Abby the Witch (7 page)

So this was a
worrying reversal in her behaviour. Now he bothered to look, her
expression verged on the serene, and she sat with a straighter,
stronger back, a different woman from the one who had timidly
ushered him in less than half-an-hour before.

She sipped at
her tea again and a waft of basil scent drifted over to him.

Pembrake
shifted his eyes back to the glass patio doors rather than look at
this calmer version of his mother. They were unusually clear.
Sparkling even. 'The window cleaner has done a good job,' he tried
to say casually, 'I can see why you invite her in for tea.'

'Oh yes, she's
been coming around for a very long time now, dear; surprising you
haven't noticed. And recently she's been making me such
a wonderful tea. I'm all the better for it, I'm sure.
But-' his mother tried for a deep breath, but gave up with a sharp,
shallow suck of air, 'I haven't congratulated you on whatever it is
you need to be congratulated on yet. Is it another promotion? I
know you aren't getting engaged….'

This was all
too much. She was just so calm! He'd been so sure she'd thought he
was engaged. He stupidly took another sip at his scalding tea
before replying awkwardly, 'Ah… well actually I do have news.'

She crossed
her arms, not necessarily defensive, but not about to be played
either it seemed.

'I have
accepted a position at the Royal Naval Academy in Capitol City.'
Now he'd said it.

His mother
blinked. She didn't burst into tears, beg him to stay or forbid him
to go, just blinked.

'It means,'
Pembrake stumbled over his words in the light of his surprise,
'that I won't come back to Bridgestock.'

His mother
nodded and began to play with her bracelet. It was thick with large
stone-carved beads. It was a family heirloom of sorts, though his
mother had never told him where it had come from. She hardly ever
let it out of her sight and always seemed to play with it in times
of stress. She said it was her lucky charm, not that she had ever
been that lucky. But she still claimed that one day this bracelet
would bring them the greatest windfall of all, whatever that
meant.

But now, as
his mother played with the beads, her fingers brushing lightly
along their carved faces, her eyes seemed to grow distant as if
behind a layer of mist. 'You don't intend to return, do you?'

'No,' he said
suddenly, surprised at her blank, dispassionate question. 'I
don't.'

'I see.'

Bridgestock,
Westlands, the day of the Storm of the Century…

Pembrake
nodded at the guards as they walked past on their patrol, then
bounded easily up the last set of tessellated steps that separated
him from his mother's street. He had to do this today
and early today by the look of those clouds circling
overhead. Plus, he had promised the Captain he would check on the
men in Marvern's tavern, to ensure they were keeping in good order
and not bringing the good name of the Royal Navy into
disrepute.

That being
said…he paused to eye an attractive young lady dressed in a purple
dress with white frills. In a move that was by now very familiar to
him, she lowered her eyes to look at him coquettishly from under
her lashes, smiling coyly.

He tipped his
hat and walked on. It was true; ladies love a man in
uniform. Especially one who lives on Esquire street. Colour of his
skin be dammed, Pembrake knew he was good looking, even to the
ladies of Bridgestock.

Smiling to
himself, Pembrake scanned the rest of the street. There was another
woman dressed in a drab patchwork skirt exiting one of the houses
further down the street. Even from a distance it was clear she
wasn't a patch on the purple-dress girl looks-wise and, as she
neared him, he spotted the broom and bucket and realised she was
probably not a patch on the purple-dress girl class-wise
either.

However, he
knew his manners and nodded at her just as respectfully, if not as
flirtatiously, though this one kept her eyes so keenly on the
pavement she wouldn't have noticed if he'd whipped his uniform off
and done a dance.

As she was so
decidedly not looking at him, he took the opportunity to
observe her. She was painfully thin, but not by choice he reckoned.
She had unruly, full, crinkled hair that hung about her head in odd
little zigzags. But, strangely, that wasn't what drew his
attention. She had the most extraordinary eyes he'd ever seen –
grey and deep, almost unnaturally calm like the deep sea before a
storm, like the sea in the harbour beyond right at that moment, in
fact. Odd that she had a cat though.

And then she
was past him, the little black cat bounding behind her.

He wouldn't
usually have stared at a woman like that when he walked down the
street, and he told himself he knew why he'd used such a keen eye
to ogle this one.

He was
distracting himself from the conversation that would follow.

'Hello
mother,' he'd say.

She'd nod
politely.

'I'm afraid I
won't be coming to see you anymore, my reassignment is up.'

Her eyes would
flick around the room like a fluttering moth caught in the
light.

'This is my
last stop in Bridgestock before I transfer to the Academy.'

She would cry,
blubber possibly, but definitely try to convince him not to go. The
defiant, strong mother that had greeted his news six months ago
now, would make way for the needy, scared mother of old.

So it was with
a strange mix of trepidation and bravado that he walked towards her
house. He was proud of how far he'd come and certain of where he
was going….

The house, his
childhood home, came into view and he stopped. He didn't have to
see her one last time. He could just write her a letter surely.

With his hands
in his pockets, Pembrake rocked backwards and forwards gently. Then
he turned around and his eyes drifted back to the woman with the
ocean blue-grey eyes. She was standing still at the top of the
steps he'd just climbed, her back to him, staring up at the ominous
clouds above.

She looked
quiet serene. Like a picture.

Then she
shrugged her head down and walked down the steps and out of his
sight.

He was wasting
time.

He let his own
face turn towards the turbid sky.

Not good.

His face
creased with deep worry and, with one last look over his shoulder
at his mother's house, he hurried back towards the dock. It was
time to become the least popular man in Bridgestock; it was time to
cancel shore leave.

This storm was
violent. This storm was totally chaotic. This storm was by far the
worst storm of the century.

It ripped
through the sky like a rough saw grating through space. It growled
and howled like a pack of starving, vicious animals baying for
blood and devastation.

Windows and
doors did not so much rattle, as shake to within a centimetre of
breaking. The streets were filled with debris washed off the roofs
by the gale and torrential rain, and they clogged the storm drains
till the cobbles were drowned under the churning water which had
nowhere to escape.

There was no
denying that this was the worst storm that Bridgestock had ever
seen. Never before had the great wooden pylons of the port screamed
under such fatigue. Never before had so many old, hardened trees
been uprooted as if they were nothing but dead leaves floating to
the ground. Never before had the great tessellated walls, that cut
he city into neat raising divides, been assailed by such a
ferocious foe.

And never
before had the clouds crackled, had the rain been tinged with an
almost electric blue, had a strange barely audible groan been heard
on the wind. There was no one, however, who was aware enough to
note these other characteristics though.

No one except
Abby, and she was far too busy.

~~~

Commander
Pembrake Hunter looked up into the storm above. It was as if time
had slowed down. He could see the clouds circle slowly beyond.
Somehow there was a break in the clouds, like a huge rock had just
broken through them.

His ship had
sunk. The storm had split it in two, dashed it against the rocks as
if it were nothing more than a flimsy branch of drift wood.

Now, at the
edge of reason and the precipice of total fatigue, he was holding
onto a broken section of mast. Either he or it would sink first,
but the conclusion would remain the same. Pembrake was about to
drown.

Briefly, for
some strange, heady moment, his mind had opened up and he had felt
like it was stretching across the ether like wet fabric tightly
pulled over a rack. There had been some other presence, some kind
of force there, and it had been comforting. But just as quickly as
it had come, it had disappeared. And with it his hope had
dwindled.

The edge of
death, they say, is a strange place.

But now
Pembrake could only look above, mesmerised by what he saw. Surely
there was no reason left in him, no faculty to analyse and
categorise that which he witnessed. But still, the break in the
circling clouds above him was definitely the most wondrous thing he
had ever seen.

During a storm
so violent and chaotic that it had snapped one of the sturdiest
vessels ever made, how could there be such a calm and perfect break
in the clouds?

Perhaps it was
god, Pembrake thought hazily, beckoning towards heaven, showing a
path clear and true to whatever lay beyond.

The moonlight
lit up the rim of the clouds, giving them a bright grey glow set
against the dark turgid cloudbank beyond, adding to their mystical
lure.

How strange,
Pembrake's eyes could not blink, even from the assault of wind and
saltwater. All he could think of was how very strange it was.

He could feel
the waves beat against him with unrelenting anger, feel his frigid
fingers lose their grip.

He shouldn't
be able to see the moon during a storm. There shouldn't be a break
in the clouds.

There was no
vice left in his body. All that fixed him to the slowly-sinking
mast was his unconscious desperation, but that was slipping.

The clouds
above were strangely serene, strangely comforting.

Pembrake
Hunter let go.

~~~

Abby had flown
against the storm, pushed herself until her frigid body was so bent
it felt like the stiffness would saw through her limbs. Charlie had
tucked himself against her stomach and she had no fear that he
would fall. He was a witch's cat, and although this was the worst
flight they had ever taken, she had every confidence in his ability
to remain firmly attached, claws and all, to her racing broom.

And all she
had to do was fly.

As she'd left
Mrs Hunters, as she'd stared with desperation at the storm, she'd
heard the shouts from below. A ship had sunk, Guards were shouting,
on the Knife Rocks up the coast.

For a moment,
for a terrible moment, Abby had considered turning back. She peered
at the street a level below her and saw a stream of Guards and
sailors running along, obviously headed for the coast to rescue any
survivors they could find.

These were
strong, determined men. Terrible, but strong. What could she do?
She was only a little witch. But with that treacherous thought, the
weight of Mrs Hunter's bracelet – that Abby had pocketed, unsure of
what else to do with it – had doubled. So Abby had kicked off with
her broom and rose into the storm above, finally determined to save
Pembrake Hunter.

She could see
the Tower and Death, see the cards before her as if they were
etched into the very clouds.

There was no
turning back now.

She'd followed
the Guards and sailors as they'd run down the street, from as high
as she could before her head descended into the billowing base of
the clouds. Then she'd left them, shot forward, seeing yet another
stream of people running across the wet cobbles, heading towards
something with desperate shouts and quick feet.

Finally she'd
had no choice but to veer off. The closer she got to the cliff at
Knife Rocks, the further down she had to fly to avoid the momentous
pressure and energy of storm front. So she'd pulled her broom over
the ocean, and taken it down as close to the waves as she
dared.

Then she'd
spotted it, seen the broken shards of wood and tattered scraps of
canvas mast strewn over the knife-edge rocks. Past the rocks people
flocked, she could just make out the dark shapes moving against the
grey sand.

She scanned
the water, desperately searched the shattered debris tossing about
in the swell.

Then she saw
it, or rather, felt it. A break in the storm, a break in
the chaotic, terrible energy. Over to her left - a break in the
clouds.

She was drawn
to it, hugging the waves, speeding around them as best she
could.

She could feel
Charlie freeze on her lap. He was probably shouting, probably
pleading with her not to venture near the strange break, but she
couldn't hear him and didn't want to.

Then she was
upon it, the break in the clouds stretching out above her.

It was a calm,
a strange calm. Moonlight filtered in from the rift above, a
perfect circular hole in the monstrous storm.

It was almost
serene.

Something
white caught her eye, and she looked down through her rain-soaked
lashes to see something sink between the waves.

She brought
the broom down, her legs plunging into the swell and shoved her
hands into the seething surf. They grabbed onto something and she
pulled with all her might.

Her broom span
wildly as she tried to lift the man from the clutches of the ocean.
But just as the recognition washed over her, that what she had
saved from the waves was an actual human being, so did a huge
wave.