The Whitby Witches 3: The Whitby Child (17 page)

"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.

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.