Ripples in the Sand (The Sea Witch Voyages) (25 page)

Fifty Seven

Once again Time blurred and shifted.

Two men, arguing on the beach with the incoming tide swishing around their boots. Father and son, each as angry as the other, each refusing to give ground, give way.

Were they not kinsmen, pistols or swords would have been drawn so heated was their anger.

They were too far away for Tiola to hear the words, but the wrath on their faces needed no spoken voice. The father wanted something done, and the son refused to do it. There was no love between the two, for they knew each other not. Names only, no affection, no pride; no loyalty shared between them. The father had abandoned the son; the son had no need of the father. The hatred grew and split them apart. The rift, too great to be mended.

A woman was on the beach, tears in her eyes as she saw the two men, bitter in their great anger. A woman, pleading with her husband to not drive his own son away. The man would not heed her words and she, Jennet, could do nothing to heal the widening chasm of anger.

There also, a fleeting, blurred glimpse of a different time: another, younger woman with red hair, her belly swollen with child, frightened as labour swept through her while men died on the beach in the fading light of a storm-wracked day.

The past tangled, transposed with the present, all of it meaningless to Tiola, yet she had to try and understand for the past held the key to unlock how she could influence the present and the future.

The past was the only way to defeat Tethys and bring Jesamiah safe home.

March 1719

Tethys

Tethys did not like the noise the humans made, the shouting and the screaming; the bang, bang of the things they called guns. Did not like the smell of the blood that turned her blue-greyness to red. She did not like the way they churned the sand and made her water foul and ugly.

But then, she did not like humans anyway, and when they fought and squabbled on her beaches – at the edge of her realm, she hated them even more.

Except for him.

He was different because he was hers. She had been given him at some far distant time – the when, and why she could not remember, for her mind was not alert to these human things, and she had so much to remember: where the whales swam, where the storms hurt her most, where the darkness held the life forms that needed no light. Where the hissing gases expelled through her waters, and the chasms and fissures opened with the rift of the quaking ocean floors. Where the mountains thrusting up through her caused pain, and where the sun warmed and soothed – her realm was vast and her age great. How could she be remembering those inconsequential minutia that were not of importance? All she knew, all she cared to know, was that he had been given to her in a basket as a gift, and she, the Witch Woman, had stolen him away from her.

For that act of thieving, Tethys would not forgive. Nor forget.

One

Tiola dreamt of Jesamiah again, as she had every night since his going. Frustrating dreams, for she could not hear his voice or see his face. She tried reaching out, tried calling to him, pleading to him to come closer, come home, but he was too far away to hear. Once, she thought she felt his arms curved, tight and protective, around her and she awoke thinking he was beside her in the big, lonely bed, but only a cold emptiness was there.

Nor had she been able to use their mind sharing. That in itself was alarming, because unless he was deliberately blocking her thoughts she should be able to maintain contact with him. In the past, if he was shunning her – for whatever reason – she would feel the force of energy in its rigid barrier holding her back, keeping her out. This was different, there was nothing there except a void of blank space. He was not dead, she would have known if his spirit had transferred and passed over. This was…was…? She woke and lay in the bed listening to the early morning sounds of the
Full Moon
and Appledore starting a new day. She had slept but did not feel refreshed; tiredness still weighed heavy on her bones.

Pegget was singing in the kitchen; someone was chopping wood outside, Carter probably, or the boy who helped out. The gulls were making a raucous din. A cart rumbled by, its iron wheels clanking and groaning on the cobbles. Tiola heard Rue’s voice, his distinctive French accent calling
bonjour
. Jesamiah had asked him to keep watch over her and he was not one for shirking his duties. The fact that she spent her days at Tawford Barton was all to his delight. He was sweet on Pamela, and she in turn appeared to like him.

He must have come into the courtyard behind the inn, for Tiola could hear Carter talking now, and Rue answering, although she only heard the tone, not the words. They had all been shocked to discover
Sea Witch
gone, Carter in particular had fumed for two days because he had not been included in the prison escape, and refused to accept the reasoning for it. Rue had explained everything quietly to Tiola that first morning, and although she was agitated by Jesamiah’s hurried departure she understood the why of it. There was no proof that
Sea Witch
making sail a few hours after someone had destroyed the door to a Barnstaple Bank, and made a gaping hole in the prison wall, was anything to do with Captain Acorne or his crew. No proof, but the militia had come to enquire of the matter, their questioning most intrusive and unpleasant.

Tiola turned over and cuddled a pillow closer to savour a few more minutes of laziness. It was cold outside, the wind whipping through every crack with a snivelling bitterness that made the air as crisp as ice. A pity Jesamiah had gone without her. Cádiz was perhaps warmer than Devon.

A tear meandered down her cheek and she buried her face in the pillow. A pity? Huh! Impossible! How could she dare step even one foot on a ship while Tethys was so determined to sap her of energy? Even crossing the river when it was in full flood tired her.

There had been one other dream. She was uncertain if it had been a mere uneasy story-dream or a glimpse into the past, but the concise images, the genuine feel of reality, was disturbing. She had witnessed Jesamiah’s conception. She was not coy of the natural function of sex and copulation, but this had made her uncomfortable, the watching of something so private – for all that her intrusion was unintentional. Charles and Dona, Jesamiah’s mother and father, had been on a beach – what beach, where, Tiola had no idea, although it did not have the feel of heat and sun about it. There was a buoyancy of new life in the air. Everything, pale, fresh, spring green with delicate flowers and blossoms – springtime. It must have been warm enough for the lovers, though, for they were prancing and playing together in the sea. He stripped naked, she in her undershift, her breasts and body erotically moulded to the wet material. They were laughing together; he was splashing her, then holding her close, kissing her, fondling, as the sea swirled about them, the ends of her loose, black hair floating around her as if she were a mer-creature. They coupled, her legs entwined around his hips, crying out together as their passion reached climax. Made a child while caressed by the life force of Tethys. A child conceived within her realm. However hard Tiola wanted to deny it, Jesamiah’s soul belonged to Tethys.

“You shall not have him!” she mumbled and sat up, hastily wiping away the streak of tears as a knock came at the door.

“Come in!”

“Ma’am, Mistress Pegget sent ‘ee a dish o’ tay an’ some breakv’st. She says there be a message vrom Tawford Barton an’ would ‘ee mind attendin’ the ladies as soon as may be?” The maid put the wooden tray down on a side table. “Master Rue as come by t’vetch ‘ee over. I think there be summat amiss. Oh!” She covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, I were not to tell ‘ee that till you’d eaten!”

Sliding from the bed, Tiola reached for the jug of hot water on the tray and poured the contents into the laver on the stand; washed quickly. Reaching for her clothes she placated the poor girl for her indiscretion by drinking half a cup of black tea and eating the honey-smeared toast in between dressing. She plaited her hair, wound it around her head and pinned it; set a white lace cap over the result and took up her bonnet and green cloak. For the maid’s sake she finished the last piece of toast.

Rue was waiting in the courtyard. He moved towards her as she came through the door, his face grim. “There ‘as been some news unpleasant,
chérie
. Madame Jennet passed away in her sleep during the night.”

“Oh!” Tiola took his hands in her own, needing his strength and stability. “Oh, that is sad news, my friend. She is at peace and with her beloved husband again, but her passing leaves us bereft of her wisdom and company.” Fighting tears, she closed the kitchen door. “Take me to Tawford Barton, Rue, I expect they are in need of comfort, and perhaps my services to lay out the body.”

A midwife’s duty, to welcome life into the world, and to set a soul safe on its journey out.

Two

The afternoon was tormented by a chill wind that gusted down from the moors, but there had been no rain for several days so it was dry underfoot. Pamela asked Tiola to walk with her on the beach, for she found the house too full of whispering sadness and crowding memories. The vicar had called, and the funeral arranged for the following day. Word had been sent to close friends, and for others the news would spread from tongue to tongue. Grace Benson had walked down the hill from visiting her daughter and granddaughters to pay her respects. Her son, Thomas, accompanying her not for the duty of condolence, but eager to see Tiola again; the first enamoured love of a twelve-year-old boy.

He begged to accompany the walk, for he too was finding the house oppressive and the two ladies had the housedogs with them. Lorna and Poppy, two young terrier scamps, and old Rum, a chestnut-coated spaniel who was grey around the muzzle but as sprightly as ever when there were rabbits to chase. Arm in arm, the two women followed the path down through the dunes, smiling at the boy and dogs running ahead, and walked onto what little of the beach remained – the tide would be at full height within the hour.

“I love it when the sea comes in,” Pamela said, taking a deep breath of the wind-whipped saline air. “Everything seems alive when the estuary is under water; the boats bobbing, the swish of the waves. The movement, the sounds and smells. When the tide is out, it all sort of goes to sleep, somehow.”

Tiola did not agree, but she held her silence. With the tide in, all she could hear was Tethys, mocking her.

I have him. He is mine!

Thomas waved to his father who was standing on Instow Quay talking animatedly to two men, gesticulating wildly as he spoke. Thomas waved a second time, called out, but Benson did not notice his son. The boy frowned, his father appeared to be having some sort of argument. Throwing a stick for the two terriers, and jumping over the deeper channels of water meandering across the sand, Thomas walked nearer. His father was shouting now, his voice snatched by the wind so the boy could hear the occasional exclamation:
“I said no!”
and,
“Threaten me would you?”

The two men stood beside a stack of barrels, one of them had a spike and a mallet in his hand. Benson lunged forward trying to stop the wretch driving the spike through the wood, but too late, a gush of liquid – red wine – poured out like blood from a gaping wound. John Benson was angry, but Thomas could tell that he was also frightened.

“Pa!” he called, “Papa!” He started running towards the quay. He reached the steps, the two dogs close behind. Lorna dropped the retrieved stick and barked at him to continue the game.

“Stay away son,” Benson called, “go back to the ladies!”

“But Papa…”

Sniggering, one of the men turned around to gaze at Thomas, the smaller, shabbier one; the other looked sour as he stabbed a finger in Benson’s direction. “You take heed Master B. Give us what we want or every one of them barrels in your ware’ouse’ll spring a leak. Understand?”

“Come near my property, you scum, and I will set the militia on you!”

Tom was unsure what to do. His father was in trouble, that he knew, and he was remembering the violence at Instow House, and the men who had caused it. One of them, he was certain, was the same sour-faced man. He looked around. Apart from the two ladies there was no one else on the beach – both ferries were on the far, Appledore side. He glanced inland. To his relief saw Sir Cleve Hartley coming down the lane, his hunting gun resting over his shoulder, his dog trotting beside him, and two brace of rabbits dangling from his hand.

The men had seen him too. Hah, the same with all bullies. Eager to threaten the vulnerable when a victim was alone, not so keen to torment when the odds were evened out. Sour-face prodded John Benson in the shoulder, and with his ragged companion hurried down the steps onto the beach. Passing close to Thomas, they scowled at him, one raising a hand, but Thomas bent and lifted the stick that he had been throwing for the dogs. He tapped it against the palm of his hand, as if it were a cudgel, and growled back. “You leave my pa alone.”

The sour-looking one leered up at Benson. “Or maybe we’ll forget your ware’ouse and consider summat else to persuade you to our way o’ thinking’?”

Cleve Hartley’s disembodied voice floated down from the lane. “Benson? John Benson? Be that you? I have some rabbits for your pot if ye be wanting ‘em!”

The men exchanged a grim glance and strode away towards the dunes.

“Pa!” Thomas called, running halfway up the steps. “Pa!”

Benson met him at the top of the steps, a reassuring, brave smile across his face. “It is alright, son, they were merely two unpleasant men who want something I have not got. You run along back to the ladies. Look, those dogs have found something interesting. If it is a dead fish, Miss Pamela will not be too pleased.”

Biting his lip, Thomas was not convinced of his father’s assurance. He had not been sure of that man’s face, but he had recognised the voice, the London accent. He had been one of the intruders at Nicholas’s house alright!

“Go on, boy,” Benson repeated, forcing a jovial laugh, “be off with you before the tide comes full in.”