. The boy hurried and was glad when he emerged into Bagdale, one of the main routes into the town. Past half-empty guest houses he went, only stopping to look up at the rising hill of Pannet Park where the museum was situated.

He thought about his sister and wondered what she had been doing all day—Jennet had been in a strange mood lately, always wanting to be on her own and refusing to play. When he had confided this to Miss Boston, she told him that Jennet was growing up. Ben did not like to dwell on this alarming fact too much, "growing up" meant that his sister would start having boyfriends, and he was afraid that sooner or later he would lose her. The pair of them had always been together and after the death of their parents it was she who protected and cared for him. Life without Jennet—even if she was a pain sometimes—was unthinkable. Ben pulled a glum face and hoped it would be a long time before he had to 'grow up'.

"CRET!" screeched a voice.

Ben spun round and there, to his dismay, he saw Danny Turner tearing towards him.

"I'm gonna kick you in!" the thug yelled.

Ben fled; after Jennet's attack on Danny yesterday there was no telling what he would do to get revenge. Breathlessly he ran as hard as he could, but knew there was no hope of escape, for Danny was faster than him. He cursed the awkwardness of his duffle coat—it was so heavy that it slowed him down. Soon he would feel rough fingers catch hold of the hood and he would become a punchbag for Danny's fists.

"Come 'ere, Cret!" his pursuer demanded.

Ben was terribly afraid, there was no way he could cross the bridge and reach Aunt Alice's cottage—he was done for. Desperately he glanced over his shoulder, Danny was closing on him.

"Coward!" accused the snarling voice. "Ain'tcha got yer sister to fight for yer?"

The pavement streaked beneath the two boys' feet as they pounded down the sloping road towards the harbour, but there was still a long way to go. This was no good, Ben told himself. He had only one chance and that was to hide.

Recklessly he leapt into the road. A car screamed and the driver stamped on the brakes. Ben dodged aside as it skidded to a halt and then he was across. The man in the car leaned out of the window and bawled at him but the boy had scurried up into Pannet Park, up to where the shrubs and bushes screened him from the traffic below.

"Ruddy idiot!" the driver fumed. "Could've killed him!" He took hold of the steering wheel once more and gave a slight shudder at the thought. Then another boy darted out in front of him.

This one slapped the bonnet of the car as he passed and shouted, "Up yours Grandad!" then he too disappeared up the steps into the park.

Pressing close to the dense rhododendrons, Ben hurried from one side of the park to the other. Already he could see the exit to St Hilda's Terrace which led directly to the bridge—ought he to chance it he wondered? He waited indecisively, hiding beneath the drooping dark leaves of the shrubbery. Where was Danny? Ben held his breath and listened—he could hear nothing behind him, the Turner boy must have given up or gone the other way.

Stealthily he crept from the cover and peered back down the sweeping lawns he had just climbed.

"Oh no," he whispered.

Up came Danny, his face resolute and angry. "Laurenson!" he shrieked. "Yer for it now!"

Ben scrambled over the grass, hurtling towards the gateway. In a trice he was through, but instead of careering down the hill, he leapt over the wall of a nearby house and ducked quickly. With his face half-buried in a pile of damp, dead leaves he froze and waited.

Danny Turner shot from the park and glared about him. There was no trace of the Laurenson boy anywhere. "I'll get yer!" he shouted. "Ain't no use hidin'. Come out, yer whingin' Jessie!"

Ben remained exactly where he was, his chin submerged beneath the deep decay of autumn. He was extremely uncomfortable; the damp had soaked through his trousers and a repulsive, cloying smell of mould fouled his nostrils. A cloud of agitated flies buzzed around his head and his flesh crawled when one landed on his lip. If only Danny would give up and go home. "Go away," he mouthed, willing his enemy to retreat, "get lost."

Across the street, Danny snorted and spat with disgust. "Flamin' baby," he muttered, "next time I sees him—or that stinkin' sister, they'll be sorry."

He wandered along the terrace, kicking the gates of the houses as he passed by. In his cramped hiding place, Ben could hear the vicious 'clangs' growing fainter. He let out a sigh of relief. Now he could move. The dead leaves squelched as he stirred. Ben was glad to be free at last—he couldn't bear another minute with all those flies amid that putrid smell.

He raised his head from the wet pile, but what he discovered made his eyes bulge round and wide. Now he knew where the stench was coming from—and why there were so many flies. On the ground, just next to where he had been crouching, were the gutted remains of a cat.

Ben let out a cry of horror. The poor creature had been in a terrible fight. What meagre tatters of skin it had left were covered in vile rents and savage claw marks. He leapt to his feet and the flies zoomed back to their feast—Ben felt ill.

"What sort of animal would do that?" he murmured. "Not a dog surely?"

Then he noticed the colour of the bloodstained fur—it had been a marmalade cat. He thought of the woman he and Jennet had met yesterday and how frantic she had been. Here then was Mrs Rigby's Mokey, this awful carcass was all that was left of her little darling. It had been eaten. The back of Ben's throat burned as the bile bubbled up from his stomach and he turned away.

"Gotcha!" sniggered a voice.

Danny Turner jumped over the wall and grabbed Ben round the neck. It was too quick and sudden for the boy to resist and he felt his legs give way as Danny kicked them. Down he went and the Turner lad pushed him into the leaves a second time.

"Try to run, did yer, Cret?" hissed Danny, delivering a spiteful punch to Ben's ribs. "I'll show you and yer sister not to make a fool of me. Good job she never broke me nose or I'd have got me Dad's air pistol at the pair of yer. It puts eyes out it does—an' believe me I'd do it an' all!" He raised his fist to give Ben another punch but the blow never fell. His own eyes had lit upon Mokey's body.

Danny let out a long, admiring whistle. "Fwor!" he cooed. "Look at this!" He reached over and picked the corpse up without flinching. "This'd make a great mascot for the front of me bike," he drooled, "I could tie it to the handle bars—look at them eyes stickin' out on stalks!"

"Put it down!" shrieked Ben in outrage. "Leave it alone!"

A horrible smile flickered over Danny's thuggish face. "Put it down," he repeated in a whining imitation of Ben's voice. "Doesn't yer like it, Diddums? Does it scare yer?" He dangled the grisly body above the boy's head, bobbing it up and down like a yoyo. "Woooo," he taunted, "have a look at the big gash in its froat. Open yer peepers, soft lad! Look, I can make its tail twitch by pulling this bit."

Ben squirmed and screwed his face up. Danny was no better than an animal.

"Hur, hur," his tormentor chuckled, relishing the agony he was putting him through. "There's not much left of its innards, see—I can put my hand right up its ribcage and use it like a puppet." With his free hand he pinched his nose to produce a squeaky, nasal voice. "Ooh, Judy," he sang waving the cat in Ben's face, "that's the way to do it, that's the way to do it."

He laughed, then wiped the blood on Ben's coat. "Does yer not like me puppet show?" he asked. "I thought you crets went in for that sort of thing. I'll have to come up with summat else to keep yer happy."

"You're disgusting," Ben said angrily, "put it down."

At that, all traces of humour left Danny. "Don't you talk to me like that!" he growled. "I'm gonna teach you some manners I am. Feel sorry for this rancid moggy does yer? Well here! You can have it!" With a shout, he swung the cat round and pushed it into Ben's face.

The boy spluttered and tried to get free, shaking his head for the other to stop. But Danny was determined, he smeared the gory carcass all over Ben, then spat on him.

"Hoy, you two!" came a stern protest. "What the 'ell do you think you're playin' at?"

Danny glanced up. At the window of the house stood a gruff-looking man. The boy stuck his fingers up at him then hissed in Ben's ear. "This ain't over yet! Me an' my gang's gonna come after you. It won't be cat blood on yer then, but yer own!" With that he leapt over the wall and disappeared back into the park.

The owner of the house had left the window and was hastening to the door. Ben wiped his mouth with his sleeve and stared miserably at what was left of Mokey.

"Right!" roared the man, appearing from the doorway with a stick in his hand. "Where are the beggars? I'll learn 'em to trespass and cheek me."

But the garden was empty and when he ran to the gate to glare down the street he could only see a duffle-coated figure hurrying towards the harbour. "Flamin' kids," he swore.

***

Miss Wethers threw up her hands and let out such a scream that Eurydice's kittens dashed upstairs and refused to venture out from beneath Miss Boston's bed for two whole days. Eurydice herself gave the remains a curious sniff, then sauntered away in a huff with her tail in the air.

"Take it away!" Edith squawked. "Get rid of it immediately! You horrid, dirty boy!"

Ben closed the front door behind him. All the way home he was hoping that the postmistress would not be the one to let him in. Unfortunately however, she had. At once she saw the stains on his face and that he was trying to hide something under his coat. When she had insisted on seeing whatever it was, he had reluctantly opened the duffle and shown her the newspaper parcel concealed within. Then of course she had to know what was inside it—he had tried to warn her but too late—Miss Wethers had confiscated it and opened the thing for herself.

Her shrieks were still shaking the plates on the draining-board in the kitchen when Ben knelt to pick the dead cat up again.

"Don't touch it!" she screeched, running up and down the hall as though she had sat on a wasp's nest. "You wicked, wicked child! How could you? Throw it away—Aaaagghhh!" She leant against the wall to steady herself and the tissue came flying from her cardigan to cover her eyes. "I must sit down," she whimpered, "I can feel one of my faints coming on—ooh, Jennet, help me."

Ben's sister was giving her brother deadly looks. How could he be so stupid? She shook her head at him then went to Miss Wethers' rescue. "Let me help you into a chair," she said taking hold of the spinster's arm. "I'll make you a strong cup of tea with lots of sugar in it."

Edith gagged. "Couldn't keep it down," she refused. "Where did the boy come by such a filthy thing? I'll have to fumigate the carpet." At that she looked down at her own hands and remembered that she too had touched the grisly parcel. "Eeeee!" she cried and dashed to the sink where she took the nail-brush and scrubbed herself with disinfectant.

"I found it," said Ben following them into the kitchen. "It's Mrs Rigby's, I couldn't leave it there could I?"

"Don't you dare bring that abomination into this kitchen, young man!" declared Miss Wethers adamantly. "What did you think you were doing? Just you wait till I tell Alice. I knew I wouldn't be able to manage. 'Children are nothing more than little monsters,' that's what my mother used to tell me, 'never have anything to do with them, Edith' she said. All these years I listened to her and now look how right she was!"

She ran into the hall, avoiding Ben as best she could then sped upstairs. "It's bath-time for you my lad!" she squeaked. "But goodness knows what I'm to do with your coat. I'll have to boil the thing and if it shrinks you've only yourself to blame."

Alone with Jennet, Ben crossed to the back door. "Ben," she said tersely.

"What?"

"Are you mad? What's the matter with you? Are you so stupid? Chuck that dead cat in the bin outside and tell Miss Wethers you're sorry. Honestly Ben you're such a child at times!"

The boy stared impassively at her. He did not want to mention his encounter with Danny Turner, she would only go and make matters worse again. "No," he said flatly, "I'm not going to put it in the bin—what would you think if someone did that to Eurydice or one of the kittens?"

"I'm sure I wouldn't care," she replied, "what else can you do with a dead cat?"

"I'm going to bury it in the garden," he told her pulling the door open. On the step he gave her one last, bitter look and added, "would you've cared if they'd put Mum and Dad in the bin too?"

Jennet slammed the door and Ben took the body to the far side of the garden then went in search of Aunt Alice's trowel.

6 - The Fall Of The Veil

The sleek, black taxi barged through the heavy traffic, like an impatient giant beetle. Through amber lights it roared, taking corners at an astonishing speed. In the back, Miss Boston slid along the seat one more time and blamed herself for not taking the Underground. It had been a break-neck, nerve-rattling journey all the way from Kings Cross, anyone would think the cabbie was driving the getaway car from a bank robbery. No, she was doing the poor man a disservice—perhaps he had been an ambulance driver before taking up this present career. She ventured to open one eye and peered at the back of the man's head. He was thick-set and had a cauliflower ear—maybe her first suspicion had been correct after all.

They raced over a zebra crossing, heedless of the people waiting on the pavement and Miss Boston covered her face with the hat that had been shaken off her head. "Ironic really," she told herself, "one of the reasons I decided to take a taxi was to see more of London." At that moment the cab hit a bump in the road, the old lady bounced off the seat and hit her head on the roof.

That was too much. She tapped on the glass that separated her from the driver and shouted, "Excuse me, would you care to drive a little more carefully? I'm not enjoying this at all!"

The cabbie shifted disagreeably and muttered something under his breath. "You wanna get there, missus, or don't yer?" he asked.

"Most certainly," she replied, "but preferably in one piece."

"Fifteen years I've been cabbin' it," he grumbled, "you out-of-townies come up 'ere for the day an' think you know it all. Just pipe down in the back an' lemme do my job."

Miss Boston stuck out her chins at his insolence but there seemed little else she could say. It had been a tiring day, most of it had been spent cooped up in a crowded, stuffy train and she was in no mood for an argument. "Unpleasant fellow," she merely mumbled, and left it at that, turning her attention to the blurred scenes that whipped by outside the windows.

From the little she had seen, London had changed dramatically since she had last visited—why that was over ten years ago now. There were many new buildings to admire, and criticise, even the shops had undergone startling transformations and on every side sheer towers of sparkling glass reached into the sky. The bustling city was a far cry from her more tranquil home.

"Such a mad dash everyone seems to be in," she observed. "Oh my!"

A car had pulled out in front of the taxi without warning and the cabbie pounded the horn whilst adding his own colourfully verbal abuse.

Miss Boston shook her head. How did people manage to live in this frantic place? She suddenly felt very small and insignificant compared to the sprawling old city that had engulfed her. Back in Whitby everyone knew her but here she was nobody.

It was a humbling thought and before she knew what she was doing she was feeling sorry for herself.

"Alice Boston!" she reprimanded quickly. "What do you think you're doing? This isn't like you—pull yourself together, woman. Remember why you're here and save your sympathy for those who really need it!" She tutted into her hat then held her head high. She wasn't going to let the capital city intimidate her!

At last, they arrived in Kensington and the taxi shot past the great museums before turning off into one of the quieter streets. With a jolt the vehicle skidded to a standstill and Miss Boston's hat sailed out of the window.

"'Ere we are, missus," the cabbie announced, "safe and sound."

The old lady gave him a frosty look and rummaged in her purse for the fare. "Outrageously expensive!" she remarked handing the money over.

"What—no tip?" the man protested.

"I'll give you a tip," she said brusquely, "learn some manners!"

"Stuff off."

Miss Boston alighted from the taxi with as much dignity as she could muster and dragged out her luggage. As soon as she shut the door the cab screeched and streaked away. The old lady put her case on the pavement and waddled into the road to retrieve her hat before she looked about her.

It was an impressive street. All the buildings were Georgian town houses, the kind that only embassies or film stars could now afford. They all had four floors, with two entrances at the front, the main doorway flanked by stout pillars and a flight of steps leading to the servants' quarters below.

Miss Boston pursed her lips and cast an eye over herself. Her clothes looked a wreck and she felt far too shabby to enter one of these grand houses. She spent a few moments smoothing the creases from her skirt and perching the hat back on her woolly head. Then, pulling her cape about her, she ascended the steps to number eleven and rang the bell.

The minutes ticked by, but nobody came to the door. Miss Boston pressed the bell again—perhaps there was no one at home, maybe she had come too late. She staggered down the steps and glanced up at the windows. The curtains were not drawn so her fears ebbed a little. Miss Boston decided to ring once more.

This time she kept her finger on the button for a full five minutes until she released it. "Most odd," she said aloud, "where is everybody?" She glared accusingly at the door as though it were to blame, then spied the letter-box. Cautiously, the old lady squinted up and down the street to make certain no one was watching before crouching down to lift the letter flap. Bringing her eyes close to the slot, Miss Boston peered inside.

"How peculiar," she muttered, "there appears to be something in the way, I can't see a blessed thing, it's all dark—no, why it seems to be material..."

Her voice failed her as the grey material moved behind the door, she saw a row of shiny black buttons, a white collar and then another eye loomed through the letter-box at her.

Miss Boston blinked and the other eye did the same before disappearing. Suddenly the door was pulled open and a superior voice demanded, "What have we here?"

The old lady looked up sheepishly. A tall, grey-haired man was studying her with the utmost solemnity. He was about fifty years old, possessing a long sharp nose which he could expertly look down. His eyes held no humour and the lids drooped over them in a weary, melancholy fashion. The right side of his thin mouth twitched as he waited for an explanation and his disparaging stare made Miss Boston feel about ten years old.

"I... I did ring," she stammered, rising to her feet, "but there was no answer, so I..."

The man pulled a sour expression. "Whatever it is we don't want any," he said curtly. "Good day."

Miss Boston reached out her foot as he swung the door to. "I beg your pardon!" she declared, overcoming her embarrassment, "But I am Alice Boston. Patricia Gunning has invited me to stay for a few days."

The man regarded her through the half-closed door but made no attempt to let her in. "Mrs Gunning sees no one," he said.

"Well she'll see me!" she cried. "Stand aside and let me in!" Miss Boston gave the door a shove but he continued to hold it firm.

"The mistress is too ill for visitors," she was told, "if you leave your card I will see that it is brought to her attention."

Miss Boston was flabbergasted and was about to give the man a good telling off when he turned as though someone had spoken to him from inside the house. "Let her in?" he asked in surprise. "This is all very irregular."

Miss Boston craned her neck and tried to peer round him. "Patricia?" she called. "Is that you?"

The man gave her a reproachful look then opened the door. Miss Boston stuck out her tongue at him and pushed past.

The first thing that struck her as she walked inside was not the impressive oak staircase that swept up to the first floor landing, nor the gleaming marble beneath her feet, nor the sumptuously expensive oil paintings that hung on the walls all around—no, what Miss Boston noticed first was the piercing chill.

Shivering, she wrapped the cloak about her, all the time looking for the person the man had been speaking to. There she was. Descending the stairs was a hefty, bushy-browed woman. Miss Boston's shoulders sagged—this was not her old friend.

The stranger was dressed in a pristine white uniform, her dark, wiry hair scraped back into a bun. She was an uncommonly ugly woman; her face was ill-proportioned and square with a large jutting chin, when she spoke her words were clipped and precise like a sergeant-major's, but the eyes which fixed immovably upon Miss Boston were small and pig-like. Her bearing was masculine—and her frame one that any rugby player would have been proud of. Down the crimson-carpeted stairs she stomped, her heavy footfalls thumping a jarring rhythm throughout the house.

"Welcome, Miss Boston," she barked in a baritone. "We've been expecting you."

"I haven't," remarked the man acidly.

The woman ignored him and shook the old lady's hand vigorously in her own which were large and strong. "I am Judith Deacon," she said, "Mrs Gunning's private nurse."

Miss Boston flexed her squashed fingers thinking that there was more starch in this woman than in her uniform. "How is Patricia?" she asked.

Miss Deacon's face grew serious. "I'll be frank with you," she told her, "Mrs Gunning is most unwell, I'm afraid there isn't much hope for her. She is terribly weak and grows worse with each passing day. I confess that I tried to dissuade her from inviting you—I don't approve of anything that over-excites her."

"Most commendable," Miss Boston put in, "but I'm not exactly sure what ails her. The letter she sent was very brief and vague, could you enlighten me?"

The nurse nodded, stiffly clasping her spade-like hands in front of her. "My patient has a very delicate condition which needs constant attention. It began when she caught a bad cold and progressed from there—she is quite old you know."

Miss Boston reared her head. Patricia Gunning was nearly ten years younger than herself and had always shared the same vigorous health that she enjoyed. "Do you think I could see her now?" she asked politely.

Judith examined her watch and nodded, "Briefly," she said. "Since Mrs Gunning employed me I have kept her to a strict routine—I won't undermine all my efforts for anyone. You can have ten minutes with her, that's all." She spun on her heel and addressed the man who had opened the door. "Rook, take Miss Boston's luggage up to the guest-room on the second floor, it has been made ready for her."

The man raised his eyes to the high, decorated ceiling and breathed loudly through his long nose, rustling the bristling hairs which sprouted from it. "Very well," he said, greatly vexed at the inconvenience.

Miss Boston watched with amusement as he went sulkily out to fetch her case. "Don't mind Rook," the nurse told her, "he's only a butler with an inflated opinion of himself."

"Indeed?" said the old lady, privately thinking exactly the same about her.

"Yes," Judith continued, "when I took over there was a full complement of staff here but I ask you, with only one person to look after it was a scandal. Bone idle most of them were, I soon sent them packing. Rook I kept on to attend to those matters my work made impossible for me to see to myself."

"What do you mean you took over?" asked Miss Boston in surprise.

Miss Deacon strode to the foot of the majestic staircase and placed a hand on the carved oak banister, striking the pose of "Lady of the House". If she had not looked so ridiculous it would have been alarming. "I have complete authority here," she said, "I think I should make that perfectly clear straight away—I wouldn't have taken the position otherwise."

"But what about Patricia?"

The nurse managed an ugly smile, revealing her irregular tombstone-like teeth. "Oh she isn't well enough for that sort of responsibility. It is my duty to see to the smooth running of the household. No others are required here, we manage extraordinarily well on our own. Now, if you please." She began to climb the stairs and gestured for Miss Boston to follow.

Miss Boston did as she was bid. This was not at all the kind of reception she had been expecting. Were all private nurses as domineering and coldly efficient as this specimen, she found herself wondering.

Up the staircase they went and when they came to the landing Judith marched up to a dark panelled door. She waited for Miss Boston to catch up with her before turning the handle and entering.

It was the most unusual sickroom Miss Boston had ever seen. To get in she had to duck beneath a swinging bunch of dried herbs that had been pinned to the lintel. This was only the first of many, for countless arrangements of withered leaves and flowers covered the walls and hung from the ceiling. A pungent, aromatic scent laced the air, irritating the back of Miss Boston's throat and stinging her eyes till they watered. Strange pictures and symbols filled the spaces in between the dead plants, designs taken from old magical works, charms of protection and healing. Miss Boston recognised them instantly but thought nothing of it—it was no surprise to her that Patricia Gunning was a white witch, but then she always did have a tendency to go over the top with it all.

A magnificent four-poster bed took up most of the room and was covered in a fine canopy of creamy muslin. At its foot, from a silver incense burner, streamed a steady thread of green smoke, it was this that was responsible for the overpowering smell.

"Confounded contraption," Miss Boston chirped, blinking and wiping her eyes, "never did like the wretched things."

"You'll get used to it," assured Judith. "Come right in and close the door after you—I won't allow draughts of any kind."

Miss Boston obeyed then walked up to the bed. Through the fine muslin mist, she saw amid the great expanse of the covers a small figure lying on its side, its head turned from view. "Patricia?" Miss Boston began. "Is that you?"

Very slowly, and with the greatest of care, the figure moved. Patricia Gunning was a frail woman of eighty-three years. Her face was shrunken like an apple that had been kept too long and her limbs were brittle sticks. With difficulty she lifted her head and the long, silver hair which had been painstakingly arranged over the pillows floated about her shoulders. It had the same quality to it that is found in old mirrors, being a faded, tarnished glow and was more gossamer-like than the muslin which surrounded her.

"Alice!" came her sweet, tinkling voice. "Oh Alice, I'm so pleased to see you!" She reached out her thin arms in greeting and Miss Boston drew the material aside to hold her.

Judith Deacon watched icily as the two friends hugged one another and folded her arms.

"Dear Patricia!" exclaimed Miss Boston. "It really is good to see you again."

Her friend sank back on to the pillows and smiled. Her eyes were still the clearest and loveliest blue that Miss Boston had ever seen. "I was not sure if you would come," she sighed. "How is your enchanting Whitby? Do you still climb the abbey steps before breakfast? You look marvellous—a real tonic to me."

"Well it looks as though you could do with one," observed Miss Boston truthfully. "I think we could start by opening a window or two—the atmosphere really is thick in here, enough to make anyone feel poorly. I don't know how you can breathe."

Judith Deacon moved in front of the nearest window, barring it with her amazonian body. "No draughts!" she reiterated. "The temperature must be kept at a constant and the incense is vital to the regime I have instigated solely for Mrs Gunning's benefit."

Miss Boston raised her eyebrows, "Well I shall just have to take matters in hand now—won't I Patricia dear? Fresh air cures everything—there's nothing wrong with you a nice walk around the park wouldn't chase away."

The woman on the bed closed her eyes, "Oh Alice," she breathed, "please don't try to jolly me along. I know how ill I am—I'm dying, there's no escaping that fact. I haven't got much time left on this earth."

Miss Boston frowned. "Now that's enough of that talk," she said firmly. "Is this the same Patricia Gunning who climbed over the roof of the ladies' college for an illicit rendezvous with her future husband?"

Patricia gave a feeble laugh. "Oh what a night that was," she chuckled. "What a surprise my darling Walter had when he saw me shinny down the drain-pipe. 'Not the behaviour of a young lady' he said—oh he was so gloriously pompous in those days." She propped herself up on one elbow and gave Miss Boston's hand a slight squeeze. "How you've cheered me," she told her, "a good friend you've been to me, Alice—thank you for that."

"Keep your gratitude," replied her guest, "I don't want it yet. There'll be plenty of time still, you'll see."

Patricia said nothing, she lowered her eyes and let go of her hand.

At once, the ever-watchful Judith came forward. "Time for your medication, Mrs Gunning," she said taking a large glass bottle from the bedside table.

Miss Boston watched in silence as the nurse poured a small quantity of thick, brown liquid on to a spoon. "Surely that isn't one of your own brews, Patricia?" she asked in amazement.

"Mrs Gunning's potions are better than anything from the chemist," the nurse answered for her.

Miss Boston couldn't believe it. "But don't you think you ought to try conventional medicine?" she asked. "The old recipes are fine for headaches and rheumatism, but to rely on them now—isn't that being rather foolish? I always envied you your powers, Patricia, but this is madness."

"We know what we're doing!" rapped the nurse. "Now, open wide Mrs Gunning."

For an instant Miss Boston thought she caught a peculiar, almost frightened look on her friend's face as she opened her mouth.

"There's a good girl," said Miss Deacon inspecting the spoon, "all gone now."

"Thank you," muttered Patricia slowly.

The nurse screwed the top back on the bottle and replaced it on the table. Miss Boston was bewildered. "What sort of silliness is this?" she cried abruptly. "Patricia you must see a proper doctor—you're seriously ill!"

"The doctor has been to see Mrs Gunning," the nurse informed her. "Unfortunately he said there was nothing he could do. This at least gives her a certain amount of relief."

Miss Boston was appalled. "Nonsense!" she declared. "What kind of a nurse are you?"

"A caring one," came the reply.

"Alice," Patricia broke in, "tell me all your news. Did you really adopt those children you wrote to me about? I hope my influence helped. Did you have a good Hallowe'en? Did the children bob for apples and hollow out turnips—were there pomegranates and chestnuts? Are you still practising the craft or is it too much for you now? I haven't woven so much as a charm for warts in months." She spoke hurriedly, as if trying to defuse the situation and Miss Boston allowed herself to be drawn into the small talk for her friend's sake.

They exchanged a few, brief sentences then Miss Deacon checked her watch and announced that it was time for her patient's nap. "Now, you know the routine," she said in a no-nonsense voice best suited to a nursery, "four o'clock till six we have our rest." Reaching down she swiped the pillow from under the woman's head and tucked the bedclothes tightly round her.

Miss Boston's chins wobbled in surprise. "But I've only just arrived," she protested, "surely a few more minutes won't matter?"

The nurse threw her a vicious look and turned to her patient with her arms folded. "Mrs Gunning," she began crossly, "I cannot and will not have your routine disrupted in this manner. You employed me to look after you to the best of my abilities. Would you kindly tell your friend not to interfere in matters she is patently ignorant of? If she questions my authority once more I shall pack up and leave—is that what you want?"

"No!" Patricia cried, her whole body trembling. "Please Judith, I'm sure Alice meant no harm." She placed her shaking hand on Miss Boston's arm. "If you love me, do as she says," she implored, "do this for me I beg you."

Miss Boston patted the tiny hand, disturbed by the influence the nurse had over her friend. "Anything you say Patricia, dear," she said, not wishing to distress her any further.

"Promise, Alice," Mrs Gunning insisted, "that while you're here you'll follow Judith's instructions regarding me, however—unorthodox you might think them."

"I promise," Miss Boston relented. "I suppose you know what you're doing. I'm just happy to see you again."

Patricia smiled and glanced up at the nurse before sinking back in relief.

"Time to go," Miss Deacon told the visitor. "She needs to rest now."

Miss Boston rose from the bed where she had been sitting and Judith drew back the canopy. "When can I see her again?" she inquired.

The nurse ushered her to the door. "I will permit one more visit this evening," she told her. "Now, perhaps you would care to go to your room."

"Yes, I suppose I could unpack," said Miss Boston thoughtfully.

"If you really think that will be necessary. Your dinner will be in the dining-room at seven o' clock sharp."

Before the door was closed on her, Miss Boston took one final look at her friend. The figure on the bed seemed to be only a shadow and the muslin which enveloped her the first manifestation of that other, grimmer veil, which would soon fall between them.

The guest-room which had been made ready on the second floor was as comfortable a bedchamber as she could wish. The walls were a pale shade of lemon and the prints on the walls were pretty views of Italy. Fresh flowers had been arranged in a crystal vase and Miss Boston was grateful for their fragrance after the choking fumes of the sickroom. Her case lay on the bed where Rook had left it but on consideration she decided not to touch it just yet. Instead, she opened the window and let the last weak rays of sunlight shine on her face.

"Well, Alice," she told herself, "what are you going to do now?" The old lady drummed her fingers on the window-sill, her thoughts smouldering on the formidable nurse. She reminded her of several notorious landladies that she knew in Whitby—but her aggressive manner far exceeded anything they had been rumoured to display to their guests. "Judith Deacon is rather a mystery," she mused, "I wonder what possessed Patricia to employ her in the first place?"

When she eventually unpacked and placed all her things neatly in drawers or on hangers, she decided that it was time to explore the rest of the house. "After all," she told herself, "I can't be expected to sit here and do nothing until dinner surely?"

Patricia and her late husband had only bought the house eight years ago, so it was all new to Miss Boston. The last time she had visited they had a place in Knightsbridge. Mrs Gunning had certainly married well for Walter had been extremely wealthy.

The old lady left her room and descended to the first floor landing once again. At the top of the staircase she saw a telephone tucked into a niche which she had not noticed earlier. "Perhaps I should call Edith," she thought. "No, the post office will have closed long ago. You really must get a telephone installed at the cottage, Alice! I won't be able to get in touch until Monday morning now—botheration!"

As she passed the door of the sickroom Miss Boston was tempted to press an ear to it, but she resisted the urge and trotted down to the hall.

"I suppose there must be a library in here," she mumbled, "Walter was a prolific reader." For nearly an hour Miss Boston familiarised herself with the layout of the ground floor. There was an impressive dining-room that contained a long oak table which stretched from one end to the other and could easily seat at least twenty guests. Beyond that there were five other rooms but everything inside them was covered by dust sheets and this fact alone gave Miss Boston dreadful misgivings—it was as though her friend were already dead. There was something extremely wrong about the entire business and that frightening nurse was at the centre of it all.

Aimlessly, Miss Boston went from room to room but never wearied of peeping beneath the dust covers to see what was hidden beneath.

Patricia had exquisite taste and had furnished the house with her own individual style. Miss Boston often wondered what Walter had thought about "Patricia's little hobby" as she always used to call it. Did he mind the paintings of the moon and stars that covered the walls of the sitting-room? And what about the special carving Patricia had commissioned from one of Britain's finest sculptors? It was a lighthearted tribute to her particular interest and hung above the fireplace; wooden cats, toads and mice swirled about in a semi-circle that also contained other objects associated with the craft. There were cauldrons, pointed hats, magic wands, charmed plants, corn dollies, amulets and even a broomstick.

Miss Boston grinned wryly and draped the sheet back over the carving. "What a gaudy display," she muttered, "quite ostentatious—dear oh dear."

Eventually she found her way to the library, it was a lovely room, books of all shapes and sizes obscured the walls and the old lady spent some time poring over a few of them. When she glanced up at the small clock on the table it was half-past six and she slid the volume she had been reading back on to the shelf.

"Soon be time for dinner," she observed, "I must go and freshen up. What must I look like? A brisk wipe over with a flannel should invigorate me and chase the journey's grime away." And with that she returned to her room.

At seven o'clock Miss Boston was seated at the long dining table while the butler served her dinner. It was one of the most disheartening meals she had ever eaten. Sitting alone in the middle of that immense table was bad enough but the food itself was drab and barely palatable. First of all, Rook brought in the soup which was a watery thin liquid straight from a tin and had not even been heated properly. Miss Boston was at a loss to tell what flavour it was supposed to be, but she forced it down and gave the butler a gratified smile.

"I take it Miss Deacon will not be joining me?" she said.

"No," came the pert reply, "she always dines with the mistress in her bedchamber."

"Such devotion," the old lady commented, tentatively sipping the lukewarm soup. "And do you cook the meals for them as well?"

"Miss Deacon sees to both the mistress's and her own requirements, madam," he said. "I am left to fend for myself. We have had no outside company for many months now—not since Cook was dismissed."

"Don't you think that rather odd? I mean, what is your opinion of this private nurse? Isn't she too efficient?"

His mouth twitched into what looked like a sneer but it was difficult to tell with him. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, madam," he replied. "The mistress knows what she is doing—but I haven't seen her for God knows how long. What concern is it to me? I am here merely to serve—I know my place. She tells the nurse and the nurse tells me."

Miss Boston managed to finish the soup and laid her spoon down in relief. Unfortunately she could not stop herself grimacing as the last of the tepid substance slid slimily down her throat.

Rook eyed her suspiciously as he removed the bowl and went to fetch the main course. Miss Boston sniffed. Surely she detected a decidedly alcoholic smell? When the man returned she was even more certain of it.

After a full fifteen minutes, Rook came, staggering into the dining-room wheeling a trolley before him. His legs seemed unable to co-ordinate properly and he tripped more than once on the way.

The main course consisted of cold potted meat and a rather limp-looking salad. Rook dumped the plate unceremoniously before Miss Boston and hovered behind her while she picked through the sad lettuce leaves with her fork, thankful that there were no naked flames nearby—for Rook was definitely drunk! Walter Gunning always kept a good cellar and the butler, it seemed, was fond of sampling it—tonight he had settled on an excellent Napoleon brandy. The old lady wrinkled her nose—the atmosphere in the dining-room was becoming quite like Christmas.

Miss Boston ate as much as she could and leaned back in her chair. At once Rook snatched the plate away, muttering at what she had left, and sent the whole thing clattering back on the trolley. Lettuce leaves flew everywhere.

Swaying unsteadily, Rook glared at the carpet where they had fallen and bent down to retrieve them. After falling on his face he abandoned the attempt and stuck his long nose in the air.

"Would madam care for des...deshert?" he slurred, grabbing hold of the trolley for support.

Miss Boston blinked at him. "Er, no thank you," she answered.

Rook drew himself up and fixed her with one bleary eye. "And why not?" he demanded. "What'sh wrong with it I... I should like to know?"

"Nothing I'm sure," said the old lady feeling rather awkward, "but if you insist, I will have some please."

He nodded his head and rattled the trolley towards the door. "Comesh down 'ere without telling no one then turns her nose up at me des...des... at me pudding."

Miss Boston sighed and wondered what the next course would prove to be. "I dare say it is very dull for the poor man, stuck in here with very little to do all day but to help himself to the cellar—tut, tut. Does he make this a regular occurrence? The racks must be very empty by now if he does."

Another fifteen minutes dragged by. Rook was undoubtedly fortifying himself with another generous helping of brandy. When he returned he was practically riding on the trolley and brought it to a thunderous halt right beside the old lady's chair.

"'Ere it is," he declared. "Get your false teeth round this madam."

On to the table he tossed a bowl of tinned peaches, seized a small jug and poured a quantity of cream carelessly over everywhere except where it was wanted. Miss Boston gritted her teeth as it splashed on to her skirt and blouse and her jowls quivered indignantly. That was too much! She jumped up and threw down her napkin.

"Strangely enough," she stormed, "I actually prefer the cream on the peaches—not on me. You can be sure I'll inform the mistress of the house about this atrocious behaviour. I have never seen such a disgraceful exhibition! You, sir, are drunk as a lord—I suggest you go and make yourself a strong cup of coffee forthwith! And I'll have you know that all my teeth are my own—goodnight!"

She raged out of the dining-room, leaving Rook gaping after her. "Good grashush," he burbled, smiling for the first time in weeks, "what a smashing temper the old crock has."

Miss Boston spent the next half-hour sponging her clothes and shaking her head. When a knock sounded at her door she almost missed it.

"Miss Boston!" came a gruff voice.

The old lady hurried to the door and opened it—Judith Deacon was standing there impatiently. "I trust you dined well," she said.

The old lady was about to tell the nurse what she thought of the butler but decided against it. Not even he deserved the kind of roasting this nightmare woman would dish out. Instead she asked, "May I see Patricia now?"

"Of course you can. She has asked to see you and is waiting. Follow me please."

Miss Boston was led once more to the sickroom, but as soon as she stepped inside she could see that her friend's condition had worsened in the space of only four hours.

Mrs Gunning was visibly weaker, it seemed a terrible effort to her just to keep awake. Miss Boston knelt by the bed, pulled the muslin curtain aside and tried to conceal her shock at the sight of her. The pale blue eyes were roving slowly round, not focusing on anything—it was as though she had been drugged.

"Patricia," Miss Boston said, "it's Alice."

The patient moved her head at the sound of the voice but did not seem to see her. "Alice," she croaked in a faint whisper, "where are you?"

"Here, dear, take my hand."

The eyes swivelled round, blinked drowsily and the mist cleared from them. "Oh Alice," she groaned, "you should see your face—do I look as terrible as all that?"

Miss Boston tried to be a bit more cheerful, pushing to the back of her mind the nagging doubts which had surfaced. "Certainly not," she rallied, "I was just thinking about home—I hope the children are all right with my friend Edith. She's the most awful ditherer you know—probably had umpteen upsets today already."

"Ah," murmured Patricia sadly, "children. How lucky you are. If only Walter and I had been so blessed. Perhaps if we had I wouldn't..." The shadow of the nurse fell on her and Mrs Gunning began to tremble. She glanced nervously at Miss Boston and then her pale, worn face grew suddenly resolute.

"Alice," she began with a desperate urgency, "Alice listen to me. Please, you must remember that I didn't have a choice."

"Pardon, dear?" said Miss Boston. "I can't hear you, Patricia."

"You must... you must not delay. I don't matter any more!"

The rustle of a starched uniform crackled behind them as Judith Deacon took a step closer.

"What are you trying to tell me?" said Miss Boston, concerned at the anxiety that had contorted her friend's face.

"Oh forgive me, Alice, say you forgive me—please!"

"I don't understand," Miss Boston told her. "Patricia do calm down, you're working yourself up for no reason."

"Evil!" she cried, gripping the old lady's hand as tightly as possible. "Great evil!"

"That will be all!" broke in Judith's commanding voice, "Really, Miss Boston, I must ask you to leave, can't you see you're upsetting my patient? I will not tolerate the distress you are putting her through."

"But she's trying to tell me something."

The nurse took Patricia's head in her large hands and stared into the eyes. "She's delirious," she said sternly, "these fits come over her from time to time, a remnant of the fever she had three weeks ago." She gave Miss Boston an angry look and said, "I asked you to leave, would you please do as I say?"

The old lady rose but Patricia was unwilling to let go of her hand. "No," came the pathetic, barely audible voice, "don't leave me."

"OUT!" ordered Judith furiously. "She is too ill for you to be present—I warned her this would happen."

Miss Boston walked uncertainly to the door. Should she leave? What was Patricia trying to tell her—was it really all a figment of her poor, fevered brain?

The patient began to convulse and the nurse roared, "I shall not tell you again—do I have to throw you out, Miss Boston?"

At that the old lady left. There was nothing she could do but it stung nonetheless, she felt as though she were betraying her friend. Gloomily, she waited outside as the commotion blazed in the sickroom. Finally silence fell, the door opened and Judith Deacon's square head peered round.

"She's settled now," the nurse informed her. "I think it would be best if you didn't see her again tonight—she might be more lucid in the morning, although this attack has drained her considerably. She's far too frail for this excitement."

"Yes," Miss Boston murmured, "poor Patricia, tell her I'll see her first thing—I pray she'll be stronger then."

Judith watched as the old lady unhappily plodded upstairs before returning to the sickroom with a cruel glint in her small, dark eyes.

Mrs Gunning shuddered as the nurse approached the bed. Her mouth fell open and she stammered, "I... I never said anything, I wouldn't...wouldn't say anything."

"You've been a bad girl, Mrs Gunning," Judith snarled with menace. "That was very naughty, you know you're not allowed to tell her don't you? You deviated from what we rehearsed, you almost ruined everything."

"I didn't!"

The pig-like eyes flashed and the nurse growled, "Oh but you so very nearly did—well you won't have a second chance!" She raised one of her strong hands and clenched it into a fist. Mrs Gunning gave a terrified whimper and cringed into the pillows.

7 - At The Church Of St Mary

Ben slept fitfully, most of the bedclothes lay in a crumpled heap where he had kicked them. Squirming, he rolled over once more and murmured unhappily. Ghastly images invaded his dreams, spectral shadows of Danny Turner rose from the frightened corners of his mind like a dark angel whose face was locked in an eternal laugh that pierced and cut right through him.

The bully's apparition wheeled overhead, screeching his doom and crying for blood. Ben tried to flee, vainly wading through the thick black smoke of his sleep. Down swooped the nightmare Danny, his hands now claws, reaching for Ben like an eagle pursuing a lamb.

"Go away," Ben moaned, burning and throwing the sheet from him as though it were the great wings which beat against his face. "No!" he yelled—and then awoke.

It took a few moments for him to get his bearings, the room was so dark that he suspected his dream was not yet over, but when his eyes had adjusted to the gloom he relaxed and wiped his forehead. He was covered in perspiration and his mouth was horribly dry. He sat up, groping with his toes amongst the discarded bedclothes for his slippers. A few moments later he was treading softly along the small landing.

The house was incredibly still and quiet. The well of darkness which filled the space at the foot of the stairs unsettled him. Ben almost reached for the light switch—but he did not want to wake his sister or Miss Wethers, whose gentle snoring he could faintly hear coming from Miss Boston's room. Instead he conquered his nerves and hurried down, passing quickly through the black hall, fumbling for the handle of the kitchen door. Once safely within, he ran the tap and filled a cup with water.

It took two of these brimming cupfuls to quench his thirst and when he had finished Ben stretched—ready for bed again. Just as he was about to climb back up the stairs, the boy paused and turned round. From the yard outside he had heard a noise. It was the sound of a front door closing, followed by determined footsteps ringing over the concrete. Curious, Ben quickly nipped into the front room and peered out from behind the curtains.

The dim glow of the street lamp came fanning in through the alleyway, bathing the yard in a pale wedge of orange light. Ben wiped the remaining drowse from his eyes and stared out.

Nearby stood Nathaniel Crozier. Fortunately his back was to Miss Boston's cottage or he would have seen the boy's face at once. He had just left the Gregsons' house and was carrying a large, heavy-looking bag that clinked when he swung it over his shoulder. He took a step into the slanting light and his shadow flew far behind him, falling across the window where Ben was spying. The boy ducked quickly; it was as if the shadow were aware of him, for Nathaniel immediately turned—but all he saw was the slight movement of the curtain as it fell back into place.

Crouching beneath the sill, Ben listened for the man's footsteps, half expecting him to come over and glare through the window. That thought alone prevented the boy from returning to see what was really happening and two long, uncomfortable minutes ticked by. Not a sound came from the yard—what was Nathaniel doing out there? Ben's heart thumped nervously. He could imagine the man's face pressed up against the glass, his dark eyes penetrating the curtains and searching for him. He wasn't sure why he was so afraid for he hardly knew Mr Crozier and in fact he seemed to have charmed both Jennet and Miss Wethers. Yet he recalled the ugly look on the man's face he had witnessed early that morning and knew he had reason to be frightened. Then, just as he was about to risk lifting the curtain, something touched his arm. Ben gave a squawk and fell backwards in surprise.

Eurydice gave a slight purr—it was unusual for anyone to come down here at this time of night. She pushed her head against him in the hope that he would let her out.

"Get lost," he whispered to the cat. "Go to your basket."

She gave a toss of her head and glided back into the darkness of the room as deftly as if she still had all four legs.

The sound of footsteps echoed from the yard outside. Nathaniel was leaving. Ben swallowed and dared to lift his head over the edge of the window-sill. The man's shadow sailed through the alley and disappeared into the street beyond.

"What's he up to then?" Ben asked. Going over to the mantelpiece he took down Aunt Alice's clock. It was half-past two in the morning. He scowled. Nathaniel was obviously up to no good and his thoughts returned to the heavy bag he had taken with him—what was in it?

Without pausing to think what might happen, Ben dashed into the hall, dragged his coat from the peg and hurried outside, only stopping to put the front door on the latch because he didn't have a key.

The cold November night bit into him, nipping the bare spaces between the top of his slippers and the bottom of his pyjama legs. As he wriggled into the duffle he gave no thought to his reckless actions, nor how stupid he was being—if he was caught out at that time he would be in enough hot water to fill the harbour. All Ben could think about was Nathaniel. There was something extremely dislikable and wrong about that man—no matter what Jennet thought of him. Into the alley the boy ran, his slippers making no sound whatsoever, but when he came to Church Street he pressed himself against the wall and gazed around.

The main thoroughfare of the East Cliff was still as the grave; not one window was lit in any of the houses and Ben thought enviously of the sleeping inhabitants tucked up with their dreams behind the dark curtains. The urgency of his rash impulse was dissipating rapidly, he would much rather go back to bed. All was quiet, only the buzzing of the lamp-posts disturbed the deep calm. In this tranquil scene the slightest sound was amplified and Nathaniel's distorted footsteps rang loud and clear off the cobbles some distance away.

Ben gazed after him. The man was heading towards either the abbey steps or Tate Hill Pier. The boy darted across the road and hid in the entrance to a shop, watching to see which direction he would choose.

"He's going up the steps," he breathed, "but there's nothing up there except the abbey and the church."

Nipping in and out of the gloomy doorways, which in the ghostly sodium light of the street lamps resembled cavernous mouths, Ben gradually followed Nathaniel.

At the foot of the one hundred and ninety-nine steps he halted uncertainly. The man was only half-way up, should he try and follow he would certainly be spotted. Along all that laborious flight there was nowhere to hide and if he waited until Nathaniel had reached the top before starting, the man would be out of sight long before he completed the climb.

Ben stared round him desperately—parallel to the steps rose the old donkey road. It was a painfully steep slope, little used by modern traffic but sufficiently screened from the steps for his purpose. Without wasting another second, Ben charged up.

The chill airs above Whitby moved silently over the town, ruffling the feathers of roosting gulls and stirring the strands of smoke which continued to rise from dying fires in neglected hearths. From that great height the buildings appeared as toys, their roofs mere lids to be removed and the contents idly examined.

Nathaniel gave no heed to the view. It was much colder at the top of the steps and pulling up the lapels on his tweed coat, he spun on his heel. The great, dark shape of St Mary's Church reared up before him, blotting out the frosty stars in the black sky. The arc lights had been switched off hours ago and the vast square bulk had an almost menacing feel about it. The building was immovable and solid; a squat fortress that clung to the clifftop, enduring the severe gales which lifted the lead from its roof, and the freezing winters which ate into its stones.

Down the narrow path which wound between ancient and weathered tombstones Nathaniel picked his way. The sheer, grassy slope of the cliff edge was close by and he could hear the gentle rush of the waves breaking on the shore far below. The meandering pathway curved round to the rear of the church and came to a large wooden door. This was rarely used owing to its exposure to the raw, salty wind which raged in off the sea. But here Nathaniel stopped and put the large bag on the ground. There followed a muffled clanking of metal against metal as he searched inside the hold-all until he found what he needed.

Flourishing a crowbar, he marched up to the great door and thrust one end deep into a slender crevice inches above the handle. Then, the man pushed against the iron bar with all his might. The wood let out a long, protracted groan as splinters flew and the metal teeth sank in—deep and brutal. The door quivered as though in pain and Nathaniel's hands tightened about the crowbar—his knuckles shining white and his face alive with impatience.

"Yield!" he snarled. "Open for me, the ordinary laws do not apply here. This is a public place where all are welcome—yes, even I. Allow my entry!"

At that the lock was torn from the wood and the door shook violently. Nathaniel gave it a contemptuous kick and it swung slowly inwards.

Stopping only to pick up the bag, the man entered—still brandishing the crowbar in his hand.

Within the church of St Mary all was shadow. Even in the daytime the interior, like most things in Whitby, was striking and unusual but now all was forbidding and severe. The odd arrangement of pew boxes were like square cages which penned in beasts of pitch and shade and the walls seemed carved from jet. A brooding atmosphere filled the place, as if it were alive and watching, inflamed at this irreverent intrusion. The very air was tense and so overpowering that Nathaniel had to lean against the wall before he could bear to venture any further.

"Settle yourself, Crozier," he murmured, "it's nothing you haven't encountered before. Ancient sites of worship develop a certain... presence, you know that." He ran his hand over the stone and half-closed his eyes. "This is most holy ground," he whispered. "Even before the Christ was venerated here it was a sacred shrine. The land remembers and old stones are charged with that knowledge. You must tread with care this night."

He took a few, tentative steps towards the central aisle and the noise of his movement resounded throughout. At the far end, upon the altar the gold cross gleamed coldly and Nathaniel hesitated, but only for an instant.

"Enough," he spat, "I will pass." And with that he pushed deeper into the church. At the altar he gave a malicious sneer before turning aside and passing between a row of pews.

The crypt of St Mary's was simply a small area in one corner reached by a cramped flight of wooden stairs. It was perhaps the oldest part of the building and contained many artefacts, found during excavations, which dated from the original Saxon church. In a tiny box, mounted on the wall, there was even a piece of the actual wattle and daub used in that earlier building. All around there were irregular chunks of carved stone, sections of pillars and slabs of floor tiles—these had been pushed against the walls in a wonderfully haphazard jumble. From a large window the dim moonlight slanted in, touching the stonework and illuminating the descriptive labels pinned to the boards. Peculiar triangles of darkness were cast between the stones, angular slices of night that wove through the carvings and spiked over the floor.

Down into this crowded level Nathaniel came. Glancing briefly at the biblical extracts painted on panels that covered the walls, he put the bag and crowbar on the ground. He could sense the accumulated age of everything in there, the long silent centuries lay heavily over all and he breathed deeply, relishing their history.

Nathaniel delved into his pocket and brought out the plaster fragment he had taken from the Banbury-Scotts' house. Holding it in the shaft of moonlight, he studied the four strange signs inscribed there. All day long he had examined them, trying to decipher their meaning and apart from the mark of Hilda only one other was now clear to him.

"Somewhere here," he told himself, "somewhere in all this disorganised lumber. I must have read the sign correctly—it can be nowhere else." He spread out the fingers of his left hand and quickly ran them over the stones at the front of the pile. "Nothing," he cursed. "Come on, come on, Nathaniel has come for you my little beauty."

Irritated, he drew himself up and held the plaster fragment in both hands. "Must I jab you out of hiding?" he growled. "Then so be it." He closed his eyes and began to chant under his breath.

A strange stillness descended over the church and the moon disappeared behind a cloud. All outside noise was extinguished, the faint glare that the night absorbed from the lights of the town was snuffed out and an impenetrable blackness seeped in. Nathaniel continued to chant, his voice gradually rising.

A breeze began to stir, the brass chandelier which hung from the ceiling slowly began to swing and a hymn sheet fluttered from the three-tiered pulpit. Still Nathaniel chanted, and the air churned about him. The warlock's hair streamed in the growing gale, his coat flapping wildly and the rush of the wind filled his ears as it tore around the church. The chandelier was spinning madly now and hymn sheets flew through the air like flocks of rustling birds.

"Unveil yourself!" Nathaniel cried. "Show yourself to me! I, Nathaniel Crozier, High Priest of the Black Sceptre, command you!"

Suddenly there came a terrible crash as the cross on the altar was hurled to the ground. The gale screamed up the aisle and the broken door slammed shut with a tremendous, thundering bang.

The warlock opened his eyes, his face pulled taut with the raging storm he had summoned. He opened his hands, stared down at the plaster fragment and smiled.

One of the symbols inscribed there was glowing, a golden light beat out of it, pulsing with life and energy. He held it above his head and the magical rays poured down.

"Excellent," he laughed. "Now, where are you my little rabbit? Pop out of your bolthole."

From the depths of one of the many dark shadows, there came an answering throb of golden radiance.

Nathaniel threw back his head in triumph then began to haul the surrounding rubble aside. It was arduous work; the stones were heavy and he tore his fingernails in his eagerness to clear them. The ground trembled as each slab was thrown down but eventually the way was made and Nathaniel reached in to retrieve what he sought.

It was a life-size head of stone, most of the features had been worn away but the eyes and mouth could still be discerned. For years it had lain forgotten and disregarded against the wall, covered and hidden by the rest of the ancient carvings in the Saxon crypt—but now Nathaniel had it. He took the head in his hands and the beautiful light which emanated from it shone in his face.

"Now you are mine," he marvelled, "and now you shall answer me." The stone pulsated with magical force, its light reaching high into the church, spreading over the balcony of pews that ran along the walls, giving everything a beautiful, glistering glow. The unnatural gale that the warlock had created died down and a delicious warmth rippled out into the night. Nathaniel had awakened the power of the head and a desperate thought clutched at his heart—what if he were unable to control it? All his designs would go astray—all his hopes and desires would come to nothing.

"Be still!" he shouted in the midst of his panic. "Cease this at once!"

But the head continued to pour out its energy. The inside of the church blazed with glory and dazzling beams shot from the windows, piercing the night outside. The powerful forces blasted high over the cliff like one of the beacon fires of old.

"Stop!" commanded Nathaniel, trying to shield his eyes from the blinding light. "STOP!" Even at this time of night someone was bound to see what was happening. He had been relying on secrecy and the cover of darkness to achieve his goal but this was like having a neon sign flashing to the world. His plans were in jeopardy—he would be discovered and his enemies alerted. He had to put an end to it and, with clenched teeth, called on all his dark powers. "Aid me!" he demanded. "Come to me—help me in this desperate hour! Give me the strength to counter, conquer and rule."

For a moment nothing happened and the golden light continued to flood out of the church, cascading over the graves, in an ever-swelling stream and gilding them in its wake. But then, very slowly, another glow began to appear. It was a sickly, greenish hue and it flickered about Nathaniel's hands as he called for aid. When the two opposing forces met, they crackled and spat, flashes of lightning roaring through the church.

"Submit to me," the warlock cried as the green light flowed over him. "You will answer—you must answer."

And then the contest was finished. The power of the head began to dwindle, the golden energy faded, engulfed in Nathaniel's all-devouring hatred. The brilliance died down and it became dark—except for the putrid luminescence that wrapped itself about the evil man.

The last glowing rays danced around the stone eyes then disappeared. The carving was nothing more than a stone head and the power of the warlock surrounded it.

"That is better," he said, "now, it's time for you to hear me, oh ancient one, answer to Nathaniel." He grinned horribly and commanded, "Speak unto me!"

Deep within the stone there came a grinding and a creaking. Nathaniel's dark eyes gleamed and the evil forces wound more tightly about the head. The noise grew louder, until the carved mouth began to move—the weathered lips parted and a hollow voice rang out.

"Hath the time now come?" it asked. "Is the end of all things arrived? Is Ragnarok upon us?"

"The end is not yet here," replied Nathaniel, "but that hour may not be far away."

"The staff is gone!" called the disembodied, echoing voice. "She has taken it back—the walls are breached!"

"Peace," calmed the warlock, "all is not yet lost, there may still be hope."

The stone eyes rasped open to reveal two almond-shaped slivers of flint. They studied Nathaniel closely and the voice asked, "Who art thou? Why didst thou invoke me?"

"My name is Crozier. The world is in peril and I must do what I can to help. Many years have passed since you were laid down, the knowledge of the ancient ones is long forgotten—only a few now have the skill to do what must be done."

"Then hail to thee, master of stone," said the head. "What dost thou wish from me?"

"I am a seeker after that knowledge," replied Nathaniel excitedly. "There are many questions which only you can answer if I am to prevent the darkness creeping over the land—tell to me all your wisdom, how did you come to be here? Who made you?"

The eyes closed slowly, and when the voice began it was filled with melancholy. "I am the oracle of the stone," it intoned, "and long have I done my work. A torment of emptiness have those years been. Hadda the elder made me, although I have worn many shapes, and set me above the lintel of the church that was before this. When the land was green and the circling seas uncharted."

"What was your purpose?" pressed Nathaniel in fascination.

The head replied mournfully. "The third guardian am I," it said, "defender of the weak against the power that sleeps and must not stir."

"Power?" repeated the warlock. "Explain—what power do you speak of?"

"Thou canst not understand," lamented the head. "None now can know of the pain and horror which rests. The world has moved on, even legends fade and are forgotten."

Nathaniel lifted the carving close to his own face. "Please," he asked in a silky, persuasive voice, "I want to know. Tell me of that distant time."

The flints regarded him keenly before the head answered. "Hear me, oh human," it proclaimed. "You wish to learn of those dark days? Then listen and I shall speak of deeds great and noble and woes beyond number. Of the time before the dragon ships set sail, before the stones of the abbey were laid, before Saxon kings were buried in this haven and before Hild blessed it with her footsteps."

The head then recounted the history of Whitby, events that occurred many ages ago and recorded by no one. While it spoke Nathaniel listened, concealing the greed and malice that boiled within him.

"It was a wild land then," the carving continued, "the five tribes of the aufwaders lived along all the coast and man was as yet a stranger in this sea-lashed place. Since the time of waking, evil has stalked the world in all its guises, yet here in Whitebi the dark one had indeed made its home. For aeons there was nothing but horror here, and terror was the lot of those who dwelt nearby. The hills were a desolate wasteland, and Death a constant wanderer of the shore. The aufwaders suffered much and prayed unceasingly to the Lords of the Deep who did hear their woe and take pity. In those early days they still had dealings with the upper world and had not withdrawn to their vast realm beneath the waves."

"So what did their Marine Majesties do to deliver them from this peril?" asked Nathaniel sarcastically.

"There came a fearful day when the sun shone red with war and they arose from the foaming deep surrounded by a host of tritons ready for battle. In a deadly encounter that threw down cliffs and forged new mountains they did attack, but the enemy was mighty and blew poisonous rain upon them. Their vast army was almost vanquished in the cruel onslaught and the sea became awash with blood, yet finally they won through and the Great Lord himself grappled with the evil, deposing it in bitter combat.

"Then did the golden horns of the Deep Ones sound and their joyous trumpeting was heard unto the furthest corners of the world. All rejoiced, but even as their lord prepared to deal the deathblow his heart forewarned that the battle would not be won that day. Though the enemy be slain and fed to the scavengers of the ocean, it could never be destroyed and would in time return and conquer, bringing about the ruin of all. Thus he stepped aside and though the clamour rose about him he refused to dispatch the enemy. So, to the dismay of all, the evil was spared but the Deep Ones would not suffer it to despoil the land once more. Using all their craft and skill, they bound it in chains of enchantment and it passed out of knowledge, entering the distant legends of the time.

"An interesting myth," interrupted Nathaniel with little enthusiasm. "Almost every culture can claim a similar tale. What has an archaic legend to do with your presence here?"

Ignoring his scepticism, the head began again. "Even the strongest chain shall weaken," it told him, "and fall into ruin under the relentless march of years. So did the bonds of enchantment wither and they who first felt the rumour of the returning evil did realise the truth of the old tales and were afraid. Irl, mightiest of all aufwaders in skill and cunning, sought to strengthen the enchantment of the Deep Ones and wrought a talisman, instilling it with all his power to keep the evil one at bay. For this undertaking he did steal the moonkelp and so was punished, but not till he completed his task and carried off the thing he made. There, hidden from the five tribes, this sacred artefact kept strong the enchanted bonds and the world was safe again."

Nathaniel's eyes gleamed as he began to understand and the lust which smouldered within him burst into flame.

"But power fades," sighed the head, "and a day came when Irl's guardian was not enough. Evil grows wherever it lies and so it was with this—another shield in the armour of Whitebi was required. This was fashioned by the first of the human settlers who learned of the danger from the five tribes before they were estranged. A wise man was he, steeped in the lore of a fallen civilisation and he made a sign of the moon, calling on the goddess herself to guide his work—and so was his guardian added to the defences and all was well for a time."

"And then?"

"Who can measure the rate of a canker that spends itself not and, resting, grows mighty in repose? The time came when another guardian was needed and so was I brought into being. The first bishops hallowed me and called on the Lord to protect them. So have I guarded the town throughout the centuries, constantly challenging and striving with that which sleeps, binding the ancient enchantment about it and adding to the sum of the other guardians' power." The head fell silent and the eyes closed sadly.

Nathaniel nodded, assuming a gentle, wise countenance. "And in the time of Hild another guardian was needed," he added, "and so she surrendered her staff?"

"Verily," returned the head, "when Hild came, already my labours were too great and evil was beginning to escape. A Mallykin had evaded my vigilance and slithered into the waking world. It was she who drove it back into forgetfulness and sacrificed her power for the safety of the world. Yet the staff is no more. It has gone from this place and it was the strongest guardian of us all. Without it we are weakened and the walls are breached. Once more the evils which were bred in the youth of the world are stirring. The Mallykin walks abroad again and the old enchantment decays with each passing moon. Soon shall the evil waken and all will plunge into darkness and despair."

"Is there nothing that can be done to prevent this disaster?" asked Nathaniel.

The head groaned, "Who now can forge and craft a device to protect us all? What of the old skills remain in this modern world? Who now can stop the enemy awaking?"

The warlock gave a small, unpleasant laugh. "Perhaps I can," he said.

"You?" the head muttered. "Can you in truth do this? Are your talents a match for what is needed?"

"I believe so," came the arrogant and self-assured reply. "I have absolute faith in my abilities."

"Then waste no time," urged the carving, "begin at once. For pity's sake commence the work—it is rousing. Have I not felt the shackles of sleep fall away?"

Nathaniel rubbed his chin as though mulling the idea over. "Yes," he mused, "I suppose I could do something. What I must really achieve is some way of uniting all the existing guardians and building upon their proven strength. But where am I to find them? They have been hidden for thousands of years."

"I can help!" the head cried. "I know where they were bestowed."

"Oh good," smiled Nathaniel. "You know, I was rather hoping you'd say that."

Behind him, a shadowy figure crawled along the aisle, slipping silently behind the pew boxes. Ben had followed the man up to the cemetery, keeping well out of sight as Nathaniel strode round to the back of the church. When he saw the man break in, he nearly ran to fetch the police but was too intrigued to learn what he was doing in there. At first he had thought that Mr Crozier was a burglar and was after the church silver, but when the strange lights had begun to shine Ben drew closer. Now he crept towards the vile, spectral gleam which emanated from the crypt, straining to catch what the voices said, yet anxious not to be discovered.

From what he had already managed to overhear, the boy was extremely afraid. He wasn't sure who Nathaniel was talking to—he thought perhaps it was one of the fisherfolk and that alone disturbed him, but what was all this talk of evil? Carefully, Ben stole nearer, the phantom light falling on his young face. He stealthily came as far as he dared then curled into a ball, intent on the voices which drifted up from the crypt.

"The oldest of the guardians is with the aufwaders," the head was telling Nathaniel, "and from this shall the nature of the evil be known. Irl bore it to the deepmost regions of their realm before the Deep Ones punished him for his crime and hid it therein. Who now knows of its existence? No one perhaps, but in the caverns beneath the cliff it surely lies and this only would Irl reveal as he was dragged into the sea to answer for the theft of the moonkelp. The guardian is engulfed in sorrow—that is all he would say, even as the water poured into his mouth and filled his lungs."

Slowly, and with little pleasure, Nathaniel considered this information—so that one at least was out of his reach. "And the second guardian?" he demanded.

"Is a wooden tablet," the head told him, "inlaid with pearl. The irresistible force of the waxing moon is its strength and is mightiest when it is full in the sky. Many and dreadful were the incantations muttered over this, and terrible were the promises sworn to the goddess. The man who made it perished as soon as it was done, having poured his entire soul into his creation."

"Yes, yes!" stormed Nathaniel impatiently. "But where can I find it?"

"The second guardian was entrusted to a Whitebi family," the head replied, "and since pagan times they have kept it safe and secret from all others, passing it down through generation after generation."

"Their name!" the warlock cried. "What is their name?"

"In former times their house was called Hegenfrith, but the sands shift and names alter. What they may be called now I do not know. All I can sense is that the guardian is still safe. After all this time it continues to do its work, enriching and fortifying the might of the others, drawing on the power of the moon at its zenith."

"Hegenfrith," Nathaniel muttered, committing it to memory. "So, there we are," he licked his lips and sniggered. "Tell me, oh oracle, what would happen if all the guardians were destroyed?"

The flint eyes stared at him incredulously, the man's voice had altered and was no longer friendly. "Then darkness would reign!" the head cried. "Evil would waken and the land laid waste. Without our continued protection Ragnarok would come."

"Such melodrama," Nathaniel scoffed. "Do you really expect me to believe that? It may have kept the primitive peasants in check but it won't deter me. No, I am a master of control and domination—there is nothing on this earth I cannot make yield and bow before me. Whatever this force is, evil or not, it shall be mine to command."

"No!" shrieked the head. "You must not believe that! I tell you it is beyond your futile strength. If you awaken this thing then be assured you shall be the first to die—it cannot be controlled! No one has dominion over evil, it consumes all who try to master it."

"I think I've heard enough now, thank you," Nathaniel retorted. "You have done your duty—for far too long in my considered opinion."

"What are you doing?" the head shouted. "Are there such madmen loose in the world?" But it was too late, it realised how it had been tricked and there was nothing it could do.

"Bleat all you can," the warlock laughed, "for your time is over. Nathaniel has come to deliver you from your woe. This night I shall end your dreadful labour." With a deriding laugh he hurled the head to the ground and chips of stone sparked from the flagged floor.

"Hearken to me!" begged the guardian in fear as it saw Nathaniel open the large bag at his feet and bring out a sledgehammer. "This is madness!"

But the warlock paid no attention to its beseeching cries. "Into dust we all must depart," he chuckled. "Isn't it about time you did the same?"

With one swift swing of his arms he raised the sledgehammer over his head and brought it crashing down.

"NOOOOO!" came a heart-rending scream.

In his hiding place Ben covered his ears. He was terrified at what he had heard and, as the vicious blows fell, he sprang to his feet.

The scene in the crypt was screened by the pews and he was thankful that he could not see what was happening. Yet the eerie green light that still flickered about Nathaniel threw his shadow upon the wall and that was enough. Down came the hammer, dashing the head to smithereens. Its plaintive screeches rocked the church and Ben felt them thump inside his brain.

"A curse on thee, human!" howled the voice in its agony. "May the forces thou hast unlocked hound thy black soul unto the end of time!"

Nathaniel's laughter welled up and he roared, bringing the sledgehammer down in yet another crushing blow. There came one last piercing scream that tore through the very foundations of the church, shaking the rafters and rifling up into the tower where the bells vibrated and sang out a dreadful, discordant chime. And just when Ben thought he could stand no more, the voice was finally silenced forever.

Like a thing possessed, Nathaniel continued. Relentlessly pounding the pieces to powder, leaving not a fragment on the floor and crowing with horrendous savagery.

Ben hurtled from the church as fast as he could. Everything he had heard flew round inside his mind in a confused whirl and, leaping over gravestones, he charged back down the path for all he was worth.

When he reached the top of the abbey steps the ground shook. Ben heard Nathaniel's laughter ring from the church as the last pieces of the head were pounded to dust. The entire cliff trembled and the boy spun round.

From the church of St Mary there came a deafening explosion. The leaded roof buckled as a gaping hole was blasted out of it and through this shot a stream of golden light. With a great rush of dazzling sparks, the searing bolt soared into the dark sky and was sucked high into the cold void. Ben could only stare as the force boiled ever upwards, towering over the sleeping town, raging furiously towards the stars. And then it vanished. As suddenly as it had erupted from the church, it disappeared into the heavens and all was calm as if nothing had happened. Only an ugly great rent remained in the leaded roof.

Ben gaped in stunned astonishment, his eyes straining to follow the course of that blinding light. But all was dark now and when he lowered his face and saw the damage to the church he remembered that Nathaniel was still in there, for the man's laughter had not ceased yet.

Sickened and horrified, the boy turned back to the town which lay below him. Whitby seemed darker than before, the street lamps were dimmer and the cold closed sharply in. Shaken, the boy threw the church of St Mary one final glance before he tore down the steps and fled home.

In the crypt, Nathaniel drew his finger across the grey powder which now covered the flagstones. From his pocket he took out the plaster fragment once more and examined it carefully. There were now only three symbols inscribed there, and one of those was the obsolete mark of Hilda. Because of him, the sign of the last guardian had been completely erased. He grinned and slipped it back into his pocket.

"One down, two to go," he quietly chortled.

8 - Torn From The Deep

Whitby awoke to a fine November morning. It was one of those rare bright days of late autumn which the year occasionally indulges in to remind herself of the summer that has past. The sky was clear and, though weak, the sun valiantly did her best, dancing brightly over the water and bouncing off windows as they opened to receive her. Of course, as the morning unfolded and the townsfolk bestirred themselves, it being Sunday, a great commotion soon gathered around the church where all gazed in dismay at the yawning fissure which grinned at them from the roof. When the police arrived, they found the vicar sitting desolately in a pew. After organising a cup of tea for him, they began surveying the wanton destruction. Apparently vandals had broken in and, after scattering hymn sheets and knocking the cross from the altar, a condition which the vicar had at once rectified regardless of any concern for the disturbance of clues, they had somehow managed to punch a hole through the roof. It was a lamentable commentary on the youth of today and the reverend was so angered by the brutal exhibition that he forgot himself and uttered a few choice words normally alien to a man of his calling.

At least nothing was stolen and when he had pulled himself together, he set about trying to find a tarpaulin large enough to cover the offending hole. Once the police had dusted for fingerprints, they departed to interview those in the youth hostel nearby to see if they had heard or seen anything suspicious the previous night. Eventually the service commenced and the vicar abandoned his chosen sermon for an impromptu and impassioned speech on vandalism in the community. Tempers were extremely frayed that morning, and the congregation almost cheered him on. The desecration had hit the very heart of Whitby and all were grieved that anyone could have committed such an outrage. But perhaps it was more than that, for not once did the thought of forgiveness enter anyone's mind—the destruction of the third guardian had already wrought an unpleasant change in the townsfolk.

***

Ben lurched out of bed, his eyes ringed with dark circles. As soon as he had returned from the church last night he had gone into Jennet's room, but she was sleeping so peacefully that he could not bring himself to wake her. Besides, he wasn't exactly sure what Nathaniel's discourse with the stone head had meant. So, instead of disturbing his sister, he decided to let it wait until the morning—by then he might be less confused.

For the rest of the night he had lain awake as snatches of the strange conversation came back to him... One thing was certain, Nathaniel Crozier was not what be pretended to be—he was as dangerous as Rowena Coop «r had been and Jennet should be told first thing. With his head full of questions and doubts, the boy, already exhausted by his nocturnal adventure, slipped into an uneasy sleep just as the dawn edged into the sky.

It was past ten o'clock when he dragged his clothes on and dashed on to the landing. "Jen!" he cried. "Jen, you'll never believe me!" He ran into his sister's room but it was empty. Ben made for the stairs. "Guess what I saw last night!" he shouted excitedly. "It was awful!"

An answering call floated up the staircase. "Down here," came his sister's voice, "we're in the kitchen."

Ben jumped the last two steps and hurried to tell her what he had witnessed. "I know I shouldn't have," he gabbled breathlessly, "but when I saw him leave with that great big bag I couldn't stop myself. He's bad Jen, I mean really bad. All the way to the church I followed him and heard everything!"

Suddenly the boy's stomach turned over and a violent knot twisted in his guts. Standing in the kitchen, chatting amiably to his sister, was Nathaniel Crozier.

Jennet looked away from the man for a moment as her brother slumped against the door and stared across in mute horror. "Ben?" she said, puzzled at his extraordinary expression. "Are you all right? You don't look well, what were you saying?"

Nathaniel's eyes slowly looked up from the coffee he was drinking and blazed out at the boy. Ben's heart quailed under their burning gaze. Mr Crozier now knew that he had not been alone in the church. Ben took a deep breath and shook his head to dispel the black fear which was creeping over him. "What's he doing here?" he asked bluntly.

Jennet was taken aback by this rudeness. "Ben!" she hissed.

Her brother only glared back at the man. "Well?" he demanded.

Nathaniel lowered his coffee cup. "Jennet," he said smoothly, "it would seem your brother does not like me."

"I'm sorry," she hastily apologised, "he isn't usually as bad-mannered as this." She gave Ben a hateful glance that told him he would be sorry, then turned her attention back to her guest. "Another biscuit, Nathaniel?" she asked.

"Mmm, thank you," he took the proffered digestive and bit into it, his eyes holding Ben the whole while.

The boy did his best to ignore those flashes of malice which stabbed out at him. "Where's Miss Wethers?" he asked his sister.

"Gone to church," she replied. "Thought it best to leave you in bed. She'll be back soon. Your breakfast's already on the table."

"I'm not eating it with him here."

"Ben!"

"Tell him to go!" her brother insisted.

Mr Crozier finished his coffee and took a step towards Ben and the door. "Perhaps it would be better if I left," he murmured. "I seem to be distressing the little boy."

"Don't pay any attention to him!" Jennet stormed. "He's being a baby, that's all. Honestly, if Aunt Alice were here she wouldn't let him get away with that. You just stay here and have another coffee, Nathaniel."

"If you insist," the man relented but, as Jennet turned her back to rinse the cup, he gave Ben a venomous and deadly look.

"I'm off out!" the boy said abruptly. "See you later, Jen." In a trice he had nipped out of the kitchen and was through the front door.

"Ben!" she called after him. "Come back here and eat your breakfast this minute!"

"Unusual boy," observed Nathaniel.

Jennet apologised for his behaviour again. "I don't know what's come over him," she sighed. "He's not usually so rude."

"Perhaps he had a nightmare," the man suggested. "Actually, would you forgive me if I declined that second coffee? I really must get going, there seems to be more work in store for me today than I had at first realised. Good morning."

Jennet showed him to the door, to prove to Mr Crozier that she, at least, had manners. "Goodbye, Nathaniel," she said warmly. "Perhaps I'll see you this afternoon—if your work permits it, of course."

"But of course," he smiled, tenderly taking her hand and squeezing it tightly, "I shall make certain of that."

Jennet flushed, he really was charming. She watched him return to the Gregsons' before closing the door with a delighted and dreamy look on her face.

***

Miss Wethers trotted down Church Street feeling totally irritated and disgruntled towards her fellow man—or woman. The vandalism of St Mary's was a sight she thought she would never have seen and the vicar had whipped everybody up into such a state of agitation that for the first time in her life the postmistress was itching for a fight—a verbal one, of course.

"Disgraceful," she twittered like a deranged canary, "to think there are such wretches, and here in Whitby too! I never did, in all my days. May they rot! Hanging's too good for them!" This was strong stuff from Miss Wethers and her eyes darted to and fro, peering suspiciously at everyone who went by, as if they were the heinous culprits. Only when she had vented her steaming temper in an unprovoked attack on a passing tourist, calling him an insidious interloper who was ruining the fabric of the community, did she return to her normal self. Everybody in the street gawped at her and the unfortunate man hurried away from what was obviously the local lunatic. Miss Wethers hastily collected herself and gave a forlorn chirp as she realised what she had done. Quickly she ran after the innocent tourist to beg his forgiveness, but he thought she was wanting to continue where she had left off and scurried away as fast as he could. This made her feel even more ridiculous and she scolded herself sharply.

"Edith!" she said. "What has come over you? My oh my, what a spectacle you've made of yourself." Sheepishly she recommenced her journey towards Miss Boston's cottage—her face, appropriately for a postmistress, as red as a pillar-box.

It was whilst slinking into the alley, glancing round to see if anyone was staring at her, as she was sure they must be doing, that she walked into Ben coming the other way.

"Miss Wethers!" he cried, pleased to see her.

"Oh," was all she could manage for the moment.

"That man," he continued, "he's with Jennet. You've got to listen to me..."

"What man?" she said distractedly. "Really Ben, I've had a most disagreeable morning, I've just done the silliest thing, and you wouldn't believe how wicked somebody has been—the poor, poor church..."

"Yes!" Ben interrupted. "That man! Mr Crozier!"

The postmistress fluttered her hands over the buttons of her cardigan. "Is he with Jennet now?" she asked. "Oh, I'm not sure I approve of this. Alice Boston why did you leave me in charge? What I need is a good lie-down!"

"But..."

"Be a good boy," she yapped dismissively, "and have a nice play on the seashore, or whatever it is you do. Only keep yourself clean and no bringing back any more... dead little friends, hmm? See you at dinner time."

With a nervous twitch of her hand she pattered off to the cottage leaving Ben just as anxious as before. Who would he tell? If only Aunt Alice were here, she would listen to him. Miss Wethers was useless, the last thing he wanted to do was go and play on the beach...

At that Ben tore from the alley and raced up Church Street, turning down to Tate Hill Pier and charging on to the sands.

Nelda would help him, she would believe what he had to say. Over the rocks he scrambled, hurrying under the concrete supports of the bridge which joined the cliff to the pier. Luckily the tide was out and only two other people stood by the shallow pools at the foot of the cliff. Ben took no notice of them, cupped his hands round his mouth and shouted "Nelda! Nelda!"

The couple turned to look at him but thought he was calling for his dog.

"Nelda!" the boy shouted again. "It's me, Ben. Can you hear me?"

There was no reply; the steep cliff reared high and silent above him and though he knew where the secret entrance to the aufwader caves lay, there was no answering call and the doors did not open. His throat was sore by the time he gave up. "Please answer," he mumbled into the breeze. "It's very important, please."

But after half an hour it was plain that either none of the fisherfolk had heard him, or Nelda was refusing to come out. "Why won't you listen to me?" he breathed unhappily. "There's no one else I can tell. Something must be done about Mr Crozier." Dragging his feet, the boy left the beach, gave the cliff face one last, hopeful look then climbed the stairs back into Church Street.

Although the morning was nearly over and his stomach was growling, Ben had no desire to return home. He desperately needed to confide in somebody, but who? With a slow, dawdling gait, he made for the swing bridge that linked the two sides of Whitby.

It really was a beautiful day; the harbour seemed filled with diamonds that glinted in the sunlight and the fishing cobles lazily rode the sparkling waves. Ben gazed blankly at the lovely scene. The dredger was chugging slowly out to sea, laden with the silt and sludge which it had scooped from the estuary floor and he absently waved at the crew. One of them returned the greeting but it did little to please the boy that morning.

"If only there was someone else," he sighed, turning his gaze from the harbour and across the bridge at the West Cliff. For a moment he contemplated going to the police station, but he doubted they would believe him—he found it difficult enough himself. If he tried to tell them what he had heard they would either laugh or put him in the care of a doctor. Still, he could always tell them that he had seen the man break into the church and leave out the rest of it—that might be enough for them to arrest him. No, it was only the word of an eight-year-old boy and Mr Crozier would soon squirm out of it. Ben recalled that even Miss Boston had been disbelieved when she had spoken against Rowena. No, this sort of business was beyond the reach of the normal authorities—their strong arms were helpless against the likes of Nathaniel.

Then it came to him, "Of course," the boy said brightly, "he's sure to listen!"

***

Mr Roper tucked the yellow duster into the pocket of his apron and replaced the lid on the can of spray polish. Whereas some people went to church on Sundays, he always tended to his collection, dusting and making them sparkle. Now his house smelled of polish and he cast his eyes over the crowded parlour in case one of the cruet sets had escaped the stroke of his cloth.

"Everything as it should be," he said with a gratified smile, "all gleaming and on parade."

It had been a long morning; the job increased with each new addition and, if his enthusiasm continued unchecked, he foresaw a time when it might take up the whole afternoon as well. Leaving the room, he untied the strings of the apron and, along with the polish, placed it in the cupboard under the kitchen sink.

"Just time for a nice cup of tea," he murmured happily, "and as a reward after doing all that dustin', I'll treat myself to some jammy dodgers as well."

Some time later, Mr Roper carried a small tray into his front room and settled himself in the armchair. The radio was switched on, but the volume was turned quite low. It was only to provide a background noise as his favourite programmes were not due to begin till the afternoon. He had often felt that there was nothing worse than a silent house. So, with the radio's faint sounds burbling about him, he crunched into a biscuit and poured the tea.

"Oh who can that be?" he declared as the doorbell rang. "If it's that Pewitt woman come to invite me to the old-time dancing again she can go and jump. I wish she'd let me alone. All right, I can hear you!" Irked at this interruption, Mr Roper passed into the hall and opened the front door.

"Ben!" he exclaimed in surprise. "You're early, I wasn't expecting you till later this afternoon. Come in, come in." He led the boy inside, noticing that he was unusually quiet. "'Fraid I thought you were somebody else," the old man explained. "That woman from two doors down came round again last night after you'd gone. What a nuisance she's becoming. Keeps wantin' to foxtrot and tango with me. A body can only be polite for so long—don't know how I'll keep putting it off the way she goes on."

Leading Ben to the front room the old man asked gently, "What's addled you then, lad? You're in a right sulk this morning and that's a fact! You haven't even asked about poor old Guido."

Ben fidgeted for a moment. He wasn't sure how to broach the subject, he couldn't just blurt it out. "Mr Roper," he began uncertainly, "have you seen the man who's staying with the Gregsons?"

"Can't say that I have, but who'd be gormless enough to bide with them? She's a nasty tongue on her that Joan has—and her husband's a lazy good fer nowt."

"There is a man staying there," confirmed Ben, "his name's Crozier and..."

"Don't you like him?" asked Mr Roper kindly.

Ben shook his head. "Jennet does," he said, "I'm not sure what Miss Wethers thinks of him though, but no, I don't."

"Why's that then?"

"He's bad," Ben said simply.

Mr Roper leaned forward in his chair and put his teacup down. "What do you mean?" he asked solemnly.

And so Ben began to tell him all that had happened last night. At first Mr Roper seemed nervous and grew stern when the boy told how he had followed Nathaniel into the night. But, as the story progressed, a different look came over the old man's face.

"And then he smashed the head to bits," Ben said, coming to the conclusion of his tale, "and a great light shot out of the church roof and vanished into the sky. I waited till this morning to tell Jennet but when I woke up she was already downstairs with him. And now he knows that I saw everything and know what he's going to do to the other guardians if he can find them. When he does, something absolutely terrible is going to happen—I know it."

Mr Roper let out a deep breath, an admiring smile was on his lips. "Well I never," he said, "I never did hear the like before."

"What are we going to do about it?" cried Ben.

Mr Roper gave a chuckle. "Well, lad," he admitted, "I never thought you'd come up with something so elaborate. Ten out of ten is what I say to you. You had me going for a minute there, mind—very good. When I told you to come back with a story I wasn't expecting anything as rivetin' as that one, and you had it all off pat too. Full marks indeed, ho, ho!"

"But it's all true," the boy whispered. "I promise."

"'Course it is," agreed the old man, "and soon as I get a chance I'll phone the head wizard and tell him what one of his dastardly pupils is up to. He'll be zapped into a toad quicker than you can blink and all the world's worries'll be over."

Ben said nothing. He had been wrong—Mr Roper didn't believe him either. Only Nelda and Aunt Alice would, but they were out of his reach.

"Now then," said Mr Roper becoming slightly more serious, "you'll be wanting to see old Fawkes. Hang on while I fetch the scoundrel. Guardians of Whitby!" he chortled to himself. "Very good." Leaving Ben in the front room, he went upstairs.

Ben decided it was pointless trying to make the old man believe him. It was clearly too fantastic a tale for anyone. He waited for his return and, remembering his hunger, ate a biscuit. What would happen if Mr Crozier got his way? According to what he had heard, nothing would be safe; the finality of that was only just beginning to sink in and the boy felt as if the doom of the world was approaching.

"Here we are," said Mr Roper, bursting through the door bearing a large, floppy figure. "Here's the very man."

The papier-mâché head was completely dry now and he had already attached it to the rest of the body. "As you can see," he went on, "I've used an old shirt o' mine for the top half, I don't suppose you brought that jumper o' yourn? Never mind, you can add it later. I've put an old pair o' socks on the end of the legs for feet and tucked the trousers into them. Looks mighty swanky, don't he? All he needs now is the face and I've got some paints left over from the last jumble sale posters I did for your aunt."

Ben wasn't really in the mood for painting that day—especially as the head reminded him of that other one last night. But Mr Roper had obviously worked extremely hard to bring the guy up to this state and he forced himself to take an interest. The shirt and socks were not old at all and Ben was touched by this display of generosity.

Presently a garish and angry face began to appear on the papier-mâché; two streaks of black gave it a neat little moustache and another, directly below the bottom lip, served for a pointed beard.

"What about eyebrows?" suggested Mr Roper. "That's right—blimey he looks fierce, an' no mistake." Throughout the whole of the delicate operation the old man did nothing but encourage Ben, he also supplied him with more biscuits and told him the funniest of his stories. The boy could not remember ever having spent a more enjoyable couple of hours, at times he even forgot the dreadful knowledge that he was burdened with.

When the painting was all done they both surveyed the figure and were greatly pleased. It was an almost perfect Guy Fawkes, all it required now was Ben's old jumper and perhaps a hat.

"Well done, lad," congratulated the old man, "he's right smart he is. Can't wait to see him sat on top of your bonfire. Got all your wood yet?"

"Yes, I've been collecting it for weeks. Aunt Alice helped too. There's a great pile of stuff against the fence at home. I should really get started on it this afternoon." He stared at the Guy's striking face; it seemed a shame to burn him, but with that beard he now resembled Mr Crozier and Ben felt that perhaps he would be happy to set it atop the bonfire after all.

"Would you look at the time," tutted Mr Roper, "it's your dinner you'll be missing if you're not careful. I don't want Edith Wethers on at me. You'd best take this villain home with you today, lad. A right scare he'll cause through the streets, I'll be bound."

Ben lifted the figure and slung it over his shoulder. Carrying it all the way home would be no problem—it was very light, being stuffed only with newspaper. "If you want," he said, "you can come and help me build the bonfire after dinner. I don't suppose Jennet will care to."

Mr Roper gave him a quick smile but answered, "I'm sorry, I can't today—there's a few things I've got to be attending to. Thank you all the same. Believe you me, there's nothing I wouldn't like better."

"Well, I'll see you tomorrow night then," said Ben hopefully, "you've got to come and watch it burn. Miss Wethers said she'd make toffee apples and baked potatoes—I might even get a sparkler out of her."

"Oh, lad," gasped Mr Roper unexpectedly. His voice trembled and before Ben knew what to think, the old man whisked away and returned carrying a large square tin. "These are for you," he said quietly, "I were going to save them for tomorrow as a surprise like, but you might as well have them now. I remember the best bit about fireworks was looking at them in the box—all them fancy wrappers wi' stars and flashes on 'em, wonderin' what sort of show they'd make."

"Fireworks!" cried Ben. "For me? Oh, thank you!" He threw his arms around the old man and gave him a great hug. Mr Roper uttered a startled cry, holding the boy as if it was the last time he would ever see him and when he next spoke his voice was thick with restrained emotion.

"Aye," he mumbled, "them's all yours. Wait till you gets home before peeking, mind, and enjoy 'em tomorrow, lad. Now come on, you'd best be off."

He led Ben to the front door, but when the boy turned back to wave the usual farewell he saw that his friend was crying.

"Mr Roper," he said, walking back along the path, "are you all right?"

The old man put a hand over his eyes. "I'm only tired lad," he replied, "don't you fret."

Ben wasn't sure what to do. Perhaps Mr Roper had been thinking about his late wife or the brothers killed in the First World War. Deciding it was best to leave him alone, Ben waved again. "See you tomorrow," he said.

The old man watched him turn down into the alleyway then closed the door. "Goodbye, lad," he wept.

***

The massive jaws of the dredger plunged into the water once more. It had already dumped the last load of silt out at sea and was beginning the unending process all over again. The chains rattled as the iron claw sank to the bottom and seized a great portion of sludge. Up it came, through the foaming water, dripping with thick mud and weed. A cloud of gulls hovered overhead, greedily watching for any fish that it may have disturbed rising to the surface. Round swung the crane arm, back over the open cargo hold, where the strong teeth parted and disgorged half a ton of muck and slime.

"Right," shouted Peter Knowles, one of the three crewmen, "she's all finished, Dunk her in again."

The crane jerked round till it was out over the water and the huge open grabber swung slowly on its chains.

Peter gave a signal to Bill Ornsley, the operator, who nodded and the jaws dropped back into the harbour. The dredger rocked gently, and Peter leaned against the deck rail while he waited for it to re-emerge. He was tired, and longed for his roast dinner which would be on the table by the time he finished this shift. At least this would be the last load of the day, he consoled himself, thinking of the Yorkshire pudding smothered in gravy which he would soon be devouring as efficiently as the jaws of the dredger itself. He glanced up, over the harbour bridge in the direction of his home and sighed wistfully.

A short figure wandered into his view, and he raised his hand to shield his eyes from the bright sunlight. "There's that kid again," he said as a child ran across the bridge, "the one that waved before. Lives with that barmy old woman, doesn't he? She's too old to be fostering kids at her age. Hello? What's he got there then—looks like a dead body."

"Pete!" Bill's voice broke into his thoughts and all traces of roast dinners, cracked old women and ghoulish children vanished from his mind. Ornsley sounded worried.

"What's up?" he called.

The man pointed at the crane and then Pete too realised that something was wrong. The chains were groaning and an unhealthy whine issued from the winching motor.

"She's caught on summat," Bill cursed.

Peter peered over the side to where the chains disappeared into the water. "Like what?" he asked.

The other shrugged and scratched his balding head beneath his battered black cap. "Beggared if I know," he said, "could be anything—never know what's down theer. Mebbe some old timbers from a coble what sank years ago."

"Wouldn't we have come across 'em before?" asked Peter doubtfully. "We're here day in, day out."

Mr Ornsley gazed at the shimmering surface of the water and slowly shook his head. "No," he muttered, "you can't never tell what it's like on the harbour bottom. There's fathomless depths of mud swirling round, constantly shifting with the tide, coverin' and uncoverin' all sorts of stuff. Horrible suckin' mud that pulls you under and seals you up for a year or more." He pulled on the winch lever but the awful whining increased.

"Doesn't want to come up," Peter said. "Whatever it is must be stuck pretty good."

"She'll manage it," assured Bill.

At that moment the dredger pitched alarmingly and the crane juddered under tremendous strain. The water slopped over the deck as the vessel lurched from side to side and Peter only caught hold of the rail in time to save himself from being thrown into the harbour.

From the cabin at the stern the other member of the crew stuck his head out and bawled at them. "What was that?" he cried, gripping the wheel tightly. "Felt as though something pulled at us!"

Bill stared worriedly at the winch motor; wisps of smoke were now hissing from it and the taut chains looked close to snapping.

"Let it go!" shouted Peter. "Whatever it is, drop it!"

Mr Ornsley threw himself against the lever as another tremor rocked the dredger. "I can't," he yelled, "it's jammed!"

A high-pitched, painful noise of twisting metal screeched out from the crane—the arm was buckling. Peter ran forward and tried to help Bill release the jaws but the lever was locked solid.

"She's gonna break!" he cried. "The chains'll lash round like whips, take cover man!"

Suddenly the dredger catapulted backwards, the jaws were free and the chains rattled loudly as the motor wrenched them from the water.

Both men raised their heads as the grabber rose to the surface in a frenzy of boiling, seething water.

"Thought we were goners then, Bill," said Peter. "Good job it let go."

Mr Ornsley checked the controls. "No it ain't," he whispered, "whatever it were caught on is still in them teeth."

Up from the thick harbour mud it came, up into the bright sunlight that filtered down into the churning water in soft, slicing rays.

With an almighty splash, the jaws exploded from the waves and before the chains could wind them up, they struck the prow with a shuddering blow.

Peter held grimly to the rail as the dredger tipped violently to one side, its tilting hull clanging like a funeral bell. The angry spray stung his face and the vibrations of the collision stung his clenched fingers, jolting through his body. Yet he paid no attention to this. Though the man in the cabin struggled with the wheel for control, all Peter could do was stare at what was gripped in the great iron teeth of the grabber.

It was the most unusual thing he had ever seen, and from it rained a waterfall of sludge.

"What in heaven is that?" he breathed.

As the deluge of filthy mud diminished, the outline of the mysterious object became clearer. It seemed to be kite-shaped and twice the size of a man. Peter stared intently, although it appeared to be made of stone, it was difficult to be certain because, except for a clump of fibrous black seaweed that had attached itself to the base, it was totally encrusted with barnacles.

Mr Ornsley looked up from the controls "Beggar me!" he exclaimed. "What the 'ell?"

"P'raps it's some kinda shield," suggested Peter, "part of a massive coat of arms or summat."

"That ain't no shield," whispered Bill, "call yerself a man o' the sea, look at it, man!"

"I don't..." Peter's voice failed him as he saw what the other meant. "Impossible!" he cried.

"Aye," said Bill "but mark that bit at the bottom theer, where it tapers down. What do that look like?"

Peter felt ill. A dark red substance was trickling from the tangled mass of what he had at first assumed to be seaweed. The thing was bleeding!

"I might be gettin' on in years," murmured Bill, "but that looks like flesh to me."

Peter couldn't believe it. "You're wrong," he denied flatly.

"Face it, man," the other muttered darkly, "like it or not, that theer is the scale of a fish!"

Peter gulped and in a small voice whispered, "My God!"

They stared a moment more at the huge black diamond, then the jaws loosened. The weight was too much, the teeth parted and the giant object fell from its grasp.

"Fetch it back!" shouted Peter. "Don't let it disappear down there again!" He ran for the controls but Mr Ornsley seized his arm and pulled him away.

"You leave that be!" he said firmly. "There's some things I'll not mess wi'. Leave what you don't understand well alone—leave it!"

Peter whirled round, just in time to see the immense scale fall into the water. It smacked the surface then vanished completely, twirling slowly down into the concealing darkness once more, spiralling back into the mud.

Bill Ornsley turned away from the ever-widening circle of ripples. "All right, Mike!" he called to the man in the cabin, "it's all right now. No harm done, but I think we ought to give her a rest for the day, I'd like to give the motor a seeing-to this afternoon."

The man at the wheel waved his agreement and the dredger began chugging towards the quayside.

"Now then," Bill said looking squarely at Peter, "if you don't want to be laughed at for the rest of your days I wouldn't mention any of what you just saw to no one."

The other man gazed back at the water where a shred of torn flesh still floated until a gull swooped down and snatched it away. "Yeah," he mumbled, "I didn't see nothing."

"Nor did I," affirmed Mr Ornsley and he manoeuvred the grabber into the water once more, to wash away any traces of what neither of them had just seen.

9 - Mischief Night

Ben slid another long plank from the heap at the side of the fence and dragged it over the grass. The main skeleton of the bonfire had, after many frustrating attempts, finally been constructed and seemed to be holding together. Before she had gone to London, Miss Boston had prepared a section of her garden especially for this, having dug up a large square in the middle, carefully laying aside the turves to be replaced afterwards. In her usual manner, she had merely shrugged off Ben's gratitude and said that the ashes would be good for the soil.

"Put that piece over there," said Jennet, "it needs the support on that side."

The boy bit his lip, his sister was being a real pain. Since he had returned from Mr Roper's she had done nothing but scold him for being rude to "Nathaniel", and when he had tried to escape her she had followed him into the garden—only to criticise all his attempts at bonfire building. There was no getting away from her and he thought ruefully of the fireworks the old man had given him—he hadn't even had a chance to open the tin yet!

In spite of this, a smirk spread over his face, for before he had entered the cottage he had tapped on the parlour window and waggled the guy in front of it. Even outside he had heard Miss Wethers shriek and the memory of her shrill yelps was the only thing that kept his mind off Mr Crozier and blotted out his sister's reprimands—she hadn't found the joke with the guy very funny either.

"Not there, stupid!" Jennet repeated. "Over here!"

Determined to ignore her advice, he placed the plank on the opposite side to the one she directed. At once the entire framework collapsed like a house of cards.

"Told you," she said infuriatingly.

In his annoyance, Ben gave the scattered timbers a sharp kick, to which his sister tutted, "Temper, temper."

"Give me a hand," he appealed to her, "instead of barking your orders—who do you think you are?"

"I'm not getting my hands dirty on all that old wood," said Jennet in a superior tone. "I don't want to get splinters in them or snag myself on a rusty nail—you could get tetanus from that." She spread her hands in front of her and examined them carefully, trying to picture what they would one day look like. Jennet had become enamoured with the thought of having beautifully long fingernails. So far, they were all coming along nicely and the last thing she wanted was to tear them on her brother's childish bonfire.

Ben watched in disgust as she scrutinised herself—Jennet was really changing. With a resigned groan he began gathering up the wood again and tried to rebuild the framework. What it really needed was some string tied around the top of the main supports, but unfortunately he was too short to reach—perhaps he ought to fetch a stool from the kitchen.

"Nathaniel's gone to the museum today," Jennet murmured, giving voice to her thoughts.

Ben did not want to talk about that man with his sister. It was obvious she would not listen to a word against him. The best course of action was to ignore her.

"He's going to trace his family roots," she continued, "apparently he came from round here originally—or rather his ancestors did. He's going through all the old parish records as far back as he can. Isn't that interesting? I told him that I wished we could do that, but I wouldn't know where to start. Then he said that I was too pretty to waste my time in dusty old books—wasn't that nice?"

Her brother bit his lip, a week ago she would have been furious if someone had made such a sexist remark, but no—it seemed Mr Crozier could do no wrong. If only she knew...

Jennet watched Ben's clumsy efforts with the wood and took pity on him. "Really Ben," she said, "you're not practical at all, are you? Here, let me do it!"

"I can manage!"

"No you can't!" she grabbed the three main timbers and pushed each of them deep into the soft earth until the tepee structure was quite sturdy. "There," she grinned, "that's what should have been done in the first place."

Ben said nothing but stared truculently at the bonfire before leaving to fetch more wood. Jennet folded her arms and raised her eyebrows in the manner of Mrs Gregson. "Don't bother to thank me then!" she called after him.

Her brother returned bearing a piece of old wardrobe and laid it against the framework. "Is that it?" he asked Jennet. "Aren't you going to do any more?"

The girl grunted in exasperation and decided that her dream of elegant fingernails would just have to wait. "All right," she sighed, "but I'm not touching any bits that have woodlice crawling on them."

For the next couple of hours they forgot all quarrels and resentments. Jennet's enthusiasm grew alongside the pyramid of sticks and planks and she quickly stopped moaning once she became absorbed in the work. At times, it was quite like the old days again. When their parents had been alive their father had always loved November the fifth and made sure it was a special occasion for them too.

When Miss Wethers popped her head out of the kitchen to see how they were doing, she was pleased to see the children united at last. "Well, Edith," she squeaked to herself, "that is a pleasant sight—how industrious they've been. Why, it's nearly finished." A momentary spasm of concern seized her as she thought of the actual fire. "Oh dear," she wittered, "I'll have to make sure they stand well clear of the flames, and I suppose that means I shall have to light it—I do hope I shan't get smoke in my eyes."

Miss Wethers hated Guy Fawkes night; even as a child she had feared it, and now she was accustomed to remaining indoors like a timid pet—away from all the bangs and sulphurous flashes. The only part of it she was really looking forward to was the burning of that horrible effigy. Ben had almost frightened her to death with it earlier and she had forbidden him to leave it downstairs, for she had the disconcerting fancy that it would creep up behind and jump out at her.

"Don't be too much longer," she called out before returning to the delightfully soppy book she was reading in the parlour to soothe her strung-out nerves. "It's getting dark."

Jennet was busily stuffing the inside of the nearly complete bonfire with newspaper and she gave the postmistress a wave of acknowledgement. "Nearly done," she said, before standing back to admire her efforts.

"Is there enough paper in there, do you think?" Ben asked. "Perhaps we should put in some of Aunt Alice's fire lighters, just to make sure it'll burn well."

His sister gave him a warning glance. "You keep your hands off those," she said sternly. "You're not that dumb, are you? You'll be wanting to pour petrol on it next! Do you know how many people get horribly burned doing stupid stunts like that?"

"It was only a suggestion," he muttered.

"Well it was an idiotic one!"

Ben arranged the last of his sticks around the bonfire, only to find that his sister was still looking at him when he had finished. "All right," he cried, "I didn't mean it! There's no need to stare like that!"

But, when Jennet spoke, all her anger had gone, in its place her voice held a forced casualness. Ben had heard that tone many times before and knew that it meant she was after something—usually something of his.

"Ben," she drawled nonchalantly, "don't you think it would be nice if we had a big Guy Fawkes party? I mean instead of just you, me and Miss Wethers?"

"There's Mr Roper too," he butted in. "He's coming, don't forget."

Jennet idly twisted a lock of her hair. "Mmmm," she agreed, "but that's still quite a small number of people isn't it? And both he and Miss Wethers are very old. They haven't got much in common with us, have they? I think it'll be dull with just them here."

Ben wasn't sure where all this was leading. "I don't think Mr Roper's boring!" he declared loyally. "Besides, there isn't room for lots of others."

"I wasn't going to invite lots," she answered, "only one more."

"Who?" asked her brother, although by this time he had already guessed.

"Well, what about Nathaniel?" Jennet said. "He must be awfully lonely staying with the Gregsons, they're about as cheerful as a couple of undertakers. I'm sure he'd love it—not only that, but it would be the perfect way to show him how sorry you were for being so rude this morning."

Ben was paying no attention to her and had walked off, back to the cottage.

"Well, I can ask him if I want to," she said to herself. "I don't need your permission, it's as much my garden as it is yours!"

The girl gazed up at the windows of the house next door; perhaps Nathaniel had finished at the museum and was back already. Maybe he was watching her from behind the net curtains. Jennet hugged herself and let out a great, devoted sigh. "I'll nip round after tea," she said, "and see if he's free tomorrow. I'm sure he'll want to come if I'm here."

For a while, she indulged in a delicious fantasy in which she and Nathaniel were standing close to one another. Orange firelight played over both their faces, dancing in their eyes and burning in their hearts as he took her hand in his and held it tenderly.

"Spare me! Spare me!"

Ben came out of the kitchen holding the guy before him as though leading it to a place of execution and, to help create the illusion, he was doing all the voices. "Spare him not!" he commanded, trying to speak in a deep voice. "To the stake with him! You must pay for your crimes." He shook the papier-mâché head then yowled, "No, no, I'll confess!"

"What've you brought that out for?" Jennet asked, ignoring the painted face which was nodding wildly at her. "It'll only get damp if it rains tonight."

"I want to see what he'll look like tomorrow," he explained. "I'll take him back indoors afterwards. See, I've put my old jumper on him too. Looks good, doesn't he? Mr Roper'll be pleased. Give me a hand sticking him up there, Jen, I can't reach."

Jennet lifted the guy and placed him at the pinnacle of the bonfire. "You'll have to put a pole up his back," she said, "he keeps falling over."

"I hadn't thought of that," admitted Ben, "pass old Crozier down again then and I'll..."

"Ben!" snapped his sister. The boy gave an unrepentant laugh. "Well he looks a little bit like your boyfriend," he retorted.

Jennet gasped. "Nathaniel is not my boyfriend!" she shouted.

"Not yet!"

"Benjamin Laurenson!" she bawled, making a grab for him, "You come here!"

Afterwards, Ben could never remember if he heard the cries first, or saw the figures as they leapt into the garden. For, even as he darted aside to avoid his sister's hands, the air was filled by many voices and a series of jubilant whoops came clamouring all about them. The two children spun round and forgot everything else.

"Get them!" screeched a horribly familiar voice. "Get the Cret and his stinkin' sister!"

Over the back fence came Danny Turner, Mark Stribbit and a gang of four other boys. In a trice they vaulted over the raspberry bushes and flower borders, trampling the poor plants underfoot, and charged straight for the two children.

"What do you think you're doing?" cried Jennet in astonishment. "Get out of here!"

"Shut it, scabhead!" yelled Danny. "Mick, Terry—grab hold of her, Glen you take the Cret!"

Before they knew what was happening, both Jennet and Ben were seized by the wrists and had their arms twisted behind their backs until tears sprung from their eyes.

"Let go!" Ben cried, kicking back with his feet.

His sister struggled with the two boys who held her but it was no use. "What do you want?" she cried.

Danny swaggered up and sneered in her face. "Don't wet yer knickers," he jabbered, "us lads've only come a chumpin' fer firewood. We're gonna have a right blaze on the beach tomorrow." He pointed at the newly finished bonfire and called to Mark and the other boy. "Pull them matchsticks down, they'll do to light me ciggies wi'."

"No!" Ben protested as the yobs began kicking and smashing. "Stop it!"

Danny tittered and poked him in the ribs with a sharp piece of wood. "I'm sick of you, Cret!" he spat. "Yer always whingin' and whinin'. Well, here's summat to really skrike about!" Dragging Ben from the one called Terry, he threw him to the ground and kicked him savagely until the boy crumpled up with a pitiful wail.

"Leave him be!" screamed Jennet, but before she could call for help, a dirty hand was shoved over her mouth and it was all she could do to breathe properly. Then her head was pulled backwards so she could no longer see what was happening to Ben. The boys who held her were too strong and the more she struggled the more painfully they yanked on her arms.

Danny left Ben clutching at his stomach and gasping into the damp grass. "That's right, Glen," he sniggered, "keep her snotty ladyship quiet, can't have her bawlin' her head off can we?" He came swaggering up to her, "Not so tough now are yer?" he snarled. "Well, you was lucky the other day that's all." He kicked her shin but her cry was muffled by the dirty hand still smothering her. Danny hooted and pranced before her like a lunatic. "Look at the smelly Laurensons!" he laughed, waving his arms above his head. "One's barmy, the other's a stinking cow! And the only person who'll have them is nuts too—ha, ha!"

Jennet managed to tug her head forward, and the eyes that she turned on the Turner boy were filled with hatred. Using all her breath, she sucked at the hand that stifled her and bit down hard. Behind her Glen let out a shocked squeal.

"Ruddy Nora!" he howled, blowing on his palm. "She bit me—the cow bit me!"

Jennet seized her chance and squirmed round to free herself, pushing the other boy away as forcefully as she could. He went tumbling backwards like a skittle, and then she turned her blazing anger on the ringleader.

Danny stopped his capering, dismayed to see his mates so easily overcome. He stared at the girl and his nerve wavered for a moment as he saw a peculiar glint shine in her eyes. Was it his imagination or was that insane gleam really a fiery red? Then Danny rallied, remembering that he was not alone, Mark and the other boy were still with him. He signalled for them to stop destroying the bonfire and they sidled up, large sticks in each of their hands.

"Come on then, Laurenson," taunted Danny, "come an' get me—I dares yer."

Jennet was breathing strangely, for a while her mind had become so flooded with hatred that she had forgotten all else—even Ben. Her one intention was to rush at that hideous boy with her claws ready to tear his face off. Now she recoiled from that awful emotion—bewildered and appalled. Her face turned pale at the memory of the all-consuming rage that had taken hold of her, and at the evil thoughts that had come unbidden to her mind.

"Nathaniel," she whispered forlornly, "where are you? Help me please."

Now that all traces of fight had left her Danny jumped forward and raised his hand. "Yer as mad as yer brother!" he guffawed. "Go back to the funny farm!" And his hand whipped down to deliver a resounding slap across the girl's face.

Jennet staggered under the blow and had to clench her teeth to stop the inevitable cry.

Danny snorted and shot an expert missile of green phlegm into her hair. "Right," he called to the others," let's clear off. Don't take the wood—it's too crappy to bother wi'."

"'Ere!" shouted Mark. "What about this?"

Danny giggled gleefully. "Yeah!" he snorted. "We'll have that!"

One by one, the gang leapt back over the fence and ran off up the grassy slope of the cliff. Held aloft, like a trophy of war, the boys carried the guy.

Ben lifted his head, his stomach felt cramped and bruised, but that was nothing when he discovered what they had stolen. He thought of all the hard work he and Mr Roper had put into making it, but no tears trickled down his face at its loss—for at the same time he remembered that there were other, more important concerns to worry about.

"Jen," he said croakily, "are you hurt?"

His sister was kneeling on the grass where she had fallen after that cruel smack. When she turned her face to him, Ben saw an ugly, livid mark burning across her cheek. She stared blankly up at him when he came over and, as he held her, he discovered that she was shaking.

"Don't worry, Jen," he tried to reassure her, "they've gone now."

The girl closed her eyes and shuddered, "It's not that," she mumbled, "but back then, something took hold of me—I lost control. I wanted to kill them all, and would have done too..."

"I would have," Ben said, "if I were bigger. They're horrible bullies and deserve whatever they get."

Jennet was looking almost white. "No, it was more than that," she told him, "it frightened me. I mean it."

Ben stared at her. He had never seen her so affected by anything before—except of course the accident. Frowning, a more sinister thought came to him; could this be another result of the third guardian's destruction? Were the evil forces already leaking out so strongly that they had infected his sister? Or was it another power that possessed her? "Well it's all over now," he said consolingly. "Come on, let's go inside."

Jennet slowly came out of her daze and unsteadily rose to her feet. "Oh," she said, "what about you? Did Danny hurt you?"

Ben shook his head. "I'll live," he replied, trying to sound cheerful.

She took his hand and her eyes stared out over the garden, falling on the wrecked bonfire. "Oh Ben," she said sadly, "how could they be so mean? And where's your guy—did they take that too? I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "It doesn't matter," he said simply, "it was only some old clothes stuffed with paper."

"But you spent so long making it," she sobbed, "it's just wicked, how could they?" Jennet took a deep, steadying breath then added in a determined voice, "Well I'm not going to let them get away with it, I'm going to tell Miss Wethers."

"You'll only cause more trouble!"

"I don't care," she said firmly, and with that they went into the cottage.

Miss Wethers was sitting quietly in the parlour, still avidly reading her romance when they disturbed her. She took one look at Jennet's face and covered her own with her hands.

"They did what?" she kept squeaking as they told her what had happened. "They did what?" The postmistress's mouth flapped open like a letter-box and she bristled with indignation. "The little brutes!" she exclaimed. "How beastly of them." Out came her tissue and it went dabbing about the girl's glowing face as she chirped her concern.

"Most distressing," Miss Wethers declared when the tale was complete. "That Turner hooligan is a danger to everybody." She wrung her hands together for a few moments as though she were screwing herself up for some brave action. Then, plunging her tissue back up her sleeve, she stepped back into the shoes she had discarded whilst reading and said in a tone that neither of the children had heard from her before, "I'm not standing for this! If Alice were here, she wouldn't stand for this kind of bullying, cowardly behaviour and nor will I. I'm going straight round to that young villain's house and have one or two sharp words with his parents. He needs keeping in order and if they won't do something about it I shall go to the police station—I don't care if they pack him off to a Borstal. I will not tolerate such disgusting behaviour!"

Into the hall she stormed and snatched her coat from the peg. "Jennet," she said, opening the front door, "you attend to your teas—I shan't be long!" The door slammed behind her and the normally meek postmistress went stomping off through the alleyway.

The children stared at one another in surprise. "Who would have thought that from her?" whistled Ben. "She wouldn't say boo to a goose."

"Must be made of stronger stuff than we thought," smiled Jennet. "But that doesn't mean you can keep frightening her like you have been doing. It makes you no better than Danny when you do that."

Before Ben could answer, there came a fierce hammering on the front door. Both children jumped and looked at each other fearfully.

"Perhaps it's Danny again," murmured Ben.

"I don't think so, he wouldn't knock for one thing."

"He might, just to trick us."

"Well if we don't answer it we'll never find out," Jennet said, pulling the door open. She cast her eyes around the yard; it was dark and deserted. The November evening had fallen thickly, filling the place with silence and night shadows. "Strange," she murmured.

"Who is it?" asked Ben trying to peer over her shoulder.

Jennet moved back to close the door. "Weird," she said.

"What is?" cried Ben, ducking under her arm.

"There's nobody out here," she told him, "no one at all."

Ben said nothing, for his sister was wrong. Standing on the step, leaning on his staff and glowering impatiently, was Nelda's grandfather.

"'Bout time an' all," the aufwader grumbled, "ah were gonna gi' up on thee."

The boy blinked in astonishment. Of all possible visitors Tarr was the last he had expected. "Hello," he began nervously, it was most unusual for any of the fisherfolk to call on a human and already he was wondering what this portended. "Is there something wrong?" he asked.

His sister looked down at him and pushed on the door. "Of course there isn't," she answered, thinking he was talking to her, for she was unable to see or hear the aufwader. "Shift out of the way, it's too draughty to leave it open."

But her brother did not budge and Tarr gave Jennet a curious stare. "Daft as owt!" he remarked. "Womenfolk are allus addle-pated. But aye, theer's summat wrong all right—very wrong."

Ben tugged at his sister's sleeve. "Jen," he hissed, "there is someone here, it's Nelda's grandfather."

"Oh," was all she could find to say. There were times when she completely forgot about her brother's "gift", as Aunt Alice put it. In fact, she would rather it was never mentioned, as it had only ever got them into trouble. She knew about the fisherfolk of course, but was never comfortable when Ben talked about them. "What does he want?" she asked.

"I don't know."

Tarr thumped his staff on the ground, rattling the terracotta flowerpots nearby. Jennet could not fail to see that. Then, the aufwader cleared his throat and coughed as though beginning a speech.

"Hark up, lad," he began, "ah's come to thee with a purpose—and trust you me, ah wouldna have come fer any other than her. It's been many years since I set foot in this town and that's just the way it would've stayed too." He paused to suck his teeth and gaze at the surrounding houses. "Lobster pots an' crates," he sourly commented, "ah dunna ken how tha can abide such hutches."

Ben stopped himself smiling. Tarr was extremely old and he didn't want to appear disrespectful. "So why have you come?" he asked.

The aufwader scratched his wiry white whiskers, clicking his tongue as though there was a bad taste in his mouth. "'Tis Nelda," he said, "she's the one what bid me come and sithee."

"Nelda!" exclaimed the boy. "But why didn't she come herself? And why come here at all? I tried to call her on the shore this morning but there was no reply."

Tarr held up his hand. "Aye," he nodded, "she heard thee, us all did... shrikin' yer dunceful head off."

"Then why didn't she answer?"

The aufwader lowered his voice and shook his head sorrowfully. "Nelda were busy,' he said. "Were tasks she had to see to..." He looked the boy steadily in the eyes and came to the point at last. "This night," he said, "the moon'll be full an' round and at such times do the Bridings take place. When the tide comes high up the cliff, my granddaughter I'll wed."

"Married?" Ben whispered in disbelief. "But... who?"

But Tarr was staring into the sky and tutting at the lateness of the hour. "Enough," he barked, "we're a wastin' stood here. What ah wants to know... is tha comin' or not?"

"Me?"

"Tha's not deaf is thee? If'n tha's willin', best come along now. Bid thy sister goodnight for tha'll not be back afore dawn." And that was all he would say. The invitation had been made and that was what he had promised Nelda he would do. Leaning on his staff, Tarr hobbled down the step and walked slowly across the yard.

"Wait!" Ben called after him. The boy turned to Jennet and hurriedly tried to explain what was happening. "I've got to go," he told her, grabbing his coat, "tell Miss Wethers I'll be back later."

"Ben!" she shouted. "You can't go just like that! What am I supposed to tell her? She'll never believe me about those friends of yours."

"Then pretend I've gone to bed," he said, "she won't look in—and remember to leave the latch off the door, I don't have a key!"

Jennet stared helplessly after him. As Ben disappeared into the alley, she softly breathed, "Be careful," and closed the door.

In Church Street, few of the houses were lit and it seemed a forbidding, cramped place where the everlasting stream of night flowed through. When Ben caught up with Tarr, the old aufwader was gazing fixedly at the ground, taking no notice of the buildings that reared up beside him. The boy was still struggling into his duffle-coat and when he eventually fastened the toggles he asked, "Why didn't Nelda mention it to me before? Who is she marrying? I thought she was still quite young."

Tarr ground his teeth together. "Aye," he bitterly agreed, "she'm a child still, but that has'na stopped him," and he cursed under his breath. "An ill time this be, an theer ain't no one who can cure it. Hurry lad, theer's a might to get done this e'en—if'n my heart can bear the strain."

Pausing at the few steps which led to the shore, he pointed with his staff and muttered darkly, "The omens are bad for this. An icy wind gusts in over the waters and ah done seen fish floatin' dead on the waves. Foul critters of the black deeps what have no rights comin' to these shallows, an' each one had theer eyes pecked clean out. 'Tis a warnin', ah told 'em. They ain't pleased. Aye, an' all night long the souls were a-calling up from the Gibberin' Road—weren't no cave kippin' peaceably wi' that racket goin' on. Nah, us are bein' told—this Briding ain't proper, 'tain't decent and if'n it goes ahead... well, ah dursn't dwell on what may come about. Ah'll speak no more on it!"

Pulling the brim of his woollen hat down to meet his spiking brows, the aufwader pressed his chin into the neck of his gansey and pushed ahead. Beside him, Ben could only try and guess what was behind it all and, wrapped in this uneasy, grim silence, they vanished down the steps on to the sands, merging into the cloak of night.

***

Mr Taylor, the curator of the museum gave one last glance around; everything seemed in order, there was no one left, but he ducked his head just to make sure—he had once found a tramp hiding under a display case. There was nobody lurking there tonight however, and he had already checked the other rooms. Methodically he counted through the keys on his chain until he found the one he sought. With a jingle, the inner doors were locked and he strode across the art gallery to join the last visitor who was lingering by the main entrance.

"Takes a tidy while to see it all gets done," he explained, going through the keys once more. "Be getting a fancy alarm next month so that'll be another lot of keys I expect—put your pockets out something rotten they do. The wife's always complaining about the state of them, but you have to put up with these minor discomforts, don't you?"

The other man smiled with benign understanding. "An unsolvable problem," he said.

"Yes, but a necessary one. Can't be a curator without having keys, eh?" He turned the lock then tried the door to make certain. "Lovely," he beamed, "that'll keep the robbers out."

His brief acquaintance raised his eyebrows. "Do you have much trouble with burglars?" he inquired.

"Not usually," came the considered reply. "We did have a spot of bother a couple of months ago, mind. Some dirty thief broke in and filched one of our most interesting pieces."

"Really? What was that? You do have some wonderful treasures in there—that storm predictor for example, absolutely marvellous."

Mr Taylor glowed with pleasure at this compliment. "Yes," he admitted, "we're justly proud of our prognosticator, and that's what makes that theft so baffling. It wasn't anything really valuable that got nicked. Of course, when I say that I mean in money terms like the jet carvings and such, no this was something more uncanny you might say. It was the Hand of Glory that was nicked, a gruesome little exhibit but I was rather fond of it myself."

"I don't know what the world is coming to," remarked the other.

They walked slowly through the park and down towards the town which was now twinkling with electric light. At the foot of the hill Mr Taylor shook the man's hand and wished him well.

"I trust you did find out what you were after?" he asked.

"I did indeed."

"That's a thing I'd always like to get round to doing. Tracing the family tree is a rare challenge. I'm so glad to have been of assistance, I hope you were able to make head and tail of the abbot's book—I don't usually let anyone take it out of the case but you being a historian I thought, well, why not. You know—you've wheedled more out of that old library in the one afternoon than most of the people round here do in a year."

"Perhaps my researches were more important."

"Mebbe. Anyway, this is where I leave you, sir."

They shook one another by the hand once more and as the curator went his way Nathaniel said, "Thank you again—it's been a most enlightening day."

***

The warm buzz of the radio diffused through the darkened front room and the faint beat of the dance band was like the distant pulse of a dying man. In the fireplace the embers were a deep cherry colour and when they crumbled, the sound of the falling ash was like an expiring sigh. Mr Roper sat in his shabby armchair, his eyes closed and his head on his chest, but he was not asleep.

For hours he had sat there, watching as the light failed outside and listening to the fire dwindle and collapse. Slowly the shadows had mushroomed up around the chair, enclosing it in a gloomy canopy and still he had not moved. Mr Roper was lost in thought. There were so many things he still had not done, so many things left unsaid, now that it had come he found that he just wasn't ready.

Carefully, he unclasped the hands folded over his heart and a reflected light gleamed dully between his fingers. It was a small silver frame that the fading firelight had picked out—the one that contained a photograph of his late wife.

"Oh Margaret," he murmured, breaking the still calm, "a right mess I'm in." He pressed the glass to his lips and gave her a gentle kiss. "Won't be long now," he promised.

The smiling face of his wife gazed blindly out at him, but the visage was stained red by the fire's glow and Mr Roper laid it close to his breast once more. The evening drew on and the hands of the ticking clock on the mantel whirled around.

It was late when the doorbell rang. The severe noise seemed to hack away at the peace of the front room, utterly fragmenting it. The old man looked up from the chair, it was half-past eleven. Wearily he struggled to his feet, his legs stiff and aching after being seated for so long. Taking his time, he returned the silver frame to its rightful position next to the clock and shuffled out into the hallway. A tall figure was silhouetted against the glass of the door and the old man nodded as though he had been expecting this caller.

Opening the door, Mr Roper beheld for the first time Nathaniel Crozier. The bearded stranger was standing on the path, his hands held solemnly in front of him, precisely the same stance as that of a vicar presiding over a burial.

"Yes?" Mr Roper began. "Can I help you?"

Nathaniel had been examining the nearby houses, all the curtains were closed—no one had seen him approach and ring the bell. He turned and considered the pensioner, a secretive smile forming on his face.

"Good evening to you," he purred, "would I be right in assuming you to be Arnold Roper?"

"Who wants to know?"

"My name is Crozier. I am a historian researching into local history..."

The old man showed no outward sign of surprise that someone should come to see him at this late hour. But, before Nathaniel could elaborate, he shushed him. "'Taint no use, whatever you're about," he said, "Arnold were my elder brother—died in the Great War, so you're wastin' yer time."

Nathaniel straightened, taken aback at this unexpected news. "Died," he repeated. "Did he leave an heir?"

"Arnold were only seventeen, weren't even courtin'. Now I'm sorry but there's a tin of cocoa waiting for me and it's too parky chatting on doorsteps."

The warlock smiled and showed all his regular teeth. "Then may I come in?" he asked. "Just for a moment."

Mr Roper rubbed his ear indecisively. It was no use putting this off, he thought—if it must be, then get it over with. "All right," he said, "come in."

Nathaniel stepped inside and let out a low, wicked chuckle as he closed the door behind him. "There are no lights on in this house," he observed. "Why were you sitting in the dark?"

"'Taint always nice to see what yer talking to," his host replied pattering back down the hall.

Nathaniel's head reared. There was a touch of insolence in that voice and he wondered if Mr Roper knew his true purpose.

The kitchen light snapped on and the old man poured a quantity of milk into a pan. "Would you care for a cup?" he asked. "I always make it nice an' milky, guarantees a good night's sleep and keeps away the gremlins that'd otherwise disturb me. I don't like to be disturbed."

"No," answered the warlock, wandering from room to room switching on all the lights. "That's better, now we can see what we're about and just where we stand."

Mr Roper made no comment on this presumptuous action on the part of his guest, instead he turned the gas on and took a mug from the shelf.

"About your brother," Nathaniel continued. "What happened to his belongings after he died?"

The old man ignored him for the time being, occupied in spooning cocoa powder out of the tin. "Didn't have much on him," he eventually said, "only a watch my father left him, some letters and a photograph of us all."

"I didn't mean that!" the other snapped. "What about his estate here in Whitby? Where did his effects go?"

"Weren't rich enough to own an estate," came the stubborn and aggravating response. "Only these four walls and they passed to me after our Sammy and Harry went the same way, and after that our Mam passed on. Tough days they were, wouldn't go back to them. Memories cheat you know, there weren't never any good old days, not for the likes of ordinary folk. If I had the chance to nip back in time, I'd only do it to see my Margaret again. But then that's a pleasure I'll be having right enough one of these days, I reckon. I know when my time comes she'll be there waitin' fer me—Lord, how I loved her."

The milk started to boil but before he could turn off the gas Nathaniel sprang forward and knocked the pan from the stove. Hot milk gushed everywhere and the pan was sent clattering over the linoleum.

"Don't play games with me!" he commanded, grabbing the old man and spinning him round to face him.

Throughout all this Mr Roper remained perfectly calm. He glanced at the mess on the floor and tutted. "Have to mop that up before it goes sour," he mumbled, "nothing worse than the smell of off milk."

Nathaniel screamed and pushed him against the sink. "Shut up!" he roared. "You know what I've come for! Tell me where it is, you old fool!"

Blinking mildly, Mr Roper's face held the expression one might show to a boasting child. "Are you so sure of yourself?" came his astonishingly cool reply.

The bearded man's eyes were filled with fury and his face was graven like stone. Seizing the pensioner by the arm, he dragged him from the kitchen and into the parlour. "It's only a matter of time!" he said. "Do we really need to undergo this charade? You will tell me. It just depends how much pain you're willing to suffer beforehand. I applaud your defiance, I wasn't expecting anything less, but enough is enough, you've made a stand, now tell me."

Mr Roper looked critically at his collection of salt-and-pepper pots, he was glad that he had dusted them today, for under the electric lights they were sparkling merrily. A gratified smile lit his face, yes all was in order.

Then he turned to Nathaniel and began talking of something else. "After all this time," he sighed, "all these generations, the work of countless lifetimes... a sacred treasure passed down the centuries—it takes yer breath away don't it?"

His eyes glazed over, staring beyond the confines of his cluttered parlour, his voice was filled with wonderment and awe, speaking softly and with reverence. "Can you imagine how ancient it is or how many of my ancestors have lived and died in its service? Through plague, plunder, war and disaster we have protected it, and in turn it has guarded us." Mr Roper lowered his misted eyes, a wan smile lighting up his face. "What a frightening responsibility it has been, and yet each of us, from the first to the last has never begrudged our duty." He laughed faintly, and shook his head. "It has been a sacred trust," he whispered, "and I'm not about to betray that merely for the likes of you."

A madness gripped Nathaniel, he released his grip on the old man and stared wildly round the room. "Well let's see," he said breathless with anger, "what shall we start with?" He grinned maliciously then cooed, "what a magnificent collection, you must be very proud of them." Snatching a cut-glass pepper-pot he examined it closely, handling it with extreme delicacy, then with a shout hurled it against the wall where it exploded in a shower of powdered crystal.

Mr Roper's heart quailed, this evil man could do anything he liked to him but not to his beautiful collection.

"Please don't," he begged.

"Didn't catch that," mocked Nathaniel, taking up another piece and smashing it the same way. "I really am most dreadfully sorry."

"No!" sobbed the old man.

Nathaniel then turned his attention to a glass cabinet in which at least a hundred cruet sets were displayed. With a laugh, he pulled it away from the wall and the contents went toppling down in a splintering crash.

"Stop!"

The warlock had lifted the set made in the shape of fireworks and was about to dash them against the fireplace but refrained from doing so. "You'll tell me?" he asked.

Mr Roper looked desperately at the chaos and destruction around him and thought with anguish of all those lovely pieces lost forever. Ever since Ben had left, he had been preparing himself for this encounter but he never thought it would be so cruel, he had been prepared to die to keep the family secret, but to have his life destroyed before his eyes was too bitter for him to stand.

"I'm waiting," said Nathaniel, the china rockets swinging precariously from his fingers.

"I... I can't," the old man wept.

Shrieking with rage, Nathaniel flung them against the tiles of the hearth then rampaged from shelf to shelf destroying everything in sight. Mr Roper cried in despair as the horrendous clamour blared in his ears.

Nathaniel wiped the sweat from his brow and dragged his fingers through his unruly hair. The devastation was over and the parlour half-demolished.

"Damn you, Crozier," said the old man when he found his voice, "may you burn in the eternal fires."

"Thank you," he answered, not in the least out of breath, "I'm sure I would enjoy such a temperate climate. I do so prefer hot countries, they bring out the animal in one so much more easily I find."

"Do you think I'll tell you where it is now?" asked Mr Roper. "I'd rather die than help you."

Nathaniel burst out laughing. "Oh I know that!" he chuckled. "That's the whole point you see—so much better to wound you first though. After all, I deserve a little enjoyment from this. I can't go around killing people just like that, where would the entertainment be in such a drab little exercise? No, I like to hurt them first, and I think I've succeeded here, wouldn't you agree?"

"You're insane."

"Now why is it everyone tells me that? Ever since I was small I've heard that over and over again." He made himself comfortable on the upturned display cabinet and rubbed his hands together. "Now then," he said brightly, "are you going to tell me where the second guardian is hidden?"

"Never."

"Well, at least you're consistent," he said but the smile had vanished from his face. "You do realise that I am going to force you to disclose its whereabouts? It will not be pleasant. Much better to tell me straight away."

"My family's kept that holy thing safe and secure for too long," replied Mr Roper. "I've sacrificed a lot to stay here and take care of it. What right have you got to take it now?"

"The right of conquest," answered Nathaniel coldly, "but you're wrong, you relinquished your stewardship of the guardian many years ago, when you married a barren woman. You should have had sons to take on this burden and look after you in your dotage. They would never have invited a warlock into their house. You've been a fool, Roper."

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 impossible 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!"

Throughout all of this, Nelda remained silent. She had let them primp and preen her as was the custom, but that was all—she did not have to join in. Her eyes stared fixedly in front, a doll to be dressed and made ready—as though she was a sacrificial victim being prepared for the altar of some heathen and bloodthirsty god. Only this was to be a fate worse than death and the altar had a completely different function.

"You're ready," Maudlin told her. "Nelda?"

The bride-to-be blinked and stared round as if she had been asleep. Everything was strange to her, the dress felt unusual and her hair was soft as foam. "You've done well," she told them, "thank you."

"Yip!" yammered Baccy, momentarily removing her pipe. "Tha's all trussed up like a fish supper an' Esau's the one who'll be feastin'!" And she dissolved into a fit of squawking cackles.

Nelda stared dispassionately at the old hag, she was too numb inside to be angry at her idiotic and tactless remarks. Nothing seemed to matter any more.

"Dinna you listen to her!" advised Maudlin, but she leaned forward and pressed a small glass phial into Nelda's hand, whispering, "If'n you're nervy over tonight—you know what I mean—sprinkle a pinch of this powder into the old goat's drink—he'll be too full of drowse to think of aught else and kip for hours."

Parry was adept at listening to other people's conversations, especially whispered ones and let out a delighted squeal. "The maid won't need that!" she laughed. "Esau's too ancient! It's more than he can cope wi' just walkin' from one cave t'nother."

"Then why's he weddin' her?" retorted Maudlin and Baccy let loose again with her horrible cackling, only to cease suddenly as Tarr strode into the chamber.

Nelda lifted her head as he entered and rushed over, flinging her arms about his neck while he stood, rigid and immovable as a wooden post.

Maudlin took the hint at once. "Come along," she gabbled to Parry and the crone, "us'll be wanted at the entrance."

The other two gaped at her. Baccy had no intention of leaving, this looked far too interesting and Old Parry was dying to hear what Tarr had to say to his granddaughter on her wedding day.

But Tarr shot them both a dangerous glance and they hurried out of the chamber as fast as they could. Before she left, Baccy spat brown phlegm on the rushes to register her complaint then scuttled off.

"Oh grandfather!" Nelda cried, weeping for the first time. "I'm so unhappy!"

"Lass," he answered, relaxing and holding her close, "let me sithee. Why, tha's prettier 'an yer grandmither ever were." And for several minutes they clung desperately to one another.

Eventually, Tarr pulled away and dried the tears which had streaked down Nelda's cheeks. "'Tis time, lass," he said in a wavering whisper, "that dreaded hour is upon us, is tha ready?"

She squeezed his hands tightly, drawing courage and strength from him. "That I am," she replied in a brave voice.

"Then let us get gone. Can't hide from it now—but you listen t'thy grandda when he says he's reet proud o' thee."

She linked her arm in his, and if she was aware that he was trembling, made no mention of it. Out of the cave they went, out to where Nelda's doom awaited her.

***

The tide had come in quickly, it lapped against the cliff face and still the waves rolled higher. Ben was very cold and his legs ached, for there was nowhere to sit down. He stared at the gurgling water below and watched it steadily rise. As the breakers crashed against the rock, the spray was caught in the light of the aufwader lanterns and showered a thousand sparkling mirrors back into the sea.

Prawny glanced back into the chamber, his face growing stern. "It begins," he muttered.

Ben followed his stare. Through the assembled fisherfolk came two wizened creatures and everyone stepped aside to let them pass; for here were Johab and Lorkon, the other members of the ruling Triad. Leaning upon their staffs they headed for the entrance, nodding to those who bowed before them.

The two aufwaders acknowledged Ben's presence with a brief twitch of their bushy brows. Then they parted and stood at either side of the great stone doors, their faces grim and troubled. Try as they might, they had failed to dissuade Esau from this ruinous path, and both shivered with fearful misgivings.

"Sound the horn," said Johab, motioning to the crowd.

Up to the threshold stepped the tallest of the tribe, yet even he was only a foot taller than Ben. In his arms he carried a large conch shell which he raised over his head for all to see. Then, putting it to his lips he blew with all his might.

Ben had never heard such a noise before, it was like a hundred trumpets blaring at once. It boomed around the cavern, bouncing off the rocky walls, deafening everyone and challenging them to withstand its roar. Then out, out over the sea it bellowed, shaking the waters and sounding the deeps, never was there such a voice to shout down the stars and make the moon herself tremble.

And then the aufwader with the conch was breathing rapidly, trying to fill his spent lungs. His face was almost purple and his knees knocked feebly together, his role in the ceremony was finished and he ambled back to the others—gasping and puffing.

The echo of the shell's blast was still resounding in the far distance, battering through the dark horizon until it faded altogether. Ben wondered what would happen next, everyone seemed to be waiting, holding their breaths in expectation—and then he heard it. At first he thought it was a delayed echo but no, this note was deeper than before. It was an answering call, and though it came from many miles away, it vibrated through the rocks and made the hairs on the boy's neck prickle and tingle.

A hushed murmur ran through the aufwaders, but before they had chance to discuss it, Esau entered the chamber and the whispers were silenced.

In came the eldest of the fisherfolk, shambling slowly forward, putting all his decrepit weight on two gnarled sticks which tapped out a harsh rhythm on the ground. His eyes darted everywhere, swivelling slyly from side to side. He glared at the tribe, his crabbed face twisted into a sneer.

Ben could not believe any living thing could be so old and asked Prawny in a low voice, "Who's that?"

"Esau," came the bitter reply, "the bridegroom."

The boy clutched at his stomach, so this was the one Nelda was to marry. Surely it was impossible! The leader of the Triad was vile and withered, his back was bent with age and Ben could feel nothing but revulsion at the sight of him.

Esau raised his shrunken head and, when his beady eyes lit upon the boy, a foul curse issued from his hideous lips. Malice boiled within him, he despised the landfolk and the urge to cast the child into the sea to drown nearly overwhelmed him. But this was part of the bargain with his future bride, the whelp had to remain and witness the union. Turning his back on him, Esau came to the threshold and waited.

Another rippling murmur bubbled through the gathering—Nelda had arrived. The womenfolk all sighed when they saw her, then wept, remembering what was in store for the unfortunate girl.

The young aufwader was holding tightly to her grandfather. Her face was set in an awful, grim expression but she held her head proudly and glided with a cold dignity smoothly through the chamber—not flinching once from the shrivelled horror which leered at her by the entrance.

Passing Ben, Nelda's eyes wavered, flicking from her husband-to-be to the boy. But the occasion was too dreadful and solemn to allow for anything else. No welcoming smile crossed her small mouth, all she could do was nod once and continue on her way.

In the dark heavens, the moon appeared from behind a cloud and bathed the entrance in a cold, grey light. Nelda crossed into the pale glow, stopping at Esau's side, where Tarr reluctantly wrenched himself from her arm.

Kissing her forehead, he said, "May tha find joy lass—if'n tha can."

Nelda thanked him, then, choking back her misery, turned to face the groom.

Esau was regarding her with lustful eyes. Her hair was streaming in the sea breeze and the bridal dress fluttered closely about her. The moonlight picked out the small pearls at her throat and burned icily in the silver belt around her waist. She was beautiful, and the frozen dignity she wrapped herself in only made her more desirable and kindled the dark thoughts within him.

With his bearded chin resting on his claw-like hands he licked his lips and croaked, "Thou art indeed most fair, my love." The words went through her like hot knives but she steeled herself and he added, "Many gifts shall I shower upon thee, much wisdom shall I share—many secrets which I alone am privy to." The tiny eyes gleamed and a trickle of spittle dribbled from his mouth as he muttered, "Thou wouldst clap thy dainty hands with glee at the knowledge I possess," and he gave her a lascivious wink.

Nelda said nothing, but looked out to the shimmering waters. Esau grinned indulgently then pounded one of his sticks on the ground.

"Let the Briding commence!" he declared. Raising one hand he pointed to the black horizon. "Under cover of stars and moon," he called, although there were no stars and, almost as if he had frightened it away, the moon slid behind another cloud and did not reappear. A few of the other fisherfolk nudged each other and raised their eyebrows at this. A proper ceremony usually only took place on clear nights. As the darkness swallowed the sky once more, Esau continued, he was too impatient to be denied now.

"Under cover of stars and moon," he repeated defying the traditions of his people, "do I, Esau Grendel pledge mine intent—to take for mine own, Nelda Shrimp and bestow upon her such gifts that are in my power."

He looked over to her, smiling and showing his one, snaggled tooth. It was time for them to join hands. Nelda lifted hers and closed her eyes in disgust as Esau's deformed claw clasped itself around it.

"Now is the bond made," he cawed, "and I do call on the sea itself to bear witness." With some difficulty, he made a bow to the waves and bid Nelda do the same. When this was done, he raised his cracked voice and called out. "Now do I offer the prayer. Hear me, ye Lords of the Deep and Dark. Grant to thy loyal servants, Esau and Nelda, thine own blessing, that we may be sure of a merry life together hereafter."

This was merely a formality and, once the prayer had been given, a plump female came forward bearing a wooden dish. Upon it was a strange loaf-shaped cake and a length of string.

Esau took the cord and passed one end to Nelda, who received it as though it were a venomous snake. Then, slowly, she bound it around her wrist and Esau did the same.

"Now are we tethered," he gurgled, "and ever after shall it remain, with thee by my side, though there be no rope to bind thee."

"So shall it be," she said in a frail voice.

"Then let us eat and seal ourselves till the end of our days," he told her.

With her free hand, Nelda broke off a piece of the bridecake and bit into it. Without chewing she kept the morsel in her mouth and offered the rest to Esau whose lips snatched it greedily from her fingers. All they had to do now was kiss and the ceremony would be complete. With a quailing heart, Nelda bent down and the ancient creature upturned his face, both closed their eyes, one in repulsion, the other in ecstasy.

"Look!" cried Prawny suddenly. "Out yonder, a light is shining!"

Ben glanced out to sea. Sure enough, at the edge of the dark, watery world a faint glimmer had appeared. At once, everyone began to chatter in bewilderment and fear. Esau glared round and peered intently at the dim glow, scowling horribly. Confused, Nelda turned to her grandfather who narrowed his eyes, trying to discern what the eerie, pulsing speck could be.

"Hang on, lass," he told her in a frightened voice, "theer may be joy for thee after all."

"'Tis comin' nearer!" someone cried.

Ben looked at Prawny. "What is it?" he asked. "Why is everyone so afraid?"

"Whatever that light be," Nusk replied, "'tain't from no mortal lands. 'Tis a sign—from them."

Esau stamped his sticks on the ground and hissed. "We must not delay, let the Briding proceed!"

Grabbing hold of Nelda he pulled her towards his puckered, waiting lips but Tarr intervened, his strong hands restraining the ancient leader. "Us mun wait," he said gravely, "we dursn't carry on till us knows what they are wantin'."

The rest of the tribe agreed, and Esau mumbled irritably into his beard.

For a long time they remained motionless and silent, watching and waiting as the light drew closer. Presently, even Ben could see that it came from a small wooden boat, such as the fisherfolk used, and that a figure was seated in it.

The boat swiftly rode the waves, yet Ben could not tell how it moved, for the occupant was not rowing. It seemed rather that the sea itself was drawing it forward.

"Bless us," breathed Tarr in fear.

The craft had come to rest just before the entrance where the tide had risen level with the floor. But the vessel remained a constant three feet away from the rock, as if it had been forbidden to touch any part of the land.

Ben stared at the spectacle in wonder. The boat was filled with clear water, and it was this that glowed. The light was silvery blue and fell on everyone's face, coldly flickering over their features and reflecting in their eyes. Yet the vessel was damaged. A long, jagged hole gaped in the hull and should have made it impossible to remain afloat, but there it was, upheld by the hand of the sea. The boy was amazed and then the figure within commanded his complete attention.

Dressed in a loose robe of sea-green, it was a crouched shape whose lower half was submerged in the shining water. A large hood concealed the face and not even the shifting light could penetrate the black shadows beneath that cowl. Whatever was hidden under there, Ben thought, could stay out of sight, he had no wish to look on a face from the dark deeps.

The figure did not move, yet they all felt as though it were studying them, gazing at each one in turn with invisible eyes and at some point everyone shivered.

As leader of the Triad it was Esau's duty to present himself. He managed a polite, if impatient bow then greeted the strange visitor. "I welcome thee, most noble guest," he said fawningly, "the Triad of the aufwader race is honoured at thy presence."

Then the figure began to speak. It was a chilling sound, full of despair, like the voice of the north wind. In a hard, ringing voice it cried, "Esau Grendel! I am a messenger from the Dark Realm. A herald am I, sent hither by the Three whom thy petty triad mirrors in dread."

The fisherfolk were dismayed at these words, for they were filled with scorn and they knew that the Deep Ones were angry with them. Only Esau remained undaunted, he leaned forward like a stubborn blade of grass that will not bend before the storm, and the messenger continued.

"In thy arrogance thou hast called upon my masters to bless this unholy union. Hearken to me Esau Grendel, know that this base lust of thine will be thy undoing. Turn aside from the folly of thy diseased heart—for thou hast asked and thou art denied. The Lords of the Deep and Dark withhold their blessing and dispatched me with this warning—continue in this and thou art doomed!"

Even Ben shivered at this, and he was aware of the terror that filled the rest of the cave.

"I await thine answer," the messenger said coldly.

Esau had been silent up till then, now he raised one of his sticks and pointed it accusingly at the herald of the Deep Ones. "Take this reply back to thy cruel masters!" he raged and behind him all the aufwaders recoiled in horror at the brazen insolence of his words. "They have lost the right to interfere in our affairs. 'Tis their curse which we have suffered under and I shall not be commanded by such bitter liege lords. Are they not content to see our race dwindle from this land? Must they refuse us a final happiness?"

"They deny thee nothing," rang the messenger angrily, "only a bride too young for thee. And I say again—beware!"

"Begone!" Esau demanded. "As a friend I welcomed thee but now do I turn thee away as mine enemy. Tell that to thy masters and may their thrones rot below the waves. I will have naught else to do with them!"

The herald said no more. Smoothly, the boat began to turn, but before it departed, the blank space beneath the hood turned to Ben. For an instant the boy thought he saw a cluster of many eyes staring out at him and from the folds at the bottom of the robe a livid green tentacle snaked out.

With an ominous rumble, the sea began to swell and, beneath the cold light, grew black and dark. As the boat sailed away, the waves crashed over the threshold of the entrance chamber, covering everyone in freezing salt water.

"What has tha done?" Tarr cried. "Esau, tha's angered them wi' thy haughty words! What possessed thee? Is tha mad?"

The waters crashed against the cliff and the rock shuddered at the violence of it.

"Close the doors!" Esau ordered. "They'll not fright me so easily. Let them rant all they can, they'll not batter the entrance down."

Another wave rampaged into the chamber, knocking several of the fisherfolk off their feet and dragging them towards the entrance.

Quickly, Prawny and another leapt at one of the chains and pulled down hard. With a slow grinding, the slabs of stone began to close. Everyone cowered back as a further wave hammered through the gap, tearing the nets from their hooks and throwing down the fishing boats.

Only Esau was unafraid, he stood amid the surging water, laughing madly while, still tied to his wrist, Nelda wept and struggled to free herself.

With a juddering slam, the doors closed and were sealed, but the fury of the Lords of the Deep continued to throw itself against them.

"Now!" Esau cried. "'Tis time to finish what was started!" He dragged Nelda towards him and before any one could stop him, pressed his putrid lips against hers.

"Grendel!" shrieked Tarr furiously. "Dost tha know what tha's done?"

"Wed thy granddaughter!" he snapped back. "And there's not a thing thou canst do about it. The wench is mine for eternity!"

"But the Deep Ones!" muttered Johab in dismay. "They forbade you!"

"They no longer have dominion here!" he proclaimed. "Only the law of the Triad rules and I am its leader!" He swung Nelda before him and pushed her towards one of the tunnels. "Time for us to retire, my sweet," he told her.

Nelda untied the string from her wrist and backed away. "No," she protested.

"Thou canst not run from me now, my love," he laughed, "we are bound together for life." He cast a disgusted look at Ben then said, "I give thee a few moments with thy human friend. For it shall be the last time thou shalt ever see him. Remember the bargain, my pearl, the upper world is denied thee now." Shuffling off, he called over his shoulder, "Seek me in my chamber, there shall I be waiting."

Nelda watched her husband hobble down the tunnel, then she ran into Tarr's arms and, after holding him tightly, turned to Ben, tears stinging her face.

"This is what I feared," she told him, "that day when I felt a dark fate was upon me and we would never meet again. Esau has forbidden me to leave the caves—I shall never see you, or the daylight until he dies." And sobbing, she told him how she had been forced into the marriage. Ben's heart sank, so this too was his fault.

"I'm sorry," he told her.

The aufwader shook her head. "It was my own rash promise that led me to this," she said, "the blame lies with me alone."

"But if I hadn't been got at by Rowena..." Then he remembered Nathaniel, and knew this was his only chance to tell her about what had happened. Quickly he explained all that he knew and Nelda listened to his story with great interest, especially the part about Irl and the first guardian he had made.

"Never have I heard of such a thing," she murmured when he was done. "In all our legends none speak of this. He must have hid it well indeed. What of you, grandfather?"

Tarr frowned. "When I were a lad," he began, "I recall talk of summat girt and wicked sleepin' in the dark, but nowt of any guardian. Theer's only one in the tribe who might know of it."

Nelda knew who he meant. "Esau?" she breathed.

"Aye, he's the one. If'n any remember it'll be 'im."

She looked down into the tunnel where her husband had gone. "If this is as important as you say," she said to Ben, "then I will do what I can."

"Be careful," the boy told her.

Nelda managed a weak laugh. "I shall. A bride in name only will I be—have no fear there. Esau may yet rue this wedding day. Now I must go." She gave Ben a hug. "Goodbye, my friend," she said sorrowfully, "perhaps one day, when you are old and Esau is no more I shall venture from the caves and seek you out—remember me."

"Goodbye," sniffed Ben.

The aufwader waved farewell and disappeared into the tunnel.

Leaning on his staff, Tarr sucked his teeth thoughtfully. "Don't you go a-frettin'," he told the boy, "ah'll keep thee abreast of the news, an' bring you messages from my granddaughter. Come now, ah'll lead thee back to thy world," he smiled grimly at the boy's face—guessing what he was thinking, "theer's other ways into the caves apart from thissun. Ways that lead out on to the cliff top, tha'll not have to get so much as a toe wet."

And so he led Ben from the entrance chamber, taking him down secret passageways and up into the wild, stormy air above.

***

Esau sat on his bunk, stroking the bedclothes dreamily. Only the eldest of the tribe was ever allowed in this cavern, and for many years he had dwelt there alone, gnawing on his emptiness and slowly going mad with desire. But now he had a wife to share his life with and perhaps other things...

It was a large place, lying beyond the throne room. Tapestries covered the walls, dating from earliest times and all the treasures of the tribe were stored in five large sea chests that he kept locked and the keys permanently about his person. The most unusual feature of the chamber however, was a circular pool set into the rocky floor. It was filled with black water, the surface of which was smooth as glass and Esau spent many long hours scrying into it.

The curtain which hung over the doorway was drawn aside and Nelda peered in.

"Welcome, my beauty," Esau said eagerly, "step into thy new home, what is mine shall be thine also." He shifted on the bunk so there was space enough for two but she pretended she hadn't noticed and wandered about the cave looking at everything with interest.

"No, my rosebud!" he cried warningly. "Don't touch that!"

Having seen the pool, she had knelt beside it—curious at the stillness of the water. Just as she was about to reach down and run her fingers through it, Esau had called out and leapt off the bunk to lead her away.

"Promise me, my bloom of the deep, that thou shalt never touch that pool." He stared down into the jet water and his voice faded to a whisper as he explained. "My Darkmirror, I call it," he breathed, "and a most hallowed thing. If I gaze long enough into its black heart a thousand sights can be seen. Places and peoples far off and days long gone—of the world that was and what the world may be. 'Tis the great secret of our tribe and only the leader of the Triad may use it, so leave well alone, my sweet wife."

"I shall," she answered.

Esau smiled, obviously relieved. "There's a comely, dutiful beloved," he cooed. Then, giving the pool one last glance asked, "Wilt thou swear unto me never to reveal to a soul the existence of my Darkmirror? 'Tis too dangerous a knowledge for the common folk to be aware of."

"I swear," she said, startled at the earnestness of the request.

"Nine times bless thee," sighed her husband.

"There is one thing I should like to ask," she began carefully.

Raising his hoary eyebrows he licked his single tooth. "And that would be?" he asked.

Nelda looked at him searchingly. "Have you ever heard tell of an old legend where Irl wrought a guardian to protect Whitby from a great evil?"

Esau's smile vanished for a moment and he said uncertainly, "There are many legends, and many concern Irl—where didst thou hear this one?"

"The human child told me," she replied.

Esau's face contorted into a hideous mask and he spat on the ground. "Forget about the landbreed!" he shouted at her. "He will be long dead before you set eyes on him again!"

"But of the guardian?" she insisted. "Does it exist?"

Esau refused to talk about it. "A hard and difficult day this has been," he muttered, "let us retire."

Limping over to the bunk, he patted the blankets expectantly and all thoughts of Irl flew out of Nelda's head.

"Oh no!" she cried defiantly. "A companion only shall I be! That was the bargain! Sleep well, my husband, for never will you delight in me! An empty marriage you have forced your way into!" Dragging the bedclothes from the bunk, she strode into a warm corner and made herself comfortable. "Goodnight," she said curtly.

Esau glowered and threw his sticks down in his temper. "Curse you!" he raged, but no matter how much he shrieked, the girl took no further notice of him and closed her eyes.

11 - The Demon And The Dog

The storm was raging savagely against the cliff. Tremendous waves dashed themselves against the rocks and the cobles in the harbour strained at their moorings as the water came rushing in.

On the sands by Tate Hill Pier, Nathaniel Crozier regarded the unnatural tempest with keen interest. "It would seem the Deep Ones have been stirred to fury," he told himself. A brief doubt crossed his mind. Could they be angry with him for killing Mr Roper? Surely not, the death of one paltry human would not interest them, unless of course it was one who had their favour. Clutching the plastic bag he resumed his work. It was imperative no one should suspect his involvement in this night's gruesome business. He must be above suspicion when the boy's body was discovered.

Stooping, he looked into the carrier; it was bloated with offal and gory shreds of liver which squelched and wobbled like lumps of red jelly. "I hope this is what it's partial to," he muttered distastefully.

By the pier wall, leading from beneath the houses on the East Cliff, a wide outlet pipe opened on to the sand. Nathaniel inspected it carefully. The grille which had covered it had been torn away and peculiar impressions had been left on the wet sand at the entrance.

Whistling softly and encouragingly, he dipped into the bag and threw a bloody piece of meat into the dark drain.

"Come on, my little beastie," he chuckled, "come to Nathaniel."

Another gruesome piece of flesh was thrown from his hands, followed by another, until a short trail had been made leading from the opening on to the shore.

Then he waited, patiently listening for the first signs.

There! Nathaniel put the squashy bag on the sand and held his breath. "Don't be afraid, my pet," he murmured, "I won't harm you."

A furtive snuffling echoed from the pipe, followed by noisy chewing.

"There's more out here, little one," the warlock promised.

Suddenly a scaly claw flashed from the shadows and snatched one of the bloody lumps. Instantly it disappeared back into the darkness and the loud chomping began again.

Nathaniel smirked, not long now, if he could only look into its eyes...

He threw some more of the offal, letting it fall just short of the drain. There came an agitated scuffling, as though whatever it was could not decide whether to venture out or not. But the scent of the blood was too delicious—cats no longer satiated its hunger and it craved for sweeter, plumper meat. It stared out at the sandy world beyond the circle of the pipe, gazing at the tantalising titbits lying there.

It was too much; the creature could bear it no longer and crept cautiously out, its luminous eyes blinking in the darkness and its nostrils questing for danger.

Nathaniel was fascinated. As the fish demon slowly emerged from the outlet he marvelled at its ugliness. The finned head appeared first, the eyes glowing like pale round lamps and the mouth gaped open to reveal the three rows of needle-sharp teeth. Then came the pot-belly and, with a rustle of its spiny fins, the hump-back followed. The last of the Mallykins crawled warily forward, then lunged ravenously at the slimy entrails which glistened on the sand.

"Bon appetit," the warlock said with some amusement.

The creature glared up at him. Hissing, it held the offal to its chest and scampered back to the mouth of the drain, lashing out with its other claw.

"Stop!" Nathaniel commanded. "You need not fear me—I shall not hurt you."

At once the fish demon froze, its primitive mind utterly dominated by the warlock's will. Letting the rancid guts splash around its clawed feet, it turned and trotted tamely over to the evil man, where it bowed in an almost comical manner—blood still staining its hideous jaws.

"Excellent," Nathaniel cooed, patting the foul monster on the side of its head, "if you serve me well you shall gorge on daintier meat than cats and butcher's left-overs." Crouching down, he looked into the Mallykin's dish-round eyes. "Be my instrument this night," he instructed, "perform one small task for me and I shall be forever grateful."

The creature flapped its stunted arms eagerly and hopped madly about the warlock's legs, like a dog keen to please its master.

Nathaniel scratched it beneath the chin, covering his fingers in blood from the offal as he did so. "Now my pet," he said lovingly, "follow this scent and devour what you find at the end of it." From his pocket he took a woollen glove and thrust it under the fish demon's snout. The glove belonged to Ben.

Gurgling, the Mallykin snorted the garment, memorising the smell, then it sniffed the air and snuffled along the ground hunting for the trail.

"There's my fine animal," gushed Nathaniel, "go seek him out, find the boy and kill him. He must not stand between me and the second guardian." He paused, perhaps he should take the beast to Miss Boston's cottage and break a window for it to climb through. No, this way was better, he would be absolved from all blame.

The fish demon quivered as an electric shock passed through its misshapen form. The fins opened out along its head and back and it began to jabber excitedly.

"He's caught wind of something," said the warlock, vastly impressed, "go now, my destroyer, rend the child limb from limb and eat your fill of his puerile flesh."

Emitting a shrill squeal of delight, the Mallykin leaped into the air and bounded away, up the steps of the pier, then into the dark alleyways of the East Cliff, obeying its new master and pursuing its thirst for blood.

On the shore, Nathaniel threw back his head and laughed. Once the boy had been dealt with, the second guardian would be his.

***

Danny Turner inhaled deeply on the cigarette, letting the curling blue smoke issue from his mouth and nostrils.

"You look like a dragon," Mark told him. "Give me ago.

The cigarette was handed over and the other boy puffed eagerly on it, but Mark was not as practised a smoker as his friend. Spluttering and coughing, he retched and passed it back.

Danny laughed at him. "Yer baby," he said scornfully, "y'ain't a man till yer can smoke, yer know. I've been doin' it fer nearly a year now." He took another great lungful of nicotine and offered it to Mark once more.

They were sitting beneath a lean-to on the grassy cliff side. It was a favourite hang-out of theirs; the sloping field was only used by grazing horses, so nobody ever bothered them. Danny would often slip out of doors late at night to sit under this sheet of corrugated iron and experiment with cigarettes. Tonight he had persuaded Mark Stribbet to do the same and the pair of them had spent a raucous hour sniggering at the day's events.

"Did you see that Cret's face when he saw us?" snorted Danny. "I bet he papped hisself!"

Mark was too engrossed in the cigarette to answer, he was trying to expel the smoke through his nose without swallowing it and was feeling rather queasy.

"Still," Danny continued, "I give that sister of his what fer didn't I?" He pulled a blade of grass from the ground and chewed the end of it reflectively. "She's a stuck-up dog she is, and did you catch the look she give me? Barmy as her kid brother. Just wait till tomorrow, first chance I get I'm gonna get her again. I might pinch me Mam's scissors and snip off some of Laurenson's hair—what do you think?"

"She's loony," commented Mark flicking ash on the ground, "I wouldn't touch her again if I was you. Nutters don't care what they do—she might grab them scissors off you and stab 'em in yer."

"Wouldn't give her the chance," protested Danny taking the cigarette back, "besides, I'm not scared of her."

"Never said you was."

"Good."

The next few minutes dragged by in silence as Danny sucked in the smoke and Mark stared at the glowing end of the smouldering tobacco. He had touched a nerve. Danny was afraid of Jennet, he hadn't forgotten the bloody nose she had given him. As a bully, he wasn't used to retaliation and the shock of it had taken him completely by surprise. He was only used to the frightened, smaller children who obeyed him out of fear and this obnoxious, defiant girl was becoming a problem. It had taken six of them today to get her. What were they to do if she came after them when they were on their own?

"At least we got this," Mark said to break the pondering silence. Holding up the guy, he shook it violently and threw it at Danny.

The Turner boy laughed. "If this were that Cret," he said, "I'd do this to 'im!" and he pounded the figure against the corrugated iron—the resulting sound was like peals of thunder rumbling over the cliff. "Then I'd break his arms like this," he crowed wrenching at the stuffed sleeves and tying them behind its back.

"You've split the head open!" remarked Mark in a mock scolding voice. "Mind you, there's prob'ly a lot more in there than there is in the real Cret's bonce!"

Danny guffawed and hurled the guy out of the lean-to. "We're gonna have an ace bommie tomorrow," he said. "'Ere, what if we lob some bangers through the Laurensons' letter-box? We could even throw one at her if she opens the door."

Mark hooted, "Can you imagine her face?"

"An' if that old bat what works in the post office answers it so much the better. My old man give me a right what for after she'd been round. Me ear's still ringin' where he walloped me."

"That was Laurenson's fault. Looks like a snitcher she does."

"P'raps we could put a banger in her pocket," Danny mused in all seriousness.

Mark eyed him doubtfully. That was going too far, surely even he wouldn't do something so crazy? "She'd end up in hospital wouldn't she?" he ventured.

"Serve her right too," spat Danny, "she belongs in one—only wi' padded walls." He rubbed his nose muttering to himself, then he giggled and hunched over, pulling a Quasimodo face. "Who's this?" he cried, slurring his words and sticking his tongue out. "Nelda! Nelda!"

Mark tittered then hauled himself from under the lean-to. "Beggar!" he grumbled, staring over at the church clock. "It's quarter to one. If I don't get back soon I'll be knackered in the morning. You comin'?"

Danny sneered. "I can stay out a bit longer," he said loftily. "I ain't no baby, why I could be out all night and creep back first thing. I'd be fresh as a daisy an' me folks'd never catch on."

Mark shrugged, "Well mine would. See yer in the mornin' then—you callin' fer me or what?"

'S'pose," Danny replied.

Mark waded through the grass and headed for the hundred and ninety-nine steps.

Alone, Danny finished the cigarette and smiled to himself. He was pleased that the other boy had gone, he didn't want to share what he had brought out with him. Diving in his pocket he took out a can of lager. He tugged on the ring-pull and the froth spat over his shoes.

"Yer don't know what yer missin', Marky boy," he chuckled, sipping at the foam, "but then you'd most likely choke on this an' all. Too good to waste this is." The boy guzzled from the can and belched contentedly. "I think I will put a banger in her pocket," he decided, "an' mebbe a rocket too!"

Suddenly he became aware of a peculiar hissing coming from outside the lean-to. The boy scowled, if that was Mark back again, it was just too bad, he couldn't have any drink. The strange noise persisted and a knowing grin spread over Danny's face—his friend was trying to scare him.

"Pathetic," he breathed, "that's no way to do it. If he thinks I'm frightened he's loony as well!" Putting the can down, he crawled forward. "He should have crept up and banged really loud on the roof," he muttered, "that's what I would've done. But now—he's the one who'll be wettin' himself. I'll jump out an' bawl at him!"

Pausing for a moment, Danny listened. Mark was hopeless at this sort of thing—it sounded like he was gargling. Stifling a titter, Danny tensed himself, then leapt from cover and yelled at the top of his voice, "Gotcha!"

The cliff side was deserted.

"Mark?" Danny muttered. "You there?"

From somewhere nearby the noise began again. Danny whirled round—what was it?

"Stribbit if that's you..."

But there was nothing, only the constant, seething hiss issued from the empty darkness followed by a series of snufflings.

Danny took a step backwards—this was weird.

Suddenly, a hideous, guttural shriek filled the air. Danny whimpered in dismay, before his eyes the discarded Guy Fawkes slithered across the ground as an invisible force pounced upon it.

The boy could only stare in disbelief whilst unseen claws ripped into the ragged jumper that covered the effigy, tearing wildly at the shirt and newspaper beneath.

A freezing terror washed over Danny, this was beyond him. He was petrified, his eyes bulged as the guy flew apart and the furious howls grew more impatient. With a final, disgusted squeal, what was left of the disembowelled figure was flung into the air.

The fish demon had been betrayed; its master had deceived it. Faithfully, it had followed the scent trail all the way up the cliff, only for it to end in a tasteless and undigestible victim. Spitting out bits of newspaper, it eyed the human child which stood motionless nearby—now there was a succulent feast. At that moment, the creature's mind was filled only by hunger and had worked itself into such a frenzy that it would not be denied. It wanted to sink its teeth on tender flesh that was ripe on the bone and guzzle honey-sweet blood that pumped round an urchin's heart.

With its long tongue slobbering over its chin, the Mallykin prowled closer, its eyes glowing greedily.

Danny shuffled backwards, still staring at the tattered remains of the Guy Fawkes which were now strewn over the cliffside. "Get out of here!" his brain told him. "Run you idiot!" But his legs were stiff and he could not turn away. Then, to his horror, he saw the grass part as footsteps stalked nearer.

"N... no," he stammered.

The fish demon growled, its jaws dripping with saliva. Passing by the lean-to, it threw the structure down with one swipe of its claws and advanced, gibbering, with its black appetite driving it on—to death and slaughter.

Danny screamed and the power of his legs returned. Yelling, he charged over the grass but it was too late. The Mallykin could move swiftly when it needed—in seven bounding strides it had caught up with the boy and pounced on to his back.

Danny stumbled and went toppling into the grass—helpless against the invisible might of the fish demon.

Reaching the bottom of the one hundred and ninety-nine steps, Mark Stribbit heard his friend's screams. They were terrifying—awful shrieks and he instinctively knew they were for real.

"Danny!" he cried. "My God!"

But he was too afraid to run to the boy's aid. As the pitiful cries floated out over the sleeping town, all he could do was listen in dread. For the rest of his life Mark Stribbit never forgot those sounds. When they ceased, abruptly cut off and leaving the night quiet and peaceful once again, Mark let out a cry of his own and hurtled down the remaining steps.

"Let me in!" he yelled, hammering on the first door he came to. "Please! Wake up—it's Danny! Help me please!"

***

Miss Boston was annoyed. She had not been allowed to see Patricia Gunning since the day of her arrival in London. This morning, before breakfast, she had knocked at the sickroom door only to have the baritone voice of the nurse bark out that the patient was not up to seeing anyone. So, the old lady wandered downstairs to the dining-room and discovered that there was no breakfast ready for her.

When she found him, Rook, the butler, was still in his bed with a severe hangover. Drawing back the curtains of his small room she declared that he needn't bother cooking her any more meals—she would do it herself.

The man only groaned, shielding his eyes from the painfully bright light and pulling the pillows over his ears to shut out the sound of her voice.

"Really!" she clucked, looking at the stack of empty bottles which lay about the place. "You must have been getting drunk every night for weeks!"

The kitchen, when she discovered it, was in a frightful state. The bin had not been emptied for goodness knows how long and had overflowed, spilling out over the floor tiles like decaying rivers of lava from a festering volcano. Old tins of beans littered everywhere and broken eggshells crunched beneath the old lady's feet as she gazed in disgust at the grimy squalor. Daring to peep into the fridge, she had found enough species of mould to write a book about and shuddered at the thought of what she had eaten the previous night.

Rolling up the sleeves of her blouse, she announced to the filthy kitchen that she was not going to stand for this any longer and promptly began hunting for disinfectant and a scrubbing brush.

By lunchtime, Miss Boston was sitting down at the spotless kitchen table eating her breakfast, having nipped to the local mini-market for provisions.

When Rook eventually stirred from his room, he staggered into the kitchen robed in a dishevelled silken dressing-gown, clutching his forehead.

Miss Boston tutted at his appearance and pointed to her watch meaningfully. "Dear, oh dear, Mr Rook," she said, "I find this very distressing."

"Madam," he burbled in a disrespectful tone and holding up his hand for her to speak more gently, "what I find distressing is your incessant carping and badgering. I would take it as a great kindness if you would keep your prattling trap well and truly shut! And another thing..." he sniffed then turned a sickly shade of green. "What is that diabolical smell?" he asked.

"Merely my breakfast," she replied ignoring his rudeness, "some bacon, eggs and a tomato."

The butler recoiled from her as though she carried the plague. "Stop!" he begged.

"I beg your pardon," Miss Boston rattled on relentlessly, "I normally don't eat so much fried food—but I couldn't find any kippers..."

"Kippers!" the man exclaimed and immediately dashed from the room with his hand over his mouth.

"Strange fellow," observed Miss Boston with a grin, "perhaps he has an aversion to fish."

When she had finished her meal and washed up the dishes, Miss Boston went upstairs once more to see if her friend was any better. Rook must have gone straight back to bed for he was nowhere to be seen.

On the landing, outside the sickroom, Miss Boston came to a halt. Judith Deacon was waiting with her feet planted firmly apart and her back squarely against the door, her dark eyebrows ploughed into a deep frown.

The old lady had to force a smile to her lips as she greeted the woman for she really did not like her one little bit. "Good afternoon," she began as brightly as she could, "may I slip in and see Patricia now?"

The nurse's face might have been carved from marble. "Out of the question, Miss Boston," she firmly refused, "Mrs Gunning is still too poorly at the present time."

"But surely just for a moment?"

"No!" the nurse snapped. "You cannot see her at all until I consider her to be strong enough."

"And when might that be?"

"Perhaps this evening, or perhaps tomorrow—I can't be certain."

Miss Boston sighed. "How disappointing," she muttered, staring past the large shoulders of the nurse to the closed door, "I was rather hoping to... never mind—later will do."

"You should go out for the day," Judith Deacon suggested coldly, "visit one of the museums perhaps? Much better than being stuck in here, it must be very boring for you."

"Yes," she replied, "maybe I will. I could buy some presents for the children and send them a postcard with a dinosaur on—Benjamin would love that."

And so Miss Boston spent the rest of the afternoon in the Natural History Museum, but her mind kept wandering off the exhibits and returning to the mysterious goings on in that house. Her anger was simmering. She felt sure that Patricia needed the help of a real doctor, but she had promised her that she wouldn't interfere.

"Confound it all!" she called loudly and her voice echoed throughout the high galleries, making every other visitor gaze at her in surprise.

When she returned, having bought a book for Ben and a bracelet for Jennet from the museum shop, the house was quiet and dark. It seemed that Rook had recovered enough to raid the cellar once more. Having been released from kitchen duties by that nuisance of a guest he had selected a rather good bottle of port this time and it was warming him very nicely.

Miss Boston slowly ate her dinner, it was only a thick vegetable stew, and listened to the butler's voice rising from the cellar. He was singing merrily to himself. "That man's nose will blow up like a balloon," she commented, "and, he'll only have himself to blame."

At eight o'clock she knocked on the sickroom door for the last time that night. The same deep voice told her to go away and Miss Boston stamped her foot in annoyance before trudging up to her own room, furious and irritated.

Now she was sitting up in bed; curlers in her woolly hair and a stern expression crinkling her wrinkled face until nearly all her features had disappeared. She was in a foul mood, her patience had been stretched to the very limit and her mind was ticking over everything that had happened. With her knees drawn up and the neck of her nightgown pulled high to keep out the chill which filtered through the entire house, she gazed into space—lost in thought.

"Alice Boston," she said, "there's something very wrong here, and I'm ashamed that you haven't done anything about it yet. That Deacon woman's up to some villainy and poor Patricia is at her mercy. What you ought to do is telephone a proper doctor straight away—hang all promises you made!"

Her mind made up, she quickly threw off the blankets and swung her legs from the bed. This was more like it, it was time for action—Alice Boston was not going to let that creepy nurse intimidate her any longer.

Just then a noise sounded outside the door. The old lady started, and stared at the handle as it turned slowly and deliberately.

Switching off the light, she reached for a brass candlestick and held it in readiness above her head whilst tip-toeing behind the door to wait.

Inch by inch it opened until a dark shape was visible beyond.

"Who's there?" Miss Boston demanded, her chins wobbling like never before.

"Alice?" came a weak voice.

Into the room came a frail, skeletal figure, its silver hair streaming behind, mingling with the fine material of the nightdress it was wearing. Limping towards the bed it wavered when it found it empty. "Oh nooo!" it wailed—stricken with fear.

Miss Boston was astonished, for a moment she thought a bewildered phantom had stumbled into her room but now she flicked the light back on. "Patricia!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

Mrs Gunning collapsed on the bed. She looked terrible, more emaciated than she had been yesterday, with dark hollows where her eyes had sunk into the sockets. Across the left side of her face was a disgusting, yellowish bruise which obviously gave her a great deal of pain. "Alice," she said hoarsely, "forgive me."

Miss Boston rushed over. "Patricia!" she cried, horrified at the condition of her friend.

"I couldn't stop her," Patricia explained with difficulty, "it was all her doing."

"The nurse?" asked Miss Boston, her temper boiling. "How dare she!" The old lady thumped the mattress in her temper and strode purposefully to the door. "I'm going to call the police!" she declared. "She must be a complete lunatic!"

"No," Patricia begged hastily, "there isn't time for that, please, Alice, come here."

Such was the urgency in the voice, that Miss Boston hurried back to her. "But she could have killed you!" she said.

Mrs Gunning shook her head in despair. "She already has, Alice," she whispered, "I won't last the night."

"Don't say that!"

"No listen to me," she implored. "Deacon has been poisoning me for weeks now, destroying me little by little each day. I was never seriously ill, that only happened when she arrived. She's evil Alice, you must get away from here!"

"I'm not leaving!" cried Miss Boston. "That nurse doesn't frighten me!"

"Then she ought to!" wept Mrs Gunning. "You don't know what she's capable of... in all my life I never... never came across a soul so black and empty... completely malevolent—an evil force drives her... she... she is... darkness itself..." A fit of coughing made it impossible for her to continue and when it subsided there was blood on her lips.

"That's it!" stormed Miss Boston in outrage. "Where is the foul woman now?"

"Asleep in a chair in my room," Patricia wheezed, "it was difficult enough for me to escape without waking her. If she knew I had..." she shuddered and clutched desperately at her friend. "You must go Alice!" she cried. "Back to Whitby where you belong!"

"I'm not going anywhere till I've telephoned the police!"

Patricia gave a sobbing laugh. "Why must you always be such a stubborn old fool?" she asked. "Do you still not understand? Has it not registered even yet?"

Miss Boston sat on the bed, her face blank, a sinister dreadful thought unfolded before her. "Patricia," she mumbled hesitantly, "you haven't told me why Miss Deacon has done this to you."

Grabbing the old lady's hand, Mrs Gunning held it tightly. "I was the lure Alice," she breathed desolately, "I am the bait which brought you here."

"But..." the other murmured, "what for...?"

Patricia's clouded blue eyes gazed steadily into her own. "Something is happening in Whitby," she said, "something horrendous and totally evil—they couldn't risk you being there to interfere with their plans."

"They?"

"I don't know who else is involved, only that you were to be kept away from Whitby at all costs."

Miss Boston slowly rose, her mind filled with apprehensions. "The children," she muttered, "what about them?"

Patricia pressed her hand to her chest, a creeping pain was eating through her. "You must go back to them Alice!" she urged.

"But what about you?"

"I don't matter any more!" Mrs Gunning shifted on the bed. Hidden beneath the folds of her nightdress was a squarish bundle and she brought it out thrusting it into Miss Boston's hands.

The old lady took it and a tear fell down her face.

"You know what it is?" asked Patricia in a rasping voice.

Miss Boston nodded. "Your Book of Shadows," she answered sorrowfully.

"A witch's most valuable possession," coughed Mrs Gunning, "all my knowledge, everything that I knew about the craft—even some secrets you never managed to worm out of me, Alice..." She gasped for breath as the pain increased and Miss Boston knelt to hold her. "Deacon never found it!" she choked. "Always searched, though—beware her Alice! Take care of my book, take care of the children and... forgive me..."

The frail woman let out a long, agonised breath and collapsed in Miss Boston's arms.

"Patricia!" the old lady called. "Patricia!"

But Mrs Gunning was dead, troubled no longer by the wearisome world.

Miss Boston hung her head and kissed her dear friend goodbye. For some minutes she didn't move, too overcome by grief to do anything. Then, as she collected herself, she gently lifted the body and laid Patricia on the bed.

In death, the woman looked radiant; free of all care, her face seemed to regain the glow of youth and the savage bruising no longer marred her skin. With her silver hair flowing about her she looked like a warrior queen from some distant time, noble and proud, descended from saints and kings.

Miss Boston held the Book of Shadows to her breast and sorrowfully murmured, "Blessed be Patricia."

But there would be time to mourn later, for her heart was filled with fear—fear for the children and, if she would admit it, fear for herself.

"Come on, Alice," she said, "pull yourself together—you're a match for any malicious matron!" Still clasping Patricia's book, she scurried from the room.

In her bare feet, Miss Boston hurried down to the first floor landing. It was dark there. Ugly black shadows slashed across the carpet, forming ghastly shapes over the panelled walls—a dismal, fearful place. A chill draught blew up from the cold marble of the hall far below and she braced herself for the unexpected; anything could be hiding in those deep shadows.

Stepping carefully past the sickroom the old lady hastened for the alcove where the telephone stood upon a small table. It was horrible being there in the dark, she had never been afraid of it before, but here, in this house, it was different. Her shoulder blades itched as if someone was watching her but, although she kept looking round, Miss Boston failed to see anything. Gingerly she lifted the receiver, the buzz of the dialling tone seemed unbearably loud and she nearly replaced it to keep from disturbing the heavy silence.

With a trembling finger, she dialled the code for Whitby and then the number of the police station there. "Please answer," she whispered. "Hurry! poor Benjamin and Jennet—heaven knows what might be happening to them!"

The ringing stopped abruptly at the other end of the line and a voice answered, "Police, how can I help you?"

"Thank goodness," sighed Miss Boston gratefully—she had almost feared the town had disappeared. "Listen to me," she began in a hushed voice, "this is Alice Boston. I know it's late but you must go to my cottage—I have reason to believe something terrible is... hello... hello..." They had been cut off.

She rattled the receiver cradle in panic. "Hello?" she cried, her voice rising in alarm. Not a sound came from the ear-piece—the line had gone dead.

Miss Boston slowly turned. "You," she muttered.

Standing on the dark landing was Judith Deacon. The large woman's face was a picture of anger and hatred. Dangling limply from her hands was the severed telephone cord.

"I couldn't permit that!" she growled. "We can't have you spoiling it all now can we, Miss Boston? Where is Mrs Gunning? She was very naughty, flitting off like that."

"Patricia's dead," the old lady told her accusingly, "and as soon as I get in touch with the constabulary I shall tell them exactly what you have done!"

The nurse laughed and took a menacing step closer. "Do you think I'd really let you out of here alive?" she cried. "You really are a stupid old hag!"

Miss Boston edged backwards "You're insane!" she shouted. "You'll never get away with it—all I have to do is call for Rook."

"The butler!" hooted Judith in derision. "He'll be well pickled by now. There'll be no help from him tonight!"

"But don't you realise what it is you've done?" asked Miss Boston, playing for time. "You're a murderess!"

"Mrs Gunning was old!" barked the nurse. "She'd had a good life, lived in luxury for years—what has she got to complain about? There's others in the world who never see such opulence."

"That's no reason to kill her!"

Miss Deacon prowled a little nearer, her masculine hands rising from her side. "I don't care," she rumbled, "I'm not sorry for what I've done—not sorry one tiny bit."

The rail of the landing banister pressed into Miss Boston's back and she knew she could not escape. "How can you say that?" she cried. "You poisoned and beat her—what sort of animal are you?"

Judith shrieked in rage and struck the old lady on the cheek. Miss Boston yelped, but even as she clenched her fists to retaliate the fight died in her and the anger curdled into terror.

"If I am an animal," the nurse seethed, "then I'm a proud one! Yes, I'm proud of what I've done! Now my beloved will be pleased with me—I have done all he asked and done it extremely well. Or rather I will have, after you've been dealt with. I see Mrs Gunning has given you her Book of Shadows—now where did she conceal that, I wonder? I never did manage to find it. You've saved me a great deal of trouble bringing it to me—how considerate."

"Your beloved?" stammered Miss Boston.

Judith closed her eyes and writhed with pleasure. "The most enthralling man I have ever known," she said huskily, "the only man I have ever known. There's no one in the entire world like him. Do you know what he does to me, Miss Boston? Can a dried-up old stick like you comprehend for one moment why the very mention of his name is exquisite torture to me?"

The woman took a further step up to her, with her eyelids drooping languidly and her tongue savouring each syllable. "Nathaniel—Nathaniel Crozier. He's the one who burns in my heart and scorches my blood—for him I would do anything, undergo any torment. He is why I breathe—without him I am nothing. For the whole of my life no one so much as looked at me, but then he came along, with his charm and his power, he noticed this drab, unloved woman." Her lips peeled back, up to her pink gums and she bellowed, "I worship that man!"

As she spoke a change came over her, a mad light shone in her eyes and her voice became even deeper than before.

"Crozier," repeated Miss Boston, "but that's the man staying at the Gregsons', next door to my cottage!"

Miss Deacon tossed her head and a chilling, snarling gurgle issued from her throat. "That's right, you foul old crone!" she cried. "That's my darling Nathaniel—my beautiful, bearded god!"

Was it a trick of the dark, or were the nurse's eyebrows really growing thicker? Bristling over the bridge of her nose and spiking up to her temples.

"Crozier," Miss Boston said again, her mind confused and bewildered. Staring aghast at the increasingly nightmarish nurse, she grasped the banister for support then remembered at last where she had first heard that name.

"Oh, my Lord!" she cried.

Judith screeched with hellish laughter and the old lady cowered away, tipping dangerously back over the rail. The darkness of the hallway spiralled down below her, down to the cold marble floor. She felt her head spin, reeling from the unspeakable horror which was unfurling and from her grasp slipped the Book of Shadows Patricia had entrusted to her.

Down it fell, tumbling into the waiting dark, its leaves fluttering as it plummeted. Then with a thud, it crashed on to the marble and exploded—pages flying everywhere.

Judith Deacon's eyes blazed with a red light that burned with the unquenchable malice of Hades. Miss Boston trembled, she had witnessed such a change once before.

"Soon Nathaniel and I will be together," Miss Deacon growled, and her teeth were visibly larger. "How I ache for him—how I yearn to feel his arms about me, squeezing until the breath is crushed from my body. I would die for him!"

She seized the old lady's throat with her hands and even as she grappled with her, the strong fingers mutated into claws and black fur crept down her fleshy arms.

"No!" gulped Miss Boston, as the grip tightened round her neck. "Can't you see he's using you? Nathaniel Crozier doesn't care one jot what happens to you—you're nothing to him!"

But Judith's frightening devotion to the evil man was overwhelming. She had no human voice left, and, with a cracking of bone, her square chin began to stretch and her nose tapered into a quivering snout.

Miss Boston felt her strength fail as the dreadful creature strangled the life from her. The glare from the blazing eyes lit her wrinkled face and her head was pushed back as the vicious teeth of the huge black dog came snapping down.

"Nooo!" she wailed. "Noooooo!"

The jaws bore down on her and Miss Boston felt the hound's hot breath beat against her exposed throat. This was the end, her ninety-two years had finally come to an abrupt halt. She who had saved the world from Rowena Cooper could not save herself.

A terrified scream rent the still calm of the night. It pierced the darkness for a brief instant—then was silenced forever.

12 - Blotmonath

"Ben!" Jennet called, pulling the bedclothes off her brother. "Wake up!"

The boy yawned and gazed at her through one drowsy eye. "Mmm?" he mumbled. "Go away."

"It's terrible," she said, moving to the window and drawing the curtains back.

"What time is it?"Ben asked, reaching for the warm covers. "Oh, it's school today, isn't it?" Dozily he peered out of the window. Above the garden the gulls were riding the air and crying in morose voices to one another. Then the memories of last night came flooding back and his excitement banished all lingering traces of sleep.

"Oh, Jen!" he babbled. "It was amazing—Nelda got married, and to the most disgusting thing I ever saw. She didn't want to—he made her. Then a messenger came from..." He faltered, his sister was hardly listening, and he noticed for the first time how pale she was. Ben frowned—what had she said a minute ago? "What's terrible?" he asked.

The girl hugged herself miserably. "It's Danny," she told him. "He's dead."

"You wish!" laughed Ben.

Jennet shuddered. "No," she cried, "I mean it! He's really dead—killed!"

The boy stopped laughing. "You're serious aren't you?" he gasped. "But how—when?"

"Last night, up on the cliff."

Ben rubbed his head thoughtfully. "When I came back from the caves," he murmured, "there were lots of flashing lights up there—I didn't think, it must have been ambulances and police cars. I was too tired to take much notice."

Jennet huddled into her school jumper. "It said on the radio they're looking for a wild animal," she intoned with macabre fascination, "some big cat, escaped from a circus or zoo. Danny must have been in a really bad way if they think that—I never liked him, but even so..."

"A lion or tiger loose round here!" Ben breathed. "Imagine."

"Poor Miss Wethers," tutted his sister, "she was in a dreadful state before. Because she went round to the Turners' last night she thinks it's her fault Danny was out so late. She's gone off to open the post office now to keep herself busy, but you should have seen her, Ben—she's been through a whole box of tissues already."

"I wish Aunt Alice was here," the boy murmured.

Jennet walked to the door. "I'll put your breakfast out for you," she said. "It's getting late, hurry up."

Quickly the boy slipped on his uniform then opened the window. Leaning out he could just see a line of fluorescent tape cordoning off an area of the cliff side. Hastily he averted his eyes, he hadn't liked Danny but to be so interested in his death seemed morbid.

Presently he ran downstairs to the kitchen. Jennet had put a bowl of cereal out for him and, despite his growling stomach, the thought of his tormentor's demise squashed his appetite.

"I don't feel well," he said.

Jennet shrugged. "I know what you mean," she admitted, "I couldn't face any either—hello, here's Miss Wethers again. She looks worse than before."

With a jangling of keys the front door was meekly opened and the postmistress entered, blowing her nose. Edith was wretched. Never had she known such a day, the effect on her nerves was horrendous. When she thought that only last night she had said such cruel things about that poor boy to his parents, she felt faint. How could she have been so wicked? It made her feel partly responsible for this distressing tragedy.

Her eyes were red raw and her spectacles splashed with tears. She had thought it would do her good to go to work and keep occupied but there she had heard even more terrible news. Snivelling into a sodden tissue, she groped into the kitchen and plumped down on a stool.

"Oh Jennet!" she whined. "I can't stand it! I'm all worn out—what a beastly day this is!"

"Have you closed the post office again?" the girl asked sympathetically. "Couldn't you face it?"

She received a series of vigorous nods as the woman's vocal cords were too choked to answer. Eventually she blubbered, "That lovely old gentleman, found outside his house—poor, dear thing. He was so polite." And she blew her nose so hard that the tissue was blasted to shreds.

Ben raised his head, an unpleasant thought stealing over him. "Who do you mean?" he asked.

Edith bit her lip. "Oh Benjamin!" she wept, floundering for a way to tell him. "It's Mr Roper—he's... he's gone to heaven dear."

The boy staggered from his seat, "NO!" he shouted. "NO!"

He pushed against the table and the cereal bowl went smashing to the floor.

"Ben!" Jennet cried as her brother dashed from the kitchen and fled upstairs.

"Let him go," Edith advised in between her sniffles, "poor boy—I think it would be best if you both stayed off school today. Oh I really don't know what to do. I tried to ring Alice but the London number she gave me is quite dead—I can't get any answer from it. What a harrowing morning!"

Ben yanked open the door to his room then hurled himself on to the bed and buried his face in the pillow.

"No," he wailed, "not him, not Mr Roper!"

For some time he wept, aching with grief and sorrow. He had loved that lonely old man. He was like a grandfather to him and now—like his parents—had been wrenched out of his life. It was as if he wasn't allowed to make friends or be part of a family—everyone he met was snatched away—first Mum and Dad, then the foster parents who didn't want him, now Nelda was forbidden to see him and finally this. Even Jennet was acting strangely these days.

"Why?" he howled, empty and isolated. "Why?"

Rolling over, the dejected boy stared in anguish at the ceiling—then he remembered the fireworks.

Hastily, he dragged the tin from under the chest of drawers where he had stashed it yesterday afternoon. They were extremely precious to him now, a parting gift from that kindly old man.

Reverently, he removed the lid and gazed within—a riot of colour met his eyes. "Thank you," he whispered, taking each of the brightly patterned fireworks out and examining them in turn. There were Roman candles, Vesuvii, a Catherine wheel, two golden fountains, a snowstorm, traffic lights and at the bottom, two packets of sparklers, one coloured—the other white.

They were a marvellous present, a celebration of their friendship in fiery bursts of stars and the tears that now rolled slowly down the boy's face were no longer bitter. They sprung from his memories of pleasant afternoons in the old man's front room and brimmed with the sad knowledge that such times were now over.

"I won't forget you," he said softly.

The peppery smell of gunpowder was strong on his fingers and Ben noticed that a quantity of black grains had leaked into the tin, collecting on a lining of brown paper that covered the bottom.

Curiously, the boy lifted the paper out and discovered that it was actually a flat parcel. Unwrapping it carefully he found inside a bag of faded crimson velvet. The material was musty, smelling of incense and a wild idea reared in his mind.

Holding his breath, he untied the neck of the bag and pulled out the treasure within.

At once he realised what Mr Roper had given to him—here was the second guardian of Whitby, and he gazed at the ancient thing in amazement.

It was a tablet of dark, stained wood and the design that had been carved into it was divided into three concentric sections. In the middle was a series of round images depicting the cycle of the moon, and all were inlaid with mother of pearl. Around this was a twisting border that had once been covered in gold leaf, but the ravaging ages had worn most of the gilt away.

Ben traced his finger over the flaking flourishes and curls, noticing that peculiar notches had been inscribed into the wood. These were part of a runic spell, calling upon the moon goddess for protection and strength. Around the outside of this, ran an elaborate sequence of magical symbols, to bind the power of the Deep Ones' enchantment. There were signs from the mystic east and some not seen since a great civilisation sank into the sea. Great was the magic woven about this device and the boy could feel its power tingling through his fingers.

"The second guardian," he whispered. "Then it was his family who kept it all this time." And as he stared, an awful certainty gradually dawned—Nathaniel had killed the old man.

Hurriedly Ben shoved the wooden tablet back into the container and rapidly replaced the lid. What was he to do? Leaping from the bed as though fearing the tin might explode, he put his hand to his mouth. Nathaniel was bound to discover who had it now! The warlock would be coming for him next.

The boy had to tell someone—he had to make sure that evil man didn't get his hands on this guardian. It was time to tell his sister. Jennet must be made to understand what Mr Crozier was really like. Ben ran down the stairs to the parlour where Jennet was sitting reading Edith's romantic novel.

"Jen," he said urgently, "you've got to listen to me. I know how Mr Roper died."

His sister put the book down. "Sshh!" she hissed. "Miss Wethers has gone to bed. Now, what are you talking about?"

"Mr Roper!" Ben repeated impatiently. "He was murdered!"

"Rubbish!" he girl snorted. "Look, she didn't tell you everything, but he had a heart attack. It was Doctor Adams who told her about it in the first place—Mr Roper was old, he had burglars last night, they wrecked his house and the shock must have finished him."

Ben shook his head violently. "That's not true!" he declared. "I know it isn't—listen to me, Jen, it's that man! That Crozier did it, Mr Roper was keeping something he wanted and he killed him for it."

Jennet's face assumed an ugly, angry look. "Shut up!" she demanded. "How dare you say that? You're just a child making up stupid stories. You've never liked Nathaniel—you're just jealous, that's it!"

The boy's mouth fell open in astonishment. He had never seen her quite so impassioned before. She was almost shaking with rage. "Jealous?" he mumbled. "What of?"

"Of him!" she cried gripping the arms of the chair and clawing at the material. "Of him and me—that's what! You don't like him because of what we mean to one another. You just can't stand the fact that I like someone else more than you!" There, she had said it, her breaths came in short little gulps of air and she glared at her brother for daring to criticise her beloved.

Ben felt as though she had slapped him. "You're mad," he told her, "if you could only hear yourself..."

Jennet shifted on the chair but a brisk knock on the front door silenced whatever else she was going to say.

"Hello in there," came a voice, "is anybody at home?"

The girl's heart leapt and she sprang from the seat in delight. "Nathaniel!" she shouted joyfully. "Don't go. I'm coming!"

"No!" cried Ben, catching hold of her. "You mustn't let him in—he wants the second guardian. Jen don't!"

Roughly, his sister knocked him aside and hurried in a blind rush to the front door. "Good morning," she said coyly letting the man inside. "I wondered if you'd come round—I should have known you would."

Through the open parlour door, Ben saw the warlock stride into the hallway and kiss his sister on the cheek. But then his blood froze in his veins and his forehead was pricked out with sweat. A scream erupted in his throat and he had to clench his teeth to prevent it escaping. Into the house, close on the heels of Nathaniel, hopped the most detestable creature the boy had ever seen.

Helplessly, he watched as the fish demon waddled through the hall, its mouth stained with dried blood and its fins flexing in curiosity. It had never ventured inside a human dwelling before. Even in the old time, when only wooden shelters and stone huts nestled under the cliff, it had not dared to approach them. Now, however, its master's will pushed it forward, forcing it out in the daylight and driving it into the dens of the hated humans.

It gave the coat stand a cautious sniff, baring its razor teeth at the duffle hanging there, then it wheeled round and its eyes lit upon Ben.

With a bound, it flew into the parlour, claws ripping at the air. The boy wailed and stumbled towards the window in terror. Gurgling, the Mallykin pawed at him, tensing its scale-covered muscles and preparing to strike.

And then it wavered, its fins drooping as Nathaniel came into the room, shooting the creature a commanding glance. It tottered on its claws, uncertain and dazed. The warlock made a swift sign with his hand and the fish demon obediently scampered over to him. Crouching down on the carpet, it swayed from side to side, the pink tongue flicking in and out.

"Ah," Nathaniel said with feigned courtesy. "I see the amusingly bad-mannered Benjy is here also." For a moment he towered above him, then put a finger to his lips warning Ben to say nothing in front of his sister.

But the boy was unable to speak—so frightened was he by the fish demon.

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 the 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

Ben staggered over the quaking shore where the threshing sand swirled in choking clouds. The tremor was already subsiding, and though it had left a trail of destruction in its wake, for the moment the danger was past.

The ground ceased its shivering, yet deep fissures had opened in the cliffside and jets of steam were hissing from the sea. The shock wave had been felt in every corner of Whitby and now the town was alive with the scream of alarm bells, sirens and the panic stricken cries of its inhabitants.

"Nelda!" shouted Ben as he clambered over boulders and leapt over gaping trenches. "Can you hear me? Anyone? You have to listen—it's Ben, Nelda's friend. I must talk to you!"

Reaching the massive concrete legs of the pier bridge, the boy scrabbled over the ledge and dropped on to the rocks on the far side. Already the tide was creeping in and he landed with a splash, the water filling his shoes and drenching his socks.

Ben paddled to the secret entrance of the aufwader caves and shouted up at the hidden doors. "Hello!" he called desperately. "You must listen."

If only he could warn them before it was too late, they had to be ready when the fish demon came charging into their tunnels. A ghastly thought surfaced in his mind, what if that monstrous creature was already in there? Even now the fisherfolk could be fleeing before its terrible claws. Maybe that was why no one had answered him—perhaps the last tribe of aufwaders was already extinct.

"Nelda," the boy breathed miserably.

The growing gloom closed around him and the waters rose to his calves. A bitter wind blew in from the sea and Ben stumbled bleakly through the surging waves, back to the shore.

As he climbed over the concrete ledge once more, a stern voice called over to him.

"Is thee addled, lad? Tha's all wet!"

Standing upon a moss-covered boulder, with his staff in his hand and a scowl upon his face, was Nelda's grandfather.

"Tarr!" Ben cried, greatly relieved to see him. "I've got to talk to you—it's urgent!"

The aufwader ambled forward. "What's 'e bletherin' about now?" he grumbled. "Allus summat wi' these landfolk—allus mitherin' and goin' on about summat an nowt! As if ah didna have enough to worry at me."

"It's that Crozier!" the boy explained, hurrying towards him. "He's got a disgusting creature working for him now. It killed a boy last night and he says that he's going to let it loose in your caves!"

The aufwader listened to him gravely, "Nah!" he said. "Theer's nowt can get in our tunnels wi'out our lettin' it. 'Sides, it'll nivver find a way in—the gateways are all hid an' secret."

"I wouldn't bet on that!" Ben insisted. "You should have seen the thing. I think it could find anything—it was hideous!"

Tarr rubbed his chin. "Tha's wrong lad," he told him, "ain't nowt in this world can worm its way down to us. We'll be safe—if'n the cliff don't fall about our ears that is. Did tha feel the land shiftin' afore? Ain't nivver done that in all me days!"

"But that was Crozier's fault!" Ben exclaimed. "He's got the second guardian—probably destroyed it by now. Goodness knows what'll happen if he gets hold of the last one!"

Glowering at the unnatural darkness around him, Tarr muttered, "Does tha truly reckon this Crozy feller is to blame fer this? We thought it were the Deep Ones still angry wi' us. But p'raps not. They'd have dragged the cliff into the sea, not shook it to bits." He turned a fearful face to the boy and added, "If'n that man can do this—ain't nowt he can't do!"

"You must warn the others!" Ben urged. "He'll send in his creature and, if they're not ready, the entire tribe will be killed!"

Tarr let out an angry and defiant shout, drove his staff into the soft moss and spun around. "Oh us'll be ready, lad!" he called. "Have no fear on that—we'll be a waitin' alreet! Yer man'll find we're a mite tougher than he's guessed."

"What should I do?" Ben shouted after him. "Shall I come with you?"

Without pausing, Tarr shook his head and yelled, "Nay, the tribe can see to itsen. Best if'n tha gets on home!"

The aufwader strode grimly away, along the slippery shale, across to where great clefts were channelled into the rock. Prodding the staff into the recesses and niches before him, Tarr searched for one of the secret entrances. With a faint rasping sound, a low doorway appeared in the cliff face and he quickly passed inside. Then the way was sealed again and invisible to prying eyes.

Ben kicked up a clump of wet sand. "No point me going back to lovey-dovey Jen and dithery Edith," he glumly told himself.

The tunnel was a short one and Tarr soon found himself standing in one of the main passageways. "Fie!" he bellowed. "Bestir thisselves!"

The old aufwader marched down the caves, dragging aside the entrance curtains of the living quarters and shouting at those within. "Fetch the others!" he commanded. "Theer's trouble brewin!"

"Hang on, hang on!" complained Prawny Nusk when Tarr looked in on him. "What's got thee in such a muck lather?"

"Plenty!" Nelda's grandfather snapped back. "So don't stand theer bogglin'—tha girt lummox! Move thissen."

Presently most of the tribe had been roused from their quarters, including Johab and Lorkon the two elders of the Triad beneath Esau, and all looked to Tarr for an explanation.

"Theer's mortal danger headed our way," he told them, "find what weapons tha can. Sticks, hooks, knives—owt. Then guard the entrances an' keep watch."

"What we watchin' fer?" asked Old Parry huffily.

"If'n tha finds it tha'll know," Tarr replied darkly, "it'll tear thee limb from limb."

A frightened babble broke out and Nelda's grandfather shouted at them crossly. "Tha's all wastin' time gibberin' 'ere!" he stormed. "Go cover every hole wi' net an' stand by them to be sure. If'n this divil does break through, theer won't be none o' us left!"

The severe look on his face and his angry words quelled them and some scurried away in fear to hunt out anything that could be used as a weapon.

"An' what'll you do, Tarr Shrimp?" Old Parry said archly. "Where'll you be when we're defendin' the gateways?"

Tarr glared at her, "Hold thy tongue, else ah throttle thee wi' it!" he warned. "It's the leader of the Triad ah've a mind to see—theer's summat he's got to hear."

"You do that!" she squealed. "Go traipse down to the deep caverns where you'll be safest, don't spare a thought fer us brave souls up here! So like your kin—Abe, Silas and Hesper, they all skedaddled, but mark what happened to them. Stone dead the lot!"

"Cork it!" Prawny told her. "Don't worry none, Tarr, I'll see that no ways are left untended, and I'll make sure idle, nasty minds have work t'divert 'em."

Nelda's grandfather clapped him on the shoulder. "Ah'll be back soon as ah can," he said gratefully.

"Shrimp," came the voice of Johab as the elder shuffled forward, "have a care when thou speakest to Esau—he listens to none but the counsel of his own black heart. Temper thine anger, else he will not hear thee."

"Oh he shall!" Tarr said firmly. "Ah'll make him!"

Johab glanced at Lorkon and the two looked uncomfortable. When they next spoke it was both together, covering up their distress with a rush of words. "Then we wish thee well," they said at once, "nine times bless thee."

Tarr nodded to them, then stomped off to find Esau.

"You should have warned him," said Lorkon quietly, "a wild animal is at its most deadly when witless. Who can foretell what Esau may do if Tarr corners him?"

"Have faith in Tarr Shrimp," Johab muttered. "I should rather beard the leader of the Triad—deranged and perilous though he is—than that one in his present humour."

"Yet Tarr is ignorant of Esau's strengths. Even we who have sat beside him these many years, know not the boundaries of his power."

"Nor indeed the source of it," Johab breathed, staring down the black tunnel in concern and listening as Tarr's footsteps grew faint. "May the Three watch over him," he murmured.

Down the steep Ozul Stair went Tarr. The earth tremor had loosened some of the steps and now they rocked perilously under his weight. Grimly he reflected that they would not withstand a second violent quake, and made his way as speedily and as carefully as his age allowed.

Through the high caverns and dripping chambers he passed. The way was no longer safe, wide cracks had opened in the shale floor and plumes of scalding steam gushed from the deeps below. In the gallery of fossils, Tarr gazed warily about him. Several of the huge, blackened skeletons had been shaken free of the stone and were hanging precariously over the path, the primeval bones creaked threateningly as he walked beneath. Hurriedly the aufwader ducked under a low, protruding rib cage and came finally to the Gibbering Road.

The slender bridge was wreathed in mist, shimmering behind towering columns of dense cloud. It was an ethereal arch that linked one world to another but was present in neither. Tarr took a cautious step closer, the steam blinded him and it was impossible to tell where the ground stopped and the precipitous chasm fell sharply away.

Holding his staff before him, he tapped it against the rock and slowly groped forward. The bridge drew nearer, appearing briefly through gaps in the fog, before a sudden rush of steam snatched the vision away again. Only the constant, boiling hiss of the infernal vapours filled the aufwader's ears, and for that he was thankful—if the lamenting dead had been shrieking he was sure to lose his footing and fall headlong into the yawning gulf.

The staff touched the empty air and Tarr drew quickly back, searching for the beginning of the bridge—a little to the right, there it was.

Nervously, he stretched out a foot and tested the strength of the stone. There was no telling what the earthquake had done to the Gibbering Road—in fact, he had been surprised to find it still in one piece.

"Shrimp!" called a cold, cracked voice.

Tarr faltered and his foot slipped on the wet rock, for a second he teetered on the brink, the vast, immeasurable drop seeming to drag him down. But striking out with his staff he regained his balance and leapt back from the deadly bridge in fright.

With the firm ground beneath him once more, the aufwader glared about him but the suffocating steam enshrouded the far side of the bridge and all he could do was wait and listen.

"Return to the upper caves," demanded the voice, "the tribe have need of thee! Wouldst thou prove Parry's words to be true? Art thou indeed escaping the danger by bolting hither?"

Tarr thrashed his staff through the thick vapour, slicing and tearing at it for all he was worth. "Ah know thee!" he cried. "Come out of the smoke, Esau—where ah can sithee!"

At that moment, the columns of steam subsided and the aufwader caught a glimpse of the far side of the chasm. Standing by the bridge, leaning on two sticks and bent almost double, was the leader of the Triad. His beady, black eyes were gleaming fixedly at Tarr, as though he had been able to pierce the blanketing mists all the time. At his side stood Nelda, her face was pale and she called to her grandfather in dismay.

"Be careful!" she cried. "He'll kill you if you try to cross!"

Esau whipped round and slapped her. "Silence!" he roared. "I did not give thee leave to speak!"

"Hoy!" bellowed Tarr furiously. "Keep thy hands off her!"

Esau turned back to him and cackled. "Begone," he wailed, "the upper world is thine now, Shrimp, I do relinquish my sovereignty there. Go back to the woes and strife above—let my bride and me be at peace from it all. The years of the tribe are numbered, only hours remain to you now. A beast is coming, a demon from the dawn of days and you shall wither before it like ice in flame!"

"How dost tha know?" yelled Tarr. "Who told thee of it and of Old Parry's words to me?"

Esau's derisive laughter boomed through the smoke like the howls of Death itself.

"Never shalt thou learn the answer to that!" he shrieked. "Such wisdom is for the leader of the Triad alone and to the chill grave will I take that secret. Flee whilst thou may, Tarr Shrimp! For even now the Mallykin pries and pokes upon the cliff, it may be squirming into the caves as we speak."

"Then tha must help us!" Tarr shouted. "Theer is a way, the human boy told me. Where is the guardian made by Irl? Where were it hid all that time ago?"

Esau sucked his gums peevishly. "Thou ought not to listen to the tongues of the landbreed!" he spat. "For they were ever a fount of lies and deceit. There never was any guardian—Irl wrought nothing with the moonkelp he stole!"

Dragging himself away from the edge of the precipice, he called out. "Now shall my wife and me withdraw into this small realm. Never to set foot outside its borders, our eyes have gazed the last upon the stars and moon and the great waters are denied us. The Lords of the Deep no longer hold sway over our lives. Here in the dark stomach of the earth we shall die together."

"Grendel!" bawled Tarr furiously. "Listen to me, if the guardian does exist and this fiend takes it, it'll not be just the tribe who are doomed!"

But Esau had spoken his last word and, casting a malevolent glance at Nelda signalling her to follow, he hobbled away.

The aufwader girl took a wretched step after him, but she faltered and turned back towards the curtain of mist.

"Grandfather," she called, "did you really see Ben?"

"Aye, lass," came the reply, "but greatly troubled he was."

"This guardian is important, isn't it?"

When Tarr answered, his voice was filled with dread and horror. "Oh Nelda!" he cried. "Tha should be here, on this side of the abyss. We might not see each other again. Ah can feel the fate of the world pressing down, an' we're caught like crabs in a pot. It's all endin', the dark is closin' round and soon theer'll be nowt but night."

She stood graven like stone as his sobs came floating through the steam to her and at last Nelda knew what must be done. The lives of everyone she held dear were in her hands—only she could save them. At that moment, standing on the brink of the terrifying gulf, the girl came to a horrendous decision.

"Goodbye, Grandfather," she said, but her voice was thin and weak and he did not hear her.

Abruptly, a deep rumbling moan issued from the chasm—"The souls of the dead are stirring," murmured Nelda as unbearable shrieks echoed out of the mist in fearful blasts.

Upon the other side, Tarr strained his eyes trying to peer through the fog, his patience was finally rewarded as the clouds dispersed for a moment. But the sight which he beheld made him tremble more than ever.

"Nelda!" he shouted. "What is it?"

His granddaughter looked awful; her face was ghastly, like one who has heard the pronouncement of some terrible, condemning sentence. Her grey eyes were as two embers that smouldered with horror and she turned away, without seeming to see him and walked after Esau with leaden steps.

Tarr called out to her, it was as if she was going to her death. But Nelda made no sign that she had heard him and vanished into the caverns beyond, back to the chamber of the Triad and was lost as the mist surged in once again.

With the shrill, banshee wails gibbering insanely about him, Tarr whispered, "No, Nelda—dunna go to him." And a great tear rolled down his craggy face.

Nelda moved as though she were in a dream. She was aware of all that was going on around her, but it was as if she were viewing it from some far distance. Her feet led her to the hallowed cavern where the waterfalls splashed around the gurgling springs. But all was dim and vague, a realm of shadow shapes and hazy glimmerings. Were they voices she could hear amid the babbling water? Why were they urging her to turn back? Slowly she drew aside the tapestry curtain and made her way into the Triad chamber.

The light from the lamp above the central throne flickered sharply over her small form. The rock crystal about the silver boat shone like the moon on the waves but the radiance was cold, colder than the dark deeps—where the moonkelp bloomed.

Nelda raised her eyes to it and found herself wondering who had created the cunning lamp. Could Irl's hands have wielded the hammer which formed the silver timbers and could he have hewn the crystal from the cliff? Was it more than a natural flame which shone there? The idea grew large in her mind and she strode quickly to her husband's chamber to confirm it.

Esau was hunched over the pool, his bow-legs tucked under his trailing, forked beard. Staring down, he gazed intently into the Darkmirror, searching for answers to appease his gnawing doubts.

The still water remained black and calm and he knotted his brows, projecting his will out into the liquid seeking for a sign.

"Show me," he grunted, his eyes bulging from their wrinkled sockets, "yield up thy secrets." His temples throbbed under the strain of his concentration and he did not see his bride enter the chamber. "Hah!" he snarled. "The darkness clears—there! I see it!"

Below him, the pool pulsed with a dismal glow and strands of gloom twisted and whirled in its depths. Esau clasped his gnarled claws as faint images swam into view; some were there only for an instant, hardly long enough for him to discern what they were, whilst others lingered and he gabbled excitedly as he recognised them.

There was Tarr trudging back through the tunnels, to his death, Esau hoped—then the vision changed and another scene enfolded before his eyes. At the main entrance to the aufwader caves many of the tribe were collecting boat hooks and fishing nets and seemed to be in great distress, then he saw others guarding the lesser ways, a flash of scales leaped through the dark and for a moment the pool was blank.

Esau's lips parted and his gums squeezed together impatiently. "More," he jabbered, "I must see more!"

In the inky pool, an image of the cliff top formed, and there, standing tall and arrogant amid the gravestones was Nathaniel Crozier. At once he looked up, his eyes glaring from the surface of the water. It was as though he could see the ancient aufwader, for he raised his hand and pointed threateningly—then he dissolved. Now the Darkmirror showed the ocean bed, where sinister shapes lurked in the flowing weed and coral reefs. Ruined pillars and crumbling statues rested against mountains of broken stone and emerald fish darted to and fro between barnacled masonry. Then a silvery-blue light shone up to Esau's shrivelled face as the outline of three gigantic thrones drew near. Next, he found himself looking on the open sea, where an island of black rock rose from the waves and the mists wove densely about it. The pool sank into blackness once more.

Esau let out a rattling breath, tired and weary from his mental exertions. Then, his tongue licked his withered lips and he stared longingly at the still, black water. Lowering his head, like an animal at a pond, he crouched further down and lapped the surface, making a disgusting sucking noise.

"What are you doing?" asked Nelda, repulsed by his base display.

Startled, her husband flew backwards, his mouth dripping with oily liquid. He stared at her in alarm, then rage took him. "Spying on me?" he squawked lumbering to his feet. "I'll teach thee, bride of mine!"

But Nelda pretended to be sorry for surprising him. "Forgive me," she apologised, "I did not mean to creep up on you—I thought you heard me come in!"

So humble and complete was her contrition that Esau's temper cooled, yet he glanced at the Darkmirror shamefully. "'Twas merely a fancy of mine—nothing more," he hurriedly explained, "I did think I saw a fish swimming there and wished to make certain, that is all."

Nelda said that she understood; if Esau was mad enough to drink stagnant water that was up to him. She looked at the elder uncertainly, then prepared herself for the task that lay ahead.

"Husband," she began, "my grandfather's words have frightened me. Are we all to die? Is a great evil really to be awoken by the actions of one human? What will become of us?"

Esau chortled and wiped the slime from his lips. "Save thy sorrow," he told her.

"But I cannot," she wept and the tears which brimmed in her eyes were genuine.

The elder crept forward, reaching out a deformed claw to her cheek. "Poor, sweet wife," he muttered, "thou art indeed afraid. Have no fear—Whitby is safe, I promise you that."

Nelda stared at him, "How can you be sure?"

Esau sniggered and tapped his brow with a twig-like finger. "Trust in my wisdom," he cackled. "For nigh on four hundred years I have led the Triad, learned in all lore am I—none save the Three beneath the waves know more. I am master of the rhymes that charm the tides and raise the winds, versed in the mournful speech of sea birds, of the tales carried from forgotten lands in the morning of the world. Have faith in me, my wife—Esau Grendel knows and sees all. When I tell thee no hurt shall befall Whitby, believe it. I am certain because the last protector is safe—no harm will come if it remains where it resides."

"Then you lied to my grandfather!" she cried. "The guardian does exist!"

His sharp eyes danced over her and his toothless grin widened unpleasantly. "That is correct, my sweet," he murmured.

"Tell me where it is!" Nelda begged. "Please."

But Esau would not be persuaded, he gave her a covetous glance then turned his back and ambled over to the bed.

Nelda ran after him. "If I guess," she said, "would you tell me if I was right?"

The elder hauled himself on to the bunk and watched her from beneath hooded lids. "I might," he muttered.

"Then the lamp!" Nelda declared. "The one above your throne—Irl made it didn't he?"

Esau chuckled wickedly, and fingered his beard, enjoying the sight of her pleading for his help. "Indeed," he mumbled, "it was Irl's hands that wrought the silver boat and mined the gleaming crystal."

Nelda made to run from the chamber. She had to take the guardian away from danger, the Mallykin would soon be here to seize it and deliver it to its master.

As she hurried to the entrance, Esau's cracked voice called out, "But that is not the device Irl made to keep Morgawrus at bay!"

The girl froze. "Morgawrus?" she repeated.

Her husband rolled on to the bed and nuzzled his head into the blankets. "The dreaded one," he softly chanted. "That which spreads disease and anguish, that which the Deep Ones overthrew in the beginnings of time and who sleeps beneath us even now—whose slumbering groans rise up from the deep chasm under the bridge of stone."

"The Gibbering Road," said Nelda. "Then it is not the souls of the dead who cry out?"

Esau shook his head and sprawled his shrunken body over the bunk. "No, my love," he told her, "the shrieks are but proof of the weakening enchantment. For many years now I have heard the moans grow stronger as the terror begins to stir. But have no fear, the spells will hold whilst Irl's guardian remains in place."

Nelda edged towards him. "Where is it?" she asked again.

Her husband only laughed back at her. "Now thou art in my power!" he declared. "Hearken to thyself, where is thy pride now?" He giggled insanely and his face twisted with bitterness and longing. "Did I not see thy scorn and sense the loathing thou felt for me?" he cried. "The strength of thy hatred was mighty. To what distant corner has it slinked, to leave thee begging for my wisdom now?"

"But the tribe!" she exclaimed. "Do you want everyone to perish?"

Esau thumped the bed with his fists. "Sacrifices must be made!" he squealed. "Our noble friends do buy us time with their lives. The Mallykin will never venture to this deep realm and who knows—perhaps it will be slain?" He scrutinised her closely, then asked, "What sacrifice wouldst thou make, my bride?"

"I would do anything to save the tribe," she sobbed, giving up any hope of finding the guardian in time.

Her husband gave a low, guttural chortle. "Then I have decided to tell thee," he said, rubbing his hands together as a cunning glint shone in his eyes. "On one condition..." he added slyly.

***

At the East Gate, three aufwaders hammered fishing nets into position, resting only when the entrance was completely covered.

"That's reet," Prawny told them, "now guard it wi' yer lives—at the first sound of owt moving inside, give a shout and stand on guard."

He dashed along the passage and found Old Parry and Baccy the crone peering suspiciously into a narrow crevice. In their hands they held long knitting needles and a rusting harpoon that had belonged to Parry's late husband.

When they heard him coming, they whisked round and raised their weapons. "Scupper it!" trilled Baccy, slashing the air with her needles. "Cut the brute's head off—rip his legs out!"

"Crikes!" shouted Prawny, springing backwards to avoid their fierce onslaught.

Old Parry uncovered a lantern and grumbled to herself, disappointed to find that it was only him.

"Well done," he praised them, "if this critter's got any sense it'll keep away from both of 'ee."

"I tell you it won't dare show its ears," chuntered Parry, "if it's got any that is. Tarr's finally gone feeble in the head; he were allus barmy but now he's real cracked. We're all wastin' our time."

Baccy jabbed the air with her knitting needles, anxious to stab something. "Spike and stick," she crooned. "By gow, I'll plunge 'em in and wiggle 'em round. Gut the animal—make a broth from its gizzards and patties from its brains, hee, hee!"

"Foolishness," remarked Old Parry tersely. "We'll be stood about fer days—theer's nowt gonna happen, except maybe she'll get one of her addled notions and try to stab me instead. I've a mind to get meself off home and put my feet up."

Leaving them to it, one complaining, the other poised for action, Prawny hurried further down the tunnel to check on the rest of the defences. He thought of those two terrible old sea wives awaiting the enemy and grimaced—they had nearly frightened him out of his skin. When the creature itself finally appeared he hoped he would meet it more courageously.

"Steel yerself, Nusk," he said, keeping a firm hold of the cudgel in his hand. "You don't want to be found lacking when the time comes."

He thought sadly of his poor wife. She had been dead for many years now, but he could still picture her in his mind when he was lonely or needed to feel close to her. Valdi could always be relied on to cheer him up, or tactfully dispense sound advice. Prawny wished she was there now, to goad him on, and tell him how brave he would be against the unknown enemy.

"Don't let me bring shame on my line," he implored. "You've faith in yer old spouse, ain'tcha Valdi?" But she, like so many others, had fallen prey to the curse of the Deep Ones and had vanished from this world long ago. Only the echoing dark heard him and Prawny felt his courage dwindle like a sputtering candle, trickling down his spine and oozing out of his boots.

Ducking beneath a low archway, he stepped on to a narrow path that steadily climbed. This led to the high pass, which opened out on to the abbey plain. It was the only entrance he hadn't yet visited to oversee the defences, but knew that four of the tribe had gone to make sure the gate was closed.

The way was nearly pitch black. In this section of the caves the lamps were few and far between and, as he passed one, his shadow would fly before him, blotting everything out in a nightmarishly distorted shape.

"Keep yer wits," he sternly reminded himself, "ain't nowt but a shadow. Are yer afraid of that, yer big daisy?" As if in answer his pace increased until he was fairly jogging along—to reach the high pass before the imagined fears that lurked in the darkness reached out and grabbed him.

At a fork in the passage, he stopped and listened—something was wrong. Holding his breath, Prawny glanced round the rough rocky walls, puzzling over the strange noise.

A muffled scraping was coming from above his head. As yet it was faint and indistinct, but with every beating second it grew nearer.

"Rabbits?" he mumbled curiously. "Sometimes their warrens do burrow deep." With a wry smile he remembered the year that the upper chambers had been overrun with them. "Mebbe Baccy'll get her broth after all," he chuckled.

But the sounds were too frantic and harsh to be the work of rabbits. Something with immense strength and unswerving intent was digging and tearing its way through the ground.

Prawny stared up at the dark ceiling. It was very low at this point in the tunnel and, standing on tiptoe he pressed his ear against the earthen roof.

The sounds were much clearer now, he could hear the creature's breath wheezing and gasping as it ripped up the soil and dived further down.

The aufwader stepped away, his heart thumping violently in his chest. This was it! They had been wrong to assume the enemy would enter by one of the main gates—it was making its own way in!

With a dull clatter of dry clay and small stones, a fistful of soil showered down upon his head.

"Bless us!" Prawny choked, gripping the cudgel in his hand and dredging up whatever valour he had left.

"Well, it'll not get by me!" he said, hoping his voice sounded confident and brave.

A further cascade of earth poured over the path and the aufwader uttered a curse in fear. Suddenly, a large clod of soil was kicked from above and a mouth-shaped hole gaped down at him from the ceiling.

Prawny trembled. "No," he breathed in horror.

Out of the darkness came a squat, misshapen head and a pair of luminous eyes gazed balefully at him.

"Parry were right," warbled Prawny in a terrified voice, "it don't have no ears." Pressing himself against the wall, he whimpered, "Get you gone! You'll not come down here—I... I won't let 'ee!"

Silently, the foul creature began to squirm from the hole. Keeping its grim stare fixed steadily upon him, the fish demon crawled out—its gills twitching expectantly.

"No you don't!" Prawny shouted, swinging his cudgel round in his panic.

Hissing in dismay, the fish demon snaked back into the ceiling, clawing hastily at the loose earth which rained down in a frenzied stream.

"That's right!" roared Prawny, greatly encouraged by the creature's apparent cowardice. "There's plenty more where that came from. Come back and I'll give 'ee such a clout, yer'll be flung into next year!"

But only silence flowed from the hole—the creature had escaped.

Prawny chuckled to himself, relieved that he had not brought disgrace to the Nusk name. Raising his cudgel, he warily prodded at the opening with it.

At once the scaly claws flashed out, seized the weapon from his grasp and hurled it far from reach.

"Help!" Prawny screamed. "It's here! Help me..."

Before he could run, the ferocious talons bit into his shoulders and, yelling for his life, the aufwader was dragged off his feet.

"Aaaiiiyeee!" he shrieked, kicking his legs furiously and thrashing wildly with his arms. "Heeeeelp!" Up into the dark hole the Mallykin hauled him—up to where his screams ended abruptly and all his struggles were over.

On to the tunnel floor, the fiend dropped. Flicking its ugly head from side to side, it sought the subterranean air currents and searched the scents that drifted upon them. The delightful fragrance of fear filled the caves—that was good, its prey would be the tenderer for it. Emitting a horrible screech, it gave a lurching hop, then bounded down the passage—Prawny Nusk's blood still dripping from its jaws.

***

Nelda struggled back into her gansey, shivering with a cold sickness in her stomach. Esau was lying asleep on the bed beside her, his contented, grunting snores wafting a wisp of his beard that had strayed across his face.

The girl's flesh crawled, she couldn't bear to look at the vile creature any more and she jumped from the bunk as though it had stung her.

A grim and desolate expression was carved into her features. For the sake of all, she had sacrificed and suffered much, but now that was over—only the future mattered.

Stealthily, she approached the still pool and, kneeling on the ground, slipped her hand into the black water. The liquid was horribly cold and set her teeth on edge as she fumbled on the slimy bottom, seeking for what Esau had said was there.

A putrid smell issued up from the disturbed sediment and she balked when she remembered that her husband had drunk this poisonous filth.

Esau grumbled in his sleep and turned over, his mangled claws groping at the empty space beside him.

"Where is it?" Nelda murmured fretfully, Esau might awaken at any moment. Had he lied to her? Was this another of his tricks? Just when she thought despair would overwhelm her, her fingertips touched something amid the freezing ooze.

Trembling, the aufwader drew her hand from the stagnant water and there was the guardian Irl had made.

Quickly she washed away the clinging foulness and gazed at the wondrous device in her grasp.

It was made of jet—but the carving was a monstrous, twisting shape, fashioned in the form of a hideous serpent. Nelda shuddered at the sight of it, never had she beheld anything so frightening, a ghastly representation of evil and darkness. The eyes of the serpent were closed, but beneath the lids something golden glimmered and sparkled.

"Moonkelp," she breathed.

The coils of the jet beast were twined about the three pronged symbol of the Lords of the Deep and, behind the gruesome head, Irl had inscribed these words: "By the powers of the greater Triad do I commit this guardian. May the bonds of enchantment bind the enemy ever more and keep Morgawrus tethered in the dark."

Nelda mouthed the inscription with trembling lips, and as she did so, the nape of her neck prickled and a wave of cold seeped down her spine. It was as if an unearthly presence was watching her—was the ghost of Irl standing at her shoulder? A soft breath lightly touched her cheek and Nelda jumped up in alarm, but there was no one there.

Upon the bed Esau moaned. There was no time left, she had to leave. With a last, contemptuous look at her husband, Nelda fled from the chamber hugging the guardian to her breast.

***

The upper levels of the caves were in uproar. The fish demon had breached the defences and was scampering unchallenged down the tunnels. It was a mad, ravaging nightmare that stormed through the caves like a whirlwind of death and slaughter. Already seven fisherfolk had fallen before its vicious claws and the heat of their blood maddened it even more—driving it insanely on.

Any who heard its shrieking cries were chilled to the marrow and many cast down their weapons when the first of those curdling calls came echoing down the dim passages. Heedless of all else, they flew blindly through the caverns to escape the oncoming terror, crashing into those still at their posts and struggling with them to get by. One aufwader blundered headlong into a disused chamber and tumbled down a deep mine shaft, smashing into the sheer sides as he fell and hitting the bottom with an awful, bone-shattering crunch.

The few who kept their heads and remained on guard were met with savage fury as the pet of Nathaniel Crozier tore into them. Spears and boat hooks were thrown aside as the iron jaws snapped at throats and when the hump-backed fiend had slain them it would throw back its fin-crowned head and give a yodelling gurgle of victory.

"On!" thundered Tarr, leading a small band through the dim halls to the upper levels. "It must be killed!"

The others were horribly afraid, but he drove them on by the force of his voice and his commanding will. The creature had to be stopped. If it cost the lives of them all it would be better than running cowardly away and eking out a miserably shameful existence elsewhere.

"Remember the tribal wars!" he bellowed. "The battles of them days make this seem a reet picnic! This is nowt to the perils our kin endured back then. Draw thy knives and think no fear!"

"I canna recall that far back," muttered one of the group mutinously, "an' neither can he! 'Sides, them wars were a disaster and cost the lives of most of our folk. Are we to squander our lifeblood as they did?"

Marching beside this dissenter was Johab. He dug the grumbling aufwader in the ribs and said, "My grandsire did battle in them wars—and so did Tarr's. Hush yer yellow chelpin afore I squander thy blood mesself!"

But the others were inspired by Tarr's words. They thought of the noble houses of the three tribes that had once been and drew their strength from it. Theirs was a princely lineage, the present tribe was but a gleaning of all that remained of those doughty aufwaders. This coast was theirs by right and only the Lords of the Deep could take it from them—certainly no base fiend from the ancient world.

In all, there were eight in the company and Tarr herded them up the tunnels, swinging his staff over his head, crying out challenges and defying the fearsome shrieks which sped to meet them. All braced themselves for a brutal encounter, anger kindled their hearts and soon they too were shouting war cries—eager for the combat to begin.

"The Three will guide us!" they boomed. "They will watch over our fate! Bless the tribe! Save the tribe!"

Raging through a wide cavern, they tore into an adjoining tunnel and suddenly all was chaos and confusion.

"Eeeeee!" screeched a panicky voice. "Out of my way! Eeeee!"

A squat shape barged straight into the middle of the aufwaders. Sticks clattered over the ground and startled wails filled the cramped passage.

"It's got me!" someone squawked.

"Kill it!" called another.

"Let me go!" howled the shrill voice. "Tarr Shrimp call them off!"

Nelda's grandfather strode angrily up to the tangle of wriggling bodies and dragged the bewildered fisherfolk away.

"Parry!" he snarled. "What are yer doin'? Stand up, woman!"

Old Parry struggled to her feet, bawling at the top of her discordant voice. As soon as she had heard Prawny's death screams she had run for her life, leaving Baccy to face the terror alone. Down the caves she had scuttled, wailing and knocking aside those foolish enough to stand in her way.

"Move!" she yammered, spinning round and hurtling into the recovering group once more. "It's after me! Get away, let me through! Eeeeee!"

"Parry!" Tarr shouted, striding up to her and shaking the sea wife by the shoulders. "Get a grip on thissen! What's all this about?"

She quivered like a cornered mouse and her glance darted over Tarr's shoulder to the shadowy passage. "You ain't got no right to keep me!" she protested. "It's all in vain. I heard Nusk when the monster got him."

"Prawny..." muttered Tarr sadly.

"Aye," she squealed, "and many more since—their voices have followed me down the caves and always at my heels it came galloping, chasin' me—I even heard it chatter to itsen." Parry wriggled free of Tarr's grip, "Well it'll not feast on me!" she cried and trampled by those still in her way.

"Come back!" Johab called. "Stand and fight."

"Let her go," said Tarr, "she'd only hinder..."

"Aaaaiiiyeeee!"

A bright silver arc sliced through the gloom and an aufwader fell dead to the ground. The enemy had found them and due to Old Parry's demented interruption they were caught unawares. The creature flew at them through the darkness, its eyes burning with hate and malice. A second furious sweep of its claws threw two others to the floor and it immediately leapt upon their bodies to launch itself at the rest.

"That's fer Prawny!" Tarr roared, striking out with his staff and catching the Mallykin across the neck. It squealed in pain and whirled around, raking its claws at him. The aufwader dodged the attack and brought his staff down once more. This time the blow glanced off the creature's back. A splintered knitting needle was embedded in the shoulder; Baccy had evidently stood her ground and had managed to strike before the creature killed her. Tarr's staff drove the needle deeper into the scaly sinew.

Maddened and yowling in agony, the fish demon pounced, flattening him against the wall, where it snatched the staff from his hands and bit it in two. Then its bloody jaws lunged for his throat.

From the shadows, a blade shone brightly and Johab plunged a knife into the creature's side. Screaming, it released its victim and whirled viciously round. Johab quailed, his action had saved Nelda's grandfather—but he was done for.

"Noo!" he howled, as the full might and fury of the enemy sprang at him. The cruel claws slit his throat and the elder was dashed against the rock, slumping to the ground like a discarded ragdoll.

The Mallykin was furious now, baited into a terrible rage that nothing could withstand. All it craved was to drink its bloated fill of their hot blood. The luminous eyes became narrow slivers of green and it took a menacing pace closer to the three fisherfolk that remained.

The aufwaders were utterly petrified, and the weapons drooped from their hands. A string of saliva oozed from the open jaws and a joyous gurgle bubbled from its flapping stomach.

"Leave them!" rang the commanding voice of Nathaniel suddenly. The fish demon whipped about and sniffed warily—where was he?

"Seek out the leader," the warlock demanded, "Your appetite can be satiated later."

The fish demon let out a confused whine; the voice was inside its head. "Down to the lower caves," the voice declared, cutting through the creature's primitive mind, "you shall find him there—now go!"

With a final hiss of consuming hatred, it rushed between the remaining fisherfolk and disappeared into the blackness of the caverns beyond.

Tarr groaned and coughed, his neck was clawed and bleeding. "Where is it?" he choked, stumbling to his feet. "Don't let it get away!"

But the others had had enough. They stared helplessly at the corpses of Johab and the others and silently lay their weapons on the blood-drenched ground.

"It's over," said one, "we canna fight against that."

"We must," spluttered Tarr.

The aufwaders shook their heads. "The tribe is finished," they declared, "the Deep Ones have deserted us."

Tarr shook his fist at them. "Theer's no escape," he shouted, but they would not listen.

"Our time is over now," they said. "The caverns are no longer ours—we have lost."

Their spirits were completely quashed and their faces betrayed the sickness in their hearts. They were tired of everything, weary of the world and all its troubles, appalled at the loss of their friends and stricken by the fiend that had attacked them. Their grief was immeasurable and, dragging their feet in the crimson-stained dust they trailed despondently up the tunnel.

"Deeps take 'em," cursed Tarr, "all is lost now."

Stooping over the bodies of his fallen comrades, he said a quiet prayer. "I canna gi' up hope," he murmured dismally. Then he found the two splintered shards of his staff and he covered his face with his hands. The others were right, there was no point in going on, the time of the aufwaders was over. Tarr's keen spirit sank within him.

"Grandfather!" came a voice. "Grandfather, where are you?"

At once Tarr leaped to his feet. "Nelda!" he shouted and the flame of hope burned brightly in his breast once more.

Running from the shadows of the far passageway, the girl raced towards him and flung her arms about his neck.

"Oh Grandfather!" she cried. "You're hurt."

She stared at the clawmarks at his throat, then saw for the first time the fallen tribe members.

"I'm too late!" she wept. "Is everyone dead? Did the creature kill them all?"

Tarr's eyes narrowed. "Has tha seen it?" he asked.

"I was hurrying up the Ozul Stair," she nodded, "when I heard something pattering down towards me. So I hid in a cleft in the rock and the beast ran by—it was a loathsome thing!"

"Aye," he agreed, "but what's it doing down theer?"

"Esau," Nelda whispered, "it's gone for him! That's where the guardian was—that's what it wants!"

Tarr searched Johab's body for his knife and said gravely, "It canna have that! Ah mun get after it!"

"No!" cried Nelda clinging to him. "The creature won't find the guardian down there—look, I've got it here." She showed him the jet carving and her grandfather gazed at her sorrowfully.

"Oh lass," he whispered, "how did tha get the old goat to gi' it up?"

Nelda said nothing, but she lowered her eyes and he held her more tightly than before.

"Well, you mun get it out of here!" he told her quickly. "Won't take long fer that beastie to come back."

"But what shall I do with it?" she asked. "I never thought about that."

Tarr glanced up the tunnel. "Take it to thy human friend," he instructed, "anythin' to get it out of the caves. Go now—while theer's a chance."

"But what about you?" she demanded.

"Ah'll stay here," he said solemnly, "theer's still a few of our folk loose in the caves. They're all of a panic and'll need to be found. Even the likes of Old Parry can't be left for that divil's pleasure."

Nelda hugged him. "I'll be waiting for you, Grandfather," she said, "promise me you'll leave as soon as everyone's been found."

"Ah swear, lass," he told her.

The two of them hugged one another desperately. Then, clenching the guardian closely to her, Nelda darted up the passage.

"Now," Tarr muttered, brandishing the knife fiercely, "ah'm gonna make that beastie squeal if it's the last thing ah do!"

***

Esau gave a complaining groan as his blissful sleep became increasingly troubled. "Nelda," he burbled, "my dearest beloved..." The elder rolled on to his side and a wide yawn divided his wizened face.

With a jolt, he awoke. Esau rubbed the sleep from his eyes and gazed about the chamber. Where was his bride? He pulled a sullen frown and scratched himself lazily.

"Nelda!" he called. "Nelda?" There was no reply, but outside the cavern he heard the rumour of unpleasant screeches far, far away.

"Where is she?" he mumbled irritably. "A wife ought to wait upon her husband. I must be sure she learns what else is expected of her."

He dragged himself from the bed and reached for his sticks. "What is that clamour?" he shouted, as a terrible crashing resounded from the Triad chamber. "Be that you wife?" he cried. "Get in here and tend to my wants. I would eat some vittles now..."

Esau's voice dried in his throat, for at that moment the curtain was wrenched from its hooks and went sprawling across the chamber.

"Noooooo!" he wailed.

Framed within the low doorway was the hideously deformed figure, whose fins ruffled and shook with odious glee.

"The Mallykin!" Esau croaked. "How did the wight find me? How did it reach the lower realm?"

Snarling, the creature took a prowling step closer, its round eyes glowing malevolently at the ancient aufwader.

Esau shrieked in dismay and flung one of his sticks at it. The hobgoblin of the waters sprang aside, raised its deadly talons and burbled wickedly.

Nelda's husband staggered across the chamber, he had to escape it—but the toad-like apparition hopped nimbly towards him. Then Esau noticed the pool and his legs collapsed under him.

"What madness is this?" he screamed.

His Darkmirror was swirling, the filthy water bubbled and spat as the bottom of the pool began to tremble.

"Curse thee, Nelda!" he screeched. "Thou hast betrayed us and sealed all our fates! The guardian of Irl ought not to have been moved—couldst thou not guess the reason—didst thou not see what the Darkmirror is? What hast thou done?"

Even as he watched, a great split appeared beneath the water.

"Morgawrus!" he yelled. "He stirs! The end is come!"

The crack gaped wider and gradually a pale yellow radiance welled up, filling the entire chamber with an awful light and a blistering heat. The pool churned and the fish demon yammered in dismay as a huge eye blinked open in the chamber floor.

Esau tore at his beard; the dark slit of the pupil glared up at the insignificant aufwader.

The terrible glance rooted him to the spot, and the hellish light shone angrily through the stagnant tears—tears which he in his folly had drunk. He had only done it in order to gain wisdom and indeed Esau had learnt much from sipping daily at the stinking brine, but it was this that had driven him insane. The still pool had been a distillation of pure evil and, once he had dared to taste it, Esau had been lost.

"Morgawrus," he gabbled, his gnarled hands scalding in the heat of that dreadful gaze, "spare me, return to thy slumber. Have mercy!"

The cavern trembled as the gigantic enemy of the world twisted its buried head. Esau fell on his face, grovelling before the eye of the dark god as it shifted beneath the rock. This was where the Deep Ones had imprisoned it many thousands of years ago, trapped beneath the cliffs of Whitby, to sleep out eternity under their enchantments. But once more its cold black blood pulsed through its endless veins and up above, the town juddered as the vast heart began to pound and beat.

Prostrate on the ground, Esau felt his skin bake under the scorching blast of the eye. His forked beard singed and steamed, shrivelling upon his chin and his scalp smouldered sending up a reek of brown smoke.

"Nelda," he murmured in his agony, "forgive me...!"

Into the sizzling heats of the eye crept the fish demon. The bright light had frightened it at first but the irresistible sight of Esau prone on the floor, helpless and unarmed was too much and it swiftly overcame its fear. Gurgling with delight, it flew at Esau, who threw back his head and let out one final mad laugh before the Mallykin slew him gleefully.

Now surely its master would be pleased, it thought, as the eldest of the fisherfolk gasped and croaked his way to the unknown shores.

And then the cavern shook suddenly and the livid green slit of the pupil swivelled round at the bottom of the pool. Morgawrus was awake, the sleep of aeons was past.

Revelling in the aufwader's blood, the fish demon looked up, startled at the quaking world. The lid of the eye snapped shut once more and sank into a black void, leaving an empty well in the ground. The nightmare serpent was moving.

At once the rocks shuddered with cataclysmic violence. A massive part of the floor ruptured and cracked asunder as Morgawrus seethed below. Yelping in fear, the Mallykin scurried to its feet as the unsupported ground crumbled and fell completely away, crashing down into a gaping abyss.

"Get out of there!" commanded the voice of Nathaniel in its head. "Return to me!"

Shrieking, the fish demon bounded from the cavern as the ornately decorated roof buckled and quivered ominously. Then, with a horrendous shattering of shale and rock, the entire structure collapsed. Thousands of tons of rubble came crushing down and the broken body of Esau was buried beneath the full weight of the cliff.

Out through the Triad chamber the Mallykin fled and the three thrones topped in ruins at its heels. The silver lamp was smashed and the crystal waves it rode upon shivered into flittering dust.

To the fish demon it seemed that the whole world was ending and it tore out of the hallowed hall bleating shrilly. Behind it the stalactites splintered and broke from the ceiling, thrusting into the ground like stone spears—stabbing at the very heart of the aufwader realm. And as the serpent rumbled and snaked in the depths, the sacred springs of the blessed shrine boiled away to nothing.

Still the Mallykin hurtled on, leaping over the fissures that yawned suddenly beneath it and veering between towering columns of rock that burst from the floor and drove ever upwards, smashing into the high galleries. Finally the Gibbering Road reared up before the squealing creature. The slender bridge stretched out before it and the fish demon threw itself on to the treacherously narrow way and began pattering hastily across.

In the black gorge far below, Morgawrus slithered. At last its loathsome head was free and a tremendous roar blasted up from the invisible deeps. The dreadful noise reverberated underground, booming throughout the earth and shaking its molten heart.

Upon the bridge the fish demon screamed, for the voice of the serpent shook the stone and to its shrieking horror it saw jagged cracks suddenly appear. The Gibbering Road flew apart and the fragments plummeted down into the chasm.

Emitting a terrified squeal, the last of the Mallykins toppled, and as it went spinning through the darkness to its death, the creature felt Nathaniel wrench himself from its mind.

A monstrous black fin stretched up from the abyss as Morgawrus started to uncoil and the sides of the precipice were demolished as it thrashed and writhed. In claps of deafening thunder the sheer walls were destroyed and amid clouds of engulfing dust they slid into the evil darkness. The end had indeed come.

14 - Shadow Over Whitby

A grotesque, unnatural night covered Whitby, and the folds of its vast, black shroud pressed heavily down. In the harbour, the water boiled and steam mingled with the dark, forming putrid clouds that rolled over the quayside and poured sluggishly into the town. Down the narrow streets the terrible shadows flowed, filling the doorways and stealing into the cosy homes beyond. It was a blinding, impenetrable gloom that entered the hearts of the inhabitants, instilling each one with dread and despair.

On the West Cliff, a gas main had fractured and the inhabitants of the nearby houses were hurriedly evacuated. On the East side, the power cables were down and all the windows looked blank and dark. The telephone lines were also severed and the panic of the people rose to fever pitch. Cars careered into one another, skidding into shops and spinning off the quay. Chaos reigned everywhere and harsh sirens blared across the seething harbour.

Upon the shore, Ben watched as the two halves of Whitby were gradually eclipsed by the creeping shade. Behind him, the sea was still, broken only by occasional jets of white smoke. The tide had ceased, no waves came lapping up the beach and the air itself seemed to hold its breath.

"Jen," the boy murmured as the dense black fog swallowed Church Street and the red roofs were lost from sight. He knew he had to get back, he should be with his sister.

Quickly, Ben began to run over the sand, the clinging darkness swirling about his knees—but then he froze.

Frightened voices were on the air. Terrified gabbles and dismal wailings were issuing from the cliff side. Out of the many secret entrances, poured the surviving members of the aufwader tribe. Into the choking gloom they staggered, relieved to escape the ferocity of the fish demon's attack, yet dismayed at the bewildering midnight world that greeted them.

Ben hurried over to the cliff face and shouted to them. "What's happened?" he called. "Where's Tarr? Is Nelda safe?"

A bedraggled company stumbled out on to the rocks. Three of their number were horribly wounded—slashed and gored by the Mallykin's claws—and they leaned heavily on their comrades. Only one of them turned to look at the boy and he glared down, consumed with hatred.

"The tribe is finished," he spat. "This is the fault of your kind!"

Even as he spoke, a distraught clamour rose amongst the others—one of the wounded they had carried from the tunnels was dead and, wailing, they gathered around him.

"I'm sorry," Ben spluttered.

"Get gone, landbreed!" an aufwader screeched, stooping to pick up a large stone.

The boy hastened away, leaving them to mourn in private. They would not have much time to grieve, he told himself—something was waking.

***

In the main entrance chamber, Nelda stood alone. Everything she had known was destroyed. The great stone doors lay sprawled over the rocks below and the black mist flowed keenly in, engulfing the broken fishing boats, creeping between the tangled nets and strangling the flame of the single lamp which had miraculously remained lit.

Nelda stepped carefully over the snaking chains and shattered timbers. Then, directly above, the rusted mechanism gave a juddering creak and the girl fled from the cavern as immense cogs and pulleys fell, crushing the wreckage behind her.

Out into the cloying dark she ran, climbing swiftly down the slippery wall of rock and landing soundlessly in the rippling mist.

Pausing only to look back and pray that her grandfather was safe, she splashed through the sea and made for the shore behind the pier bridge.

The rest of the tribe were still there. None of them knew what to do; they had nowhere to go—the caves had been their home for so long that nobody wanted to leave them, yet it was too dangerous to stay.

Nelda saw them huddled in forlorn groups, shaking their heads and muttering grievously to themselves. They had endured much that day and she knew what intense emotions were wringing their hearts—yet she had suffered the deepest hurt. Pushing such thoughts to the back of her mind, the girl forced herself onward, there was still much to do.

"Ben!" she shouted. "Wait!"

The boy was walking over the sands, trudging wretchedly home. Quickly, he glanced round and saw the aufwader girl tearing towards him.

"I have it!" she cried, brandishing the last guardian over her head for him to see.

"How... how did you find it?" he asked when she pressed it into his hands.

Nelda shivered and said quickly, "What matters now is we make certain the guardian is safe."

Slipping the carving into his coat pocket, the boy glanced back at the darkened town where shrieks of panic came echoing from the fog. "I wish Aunt Alice was here," he said anxiously. "She'd know what to do next. And what about Jen and Miss Wethers? What if something's happened to them?"

"Then that shall be our first action," the aufwader told him. "Let us be certain they are safe, but we must make haste."

The two of them hared over the shore and plunged into the blanketing murk that smothered Whitby.

High upon the cliff top, amid the tombstones and towering over the shore, a solitary figure stood, his coal-black eyes penetrating the mounting gloom.

"So," Nathaniel softly uttered, "the cave maiden stole it, did she?" And a cruel smile flickered over his bearded face. "Then all is not lost, there may still be a chance for glory. The force that is stirring may yet be mine. But this time, I leave nothing to chance. If I have to risk the fury of the Deep Ones then so be it—the boy must die. I'll snap his neck myself." Hurrying through the graveyard, he leapt down the steps.

***

"Jen! Jen!" Ben called, hammering on the front door. "Let me in!"

"Hurry," Nelda said beside him. She pulled the neck of her gansey over her chin and shivered. The yard was almost pitch black, completely drowned by the eerie mist which, even as they waited, grew steadily thicker.

"Jen!" the boy shouted again.

The door rattled and was swiftly yanked open. "Benjamin!" cried the voice of Miss Wethers. "Where have you been? I'm at my wits' end!" The spinster's hand reached out and, catching hold of his coat, she hauled him inside.

With a lurch, Ben tumbled into the cottage and Nelda nipped in behind—just as the postmistress slammed the door again. Miss Wethers fell to her knees where she proceeded to block up the gaps with a draught-excluder and a heap of cushions and pillows.

"We've got to keep it out," she squeaked, "whatever it is! Goodness me, Benjamin, have you been wandering in these fumes all this time? What have you done to your lungs, child? As soon as this filth blows over we must rush you to the hospital." She stuffed the last of the pillows in place and flapped to her feet, eyeing the barricade doubtfully.

"I've been going out of my mind with worry," she scolded him. "You should have come back as soon as the tanker exploded."

"What tanker?" Ben asked.

Miss Wethers fluttered her hands in consternation and her voice rose hysterically. "Well something exploded!" she declared, seeking a rational explanation for the chaos that had engulfed the town. "The whole house shook—I suppose this nasty smoke is the oil burning. Oh dear, it must be a gargantuan spillage, and there'll be all those poor birds clogged with oil."

"It isn't anything like that!" the boy tried to tell her. "This is Nathaniel's doing! He's destroyed two of the..."

But the postmistress was not listening to him. "Come into the parlour, Benjamin," she said. "The windows are all intact there, thank heavens—you should see the kitchen and the front room! We must wait until the fire brigade come to rescue us, I've heard the sirens. Oh if only we were at my house—there's a gas mask in one of Mother's cupboards."

She fluttered into the parlour and Ben threw Nelda an exasperated glance. "We must not tarry here," she told him, "the guardian must be taken to a place of safety."

He nodded grimly and ran after Miss Wethers.

In the parlour the curtains had been drawn and several candles burned brightly. On the armchair sat Jennet; the girl's face was sullen and she looked up briefly when her brother entered.

"I heard what you said," she muttered coldly. "Haven't you stopped playing your childish games yet? Leave Nathaniel alone—he's out there too."

"Oh Jennet," tutted Edith distractedly, "do stop thinking on it. Really, Ben, your sister's done nothing but talk about that Mr Crozier—she even wanted to go out and find him but I wouldn't let her."

"Good," Ben cried, "he's evil, Miss Wethers."

Edith lit another candle and bemoaned the lack of electricity. "Cut off when the tanker exploded," she told herself for the umpteenth time, "although I can't see how. I wonder if we should drink lots of milk—would it line our stomachs and protect us from the noxious stuff? Maybe we should sit under the stairs..."

"Why won't she listen?" Ben hissed to Nelda.

"Because she's frightened," the aufwader replied. "Deep down she knows there is more to this than she pretends, but she cannot face the horror. Perhaps if they could see me I could make them understand."

"Jennet," Ben said, "Nelda's here, the tribe's been driven from the caves and most of the tunnels have collapsed."

"Benjamin!" squeaked Miss Wethers in alarm as she taped the edges of the curtains to the wall just to make certain the room was securely sealed. "What are you talking about?"

"The fisherfolk!" he told her, running out of patience and wanting to scream in frustration. "They live under the cliffs—or they used to, but I'm the only one who can see them. There's one here now."

Edith stared at him, "Oh dear," she whined, "it's the pollution, it's affected his brain. Lie on the couch and be a good boy—the authorities will be coming soon, I'm sure they will." But the wailing engines were in the far distance and she gripped the chair arm distractedly.

"We waste our time," Nelda said. "We must leave this place—show her the guardian, she will have to believe you then."

"Look!" Ben cried desperately, taking the carving from his pocket. "This is the last protector of Whitby, made by one of the fisherfolk thousands of years ago."

Edith gazed at the jet serpent and fiddled with her collar uncomfortably. Even Jennet leaned forward and she gave her brother a curious glance.

"My," muttered Miss Wethers fearfully, "wherever did you find such a gruesome object?"

"I didn't," he told her, looking across at Jennet. "Nelda did."

Edith covered her eyes, confused and bewildered by his insane ramblings.

"Crozier wants it," Ben continued. "He's already destroyed the other two. That's why all this is happening, don't you see? Something is waking and it's all that man's fault—it'll destroy everything if it gets free. Crozier is totally insane!"

That was too much for Jennet. She let out an outraged howl and pounced at her brother, knocking the guardian from his hand and shoving him to the floor.

"How dare you!" she screeched, her face contorting into a ghastly mask. "Shut your stupid mouth! Nathaniel wouldn't hurt a fly—he's mine—I love him—he loves me!"

"JENNET!" shouted Miss Wethers in horror. "What are you saying? Leave Benjamin alone at once. Just listen to you, child, what has that man been telling you?"

The girl tossed her head and laughed. "You're only jealous," she barked, "jealous because he loves me and not a wrinkled old prune like you! Did you honestly think he would fancy a dried-up spinster who spends her days licking stamps and sorting postcards? Why should he even look at you when nobody else ever did?"

Ben recoiled from his sister; that was not her voice speaking—it was more like Rowena Cooper's, even her face had changed and her mouth was drawn wide and ugly.

Miss Wethers strode forward to give the girl a sharp slap, but her hand quivered impotently and she ran sobbing to her chair. "How could you?" she wept. "How could you say such foul and hurtful things?"

Nelda stared at Jennet with understanding and took a deep breath. "She cannot help it," she told Ben gravely. "Your sister is consumed by a powerful enchantment. The Crozier man controls her now—she is his creature."

"No," the boy whimpered, "she can't be."

Nelda hurried to the door. "Now we must truly leave," she urged, "this place is not safe for your sister will betray us to him. She has no will of her own."

Ben squirmed away from Jennet, then seized hold of the jet carving and hurried from the parlour.

"Benjamin!" Edith called. "Where are you going? Come back."

Jennet snarled and leapt after him, dragging the boy back by the hair.

"Oh no, little brother!" she yelled. "You're not going anywhere with that. If my Nathaniel wants your piece of junk then I'll see he gets it."

"Jen!" he shrieked as the girl pushed him into the wall and snatched the guardian from his grasp.

At this, Nelda let out an angry shout and flew at her. With a surprised wail, Jennet felt an invisible fist punch her stomach and she doubled over—winded and shocked.

Miss Wethers screamed in fright when the jet serpent seemed to fly from the girl's hands of its own accord as the aufwader wrenched it away.

"EEEKK!" she squawked. "The girl's possessed! Benjamin, run for the vicar!"

The boy was more frightened for his sister's safety than anything else. "Are you hurt, Jen?' he asked.

The girl only growled at him.

"We must go!" Nelda pleaded. "We must..."

Her voice faltered as her keen ears heard something. Then they all heard it. Outside, ringing over the concrete of the yard, came the sound of quick footsteps.

"We're too late," breathed Nelda.

"It's him!" Ben cried. "He's come for the final guardian—he'll destroy everything!"

The postmistress gave a small, terrified whimper and rose from her chair.

Only Jennet was pleased; she laughed and fires danced brightly in her eyes. Running into the hall, she rushed at the front door and started to drag away the pillows and cushions.

"No!" Ben yelled, as he and Nelda darted after her. "You mustn't let him in! He'll kill us all!"

"Nathaniel!" Jennet called excitedly as she fought with the latch. "Nathaniel, they won't let me come to you. I'm in here!"

"Miss Wethers!" Ben shouted. "We can't hold her."

Dithering in the parlour, Edith threw up her hands and scurried to help them.

"Let me go!" the girl screamed. "I must see him, I must hold him!"

"No, Jen!" her brother bawled. "He's bad! Come away from the door. Miss Wethers—do something!"

Edith grabbed the girl's waist and together the three of them dragged Jennet out of the hall.

"You'll be sorry!" she snapped. "He'll hurt you for this!"

Nelda picked up a cushion and threw it at the girl's head. "Tell her to pipe down," she said to Ben. "Sshh! The footsteps have stopped—he's right outside."

"Is the door locked?" Ben whispered to Miss Wethers.

The postmistress nodded hurriedly.

"That signifies nothing," Nelda told him, searching the room for a weapon. "Once a man of power has been invited over a threshold there is no lock that can bar his entry, the way is always open thereafter. Crozier will come—he will reach us."

"Then what can we do?" Ben cried. "We're done for!"

"Close that door," Nelda instructed, picking up a china vase and testing the weight of it. "We must attack as soon as he enters."

Ben did as she said, and from the hallway, they heard the latch rattling.

"He's trying to get in," breathed Miss Wethers in terror.

The lock clicked and the footsteps strode into the hall.

"Nathaniel," mouthed Jennet feverishly, her eyes blazing and her teeth glinting long and sharp in the candle-light.

The others huddled into the corner of the room; Nathaniel Crozier, high priest of the Black Sceptre, whose very name was a curse and whose own hands had butchered many, had come for them.

Nelda raised the vase above her head and Ben gripped the last guardian to his chest. Miss Wethers crammed her mouth with tissue and the parlour door swung open.

Edith screamed as a black shadow flew into the room and Nelda flung the vase with all her strength. It hit the wall by the door and shattered with a great crash. Quickly the aufwader reached for something else to throw but was stopped by a commanding voice which cut through the air like a razor.

"What on earth have we here?" it demanded.

The anxious face of Alice Boston peered round the door in bemused astonishment and she gave the shattered vase a quizzical look. "I was rather fond of that," she clucked, then the old lady grinned at them all. "I don't suppose there's any tea in the pot?" she asked.

The others gazed at her dumbfounded, then they relaxed and rushed over, wrapping their arms tightly about her plump body.

"Goodness!" she woefully exclaimed. "I leave Whitby for a few days and all hell breaks loose. The town is in uproar, what with buildings on fire, people running about like headless chickens and this horrid, clammy fog." She squinted down at Nelda who, to her eyes, was slightly blurred. "You needn't tell me who's behind it all either," she added, "that I already know."

Only Jennet had hung back from the heartfelt greetings. It was Nathaniel she wanted—nothing and nobody else was important to her now. Where was he—why had he not come? Brushing past the others, she ran to the hall and rushed into the billowing mist.

"Where are you?" she called.

"Jennet?" Miss Boston's voice came to her.

The girl whirled round and saw Aunt Alice staring at her curiously. "What have you done with him, you old witch?" she screamed.

Miss Boston flinched as though she had been hit. "Come in out of the cold, dear," she managed to say. "You're upset. Come back inside, there are those who love you more in here."

But the girl turned to flee and the old lady hurried down the step after her. Raising her hand, she made a curious sign in the air. "Jennet!" she shouted. "Stop! In the name of all that is holy, listen to me!"

"No," Jennet whined, but she wavered as her mind cleared a little and her legs buckled beneath her. Then the girl fell senseless to the ground.

"Benjamin!" Miss Boston called. "Nelda! Come and help me! Oh, I hope it isn't too late. Please Lord, don't let her be lost to him."

Presently Jennet was lying on the sofa and the old lady tutted in annoyance.

"I should have foreseen this," she reprimanded herself.

"Will Jen be okay?" Ben asked. "What did you do?"

"Merely called for help," replied Aunt Alice mysteriously. "Don't worry, she's just fainted. If only I had come back sooner. Still I should be thankful I'm here at all. Praise be for drunken butlers is all I can say." The others stared at her, not understanding a word and the old lady shook herself. The dreadful memory of Judith Deacon's body lying broken on the marble floor and surrounded by the fragments of a port bottle reared before her again.

Standing by the door, Nelda was impatient to leave. "The guardian must be taken from here," she insisted. "Crozier may still come."

Miss Boston stroked Jennet's hair, then turned to the aufwader and held out her hand. "May I see it?" she asked.

The aufwader showed her the jet serpent and the old lady studied it with a scowl. "I cannot allow this to continue!" she stormed, her fierce spirit raging within her. "This appalling man must be stopped—it's time I confronted him!"

"But you can't!" Ben protested. "He's too powerful!"

"Have faith," she told him, tucking the guardian into her blouse. "He must have some weakness or he wouldn't have sent me all the way to London. Besides, I have one or two little surprises left. I'm not totally defenceless."

Suddenly the entire cliff shuddered and in the yard outside a chimney stack came crashing down.

"Morgawrus," Nelda murmured. "He wakes."

Miss Boston swept a tweed cloak about her shoulders. "The time has come," she declared. "Edith, you stay with Jennet. Ben and Nelda, come with me." And the three of them hurried from the cottage.

"Take care, Alice," Miss Wethers called as they disappeared into the mist. The postmistress wiped her forehead then buried her face in her hands, failing to notice that Jennet was beginning to stir. A hellish light welled up behind the girl's eyelids and they snapped open—glaring at the oblivious Edith.

***

Tarr gazed about him. It had been a difficult task rounding up those who had fled from the fish demon, and they had barely escaped with their lives.

Now he stood awkwardly on the sand, missing his staff, and surveying the grim scene before him.

Whitby was completely covered by dense layers of mist that muffled the frantic clamour of shrill alarms. Occasionally, through a break in the smothering screen, tongues of flame shone out and the buildings that burned blazed furiously. The townsfolk were crowding the streets, trying to escape the black fog by hurrying as far inland as they could. Only the church and the abbey remained unsullied by the creeping dark and they reared over the town like proud beacons surrounded by a sea of night.

"'Tis finished," he muttered. "Everything is ended."

"Shrimp," cried Old Parry waddling up to him. "Look there, your granddaughter approaches, and with two of the landfolk—has she no shame?"

Tarr ignored her. Obviously she wasn't going to let the fact that he had rescued her change her cantankerous ways.

Over the sands charged Miss Boston, her cloak flapping and flying. At her side were Ben and Nelda and the young aufwader ran ahead to hug her grandfather.

"Oh, lass," Tarr cried in delight, swinging her round and holding her tightly. "Ah feared ah wouldna' sithee again."

"Mr Shrimp!" Aunt Alice cried sombrely. "Take your people away from here, lead them into the town—the shore is too dangerous."

Tarr gaped at her. "They'll not set foot in yon stinkin' place," he said flatly. "If'n we're to die we mun do it here, where we have allus lived."

"Then they are sure to perish," Miss Boston rapped back. "Look!"

She pointed out to sea and there, on the outermost spur of the East Pier, stood a solitary figure.

Nathaniel Crozier was silhouetted against the dismal horizon and his arms were raised in exultation as the water bubbled and thrashed wildly.

"A storm is coming," warned the old lady, "the worst there has ever been."

"Deeps take me!" muttered Tarr, realising what was about to happen. Calling to the rest of the tribe, he cried, "Follow me, we mun clear out from here and seek shelter in the town of the landfolk."

There was surprisingly little resistance from the others. The tribe now looked to him for guidance and even Lorkon, the only surviving member of the Triad, accepted his decision without rancour. Only Old Parry objected, but they were all too weary and afraid to listen to her. Tarr was their leader now and he started shepherding them along the shore towards the town.

"And you go with them, Benjamin," Aunt Alice told him.

"No," the boy cried, "I won't leave you—you don't know what Crozier is capable of."

"On the contrary," she said bitterly, "I am only too well aware of his deceit and cunning. Now, please, do as I ask."

Nelda took hold of Ben's hand. "Come," she said, "your aunt is right. We have done our part."

The old lady smiled at her gratefully. "You see," she murmured, "it's up to me now—this is my battle, not yours. From here I go on alone."

Ben gazed at her anxiously. "But... but," he spluttered.

Miss Boston bent down and kissed him. "Goodbye, Benjamin," she said. "Take him away from here, Nelda dear."

"I shall," the aufwader replied. "Farewell."

Aunt Alice pulled the brim of her hat over her eyes and the tweed cloak swirled madly about her as she marched towards the stone pier and ascended the steps.

"She has great courage," commented Nelda, "I could not face what she must. Hurry, we have to catch up with the others. The tide is already racing in." And she pulled him gently towards the town.

Ben twisted round and saw for the last time the old lady's indomitable figure as it hurried along the pier. Then the mist closed and he saw no more.

***

The sea was angry now and violent waves crashed against the square stones of the pier, lashing the full might of its rage upon them in a frenzy of destruction.

Through battering walls of stinging spray, Miss Boston struggled. The brutal strength of the breaking waves almost knocked her off her feet, but she steadied herself and pressed on.

The salt rain hammered down and the old lady shielded her eyes from its merciless onslaught. Not far now; she could see the small lighthouse at the end of the pier and before it—Nathaniel.

The warlock crowed triumphantly, leaning into the growing storm, revelling in its savagery and defying it with his laughter. The waves smashed into his legs, but his fists were locked about the railing and though the sea plucked and tore at him he resisted and clung on tenaciously.

Turning his head, his dark gaze fell upon Miss Boston as she tottered towards him and he hooted. "The end has come!" he cried. "Even though one guardian still remains, the enchanted sleep is over. No need to murder that detestable child after all."

Aunt Alice grasped the rail as the sea burst over the side. "You revolting creature!" she shouted, her mouth filling with brine. "You killed Patricia."

"Don't forget that old fool Roper," he interrupted with a vile chuckle.

"Ernest?" she cried. "Him too?"

But the warlock had turned back to the sea, where the water had turned a disgusting, inky green.

"Spare me your tiresome grief," he snapped, "there's nothing you can do now, old hag. You're too late, it's too late for everyone. Only I understood, only I realised what my stupid and greedy wife failed to comprehend."

"Aren't you a trifle too sure of yourself?" Miss Boston scorned, raising her voice to be heard against the roaring waters.

Nathaniel grinned. "No one knew except me," he bragged. "Who would have guessed it? Not a dabbling amateur like you, you with your precious tea parties, wart curing and furtive seances." He stretched out his hand and in an arrogant sweep of his arm, encompassed the darkness that was Whitby. "The whole town," he grandly announced, "was founded and built on the back of Morgawrus, a serpent so huge that it can swallow the contents of the entire harbour in one vast gulp. The enemy of all living things it was called in the beginning of days and the coast was laid waste for miles around, choked by its poison and blackened with its fires."

"And you've woken this unclean spirit!"

"How else could I dominate and control it?" he cried.

"Benjamin was right," Miss Boston declared, "you are insane!"

The warlock laughed at her. "We'll see," he exulted, "for the head of Morgawrus is already free."

Miss Boston stared at the boiling surface of the waves. "But, surely," she cried, "if it leaves the underground caverns, Whitby will be utterly destroyed!"

Nathaniel did not answer, for at that moment the sea exploded, mountainous spouts of water soared into the heavens and putrid brown froth erupted from the depths as a hideous shape slowly rose.

Miss Boston opened her mouth and called out in fear, but her voice was drowned by the roar of the waves and the monstrous head of Morgawrus burst from the raven deep.

The pier shivered, dwarfed by the ghastly nightmare which reared up beside it, and Aunt Alice dropped to her knees in horror.

"The enemy of all living things," Nathaniel rejoiced. "Was there ever such a diseased, malignant vision of disaster?" he screamed with joy.

Two golden eyes blasted upwards, searing the night like great furnaces and plumes of steam screeched into the sky around them. The head was massive, encrusted by barnacles and the reeking scum of millennia. It was a repulsive aberration that shamed nature and mocked the symmetry of creation. An endless torrent of stagnant water gushed from the immeasurable jaws and stained the pier black.

A deafening screech issued from three huge nostrils as Morgawrus breathed, and the row of gills that gaped below the eyes yawned wide—like a hideous range of grinning wounds.

High the fetid apparition reared, towering far into the sky, the five, tortured horns that crowned its head raking the clouds and tearing the canopy of the world.

Miss Boston balked at the stench that beat from this perilous nightmare. She was soaked to the skin and wept in bleak despair as the warlock raised his arms to begin his evil work.

"Now!" he cried. "While the drowse still lies heavy on it—I seize my chance!" He clenched his teeth and summoned the dark forces at his command. "Aid me!" he ordered. "Give me the strength to conquer and control!"

The air about his fingertips shimmered and a livid green flame flickered into existence. For a moment it crackled feebly, then snaked across his palms and swiftly grew brighter. Down the warlock's outstretched arms the energy twisted, entwining him in a glowing spiral of magical force.

High above, the vast head opened its ravening maw and a hollow cry bellowed from the dark throat. The noise rent the heavens, buildings toppled and huge chunks of the cliffs crumbled into the sea.

Minuscule in the serpent's shadow, tears streamed from Nathaniel's eyes as he quaked under the strain of his exertions. The power which channelled through him was treacherous, almost impossible to control and he shrieked in agony as the pressures intensified.

"Concentrate," he howled. "Hold on until the forces reach their peak."

The flames that weaved about him were dazzling now, flashing and sparking with jags of lightning.

Miss Boston turned from the harsh green glare and frantically babbled words of protection and challenge under her breath. She had been wrong to come—just being near the serpent filled her with uncontrollable despair and Nathaniel's powers were far beyond anything she had ever encountered.

"Now!" yelled Nathaniel and he threw back his hands. At once, the spitting flames leapt from his fingers and bolted upwards. The jagged stream of energy burst through the air, striking the ghastly head, which roared more fiercely than before. This time the pier rocked and the stones cracked, the railings buckled and the wooden extension broke away, collapsing thunderously into the sea. The breath of Morgawrus howled like a gale and tore inland—creating a whirlwind which sucked up the sand and fell viciously upon the town.

Huddling at the bottom of the abbey steps, the remains of the aufwader tribe vainly tried to shield themselves from the deadly storm. It was as though the whole shore was screaming about them and the grit scored their faces and cut into their hands. Ben hid his face whilst Tarr grimly held on to his granddaughter as the tempest raged ferociously.

On the pier, Miss Boston let go of her hat and it was snatched from her head as she clung for dear life to the twisted rail.

The warlock's spells crackled furiously over the serpent and, though the beast tried to pull away, the dazzling flames held it securely.

"Creature of the primeval dawn," Nathaniel proclaimed, "hear me!"

The fires surged and the head shuddered, trying one last time to escape the terrible forces which gripped it. Down it plunged, sinking into the waves, churning the water and screeching in protest.

"You will be mine," the warlock commanded. "You have no will of your own—obey my words, obey me!"

The serpent froze, the enchantments scalded and blistered and Nathaniel's voice finally cut through—biting savagely into its mind.

A triumphant smile flashed across the man's face as their two wills strove with one another. The brain of the creature was vast, yet the countless years of sleep had made it sluggish and his quick mind sliced in, jabbing through the defences like a keen blade. The contest was his; he was a master of domination and, as the serpent's mind peeled away before his razor-like senses, he knew he had won.

Deep into Morgawrus the warlock delved.

Projecting the essence of his warped being out into the dark labyrinth of the monster's drowsy memory, where fleeting images of swamps and desolation pulsed and glowed. But Nathaniel was ruler there now, and he enslaved the serpent—binding it to his service.

Miss Boston watched the silent combat in disbelief—the awful man actually seemed to be succeeding. The eyes of the apparition dimmed, gradually glazing over and, in a trance-like stupor, the head swayed from side to side. In a steady, continuous stream, Nathaniel's power flowed across to the beast, quenching, conquering and controlling it.

Her white hair plastered down by slime and frightful ooze, Miss Boston finally took a grip on herself. "What's the matter with you, Alice?" she cried amid the storm. "Get up there and stop that foul man!"

Lumbering to her feet, the old lady rushed forward. "Stop!" she yelled, grabbing the man's arm and dragging him away.

Nathaniel shrieked, his concentration was broken and the mental link between him and the monster snapped momentarily, sending him reeling backwards.

"You imbecile!" he bawled. "You could have killed me!"

"This has gone on long enough!" she shouted. "You must stop!"

"Get out of my sight, you odious hag!" he cried. "Morgawrus is mine to command—and nothing on this earth will be able to stand against us."

Turning his back on her in contempt, Nathaniel looked on his terrifying slave. "All will be ours," he laughed, "now and forever more. Heave out the rest of your coils my beautiful horror. Show the world how easily you can destroy. Let the town of Whitby crumble into the bottomless pit."

"No!" screamed Miss Boston. "You mustn't." And she threw herself at him, pummelling the man with her fists and kicking him with her feet.

Nathaniel staggered under the ferocity of the old lady's attack. One of her punches caught him on the chin and another went straight into the ribs. Miss Boston was like a mad thing and he blundered against the railing in surprise. But the advantage was not hers for long. Swiftly the man recovered and he shoved her roughly away, his face black with wrath.

"Whitby can wait!" he growled. "It's you who'll die first—but it's a pleasure I'll undertake myself."

Never had Nathaniel Crozier been so incensed; like a tiger he sprang and the old lady fell beneath him.

"No," she wailed, as her head hit the ground and his strong fingers closed about her neck. The warlock squeezed his hands together and the breath choked in her throat.

"Look your last on this world, old woman!" he snarled.

Miss Boston tried to pull his hands away but it was no use, he was far too strong. With a strangled cry, she turned her eyes from his evil face and fixed her gaze on the ruins of the abbey which rose majestically in the distance.

A darkness greater than that which had already engulfed Whitby closed about her and the old lady's hands fell limply to her sides.

"Nathaniel!" came an urgent voice. "Nathaniel!"

The warlock looked up uncertainly. Running towards them along the pier was the small figure of a girl.

Miss Wethers had proven to be a poor guard and Jennet had escaped from her without difficulty, hurrying instinctively to the shore. She knew he would be there, she could sense his delicious presence. Now he would take her away and they could be together always.

She hurtled to greet him, but her stride faltered. The head of Morgawrus loomed monstrously up out of the mist and the girl cried out. Staring at the grotesque spectacle in fear, she felt faint again and stepped back apprehensively.

But the creature still seemed to be in the grip of Crozier's influence and made no sign that it had seen her. Jennet cautiously edged into the beast's great shadow, her obsession with the man driving her through the danger.

"Nathaniel," she called, "what... what are you doing?"

The warlock was crouching over the body of Aunt Alice, his hands tight about her throat. Jennet was bewildered. What was happening?

The warlock rose, his ringers twitching. "What do you want?" he sneered.

The girl wavered, unsure of herself. Miss Boston looked so pale, what had her beloved done? She stared incredulously at him. His face seemed cruel and less handsome than she remembered—how harsh his voice sounded, and the horrible dark eyes cut right through her.

"Will you never stop pestering me—you boring child?" he spat. "Your constant simpering grates on me. What does it take to be rid of your pathetic attentions—shall I throttle you as well?"

It was as if a veil were torn from Jennet's eyes. Finally she saw the man's true nature and she gasped at her own foolishness as the last vestiges of his control left her.

"Aunt Alice!" she screamed, rushing to the old lady's side. "You've killed her!"

Nathaniel sniggered and his fingers fidgeted for another victim. "Come here, little one," he sang, "let me embrace you too."

"Stay away from me!" Jennet cried.

The warlock closed in on her. "Come to Nathaniel," he chuckled, "let him hold you, it won't take long—I promise."

"Keep back!" Jennet warned.

"What's this?" he murmured. "Would you deny what has been burning in your heart since the day we met?"

"Don't you touch me!" she screamed.

"How fickle is woman," Nathaniel growled, stealing closer.

The girl fell back and the warlock reached out for her.

"Don't you dare!" came a croaking voice.

Nathaniel turned and Jennet grinned with joy. "Aunt Alice," she gasped, "I thought you were dead!"

"For a minute back there so did I," muttered the old lady, gingerly touching the red marks at her throat. Then she glared angrily at Nathaniel and shook her head at him. "I suppose I should be grateful for your slipshod incompetence," she shouted, "it seems you can't do anything right—look behind you."

The warlock stared at her, what was the old bag jabbering about now? And then a doubt crossed his mind and he spun round. The eyes of the massive head were bright again, and glowed down at them as though it understood everything they said.

Nathaniel frowned, disconcerted for a moment and then his mouth fell open and his hands flew to his temples as a fearful voice boomed inside his mind.

"Tiny insects," Morgawrus spoke, the forbidding sound echoing inside each of their heads, "what paltry webs do they spin? What petty plots do they nurture in their fleeting existence?"

The warlock threw his arms open. "Remember," he roared, "you are mine to command! My will is yours!"

Terrible laughter cut deeply into the three small figures on the pier as the serpent reared up. "Too long have I been tethered in sleep," it shrieked. "Thou mayst have wakened me, little man, but thou canst not make me thy thrall. I shall not trade one set of bonds for another."

"I demand it!" the warlock cried, running to the buckled railing and pointing up at the creature.

"Enough!" screamed the serpent. "Cast thy feeble sorceries elsewhere. Now are my wits restored and thy powers are as nothing compared to mine."

Nathaniel was incensed; he had dared much to come here and he was not prepared to simply stand by and let all that he had strived for slip away.

Screeching, he put forth his powers. Terrible lightning rent the sky and the surrounding waters flashed as the lethal energies discharged down into the deep. Yet every furious volley of enchantment broke against the unassailable might of the gigantic serpent and fierce green stars went spinning, out of control, into the night.

Miss Boston clung to Jennet as the warlock wrangled and strove. The air was alive with his evil magic and they pressed themselves against the floor as spectral flames screamed over their heads.

Every black art Nathaniel ever knew, every bewitching charm, every incantation and devilish wizardry to confound and subjugate, he directed at Morgawrus. But the counter-strokes were dreadful and anguish mounted in the warlock's breast as he struggled to maintain the force of his attack. Then it happened. Nathaniel flung one last, desperate enchantment at the nightmarish head and the battle was over.

"A futile display," Morgawrus mocked. "In truth is that the best thou canst do? You have lost, little man."

Thanks to the delay Miss Boston had caused, the creature had been given enough time to shake off the lingering traces of sleep. It could not be caught off guard a second time. All Crozier's glorious dreams were in ruins and his life was forfeit.

The great golden eyes blazed down at him, flowing over with menace and evil joy—now it was the serpent's turn to attack.

"Spare me!" grovelled Nathaniel shrilly as the head swooped vengefully down. "I can help you!" Consumed with panic, he screamed a spell of defence but it shattered as Morgawrus came for him. The tremendous jaws of his nemesis gaped open and a gale of putrid breath screeched all around the terrified man.

"Aaaaaarrrrgggghhhh!" howled Nathaniel as the poisonous fumes blasted into him. He tried to cover his face with his hands but his arms were rigid and he could not move his legs to run. All over his body the skin crackled and solidified—turning a dull chalky grey. Throwing back his head, he screamed once more, but the cry dwindled to nothing and his mouth was frozen wide, his face locked in an expression of absolute terror.

The hideous sight of Morgawrus towered over him, its vast bulk filling his eyes—before they too calcified. Wracked in torturous agony that devoured his petrified soul, the warlock perished, and only a solid figure of stone now stood where he had been.

Jennet and Miss Boston could only stare in horror at what they had just witnessed, and the girl buried her face into the old lady's cloak—screaming for her dead parents.

Then the victorious serpent shook its head and, at the sound of its laughter, the statue of Nathaniel trembled and shattered. A thousand ammonites smashed to the ground, rolling into the sea and the waves came rushing over the side to eagerly wash the rest away.

Aunt Alice tried to comfort the child at her side. "Hush dear," she cried, but the shadow fell upon her and the baleful eyes glowered down at their stricken figures. Slowly and threateningly, the disgusting head swung round to them.

"More of the human kind," the frightful voice echoed in their heads. "Hath that loathsome breed over run my realm? I shall not rest again till all traces of their infestation have been swept into the waters or scorched from the land. This place is mine—I am Lord, I shall vanquish the light and blight the things that grow in the field and ripen on the bough. Nought shall survive the despair I shall bring. A new age of death is come!"

The three nostrils trumpeted and the open maw dripped a river of deadly juices.

"Aunt Alice!" the girl yelled in terror.

Miss Boston staggered to her feet and pushed Jennet behind her.

"Return to your slumbers!" she demanded. "The world has moved on, there is no need of you any more—you are an anachronism here. Begone to the tunnels of your gaol and sleep for another thousand centuries till man's time is over and you can roam the oceans free of hindrance."

The terrible gale blasted from the serpent's mouth once more and Miss Boston boldly leaned into it, not a trace of fear betraying her stern countenance.

Jennet cried out as the dark forces screeched around them, and she trembled, waiting for her flesh to petrify as Nathaniel's had done.

"I defy you, Morgawrus," Aunt Alice proclaimed, "leave now before you anger me." She folded her arms and her hair streamed wildly in the ferocious tempest.

Her insolence enraged the terrible creature. "Thou art lice!" it roared. "And I shall crush thee!"

The eyes blazed with searing heat and a stream of white hot flame shot from the narrow slits—streaking towards the frail woman below.

Miss Boston reached anxiously for Jennet's hand and held it tight as the deadly fire rained down. A cloud of black smoke and ashes exploded where she stood and the huge head of the monster descended through the choking fumes as they slowly cleared.

There, amid a smoking ring of cinders and charred stone, Miss Boston cautiously opened one eye and sighed in relief—both she and Jennet were unharmed.

"How can this be?" Morgawrus bellowed in fury and the waves crashed about its long, scaly neck. But Aunt Alice continued to stand her ground. Though battered with stinking spray, she glared at the abomination above and would not be daunted.

"Return," she said again, "or must I compel you?"

Morgawrus reared back and his horns rammed into the pier, gouging into the stone as if it were soft clay. "What protection hast thou to resist and withstand my power!" he demanded. "What guards thee against the might of mine wrath?"

"Enough to keep me safe and force you back under the cliffs," she retorted, "that which Irl began long ago but which he never completed!"

With her left hand, she clutched at her breast and raised the other high into the air. "Prepare yourself, oh misbegotten creature of the dismal dark," she solemnly announced. "You have had your taste of freedom but the chains are forging anew and you must sleep once more."

The serpent opened its massive jaws and the dark void of its cavernous mouth sailed down to swallow her.

Miss Boston took from her blouse the last guardian. It was warm to the touch, having absorbed all the lethal forces that Morgawrus had hurled at them. As the jaws approached, she called beseechingly into the night and held the guardian out before her.

"Hear me, oh Lords of the Deep and Dark," she cried, "renew the strength of the enchantment you laid upon the enemy many ages ago. I plead to you, goddess of the moon, Great Mother of us all—instill this device with your strength."

The cruel pinnacles of Morgawrus's fangs came ravaging for her. Scraping across the pier to where she stood, and Miss Boston called out for the last time.

"Lord God in heaven," she prayed, "defend us from this foulness and deliver us from the fear of it ever after!"

Jennet screamed. A black tongue, like a colossal slug, slithered over the stone, which hissed and dissolved beneath its glistening bulk.

Miss Boston lifted the carving above her head. "All three powers work as one at last," she shouted. "Separate no longer!"

A deep rumble resounded through the night. On the horizon, beneath the line of the sea a golden radiance welled, through a tear in the clouds the disc of the moon shone and, upon the cliff, the abbey gleamed white and cold.

In her hands, the eyelids of the jet carving sprang open and a brilliant light shone from the crystals behind them. High into the shadow of Morgawrus the waxing power flew and the head recoiled before it.

"No!" the serpent screamed. "The light—it blinds."

Miss Boston's arms trembled. The forces that were pouring from the carving were staggering and she felt them jolt through her body as they were unleashed upon the fearful enemy.

"I warned you!" she cried, wincing as the guardian grew hot in her grasp. "The powers of this world and beyond are united in this device now—as they should have been from the beginning. So long as the earth lasts, so shall you, but in a deathless sleep from which there is no waking."

The glittering light raged about the monster's head and it screeched deafeningly. A terrible fatigue set into the sinews of its coils, creeping slowly through its veins, numbing the nerves and turning the black blood to ice. Shaking its horns, the serpent fought to dispel the numbness which ate into its putrid flesh, but the manacles of sleep tightened all the more.

"Return to the stinking pits beneath the cliffs!" Miss Boston commanded in a quaking voice.

From the churning waves, a host of white sparks shot into the air and Morgawrus shrieked as titanic forces began to drag it under.

"Let the guardian of Irl finally undertake its true work," the old lady shouted.

"I shall escape," the serpent cried. "Enchantments fail, the guardian may be broken."

Aunt Alice sobbed as the carving burned into her palms. "Into oblivion I consign you!" she called. "Into the long dark of eter... eternity!"

Down sank the huge neck, drawn back into the dank caves from which it had escaped. The sea crashed over the battered pier with horrendous violence and Jennet clung desperately to the old lady as the world seemed to tip and tidal waves pounded them out of existence.

A malignant and ghastly glare shone from the serpent's eyes, but it was no match for the light which blazed from the guardian. The narrow slits roved desperately round—all hope was destroyed and the glowing eyes were extinguished.

The water churned tempestuously as the repulsive head fell. Down into the mad sea it descended, a vast wave crashed against the head and drowned the beast's howling cries.

Miss Boston shook uncontrollably as the great dark eyes slid beneath the sea. Still the guardian poured out its banishing rays, reaching into the murky deeps, lighting up the sea for miles around. Under the cliffs Morgawrus was compelled to return and the earth rumbled as the immense head pushed back through the caverns of its ancient prison.

"Trouble the... trouble the world... no... no more," the old lady commanded. 'Be for... forever at its roots, till the... the end of ti... time.'

Smoke streamed from her hands as the guardian scorched her skin—no longer was it a carving of jet, but a divine thing of purity and might that shone with the combined force of the sun, the moon and the stars.

Jennet shielded her eyes from the cone of light around her. She could feel Aunt Alice shuddering under the strain of the guardian's immense power and the old lady whimpered piteously.

The girl pulled at Miss Boston's cloak. "Make it stop," she cried, "the creature's gone!"

But the old lady couldn't; the carving continued to shine and the splendour of its glory was destroying her. A dazzling halo engulfed Aunt Alice's trembling form and, squinting through the glare, Jennet beheld Miss Boston's face.

The wrinkled skin was shrivelling, withering before the almighty light like a moth in a flame. The girl wept in horror and tore at the old lady's arms.

"Let it go!" she screamed. "It's killing you!"

Aunt Alice was too weak to answer, her strength was failing and the relentless brilliance drained the life from her body.

Jennet looked around helplessly, then leaped up and snatched the guardian from the old lady's grasp. Miss Boston wailed and fell back—her palms smoking hideously.

The carving fell to the ground, where it continued to throb and blaze and Jennet threw herself to the old lady's side. "Aunt Alice!" she sobbed. "Aunt Alice!"

Miss Boston feebly moved her head. One side of her face seemed stiff and lifeless and the whole of her left side was drawn awkwardly into her body. A great tear rolled down her shrivelled cheek as she struggled to speak. "Jennet," she uttered thickly, "is... is it over?"

The girl tenderly raised the white woolly head and rested it on her lap. "Yes," she replied, her own tears splashing on the old lady's face, "it's all over now."

A faint smile flickered about Miss Boston's mouth. "Be... be a good gir... girl dear," she murmured, "take care of... of Benjamin..." And her eyes slowly closed.

"No!" howled Jennet. "Please, don't leave us—please."

A pale glimmer rose about them; the unnatural night was lifting and the day stole over the town once more. But the sun was bleak comfort to the figures on the wrecked pier. As the daystar sparkled over the waves, the light of Id's guardian dimmed and the eyelids closed over the crystals. The work was done and the device became jet once more. The invocations that Irl had never been able to utter had finally been completed by Miss Boston and now she too drifted close to the dark shores of death. The danger was over but she had paid dearly for the safety of all.

As the soft daylight spread over Whitby, three small shapes ran along the pier. Ben, Nelda and Tarr hurried to reach the two figures at the far end.

When he saw what had happened, the old aufwader halted and took hold of his granddaughter. "Nay, lass," he muttered, "leave tha friend be, let him alone wi' his kin."

Jennet cradled the old lady in her arms as the peaceful afternoon began afresh. There was much work to do in the town, many buildings had been devastated and the roads were in chaos. But for Alice Boston her labours were over.

"Jen!" the boy cried. "What happened? What's wrong with Aunt Alice?"

His sister lifted her raw eyes to him and he felt a cold pain close round his heart. "I think she's dying," the girl wept.

Epilogue

On a cold, January morning, an ambulance trundled over the repaired cobbles of the East Cliff and drew up at the end of Church Street.

"'Ere we go!" called the driver, jumping from the cab and opening the rear doors.

Inside another man helped him with the patient and together they lifted her down.

A tragic change had altered Miss Boston. A severe stroke the doctors had called it, yet it was more than that. To save the world from Morgawrus she had sacrificed herself—but fate had decreed that she should not die. Instead the old lady was a pale reflection of who she had been. Her ninety-two years had descended heavily upon her: arthritis crippled her hands and her legs were brittle stalks. Although the doctors assured her that she would regain her voice given time, at present she could only mumble unintelligibly.

Muffled and swathed like a babe, they wheeled her through the alleyway and into the yard beyond.

All her friends were there to welcome her home. Standing by the door of the cottage were Jennet and Ben and they rushed to greet the old lady, putting Eurydice on her lap, and behind the children scurried Edith. Even Mrs Gregson and her husband were there to see their neighbour return, and Norman stepped forward, giving her a bunch of snowdrops, which he pressed into her useless fingers.

"It's lovely to see you back again," whispered Jennet into Aunt Alice's ear.

The ambulance men hauled the wheelchair over the steps and pushed Miss Boston into the parlour. The old lady gazed around at the altered room. Her bed had been brought downstairs and was now next to the window. The men muttered a few hushed words to Miss Wethers then smiled kindly at her and left.

Edith had retired from the post office at Christmas and was now living permanently at the cottage. "Well, Alice," she said, "What do you think? We've all worked so hard getting it ready for you. Mr Gregson helped us bring the bed down—I can't get over how he and his wife have changed. They're really rather pleasant nowadays. She even helped me sew these new curtains so they'd be ready in time."

She placed her hands in front of her and bent down, talking slowly and deliberately to be sure the invalid understood. "Now," she chirped, "how about a cup of warm milk—do you think you could manage that?"

The figure in the wheelchair glared truculently at the well-meaning but patronising ditherer, then gave the slightest of nods. Miss Wethers clapped her hands together in delight and fluttered into the kitchen.

Alone with the children, Miss Boston looked at them with happiness in her eyes. After months in hospital it was marvellous to be home.

"Mmmm," she mumbled, struggling to speak to them, but her voice was trapped inside her paralysed body and her heart bled in despair.

Ben took the snowdrops from her hand and kissed it gently. "Don't worry," he told her, "it'll be fine. Me and Jen won't let Miss Wethers treat you like a baby." Giving her a warm grin he then added, "And tonight, I've got a surprise for you."

***

The last of the fireworks shot into the sky, bursting with flowers of red and orange fire.

On Tate Hill Pier, the small group who had been watching applauded; it had been a splendid display.

"Lovely," twittered Miss Wethers, "but I still think you should have lit them, Jennet."

The girl gazed down at her brother on the shore. "No," she replied, "they were Ben's way of celebrating Aunt Alice's return, and I think they had a special, private meaning for him as well."

On the sands, Ben stared into the dark heavens. "Goodbye, Mr Roper," he said, "and thank you."

"Well it's high time we got back indoors," Edith clucked, "you must be frozen, Alice. Perhaps two hot water bottles weren't enough. I'll have Doctor Adams complaining if you catch a chill." Taking hold of the wheelchair's handles, she turned it and pushed homewards.

Miss Boston gazed a moment longer at the boy on the shore, aching to thank him.

"Ben!" Jennet called. "We're going in now."

"Coming," he answered, running over the beach to join her.

Leaving the dark shore behind, they followed the two old ladies back to the cottage where the fire crackled cosily in the grate and Miss Wethers made hot chocolate for them all.

The cold sea lapped silently over the sand, the night was filled with shadow, and from a dark well of gloom, stepped a small figure.

Nelda stared after the children until they disappeared into the narrow streets. She had been watching them for some time, the flashes of the fireworks dancing in her large grey eyes. She had desperately wanted to talk with Ben but something had prevented her calling to him.

The surviving fisherfolk had moved back into the few dismal caves that had not been destroyed and now they lived a hard life, in cramped and wretched conditions. The great stone doors had, after many attempts, been lifted back into place—but without the opening mechanism they remained firmly shut and the tribe found other ways to enter their tiny realm. The guardian of Irl was entrusted to Nelda's grandfather and he had been elected as the new leader of them all, dispensing with the old ways of the Triad.

Now Nelda stared at the icy stars that glinted over the sea. The time was coming when she must tell; she could not keep her terrible secret, she needed to confide in somebody.

Rubbing tears from her eyes, the aufwader wandered sorrowfully along the shore. The curse of the Deep Ones would now claim her, as surely as it had her mother. Gazing into the black distance, Nelda wept, her doom was certain, for inside the young aufwader—a child was growing.

The Whitby Witches 3:
The Whitby Child

Robin Jarvis
First published in the UK in 1994.

Introduction

The broken ruin of the abbey appeared dark and ugly against oppressive black clouds. Its ancient stones were stained by the rain and it seemed as if the jagged pinnacles of its remaining windows had punctured the low ceiling of mist which hung threateningly above the cliffs.

The day belonged to the drizzle. Since the bleak dawn, dismal rain had poured from a slate-coloured sky. Relentlessly it streaked through the chill air, teeming down chimney pots and hissing on the sputtering fires beneath. Drumming on the terracotta rooftops it sluiced through the guttering in a frantic chase to gurgle and rush from the spouts below.

On to the one hundred and ninety-nine steps the drizzle fell until they glistened like black glass and the few muffled figures that dared to climb them slithered and skidded their way to the top.

The narrow streets of the East Cliff were filled by the incessant music of the deluge. Drain-pipes flowed as fountains—gushing into the rivers that churned like rapids beside the pavements, whilst an echoing chorus sang from every gargling grid and grate. The small town was thoroughly drowned, and that bleak morning gradually seeped into an equally drab afternoon.

The month of February was glumly displaying its sourest humour and all hearts grumbled and prayed for the rain to cease.

No, not all, for in the drenched town there was perhaps one who did not care whether it poured for forty days and forty nights. Whitby could be submerged beneath the sea for all she cared, the world outside might be swept down the cliffs forever and what would it matter to her?

Through eyes every bit as watery as the day itself, Alice Boston gazed morosely from the window of her cottage and gave a bored yawn.

Almost a month had passed since she had been discharged from hospital, yet the old lady was compelled to wonder if her life was now worth living.

A pale shadow of her former self, the once vigorous ninety-two-year-old now suffered each and every day of her great age. Her weariness was compounded by a recent birthday which had brought her to the grand total of ninety-three and she felt that she could bear the endless drudge of her dreary existence no longer. For someone who had always been a tireless and sprightly figure, her present condition was a bitter and repugnant one.

Ever since November of the previous year, Alice Boston had been close to death. Her valiant battle with Nathaniel Crozier—the vilest man ever to have sullied the world—now seemed distant and difficult to believe. There were times when she even forgot the horrific spectacle of Morgawrus, the monstrous serpent, whom she had sent back to the caverns beneath the cliffs to perpetual slumber.

Now, sitting in the armchair hour after hour it was easy to let the mind drift and allow fragments of memory to melt away forever. Could that terrible confrontation really have taken place? Was her tragic situation really due to the forces that she had unleashed? Had they drained her energy or was it merely her age? What if she had merely imagined it all? None of it seemed real any more—the threat and menace was over and she found herself regretting it.

The only life she knew now was experienced within the four walls of her sick room and anything beyond their bounds was difficult to comprehend or believe in. The life force that had once burned so fiercely within her soul was almost entirely quenched.

For many weeks she had been in the intensive care unit of the hospital and everyone feared that her time had come. But the thought of Jennet and Ben left alone in the world had kept one last ember of her indomitable spirit glowing. Miss Boston had not allowed herself to submit to that final peace, yet as the days wore on she became ever more despondent.

The old lady was trapped, chained inside the prison of her own crippled body. Propped against pillows in her armchair, she was a frail and wasted figure. Her left side was completely paralysed and she could neither walk nor dress herself. So drawn were the muscles in her face that she could not speak and when she struggled to make herself understood Miss Boston mumbled and grunted as unintelligibly as a new-born baby.

It was a humiliating end to the life which she had always embraced to the full. To think that the person who had saved the world from the threat of Morgawrus was now incapable of going to the toilet unaided.

The thought rankled in the old lady's mind. Never had she known such despairing frustration; her brain was still alert and active yet her body was almost useless.

Of course she was not left to fend for herself. Her good, but irritating friend Edith Wethers had retired from the post office and moved in to tend to the invalid's needs and wants.

For much of her spinster's life, Edith had cared for her own sick mother and was delighted to be of service once more. How she loved to fuss and cosset; tucking in the blankets around the bed, patting the pillows, brushing Alice's white woolly hair and wiping that oh so lined and poorly looking face with a brisk wet flannel. Never had the ex-postmistress felt so needed. What with seeing to Miss Boston and the children she hardly had time for herself and was thoroughly enjoying every last second.

As Miss Boston stared at the drizzle, she repented of those occasions on which she had bullied and bulldozed her tireless nursemaid. She could not help but wonder if this was some divine retribution for those times. If Edith Wethers had indeed sought a terrible revenge upon her then nothing could possibly have been more painful than this.

During the past few weeks, she had learnt to dislike Edith quite considerably and could not fathom how that sick mother of hers had ever endured such suffocating care for so many years.

With these sombre thoughts simmering impotently within her, Alice Boston waited for the hours to roll by. The afternoon grew old and the light began to fail. Across the window, raindrops drew slanting lines and their streaming shadows scored the invalid's wrinkled face.

A ruddy glow in the hearth signalled that the fire too had given up and the room became lost in a dim gloom. Curled up before the fading heat Eurydice, the cat, stretched her three legs and dozed contentedly—dreaming of the many suitors that had pursued and caught her.

Very gently, Miss Boston's eyes closed and her many chins were flattened against her bosom as she nodded and slipped into a fitful slumber.

"Alice Boston!"

Her head jerked and the stern voice snapped again.

"Good Lord, look at the state of you! Wake up, woman!"

With a hiss, Eurydice dug her claws into the carpet as every hair bristled and spiked upon her back. Then, emitting a frightful mewling shriek, she raced from the room and tore upstairs to hide beneath one of the children's beds.

Miss Boston stirred and her tired eyes blinked drowsily.

Suddenly she drew in her breath and the invalid's eyes grew round with wonder and amazement. Then her lop-sided mouth gaped wide open.

"Don't gawk, Alice!" said the familiar voice. "Do you have any idea how foolish you look? A shrivelled baboon, that's it exactly."

Miss Boston clapped her mouth shut and one corner of it twitched into a joyous grin. There, standing by the half open door was someone whom she never dreamt she would see again—Prudence Joyster.

But Prudence was dead, and it was several moments before Miss Boston realised that what her eyes beheld was merely a phantom of her departed friend.

Mrs Joyster's silvery hair was scraped back into the usual fist-sized bun and over a linen blouse she wore her comfortable grey cardigan decorated with embroidered roses. Yet like a reflection upon gently rippling water, the unforgettable figure shimmered. Very faintly Miss Boston could see the outline of the bed and the deep cherry glow of the fire through the shadowy form.

The ghost of Mrs Joyster, however, behaved exactly as she had done in life.

Clicking her tongue brusquely she looked with undisguised disdain around the sickroom. Then, folding her arms, she dismissed the whole sorry sight with an impatient shake of the head and before saying another word perched herself upon the other armchair.

"Confined to barracks," she archly observed in her crisp, military manner. "What has that dithering numbskull of a postmistress done to you? I never could bear her, you know. Never did like silly women and she's one of the silliest."

If Miss Boston had been able to speak, she wouldn't have known what to say.

Fortunately this did not seem to matter, for Prudence was quite prepared to do all the talking herself.

"Well, to be brutally honest, Alice," she rattled on briskly, "I am compelled to admit that I am disgusted with you! Such an abysmally wanton display of self-pity and wallowing apathy! You might as well be in one of those homes you always detested. Bed baths and bingo—that's all you're fit for!"

Miss Boston had always admired her friend's direct and incisive comments but now she smarted beneath the withering criticisms.

"Just look at you!" the phantom continued crossly. "Your legs are like spindles, and stop pulling that ridiculous face—it makes me want to slap it! How can you have surrendered to the ministries of that ludicrous Wethers woman? No wonder you look so dreadful. Pull yourself together!"

Finally Miss Boston could take no more and she gave a pitiable grunt.

"Don't you 'oink' at me, Alice Boston!" retorted Prudence indignantly. "If you want to make pig noises you can go to a farmyard. Have you heard yourself? Why, you're even dribbling!"

Miss Boston gazed at her despairingly. Why could she not understand? This was simply being cruel.

The phantom raised her eyebrows and leaned forward in the chair.

"Where did the Terror of Whitby disappear to?" she demanded, "Whatever happened to that Godawful nuisance who badgered and berated everyone? That's right, I'm talking about you, Alice Boston! You were the staunch campaigner, the leader of our ladies' circle, the one who made things happen. Always you were there to sort things out. Remember Mr Lomax, that shiftless plumber who drove Tilly to distraction? Who was it blacked his eye and bullied him to repair the mess he had made? When Howard died, who did I lean on? He sends his regards, by the way. You were always there for us, always ready to come out fighting, colours flying and wits as sharp as knives. So what has happened?"

Tears welled up in Miss Boston's eyes and trickled down her corrugated face. Prudence was right, she was no use to anyone like this.

"Stop snivelling!" the spectre snapped. "That won't solve anything. Why aren't you trying to conquer your disabilities? Where did all that fight and bluster go?"

The old lady blinked the tears away and looked steadily into Prudence's face. The challenge was unmistakable but some things were simply beyond her strength.

"Come on, Alice," Mrs Joyster barked, "you have never shied away from anything—why start now?"

Using all her concentration, Miss Boston tried to move her right arm. The withered limb twitched and trembled as it gingerly rose but she could do no more and after a few moments it flopped limply at her side again.

Prudence was not impressed and sniffed loftily. "Well, if that's the best you can do you might as well forget the whole thing," she uttered. "Oh honestly, have that idiot doctor and that twittering birdbrain really convinced you? I never realised that Edith's dithering foolishness was contagious."

Miss Boston frowned, wondering what Prudence was trying to tell her. The phantom clapped her hands in exasperation then gripped the arms of her chair as a peculiar smile spread over her dead lips.

"What was it you used to boast?" she asked. "You never suffered from colds or pains in the joints like the rest of us. Oh no, you had your own little methods, trifling remedies for this and that. It was no small feat for a woman of ninety-two to climb those abbey steps every morning."

A gleam appeared in the phantom's eyes. "What have you been waiting for all this time? You know what I mean. So what if the doctors have told you to accept your fate—to blazes with the lot! You never paid any heed to them before. Modern medicine has failed you, so throw their pills and lotions down the drain and use your own special talents."

Miss Boston shifted in her seat, for Prudence was talking excitedly now, inspiring her with her words.

"Remember who you are," she continued. "Remember what you are. You have a skill far beyond that of ordinary people; use that knowledge now—heal yourself."

The white woolly head shook in despair; her condition was too severe for those humble ways.

Mrs Joyster slapped the arm of the chair and sprang to her feet in annoyance. "Don't be ridiculous, woman!" she cried. "I don't expect you to do it all by yourself! Have you utterly forgotten what you brought from London? That most precious thing Patricia Gunning entrusted to you?"

An expression of complete bewilderment passed over Miss Boston's face as she finally remembered—the Book of Shadows!

"There!" Prudence exclaimed. "How could you have neglected such a treasure as that? Use the book wisely, study it and make yourself strong again..."

The spectre paused and looked up sharply, as if she had heard something that alarmed her. Miss Boston strained to listen but the only noise was that of the rain.

"So soon?" Prudence gasped in a voice fraught with dread. "But there is still much to tell!"

A concerned look, almost one of fear, now fixed itself over her ghostly features and when she next spoke, her words were hurried and filled with urgency.

"Listen!" she said. "My time here is almost over. I have not yet explained the real reason for my presence. Oh, damn them—I feel His thought reaching out to us! Alice, there is great danger, I came to warn you. Plans are being laid—terrible, evil plans."

Prudence shuddered as she spoke, twisting her head the entire time, and those pale blue eyes darted from side to side as though she expected some frightful horror to spring at her from the shadows. Evidently her fears were growing for her voice quickly rose until she was practically shouting.

"Alice!" she shrieked. "A day will come when you will need all of your strength. You sit there, thinking that the hazards and nightmares are over—well, they are not. I promise you, the worst terrors are yet to come. You have no idea of the peril that is creeping closer with every passing day."

At that moment the rain beat more loudly upon the window and Prudence jumped in fright. Reaching out her ghostly hand, she tried to clutch the gnarled arthritic mitten that was Miss Boston's.

"Against the forces which are mounting," she cried, "little can survive! There will be no salvation—no refuge! Think of yourself and those children that are so dear to you!"

The old lady glared at her. What did she mean by that?

"If you are not able to defend them," Prudence warned, "then Jennet and Ben will most certainly die!"

Miss Boston uttered a pitiful whimper but outside the cottage the rain was torn aside as a sudden gale whipped through the courtyard. Plant pots crashed to the ground, scattering their earth into the ferocious wind which hurled it against the window panes. Prudence gave a yell of panic and leaped backwards as an unseen force flung her across the room. Like a cornered animal she stared wildly at the storm and cast an anxious look at her stricken friend.

"Don't give up, Alice!" she wailed. "Use the book—but above all, beware!"

Then, carried upon the squalling gale, came the roaring sound of the sea. Its effect upon Prudence was startling. Covering her ears, she shrieked and her terrified voice rose above the thunderous weather.

Suddenly, from the fireplace, came a blast of freezing, salty air and the room was at once filled with dust and ash.

With a final, agonising scream, the ghost of Prudence Joyster crackled and vanished.

Almost immediately, the storm subsided and the gentle drizzle resumed its monotonous drumming upon Whitby. But in the cottage, Miss Boston shook and trembled as she stared fearfully around her.

Covering the now dead embers, the hearth was filled with wet sand and more of it was still trickling down the chimney. The old lady lifted her eyes to the dark windows and uttered a cry of shock, for pressed against the glass and obliterating the world outside was a solid wall of dripping seaweed. It was as if the ocean itself had tried to invade the cottage and Miss Boston shuddered, remembering Prudence's ominous words.

1 - A Secret Four Months Old

Ben pulled the hood of his coat over his dark mousy hair and hurried along the shore. It had been several weeks since he had last visited the fisherfolk, for Miss Wethers was not keen to humour this fanciful notion of his and kept him indoors as much as possible.

"How could there be such creatures living in tunnels beneath the cliffs?" she had asked, not wishing to listen to any more of his nonsense. "And you shouldn't encourage him, Jennet. I don't like him wandering on the beach alone and nor should you. He's only eight, remember."

The boy pulled a wry face; he had tried to explain about the fisherfolk but she would never understand.

For countless years, the aufwaders had dwelt in their vast warren below the town. Once there had been many different tribes, but over time their numbers had steadily dwindled until only one was left, made up of the gleanings of the others.

Yet the ancient home of the fisherfolk had been destroyed by Morgawrus and since then the tribe was forced to seek shelter in other, more shallow caves set in the East Cliff.

All of the aufwaders mourned the loss of their former homes. Now they were exposed to the worst ravages of the weather and shivered inside the dank new holes. It had been a severe and biting winter and for one of the eldest members of the tribe it had proved too much.

Lorkon was the only survivor of the ancient ruling triad and his death was taken as an omen of their impending doom and extinction.

Sadly, Ben remembered that cold night when the funeral boat containing Lorkon's body had sailed out to sea in a blaze of fire. The aufwaders had gathered upon the shore and as they sang the Song of the Dead the boy had wondered what would become of them.

It was difficult for that proud race to accept this new life, for now they were like refugees in their own land. Even Ben's friend Nelda had grown disheartened and he sorrowfully recalled that she had hardly spoken to him on that solemn occasion. Perhaps she, like many of the other aufwaders, had started to feel bitter towards mankind.

It was with some trepidation therefore that he approached the towering cliffs.

"Nelda!" Ben called. "It's me! Nelda! Can you hear me?"

There was no answer, and the boy stared up at the sheer wall of shale that reared above him. The fisherfolk had been extremely busy disguising the entrances to their new caves—even his eyes could not see them.

Rain splashed on to his face, and irritably he wiped away the water with his sleeve.

Nothing stirred, no large eyes stared down at him and no voice was raised in greeting. All was strangely silent and Ben realised that there were no gulls flying overhead. It was an unnatural calm and he shuddered and almost fled, for in the fading light the place took on a sinister aspect and the cliffs seemed threatening—with menace lurking in every shadow.

"Don't be silly," he told himself. "You're too old to be scared of the dark."

Eyeing the boulders before him, Ben tried to recall the route he had taken on his last visit. The rocks were wet and slippery, but undeterred, the boy began to climb.

Very slowly he made his cautious way upward, though not at all sure of the correct path; he found the going exceedingly difficult.

The knees of Ben's school trousers were quickly soaked as he scrabbled over wet moss that stained them a livid and indelible green. A shameless grin lit his face as he imagined Miss Wethers' face when she saw the state of them; he enjoyed inflicting little upsets upon Dithery Edith.

The trousers became greener and dirtier as he ascended, but after a while he paused to catch his breath and inspect how far he had clambered. The boy was disappointed to discover that he had hardly made any progress at all and he put out his bottom lip in annoyance.

"Just have to try harder," he said aloud.

Standing upon a narrow shelf of rock, he saw that to his left a series of treacherous looking footholds were notched into the cliff face. Confident that he recognised them, Ben pushed the toe of his shoe into the nearest and warily continued.

But the rain had made the way perilous and it was not long before the boy wished he had never attempted the dangerous climb. Twice his fingers slid over the shale and he pressed himself desperately to the rock, breathing rapidly and longing to be standing upon the shore once again.

"Why do I always get myself into these messes?" he fumed. "You really are a Cret, Benjamin Laurenson!"

With an effort, he lifted his right foot and placed it into the next cleft. But this one was shallow and when he put his weight upon it he slipped.

Out into the empty air his leg swung and the boy lost his balance. Shrieking, he struggled to cling on but his fingers were torn from the rock and he knew that he was going to fall.

"Help!" he wailed as he fell backwards.

"Up tha comes!" bawled a gruff voice. A strong brown hand flashed from the shadows above and caught Ben's wrist. "What addled daftness be this? Weer did tha reckon tha wert headin'?"

Tarr Shrimp, present leader of the fisherfolk tribe and the grandfather of Nelda, hauled the boy to safety with one hand then clipped the back of his head with the other.

"Th—thank you," Ben gasped. "I nearly..."

"Aye, yer girt gawby mad allick—tha mun be witless a comin' out on such a day as thissun. Get thee inside afore tha catch a death."

Taking the boy by the arm, he led him up a gently rising ledge then mounted a rocky outcrop that served as a natural flight of steps.

Now Ben was sure of the way; the entrance to the Shrimp dwelling was just a little distance ahead.

Up to a tall and narrow crevice, Tarr went and waited for the human child to follow.

"Skip to it, lad!" he snapped. "Ah doesna' wish t'chase Lorkon to t'grave."

Ben squirmed into the seemingly shallow gap, then twisted sharply to the left where the rock behind him suddenly opened out and he found himself standing inside the cliff face.

At once Ben's eyes began to water as they were filled with woodsmoke and it was some moments before he could see clearly.

The cave was small and its walls were roughly hewn. Hanging in great swathes from the rocky ceiling were many fishing nets and from these, two tiny lamps were hung. The steady flames that burned within them threw confused criss-crossed shadows into the furthest corners and in their light, Ben saw the cause of his streaming eyes.

In the middle of the meagre chamber, a pathetic fire was burning, and the damp wood that had been placed upon it gave off a continual thread of steam and smoke. Sitting before these miserable flames, with her back turned towards the entrance—was Nelda.

The aufwader girl was staring into the fire, lost in her own thoughts, and so intense was her concentration she did not hear Ben or her grandfather enter.

Over her huddled frame the lamplight danced, rejoicing in her large sea-grey eyes and glowing in the soft curves of her lined, leathery face. Nelda's dark, tangled hair trailed over her shoulders and as the waving tresses flowed down the back of her gansey, the lanterns picked out hidden strands of copper and made them glint and shine.

The youngest of the fisherfolk was undoubtedly one of the fairest ever to have graced any tribe, yet she was also the unhappiest.

In silence she gazed into the heart of the flickering flames and brooded upon the deadly secret that she had not dared tell to anyone. For months now she had kept it from even her grandfather, not knowing what to do or where to turn. If only her Aunt Hesper was still alive, she would have listened and hugged her.

A solitary tear of despair fell from Nelda's lashes, as she realised that soon her secret would be all too obvious. For inside her, the unborn child of Esau was growing and eventually her swelling stomach would betray her.

"Stir thissen, lass," barked Tarr gravely. "Us've got usselves a visitor."

Nelda hastily wiped her eyes and turned around.

"Hello," Ben said. "Thought I'd come and see how you are, before Miss Wethers realises where I've got to. It's pouring down outside."

"Take thy drippin' coat off," Tarr told him. "Ah'll put it near t'fire. Sit thee down."

Nelda managed a faint smile for the boy as he wormed his way out of the sodden coat and handed it over to her grandfather.

"It is good to see you again," she said, glad to be distracted from her dismal thoughts. "Come, sit by me and I shall put more wood on the fire to cheer us."

Mechanically, she thrust another piece of driftwood into the flames whilst Tarr settled himself upon a low stool and took up his pipe.

"Reet fain am I t'sithee," he remarked to Ben. "Our Nelda's been no company. Fair mardy she be gettin'. Ah nivver did think it o' the lass. Nigh on a month she's been a mopin' wi' 'er face a draggin' on t'floor."

No reply came from his granddaughter. Throwing him an angry glance, she stared sullenly back at the fire.

Ben said nothing but felt horribly uncomfortable. He had obviously walked in upon some family squabble and wondered how long it would be before his coat was dry enough to wear again.

From a pouch at his belt, Tarr pulled out a hunk of dried fish and began to chew it, offering a piece to Ben.

"Womenfolk!" he mumbled, scratching his white whiskers. "Nivver knowed wheer ye be wi'em. Either chelp or chunter, ain't no middle track."

Ben sniffed the morsel of dried fish and tasted it dubiously. It was like eating a stringy piece of carpet that grew no smaller no matter how long you persisted in gnawing and biting. He felt that it would be too impolite to spit the offensive lump from his mouth, even though the amount of salt in it made him want to retch. For a long time, he occupied himself in trying to swallow but this was impossible so, like a hamster, he tucked it inside his cheek to dispose of later.

"How are the rest of the tribe?" he finally asked. "Are they a bit more settled now after Lorkon's funeral?"

"Settled as them can be in these pokey holes," Tarr grumbled. "Most of 'em found it too harsh and found a way in to th'old caverns."

"I thought all those were destroyed!" Ben cried.

"Aye, that's reet enough, them was. But the main entrance chamber is still theer behind the girt doors which are sealed ferivver, and a new way were delved to enter it. The death of Lorkon put the wind up 'em, see. So now them sits in that one place, crowded t'gither like skeered sheep. A sorry sight 'ave us become."

Tarr drew on his pipe and gazed across at Nelda but she would not look at him and he puffed out a ring of blue smoke that drifted past her eyes, yet still she said nothing.

"Well, then, lad," Tarr began, "how's thy aunt doin'? Any tidings theer?"

Ben shook his head. "No," he sadly replied. "Aunt Alice is just as poorly as she was before. I don't think she will ever get better and there are times when she looks... terrible. It's so awful, I don't know what me and Jen would do if she died. If only I could do something. Miss Wethers doesn't help either; she treats her like a baby and I can tell Aunt Alice detests it."

"Aye," agreed Tarr sombrely, "'tis a sore trial for all. Much does we owe that aunt o' thine. She'll allus be remembered by us; so long as the tribe lasts, her name'll be honoured."

The old aufwader reached for his staff which was leaning against the wall and nudged his granddaughter with it. "Now theer's one wi' summat t'despair of—not thee, lass. What ails thee? Nowt so bad as that, ah'll be bound—so buck up."

Nelda had to bite her tongue to keep from telling him there and then and with a tremendous effort changed the subject.

"What of your sister, Ben?" she asked through clenched teeth. "She is well, I trust?"

Ben shrugged. "I don't know what's got into Jen," he replied. "She isn't the same as she used to be. She just isn't any fun these days."

"None of us are the same as we used to be," Nelda muttered grimly. "Both you and Jennet have grown, you have seen and learnt a great deal since the death of your parents."

"I suppose," the boy agreed, but he was reluctant to talk about his mother and father and said no more.

Nelda, however, seemed strangely eager to hear all she could. "Is it really three winters since they were killed?" she asked.

Ben gave the slightest of nods then fidgeted with his school tie.

Tarr scowled at his granddaughter but she would not be silenced.

"Do you know how they died?"

"Stop it," the boy said in dismay.

"Was their passing quick?" she morbidly persisted. "Do you think they suffered much?"

"Yes!" Ben cried. "They must have. Mum and Dad were drowned—all right? The car ran off the road and crashed into a river. They couldn't get out in time so—yes, they suffered."

"Nelda!" shouted Tarr angrily. "Why badger the lad? See how he is upset!"

"Forgive me, Ben," she said, putting her hand over his, "but you and I are alike. We are orphans we two, yet at least you know the manner of your mother's end. It is best to know all, not be left to conjure up demons in the mind to feed on ignorance and fear." She spoke the final words for Tarr's benefit but her grandfather slammed his staff furiously upon the floor and rose to his feet.

"Enough!" he demanded. "Will tha not cease? Ah've told thee many times—ah shall not speak of that time! Nivver!"

Nelda glowered at him. "How did my mother die?" she shrieked. "Tell me!"

"NO!" he yelled, pointing a trembling finger at her. "Ah warn thee, dunna pursue this. Them days were evil—ah forbid thee to speak on it!"

"Why will you not tell me what her final hours were like? Have I not that right? It was for me that she died—I demand to know!"

"NIVVER!" he bawled, and such was the force of his voice that she knew it was pointless to continue.

Ben sat awkwardly between them. He had never seen either Tarr or Nelda so impassioned before and to witness them now with their tempers boiling alarmed him greatly. Each aufwader glared at the other, the elder positively quaking with rage and the other near to bursting with a frenzied obsession that the boy found weird and macabre.

"I... I think I'd best go home now," he uttered quietly.

Tarr held his granddaughter's eyes for a moment longer then whipped round and stood with his back to the pair of them.

"Remember me t'thy aunt," he said curtly.

"I will, Mr Shrimp. Er... goodbye."

"Aye."

The boy took up his coat; it was still damp but he was only too glad to put it on. The atmosphere in the cave was unbearable and he pulled on the garment as fast as possible.

Nelda fumed at her grandfather's back then sprang to her feet. "Wait," she called to Ben. "I will walk with you—the air here is stale. I stifle in it!"

When they had gone, Tarr kicked the stool across the floor. "What divil has seized hold o' the lass?" he ranted. "Why rake it all up now?"

Fumbling for his pipe, he thrust it into his mouth and waited for his temper to cool. "Womenfolk!" he spat. "Won't ever reckon 'em."

Standing in the open air Nelda breathed deeply and pulled her woollen hat down over her ears. The daylight had faded completely but the rain was still flooding from the sky.

Ben stuck his hands in his pockets and waited until she had collected herself. "What was that all about?" he ventured.

"My grandfather thinks of me as a bairn and naught beyond," she said. "Sometimes I fear the gulf between us is too great."

"He is very old," the boy said carefully, "and in the eyes of your kind you are practically the same age as me—even though you are seventy."

"Perhaps," she muttered, "yet I was considered age enough to wed with Esau Grendel."

"Only because he was barmy and none of the others dared oppose him! Nelda, you're still only a child—don't go all funny like Jennet."

The aufwader glanced past him to the dim edge of the great dark sea and shook herself. "I am sorry," she said. "Times are grim, yet it is wrong of me to inflict my woe upon you."

"Won't you tell me what's the matter?" he asked gently. "You've done it before, remember?"

In spite of herself Nelda smiled, then she looked down at the sands and began to descend the cliffside.

"It is nothing," she said unconvincingly. "Let us leave this high place and wander by the fringe of the tide awhile."

Bowing their heads beneath the drizzle, the two of them slowly made their way downwards, then side by side, they strolled over the level rocks towards the shore.

Between the great weed-covered boulders that had ripped into the bows of many ships, they carefully stepped. Where possible, they avoided the shallow pools in which the rain splashed but neither of them spoke and the silence began to prey upon Ben's nerves. Twice he caught an odd look stealing over Nelda's face as if she was plucking up the courage to say something. But each time her resolve failed and she cast her eyes to the ground to avoid his gaze.

Eventually, the boy could bear it no longer. "Look," he said flatly, "just tell me—I know you want to."

Nelda raised her eyes. "My troubles are now four months old," she began in a wavering voice. "You recall the nature of my late spouse?"

Ben shuddered; Esau had been a vile and grasping creature.

"Just so," she sorrowfully agreed, "yet from him I did buy the knowledge of the third guardian and brought it safe from the clutches of the Mallykin."

Ben had no idea where this was leading but nodded encouragingly.

Nelda pulled the neck of her gansey up over her chin and turned shamefully from him. Her tears mingled with the rain and she covered her eyes as finally she blurted out the awful secret which so terrified her.

"None have I told," she murmured, "no one knows the heinous price that accursed Esau placed upon that knowledge. Nor do they suspect that I, Nelda, was fool enough to pay it—but what else could I have done?"

"What did you do?" the boy asked, a horrible suspicion beginning to form in his mind. "Listen, Nelda," he said gently, "without the guardian, Nathaniel and the serpent would have destroyed everything." He stared at her reassuringly and pressed her cold hands in his. "Esau is dead," he whispered. "Let him be forgotten—no one will ask how he died, nor will they blame you."

Nelda pulled her hands away and a chilling, mad laugh erupted from her small mouth. "You... you think I killed him?" she cried in disbelief. "You think that in fear for his own wretched neck my husband told me where the guardian lay? Oh Ben, did I then slit his throat or throttle the breath from him? Tell me which—for dearly would I have done that deed and regretted it never. No sleep would I have lost and no meal turned aside if that were the happy truth. His very blood would I steep myself in if I could undo what I have really done!"

Ben took a step backwards; she was almost hysterical and he looked over his shoulder to the cliff face, wondering if he should fetch her grandfather.

"Ha!" she wailed. "Can it be so repugnant and contrary to nature that you really cannot guess? Alas, I see that it is, and poor Nelda is damned with the doom she has brought upon herself."

Hiding her face in her hands, she threw herself against a rock and wept desolately.

Ben did not know what to do. He did not have the faintest idea what she had done and clumsily tried to console the unfortunate aufwader girl.

"Don't worry," he said. "I'm sure it will be all right, Nelda—please don't cry."

"Blether, blether, blether!" snapped a sharp voice from the surrounding shadows.

Ben looked up, but it was too dark and he waited for the stranger to approach.

"What's that scrawny whelp squawkin' fer now? Always makin' a racket and squeal, squeal, squeal!"

From the gloom a small, round figure emerged. Old Parry narrowed her sly eyes and wrinkled her spiteful face up at Ben. She hated all humans but despised him especially because he had the favour of the Lords of the Deep.

She was the most vindictive and downright nasty member of the aufwader tribe, whom the boy always avoided if he saw her upon the beach. The viciousness of her tongue was well known to him and he had learnt that she was always eager to speak poison about others. Tarr barely tolerated her and she always drove Nelda to distraction with her sneaky and malicious ways.

The girl stirred as she heard her and dried her eyes. The last thing she wanted was for the creature to go spreading tales among the rest of the tribe.

Tentatively, Old Parry sniffed the air around Ben and pretended to choke in disgust.

"Consortin' wi' the landbreed again," she observed through tight lips. "No wonder yer blubber so."

"I wasn't crying," Nelda retorted defensively. "I merely caught my foot on a stone—it pained me, that's all."

The other waggled her head in amusement. "Tell it to the sea," she huffed, "only make it quiet—I've a mind to go pool wading this night and I'll not be disturbed by your screeching! Can't a body have any peace? There's cramp and clamour enough in the great hall without any pesterin' from the likes of you!"

Nelda drew herself up and thought of a good many things to say to the interfering old nuisance, then she had a different idea and her angry face became wrapped in smiles.

"Oh," she exclaimed with feigned interest, "what are you wading for?"

Old Parry eyed her uncertainly. "Just shells," she mumbled, "to tie in my hair, and aught else I find, though it don't concern you."

"It's been such a long time since I foraged in the pools," Nelda enthused. "May I join you?"

"You," uttered Old Parry in complete surprise, "wade wi' me?"

"I should love to."

The astonished female shrugged, then glanced back at Ben. "But no stinkin' landbreed!" she warned. "I'll not share the waters with none of that race! Tell him to crawl back to his hut!"

Guiltily, Nelda looked across at the boy and bit her lip. "You would not mind if I tarried here?" she said.

"I thought you wanted to tell me what the matter was," he answered, puzzled as to why she would want to spend any amount of time with that hatchet-faced crone.

With a shake of her head, Nelda dismissed the notion that she had been upset. "Don't worry so," she told him. "Is it not time for you to return? I shall see you soon, no doubt."

Ben could not understand her behaviour and felt hurt at the way she was treating him. Rejected and miserable he gave a sulky grunt, spun on his heel and made for the town.

Feeling worse than ever, Nelda watched him leave.

"Thought you'd tire of human company," Old Parry said haughtily. "They're not worth the water they bathe in. It's well to see you come to your senses at last. 'Tain't proper for us to mingle; look what happened to Oona."

"Yes," breathed Nelda, "it was she who brought the wrath of the Deep Ones upon us by wedding one of the landbreed."

"And sealed our fate with the laying of the Mother's Curse!" added Old Parry. "Naught but trouble and grief comes of mixing wi' them."

"A terrible punishment for so simple and blameless a crime."

The old aufwader waited until the figure of Ben had disappeared in the dark distance before she began to hunt among the rocks for a suitable pool to dip into.

"Ooh yes," she agreed as she peered into the water, "a fouler end them Lords of the Deep could not have devised."

Nelda followed her to the next rockpool, trying not to betray the anxiety she felt. "What... what exactly happens under the curse?" she murmured.

Old Parry bent low over a dish-shaped stone and whirled her fingers through the water it contained. "Death o' course," she burbled.

"Yes I know, but how exactly?"

The scourge of the fisherfolk lifted her eyes to the girl and her eyebrows twitched curiously.

"So," she crooned, "you want to know the full extent of the Mother's Curse?"

"I... I want to know what happened to my mother."

"Tarr not told you? Nah, he wouldn't, but I was there—I know."

"Will you tell me?"

Old Parry's eyes glinted. "'Tain't no pretty tale," she muttered darkly, "but I can see there's no denying you. Sit here."

Stiffly, Nelda sat upon the cold wet stone beside her and the crone chuckled horribly to herself.

"Never had I seen such pain," she began, recalling that hideous time. "Your mother was a headstrong, foolish creature who listened to no counsel but her own. We all told her it was in vain but still she tried to give her husband a child. Not for many centuries had an infant been born to our kind, not one that lived, that is.

"Determined and wilful she was, and stubborn as the cliffs themselves. Strong was the bond 'twixt she and your father and for his sake she bore you. But as the time went by and her belly swelled, her agonies steadily increased.

"Every time the moon waxed and was full in the heavens, you could hear her screams rent the night and echo through every tunnel and chamber. Now, as you know, few wives survived beyond the first three months so when she lingers on past the eighth, with only four more remaining we all wondered if the curse had lost some of its power.

"But the Lords of the Deep and Dark showed their displeasure in ways various and plenty lest any other wife dared flout their might. Shoals of rotting fish were washed ashore and storms raged at sea so that no boats could set sail for many weeks. 'Twas an evil time full of such signs and portents and your mother was to blame."

Old Parry paused to gauge the effect her tale was having upon Nelda. The girl looked pale and ill so she gladly resumed the tragic story, revelling in the gruesome details.

"No one living can describe the torture that your mother endured for your sake and that of Abe your father. For when her time came it was beyond aught I had yet seen. As soon as you were born she began to die."

"How?"

"By the most evil of means. For when it became apparent that by some miracle you were to live, your mother let loose a sickening screech. Such is the fell manner of the curse that the very blood in her veins did change and under the enchantment of the Deep Ones, it turned to brine."

"No!" Nelda gasped, stricken with horror and disgust. "It cannot be true!"

"On my Joby's watery grave," the other swore, spitting into the rockpool, "that was the way of it.

"Into a blazing fever your mother swooned, the salt water creeping through her body, burning and blistering through her flesh until her very wits were eaten away."

"She... she went mad?"

"Raving!" came the cackling response. "An agony of madness was hers, and not even her own husband's father did she know. Wounded to the heart was Tarr and he stumbled through the caverns like one blinded. Yet not swiftly was she taken—oh no, for nigh on two whole weeks did your mother linger and by the end she was like a salted slug. No black boat carried her into the sea. There was naught remaining—only a briny sludge with Abe weeping over it."

Nelda staggered to her feet. It was worse than she had dreaded. For now she knew the precise nature of her mother's demise whereas it had only been hinted at before, and she wept for the parent she had never known. Yet more bitterly did she weep for herself, for that same fate would undoubtedly wreak its terrible vengeance upon her.

"Don't go," Old Parry sniggered as Nelda hurried unsteadily away. "Let me tell you of others that perished and of the countless bairns that did not survive. How their first sweet cries were changed into shrieks as they crumbled into dust!"

But Nelda was too distraught to hear her and the spiteful old crone clutched her sides at the sight. Her brutal and raucous laughter echoed over the shore, rebounding off the cliffs, as if they too mocked the poor aufwader girl.

***

"Oh come on, Jennet! It'll be a good laugh."

"I said no, all right?"

Sarah Wellings tried one last time. "Martin Gravsey will be there."

"So what?"

"He fancies you!"

"Oh leave me alone—I don't care what you do, just leave me out of it!"

Sarah flicked her damp fringe from her eyes and pushed Jennet savagely. "If it wasn't for you we wouldn't have had that detention!" she said. "I'm not going to have time to put some make-up on now. God, Laurenson, what's up with you anyway?"

"Look, I don't want to hang round the arcade or be chatted up by a group of spotty lads with bad breath who wear too much cheap aftershave. Is that so hard to understand?"

Sarah sneered at her. "You're mad, you!" she shouted. "Tracey and Clare were right, they said you'd gone as loony as your brother. Well I've had it, okay? From now on don't bother speaking to me."

She stomped off over the wet cobbles and chanted at the top of her voice, "Laurenson, Laurenson, lordy, lordy what a loony!"

Jennet rubbed her arm where Sarah had punched her. She was a pretty girl with dark brown hair and a pleasant oval face. At first she had been popular at school but that had all changed. Over the past few months the friends she had made in Whitby had gradually abandoned her. She knew it was her own fault; she was indifferent to them and hated their incessant, ridiculous talk about boys and music. Jennet was interested in neither of these, not since she had come under the influence of Nathaniel Crozier.

For a twelve-year-old girl whose thirteenth birthday was only a matter of months away she seemed old before her time and withdrew into herself a little further every day.

Glumly, Jennet walked along Church Street towards Aunt Alice's cottage. At last the rain had ceased and the narrow road glistened in the lamplight. Overhead, the window-sills and projecting signs dripped amber jewels but the girl was oblivious to the beauty of the clean, washed world. Through the puddles she traipsed, scattering the reflections and dwelling on the idiotic night her former friends would have.

"Who wants to do that anyway? I certainly don't. Boys are stupid!"

Passing one of the shop windows, Jennet came to an abrupt halt and stared through the glass. It was a photographer's studio and examples of his art were on display to entice prospective customers inside.

A large print of a surprised baby sitting amongst a quantity of pink silk met Jennet's eyes but she ignored it and looked at the one by its side. There, upon textured paper to make it resemble a painting on canvas, was a photograph of a bride and groom. The girl studied it thoughtfully as her breath fanned out over the window-pane. It reminded her of a picture she had of her parents' wedding day.

"Oh Mum," she uttered in a hoarse whisper, "why aren't you and Dad here?"

The couple before her beamed back, and the girl dragged herself away. Swinging her school bag over her shoulder Jennet resumed the short walk home.

Just as she was about to turn into the alleyway that led to the cottage, she saw Ben trudging along the street from the direction of the shore.

Jennet did not need to ask where her brother had been.

"How was Nelda?" she asked.

Ben made no reply but brushed past and tramped through the courtyard to the cottage door.

"Charming," Jennet remarked. "I don't know why I bother."

Hungry for his tea and keen to be rid of the dry, salty taste in his mouth, Ben leapt up the doorstep and knocked loudly.

At once the door was torn open and the courtyard was filled with yellow light. A woman in her fifties, with greying hair that looked as though it had been sat on, was framed in the doorway. With one hand clinging to the handle and the other positively squeezing the life from a bunch of tissues which she dabbed to her nose, she let out a squeak and ushered the children inside.

"Oh, where have the pair of you been?" she twittered in distraction. "What a day to go roaming off. Look at the state of your clothes, Ben—oh dear!"

The boy dragged his sopping coat off and sniffed expectantly. "What's for tea?" he asked, unable to detect any of the usual smells.

"Oh dear!" Miss Wethers exclaimed again. "Your teas, I clean forgot!" And she threw an agitated glance at the door of the sickroom.

Jennet was watching her closely. Dithery Edith seemed more preoccupied than normal and she sensed that something was wrong.

"What's the matter?" she asked. "Aunt Alice! Has something happened to her?"

Miss Wethers flapped her hands as the girl made for the sickroom and only just managed to pull her back in time.

"You can't go in there yet," she told her, "not until the doctor's finished."

"The doctor?" Jennet cried. "Is she all right?"

Desperately, Ben stared at the closed door and his empty stomach turned over. What if the old lady had died?

"Alice is fine," Edith hastily explained as she saw the colour rising in the children's faces. "She got a little agitated this afternoon, that's all—over-excited herself for some reason."

Before she continued, the tissue flew about her nose like a fat butterfly. "I had only popped upstairs for a little lie down," she trilled, "when suddenly the storm awoke me and I heard a crash from downstairs."

Here she paused to catch her breath as if reliving the moment when she tore down the stairs. "When I entered the sickroom I found Alice sprawled on the floor. The silly old thing had tried to stand, can you imagine? Lord alone knows what got into her! Oh it was awful, and do you know what else? Sand! Everywhere there was sand. It dripped from the chimney and made a fine mess all over the place. How do you account for that? I'm sure I don't know! And covering the windows was a heap of seaweed. It was like one of those uncanny events you read about—when it rains frogs or sardines. Took a long time to be rid of it too. Anyway, there Alice was—sprawled."

Her report complete, Edith gulped the air exhaustedly then added in a respectful whisper, "Of course I ran to telephone Doctor Adams immediately. He's just finishing his examination; shouldn't be too much longer."

The children looked at one another nervously, and wished they had both been here sooner.

Within the sickroom, Doctor Adams closed his medical bag and shook his head at the patient.

"You are nothing but a stubborn old nuisance," he told her in his most professional voice. "Getting up from your chair indeed! You should have a little more consideration for the people who care for you than to persist in these foolhardy ventures. You're not a young woman; people of your age should do as their physicians tell them."

Doctor Adams had practised in Whitby for nearly twenty years and was nearing the age when his thoughts turned towards taking an early retirement. He was a tall, pink man with rather too much flesh on him than was healthy. His thinning hair was swept over his domed head and slicked down by generous applications of pomade so that no sudden gust of wind could send the long wisps flying.

Miss Boston stared at him, and if looks could maim then he would have been the one in need of medical attention.

She was now lying in bed with the pillows properly fluffed up by Edith and her coverlet neatly tucked in all around.

"You should be thankful there's no damage done," the doctor concluded. "Old bones are very fragile, you know. One of my patients in Bagdale had a hip replacement last week and he's thirty years younger than you. Just don't think you can gad around any more."

Giving Miss Boston a final, disapproving look, he went to the door and told Edith that he had finished.

At once, Jennet and Ben pushed past him and put their arms about Aunt Alice's neck.

"Careful," the doctor scolded. "She's an invalid, remember, and it's been a tiring day for her. She needs as much rest as possible and plenty of peace and quiet—don't excite her."

Miss Wethers drank in the doctor's words and privately resolved that she would try harder as a nurse.

"Is there anything more I should be doing for her, Doctor?" she squeaked.

Doctor Adams gave her a pleased smile and revealed in the expansive pink face were his little, perfect, pearly teeth.

"I wish all my patients were so well tended to," he praised her. "Alice Boston should count herself lucky to have such a good friend. If she were a little less selfish and reconciled herself to her infirmities she mightn't put you under this unnecessary strain."

On the bed, Miss Boston snorted, but Edith blushed and nervously rushed into the kitchen to make the doctor a cup of tea.

"Now then," he said to the children, "remember what I said, no excitement for her." And with that he followed the flustered ex-postmistress from the room.

As soon as she was rid of him, Miss Boston urgently tried to speak to Jennet and Ben. But all that issued from her paralysed mouth was a series of incoherent grunts.

"What are you trying to say?" Jennet asked her. "I can't understand."

"Do you want something, Aunt Alice?" guessed Ben.

The old lady puckered her face into a scrunched-up mass of wrinkly skin as she battled to force the words from her mouth.

"Careful," Jennet warned her. "Remember what the doctor said."

The old lady's head flopped against the pillows and tears of frustration sprang from her eyes.

Ben's heart went out to her. "Perhaps if you pointed at something," he suggested, "we could work it out from there—a bit like charades."

Miss Boston's face brightened at once and again she summoned her feeble strength.

Her right arm twitched and for a brief second she managed to indicate one of the shelves in the alcove.

"Is it up here?" Jennet asked, jumping from the bedside and running to the collection of bizarre objects that Miss Boston had gathered about herself over the many years.

The old lady nodded and Jennet quickly ran through a list of all she could find upon the shelf.

"Corn dolly, jar with—pooh what's in there? Not that? Carved piece of stone, bird's nest, three old bottles—no? Lace pin cushion, candlestick, another little jar, (I'm not looking in that one), row of books..."

Miss Boston raised herself from the pillow and her eyes grew large with excitement.

"One of these, then?" breathed the girl as she began to read what was written on the spines.

"Greek Legends and Other Myths, Translations from the Celtic Manuscripts; Is Anybody There?, The Spirit Guides of the Ancients; Passion on the High Seas—I think that's one of Miss Wethers'. I can't read this one, it's too tatty. The next is Legacy of the Witches; Angelic Messengers of the Old Testament; Magic and Superstition in the Modern World..."

"Jen!" Ben called. "Stop!"

The girl looked round and saw that Miss Boston was tapping her hand upon the bedclothes and nodding her head frantically.

"Which?" asked Jennet. "The last one or the one about angels?"

"No," said Ben as Aunt Alice shook her head, "it was that scrappy one she wanted."

Jennet eased the volume from the shelf but the binding had deteriorated and several loose pages fluttered to the floor. Picking them up, she handed the untidy sheaf to the old lady, who spread her arthritic fingers over the cover and gave a grateful sigh.

Ben peered at the jumble of yellowing pages sandwiched between the two faded covers and pulled a puzzled expression.

"It looks as though it's been ripped apart and thrown back together," he said. "Is it an old diary, Aunt Alice? There's handwriting on that bit, and a funny drawing there."

"Ooh, Doctor Adams," Edith's fluting voice twittered towards them from the kitchen. "I'll make sure she doesn't exert herself again. Do you know it's just like when I was looking after Mother—quite nice to be caring for the sick again. I'll see you to the door, Doctor. Thank you so much for coming over. Yes, I'll see to it she takes the new medication."

Miss Boston and the children listened as the doctor and Edith left the kitchen and padded down the hall. Quickly Miss Boston lifted her hand and Jennet, catching her intention, picked up the book and hid it beneath the bedclothes by the old lady's side.

"Here we are, then," said Miss Wethers as she returned to the sickroom. "Doctor Adams is just off, Alice, and you children should let her get some rest. Come on—out you go. Oh Ben, your trousers! They've made a horrid wet patch on the coverlet. Go and change at once."

The children kissed Aunt Alice goodnight, but as they filed through the doorway Ben glanced back at her and to his delight she gave him an encouraging wink.

Briskly, the doctor bade his patient farewell then Miss Wethers showed him out and flitted back to the invalid.

"I imagine you feel much better now," she cooed, bending at the knees as if she were talking to a three-year-old. "Isn't he marvellous with his little black bag? So solid and reassuring, don't you think? Now then, it's medicine time for you before bobos."

Vanishing into the kitchen for a moment to fetch a glass of water, Miss Wethers returned carrying two tablets between her fingers.

"The doctor's given you some new pills. He says they'll keep you a little bit more settled, stop you getting fractious and fretting so much. 'The carer's friend' he calls them, isn't that lovely? Now open up, Alice."

The old lady gave her attendant demon a mutinous glare then was forced to open her mouth when Edith pinched her nose.

"Be a good girl," admonished Miss Wethers. "We must take our tablets, mustn't we? There, now have some water to wash them down. Mother was just the same, she hated taking the medicine but I knew what was best for her. All done! Who's clever then? I'll leave you to doze while I make the children's tea, then I'll turn the light off."

Edith tiptoed from the sickroom and gently closed the door behind her.

Miss Boston gave a contemptuous grunt, then she spat the tablets from her mouth and laboriously hid them in the pocket of her bedjacket.

When this was done, she slowly drew the tattered volume from under the blankets and held her breath. Here it was, the most precious thing in a witch's possession—the Book of Shadows.

Patricia Gunning had entrusted it to Miss Boston with her dying breath, but since her return to Whitby she had not given it a single thought.

Now the old lady's hand trembled with excitement. If this really did hold the key to her recovery then Patricia had been more powerful than she had ever suspected.

Holding her breath, she felt a thrill of expectancy and wonder tingle throughout her entire being. Carefully, she lifted the cover and turned the first page.

Written in silver ink, in a familiar, ostentatious style that took her back to her lecturing days at the ladies' college, she read the following inscription:

I, Patricia Eliander Gunning, do commit to these pages all the lore I have learned in my lifelong study of the Craft. I pray that the powers of light keep it from those who pursue the dark road, for contained herein is much secret and sacred knowledge. In the name of the great Mother Goddess I devote this work and charge you who read it to bring neither hurt nor harm to any other.

Blessed be.

Miss Boston smiled sadly as she remembered her former pupil. The voice of that exuberant young girl seemed to call to her from the distant past and the old lady hesitated before she studied the Book of Shadows in greater detail. She had no idea what it would reveal to her—Patricia had been one of the most powerful and respected white witches in the country.

With her heart fluttering in her breast, she began to read.

***

Later that night, red and glowing after a hot bath, Ben wrestled into his pyjamas. With the main light still switched on, he crawled into bed and stared thoughtfully at the sloping ceiling.

"What was bothering Nelda?" he drowsily murmured to himself. "And why did she want to talk to that awful Parry?" The boy yawned, then rolled over and reached across to the chest of drawers where he picked up a small piece of stone.

The ammonite that Ben had found in the first week of his time in Whitby had become one of his favourite possessions. To him, it symbolised a steady continuity, a permanent thing in a world that was always changing. Some nights, when he felt especially vulnerable or if he had rowed with his sister, he would go to sleep with the fossil grasped tightly in his hand. Tonight was one of those occasions. Nelda's curt dismissal was troubling him and Ben traced the snake-like, spiral pattern of the ammonite with his fingers to reassure himself.

"Ben," Jennet's voice suddenly hissed from behind the door, "are you asleep?"

Before the boy could answer she was in the room and Ben noticed with some surprise that she was carrying a photograph album. He recognised it at once but said nothing, for an odd look was spread over Jennet's face.

"Mind if I sit down for a while?" she asked, already sitting upon the end of the bed.

There was a pause as Ben waited to hear what she wanted but the girl seemed reluctant to mention the album and chattered instead about Miss Boston.

"She was very keen to get that book," Jennet remarked without any real enthusiasm. "It's been on that shelf for months now—why the sudden interest?"

The boy made no answer; they both knew that Jennet had not come to talk about Aunt Alice.

Jennet gave a nervous cough. "I was leafing through this," she mumbled, indicating the album that was still clutched tightly in her hands. "I just wanted to see them—you know."

A deep furrow appeared in Ben's forehead as he tried to guess what his sister was up to. She never let him see the family photographs—why was she doing it now?

Jennet hesitated before she opened the album, then a peculiar smile fixed itself to her face as she turned the first page.

"There's Mum and Dad when they were married, there's the honeymoon, me when I was a baby—my first birthday..." Her voice began to tremble and the girl lowered her head so that her long hair curtained off her face and Ben knew that she had started to cry.

Patiently, he waited until she had recovered before saying anything. Even after all this time the grief could take you by surprise; he had experienced it himself and there was nothing to be done except let it pass.

Presently his sister composed herself and swept the hair over her shoulders again. Her eyes were redder than before but she continued as though nothing had happened.

"And there you are," she uttered in a husky voice. "Do you remember that holiday? How young we both were!"

Throughout all this, Jennet had kept the album close to herself, hugging and guarding it jealously—hardly letting Ben have so much as a glimpse. Not once did she look at him; all her attention was focused upon the photographs, but now she shifted her gaze to her brother.

A moment passed as she stared. It was obvious that she was troubled by something and did not know how to tell him. This in itself was unusual, for Jennet had always been the direct one who made her views and opinions known.

"It's good to have the pictures," she eventually said. "It's nice to be able to see them, isn't it?"

Ben wanted to say that he rarely saw the photographs. When he did it was only because he had sneaked into Jennet's room whilst she was out. But he kept silent and waited for her to continue.

"Sometimes," she said, "sometimes I get confused—do you know what I mean? Their faces—Mum and Dad's—they sort of fade and get jumbled in my head. I forget what they looked like." The girl shuddered at this admission and cast her eyes down as though she had betrayed her dead parents.

"That's... that's why I have to open the album now and then," she breathed, "just to reassure myself and remember."

"I know that," Ben finally managed to say. "I like to see them too, but you hide the album from me."

Jennet snapped the pages shut and reared her head, determined to ask what had been burning there for many months.

"I want you to tell me," she began. "I want to know and this will be the only time I'll ever ask." She took a deep breath. It was difficult for her to broach this subject; she had always hated her brother's second sight, because it made him different and had only caused them trouble in the past. But this was important and the girl had to know for certain.

"Tell me," she said again, "do you still see them? Do you see the ghosts of Mum and Dad?"

There, she had said it and the relief she felt once the rush of words had tumbled out was immense.

Ben could only gape at her. She never willingly talked about his "visitors" as he called them, and the question took him by complete surprise.

"Well?" she demanded. "Do you? Do they still come to you at night like they used to? Are they concerned about us? Have they changed in any way? Do they look the same as on the day they died—the same as they did in these photos?"

Jennet was shivering now and her eyes shone with a wild and frantic light that alarmed and bewildered her brother.

"I... I don't know," he stammered.

"What do you mean?" she snapped back. "Have you or haven't you? Do they still care about us? Do they care about what happens? What about me—do they ever mention me? I must know! It's important—tell me!"

"No!" the boy yelled. "No, I haven't seen them. The last time was that night Aunt Alice had a séance when we first arrived and I saw Mum."

"But that was ages ago!" she shouted back. "Are you trying to tell me they haven't been back since? I don't believe you! Mum and Dad loved us—they loved me! They'd want us to know they still cared. You're a liar! You have seen them! You have!"

Tears streamed down her face but her heart was filled with anger. Fiercely, Jennet seized Ben by the shoulders and shook him violently.

"You're a foul, spoilt monster!" she bawled. "Is it because I won't let you see the album? Is that why you're telling me these lies? I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! I wish you'd died with them!"

"Jen!" her brother wailed. "You're hurting! Stop it!"

"What's all that noise?" called Miss Wethers from downstairs. "Go to sleep the pair of you!"

In disgust, Jennet threw Ben against the pillows, snatched up the album and stormed from the room..

Ben winced as the door slammed shut and rattled in its frame. From Jennet's room there came the sound of her stomping, then the bed groaned as she cast herself upon it, followed by a flood of bitter and miserable tears.

As the night deepened, sleep washed over both children and they were lost in fitful slumbers.

Whitby grew dark; only the buzzing street lamps shone in the town, for every house light was extinguished as all inhabitants sought their rest. The small houses that balanced upon the brink of the river now stared with unlit windows down at their reflections and silence spread through the swaddling night.

The mouth of the River Esk was calm and still. In the harbour, countless fishing boats bumped softly against each other, bobbing languidly upon the high tide. A group of gulls lazily rode the swollen waters and with mournful voices they gossipped and jeered.

The water of the harbour was dark, black as jet—yet beneath the waves something far blacker was moving.

Between the two piers that stretched far into the sea, a rush of bubbles suddenly shattered the smooth face of the tide. Waves began to foam as from the deeps something surged, passing beneath the shadows of the lighthouses and drifting towards the distant town.

Floating contentedly, the chattering gulls washed their beaks and shook their weary heads. With a peevish peck at its closest neighbour, one of the larger ones stretched its wings and prepared to take to the air.

Abruptly it was surrounded by a frothing mass of water and the bird let out a terrified screech as it floundered helplessly.

At once the entire host of gulls rose from the river, shrieking down at the bubbling surface in frightened alarm. Their comrade was still flapping in wild panic but its cries increased as it saw a dark shadow pass below the waves. Only when the trail of bubbles moved away was the gull free and it shot upwards to join the others.

Hovering on the night airs, they watched the gurgling path advance towards the quayside until it came to a seething halt by the harbour wall.

Above the rippling waves a black shape rose and the air darkened around it as shadows gathered to conceal what the sea had sent forth.

From the river, the creature climbed. It was a formless horror like an immense and tarry amoeba that extended a thick, snaking arm to heave itself up the steps. With a vile squelching sound it slowly moved through the narrow cobbled streets, and where the great flabby bulk passed a stinking path of slime was left in its wake.

Beneath the bedroom windows of snoring townsfolk it crept, with only one purpose filling its black mind. Towards Miss Boston's cottage it went, squeezing through the alleyway and oozing into the courtyard beyond.

At the front door, the thing stopped and the snake-like limb melted back into the quivering body. Rolling forward, the creature pressed against the wall and glued its hideous shape to the brickwork.

Clinging to the mortar, the bloated nightmare began to crawl and with a faint sucking noise, it stole upwards. Like a great black leech it slithered past the window of the sickroom and drew closer to its goal.

Pulling itself to the upper window, the slimy horror spread out two strands of dank flesh and gripped the sill firmly.

Within the bedroom, Ben muttered in his sleep and rolled over, kicking the blankets from him and pushing his head deeper into the pillows.

The hideous shape pushed itself on to the window-pane, revealing a dim grey mass of liquid muscle like the underside of a snail. Flattened against the glass, frills of pale flesh parted and two clusters of eyes pushed forward to spy into the room.

Glittering balefully, the fragmented eyes peered long at the sleeping boy and in the swirling fronds of slime a ghastly mouth fell open.

Three tentacles stretched from the damp glistening skin and their sensitive, squirming tips began to feel all around the window, tapping and groping for a way in.

Trapped in a gruesome dream, Ben whimpered. He felt as though a great dark cloud was smothering him, pressing itself against his nose and mouth. With an unhappy groan he turned on to his back, flinging his arm over the edge of the bed, and one by one his fingers fell open.

On to the carpet rolled the ammonite and from the vileness that clung to the window ledge like some hellish fleshy spider, there came a gurgling and a contented sigh.

2 - The Bitterest Of Herbs

Brandishing a large umbrella high above her head so that it afforded little protection from the inclement weather, Sister Frances marched over the swing bridge as though she were charging into battle. In her other hand she gripped the handles of a capacious brown shopping bag that had seen better days and was bound around and patched with various coloured tapes.

It had been another wet morning, yet she was not one to mind a little bit of rain. The nun enjoyed the feel of the drops plopping on to her upturned face and would often hold her mouth open to by and catch them.

Into the centre of every puddle she stamped her enormous feet, smiling broadly to herself with each satisfying splash.

She was a bizarre figure: of all the nuns in the convent of the West Cliff, Sister Frances was undoubtedly the most unusual. Attached to those great, gauche feet were a pair of long, stalk-like legs that were perpetually hidden within thick black woollen stockings, through which her lumpy knees protruded like a couple of gnarled and bulbous potatoes.

The nun's body was straight as a plank and from the collar of her habit her neck stretched and tapered up to a long gawky head which always seemed to be grinning like a laughing mannequin at a fairground.

This strange, spoon-shaped woman was in her early forties and there was no one in Whitby who had not heard or been made aware of her. When she galumphed by, the sight of her brought smiles to many, but to others the merest glimpse could bring only dread.

It wasn't as if she was a bad person—no one could be sweeter. Frances was an innocent and had all the eagerness to please that a faithful terrier possesses.

That was in fact her main problem: Sister Frances utterly exhausted people. She would rush headlong into situations without stopping to think of the consequences. So anxious to be of service, she would be deaf to any refusals until satisfied that her duty had been well and truly done.

Many times the Mother Superior had gritted her teeth to endure the nun's unasked for assistance, but what to do with her was a complete bafflement. For an order which devoted itself to visiting the sick, it had been extremely embarrassing to receive that snarling telephone call from the senior registrar. In no uncertain terms he shouted that Sister Frances would never be permitted to enter the hospital again—from now on the building was barred to her.

Unfortunately, Frances' visits to the wards had been rather too frequent and rather too long. The recovery of the patients had been hindered by her over-zealous desire to help. Finally, when a man who had only been admitted with an ingrowing toe-nail had to be treated for three fractured ribs, a broken arm and aggravated stress, enough was considered to be enough.

Everything the nun ever did stemmed solely from her willingness to give aid where she thought it was needed. Yet, in spite of her intrepid endeavours, she never accomplished anything and blustered through life oblivious to the mayhem that erupted around her.

Even that fateful banishment from the wards failed to dampen her lively spirits. Seizing this God-given opportunity she had taken it upon herself to visit those in need of her special skills in their own homes.

However, it seemed the only beneficiaries of her new devotions were likely to be the owners of Whitby's china and crockery shops. As Sister Frances invariably outstayed her welcome, when she finally departed the helpless invalids she left behind felt worse than before her arrival. So exasperated were these victims of her eager bounty that they hurled whatever came to hand at the door through which she had recently departed. Hence many vases and tea cups were smashed to pieces and needed to be replaced.

That morning, with the rain running down her long straight nose and plopping in large droplets on to her chin, she was ready for anything that God might throw at her, and breathing in the clean sea air rejoiced in all He had created.

As she made her ungraceful way into Church Street, Sister Frances gave her ungainly salute to everyone she knew. But for some reason, the owners of those familiar faces broke into furtive trots when they saw her and rushed by with only the briefest of exchanges. The nun waved after them but evidently the rain was too severe or their hats too tight over their ears and they did not hear her.

With large, irregular strides she passed The Whitby Bookshop, whose proprietors hastily immersed themselves in the stock-taking which they had been putting off for weeks.

Frances stared in at them. Madeleine, the willowy woman with strawberry-blonde hair, was desperately trying not to notice her, and Michael her partner had deviously hidden behind one of the bookshelves.

The nun rapped teasingly on the window and in her overgrown schoolgirl voice called, "That's it! Nose to the grindstone!"

"Go away!" Michael droned. "If she comes in you deal with her—I'll have to go and lie down."

"Don't you dare leave me to cope on my own!" Madeleine hissed through teeth which were still smiling at Frances' grinning face. "Last time she tried to reorganise the local interest section. No, it's safe—she's gone."

"Thank God," he muttered, shuffling cautiously into view. "You know, we should really take that offer on the shop. We could always open up in Scarborough."

Madeleine chewed her lip thoughtfully. "So long as we don't tell her where we've gone to," she said at length, "I agree."

As Sister Frances walked, her oddly-shaped head pushed and pecked at the air as if to counter-balance her unusual gait and in her black habit she resembled an ostrich at a funeral. Her unfaltering progress was checked only when she attempted to enter one of the small alleyways, for she had forgotten the width of her umbrella and the instrument became well and truly stuck.

"Simply too dippy of me," she laughingly chided herself. The nun heaved at the wooden handle and the spokes of the umbrella scratched and squealed over the bricks with a nerve-fraying shrillness.

"Gracious!" she exclaimed, yanking the now broken contraption free. "Clumsy old thing I am. Whatever will Sister Clare think—her favourite brolly!"

Giving the damaged article one futile waggle just to make certain it was beyond repair, Sister Frances thrust it under her arm then marched up to one of the cottages and pressed the bell.

With a honk of mirth, she playfully pressed it again, then kept her finger jammed firmly on the button.

The front door was flung open and a jangled Edith Wethers peeped crossly out at her.

"Couldn't resist," the nun explained. "Well, it's another Thursday and here I am—how's the poorly patient?"

"Not herself, I'm afraid," Miss Wethers informed her, taking the disfigured umbrella from the nun as she bounced inside. "Got a trifle overwrought the other day. I had to call the doctor."

Sister Frances' face assumed its startled, yet sympathetic expression. "How rotten!" she puffed glumly. "I would have come yesterday had I known."

"Well you're here now," Edith said quickly, "that's the main thing. You'd best go and sit with her—Alice has been acting most oddly since her fall and keeps poring over a fusty old book which I've a good mind to throw in the dustbin."

"Don't you worry," the nun assured her, "I'll bring the colour back to her cheeks."

"I'm sure you will," Miss Wethers whispered to herself as she opened the door of the sickroom.

Mr Gregson, the next-door neighbour, had already been in to carry Miss Boston from the bed and place her in the armchair with a blanket covering her lap and tucked in below her knees.

Usually the old lady would sit there, lamenting her condition, and wait for the hours to roll slowly by. Not so today—Alice Boston was busier than she had been for months.

During the past week she had marvelled at the Book of Shadows, and the tantalising things she had read there inspired and filled her heart with hope. She had never guessed that Patricia Gunning had been such an adept; the book was crammed with ancient charms, incantations, favourite pieces of mystical poetry and page after page of secret knowledge.

Unfortunately Miss Boston had only managed to read brief extracts from the volume, for Edith Wethers was continually interrupting her. Sometimes the book would be whisked from her lap and a cup of tepid milk plied to her lips. One of the most infuriating acts of sabotage practised by the Wethers enemy was to switch off the bedside lamp without warning. This nauseating act had left the invalid in the dark on two occasions now and it was driving her to despair.

Yet Miss Boston had read just enough to learn by heart an obscure rhyming chant and had lain awake the whole of the previous night, speaking those esoteric words in her thoughts.

Over and over in her mind she repeated the spell, concentrating with all her strength upon the mysterious little verse and calling on whatever powers were still left to her.

Thus engrossed, she failed to see Sister Frances advance through the courtyard and did not hear the conversation in the hall.

"There you are!" the nun suddenly yahooed. "Who's been a naughty old girl then? I hear you tried to go walkabout—that'll never do, will it?"

Sister Frances peeped closely at the frail figure in the chair. "I say," she addressed Miss Wethers, "I believe she's dropped off. Shall I be as quiet as a wee mousie and tippy-toe to the other chair until she wakes?"

Edith scrutinised her sick friend with critical eyes.

"She's not asleep," she commented, "just pretending. Mother used to do that too."

"Well then!" exclaimed the nun. "We can't have that, can we? I've brought my Jolly Cheer Up Bag especially to buck the poorly patient out of those dreary doldrums."

Miss Boston continued to show no sign that she was aware of them. Her eyes were tightly closed and in the map of wrinkles that was her face, it was difficult to say exactly where they should be.

Edith took her overcoat from the stand and smartly slipped it on. "Most aggravating," she commented. "Been like that all morning. You've no call to be stubborn, Alice! Doctor Adams won't be pleased, will he?"

Fishing a plastic rainhood from her pocket, she tied it neatly over the grey haystack of her hair and said to the nun, "Just popping to the shops; won't be long."

"You shop away!" Sister Frances told her. "We'll have such a spiffy time, won't we, Miss B?"

Edith gave the old lady one final, dithering look then flitted out of the door.

Sister Frances laced her fingers together and paced towards Miss Boston.

"Come, come," she called, stooping over the armchair. "Time to open those eyes. There's sleep enough in the grave, as my dear Papa used to say."

Miss Boston did not stir so the nun put out a hand and patted her on the head.

At once the eyes snapped open and Miss Boston's concentration was completely shattered.

"Oh what a grumpy face!" laughed Sister Frances, sitting upon the other chair. "I can see I've got my work cut out for me this morning."

Indignant and furious, Miss Boston scowled but the expression faded when she saw the nun reach for her large bag and the old lady groaned inwardly.

"Now then," declared Sister Frances brightly and pronouncing each word with an exaggerated movement of her mouth as if Miss Boston was deaf and reading her lips, "what lovely things can we do today? Shall I peep inside the Jolly Cheer Up Bag and see what rays of sunshine we can find? Here I go then."

As this was not the first time Miss Boston had been visited by the nun, the old lady knew exactly what rays of sunshine the wretched bag contained and loathed each and every one of them.

Out came the home-made glove puppets that were not exclusively reserved for entertaining sick children. But thankfully the stitching in one of the heads had started to unravel and disgorge cotton wool everywhere so the nun put them to one side. Then appeared a game of Tiddlywinks, but one glance at Miss Boston's arthritic hands made Sister Frances think twice and go rooting for something else.

"Here we are!" she announced, flourishing a large cardboard box held together by rubber bands. "A lovely jigsaw. Wouldn't that be nice! I'll get a tray and pull my chair next to yours then you can watch me fit the pieces—what fun! Such a divine piccy of ducklings on a pond with a dainty bridge spanning..."

Sister Frances looked at the poorly patient and faltered. The old lady's countenance was so terrible that it quelled that idea—but not Sister Frances' unbridled enthusiasm.

"If you don't feel up to the quacky little ducklings," she rallied, "how about some nice soothing music?" In one bound she reached for Miss Boston's radio and eagerly turned the switch.

A sudden blast of painfully loud wailing screeched through the room. The windows rattled in their panes and the ornaments upon the shelves jumped and shook until a small green bottle toppled on to the floor and spilled its contents of dried leaves everywhere.

With her ear drums pounding, Miss Boston gritted her teeth and shook with rage.

Giggling, Sister Frances revelled in the clamour as she fumbled for the volume control. "What a fine voice that young gentleman has!" she shouted above the din. "But it is rather modern, isn't it? Shall I try for another station?"

Blithely, she twiddled the dial and the room settled back into silence.

"Ooh, how simply marvellous!" she gushed when voices began to filter through the ether. "A play—smashing! We can sit back and listen to it. Won't that be pleasant, Miss B?"

Smoothing out the creases in her habit, she sat down once more and turned an attentive ear to the drama.

Miss Boston closed her eyes to try and blot out the whole thing and concentrated on her thoughts.

With a charmed smile, Sister Frances let the play unfold around her.

"I can't go on, Ricky! I just can't!"

"Shut your mouth and do as you're told!"

"What you're asking me to do is murder!"

"Listen, you little tart! If it weren't for me you'd still be on the streets. If you haven't got the guts for the job I can always get someone else! Nobodies like you are cheap to come by! The gutter's full of them."

"You're a swine, Ricky! Why don't you just go to Hell?"

The smile dwindled from the nun's face. "Gosh," she muttered a trifle uneasily.

"You'd miss me then, wouldn't you?"

"Never!"

"Not what you said last night, honey!"

"I was drunk!"

"Not too drunk you weren't—come here."

"No!"

"Come here!"

"Stop it—let me go."

The voices were replaced by heavy breathing as the actors on the radio kissed and Sister Frances cleared her throat then gazed absently about the room.

"Love me, love me!"

"I need you—you need me!"

"I'll do anything for you, I promise."

"Oh Sandra!"

"Oh Ricky!"

"Oh dear!" Sister Frances squealed as she raced over to switch the embarrassing machine off before the drama went any further. "Not very suitable for a day of carefree jollity, was it?" she stated, a little pink in the cheeks. "I know what you're thinking—what can we do now? Never fear, there are more jolly sunbeams in my bag."

Out came a magazine. It was one of those dreary publications full of recipes, helpful hints, problems and short stories which always find their way into dentists' waiting rooms.

"Can you guess what I'm going to do?" she piped up. "That's right, I'll read it to you. Just relax and enjoy."

Miss Boston opened her eyes, mortified by the unrelenting torments of her visitor. As the nun turned the first page, after reading aloud the title of the magazine and what delights lay in store—she felt that truly she could bear no more.

Quivering with impotent fury, Miss Boston's hands clenched into fists and her face turned purple.

"How I grouted my kitchen tiles in one afternoon" the dreadful creature read with a light-hearted lilt in her voice.

The dastardly monologue continued and Miss Boston could feel the blood vessels thump and pound in her forehead.

"'Dear Norma—I have an unsightly blemish on my chin which is most upsetting. I am very conscious of it at social events and have taken to wrapping a scarf around my face when I go out. Can you help me? Spring is coming and I shan't be able to wear the scarf in warmer weather.' "

Miss Boston shook all over and her one good hand gripped the chair arm so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Her breath snorted down her nostrils like that of a horse and she opened her mouth to scream.

"'Three mouth-watering ways to use red cabbage—inflame your salads and make others green with envy..."

That was it. In a voice that had not been heard for three whole months and with a trumpeting shout so loud that the windows trembled a second time—Miss Boston roared.

"GET OUT!" she yelled. "GET OUT OF MY SIGHT, YOU STUPID IMBECILE!"

Sister Frances dropped the magazine and stared incredulously at the old lady.

"You... you spoke!" she exclaimed, "Oh! How fabulous!"

***

That afternoon, when the children returned from school they were disappointed to find Sister Frances still at the cottage and even more dismayed to hear that Doctor Adams was once again examining Aunt Alice.

"Has she fallen again?" Jennet asked fearfully.

They were gathered in the small kitchen. Miss Wethers was trying to arrange some biscuits on a plate for the doctor but she was in such a fretful state that they kept breaking in her twitching hands. She was too busy to answer so Jennet directed her question to the nun instead.

Sitting upon a stool, with her long legs stretched out in everybody’s way Frances breathed a great sigh. "It really is miraculous!" she informed the children. "I feel so honoured that I was the one to witness such a momentous event."

Jennet looked across at her brother. They had not spoken since the girl's angry outburst and though she regretted it, Ben was not prepared to forgive her yet. Ignoring his sister, he screwed up his face and regarded the nun with annoyance.

"But what has happened?" he asked.

Sister Frances put a finger on her lips and signalled for them to listen.

The sound of Doctor Adams's voice floated from the sickroom.

"Well, Miss Boston," he said in a resigned sort of way, "I'm afraid there's no explanation for it. None whatsoever."

Ben held his breath. Whatever it was it sounded extremely serious. Perhaps the old lady had had a relapse, and he glanced worriedly up at Miss Wethers.

"There now," the woman soothed when she saw his concerned face, "have a bourbon. There's nothing to..."

Before she could finish, to both Ben's and Jennet's amazement and disbelief, they heard Aunt Alice's answering retort to the doctor.

"Of course you have no explanation!" she cried. "I always thought you were a quack, Adams—now I know for certain! Don't you think you should step aside and let a younger fellow take over? Well overdue for retirement you are."

Ben forgot that he was not speaking to Jennet and pushed her aside as he ran from the kitchen. "It's Aunt Alice!" he shouted. "She can talk again!"

In the sickroom Doctor Adams was preparing to flee from the vicinity of the restored voice when the boy burst through the door and rushed at Miss Boston.

"Benjamin, dearest!" she laughed, and the sound was wonderful to hear. "Oh my, what a commotion! It's nothing to get excited about. I was just telling Incompetent Adams here that from now on there is nothing to worry about. Ho—look at him, he's completely foxed! Hasn't a clue how I managed it."

Jennet entered the room just in time to see the doctor shift his weight from one foot to the other and hold his medical bag before him. He looked decidedly uncomfortable and felt as though he was back at school in the headmistress's office. Miss Boston's tongue was just as disconcerting as it had always been.

"It seems all I can do is congratulate you," he said with a nervous cough. "If you recall, I did say that you might one day speak again—only not so quickly as this."

"Pooh!" scorned Aunt Alice. "You'd given me up totally—another month or so and it would have been some home or other, to be sure. Well, you can take all your charlatan paraphernalia out of here and do whatever you like with it. I have no further need of your services, thank you very much."

The doctor knew it was hopeless to argue with the old battleaxe so he mumbled his farewells and hurried to the door, bumped into Jennet on the way, then was caught by Edith who pounced on him as he passed the kitchen.

"You're not going?" she simpered, bearing her tray of broken biscuits. "I was going to make a nice pot of tea."

"Not today," he snapped.

Edith's tissue dabbed her nose. "Next time then," she whimpered hopefully.

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 cloud 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 her 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?"

"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 businesses 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.

Briskly, Hillian opened the door of The Whitby Bookshop and passed quickly inside.

It was a small place, but every available space was utilised to the full. All manner of fascinating works crammed the shelves from floor to ceiling; carousels of spoken-word cassettes and picture books loomed in every corner, a crowd of dumpbins vied for position, almost shouldering one another aside in a rugby-like scrum, and above all this, spinning gaily in the draught from the open door was a flock of colourful mobiles suspended from the ceiling.

At first glance the shop seemed chaotic but everything was in fact well-ordered and each book occupied its own logical position, ready to be found by the prospective and gleeful purchaser.

Despite these enticing charms, however, that morning the bookshop was virtually empty. Only two customers were wandering between the shelves, stooping to peer at the titles and flick leisurely through the pages.

Hillian looked at them with annoyance then turned her attention to the woman behind the till.

Miriam Gower was a large lady of middle years. Her tall, mannish height permitted her to reach the highest shelf, but her ample bosom and matronly figure made this a comical and ungraceful spectacle. Strictly speaking she was not fat—just heavily-built like a shot-putter. To counteract her unwieldy frame, she was always attired in the most feminine clothes she could find to fit her broad size and bore herself with as much pompous dignity as she could muster.

Today she was wearing a printed cotton dress covered in pale pink roses, with a neckline that plunged so low that it verged on the scandalous. Her thinning hair was coiffed and set into a perfect confection that had been dyed a dusky shade of orange. She had a broad, heart-shaped face—bisected with a vivid slash of crimson lipstick painted over her wide mouth. A nose that was slightly too small and pointed nestled snootily in the centre of this fleshy expanse, and on either side were two permanently narrowed eyes that could swivel sharply round and glare with such arrogant force and accusation that she had already become a terror for the local children.

It was obvious to even the most casual of observers that Miriam loathed the bookshop and no one knew why she had bought it. If she had been more approachable perhaps the curious would have asked but as yet none had dared and so it remained a Whitby mystery. The only satisfaction she appeared to gain from working there was in keeping her suspicious gaze trained on her customers. With Medusan looks that could petrify a troublesome child at the furthest end of the shop, she watched and waited—hoping that one of them would foolishly commit a crime worthy of her retribution.

So far this had not happened and although she had not given up hope, Miriam became bored with the daily running of the place. When Hillian entered, she did not even bother to look up. She was too occupied in painting her nails the same garish colour as her lips so that it seemed she had dipped her fingers in fresh blood then drank the rest.

Hillian gave a slight cough at which Miriam's eyes gleamed out at her. A look of recognition passed between the two and the nail varnish was swiftly consigned to a shelf below the counter. Hillian faintly nodded at the other customers and the large woman understood at once.

Suddenly the crimson, sneering mouth became one massive smile that almost wrapped itself around the back of her head. Like a ship in full sail, Miriam Gower rose majestically from her seat at the counter and bore down upon the unsuspecting browsers.

"May I be of assistance?" said she who had been no help at all so far.

The customers were so astonished by her abrupt change of manner that they allowed themselves to be herded like sheep to the nearest shelf where, by Miriam's enthusing they were compelled to choose a book they had no intention of ever reading.

Within ten minutes the customers were ushered to the door and they stumbled out into the street clutching their unwanted purchases, shaking their heads as if emerging from a bewildering dream.

Locking the door behind them, the smile vanished from Miriam's face as she turned to Hillian.

"There is none persons above?" the smaller woman asked, peering up the spiral staircase which led to the tiny first floor area.

Miriam only snorted in response and resumed her seat behind the counter.

"Have you news?" she asked with a note of desperation in her resonant voice.

A pert smile curled over Hillian's more delicate mouth. "Indeed yes," she said. "The contact shall be made tonight. Then will we receive our instructions."

Like a huge, deflating balloon, Miriam let out a great sigh. "Praise be!" she exclaimed. "I doubt if I can stand it here very much longer—each day is a torment without him." Her bright fingers reached for her throat about which was strung a necklace of primitive wooden beads. The adornment jarred with everything else the woman was wearing, yet as she touched it her eyes closed and she breathed deeply as though drawing strength and pleasure from it.

"We all are feeling in the same way," Hillian told her, "but until we know what is required, waiting is all we can be doing."

"Let it be over soon," Miriam moaned. "I shall go mad submerged within these barbarian absurdities! Oh how I despise this hideously dull backwater!"

"If we are favoured, then you shall not suffer it too much longer."

Miriam's eyes sparkled. "When shall we meet?" she asked breathlessly. "Make it here—tonight."

The other woman agreed. "It shall be so, but there is many things to be done before then. I must also be informing Susannah."

At the mention of that name Miriam's face clouded over and grew hard. With her nostrils twitching disagreeably her face took on a sour and contemptuous expression.

"Tell Plain Little Susie?" she scoffed. "Is there any point? I fear our own darling Quasimodo is lapsing!"

Hillian shook her head. "She will do exactly what she is bid!" she said firmly. "As will us all."

"Have a care," Miriam purred. "You have not been made priestess yet."

"Nor you either," Hillian retorted. "The ring of amethyst could maybe go to any one of us."

"Tuh! Not our hunchbacked little leprechaun! That is just unthinkable."

Hillian was tired of this petty feuding. "Never have you tried to like Susannah," she muttered. "Who of the circle ever had liking for the one who was our replacement in his affections? Yet we must be bound by our oaths and labour together. I do not doubt that Susannah will obey; her heart belongs to him as surely as the rest."

Miriam licked her teeth. "I shall try to be more... Christian," she said, her voice dripping with irony.

"Just be ready for this tonight," Hillian said curtly. "The bickering and argumenting must cease. Are we not splintered enough? Adieu."

"Goodbye... Sister," Miriam answered in drawling tones as the short plump woman left the shop. Then, when she was alone amongst the hundreds of books, Miriam stroked her necklace and kissed it reverently. "Soon," she silently mouthed. "Oh, make it soon."

***

When Jennet returned to the cottage that afternoon, she found Miss Wethers rushing around the kitchen in a cloud of flour and icing sugar.

The woman let out a shrill squeal when she saw her and hastened to the table with a tea towel to hide the cake that she had spent most of the day struggling and toiling over.

"Hello, dear!" she twittered, wiping a stray stripe of pink icing from her nose. "Do go into the parlour, there's a good girl."

Jennet removed her coat and surveyed the kitchen with mild amusement. It looked as though every pan, dish and bowl that Aunt Alice possessed had been used by Miss Wethers and they lay in a jumbled chaos, spilling over the crowded sink and covering every visible surface.

Throwing her school bag into a corner, Jennet left the kitchen and, with some apprehension, opened the parlour door.

"Jennet!" cried Aunt Alice as the girl entered. "Oh splendid! Have you brought your friends along? Do bring them in, there's plenty to tuck into."

In the centre of the room, the round table which had once been used for Aunt Alice's séances was now covered in a clean white cloth and laden with a sumptuous spread of sandwiches and soft drinks.

Leaning forward in the wheelchair, Miss Boston clucked excitedly and shook her chins with childish enthusiasm.

"I put the sausages on the sticks myself," she proudly declared, "and cut up the cheese into cubes. Not an easy task with these infernal hands of mine. Well, what do you think? We've been dying for you to return."

Jennet looked at the humble feast and tried to be as enthusiastic as Aunt Alice, but a party was the last thing she had wanted and though she had tried to tell them no one had listened.

"It... it looks lovely," she managed at last.

The old lady eyed her in surprise. The child didn't seem interested at all and she could not understand this unexpected reaction.

"Your friends," she muttered, "are they here?"

"No," Jennet said firmly, "I haven't brought anyone."

"Why ever not?"

"I just haven't—all right? I didn't want to."

Miss Boston slowly wheeled herself over to the girl.

"Is there something wrong?" she asked gently. "You don't seem very happy."

Jennet gazed at the kindly, wrinkled face for a moment. How could anyone so old understand what she was feeling? It was impossible to tell anyone of the thoughts and emotions which troubled and frightened her.

"I'm fine," she said at last. "Just tired, that's all."

Aunt Alice patted her hand consolingly. "You do know that I'm always here for you, don't you, Jennet dear? You used to tell me everything. Nothing's changed has it?"

"Only me," the girl replied. She hesitated for several moments as she wondered if she could confide in Aunt Alice after all. Then, taking a deep, decisive breath she began. "Tell me, is it possible to hate something—or someone, so much yet still..."

Abruptly, the door bell rang in intermittent bursts and Miss Boston groaned as she recognised the sound which always heralded the arrival of Sister Frances.

"Confound the woman!" she snorted, wheeling around the table. "I shall be glad when I'm fit again—if only to be able to run from that blethering nuisance!"

Jennet slowly shook her head and braced herself for the nun's entrance.

"Many happy returns!" Sister Frances shouted as she burst into the parlour, gushing her good wishes to the birthday girl.

"Good evening Miss B!" the nun cried. "I say, isn't this enormous fun!"

"What on earth are you doing here?" Aunt Alice demanded. "You're not due until Tuesday!"

Sister Frances nodded. "I know," she heartily agreed, "but who should I meet on his dawdly way from school but little Bennykins, and when he told me it was sweet Jennet's birthday I insisted on joining the celebrations. Oh how delightful! What a delicious looking tea! Bags I a ham and egg sandwich!"

Aunt Alice rolled her eyes in exasperation. Sister Frances had the thickest skin she had ever encountered. "Well, you had better make yourself at home," she said grudgingly.

Like a pelican, the nun swooped upon the table and carried off a handful of food which she rapidly made short work of. Just as a sausage was disappearing into her wide mouth, Ben put his head around the door.

Without pausing to greet Aunt Alice, the boy raced forward and piled a teetering quantity of sandwiches and crisps on to a plate.

And so the party began, but Jennet enjoyed none of it. In silence, she picked at her food and solemnly watched the others. It was as though she were isolated from all of them, a separate and lonely figure who no longer belonged amongst this cheerful group. As if from a great distance, she dispassionately viewed the proceedings and the sober ticking of the grandfather clock soon became the only sound she was conscious of.

"Is that orange squash I spy?" Sister Frances enthused. "Might I partake of just a smidgen?"

Aunt Alice passed the nun an empty glass but the frown which had furrowed her brow since the unwanted guest's arrival suddenly evaporated and a mischievous chuckle issued from her lips as she casually opened a cabinet and reached inside.

Presently Miss Wethers finished her work on the cake and nipped into the parlour for a bite to eat. But she had spent so long preparing and tasting everything that she was no longer very hungry and nibbled tentatively at a cube of cheese and a small tomato.

The appetite of Sister Frances startled them all. It was as though she had not eaten for days. Ben attempted to guard what was left of the crisps and sausages, for the nun had wolfed most of them, and he glowered at her as she moved towards the table for a fourth helping.

"Some more squash, Sister?" Miss Boston beamed, handing her a third tumbler full.

"Rather!" came the eager reply and the nun swigged it down in two great gulps.

"Oh, let me fetch you another," Aunt Alice declared.

Presently, Miss Wethers slipped out and scurried back into the kitchen. When she returned, her face was aglow with the flames of thirteen candles that crowned the cake she had laboured over. It was decorated with pale pink icing and, in a deeper shade, fine fondant worms spelt out the merry occasion alongside a rather distorted yellow blob that she wistfully proclaimed to be a "darling baby bunny".

A loud chorus of "Happy Birthday" erupted but the exuberant voice of Sister Frances drowned out all others and when she had finished, the nun gave out a great and giggling laugh.

Miss Wethers and Ben stared at her in astonishment but Aunt Alice had to hide her face to conceal the guilty smirk which had appeared there.

Jennet looked at Sister Frances coldly. She had always thought the nun was stupid and the way she was tittering at the slightest thing seemed to prove she had been right.

When the cake was cut and passed around it was discovered to be one of Edith's less successful creations. At least the chewing required to swallow it kept Frances quiet, although by then she had started to sway unsteadily.

An unexpected knock at the door made Miss Wethers choke and she scampered into the hall to answer it amidst much coughing.

"Doctor Adams!" she announced in a shriek as she realised how dreadful she looked covered in flour and icing sugar. Hurriedly, she herded him into the parlour, handed him a clean serviette and disappeared upstairs to make herself more presentable.

"Halloo there, Doctor!" hailed Sister Frances. "Isn't thish marfel... marvellesh?"

The fleshy man could only blink at her, for the nun's head was waggling on her long neck as though it was about to fall off. With one eye half closed and the other fixed upon him in a defiant glare, she held her tongue between her teeth and hissed through them.

"Do have a thothage! They're the nithesht lickle porkers and sho teeny and thweet. Go on! What about a thandwij, or a wee dwinky? Don't be thuch a fuddy duddy! HIC! Oh, pardin me."

"Are you feeling quite well?" the doctor asked.

"Coursh I do," came the slurred and indignant reply. "Never felt bitter—better. HIC! Shcuse again, mosht impoleet."

Doctor Adams was horrified: the woman was drunk. "I think you had better sit down," he said sternly. "You ought to be ashamed. In front of these children too—what sort of an example is that?"

"To which are you alluding?" the nun asked primly.

"Whatever it is, you should take more water with it," he scolded, removing the glass of orange from her grasp and giving the dregs a cautious sniff.

"Hum," he mumbled. "What would your Mother Superior say about this?"

The nun's face became an exaggerated vision of wounded innocence. "How outrage outrageoush!" she gasped. "How could you accushe me of sutch wickednish! To imply that I am inebri... inebri—squiffy! 'Tis you who ought to be ashamed, Doctor! Is that why your whole face goesh beetroot shometimes? Oh yesh, I've theen you quaff it down at the fête."

Folding her arms with as much dignity as she could muster, the nun turned her face towards the wall and sniffed loftily.

Doctor Adams glanced at Miss Boston. "How long has she been like this?" he asked in a low whisper.

Aunt Alice tutted under her breath and with mock condemnation in her voice answered, "Rolled up like this over half an hour ago. Disgraceful, isn't it? I don't know what to do, I really don't."

An odd twinkle glimmered in her eyes but the doctor failed to notice it, for at that moment Frances whirled around and jabbed him with her forefinger.

"Ash for Mother Shuperior," she cried, "you can tell her all you like. She'sh a rotten old ratbag and I don't give a jot!"

"I'll make you a strong black coffee," the doctor said.

"No!" Frances roared loftily. "It's time I was going anywaysh. Thank you for a mosht delightful evenin', Miss B. Ta-ta Bennykins, happy birthday Jennet—goodbye Doctor!" And she strode in a wavering line from the room, navigated to the front door and stumbled outside where she crashed into Miss Boston's rusting bicycle.

The old lady bit her lip to keep from laughing but the doctor scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Is she often like that, I wonder?" he mused. "How dreadful. Perhaps I should have a word with someone about her problem."

"I shouldn't worry too much," Aunt Alice said, choking back the mirth. "I'm sure it only occurs very rarely."

Before he could answer, Miss Wethers came skipping down the stairs, attired in a new dress and with her hair thoroughly brushed and pinned behind her ears.

"Well, I'm ready," she said.

"Ready for what?" Aunt Alice asked. "You look as though you're off out somewhere."

"We are," the doctor smiled. "There's another old-time dance on tonight and Edith has accepted my invitation once again."

"Oh, Doctor Adams!" cooed Miss Wethers.

"Conway!" he reminded her.

In a matter of minutes they had both left the cottage and Miss Boston uttered a grateful sigh.

"At least I can get on with my studies without her twittering around me," she said. "Here, Ben, put this in the dustbin if you would be so kind."

From the blanket which covered her knees, she brought out an empty bottle of vodka. "Only had it in for when the late Mrs Banbury-Scott used to call round," she explained, handing it to him. "I thought I would explode trying to keep a straight face. Oh, what sublime revenge for all those afternoons of 'Torture by Nun'! Did you see the expression on old Adams?"

Ben pushed her from the parlour back to her sickroom and, laughing together, they left Jennet sitting alone.

The girl gazed sorrowfully around the room and slowly began to clear the table. In the distracting spectacle of Sister Frances, they had completely forgotten to give Jennet her birthday presents.

The sun was still just above the horizon and pale shadows filled the streets and lanes of the West Cliff. A cool breeze blew in from the sea and, as Sister Frances staggered unsteadily over the cobbles she felt extremely giddy.

"What ish the matter with me?" she burbled aloud. "Don't feel at all... I say, why is the street spinning round?"

Lurching against a wall, she tried to balance herself and drew a hand over her brow.

"Mosht unlike me, thish ish," she rambled on. "Wonder if it was something I ate? Praps if I sat down for a while? No—fresh air, that'sh the chappy. Get some good air in you, Frances, that'sh the ticket—do you a power of good. If I shtand on the shore for a few minutes it'll all clear."

Carefully, she made her way down the steps of Tate Hill Pier, holding on to the wall with one hand and her reeling head with the other.

The world was revolving in the most disagreeable manner and she lifted her eyes to the sky but that too was whirling. When her feet sank into the soft sand the nun halted as she tried to control her rubbery legs. Then she took several steps down the gentle slope, slithering only once, and breathed deeply.

"Aarghkk!" she coughed, wildly backing away with her fingers pinching her long nose.

The effects of the alcohol disappeared immediately as a most putrid and disgusting stench filled her nostrils and the poor woman turned a livid green colour.

"What is it?" she shrieked, the back of her throat burning from the bile that she could not keep down.

Sister Frances' eyes grew wide and round as she stared about her.

The entire beach had turned silver. Covering the shore were hundreds upon hundreds of dead fish.

It was a bizarre and grotesque sight. The countless scaly bodies trailed right down to the water's edge where the waves relentlessly washed over them, churning up more of the glittering corpses and disgorging them on to the stinking sand.

With her hand covering her mouth as well as her nose, the now sober nun stooped to peer at the grisly shoal that surrounded her and shuddered in horror and revulsion.

The fish were the most grotesque creatures she had ever seen. They were hideously mutated, with cancerous bulges and weeping ulcers peppering the silver skin. Many were deformed monsters of spine and fin with rows of savage teeth and dead, staring eyes. Others had weird horns growing behind the gills or barbed, vicious-looking lower jaws that curved upwards over the fishes' pointed faces.

The scene reminded Sister Frances of old religious paintings that depicted the saints tormented by similar demons. No, not even they had imagined anything so vile as these foul carcasses. It was as if even the sea could not bear to hold them and had flung the unholy shoal at the land to be rid of its unclean presence.

Overhead the gulls screeched in alarm, but none of them dared alight upon the ghastly shore. No bird would dare feed off that flesh and the air was thick with their agitated flapping.

"Sweet Lord," Frances uttered as she crossed herself in despair, "deliver us!"

Yet as she retraced her steps back to the pier stairs, the nun caught sight of the most revolting malignance she had yet witnessed.

In shape it resembled the other fish but there the similarity ended. The creature was a bloated terror and halfway up the flabby body it split in two, possessing a pair of loathsome heads which lolled over the other corpses and filled Frances with nausea.

Each was coated in a phosphorescent slime that glimmered in the fading light. The wide mouths gaped up at her and the three eyes which protruded from each deformed head seemed to follow her movements.

Sister Frances backed away and to her distress she realised that the thing was not quite dead.

A clawed fin jerked upon the ulcerated side and one of the mouths gave a deep, gasping moan.

That was too much. The nun gave a distressed scream and bounded up the steps, gulping for breath as the fish had done.

Along the curving shore, sitting behind a large, weed-covered boulder, was Nelda.

The young aufwader had been there for some time. She had seen the horrific multitude wash on to the sands and her blood had run cold.

"'Tis a sign," she wept. "Thus do the Deep Ones reveal their displeasure. What other terrors will come to pass? What new foulness shall be shown before my time comes?"

Bowing her head, she brought from her pocket Old Parry's disc of polished glass and clutched it desperately as the tears flooded from her eyes.

4 - The Whitby Witches

In the rugged miles of coast that lie between Whitby and the hill-hugging town of Robin Hood's Bay, the exposed clifftop path is a magnet for ramblers and the hardy tourist.

In places the dirt track disappears completely where the ground has slipped into the ravaging sea far below and the intrepid traveller is forced to cut through fields where placid cows graze and plod through the well-clipped grasses.

That evening, as the inland farms faded in the encroaching dusk, a solitary figure hurried over the pathway.

Hillian Fogle cursed her own foolishness for the umpteenth time. Unwisely she had forgotten to change her shoes and the spikes of her heels continually plunged deep into the mud, impeding her progress.

"Ninety-five pounds," she uttered, heaving the Italian leather from the mire yet again, "ruined totally."

She had left Whitby some distance behind and here, amongst the twisted hawthorn hedges and cow pats, her designer clothes looked even more incongruous.

"Preparation," she intoned, grimacing at the mud spatters that stained her skirt. "Not enough prepared—this will teach you. What did he always used to tell? 'Prepare and succeed, blunder and fail.' 'Tis true, I shall not let it be happening again. Those who fail do not wear the amethyst."

Pushing her spectacles further up her nose, the woman squinted along the path, then peered down at a piece of paper she held in her hand.

It was now too dark to see the map, so from the smart bag which had once matched the shoes she brought out a torch and shone it upon the paper.

"Not far," she breathed, "yet it was more distant than I was anticipated."

Waving the bright beam before her, she carefully negotiated the squelching route for a further fifteen minutes then consulted the map once more.

"Here, I am certain," she said, looking down at a large, irregular-shaped stone that jutted from the ground and was scored by three weathered lines.

Cautiously, Hillian shone the torch over the edge and saw that below her the cliff face dropped less severely to the shore and in a tight zigzag, a precarious pathway wound down the steep slope beyond the reach of the light beam.

Tucking the map back into her pocket, she began to descend, and here again she was obliged to curse her expensive footwear.

Quietly lapping the shore, the dark sea was still and at peace. Behind the lazy waves that rolled almost wearily on to the stretching sands no ripple marred the smooth surface and out into the far distance the waters merged with the smothering night.

From the shallows, a massive column of black rock rose dramatically into the sky like a tower sacred to heaven that had been roughly hewn in the lost, pagan ages of the world.

Into this secluded place, Hillian came hobbling. When her shoes sank into the sand, she slipped her feet from them and continued the rest of the way with them dangling from her fingers.

Curiously she gazed up at the rearing pillar of rock and satisfied herself that it was indeed the correct spot, then switched off her torch.

An air of expectancy charged the salty atmosphere, as though the sea had been waiting for her arrival, and she felt a chill tingle travel along her spine.

Gravely, she placed her belongings upon the sand and stood as still as the immense rock which loomed nearby as she composed herself. For some moments she listened, but the only sounds were those of the waves upon the shore.

Flinging out her arms she stared fixedly at the invisible horizon then cried, "Hearken to me!" and the sudden noise of her voice tore the waiting peace into shreds.

"Here have I come," Hillian called. "This is the meeting place of your devising—show unto me that our efforts have not been in vain. Disclose the contact that we seek and are promised this night. In the name of he who has passed over and by the coven of the Black Sceptre I summon you!"

Keeping her arms raised until they ached, she waited for an answering sign, but only the soft murmuring sea called to her and Hillian's nostrils twitched in irritation and impatience.

"He keeps me lingering," she muttered, "yet bide here I shall. Does he test my endurance? More than this would any of us suffer."

Lowering her arms, she buttoned her elegant jacket and thrust her hands deep into the pockets, for the exposed shore was cold and it was not long before the chill entered her very bones.

When twenty minutes had gone by, Hillian lit a cigarette and sat upon the damp sand, for her feet were totally numb and she rubbed them vigorously.

"A waste of time this is," she told the empty shore. "Why delay further?"

Another half an hour dragged by and with an annoyed snarl, she finished the packet of cigarettes and threw the screwed up box into the water.

"Were we deceived?" she yelled. "What joke was this? Many months in the planning I spent—was it only for your amusement? Why do you not answer?"

Even as she uttered the last question she became aware that the wind had changed and was swiftly growing stronger.

From the blackness of the open sea it blew, whipping the foam from the waves and driving them against the shore with increasing violence.

"Yes!" Hillian roared as she sprang to her feet. "Show me, oh Mighty Majesty! Reveal thy will!"

At last it was happening. Rejoicing at the raging gale, the woman leaned into the squall and with her mud-splashed, sand-encrusted silk and linen clothes flapping madly about her she raised her arms in exultation.

From the furthest reaches of the sea, the storm came thundering. Huge waves crashed against the column of rock, venting a hellish fury about its solid bulk until it seemed as if it would topple and smash into the savage waters below. Upon the shore the sand was ripped up and hurled against the cliff, gouging deep cuts into its sloping face.

Hillian's short black hair streamed flat against her skull as the tempest screamed about her, yet she withstood it fearlessly and bawled back into the howling wind.

"Show me now!" she screeched. "Show me!"

From the wild darkness above, a torrent of hailstones suddenly pelted from the sky and pounded the tortured shore. Then from the deep, seething waters, a spout of icy water exploded to the surface as a small, square object shot from the waves.

Hillian clapped her hands as she watched it fly through the night in a perfect arc towards her.

Spinning and twisting, the shape tumbled down. Through hail and sleet it sliced a curving path until, with a tremendous thump, it hit the beach and was half buried in the sand directly in front of the gleeful woman.

Eagerly, she kneeled to dig it free with her bare hands and stared at the object excitedly.

It was a wooden box, no larger than a small suitcase, and Hillian snatched it up greedily.

"I thank you!" she cried into the wind. "Now we can begin to do thy bidding. Be assured that no task shall we balk at—for if we are granted that which is promised then there is nothing we will not commit."

The sea roared about the towering rock and Hillian put the shoes back upon her feet. With a final glance at the raging waters, the plump woman carried the box up the narrow pathway and set off back to Whitby.

***

On the East Cliff, situated along the Pier Road beside the gaudy, chattering amusement arcades, The Sandy Beach Café looked bright and cheerful in its clean peppermint paint and golden letters. The establishment had only been open for a few weeks but already it was luring many regular customers away from their old haunts and had proven a firm favourite with the early holiday makers.

The new owner, Susannah O'Donnell, wiped down the last table and surveyed the shining interior of her café with undisguised pride.

She was a plain, stunted-looking woman with a dull face that held no sparkle or redeeming feature which might have lifted her from the trough of ugliness. Her eyes were small and positioned too far apart under her heavy brows where they blinked alarmingly at anxious and nervous moments. Between these a misshapen lump of freckled gristle poked into the air—it was more of a snout than a nose and burdened her with the fact that it was always shiny and on cold days looked just like a polished radish.

A mass of wiry ginger hair framed this unlovely countenance and the coarse sprouting had been cut with so little attention or skill that it seemed to grip her head like a tight-fitting helmet.

From early on in her life, Susannah had realised that she was never going to be beautiful and had taken to sinking her chin into her chest and walking with a stoop to try to go unnoticed in the world. This habit had resulted in an unpleasant curvature of the spine and now her hunched shoulders and slightly rounded back were aspects of her appearance that she could no longer control.

No, when she forced herself to gaze in the mirror, she knew that there was nothing a man might find attractive about that sorry reflection, and had resigned herself to that fact long ago. Yet every time Susannah O'Donnell opened her mouth to speak she turned the heads of everyone who heard her.

She possessed one of the most exquisitely enchanting voices ever to have sang outside a nightingale's throat. With her lilting Irish accent, every sentence that she uttered was a marvellous music that made the fortunate listener smile with pleasure. Once Susannah had harboured the aspiration to become a professional singer but her father had forbidden that, for it would never have done for his ugly daughter to make a spectacle of herself in public. And so the dream withered inside her and she retreated further into his grand house, for her family was rich, and when her father died she had become one of the wealthiest women in Ireland.

It was too late then, however, to fulfil her childhood ambition, for whatever meagre confidence she once nurtured had been mercilessly trampled and killed.

By the time she was thirty-nine years old, Susannah had become a recluse and the family residence rang with the echoes of her unhappiness.

Briskly, she shook the cloth out of the café door then pulled the rubber gloves from her hands.

"A come-down this is," she sang lightly. "To think, O'Donnell, there were servants aplenty in that rambling old house o' father's." But as she said this a smile was irresistibly curving over her mouth and she wandered slowly through to the kitchen where the cloth and gloves were consigned to the appropriate drawer.

"Ah, but you love it, sure you do," she eventually added with a spellbinding laugh, "and when were you so happy? 'Tis a time I can't remember."

As she removed her overall, the woman paused and she did indeed recall such an occasion.

"That was it," she lamented, "that first day when he came sailing into my life—all grin and blarney. Oh yes, that were a sunny chance and no mistake."

Susannah became lost in a fair memory, that unforgettable day when the only man who had ever noticed her confessed his adoration, and from the moment she beheld those blazing eyes she was lost. Since that time she had followed him half-way around the world, and though he had proven faithless and cruel she had remained insanely devoted to him.

"Nathaniel," her voice chimed softly, "oh my sweet, sweet love."

For six years Susannah had been a member of the Crozier coven and during those witching years the high priest had squandered most of her fortune. But she had not cared. She knew that he had never had any affection for her and only used her when it suited him, but that did not matter. Nathaniel had let her stay by him and that was all she craved.

She was not the only coven member to be so ensnared; she could list at least two others whom he had seduced merely for their wealth. Others were procured because they possessed some skill or talent that he could pervert and enslave to do his bidding. Only one of Susannah's "sisters" was brought into the coven because of her beauty, and she had heard dreadful tales from the others of how he had dealt with those who resented the lovely newcomer.

He had been a selfish and arrogant devil who made certain that he got his own way in all matters, and those who disobeyed him were barbarously punished. But that had happened ten years before she had joined and every one of his disciples since that time had remained steadfastly loyal.

As she hung the overall behind the kitchen door and began to pull on her overcoat she smiled ruefully.

"A frightful man and that's the honest truth," she chirped. "It's mad I must have been to traipse from country to country, dodging the authorities. To what end has it brought me, I ask myself? An O'Donnell waiting on tables and wiping up grease and tea slops."

A look of fright froze over Susannah's face and she shook herself angrily.

"Of what am I thinking?" she gasped, fumbling with the collar of her coat. "Ah, that's better, much better. Be calm now, Little Carrot, think of him—that's it, remember his eyes. Remember his voice, hear it from your heart... ah yes, there he is—that gorgeous man."

Throughout all this Susannah had been fingering a necklace of wooden beads and as she touched it she was reassured. The obedience to Nathaniel had begun to falter but now it was just as strong as it had ever been.

"All will be well," she chanted solemnly. "We shall succeed and all will be well."

Striding through the café she placed her hand upon the light switch but hesitated for one final look around the cheery room.

"'Tis an indignity right enough," she admitted, "but mild compared to most of the things I've done these last years. Come on, O'Donnell, I said before as how you love it. Wouldn't be so bad a life running this place."

She glanced across at the menu written in large colourful letters on the far wall and wondered if she ought to change it slightly for the following week. But all such thoughts were frivolous and futile—she might not even be here then.

Quickly, she left the premises and locked them behind her. Then, hunched over more than ever, she walked along the quayside and drank in the pleasant sight of Whitby after dark.

"It's a mercy that pile of stinking fish has been washed away," she observed as she crossed the swing bridge. '"Tis a grace I had any customers at all this evening with that foul reek a-wafting from the beach. Sure, me cream teas must be improving."

Before she set foot upon the West Cliff, Susannah turned in a full circle, taking in the entire town which glittered beneath the buzzing street lamps.

"'Tis a rare place," she murmured tunefully. "A most precious community with a history as fancy and noble as any other I've seen." She lifted her eyes past the rooftops to the shadowy stones of the church and tilted her head thoughtfully to one side. "More so perhaps," she added, "a quiet dignity resides up there—hmmm."

The woman smiled regretfully then disappeared into one of the dark lanes beyond the bridge, her lovely voice humming a charming song from the old country.

Inside The Whitby Bookshop, Miriam Gower looked at her watch and pursed her blood-red lips.

"Nearly half eleven," she said tersely. "What are they up to?"

The shop was in darkness for she did not wish to invite prying eyes; besides, she was perfectly at ease sitting in the pitchy gloom. As she sipped at a cup of strong, sweet tea, the large painted woman stared out at the street and waited.

A little time ago, she had heard the stragglers leave the public houses at the foot of the abbey steps and saw them lumber past the window, clapping one another on the shoulders and laughing raucously or tottering by on white slingbacks with arms folded and moussed hair defying the breeze. Once a bony, bespectacled man who was out walking a yapping terrier had peered in at the bookshelves and Miriam drew her round figure deeper into the shadows until he and the dog had continued on their way.

Now the street was deserted and she tapped her watch grimly until the sound of furtive footsteps drew near and Miriam recognised the ridiculous noise at once.

"Dear little Quas," she snapped, "about time too."

Rising, she emerged from the gloom and unlocked the door just as Susannah was about to tap upon the glass.

"Get in," Miriam ordered. "It's nearly midnight—what have you been doing?"

Susannah hurried inside the building and tried to peer into the darkness. "Is Hillian here yet?" she asked. "Have I missed anything?"

"No and no," came the curt response. "Oh, don't just stand there like a Belisha beacon for everyone to see—go upstairs."

From her greater height, Miriam looked down upon the red-haired woman who stood awkwardly in full view of the window and pulled her towards the spiral staircase.

"Take that horrible coat off first and leave it on the chair—don't spill that tea! Now come this way."

The cast-iron steps shivered and groaned as the owner of the bookshop stomped over them, but when Susannah followed it was as if a ghost had floated by.

On the tiny first floor Miriam had cleared all the books to one side and created a reasonable space in the centre of the carpet where three black candles were flickering.

"You have been busy," Susannah praised her. "Did you shift those shelves by yourself? 'Tis a strong arm you have."

Miriam let out an offended snort and promptly primped the frills that covered her muscular shoulders.

"I hope there's enough light up here," she said archly. "I don't want you tripping over everything, do I?"

Susannah shifted with unease and wished that Hillian would arrive soon. She never felt comfortable around Miriam—especially if they were alone together. The woman seemed to delight in making her feel small and inadequate.

"Your nose has gone purple," Miriam commented.

'"Tis mighty cold out there."

"You're blinking again, Susie darling," the other remarked, forcing a horrible smile on to her broad face. "Maybe if you tried a little make-up you wouldn't look so peculiar. I'd let you have some of mine but I detest waste in all things. You should stop biting those nails too—it looks repulsive. I'm sure it would quite kill my appetite to see those chewed-up stumps serve me an iced bun or whatever it is you sell over there."

Susannah felt as though she was being scrutinised under a magnifying glass and she could not bear it. "Have you heard from any of the others?" she blurted, trying to change the subject. "How goes it with them?"

"Each has a part to play/" rapped the answer. "All will be gathered in the end—how many times have you been told this? Can't you remember anything?"

"I wish we weren't all scattered, that's all—we work best together."

Miriam waved her large hands airily. "Blame that on Hillian," she said. "This is her great plan. I only hope she knows what she's doing—I would have done it very differently."

"Ah," crooned Susannah, "but then you weren't chosen to lead us, were you?"

The large woman glared at her, but before she could spit out the gall that had bubbled inside her they were both disturbed by a knock upon the door below.

"Here she is," Miriam sneered, moving towards the staircase once more, "and I think we'll just wait until we are successful to see who'll lead the sisters."

Susannah leaned over the rail and pulled an insulting face at the great descending back. Then she heard the door open and Hillian's excited voice speaking breathlessly.

"I have it!" she cried. "The contact is made. Where is Susannah?"

"Upstairs."

Nimbly, Hillian pattered to the first floor and when Miriam caught up with her, proudly showed them both the wooden chest that the sea had given to her.

"Straight here have I come," she said, kicking off her mud-caked shoes and placing the box in the centre of the three candles.

The chest looked ancient. It was made of black wood, carved with images of the deep oceans and bound around by two wide bands of rusting iron.

Susannah did not lean forward admiringly like the others; the box reminded her of those ugly relics that Nathaniel had so cunningly acquired during his lifetime. Usually they had been foul artefacts stolen from some primitive tribe or taken from museums and her skin always crawled to see them.

"Open it," Miriam urged, "quickly!"

With the candlelight picking out a frenzied glint in her eyes, Hillian tore at the two iron clasps then carefully lifted the lid.

A musty smell filled the room and Susannah swallowed as she blinked nervously and wrung her hands together.

The chest was filled with dry straw and the three witches exchanged surprised glances.

"Is there anything else in there?" Susannah ventured.

"Only one way to find out," said Hillian, beginning to part the straw and search inside.

"Perhaps it's a snake," Miriam said, "or a nest of scorpions."

Hillian's fingers twitched gingerly as she contemplated these suggestions but dismissed them quickly. "No," she whispered, as her hand touched something round and hard. "Is it a dried gourd? No! See, my sisters!"

Reaching in with both hands, she brought out what she had found and emitted a short, delighted laugh.

Miriam's almond-shaped eyes shone and her sharp tongue peeped between her lips and licked them in rapture.

"Delectable," she purred. "Let me touch it."

"Look, Susannah!" Hillian exclaimed, showing her the contents of the box. "What a dainty we have been given."

The red-haired woman looked at the thing which her coven-sister held in her hands and shivered.

It was a horrible, mummified creature and Susannah instantly wished she was far away. The wizened nightmare was part fish, part monkey.

Over the small ape skull a brown, papery skin still retained its features although they were shrivelled and withered by great age. Below the domed forehead two scrunched up circles indicated where the eyes had once been and a grimacing beast-like mouth scowled from the shrunken jaws.

This foul head was perched upon a spindly neck which had contracted around the bones of the spine that protruded along the creature's humped back, ending in a small brittle tail fin.

It was like a preserved freak of nature that had crawled from the pickling jar, and two emaciated arms were locked in a perpetual gesture of aggression and clawing attack.

Almost as if the abhorrent specimen were a young child, Miriam cooed and stroked the clumps of fur which still clung to the parchment-dry flesh.

"What a sweetheart," she murmured, preening the tangled hairs and blowing it kisses.

Hillian put the creature on the carpet, then took from the box three small pouches of dark red cloth.

"Incense," she commented, opening one of the bags and taking a wary sniff. "Each one is the same and look, there is a bronze dish to burn it in."

Susannah ran her fingers through her coarse hair. "I don't understand," she muttered. "How can that dried-up thing possibly help us?"

Miriam patted the fishmonkey's head and regarded the woman haughtily. "Really!" she tutted.

"None of that!" Hillian rebuked the owner of the bookshop. "You are as puzzled as she. Even I am not certain how we are benefited by this novelty—charming though he is. Now, I think we had all best sit on the floor. That's it—form the circle."

"With only three of us?"

"It will have to do, Miriam. There, I take the dish and pour one pouch of incense on to it." Hillian closed the box and lifted the mummified creature on to the lid, then she placed the burner on the carpet just in front and lit the powder with a match.

At once the incense spluttered and red sparks spat into the air.

"A little damp perhaps," Hillian mumbled, as a thread of sickly green smoke began to rise from the crackling substance.

"It's a dreadful smell that stuff has," Susannah said. "Like rotten kippers and old seaweed—and it stings my eyes."

Miriam beamed across at her. "Now you really do have something to blink for," she leered.

"Hush!" breathed Hillian. "See what is happening!"

The fine stream of smoke rose ever upwards, yet it was not dispersed by the heat of the candle flames, nor by the draught of the three witches' excited breathing. Up the smouldering trail steadily climbed until it reached a point just above the fishmonkey's head, and then the acrid fog curled down and began to flow over the shrivelled form.

Around the frozen limbs it wound, under the spiny fins, covering every inch of wafery skin and engulfing the disfigured head in an impenetrable cloud.

Into the pinched, flattened nostrils the smoke pushed, washing over the wizened eye sockets and filling the frightening mouth.

Miriam stared in beguiled fascination, smearing her immaculate lipstick as she pressed her lips together and felt the familiar glamour of coven business steal over her.

No one dared speak, for even as they watched a rasping gasp issued from the creature's mouth whilst the smoke poured into its lungs, and soon it began coughing shrilly.

Then, inhaling the noxious fumes of the incense in one great breath, the papery eyelids snapped open and two yellow eyes shone in the candle-light.

Susannah covered her mouth in case she screamed as the hideous head twisted upon the scrawny neck and the fishmonkey stretched its puny arms to pull itself up and glare at each of them in turn.

The wrinkled mouth fell open and a vicious cluster of needle-like teeth was revealed to them. For a short while it continued to gasp and stare at its surroundings, then in a cold, sharp voice the mummified creature spoke.

"I am the mouthpiece of the Allpowerful," came the chilling declaration. "He has heard your entreaty and does consent to bestow upon you your dearest longing."

Three cries of joy issued from the witches and even Susannah forgot her fear of the disgusting apparition.

"Through this animated vessel alone," it continued, "the master can give you aid, for his hand must not be recognised in this work. Spies are all about and watchful eyes are trained on this place.

Only when the tide of fate turns shall the danger be past—till then secrecy is all."

The fishmonkey fixed them with its beady eyes. "Is that understood?" it demanded.

"Perfectly," Hillian answered. "None here will betray the identity of your lord."

The creature gave a reedy hiss of satisfaction. "Then hear me now, oh disciples of the Black Sceptre," it croaked. "Thrice only am I permitted to assist you. Should you fail to complete your part of the bargain then your dreams shall be lost."

"The coven has never failed before," Miriam assured it. "Tell us what task your master asks us to perform."

"'Asks'?" the fishmonkey shrieked. "The Allpowerful does not 'ask'—he demands. Listen to me, woe-filled children of the mortal lands, and know the commands of the great lord."

Hillian shot her sister a warning look that told her to keep quiet and the large woman ground her teeth in silent anger as the creature continued.

"There is, in this town, great danger—a heinous threat which can throw into confusion all our designs. Here, living amongst your kind, is one who has the strength to destroy us all should he be permitted to live."

"Then your master must destroy this menace at once!" Susannah interrupted. "What manner of dreadful power does this person wield if even the..."

"Fool!" spat the creature. "Name him not! The enemies of the mighty one are all around us. Let not thy careless tongue give proof to their ears."

"I'm sorry," she said. "I was not thinking."

The fishmonkey squirmed round to face her fully and the yellow eyes narrowed as it glowered at her.

"Then know this," it uttered in a sibilant whisper. "The mortal wretch of whom I speak has touched the treasure of the deep kingdoms. Never before have human hands held the most precious prize of the sea and thus the old laws now protect the loathsome worm. No power of the world can be seen to cause grief or hurt to that insect and so is my master foiled."

"Then we are to be his agents in this," stated Hillian flatly. "It is no great matter for us—we have killed before."

"Many times," mumbled Susannah.

"Remove this base obstacle," the fishmonkey vowed, "and the reward is thine."

To atone for her earlier mistake, Miriam forced a sickening smile on to her face. "Honour me with this glorious mission," she begged. "Let me be the one who brings death to the upstart. I don't care what method you choose, I adore them all. But, if I might proffer a suggestion, I always find poison most agreeable. A slow, lingering agony that eats away inside or a quick and sudden end that cuts the thread of life in a moment. Both ways have their merits; in the past I've had considerable success with venomous chocolates."

"Webs and hatchings!" the creature snapped impatiently. "A poisoner! Is that the sum of thine ambition and scope of thy petty mind? There is a much simpler method of despatch, for the way has been chosen and the hand of no one shall be in suspicion in the grey light of day that heralds this timely death."

Miriam's face set like stone as her temper boiled within her,yet she fought to remain calm although she could not bring herself to curl her lips into a smile.

"What must we do?" asked Hillian, ignoring Miriam's simmering fury. "We are here to obey."

"First, join your hands," it ordered, "and concentrate your powers. Summon what strength you possess. Let the essence of night flow through you."

"We are but three," complained Miriam through clenched teeth. "We should have all been here—Susie was right."

"Obey me!" screeched the fishmonkey. "You are but the instruments of my master! His strength shall join with you—you need no others here!"

Hillian took hold of Miriam's fat hand and the circle was complete. The witches closed their eyes and the wizened creature crawled over the box until it faced the far wall.

"There are many spies abroad," it cackled, staring beyond the plain wallpaper, "yet many have allied themselves to the Allpowerful. One has already seen how this death can be achieved—it is a fitting demise."

Baring the tiny brown teeth, it gave a shrill call then raised its emaciated arms. "Do not break the circle," it warned them and then, in a low hiss, the fishmonkey began to mutter a string of evil-sounding words.

Susannah held grimly on to the hands of her coven-sisters as the cold, chanting voice filled her mind. There was power in that incantation; she could feel it coursing through her and knew that terrible forces were gathering.

The atmosphere inside the small bookshop became thick with unleashed enchantment as the invocations increased until the high, wailing voice of the fishmonkey reverberated through the very bricks of the building and the shelves trembled before the mounting might.

Suddenly the witches gasped as each felt the breath rush from their bodies and above their heads bolts of dark energy crackled into existence. Fiercely, the vivid lightnings lashed about the room, hurling books to the floor and blistering through the posters pinned to the wall.

The three women held on to each other desperately, yet each was thrilled and the blood sang in their temples whilst gooseflesh prickled over their creeping skin.

Jagged forks of shadowy fire flashed about their wrists, burning into their hands until they cried out with pain. Every fist shook uncontrollably and they dug their nails into one another's palms so that the circle would not be breached.

The fishmonkey was shouting now, bawling out the final words of the terrifying spell—and then it was over.

Silence fell and Susannah drew her breath sharply. It felt as though she was floating, rising from the floor with her sisters, up into the empty air.

Keeping her eyes firmly shut, with her mind's eye she saw the blank wall drift towards them and then it melted, dissolving around the women like shimmering water.

A chill wind caressed her cheek—they were outside.

Out into the night the witches flew, holding on to each other more lightly now. Over the clustering yards of the East Cliff they sailed, soaring above the chimneys and riding the air like thistledown.

Susannah marvelled at the sensation and the others trilled with pleasure. Miriam had never felt so buoyant and she giggled helplessly whilst Hillian surveyed the buildings below, her small mouth pulled into an inane grin.

But the flight did not last long, for soon they began to descend, down towards the grassy slope of the cliffside, to where a white-washed cottage nestled in the shadows.

The neat-looking house grew larger as they glided down, descending unerringly to a darkened window that peeped out beneath the eaves.

The glass rippled before them and they passed through the window as though it were a sheet of smoke. Into the cottage they floated and found themselves standing upon a rag rug in a darkened bedroom lit only by a chink of grey light that poured through a gap in the curtain.

"Here doth the enemy of all our designs slumber, unaware of your presence," the voice of the fishmonkey resounded in their heads. "Behold the human worm, the insolent whelp who dares to challenge the sovereignty of our great master."

Susannah and the others stared about them; the room was tiny and they bent their heads beneath the sloping ceiling as, together, they stole towards the bed.

Beneath the blankets a small figure slept soundly and as her eyes adjusted to the inky darkness Susannah's mouth fell open in horror.

The sleeper was a child!

Staring at Ben in disbelief she shook her head mutinously. Was that young boy the one whom the Allpowerful feared so much? Was that sweet innocent life the one they were commanded to extinguish? Her mind revolted at the thought and her forehead dripped with perspiration.

Beside her, her sisters looked down on the boy dispassionately, their faces betraying no emotion whatsoever. The child was nothing to them; if he had to die then so be it; their hands were already steeped in the blood of so many others.

"This scrap of bones and blood", the contemptuous voice continued, "is all that stands betwixt your hearts' desire and the high plans of our most noble lord. Yet see how easily this impertinent mortal is destroyed—look to his left hand!"

Susannah could hardly raise her eyes. Yet she did as the creature ordered and gazed at Ben's hand that lay outside the bedclothes.

It was clenched into a fist and even as the witches peered at the curled fingers they heard the chilling voice begin to chant once more.

Upon the bed, Ben murmured in his sleep and he rolled over, his face moving into the dim light that streamed through the curtain.

Susannah wept with pity and hot tears trickled from the eyes that were too stricken to blink.

The incantation rang out sharply and, very gently, the boy's fist opened. In the centre of his palm was the solid, round shape of the ammonite, and the fishmonkey squealed in evil joy as it barked out the dreadful spell.

Susannah began to shake in terror, for as she watched, the fossil in Ben's hand began to move.

With a jerk, the ancient stone ammonite convulsed and uncurled, twitching and writhing upon the boy's warm skin.

The snake-like fossil wriggled and stretched as the power of the enchantment imbued it with life and filled it with murderous intent.

Like a loathsome worm, it pulled itself along the open palm, crawling over Ben's wrist and up his arm.

Miriam's eyes widened at the sight, but she was flushed with excitement and licked her teeth, revelling in the fiendish situation and feasting upon the macabre agony that was to come.

The living ammonite was now slithering over the boy's chest, creeping ever closer towards his head.

Susannah's wiry hair was drenched in sweat and hung lankly over her face. She wanted to scream; this was utterly insane.

Over Ben's throat the stone shape squirmed and he muttered under his breath as it reared up to cling to his chin. For a moment it dangled there like a leech, then with a flick of its twisting tail the fossil fell on to the boy's lips.

Susannah tried to pull her hands away from the others—this was obscene.

"Stop!" she protested. "It's vile! Stop it!"

But her sisters gripped her hands tightly and she could not break free. Hillian's grasp was vice-like and Miriam's huge fists crushed Susannah's fingers, staunching the blood until they throbbed.

Malevolently, the ammonite wormed across the boy's mouth, and pushed itself inside.

In desperation, Susannah struggled against the tenacious grasp of the others, lashing out and kicking them.

Slipping over Ben's teeth, the fossil wriggled on to his tongue and in his sleep, the boy coughed.

Deeper it squirmed, reaching further into his throat.

Ben began to choke. The ammonite had lodged itself inside his windpipe and there it remained.

The boy's body contorted as he gagged and gasped for air. His hands tore at the collar of his pyjamas and his choking cries gargled piteously from his mouth.

Miriam was transfixed. She was glued to the horrendous scene and relished every despairing second. Her bosom heaved and she gazed at the dying child adoringly.

"Magnificent!" she drawled. "Exquisite invention!"

At her side, Hillian watched with cold detachment. Never had she witnessed so beautifully simple a death. No one could possibly be held responsible for this.

Ben clutched at his throat and writhed in the bed. His lungs were bursting and his heart thumped in his chest. But no air could pass by the ammonite and the boy's strength gradually began to fail as his agonies increased and a tingling blackness crept over him.

Suddenly, Susannah threw back her head and screamed at the top of her voice.

"NNNOOOOOO!" she bellowed. "IT'S EVIL!"

At once the string of beads around her neck snapped. With a clatter, the wooden trinkets fell to the floor and Susannah O'Donnell was finally free of Nathaniel's control.

Darting forward, she bit Miriam's hand and pulled herself free, then savagely punched Hillian in the ribs.

The circle was broken.

Susannah tore herself away and immediately found that she was back in the bookshop.

At her feet, the fishmonkey shrieked at her.

"The charm is ruined!" the shrivelled creature squawked. "You have destroyed its power!"

Sprawled over the carpet, Hillian clutched her aching side and glared up at Susannah whilst Miriam snarled and nursed her bleeding hand.

In the cottage, Ben retched and choked until finally the ammonite was dislodged and he coughed it up from his throat and spat it on to the bedclothes.

Gulping down the sweet air, the boy collapsed on to his back, and when he had recovered enough he examined the now inanimate fossil in his trembling hands.

It appeared the same as it had always done, but Ben flung it to the floor and leapt from the bed to look out of the window.

All seemed quiet outside and his wheezing breath quickly steamed up the glass. Yet in the misty condensation he drew a mysterious sign and snorted defiantly.

"I warned you the hunchback was lapsing,"

Miriam snapped. "Now look, her necklace is broken. She is no longer one of the sisters."

Susannah was terrified; the expressions upon the witches' faces were deadly and full of menace.

"It was only a child," she pleaded. "I could not let you do that!"

Hillian polished her spectacles and gave a brisk shake of the head. "Your oath is violated," she said in a soft, sinister voice; "this night we could have achieved everything the coven has longed for."

"Don't you understand?" Susannah cried. "It isn't worth it—can't you see that? Are you mad? Listen to me!"

Upon the wooden chest, the fishmonkey lashed out with its claws and tore long rents in the woman's trousers, gouging out a ribbon of skin beneath each sharp nail.

Susannah howled and clutched her leg as the blood welled up between her fingers.

"You have failed us," Hillian muttered, "betrayed my trust in you. You do realise that you must be disposed of?"

Susannah backed away. "No!" she screamed. "No!"

Whirling around, she fled down the spiral staircase and raced through the shop below.

Miriam sprang forward. A bestial growl rumbled from her lips as she snarled and put her hand to her own necklace. A hellish light began to blaze in the almond-shaped eyes and the varnish flaked from her nails as they quivered and grew.

"No," commanded Hillian, "there is not time for that. I shall deal with her!"

Like the wind, she hared down the staircase and found Susannah scrabbling at the locked door.

"Let me go!" she begged. "I won't tell anyone—I swear. Oh Hillian, please!"

"You are faithless," the witch spat vehemently. "Your words mean nothing and nor so do you."

"Don't come near me!" Susannah warbled. "Keep back!"

"Come away from the door, O'Donnell," Hillian told her. "Don't make this harder for yourself."

For the last time, Susannah fumbled with the lock but the key was upstairs with Miriam so, panic-stricken, she blundered into the window and banged upon the glass, screaming for help.

"Stop that!" Hillian shrieked, lunging after her and catching the woman by the hair. "Do you want to wake up the whole of Whitby?"

Violently, she dragged Susannah from the window and hauled her back into the gloom.

But Susannah fought against her. With a yell, she shoved the witch against a shelf and the books came crashing about their heads.

Hillian roared and flew at her, wrapping her hands about the woman's throat. Susannah wrenched the strangling fingers away and threw her attacker to the ground.

With papers fluttering all about her, she picked up a chair and ran towards the window with it. But Hillian tripped her and Susannah careered headlong into the counter. The till shuddered as she crashed into the panels below and the woman let out a horrible moan.

Panting for breath, and with her expensive clothes torn, Hillian Fogle seized Susannah's feet and pulled her to the rear of the shop, grunting at the dead weight.

"No... no one leaves the... the coven of the Black Sceptre," she breathed, stooping over the limp body and pressing her fingers into the fleshy neck.

Susannah bucked beneath her and Hillian dived helplessly into a carousel of audio cassettes that toppled to the floor and exploded in a flurry of plastic boxes and festoons of magnetic tape.

Groggily, Susannah lurched to her feet and she peered at the witch lying motionless in the heap of books and tapes. Then she spun round to flee but it was too late.

Down the spiral staircase Miriam Gower had come. Through the wreck of her shop she had pounded and from the floor she had snatched up the largest book she could find.

With a ferocious screech, she brought it smashing down upon Susannah's skull which splintered beneath it, and with a whimper, the woman sank to the floor.

As the swirling shreds of paper settled within the bookshop, Miriam gazed down at Susannah's crumpled body and moistened her lips.

With a groan, Hillian staggered to her feet and stared at what Miriam had done.

"She is dead?"

"Must be," the other replied acidly. "Just look what her blood's doing to my Dickens."

Hillian bent over their former sister and searched for a pulse.

"Yes," she affirmed, "she is no more."

Both witches looked at one another—what were they to do with the body? This was not some primitive corner of the world where death is easy to conceal.

"What shall we do?" Miriam breathed. "The police will come; we must escape while we can."

Hillian kicked a pile of books and buried her face in her hands. "After all my work!" she complained bitterly. "All that planning—for it to fade merely for this!"

Her sobs subsided and they fell into dumbfounded silence as they desperately pondered on what was to be done.

And then they heard it. Above them the fishmonkey was calling and the witches hurried up the staircase.

"Susannah is dead!" Hillian cried, climbing the final steps. "We must leave at once."

The wizened creature twisted its head and the yellow eyes became narrow slivers that glowed brighter than the candle flames.

"Listen to me!" it hissed. "Panic no more, for you are not alone. Hearken to my words and obey this instruction. The body of your perfidious sister shall be taken for you. Do not trouble over such a billing concern. Do this only: remove the mortal remains from this place and put them in the alley without."

"What?" Miriam bawled, "That's idiotic! You can't dump corpses by the bins for collection. It will be discovered."

"Silence!" squealed the fishmonkey. "At the precise hour of three this night, something will come. The carcass shall be taken—have no fear. It will be as if your sister had never existed."

Hillian nodded her agreement. "It shall be done," she said, "but what of the boy? How are we to complete your master's wishes? Are we to resume what we have begun?"

The yellow eyes closed fully as the creature considered this and he reached out with his thoughts.

"No," he said at length, "that route is now barred to us. The mortal scum is becoming aware of his own strength. It is vital we do not arouse his suspicion any further—not yet."

"Then what must we do?"

"Waiting is all. My master must construct a new design. When the rest of thy coven is assembled, then we shall try again."

The fishmonkey's voice began to fade and its movements became ever more laboured. "My time is over," it uttered. "Summon me only when you are ready." And with that the eyes closed and it became a lifeless preserved curiosity once more.

Hillian looked at her sister. "So we wait," she sighed.

The large woman eyed her dubiously. "Are we really going to lug Plain Little Susie outside and put her in the alley?"

"Of course. What else can be done?"

"But what if someone sees us?"

"No one shall. Now make haste—there is a shop to get back in order."

At three in the morning, a squelching darkness crept over the cobbles of Church Street and moved purposefully towards The Whitby Bookshop.

The bloated shadow flowed through the alleyway, its quivering membrane brushing over the walls and coating them with slime.

Half hidden by the bin sacks, the forsaken body of Susannah O'Donnell lay upon the wet ground, a fine dew sparkling over her face.

Taking a break from cleaning her premises, Miriam Gower realised the time and peeped curiously out of the first floor window which overlooked the alley.

A black, formless shape had obliterated the place where she and Hillian had deposited the corpse and Miriam shuddered.

"Never did like that ugly Quasimodo," she sneered. "Now at last that voice of hers is silenced forever." And she resumed the cleaning, humming pleasantly to herself.

When the dawn came, no trace of the body remained. But the plastic of the bin sacks where Susannah had briefly lain had melted and the contents were spilled over the ground.

No one ever noticed the wisp of red hair that was glued to the cobbles by a peculiar trail of slime, for in the afternoon the rain came and the last fragment of Susannah O'Donnell was washed away forever.

5 - The Horngarth

With her baggy trousers rolled up to her knees, Nelda ambled slowly through the shallow waves at the water's edge and flapped the hem of her gansey.

She had walked some distance from Whitby, for that afternoon the tourists were swarming everywhere and the beach beneath the cliffs was filled with their clamour. Dozens of human children scrambled over the rocks, shrieking at one another and daring to explore the shallow caves set into the cliff side.

The fisherfolk half dreaded the fine weather which the month of May brought with it; the brilliant sunshine inevitably heralded this riotous invasion of holidaymakers. The aufwaders hated the constant noise which their cars, radios and raucous picnics caused. In the past they had always retreated further into the grottoes beneath the cliff to escape the landbreed babble but now that was impossible, and in the entrance chamber behind the great doors the human voices echoed from outside and resounded around the walls.

This, combined with the baking heat, had turned the cavern into an unendurable place in which the fisherfolk either sweltered or were driven to distraction. For many of the tribe it had proven too much and they ventured above the ground to seek a secluded refuge free from noise, hoping that the blistering weather would cease.

Yet the parched month continued and it seemed that the sizzling spell would never break. Summer had come early and showed no sign of dissipating, for today had been the hottest yet.

Beneath the thick wool of her gansey and the leather jerkin she now wore, Nelda felt as if she was melting. It was stifling and unbearable, yet she dared not remove the thick layers of clothing for she needed them to conceal her stomach, which she felt was growing larger every day. The young aufwader's condition was still a secret known only to herself and Old Parry, but Nelda knew she could not keep it from her grandfather for much longer.

"I must tell him," she muttered, patting her belly morosely. "He isn't blind and there's folk enough who'll notice even if he were."

Almost wilting from the heat, Nelda waded a little deeper into the sea and let the waves splash around her waist. She was tired, the unborn child sapped all her strength and she yearned for an undisturbed night's sleep without the constant ache that twinged and cramped in her back.

Scooping up the salt water in her hands, she threw it over her scorched and sunburned face then shielded her eyes to squint at the cloudless sky. The afternoon was nearly over and she yearned for dusk when the heat would subside and peace return to Whitby's shores.

Eventually, as the sun blazed orange and swollen above the horizon, her solitary figure padded back through the waves towards the cliffs. The familiar rocky stretch drew closer and Nelda was relieved to see that it was now deserted—except for two small shapes sitting upon the great stones, watching her as she approached.

Eurgen Handibrass and Judd Gutch drew on their long clay pipes and regarded the girl with sour expressions graven on their weathered faces. Normally they were two of the kindliest members of the aufwader tribe, but no glimmer of a smile twitched over their whiskery mouths as Nelda came nearer.

Perched upon the rocks, they averted their eyes when the youngster greeted them and concentrated their gaze upon the calm waters of the sea.

"A fair evening," Nelda said warmly. "Tis a lovely sunset. I hope the caves are cooler this night."

Neither of the aufwaders looked at her and she raised her eyebrows in surprise at this uncommon lack of manners.

"At least all is quiet now," she persisted. '"Twas a mighty crowd afore. I did fear one of the bolder children would find our dwelling."

Judd sniffed then shuffled round on the boulder until his back was facing her. Nelda stared at him in confusion, then to her dismay Eurgen slowly removed the pipe from his mouth and spat at her feet.

"Master Handibrass!" she cried. "Why do you mistreat me so? What have I done?"

The other aufwader snorted and Nelda grew fearful at their spiteful silence.

"I... I must find my grandfather," she mumbled, pulling the leather jerkin more tightly about her as she hurried towards the cliff face.

Eurgen cleared his throat and tugged at the tobacco-stained whiskers upon his chin.

"Tha won't find Tarr in yon cave!" he called after her. "Im's not theer!"

Nelda turned slowly, feeling a cold dread wash over her. "Where... where is he?" she asked.

Eurgen scratched his large ears and exchanged several low muttered words with Judd before answering. "Shrimp's in the main entrance!" he said curtly. "Tha'll find 'im theer."

Nelda clasped her hands in front of her and stared up at the cliff. Since the destruction of the fisherfolk caverns, her grandfather had only returned to the entrance chamber three times. As leader of the tribe he was obliged to sit in judgement there and listen to all complaints brought by other aufwaders. Shivering in spite of the heat, she wondered what had compelled Tarr to go there today.

A glance at Eurgen and Judd brought her no comfort.

"Tha'd best seek him," Eurgen told her. "Theer's summat to touch thee theer."

Nelda left them and walked cautiously towards the hidden tunnel entrance which led to the great chamber.

With her heart in her mouth she passed within a narrow and dripping passage, her wavering steps carrying her up a steep slope. The tunnel was dark and humid, filled with the ponderous sound of falling droplets that steadily ticked the time away like a landbreed clock. Yet Nelda wished that it would never end, for she could guess what kind of reception awaited her.

Suddenly the cramped way opened out into a much larger space and, turning a sharp bend, she found herself in the entrance chamber behind the cliff face.

The cavern was large and lit by the silver radiance of many small lanterns. Their pale flames shimmered through layers of fishing nets like the moon behind the leaves and their dim beams rippled over the high walls until they appeared as fluid as the sea. Quivering pools of pearly light shone over the stone floor and played on the faces of those who were assembled there.

Nelda looked timidly before her. Standing in the glimmering gloom, waiting in grave silence for her to arrive, was the rest of the tribe.

Every old and weather-beaten face stared across at her with accusation and reproach burning in their solemn eyes.

Footsteps behind her made the girl turn around and she saw that Eurgen and Judd had been following. The two aufwaders brushed past and joined the others without uttering a word.

Nelda eyed them fearfully, then took several hesitant steps forward.

As one, the crowd parted and there, sitting behind them, was her grandfather. His grand and stately chair of office was made of rusting cogs and pieces of the mechanism which once operated the huge doors. Flanked by two enormous spindles of corroding iron, it had become the throne of the tribe leader and he only sat upon it when a judgement was to be proclaimed.

One look at Tarr's cold and blighted face told Nelda all she needed to know. He was stiff with pain and pride but his ancient countenance betrayed no emotion. He was as immovable as granite and his steady, condemning eyes seemed to bore right through her. Across his lap Tarr gripped his staff, and only in the almost luminous whiteness of his knuckles could his inner grief be glimpsed.

A malicious hiss issued from a squat figure standing at his side, but Nelda paid Old Parry no heed. The evil crone had done her worst and she was not going to gratify her with any acknowledgement.

Fixing her eyes solely upon her grandfather, Nelda approached.

The other aufwaders backed against the rocky walls as though she carried some infernal contagion, and their mouths twisted into ugly scowls. A few of the elderly seawives shook their heads with pity as the girl passed them but they feared and were revolted by her all the same.

When she stood before the chair, Nelda gazed sorrowfully at Tarr and in a subdued voice uttered, "Is aught amiss, Grandfather?"

The leader of the fisherfolk lifted his eyes to a point just above the girl's head so that he did not have to look at her and cleared his throat to summon his cracked and faltering voice.

"Hearken to her!" Old Parry shrieked before Tarr could speak. "Brazen as you please—the foul hussy!"

Nelda winced at the bitterness contained in that harsh voice but she continued to stare up at her grandfather and waited desperately to hear what he had to say.

"Go on!" Parry urged. "Make her admit it! Then tha'll see if'n I don't speak the truth!"

Tan threw the hag a flinty look then returned his attention to his granddaughter.

"Be this true?" he managed at last in a husky voice. "Is the poison which drips from her barbed tongue a vile fact?"

Old Parry huffed in outrage but no one took any notice.

"What poison has she uttered?" Nelda asked meekly.

"Tha knows."

"The wretch brims over with malice," she murmured. "How can I tell which deceit or venomous tale she has told? There have been so many."

"Must tha make me give voice to it?"

"If I am to know, then yes."

Tan's pent-up rage suddenly erupted from him and he slammed his staff upon the floor. "The bairn!" he roared. "Have tha been carrying a child these past months?"

There, he had said it, and on hearing his own, violent accusation, Tarr felt a part of his soul perish within him.

Tears sprang to Nelda's eyes and ran down her burning cheeks before she could wipe them away.

"Yes," she said, her voice battling to overcome the lump which was choking her.

Disapproving and contemptuous cries echoed around the cavern as the horrified fisherfolk vented their anger. Only Old Parry appeared pleased and she lunged forward to rip aside Nelda's jerkin.

"See!" she screeched as the girl pulled away. "Her belly's already swellin'!"

Nelda pushed the crone from her and hastily buttoned the jerkin over her gansey once more. Everyone was jeering at her now and she looked beseechingly up at her grandfather but it was no use.

Trembling with anguish and fury, Tarr glared back. "Art tha mad?" he wailed, joining in the ranting cries of the tribe. "Dost tha not know the mortal peril that burden of thine puts each and every one of us in?"

"I think of naught else!" she sobbed. "I cannot sleep for the fear which freezes my blood—the same blood which will turn to brine when the time comes."

Old Parry raised her arms to address the others. "Woe and disaster!" she announced in a doom-laden voice. "That's all this whelp will bring upon us. Never mind frettin' about her salty death, 'tis the rest of us who'll suffer for her wanton stubbornness. 'Tis the tribe who'll feel the brunt of the Deep Ones' wrath long after she's withered and oozed into the sands."

"Cast her out!" one of the aufwaders demanded. "Exile the selfish fool!"

"Aye!" agreed another. "Let us prove to the Triad beneath the waters that we want no part of this base madness."

"This is why our nets are clogged with stinking weed! She is the reason our catches have diminished!"

"Let us be rid of her!"

"Out! Out! Out!"

Nelda stared wildly round at the hate-filled faces, then turned to her grandfather. "Listen to me!" she pleaded. "What am I to do? The babe is the result of a bargain I made with Esau. I had to lie with him; our very existence depended upon it."

"Yet now the fruit of thy bargain threatens us also!" Tarr snapped. "The displeasure of the Lords of the Deep will grow daily. Already are we suffering—what more evil signs are we to endure?"

"But what would you have me do?" she cried. "I am sorry I kept this secret from you, yet I was afraid. Oh Grandfather, what am I to do?"

Tarr hung his head.

"You know well enough!" snarled Old Parry. "What does it take to convince your feeble brains? Did I not warn you? Did you not scorn my advice? Advice founded on years of toiling with the labours of others."

"Leave me be!" Nelda implored her, but Parry would not be quelled. Striding up to a shelf carved into the rock, she took down a large conch shell and carried it reverently back to the young aufwader.

This was the horn of the fisherfolk, the ceremonial trumpet which few could sound and whose mighty voice boomed out over the sea—reaching even the far-off realm of the Deep Ones. It had been given to them in the beginning and was one of the few treasures that remained from the time of the tribes.

A cruel glint shone in the crone's eye as she lifted the conch to Nelda's ear and forced the girl to listen.

"This is why I told the others," she said, "for this very day I did put mine ear to the shell and this is what I heard.

As she listened, Nelda's eyes grew round with terror and she whimpered in fright.

Instead of the usual roaring of the sea, the shell was filled with screaming voices. It was as if she was standing at the gates of Hell and the tormented souls were yelling and shrieking in their agony, drowning in a cacophony of despair and desolation.

Yet even as she listened in stricken horror, Nelda grew faint. One of the tortured voices grew louder in her ear and her scalp crawled as she recognised it—the voice was her own.

Old Parry kept the conch there longer than was necessary and a triumphant leer stole over her ugly face. "Tis another sign," she hissed. "By that unborn maggot we are all doomed. For is it not the result of a union which the Lords of the Deep and Dark themselves forbade? Did their herald not warn you against marrying Esau? Did you not flout their ban? Are we all to pay for your wilfulness?"

"It wasn't like that!" Nelda protested, looking round at the rest of the tribe. "You were all there, we couldn't stop Esau. He was the ruling elder—I had no choice!"

"Maybe!" Parry bawled. "But you have a choice now!"

Nelda stared at her blankly, then turned to her grandfather for support. But Tarr was still cradling his head in his hands, unwilling to involve himself any further.

The young aufwader felt totally alone. All around her the members of the tribe were agreeing with Old Parry and shaking their fists at the girl for placing them in such danger.

"Do as she says!" they called. "Show some wisdom at last, child! Even now it is not too late!"

From the middle of the insistent fisherfolk, Maudlin Trowker, a seawife who had arrayed Nelda for the Briding, stepped up to her and put a tender hand upon her shoulder.

"Dinna fret so," she soothed. "Tis nothing—I should know. When I were young 'twas Parry I looked to when the curse fell over me. For the good of all, entrust thissen to her care—she knows best in this."

Aghast, Nelda dragged herself from the insidious and sympathetic comforter. "No!" she stormed, disgusted and appalled at the suggestion. She could not believe that the whole tribe was urging her to get rid of the baby and saw each one of them as if for the first time.

Through their fear, they had become callous, depraved creatures and Nelda was at once alarmed and aggrieved to witness the base transformation.

"Purge the evil from you!" they called. "Cast it aside! Kill the wicked spawn of Esau!"

As this insane uproar filled the chamber, Nelda looked once more at her grandfather, seeking one last time for his assistance and understanding.

"Help me," she beseeched him, "please."

But Tarr could not even raise his head from his hands. "Ah canna," he said flatly. "As leader ah mun look to our safety. The Deep Ones will punish us."

"What... what are you saying, Grandfather? Are you agreeing with this mad rabble? I must know. Do you also wish my unborn child—your grandchild—do you wish it dead?"

Stung by this, Tarr lifted his face but it was set and grim. "Don't fling that at me!" he snapped. "Ah know what we're askin' and ah ain't proud o' it. But reckon this—what are we to eat if'n the fish desert our waters? Wheer are we to shelter if the sea crashes agin the cliff and drags it into the deep?"

"Is that the measure of your concern?" asked Nelda sadly.

"Tha know it ain't! Oh Lass—ah were theer when thy mither bore thee! Ah saw all that happened to her—ah nivver wish to look on such horror agin! For thy sake if not fer the tribe—think on!"

Nelda recoiled from him. She was bewildered and a stinging sense of betrayal tore through her heart. The young aufwader bit her lip and shuddered wretchedly.

"Come now," Old Parry piped up. "I shall look after you. Poor little Nelda, let Parry help and assist in what must be done."

At that moment a cold anger seized Nelda and all her hurt was forgotten.

"How dare you!" she yelled. "How dare all of you! What right have you to order the death of my child? Listen to yourselves! You speak of the most innocent of all things as though it were some reeking foulness! To what base level have you sunk? You disgust me—each and every one!"

Tossing her head defiantly, she whirled around, incensed and furious. "Listen now to me—I will carry this child for as long as I am able, and if it is fated that we perish together then so be it. That is my decision and no one—not even my so-called family—can deter me now! Exile me or do what you will—I have finished with you all and want no part of the tribe for as long as I and my baby live!"

Tarr clung to his staff until the wood bit into his palm as his granddaughter thundered from the chamber.

Around him the aufwaders shouted but all had been taken aback by Nelda's inflamed temper, and though they had not changed their minds about what she should do, many were already feeling guilty for the things they had said.

With her arms folded, Old Parry sneered. "She'll come to it in the end," she predicted acidly, "for all her fine talk. The bitter herb will be picked—I'll wager everything on it."

Too distraught to say anything, Tarr bowed his head to weep, but so intense were his shame and grief, the tears would not come.

***

May's glorious weather continued and the tills of Whitby rang merrily as trippers continued to squeeze into the small town. Never had the souvenir shops known such business and the tea-rooms and restaurants were always overflowing. The Sandy Beach Café had reopened shortly after the mysterious disappearance of the proprietor and a tall, reedy-looking woman now ran the establishment. But she proved to be extremely unpopular with those customers who had grown to love Susannah's cream teas.

On one occasion, Doctor Adams took Edith Wethers there but they were both dismayed by the slovenly manner of Miss Gilly Neugent, the new owner. Slouching up to their unwiped table, she unceremoniously shoved two cups of tepid dishwater before them followed by a plate of walnut-like scones which were as tough as cork and tasted of cardboard. After a miserable half-hour, the doctor and Miss Wethers left the place and vowed never to return.

They were becoming closer than ever, and Conway frequently brought flowers round for the delighted ex-postmistress and once, in a mad, unthinking moment of passion, she had given him a peck on the cheek.

During this time, Miss Boston continued to regain her old vigour. Her arms were as strong as they had ever been and she would often spend the warm evenings sitting in the wheelchair, bowling cricket balls for Ben in the garden.

As the month progressed, the old lady became increasingly agitated and had circled a date on the calendar. When Ben had asked her about this she had vaguely replied, "The Horngarth is approaching."

The boy had thought no more about it, assuming that Aunt Alice was talking about astrology or equinoxes as usual. Then, one Saturday morning, he awoke early and trailed downstairs in search of breakfast, only to discover that the old lady was well wrapped up and ready to wheel herself outdoors.

"Ah, Benjamin!" she cried. "I wasn't sure whether to wake you or not; still you had better change out of your pyjamas if you wish to join me. I'm afraid Edith has no taste for it—do you, dear?"

In the kitchen, her mind fixed on other matters and thoroughly out of humour, Miss Wethers stirred a pan of thick porridge and answered in an impatient tone. "That I haven't," she twittered. "It's a thing I've seen far too many times—why don't they liven it up a bit? Any change would do, just to make it interesting or mildly entertaining. It really is very dull."

Aunt Alice scowled. "Not to me it isn't," she replied.

"Oh well, we can't all find dreary little hedges enthralling, can we?"

"Had a bit of a falling out with Doctor Adams yesterday evening," Miss Boston whispered confidentially to Ben. "Be no use to anyone today, will our Edith."

"But where are you going?" the boy asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Why! To see the Horngarth, of course!" she exclaimed, screwing up her face and chuckling gleefully. "It's the morning of Ascension Eve and there's only one place you'll find me then. Best hurry, for I shall be gone if you're not ready in time. You might pop in and see if Jennet wants to come too—I'm sure she'd find it all very intriguing."

Ben doubted that, but he dutifully ran back upstairs and peered into his sister's room.

Jennet was still sound asleep and he wondered if he dared awaken her. She had been so unpleasant to him lately that he no longer enjoyed the rare times they spent together. Eventually, however, he plucked up courage and shook her gently.

"Oh get lost," she mumbled, hiding her face in the pillow. "It's a Saturday. Leave me alone."

Ben tried again. "Jen, Aunt Alice wants us to go to see the Horngarth—are you coming? It might be fun."

Grunting with impatience, the girl rolled over and peered through the dark hair which hung untidily over her eyes. "I'm not interested, all right? I just want to be left alone. Now get out!"

Her brother did as he was told and hurried back to his own room where he quickly pulled on his clothes, then dashed downstairs.

"She doesn't want to come," he told Aunt Alice.

The old lady pulled a sorrowful face. "What a pity," she said. 'Jennet doesn't appear to want to do anything any more. I hope it's merely a phase she's going through and she will return to her normal self soon. Growing up really is a nuisance, it gets in the way of so many things—I remember how foolish I was at that age."

"If you ask me you still are foolish," Edith mumbled, then called out, "It's a quarter to nine, you'll miss it."

Aunt Alice gripped the wheels of the chair and propelled herself towards the front door. "Let us be off then, Benjamin. To the Horngarth!"

When they reached the street, Ben asked, "So where exactly are we going?"

"To the harbour," the old lady replied, "straight down Church Street."

"And that's where this Horngarth is?"

"Exactly! Gracious me, cobbled roads were never made for wheelchairs. What a most unpleasant juddering!"

Ben fell silent. Aunt Alice was being deliberately mysterious. Once they had passed the swing bridge he could see that an immense crowd of people had gathered by the harbour wall a little way ahead.

"Into the fray!" Miss Boston barked with determination as the wheelchair shot forward.

Ben had to run to keep up with her. He was burning with curiosity now, and eagerly wanted to know what everyone had come to look at.

Hundreds of people were assembled by the railings of the harbour wall and all their faces were cast down towards the river. As Aunt Alice slowed to a halt behind them, Ben stood on tiptoe and jumped as high as he could to try and see what was so fascinating.

"I... I can't see anything," he said crossly.

Aunt Alice winked at him. "Don't worry, Benjamin dear," she clucked, "we'll get a good view." She gave a pathetic sounding cough then called to the people in front of them. "Excuse me, can I get by? I'm an invalid."

After some embarrassed and awkward shufflings, the human obstacles squirmed aside and allowed Miss Boston and the boy to the front.

"There now," she chirped, triumphantly scrunching her face into a mass of wrinkles, "that wasn't so difficult."

"Oh jolly dee!" trilled a voice beside them. "It is good to see you out and about, Miss B."

At once Aunt Alice's pleased face vanished as she noticed for the first time the person who was standing at her side.

"Sister Frances," she mumbled dismally, "how... how fortuitous. Fancy bumping into you—of all people."

"I never miss the Penny Hedge," the nun gushed. "Sort of professional interest you might say, and it really is so quaint and darling. What do you think of it, young man?"

But Ben was not listening, for his full attention was commanded by the scene which was taking place below.

Upon the muddy shore of the river, a group of townsfolk were building a peculiar and flimsy looking fence. They had stuck nearly a dozen sticks into the squelching ground and were now weaving thinner and more pliable strips of twig between them. It was an extremely odd structure that hardly came up to their waists and could not have been much over a metre in length. Ben had no idea why they were toiling over such a ridiculous object. It wasn't even connected to anything—they had just planted it in the middle of the shore with only two sticks propped against each end for support.

"That'll fall down," he said, bemused by the strange goings on.

"It's supposed to," Aunt Alice whispered next to him, "but not just yet—it's got to withstand three tides first, you see."

The boy rested his chin upon the railings and breathed a puzzled sigh.

Miss Boston chuckled. "I can see you don't understand. You see, it all began long, long ago."

Ben laughed, "Doesn't everything here?"

"Just so," she agreed, "yet this ceremony is older than all our other festivals. Very ancient is this funny little ritual and totally unique to Whitby."

Gazing dreamily down at the figures building the fence, she laced her fingers and began.

"Like all great legends, the story of the Penny Hedge begins far in the forgotten past—a little time after William the Conqueror, when Henry the Second was upon the English throne. In those rugged days, three wealthy gentlemen were hunting a wild boar through the forest which covered much of this land. Imagine it: three arrogant nobles riding their horses through the trees, their hounds baying before them in hot pursuit of the terrified creature that they had already sorely wounded.

"Hard they bore down upon that unfortunate animal, crashing through the woods of Eskdaleside and hollering terrible oaths—wild and greedy for the kill.

"Now there was at that time a certain holy man who lived as a hermit in the forest. Upon that fatal day, the monk was praying within the chapel when through the open door the frightened boar comes charging. The poor animal is close to death. Exhausted and bleeding it collapses and dies at the hermit's feet, and the man hears the hounds draw close. Quickly he shuts the chapel door and returns to his meditation and prayers as the dogs fling themselves against the barred entrance, howling and whining.

"Then come the noblemen. They see that their quarry has escaped them and are so outraged that the monk should spoil their sport that they batter down the door, then set about the man with their boar staves.

"The holy man is mortally wounded, and the nobles fear for their own lives for the Abbot demands they be punished. Yet before he dies, the monk forgives them and spares their wretched necks but only on one condition.

"Every year, on Ascension Eve, they and their descendants must do a simple penance. With the aid of a knife costing a penny, they must build a small hedge at this appointed spot, strong enough to withstand three tides. With stakes, stout stowers and yedders must the hedge be built, and if those who come after fail in this then their lands shall be forfeit."

Miss Boston grew silent then shook herself. "Of course, two of the families have since bought themselves free of the task but it is a lovely quirky ceremony."

At her side a voice began to recite softly:

When Whitby's nuns exulting told
How to their house three barons bold
Must menial service do...

Sister Frances gave a gauche shrug and thrust her arms behind her back. "Sir Wally Scott," she told them. "Marmion, don't you know? Oh yes, I adore this day. Just to think, throughout all those centuries this has been going on every year—simply splendid. And what magnificent forgiveness the hermit showed. It's a lesson to us all."

Aunt Alice gave Ben a nudge. "Of course the legend is complete balderdash," she added wickedly.

"Oh don't say that," whined the nun. "What a spoil-sport you are, Miss B."

"I'm so sorry, dear," the old lady apologised without a trace of repentance, "but you see the ceremony goes back a lot further than the legend would have us believe."

Sister Frances twisted her head aside in the manner of a sulking infant. "Tommy-rot," she protested. "Where did it come from then, I should like to know?"

"Why, from our pagan past," Miss Boston uttered with relish. "No one will ever know the true origin of the Penny Hedge, but I shouldn't wonder if it was already well established long before Hilda came. You see it seems to me that it's much more likely to be a votive offering to the sea than anything else. Monks of the Dark Ages were always attributing religious explanations to matters they were afraid of."

"An offering to the sea?" Ben murmured.

"Or a guard against it," she replied. "You see 'garth' means an enclosure."

"But what does the 'horn' bit mean?"

The old lady made no answer but pointed down at the shore where the Penny Hedge was now complete.

Ben watched as a man stepped up to it and put to his lips a curved horn of great age.

The blasting note trumpeted over the river then the man yelled at the top of his voice, "Out on ye! Out on ye! Out on ye!"

A cheer rang out from the hundreds of onlookers, followed by much applause.

"Why did he shout that?" the boy asked.

Sister Frances butted in before Aunt Alice could speak. "I always thought it was to call shame on the family of those dreadful noblemen, but who am I to comment? I'm sure Miss B has a far more outlandish interpretation, however misguided it may be."

Miss Boston chortled to herself. She was in an elated mood, and as the crowd began to disperse she came to a swift decision.

Without any warning, she lumbered from the wheelchair and placed her feet firmly upon the ground, gripping the railings for support.

"Aunt Alice!" Ben cried as the old lady turned and took two shambling steps.

"Great heavens!" Sister Frances exclaimed. "How absolutely super! You're walking!"

"Be careful!" Ben urged.

"Oh yes," the nun agreed, "we don't want you to overdo it, do we?"

"Nonsense!" Miss Boston roared, lumbering confidently against the rail. "I'm perfectly... Oh!"

The old lady's weak legs buckled beneath her. The harbour spun before her eyes and her whole body went limp.

Ben darted forward and grabbed her quickly. Just as her head was about to strike the sharp corner of the metal railings he snatched her back and she reeled against him.

"Oh my," she spluttered, clutching the boy's shoulders, "I don't know what came over me. I think I had better sit down."

She returned to the wheelchair then patted Ben's hand. "Thank you, dear," she said gratefully. "I might have cracked my skull open back there. Let us go home; I feel in need of a strong cup of tea."

"I think you should get Doctor Adams out to see you," Frances advised. "A funny turn is nature's way of telling you something isn't right."

"Oh, stop talking out of the back of your wimple," Aunt Alice said tersely. "Haven't you got someone to annoy with your Jolly Cheer-Up Bag today?"

The nun beamed, "Rather," she enthused. "Young Mr Parks' sister has gone away for the weekend so I'm spending the day with him to keep his spirits up. He's been most unwell you know, terribly under the weather, so I've rooted out my best jigsaws and Mother Superior gave me a fabulous puzzle book, to keep me quiet, she said—wasn't that nice? We'll have oodles of fun today I'm sure."

"How pleasant for you," Miss Boston commented. "Well, come on, Benjamin; I long for a brew."

A little distance away, standing half in the soft blue shadows cast by the morning sunshine, a white-gowned infant sadly hung its curly head and retreated into a dim alleyway.

By now the crowd had almost totally dispersed,yet a few stragglers remained to gaze at the Penny Hedge and take more photographs to finish off their rolls of film.

Forming an odd trio beside an intrepid ice-cream van, Hillian Fogle, Miriam Gower and the new owner of the café—Gilly Neugent—lingered longer than most. With their eyes trained on the boy pushing the wheelchair back up Church Street, they waited, exchanging meaningful glances. Then they too left the harbour and returned to their businesses.

***

Back at the cottage, Ben and Miss Boston found Doctor Adams sitting in the parlour with Miss Wethers. At first Aunt Alice thought Sister Frances had called him, but this was not the case.

"Oh Alice!" Edith trilled, leaping to her feet and dabbing her nose with a tissue. "You'll never guess, you never will in a million years."

"I'm sure I won't," the old lady replied, bewildered. "Whatever is it, dear? Do stand still—you look as though you've sat on an ant hill."

Miss Wethers clasped her hands in front of her and let out a squeal of pleasure. "Conway," she gurgled, "Conway has asked me to marry him!"

Aunt Alice and Ben gaped at her, then stared at Doctor Adams. The fleshy man was bright pink and the top of his domed head, where the long strip of hair had slipped somewhat, shone as though it had been buffed with a duster.

"Congratulations," Miss Boston managed at last. "I hope you'll be very happy."

Edith gave a tiny dance then blew her nose. "Oh we will," she breathed. "It's all worked out perfectly. You're getting better every day so you won't need me under your feet much longer, will you?"

"I suppose not. Will you return to your cottage or move in with the doctor?"

Miss Wethers shook her head coyly and returned to her beloved's side. "Ooh, we haven't thought about that have we, Conway dear?" she cooed. "It's all happened so fast, but love's like that, isn't it? We've both been swept completely off our feet."

Ben pinched himself to keep from smiling—it would take a bulldozer to sweep Doctor Adams off his feet.

"Well," Aunt Alice mused, "it would seem that today is one for many celebrations." With a proud smile upon her lips, she lifted herself from the wheelchair and carefully tottered over to shake their hands.

"By God!" Doctor Adams cried. "However did you do that? I can't believe it!"

Miss Boston bowed theatrically. "Oh, I haven't finished yet, Doctor," she told him. "The battle against my infirmities is far from over. There is still a long way to go, I assure you."

***

When the entire town had gone to sleep and the shades of night were deep and impenetrable, a solitary figure stole through the East Cliff.

Towards the harbour the muffled shape crept, pausing only when it stood before the railings where that morning so many people had watched the planting of the Penny Hedge.

Down on the shore the second tide of the day was receding and the Horngarth was just a dark smudge that jutted from the ever-increasing waves.

Swiftly the figure hurried to the stone steps which led to the glistening mire and cautiously descended.

Through the thick mud it staggered, sinking deep into the treacherous and sucking mire. But undeterred the figure pressed on until the water swirled about its legs and the Penny Hedge was within reach.

The Horngarth dripped with sea water; its sodden sticks were black against the reflecting river that shone with the orange light of the street lamps. Like a weird decaying skeleton it stood there, a simple bony framework of hazel wands that braved the tides—stoically waiting to be wrenched apart after it had withstood the allotted three. Yet every year would this humble barricade be renewed, every year would the horn be sounded, lest those who remembered forget ancient promises.

Here it had stood for countless ages. Before Morgawrus was born to despoil the land and before the first stone was laid in the foundations of the Saxon church, it was here. The Horngarth had passed silently through the history of the world, the symbol of a bargain made between primeval forces, enduring beyond the span of all things and edging into the endless realm of eternity.

Yet in the darkness, as the water shrank further down the shore, the Penny Hedge was a frail and somewhat ludicrous structure. Its origin and purpose was lost, continued now only to attract the tourists and perpetuate a charming, outdated ceremony.

The figure which had waded out to reach it, stretched out a hand and touched the barricade gingerly. It was cold and impregnated with the deep green reek of the limitless seas.

Stooping, the intruder grasped the stakes which fixed the low framework to the shore and pulled. After several attempts, the hedge was heaved from the squelching mud, and without hesitation was carried off into the black shadows.

6 - The Cry Of The Gulls

Ben had not seen Nelda since that rainy evening when she had dismissed him in favour of Old Parry's company. Although he often went to the rocks beneath the cliffs in search of her, the boy's efforts were in vain and it seemed as if she was avoiding him.

Once Ben thought he saw Tarr in the distance, but by the time he reached the place where he had glimpsed Nelda's grandfather the shore was deserted.

Gradually, Ben's visits to the beach grew less frequent and then, late one June afternoon on his way home from school, the boy decided to try one more time.

In dawdling steps he strolled over the sands, swinging his schoolbag from side to side and absently drawing wiggling patterns with the toe of his shoe. Then, as he drew near to the high pillars of the footbridge, Ben dropped his bag and stood stock still.

Sitting with its back against one of the concrete supports was a bundled and hunched figure—it was Nelda.

The aufwader was lost in contemplation; staring intently at something in her hands she did not see the boy as he crept closer.

"Hello!" he cried without warning.

Nelda jumped and stared at him in blank surprise.

"You startled me!" she exclaimed. "Why sneak up like that?"

Ben shoved his hands into his pockets. "Thought you might have run off otherwise," he said sheepishly.

"Run? From you? Why would I do that?"

"Well, I haven't seen you for so long, and after last time, I thought perhaps..."

"Oh Ben!" she breathed with the faintest of smiles curling over her small mouth. "I offended you—I am sorry. That was not my intent. I was troubled and alas vented my spleen on the one who deserved it least."

Ben grinned. "That's all right," he said, "Jen does that to me all the time—I'm getting used to it."

"But 'twas wrong of me. I have missed our meetings. I thought perhaps I had driven you away forever."

Ben sat opposite her and, resting his chin on his knees, he regarded her with some astonishment. Nelda's appearance had changed.

The aufwader's long dark hair had grown thicker than ever and tumbled about her shoulders in wild branching tangles that were coated with sand. Her great grey eyes were rimmed with red and the lids drooped wearily over them as though she had not slept for a week. The neck of her gansey was pulled up high to keep out the cool breeze but the garment itself was dishevelled and small twigs prickled from the woollen stitches. On top of this she wore the leather jerkin and her small hands were furtively concealing something which occasionally caught the sunlight and glittered like an emerald.

Nelda was in a sorry state and Ben thought that she was beginning to look like Old Parry.

"Is Tarr okay?" he asked, politely ignoring her unkempt aspect.

The faint smile faded. "I have not seen him for many weeks now," Nelda told Ben. "I no longer dwell with my grandfather, nor do I speak to any other member of the tribe."

"But why? What's happened?"

The aufwader gazed at him for a moment then looked down at her stomach. "Can you not tell?" she murmured. "Does not this declare my woe?"

Ben frowned, Nelda had grown quite fat. "You been eating too much?" he began. "You should see how Sister Frances puts it away... oh!"

"Aye," she affirmed, "'tis true, I bear the child of Esau. Forgive me, I have shocked you. If you wish you can depart and think no more of me—do as the others have done."

"Nelda!" he cried.

She covered her eyes with her hand and breathed heavily. "Again I am sorry," she said. "It is difficult to recognise friendship. Perhaps my solitude has driven me mad—either that or the curse is already at work. Oh Ben, I have spoken to no one these many weeks—shall I tell you all that has happened?"

"Only if you want to," he encouraged gently.

And so Nelda proceeded to tell him all that had occurred, of Esau's evil bargain and the anger of the tribe and her ultimate doom.

When she had finished, Ben was horrified. "I'm so sorry," he mumbled. "Is there really nothing anyone can do for you?"

Nelda shook her head. "No," she said, "only the Lords of the Deep and Dark can save me and my baby. 'Twas they who placed the Mother's Curse, thus 'tis they who must remove it. Yet I fear that is an act of compassion that they will never make. Their hearts must be blacker than the deepest pit—they know nothing of mercy or pity."

Ben bit his bottom lip. It was difficult to believe what she had told him, but one thing he knew for certain—he was to blame. "It's all my fault, isn't it?" he whispered guiltily. "I had the chance to ask for the removal of the curse but failed."

"No," Nelda told him, "Rowena Cooper was the one. She it was who stole the boon from you—you could not have withstood her power. Oh Ben, you must stop assuming blame—did you not see Esau's debauched claim upon me as your own fault also? You are my true friend, I harbour no grudge towards you."

All the same, Ben felt dreadful. Nelda and her unborn child were going to die and he could have prevented it. Why did everyone he love always have to leave him?

"What will you do?" he asked eventually.

Nelda shrugged. "I do not know. Spend what days are left in what comfort I can. But no one shall order my life for me; whatever happens shall be on mine own terms with none saying yea or nay. My decisions are my own and I am willing to pay what price I must for that freedom."

"So where are you living? Surely not outside? What about when it rains?"

"There are many caves cut into the cliff," she explained. "I have made a new home for myself in one of their number. Do not fear, I shall not hunger nor be chill when the weather turns."

"But to do it all on your own," Ben remarked, "isn't it very lonely?"

"It is," she answered desolately, "yet what choice remains? I want nothing more to do with the others and they are of the same mind."

Ben sucked his teeth. "Even so," he added, "I'm surprised at your grandfather—how could he be so cruel?"

The aufwader said nothing and he could tell that Tarr had hurt her deeply. Ben scowled at the ground then brightened and looked up.

"I know!" he cried. "Why don't you come and live with us? Aunt Alice would love it and Dithery Edith is getting married soon so she can't object, and as Jennet isn't able to see you anyway..."

Nelda held up her hand to stop him. "No," she said, "that is not the answer, generous though the offer may be. I am an aufwader, Ben. I do not belong in your world nor you in mine. 'Twould be a grave mistake. Is it not enough for my kind alone to be bound by the curse? If I were to dwell with humans then they too would be embroiled—the sufferings must end. I am a wanderer of the shore, descended from the many tribes which once thrived here before your kind built the first huts and populated the land. Do you not understand? My place is here."

The pair fell into uneasy silence, one contemplating her plight and the other racking his brains for something to say or do that might be of comfort or assistance.

Suddenly the heavy peace was shattered as the sky became filled with raucous shrieks and yammering screeches that cut straight through them like the bitter wailings of a hundred cats in pain and anguish.

Nelda glanced up at the cliffs. "The gulls!" she cried. "Something has happened to the gulls! Listen how afrighted they are!"

The air was swarming with white wings. It was as if every sea bird in Whitby was flocking overhead and whirling in tight circles, filled with alarm and panic. Their fearful voices croaked and screamed so loudly that Ben jammed his fingers in his ears whilst he stared up at the chaotic jumble of feathers that thrashed before the cliff face.

"What are they doing?" he shouted to Nelda.

The aufwader shivered, for the dreadful shrieks reminded her of the voices she had heard in the conch shell and she closed her eyes in an effort to blot out that hideous memory.

"I cannot tell," she finally answered, "for though my late husband knew the language of gulls, he did not teach it to me."

"Well, I hope they settle down soon; it's deafening!"

But the birds continued to scream and fly in confused and frenzied groups, and every so often their screeches would increase as though some fresh nightmare had terrorised them.

Nelda became uneasy. "This is no ordinary squabbling," she uttered; "there must be something up there which they fear."

"Well, why don't they just fly off?" Ben cried. "They must be pretty dim!"

"Come," she said, carefully scrambling from the concrete ledge, "we must discover what assails them."

Doubtful, Ben trotted after her. "What?" he asked. "Climb all the way up there? Have you gone barmy too? For one thing you're pregnant, for another I'll break my neck trying. Besides, we haven't got any ropes and stuff."

"Don't worry," she assured him, "my race know the ways of this cliff well. There is a path, not too difficult, and you will not have to climb far—see how the gulls mass just over there?"

"What do you mean I won't have to climb far?" Ben asked with a nervous laugh.

"As you reminded me, I am pregnant—I could not clamber up yonder. Do not look so unhappy; I shall guide you."

"Oh, thanks."

Up they went, over the first of the great rocks and then a little further until Nelda could manage no more.

"Now," she insisted, "place your foot there and hold on to that outcrop with your right hand. That's it, now reach over to that cleft and shift your weight to the other foot."

"I don't think this is such a good idea," he shouted down. "Can't we just let the gulls get on with whatever it is and leave them alone?"

But Nelda was insistent, for some dark instinct was telling her that this was her concern and she had to discover the cause of the squalling disturbance. So warily Ben edged his way up to where the screaming birds rode the wind feverishly, their demented cries growing painfully louder with each cautious move the boy made.

Soon Ben was close enough to be able to see that above him there was a narrow ledge heaped with twigs and dried grasses.

"I think their nests are up there!" he called to Nelda.

"Then that is why they do not leave," she shouted back. "Their eggs will not have hatched yet. But what is it they fear there?"

Ben had the disturbing suspicion that he was about to find out. The gulls were flapping all around him now and his ears rang with their wild shrieks. One bird flew too close and the tip of its wing slapped him in the face.

"Get off, you stupid Nelly!" he bawled. "I'm only trying to help!"

Pulling himself upwards the boy lifted his head level with the ledge and peered over.

Horrified, Ben's fingers slithered on the rock but he recovered quickly and forced himself to look again.

Inside the scruffy nest, squirming between the fragments of two gull's eggs, was a writhing knot of snakes. They were slender and long, covered in dark brown scales spattered with black diamonds, and moved constantly like animated strips of liquorice. The serpents hissed and wound their dry scaly bodies about each other as the boy peered down at them.

With their black, reptile eyes they stared back at him, and long tongues flicked swiftly from their mouths while their flat heads bobbed from side to side.

Ben shuddered in revulsion. He wasn't afraid of snakes, but there was something uncanny about these creatures; they seemed to be driven by one mind, for when one serpent moved the others mirrored the movements exactly.

"Those things would frighten anyone," he mumbled. "No wonder the birds aren't happy."

"What is it?" Nelda's voice called up to him.

He edged further along the rock and away from the nest before answering.

"Snakes! They've been eating the gulls' eggs!"

Below him Nelda raised her hands to her mouth but said no more.

Ben prepared to climb down again. "Well, I'm not touching them," he muttered. "They might be poisonous for all I know. Yeuk! The daft birds'll just have to find somewhere else and lay more..."

His words vanished, for as he glanced along the nesting ledge he noticed for the first time the sprawled bodies of many seagulls. Their wings were spread open as though they had struggled and tried to take to the air before they died, and as he looked closer he saw that a vicious and bloody ring was cut around each limp neck.

"What can have..?"

Amidst the bodies there came a movement and at first Ben thought that one of the gulls was still alive—then he knew.

Twined tightly about the creature's neck was a snake. Spasmodically constricting and loosening its coils the serpent made the broken corpse twitch and jerk until finally the bird's spine gave a hideous snap.

"They've strangled them!" Ben gasped. "The snakes have throttled the poor things!"

But the worst was yet to come. Within one of the nests a single egg lay whole and undamaged, and even as the boy turned his eyes from the gruesome spectacle of the strangled corpses he saw the shell judder and splinter.

The nest was empty of snakes but as the egg began to move, every sharp head turned and the tongues flicked out more rapidly than ever. At once a deadly stream of serpents flowed towards the nest, rearing up in expectation. With silent intent they surrounded the egg, swaying like reeds before its jarring, rocking movements as the chick within struggled to free itself.

"No!" Ben whispered, "This is awful." Yet he knew there was nothing he could do.

A piece of the eggshell fell into the nest and the waiting hunters swirled around it. Then a small hole appeared, followed by another.

Ben grimaced and clenched his teeth, screwing up his face in anticipation of the cold murder that was about to take place. But what happened next made his heart cease beating and he let out a petrified howl that silenced the squawking gulls around him.

Down the cliff face he scrambled, hurrying as fast as he safely could.

"What's the matter?" Nelda cried, sensing his panic and growing fearful. "Are you bitten?"

In a moment he was at her side but even that was not enough. The boy jumped from the boulders and hurried over the shore to be as far from the shadow of that ledge as possible.

Nelda hastened after him. "Tell me!" she yelled. "Ben! Let me help you—show me the wound!"

The boy turned to her and she saw that the blood had drained from his face. He had not been bitten—he had been terrified.

"The egg!" he panted. "When it hatched! It was vile! Oh, Nelda! The snakes—there was no chick inside! It was full of snakes! They came out of the gulls' own eggs! They were actually inside them! How can that be?" He paused for breath, trembling in disbelief.

"The birds must have been sitting on them when the first clutch hatched!" he wailed. "And those filthy things wriggled out to strangle them—it's horrible! How could snakes come from birds' eggs? It isn't possible!"

Nelda stepped back and lifted her eyes to where the gulls were still zooming about the ledge.

"Tis a jest of the Deep Ones' devising," she uttered coldly. "Thus are other mothers destroyed by their offspring. It is a grim sign to warn me of their displeasure, a terror to reveal unto me how mighty is their power—as if I needed the reminder."

"They did that?" Ben cried. "It's sick!"

"It is, though I doubt if that shall be the last sign. I fear there will be many more. Who next will suffer for me and my unborn child? Who else am I placing at risk?"

"What are you going to do?" the boy asked, recovering slightly from the shock. "Will you come and stay with us? You can't stay here. It just isn't safe—who knows what they'll do next?"

A strange look clouded Nelda's face. "No Ben," she replied mildly, "I shall be quite all right for at last I have decided for myself." She gazed at him briefly then picked up his schoolbag and handed it over. "Time you were returning home," the aufwader told him. "Go now."

"I'm not leaving you here!"

"Please, it's what I want."

Knowing there was no arguing with her, Ben swung his bag over his shoulder. "Shall I see you tomorrow then?" he asked.

"Perhaps."

Giving the cliff one final dubious and scared glance, Ben bade farewell and began the return walk over the shore towards the town.

When she was quite alone, Nelda took from her pocket a disc of polished green glass and held it close to her chest.

"Tonight," she whispered.

***

High over the church of St Mary the crescent moon shone cold and milk-white. Its pale beams glowed over the long grasses that rustled before the midnight airs and ringed the edges of the headstones with frosty haloes.

Through the dismal graveyard Nelda made her way, and though this time she did not have Old Parry to spur her on, she was not afraid. Engulfed by the huge black shadow of the church her pace neither quickened nor faltered—a grim determination was upon her and no vague fears would stop the aufwader that night.

Clasped firmly in her hands was Old Parry's lens, and when she reached a grim yet familiar spot she put it to her eye and began to search.

The churchyard was still and silent, yet upon that raw and exposed clifftop, Nelda was not alone.

Some distance behind her, following the precise route she had taken between the tombstones, a figure came. It was tall and wreathed in shadow, dressed in flowing black robes which merged into the gloom and made the stranger almost invisible. Like a swirling shred of the night's own fabric it stole stealthily after the aufwader. Its footfalls were as noiseless as a cat's and beneath a deep cowl, two eyes watched the small foraging shape intently.

Nelda was too wrapped up in the dim green world of the glass disc to realise she had been followed. Her anxiety to find what she sought drove out every other concern, so she failed to notice the shadow that flitted over the graves, stealing closer with every moment.

Impatiently, she parted the dense growth of weeds but the object of her frantic searching was nowhere to be found. Lowering the lens, she cast around the cemetery to see if she was indeed at the correct grave. Yes, it was smaller than the rest, but that repugnant and sickly little herb was not there.

Desperately, she peered through the glass again and dragged the obscuring grasses aside, tearing them up by the roots—and then she found it.

Beside the weathered headstone and hidden by the large thorny leaves of a thistle, she saw the ugly, grey growth. Nelda was filled with the same loathing but she reached out her hand and without a moment's hesitation plucked the bitter weed from the ground.

The stem of the hideous plant was cold to the touch, and whether it was the breeze or some uncanny force all its own she could not tell, but the thing moved in her fingers. The spiralling creepers unfurled and fluttered about her hand as the repellent flower raised itself and the two clattering stamens began to wag madly, diffusing the nauseating scent which polluted the night more than ever.

"It's as if it's glad I took it," Nelda muttered. "It wants me to taste the infernal juice. Oh, Deeps take me, is all the world ranged against this child? How witless I have been, to think I could be the bearer of new life. I should have put your petals upon my tongue when Parry led me here before, and smacked my lips in gratitude for your deliverance of me. Oh, how I wish that I had."

Her hands shaking with apprehension and dread, Nelda lifted the vile herb to her mouth. "Forgive me, my unborn babe," she sobbed. "There truly was no other way."

Nearby, concealed behind the crumbling slab of a tombstone, the robed figure stirred.

Nelda's trembling fingers moved to her lips and she closed her eyes as the flower touched her tongue.

"NO, LASS!"

A stern and forceful voice barked out at her and from the dim shadows a dark shape sprang and knocked her hand away, wrenching the foul plant from her mouth.

With tears rolling into his whiskers, Tarr Shrimp flung the weed to the ground and crushed it beneath his feet.

"Grandfather!" Nelda cried. "What are you doing? Stop!"

Tarr looked at her, his face a tormented confusion of anger, shame and pity.

"Oh, Nelda!" he blurted, throwing his arms about her. "Can tha ever forgive such an old fool?"

"I've missed you so much!" she wept. "I felt so alone I didn't know what to do."

"Hush now, Ah'm here now. We ain't beaten yet; theer must be a way. Ah'll not let owt take thee from me, not while theer's life in my bones."

"But the curse—I cannot escape that."

Tarr hugged her forlornly, then his tears dried and his despair was replaced by a fierce resolve. The leader of the aufwaders drew back from his granddaughter and stared defiantly out to the dark vastness of the sea.

"Only one hope have we now," he murmured. "At the time of the next full moon ah shall summon the herald of the Lords of the Deep."

Nelda buried her face in his shoulder and the two fisherfolk clung grimly to one another.

Retracing its footsteps, the robed figure slipped silently through the dismal gloom. It had witnessed all that had occurred and a serene smile appeared beneath the deep hood of its robes.

7 - The Ballad Of Molly Werbride

It was a week of excitement and revelations in Whitby. With the aid of two walking sticks, Miss Boston began hobbling about the town and ordered that the wheelchair be returned to the hospital as she no longer required it. Gleefully she tottered into shops and renewed those old animosities which had once been so vital to her. Everyone was pleased to see the progress she had made and Mrs Noble in the fish shop even gave her two free kippers.

Aunt Alice revelled in her joyous reception wherever she went. Those dreary months of hard work and intensive study were worth that first morning alone. Jutting her chins in the air, she held her head with unashamed pride and carefully made her way to each familiar battleground. Now the whole town could see that her illness had not conquered this independent, strong-minded ninety-three-year-old, and people hailed her in the streets with friendly smiles and words of encouragement. Even Doctor Adams was pleased to have been mistaken about his most troublesome patient and congratulated her enthusiastically.

At the end of that first day of successful roaming, Miss Boston glowed with satisfaction but wondered how long it would be until she could manage with just one stick and then without any assistance at all. In fact she was so engrossed in this matter that when Edith Wethers told her she and the doctor were planning to retire to the Isle of Wight and would spend their honeymoon there to look for a suitable property, the old lady hardly showed any interest whatsoever in this most absorbing news. Edith left her to 'brew her potions' and departed to continue organising and drawing up numerous lists for the impending wedding day.

She and the doctor had decided that a short engagement would be best, for he had tactlessly said that there was no point in hanging around at their age. The date they had fixed however was galloping closer at a frightening speed and Edith started to suffer from dreadful attacks of blind panic and was forced to take a pill in order to sleep at night. In the daytime she would spend long, indecisive hours fretting about the slightest problem, working herself into such a tense jangle of nerves that she had to go for long walks to calm down.

Miss Boston seemed blissfully unaware of her friend's daily traumas and spent unending hours contorted in weird positions as she exercised and strengthened her leg muscles.

One evening as she lay on her back with a bunch of freshly picked herbs and flowers held close to her nose, Ben confided to her all that Nelda had told him.

The old lady inhaled deeply, raised her left foot off the ground, lifted it as high as she could, then lowered it again before taking another great breath and repeating the process with her other leg.

When Ben had finished the tragic tale, Aunt Alice waved the posy around her head three times then tore off a handful of leaves and rubbed them vigorously on her knees.

"Dear, dear," she tutted, "the poor creature. What an iniquitous business it is. And you say there is nothing the other fisherfolk can do? How unjust and undeserving—she is but a child herself. Those Lords of the Deep must be infamous beyond belief to allow such cruelty."

"At least she's made it up with Tarr," he said. "I don't know about the rest of the tribe."

Miss Boston's eyebrows perked up as a new thought struck her. "Nevertheless," she whispered, "perhaps this has something to do with Prudence's warning. Is this to prove the danger which we are to face? Maybe, maybe."

Putting the now straggly bunch of flowers and herbs aside, she said, "Thank you, Benjamin. Would you kindly keep me informed of any further development?"

The boy agreed but he left the room feeling disappointed. In the past Aunt Alice would have stormed straight to the caves and demanded to involve herself in the matter, whether the fisherfolk wanted her help or not. It was as if she didn't really care what happened to Nelda and the baby unless it directly affected her. Scowling with this new and uncomfortable opinion of the old lady, Ben left the cottage and went to seek his aufwader friend.

***

On the Friday before the wedding, a bored Jennet trailed over the swing bridge and wound her way through the West Cliff. The girl had nothing to hurry back to the cottage for, and if Dithery Edith asked her to try on that appalling bridesmaid's dress one more time she would tell her exactly where she could stick it. Miss Wethers had paid no attention to her protests that she was too old to be dressed up like a china doll.

"Don't be silly," the oblivious bride-to-be had commanded. "You'll look so pretty."

In despair Jennet had looked to Aunt Alice for support, but the old lady had been too busy to take any interest in the matter and decided that it was better to leave it all up to Edith.

The girl's cheeks still burned when she thought how ridiculous she looked in that monstrous, sugary creation—decked out in yards of pink satin. She was sorely tempted to take a pair of scissors to the ghastly outfit, snip off the rippling frills which fringed the neck and shoulders, and turn up at the registry office in her jeans and a T-shirt.

At least Ben had not escaped, and indeed would be made to suffer such a humiliating indignity that Jennet vaguely thought the entire fiasco would be worthwhile. For her brother, Edith had chosen a kilt, and the girl was looking forward to seeing his mortification in front of the whole town.

Standing beneath the great whalebone arch, she gazed down at the harbour and across at the ragged pinnacles of the abbey on the opposite cliff, with a sullen and dismal expression clouding her face.

Jennet positively hated it here now. She felt as though the town was smothering her and she longed to be in some distant place, far away from small minds and petty attitudes.

If she had the chance she would leave tomorrow and forget this dreary shrine to tedium that was perpetually locked in a bygone and backward age. Away from here she felt sure she would be able to forget, and the yearning dreams would fade completely.

"I just can't help but remember him here," she murmured. "God—when will I be free?"

Flicking her hair over her shoulders, Jennet descended the steps and began walking back towards the bridge.

At the quayside she halted and let the fresh salty air wash over her and lost herself in the sight of the sparkling water. The flashing sunlight was hypnotic and the rebellion was lulled within her. Of course she wished Miss Wethers every happiness and was pleased that at last she had found someone who would cherish and adore her.

"If only that had happened to me," she whispered with regret.

With her eyes half closed, letting the vibrant, dazzling patterns shine through her lashes, she contemplated her young life and wished it belonged to someone else. It was a warm afternoon and Jennet blinked drowsily—was she dreaming or could she hear music?

Very faintly, brief snatches of a lilting tune were carried to her on the river breeze and it was so delicious that the girl hardly breathed, in case she lost the sound forever.

The music appeared to be coming from the East Cliff and, filled with curiosity and the desire to hear more, Jennet hurried over the bridge.

In Market Place a crowd of tourists were gathered, and when Jennet hastened up Sandgate she squeezed her way to the front and let the delightful music flood through her.

Encircled by the appreciative onlookers was a small female folk band. One of them breathed sensual life into a wooden flute, and her joy at the glorious earthy tones that it oozed was sculpted on her ecstatic face. At her side a younger but much more serious woman concentrated on the fiddle that was wedged firmly beneath her chin, and when the bow flew across the strings, the notes made Jennet's heart leap and she tapped her toes unconsciously. The third musician possessed one of the most beautiful faces the girl had ever seen. She was both graceful and delicate, dexterously playing a sweet-sounding concertina, her elegant fingers nimbly moving over the ivory buttons as her lovely face nodded to the rhythm. Her long hair hung in a great corn-coloured sheaf that glinted with veins of deep gold when it caught the evening sunlight and, aware of this, she stood a little apart from the others to remain within the slanting rays.

They were all dressed in richly-coloured and flowing clothes, with tiny mirrors sewn around the full skirts and bright tapestry waistcoats with tie-dyed scarves and bandanas knotted loosely about their hips, and, joining in with the instruments, a multitude of bangles, necklaces and bracelets chimed and rattled against one another.

Together the women weaved a harmonious display of melody and brilliance and Jennet was enchanted. It reminded her of those first happy weeks when she and Ben had just arrived in Whitby and explored the town during its annual folk festival.

With a combined shout, the trio ended their music and bowed as the audience showed its approval. Each woman handled the enthusiastic applause differently. The flautist went quite red in the cheeks and glanced at the ground bashfully, whilst her friend with the fiddle was too busy retuning to take much notice of anything. Grandly stepping forward however and basking in the adulation, the golden-haired beauty laughed and shook her burnished mane. With a flamboyant sweep of her arm, she took up a tambourine and beat it to focus everyone's attention solely upon herself.

"Shall we play you one more before we finish for the day?" she asked.

The people nodded keenly and clapped in time with the beat of the tambourine.

"What shall we give them?" she called to her companions.

Brushing her own mousy and rather neglected hair from her flushed and freckled face, the flautist in a shy voice muttered, "'Bobbing and Ducking'?"

"'The Moon in her Eyes'," suggested the fiddler.

Dismissing both of these, the beauty unleashed her ravishing smile upon the crowd and every man gawped and yearned for her.

"No, no," she said huskily, "I've a mind to bring in my daughter on this one. Pear! Pear, where are you?"

On the opposite side of the audience from Jennet, a girl not much older than herself had been sitting cross-legged on the ground, but at her mother's summons she skipped into the centre of the area and took the tambourine from her.

She was as raven as her mother was fair. The girl's hair was sleek and dark and the two contrasted starkly with each other even though she was attired in the same hippy fashion. Tiny Indian bells tinkled around the hem of her purple cheesecloth dress and beneath them a pair of grubby, dusty feet tripped lightly over the stone flags.

"What is it to be?" the fourth member of the troupe cried, playing up to the crowd.

"'The Ballad of Molly Werbride'," her mother answered, taking hold of the concertina once again.

At a signal from her the other musicians began to play and her daughter waited for the cue.

This tune was different to the one that had gone before. It was a slow, haunting lament and the flute whistled faintly like the wind over the moors as the strings of the fiddle began to moan, suggesting a human voice wailing in despair.

Then the concertina introduced the main theme and the girl called Pear opened her mouth and started to sing.

She had a fabulous, throaty voice which at times mirrored the high notes of the flute and soared up to the sky entwined with its purity. Abruptly it then merged with the resonant chords of the fiddle—matching it until the two sounds were impossible to separate.

Jennet listened to it spellbound. The ballad was a dark and cautionary tale of a young maiden who went "a-roaming" over the moors and was seized by the hunting spirits of the wild, never to be seen again.

The singer performed it marvellously and no one in the audience made a sound. Even the children in pushchairs were dumbfounded, and as the sublime music carried into the streets the milling traffic of shoppers and trippers were so moved that they caught their breath and momentarily forgot about postcards and the price of souvenirs.

When the song was over, the applause was tremendous and lasted several minutes with much ringing of the change that was tossed into the upturned and clattering tambourine.

"That's all for today," the girl's mother told everyone, "though we will be here tomorrow if you fancy a second helping. I thank you!"

With admiring glances, and making mental notes to return the following day, the clot of people around Market Place began to break up.

Jennet leaned against one of the pillars of the old town hall and lingered to watch the folk band pack away their instruments.

Hopping over the ground, collecting the stray coins that had missed their target, the young singer drew close to Jennet and with a merry grin stared at her.

"What's this then?" she asked pertly. "Glued to that pillar, are you? Did you like the performance so much you can't tear yourself away?"

Jennet smiled shyly. "I thought it was excellent," she said, "only I missed most of it."

"Well, there's always tomorrow if you can bear any more of my warbles. Some think the old ballads are too long-winded and one exposure is quite enough."

"No really, I thought that last one was—well, perfect. I understood everything that was happening and why she went off like that."

"I must admit of all the pieces we do that one is a real favourite with me too. It's got a bit of everything, don't you think? Passion and cruelty, excitement and misery, fear and dread—but that's the way of things. I think if I was tied down to drudge in the one dismal spot for too long I'd go raving mad and run off as well. I don't blame Molly Werbride in the slightest—good on her!"

Jennet agreed readily. She liked this strange girl, with her bare feet and the ready laugh in her voice that threatened to erupt into explosive mirth at any moment.

"They call me Pear," she said. "It's actually short for a great mouthful, but what can you expect from a mother who used to be a teacher but expects to be treated like the Queen of Sheba?"

"Is that your mother—with the fair hair?"

"Oh, you mean the really ugly one," she nodded sarcastically. "Yeah, it's a shame—she can't help it. Still, her boils and scabs aren't too noticeable today. Urgh! Did you see those letchy old dads in the crowd before? I thought they were going to start slobbering—I almost hit them with the tambourine! Lusting after my mum indeed and her born so deformed! Quite disgusting."

The girls laughed and the sound made Pear's mother turn and advance towards them with her fine eyebrows raised quizzically.

"What's all this?" she inquired. "Who's your new friend? Are you plotting something together? Were you talking about me?"

Now that she could see her more closely, Jennet was certain—the woman was truly beautiful. Every feature was perfectly modelled and the few lines that marred the otherwise smooth and lustrous skin only served to accentuate the exquisite symmetry of her face.

"Don't you listen to a word this vagabond tells you," she advised. "I'm afraid my daughter has no sense of what's polite or acceptable. No shoes again I see, Pear."

The girl folded her arms obstinately. "Meta's always nagging at me to wear bits of dead cow on my feet," she complained, "but I keep telling her that shoes are for horses. I want to feel the sand in my toes and the grass under them. I won't eat meat so why should I wear it?"

"I bet you do in winter," Jennet teased.

"No I don't, I put my placky wellies on."

"See what I mean?" her mother groaned. "She's so stubborn—I just know she'll do something really awful one day to shame me."

"Thought I already had," Pear smirked. "Have to try harder, won't I?"

The woman gave her a gentle shove then looked back at the others. "Well," she said, "we're ready for the off. Are you coming, you savage?"

"No," Pear told her. "I'll hang round here for a bit, see you after."

"All right, I'd leave you and..?"

"Jennet."

"I'll leave you and Jennet in peace. Lovely to have met you, catch you later—ciao."

The two girls watched the trio pack up the instruments and set off down Church Street towards the one hundred and ninety-nine steps.

"I like your mum," Jennet said. "Is she always so laid back?"

"Yeah, Meta's cool I suppose, never gives me any hassle. Terminally vain though—the time she spends brushing her hair and looking beautiful, I couldn't be bothered."

"Funny how you call her by her name," Jennet said thoughtfully. "My mum would've killed me if I'd done that."

"Why?"

"She just would've, that's all."

Pear tied the tambourine to a yellow ribbon around her waist. "That's dumb," she remarked. "Meta would laugh her socks off if I started calling her 'Mummy'. How old is yours? She sounds like a real crumbly."

Jennet hesitated then replied, "Both my parents are dead."

"BONG!" Pear howled and promptly enacted a routine where she mimed cutting her tongue off.

"It's all right," Jennet assured her. "It was a few years ago. I didn't say it to make you feel awkward."

"Oh, I don't," Pear chirped. "In fact my dad's six foot under too so we're halfway equal. Now, if I could only bump gorgeous Meta off we'd be square!"

Jennet giggled and realised that she had not felt so relaxed and at ease with anyone for a long time.

"So where are you staying?" she asked. "Is it in the Youth Hostel up by the abbey?"

Pear pulled a painful face. "Come off it," she cried. "No, we're parked behind that ugly church on the cliff."

"Parked? So you're staying outside Whitby?"

"No, our van's up there. Caroline—the one with the fiddle—owns a camper and we all pile into that."

And so she told Jennet of the nomadic life the folk band led, drifting all over the country performing their songs and living from day to day—not knowing where they would be from one week to the next.

Intrigued, Jennet listened and pangs of jealousy rankled within her. It all sounded so marvellous. They were free to do whatever they wished and she felt that her own life was completely drab and uneventful in comparison.

The two girls talked together for nearly an hour. Pear was a unique character; she was nearly sixteen and despised conforming to convention and the ridiculous rules of society, flouting them whenever possible. She loved to puncture snobbery and regaled Jennet with hilarious stories of life on the road. She had never been to school but had learnt everything from her mother—except how to behave in a "decent and responsible" way.

Ambling leisurely through the streets, the impudent girl would pull all manner of faces at those who obviously found her gypsy-like appearance startling, and Jennet cracked up to see how quickly they hurried away.

Yet for all this, Pear was also an excellent listener and Jennet revealed more to her in that short time than she ever had to either Aunt Alice or her brother. Deprived of a real friend for so long, she spoke of her innermost fears and dearest longings.

"Look," Pear eventually said, "we've been gassing for ages and I'm starved. Why don't you come round and have something to eat with me and the others?"

Jennet eyed her doubtfully. "Oh, I don't know," she began. "I mean I don't want to intrude..."

"Rubbish," Pear told her. "You're dying to see the van and it's Liz's turn to cook—the things she does with a packet of lentils and a few herbs! You can't refuse that, now can you?"

Jennet was intrigued and longed to join them, but she really should have returned to the cottage over an hour ago.

"'Course, if you've something better to do..?"

That decided it. "Nothing!" she replied at once.

Behind the wall of the churchyard, overshadowed by the stately ruins of the abbey, was a large car park. In the winter months the place was deserted except for the steamed-up vehicles of courting couples but in the summer it was choked and congested by many different kinds of transport, from motor bikes to small lorries, and that evening was no exception.

Pear led Jennet through the maze of cars, chatting amiably as they went. "We were lucky when we arrived this morning," she said. "Someone was just pulling out of a space near the edge and we nipped right in. That's the van over there."

She pointed to where the corner of the churchyard wall met the cliff edge. A cream and orange camper van took up a generous amount of space, and sitting outside it upon the hummocky grass were Pear's mother and the other two members of the folk band.

They waved in acknowledgement as the two girls approached and Jennet saw that the woman who had played the flute was busily cutting up vegetables and throwing them into a huge pan which bubbled above a Primus stove.

"Hi!" Pear called when they were close enough to be heard. "I've brought Jennet back to try some of your grub, Liz."

The freckle-faced woman gave a self-conscious smile and mumbled inaudibly.

"Liz never has much to say for herself," Pear told Jennet, "but she says all she has to in her music; she plays the guitar as well as the flute. Real talent she has."

The girl's mother rose to greet them. "Hello, you two! How lovely to have company. I'm glad it wasn't my turn to cook tonight."

"I wouldn't have brought Jennet if it was," Pear uttered bluntly.

"Sit down," Meta told them, making room on the blanket which was spread over the grass. "You don't mind eating vegetarian do you, Jennet? None of us are carnivores, are we? No dead flesh for us; slabs of fear pumped full of poison, that's all it is—revolting."

"All right, Meta," Pear interrupted, "get off the soapbox, not enough people are watching."

At first Jennet felt uncomfortable amongst the other women and looked cautiously about her. She had never met anyone like this strange group before and could not begin to guess how they had met and decided to travel together. A more unlikely collection of people was difficult to imagine.

The one called Liz was painfully shy and hovered about the Primus, not once lifting her eyes in their direction. Nearby, sitting cross-legged, with her nose buried in a book, was Caroline. Politely yet making it obvious she did not want to join in any conversation, she said hello to the girls then returned her attention to the pages of her novel.

Jennet found Pear's mother to be the most unsettling of the lot. Her beauty was so radiant and intense that she felt horribly plain beside her, like a candle flame held against the harsh brilliance of the sun. She could understand why Liz was so quiet and timid—no one could ever be noticed in that luminous company, except perhaps Meta's own daughter.

Beside her mother's lambent beauty, Pear's jet black hair was a welcome balance to the eye and her irreverent backchat held Meta's overwhelming personality in check.

The handsome woman loved the sound of her own voice. It was obvious she adored the limelight and being the centre of attention. Her laugh was always the loudest and lasted just that little bit too long. She was undoubtedly the driving force behind the group, and Jennet slowly discovered that she didn't really like this lovely yet domineering beauty. Meta was queen of them all and she knew it. Her constant and tenacious control of any conversation swiftly became tiresome, yet in Pear's mocking company her glamour was just bearable.

From the simmering pan a tantalising scent floated, and Jennet's mouth watered as she realised how hungry she was.

"Will it be much longer, Liz?" Pear begged.

The woman gave a meek shake of the head and went to fetch some plates from a cupboard in the van.

Presently the dishes were passed around, heaped with a rich smelling mixture of nuts, rice and chick-peas. It was delicious and Jennet ate it quickly.

Caroline laid her book down and chewed thoughtfully whilst Liz went to sit by herself in the camper—as if to be seen eating by a stranger was a most horrendous prospect. Assuming elegant poses with a fork in one hand and the plate in the other, Meta managed to look ravishing even with her mouth full. At her side, Pear chattered in garbled bursts, telling Jennet more of their lifestyle, and soon it was as if the girl had known them all her life and though she still found the blonde woman tiresome she was perfectly willing to remain in their company for as long as she was welcome.

The group's lifestyle sounded extremely attractive; they had no cares and the only money they needed was for petrol and food as they made most of their own clothes. Not once did Jennet think of Aunt Alice or Ben, and found herself wishing that she could stay with the band forever.

"So," Meta said, "tell us about yourself and this place. In all our years together we've never been to Whitby, have we? It looks a fascinating little spot and there's a good health food shop. I had to drag Liz out of it, didn't I Caroline? Do you like it here, Jennet? Is it really as full of mystery and legend as it seems?"

She raised a shapely hand to the abbey ruins and assumed a dramatic and fearful pose. "I am trying to imagine how it will look when the night comes," she said in hushed tones, "how spooky it will be for us all in the camper van. Have you ever been here at midnight, Jennet, when the moonlight shines upon those ancient, broken stones and weird noises carry upon the wind?"

The girl made no reply; there were certain memories she would rather not recall.

"I see you have," the woman persisted. "What adventures were yours? Were you terrified or did a lover's arms embrace you?"

"Shut up, Meta," Pear rapped, coming to Jennet's rescue. "You're talking garbage again. You only do it to hear yourself—shame you don't realise how boring it is."

Meta smiled and sat once more. "My daughter is always chiding me," she confided. "I pity her having me for a parent—it must be awful to have such a dreary mother who's always seeking attention."

"You're doing it again!" Pear gasped, throwing a cushion at her. "Hey, Jennet, do you want your palm read? Caroline's really good at it. Caroline, come and do the old clairvoyant bit for her."

"I don't know about that," Jennet muttered, shoving her hands beneath her knees. "I don't believe in that kind of nonsense; there's enough of it at home."

"Oh, it's just a laugh," Pear cried. "Go on, don't be dull."

Dutifully, Jennet raised her upturned palm and the woman called Caroline came over to peer at it.

Taking the girl's hand in hers, she stared and frowned, following certain lines with her fingernails.

"This curve here is your Head Line. It shows that you're sensitive but not very creative—you probably get depressed quite easily too."

Jennet squirmed. Did she have to be quite so blunt?

"Mmm, your mount of Saturn says that you're an extremely practical person, a good organiser, like me, with no time for fantasy or ludicrous notions. The Heart Line here isn't very pronounced—that's not very common."

At this, Meta gave a lusty sigh. "Perhaps Jennet's suppressing a secret passion—maybe you did come up here with a lover after all. Is he an uncouth yob or a dreary artisan who'll end up an accountant?"

"Don't be vile," Pear scolded her mother. "Go on, Caroline."

"There are a lot of broken paths here," she breathed. "You've been through many upheavals, haven't you? It's levelled out recently but it still isn't steady. And look, that is interesting—hmm." She gave the hand a dismissive pat then twisted her mouth to one side.

"Radical change," she summed up. "No doubt about it, very soon your whole life will alter. More upheaval, I'm afraid, but it might be for the best."

"What... what sort of change?" Jennet stammered.

"Oh, your life will take an entirely new direction," Caroline said, returning to her place and retrieving the novel.

Jennet stared blankly at her palm, then became steadily encouraged and much happier. "I was hoping for a change to happen," she said. "Maybe it will after all."

"Oh it will," Pear affirmed. "Caroline's never been wrong yet."

"If only it'll happen soon. You are lucky. I wish I could go wherever I wanted to and not be told what to do all the time."

"What's stopping you?"

"Well, school for a start and then my brother and Aunt Alice—oh, lots of things."

Lounging on the grass like a contented cat, Meta let out a sympathetic groan. "Excuses," she murmured. "If you really wanted to change you'd do it. There'll always be something to blame for your inertia."

"We can't all be carried away from our humdrum lives by a dashing stranger," Pear interrupted. "Stop measuring others by your own shameful youth. Do you know, Jennet, my mother was just out of college and had only been in her first teaching job three weeks when she was whisked off by my father. She just upped and left everything behind—friends, family, everything. Completely mad, don't you think?"

Jennet shrugged. "I don't know," she breathed. "Depends on who the man is, I suppose, and how much he loves you."

"There you are," Meta declared, wagging a finger at her daughter, "Jennet understands, don't you, honey?" She reached over and stroked the girl's hair then added, "Would you like a drink? I've got a bottle of wine in the van—I can think of nothing better than to sit with friends and enjoy a glass or two."

Before Jennet could answer, Pear's mother was already ferreting in the van for the bottle.

"I'm not really allowed to drink alcohol," she murmured. "I don't know if I should."

Pear sniggered. "Why not? I was brought up on beer and wine, wasn't I, Meta?"

"Only way to keep you quiet, Lambkin. Does wonders, some stout in the baby's milk—I would've gone quite berserk otherwise. Here we are."

She passed the glasses around and uncorked a large bottle of dry white wine.

Jennet held the glass nervously as Meta filled it and gingerly sniffed the clear fruity liquid.

"Here's to your radical change," Meta announced, raising her own glass, "whatever that proves to be. Hoi, Liz—what about some music?"

From the camper the timid woman emerged and in her arms she carried a guitar covered in fading stickers. Very softly she began to strum the strings and a babbling tune drifted around them. As Jennet sipped the wine, the music mingled with the taste, and it was so lovely that she closed her eyes to fix this moment forever in her memory.

***

As the light failed and the sky gradually turned a hazy deep blue, Sister Frances swayed uncertainly and rubbed her eyes.

Disorientated, she looked around and found that she was standing in the abbey grounds.

The venerable remains of the holy building were dark, and high above her—silhouetted against the louring sky—the skeletal frames of the east windows cast violet shadows over the confused nun as she tried to remember what had brought her to this place.

"Here I am again," she declared to the ancient columns before her. "Come on, Frances, get a grip on yourself. They'll come to take you away if you keep blacking out like this. Oh Lawks! What can the time be?"

Charging through the grounds with her head at a tilt and her great long legs marching in determined strides, she left the abbey behind and headed for the church.

When she was skirting the edge of the car park, Sister Frances brought herself up sharply and turned this way and that as though she had lost something.

"How divine," she gushed, listening to the strains of a slow, peaceful melody. "What a pretty tune. Wherever is it corning from?"

Following the delightful sound with child-like curiosity, she gravitated towards the cliff edge where, amongst other vehicles, a camper was parked.

Small glass jars containing night lights burned beside the van and the nun was charmed by the glimmering scene. Gathered in a semi-circle, five figures were talking in low voices and one of them played a guitar so well that it brought tears to Frances's eyes.

Silently, her large feet crept closer and an enraptured expression appeared over her face and she put her hands together as if in prayer.

The guitar player happened to glance up and the music faltered when she saw the tall figure peeking around the side of the van.

"Oh, please don't stop!" Frances implored. "I only wanted to listen for a teeny moment. It was all so heavenly, a perfect tranquil scene, with all you chums sitting around on a jolly evening..." Her voice trailed away. One of the figures had turned quickly and was trying to hide her face. Sister Frances recognised the girl immediately.

"Jennet!" she cried. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at Miss B's? And what have you got in your hand? No, I don't believe it is lemonade! Oh, how beastly of you! It's white wine—I can see the bottle! Come here at once!"

Striding between Pear and Meta, she took hold of Jennet's arm and wrenched the girl to her feet.

Pear giggled at the sight of the outraged nun but Frances was indignant and she berated the other women for leading Jennet astray. "It isn't the slightest bit funny," she warned them. "I intend to tell a policeman!"

Meta drained her own glass and looked at her steadily. "You're right of course," she said in all seriousness. "I think you had better return home, Jennet."

"I don't want to!" the girl cried. "Oh, why don't you mind your own business?" she snapped at Frances.

"This is for your own good Jennet, dear," the nun declared, leading her away from these dangerous intoxicators. "Do stop struggling."

Jennet strained and tried to pull her arm free but the ridiculous woman was stronger than she seemed.

"Let her go!" Pear called.

"Be quiet!" Meta growled. "Don't interfere!"

But her daughter leaped up to bar the nun's path and Meta reached out to drag her backwards. "Did you not hear me?" she growled.

"Who does that freak think she is?"

Meta glared at the girl and hissed, "Must I say it a second time? Do you need a lesson in obedience? Let her take Jennet back."

Pear took one look at her mother and sat down again instantly.

"How did you get involved with those disreputable people?" Frances asked, dragging the miserable Jennet through the car park.

But the girl was not listening. Looking over her shoulder, she could see that Pear was as unhappy as she was. "I'll see you tomorrow!" she shouted.

Pear made no sign that she had heard, and before Jennet could call again Sister Frances had pulled her into the churchyard towards the one hundred and ninety-nine steps.

"You'll do no such thing!" the nun told her. "It's the wedding tomorrow and you'll bally well be there!"

Jennet trotted wretchedly behind her. Pear was the first friend she had had for as long as she could remember and the others had treated her as an equal. Now here she was being patronised like a child again. She hated Sister Frances and she hated Whitby.

Sitting before the camper van, Meta stared harshly at her daughter. "We must hope that the police are not informed," she said. "We dare not risk their involvement."

Pear lowered her eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered, "I wasn't thinking."

"Perhaps I ought to train you a little more thoroughly."

The girl cringed and nervously put her hands to her throat.

Nearby, Caroline began to tidy up the dishes and said tersely, "Hillian won't like this."

"Don't worry about that," Meta sneered. "I can handle her."

***

Much later, at the closed premises of The Whitby Bookshop, two women tapped lightly on the door and were ushered quickly inside. Into the darkness, past the neat and ordered shelves they went, talking in hushed whispers until they reached the spiral staircase. Up the winding way each of them climbed, up to the first floor which brimmed with mellow candle-light and the smell of melting wax.

Miriam Gower had arranged the area as before; the books and display bins had been pushed against the walls and in the centre of the cleared space the wooden box was carefully positioned.

The formidable owner of the bookshop showed her guests to their places and seated herself upon the carpet with as much grace as her hulking frame permitted.

With the deep warm glow of the candle-light curving over her round face, she looked at the other two members of the coven excitedly.

"You are sure the time has come?" she asked, a little out of breath after mounting the staircase. "Only two chances remain, remember."

Hillian Fogle clicked her tongue in annoyance. "Question don't!" she yapped. "When the rest of the sisters are assembled it said, then we were to call it up again. Now the others are here so we must speak to it tonight."

She nodded to the third figure who now sat in the place once occupied by Susannah O'Donnell. So far the newcomer had remained silent and Hillian scrutinised her through her spectacles. "Went today successful?" she asked.

The third witch was idly admiring the way the candle flame glinted in her golden hair as she held it up to the light, and took a moment before answering.

"Oh yes," Meta murmured, "the first seeds were sown. The girl is definitely one of us—how can she fail to be? Was he not the most commanding man? Given more time the young fool will be under our control."

Miriam's pointed tongue licked her garishly painted lips as she regarded the bitterly beautiful woman before them with envy and mistrust sparkling in her almond eyes. "For your sake I hope that is true," she commented.

"If there's one thing I know how to do above all else," Meta returned with equal archness, "it's how to ensnare."

"Oh, we know that," Miriam said. "That's how you trapped him."

Meta let that pass. "With Pear's help the girl's ultimate co-operation is assured," she said with a forced smile, "so you can waddle off and worry your bovine head about something else, can't you? How to shed a few stone perhaps?"

"Sisters," Hillian tutted, "old quarrels have no place here. Let us begin; lift the lid."

Miriam leaned forward and the immense shadow cast by her top-heavy bosom threw one half of the room into utter darkness. Carefully she took from the box the wizened fishmonkey, and Meta gave a low whistle at the sight of the shrivelled creature.

"Charming," she remarked.

"Fine looks aren't everything," Miriam replied tartly.

"Is that the voice of experience speaking?"

Hillian took out the second bag of incense and poured the contents on to the burner. When the fishmonkey was placed on the lid of the sea chest she lit the powder and waited.

The pungent smoke threaded about the scaly form and flowed into the withered nostrils to work the magic once more.

Bleating like a new-born lamb, the repulsive creature gasped and stretched its puny arms.

At each woman in turn it blinked those yellow eyes and twisted the large head upon the emaciated neck.

"You have waited overlong to summon me," it hissed. "You ought to have acted sooner."

"The rest of the coven only did arrive today," Hillian said. "There was no point to waken you before now."

"Then they should have journeyed with more haste!" the fishmonkey snapped. "My master is impatient—time has grown short. Events have moved onwards, events you are ignorant of."

"What events is these?" Hillian asked. "How are they concerning us?"

"When the sun hangs low in the sky at dusk tomorrow," it told her, "a complication shall arise. If we are not careful and cunning it shall undo us."

"What must we do?"

"The boy," the creature spat, "his destruction is still uppermost. He must be killed this night before it is too late."

Hillian nodded quickly and Miriam gave a wide grin.

Staring in mild amusement at the peculiar little monster, Meta cupped her chin in her hand and asked, "And how are we to do that? I have been led to believe this child is no ordinary boy. He already suspects something is happening. Did Hillian not tell me he has put a charm upon his window that we may not enter that way again?"

The fishmonkey ground its brown teeth and wormed about to face her. "This time the human must be lured into the open," it commanded. "Out to the wild where we can deal with him."

The owner of the bookshop sniffed haughtily. "Just how are we to accomplish that?" she demanded. "What possible bait would bring an eight-year-old from his warm bed in the middle of the night?"

The creature swivelled its head and the papery skin crackled at the swiftness of the movement. "Do I not recall that on the first time of my awakening thou wert keen to prove thyself worthy?"

Miriam shot Hillian a superior glance. "That is so," she admitted readily.

"Doth thy eagerness still hold true?" it asked.

"It most certainly does!" she retorted. "If I were the one to rid your lord of his enemies then I should be chosen to wear the ring of amethyst and lead the coven."

The fishmonkey tapped the lid of the box thoughtfully then bared all of its needle-like teeth. "So be it," it barked. "Thou art selected."

The large woman's head was split in two as an enormous smile divided her face. "You may count on me, oh mouthpiece of the Allpowerful—I shall not fail you." And she leered triumphantly at her coven sisters as though she had beaten them both in some rivalling contest.

"You have still not answered the question," Meta remarked. "Just how will you draw the boy from his home?"

A wheezing laugh issued from the creature's parched lips. "Fear not," it muttered, "the lure will prove too tempting to resist." And it gave a rasping cackle before instructing Miriam in what she would have to do.

***

Ben slept fitfully. Images of Nelda interrupted his dreams; horrible visions of the aufwader writhing in pain as her skin bubbled and began to weep salty water. Tarr was at her side and he grasped his granddaughter's liquefying hand whilst shaking his fist at Ben.

"Tha's done this!" he raged. "Her death lies on thee alone. Tha could've lifted the curse but no—tha were weak! A curse on thee, landbreed. May tha rot, Benjamin Laurenson!"

His angry cries were taken up by the rest of the tribe who had gathered behind him and they damned the boy's name with all their might and sorrow.

"Benjamin, Benjamin—Ben."

The boy stirred unhappily. The voices had melted into a single whispering chant and there was no escape from its insistent calling.

Suddenly he was awake and his eyes gazed sleepily up into the darkness.

"Benjamin," the voice breathed again.

Ben's scalp tingled and his heart fluttered. He was no longer dreaming—yet it was impossible he should hear that familiar voice.

"Benjamin," it said again.

Trembling with fear and excitement, the boy lifted his head from the pillows and stared past the foot of his bed.

With a kind and loving smile traced over her face, a petite figure stood in the centre of the room, watching him adoringly.

Standing in the dim ray of light that slanted through the curtain, a silvery aura flickered about the female form. It shimmered over the curling hair and the clothes she had worn the day she had died, and as a tearful sob burst from Ben's mouth, she raised her hands to him and wept.

"Benjamin," she said again, "don't cry—I'm here."

The boy drew his pyjama sleeve over his streaming eyes and in a joyful voice murmured, "Mum!"

The ghost of his mother looked just the same as he remembered her and she tilted her head to one side to look at him admiringly.

Ben hardly dared to move in case his "visitor" vanished into the ether again.

"I miss you," he eventually cried, "and Dad—Jen does too."

The phantom made no answer but put a finger to her lips and took a step backwards to the open bedroom door, beckoning for him to follow.

Ben hesitated. Once, during a seance that Aunt Alice had held downstairs, he had been frightened by hundreds of spectres and he had no wish to repeat the experience.

A look of understanding passed over Mrs Laurenson's face. "Don't be afraid, Benjamin," she whispered. "I shall be with you."

Reassured, the boy cast back the bedclothes and pulled on his slippers.

"Where are we going?" he asked quietly. "Should I get dressed?"

The shade shook her head and glided through the open door to the gloomy landing beyond.

Ben followed her quickly. His mother was already floating down the stairs as he left his room and he called to her softly.

"Shall I wake Jen?" he asked.

But the glimmering form of Mrs Laurenson made no reply and he hastened after her into the hall.

The front door of the cottage was wide open and the chill night airs filled the ground floor of the normally cosy building and transformed it into an icy tomb-like place. Ben shivered and looked for his mother but she was nowhere to be found.

"Please don't go yet!" he begged. "Please, Mum!"

Then he saw her, waiting for him in the courtyard, bathed in the unearthly glow of the street lamps that flooded through the alleyway.

Quickly Ben pulled his coat from the hook and scurried into the night after her.

Down Church Street the silent ghost led him, and as Ben struggled into his coat a thousand questions burned inside. Yet his mother was always just ahead of him, and though he ran to catch up she seemed to drift before him like a leaf snatched away by the wind.

Along Henrietta Street he hurried, the soles of his slippers slapping over the cobbles, and he clawed his toes to keep them on his feet.

As he ran by Fortune's kipper house, the silvery figure was already waiting by the cliff edge, where the ground dropped steeply down to the crashing waves that now covered the rocky shore. For a few moments his mother remained there, then she moved towards the footbridge that linked the cliff to the stone pier far below.

"Mum, wait!" the boy wept as he saw her disappear down the sloping and narrow pathway.

One of his slippers flew from his feet but Ben did not wait to retrieve it. Over the dry and stubbly grass he ran and leapt on to the wooden boards of the perilously high bridge.

Into engulfing darkness the boy hurtled, dashing headlong down the immense throat of night. Like a huge and impenetrable tunnel it surrounded him, and above and below there was only blackness. No stars pricked the heavens and no light was reflected over the vast open sea. Only a pitchy void lay ahead, except for a single silvery shape that gleamed coldly where the bridge joined the pier.

The sound of the hungry sea rose up from the deep reaches, as though it was eagerly waiting for him to falter and fall the dizzying height to his death. Keeping his thoughts trained solely upon the frosty spectre in the distance, the boy tried to shove all such frightening ideas to the back of his mind, but the relief which bubbled within him once his bare foot touched the cold stone of the pier was overwhelming.

The ghost of his mother smiled at him, then like a flickering will-o'-the-wisp she turned and floated further away.

Ben let out a dismayed whimper. "Please wait!" he wailed. "Wait for me."

Over the huge sandstone slabs he ran, along the old stone spur that jutted defiantly into the sea to shield the harbour of Whitby from the ravages of the merciless waves.

Through the bleak night he raced, forever chasing the shining figure who was always just out of reach.

By the disused lighthouse, where the pier stopped abruptly and the wooden extensions began, the ghost paused and the folds of her clothes swirled about her like the misty shreds of a shimmering fog.

"Oh Benjamin!" she called, turning her face gladly upon him as the boy approached breathlessly. "Now at last I can speak."

Ben panted and leaned against the rail. They were totally cut off from the world now, wrapped up in the darkness of the shadowy sea that stretched around them on all sides, and Whitby seemed a twinkling series of golden stars many miles behind them.

Mrs Laurenson smiled as she looked longingly at her son and hugged herself tightly.

"The grave is an empty place," she muttered with a bleak and ghastly expression forming on her dead lips, "an empty vacuum devoid of light and love. Oh Ben, I have been so lonely—the endless hollow night has swallowed me and desolation is all I know now. In the cold, suffocating earth I have missed you so much my darling, so very, very much."

The boy shuddered and wished she had not told him that. Reaching forward he tried to draw closer for comfort, but the spectre pulled away sharply.

"You cannot touch me," she lamented. "I am only a vapour and if you try then I shall vanish like smoke."

Ben understood and sniffed forlornly. "We've both missed you, Mum," he said. "Jennet's always looking at the photo album."

"Ah, Jennet," the phantom echoed plaintively. "If only my pretty daughter were blessed with the same gift as you. How I long to speak with her and share the things a mother ought to. I know she is unhappy—I see this from beyond the solemn eternity of my mouldering dust. How it grieves me to witness her tears. What sins were mine that I am compelled to suffer this misery in death?"

Ben thrust his hands into the pockets of his coat as the bitter cold that blew from the surrounding sea pinched and chilled him.

"Why have you brought me here?" he asked.

A patient smile spread over his dead mother's face. "The lights of the town confound and dazzle me," she answered, whirling around in a slow circle and staring into the fathomless night. "There are fewer disturbances here, out in the still darkness. When the vibrations are strong they hinder the passage from one world to the next and weaker souls cannot break through."

"But you did."

"I did, yes."

"Oh Mum, I wish you hadn't left us, I wish you and Dad were still alive..." The tears rolled down Ben's cheeks and the phantom knelt upon the ground, wringing her hands that she could not hug and comfort him.

"Oh Benjamin," she uttered, "listen to me. Do you wish to see your father?"

Ben looked at her hopefully. "Dad?" he cried. "Is Dad here too?"

"Not yet," she said, "but this is where he shall pass through. Here the ether trembles and the veil is but a thin and meagre membrane. If we call to him he will follow our voices."

"Dad!" Ben shouted. "We're here!"

His mother floated forward, over to where the pier railing was buckled and the stone around the steel posts was cracked and hazardous. Orange warning tapes had been strung across the perilous spot like the web of a huge bright spider, but the phantom pointed past them and out into the pitch dark.

"Over here, Benjamin," she said. "That is where he will come through. Call to him now, summon his shade from the insensible grave. Let him know you still love him."

The boy darted to her side and yelled into the blank sky.

Below them the sea churned against the pier wall, sluicing and roaring above the din that Ben was making as he howled for his dead father.

"I can't see anything!" he cried. "Nothing's happening—where is he?"

"Trust me," his mother smiled, "he will come. He has waited so long for this moment—we are both so alone. Where are you, darling? Can you hear me? Our son is here—he desperately wants to see you. Please, for Ben's sake."

The cold wind rushed around her and the ghost reacted as though she had heard an answering voice.

"Yes, my love!" she cried. "I can hear you."

Frantically Ben stared hard at the empty sky but could neither see nor hear anything.

"Was it him?" he wept. "Is he there?"

"Oh yes," she replied, "your father will soon be with us. Look out there. Can you not see the faint mist? He is very close now."

"Where?" Ben cried, pushing against the orange tapes till they stretched and he leaned precariously forward.

"There!" she shrieked. "I see him!"

The tapes snapped and boy held on to the mangled rail to keep from falling, yet still his eyes hunted anxiously for a glimpse of his dead father, oblivious to the awful danger.

Mrs Laurenson stepped aside to let her son have full command of the pier edge and silently she glided behind him.

"Where are you, Dad?" he yelled. "Where are you?"

Beneath his feet the loose stones moved and tiny fragments rattled into the boiling waves below.

A cruel and ruthless smile twisted the phantom's face as she raised her hands.

"Dad!" he screamed. "Dad!"

Suddenly Mrs Laurenson seized Ben by the shoulders and gripped him fiercely.

The boy teetered on the edge, his remaining slipper spun through the night and was snatched into the deep thrashing waters.

"Mum!" he cried, startled and bewildered. "You can touch me... !"

Her savage fingernails bit through the material of his coat and pierced deep into his skin.

Ben shrieked and struggled to free himself; losing his balance on the terrible brink he almost fell and pulled her with him.

"Mum!" Ben shouted. "What's happening? I don't... I don't..."

"Keep still!" the ghost bawled and she slapped him savagely across the face.

Ben yelled in terror as the evil vision of his mother laughed like a demented demon and forced him to look down at the dreadful waters below.

"You're not my mum!" he screamed. "Let go! Let go!"

"That's enough!" she snapped, hitting him brutally over the head. "Be quiet, you little runt," and she hauled him off his feet.

"No!" he cried, lashing out with his hands. "Get off!"

The boy tore at the imposter's clothes and at once the illusion was shattered as the spectre wilted and crumpled.

An expanse of velvety fur slithered to the floor and the towering frame of Miriam Gower was revealed in all her Goliathan and heavy-boned malevolence.

Ben stared in disbelief at the enchanted seal skin that he had wrenched from her. Silvery sparks still glittered over the sleek hide and two blank eyes appeared to stare sadly up at him.

"Into the waters you go!" Miriam snarled, dangling him over the edge with her ogre-like hands.

Ben clung to the rail and kicked out at her.

"You're the cow in the bookshop!" he spluttered. "You're mad!"

"Oh, I am," she agreed, "but it is an insanity borne of love and devotion. Soon my beloved will return to me and I shall feel his warm embrace and writhe beneath his supple weight."

With her masculine strength, she ripped the boy's hands from the rail and spat in his face.

"They say drowning is an extremely horrific and painful way to die," she gloated, her bright lips gaping in a foul, gratified smile. "How lucky for you that your head will probably be dashed against the wall before your lungs are filled."

Ben glanced at the black water swirling and crashing beneath him. Vainly he clawed at her, but the woman was too strong and with a last snigger, she let him fall.

Ben screamed.

Miriam was thrust aside and a slender hand flashed out.

A sudden pain bit into Ben's neck as the coat tightened and choked him.

A straining shriek bellowed behind and at once the darkness flew over his head and the next the boy knew he was rolling over the stone floor. In a tangled ball, he smashed into the solid bulk of the lighthouse and fell on to his face.

Miriam staggered against the rail and whirled around, incensed at the interference.

"Who's there?" she screeched, the lights of the town sparkling in her eyes and blinding her to the one who had saved her intended victim.

Ben groaned and rubbed the back of his head where it had bumped against the stones. Then he heard laughter.

Miriam was hooting raucously.

"You!" she shrieked, her bosom quivering with scornful mirth. "Get out of my way! How dare you interrupt this! How..."

Her derision dwindled and was replaced with a terrified squeal. As she rocked with murderous glee, beneath the heels of her feminine yet oversized shoes more of the crumbling brink collapsed and the broken railing was torn from the pier then plunged into the sea.

The woman's petrified scream boomed over the harbour. Too late, the one who had rescued Ben rushed forward to save her. Miriam Gower lost her footing and her imposing frame plummeted backwards.

Down she toppled, her massive arms flailing the night, and a shrill screech blistered from her chest only to be quenched when she hit the waves.

Into the foaming sea the owner of the bookshop crashed and it seized her with vicious greed.

Ben hid his face, and even though his fingers were thrust into his ears he could still hear her frenzied voice howling amid the churning, drowning water. And then there was only the sound of the sea and Miriam Gower had been silenced forever.

Timidly, he opened his eyes and ran over to the brink. But there was no sign of her. Spinning around he searched for the one who had saved him and there, running back towards the town and blurred against the golden lights, he saw a tall figure swathed in black robes. Then the mysterious stranger vanished into the distance, and drained of any further emotion, Ben began to walk back the way he had come.

In the bookshop the fishmonkey let out a frustrated whine and slapped the wooden box angrily.

"Failure!" it raged. "The boy still lives—he lives!"

Hillian looked across at Meta. "Then Miriam..?" she ventured.

"Dragged into the deeps!" the creature snapped. "Swallowed by the sea! Your coven is useless! You are defeated at every turn! My master did choose unwisely!"

Hillian stared at the empty space where her coven sister had been sitting earlier and touched the necklace about her neck.

"What are we to do now?" she whispered hoarsely.

The fishmonkey lashed out at her. "Only one further time can I aid you!" it snarled. "The boy will be doubly on guard henceforth. The next attempt must not fail—the hand that strikes must be one that he trusts implicitly!"

Ferociously it turned to Meta and pointed an accusing webbed claw at her. "Now the fate of us all lies with thee!" it warned. "You must make certain the girl joins the sisters—she is now the only key to all our goals."

Meta bristled. "At the close of tomorrow," she stated firmly, "the irritating child will be with us."

"May that not be too late!" the creature growled. "For the morrow may bring its own nightmares for us all."

8 - The Fledgeling

Jennet awoke early but discovered that Miss Wethers had already been up for quite some time and was scuttling from room to room in her panic to be ready for the great occasion later that afternoon.

Her incessant squeaks of indecision brought Miss Boston from her room and she scowled at her old friend. "Do sit down, Edith," she cried as the woman blundered into her a third time.

"I can't!" she whined. "There's so much to do still! Oh Alice, am I doing the right thing? It's such a huge step to take at my time of life."

Miss Boston groaned and settled down to eat her kippers. "Personally I think the man's a complete dunderhead," she muttered, savouring the smoky scent of her breakfast, "but then so are you—you'll make a magnificent couple I'm sure."

When Jennet entered the kitchen Edith pounced on her.

"Have you tried the dress on today?" she simpered. "I think you'd better just to be sure it fits properly."

The girl pouted. "I've only just got up!" she protested. "And I refuse to put that hideous frock on until the last minute."

Aunt Alice waved a fork at her whilst chewing a morsel of kipper. "Now, now," she said, "don't be uncharitable—it is Edith's special day. We must humour her, no matter how aggravating she becomes."

"The cake!" Miss Wethers squawked. "I must nip round to Cicily Drinkwater's to see if it's ready to be taken to the hall."

Miss Boston glanced at the clock. "Isn't it rather early for that, dear?" she asked.

"I've got to do something!" Edith babbled. "Oh, my tummy's all upset—I feel quite quite dreadful."

Jennet buttered a piece of toast and fled the kitchen quickly.

"Where are you going?" Aunt Alice called after her.

"For a walk," she shouted on her way out. "I won't be long."

Hearing the front door close, Miss Boston lay down her knife and fork and clucked wearily. "Really, Edith," she chided, "if you're like this now how will you survive till the afternoon?"

Miss Wethers gave a pathetic whimper then hurried upstairs to make sure her hat was still in the box.

***

Upon the clifftop, Jennet hurried through the car park and made for the camper van.

"Hello!" she called. "Pear—it's me!"

There was no reply and as she drew up to the cream and orange vehicle she realised that no one was inside.

"They've started early," she mumbled. "They can't be playing already—I'd have heard them."

The girl waited several minutes more then decided to go and find her new friends.

Down the abbey steps she clambered, always listening for the cheerful melodies of the folk group, but that morning only the seagulls were singing.

Through the lanes and narrow streets she searched, yet there was no sign of the women and Jennet barged through the ranks of early shoppers crossly.

At Market Place she halted and wondered if she ought to wait there—even though it might be hours before the band were scheduled to appear.

Dejected and downcast, she moped around and leaned against the same pillar as the previous day. Staring into Church Street she saw that a queue of disgruntled-looking people were standing outside the bookshop and peering through the window, impatient that it was still not open.

"That fat woman's probably had enough at last," she grumbled to herself.

Turning her head she scanned the other shop fronts; the baker's was busy as always, small children were staring hopefully into the toy shop, the health food store had attracted its usual mix of serious corduroy-covered cranks and intrepid gastronomes. Jennet drew herself up—inside that shop a timorous, purple outline was hovering uncertainly.

"Liz!" she exclaimed, running across the street and darting inside.

Within the dimly-lit premises an aromatic and treacly fragrance rose from the many barrels containing dried and sugared fruits and a warm, nutty smell was drifting from the restaurant at the back. Standing awkwardly by a row of baskets containing dates, sultanas and raisins, the modest figure of the flautist checked the list in her hand and inspected the sweet-scented wares.

Abruptly, the shy woman whisked around when Jennet called her name and a scoop full of raisins fell from her hand in surprise.

"Mornin'," she greeted the girl, casting her eyes down to the floor.

"Do you know where Pear is?" Jennet asked.

The woman fidgeted with one of the strings of beads around her neck and shifted uneasily. "No," she burbled under her breath, "she left early."

"To look round town?"

"Don't know."

Jennet thought it best to let her resume her bashful, mouse-like shopping. "I'll see if I can find her then," she said moving towards the entrance.

Furtively, the woman shambled over to the window as the girl disappeared down the street and a secretive, coy smile appeared on her freckle-covered face.

When she had scoured the whole of the East Cliff and satisfied herself that her new friend was nowhere to be found, Jennet crossed the swing bridge and searched along the quayside.

Midday approached relentlessly and having roamed the steep lanes from Baxtergate to Pannett Park without seeing any sign of Pear, the girl began to make her way home.

Meandering through the oddly-named Khyber Pass she emerged by the bandstand and rambled along the Pier Road. A colourful multitude of tourists were enjoying the sun, tucking into doughnuts and ice-creams and feeding the slot-machines in the buzzing amusement arcades. Idly, Jennet continued to peer around her as she headed homeward but it was no use.

And then, when she was wandering down Marine Parade, she saw a strikingly tall woman whose cream and golden hair blazed in the noonday sun as she sauntered through the countless, goggling men.

Pear's mother wore a scarlet kaftan embroidered with dandelion-yellow silks. She walked with an accomplished swing of the hips and her head tossed from side to side laughing at the silly faces that turned to feast their eyes on her.

"Hey, Jennet!" Meta hailed waving a hand and jangling her many bracelets.

The girl hurried towards her and as the crowds parted, she stopped and stared at the animal that padded by the woman's side.

Restrained upon the tightest of leads, Meta had by her a magnificent jet-black dog with a panting pink tongue and round brown eyes that rolled in their sockets as Jennet came forward. The beast's shaggy tail wagged immediately and it pulled on the leash, rearing on to its hind legs whilst pawing at the air with the others.

Jennet took a step back warily.

"Down Seff!" Meta commanded, yanking on the leash until the dog yelped and slammed its head against her leg. "Don't worry," she told the girl, "Seffy won't bite—just needs to be taught obedience."

"May I stroke her?" Jennet asked.

"Of course. Seffy's a soppy thing—a bit too much so, in my opinion."

Jennet knelt down and scratched the animal behind the ears. The tail thrashed madly and it pushed its snout forward to lick her face despite the collar which cut into the muscles of its throat.

"Poor thing," Jennet cried, "the collar's too tight!"

Meta gave a tug on the lead that dragged the dog from Jennet's hands and smacked it smartly across the glistening nose. "The brute needs to learn," she said. "It must be trained properly."

Jennet flinched at her treatment of the animal but she bit her tongue and groped for something else to say. "I didn't see it at the van yesterday," she eventually uttered.

"Oh, Seffy isn't ours," Meta grinned. "Oh no—she belongs to a friend here. Unfortunately he is unable to give her the exercise she really requires, so whenever possible I do what I can. But you're right, she is a fine specimen and with such an impressive pedigree that it would astonish you."

Jennet's eyebrows twitched uneasily as an uncomfortable doubt tingled and nagged at the back of her mind. No, whatever it was she could not recall it.

"Do you know where Pear is?" she asked.

Meta tossed back her head and stared across at the East Cliff. "Isn't she over there?" she declared. "I thought she went out with Liz and Caroline this morning to do some shopping."

"I've looked there, and Liz hasn't seen her—I haven't bumped into Caroline."

"Oh, she's probably in the library. Caroline loves a good book."

"But what about Pear?"

Meta shrugged. "If she's not with her then I don't know. I am certain that she will be back at the van by four o'clock this afternoon however. Is that a help?"

"Can I come round then?"

"Of course you can, honey, you'll always be welcome amongst our little group. Look, I'm just going down on to the beach to give Seffy her exercise. Do you want to join us?"

Jennet declined. She was not sure about this flamboyant woman, and though the prospect of throwing sticks for Seffy appealed to her she knew that a more pressing appointment was waiting.

"I can't," she said. "I've got a wedding to go to, but as soon as I've escaped from it I'll see you at the camper."

"'Escaped'?" Meta roared with laughter. "How very amusing! Oh yes, that's what marriage is all about—an institution to flee from. Ha ha ha! So droll!"

Jennet had no idea why the woman was laughing, but as usual the performance was too loud and too long.

I... I'll be off then," the girl muttered.

Meta calmed herself and with a flourish waved her farewell. "Till later, my pet!" she called and spun on her heel dragging the dog closely by her side.

Jennet watched them trail on to the sands but instead of letting the animal off the leash once they had left the road behind them, Meta kept it pulled on a tighter rein than ever.

"Some exercise!" Jennet observed and then her brow creased into a frown as she realised what had troubled her before.

"How come Meta knows Seffy's owner and takes her for walks? She said she'd never been to Whitby before!"

***

That afternoon the happiest woman in the entire world was Mrs Edith Adams. In the space of twenty minutes all her years of loneliness were finally dispelled and she emerged from the registry office flushed and excited—content and overjoyed for the first time in her life.

"Congratulations, the pair of you!" Miss Boston chuckled leaning on only the one walking stick.

With her arm linked in that of her husband, Edith waggled her hand and let the ring sparkle on her finger. "I can't believe it!" she squealed. "Oh Conway!"

The doctor gave his wife a gentle squeeze and kissed her on the cheek.

"Jubilation!" gushed Sister Frances as she stomped gawkily up to them. "Simply top class ceremony, who would have thought it? You two really are an inspiring lesson to us all."

The new Mrs Adams was not sure how to take this. "I beg your pardon?" she twittered.

"I mean to say," the nun gabbled on, "if people of your senior years can tie the knot then it gives hope to everyone—doesn't it, Miss B?"

Both Edith and Miss Boston looked away from the tactless and absurd nun.

"Come now, Frances," a small woman with tiny black button eyes broke in with an apologetic cough. Peeking over the rims of her spectacles she gave her charge a belligerent look and led her out of harm's way.

"Oh Mother Superior," Frances suggested, "can we pop in to the bunfight? I do so love a party!"

"You most certainly cannot!" was the indignant reply. "Have you forgotten the last party you gatecrashed? I refuse to let you anywhere near the place!"

Sister Frances grumbled under her breath and buried her chin into her chest sulkily. "Rotten old killjoy," she murmured.

Clutching her bouquet, Edith peered round for the children and squeaked for them to stop hiding and have their photograph taken.

Without saying a word, Ben left his hiding place behind a plump woman in a navy blue dress and stepped forward.

The boy had said nothing of his horrific experience the night before. It had all been so eerie and bizarre that he had difficulty believing it himself and tried not to bring the memory of Miriam Gower's drowning screams to the forefront of his mind.

At that moment, however, his cheeks were rosy and pink, having been pinched and tweaked by all the cotton-gloved and behatted ladies who had flocked to the wedding. Cooing and pecking at him they shrilly pronounced that he was "as cute as can be" and ruffled his hair after planting their dry, beaky lips upon his shrinking forehead.

The lamentable outfit which elicited these unwanted attentions consisted of a frilly white shirt, silver-buckled shoes and, worst of all, a kilt that was too short. Glassy-eyed and not daring to look too closely at the amused crowd which had gathered before the steps of the registry office, he assumed a fixed expression for the photographer and wished the ground would open up.

Jennet was having similar difficulties. Not only had Edith made her wear the most hideous dress ever to be rejected from a doll factory, the ghastly woman had also compelled her to tie a massive pink ribbon in her hair.

Aunt Alice looked at them both and shook her woolly head at what her friend had done to them. "Perhaps I should have interceded," she chortled. "Oh well, it's too late now."

The confetti rained down like pastel-coloured snow and with a mad impulse to conform to old traditions, Mrs Adams swung her arms and flung the bouquet over her shoulder.

"Great heavens!" a startled and delighted voice cried. "How simply spiffing! Look, everyone!"

Blushing a deep crimson, the Mother Superior gazed to heaven for divine strength as Sister Frances twirled the bouquet above her head in gleeful triumph.

When the hired car departed to take the newlyweds to the reception, Jennet unravelled the ribbon from her hair and walked over to Aunt Alice.

"Quite unnecessary!" the old lady commented, watching the car turn the corner. "The place is only two hundred yards from here!"

Jennet nibbled her lip nervously. "I don't feel very well," she lied, holding her stomach.

"You poor dear," Aunt Alice cried, putting her arm about her. "Probably nerves, added to the fact you haven't eaten much today. No doubt you'll feel much better with a bridge roll and some tinned salmon inside you."

"I couldn't," the girl refused. "I really would like to just go home and lie down."

"But the reception!"

"I know. I'm sorry, apologise for me."

Miss Boston gazed intently at her and the girl averted her eyes. "Would you like me to accompany you?" she asked kindly. "I never did care for fruit-cake, and cheap champagne always gives me wind."

"No you must go!" Jennet cried. "I mean, she's one of your oldest friends—how would it look?"

"Yes!" Ben piped up behind them. "I don't want to miss the food!"

"Very well," Aunt Alice consented, "if you're sure you'll be all right, Jennet dear?"

"'Course I will."

"Come then, Benjamin, would you care to escort this old spinster to the function that awaits us?"

Jennet lingered until they had departed, the old lady barely leaning on the walking stick and her brother holding her free hand—his silver buckles winking as he walked.

When they were out of sight, Jennet checked her watch and hurried off in the opposite direction.

Straight up the one hundred and ninety-nine steps she hurried, the voluminous folds of her pink satin dress tangling around her knees and tripping her up many times before she reached the summit.

Pear was sitting on a stool outside the camper van when the girl came rushing from the cemetery. The spectacle of this bright, fluttering apparition brought her leaping to her feet and doubling in two with laughter.

"Which Christmas tree did you fall off?" she wept. "Have you seen yourself?"

"Don't be horrible," Jennet blurted, leaning against the van. "I'm supposed to be a bridesmaid."

"Who got married, Mr and Mrs Candyfloss?"

The girls giggled and Jennet threw herself upon the grass. "With any luck the foul frock’ll turn green," she sighed. "I looked for you this morning."

Pear tore a clump of weeds from the soil. "I know," she muttered, "Meta told me."

"Where did you get to?"

"Oh... just around."

"Well, I couldn't find you."

"Hey!" Pear cried. "I bought you a present."

"A present? For me? What is it?"

The girl foraged inside the van and brought out a small brown paper parcel.

Jennet took it and gave her a puzzled look. "Smells like old Hot Cross Buns," she said, "and it's all crumbly."

"It's Henna."

"What's that for?"

Pear flashed a mischievous grin. "I'm going to colour your hair."

Jennet put the packet on the ground. "Oh, I don't know..." she demurred.

"Don't be boring," the other insisted. "You were only saying yesterday how you wanted to change your life—this is a beginning. The power of change is within us all but only the truly free know how and dare to use it."

"Yes, but to dye my hair..."

"Don't worry, it'll wash out."

And so the two spent a hilariously messy afternoon. First they mixed the henna powder into a thick paste and daubed it over Jennet's hair, massaging it well into her scalp. But much of the gritty stuff went astray as they larked about and flicked it at one another and it was not long before the pink satin dress was speckled and stained a ruddy brown.

When the other members of the folk band returned, they found Jennet with her clogged hair plastered flat against her scalp and hanging in dripping hanks about her shoulders like seaweed.

All of the women were pleased to see her and Meta teasingly remarked that Jennet was like a caterpillar in a cocoon and she was impatient to see the butterfly that would emerge.

When it was time, Pear poured a pan of water over her friend's head to rinse out the henna and Jennet dried her hair with a towel, then borrowed a brush from Meta.

The women sat down around her and looked on the transformed girl with sincere admiration.

"You look a hundred times better," Meta told her. "What a difference—quite like 'The Ugly Duckling'."

"Don't listen to her," Pear said. "You were never ugly. Meta's just scared you'll be prettier than she is."

"Mm," Liz nodded, "very nice."

Jennet drew her fingers through her hair and longed to see how she appeared. "Have you a mirror?" she asked.

"Only the ones on the van," Meta answered. "Go, take a peep—see what you think."

Jennet rose and walked apprehensively to the side of the camper. Crouching, she gazed into the wing mirror and stared at the image within.

She hardly recognised the face that looked out at her. The henna had inflamed a lustrous, coppery fire in her drab dark hair and when it moved the rich colours rippled and gleamed. Jennet could not believe the change, she seemed older and more assured and after staring at the reflection for several minutes, she whirled around and gave Pear a delighted hug.

"It's better than I ever hoped!" she cried. "I even feel different. It's marvellous, thank you!"

Caroline took her fiddle from the van and as the others complimented the girl, began to play a gentle melody.

"I predict that our fledgeling is going to blossom into a great beauty quite soon," Meta crooned. "What a frightening woman she will be. Imagine all those hearts that will turn to her—will she spurn them and be a cold destroyer of men? Or will she have one great passion in her life and be dominated totally by it—forsaking all else and consumed utterly by its ravaging flames? Which would you prefer?"

Jennet sniggered. "I shall choose only millionaires," she told them gravely, "and make them buy me lots of expensive jewellery."

"Jewels for M'lady Jennet!" Pear announced and she removed from around her neck several long strings of glass beads. "There you are, your ladyship, your crown jewels."

Jennet swung them round in her fingers and looked haughtily from side to side. "Not forgetting lovely clothes," she added.

From the van Pear brought a sequin-covered shawl and wrapped it around her friend's neck. "There you are, Your Highness—cloth of gold from the far-off Indies."

"But what will you do if his wealth runs out?" Meta asked. "Will you stay by your bankrupt millionaire and sell all your finery?"

"No chance!" Jennet answered. "I shall leave him and find another."

"How deliriously wicked," Meta purred, "but what about love? Millionaires are always fat and bald and their breath stinks of cigars—you must have a paramour."

"A what?"

"A lover of course—the special one to whom you always return and who visits your dreams."

The smile faded from Jennet's face, and she pulled the shawl from her shoulders. "I don't think so," she muttered. "I did think that at one time perhaps—but I was stupid. It was only infatuation, a silly crush and besides, he was a horrid man."

Meta smiled disarmingly. "Why are we drawn to the wrong men?" she drawled. "It's never the reliable and faithful ones—always the beasts who treat us like dirt. Bewitched moths to brutal flames, that's what we are."

She stretched like a feline and took a deep breath. "It's another ravishing evening," she remarked, "and there just happens to be another bottle of wine waiting to be opened. Would you like a glass, Jennet?"

The girl hesitated.

Meta watched her and put her hand to her brow, peering around the van as if searching for something. "I may be wrong," she said, "but I don't think there are any stray nuns on the horizon. You're perfectly safe, child—or did that overgrown penguin make you sign the pledge? Do you think you have to be saved from our terrible influence?"

"No," Jennet rallied, "I'd love a drink."

It was not long before they all held a glass of wine in their hands and Meta led them in a toast.

"To the flowering of our new friend," she declared. "May her tinted tresses be but the first of many changes in her young and vital life."

To prove that she didn't care what Sister Frances or anyone else had to say, Jennet took a great gulp of the wine and pulled the shawl over her shoulders once more.

Gradually the rest of the women took up their instruments and joined Caroline in the wonderfully soothing tune. Jennet listened to them happily but the sound was so enchanting that it began to lull her senses and before long she was yawning and blinking.

"I'm sorry," she apologised, "it's been a long day—what with the wedding and every... oh dear, I am tired."

The women smiled at her and continued to make the melodious music until the battle to keep her eyes open grew more and more hopeless for the girl and, in the end, the incredible weariness overcame her.

Without warning, Jennet fell back on to the grass and lay as still as death.

Pear leaned over her and gently pushed one eye open. The pupil was large and stared unflinchingly upwards.

"Has it worked?" Meta asked, putting her concertina down.

Pear nodded, "Yes," she said sorrowfully, "she's out cold."

"Then let us go at once!" her mother hissed to the others.

Immediately, Liz and Caroline ceased playing and as one they rose to put their instruments into the camper van.

"Now pick up the girl," Meta told them, "and put her inside."

"Carefully!" Pear added.

"Just be quick!" snapped Meta, glancing warily around the car park.

Hastily, Jennet was bundled into the vehicle and when the two women had climbed in after, Meta pulled the large side door shut with a loud slam and hurried to the front where she jumped into the driver's seat.

"Pear!" she called. "Get in!"

Her daughter had wandered to the cliff edge and hardly heard her.

"What is it?" Meta barked. "Hurry! We must waste no time!"

Reluctantly Pear clambered in beside her. "Did you hear it?" she asked.

"Hear what?"

"The music. It was unlike any I have ever... you must have heard it. It was floating up from the shore far below—it was so sad."

Meta sneered. "Those loathsome wading creatures!" she spat. "They must have assembled and begun already. Now there is no time to be lost—your annoying little friend must be initiated tonight!"

Pear wriggled on her seat to look into the back of the van and gazed thoughtfully at Jennet.

"You won't hurt her, will you?"

Meta turned the key in the ignition and grappled with the gear stick. "Don't bother about her!" she shouted above the splutter of the engine. "Fill your mind with our great cause. What is she to you? Just some fool of a girl the High Priest hardly gave thought to!"

Pear stared glumly out of the window and with a lurch, the camper van lumbered from the car park and sped down Abbey Lane, leaving Whitby far behind.

9 - The Brides Of Crozier

With his fist wrapped tightly about his staff, Tarr stood stiffly upon the rocky shore, his wind-burned countenance grim and resolute. Gathered around him in a large semi-circle that faced the outgoing tide, the rest of the tribe were sitting upon boulders and gazing in subdued silence at the impassive leaden sea.

Every face was set and grave, for that night was a solemn and melancholy occasion and their hearts quailed within their breasts when they thought of what their leader had taken upon himself to do.

The aufwaders were dressed in ceremonial finery and even the older members had washed and scrubbed themselves until their leathery and lined skin glowed ruddily. Beards had been brushed free of twig and shell and all heads were bare in honour of the expected guest.

At her grandfather's side, Nelda had clothed herself in the bridal dress she had worn when Esau had claimed her, but now the blue-green garment was tight about her middle and the stitches gaped at the seams of the richly-embroidered fabric.

With a heaviness of spirit, she looked around at the other fisherfolk but drew no comfort from their sombre faces.

"We waste our time, grandfather," she said hopelessly. "The Triad beneath the sea will not choose to hear us. Why should they after all this time and the cries of every mother who has gone before me?"

Tarr's bristly eyebrows knitted together and a fierce scowl creased over his face. "They'll hear me, reet enough!" he snarled, glancing up at the darkening sky. "The hour grows near—the moon is rising."

Low over the horizon, the round disc of the full moon appeared faint in the fading blue of the evening and at a signal from Tarr the aufwaders began to sing.

Very faintly at first, each of the fisherfolk commenced the chant. They were old words handed down from mother to son, a song that stretched back into the early days of the Earth when the many tribes crowded the shoreline and dealt freely with the three powers of the waking world. Not once in living memory had the remaining aufwaders assembled to perform the litany, but it was so deeply anchored within their being that no one faltered and the words of the ancient chorus rose before the cliffs, borne upon the twilight breeze.

Only Tarr and Nelda remained silent, and as the dirge-like music burgeoned about them they stared resolutely out to sea.

Early stars pricked through the cobalt sky which grew gradually dimmer until the shore beneath the cliffs became swamped in a dismal gloom. Yet still the funereal chant continued and as the moon climbed higher, Tarr beckoned to Eurgen Handibrass who was crouched at the front of the semi-circle and the elderly aufwader rose creakily to his feet. In his gnarled hands he carried a bulky object covered by a cloth of fine muslin decorated with intricate embroidery and, treading carefully, he took it over to the leader of the tribe.

Eurgen bowed and uncovered the sacred artefact that he bore. There in his hands was the ceremonial conch. Its lustrous interior mirrored and revelled in the bright silver moonlight, reflecting a pearly sheen up into Tarr's unwavering face.

Staunchly, he received the shell from Eurgen and curled his fingers about its smooth surface.

Raising it above his head he held the conch aloft and in a bold and authoritative voice called out, "Behold the Horn o' the Deep! Ever has it summoned the herald o' the mighty Triad and let this night be no exception! Yet ah would'na call down their fury on any save messen—fer the sake of my son's bairn I call to them this neet and if wrath is all they offer then let it fall on me alone!"

Throughout this stout, defiant speech the fisherfolk had continued to sing and showed their approval of his actions by rocking to and fro. Even Old Parry joined them in this, for the time had indeed come when all resentments must be put aside. Her cracked voice chanted loudly as Tarr put the great shell to his lips and blew.

A single blaring, sonorous note blasted over the waves. Nelda's grandfather had never sounded the conch before but now he put all his strength into that one bugling roar. Every pent-up bitter memory, every wretched and grief-filled fear was poured from his soul and hurled in a tormented scream out under the stars.

When his lungs were spent and long after Tarr had given the shell back to Eurgen, the awful, piercing note continued to echo and ricochet around the encircling seas and he put his trembling arm around Nelda's shoulders.

"What now?" she murmured.

"We wait, lass."

The hours deepened. The heavenly field of stars blazed with glacial fires in the velvet blackness, and soaring high above at the pinnacle of its ascent, the cream-coloured moon radiated an ethereal splendour over the slumbering world.

Upon the shore, the aufwaders had grown silent and a small number, goaded by Old Parry, began to complain that they were wasting their time—the Deep Ones had ignored the age-old summons.

Sitting on the ground, with his granddaughter asleep in his arms, Tarr kept his weary eyes trained upon the darkness, where the far distant rim of the sea had faded into night. The damp slowly crept into his bones but he made no movement to ease his discomfort and, like a figure rendered in stone, remained silent and motionless.

And then his fatigue disappeared and the hope which had dwindled to cold ash inside him revived.

"Nelda!" he cried, shaking his granddaughter. "Look! Behold, all of yer! See what glimmers yonder!"

The tribe stirred and raised their dozing heads at this excited outburst.

Upon the invisible horizon a tiny pulse of light gleamed, sailing ever nearer out of the darkness towards the shore.

"'Tis the herald!" Tarr yelled. "He comes! At last he comes!"

Everyone staggered to their feet and waited with refreshed vigour as the dim glow drifted closer, and only those with the sharpest sight could discern its origin.

A small rowing boat was floating over the water, at its prow a lantern swung gently and its pendulous beams threw a sweeping blue light over the craft's single occupant.

The herald of the Deep Ones was a hunched and hooded figure, whose cloaked form remained motionless throughout the long journey to the water's edge.

"Grandfather," Nelda whispered, "what if he has only come to scorn us and cast a further doom upon our heads?"

"Dinna tha fright so," he muttered. "Ah've a bargain to strike wi' thattun," and he patted the flap of the satchel that was strung over his shoulders.

Steadily an uncanny, unseen force propelled the wooden vessel through the waves, and when it was just in reach of the shore, the boat drifted to an abrupt halt.

The huddled form within the boat made no move but Nelda could feel that it was staring straight at her, glaring at her swollen stomach, and she caught the briefest glimpse of a glittering cluster of eyes beneath that deep, sea-green cowl.

Leaning upon his staff, Tarr strode to the edge of the tide and raised his hand in dignified salutation.

"Ah welcome thee, most noble guest," he began, reciting the courteous words of greeting, "as sole leader of the aufwader race, the keeper of the..."

"Peace, Tarr Shrimp," interrupted an unearthly, strident voice from the depths of the herald's hood. "Thou art known unto me and so too the plight of thy bantling. Hearken to me now, for the pleas and entreaties which bite at thine tongue are known also to my masters. Thou wouldst beseech of them mercy and compassion—is that not so?"

"It is," Tarr gruffly answered, "an' ah will'na be..."

"Speak no more," the herald commanded, "but know this—well do the rulers of the fathomless waters comprehend thy despairings and well also the weight of the curse that has hounded thy kind unto near destruction. But no pleas or entreaties shall they hear."

"They must!" Tarr demanded, and he dragged from the satchel a strange and hideous object. It was a carving wrought in jet, depicting a cruel and evil serpent that twisted about the trident symbol of the Deep Ones.

Nelda stared at it in horror. "The Guardian!" she cried. "Grandfather—no!"

"Aye!" he bellowed, and fiercely shook the carving at the figure in the rowing boat. "Tha knows well enough what this be! Irl did make this in the distant long ago—afore thy masters dragged him into the drink! 'Tis this which keeps the dreaded worm tethered in slumber beneath the cliffs."

The herald stirred and the many eyes gleamed out at the last Guardian of Whitby. "I know it," the voice rang, only now it was laced with sorrow, "and too well. Why show the precious thing to me?"

"Because if'n thy black-hearted masters are set on letting my gran'child and her bairn perish, then by all that's deadly ah'll take this bauble an' dash it to bits wi' mine own hands."

"Even knowing the cost of such rashness?"

"Aye! Let Morgawrus awake again—ah'll not weep fer it. That unholy devil is the only threat the Deep Ones fear—an to make them quake, theer ain't nowt ah wouldna do!"

Nelda gripped his hands. "You wouldn't!" she implored him. "Oh Grandfather, it would destroy everything!"

Grimly Tarr gazed down at her. "Without 'ee, lass, ah dinna care about owt else."

The hooded figure turned and stared out to the blackness of the sea as if communing in thought with his powerful lords. When he returned his gaze to the fisherfolk he said bitterly to Tarr, "Unwisely dost thou gamble. To incur the wrath of the Most High is a rash and perilous game—I would beg of thee to renounce thy impudent threat and repent swiftly."

"Nivver!"

"Then this am I instructed to tell thee—not thy voice alone shall the Lords of the Deep and Dark hear."

The aufwaders murmured to one another and Tarr peered curiously at the herald, wondering what he was up to. "Who else then?" he cried. "For as leader ah'm the tongue o' the tribe; the Deep Ones need listen only to me."

But the figure in the boat ignored him. "Two voices shall they hearken to!" it exclaimed. "Thine and one other."

Tarr scowled doubtfully. "Then who else?" he asked.

The herald leaned forward. "Despite the prime laws which were given unto thee," he muttered, "thy race hath mingled with the landbreed and one of their number is known to thee."

"Ben," Nelda whispered.

"I speak not of the human child, but the aged female who dwells with him. Only when she—Alice Boston—stands upon this shore shall the Lords of the Deep and Dark hearken to thy pleas, Tarr Shrimp."

Nelda's grandfather narrowed his eyes suspiciously. He could sense that the herald was withholding something, yet he had no choice other than to obey him. Turning, he looked at the rest of the fisherfolk and called to Old Parry.

"Tha knows wheer the Boston lives?"

"What if I do?" the crone answered.

"Get thissen over theer now—and be quick."

Parry sniffed but thought better of the viperish words she wanted to spit at him. The herald was staring in her direction and before this agent of the Deep Ones her vinegary spirit was utterly quelled. Without grumbling another word, she set off towards the town and was soon lost in the silvery shadows of the moon-glimmering night.

***

Jennet let out a dismal moan. Her head was swimming and felt as though it was filled with squiggling tadpoles. Blearily she opened her eyes but found herself enveloped in a fuzzy darkness in which she floated dizzily, and a drunken titter issued from her lips.

Through the hazy gloom, she groped with her fingers, touching the cold linoleum of the camper's floor and the low cupboards to her right. She was lying upon a narrow, padded seat, and when she reached out further with her hand, the girl rolled off and collapsed in an undignified bundle between a suitcase and a cardboard box containing groceries. Jennet giggled and spent the next few moments waiting for her claustrophobic world to stop spinning and snap into dim focus.

Alone inside the van she remained still as her drugged mind drifted in a groggy fog and then, gradually, she became aware of voices.

Filtering through her clouded senses the sounds were indistinct and distorted. Jennet listened in blank amusement to the weird warbling and smiled stupidly as she tried to clamber back to the seat. After falling headlong into the box and splitting a bag of lentils, she hauled herself up and pressed her nose flat against the side window.

Outside the camper van was a wild and barren unearthly landscape which in the bright moonlight appeared all the more ghostly and desolate. Cut off from the rest of the living world, it was a lonely waste of rolling moorland, where the very skeleton of the earth projected from the soil as outcrops of cold and immovable stone.

Jennet's distracted and wandering thoughts briefly pondered on the mysterious and melancholy place. Nowhere could she see any sign of civilisation, no friendly lights glittered in the distance and only those low and garbled murmurings disturbed the eerie stillness. It was a sepulchral isolation where ancient terrors might lurk beneath the undisturbed heathered hills and go stalking through the forbidding night.

Then she realised that she was not alone. Indistinct shapes were moving in the pools of deep shadow and the girl watched the figures drowsily. They were as busy as ants, absorbed in the building of a tall wooden framework in a level clearing a safe distance away from the camper.

Jennet grinned—the people did look silly. They were dressed in loose-fitting robes of billowing black and she waved gleefully as one of them paused and stared across at the face framed in the van window.

Purposefully the figure strode towards the vehicle and when it drew close, Jennet saw that it was Pear.

"Hah!" Jennet honked, as the side door was heaved open. "What are you supposed to be?"

Pear smiled at her. "I'm glad you're finally awake," she said kindly. "You do like me, don't you, Jennet?"

The girl sniggered. "Sure," she nodded, "you're my best friend."

"Good," Pear responded. "That's good, because you're mine too and friendship's a marvellous, unexpected thing for me. You're not afraid, are you? There's nothing to worry about."

'"Course not. Oh, but I've spilled lentils all over the floor."

"That's all right. Now just remember nobody's going to hurt you. In fact, at the end of tonight we'll be sisters."

The drugged girl sighed. "I'd love a sister," she burbled, "someone like you."

"Do you want to come out of the van now? Come join us."

Taking her by the hand, Pear led Jennet over the springy ground towards the others.

Jennet plodded after her, throwing her head back to squint up at the vast expanse of the starry heavens. "It's so big!" she cried. "Look how big the sky is—wow, it's huge! Aren't the stars enormous and bright out here?"

She looked at her companion and then beyond to the figures building the near-completed timber structure.

"Pear! Pear!" she chuckled. "That's the one who wears the posh clothes in the nicknack shop—and there's the miserable Neugent thing from the café. Don't know those other two! Oh look! There's Meta and Caroline and Liz—coooeee!"

As she staggered past them, every one of the robed women smiled at Jennet and warmly greeted her with words of welcome.

The girl laughed, they seemed so serious, but it was all so ludicrous and she exploded uncontrollably—pointing at their poker-straight faces and earnest sobriety.

With her fake smile withering from her face, Meta stepped next to Hillian. "I can't believe this idiot is the one hope we have left!" she muttered impatiently.

"Be quiet," Hillian hissed at her. "She have enough wit to be performing the part set out for her."

Standing before the tall, finished bonfire, Jennet swayed woozily and clung on to Pear. "This is funny," she babbled, "so very, very funny."

"That's right," Pear confirmed, "it's only a daft dream. Just remember that none of this is real."

Hillian clapped her hands together for attention and ushered the others to form a circle.

Around the bonfire the women gathered, their obedient faces turned towards Hillian Fogle, then-acting High Priestess.

"Pear," Jennet gurgled, "look, I'm wearing that horrible bridesmaid dress, hah, hah! You'd think I could think up something better, wouldn't you? Why haven't I got one of those groovy black numbers like the rest of you?"

Meta threw her an irritated glance but Jennet was too giddy to take any notice.

Hillian grinned indulgently then stepped into the circle. "Sisters!" she called suddenly. "Tonight we are being assembled together for the first time in many months and a griefing commemoration it is also. Another of our sisterhood did pass over last night. Miriam Gower—is lost to us. Thus are we only eight in number—first we lose Roselyn, then Judith Deacon, little Susie betrayed our cause and now Miriam. She will be very much missed."

The expressions on the women's faces displayed no outward sign that they mourned for the owner of the bookshop. In fact one of the two that Jennet did not recognise had difficulty suppressing a glad smile.

"Yet," Hillian continued, "we must never despair, for this night a new sister is to be joining us. She is already halfway to being one of our dwindling number—for when he was alive she was in truth known to him. The priest's charm was on her and is even now still at work within her soul."

Spinning around, Hillian raised her arm and pointed directly at Jennet.

"Greetings, sister!" she declared loudly. "Welcome, Jennet!"

Suddenly the other women, including Pear, began to chant Jennet's name, repeating it over and over with fervent intensity.

Spluttering with mirth, the girl fell against her friend. "Hellooo," she sang back at them.

"Everyone here," Hillian shouted above the chanting, "does share a common bond—a shared devotion that is uniting us all and makes us strong. When the coven is assembled nothing is beyond our grasping, no one can be safe from our glorious purpose."

"So mote it be!" everyone yelled. "So mote it be! So mote it be!"

Hillian walked over to Jennet and took her head in her hands. Then she bent forward and kissed the girl's brow.

"Does your heart not still long for his embrace?" she asked. "Even as we, did you not love him with each gram of your body and was there nothing you would not have done in his exalted name?"

She gestured at the other members of the coven who were all breathless with mounting excitement, and even the painfully shy and timid Liz was flushed and eager with anticipation.

"See, their hearts already beat the faster just to think of him. We are all tethered to that most gratifying and unparallelled man. By blood and by soul are we his and the delicious shackles of his influence are felt even beyond the grave. Never shall we forsake his memory and always shall he protect us."

Jennet blinked at her. The effects of the drug that had been put into the glass of wine were beginning to wear off. The girl sagged against Pear as she pressed her fingers to her temples and the turgid, obliterating mists of drunkenness started to disperse.

"This is the collar of the sisterhood," Hillian proclaimed, holding up a string of wooden African beads. "By this mark are the brides of Crozier known and under its restraint were we kept in check by his governing hand. Yoked to him, subjugated to his will, enslaved to his bidding."

The other women reached to their throats and pulled down the black robes to reveal identical necklaces which each of them wore, and Jennet gaped at them in dumb bewilderment.

With great ceremony, Hillian lifted the threaded string high over Jennet's head and fastened it about her neck.

The girl grimaced—the necklace was uncomfortably tight.

"Now be the new link in his impenitent chain," Hillian called, and with the nail of her thumb, she scored a small circle in the soft skin of Jennet's throat.

"Now you are his forever!" the woman declared and she whirled round to face the others. "The initiate is joined!" she cried. "Coven of the Black Sceptre, we have a new sister—our number is grown to nine again!

At this, the witches cheered and they hailed Jennet as one of them.

Pear squeezed her friend's hand. "Now we are sisters," she said, kissing her upon the cheek.

Jennet grunted. Her head was throbbing and she stared about her with a growing sense of unease and fear. What madness was this? The nonsensical dream was becoming a waking nightmare.

Hillian returned to her place between Liz and Gilly Neugent and nodded to Meta.

Pear's mother stepped forward with a box of matches and crouched before the bonfire. At the first attempt, a heap of dry bracken flared into flame and soon the whole of the wooden framework was leaping with yellow fire.

Jennet backed away from the scorching heat but Pear's guiding arm drew her back and the girl gazed at the faces of the other witches, unable to understand what they were all doing here.

The eyes of every woman were filled with the reflection of the flames, and the sizzling light shone red and gold over their excited faces, making them appear unclean and depraved. With frenzied and feverish expectation, they stared deep into the bonfire's crackling heart and began to murmur to themselves a name that they relished, a name that brought intense pleasure—the name of their cruel and magnificent master.

"Nathaniel," they whispered, "Nathaniel, Nathaniel."

"No!" Jennet cried as finally the vile truth dawned and a sickening horror swept over her. "This isn't happening!"

She pulled her hand from Pear's grip but the older girl caught hold of her again.

"Don't be afraid!" Pear assured her. "You're one of us now. Come—dance with us around the flames."

As the other witches began to move about the bonfire with slow and careful steps, Pear pulled Jennet after them. Nathaniel's name was still pouring from their mouths and gradually the whispering mounted as the movements grew swifter until everyone was shouting at the top of their voices.

"Let me go!" Jennet begged.

Pear tugged and dragged her, spinning the girl in the terrible reeling dance. Around and around the roasting fire she stumbled, the passionate shrieks of the others deafening and terrifying her.

"Relax," Pear cried, "this is your great chance! You said you wanted to change your life—well, this is it! This is the ultimate freedom. Nathaniel has given us the means of our deliverance. We can cast aside the cares of this miserable world and unleash the full ferocity of our inner selves. That dark corner which we keep hidden and secret can be embraced and released."

"No," Jennet implored, "stop this!"

Pear laughed. "Don't struggle," she told her, "seize hold of your destiny and run beneath the moon with me. Come tear through the grass and bound over the moors."

"Never! You're all raving mad!"

As though attuned to the essence of the bonfire, the witches were now leaping like tongues of flame. Their heavy black robes whipped about them, their arms stretched up to the hollow sky and their gaping mouths screamed for their beloved.

It was an infernal scene. Sweat streamed down their maniacal faces and each of them grasped the primitive necklace at their throats.

"Tonight!" Pear shouted deliriously. "Tonight the brides of Crozier will be unchained!"

Even as Jennet stared, a hideous change crept over the others. The faces that shone in the bloody firelight twisted and stretched. The flames were no longer mirrored in their eyes for now a brighter, hellish blaze was burning there. Within each of the witches a suppressed, barbaric nature was struggling to break loose, and the whoops of delight that issued from the transforming mouths degenerated into guttural howls. Before the flickering, broiling light, their forms blurred as all that was human was cast aside and the untame wildness of their profane, wanton souls took control.

The witches' hair shrank into their skulls, and hackles bristled down their necks as their backs buckled and they fell to the ground as hips snapped and curved inwards. Flesh rippled and bulged into tough sinew and bitter claws spiked from shrivelling hands. The hindering black robes were thrown down and, naked in their growing fur, the contorted creatures pranced about the circle, baying at the moon.

Jennet tried to scream, but her own voice was choking and to her terror only a yammering whine came out. The necklace of beads constricted and though she tore at it with her fingers the thread could not be broken. The blood pumped fiercely through her veins, throbbing violently in her ears like the harsh beating of pagan drums, and she felt her willpower drain and seep away.

The dense, burning woodsmoke filled the girl's nostrils and, as if that was a trigger, a dark memory flashed into her panic-stricken mind. It was the Fifth of November and Nathaniel was telling her of heathen times and chilling sacrifices, taunting her brother with heinous threats and controlling her absolutely. Before her wild, round eyes, a vision was forming, rising from her subconscious, and she howled as the image took shape in her thoughts.

The bearded face of Nathaniel Crozier was mocking her from the past and his commanding control came stabbing out at her. Jennet tried to drive the sinister man from her mind. She knew it was fatal to remember the sound of his compelling voice and the deadly force of those glittering, murderous eyes and yet it was impossible not to.

A searing pain sliced through the girl's stomach as all over her body the skin stung and needled. Throwing back her head, Jennet let out a shriek of pain and horror, for the transformation had begun.

"That's right," Pear encouraged, "give yourself up to it—surrender your will, let the beast free."

In her strange new voice, Jennet howled and her cheek bones melted into a new and different shape. Her long hair was already dwindling and her ears becoming silken points when suddenly and with a tremendous effort, she wrenched herself from the fiery ring and fell backwards on to the spongy ground.

"I can't!" she managed to yelp. "I can't!" and before Pear could reach her, Jennet sprang to her feet and fled the lurid scene as fast as possible. Over the moor she dashed, pelting blindly through the heather, too frightened to glance round, too terrified to hear the angry cries of the coven behind.

"Jennet!" Pear called. "Don't! You must come back—you'll put yourself in terrible danger!"

Pear looked to Hillian who alone amongst the others was still partly human.

Retaining much of her true shape, Hillian Fogle was a ghastly spectacle. Her face was a hybrid jumble: a great slavering snout protruded from her brows, yet her spectacles were still balanced precariously across the furry muzzle. Her short dark hair still curled behind her ears but they were huge and alert, listening to the sounds of the night and following Jennet's frantic movements through the darkness.

Before her voice became lost in the rabid snarlings of the savage animal she was rapidly becoming, Hillian growled at Pear and snapped, "Get you after her—bring the fool back... gggo noooww!"

The witch shuddered and fell on all fours, shaking with the horrible power of change.

Pear looked at her, then at the others who were now almost completely mutated into immense and ferocious black dogs whose great rolling eyes were ablaze with a harsh scarlet glow. The coven barked and shrieked, tearing around the bonfire and biting at the heat haze that pulsed from the flames. In the mad scramble of fur and teeth, the girl could not even identify her mother and she stepped back cautiously. Then, catching sight of Jennet's shimmering dress in the moonlight, she tore after her.

Jennet ran swiftly, driven by her abject terror of the fiends she had left behind. As soon as she had abandoned the frenzied circle, her bubbling bones had settled and reformed within her face and her tingling skin was soothed by the cool breezes.

She had no idea which direction to take but found herself heading for the camper van and then beyond into the wildness of the vast moorland. Through the bracken she crashed, desperate to put as much distance between herself and those evil, monstrous women as she could.

The satin dress which in the daytime had been so sickeningly pink was a ghostly grey in the moonlight, and its voluminous folds flapped madly about her ankles. Jennet grasped great swathes of it in her hands to keep from tripping and, like a scared and hunted rabbit, over the rough and bleak terrain she raced.

Closing on her, with her bare feet flying through the grass and heather and the black robe streaming behind like the great dark wings of a swooping predator, came Pear.

Calling for Jennet to stop, the witch girl bore fleetly down on her young friend. Her legs streaked ever faster, lessening the gulf between them until she could hear the breath rattling in her quarry's lungs and the large gulps of air she gasped and swallowed.

"Wait!" Pear shouted. "You must wait!"

Without turning around, Jennet bawled back at her, "Keep away from me! Get back to those disgusting filthy... things! Help! Help!"

But Pear had caught up with her. She clutched and tore at the satin dress and leapt at Jennet—throwing her off balance and hurling her sideways. The girl screamed and pushed the other away but Pear pushed her to the ground and jumped on to her stomach.

The breath wheezed from Jennet's windpipe and she squirmed beneath Pear, clutching her belly, unable to speak or cry out.

"Where did you think you were going?" Pear demanded. "Why did you run?"

Coughing and spluttering, Jennet choked in sheer disbelief. "You're... you're crazy!" she sobbed.

"Me?"

"Oh please," Jennet cried, "let me go, just let me go."

"Hey," Pear exclaimed in concern, "there's nothing to be scared of." She leaned forward to put her arms about her but Jennet pushed her off and scuttled over the ground to escape the embrace.

"Don't touch me!" she yelled.

"Jennet! What have I done? I thought you understood—you're one of us. You knew Nathaniel, you loved him the same as the rest."

"I didn't!" Jennet screamed. "He was an evil, foul man! I'm glad he's dead! He cared about nothing but himself!"

Pear scrambled after her. "That's not true!" she hotly denied. "Nathaniel was the most wonderful man I have ever known. He liberated us all. Most of those women back there were dying in miserable, dreary lives before they met him."

"Women?" Jennet snorted. "Didn't you see what happened? They're just like Rowena!"

"We're a family!" Pear shouted. "Nathaniel gave us a purpose and united us—you don't know how happy we've been. To run free beneath the moon, pursuing the wind and bounding over fields, it's a feeling unlike any other—the ultimate achievement and his great gift to us."

Jennet shook her head. "Don't be stupid, you're not free—it's an illusion. He used and repressed you and he's still doing it. Can't you see that you were just his slaves like I was once? At least I discovered what he was like in time."

Pear pulled at the beads around Jennet's neck. "You're wrong," she said, "and you know it. You don't really hate him or this wouldn't be so tight. It's your cherishing of him that keeps it there—bound close to your skin."

"That's rubbish."

"Oh no, I'll tell you what's rubbish. It's this game you're playing—denying what you know is right for you. You're not really happy. How could you be, living with an old cripple who hardly notices you and a brother who's always had all the attention. How much longer do you want to be trapped in that drab existence where you don't fit in? If you come back with me you can belong to a real family again."

Jennet turned her face away. "Stop it!" she snapped angrily. "You're trying to trick me. Well, it won't work. I'll never listen to you again. I thought you were my friend but you weren't. You only pretended to be to lure me into this! I hate you!"

"That isn't true," Pear insisted, dismayed by the accusation. "I am your friend, honest. I only wanted us to be sisters, I never..." She broke off and lifted her head. The night was filled with the vicious baying of the coven and the sound was growing nearer.

"No," Pear whispered anxiously, "they're coming this way."

"I won't join them," Jennet declared, "ever!"

But the other girl's face was troubled and almost fearful. "You don't understand," she mumbled. "Hillian should've stopped them, kept them by the fire."

Jennet listened to the fierce clamour of the approaching pack and turned ice cold with dread. "What... what will they do?" she stammered.

"When the primitive half is in control," Pear muttered, "there is no reason, no sanity. Savage instinct spurs them—it's too late for you now, Jennet. If they catch you they'll tear you to pieces."

"What can I do? I can't outrun them!"

"I wish you'd been ready," Pear wept. "Oh Jennet, listen to them. I know their voices, they're howling for blood. The dancing was too intense, they won't be satiated until they've killed tonight. They're hungry for flesh. I'm sorry—so sorry."

Great tears splashed down Pear's face and the riotous uproar of the pursuing, snarling dogs came blasting towards them.

Thinking quickly, the witch girl gave the petrified Jennet a desperate hug and whispered, "I am your friend, please believe that. I'll draw them off, lead them on a false trail."

"You?" Jennet breathed. "How?"

"Don't argue, just run and keep on running—I mightn't be successful but it's the only chance you've got. The road lies over there—hurry."

Jennet staggered to her feet. "What about you?" she asked. "Won't they kill you?"

"Just go!" Pear raged. "And if you make it safe home, and I pray to your god that you do, then don't speak of this night to anyone."

"But... but..."

"Quickly! Get out of here!"

"I don't know how to thank you."

"Just go!"

Jennet stumbled forward, yet she could not resist glancing round to take one final look at Pear. But the girl was already running towards the baying hounds and as Jennet watched, the black robe fell from her friend's body and her human shape vanished as she too transformed into a sleek black dog that sped away into the distance to lead the others away.

"Oh God! Oh God!" Jennet cried, tearing through the scrubby grass of the desolate moor.

To her relief, the frightful yammering began to recede into the distance and she silently thanked Pear once more, but after only a few moments the sound changed and the fury of the pack was terrible to hear. Louder and louder it grew and Jennet realised that the witch girl had failed.

Over the undulating ground the foul brides of Nathaniel dashed. They had caught Jennet's scent on the air and it thrilled and tantalised their questing nostrils. Hot was the blood that pumped through their altered veins and hot was the tender meat that they desired and lusted after. Their steaming breath billowed around them in a rank vapour and their glaring red eyes shone balefully into the gloom, searching for their prey.

The smallest of the vicious and growling hounds ran reluctantly at the rear of the pack. With Pear's mournful tears running down the creature's snout and a cruel and savage bite bleeding on the animal's flank, it whimpered as it followed the others.

Flying before them, Jennet's heart thumped and quailed against her ribcage. She couldn't run much further, yet the horrendous noise of the witch beasts grew louder with every passing second. She knew that it was only a matter of time and a grim thought told her that she was probably giving them splendid entertainment by fleeing. What better sport than a chase? Soon they would be biting at her heels, snapping at her calves and tearing the dress to shreds to feast upon her. The hellish fiends would leap from the darkness and drag her down where those mighty jaws could rend and crunch.

Despairingly, she remembered Rowena Cooper and the old friends of Aunt Alice that the evil woman had murdered. These witch creatures were unbeatable and as her legs became ever more weary and aching, she realised there was absolutely no escape. Here in the wild, in the dark vastness of the empty moor there was nowhere to run to and no one to help her.

Pushing herself onward, she cursed the day she heard the folk band and damned herself for listening to their lies and believing they were different to anyone else.

The pack was very close now. Soon she would feel the first panting breath upon her and then it would be nearly over. Jennet could not stand it any more and she screamed.

"Aunt Alice! I'm sorry! Oh Ben, forgive me!"

Bracken and gorse scratched her legs and shredded the satin but still she fled and then, when her lungs were near to bursting, she lurched through a low, straggly hedge and abruptly the soft springy ground disappeared beneath her feet.

Blinking in confused astonishment, Jennet found herself upon the tarmac of the wide road, yet her instant relief was swiftly curtailed.

The road stretched for miles in either direction but no cars were travelling upon it and no headlamps glimmered in the distance.

"Then I'm done for!" the girl cried. "I'm as good as dead!"

The barking tumult was horribly close now. Soon the savage dogs would burst through the hedge to pounce on her. Forcing herself to lumber on, Jennet tried to run but it was all in vain and her exhausted muscles finally gave way and she collapsed on to the hard surface of the road.

Suddenly a bright light clicked on and the girl's prostrate form was caught in a wide, dazzling beam. Jennet lifted her head but the light blinded her.

"Help me, please!" she cried. "You must!"

And then, to her amazement, she heard a familiar voice which she had always ridiculed. But the mere sound of it in that desperate and bleak spot brought an overwhelming sense of joy and salvation to the girl and her pounding heart leapt.

"Don't just stand there gasping like a goldfish! Jolly well climb aboard."

There, straddling Miss Boston's old bicycle, with one large foot on the ground and the other raring to go on the pedal—was Sister Frances.

Jennet did not hesitate, and rushed over to her.

"Quickly," the nun urged, "sit on the handlebars. I used to give my brother Timmy rides like this—'course he was only five and yours truly twelve. Do hurry, Jennet. Oh sweet Lord, listen to those fiends!"

From the hedge the first of the hounds came charging. Bursting on to the road, its sharp claws clattered and slithered and the huge dog slid and tumbled, unable to stop itself careering into the hedge on the opposite side. But immediately it sprang up and scrabbled towards the two defenceless humans, preparing to leap at them.

"Hang on!" Frances shouted, pushing away with her foot and pedalling like mad.

With her legs dangling either side of the front wheel and her hands gripping the handlebars for dear life, Jennet felt the nun's head press into her back as Sister Frances strained on the pedals.

Behind them the rest of the pack came spilling over the road and furious growls and barks filled their ears as the infernal beasts gave chase.

The wheels of the bicycle whirred and hissed over the road as the nun's woollen-stocking legs revolved and pumped at an astonishing rate. But jostling and loping swiftly behind, the brides of Nathaniel unerringly came.

Their foaming jaws snapped, lunging for the rear wheel, and the demonic fires of their malevolent eyes shone in the reflector on the mudguard and made the whirling spokes shimmer with a red blur.

"Get thee jolly well behind me!" Frances puffed. "And stay there!"

But the pack's endurance seemed limitless and down the winding road they tirelessly pursued the zooming bicycle.

Jennet's hair streamed in the wind and when Frances raised her head to see where she was going it blew into her face and she had to peer around the girl's side to see anything at all.

The bicycle wobbled and suddenly the dogs caught up with it. Running alongside, they snarled and jumped up to snap at the nun's pedalling legs.

Jennet wailed and screwed her eyes up, expecting the bicycle to be dashed aside, but Frances' face was stern and she put on an extra spurt of speed that shot them clear of the pack and she crowed with triumph at the top of her voice.

"Don't worry, Jennet," she shouted right in the girl's ear, "I think we're going to be all right. Look, there are lights ahead. I'll warrant those nasties won't chase us through the villages."

She was right, for as they hurtled along the road, the old bicycle soon began to leave the yowling dogs way behind. Snarling and full of unspent malice, with a final frustrated bark the brutes turned their massive heads and the gleaming eyes vanished in the darkness.

Lingering for a moment in the middle of the road, the smallest member of the pack watched the speeding figures of Jennet and the nun fade into the distance amidst cottages and parked cars, and a pink tongue lolled from its jaws. Then, with a toss of its head, the creature hurried after the others and the dark instincts she had kept under control for so long at last took possession of the sleek midnight dog and Pear howled as viciously as the rest.

Eventually, when the lights of civilisation shone around them and Sister Frances could pedal at a more leisurely pace, Jennet was consumed by shock, and her horror at what she had seen engulfed her.

The bicycle came to a juddering halt as the girl's despairing sobs threatened to completely overturn the contraption and Sister Frances held her tightly.

"You let it all out," she advised. "Do you the world of good, but don't overdo it. The danger's over now so no moping or you'll get maudlin. Got to pick yourself up and start all over again, as the song goes."

"I'm okay," Jennet sniffed, wiping her tears on the frilly sleeves of her devastated dress, "but it was so awful—if you only knew—I don't believe it myself, the things I saw."

"If you don't believe it, then there's no point thinking about it, is there?"

"You don't understand."

"Don't I? Well, look, if you don't stop blubbing we'll never get home this side of Christmas—buck up, there's a good girl."

As Frances resumed her pedalling, a curious thought occurred to Jennet. "What were you doing out there with Aunt Alice's bike?" she asked.

Looking casually at the buildings of Ruswarp as they sailed sedately by, the nun replied, "Well, I haven't got one of my own. I had to borrow it, didn't I?"

"That's not what I meant," Jennet said, "and you know it. Why were you out riding at this time of night in the middle of nowhere?"

"I might as well ask what you were doing out there," the nun answered blithely.

Jennet was too tired for Frances' renowned playfulness. "All right," she muttered, "if you don't want to tell me, I won't go on about it."

The bicycle trundled on and soon the lights of Whitby shimmered in the distance.

"Here we are, Jennet," Frances told her, "this is your home. You don't belong with those poor misguided wretches. I think that today you should be glad that you were always the bridesmaid and never the bride. You have a real family here who cares and loves you—never forget that."

"How did you..?" Jennet began, but the nun had started to hum to herself and refused to listen.

When they came to Church Street they dismounted and Sister Frances escorted the girl to the alley entrance that led to the cottage. "Here," she said, "I'd best entrust you with the return of this worthy steed to its rightful place."

Jennet took the bicycle from her and looked into the nun's serene face. "Thank you," she said simply.

Frances smiled, then she shook herself and gave the girl a puzzled look. "Cripes!" she groaned. "Mother Superior will really have my guts for garters this time—whatever can the time be? Oh Jennet, you do look dreadful. Whatever happened to that swanky frock? It's all ruined. Well, I can't stay here, can I? Up to my neck in hot water again—oh dear!"

And with that she hurried away, leaving a stunned and bewildered Jennet gawping after the nun's retreating figure.

10 - The Lords Of The Deep And Dark

Miss Boston and Ben had only just returned to the cottage from the wedding reception, and had not even had time to look into Jennet's room to see if she was feeling any better, when an angry knock rapped on the front door.

"Gracious! Who can that be?" Aunt Alice cried, nearly pricking herself with the enormous pin she was carefully removing from her hat. "Could you answer it for me Benjamin, dear? If it's Edith returned having decided wedding bliss is all too much, then I'm afraid she'll not be getting her old room. I'm moving back in there tonight—and the place can return to normal at last."

She sucked her teeth disagreeably and shook her quivering chins. "I don't know where Cicily Drinkwater gets her unpalatable marzipan from, but it isn't the highest quality, that's for sure. The cake was rather dry too—though I imagine the reason for that was Edith's parsimony, too mean to put more than two drops of..."

The old lady frowned and wondered where the boy had got to. Hobbling on her walking stick, she followed him into the hall. "Who was it at the door, dear?" she called. "Upon my word!"

Holding the front door open, Ben turned to stare and began to say something, but Miss Boston was too fascinated by the slightly out of focus shape she saw stamping on the step.

"You should have said, Benjamin," she gently scolded. "Don't let your aufwader chum remain out there. Where are your manners? Let Nelda in."

Old Parry spat into a flower pot. "Is she barmy?" she croaked. "I ain't that trollopy Grendel!"

Aunt Alice peered at her closely and apologised for the mistake. "I beg your pardon, I'm afraid my perception isn't as gifted as Benjamin's. Don't be offended, come inside."

"I won't never set foot inside one of these poxy smell-holes!" Parry snorted. "What do you take me fer?"

"A very rude and disagreeable personage indeed," Aunt Alice muttered under her breath.

"Gar!" Parry scowled. "Just get a move on and be quick about it!"

"Get a move on where?"

"Is the old bird feeble in the head?" Parry hissed, jabbing Ben in the ribs. "Where else does yer think you'd be a trottin' off to at this hour? I've been sent to fetch yer. The messenger of the great Triad is wantin' a word an' I would'na keep him waitin'."

Aunt Alice let out an impressed whistling breath. "How thrilling!" she clucked. "Whatever can he want with me?"

But Old Parry had accomplished her errand and was already shuffling through the courtyard.

"Wait a moment!" Miss Boston called. "Quick, Ben, my hat and cloak."

"I'm not going to see the fisherfolk in this getup!" the boy protested.

The old lady tutted at the kilt and buckled shoes. "I'm afraid you'll have to," she told him. "There isn't time to change—just put your coat on."

"What about Jen?" the boy asked, glancing up the stairwell. "Should I go and tell her where we're going?"

"Good heavens no. She's probably fast asleep by now anyway—we can tell her all about it in the morning."

Jamming her everyday hat down over her woolly head, she twirled a tweed cloak over her shoulders and hurried Ben out of the cottage.

"Come on," Aunt Alice urged, "that unpleasant character is way ahead of us."

Limping slightly, the old lady left the courtyard and, with the silver buckles of Ben's shoes glinting as he ran after her, they made their way to the shore.

In the short span of time that had passed since Old Parry's grudging departure, neither Tarr nor the huddled figure in the boat had uttered a word. Yet the leader of the aufwader tribe remained ever watchful and wary of the herald. Why had he insisted on seeing Miss Boston? It made no sense whatsoever—the fate of his granddaughter had nothing to do with her.

Old Parry's cracked and grumpy voice broke in on his troubled thoughts.

"The landbreed cripple's a-comin'," she told the herald, ignoring Tarr completely, "and that plaguey nuisance of a brat too."

"Ben?" asked Nelda, turning to see two familiar figures emerge from the gloomy shadows of the rocky shore.

"Well met! Well met!" Miss Boston cheered, stopping to wave the walking stick boisterously. "How splendid this is, and what an honour to be sure!"

Waddling into the semi-circle of fisherfolk, she nodded a greeting to everyone and they, in respect for all that they owed her, bowed.

The old lady beamed and, as she drew level with Tarr and Nelda, gazed at the water's edge where the small craft bobbed silently upon the languid waves. The blue light of the lantern shone over the herald of the Deep Ones and Miss Boston took a further step forward in her enthusiasm to get a better peep at him.

"Your Excellency!" she cried, attempting a clumsy curtsy. "I am deeply touched and gratified to be invited here."

Behind her, Ben eyed the figure cautiously. He had seen him once before, when the herald came to ban the marriage of Nelda and Esau. The boy had not liked the look of him then and he certainly didn't like it now. Without thinking, he moved close to Nelda and she turned a worried face to him.

"What's happening?" he whispered.

But before she could reply Tarr struck the rocks with his staff.

"Reet!" he shouted at the herald. "The Boston's 'ere now an' I demand to be heard. Too long have we paid for the mistake of Oona these many years. Too many wives and mothers have perished 'neath the cruel might of the curse an' too many bairns have gasped an' died afore they've had chance to breathe. Now, are them three what dwell in the deeps gonna let my Nelda go the same way? Am I nivver to hear the first cries o' her babe or must I smash this contrivance and wake old Morgawrus?

"Look at us!" he bellowed. "This paltry few is all that's left of the many tribes which once thrived along this coast. Must every black boat be burned afore them nazards o' the brine see how cruel they've been? A foul damnation on 'em, ah says—an' ah'll bring that about if'n it's the last I do!"

Throughout this impassioned and volatile speech, the messenger said nothing, but when Tarr had finished and stood quaking with rage, comforted by Nelda and Miss Boston, the figure in the boat stirred.

"Verily", he intoned, "the time has indeed come for the grievances of thy race to be taken before the Lords of the Deep."

"Then do it!" Tarr roared. "Tell 'em of our sorrows and what'll happen if the curse isna lifted!"

The herald crouched forward and in a hushed voice answered, "No, I shall not."

"But you just..."

"I shall not take thy haughty and proud ultimatum before the thrones of my masters! If thou wishest to be heard, then thou must deliver the message thyself!"

The fisherfolk drew their breath and stared at one another in shocked amazement. No one since the days of Irl had ventured down to that cold and deadly realm.

"Dare you accompany me into the fathomless waters, Tarr Shrimp?" the messenger asked. "Hast thou the valour to face the dread powers of the world and speak as thou hast done to me?"

Tarr's face fell. He had not expected this and his spirit balked at the very thought.

"What sayest thou?" murmured the herald. "Is the leader of this meagre tribe as craven as he is overbold and rash?"

Disconcerted, Tarr lowered his eyes and gazed at Nelda. The contours of his granddaughter's face were graven with fear and dread.

"Don't listen to him," she said. "You mustn't go."

Tarr stroked her leathery cheek with his aged hands and the angry resolve returned to burn in his heart.

"Aye!" he snapped back at the herald. "Ah'll come! What new torture can them divils contrive we ain't already sufferin'?"

A low chuckle issued from beneath the seagreen cowl. "Much," it whispered. "As yet thou knowest naught of the torments my masters can devise. Yet forewarned of this, art thou still set on stepping into this vessel with me?"

"I am."

"No, Grandfather!" Nelda wept, flinging her arms about his neck and clinging to him despairingly. "I won't let you go! I won't! They'll destroy you!"

Tarr pulled away from her and placed her hands into Ben's. "Ah mun, lass," he said simply, "'tis the one chance we've looked fer down the years—what leader'd throw that aside?"

"Please don't leave me—you're all I have left!"

"And tha's all I've got," he said sadly, "and that's why it mun be done. Here—take the guardian and keep it safe. Ah'm not daft enough to take that down theer wi' me. If I dinna come back by dawn, smash the thing to bits. Swear now."

"I swear."

"Reet," Tarr announced, glaring back at the messenger and stepping towards the water's edge. "Ah'm ready."

"Stay a moment," the herald commanded. "Did I not say that thy voice alone would not be heard?"

Tarr's brow corrugated with irritation. "Nay!" he shouted. "Ah’ll not let Nelda to come!"

"And neither would I wish it," the voice snapped back from the hidden depths of the hood. "One of thy race is quite enough."

"Then who?" Tarr mumbled.

For an instant the light of the lantern was mirrored in the messenger's clustering eyes and everyone saw that they were staring straight at Miss Boston.

Astounded, the old lady clapped her hands. "Do you mean to say," she began hesitantly, "do you honestly mean that I too am to journey with you both—all the way down there to have an audience with the ruling Triad?"

Amusement was in the herald's voice when he replied, "Such is mine offer; travel the ancient paths and stand at the feet of the three thrones, Alice Boston."

Her face was a rapturous picture of elation and, leaning on the walking stick she gave an exhilarated jig of rejoicing.

"Happy day!" she grinned. "Oh Benjamin, isn't this exciting?"

But Ben was as unhappy at the prospect of her leaving as Nelda was about Tarr's departure. She seemed to have no regard for the terrible danger she was placing herself in and behaved as if she was simply going for a boat trip around the harbour. He tried to tell her not to go but Aunt Alice would not listen, her mind was made up.

"Use your intelligence, Benjamin dear," she said. "The Deep Ones wouldn't have asked to see me merely to keep me prisoner down there or something worse. Besides, they bear me no grudge, I've never had any dealings with them. This is a mighty honour. If I refused then I would regret the decision for the rest of my life and that would be intolerable."

The hooded figure of the herald called out impatiently. "Hurry," he said, "we have far to travel this night—far away is the realm of my masters. Step into the boat."

Miss Boston raised her eyebrows at Tarr and held out her hand to him. "Shall we go down to the water together?" she asked. "I should really have brought my Wellingtons."

Tarr glanced back at Nelda. "Remember thy promise," he told her. "Dawn tomorrow."

Tearfully she nodded and drew closer to Ben as both her grandfather and Aunt Alice waded out towards the boat and clambered aboard.

When they were seated opposite the strange messenger, the small wooden craft spun around and pulled away from the shore.

"Good fortune go with you!" Nelda shouted.

"Take care," Ben cried.

Tarr held up his staff in farewell and with a sudden notion Miss Boston cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled, "Benjamin! Don't forget to feed Eurydice!"

Then the boat picked up speed and it sailed swiftly over the open sea.

"That's the last we'll see of them," Old Parry's spiteful voice mewled. "None of us'll ever see their faces again in this world. They've gone to meet their doom."

***

Over the immense cold sea the rowing boat flew, slicing through lazy waves—cleaving an ever-widening wake in the great grey waters.

The cliffs of Whitby and the lights of the harbour had long since vanished over the rolling horizon and Miss Boston settled down to enjoy this fascinating and rare opportunity to the utmost.

Beside her, with his staff placed across his lap, Tarr stared impassively past the crouching shape of the herald and out into the distance beyond.

No muscle twitched on his face to betray his thoughts or feelings and with his arms folded, he endured the journey without saying a word.

All around them, the bright moonlight shimmered and danced over the moving surface of the water. Wobbling stripes of milky light were reflected over and into the little craft and Miss Boston craned her neck from side to side in childish amusement. It was all so marvellous, she wanted to drink in and remember everything—she still couldn't believe what was happening and tiny chortles of pleasure quaked inside her bosom.

Suddenly Tarr stirred and he lifted his hand to his brow as he peered into the far horizon.

"Nine times bless me!" he murmured. "What be that yonder?"

The old lady followed his concerned gaze and her wrinkled eyes grew wide with delight and astonishment. "Stupendous!" she cried. "What a spectacle!"

Upon the rim of the wide salty world, a tremendous tumult was churning and thrashing the waters. As they watched in stunned silence, the sea erupted and enormous spouts burst high into the night, glittering beneath the moon like a blizzard of cascading frosty fire.

The ferocity of the explosions boomed over the rumbling ocean, and gigantic shock waves sped outwards in massive rings of foaming water that tossed the little boat like a cork in a storm.

Miss Boston and Tarr gripped the sides of the vessel desperately as freezing spray stung their faces and the aufwader yelled his fury at the herald. "We'll be drowned!" he raged. "Ah should 'ave reckoned theer'd be no parley wi' the Triad! Well, they'll not be laughing when the serpent is loosed."

"Fear not!" the cloaked figure shouted above the seething din. "The way is merely being prepared for us—we shall not be harmed."

"Does tha mean we're headin' straight fer yon tempest?"

"Into its very heart."

Towards the crashing waters the wooden craft sailed, smashing through the walls of froth that stampeded against them and riding the rampaging, tormented surf.

Miss Boston scrunched up her face as the salty deluge battered her, but keeping one eye half open she saw in the distance a most incredible and awesome sight.

Towering in the night sky, forming from the insane, lashing sea, was one colossal wave. Slowly and horribly the immense mountain of brine grew. The north wind raged against its horrendous and shimmering bulk, whipping the surrounding waters into the air and hurling them upon the vast glassy slopes of the monstrous, thundering vision.

Higher it soared, its terrible peak rearing into the starlit sky until the snowy, foam-capped crown vanished from sight.

Before its huge and deadly magnificence, the boat was like a minuscule insect. The titanic wave filled their entire vision and an icy gale blasted about them. Yet even as they watched in dread and disbelief, the incredible nightmare trembled and shook. With a deafening roar that ripped through the night, the sheer wall of water toppled and fell.

Tarr threw his hands before his face and Miss Boston prayed silently as they waited for their destruction.

The fierce thunder mounted and the freezing gale tore and plucked at them, but the violent doom that they expected failed to happen.

Cautiously, Tarr lowered his hands and stared. "By Gow!" he whispered incredulously.

The titanic wave had curled in upon itself and was even now spinning over the sea. But the spiralling, vertical whirlpool maintained its position in the water, diminishing neither in bulk nor height and as Tarr watched, a dark circle appeared directly in the rolling centre.

"Deeps take us!" he breathed as the wheeling fissure widened and became a huge black mouth.

The herald mocked him coldly. "That is exactly what will happen."

Miss Boston gazed at the great, churning vortex that loomed ever closer and the rush of the reeling waters beat against her ear-drums.

"Behold the gateway to their Majesties!" the herald laughed above the squall. "Now does the peril truly begin!"

Caught in the inescapable pull of the whirling nightmare, the little boat flew into its ominous shadow and the yawning cavern of the rumbling gateway reared high over their heads.

All other sounds were lost as the spiralling tunnel sucked the twisting gale into its throat. Up to the whirling threshold the boat sped, and the rolling curves of the monstrous wave closed around them.

The vessel rocked and jerked and the lantern swung madly at the prow, its light glimmering in sapphire streaks over the surrounding spinning gloom.

Then with a lurch the sea dropped and the boat teetered on the brink of oblivion. For an instant, Tarr and the old lady glimpsed only a black void, and then the craft shot down into the darkness beneath the waves.

Into the cold realm of the Triad the little boat travelled, the spiralling tunnel created by the limitless power of the Deep Ones drawing it swiftly further into the uncharted reaches of the sea.

It was a mad, bouncing ride. Miss Boston's stomach turned over a dozen times as they descended and though at first she had been mortally afraid, gradually she began to look curiously about her and actually started to relish the bone-jolting, nerve-jangling journey.

Beyond the twisting walls of the spiralling vortex, strange sights were momentarily illuminated by the boat's lantern and the old lady marvelled at the wonders that were revealed to her.

Dim wrecks of ancient ships flashed beyond the coiling water—old galleons teeming with colourful fish that glinted with rainbow brilliance as they darted into the sweeping beams of light.

Then they were lost far behind and beneath the wooden boat a bottomless chasm opened in the ocean floor.

In a great swooping arc, the swirling tunnel plunged downwards and the sides of the drowned canyon raced above them. Deeper the boat hurtled and in the gaping trench hideous creatures swam in the darkness. Within the crevices gnawed into the chasm wall, sickly green lights glowed and bulging eyes glared at the snaking pathway that frothed and boiled through their dismal territories.

Miss Boston clasped her hands before her—enchanted at the unfolding spectacle. Bloated, distorted shapes passed overheard; weird undiscovered monsters of the deep that no human eye had ever seen—ghastly submerged islands of coral-encrusted blubber, grown vast and terrifying in the absolute dark.

As the boat shot through the writhing channel, a huge barnacle-covered fin broke through the round churning walls, slicing the foaming water in half. Miss Boston and Tarr were drenched and glanced up at the immense calamitous shape uncertainly.

"Fear not," the herald assured them, "the watch-dogs of my masters are inquisitive—nothing more. We shall not be harmed."

The great, malformed fin withdrew into the blackness once more and the boat skimmed forward undamaged, although the old lady and the aufwader were soaked to the skin.

Abruptly the tunnel emerged from the chasm and the dim, deep green of a warm ocean now spiralled about them. Travelling parallel to the reefs below, the boat's jarring jolts subsided and swiftly but steadily it journeyed.

Miss Boston removed the sopping hat from her head and wrung it out over the side. About them she began to see broken fragments of ancient architecture lying amongst the coral, and corroded columns of marble rose upon either side of the churning passageway.

Between the great, stately archways of a forgotten civilisation they sped. Fallen statues of primeval gods sprawled on the ocean bed and ruined temples choked with waving weed reared in the distance. Throughout this decaying country wound majestic colonnades, high bronze towers speared from the murky verdigris of their crumbling desolation, and palaces that were once the residences of vengeful kings and proud princes now appeared grim and forbidding—the abodes of many-eyed monsters.

"Fascinating!" Miss Boston declared, staring at the eerie, deserted kingdom. "What was this place? What happened here?"

In a chilling, whispering tone, the herald answered, "Once 'twas a populous city, mightiest upon the earth. Before even the first of the aufwaders set foot on the shores of Whitby, this place flourished. Learned were the scholars and fearless were the conquering kings. Held in high favour with the Lords of the Deep were they and much wisdom did they teach these nobles of early man."

The ruins were left behind as the boat careered along and Miss Boston glanced back at the disappearing city sorrowfully. "How was it destroyed?" she asked.

"The serpent came," the cloaked figure replied darkly. "Morgawrus laid the continent to waste and drowned it in the deeps. Thus did the fell dragon of the ancient world incur my masters' wrath and they marched against it unto the very coast of thy home."

"Morgawrus did that?" Miss Boston repeated, and she looked dubiously at Tarr, but the aufwader's face was set and he made no indication that he had seen or heard anything.

Further through the seething tunnel the boat sailed and, deep in thought, Miss Boston waited for the journey to end.

Around them the sea grew darker, yet ahead, rising from the ocean floor, a midnight blackness began to take shape.

As the old lady stared, she saw that they were speeding towards a gigantic mountain of rock. Its sheer sides were almost vertical and she could see that the spinning pathway was winding unerringly towards it.

Faster the boat raced until only the massive crags and cliffs of the mountain filled her vision. Ever onward the vessel rushed, tearing at a breakneck speed, and the old lady was sure they would be smashed against the cruel slopes.

Enormous boulders rocketed closer, then at the last moment, there was an opening in the rock and into this the whirling tunnel swept.

Suddenly the boat lurched and trembled as it shot into a series of dimly-lit grottoes. The enveloping, spiralling vortex began to revolve more slowly and abruptly the glimmering walls came splashing about the sides of the wooden craft as huge bubbles burst against the prow.

Drifting now upon the swirling eddies within a rocky tunnel, the boat floated lazily forward.

"Are we nearly there?" Miss Boston asked. "It would appear we are slowing down."

Even as she said it, they were propelled into a cavernous chamber whose vaulted roof was lit by hundreds of lanterns. The pillared walls and lofty ceiling were embedded with quartz and mother-of-pearl and the lustrous surface rejoiced in the sapphire lights and made the chamber blaze like a cloudless sky. Yet beyond the farthest archway, the whole of one gigantic wall was completely black, no lamps flickered there and no reflected gleam pierced the engulfing gloom.

Miss Boston had the distinct impression that they had entered a kind of cathedral and she blinked at the sheer, ravishing beauty of it. From every corner, there echoed a constant music of flowing crystal water and the very air was sweet and wholesome.

Into the centre of this wondrous cavern the boat sailed and the old lady knew where they were headed.

Rising from the lake of clear, cold water was a tall finger of rock and winding about the column's girth was a flight of roughly-hewn stone steps.

Gently, the boat bumped against a wide ledge at the foot of the stairs and the herald bowed. "This is your journey's end," he murmured. "It is bidden that you alight here."

Tarr gave the figure a stern glance, then climbed expertly on to the bottommost step, his feet sploshing in the water that sluiced over the edge. The aufwader's back was aching and his legs were cramped and numb but he said nothing and leaned upon his staff, waiting for Miss Boston to join him.

"Thank you so much," she clucked to the herald as if she was merely dismounting from a bus. "You took it a little brisk at times but I wouldn't have missed a second!"

The old lady rose uncertainly and the boat tipped to one side as she scrambled for the firm safety of the ledge. Holding on to Tarr's outstretched hand she managed the feat at last, then realised that she had left her walking stick in the boat.

"Botheration!" she uttered, stooping down to retrieve it.

Unexpectedly, the hooded messenger leaned towards her and in a low, warning voice hissed, "Beware my Lord of the Frozen Wastes."

"I beg your pardon," she cried in astonishment, "what do you mean?"

"Too late!" he whispered fearfully. "They are with us!"

The water around the boat foamed and boiled and to Miss Boston's consternation, the craft began to sink.

"Quick!" she called. "Get out, man, whilst you can!"

As the water spilled over the sides and poured into the little craft, the hidden face turned to her. "Be not afraid for me," the messenger said. "I am commanded to leave thee now." Down he plunged and the frothing waters closed over the sea-green hood.

Alone with Tarr upon the central column of rock, Miss Boston gaped but the aufwader was unconcerned about the fate of their guide.

"'Im's a being of the deep," he uttered gruffly. "Come—we'd best climb these steps."

Around the pillar of rock they cautiously ascended until finally they were standing on the wide, flat summit and gazing down at the smooth surface of the lake far below.

"Easy!" Miss Boston exclaimed. "That's nothing compared to the abbey steps. Before my illness I used to climb them every day, you know."

Tarr ignored her and stared tetchily around them. "Wheer are they?" he mumbled. "Wheer are them divils hidin'?"

"Mr Shrimp," the old lady urged, "I think you should be more careful. Discourtesy never pays."

"Bah!" Tarr snorted, stamping his staff upon the rock. "Ah'm fed up wi' waitin'! If'n the Deep Ones wanna hear what ah've got to say then why don't they show thesselves?"

Immediately the cavern began to tremble and from beyond the furthest arch where the wall was dark and smothered with shadow, a fabulous radiance suddenly welled up. Into the immense chamber flooded a rich and glorious golden light that mingled with the azure beams of the lamps and bathed everything in warmth and splendour.

"Moonkelp!" Tarr murmured, squinting into the beautiful, scintillating glare.

Miss Boston shielded her eyes, but when they adjusted to the delicious brightness, she saw that the far wall was not made of rock but was a solid sheet of water, held back by the grace of the almighty Triad.

The huge, quivering barrier was a blaze of magical light, which gradually dwindled, and then through the rippling liquid, three monstrous shapes shimmered into view.

Miss Boston wished she had brought her binoculars with her. She suspected that she and Tarr were looking on a scene that was in reality far removed and profoundly remote. Yet slowly the blurred and indistinct outlines became clearer and assumed the forms of three gargantuan thrones.

They were tortuously wrought in towering branches of blood-red coral and great gnarled shells clustered over the minarets that thrust high into the wild seas. But seated upon them and silhouetted by the light of the moonkelp which now bloomed continually behind the majestic thrones were the shadowy, writhing figures of the Lords of the Deep and Dark.

The old lady lowered her eyes humbly but the leader of the aufwaders stared with stubborn defiance at the terrible powers of the world, undaunted by their ghastly and horrific aspect.

Never in all his long life had Tarr imagined that one day he would actually stand before the Triad, and though his mind reeled at the awesome spectacle, his courage did not fail him.

The mass of tentacles stirred upon the central throne. Within the aufwader's and Miss Boston's thoughts, a rumbling bass voice reverberated and blasted, forcing them to stagger backwards as if struck by an unseen blow.

"Hail to thee Tarr, son of Athi!" the compelling and painful greeting echoed in their heads. "Descendant of the line of Mereades, thou art most welcome here. It is good to look once more upon the noble countenance of thy kind. Too long have my brethren and I been deprived of thy honourable company."

Tarr and the old lady recovered from the unexpected invasion of their minds and peered through the crystal waters at the Lord of the Circling Seas who addressed them.

"Glad were the days before the breaking of the laws," the vision continued. "Venomous was that time when Eska was born in the drylands and we were sundered."

At this Tarr grew angry and he stamped his foot to be heard. "Aye!" he cried, "and the poison of tha curse still blanches us. Ain't it time fer the wrongdoing to be forgiven? Does yer know how many o' my kind—how many o' them 'noble countenances'—have been blighted unto death and gone screaming to fritful agonies 'cos of one misguided blunder? In your own hallowed names can tha not see what ruin tha've brought about? Are the seas not girt enough—mun they be made the fuller by our uncounted tears?"

The three immense shapes listened gravely to his embittered and furious outburst, yet as she watched in stupefied silence, Miss Boston saw that the shadowy figure on the left-hand throne stirred restlessly.

"Much love was there betwixt the waders of the shore and the Triad," began the Lord of the Roaring Waters. "In those blessed days thy race were true to their words and stout of heart."

"Mebbe!" Tarr shouted. "But of the paltry few that are left, theer's still heroes and warriors amongst us!"

Then the impatient form of the Lord of the Frozen Wastes writhed and finally he spoke.

His voice, when it blistered into the minds of Miss Boston and Tarr, stabbed and sliced like innumerable razors, knifing icily through their thoughts.

"Hearken to the white-haired fool!" he scorned. "Those he speaks of do no more than net fish and search the waters for flotsam. Brave and doughty indeed were the tribes of old, yet remember my brothers how they did prove faithless. The punishment he grumbles against was a just reward for Oona's unpardonable transgression."

Miss Boston shuddered. Having that voice hiss and wheedle inside her head was a loathsome experience.

"Even so," the Lord of the Circling Seas lamented, "grievous indeed would be the day that announced the end of the stunted folk of the shore. I would not wish all traces of their kind to be forever lost."

On his right, the second shadow agreed. "Could not some way be contrived to spare the few that remain and save them from this doom we have laid upon them?"

"Never!" shrieked the Lord of the Frozen Wastes. "The crawling maggots are not to be trusted. Ever have they bitten at our divinity. Did not Irl trespass amongst us? And, using knowledge learned at our own halls, he did steal and carry off our most prized treasure, which he secreted and concealed for many years."

"Irl has paid his debt," the central member of the Triad uttered. "Must we condemn all for the actions of the few?"

"Then what of Esau?" the Lord of the Frozen Wastes seethed. "Hast thou forgotten the haughty words he did rail at us when we forbade the union? That dotard did nearly bring about our destruction. Did the serpent not wake again? Was he not unfettered? For that treacherous act alone the last of the filthy tribes should be doomed into oblivion!"

His brothers considered all that he had said and in turn they regretfully nodded their agreement. "The creatures are too perfidious," sighed the voice of the Roaring Waters. "What further catastrophes would they bring about if we lifted the mother's curse? No, the time of their great numbers is long past and though I hold those blissful days dear I shall be content to let the memories be glad ones. The race must disappear from the world."

"Then a foul damnation on yers all!" Tarr yelled, shaking his staff at the shimmering wall. "Ah didna come hither to beg fer the lives of me granddaughter an' her bairn—just to say this. Listen well and listen long, tha black-hearted fiends! Tha knows nowt! Down theer in tha cosy dark, a-hoardin' that glisty moonkelp and throwin' tha weight about—well, we doesna need yer any more an' never did!

"Does tha really not know why Irl stole that accursed shinin' weed in the first instance? To finish off the task tha bungled! Aye, the enchantments which yer placed on Morgawrus to keep him snorin' for eternity wore thin and so the most cunnin' an' artful of my kind took it on himself to make it reet. Yet all he needed were a bit o' that stuff yonder and he knew tha were so greedy yer'd nivver part wi' the merest scrap. So he up and steals it from under your very noses and goes on to fashion a charm of his own devising to keep the villain asleep under them cliffs. Then what does yer do, eh? Tha drags him under and drowns the very one what saved yer.

"And now my Nelda, her what helped find the blasted moonkelp after all this time and her what helped find Irl's missing guardian, is gonna perish. Her sweet briny blood'll be on your crow-black souls! Well, before that happens know this—if'n tha don't lift the stinkin' curse, that charm of Irl's is gonna be dashed to smith'reens and then old Wormy'll come to get yer!"

The aufwader's torrent of hate and abuse ended with a final pounding of his staff and his eyes shone beneath the wiry brows, daring the Lords of the Deep to strike him down.

Beside him Miss Boston stood with her hands behind her back and wondered what the Triad would make of the passionate tirade.

The indistinct forms upon the thrones remained silent for too long and the old lady suspected that Tarr's threat had not shaken them as much as he had hoped.

Then the Lord of the Frozen Wastes stirred and inside their minds he coldly said, "Thus are the ungrateful wretches revealed. For the sake of a few miserable, noisome lives would this vile knave release the destroyer upon the world. Is there no base treason his race is incapable of perpetrating?"

"Ah'll go to my grave the happier knowin' the serpent has got thee as well," Tarr called defiantly.

"Morgawrus shall stay tethered in sleep," the central figure rumbled, "for if thou wert to break the last guardian then thine own doom and that of thy granddaughter would be hideous beyond imagining."

"It's that already," Tarr snapped impatiently. "Tha canna threaten me no more, tha'll not wriggle out of this!"

"Wouldst thou really submit that child to unending pain and suffering?" the resonant voice asked. "The fate that does await her now would be a blessed release compared to that which thou wouldst inflict upon her."

Tarr scowled and he looked at the figure with less confidence than before. "What does tha mean?" he asked.

At the foot of the column on which they stood, the water surged and bubbled and the familiar shape of the wooden boat rose swiftly to the surface. Still seated within the craft the herald turned and bowed to his masters, the sea-green cloak dripping with weed and brine.

Laughing insidiously, the Lord of the Frozen Wastes muttered in a sharp and malicious tone. "Behold, oh leader of the wading rabble. See what horrors the urchin Nelda can expect. Is this, our messenger, not the most reliable and trustworthy of slaves? Doth he not perform his duties well? Dost thou know how long he hath been chained within that craft to do our bidding?"

Tarr stared down at the herald who now sat with his head down, abashed and afraid.

"Didst thou not think him a being of the deep?" the repulsive voice persisted. "Yea, that is the way of it now, but 'twas not always thus. Once this cringing baseness walked amongst thy kind —in truth he was one of thy greatest warriors and wisest craftsmen."

"No," Tarr gasped in horror.

"Yes," the mocking friend answered, "thy trusty guide who brought thee hither this night —is none other than Irl himself."

"Still alive?" Tarr cried. "After all these ages?"

"Oh yes, we have many ways of extending the span of thy flickering lifetimes. Yet to live forever would be no punishment; there is always a price to be paid. Irl—show him."

The herald refused to move and the voice grew harsher and more repellent than ever.

"Show him!" it commanded.

Very slowly, and shivering with his head cast downwards, the herald unclasped the cloak and removed the hood from his head.

Miss Boston uttered a cry of dismay and Tarr staggered against his staff.

Sitting inside the boat was the most disgusting, unnatural mutation of scale and clammy flesh they would ever see. Pale green was the deformed monster's slimy skin and it stretched in sagging, ulcerous swathes about the crippled frame. Five tentacles snaked out from beneath the grotesque bent body, three spiky gills twitched and flapped around a parrot-like beak, and covering the horribly swollen head were two clusters of compound eyes that glittered under the light of the lanterns and the glow of the moonkelp.

Tarr turned away and his pity went out to the frightened, tortured creature below.

"A fine pet hath Irl made," the Lord of the Frozen Wastes declared, "though he refused to reveal to us where our treasure lay hid, no matter what we did to him. Is he not comely to thine eyes, Tarr? Yet his every movement is an agony and the very touch of his own flesh is abhorrent and fills his waking hours with despair. Canst thou not see thine own grandchild arrayed thus in the raiment of the deep? How shall she fare in the eternal night if thou release Morgawrus? Better than us no doubt, but couldst thou consign her to such an existence? There are many other diverse forms she could wear—Irl's handsome mantle is but one. Wouldst thou like dear little Nelda to be even as he and suffer forever?"

"No," Tarr wept, "dinna cast that at her—please, I beg of you!"

The voice laughed at him and Miss Boston shook her head sadly as the aufwader broke down and slumped to his knees, craving their forgiveness.

"The guardian shall not be smashed!" he wailed. "Leave my Nelda be—ah beseech you, oh mighty lords. Ah'd rather she die under the curse than exist as such a nightmare!"

"Then we do accept thy entreaty," the central figure murmured sorrowfully. "The widow of Esau shall perish swiftly and the infant with her, and to show that we are compassionate, by our mercy shall her time come soon. I perceive now that only woe and strife hath come about when the landbreed and thy kind have dwelt side by side—it will be best for all this way. Alas thy race will be doomed to extinction. Hast thou anything more to say?"

But Tarr could not answer. His anguish was unbearable and he blubbered like a baby himself helpless upon the floor with his head in his hands.

"He might have nothing to say!' Miss Boston suddenly shouted, brandishing her walking stick imperiously, "but I most certainly do!"

Flinging her tweed cape behind her, the old lady drew a deep and vehement breath then berated the Deep Ones vigorously.

"Is this your great and vaunted wisdom?" she demanded. "Will you stand aside and let a mother and child die because of some stupid law which you made up in the first place? By all that's holy I have never heard such utter balderdash! You are nothing but meddling cowards—mountebanks the lot!"

The shadowy figures writhed at her furious attack but Miss Boston would not be quelled. "If you are as mighty as you pretend," she bellowed indignantly, "then what are you afraid of? What warped and twisted pleasure do you enjoy from the misery of others? It isn't tears that flow into your precious waters but the blood of innocents! How much have you spilled to muddy your precious realm and cover your despicable tracks? Fie upon all three of you if you spill more! And remember this—you may indeed be the powers of this world, but beyond your reach there is a higher authority and it is to Him you shall answer!"

"Enough!" roared the Lord of the Circling Seas, and the violence of his thundering thought as it broke into her mind sent Miss Boston stumbling back.

"Never before has an audience been granted to one of the lesser breeds of man—thou, old crone, art the first and last. Yet if thou dost not put a guard upon that garrulous and incautious tongue then I shall let the waters roll over thy insolent head now."

Miss Boston pursed her lips and gazed at him truculently. "Would it, pray," she began sarcastically, "be too much to inquire exactly why I have been brought here? Or do you simply like showing off? In my day there was only one deterrent for a bully—hit the perisher soundly with a slipper. I only wish I had one big enough."

"Mice Boston," the shadowy form said curtly, "it is for thee to tell us why thou art here."

The old lady waggled the stick at him. "What are you blabbering on about now?" she cried.

"By small degrees thy strength hath returned to thee," he continued in a strange and almost admiring tone. "Day after day thou hast cast thy petty spells and laboured over what clumsy remedies are in thy puny power. But what then? Once thy ailments are defeated and thou art restored, how much further wouldst thou press?"

Then the Lord of the Roaring Waters took over. "Curious were we," he said softly, "much have we desired to look on the one who put the final chain upon Morgawrus. None save we can remember the desolation the serpent wrought in the early morning of the world. Gone are the peoples of the kingdom he despoiled and their noble blood is thinned with that of baser creatures. Thus are we grateful to the one who returned the destroyer to the prison which we fashioned in those forgotten days."

"So," Miss Boston remarked, "I'm here for a pat on the head, is that it? Well, I don't want your congratulations, thank you very much! If you hadn't botched the job in the first place Nathaniel Crozier would never have been able to awaken the brute."

A deadly silence descended and the figures sat motionless upon the towering thrones. Then in a sneering, malevolent whisper, the voice of the Frozen Wastes said, "The serpent may indeed be at rest—yet for how long?"

The old lady tutted. "You don't have to go over that again," she barked. "There's nothing to fear, the guardian is safe."

"Yet the hand which invoked the forces locked within that mighty charm may also undo them."

"Don't be ridiculous!" she cried. "Why should I do that?"

"With the aid of the guardian thou wouldst be able to control the serpent and bind it to thy service—is that not the reason for thy recovery?"

Miss Boston spluttered speechlessly. "Absurd!" she eventually blurted. "I refute that ludicrous accusation absolutely!"

"Then why hast thou cheated Death?" the Lord of the Circling Seas demanded. "The date was set down but the hour appointed has come and still thou livest. Thrice now hast thou evaded the angel—why hast thou dared to survive?"

"What are you saying?" she cried in bemusement. "I haven't the faintest idea..."

"No?" The Lord of the Frozen Wastes' stinging hiss whipped into her mind. "See how the lies drip from her tongue, my brothers! The witch hath flouted our design and refuses to pass over—she conspires against us!"

"Nonsense!" she laughed. "I'm most awfully sorry if I haven't popped my clogs, but I have no intention of doing that for some time."

"Then what is thine intent? Art thou indeed determined to regain all thy former vigour?"

"I am!"

"And once that is achieved—what then? Art thou to pursue this dubious cause? Is it thy desire to dispel utterly the chains of age and never fear them again? What deeds wouldst thou perform to attain that, I wonder. Is there naught thou wouldst not do? Are there things thou hast already done which thou wouldst never have dreamed of before this obsession gripped thee?"

Miss Boston frowned. "I've done nothing to be ashamed of," she answered.

The voice dwindled into a prying murmur. "Really?" it oozed. "Is neglect not a crime—is that not a matter for guilt and shame? "

"Neglect?" she cried. "I haven't neglected anything!"

"What of those in thy care? 'Tis they who have suffered."

A look of understanding passed over the old lady's face. "The children?" she muttered. "But how have I neglected them? I love them both dearly!"

"Thy constant striving to regain thy strength hath made thee blind to their needs and wants. Too long hast thou pored over thy sorceries, too many hours have they been alone. Yet was it not for their sake that this laborious task of misguided self-healing was undertaken—or hast thou forgotten that also?"

"Of course not!" she denied passionately. "I am pledged to protect them—Jennet and Benjamin are my only concern! I don't care what happens to me, all I want is to be able to defend them when the time comes!"

At this, the shadowy figure upon the middle throne said, "If that is true, then consign the boy into our care. As the one who returned our treasure to us, he has our favour and thus are we committed to guard and watch over him."

"Proclaim thy devotion to the child," urged the voice of the Roaring Seas. "Reveal to us the meaning of compassion. Make the ultimate sacrifice, Alice Boston, and we shall look after him."

"Beware, my brothers!" the Lord of the Frozen Wastes interrupted. "The Witch is not to be trusted. Do not put your faith in this ambitious female—for is she not already tutoring the boy in the ways of her feeble craft? How else could he have thwarted the angel? Verily I warn you, the hag is no fool—she is nurturing a dangerous power within that human whelp and to what evil purpose will this lead? "

Miss Boston shook her head in disbelief at all they had said. "I'm not tutoring anyone!" she announced. "Least of all Benjamin. Why, the very idea is totally preposterous."

Moved by the words of his wheedling brother, the Lord of the Circling Seas angrily replied, "Not so! The child has been studying thy Book of Shadows, and his knowledge of things best left hidden increases with every moonrise!"

"Benjamin!" Miss Boston said crossly. "I had no idea—I'm sure it's all perfectly harmless."

"Harmless?" the bitter voce raged. "The child was brought to Whitby for one purpose alone. To aid the aufwader girl and discover the moonkelp! That he hath done—we cannot permit him to develop his gifts any further!"

Hearing these words, Tarr raised his head sharply and rose to his feet.

Miss Boston opened her mouth to say something but could only splutter as she realised what had been said.

"What... what do you mean by that?" she murmured. "You did not bring Benjamin to Whitby—he came with Jennet because..."

Her voice failed as finally she understood and Miss Boston's horrified outrage boiled and flared within her breast.

"The children", she began, struggling to control her contemptuous fury, "came to live with me because their parents were killed. They drowned when their car plunged into a river. My God—were you so desperate for your precious weed that you committed murder in order to manipulate one little boy and his sister? You disgust me!"

She closed her eyes and turned away from the sight of the three thrones, too appalled to speak any further.

At her side Tarr's face was drawn into a horrible expression of hate. "Now ah know," he snarled, pointing an accusing finger at the powers of the world, "why, out of all others, my Nelda was allowed to live after she were born. She were only a puppet fer tha to use in tha greedy search. Tha needed her to be ready to meet a human child wi' the sight! That was all she were good fer! Her whole short life were leadin' up to that one moment when she'd help the lad find your poxy treasure—ain't that so?

"Well, now her part's been done an' theer's naught else tha got planned fer her, so she might as well die. Good thing too, eh? Makes the whole nasty business that much tidier!"

Shaking with rage, the aufwader strode to the edge of the high platform and spat as far as he could. "Damn yers all!" he yelled.

Miss Boston watched him approvingly, then stared back at the shimmering wall of water and spoke up in a clear and strident voice. "A curse on you!" she said. "I pray long and hard that you shall get what you deserve. Do you honestly expect me to surrender the children into your care? You must think I am mad! I am now more determined than ever to protect them from your unholy influence and shall do so unto the last breath in my body!"

Behind the thrones the light of the moonkelp dimmed as the sea grew dark.

"Silence!" commanded the Lord of the Frozen Wastes. "Hag! Thou hast asked why thou wert summoned to this place—for one purpose only was the audience permitted. Know now the judgement of the almighty Triad!"

"The boy child has indeed done us great service," the central figure boomed. "Our coveted prize is returned to us, yet still he associates with the aufwaders. Henceforth this must cease!"

Tarr laughed grimly. "Tha can't do nowt to stop the lad," he growled. "He's more than welcome in our midst—an' more so when I tells the rest what I've 'eard this night. The boy can come a-visitin' whenever he chooses. Alone amongst humans he has touched the moonkelp and so is under tha protection. Theer's nowt tha can do to stop 'im."

"Is there not?" the voice echoed mysteriously. "We believe a solution has been found and our oath of protection need not be broken. Look to the water."

Miss Boston and Tarr glanced down as the smooth surface of the placid lake was pierced by thousands of bubbles. From the black depths, an object resembling a small stone came floating upwards.

With a mild splash it burst into the air, then rolled and spun in the water as it drifted towards the pinnacle of rock.

Miss Boston descended the winding stair as the curious object came to rest against the bottommost step, and with the handle of her walking stick she fished it out.

Glistening in her palm was a round earthenware jar no larger than a tennis ball, and she examined it cautiously. The container was glazed a deep swirling green; around the base weird characters and symbols were inscribed and removing the wax that sealed the lid, she warily looked inside.

A pale, almost luminous cream filled the jar and the old lady sniffed it tentatively.

"And what might this be?" she asked.

In a soft, mellifluous voice the Lord of the Circling Seas replied, "In thy hands is the answer we have sought. Take the salve and with it anoint the boy's eyes."

"Why?" she demanded.

"We cannot permit the child to continue mingling with the aufwaders. That singular ointment will remove his special sight. Never again shall he see the folk who dwell by the shore, nor the shades of those who have passed through the veil."

"How dare you ask me to do such a dreadful thing!" the old lady shouted. "Benjamin's sight is a wondrous and most marvellous gift—I would not dream of stealing it from him!"

Upon the left-hand throne, the Lord of the Frozen Wastes swelled with anger and his enormous shadow whipped and thrashed in the icy waters.

"Behold the ignorance of mortal kind!" he thundered to his brothers. "Let us destroy these two now and send the herald back with fierce words of warning to those who wait upon the shore."

"Peace," the voice of the Circling Seas called. "The leader of the aufwaders must return to make certain the guardian remains unharmed, and who can measure a human's heart? Perhaps our words shall weigh upon thee, Alice Boston, and thou shalt use the salve ere long."

"I rather think that is highly unlikely," she replied.

Without warning, the Lord of the Frozen Waters let out a wrathful shriek that shook the cavern.

"Then begone from this place!" he roared, rising from the throne, thrashing his snaking limbs. "Thou art dismissed!"

At once the glimmering images behind the wall of water were engulfed in darkness and Miss Boston gazed grimly at Tarr.

"It would appear the audience is over," she observed.

A rush of froth and foam signalled the return of the small rowing boat and it floated back to the surface. Still crouched within, the tortured remains of Irl gazed at Miss Boston from beneath the hood of his cloak and he spoke urgently.

"Quickly—thou must make haste. The way back to thy world will soon collapse!"

Miss Boston and Tarr hurriedly clambered aboard the boat but as soon as they were seated, the immense barrier of dark water trembled, and with a tremendous rending crash, the might of the Deep Ones was withdrawn and the freezing torrent came flooding into the chamber.

The pinnacle of rock was thrown down and the seething tides hammered into the quartz-covered walls, snatched the lanterns from their huge iron hooks, and smashed against the vaulted ceiling.

But the small wooden boat was already tearing through the dimly-lit grottoes beyond. Carried on the racing currents, it soared wildly through the passages hewn into the mountain and pitched uncontrollably as the incredible forces of the whirling vortex clutched and seized it.

Out into the cold deeps the little boat shot, hurtling back along the spinning tunnel, but the journey was faster than before and Miss Boston was thrown from side to side as the craft darted wildly forward.

The eyes of the herald sparkled in alarm as he stared behind them and saw that the spinning walls of the enchanted way were closing. Violent surges thrust the boat onward as the tunnel snapped out of existence, unravelling with a furious turbulence that tore apart the ocean floor, leaving a path of foaming destruction in its wake.

Over the drowned continent the vessel rampaged, but swiftly the decaying cities vanished from sight as the tunnel convulsed and buckled, threatening to dash the boat to pieces at any moment.

"Hold on!" the herald yelled and his voice rang with fear. "Save us, oh masters! The way fails too swiftly—we shall be torn apart!"

Only the savage, screaming waters answered him as they stampeded malevolently and raced for the boat. The spray of the collapsing vortex blasted into Tarr's face as he glanced round and saw that the terrible, churning cataclysm was only metres away. Beyond the roaring confusion of the unwinding tunnel, the murderous pressures of the deep were waiting, eager to crush and kill.

Tarr wrenched his eyes from the horrendous sight and stared anxiously at the herald. "We'll not make it!" he bawled.

"Have faith, Mr Shrimp!" Miss Boston cried. "They wouldn't dare let anything happen to us, otherwise Nelda will destroy the guardian. This is just a show of bluster."

Suddenly her hat was plucked from her head and sucked into the darkness behind. The old lady snorted tersely. "Steady on!" she shouted into the storm.

At a breakneck speed the boat flew through the cold reaches, rocketing ever upwards until, with a sickening jolt that rattled its timbers, the little craft was hurled from the sea and flung out beneath the fading stars.

The waves lashed and the wind tore at Miss Boston's cloak as the mouth of the gigantic whirlpool toppled and came raging down, smiting the waters and splitting them asunder in its ruinous downfall. A tempestuous cauldron steamed and foamed within the sea, its choking vapours hissed into the air, obliterating the heavens with billowing clouds of thick white mist.

Wraith-like, the rowing boat sailed noiselessly through the mist and its occupants took great glad gulps of the cool night air, relieved to be above the waves once more. Neither Tarr nor Miss Boston ventured to speak; they were both thinking about what they had learned and the vile knowledge angered and depressed them. As they drifted towards the distant shores of Whitby, their spirits sank ever lower and with downcast faces they floated into the night.

Finally it was the herald who broke the forbidding silence.

"There is fear in the Deeps," he said in a soft and conspiring voice. "For only the second time in the history of the world the cold regions are filled with dread—the Triad is afraid."

Miss Boston was startled out of her despondency and Tarr stared at the huddled figure keenly.

"Messages and rumours spread swiftly beneath the waves," the herald continued. "Many are the frightened tales spreading from the bitter realms. 'Tis said that the Lord of the Frozen Wastes is especially fearful and has despatched many spies to watch the shores of my ancient home."

"Theer's nowt to see theer," Tarr said sourly, "save misery and hopelessness."

Leaning across to Miss Boston, the tormented remains of Irl whispered to her anxiously. "Cruel and devoid of compassion are my masters," he began, "yet they are wise beyond all others. Use the thing they have given to thee, rub the salve well into the boy's eyes. His sight is a curse and only woe shall befall him and those he loves."

"I'm afraid you cannot persuade me," she answered stubbornly. "I swear here and now as God is my witness that I will never use their despicable ointment."

So adamant was the old lady that she took the jar from her pocket and stretched out her arm ready to throw it back into the sea, but the herald called for her to stop and the command in his voice was so compelling that Miss Boston wavered.

"I beg thee not to cast it aside," he cried. "The gifts of the Deep Ones should not be lightly surrendered."

The folds of the sea-green cloak stirred as the hideous shapes within uncoiled and a putrescent, snaking tentacle emerged—creeping towards Miss Boston.

For a brief second she feared that the creature was going to strike her, then she saw that bound about the tapering tip of the extended limb was a piece of carved jet, suspended on a fine gold chain.

"Unto thee do I now give this," Irl said gravely. "I fashioned it in the young long ago, when I was a leader of my tribe and resolved to quest for the moonkelp."

Holding the carving high above the tendrils of mist which still clung to the boat, the herald gazed on his craftsmanship sorrowfully, then gave the amulet to Miss Boston.

The old lady received the dark jewel silently and peered at the intricate detail. In her hands, the bright moonlight curved over a tiny squat figure whose face was hidden beneath a veil embroidered with the ancient script of the aufwaders, and emblazoned over the back of the black, glimmering gem was the symbol of the Triad.

"'Tis the very charm I devised to conceal me from the vigilance of the Lords of the Deep and Dark," Irl told her. "When it is worn around the neck it renders my masters and their countless agents insensible to thy presence. Without it I could never have stolen the shining treasure and wrought the guardian to keep Morgawrus entombed."

"I cannot accept such a precious gift," Miss Boston said, reaching out to return the ancient pendant, "but if anyone has a claim to it then surely it would be Mr Shrimp and the rest of the fisherfolk?"

The herald shrank from her and the hood shook from side to side. "The last tribe is doomed," he said flatly, "and I fear that thou mayest yet have need of the charm's properties—the spies of my Lord of the Frozen Wastes are ranged about the town. May this assist thee in evading them."

"I am most grateful," Miss Boston breathed, "though I pray it won't be necessary."

Irl's tone grew cold and ominous. "I assure thee it will," he uttered, "yet its power to withstand the piercing gaze of my masters doth wane after a time. Use it only in the direst need and remember that they are capable of anything. Nothing is beyond their reach—do not forget that. They do serve only their own ends and thou knowest already how merciless are their punishments."

Tarr stared at the cloaked figure and could not stop a look of revulsion creeping over his face. The herald noticed it and gathered the cloak tightly about his grotesque form.

"Do not provoke them further," he told the aufwader. "'Tis better for thy granddaughter to die sooner than be damned to eternity as I."

Guiltily Tarr lowered his eyes and not another word was spoken for the rest of the journey.

***

Upon the shore beneath the cliffs many of the fisherfolk were asleep when the blue light of the boat's lantern reappeared in the distance.

Ben and Nelda were sitting upon a coarse blanket and wrapped in two more, struggling to remain awake, when the aufwader on watch leapt up and called to the others.

"They're here! They've returned!"

Rubbing the sleep from their eyes, they lurched to their feet and waited in fearful silence as the vessel sailed closer.

"Are Aunt Alice and Tarr all right?" Ben asked.

"They are," Nelda replied, but her hopes plummeted as she realised how still and quiet her grandfather seemed. Even before the boat came to rest at the water's edge she hung her head and murmured, "The Deep Ones have denied his pleas."

Tarr glanced across at her forlorn figure and a large tear trickled down his round nose. "Ah dinna know what to tell her," he wept.

Miss Boston put her arm around him. "Be honest with the girl—she deserves that."

"Aye," he sniffed, "and a 'ell of a lot more that I canna give."

"May her ending be swift and without torment," the herald said gently, "and may courage be granted to thee, Tarr of the Mereades, for the full face of doom is staring at thy kind. A ninefold blessing upon thee and fare as well as thou art able."

Tarr looked at the herald and bowed his head in respect. "Ah would ask tha to join us," he said. "A mighty honour would it be for Irl to come amongst the descendants of his folk."

"No," the cloaked figure refused, "and if thou dost indeed honour and revere my old name, then forget this meeting. Irl died an age and more ago—let not his esteemed memory be clouded with the horror I have become. Go to thy people, Tarr, but mention me never."

The aufwader understood and with a quick nod, he clutched his staff and clambered from the boat.

"Thank you for all you have done," Miss Boston said.

"Heed my warnings," the herald urged her, "for thy peril is mounting. My masters will not be content until thou hast done their bidding. I say to you, Alice Boston—beware."

"Where will you go now?" she asked.

"Back to them, back to the world of darkness and cold—such is my punishment."

The old lady made to scramble from the boat, but at the last minute she reached forward and before the herald could stop her, reached into the shadows beneath the hood.

"Goodbye," she said warmly, as her hand caressed the scaly flesh hidden within.

A strangled cry broke from the herald's mouth as the unexpected and unlooked for touch pierced his heart.

"Go now," he murmured thickly.

Miss Boston smiled and with Tarr's help alighted from the boat.

With the water lapping about their knees, they waited until the wooden vessel had turned and sailed into the distance before wading on to dry land and speaking to the others.

Nelda needed no explanation. She could see from her grandfather's sombre expression that she and her unborn child were going to die and she staggered into his outstretched arms.

"Come, lass," he croaked, "let us return to our cave."

The fisherfolk covered their faces as they too understood and one by one they trailed back to the cliffs.

"Wouldn't they listen?" Ben asked in dismay. "Aunt Alice, what happened?"

Miss Boston stooped down and hugged him fiercely. "Oh Benjamin!" she murmured. "I think we should return home too. At this moment I want to feel safe and surround myself with my familiar clutter—a strong cup of tea wouldn't go amiss either. It won't be long before dawn, why don't I tell you everything over breakfast?"

With her tweed cloak hanging heavy and wet from her shoulders and the boy's arm wrapped around her waist, Miss Boston wandered over the gloomy shore into Whitby.

11 - Over Tea And Cheesecake

The early crying of the gulls jolted Jennet from an uneasy sleep. Nightmare visions of the coven had pursued her throughout the night and, looking into the bedside mirror, she saw that dark circles rimmed her raw, swollen eyes.

When she had returned, the girl had found the cottage empty, and thinking that Aunt Alice and Ben were still enjoying themselves at the wedding reception, Jennet had gone straight to bed. But she had spent most of the night weeping into her pillow and the feelings of betrayal, horror and isolation were just as strong in the bright sunshine of the morning.

Slung over the end of her bed were the tattered remains of the bridesmaid dress and the girl quickly snatched at them and stuffed the ripped mass of satin into a drawer.

Mechanically, she pulled on her clothes—wincing as her jeans dragged over the yellow bruises and scabbed scratches that covered her legs. Then, yawning, she opened the door of her room and went downstairs.

In the kitchen she found that her brother and Miss Boston had already eaten their breakfast and the old lady was busily recounting her astounding experience beneath the waves, with many wild sweeping gestures of her hands.

Aunt Alice paused as the girl entered and greeted her profusely. "Jennet dear!" she exclaimed. "I do hope you're feeling better this morning—help yourself to toast and there are some scrambled eggs in the pan, if you feel up to them."

The girl hastily recalled the lie she had told to excuse herself from the reception. "I'm fine," she lied again, "but I'll just stick with the toast, thanks."

Taking a seat at the table she thoughtfully chewed her breakfast and was so preoccupied with her own worries that it was only after several minutes that she noticed the circles around Ben's eyes were larger and darker than her own.

"Are you all right?" she asked. "Ben, you keep nodding off."

With his head resting on his hand the boy gave a weary grunt and Jennet looked to Miss Boston.

The old lady poured herself another cup of tea then folded her arms upon the table. "I'm afraid neither of us has had any sleep," she said.

Jennet put her toast down and a dreadful thought struck her—what if she had cried out in the night about what had happened? "Why... why was that?" she stammered. "Did something keep you awake?"

"That's putting it mildly," Aunt Alice replied, eager to tell her all about the Lords of the Deep.

"I'm sorry," Jennet said hastily, "I had a nightmare, that's all."

"Did you, dear?" Miss Boston clucked. "You poor thing, I thought you looked a trifle peaky—and have you done something with your hair? Anyway, let me tell you what happened to us!"

The girl listened in astonishment as the old lady gabbled about the Deep Ones and what they had said—she did not however disclose what she had learnt about the children's parents.

"And this", Aunt Alice announced, slamming a small green jar on to the table, "is what they gave me to anoint Benjamin's eyes—can you believe such a thing?"

After her own terrifying ordeal Jennet thought that she could believe anything. But she merely shook her head and let Aunt Alice continue.

Yet it was Ben who spoke first. Staring thoughtfully at the jar and peering at its contents, he said, "Why don't they want me to see Nelda again?"

"Is she really going to die?" asked Jennet. "Was there nothing you could do?"

Miss Boston shook her jowls regretfully, "Alas no," she muttered, "I'm afraid the fisherfolk are doomed."

Ben pushed his plate away and stared at the floor.

"Why don't you go to bed?" Aunt Alice told him. "You must be shattered. I'll wake you this afternoon and if you feel any brighter you can go and call on Nelda."

When the boy had risen from the table and shambled out of the kitchen, Miss Boston tutted. "It'll be a most difficult time for him when Nelda dies," she said. "She's the only young friend he's got."

"He's got me," Jennet murmured, but she knew that was not true for her recent unkindness had driven Ben away from her and now they hardly ever talked to one another. Swilling the toast down with a gulp of tea, she said in an apologetic whisper, "Aunt Alice, I've been a pig lately—I'm sorry."

The old lady smiled at her. "Don't be silly, dear," she said, "I haven't noticed..." Miss Boston faltered as she remembered one of the accusations the Lords of the Deep had charged her with. "Neglect..." she whispered, "yes, perhaps I have been guilty of that."

Shaking herself, she snapped out of the unpleasant memory and took hold of the girl's hand. "Don't you worry," she cried, "it's going to be very different around here from now on. Jennet dear, I've been so preoccupied with my ailments that, to my shame, I haven't made any time for you. Is there anything you'd like to tell me? How are you getting on at school? Wasn't there some talk of your work slipping—is that because of me?"

"No," Jennet quickly replied, "that's all sorted out—it was my fault but I'm going to try harder from now on."

"So what have you got planned for today? It's another beauty. Am I mistaken or did that fool of a nun mention you'd made friends with a group of musicians? Will you be seeing them this weekend?"

Jennet shivered. "I don't think so," she said. "In fact I'd be quite happy to stay in until school on Monday."

"As you wish," Miss Boston muttered clearing the breakfast dishes into the sink.

"I'll do them," the girl offered.

Mildly surprised, Aunt Alice stepped back and allowed Jennet to take over. "Goodness," she grinned, "we are eager to please this morning."

"I just want to make up for the past few months," Jennet shrugged. "If there's anything else I can do..."

"Well, if you really want to help, I was going to turn that sickroom back to how it was before my illness. Heaven knows where Edith put half the stuff I had in there. At least a dozen of my ornaments and corn dollies are missing—I bet she threw them in the loft or put them in the church bazaar. Do you remember what she did with Prudence's African souvenirs—the ones she left me in her will? You know, the moth-eaten zebra skin and the Zulu shield with the spear? Why, Jennet, wherever did you get that necklace?"

The girl's hands flew to the beads around her throat as Aunt Alice stepped forward to admire them.

"They appear to be most awfully tight," she observed. "Isn't that terribly uncomfortable? Here, let me adjust the..."

"No!" Jennet snapped. "It's all right, honestly."

The old lady blinked at her in astonishment—the girl's mood had changed drastically.

"Well, if you're certain," she relented. "Is that what all the youngsters are wearing now?"

"Only the select few," Jennet replied grimly.

Miss Boston's eyebrows twitched quizzically and for the first time she realised just how much Jennet had changed. She was no longer a child and, unsure of what to say to her, Miss Boston took herself off to the sickroom and turned on the radio.

Alone in the kitchen, Jennet leaned against the sink and buried her face in her sud-covered hands. She had tried to remove the beads before she had come downstairs, but the necklace seemed to sense her intention and had almost strangled her. Was Pear right? Was she really the same as the rest of the coven?

"Please no," she whispered. "I'm not like them, I'm not."

When Aunt Alice returned, Jennet was busily drying the dishes, and hoped the old lady would not realise that she had been crying.

"Most distressing," Miss Boston declared. "There never seems to be any good news these days—I've a good mind to take the plug off that instrument. You only ever hear about earthquakes or air disasters—why don't they broadcasting something chirpy for a change?"

"You should tune into the local stations," said Jennet, trying to sound cheerful. "They're good for tame, heartwarming stories."

"But I did. That was Radio Middlesbrough, and very nasty it was too."

Jennet took another plate from the rack and wiped it with a dishcloth. "What was it today?" she asked, "Naughty vicars or crooked landlords?"

"Oh, it wasn't anything like that—something quite grisly and downright vicious. A flock of sheep have been slaughtered on a remote farm."

"Isn't that what they're reared for?"

"That isn't what I meant. No, the poor creatures were slain in the fields—the farmer found them this morning and very horrible it was too, by his account. Too dreadful to be the work of vandals or hoodlums. The police believe a pack of wild dogs is responsible. Can you credit it, in this day and age!"

The plate fell from Jennet's hands and smashed upon the floor.

"Jennet!" Miss Boston cried. "You're white as a sheet!"

***

For the rest of the weekend the girl refused to leave the cottage and filled her time doing those chores which she normally loathed. No job was too dull, whether it was weeding garden borders, helping Aunt Alice sort out the front room, or washing the windows—so long as it took her mind off Pear and the coven that was all that mattered.

The girl's unexpected enthusiasm for these mundane household duties disconcerted Miss Boston, but Jennet absolutely refused to be persuaded to step outside the front door and the old lady began to suspect that she was avoiding something.

"Perhaps she has fallen out with her new friends and doesn't want to bump into them," she surmised, brushing all too near the truth.

Ben however was hardly at home and spent long hours with the fisherfolk. Nelda had grown very weak and when Miss Boston learned this she became grave, knowing that the Deep Ones had accelerated the aufwader's time.

On Sunday afternoon, the old lady went to the cliffs herself and was saddened to see how poorly Nelda had become.

The youngest member of the tribe could no longer walk and she lay upon the floor of the cave suffering from painful spasms.

She and Tarr exchanged mournful glances, but they spoke encouragingly to the child though they knew their words were hollow. Miss Boston wished there was something she could do for her and when she returned home, searched through The Book of Shadows for a salve or lotion that would at least ease the aufwader's pain. But there was nothing and the old lady tossed the volume aside, then threw herself vigorously into the housework.

Ben stayed at Nelda's side for most of the day and grew ever more dejected and morose. He could tell that she did not have long, yet could not imagine his life without her. Eventually, when the shadows deepened outside the cave, Tarr instructed the boy to return home and in a trembling voice, Ben bade them goodnight.

On Monday morning, the atmosphere in the cottage was one of glum despondency. Jennet did not relish the thought of walking to school, afraid that the coven would be waiting for her to step outside the front door and snatch her again. But she couldn't lock herself away forever, so she put on her uniform and waited for her brother.

Ben, however, was too upset to go anywhere. He refused to leave for school and would not touch any breakfast until Aunt Alice assured him that as soon as he ate something they would both visit the caves.

Jennet watched him sorrowfully swirl his spoon around a bowl of cereal. His strange friendship with the fisherfolk was a mystery that she would never share, but she could understand and feel his grief as surely as if it were her own.

"Give my love to Nelda," she said to him. "I'll see you this afternoon."

Ben continued to brood over his breakfast. "I will," he muttered, "if she's still alive."

Miss Boston had given up attempting to be jolly and, following Jennet to the door, whispered, "If she still lives then these will undoubtedly be her final hours. The poor mite was failing fast yesterday; you could almost see her deteriorate before your eyes—a dreadful tragedy."

"I'm glad you'll be with him," the girl told her. "I've always been there for Ben before, but this is something beyond me and I can't help him. We're so lucky to have found you."

Aunt Alice was lost for words and could only wave as Jennet left the courtyard and disappeared into the street beyond. "Surprising girl," she mused as she returned to check how much Ben had eaten, "she really is behaving most oddly."

A faint drizzle had soused the early morning; in Church Street the cobbles glistened and awnings dripped on to the unsuspecting passers-by. Cautiously, Jennet headed for school, peering with suspicion into the lanes and doorways on either side, for the sisterhood of the coven could be lurking anywhere.

When she reached Market Place, where she had first met Pear, Jennet's pace increased. She was still turning around to glare dubiously at the pillars of the old town hall, when in front of her a voice abruptly called out her name.

Jennet spun around and there, standing by the entrance to the closed bookshop, was Pear.

"Jennet!" she cried. "I've been worried sick—where have you been hiding? I thought you'd come and see me!"

"You thought what?" Jennet spluttered incredulously. "After what you and your friends tried to do?"

The witch-girl stepped into the drizzle and the anguish on her face was unmistakable. "I'm so sorry for what happened on Friday!" she swore. "It all went wrong, the others are sorry too—when the beast takes command there's nothing you can do!"

"Is that why you killed those sheep?" Jennet snapped angrily. "If I hadn't escaped it would have been my body that was found all torn to bits."

"Please!" Pear implored. "We should have explained properly—we thought you were ready. Let me talk to you..."

"Get lost!" Jennet shrieked. "I don't want to hear any more of your lies. I can't believe how stupid I was. If you and your friends don't leave me alone I'll tell the police! I should have done that in the first place!"

She stormed past the witch-girl but Pear ran after her. "There's no escape," she told her. "Jennet, none of us can be free of Nathaniel—he is part of our souls. Stop denying it to yourself."

"Rubbish!"

"Then why are you still wearing the necklace?"

Jennet made no answer and, flustered, she hurried towards the school.

"You must listen to me!" Pear shouted. "Your old life is over—you belong to him now. Why won't you let me explain? Wait, please!"

Furious at both herself and her former friend, Jennet roughly pushed Pear away and screamed at her. "I'll never listen to you again!" she shrieked, and all the browsing tourists turned to stare at the two girls. "You're a liar and a coward! If you really wanted to get away from those filthy witches nothing could stop you! I saw your face as you dragged me round that bonfire—you were revelling in it. You disgust me—just stay away!"

Pear clutched at the girl's coat but Jennet pulled it free and strode away.

Standing alone in the middle of the road, Pear broke down and wept genuine tears. "Jennet!" she wailed. "Don't leave me! You don't understand! I can never be free of Nathaniel—or the others."

"Course you can!" the other shouted, not bothering to look round.

"No I can't!" Pear snivelled. 'You see... you see—Nathaniel Crozier was my father!"

Jennet halted and turned slowly around. In spite of her anger she suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of pity for the older girl, and without thinking, said, "Meet me after school."

Pear nodded quickly and Jennet hastened away.

***

In the Walrus and the Carpenter Café, later that afternoon, the two girls were sitting at a small table by the window, each with a cup of tea and a piece of cheesecake.

An awkward and uncomfortable silence had prevented them saying much of anything and they half-heartedly picked at the dessert, both waiting for the other to speak first.

Finally Jennet could stand it no more and came straight out with it. "Is it true then?"

"What?" asked Pear.

"About Nathaniel being your father, or was that another lie to get me to talk to you?"

The older girl looked away and slowly moved the crumbs around the plate. "It's all true," she confessed. "I am his daughter."

"I thought he was married to Rowena."

"Don't be naïve; she was his legal bride but in a sense he was married to every member of the coven."

Jennet eyed the other customers and lowered her voice so that they couldn't hear. "Why did they want me to join them?" she hissed. "What would be the point? Why are they still clinging to his memory? Why don't they go back to whatever lives they had before?"

"If you'd let me explain," Pear told her, "then you'll understand why they—we—have done what we have."

Jennet folded her arms. "Go on then," she said bluntly, "tell me."

With her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands, Pear began. "You have to realise", she said, "that to us Nathaniel meant everything—literally. He was our High Priest, the very reason for our existence—mine especially. He only had to make the vaguest hint and we would rush to do whatever it was. You must know what that feeling is like. You were under his influence—was there anything you would not have done for him?"

Jennet bit her bottom lip and remembered how foolish she had been. "No," she admitted.

"And you only knew him for a short time," the other continued. "Can you imagine how forceful that power would become over the years? Poor Liz got so dependent on him that she couldn't eat or drink without his permission; she was like a... like a..."

"Pet dog?"

"Worse than that," Pear answered, ignoring the sarcasm, "and then—then he died."

She stared out of the window at the people passing by and her dark eyes glittered with tears. "No one can ever know how terrible that was for us," she said huskily. "The same instant Morgawrus killed him, each member of the coven felt a sudden... desolation as he was wrenched from us. We thought it was all over, there was nothing more to live for, no driving purpose in our lives—Liz almost took her own life. First Roselyn, the one you call Rowena, and then him, who we all worshipped."

"What did you do?"

Pear shuddered, recalling the insane and bloody actions of the coven in that ghastly time. "We were too distraught to care what we did," she murmured. "A madness was upon us. It wasn't just livestock that we butchered, no—far, far worse. There are voices that I can still hear—terrible screaming cries that will never be stilled and will hound me forever."

She lowered her eyes and fidgeted with the napkin before continuing. "Then, when we were gorged on carnage and the raving hysteria left us, it was Hillian who decided we should attempt to contact my father on the other side. So, we performed certain... rites, yet the message we received exceeded anything we had anticipated.

"Through that contact we learned much. Nathaniel had been the unwitting agent of a greater power. When he followed Rowena to Whitby he was merely pursuing the pattern set down for him. He was like a rat in a maze."

Pausing, Pear absently stirred her tea and watched the waitress hovering near the other tables ready to take down their orders.

"Do you mean that someone else wanted him to free the serpent?" Jennet asked. "But why? It would wreak havoc and destroy everything."

Pear shook her head. "No, it wouldn't," she stated proudly. "You see, my father really was a master of domination. There has never been anyone like him in the whole history of the world—he was unique. The weary, sluggish mind of Morgawrus would've presented no difficulties for his arts. The monster would have been enslaved to his will as surely as you were.

"What Nathaniel didn't realise was that he was only an instrument playing another's tune. All along a darker, ancient mind had been at work, bringing the strands together and weaving the web that we are now enmeshed in."

"Are you trying to tell me", Jennet interrupted, "that Nathaniel was innocent, that I've misjudged him? You really don't give up, do—"

"I'm not saying anything of the sort!" Pear denied. "My father was certainly never 'innocent'! Look, do you want to hear the rest or not?"

"Go on. If waking Morgawrus was never Nathaniel's idea, then whose was it?"

Pear looked around warily and gave the other customers doubtful glances. Then, in a hushed and fearful voice, she whispered, "Meta hasn't told me but I've heard her and Hillian talking. Have you ever heard of the three beneath the waves—the Lords of the Deep and Dark?"

"Yes," Jennet answered slowly. "What about them?"

"That's who was behind it all! One of the great Triad!"

Jennet stared at her, then snorted with derision. "That's nonsense!" she said. "Aren't they the ones who put the serpent under the cliffs in the first place? Why would they want to release him?"

"I said only one of them," Pear insisted. "Think about it. Nothing comes close to rivalling the power of the Triad, nothing except Morgawrus."

"So?"

"Well, it stands to reason—one of them wants to get rid of the other two, he wants to rule alone."

Bewildered, Jennet rubbed her forehead. "And you're saying he can't do that by himself, he needs the serpent to kill his brothers?"

"Of course! And using my father he could have done it too, except—"

"Except it didn't happen that way. Aunt Alice stopped him."

"She interfered," Pear spat, "and my father's control was shattered."

"Good!" Jennet said, finishing off her cheesecake.

"But that isn't the end of it," Pear muttered. "Morgawrus was entombed again but then the evil member of the Triad became fearful that his brothers would discover his murderous intentions. Using the moonkelp he looked into the future and saw his own destiny."

Leaning across the table, she whispered, "What the Lord of the Deep saw there chilled his black heart. For it was written that his own end was near. One of the three mightiest beings in the world felt threatened as never before—not since the serpent first rampaged over the land and sea. Now a new, more terrible danger was taking shape, something so deadly that his death is practically assured."

Jennet felt the air in the café grow cold as she tried to imagine what could possibly be more horrific than the Lords of the Deep. "What sort of nightmare is this new threat?" she asked nervously. "It must be really horrendous to scare one of the Triad."

Pear gave her a long and steady look before answering. "You really want to know?" she murmured.

"Course I do!"

"You won't like it."

"Tell me!"

Pear gently put her hand over Jennet's and in a level, sincere voice said simply, "It's Ben."

The girl stared at her, then picked up her schoolbag ready to leave.

"It's true!" Pear swore. "Don't go, sit down!"

Jennet's eyes were filled with contempt. "I really am stupid!" she fumed. "I was actually starting to believe you. I don't know who's madder, you or me!"

"Somehow," Pear told her, "one day, your brother will bring about the destruction of the Lord of the Frozen Wastes. That's why the coven is here, don't you see that?"

"Come to watch then, have you?" bristled Jennet. "Come to see the mighty one who tricked your beloved father get his just rewards?"

"No!" Pear cried indiscreetly. "We're here to kill Ben!"

The rest of the customers in the café looked up from their tea and stared at the two girls in surprise. Pear cursed herself for shouting so loudly then made a rude gesture to each of them in turn. On the seat opposite, Jennet had sat down again.

"If you or that dirty coven so much as go near my brother..." she began, "no, even better, I'll go to the police right now."

"Don't do that!" Pear said quickly. "Even if they believed you they couldn't do anything. Jennet, you don't know the others; they don't care how many they kill to get what they want. If you mention this to anyone you will only be responsible for many more deaths. What the coven has been promised in return for the boy's life outweighs any risk. It's all they are concerned about."

Angrily, Jennet asked, "So what is the price of my brother's life? What are you going to get out of it?"

"As soon as Ben is dead," Pear shamefully replied, "the Lord of the Frozen Wastes will give Nathaniel back to us. He will live again—that is the bargain Hillian has made."

Appalled and speechless, Jennet felt sick.

"Oh, the Deep One can do it," Pear said. "Nothing is beyond them."

Jennet had had enough. She wanted to go home at once and tell Aunt Alice everything, but one question still remained unanswered. "Why are you telling me all this now?" she asked bitterly. "Wouldn't your mother and the others be furious if they knew?"

Pear looked straight into her eyes and shrugged. "I wanted you to know that I am your friend," she breathed. "I've never had one before. I was raised in the coven and brought up in their society alone. Things that you would consider good and beautiful were denounced as ugly and wrong. The only love I knew was the devotion the others felt for my father, and Meta was too busy trying to keep his attention to be bothered with me. I was never allowed to mix with other children and if I tried to wander off on my own, well—the coven was very skilled at thinking up new punishments. Sometimes, when Nathaniel was away from us, the others would encourage me to annoy Meta or blame me for something they had done. It was a favourite game of theirs to see who could come up with the most original and humiliating chastisement—Rowena was always good at that, and Miriam.

"I've always had to do exactly what they tell me. You think it'd be easy for me to escape from them but it isn't. It might be a cruel and hard life but it's the only one I know—I really don't think I could survive outside the coven. Oh Jennet, I loathe what they make me do, yet I have no choice. When we first came here to... to do what we must, they told me to get you on our side, but it wasn't like that—not for me.

"I really did like you, Jennet, that first day when we talked—I realised we had so much in common. I know what it's like to be lonely amongst a crowd of others. Please believe me when I say how sorry I am for all that's happened and what will happen. It'll be difficult for you to accept it at first, but you'll grow to understand, and remember that when your brother is dead you'll still have me to talk to."

She reached out to touch the other girl's hand but Jennet shuddered in revulsion and pulled herself away sharply.

"I'm not like you!" she cried. "You're as bad as all the rest—worse because you pretend to be something kind and... oh, I despise you!"

Quickly, Jennet fled from the café, slamming the door behind her.

Alone at the table, Pear's raven hair cascaded over the cloth as she bent her head and great desolate tears splashed into the dregs within her teacup.

The door of the café opened again and the girl hastily wiped her eyes as her mother sat down to join her.

"Well?" Meta demanded. "Did you do it?"

Pear nodded.

"How?"

"In her tea when she wasn't looking."

A wintry smile crept over the perfect symmetry of the beautiful woman's face. "Thank you my pet," she drawled. "I'll go and tell the sisters."

12 - A Bargain Sealed With Blood

Through the narrow street Jennet pushed, but by the time she reached the cottage her temper had been replaced by a chill dread. What if Pear had purposely drawn her away from the place, whilst the rest of the coven...

Jennet fumbled with the key, threw open the front door and at the top of her voice shouted "Ben! Ben!"

A muffled thud sounded in the front room and the girl barged inside with her fists clenched.

"Why, Jennet dear! What on earth is the matter? I nearly jumped out of my skin when you bellowed like that and look—you made me drop Prudence's shield."

Standing before the mantelpiece, with one hand clutching at the empty air, the other holding a rusting spear and her face a picture of astonishment, was Miss Boston. At the old lady's feet and looking totally incongruous, the elliptical shield was still rocking on the carpet, and draped over the armchair was a moth-eaten zebra skin. The scene was almost comical but Jennet's anguish forbade any frivolity and she stared about the room before leaping away to look in the kitchen.

"Where's Ben?" she cried. "Where is he?"

Throwing down the spear and taking up her walking stick, the old lady hurried after her. "What's happened?" she called. "Jennet?"

The girl dived into the parlour and was about to race upstairs when Miss Boston caught her arm.

"Benjamin", she declared, "is in his room."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I am! He's been with Nelda all day, but Mr Shrimp sent him home to get something to eat. The poor boy is worried sick. We'll both be going out again later so I suggested he had a lie-down first. Now, tell me what has occurred to make you go charging around like an outraged Amazon."

Drawing the girl into the front room, Aunt Alice removed the remains of the zebra and bade her sit down on the armchair. Then, with her hands clasped behind her back, she assumed the posture of an old-fashioned and overbearing school mistress as she waited for the explanation.

Jennet didn't know where to begin, but slowly she related the whole dreadful story of how she had been ensnared—guiltily averting her eyes when speaking of the wedding day and how she had lied to slip away. But Miss Boston did not scold her and when she looked up she saw that the old lady's face was pale and strained.

Jennet paused, uncertain whether to continue. Then letting out a heavy sigh of pain, Aunt Alice sank into a chair as the full horrible knowledge dawned on her. That one of the children in her care could have been so unhappy as to even contemplate joining the coven was an awful realisation and she shivered hopelessly.

"How could I have been so blind?" her cracked, aghast voice whined. "God's grace, I might have lost you to those evil creatures! Oh Jennet, I've failed you. I was so full of myself and too pleased with my own victories that I completely trampled over your needs and drove you away. The danger that Prudence warned me of has already come and I was found wanting. You might have been killed that night on the moors—I didn't even check that you were here. Oh, forgive me."

The extent of Miss Boston's self-condemnation startled the girl and she struggled to calm her.

"Don't blame yourself," Jennet begged. "It was my fault. You didn't drive me anywhere, I ran there all on my own. I've been spoilt and selfish and couldn't see who my real friends were."

"No," Aunt Alice uttered, "I'm the one who's been selfish. All these months I've done nothing but think of my own health and welfare. What a ridiculous joke that is."

Seizing her walking stick, she lumbered to her feet and a fierce, determined expression glowered on her face. "I'm not having this," she roared. "Where are these evil women?"

"Wait!" Jennet cried. "I haven't finished. I met Pear just now and she told me... she told me that they're going to kill Ben."

Miss Boston could hardly believe it. "But why?" she wailed. "He's only a child!"

"Because they think once he's dead, Nathaniel will be given back to them. I know it's crazy but they're totally obsessed and stark raving mad. They really believe it and there's nothing they won't do."

A sudden noise from upstairs signalled that Ben was awake and Jennet stared at Aunt Alice fearfully.

"What are we going to do?" she whispered.

"We must tell the lad," the old lady decided. "It's only fair he knows the danger he's in. Listen, he's coming down. In here, Benjamin!"

The boy entered the former sickroom and gave the faintest of nods to acknowledge his sister's presence before turning his attention to Aunt Alice. "When are we going to the cliffs?" he asked.

"The cliffs?" she repeated. "Benjamin, we've got something to tell you."

Ben shook his head wildly. "She's gone, isn't she?" he wept. "Nelda's died!"

"No!" Aunt Alice assured him. "This is nothing to do with her."

"Then it can wait!" he shouted, running for the front door.

Jennet sprang from the chair and rushed after him. "You mustn't go out there!" she yelled, wrenching his hand from the door handle. "You've got to stay in here!"

"Let go!" he cried. "I've got to see Nelda!"

"You can't!"

"She's dying! Get off me—you don't care about anyone but yourself! Leave go!"

"Benjamin!" Miss Boston's voice trumpeted authoritatively, "Listen to us! Jennet is right—if you step outside you might never reach the caves."

The boy stopped struggling and sensed the deadly earnestness in her voice.

"It's Nathaniel," Jennet told him. "His followers are here. They... they want to kill you."

"I know that!" he snapped at her. "They've already tried twice!"

Jennet stared at him blankly and Aunt Alice put her arm about him. "What do you mean?" she asked, stunned. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"Don't know," he mumbled. "Jen's been horrid and I didn't want to worry you—'sides, I can handle it."

Miss Boston groaned in dismay. "What have I done?" she grieved. "I've alienated both of you. That's too dear a price to pay for my recovery. I wish... Oh, I don't know what I wish any more."

Ben took hold of her hand and squeezed it gently. "I want to see Nelda", he repeated, "one last time."

"Don't let him go," Jennet urged.

But before the old lady could stop him, he had pulled the door open.

"Good evening, Ben," called a light, silvery voice.

The boy started and behind him Jennet cried out in alarm.

Standing alone in the courtyard, with a supremely confident smile on her lovely face—was Meta.

The witch grinned at him and tossed her golden hair over her shoulders. "How fortunate for me," she gurgled. "I was just going to call on you, but I see you're already on your way out. It's a fine evening, there'll be such a ravishing sunset later—all red and bloody."

"Come in, Benjamin," Miss Boston commanded. Then, glaring past him at the witch, "Don't step over the threshold."

Meta hooted with derision. "The threshold?" she sneered. "You old fool, that barrier was broken by my loved one long ago. I can waltz into your dingy little hovel whenever I choose."

Aunt Alice placed herself in front of the children and barred the doorway.

"Begone from this place!" she demanded. "I'll not let you harm them."

Casually, Meta admired the bangles on her slender wrists and hardly took any notice of the old lady. "It's only Ben we want," she replied as though Miss Boston was being petulant and unreasonable, "I'm afraid Jennet just isn't worthy to join us. Sorry, honey, but that's the brutal truth."

In the hallway Jennet's skin crawled and she hurried into the front room to escape the sight of Pear's hateful mother.

"I'm not leaving," Meta promised, "and I'm extremely patient—we all are."

Behind her, filing calmly through the alleyway, came Liz and Caroline, and shambling reluctantly after them was Pear. The witch-girl glanced at her mother with reproach burning in her heart and she gazed into the cottage, vainly trying to catch sight of Jennet.

Behind the net curtains of the front room, Ben's sister regarded Pear with contempt, but unconsciously her fingers reached for the necklace at her throat. With a jolt, she realised what she was doing and dragged her hand away.

Aunt Alice eyed the assembled witches uncertainly. Here, cut off from the main street, there was no one to help her.

"Reinforcements?" she asked drily. "One old woman and two children too much for you on your own?"

"Why don't you send the boy out?" Meta's syrupy voice treacled. "It'll be easier on you in the long run, and so much more convenient for us."

Controlling her anger and dread, Miss Boston tutted in the most irritating way possible. "My, my," she admonished, hoping she sounded mildly amused. "We are getting desperate, aren't we? Forced out into the open and in broad daylight too? Whatever happened to skulking about the shadows and frightening youngsters in the dark? Rowena did it so much better than you—she had the most marvellous flair for this kind of thing. I'm afraid you haven't quite got the talent for it, have you? You see it takes a lot more than a good hairdo and wacky clothes to follow the old ways. But then I don't expect a baggage like you to be interested in the correct path—you've never graduated from toad-boiling and doll-pricking!"

"Take care, old cripple!" Meta shrieked. "You'll answer for that!"

"Not today, thank you!" Miss Boston returned and with that she slammed the door.

"That was rash, Alice," she scolded herself. "We're in scalding waters now!"

Ben hurried into the front room and ran to the window. "Look," he muttered nervously, "there's more coming through the alleyway."

Jennet stepped up behind him. "The rest of the coven!" she said in dismay. "We won't be able to stop them! We're trapped in here!"

"I've still got a few tricks up my sleeve!" Aunt Alice called, dashing into the kitchen and returning with the salt-cellar in her hands.

"I could climb over the back fence", suggested Ben, "and get help."

"You'd never make it," Jennet told him, remembering the yammering chase over the moor. "Don't you see, that's precisely what they want you to do! They'd love it for us to panic and split up."

In the hallway Miss Boston was busy reciting words of protection, invoking forces to defend them—all the while scattering salt around the doorway.

Ben stared miserably at the scene in the courtyard, repelled yet fascinated.

Hillian Fogle had been the last one to join the others. Immaculately dressed as usual, she strode between Meta and Liz and held up a large bulky object that was covered in a black cloth. Carefully she unwrapped the material and there in her hands was the fishmonkey.

Aiding the coven for the third and final time, the servant of the Lord of the Frozen Wastes blinked in the failing light of day and tapped its shrivelled webbed claws together.

Within the cottage Ben instinctively drew away from the window as a pair of yellow eyes gleamed at him.

"What's that?" he cried.

The fishmonkey squirmed in Hillian's grasp and raised its spindly arms, barking instructions to the coven.

"It's horrible," Jennet murmured. "Come away from there, Ben. All they have to do is smash the glass and they're in."

At that moment Aunt Alice rushed into the room and threw salt everywhere as she called out spells of challenge. Then she hesitated and peered at the solemn gathering outside, scowling in consternation.

"Why haven't they done anything?" she mused aloud. "What are they waiting for?"

"Maybe they're going to send that hideous thing in after us," Jennet muttered.

Then, as they watched, the fishmonkey craned its gruesome head and gave Hillian a snarling command. At a nod from her, the other members of the coven joined hands and, to Miss Boston and the children's utter surprise, they began to sing.

"Great Glory!" Aunt Alice exclaimed. "What do they think they're doing? It's like an infernal parody of Christmas with demonic carol singers!"

Low and whispering, the weird chanting of the witches filled the courtyard. It was an ugly, monotonous discord, and as the scarlet rays of the setting sun bathed everything in a lurid hellish glare, their faces were vivid masks of excitement and cruelty.

Stealthily, like the relentless creeping flow of water, their voices rose and penetrated through the windows until the front room of the cottage echoed with their jarring music.

Ben pressed close to Aunt Alice and she put her arm about him protectively.

"I don't understand," he muttered. "What does it mean?"

The old lady shook her head. "Haven't the foggiest idea," she replied worriedly, "but those are desperate people out there and that makes them more deadly than ever. It might be one last malefice—a black spell from the dark path—although what they hope to achieve is... I really don't know. We must be certain the house is secure. Benjamin, you stay here with Jennet while I make sure the windows are locked upstairs."

"You're not expecting them to climb up the walls, are you?" he cried.

Aunt Alice's eyes opened wide. "I expect everything!" she stated grimly before trotting into the hallway and up the stairs.

Ben kept a close watch on the figures outside. Yet his gaze was constantly drawn to the deformed and malignant shape of the fishmonkey, and the hairs on the back of the boy's neck tingled when he saw that the foul creature was smiling straight back at him.

Behind Ben, in the shadows of the darkening room, Jennet shrank against the wall and felt the oppressive music of the coven close around her as the drug began to take effect. The girl's face was beaded with cold sweat and her flesh was trembling as wave after wave of fear and control beat towards her. Like a terrified and cornered rabbit her eyes rolled in their sockets and she opened her mouth to scream—but only a parched whimper crossed her lips.

The noise of the song was unbearable—how could Ben stand it? Why didn't he hear the terrible drumming in his head and the shrill goading that devoured her energy and conjured up repugnant images in her mind?

About her throat the necklace constricted and she gasped as it bit into her skin. "No," she whined, sinking forlornly to the floor. "Keep away from me!"

Concealed beneath the armchair, Eurydice stared at Jennet and her ears flattened against her skull as she arched her back, and with a frightened mewling cry, the three-legged cat darted from the room and raced up the stairs.

Ben had heard his sister's strangled gasp but he did not turn to see what the matter was, for in the courtyard something weird and awful was happening—the women were changing.

"This night shall be your final chance!" the fishmonkey shrieked in Hillian's arms. "Fail in this and your dream is dashed! Concentrate now, oh followers of the Black Sceptre. Put forth your joined might and destroy this base worm!"

With renewed vigour, the coven spat out the eerie, strident song, and as their lips parted to form the mysterious words, they drew them back over their growing teeth and their jaws pushed forward to form ravening snouts. The spine of each woman, including Pear, stretched and snapped, and dark fur sprouted and bristled around the large dog-like ears that tapered from their growling heads.

Ben gaped at them in horror as they assumed terrifying new forms, nightmarish half-creatures—part human, part animal.

The song changed into a bestial chorus as the witches barked and snapped out the words and the boy called fearfully to Miss Boston.

"Aunt Alice!" he shouted. "Come here quickly!"

His voice died in his throat for suddenly he became aware of a wheezing, grunting noise directly behind him and with a sickening terror clutching at his stomach, he slowly turned around.

"Jen!" the boy cried. "What's the matter?"

The girl was gagging for air as the beads pressed against her windpipe and her eyes bulged from her skull. She stared horribly at her brother, then clawed at her throat, fighting to breathe. As she struggled a name formed upon her cracked lips and she was powerless to resist. Finally she surrendered to the terrible might of the chanting coven and throwing back her head, the girl screamed.

"NATHANIEL!"

Ben fell backwards. A frantic light shone in his sister's swollen eyes and her body jerked and flinched as she tried to regain control but the coven had her now—she belonged to them completely.

In despair, she watched as her limbs began to move, driven by a will stronger than her own and though she screeched and wailed there was nothing she could do.

"Help me!" she wept to her brother. "I can't stop them! Oh Ben, help me!"

Dominated wholly by the combined wills of the coven, Jennet took a prowling step closer to the boy whilst outside the clamour of the witch hounds mounted feverishly.

"Jen!" Ben murmured, backing away from her. "Don't mess about!"

"I'm not!" she cried as her feet dragged over the floor towards the fireplace. "I really can't stop myself!"

At that moment her eyes fell on the objects which Aunt Alice had dropped and a hideous panic gripped her. "Ben!" she cried, her voice high with fear. "Run—get away from me! Can't you see what they're trying to do?"

Jennet's voice choked as she realised the evil truth and her legs buckled beneath her, forcing the girl to stoop down. Like a spider her hand leapt out and seized hold of the rusted African spear and, with tears streaming down her face, she lifted the ghastly weapon and aimed it at her brother.

Ben let out a petrified yell then whipped round and fled into the hall where he ran straight into Miss Boston.

"Benjamin!" she declared. "What..?"

Her gaze passed beyond him to where Jennet stood framed in the doorway with the spear gripped tightly in her hands.

"Jennet?" the old lady asked in dismay. "Is that you? Put the weapon down, please."

"Aunt Alice!" the girl sobbed wretchedly. "Make them stop! Make them stop!"

"This is monstrous!" Miss Boston roared. "Leave the child be!" Flinging open her arms she drew a holy symbol of exile and banishment in the air but the coven's control over the girl was absolute.

Jennet cried piteously as she was compelled to stumble on and the point of the spear came slicing and stabbing towards the old lady and Ben.

"Avaunt!" Miss Boston bellowed as she stood her ground.

"Get away from me!" Jennet beseeched them. "They'll make me kill you!"

Muttering one last spell Aunt Alice shoved Ben up the stairs out of danger then called the girl's name over and over.

"Cast them out, Jennet!" she urged. "Free yourself—Jennet, listen to me!"

The blade came sweeping down and the old lady only just dodged aside in time.

"I've tried!" Jennet wept. "Look out!"

Again the spear thrust out and Miss Boston knew her efforts were in vain. Nothing could save the girl from the coven's influence.

"Benjamin!" she cried. "Go to my room—hurry!"

The boy darted upstairs but on reaching the landing he stopped and stared over the banister at the awful scene below.

In a savage attack, Jennet dived at Miss Boston but the old lady made a grab for the spear and tried to wrench it from her.

Into the kitchen they crashed, slamming against the sink, and the dishes were thrown to the floor as they fought with each other.

The girl possessed an unnatural strength and Miss Boston was no match for her, yet Jennet slithered on the broken crockery and, seizing her chance, Aunt Alice pushed her away.

Still clutching the spear, the girl slid into the table and Miss Boston headed for the kitchen door locking it behind her.

Breathless after the struggle, she shouted through the barrier, "Are you injured, Jennet?"

Inches from her face the wood splintered and flew into the hall as the spear came punching through the door and Jennet's terrified voice rang throughout the cottage.

"It's no good!" she howled. "Forgive me, Aunt Alice—forgive me!"

Miss Boston stepped back from the quivering door as Jennet pounded upon it and the frenzied assaults of the spear tore and gouged great rents in the crackling panels.

The old lady edged towards the stairs. The hallway became littered with sharp shards of shattered wood and the broken door quaked in its frame as Jennet struck it one last time.

With a thundering crash the tattered remains flew off the hinges and smashed into the opposite wall. Screaming in abject terror, the girl leapt over the debris and came charging up the stairs.

Fleeing before her, Miss Boston sped over the landing, shoved Ben through into her bedroom and slammed the door in Jennet's anguished face.

"There's no key for this lock!" Aunt Alice cried, putting her weight against it as the girl pushed and kicked. Desperately, she looked about the room. "Benjamin!" she called urgently. "The dressing-table, try to bring it over here!"

The boy heaved at the old oak dressing-table. It was incredibly heavy and he jumped in alarm as an angry miaow issued from beneath it.

"Get out of the way, Eurydice!" he yelled and the cat scooted around the room, searching for a new hiding place. Grunting, Ben managed to waggle and pull the dressing-table close enough for Miss Boston to help him.

Together they pushed it against the door handle and Jennet's insane hammering ceased, only to be replaced by the vicious blows of the spear.

"She'll get through!" Ben wept. "There's no escape from here—we're cornered!"

Aunt Alice watched impotently as the blade came snapping through the wood—the boy was right.

In the courtyard the fishmonkey's amber eyes blazed with fiery malevolence. "Louder!" he screeched, inspiring the coven and spurring them on. "Give the child your strength, slay the insolent boy! In the name of my almighty master—kill him, kill him!"

The witch hounds were bawling the abhorrent song now, their fiendish muzzles furrowed with rage and their long teeth dripping with frothing saliva—anticipating the murder they were impelling Jennet to commit.

Dark shadows gathered around the cottage as night settled over the town. Revelling in the evil tension, his eyes bright as lamps, the fishmonkey let out a high-pitched, reedy laugh. In a fever of black rejoicing, the foul creature pulled himself up Hillian's plump arm and scrambled to her shoulder to get a better view of the window above.

Clinging to the lapel of her expensive jacket, the fishmonkey cackled and squawked shrilly.

"Destroy him! Plunge the weapon deep into the whelp's gullet! Hack and chop! Disembowel the enemy of the Allpowerful—let there be but offal and gore! Strew his entrails over the sea!"

Balancing on the witch hound's shoulder he threw back his ghastly head and tittered wildly, clapping the webbed claws, thrilling to the discordant sorceries that bludgeoned and blasted into the cottage.

In her bedroom, Miss Boston and Ben cowered against the wardrobe as Jennet lunged through the ragged hole she had made in the door and clambered over the dressing-table barricade.

The girl was almost fainting in despair but the incessant will of the coven propelled her on and she could only splutter and scream as she stalked over to the old lady and her brother.

"Jen!" Ben whined. "Snap out of it—you can do it!"

"I can't!" she cried pathetically.

Girding herself one last time, Miss Boston raised her hands and in a forceful voice proclaimed, "In God's holy name! I do evoke the hallowed strength of all the Seraphim, Cherubim, Witnesses, Thrones, Principalities, Dominions, Powers, Angels and Archangels! Aid us in this dark hour, drive out the bewitchment. Let the strings that tie this child be cut!"

For an instant Jennet wavered as the cruel enchantments yielded. But the iron resolve and ferocious tenacity of the coven snapped back around her as their howling screeches yammered to a crescendo outside and with a mournful whimper the girl pounced at Aunt Alice.

Valiantly, the old lady wrestled with the spear that came plunging for her. With all her remaining strength she tried to tear it from Jennet's grasp but it was no use. The girl punched and kicked and with an agonised cry, Miss Boston was knocked to the floor.

"Aunt Alice!" Jennet shrieked, and she leaped over her body towards Ben. "Stop me, someone!"

The boy cringed in the corner as his possessed sister crept up to him with the deadly weapon poised in her hands.

"Don't do it, Jen!" he begged through his tears. "Please!"

Jennet's torture disfigured her features. Her livid face was drenched with sweat and tears, and though she tried to scream as her arms raised the spear over her head, only a throttled moan came out.

Ben pressed into the corner and his round eyes stared in mortal dread at the blade which reared above him.

"Jen!" he wailed for the last time.

Sprawled over the floor, Miss Boston lifted her aching head just as the weapon plummeted towards Ben.

"No!" she shrieked.

Outside the cottage the coven gave a tremendous shout, then their savage voices were drowned by a hideous scream. Ben's voice blistered over the courtyard and the witch hounds held their breath expectantly. Abruptly the boy's shrill cry ended and the fishmonkey sucked the air through his needlelike teeth, widening a ghastly smile.

"Is it done?" he cackled to himself. "Is it over?"

From the upstairs window Jennet's distraught howls rose to an insane yell and through her raving shrieks Miss Boston's appalled voice spluttered.

"Benjamin! Benjamin! He's dead. Jennet—you killed him!"

The girl's torment was terrible to hear, yet the members of the coven lapped up the hideous grief and their tongues came lolling from their foaming jaws.

Only one of the witch hounds turned away in disgust. The smallest of the misshapen women covered her face and the bones shrank inside the malformed head until Pear regained her human form. In revulsion and shame she lowered her moist eyes and stepped back from the others.

"I must be certain," the fishmonkey hissed anxiously. "I must know the landbreed maggot is dead."

Closing his glinting eyes, the creature stretched out his bony claws and searched the cottage with his mind.

"The girl is descending the stairs," he sensed "How lame and shaken she is—yet up in that room what shall we find?"

Emitting a triumphant gurgle, the fishmonkey writhed upon Hillian's shoulder and his breath came in gulping wheezes as he cackled and sniggered.

"Only one other presence is within!" he screeched. "One of great age—and the reek of death overshadows her. The wormling is no more! We have accomplished the task. My master is victorious!"

The front door of the cottage opened slowly and upon the threshold Jennet stared out at them.

Blood stained her hands, and patches of dark crimson were smeared and spattered over her school uniform. Her blank face was drained of all colour and expression and her eyes were dull and glassy, as though it was she and not her brother who had perished.

Suddenly, as if even to stand was too much for her, the girl swayed and she slumped against the door.

Quickly Pear rushed over to her. "Jennet!" she called, putting her arms about her. "Let me help you—come with me."

Like a zombie, Jennet allowed the girl to lead her towards the coven. As if in a dream, Jennet saw the frightful witch hounds gather about her, but at her side Pear whispered reassuringly and supported her when she stumbled.

"Ben..." Jennet muttered thickly. "Ben... I... I killed..."

Lifting her shaking hands she gazed at the sticky blood, but her emotions were utterly drained and she looked up in confusion as Hillian Fogle assumed her human shape once more.

"I'm one of you now," Jennet breathed. "There's nothing left for me here."

Hillian beamed at her. "Again I do welcome you, sister," she said. "You have done your work well. The coven of the Black Sceptre has a new and loyal disciple."

Pear gave Jennet a joyful hug. "I told you we'd be sisters," she sighed. "Don't worry—you'll forget this, I promise. The nightmares do end—I know. Oh, there's some nasty scratches down your neck here, do they hurt? They look deep and painful."

"Your brother did not die without protest, I see," Hillian commented, then she instructed Pear to take care of her and regarded the fishmonkey sternly.

"So," she declared, "our part of the bargain has been kept. It is the turn of your master now to be fulfilling his half. He must not betray us!"

"Fear not, bride of Crozier," the creature answered. "The Allpowerful doth intend to reward thee. Let us repair to the place appointed."

Hillian removed the monster from her shoulder and he suffered to be covered in the cloth once more as the witch hounds melted back into their ordinary selves and headed for the alleyway.

"Hillian!" Meta called, running after her. "That old hag is still alive in there—she might yet cause difficulties."

The owner of the curio shop glanced back at the cottage. "Then she must die," she uttered calmly.

"Elizabeth! See to it this instant, then join us as swift as you can!"

Liz looked at her rebelliously. "But Nathaniel!" she whined in protest. "I don't want to miss..."

"At once!" Hillian demanded. "Obey me or you shall never set eyes on him again!"

The timid woman gave a fearful nod then bounded towards the cottage, and as she ran her face transformed to its previous half state. Snarling, the witch hound stormed through the open door and went ravaging up the stairs.

***

Tarr placed his hand on his granddaughter's forehead and withdrew it hastily.

"The lass is burnin'," he mumbled dismally.

Old Parry dipped a rag into a bowl of cold water and dabbed it over Nelda's brow.

"She'm fadin'," the crone observed. "Won't see the night out. I've seen it afore—too many times."

Tarr staggered to the entrance of the cave and smote the rocky wall with his fist.

Since the setting of the sun, Nelda's condition had declined rapidly. Her temperature soared, racing to an unbelievable heat, and the fevered brain of the young aufwader began to deceive her senses with fanciful and rambling delusions.

Visions of the mother she had never seen drifted before her misted eyes until they were dashed by the wrath of the sea, and then her late aunt was sitting by her side.

Perched upon her head was the familiar battered oilskin hat, and jammed about her waist that ridiculous cork lifebelt. In the shadow of the hat's brim her large eyes glittered kindly and a gentle smile broke over the pickled walnut face as she looked at her niece. "Take heart, Little One," she whispered, "you'll be with us soon."

"Hesper!" Nelda mumbled deliriously as the vision shimmered. "Have you come for me?"

Old Parry's face twitched and grimaced. "Garn, Shrimp!" she huffed. "Now she thinks I'm yer daughter!"

With his spirit broken, Tarr gave Nelda a woebegone glance and, unable to stand the sight of her distress any longer, he shambled from the cave and into the night.

"He were always squeamish," Parry snorted. "Menfolk—ain't got the stomach for watchin' on death!" and she nibbled a morsel of salted fish appreciatively.

A jet black darkness had engulfed the shore below the cliffs and the creeping tide was invisible as it moved stealthily over the rocks.

Desolate and crushed beyond endurance, Tarr limped down towards the water's edge then fell to his knees. His racking sobs squalled over the sea while behind him, emerging from their caves, came the rest of the fisherfolk.

In sombre silence they watched their leader lamenting and heard his keening wails float on the heavy air. Then, one by one, they trailed down to join him at the brink of the rolling, sable waves.

Upon the horizon a jagged streak of brilliance suddenly lit sky and sea and a peal of distant thunder rumbled ominously. For an instant the crowd of aufwaders were caught in the stark glare, then everything was swallowed by the darkness once more.

Yet the remote brewing storm mounted steadily and bolts of energy crackled from the troubled heavens. Assembled about Tarr, the tribe lifted their weary faces and felt the wind turn as rumour of the tempest spread inland. Long, shell-entwined hair stirred in the growing, buffeting breeze and the languorous waves began to race over the flat rocks of the shore.

Stricken with grief, Tarr wept for Nelda and her unborn child until his eyes were stinging. Then as the thunder roared closer he raised his ashen face and his anger flared within him.

"Growl all tha can!" he bawled, shaking his fist at the lightning. "Ah know it's tha in theer. Showing off agin, are tha? Well, it don't impress me. Come on—blast me yer divils!

"Narr!" he ranted. "It's the lass that tha's come fer! Her an' her bairn—well, she'm almost ready! Not much time left to them!"

Clambering to his feet, he turned bitterly to the tribe and roared in a voice to match and challenge the thunder. "Bring out the black boat!" he boomed. "An' bear my Nelda out here also. I want them three nazards to see what they've done to her! I want them to look on her agonies and hear them fretful screams. If theer's any shame in them sour hearts then I hope it burns 'em. Stir thesselves! Get her, I says!"

The fisherfolk looked at one another doubtfully, then as one they hurried to obey him.

***

With her claws raking over the flowered wallpaper and scoring deep tracks in the plaster beneath, the grotesque witch hound climbed the shadow-filled stairs of Miss Boston's cottage.

Her nostrils gaped as she savoured the scintillating fragrance of fear that still hung on the air, and on to the landing the apparition stepped.

One old woman was an easy and boring kill, and in this daunting form Liz expected no retaliation from the irritating nuisance. A swift slash with the claws across the throat and the job would be done and she could hasten after the others to greet him. It was all too incredible and fantastic, but that night she would look on his features again, hear his voice—perhaps even feel his embrace.

Desperate for that yearned-for moment, she threw open the bedroom door and with a smack of her talons, the obstructing dressing table beyond was hurled against the wall.

"Don't you believe in knocking?" called a peremptory voice.

The witch-hound snapped her jaws and her eyes gleamed in the gloom, then suddenly the light was switched on and a startling figure leapt before her.

There, robustly weaving her walking stick through the air as though it were a sword—was Miss Boston.

The old lady's countenance was grave and fierce and she lashed the weapon expertly from side to side.

A raging growl bubbled up from the witch hound's throat as she stared at the idiotic spectacle, and tensing her muscles, she prepared to spring.

"On guard!" Miss Boston yelled, hopping forward and striking the fiend's snout with the stick.

Liz barked in outraged amazement that anyone could be so stupid.

"Ho, ho!" Miss Boston cried, swiping the stick across her opponent's leg. "Nice doggy want some exercise?"

Enraged, the beast snarled and lunged violently at her. Miss Boston threw up her weapon to defend herself and deflected the ripping claws.

"Come on!" she taunted, thwacking Liz on the head. "I'm only a feeble old woman!"

Driven berserk by this infuriating torment, the witch-hound roared and charged at her. The two clashed brutally, toppling against the wardrobe, and after the briefest of struggles Miss Boston was thrown to the ground.

Down swooped the rapacious jaws, snapping for the ample folds of skin around Miss Boston's neck.

But the old lady was not beaten yet. Fumbling with her hands, she strained to reach a bottle that had fallen from the dressing table, and just as the long teeth came to rip out her throat she seized the perfume and sprayed it right into the witch hound's face.

Yowling, Liz reared back and clawed at her burning eyes. Immediately Miss Boston scrambled to her feet, and snatching up a vase from the window ledge, brought it smashing down upon the creature's skull.

Her attacker let out a frightful shriek of pain, but was not defeated and the blood which trickled down her muzzle served only to enrage her all the more. With the murderous glow from her shining eyes casting a hellish light upon the old lady, Liz rose and flew at her.

But Miss Boston had already reached beneath the bed and with a tremendous "CLANG!" struck the witch hound with a large porcelain vessel that sent her reeling across the room.

"One for the pot!" Aunt Alice yelled, unable to resist the unforgivable remark.

A feeble groan burbled from Liz's canine lips as she tried to raise her head, but a mass of black stars was crowding around her and she collapsed senseless to the floor.

"Pity," Miss Boston announced, rolling the figure over with a shove of her shoe, "I was just getting into my stride!" And she whirled the walking stick two or three times, thrusting and parrying and feeling mightily pleased with herself.

Stepping over the unconscious Liz, the old lady gazed sorrowfully at the corner of the room where a glistening heap of gore was spreading over the carpet.

"Tragic," she muttered. "If only I could have prevented it."

Turning aside, she waddled to the wardrobe and rapped three times on the door.

"It's all right," she promised. "You can come out now."

The wardrobe creaked open and a frightened face peered out at her.

"Was it too stuffy in there for you, dear?" she inquired. "I'm most awfully sorry but I knew those wretches would send someone in for me. I do hope you weren't too alarmed when we slammed into the door."

Grinning cheekily, she helped Ben out from amongst her clothes and the boy stared at the witch-hound on the floor.

"Is she dead?" he asked doubtfully.

"Good Lord no!" Aunt Alice returned. "But I think she might have distemper and also a touch of mange by the look of her. Still, it'll be a long time before she feels up to going for a walky."

Ben shifted his attention to the bloody corpse in the corner but Miss Boston clucked and told him that he could mourn for Eurydice later.

"A most marvellous feline," she commented. "I'm beginning to understand what Tilly Droon saw in the species. Was it really sheer fright that made Eurydice jump out like that and scratch your sister's face or did she indeed sacrifice herself for you? I don't suppose we shall ever know. It cost the unfortunate animal her life, but otherwise Jennet would never have been jolted from their influence. Come, we must make haste; the coven have still got your sister and I'm going after them. Pass me that cloak please, Benjamin. Goodness knows the girl must be terrified. Is the amulet secure around your neck?"

Ben fingered the pendant that Irl had given to Aunt Alice and nodded.

"Good," she said, throwing her tweed cloak over her shoulders. "Now we haven't a moment to lose; the herald warned me that its power to conceal you from the Deep Ones and their agents does not last long."

Striding towards the door, she paused to look at the walking stick in her hand and with a hearty, jubilant chuckle cried, "I don't think I need you any more!" and she hung it on the door handle before marching determinedly down the stairs.

"But how do you know where they've taken Jen?" Ben called.

"There's only one place that'll do for their hellish purpose this night!" she answered, hurrying through the wreckage of the hallway. "Come on, child—to the Abbey!"

13 - Born In The Fires

Black, blanketing clouds had coursed in from the sea, covering the face of heaven and pressing low over the cliffs of Whitby—heralding the approaching storm.

The first fine drops of rain drizzled from the midnight sky but the brash wind scattered and whisked the mizzling shower, hurling it wildly about the crumbling dignity of the ancient Abbey ruins.

The grounds of the holy, broken building had been locked at six, many hours ago, but above the noise of the gusting wind a sharp metallic snap echoed over the Abbey plain as chains were cut and padlocks forced. In the darkness the gates hung from their hinges and the breathless, impatient intruders passed through, smashing the doors of the shop beyond and hurrying out on to the wet grass.

High above the anxious figures of the coven, the imposing majesty of the Abbey rose. Dipped in the unlit gloom of the greedy dark it seemed a boundless place without end. The gothic arches curved far into the weeping night and the weathered columns of the nave and south transept merged with the looming clouds.

Still holding on to Pear, Jennet staggered through the teeming blackness, staring timidly at the shadow-filled shapes that reared around her. The corroded stonework took on a sinister aspect as if indistinct forms lurked within deep recesses and watched her with resentful eyes—incensed at this disturbance.

In zealous, craving whispers, the witches spoke of their longing and Jennet could sense that Pear too was captivated and ached for the culmination of their dreams.

Squawking amidst the voracious babble, the cracked voice of the fishmonkey directed them behind the majestic ruins. Between the truncated pillars of the presbytery and over the excavations of shallow graves, the coven proceeded eagerly.

With the great eastern window rising behind them, they hurried to where a large, dark pool stretched into the farmland beyond, and gathering in avid anticipation at the water's edge, their yearning faces gazed at it covetously.

In former times the monks had fished there, but since the Dissolution the pond had diminished and now only the neighbouring cows visited the marshy banks.

The surface of the black water sizzled and spat as the rain pelted from the turbulent heavens, and with an exulting cry, Hillian Fogle raised the fishmonkey over her head.

"Hear me!" she yelled. "The Coven of the Black Sceptre has done its work! The boy threat is no more! Our part in the bargain has been kept—now bestow upon us that which was promised!"

The mummified creature in her hands lifted its head and with a screech called to his master. "Lord!" he squealed. "The followers of thine agent have in truth succeeded. Draw aside the curtain of Death—send back the one they worship!"

Jennet shook with nerves as the witches held their breath and the atmosphere became tense and charged with feverish excitement. The rain had bedraggled them, but the girl noticed that Meta was already grooming her dripping hair for when their beloved returned.

A branching fork of lightning suddenly split the night and the Abbey flared beneath it as an almighty burst of thunder blasted over the cliff.

The plain trembled and at Jennet's side, Pear gave a glad shout. "It's started!" she cried. "Look!"

The surface of the pool was shimmering. As the lightning crackled overheard, and before the coven's adoring eyes, a faint glow flickered about the muddy banks and smouldering wisps of smoke curled up into the drizzle.

"Send him forth!" the fishmonkey squealed, madly waving his puny arms. "Knit again the sinew and clothe the unclean spirit in the raiment of flesh so that he might live again!"

Abruptly, a tongue of green flame leapt from the water, and with a flurry of sparks the pond ignited. The lurid glare of the emerald fires shone over the witches' faces and they began to mutter their high priest's name.

"Nathaniel," they hissed, "Come to us! Come to us!"

The flames danced in Meta's captivating eyes and she felt a delicious joy burn within her breast, nourishing and sustaining her very soul. He would soon be with her again and the very thought of his rapturous presence flushed shivers of exquisite pleasure down her spine.

"My love," she murmured lustily, "return to me."

Dazzling flames blazed furiously over the water, leaping ever higher and spiralling round, forming a twisting pinnacle of light that roared upwards. High above the cliff the shining beacon of green fire soared, spiking up past the ruined Abbey and piercing the seething clouds.

With a deafening clap of thunder, the towering flames stabbed into the heart of the storm and for an instant blinding needles of snaking energy illuminated the whole sky as they radiated through the tormented night.

Her face uplifted to the dazzling and frightening spectacle, Jennet stared as the massive clouds pulsed and throbbed and the booming roar of the sea trumpeted around her.

"It's fantastic!" Pear bawled. "Oh Jennet, it's actually happening—I'll see him again!"

Within the rearing coils of flame a shape was forming. Steadily it grew and Jennet's mouth fell open as a familiar silhouette began to stir in the whirling furnace.

Surrounded by the life-giving fires stood the figure of a man, and from the mouth of each witch issued a sensual and joyous breath.

Pear's attention was fixed solely upon the face now forming in the rippling flames and she stepped forward, disregarding the fierce heats of the fire. Into the fizzling mud she trod, opening her arms in greeting, and her wet clothes steamed before the blistering column of light.

"Father!" she called. "Father!"

Behind her, Jennet shielded her eyes from the harsh glare, then the cliff shook as a mighty clap of thunder resounded from the sky.

At once the flames dwindled and sank back into the pool and the plain plummeted into darkness.

Incredulously, and as a tempest of confused emotions curdled inside her, Jennet stared at the figure that was standing knee deep in the black water.

The most evil and callous outcast from virtuous humanity inhaled the damp air of the summer night and tilted his head arrogantly as a triumphant smirk spread across his bearded face.

Nathaniel Crozier, warlock, High Priest of the Black Sceptre and destroyer of vulnerable souls, appeared exactly the same as when Jennet had last seen him.

Glinting in the deep shadows beneath his brows, the sparkling, raven eyes glittered at each of his motley brides and a venomous chuckle left his lips.

"Father!" Pear sang, floundering through the water to meet him.

"Persephone," his compelling voice declared, "come to me my little succubus! Let all my hellhounds come to me!"

His command jolted the other women from their blissful amazement and with shrill, intoxicated whoops they splashed into the pool to touch and embrace the lord of their lives.

"Nathaniel!" they cooed, pawing at him, vying with each other and grovelling in the mud to gain his attention, "Praise to you!"

Clinging to his waist, Gilly Neugent gazed up at her reason for living, but he ignored her completely and she loved him all the more.

Fighting the others to reach the warlock, Meta threw her arms about his neck and kissed him fiercely.

"Choose me tonight!" she pleaded in his ear. "Let me serve you."

An irritated sneer curled over the mouth of the reborn fiend and he shrugged her off coldly, gazing past the desperate women at the two figures who had remained on the bank.

With the fishmonkey still in her arms, Hillian bowed to her high priest.

"Hail to you—darling man," she called breathlessly. "My heart is alongside itself with cheer. The road to this much happy moment was fraught with many dangers. Alas, we did lose Susannah and Miriam but to venerate you again is worth a thousand deaths."

Nathaniel's teeth flashed as he grinned. "Bravo, Hillian," he thanked her. "You have proven yourself the most worthy of all my cattle. To you will the ring of amethyst go—you shall be priestess over them. Together we will accomplish much."

Meta threw the plump, bespectacled woman a despising glance but the decision had been made and she pulled at his frayed jacket, trying to make him look at her.

"Enough!" Nathaniel icily demanded and immediately the witches recoiled as he began trudging through the water towards the marshy bank.

In the new priestess's arms, the shrivelled fishmonkey raised its webbed claws in salute.

"Thus hath my master fulfilled his portion," he shrieked. "The bargain is complete. Behold the might of the Allpowerful, his strength reaches unto the very shores of the hollow void."

Nathaniel gazed at the ugly creature in disdain and said in a cold and deadly warning, "No one—no man, woman, demon or god—uses me, not even the Lord of the Frozen Wastes!"

"Disclose not his exalted name!" the fishmonkey screeched. "There are many spies eager to hear it!"

"What do I care?" the warlock spat defiantly. "It was my will that controlled the great serpent and I shall do so again. Then let the Triad quake! I shall repay the Lord of the Frozen Wastes for using me—his repentance will be sung unto the furthest reaches of heaven!"

The creature gnashed its teeth and flapped its arms as it squawked in protest. "Twice now thou hast uttered that name. Desist from this folly—or we are all damned!"

Nathaniel ignored the ranting curiosity and his roving eyes glared into the gloom.

"What's this?" he murmured. "Are our ranks increased by a further member?"

His penetrating stare pierced the shadows where Jennet stood rooted with fear and his malevolent power cut into her.

The girl wilted before the intensity of those horrible eyes—yet at the same time a glorious thrill tingled in her heart.

"Janet," the leering man said in velvety scorn, "has the lamb finally come to wear the wolf's mantle? You ought to have embraced me long ago, child—I invited you to, remember?"

Unable to speak, she nodded faintly and swayed with uncertainty as her head pounded. She knew that she hated this foul and hideous man but could not recall why. He seemed so enchanting and charming and she felt the necklace grip her throat as her old devotion to him awakened and welled up in her breast.

In Hillian's arms, a puzzled frown stole over the fishmonkey's grotesque face and the creature stretched out a weedy arm in the direction of the town as it muttered vexedly under its stale breath.

Leaping from the water, Pear rushed to Nathaniel's side and cried joyously, "This is my friend, Jennet. She's one of us now, Father. Without the sacrifice she made you would never have been returned to us."

"Then I have much to thank her for," Nathaniel purred. "You have redeemed me from a most ignoble end, my little maiden. Won't you embrace me now and seal your fate with us?"

Jennet made to rush at him. All she wanted was to feel his caresses—nothing else mattered in the whole world. Then the voice of the fishmonkey sliced through her insane longing.

"WAIT!" he screamed, writhing madly in Hillian's grasp. "All is not as it should be—there are forces at work here. I feel them beating out a charm of concealment and blindness, yet even now they fail. The shadows they weave are dispersing—Ahhh! I have been cheated and deceived! The threat to my master is alive!"

Turning his ferocious face to Nathaniel, the fishmonkey clawed the air and screeched, "HE LIVES! The boy is not dead!"

The power of Irl's amulet had waned at last.

"Treachery!" the fishmonkey raged. "The Allpowerful has been betrayed!" He twisted his hump-backed body to stare accusingly at Jennet and pointed a menacing claw at her. "Thou hast done this!" he shrieked. "The lies did pour off thy poisonous tongue! This duplicitous wretch did murder no one! Her reviled brother still breathes! What dissembling guile is born in humankind!"

Jennet swallowed nervously as the coven stared banefully in her direction while the mummified creature ranted and squealed with outrage and fury.

Before her, Nathaniel's harsh eyes narrowed and she shivered in the malignance that beat out from them.

"It isn't true!" Pear shouted, springing to the girl's defence. "Father, Jennet did kill him, there was blood—we all heard the scream. Jennet, tell them."

But Jennet could say nothing and the witches drew closer around her.

"Unwise was my master to put his faith in such as you!" the fishmonkey cried at them. "So much for thy boastful claims, high priest. Thy feeble conjurations are not even capable of dominating one wilful child! What over-reaching hope hadst thou of being the governing force behind Morgawrus?"

"Be silent!" Nathaniel demanded.

But the creature would not be stilled, "Verily did the Allpowerful overvalue thy vaunted abilities a thousandfold! Thou art as sand on the shore, a witless fool amongst moon-calved mortals!"

Nathaniel bared his teeth at the fishmonkey then turned on Jennet and struck her viciously.

Wailing, she clutched her stinging face and Nathaniel reared over her.

"You pathetic idiot!" he growled. "You jeopardised the entire bargain! I might have been locked in the abyss for eternity!"

Furiously he spun on the fishmonkey and in a horrible voice proclaimed, "This is how I deal with the disloyal and faithless!"

"Father!" Pear cried, hanging on his arm. "No! Don't—Jennet's my friend!"

The warlock brushed his daughter off. "Be still, Persephone!" he roared. "You have no need of this wretch—she is not a member of our 'family'!"

Pear fell back, her eyes filling with bitter tears.

"Now," Nathaniel hissed at Jennet, "step forward!"

At first the girl refused and cringed away from him, but then as his eyes burned away her will she lurched over the sopping grass.

The warlock gave a brutal smile. "Now kneel," he commanded.

Jennet wept as she fell into the mud and prostrated herself before him.

The other members of the coven giggled in ghastly amusement at her humiliation. Meta tossed her head and hooted too loudly as usual, but with her cheeks streaming with pitying tears, Pear turned away.

"Now you shall see how Morgawrus would have submitted to me even as this child has done," Nathaniel declaimed, "for I am a master of control and my will reaches out into the innermost depths of the mind. See how easy it is to dominate! The girl is powerless to resist, she must obey me and so shall she die! Meta—give me your athame!"

The woman unfastened the ceremonial dagger at her waist, and with a sickening flutter of her lashes that made Pear's stomach heave, she handed it over.

Nathaniel snatched it roughly then dangled the blade before Jennet's face.

"See the bright steel!" he murmured. "Take it in your hands and put the blade against your ribs."

Pear shuddered as her friend received the dagger and silently pressed the point to her chest.

"And so shall the serpent be mine," the warlock boasted. "Now, dear little Janet, push the blade in."

The girl gripped the handle tightly.

"STOP!" bellowed a fierce voice behind her.

Jennet wavered as Nathaniel glared beyond her to where two figures came charging from the shadows of the Abbey.

A wooden smile lit the warlock's face as he recognised Alice Boston and the boy at her side.

Fuming indignantly, the old lady raced up to the girl and knocked the dagger from her grasp. The blade spun in the air then speared harmlessly into the mud.

"The boy!" shrieked the fishmonkey furiously. '"Tis he—destroy the whelp! Kill the maggot!"

Ben eyed the creature in disgust and kept close to Aunt Alice as she tried to rouse his sister from Nathaniel's power.

"Jennet!" Miss Boston cried, peering into the girl's eyes and shaking her. "You're safe now—return to us!"

A low, mocking chortle came from Nathaniel as he regarded his old adversary with undisguised scorn. "Well, well," he muttered. "Still interfering and tampering in schemes too great for you? You're wasting your time with her, you know—she's besotted with me. Once they've tasted my charm, my dainties can't escape."

Miss Boston scowled at him. "What devilment is this?" she stormed, undaunted. "I saw you perish before the might of Morgawrus! The world was a gladder place for your passing—creep back into your unholy grave! You and your infernal brood ought to be wiped from this earth, damn you all! This has gone on for far too long—I won't permit it to continue a second longer! Jennet, in the Name of the Father I release you!"

Aunt Alice's hands grabbed the wooden beads at the child's throat and with a strenuous yell, she tore them free.

Jennet fell against her as the warlock's influence was wrenched away, then she cried out and cowered from him in terror.

Miss Boston patted her mud-clogged hair. "Don't you worry," she consoled, "he can't get at you now—his dominion over you is gone forever."

Behind Nathaniel the coven murmured at this unheard of defiance and the fishmonkey cackled shrilly.

"A sorry display hath this demonstration been thus far!" it squealed. "Slit the boy's throat and be done—these others are unimportant."

The look on the warlock's face equalled the grotesque ugliness of the fishmonkey. The old lady and the girl had made him look inept and his wrath boiled behind those glittering eyes.

"That was the last time," he rumbled, "the last time you meddle in my affairs. The hour of your death is long overdue, harridan! I will take great pleasure in settling that account."

Raising his hand he pointed at Miss Boston and the children, but she gave an impudent laugh and reached swiftly into her cloak.

Into the driving rain she flourished the tattered pages of the Book of Shadows and, as a crackling spiral of lethal magic came battering from Nathaniel's outstretched fingers, she held it before her like a shield.

The loose binding melted under the savage attack, Aunt Alice stumbled backwards from the terrible forces that blasted against the book and black sparks flew in all directions. The lifetime's work of Patricia Gunning was burning in her hands; all the spells of healing were devoured, the blessed formulae were rapaciously consumed and, with a pitiful splutter like a damp firework, the charms and incantations fizzled and were quenched.

Miss Boston sucked her cheeks in worriedly then, shouting out a string of Latin words, flung the dissolving volume straight at the warlock's head.

In a blinding explosion of silver fire, the Book of Shadows erupted and a ball of brilliant flame cannoned into Nathaniel Crozier, dazzling and singeing his eyes. Then, as the fiery stars sputtered and perished, he stared at the place where the old hag had stood. Both she and the children had vanished.

Wintry hatred froze on the warlock's face and the fishmonkey screeched its derision.

"It was but the simplest of conjuror's tricks!" the creature bawled. "The crone is already escaping from this place and heading for the Abbey steps. Stop her and bring the boy child to me before it is too late—my master's wrath increases."

Nathaniel snatched the ceremonial dagger from the ground and gave it to Meta.

"Get after them," he snarled. "I don't care what you do—just kill them all."

The golden-haired woman brandished the knife proudly and with a lingering look at her beloved, raced through the ruins.

"Meta!" Pear shouted in dismay. "No!"

"Persephone!" Nathaniel barked, but the girl was already tearing after her mother.

In Hillian's arms the fishmonkey waggled its repulsive head and, in a condemning tone, muttered, "Thou hast failed, thou and thy rabble have reneged on the bargain. Thy part has not been honoured, the boy lives still."

"Not for much longer!" the warlock retorted vehemently. "Meta excels as an assassin."

"Empty words," the wizened creature denounced. "Too often hath much been promised and all for naught. Thou wert given new life, yet you have dared cheat the Allpowerful."

Nathaniel had heard enough from the ugly monster and made no reply. Instead, Hillian gazed at the deformed object in her hands and laughed dismissively.

"What matter is that to us now?" she scoffed. "The Lord of the Frozen Wastes has given us our High Priest—that is all we ever wanted. I pray the boy does indeed grow to bring about the demise of the Lord of the Frozen Wastes. I am sick to my teeth of his demands and your constant puling squeaks!"

The fishmonkey glared up at her, then with a raging screech it wrested free of her grasp and launched itself upwards, shrieking in a frenzy of hate.

Hillian's spectacles were thrown to the ground as the webbed claws tore into her flesh and the witch screamed in alarm and pain.

Gouging deep into her skin, the creature squawked and slashed out bloody rents. "A curse on the day thou wert contacted!" it cried. "Thou hast used my master for thine own ends—fie on you, Drab of the East!"

The needle-like teeth lunged for Hillian's neck but they snapped only the rain as Nathaniel dragged it from her and threw it to the ground.

"I think we can dispense of your services now," he muttered in a threatening voice filled with menace.

The fishmonkey wormed and bolted through the mud, dragging itself by its emaciated arms, but Nathaniel came stomping after and with a vile laugh he brought his foot fiercely down upon the creature's humped and bony back.

A piercing squeal blared from the gaping mouth as the brittle body shattered and the scaly, papery skin burst into a flurry of tiny fragments.

"Master!" it gibbered, writhing and twisting like a headless snake.

Grinning, Nathaniel crushed the creature's limbs, snapping the bones until they hung pathetically from the shoulders, twitching helplessly. Above the splintered remains of its misshapen body, the domed head gasped its last and the yellow eyes stared balefully upwards.

"Dost thou... thou truly believe..?" the servant of the deep rasped, "Didst thou think my... my mighty Lord would be so... so unwise?"

The light dimmed behind the eyes but the fishmonkey managed a final sneer and with a cackle gurgling in its broken neck, scorned Nathaniel and the rest of the coven with consummate loathing.

"No... no trust did he have in thee and thine!" it wheezed. "Ha! The Lord of the Frozen Wastes shall not be chea..."

The ugly head rolled to one side and the flimsy eyelids closed as a rattling breath groaned from the gawping mouth.

Nathaniel kicked the shattered fragments aside and turned to the others. The witches had gathered about Hillian, who was whimpering from the agonies that seared her flesh.

"My face!" she howled. "My face!"

From the ragged wounds her blood was flowing freely but the warlock looked at her without compassion. "Be quiet," he rebuked. "The scars will heal—I didn't recruit you for your beauty."

Obediently Hillian stifled her cries and the others stood away from her.

"Time to leave this place," he snorted. "Heel!"

The witches trailed after him but suddenly the night was torn asunder as a blinding bolt of lightning forked from the churning clouds and flashed over the surface of the pool behind them.

For a brief moment a layer of livid flame blasted across the dark water, and when it dispersed and only the smouldering gloom remained, Nathaniel stared back suspiciously.

"Miserable weather for such a long-awaited reunion," observed a pert, arch voice.

The warlock stepped forward and his face fell.

From the rain-splashed water a figure was rising. Her short, strawberry-blonde hair was held back by a black band, accentuating her fine-boned features, and a seductive smile played over her thin lips.

Dumbfounded, Nathaniel stared at the newcomer, whilst around him the witches muttered in surprise and through her bloody tears Hillian felt her new position as priestess slip hopelessly away from her.

The woman in the pool stretched her lithe frame and straightened the black robes that covered her. Then she gazed steadily at her speechless husband and with a mocking, girlish laugh, asked, "Have you nothing to say, darling Nathan? Am I so unwelcome?"

"Roselyn!" the warlock growled, his rising anger dispelling all bewilderment. "Why are you here?"

Wading through the pool, with her garment billowing around her, the woman who had lived in Whitby as Rowena Cooper spoke in soft, treacherous tones and her face was wreathed in a dangerous, deceitful grin.

"Surely you must know by now," she murmured darkly, "that wherever you go, my dearest heart's blood, your wife must follow. I too have torn through the veil! We are united at last!" And she strode stealthily towards the bank, with faint derisive laughter trickling from her lips.

***

Down the one hundred and ninety-nine steps the children and Aunt Alice tore. The driving rain pelted in their faces and over the wet, slippery stairs they slithered and scrambled. Far below them the drenched rooftops of the town glistened and the streets rippled like rivers as the rushing deluge gushed from the drain-pipes and flowed over the cobbles.

Clinging to the dripping handrail, Ben hurried as fast as the perilous, glass-like steps allowed, while just behind, Aunt Alice lumbered with Jennet still clutching on to her cloak.

"Hurry," the boy called, too busy concentrating on the hazardous way to turn around. "They'll be coming after us!"

"Come along, Jennet!" Miss Boston cried. "Exert yourself, child!"

Still in shock, the girl blundered aimlessly after her. Half stumbling, half falling, she was beyond caring what would happen to them. The loss of the necklace and Nathaniel's malevolent influence had left a ghastly hole inside her. It was as if she had suffered a tragic wounding that left her bereft and empty within.

"We're not even halfway down!" Aunt Alice blustered, pulling her by the hand. "Quickly!"

Jennet skidded to a defeated standstill and leaned heavily against the rail. "I can't," she protested wearily, "there's no point."

"No point?" Aunt Alice repeated furiously. "At any moment that devil and his harpies will come charging after us!"

"I don't care," the girl insisted. "Can't you see? I've had enough—I just want it to end."

Miss Boston gripped Jennet's muddy uniform and scolded her furiously. "You listen to me, madam!" she cried. "It's time you stopped thinking about yourself! Was there ever such an ungrateful and selfish child?"

Jennet flinched before Aunt Alice's withering scorn, but before she could respond the old lady pointed down to where Ben's sopping figure was hastily descending.

"Look at him!" she rapped. "Your brother needs you—he always has. Are you going to abandon him now? If we escape this night there are worse dangers in the world."

Jennet blinked the rain from her lashes, and as she listened to Aunt Alice's tirade she began to emerge from the apathy that the shock had wrought.

"Ben!" she called suddenly. "Wait for us!"

The girl darted down the steps and a pleased grin lit Miss Boston's face as she hurried after.

At the summit of the Abbey steps two points of hellish light shone in the darkness, glaring through the slanting rain at the three figures fleeing below. With a wild snarl, Meta tucked the dagger into her belt as her jaws trembled and formed a ravaging snout.

The witch-hound's golden hair streamed behind her as she bounded in pursuit. Her elegant hands tapered into bitter talons and she dragged the sharpest claw over the railing until the metal squealed and screeched.

Nearing the bottom, Miss Boston and the children heard the dreadful clamour and they glanced hurriedly upwards.

"Meta!" Jennet exclaimed.

The frightful squealing grew louder as the misshapen woman raced towards them. Her gleaming eyes blazed with malice and hatred, and from her transformed head she let loose a terrible, bestial shriek.

"Quick!" Aunt Alice shouted. "Don't turn round, don't look at her. We still have a chance."

Baying into the squalling night, the witch-hound chased her prey. Galloping like a gusting wind, she could smell their fear, and the scent heated her blood as the savage side took absolute control and she slobbered with evil greed.

In some remote region of her barbaric mind a familiar voice called her human name—but it was too late now.

Coarse fur was already bristling down her neck as her hair shrank into her skull and her claws came clattering over the stone. In a tangled knot of cheesecloth and cotton, her clothes were cast aside and on all fours Meta stampeded down.

Hearing the awful yammering blare behind them, Miss Boston and the children flew into Henrietta Street and the old lady threw herself against the door of the nearest house.

"Help!" she bawled, hammering with her fists. "Open up! Help us!"

Holding on to her brother, Jennet turned as the great black hound with fiery eyes came leaping and she screamed in terror.

"Open up!" Aunt Alice demanded, punching and kicking the front door.

Ben heard the muffled sound of footsteps within the house and the lock turned, but his attention was fixed upon the monstrous creature which came prowling towards them. The great jaws lolled open and a row of jagged teeth were revealed as the lips curled and the hideous beast uttered a guttural growl.

Abruptly the front door opened a chink and an irritated man peered out at them. But his face fell as he beheld the fiendish hound and with a scared whimper of panic he slammed the door again and drew the bolt across.

"Wait!" Miss Boston trumpeted. "You must help us!"

Closer to the doorway the huge dog stalked and the hot breath steamed from its flaring nostrils.

Cornered, Aunt Alice turned to face it, pulling the children behind her.

"Begone from this place!" she commanded, but her voice was thin and woeful and the infernal eyes became evil slits as the muscles tensed and the hell hound crouched, preparing to spring.

"Meta!" a voice cried anxiously. "Stop!"

Hurtling down the one hundred and ninety-nine steps came Pear. In her hands she clutched a bundle of clothing and she scurried over frantically, just as the immense apparition flew snapping at Miss Boston.

"No!" Pear yelled, snatching hold of the wooden beads about the dog's neck.

With a throttled yelp, the creature was dragged off balance and went toppling to the ground, tearing its claws over the cobbles. Still gripping the necklace, Pear was hauled after and for several confused moments they were a tangle of legs and talons.

The beast's powerful limbs raked the air and, mad with rage, it struggled back to its feet, gnashing its terrible jaws and twisting from side to side, trying to bite the hand which held grimly to the beads.

"No, Meta!" Pear shouted, heaving on the thread until the brute choked and the burning eyes bulged. "The killing must stop!"

Quickly she stuffed the clothes into the gaping maw, glanced at the huddled figures on the doorstep, and with a desperate plea to Jennet cried, "I might not be able to hold her—fly now! Go to your aufwader friends! Don't worry about me!"

Miss Boston needed no further prompting and she and Ben jumped from the step then headed for the shore.

Jennet hesitated before following. The two girls stared at one another. "Thank you," she said.

Pear opened her mouth to speak but an almighty yowl issued from the hound's jaws as it spat the gagging cloth on to the floor and the animal brought its teeth snapping for her arm.

"Meta!" the girl shrieked. "It's me! Come back! Meta, come back!"

Snatching up the cheesecloth dress, she threw it over the brute's head, and as it strained and scrabbled for release she called her mother's name. The hackles beneath the necklace became a rich golden colour and the sprouting hair flowed finely through Pear's fingers as the glare faded in the monster's eyes.

The witch-girl looked up from the dwindling form but the street was empty. Jennet had run after the others and with an aching heart she watched as her mother assumed her human shape.

Naked in the pouring rain, Meta grabbed her wet clothes then struck her daughter angrily.

"You little fool!" she yelled. "I had them!"

Pear touched her smarting cheek gingerly and winced at the pain. "But it's wrong!" she answered. "All this is wrong!"

"Quiet!" Meta roared, slapping her a second time. "Do you want the others to know about this? Do you know what your father will do? Just because you're his daughter doesn't give you the right to disobey his demands. You know as well as I what happens to those who fail him!"

"But Jennet..." the girl wept.

Meta pushed her roughly against the wall and in a low, threatening hiss said, "If he hears of your betrayal, Nathaniel will not balk at murdering you—what will happen to me then?"

"You?" Pear sobbed. "Don't you care about me?"

Her mother leered and spat on the ground. "You'll endure an eternity of torment," she muttered, "but you'll only have yourself to blame. You know what he's capable of—how he delights in torture. Why didn't you think of that before you let those wretches go?"

Pear sank to her knees. "What can I do?" she blubbered desolately.

With a cold, harsh expression malforming her beauty, the witch looked down at her. "Atone for your disobedience," she demanded, "show your devotion to the coven, let there be no doubt of your submission."

"H... how?" Pear stammered.

A severe smile snaked over Meta's face. "Complete the task he set for me," she replied forcefully. "Kill those three and we shall take their hearts to him as proof."

"No," the girl murmured.

"You will do as I say!" her mother declared, pulling her up by the hair and sliding her fingers under Pear's necklace. "Must I beat the demon out from you? Scream your rage, daughter—do your father's bidding!"

Her strident voice rang in the girl's ears and the wooden beads pressed into her skin as the tingling began and Pear let out a frightened whine.

"Don't make me!" she wailed. "Not Jennet!"

"You have no choice!" Meta barked, hitting her brutally. "Not when the primitive side has control—and I shall unleash it!"

The hellish glow welled up behind her daughter's anguish-ridden eyes and the witch sniggered horribly.

"I'll shake the beast out of you!" she snapped, but the girl was already lost as the power of change seized her. Pear's plaintive cries vanished and a chilling growl rattled in the throat of the black hound that now stood at Meta's side.

"Come, Seffy!" the witch laughed as the beast tugged impatiently on the restraining beaded collar. "Devour the enemies of your father!"

The hound bayed ferociously and together they rampaged down on to the sands.

***

Beneath the cliffs, where the rain lashed and the gale drove the white-capped waves over the shore, the tribe of aufwaders stood in a large and solemn circle.

Over the heads of the sea wives thick black shawls were draped, and from their murmuring lips they sang the dirge of the black boat.

In the centre of the lamenting circle a narrow vessel of ebony rested against the rocks. Its shapely prow pointed towards the open sea and beneath the great, fringed awning that covered the length of the craft, Nelda lay close to death.

The young aufwader moaned in distress, for the blood that pumped through her veins was gradually turning into brine and she cried in agony as it started to burn and blister inside her.

With the rain battering his uncovered head and flooding down his craggy features, Tarr stood beside her. Reaching into the black boat, his large hands closed tightly about his granddaughter's clenched fists and he watched as she drifted ever closer to that distant shore.

His grieving tears were washed and swept away by the storm and though it murdered his soul to look on Nelda's pain he could not leave her.

"Mother!" she screamed feverishly. "Forgive me! I killed you—Oh Hesper, why did I live and she did not? Speak to me, Father. What was she like? Will no one mention her name? Aaaaieee! A furnace is blazing within me! In the caverns there are eyes that watch—I cannot evade them. Is there none to save me from Esau?"

The fisherfolk hung their heads in shame and weeping. For the first time in many years, Old Parry's pitying tears overwhelmed her.

"Grandfather!" Nelda pleaded hoarsely. "Do not let them kill my baby! Spare me this doom—let me not suffer it alone!"

Despairing, Tarr clung to her, yet he could find no words to ease her torments and he gibbered impotently into the surrounding gloom.

Nelda's pinched, contorted face jerked from side to side as the brine scalded through her body and her glazed eyes saw only the void that awaited her.

Into this sorrowful scene Miss Boston and the children came blundering. Over the ledge beneath the towering footbridge they clambered, yet even as he jumped on to the boulders below, Ben let out a dismal cry.

For an instant as the gale tore the thick curtain of rain aside, the boy saw the tribe assembled around the black boat and knew that it could mean only one thing.

"Nelda," he muttered anxiously.

Aunt Alice peered at the grim tableau and caught Jennet's arm as the girl pushed on ahead of them.

"What is it?" she asked.

"The fisherfolk," Miss Boston replied sadly. "It would appear poor Nelda is dead."

"No," Ben cried and he dashed forward, barging through the crowd until he stood at Tarr's side.

In a croaking voice that was bleak with mourning the leader of the tribe uttered, "Ah knewed tha'd come, lad. She'm not gone yet but... but theer ain't long."

The proud aufwader hid his face and his burdened shoulders shook as the weight of Tarr's grief crushed him.

Ben took up Nelda's hand that Tarr had relinquished and drew a sharp breath at the heat of the burning palm.

"Nelda," he said to her, "it's me, Nelda—it's Ben."

The large eyes rolled blindly in her shrivelling face but his voice cut through the fever and she managed a desolate smile.

"Ben," she gasped, "my human friend. So you are here at the end."

"Don't say that," he sniffed.

The aufwader shuddered as the pain convulsed through her then she coughed and in a distant, wandering whisper bade him goodbye. "Don't grieve for me," she wheezed. "Remember our friendship in happier days. When we trawled the coast for the moonkelp. Do you remember that?"

"Yes, me, you and Hesper."

"Hesper, yes, she will be there waiting for me. Oh Ben, hold my hand—it's so dark—hold me please."

The boy looked down at their entwined hands and as a further spasm racked her, Nelda gripped him fiercely.

"I burn!" she wailed. "It is eating me alive! Me and my child are wasting out of existence!"

Respectfully, Miss Boston stepped forward to try to comfort Tarr, and the barren lamenting of the tribe rose around them.

Left behind, unable to witness the tragedy unfolding before her, Jennet waited uneasily. She watched as Aunt Alice consoled the empty air and saw her brother crying with his arms outstretched, but of the fisherfolk and the black boat she saw nothing.

Feeling awkward she looked away, turning her head back in the direction they had come, and a horrified breath rushed from her lips.

On the beach, loping over the sands, two figures were rapidly approaching.

Jennet stared at them in fear, then glanced quickly back to Aunt Alice and Ben. But as she opened her mouth to warn them, a strange resolve reared within her and a determined expression settled over the girl's face. Without a second thought, Jennet climbed back over the ledge and ran through the whirling rain to confront Meta and the black hound which bounded at her side.

Across the beach Jennet bolted, and holding up her hands she yelled, "Get back! Don't come any closer."

Meta pulled on the beast's collar and it barked in savage frustration as the witch slowed to a standstill.

"Patience, Seffy," Meta crooned. "Let the fool come to us."

Its eyes blazing, the hound strained to break free. But the witch held it firmly and spouts of wet sand were hurled into the air as frantic claws scrabbled to leap at the defenceless figure racing towards them.

Breathing hard, Jennet drew near and Meta chuckled loudly.

"I'm touched," she said. "You simply can't get enough of our company."

The horrific dog barked viciously, but the girl ignored it and looked the witch straight in the eye.

"It's over, Meta," she said flatly. "I'm not afraid of you or your precious Nathaniel any more."

"Then you're more stupid than I guessed," sneered the witch. "Do you know what could have been yours? Do you realise the ravishing life that you have spurned?"

It was Jennet's turn to laugh. "You're the stupid one!" she told her. "It's you who's chained to that vile man, not me. You can't see it, can you? I finally know how lucky I am. I have a real family, but that's something you'll never have."

"I have my beloved when he wants me," the witch cried, "and Pear."

Jennet glanced at the hell hound that snapped at Meta's side. "You have nothing," she said with a shake of the head.

"And neither will you," Meta retaliated, "when Seffy has torn out your brother's heart!"

The girl took a step backwards but no fear showed on her face—the coven had lost that power over her.

"I won't let you harm Ben," she said simply, "not this time—I'm his sister and I love him. I'll always be there to protect him."

"The boy must die," Meta spat, "and so must you. If you wish to make a futile gesture trying to save him, that will merely make it more... entertaining."

Jennet chuckled and an odd, confident look lit her face. "Oh, I don't know," she muttered threateningly, "you might not find my efforts so futile after all."

The witch blinked, disconcerted to see a familiar red gleam rise in the girl's eyes, and she pulled the dagger from her belt.

"I'm not the same child who idolised you and your daughter!" Jennet declared with a hard, growling edge in her voice. "And I don't need your beads to give me strength. I warn you, Meta—go back to your pathetic friends."

Meta loosened her grip on the hound's collar and paced towards Jennet, holding the glittering dagger before her.

"I'm going to relish carving you," she hissed, "and your little brother!"

Jennet let out a defiant howl. "I won't let you harm my family!" she roared and with that she sprang. As the girl leaped towards the astounded witch, her shape blurred and suddenly a monstrous, chestnut-coloured hound was in her place.

Meta screamed and stumbled backwards, pushing Pear forward.

The black dog pounced on the other and the two ferocious creatures went tumbling over the sand, locked in a fearsome duel—snapping and snarling for each other's throat.

Savagely they wrestled and lunged, their terrible jaws striking and tearing out raw clumps of flesh and fur. Into the cascading night the brutal yammering echoed and they rolled headlong in a mass of claw and muscle into the thrashing waves.

Leaping out of their frantic path, Meta watched the deadly combat anxiously. In her hand the blade glittered ready to strike, but the confused jumble of tussling hide that bayed and splashed in the water raged so violently that she could not get close enough.

"Get her, Seffy!" she shouted as they clawed back on to the shore. "Kill her!"

Beneath the cliff face, the fisherfolk lifted their faces, amazed at the dreadful clamouring uproar, and Miss Boston gazed fretfully at the place where she had left Jennet.

"No," she breathed.

Leaving Ben and the aufwaders behind her, she scurried hectically over the boulders and climbed over the concrete ledge to the beach beyond.

The terrible conflict was still churning the sands and the frenzied yowling filled the old lady with horror as she hastened towards the battling hounds.

As the snarling brutes vied with each other, Meta hopped from side to side. It was impossible to tell which of them was winning; both seemed evenly matched and the dreadful struggle bowled tempestuously around her.

Then, with a vicious snap of her huge jaws, Pear bit deeply into her opponent's flesh and Jennet yelped shrilly.

"Now!" Meta cheered, excited and enthralled by the gruesome outcome. "You've got her!"

The wounded creature fell back, whining forlornly as the other pinned it to the ground and the demonic eyes shone upon the exposed throat.

Saliva dribbled from the black snout and the teeth that were already stained with blood glistened as the lips drew back over the gums.

"Kill her, Seffy!" Meta urged, flushed with a delicious thrill. "Drink her hot blood and tear the tender meat from the bone!"

Her daughter growled menacingly at her prone, sprawling victim, but as she brought her powerful head down to rip and rend, the hellish glare dimmed in the beast's eyes.

"What are you waiting for?" Meta screeched. "Butcher her!"

Yet instead of slaughtering the other animal, the hound's pink tongue unfurled and tenderly it licked the whining dog's large brown face.

Meta shrieked in disgust. "Must I do it all myself?" she cried. "Get off, you disobedient fool!"

Harshly, she kicked Pear aside and her daughter gave a startled bark as she was pushed on to the sand.

Raising the dagger, Meta stooped over Jennet, whose glimmering eyes gazed up at her piteously. But the witch was unmoved and brought the blade swiftly down.

With a tremendous, baying cry, Pear sprang at her mother and Meta yelled in alarm as the huge black hound cannoned into her. The witch was thrown down, but in her astonishment and without realising what she was doing, the dagger plunged deep into Pear's ribs.

The witch's daughter let out an agonised howl and collapsed on top of her. A fount of blood was gushing from the horrendous puncture in the beast's furry skin and it thrashed its legs, unable to stand.

"Seffy!" Meta shouted, dragging herself out from under the writhing animal. "Seffy, get up!"

But the hound could only whimper and as she watched, its panicky struggles became increasingly laboured. With a mighty effort, the stricken beast raised its head and its outline rippled and dwindled.

Upon the blood-stained sand Pear regained her human form, but her life was ebbing away and she looked imploringly up at her mother.

Meta stared at her in horror and disbelief. "Pear," she breathed, desperately putting her arms about the girl's naked body and trying to staunch the spurting blood. "What have I done? Oh, what have I done?"

"It had to end," Pear murmured. "The killing had to stop."

"Hush," the woman wept, cradling her in her arms. "Oh Pear—oh my baby. Help me, someone—God help me!"

Around Meta's neck the string of beads broke and with her dead daughter in her arms a grotesque and hollow scream issued from the woman's lips as she felt the full torment of what she had done.

"PEEEEAAAAAAAAARRRRRR!"

Shivering on the sands close by, a cruel bite bleeding on her shoulder, Jennet felt the tortured cry cut right through her and she buried her face in her hands.

"Jennet," a gentle voice said close by, "I'm so very sorry."

The girl threw herself into Miss Boston's arms and the old lady covered her with her cloak.

"Pear!" Jennet wept. "Oh Pear!"

Aunt Alice held her tightly. "That's it," she told her, "you let it all out."

"She... she was... was... she was my friend!" the girl sobbed. "She was my best friend."

The old lady hugged her and looked sadly at Meta. The distraught woman clutched her daughter's limp body to her breast and sixteen years of wasted love came mewling from her broken heart.

"Come now," Miss Boston said gently to Jennet, "put on your clothes and we'll see to that nasty wound."

But from the direction of the cliffs Nelda cried out with pain and the old lady knew that the dangers were not yet over and that the night's sorrow was not yet complete.

14 - At The End Of All Things...

With her head cocked insolently at the coven, Rowena Cooper stepped from the dark water of the pool and cackled hideously.

"I wasn't expecting a brass band and parties in the streets," she remarked sarcastically, surveying the witches with careless disdain, "but a glad smile or two wouldn't go amiss. Look at you all, gaping at me like dummies in a shop window! My, what a rag-tag bunch the coven is—I had forgotten.

"Hillian, dressing to impress as usual—how marvellously funny you still appear. But ah, your scarlet war paint suits you—let's hope the scars never heal, they give your drab olive face that certain panache it never had. And where is Snivelling Liz—is she scuttling around somewhere at the back? We do seem to be depleted, don't we? No Mannish Miriam or Potato Sack Judith? What, not even the stunning Meta—has the harlot deserted us at last? Has she found comfort in another man's embrace—or just his money? Whatever the case, I pray she has dragged that stinking brat with her."

Tossing her head dismissively, Rowena then turned her full attention to her husband. "And what of you, my dearest?" she crooned ironically. "Are you not overjoyed to see me back? So often have my despairing thoughts turned to you as I wandered in the lonely void."

A resentful sneer crossed Nathaniel's face. "If you thought about me at all," he said doubtfully, "it wouldn't be with affection."

Rowena pouted with feigned injury. "I haven't forgotten those early days in Nairobi," she drawled. "Do you not remember when it was just we two? Those were fine, adventurous times, in that Masai village where you took command and the tribe yielded the secret of change to you. How many infants did we murder that hot night? I know I slew three but you did enjoy it so, didn't you—I quite lost track. Do you know, darling, I think that must have been one of the happiest times we had together."

"That was a long time ago," Nathaniel said curtly. "We were both young, and you couldn't do enough for me. Oh, how things changed."

Rowena gurgled in mild astonishment. "Of course they did!" she laughed, stealing over the muddy bank. "I grew to despise you."

Nursing her bleeding face, Hillian Fogle eyed Rowena with hatred and distrust. "Beware, my Lord!" she called. "Artful and dangerous is she. Did Roselyn not betray you and pursue the Staff of Hilda for her own glory?"

"Really, Hillian," Rowena snorted, "your English still leaves a lot to be desired."

Nathaniel took a step backwards as his wife crept nearer. "What is it you want?" he asked. "You haven't cheated Death merely to indulge in nostalgia; that was never your way, my dear. Hillian speaks the truth; you did betray me, the staff was not meant for you to wield."

"Pooh," she purred acidly, stalking closer. "I never wanted the thing! I am here simply because you are still the keeper of my heart. Throughout the empty reaches of death, your image did haunt my melancholy soul and I have been sustained by the undreamed of hope of this one moment."

Rowena raised her arms to him and held them open, but the warlock knew his duplicitous wife too well to trust her.

"You could never lie to me, Roselyn," he snapped. "I always discovered the truth that lurked beneath your deceptions—have you forgotten?"

For an instant a vengeful light glinted in Rowena's eyes but she tittered and continued to advance towards him.

"Deny that the Lord of the Frozen Wastes has sent you back," Nathaniel challenged, "for my ears are well used to the sound of your subtle lies. Tell me what he hopes to gain by this."

"Are not the Deep Ones most merciful?" she answered. "Their power knows no bounds and to all of us here they have granted our dearest wishes. You, my fine Duke of the Darkness, baron of my heart, are restored to life and my coven sisters are reunited with their deity once more."

She threw her arms above her head and giggled wildly. "But I," she roared, "have been given the greatest gift of all, though the price to myself is costly indeed and from this awful pact I shall never be released. Yet gladly did I accept and never once, throughout the endless stretch of eternity, shall I regret it."

The warlock scowled as Rowena moved close to him. "What pact do you speak of?" he asked. "What has been promised to you?"

But she made no reply and the warlock began to feel unaccountably afraid. Raising his hand he summoned his powers and threw up a shimmering barrier of dark enchantment between them.

"Oh Nathaniel," she laughed, stepping leisurely through the seething spells which dissipated harmlessly around her, "are you frightened of me? How clever of you."

Her husband stumbled back and his black sorceries blasted before him, weaving a mightier wall of defence. Yet this also failed. Rowena breezed through it and her crowing voice sang his name gloatingly as she reached out and stroked his bearded face.

"Tell me you forgive the mistakes I made," she pleaded in a childish voice, wrapping her arms about him. "You know I never desired to wield Hilda's Staff to usurp you and rule in your stead. That was the last thing I wanted."

Rubbing her cheek against his, she pressed against him, savouring the delicious moments that would nourish her forevermore.

The warlock took hold of her wrists and tried to pull her away but the woman clung to him desperately. "Get off me!" he commanded but Rowena hugged him more tightly than ever.

"Kiss me," she begged, "just one last time."

Her lips pushed over his spluttering mouth and lingered there despite his struggling protests and then, laying her head on his shoulder, the woman sighed with satisfaction.

"It's done," she breathed, "and I am contented."

Nathaniel spat on the ground and again attempted to throw her from him.

"No, my wretched love," she muttered, "you cannot be rid of me now. This is why I am here. This is why the Lord of the Frozen Wastes has granted me this one, glorious moment."

"You're mad!" he cried, clawing at her arms to wrench her clear, but the woman's strength was incredible and her arms were locked like bars of iron about him.

Rowena shrieked with fey laughter. "Oh my fabulous husband!" she hooted. "Yes, I came here to steal the Staff of Hilda but for one purpose only—to be free of you! Yet even in death your despised memory plagued and tormented me."

"Let me go!" he yelled. "Roselyn, that is an order!"

"You don't understand!" she crowed. "I stopped serving you long ago. The Lord of the Frozen Wastes is my master. For many months now I have done his bidding and lain hidden in dark places, hoping beyond hope for such a chance as this. Now all bargains are void and I am to be the instrument of the Allpowerful!"

"Hillian!" Nathaniel called. "Help me—kill her!"

The other members of the coven rushed forward and their hands tore at Rowena but the woman whooped insanely and there was nothing they could do. "Too late!" she trilled. "I am beyond you now. My master has made me strong and given me life eternal—although in return I have sacrificed this human form."

Her wild eyes flashed triumphantly before the warlock's fearful face and in a low, condemning rattle she said goodbye.

"Now I shall be free," she breathed, "but you will be a part of me until the end."

And so Rowena Cooper abandoned her true shape and assumed the raiment which the Lord of the Frozen Wastes had decreed she must wear till the breaking of the world.

Without warning, from the wide flapping sleeves of her black gown, a mass of tentacles whipped and writhed and her arms melted into ropes of clammy muscle. The woman's face bubbled as her eyes ballooned into two great fragmented clusters and her flesh sagged into grotesque blubbery rolls of slime.

Nathaniel screamed as the wriggling, snaking nightmare bound its coils tightly about him and the spy of the freezing deep gave a bellowing shriek.

"Save me!" the warlock screeched, his nostrils filled with the stench of rotting weed that beat from the apparition.

The witches wailed and struck at the bloated monster with their knives but Rowena's new form ignored their puny stings and with a braying rumble the pale underside of her deformed body flowed over her husband's frame and enveloped him just as it had Susannah O'Donnell.

"NOOOO!" Nathaniel clamoured as the acid began eating through his clothes. "Hillian!"

Horrified and flailing their arms against the quivering flesh of the monster in abject terror, the coven called to their beloved as the grey frills of glistening skin crept up to his chest.

The warlock's screams were terrible to hear. Into the vast bulk of the wobbling creature he slowly dissolved and a vile sucking squelch boiled up from the greedy innards as Rowena consumed him.

Hillian threw herself at the ulcerated hide, plunging her dagger deep into the putrescent jelly. But it was all in vain and the stab wounds healed as soon as she ripped the blade out.

"Lord!" she howled as the pale devouring fronds reached Nathaniel's neck.

But her anguished face contorted in despair as she saw the ghastly oozing mouth reach up and smother the man's head.

"Damn you, Roselyn!" he squealed as the liquefying juices swallowed him. "Daaaammnn yoooooouuuuuuu!"

Within the massive, rippling body, his final tormented curse echoed and then was silenced.

A frightening calm settled over the Abbey grounds, disturbed only by the constant noise of the rain and the rapacious squidging sounds of Rowena's virulent digestion.

"No!" Hillian bawled, tearing at her hair. "Nathaniel! Nathaniel!"

But the warlock had vanished—every trace of him had been utterly consumed, and emitting a satiated, belching grunt, the loathsome apparition wriggled and dragged itself over the ground towards the pool.

Into the dark water Rowena Cooper retreated. Her one terrible ambition had finally been attained and now she had to pay the price. Imprisoned in this horrendous shape forever but contented at last, she sank beneath the splashing surface and disappeared in a rush of bubbles.

Upon the muddy bank, the remaining members of the coven screamed hysterically. All their plans, all their hopes had suddenly been dashed. Their magnificent high priest had been eaten alive and their minds recoiled from the evil memory. A dreadful madness seized them and they threw themselves on the ground devoid of reason. Now their lives were without purpose and they screeched until their throats bled.

Within the ruined Abbey a tall figure moved in the deep darkness. From the shadows it stepped and moved over the excavated graves towards the raving uproar until it was standing at Hillian's side.

The witch was rocking backward and forward and though her mouth gaped open, her screams had dried into a cracked, droning monotone.

Oblivious to everything except her overwhelming grief, she had not seen the stranger approach and when a hand was placed lightly upon her jerking head she was not aware of it.

"Peace be on you," the newcomer said with infinite grace and kindness. "The time of your servitude is at an end."

At once the beads about Hillian's neck broke and were scattered in the mud. The woman fell forward and her ranting terror subsided as the figure blessed her.

"No longer shall you be a slave to the memory of that evil man," the warm voice gently told her. "You are released."

Hillian gasped and she gazed around her as though shaken from sleep. "He... he is dead!" she exclaimed.

The stranger left her and went over to where Caroline was weeping desolately. A second necklace snapped and the fiddle player collapsed in exhaustion.

Touching her scratched and wounded face, Hillian watched as her deliverer released each of the women in turn.

"Thank you," she sobbed.

Sister Frances smiled benignly and in a patient, inspiring voice addressed them all.

"Hear me now," she pronounced nobly. "Cast away your fears, for Nathaniel Crozier will never return. Henceforth rejoice and never more be troubled by the horrors of the past. Blessed are you, for the freedom of choice is returned unto you. Each one present has suffered much in the service of that black villain, but wounds can heal and if you are indeed repentant then your sins shall be forgiven."

The women listened to her dumbly and her stirring words brought them hope.

"What will we do?" Gilly Neugent asked. "Where are we to go? We lived only for him."

"Then you must begin again," the nun replied, "or pick up the threads of your old lives. Each of you has free will—shape your own destiny and let no other steer you. You have wandered too long in the darkness—come now into the light."

Uncertainly, the women rose to their feet. "Will you help us?" they begged her. "It's been so long, we don't know how to begin."

"You must help one another," Sister Frances answered. "Instead of striving for supremacy and indulging in petty squabbles, you must lend support and have generous hearts."

Bowing her head to them, the nun turned, but her attention was held by a livid light that glimmered out at sea.

"What is it?" Hillian muttered as the thunder blared over the cliffs and the rain hammered down more fiercely than ever.

"The end is near," Sister Frances said quietly. "The Lord of the Frozen Wastes himself is coming!"

***

Upon the shore, Miss Boston stared grimly into the tempest as a sickly green glow rose in the distance and beneath the waves the sound of a great bell began to toll.

"The Deep One!" she cried. "Is it he?"

Stroking her dead daughter's hair, Meta gazed at the pulsing horizon and nodded gravely. "All is lost for him now!" she shouted above the gale. "His designs are in ruin and soon his secret treason will be known to his brothers. He has nothing left to lose—for they will surely destroy him."

The sea churned and wrathful waves charged towards Whitby as the Lord of the Frozen Wastes rose from the fathomless regions. Leaving his icy realm, the waters boiled as torrents of black foam exploded to the surface and fountains of poison shot into the lightning-ripped sky.

Jennet peered out from under the old lady's cloak, staring in terror at the awesome tumult, and she realised that the evil power of the waking world was coming to wreak his vengeance upon them.

"Ben!" she cried. "I must be with Ben!"

The girl fled back to the concrete ledge and Miss Boston hurried after her.

Alone with Pear, Meta waited for the end to come.

Leaning into the ravaging wind, Jennet and Aunt Alice battled their way to where the fisherfolk defied the screaming storm and watched the calamitous rising of the mighty Lord of the Deep.

Beside the black boat, Tarr glared at the riotous seas, whose fearsome waves reached far into the crackling heavens while the lightning speared deep into the tortured waters.

Amidst the squall, and oblivious to the terror that encircled her, Nelda cried out and clutched Ben's hand despairingly. The boy flinched as the aufwader crushed his fingers, and when he stared at her he stifled a scream.

Nelda's skin was bubbling; huge blisters filled with salt water were swelling over her face and hands and Ben cried to Tarr in dismay.

Her grandfather looked down at her and wailed. "She's dyin'!"

A deafening thunderclap split the night and the jagged forks of blinding light smote the seething surface of the sea as the Lord of the Frozen Wastes reared up from the deep.

Into the shrieking blizzard the crown of his gargantuan head lifted, and, like the vast outline of a colossal mountain, his dark presence left the lashing tides.

About the immense brows a coronet of green stars blazed and the repellent countenance that was revealed beneath their lurid glare made the crowd on the shore recoil and call out in dread.

Through the insane waters, the unbounded god rumbled towards Whitby.

"Ben!" Jennet shouted as she flung her arms around him. "Oh Ben!"

Looking up into the towering vileness that stretched into the yowling night, Miss Boston spread her tweed cloak about the children like a pair of protective wings and spoke to them hurriedly.

"My dears," she declared, "I've failed you—we cannot escape from the fiend that approaches. At least here, at the end of all things we are united."

From the black cloud that roared in the waters, a forest of tentacles came thrashing—like an army of gigantic snakes. Spreading before the immeasurable enemy the monstrous coils broke from the waves and reached through the sky.

Braving the spectral vision, Miss Boston stuck out her chins and stared upwards as the terrible shadow of the writhing demon fell over her and the children. A darkness deeper than the brumal night descended over the shore and the fisherfolk squealed in fear and panic, clinging to the boat as the sea charged towards them.

Blind to the chaos around him, Tarr sobbed over his granddaughter as the brine-filled blisters that covered her body began to weep and the hand that he held withered horribly.

"Nelda!" he bawled. "Nelda!"

Into the stone of the East Pier the first of the squid-like limbs tore and huge chunks were dragged down into the frothing water. The small lighthouse was thrown down and it toppled with a thundering crash as the tentacles smashed and drove into the solid foundations as though they were built of sand.

"Ben!" Nelda gargled, her voice choked with salt water. "Where are you? Stay by me, please!"

At Miss Boston's side, the boy looked wildly into the boat, then at the horror that reared from the sea.

A strange expression spread over his face and he suddenly pulled himself free of the old lady's arms.

"Benjamin!" she called as he ran towards the town. "Comeback!"

"Ben!" Jennet shrieked. "Don't leave us!"

But the boy raced under the high quivering footbridge, made perilous by the shuddering violence of the Lord of the Frozen Wastes. As he fled over the sands and past Meta's huddled figure, the lofty narrow way buckled and with a splitting roar the footbridge dropped on to the rocks below—flinging clouds of concrete dust and twisted metal into the air. The noise boomed over the cliffs, but charging into the streets, Ben did not even glance back.

Jennet and Miss Boston peered in anguish through the swirling debris.

"Ben!" Jennet cried. "I've got to go after him!"

"No, child," Aunt Alice restrained her, "it's too dangerous—there's still rubble falling. He's gone, there's nothing you can do now."

The shore trembled as the full wrath of the Deep One was vented upon the harbour. Between the wreckage of the East Pier and the West, a host of writhing limbs sailed and with unparallelled fury they fell upon the fishing boats, dashing their timbers against the quayside.

Down came the harbour walls and death screams filled the night as the inhabitants of Whitby were shaken from their beds and buildings slid into the river.

From his supreme height, with the storm clouds gathered about his vast star-crowned head, the Lord of the Frozen Wastes surveyed the terrible scene with malevolent pleasure. A petrifying cackle blasted from his cavernous mouth as his gigantic lidless eyes fell upon the pinnacles of the Abbey perched on top of the cliff.

Into the sheer walls of shale his winding limbs pounded, and the rock thundered down as the twisting malice tore into the Abbey plain.

The stately ruins quailed as the Deep One grappled with its ancient columns, then with an idle flick of the serpent-like coils the broken stones of the holy place tumbled down the crumbling cliff.

Mercilessly he let out an exulting laugh. The sight gratified his malignant mind but there was still one act of vengeance before he could be truly triumphant.

Far below, cringing in his swamping shadow, he espied the minuscule figures gathered around the black boat and his ghastly mirth shook the coast.

***

Inside Miss Boston's cottage, Ben tore from his bedroom and leaped down the stairs. Under his arm the boy clutched a large bulky object wrapped up in his old duffle coat, and with his heart beating madly he flew through the hallway then out into the courtyard.

With a rattle of crumbling mortar the lintel of the front door gave an ominous crack and as he sped out of the alleyway, Aunt Alice's home collapsed.

Into Church Street Ben ran, dodging falling masonry and hopping over trenches that gaped in the cobbled ground. The East Cliff was unrecognisable; heaps of debris had replaced the quaint shops, burst water mains gushed tall fountains over yawning pits and the first of many fires was already burning in the wreckage, broken gas pipes shooting rivers of dripping flame into the decimated night.

Through the devastation the boy carefully picked his way, forcing himself not to hear the desperate cries calling from beneath the rubble, and he scrambled down on to the sands.

In a mad dash, he headed back along the beach while behind him, the town of Whitby was swept into the swollen river.

Yet upon the shore, Miss Boston, Jennet and the fisherfolk stared up at their doom.

As a great black mountain, the Lord of the Frozen Wastes loured in the hell-torn sky. The massive discs of his shining eyes pierced the battering rain and his branching hair whipped amongst the swirling clouds thundering through the blighted heaven. Around him his monstrous limbs reared in awful majesty. Not since the dawn of the unhappy world had a member of the Triad been unveiled in all his full black glory.

The faces of the insects that grovelled on the rocky shore, besieged by destruction, were graven with terror. For this one moment of revenge, the Deep One had spared them from the cataclysmic upheavals and he savoured their raving fear.

"Now!" he bellowed hideously. "Go screaming into the abyss! For the hour has come for all of you."

Like an immense tidal wave, his vastness obliterated the sky and the tempest of his wrath plummeted through the gales.

In the deepening dark, Miss Boston squeezed Jennet tightly while at their side Tarr kissed Nelda's shrivelling hand.

Through the curling mists that had risen from the steaming sea, the Lord of the Frozen Wastes fell and the torrent of his anger stampeded before him, blasting from his evil, plunging countenance—tearing at those gathered beneath.

Fighting through the screaming storm, Ben clambered over the ruins of the footbridge and even as the mighty god of the waters avalanched from above, he cast aside his old coat and held aloft the thing he had taken from the cottage.

There in his grasp, swinging madly in the charging gale, was the Penny Hedge.

The flimsy fence of twigs and sticks that Ben had stolen and kept hidden beneath his bed these many months, tugged and pulled at his hands but he gritted his teeth and gripped it firmly.

In the black, freezing shadow of the Lord of the Deep, the boy glared up at the plummeting nightmare and a fierce snarl twisted his young face.

With his hair streaming in the shrieking wind and his drenched clothes flapping wildly about him, Ben threw back his head and in a loud, clear voice he yelled.

"OUT ON YE! OUT ON YE! OUT ON YE!"

Suddenly the Horngarth crackled and with a burst of fiery sparks the woven twigs became blinding white flames.

Up into the gaping maw the dazzling light shone, illuminating the grotesque contours of the infernal face and, as the age-old power to withstand one more tide beat out from the Penny Hedge, the Lord of the Frozen Wastes let out a deafening scream.

Thunder exploded around his massive head and a ferocious hail tore about his thrashing limbs as the sea was whipped into a demonic frenzy. But upon the Deep One's wrathful brow, the crown of stars dimmed and their baleful glow was lost in the searing brightness that flowed from the framework of sticks that the boy held over his head.

The ancient force of the magical barrier fell furiously about the evil member of the Triad. Chains of enchantment ripped at his titanic form, binding and holding him, until the terrifying apparition could no longer move, caught in a net of primeval magic.

With the Horngarth belting out the ensnaring spells of defence and challenge above his head, Ben glowered up at the motionless cliff of darkness and the boy bawled at the top of his voice, defying the Lord of the Frozen Wastes and crying down his destiny.

"Begone from the waking world!" the boy shrieked. "The powers of the Deep have no dominion here. The time of the gods is past!"

By the black boat, Miss Boston and Jennet peered fearfully over to where Ben ranted and they shuddered in disbelief.

The boy's voice was changing, it had become deeper than his own and was filled with arrogance. A hard bitterness crept into the severe words that tumbled from his lips as he shouted his scorn and Jennet shook her head incredulously.

"Gone are your temples!" Ben yelled with haughty derision. "Forgotten is your memory—slink back to your empty desolation for no more does the world need you. Humankind commands here now! It is Man who rules; he has succeeded your position and surpassed you in might! Return into the void of neglected memory and be a whisper on the wind!"

As he shouted these proud, insolent words a shadow crept over the child. Despite the blinding glory that blistered from the Penny Hedge, his face darkened and then, as Miss Boston and Jennet watched in horror, the boy grew.

His bones stretched and his features shimmered as Ben journeyed into his own future until standing beneath the Lord of the Deep was a swaggering, middle-aged man whose face was cruel and full of conceit.

"Ben," Jennet breathed, "what's happened to him?"

Miss Boston mumbled sorrowfully, "That", she replied, "is what your brother will become."

"Without us you are nothing!" the braggart continued. "I am Lord above the waters! Leave this place—crawl into your noisome holes and be glad that Laurenson is merciful!"

Jennet stared at the vain, boastful man. "It's horrible!" she wept.

"That is why the Deep Ones fear him," Miss Boston muttered. "Look at that ruthless face. There is nothing that brazen villain would not do! There is no compassion in his eyes—great heavens, what have I nurtured?"

"But he isn't like that!" Jennet sobbed. "You know he isn't. He's just a boy!"

Running over the shore the girl called to the dreadful vision of her brother. "Ben!" she cried. "Ben!"

The man tore his eyes from the Lord of the Deep and glared down at her. A repulsive sneer flickered over his face and he regarded her with contempt and disdain. "Flee while you can, little sister!" he laughed and the foul sound pierced the girl's heart.

"You have no claim on me now!" he said sourly. "I have no need of a puling family. I am allpowerful—a master of control and domination! Run back to the old hag—you are nothing to me now."

Jennet fell back beneath the fierce hatred of his words. "Ben!" she wailed.

The man guffawed to see her pain, but then his face fell and he stared furiously up at the white flames of the Penny Hedge—they were dying.

"No!" he screeched.

As the light dimmed and the forces of the Horngarth were utterly spent, the man that Ben would one day become let out a terrible roar, then faded.

Only a charred skeletal framework remained of the hedge and, grasping hold of the brittle, torrefied twigs, an eight-year-old boy staggered in bewilderment, aghast at his evil destiny.

"Ben!" Jennet cried in relief.

But the power of the Horngarth had gone and as the wind blew a plume of black ash from the boy's hands, the Lord of the Frozen Wastes was released.

Yet raging in from the far distance, rampaging through the wild surf, came two immense towers of darkness.

From the distant reaches of the world the Lord of the Roaring Waters and the Lord of the Circling Seas came storming. Their brother's treachery was revealed to them and towards the devastation that had once been Whitby they raced.

Their wrath was more frightening than anything the survivors had yet seen. As black billowing clouds of doom they came and Ben leaped from the quaking rubble to be with his sister and Aunt Alice.

In a shriek that rocked the earth and sent the waters pounding over the despoiled land, the Lord of the Frozen Wastes quailed in terror.

The bed of the River Esk shivered and a wide fissure split across the ruined town. Into the chasm the sea tumbled and down into the gaping gulf the ruined town slipped.

Miss Boston held the children tightly and the fury of the Deep Ones lashed around them.

The Earth tipped and the shore buckled as the powers of the world did battle. Caught in the waves of destruction, Miss Boston wailed and down into the bottomless abyss she and the children were dragged. Spinning helplessly after plummeted the black boat of Nelda, and with her the sole remaining tribe of aufwaders was finally extinguished. The horrendous tumult rolled over the broken land, engulfing it beneath a foaming wrath and eternal night swallowed the world.

***

All was darkness, not a sound disturbed the eerie peace.

Ben opened his eyes but could see nothing in the blind gloom.

"Jen?" he whispered. "Are you there?"

"Is that you, Ben?" the girl answered. "Where are you? I can't see!"

Aunt Alice's familiar tones echoed from the pitch black void. "Gracious!" she uttered in a small voice.

Very faintly, a pale radiance glimmered in the distance and a wonderful dawn edged over the rim of a placid, rippling ocean. Into the clear heavens the rejoicing light was thrown, bathing the cloudless canopy in rich golden beams.

Miss Boston marvelled at the sight and a fresh breeze ruffled her white woolly hair.

She and the children were standing upon a sandy shore. Behind them a curtain of shadow shimmered darkly but before them lay a stretch of sparkling water that shone like crystal.

"It's beautiful," Jennet breathed.

Suddenly an amazing sound cut through the sweet air and Miss Boston and Ben whirled round in astonishment.

There, sitting up within the black boat, with her head in her grandfather's arms was Nelda, and huge tears were rolling down her face.

Ben's heart leapt and he darted over to them, spluttering with delight, and the tears that Nelda wept were tears of joy—for in her arms was a new-born child.

The infant gurgled happily and its large grey eyes blinked up at its mother as a tiny mouth opened and it gave a chuckling yawn.

Nelda laughed and stroked the baby tenderly.

"It's a boy," she told Ben. "Look—isn't he perfect?"

Tarr grunted sagely, "Arr! He'm a Shrimp reet enough. That's my nose he'm got theer! A proper netter of fish he'll be—make tha proud 'e will."

Nelda gazed lovingly at the small wrinkled face and smiled. "He already has," she whispered.

Around the black boat the hazy shadows retreated and the rest of the fisherfolk shuffled in a daze on to the gleaming sands.

"A bairn!" Old Parry squawked. "She's managed it—they both live!"

The aufwaders stared at the mother and child dumbfounded, then the seawives threw down their dripping shawls and they all clustered around Nelda to weep and fuss.

Miss Boston beamed at Ben as he ambled back to her.

"What's happening?" he asked. "Nelda was dying."

A mysterious smile twitched over the old lady's face and she looked into the swirling gloom behind them. "I'm not sure," she replied, "yet I have..."

"Be jubilant and banish your dread!" proclaimed a loud voice.

Everyone turned to see who had spoken and out of the shadowy curtain stepped a tall figure dressed in white robes that dazzled them in the brilliant sunshine.

"I don't believe it!" Miss Boston cried. "What are you doing here?"

Sister Frances strode to the water's edge. Gone was her ungainly gait and a strange tranquillity glittered in her large eyes. Gone too was the nun's gauche playfulness and when she addressed them it was with an air of supreme authority.

"Your time of sorrow has ended," she told the fisherfolk, "for the Mother's Curse has indeed been lifted. May that infant be but the first to bless your tribe in the days that are to come."

"How can that be?" asked Nelda. "What miracle has occurred?"

Sister Frances smiled. "The Lord of the Frozen Wastes is no more," she replied. "His brethren have destroyed him. His evil has been purged from the world and his dark soul banished to the outer reaches of the void."

"Just one moment!" Miss Boston called indignantly. Puffing out her cheeks, the old lady clucked to herself then waggled a dubious finger at the nun's shining figure. "Are you trying to tell me," she began truculently, "that we have been returned—that this place is..?"

"You are where you were," Frances answered, "behold!"

She flourished her hand, gesturing towards the churning shadows behind them and as they stared, the darkness melted.

Rearing high into the clear sky was a towering wall of shale and jutting from the top of the cliff, like a jagged fang of rock, was the Abbey.

The mists receded further and beneath the glorious sunshine, the harbour flashed and glimmered. All around them the final shreds of shadow were uncurling and the gulls glided lazily over the rooftops as Whitby was restored.

Gazing at the wondrous sight, Tarr dropped humbly to his knees. "Praise the Lords of the Deep and Dark," he murmured reverently.

"This is the measure of their remorse," the nun declared. "In atonement for their brother's crimes they have laboured long and this haven by the sea and those who dwell therein are saved."

"Nine times bless me," Tarr muttered. "Theer ain't nowt they canna do."

"Not so," she replied, "for at the side of joy there runs also grief. See, they cannot undo what they have had no part in." Sister Frances pointed along the shore, where the figure of Meta still nursed Pear's body. "Never shall that unhappy soul be free of her torment," she said. "It will hound her always."

Jennet lowered her eyes and silently mourned her late friend.

"Are we really here?" Ben cried. "Are we really home?"

Aunt Alice stuck her tongue in her cheek and keenly scrutinised the figure that purported to be Sister Frances. "Who are you?" she asked. "What happened to that idiot with the Jolly Cheer Up Bag?"

"She is here," the white figure replied, "though her mind is at rest. Do not be startled, Frances has been most useful to me. You must know, Alice Boston, that not all possession is evil."

The old lady's face resembled a surprised frog and she spluttered in amazement.

"But now the time has come", the nun announced, "for many partings." She gestured to the sea and as the fisherfolk gazed out to the sparkling horizon they saw tiny shapes sailing from the distance.

"Grandfather," Nelda whispered, "what is it?"

With his whiskery brows knitted together, Tarr became solemn and around him the aufwaders uttered in dismay.

"The tribe has been spared," he snorted gruffly, "but at what cost?"

A fleet of small rowing boats was floating over the peaceful waves and standing at the prow of the foremost vessel was a figure arrayed in a tunic of bright silver.

It was an aufwader, but one such as Ben had never seen before. About his proud head was bound a circlet of purest gold, that revelled in the dancing sunlight and appeared to burn over his noble brow as a crown of flame. Around the stranger's shoulders, long sand-coloured hair streamed in the breeze and the face which it framed was etched with wisdom.

"By Gow!" Tarr exclaimed. "It isna!"

But all around him the aufwaders took deep excited breaths and shook their heads in astonishment.

"See the pattern twisted over yonder tunic!" Eurgen Handibrass shouted. "There's only been one wi' a crest like thattun! It were writted throughout the caves on all the works he did!"

Old Parry hopped up and down as she tried to contain herself. "Irl!" she blurted. "It's Irl!"

Miss Boston nodded, admiring the regal, legendary figure that sailed towards them. "So he too has been forgiven," she sighed. "Splendid!"

The boat which held the former herald of the Deep Ones floated to a halt at the water's edge, and Irl turned a great glad smile upon them.

"Hail to thee, Tarr of the Mereades!" he saluted.

Tarr bowed stiffly then Irl fixed his large green eyes upon Miss Boston. All the shifting moods of the sea were reflected within them and the old lady blushed coyly. "Hail to thee also," he greeted her, "Queen amongst mortal kind."

"Most gracious," she mumbled.

"The mighty ones are in truth merciful," Irl proclaimed. "They have repented of their anger towards our race!"

Many tears flowed from the fisherfolk, but as the other vessels glided to a halt, Nelda eyed them uncertainly. "Why are there so many empty boats?" she asked. "Who is to sail in them?"

Irl turned to her and in a lamenting voice said, "Compassionate the Deep Ones might be, yet they will not suffer thee to live alongside the humankind. I have been sent to guide thee away."

Ben rushed to Nelda's side. "You can't go!" he cried. "Tell him you're staying here!"

"Neither she nor any other can remain," Irl told him, "for the condition of their survival is that they accompany me."

"Where to?" the boy asked. "Can I still come and visit them?"

"No," Irl said sadly, "the Deep Ones have toiled unceasingly to raise an island in the far girdling waters and around it they have woven a mist which no mortal ship may penetrate. The race of the aufwader is passing out of thy world, child—their dwellings upon the enchanted isle will be forever beyond man's reach."

A lump formed in Ben's throat as the sobs welled up and a large tear rolled down his cheek as he looked at Nelda. "I won't see you again!" he sniffed.

"Oh Ben!" she cried as her own tears flooded out. "I'll miss you so much!"

Passing the infant to her grandfather, Nelda gave the boy a fierce hug.

"Don't forget me!" he blubbered.

"How could I do that?" she wept, disentangling herself from his arms and taking the baby from Tarr.

"Look at this child of mine," she cried. "Hold him in your arms before we part."

Ben held the infant gingerly and the tiny face gurgled up at him.

"He likes you," Nelda murmured. "See, my son—this is the one you were named after. Yes, my dearest friend, he too shall be called Benjamin."

Hearing this Miss Boston dabbed her own moist eyes and turned briskly to Tarr.

"So this is goodbye, Mr Shrimp," she said. "I can't say as I'm pleased. Whitby will be a sad place without you and your kind. It seems as if all the mysteries are fading and the world is becoming woefully dull and grey."

"Farewell," Tarr grunted. "If the tribe does flourish then tha knows theer'll be some young Bostons an' Alices amongst the tykes."

The old lady grinned, then walked up to Ben and removed the amulet from around his neck.

"I really think we should return this to you," she said to Irl, reaching her hand up to him. "I don't suppose we shall be needing it again. Thank you so very, very much—we really are most grateful."

The noble aufwader received it thoughtfully. "Nay," he told her, "'tis my masters who are in thy debt. Much do they owe to thee, yet only one thing more is in their power to grant, for their labours have spent their strength and for many ages shall they sleep below the waves. So, I say unto thee now, has the time not come to trust in them? Dost thou recall what they said unto thee?"

Miss Boston withdrew her hand and looked at the children vaguely, but said nothing.

Irl shifted his gaze to the fisherfolk and in a loud, commanding voice declared, "Now is the hour of parting. View one last time your ancient home and step into the boats. A long journey lies ahead and this night you shall step upon a strange shore."

In mournful silence, the tribe waded into the water and boarded the small, bobbing craft, their eyes trained on the familiar contours of the cliffs, fixing the image in their hearts.

Tarr and Nelda were the last ones to leave the sands but eventually he put his hand gently on her shoulder and stepped into the waves.

With her baby in her arms, the young aufwader turned a pale face to Ben and slowly followed her grandfather.

"Wait!" the boy cried, splashing after.

"You cannot join us," she told him. "It is forbidden."

Ben shook his head and reached into the pocket of his coat. "I know," he said, "that isn't what I meant."

In his hands the boy held a small green jar. "The sight is too terrible a gift," he decided. "The glimpse of what I might one day become was enough to make me realise that. Besides, if you're not going to be here, then there's no point having it, is there?"

Removing the lid he stared at the ointment within and held it out to her. "Please," he murmured, "would you be the one to take the sight from me? I'd like it to be you."

With a sad smile that conveyed a wealth of unspoken emotion, Nelda dipped her fingers in the salve and tenderly anointed Ben's eyelids.

"You will always be with me," she whispered and when the task was complete she kissed him lightly on the cheek.

Miss Boston came to stand at the boy's side as Nelda passed the baby to her grandfather and clambered aboard their boat.

Ben blinked and his vision became hazy. The crowd of boats began to blur and already the fisherfolk were fading.

"Farewell, Ben," came Nelda's forlorn voice. "Farewell, my human friend."

A white mist rolled over the surface of the sea and the fleet of rowing boats turned gracefully in a slow circle to meet it. The dense fog curled around their timbers and the vessels were drawn from the water's edge. Soon only a low cloud could be seen drifting across the sea and it passed far into the vanishing distance.

Ben wept uncontrollably into Aunt Alice's cloak and the old lady patted him gently, whilst wiping her own tears away.

Throughout these sad proceedings Jennet had remained quiet, and though she could not see the fisherfolk she guessed what had happened.

"Are they gone?" she asked.

"Yes," Miss Boston nodded, "the old whalers of Whitby town have departed."

"Ben," his sister said awkwardly, "I'm sorry. I really am."

Aunt Alice entrusted him to her care as she turned to look at Sister Frances.

"They are a credit to you," the nun said warmly. "They are stronger now than when they first arrived. You have taught them much."

"Have I?" Miss Boston muttered. "I used to fancy myself as a wisewoman, yet at the moment I feel anything but."

"You are troubled," Frances observed.

Looking at the children, the old lady admitted that she was. "I have done my part in this," she murmured, "heeded Prudence's warning and came out valiantly once more—and yet... I know that it cannot be forever. My age will catch up with me again; what will happen then?"

But the nun had turned away and was staring down the beach to where a small figure dressed in a gossamer nightgown played in the shallow surf.

The golden-haired child lifted his head to gaze at Miss Boston and the old lady gasped as the bright blue eyes shone out at her.

"What must I do?" she asked.

Frances shook her head. "I cannot advise in this. You will do as you have always done, Alice Boston—what is best for those you cherish—and may a blessing be upon you."

Miss Boston put her forefinger to her mouth as she considered, then finally breezed gladly towards the children.

"My dears!" she laughed. "What an adventure we have had. Won't there be a lot to tell Dithery Edith when she comes back from the Isle of Wight? She won't believe it, of course. My goodness, I could make short work of a hearty breakfast—would you be so kind as to run ahead and start cooking the kippers for me, Jennet? You go with her, Benjamin—I'll be... I'll be along soon."

The children began trudging up the shore towards the town and in a broken whisper, Aunt Alice breathed, "Goodbye, my dear ones, take care of yourselves. I love you both so very, very dearly—you'll never know how much."

"I assure you they will," Frances promised. "Remember, the Deep Ones can do anything."

Miss Boston swallowed the choking sobs and glanced back at the infant who was beckoning her.

"Come on, Alice!" she huffed, taking a deep, brash breath. "Let's show them what we're made of!"

Flinging her cloak over her shoulders she marched towards the small waiting figure, with her chins flattened against her chest and a determined expression fixed on her wrinkled face.

The shining form of Sister Frances watched as the child gave a delighted chuckle and raised its chubby hands to the old lady.

Miss Boston stole one final glance at the retreating figures of Ben and Jennet then took the infant's hands in hers.

"Now be at rest," the child beamed. "Your cares are over."

With his merry laughter floating on the air, he began to lead Alice Boston into the sea.

Sister Frances smiled faintly then her eyelids fluttered and she put her hand to her temple as her legs buckled beneath her.

Upon the cliff top, in the windows of the Abbey, a beautiful radiance gleamed fiercely for a moment, shining far into the clear sky—then was gone.

The sands appeared dull and chill and dressed in her usual drab robes and black woollen stockings, Sister Frances gawped about her.

"Lumme!" she gushed. "What am I doing here?"

Whirling unsteadily around in a doddery circle, the boisterous nun squinted at the shallow waters, where a dark furling shape swished beneath the waves.

"Sweet Lord!" she whinnied, galumphing into the sea, "I recognise that! Oh, don't let it be so—it's too, too awful!"

With her clumsy hands, she dredged a sage green tweed cloak from the water and inspected it with a horrified expression on her goggling face.

"Miss B!" she wittered, scooping through the waves to find her, "Miss B! Where are you?"

But Miss Boston was gone and in the ancient town of Whitby another bright and peaceful morning was unfolding.

***

Margaret Rodice eased herself into her chair and munched her way through half a packet of bourbons as she lost herself in the pages of her romantic novel. The lipstick prints around the rim of her fine china cup had almost obliterated the top of a shepherdess's head by the time she had sucked the watery tea down to the dregs.

Reaching the end of a heart-thumping chapter, she lay the book down and gazed out of the window at the leaden skyline of Leeds.

It had been a trying few weeks and her pride had still not recovered from having to take back that pair of difficult cases, the Laurenson children.

Oh, she had argued and protested, but the authorities had refused to listen and it was gallingly bitter to realise just how indifferent they were to her views and opinions.

Those children were the most unpleasant specimens ever to have passed through the doors of her hostel, and the discomfort at having to admit them a second time rankled inside her inflamed breast.

They had been back with her for almost a fortnight now and she had to admit that the change in one of them was not unappealing. That creepy little boy was no longer frightening her other charges and she hadn't heard him mention her late husband once. He spent most of his time moping about in the flagged garden or mooching sullenly in the recreation room. That was how it should be, a nice quiet child who didn't shout and didn't wet the bed.

Mrs Rodice's lips twitched, however, when she thought of the boy's sister. Whatever that barmy old woman had taught that girl it certainly didn't include good manners. Jennet Laurenson was the rudest and most insolent creature she had ever known. She watched over that brother of hers like a hawk and even the older thugs were afraid of her.

"Something must be done," the woman grumbled, nibbling her final biscuit and sucking the crumbs from her palm. "I wonder if that docile Adams woman who came to visit them last weekend would care to take them off my hands? She seemed malleable enough."

Her plottings were interrupted by the peeping of the telephone, and summoning her friendliest and most official-sounding voice, in case it was someone who mattered, Mrs Rodice snatched up the receiver.

***

The recreation room of the hostel was a poky place, just big enough to squeeze in a ping-pong table, but as one of the bats had gone missing and was never replaced, this facility was perpetually folded and jammed against one wall behind the television.

Sitting on two of the three reasonably comfy chairs, Jennet and Ben played with a dog-eared and grubby pack of cards and whiled the afternoon away.

The past three weeks had been a miserable time for them. In the tragic absence of Miss Boston, Sister Frances had stayed at the cottage to care for the children, but this was only a short-term solution as the social services sought for a more permanent answer.

It was Jennet's fault that she and her brother had ended up back with "The Rodice". In an unguarded moment she had forgotten that the guileless nun had no comprehension of sarcasm and extolled the virtues of this establishment to the full. Unfortunately Sister Frances had believed every word and put a terribly misguided plan into action.

Jennet was mortified when she discovered that everything had been arranged but by that time it was too late. Bags were packed and they were shunted back under the auspices of Margaret Rodice.

Neither she nor Ben understood what was happening to them; everything they had grown to love had been taken away and they were back where they had started.

"Snap," the girl sighed in a dull voice.

"I'm bored," Ben moaned, flinging the playing cards across the room and stomping over to the window.

Jennet watched him press his nose against the glass and stare down at the road below. She wondered if he realised that it was exactly a year ago today that they had first set foot in Whitby and saw Aunt Alice's plump, clucking figure.

Ben slid his face across the window and gazed back at her. "Why did she do it?" he asked, proving that he too was thinking of the indefatigable old lady. "Why did she leave us?"

"I don't know, Ben," his sister replied, "I really don't know. I was hoping that perhaps today... but no—nothing's going to happen. We've had our share of magic in our lives. You only get the one."

The boy sniffled and returned his doleful attention to the road outside.

Idly, his eyes watched a blue car veer from the road and glide up to the hostel gates.

Gradually, as the couple alighted from the vehicle below, Ben's mouth dropped open and he rubbed his eyes in wonder.

"Jen," he murmured feverishly, "Jen—the ointment! It's wearing off!"

Hurriedly, Jennet ran over to him. "Ben!" she cried. "Are you all right? What's the matter, what have you..?"

Her voice died, for she too looked down at the figures and she clasped her hands over her mouth as she burst into tears.

"You see them!" Ben shrieked, bouncing up and down on the chairs. "You see them! The Lords of the Deep and Dark can do anything! They can do anything!"

The children raced to the door and wrenched it open, just as The Rodice was tripping up the stairs in a state of great agitation.

"This is most irregular!" she exclaimed shrilly. "Most exceedingly irregular! I really don't understand... !"

Standing aside to let the visitors past, she stared at the ecstatic faces of the children framed in the doorway and shrugged.

Jennet and Ben gazed through their joyful tears at the man and woman before them, then with a happy yell—they ran into their parents' arms.

Table of Contents

- The Whitby Witches Trilogy

- The Whitby Witches 1: The Whitby Witches

- The Inhabitants Of Whitby
- Introduction
- 1 - Difficult Cases
- 2 - Eurydice
- 3 - The Ladies’ Circle
- 4 - The Aufwader
- 5 - A Grisly Catch
- 6 - Cream Cakes And Death
- 7 - The Figure On The Cliff
- 8 - Knife And Tooth
- 9 - ‘But A Little Time To Live’
- 10 - Eurydice Again
- 11 - The Half Child
- 12 - Once In Nine Hundred Years
- 13 - Struggle At Sea
- 14 - The Empress Of The Dark
- Requiem

- The Whitby Witches 2: A Warlock In Whitby

- Introduction
- 1 - After The Witch
- 2 - Confrontations
- 3 - In The Chamber Of The Triad
- 4 - The Charming Man
- 5 - A Shock For Miss Wethers
- 6 - The Fall Of The Veil
- 7 - At The Church Of St Mary
- 8 - Torn From The Deep
- 9 - Mischief Night
- 10 - The Briding
- 11 - The Demon And The Dog
- 12 - Blotmonath
- 13 - The Waking Of Morgawrus
- 14 - Shadow Over Whitby
- Epilogue

- The Whitby Witches 3: The Whitby Child

- Introduction
- 1 - A Secret Four Months Old
- 2 - The Bitterest Of Herbs
- 3 - Newcomers
- 4 - The Whitby Witches
- 5 - The Horngarth
- 6 - The Cry Of The Gulls
- 7 - The Ballad Of Molly Werbride
- 8 - The Fledgeling
- 9 - The Brides Of Crozier
- 10 - The Lords Of The Deep And Dark
- 11 - Over Tea And Cheesecake
- 12 - A Bargain Sealed With Blood
- 13 - Born In The Fires
- 14 - At The End Of All Things...