The Wind of Southmore (13 page)

“
Are you OK?” Arlen asked softly. Did Alice guess? she wondered
anxiously. Had she seen him too, as he stood above the cliff behind
Robbie, feeding on her anger?

“
I think I just need to go outside for a minute.” The room was
whirling, and she could not keep an image from her mind of Arlen
falling, falling, limp and bloody into the choking waves, although
she did not know from where it had sprung. She only knew that she
had to stop it. Stop it before –

She
needed to breathe.

“
Shall I come?” Arlen asked quickly. Don’t leave me, Alice, she
thought, unable to drag her eyes away from the picture.

“
No – it’s OK – I just need some air. I’ll be right
back.”

Arlen
closed her eyes fiercely and turned the page again.

Another
picture, one of the sisters alone on the cliff, waiting, her dark
hair drawn back by the breeze and her expression tense and longing.
“Was it you?” Arlen asked her softly. “Why do I know you? Why have
you come to me?”

But the
picture remained silent, and Arlen turned the page again to see the
image of a ship being wrecked. The drawing was small in frame and
dreary in colouring, and yet – it was actually rather frightening,
Arlen thought, as she leaned forward. The storm-ravaged ocean
seemed very real; she could almost feel the flecks of water from
the flailing spray as the waves flung themselves furiously at the
vessel, drenching and dragging it helplessly down beneath the cruel
carpet of water.

She
shivered. It was the ship. But what scared her most was what was
pulling it down. Great, glistening, oily black limbs rising from
the choking waves to slither over the sides like the thick, strong
tentacles of some enormous sea beast, reaching and sucking and
pulling on its struggling victim above. The door slammed suddenly,
locking Alice outside, and Arlen’s voice seemed trapped in her
throat, her eyes forced back onto the picture as if by an unseen
hand, ice trickling down her back like the blade of a
knife.

She saw
it now, amidst the black curling tentacles, reaching towards the
ship. A long, thin, white arm, claws dazzling and sharp, the
forefinger adorned with a sparkling wet, blood red ruby ring. Arlen
was rocking on her feet. The blood rushed to her head and she could
feel all her thoughts throbbing painfully against her scalp. Before
her, the picture seemed to be in motion, the waves surged and
lurched and sprayed, tentacles slithered and sucked, the ship
rolled and fought desperately, trying to elude the limb which rose
and clawed constantly, viciously, towards its prey, and the wind
rose, the voices moaning and crying in her ears.

She
twisted frantically. The door was shut, and to her horror its
splintered wood was repairing itself, quickly and quietly and
impeccably rearranging itself back into shape like rewinding a
film. The movement jolted Alice outside and she whipped
around.

“
Arlen?
Arlen
?”
She ran towards the door.

But Arlen
made no sound.

“
Arlen, Arlen,
unlock
it
!” Alice screamed.

But Arlen
did not hear her. She stood, still and tense, as the shape rose
from the ancient pages of the book, casting a black line of shadow
across her face. She watched silently as the clawed, bejewelled
hand stretched from the picture, slimy and glistening and reaching
for her. Her blood turned to ice, and she clenched her hands
tightly into fists, waiting, the sound of Alice pounding on the
other side of the door reaching her ears like faint
drums.

“
What do you want?” she muttered softly. “What do you
want
?”

And she
could almost feel the sigh of dank breath brush against her as the
answering voice whispered, “Morwenna.”

Outside
Alice fought, she kicked and battered, but she could make no
headway. How odd, she thought suddenly, that she, too, should be
seeking entry this way. There seemed to be something blocking the
door, obstructing her. Furious, she flung herself towards the wood,
and a sudden crack sent her spinning across the floorboards and
through the rotting planks over the edge of the ship. Only instinct
saved her as she reached out and grasped the figurehead, so that
she was dangling, high above the waiting sands. Below her the beach
seemed to be rising up to meet her, the cold, pale waves making
hungry, sucking sounds as they lapped the yellow sand.

Not
again, she begged weakly.

One hand
began to slip, and she was swinging dangerously, her strength
ebbing.

Behind
her she could hear the door split, its rotten, tearing wood whining
on the wind. Fear overcame her, and with that fear came a strength,
and she pulled herself forwards with a force so fierce it hurt. She
dragged herself back to the door, sick to her stomach as she saw
the wood being torn, clawed away. And then the glint of a red stone
caught her full in the eyes and she lunged forward desperately, her
heart pounding. As she fell, the hole cracked wider, jagged and
gaping, and she could see the scene inside, the dark, flashing
colours playing over Arlen’s face like a film as the white arm
reached for her. Alice’s stomach tightened. And then it struck her.
The book.

“
Arlen!” she cried frantically. “The book! Close it!
Close it!
”

But Arlen
did not seem to hear her, and Alice desperately flung her arm
through the splintered door as if she could somehow reach it
herself. The book snapped shut with an angry clap. The spell ended,
the past locked back inside its fleshy covers, and the room was
cold and still once more. Arlen turned, her eyes wide and dark. She
said nothing.

“
Come on,” Alice said then. They had to get off this ship. She
tucked the book under one arm and pulled Arlen towards the prow
with the other.

She
didn’t know how she did it. Terrified of climbing over the rotting
boards again, panic-stricken at the idea of touching the cold
yellow sand, and unnerved by Arlen’s white, staring face, she still
somehow got them to the figurehead and over it onto the rocks. The
ancient face, peeled and rotting, seemed frozen like Arlen’s, the
eyes similarly dark grey and blank. Had she seen the same hand
clawing at her? Alice wondered with a shudder, as she eased herself
gently over the side. As if in answer, a deathlike sea stench
filled the air, cold breath brushing her face and whispering of
sadness and fear and hopelessness, and she quickly dropped onto the
rocks below, to join her sister.

As she
pulled Arlen along with her towards the castle, a flash of blood
sparkled behind them from beneath the waves, while the clouds
huddled together above them in a menacing frown.

Chapter Eight

“
Arlen, what was it?”

They were
sitting on the floor of the tower room, facing each other over the
seaman’s chest. Upon it lay the ancient bound book, its soft skin
covering seeming to glow and shiver, as if bursting to open before
them. The sounds of the wind and the sea moaned and cried through
the paneless window behind them, and Alice fought to stop the
fierce shivering that had overtaken her upon reaching the castle.
She now sat, numb and cold, and waiting for Arlen’s answer. All of
a sudden she thought of Robbie, and could not help but wish he were
here. He didn’t belong here either. He must know how strange it all
was.

Arlen
seemed mesmerised by the book, her fingers moving repeatedly over
the ancient pages, as if caressing them. It made Alice shudder to
see her, and she asked again quickly, “What happened in there?” and
her voice was cold and hard.

Arlen had
barely spoken since it happened, and Alice could not help feeling
that a wall seemed to have risen between them. She was suddenly
very aware that she didn’t know Arlen at all. So they were twins –
so what? She was sure there were plenty of cases where identical
twins weren’t much like each other – look at all the movies and TV
shows which had been based on that very thing.

“
I – I don’t know,” Arlen replied softly after a few moments.
She did not look at Alice. “I don’t want to talk about it.” She
seemed to be caught in some other time, and her face lifted and
strained, as if searching for something. An old man at a table, a
black cloak, slender fingers coaxing instruments, a sharp turn and
a frozen look of fear, long dark strands of hair billowing heavily
in a glossy black sea – and it was gone. The dream was shattered,
the bland stone walls of the narrow room surrounded her once
more.

“
I don’t know. But somehow it – it’s all funny. It was almost
as if – as if – well, the events in the book were being –
”

“
Replayed,” Alice finished, feeling herself trembling as the
word sounded clearly in the damp, seaweedy air. That was what it
had felt like to her, as if they had been caught in some ancient
time bomb that would not release them until it had run its
cycle.

She
dropped forward suddenly, sick in the stomach, a green tinge
overshadowing the pallor of her face.

“
Are you alright?” Arlen asked, looking up from the
book.

“
I’m – I’m fine.” She straightened after a few moments and
glanced crossly at her sister. “Thanks for asking,” and the tone
was sarcastic. Arlen turned her gaze back to the pages.

“
I know,” she said, after a few minutes. “The hand. You saw it
too.”

“
What
was
it?”
Alice shuddered, revulsion crawling along her spine.

“
Something that belongs to the chanting and the dark shadows
and the sea mist. Some sort of power. It seems to surround the
village. I have seen it before. I – ” she stopped, as if confused,
and her fingers once again ran along the smooth cover of the book.
“It’s in here.”

“
Maybe we shouldn’t open it again,” Alice suggested nervously,
although she knew, somehow, that this could not be.

“
It was meant for us,” Arlen said softly, and felt her fingers
weave inside the fragile pages, turning instinctively to the
portrait of the alchemist. “It’s a record and a guide. Our story.
We have to try and follow it.”

Both
examined the picture of their ancestor, and he seemed to gaze back
at them, his grey eyes sorrowful.

“
That stone,” Alice said, staring at the jewel in his palm.
“It’s your proof. It’s the same one.”

“
Yes,” Arlen agreed, turning the page. The next picture was of
the alchemist again, tall and gaunt and standing on the block of
stone overlooking the sea, his hand raised over his head as if
hailing something.

“
What’s he doing?” Alice asked. “He looks as though he’s
throwing something.”

They both
saw it at the same moment. A scarlet flash arcing in the dark,
swirling background of the picture.

“
The ruby.”

“
He’s throwing it away. What for?”

“
I don’t – know. Something was wrong.” She paused. “I guess now
we know why it’s called Alchemist’s Block.” She lifted the next
page carefully, enjoying the thick, rough feel of the paper between
her fingers. The gentle rustle split the page in two, and she
realised that there was another sheet behind it. Gingerly, she
pried them apart.

“
The ink,” Alice said quietly.

For once
again the page was wet and glistening and, for this reason it
seemed, had stuck to the back of the picture. Both girls stared
closely. It was a poem.

Two from one sever’d in dim glow of fire

Hope lock’d in midnight skye and dewey creame

Two perfect spheres encas’d in glasse, they lye

Silent, with flicker dimm’d, in waiting dreame.

Green fingers gleame and choke them round, as
brighte

Gems dart in rainbow streame. Ivory pale

And sealskin darke, two faces mirror light,

Possess the keye long tolde to free the wail

Crye of life lost soules ne’er more to sail.

The dreame now no more, lock’d fast in red bloode

A glitt’ring prison of beating hope

There was
a large blotch on the page underneath this verse, as if the poet
had been planning to add another and had thought better of it, or
had been interrupted.

“
There’s the key again,” Arlen mused. “‘Two perfect spheres …
two faces mirror light’. Lots of doubles.”

“
Twins,” Alice offered. “Like us.” She stopped suddenly, and
turned the page to the brightly coloured portrait of the long ago
sisters. “And like them.”

They
gazed at the picture in silence for a few moments.

“
Do you think we’ll look like that?” Alice asked
then.

Arlen
shook her head slightly, a sudden fear raking her insides. She
remembered the girl on the beach, the drowned girl, her grey eyes
haunted and pleading beneath the hood. Such loss, such pain, such –
hopelessness. No, she said to herself inwardly. No, I don’t want
that.

Alice was
waiting for her to speak, and she half laughed, the sound thin and
wan in the bleak stone room. “Well, not in those clothes if I can
help it,” she answered, lightly.