The Wind of Southmore Page 9

  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 kn
ow,” 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.

  Her gaze fell again on the portrait, the picture of before, and the twins seemed to be smiling at her. What happened to you? she asked silently. I don’t know how to help you.

  It was then that she saw them, and she bit her lip in a sudden suppressed excitement. “‘Two perfect spheres’,” she repeated. “You don’t suppose – look!” and she pointed to the picture.

  The background was of a moonlit night, the twins’ dark hair seeming to flow and melt into the velvet blackness beyond the silver rays, surrounded by a golden pattern of stars. A swirling, sinuous pattern which seemed vaguely familiar, and which pointed back to the foreground of the portrait, to where two gems, a black and a white pearl, rested snugly, one in each of the sisters’ palms. Behind them the strange constellation seemed to swirl and dance, until they felt that they were no longer in the cold tower room, but out there in the night sky, dancing with the stars. A gull cried sharply from somewhere outside and the vision faded and settled, and once more the girls were staring at a portrait in a very old book.

  “Twin spheres,” Alice remarked softly, after a few moments. “But where are they?”

  “And what are they?” Arlen added, grimly. “I wonder – ” she rose and walked over to the window. “All these jewels. What was he doing with them all? There’s got to be something there. I just – can’t – ”

  “And the dragon again,” Alice said slowly, remembering the shimmering scales of gold around her. “It’s the dragon. But what does it mean? Are there two of them?”

  “I don’t know,” Arlen answered slowly. “I’ve never heard of two. But then, I don’t really know the proper story behind it. Nobody will ever tell me anything. I’ve always thought it was a symbol – you know, like a totem animal or something – a good luck sign. Everything’s just been left to fall apart.”

  “Since the alchemist left,” Alice finished. “What happened to him?”

  “I don’t know,” Arlen replied. “He threw the stone away, from the rock – we know that,” and she traced her fingers once again over the shining picture, frustrated. “I don’t know any more to their story.”

  “It’s all very mysterious,” Alice said drily. She didn’t know what to believe anymore. Or who to trust, and she felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck as suspicion clouded her face. “You don’t suppose he – ?”

  “No, no,” Arlen shook her head firmly, as if reading her thoughts. “He’d done something – I’m sure of that – but I think he was trying to put it right. He threw the stone away, remember? It’s – something else – that has it now.” She returned to the ancient volume, and began to flick the pages as quickly as she dared. The old paint was crumbling back to powder, and her fingers were stained in the vivid, ancient colours of vermillion and emerald and peacock blue. “Something else,” she repeated softly, and her gaze rested on the bright page of the sister with the tall, fair man, on the cliff by the castle.

  “He gives me the creeps,” Alice shuddered, moving over to Arlen’s side for a better look.

  “Yes, he does,” Arlen agreed, slowly.

  “I wonder who he was?”

  “I think,” Arlen replied, apparently with some difficulty, “that we’re going to find out.” She paused. “It’s still a full moon tonight.”

  “They’ll be back,” Alice said, in a low tone. “And they know we’re here. What do we do?” She could not forget the circle, trapped in the mist, caught by the swirling bars of fire and words and the heat of the ruby. She looked quickly at Arlen, who was still staring as if transfixed, at the picture. Alice reached for the book and drew it away. “What do we do?” she repeated firmly. “They know about us. They know where we are.”

  “Then I think,” Arlen said again, her eyes still on the book, “that we should be somewhere else.”

  “Like where?”

  “Like where they’ll least expect us. Like outside.”

  “But – ” Alice stammered.

  “They won’t be looking for us there,” Arlen insisted. “We’ll have a chance to see – what happens – and escape, if we have to.”

  “OK,” Alice answered, supposing that her sister should know best, although her tone and expression admitted nothing of the sort. Her glance travelled idly back through the book, resting suddenly on the slender blo
nde woman handing over the baby at the castle door. “She’s quite pretty, isn’t she,” she said then, after a few minutes. She had never seen a picture of her mother.

  “I suppose so,” Arlen said shortly, and snapped the book shut.

  “Hey – I was looking at that!”

  “We haven’t got time. We have to work on this poem.”

  “Now you want to,” Alice muttered, and Arlen pretended to ignore her, busying herself with finding the right page. For some reason, the book kept infuriatingly landing on that picture. She closed it suddenly and stood with her eyes shut, letting the words of the riddle flow through her head. Coloured flashes of words – green fingers, rainbow streams, ivory pale, sealskin dark, images, pictures – but how to put them together?

  “We have to find them,” she said. “They’re waiting – we – hold the key – ” The thread was there – she could see the end glimmering but she couldn’t catch it.

  “We?” Alice repeated. “What key?”

  “The gems. We have to find them – before – ”

  “Before what?” Alice was growing frustrated now. Arlen seemed to know where she was going, but wouldn’t let on.

  “Before – ”

  But the moment was shattered, as Aunt Maud entered the room behind them.

  “Quick – the book,” Alice hissed, and Arlen did the best thing she could think of to cover it up. She sat on it.

  “What are you doing in here?” Aunt Maud looked around suspiciously, her large nostrils flaring, “as if she were sniffing for something,” as Alice said later. “I need some help with those vegetables.”

  “Yes, Aunt Maud,” Arlen said. “We’ll just – ”

  “You’ll just no such thing,” said Aunt Maud. “I’ve barely seen you two girls for the last few days. Honestly, you think it just takes a lick and a wish to keep this place running.” It’s running? Alice thought to herself, and Arlen nudged her, as if she’d heard. “Now I need some help and I need it now.”

  “Yes, Aunt Maud,” both girls answered meekly. Arlen raised herself with a quick, frustrated glance at Alice, and Alice smoothly slid the book beneath her thick jumper, its pointed edges resting in the top of her jeans. It wasn’t very comfortable, but it was better than Aunt Maud seeing it.