Soul Splinter (27 page)

Grudge climbed inside, pushing Smog up to the bow. ‘Keep a watch for rocks as we pass round the Nibbled Head!’

The storm snatched his words away and the smugglers began to row. Grudge turned to Moll and Siddy, thumped down on a slat in front of them and swivelled the barrel of his pistol in his hands.

Moll sidled closer to her friend while the smugglers heaved hard into the waves, and, with the rain beating against their backs, they inched forward along the coast. They were far enough from the cliffs now to warrant being smashed against the rocks, but, as Moll faced the storm head on, she felt the wildness of it and sensed its tormented spirit.

The boat edged away from the Nibbled Head and Moll watched Dorothy’s light flashing on and off in the direction of Devil’s Drop.
I’m coming, Ma
, she thought to herself.
I’m coming
. She imagined Gryff and Alfie inside the lighthouse. Would Alfie come after them? Would he risk everything – again – for the sake of a magic that hadn’t even been able to make him real? And how would Gryff manage without his sight?

The smugglers rowed on, despite the water that sprayed over the edges and sloshed round their ankles, and then suddenly, as if someone had told it to, the storm seemed to ease. The rain pulled back, the waves quelled and the wind dropped to nothing.

Moll’s insides knotted. The storm hadn’t done with them; there was more in store – she could feel the dark magic all around them now.

And then another noise began and, with every stroke of the smugglers’ oars, it grew louder. Moll clasped her boxing fist talisman as they rounded the headland.

Devil’s Drop roared in the distance.

Dorothy’s beam flashed upon it again and again and only then did Moll understand the full menace of the falls: a giant, writhing whiteness growling with an energy all of its own. Spray clouded up where the water hammered into the sea and, to the sides of the falls, great clumps of jungled weeds hung down from rocks. And every now and again the silhouettes of swifts dived into the falls, passing so easily to the place most sailors feared to go.

A mist had settled on the surface of the sea now, but it wasn’t billowing and frothing as it was beneath the falls. This hung like a band of fog, cold and brooding, and it made Moll and Siddy exchange a nervous glance.

Smog looked at the others. ‘Can you hear them?’

Moll strained her ears against the roar of water. And there, just at the very edge of her hearing: whispers. They were faint and hollow, like dying breaths, and they sifted through the mist towards them.

The smugglers stopped rowing and one turned to Grudge. ‘G-ghosts.’ His voice was trembling. ‘Come up from the
Craggan
. . .’

The boat drifted into the mist and it twisted round them, cool and damp.

‘Just the wind,’ Grudge muttered, but he gripped his pistol tighter.

The smugglers rowed on and the whispers grew all around them, hanging in the air. There was something sinister in their call, as if they wanted to be heard, and, as the mist closed in round the boat, lit now and again by Dorothy’s beams, Moll peered down into the sea. From the deep darkness there rose a mast draped in seaweed: the wreck of the
Craggan
– and they were right above it. Smog crouched lower in the bow, his shoulders bunched up. Then the whispers hissed louder and he clattered backwards and screamed.

Ten fingers – long, bony and grey – were curled round the edge of the boat.

A
lfie sat on the edge of Puddle’s boat bed, chewing his nails. ‘Will she be OK?’

Puddle tucked Scrap’s legs beneath a blanket and looked anxiously at her torso, bound tightly in bandages. Scrap’s eyes were closed and her breaths were so weak that her chest barely rose and fell.

‘I don’t know,’ Puddle said quietly. ‘All we can do now is wait.’

Alfie’s shoulders slumped and, over by the window, Gryff whimpered helplessly for Moll.

‘Nothing you could have done would’ve stopped Grudge,’ Puddle said. ‘You can’t protect everyone, even if you want to. It’s not the way the world works.’

‘Kelpies, cursed owls, wolves . . .’ Alfie threw up his hands. ‘We led her into danger again and again.’

Puddle shook his head. ‘You can’t shield people from the darkness out there, but the friendship and loyalty you showed Scrap will have counted for far more than you realise.’

‘But I wanted to make things right for her.’ Alfie twisted his shirt cuff. ‘She was someone I could’ve looked after – she had no one else. She didn’t deserve any of this.’

Puddle walked round the boat and reached out a hand until he found Alfie’s back. ‘No, she didn’t. But, even though life deals us the most almighty blows, we must never give up fighting for those we love.’ Puddle paused and threaded his beard through his fingers. ‘Whatever happens to Scrap, I don’t believe this world is the end, Alfie. I think there’s more after – a place where lives aren’t snatched away unjustly and where goodness prevails.’

Alfie looked up to the ceiling to force the tears away. ‘She could see me,’ he said quietly. ‘While she was in my arms – she could see me.’

Puddle nodded. ‘I’ve been thinking and I wonder whether I understand a little better now. Perhaps you can only be seen by those who have grown to love you and trust you. Moll, Siddy, Gryff – the whole of their camp if what you’ve told me is right – and then Scrap. It makes sense.’

‘But the Shadowmasks – they can see me too.’

Puddle’s face darkened. ‘Maybe that’s because they were the ones who made you this way in the first place.’ He was silent for a little while. ‘But I know there’s a certain fiery-tempered girl with a huge heart who won’t stop until she’s fixed it for you.’

Alfie thought of Moll charging headlong into danger for the amulet – for Gryff, for Oak, for her ma – and for him.

Gryff edged round the side of the room. His strides were tentative and slow, but he found Alfie and stopped short of him, his ears cocked forward.

Alfie sat on the floorboards, his head in his hands. ‘What are we going to do, Gryff?’

The wildcat padded forward until he was just in front of Alfie. The boy looked up and held his breath, then he stared into Gryff’s distant eyes. The wildcat had got used to him, he’d understood Alfie meant no harm, but Gryff had never come this close before. This was something he only ever did with Moll.

Slowly, carefully, Alfie raised his hand. The wildcat took another step forward, then stretched out his neck as if searching for something. Alfie’s heart quickened as his fingers met Gryff’s fur. It was soft and warm, but the muscles beneath were firm and strong. Alfie ran a hand over Gryff’s back and the wildcat purred, then nuzzled Alfie with his head, leaning in closer, like he always did with Moll.

So much was uncertain and broken, but somehow Gryff’s presence made Alfie feel safe, even loved. And, for the first time since escaping Skull’s camp in Tanglefern Forest, Alfie cried. Tears trailed down his cheeks and great sobs shook his body. But Gryff didn’t move; he let the tears fall on to his head and over his nose. The wildcat’s purr stirred something inside the boy, drawing out fresh tears, and then Gryff’s muscles flexed, his back arched and he stepped back.

‘Alfie,’ Puddle said after a moment. ‘Look . . .’

Gryff blinked yellow-green eyes at Alfie. But they were not distant eyes glazed with fear as they had been a moment ago. They were Gryff’s eyes: wild, alert and fierce.

The wildcat sprang up on to the sofa and snarled towards the window.

‘His whiskers have grown back!’ Alfie cried.

Gryff pounded his forelegs against the table, hissing and spitting.

‘Your tears,’ Puddle gasped. ‘I could see them . . . And when they fell on Gryff’s head his whiskers grew back. You healed him. He can see.’ He grinned. ‘Alfie, there’s something special about your tears, about
you
. Not real?’ he scoffed. ‘You’re as real as they come, boy.’

Alfie stood up, his fists clenched. ‘Look after Scrap for me, Puddle.’ He dipped his head towards Gryff. ‘We’re going after Moll and Sid.’

M
oll stared in horror at the fingers curled round the bow of the boat. The mist thickened, lit hazily from behind by the lighthouse beams, then through the fog a face appeared.

Grey skin, mottled with barnacles, stretched tight over a long, thin face. Limpets and sea urchins clung to the tendrils of kelp that twisted down from the scalp, and wild eyes swivelled above jutting cheekbones.

The smugglers gripped the oars tightly, Grudge raised his pistol and this time neither Moll nor Siddy tried to stop him. Whatever this creature was, it looked rotten to the core. The gunshot blasted straight through it, as if it was made of mist, then there came a hollow laugh and all around the boat the whispers stitched together into a web of hisses.

‘We’re the Grim Whispers,’ the creature by the bow crooned, ‘the ghosts of the
Craggan
. And you cannot kill the dead . . .’

Moll peered over the edge of the boat to see dozens of heads protruding just a few centimetres above the surface. There were no eyes yet, just strands of twisted seaweed floating on the sea.

Smog and the smuggler boys were rigid with fear, but Grudge whirled round to face Moll and Siddy. ‘Is this more of your tricks?’

Moll shook her head, her eyes locked on the Grim Whisperer at the bow. It tilted its head at her and the limpets caught in its hair clinked together. Moll turned to Siddy. ‘Feels like the Shadowmasks’ magic.’

Siddy nodded shakily, then he forced himself to look at the creature. ‘We – we want to pass through to Devil’s Drop.’

The Grim Whisperer smiled, white lips clinging to grey skin. ‘Devil’s Drop?’ His hands scuttled down the boat edge and he pulled his bare chest through the water until he was at the stern before Moll and Siddy. They cringed back from the creature’s bony fingers. ‘And why should I let you past there?’

Siddy forced the words out. ‘An amulet; we think it’s hidden behind the falls.’

The whispers around the boat rasped and hissed again and the creature pulled his chest fully out of the water and leant into the boat, his eyes wild and roving. ‘But we’ve been called to keep you here. To hold you until others much worse than us come along.’

Smog huddled at the bottom of the boat, shaking with fear. ‘We should’ve left these children back in Inchgrundle; they’re cursed!’

Moll didn’t need to ask who had called the Grim Whispers. She could feel the Shadowmasks’ magic, like a gauze of evil woven around them. And then her mind flicked back to a conversation she’d had with Cinderella Bull back in the cove when she’d told them all about the sea spirits.
Sea spirits love tricks
, she’d said. But what had the fortune-teller told her about ghosts from shipwrecks? Moll thought fast. And then she heard Cinderella Bull’s voice so clearly it was as if she was speaking inside her:
Beat a mer ghost at their own riddle and their hold over you will shrink
.

‘What if we played you for it?’ Moll said, her voice level and low, despite the fear she felt rising inside her.

The Grim Whisperer blinked slowly. ‘Go on.’

‘What if you set us a riddle and we solved it?’

Siddy shrank further inside his coat. ‘Oh, Moll. This is a terrible, terrible plan.’

Grudge seized Moll by the wrist. ‘What are you playing at now, girl?’

Moll ignored them both and twisted her body against Grudge’s hold so that she was facing the Grim Whisperer straight on. An unsettling coldness crawled beneath her skin as she met his eyes, but Moll willed herself on. ‘Try us.’

The barnacles above the Grim Whisperer’s cheekbones clung closer together as his eyes narrowed. ‘I could flood your lungs with water,’ he spat. The whispers around him quavered with delight. ‘But I’ll play you because I know I’ll win.’

Moll turned to Grudge. ‘If you want that amulet, we’ve got to beat these ghosts at their own game.’

The smugglers behind Grudge spoke in low, frightened voices to one another, but Grudge spun round and smacked his crowbar on the side of the boat. ‘If you lot even think about trying to steer this boat away, I’ll send the knives into you one by one.’

The largest smuggler eyed Moll up and down. ‘It’s her,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t trust the gypsy girl. She could be on the side of these creatures – trying to work her way free from us.’