Alys Clare - The Way Between the Worlds

The little port was busy, its narrow streets crowded with merchants and townspeople going about their daily rounds. Rollo found a tavern in the town centre, left Strega with a groom’s lad and went inside to find something to eat. The tap room was humming, and, after a mug or two of ale, men were, as they always are, more than willing to talk to a stranger.

Rollo mentioned to a huge man with bare brawny arms and a scarred leather jerkin that he had recently made the crossing from Skirbeck and encountered a bank of fog.

The man looked at him with a smile. ‘You’re lucky to be here, then,’ he remarked. ‘Them’s dangerous waters.’

‘So I’ve been told,’ Rollo agreed.

The big man leaned closer, and Rollo smelt beer on him. He’d obviously been in the tap room for some time. ‘It’s the old stamping ground of the sea witch, see,’ he said in a low voice.

‘The sea witch?’

‘Aye,’ the man said. ‘She was there long before we were all born, and she’ll be there long after we’re dead. She’s always been there, or so they say.’ He frowned, took a long gulp of beer and belched quietly.

An ancient myth, Rollo thought, kept alive by the superstition of people who lived close to the sea and were dependent on it for their livelihoods. ‘She’s very powerful, this sea witch,’ he observed. ‘She blew up a fog so sudden that even our captain didn’t see it coming.’

‘Aye, the sea frets are a speciality of hers,’ the big man concurred. ‘They say she likes to hide herself inside them, so men can’t see what she’s up to. Me, I reckon she’s no need of hiding places. She’s far too powerful for that.’

‘What else does she do?’ Rollo asked.

‘She lures ships on to the sandbanks, that’s what she does,’ the man whispered hoarsely. ‘Or she sends a tempest down out of the north and blasts them on to the cliffs, hurling good men into the water so their drowned bodies wash on to our shores for the gulls to pick out their eyes and clean the flesh off their bones.’ He was breathless, a sheen of sweat on his broad face, and Rollo could feel his deep dread.

I must keep him talking , Rollo thought. He sensed he had come to the right place, and he needed to know more. ‘The crew of the boat I sailed on were very nervous,’ he said tentatively. ‘Has there — has the sea witch been particularly active of late?’

He had gone too far, and he realized it as soon as the words were out of his mouth. The big man slammed his mug down on the table and turned to glare at him. ‘What do you want to know that for?’ he demanded. ‘What are you, some sort of ghoul come to gloat over the bodies of the dead?’

‘No, of course not, I-’ Rollo began.

The man did not let him finish. ‘If you want a close encounter with her, you go and look for her,’ he said in a vicious hiss. ‘Go on up the coast to the north and call her.’ Abruptly, he laughed, a cruel, harsh sound. ‘You won’t need to find her, my lad. She’ll find you !’

Some of the other drinkers had glanced up at the big man’s loud voice and were looking over in Rollo’s direction. It was time to go. He shook out some coins to pay for his food and beer, then quietly made his exit.

Up the coast to the north , the big man had said. The day was sunny, and visibility was good, with no sign of any more fog. Rollo fetched Strega and, ignoring the fear and apprehension that growled deep inside him, set off along the coastal track.

Soon he had left all signs of human habitation far behind. The sea to his left glittered silver in the sunshine, and in the distance he could make out the sound of small waves flopping down on to the shore. He looked out over the land between him and the water, which, as he rode steadily north, changed from a line of low, honey-coloured cliffs into a steadily widening band of salt marsh. With a shudder, he remembered what the mate had said about quicksand.

After some time the path curved round to the right. Rollo realized that he had reached the northernmost tip of the land and was now going eastwards. He drew rein and looked around him. As far as he could see, there was not a soul about. The wide sands extended on ahead of him until, at a point he could barely make out, the land gave way to water and the sea began.

He did not like to admit it, but he was afraid.

He had come this far, he told himself. He had no choice but to go on. He was on a mission from the king, and he could not return to him until he had fulfilled it.

He turned Strega’s head towards the sea and set out across the uncertain ground.

To begin with, the going was quite good. He appeared to be following a well-used track, which had a gravelled surface and was elevated slightly above the surrounding marsh. Strega was nervous — he could tell by the slight sheen of sweat on her coat and the occasional shudder in her flesh — but her head was up and her ears pricked forward. He was thankful all over again for her sturdy courage.

He peered ahead, trying to make out where the sea began. He was in a strange place, half land, half water. The light, too, was weird; sometimes the sun shone down clearly, and sometimes it was as if its light was reaching him through a fine mist, or a veil. He did not let himself dwell on that.

After some time he glanced over his shoulder. He was horrified to see how far he had come out across the endless shore. The line of the higher ground was far, far behind.

He turned back to face the sea . Go on , he commanded himself. Go on, discover what lies out there, and then you can return to safety .

He put his heels to Strega’s sides, and she moved on reluctantly.

They went on for some time. The path had deteriorated, and now he had to think about every step the mare took. She, too, was worried; there was a tentative feel to her paces.

They came to a place where she stopped and would not go on. Rollo had been staring ahead, straining his eyes against the powerful light and trying to make out what was ahead. Now he looked down at the ground and was horrified at what he saw.

They were no longer on a path of any sort — at least, not one that he could make out. The horse’s feet were embedded in the salty, sandy mud. As he watched, the mud crept a finger’s breadth higher up her trembling legs.

He was suddenly aware of the sound of water. A slow, steady rushing filled his ears, and now he had noticed it, it was all he could hear.

Unless, carried on the gentle breeze, there was the sound of someone quietly laughing. .

He raised his head and looked out at the water. He stared, blinked a couple of times and stared again.

There could be no doubt about it.

The tide was coming in.

My heart sank lower and lower as Hrype and I climbed the gentle slope up from the quayside at Chatteris to the abbey. I felt like lying down and howling, but that would not have done anyone any good. There was, however, a chance that if I managed to pull myself together, I might, as an apprentice healer, be able to help in the care of my sister.

I pulled myself together.

Something occurred to me which, had I not been so self-pityingly miserable, I might have thought to ask before. ‘Hrype?’ I said.

He looked at me kindly. ‘What is it, Lassair?’

‘How did you know that Elfritha was ill? Did someone from the abbey come to the village?’

‘Yes. They were directed to your parents’ house, and your mother very sensibly sent them on to Edild. Your mother is praying, every minute she can spare,’ he added gently, ‘but she knew full well that if someone was to be spared by Lord Gilbert to come and care for your sister, it had far better be Edild.’