The Wind of Southmore (2 page)

“
There are more and more of them now,” Arlen said softly, as if
to herself.

“
Aye, lassie, there are,” Mr MacKenzie agreed. “The birds know.
And they’re getting restless. There are changes afoot, you mark my
words.”

“
What sort of changes?” Arlen asked, her stomach growing tight
and anxious. She could not forget the dark figures, whirling like
bars, the night before, and the girl –

Mr
MacKenzie gave her a long look, and then handed her the fish. “I
can’t tell that. The future was never open to me in that
way.”

“
But why – ”

“
Hey, Grandad!” The unknown voice broke her question and
concentration, and she turned to see a tall, dark haired boy waving
at them from a nearby boat, which he had just unloaded from his
grandfather’s jeep with the help of a couple of fishermen from the
next village.

“
That’ll be Robbie,” Mr MacKenzie turned to face the waters,
his previous words seemingly forgotten. “Get yourself home, hen.
The wind’s getting up.”

She
walked back down the pier with it battling against her, her eyes
smarting with its sting. The smelly bundle of fish was clutched
beneath one arm, and in her free hand she clasped the small charm
that swung constantly around her neck. She could not help but
notice that the large gull seemed to be following her, hopping
lightly from fence to post behind her. Eventually she ducked into
the corner sweet shop, trying to elude it and its sharp black gaze.
All eyes in the shop immediately turned upon her, with the strange,
knowing, half fearful expression that followed her around. Her
nerves growing, she quickly bought a bag of peppermints and
departed, shooting down the steps and around the corner, desperate
to escape those accusing, boring eyes.

As she
turned into the town square, past the ancient stone fountain and
its craggy, lichen-covered image of a stone dragon which stood
crumbling guard in the centre, she caught a glimpse of her face in
the grubby window of an old furniture shop. Small and thin, her
windblown dark hair milling around her white face, she appeared
almost ghostlike, the pallor of her complexion enhanced by her
large grey eyes, circled with purple smudges, which told of the
sleepless night before. As she stared at her own image, she became
strangely aware of a movement behind the phantom twin, a rippling,
unctuous, swaying movement, which seemed to hold her mesmerised and
locked in its motion. She stood silently, she didn’t know for how
long, and felt herself rocking, as if held on a branch, the tension
in her insides gently unravelling. The wind sang softly in her
ears, and from somewhere within the darkness of the shadow rose a
small, red glow, which grew wider and larger the longer she gazed
into it, the heart in its depth seeming to hold a whirling cavern
of fire and blood and life. It seemed familiar, and it was then
that the voices began, pleading and yearning and swelling from a
low, deep, desperate moan to an agonised wail, exploding in her
ears and her mind. She would shatter if it didn’t stop soon, she
knew it. She could almost see the orange sparks shoot from her body
in a fiery shower, flashing bright and deepening to a thick, bloody
rage. She could not seem to move, even to cover her ears, although
what use that would have been she didn’t know, for the voices
seemed to come from inside herself. She could feel herself burning,
crackling up, and then suddenly her whole body snapped and tingled
in a lightning flash, and her skin was burning from the hot touch
of the charm, and it seemed that the pale reflection of herself
shimmered and faded until she could actually see the image of the
fountain, the dragon suddenly bold and clear, behind her. She
whipped around in a frenzy, her heartbeat pulsating to a
gallop.

There was
nobody there except a lone seagull, crying and whimpering, its body
tossing on the breeze above her.

She
gasped, frozen for an instant, the small grey seaside village
seeping through her consciousness again like a musty odour, the
only sound the constant sighing of the shore and the thin mews of
the gull. She didn’t like the look of it somehow, hovering above
her, and turned back quickly into the Beach Road, the fish cold and
greasy in its paper parcel under her arm. She needed to go home and
think.

It was a
good mile back to the castle. The Beach Road was a lonely route,
rarely used by anyone except the Penmorvens as it didn’t really
lead anywhere but to the castle, and it seemed an unspoken law in
the village that the castle was to be left alone. The road wound,
in a stark, dry river, along a cliff overlooking the seafront, the
only decoration being a strange, upright block of stone, about six
feet tall, which stood halfway between the castle and the village,
guarding the chopping waters like a sentinel. It was known as
Alchemist’s Block, named for an early Penmorven, and somehow Arlen
always felt safe by that rock, perhaps for its family
connection.

The bird
was not deterring from its path, tracking her at a steady pace,
hopping from tuft of grass to sand dune, its small, watchful eye
never turning from her for a second. This is ridiculous, thought
Arlen.

“
What do you want?” she said aloud to the bird, feeling
slightly more ridiculous. The gull said nothing, but stood and
stared, its head cocked onto one side.

“
Well, stare then,” she said crossly. “I’m going
home.”

The sky
was darkening as she spoke, gusts of rain spitting from the hanging
clouds above and the churning sea turning black before her. There
was going to be a storm, and she planned to be home before it
started. She took a last exasperated look at the bird, which had
still not moved, even as the raindrops spattered through its
feathers like shattering glass, and turned, unable to prevent a
quick glance at the heavy, tossing waters.

Dark,
dark and deadly were those waves. One would not escape them easily.
She shuddered, wanting to turn but somehow unable. An object
bobbing in the foam had caught her attention. A charred piece of
wood, belched and thrown by the whitecapped mounds of water. Arlen
couldn’t help but wonder whether it had been used last night. As
she strained her eyes, looking for something, she didn’t know what,
she saw something else rise from the violent waves. It was a hand,
adorned by a glittering ruby ring. And it moved.

Arlen
froze, her hands grating against the cold stone beneath her,
pressed so tightly that her knuckles threatened to break through
the white, stretched skin.

The hand
held itself above the water for a few moments, as it awaiting
something, and then it began to rise, a wrist emerging, followed by
the length of a long, white arm. And suddenly Arlen
sprang.

The fish
forgotten, she flew down the old Beach Road towards home, carrying
nothing but the charm held tightly against her breast. There was a
beating of wings behind her as she mounted the steps, and she
slammed the door in the face of a cluster of squalling, crying
seagulls.

“
Where’s the fish?” was her aunt’s first question, her back
turned to the girl as she sliced some greens on the kitchen
table.

“
I – I left it on the rock – ”

“
Left it on the rock?” her aunt repeated, wiping her hands on
her apron, her temper flaring. “Well, you’ll have to go back and
get it before someone takes it.”

“
I – I can’t – ” Arlen replied, in a choked whisper.

“
What do you mean, you can’t?” her aunt shouted angrily. “You
will and I’ll say – ”

But her
voice was silenced by a small thud as Arlen slid to the floor, her
face whiter than death on the cold flagstones. And, as she bent to
help her, her aunt did not notice the tight fist of Arlen’s hand,
curled protectively around her mother’s golden charm.

Chapter Three

Alice
gazed out of the window, her eyes barely registering what she saw.
Had she been looking closely, she would have witnessed blackness,
and only blackness. But she had more to concentrate on than the
landscape – or lack of it – before her eyes.

It didn’t
seem real to her. Nothing had seemed real since that afternoon,
when her father had informed her that she was going to reside, for
an indefinite period, with her unknown mother’s aunt in a little
Cornish fishing village. It had seemed even less real when he had
dumped her on the train at Paddington and left her – just like that
– without even so much as a wave.

And now she was going to actually
live
with someone she didn’t even know
– an old, unknown relative, probably ancient – and who, she had a
grave suspicion, didn’t even know she was coming. And how would
that look? To turn up – a complete stranger – on the doorstep, and
face the possibility of being turned away. And then where would she
go? She had no idea where her father even was.

The whole
thing was like a dream – a bad dream – and only the anxious
churning of her insides could convince her that she was awake. She
sighed, and rubbed the grimy glass furiously with her hand,
pressing her forehead against it and focusing suddenly. Her
reflection faced her in the mirror, her pale face seeming even
whiter in the black window, enhancing the worry in her dark grey
eyes.

And out
there. Well, all she could see out there was the blackness – a
thick, suffocating blackness so intense that it seemed to reach out
for her, even behind the protection of the smudged window glass, so
that when the train finally pulled into the rickety, desolate
little station, she had an overwhelming desire to stay on board –
anything but to face that eternity of darkness and the unknown
horrors it could contain.

But there
was no other stop – this was the last one on the route, and here
the ancient little train would sleep until the following afternoon,
when it geared up again for its return journey to London. And how
she fervently wished she were on it, travelling back to the world
she knew.

Alice
thought quickly. She couldn’t stay on the train all night. For one
thing it was freezing – rail budget cuts seemed to have included
the heating this year. And, as a strange, long mist suddenly stole
into the carriage, she hurriedly packed up her baggage, found an
exit, and descended the steps.

It was as
if something besides herself was willing her out into the night.
Only it was something that she couldn’t see for the dark veil
surrounding her. Her chest felt tight suddenly, and she gasped for
breath. The blackness seemed to pulsate and writhe and fill the
air. It was a blackness that continued forever – pools of dark
cavities welled before her eyes and seemed to close in on her. She
had never felt anything like it before, and she shivered violently,
uncontrollably, in the damp, groping air.

Suddenly,
from behind her, she heard a chuckle, a low, rasping, triumphant
sound which seemed to freeze her to the core of her being. And then
she felt a hand on her shoulder. Whipping around, her fingers ready
to strike, she found herself face to face with a tall young man,
standing by a horse and cart. He must have been waiting for some
time, as Alice had not heard him drive up, and the slight touch of
his hand on her shoulder had been as cold as ice. He seemed to be
wearing a type of dark uniform, and his eyes were piercingly blue.
He said nothing, but continued to stare straight before him. Alice
almost had the feeling that he was looking right through her. She
shivered, and took a step back.

“
Are – are there any taxis around here?” she asked,
nervously.

The young
man made no effort to answer her, but gestured towards the cart, as
if for her to climb inside. He turned then, and swung himself into
the driver’s seat, waiting patiently.

Alice
didn’t know what to do. All her life she had been told not to
accept rides from strangers – and she couldn’t really be faced with
anything much stranger than this. After a few moments’ thought, she
quietly picked up her case and walked round to the station
entrance, just to see if there were any taxis, or signposts even,
so that she could walk. But there was no sign of life on the dark
road before her. Even the driver of the train seemed to have
disappeared, and she was left alone on the station with her
strange, silent companion. It seemed she had little
choice.

Her
insides knotting into a tight ball, she walked slowly back towards
the cart. The driver did not seem to have moved since she had left
him. He was still staring straight ahead, as if he had not even
noticed that she had left.

“
Do – do you – go anywhere near the Penmorven house?” She
finished the question in a rush, as if afraid that her voice would
suddenly disappear.

The
driver, predictably, made no answer, but again motioned for her to
step inside.

Alice
forced down a lump in her throat and, with a grim determination,
lifted her bag onto the worn cloth seat. The driver clicked the
reins as soon as she climbed in beside it, and Alice leant back,
her heart pounding fiercely as the horse mounted the steep
climb.

Why was everything so
open
here? she wondered. There were no cars to be seen,
no tall, cramped buildings thick with lives. No factories chugged
the excretions of their polluted manufacture into the air, no TVs
or stereos could be heard blasting into the night.