The Wind of Southmore Read Free

castle was to be left alone. The road wound,
in a stark, dry river, along a cliff overlooking the seafront, the
only decoration being a strange, upright block of stone, about six
feet tall, which stood halfway between the castle and the village,
guarding the chopping waters like a sentinel. It was known as
Alchemist’s Block, named for an early Penmorven, and somehow Arlen
always felt safe by that rock, perhaps for its family
connection.
    The bird
was not deterring from its path, tracking her at a steady pace,
hopping from tuft of grass to sand dune, its small, watchful eye
never turning from her for a second. This is ridiculous, thought
Arlen.
    “ What do you want?” she said aloud to the bird, feeling
slightly more ridiculous. The gull said nothing, but stood and
stared, its head cocked onto one side.
    “ Well, stare then,” she said crossly. “I’m going
home.”
    The sky
was darkening as she spoke, gusts of rain spitting from the hanging
clouds above and the churning sea turning black before her. There
was going to be a storm, and she planned to be home before it
started. She took a last exasperated look at the bird, which had
still not moved, even as the raindrops spattered through its
feathers like shattering glass, and turned, unable to prevent a
quick glance at the heavy, tossing waters.
    Dark,
dark and deadly were those waves. One would not escape them easily.
She shuddered, wanting to turn but somehow unable. An object
bobbing in the foam had caught her attention. A charred piece of
wood, belched and thrown by the whitecapped mounds of water. Arlen
couldn’t help but wonder whether it had been used last night. As
she strained her eyes, looking for something, she didn’t know what,
she saw something else rise from the violent waves. It was a hand,
adorned by a glittering ruby ring. And it moved.
    Arlen
froze, her hands grating against the cold stone beneath her,
pressed so tightly that her knuckles threatened to break through
the white, stretched skin.
    The hand
held itself above the water for a few moments, as it awaiting
something, and then it began to rise, a wrist emerging, followed by
the length of a long, white arm. And suddenly Arlen
sprang.
    The fish
forgotten, she flew down the old Beach Road towards home, carrying
nothing but the charm held tightly against her breast. There was a
beating of wings behind her as she mounted the steps, and she
slammed the door in the face of a cluster of squalling, crying
seagulls.
    “ Where’s the fish?” was her aunt’s first question, her back
turned to the girl as she sliced some greens on the kitchen
table.
    “ I – I left it on the rock – ”
    “ Left it on the rock?” her aunt repeated, wiping her hands on
her apron, her temper flaring. “Well, you’ll have to go back and
get it before someone takes it.”
    “ I – I can’t – ” Arlen replied, in a choked whisper.
    “ What do you mean, you can’t?” her aunt shouted angrily. “You
will and I’ll say – ”
    But her
voice was silenced by a small thud as Arlen slid to the floor, her
face whiter than death on the cold flagstones. And, as she bent to
help her, her aunt did not notice the tight fist of Arlen’s hand,
curled protectively around her mother’s golden charm.

Chapter Three
    Alice
gazed out of the window, her eyes barely registering what she saw.
Had she been looking closely, she would have witnessed blackness,
and only blackness. But she had more to concentrate on than the
landscape – or lack of it – before her eyes.
    It didn’t
seem real to her. Nothing had seemed real since that afternoon,
when her father had informed her that she was going to reside, for
an indefinite period, with her unknown mother’s aunt in a little
Cornish fishing village. It had seemed even less real when he had
dumped her on the train at Paddington and left her – just like that
– without even so much as a wave.
    And now she was going to actually live with someone she didn’t even know
– an