Читать книгу The Whitby Witches - Robin Jarvis - Страница 5

Look, look! Down on the sands of Tate Hill Pier; see there, my friend. Three small, strange figures – do you not see them? Listen to them calling to the cliff. Ah, the sound is lost on the wind. But, there, you must see them – they are searching for something. One of them stops and turns to us – its jet-black eyes glare up at me.

It is not quite dawn and the light is poor, perhaps that is why you cannot see. You tell me to come indoors, you say the damp morning has chilled me and take my arm. I glance back; the figures have gone. Can I have seen the fisher folk? The old whalers of Whitby town?

The boats will soon return with their catches. I must speak to no one. I shall let the fisher folk be and try to forget them. Perhaps when I sit by the fire, as my toes uncurl and my head begins to nod, that face shall haunt my dreams.

No, they are but childhood fancies and I am too old. The kettle whistles on the stove and I draw on the pipe which trembles in my shaking hand. Yes, it is a cold morning and I am chilled.