Whistlers Of The Dark

Chapter 2-2

I woke without knowing where I was. The whistling was in my ears, undulating, low and insistent as if somebody was calling me. I opened my eyes, peering into the unfamiliar dark. I recognised nothing, not the shape of the furniture, the square of lesser dark that marked the window or the form of the woman who shared my bed. It took me a few moments to organise my mind and remember I was at Kingsinch.

The whistling continued, easing into the room, sliding into my head until it pushed away everything else. I put my hands over my ears and rolled onto my side, trying to block out the sound.

“Go away,” I said. “Go away!”

I knew it would not go away. It never did. That whistling followed me wherever I was, haunting my nights, tormenting me with its insistent call.

“No,” I said. “I’m not coming! You can’t have me!”

“Ellen?” Agnes sat up beside me. “Ellen? Are you all right?”

I shook my head. “Can you hear that?” I asked.

“Hear what?” Agnes looked at me, scratching a match to light the candle. Her hair, so tidy yesterday, was a mess and her eyes were bleary with sleep.

“That whistling sound.” I knew Agnes would not hear anything. Nobody was aware of the whistling except me, and sometimes I was not even sure that I heard it. I already wished I had not mentioned it; I had spoken through tiredness, without thought of the possible consequences.

“No; I only hear the wind,” Agnes said. “Go back to sleep.” She lay back down, leaving me alone with my fears. I was always alone with my fears. I had been alone with my fears most of my life and did not expect that ever to change.

The whistling was louder now, louder than I had ever known it. I felt as if it was right outside the house. I did not know who, or what caused it. I only knew it followed me wherever I went, sometimes leaving me for a few months or years, but always returning. It had found me in Kingsinch faster than ever before.

“Go to sleep,” Agnes mumbled.

I lay on my side and pulled the covers over my head. The whistling continued, seeping through the walls, through the gaps in the ill-fitting window, to circle the room, summoning me.

“It’s all right.” Agnes sensed my distress. “You’re in a strange house, that’s all. You’ll soon get used to it.” Turning towards me, she held me close, cuddling me like the mother I never knew, or the sister I always wanted. I lay there, slowly quieting down in Agnes’s arms, with the new life inside her stirring against me.

I slept then, with the strangest of images forming inside my head. I could see the baby within Agnes, and knew it would be a boy, with dark hair like its mother and the same serious eyes as his father. I knew that yet did not know how I knew. I slept with that knowledge and woke only once, to see the friendly light from a cottage high on the hill opposite.

Agnes had told me the cottage belonged to Charlie Fleming, who worked a pendicle – a small skelp of land – on the hill. I fixed my eye on that, knowing, somehow, that as long as Charlie was secure in his pendicle, I was safe on the low ground far beneath. I trusted in that light as seamen trust in the Pole Star.

I had lived with apprehension and fear most of my life so that wherever I was, I prepared for my next move. My previous attempts to put down roots had failed. Now, as Charlie Fleming’s light flickered on the hill, I fastened my eyes on that solitary beacon.

“Please, God,” I prayed, “help me find peace.”

So far in my life, God had seldom answered my prayers. Perhaps this time he would. Maybe I could live a humdrum, everyday life, rather than remain a stoorey-foot, a nomad with the dust of the road on my shoes.

Oh, please, God, answer my prayers.