The Whitby Witches 3: The Whitby Child (28 page)

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.

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?