The Whitby Witches 3: The Whitby Child (18 page)

Gradually, Ben's visits to the beach grew less frequent and then, late one June afternoon on his way home from school, the boy decided to try one more time.

In dawdling steps he strolled over the sands, swinging his schoolbag from side to side and absently drawing wiggling patterns with the toe of his shoe. Then, as he drew near to the high pillars of the footbridge, Ben dropped his bag and stood stock still.

Sitting with its back against one of the concrete supports was a bundled and hunched figure—it was Nelda.

The aufwader was lost in contemplation; staring intently at something in her hands she did not see the boy as he crept closer.

"Hello!" he cried without warning.

Nelda jumped and stared at him in blank surprise.

"You startled me!" she exclaimed. "Why sneak up like that?"

Ben shoved his hands into his pockets. "Thought you might have run off otherwise," he said sheepishly.

"Run? From you? Why would I do that?"

"Well, I haven't seen you for so long, and after last time, I thought perhaps..."

"Oh Ben!" she breathed with the faintest of smiles curling over her small mouth. "I offended you—I am sorry. That was not my intent. I was troubled and alas vented my spleen on the one who deserved it least."

Ben grinned. "That's all right," he said, "Jen does that to me all the time—I'm getting used to it."

"But 'twas wrong of me. I have missed our meetings. I thought perhaps I had driven you away forever."

Ben sat opposite her and, resting his chin on his knees, he regarded her with some astonishment. Nelda's appearance had changed.

The aufwader's long dark hair had grown thicker than ever and tumbled about her shoulders in wild branching tangles that were coated with sand. Her great grey eyes were rimmed with red and the lids drooped wearily over them as though she had not slept for a week. The neck of her gansey was pulled up high to keep out the cool breeze but the garment itself was dishevelled and small twigs prickled from the woollen stitches. On top of this she wore the leather jerkin and her small hands were furtively concealing something which occasionally caught the sunlight and glittered like an emerald.

Nelda was in a sorry state and Ben thought that she was beginning to look like Old Parry.

"Is Tarr okay?" he asked, politely ignoring her unkempt aspect.

The faint smile faded. "I have not seen him for many weeks now," Nelda told Ben. "I no longer dwell with my grandfather, nor do I speak to any other member of the tribe."

"But why? What's happened?"

The aufwader gazed at him for a moment then looked down at her stomach. "Can you not tell?" she murmured. "Does not this declare my woe?"

Ben frowned, Nelda had grown quite fat. "You been eating too much?" he began. "You should see how Sister Frances puts it away... oh!"

"Aye," she affirmed, "'tis true, I bear the child of Esau. Forgive me, I have shocked you. If you wish you can depart and think no more of me—do as the others have done."

"Nelda!" he cried.

She covered her eyes with her hand and breathed heavily. "Again I am sorry," she said. "It is difficult to recognise friendship. Perhaps my solitude has driven me mad—either that or the curse is already at work. Oh Ben, I have spoken to no one these many weeks—shall I tell you all that has happened?"

"Only if you want to," he encouraged gently.

And so Nelda proceeded to tell him all that had occurred, of Esau's evil bargain and the anger of the tribe and her ultimate doom.

When she had finished, Ben was horrified. "I'm so sorry," he mumbled. "Is there really nothing anyone can do for you?"

Nelda shook her head. "No," she said, "only the Lords of the Deep and Dark can save me and my baby. 'Twas they who placed the Mother's Curse, thus 'tis they who must remove it. Yet I fear that is an act of compassion that they will never make. Their hearts must be blacker than the deepest pit—they know nothing of mercy or pity."

Ben bit his bottom lip. It was difficult to believe what she had told him, but one thing he knew for certain—he was to blame. "It's all my fault, isn't it?" he whispered guiltily. "I had the chance to ask for the removal of the curse but failed."

"No," Nelda told him, "Rowena Cooper was the one. She it was who stole the boon from you—you could not have withstood her power. Oh Ben, you must stop assuming blame—did you not see Esau's debauched claim upon me as your own fault also? You are my true friend, I harbour no grudge towards you."

All the same, Ben felt dreadful. Nelda and her unborn child were going to die and he could have prevented it. Why did everyone he love always have to leave him?

"What will you do?" he asked eventually.

Nelda shrugged. "I do not know. Spend what days are left in what comfort I can. But no one shall order my life for me; whatever happens shall be on mine own terms with none saying yea or nay. My decisions are my own and I am willing to pay what price I must for that freedom."

"So where are you living? Surely not outside? What about when it rains?"

"There are many caves cut into the cliff," she explained. "I have made a new home for myself in one of their number. Do not fear, I shall not hunger nor be chill when the weather turns."

"But to do it all on your own," Ben remarked, "isn't it very lonely?"

"It is," she answered desolately, "yet what choice remains? I want nothing more to do with the others and they are of the same mind."

Ben sucked his teeth. "Even so," he added, "I'm surprised at your grandfather—how could he be so cruel?"

The aufwader said nothing and he could tell that Tarr had hurt her deeply. Ben scowled at the ground then brightened and looked up.

"I know!" he cried. "Why don't you come and live with us? Aunt Alice would love it and Dithery Edith is getting married soon so she can't object, and as Jennet isn't able to see you anyway..."

Nelda held up her hand to stop him. "No," she said, "that is not the answer, generous though the offer may be. I am an aufwader, Ben. I do not belong in your world nor you in mine. 'Twould be a grave mistake. Is it not enough for my kind alone to be bound by the curse? If I were to dwell with humans then they too would be embroiled—the sufferings must end. I am a wanderer of the shore, descended from the many tribes which once thrived here before your kind built the first huts and populated the land. Do you not understand? My place is here."

The pair fell into uneasy silence, one contemplating her plight and the other racking his brains for something to say or do that might be of comfort or assistance.

Suddenly the heavy peace was shattered as the sky became filled with raucous shrieks and yammering screeches that cut straight through them like the bitter wailings of a hundred cats in pain and anguish.

Nelda glanced up at the cliffs. "The gulls!" she cried. "Something has happened to the gulls! Listen how afrighted they are!"

The air was swarming with white wings. It was as if every sea bird in Whitby was flocking overhead and whirling in tight circles, filled with alarm and panic. Their fearful voices croaked and screamed so loudly that Ben jammed his fingers in his ears whilst he stared up at the chaotic jumble of feathers that thrashed before the cliff face.

"What are they doing?" he shouted to Nelda.

The aufwader shivered, for the dreadful shrieks reminded her of the voices she had heard in the conch shell and she closed her eyes in an effort to blot out that hideous memory.

"I cannot tell," she finally answered, "for though my late husband knew the language of gulls, he did not teach it to me."

"Well, I hope they settle down soon; it's deafening!"

But the birds continued to scream and fly in confused and frenzied groups, and every so often their screeches would increase as though some fresh nightmare had terrorised them.

Nelda became uneasy. "This is no ordinary squabbling," she uttered; "there must be something up there which they fear."

"Well, why don't they just fly off?" Ben cried. "They must be pretty dim!"

"Come," she said, carefully scrambling from the concrete ledge, "we must discover what assails them."

Doubtful, Ben trotted after her. "What?" he asked. "Climb all the way up there? Have you gone barmy too? For one thing you're pregnant, for another I'll break my neck trying. Besides, we haven't got any ropes and stuff."

"Don't worry," she assured him, "my race know the ways of this cliff well. There is a path, not too difficult, and you will not have to climb far—see how the gulls mass just over there?"

"What do you mean
I
won't have to climb far?" Ben asked with a nervous laugh.

"As you reminded me, I am pregnant—I could not clamber up yonder. Do not look so unhappy; I shall guide you."

"Oh, thanks."

Up they went, over the first of the great rocks and then a little further until Nelda could manage no more.

"Now," she insisted, "place your foot there and hold on to that outcrop with your right hand. That's it, now reach over to that cleft and shift your weight to the other foot."

"I don't think this is such a good idea," he shouted down. "Can't we just let the gulls get on with whatever it is and leave them alone?"

But Nelda was insistent, for some dark instinct was telling her that this was her concern and she had to discover the cause of the squalling disturbance. So warily Ben edged his way up to where the screaming birds rode the wind feverishly, their demented cries growing painfully louder with each cautious move the boy made.

Soon Ben was close enough to be able to see that above him there was a narrow ledge heaped with twigs and dried grasses.

"I think their nests are up there!" he called to Nelda.

"Then that is why they do not leave," she shouted back. "Their eggs will not have hatched yet. But what is it they fear there?"

Ben had the disturbing suspicion that he was about to find out. The gulls were flapping all around him now and his ears rang with their wild shrieks. One bird flew too close and the tip of its wing slapped him in the face.

"Get off, you stupid Nelly!" he bawled. "I'm only trying to help!"

Pulling himself upwards the boy lifted his head level with the ledge and peered over.

Horrified, Ben's fingers slithered on the rock but he recovered quickly and forced himself to look again.

Inside the scruffy nest, squirming between the fragments of two gull's eggs, was a writhing knot of snakes. They were slender and long, covered in dark brown scales spattered with black diamonds, and moved constantly like animated strips of liquorice. The serpents hissed and wound their dry scaly bodies about each other as the boy peered down at them.

With their black, reptile eyes they stared back at him, and long tongues flicked swiftly from their mouths while their flat heads bobbed from side to side.

Ben shuddered in revulsion. He wasn't afraid of snakes, but there was something uncanny about these creatures; they seemed to be driven by one mind, for when one serpent moved the others mirrored the movements exactly.

"Those things would frighten anyone," he mumbled. "No wonder the birds aren't happy."

"What is it?" Nelda's voice called up to him.

He edged further along the rock and away from the nest before answering.

"Snakes! They've been eating the gulls' eggs!"

Below him Nelda raised her hands to her mouth but said no more.

Ben prepared to climb down again. "Well, I'm not touching them," he muttered. "They might be poisonous for all I know. Yeuk! The daft birds'll just have to find somewhere else and lay more..."

His words vanished, for as he glanced along the nesting ledge he noticed for the first time the sprawled bodies of many seagulls. Their wings were spread open as though they had struggled and tried to take to the air before they died, and as he looked closer he saw that a vicious and bloody ring was cut around each limp neck.

"What can have..?"

Amidst the bodies there came a movement and at first Ben thought that one of the gulls was still alive—then he knew.

Twined tightly about the creature's neck was a snake. Spasmodically constricting and loosening its coils the serpent made the broken corpse twitch and jerk until finally the bird's spine gave a hideous
snap.

"They've strangled them!" Ben gasped. "The snakes have throttled the poor things!"

But the worst was yet to come. Within one of the nests a single egg lay whole and undamaged, and even as the boy turned his eyes from the gruesome spectacle of the strangled corpses he saw the shell judder and splinter.

The nest was empty of snakes but as the egg began to move, every sharp head turned and the tongues flicked out more rapidly than ever. At once a deadly stream of serpents flowed towards the nest, rearing up in expectation. With silent intent they surrounded the egg, swaying like reeds before its jarring, rocking movements as the chick within struggled to free itself.

"No!" Ben whispered, "This is awful." Yet he knew there was nothing he could do.

A piece of the eggshell fell into the nest and the waiting hunters swirled around it. Then a small hole appeared, followed by another.