The Whitby Witches 3: The Whitby Child (16 page)

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.