The Whitby Witches 3: The Whitby Child (44 page)

"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!"