secret. Caleb Stratton edn’t very smart. I think he’s like a puppet, and this person works him and tells him what to do. I have to find out who he is, the puppet master.”
I wondered: Could it be Simon Mawgan, his house packed full of plunder from the wrecks? I was sure itwasn’t old Eli, and I knew it wasn’t Stumps. But I’d met no one else, apart from the parson and Mary herself.
“Who might it be?” I asked.
“Someone in the village, I’m sure. Someone I know. Whoever it is, he can go anywhere he wants with nobody wondering. And only Caleb Stratton will know his secret.”
I sighed. I plucked at the grass.
“But it edn’t so bad,” said Mary. “I have a plan.”
I looked at her, and she glanced back for a moment, her eyes covered by her lashes. “Tell me,” I said.
She blushed. “You’ll think me foolish.”
“I won’t,” I said.
She didn’t talk until we reached the road. And for a moment she stood combing her fingers through the pony’s mane.
“The next time a ship wrecks on the Tombstones, I’m going to swim out to it,” she said. Her hands ran across the pony’s shoulder, down the ridge of its back. “I’ll get aboard somehow, and I’ll tie myself to the mast. And if they want the wreck, they’ll have to … to kill me.”
“They will,” I said.
She nodded. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
It wasn’t much of a plan. But I could see by her face—the lines that hardened round her eyes—that she meant to try. “I know this, John,” she said in her Cornish way. “Whichy way it goes, it’s better than doing naught.”
She was braver than I. As we stood there at the edge of the moor, the wind combing back the tufts of grass, she waited—I think—for me to agree, to throw my lot in with her wild idea. But nothing in the world would get me backon the Tombstones, back on the deck of a doomed ship to face Caleb Stratton and his men waiting there with axes and pikes.
The ponies whinnied and tugged at their bridles. Mary stood her ground, her arm rising and falling as her pony pulled at her. She never took her eyes from me.
And I heard again the horses and the creaking of wheels. “Someone’s coming,” I said.
I couldn’t tell at first where the sound was coming from. Then, toward the village, I saw a swirl of dust blowing off across the moor. And a moment later two black horses and a clattering wagon came sailing up over the rise.
“It’s the Widow,” said Mary. “The widdy-woman.”
Chapter 7
T HE E VIL E YE
W ith a great clamor of pounding hooves and groaning wood, the wagon swayed toward us in a boil of dust. The horses were bigger than any I’d ever seen, and they snorted in the harness. The driver cried out to them and shook his reins, and the wagon shimmied across the road. He was a small man, hunched in the seat, wearing a bully-cocked hat white with dust, a neckerchief across his nose and mouth. And over his shoulder rose a woman’s face and a flowing mass of pure white hair.
“They say the Widow commands the winds,” said Mary. “She raises tempests.”
The Widow stood up and held on to the driver’s shoulders as the wagon lurched between the ruts. Her face was brown as old parchment, wrinkled like a much-folded map. She looked right at me, with eyes that glowed pink as embers of coal. When the wagon was a dozen yards off,she cried out; not to the driver, but to the horses themselves. The animals bared their teeth and tossed their heads, huffing clouds of fog as though it was smoke they breathed. They slowed to a walk, and their hooves beat a steady march on the roadbed.
The Widow kept her hands on the driver, her feet spaced wide apart. She turned only her head, and stared at me as the wagon rolled past. It was a deep, probing look, and her eyes burned with an awful hatred. I stared back, because I couldn’t take my eyes away. I could feel her reaching into my mind, as though fingers crawled in my skull. And still her head swung round as the
I wondered: Could it be Simon Mawgan, his house packed full of plunder from the wrecks? I was sure itwasn’t old Eli, and I knew it wasn’t Stumps. But I’d met no one else, apart from the parson and Mary herself.
“Who might it be?” I asked.
“Someone in the village, I’m sure. Someone I know. Whoever it is, he can go anywhere he wants with nobody wondering. And only Caleb Stratton will know his secret.”
I sighed. I plucked at the grass.
“But it edn’t so bad,” said Mary. “I have a plan.”
I looked at her, and she glanced back for a moment, her eyes covered by her lashes. “Tell me,” I said.
She blushed. “You’ll think me foolish.”
“I won’t,” I said.
She didn’t talk until we reached the road. And for a moment she stood combing her fingers through the pony’s mane.
“The next time a ship wrecks on the Tombstones, I’m going to swim out to it,” she said. Her hands ran across the pony’s shoulder, down the ridge of its back. “I’ll get aboard somehow, and I’ll tie myself to the mast. And if they want the wreck, they’ll have to … to kill me.”
“They will,” I said.
She nodded. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
It wasn’t much of a plan. But I could see by her face—the lines that hardened round her eyes—that she meant to try. “I know this, John,” she said in her Cornish way. “Whichy way it goes, it’s better than doing naught.”
She was braver than I. As we stood there at the edge of the moor, the wind combing back the tufts of grass, she waited—I think—for me to agree, to throw my lot in with her wild idea. But nothing in the world would get me backon the Tombstones, back on the deck of a doomed ship to face Caleb Stratton and his men waiting there with axes and pikes.
The ponies whinnied and tugged at their bridles. Mary stood her ground, her arm rising and falling as her pony pulled at her. She never took her eyes from me.
And I heard again the horses and the creaking of wheels. “Someone’s coming,” I said.
I couldn’t tell at first where the sound was coming from. Then, toward the village, I saw a swirl of dust blowing off across the moor. And a moment later two black horses and a clattering wagon came sailing up over the rise.
“It’s the Widow,” said Mary. “The widdy-woman.”
Chapter 7
T HE E VIL E YE
W ith a great clamor of pounding hooves and groaning wood, the wagon swayed toward us in a boil of dust. The horses were bigger than any I’d ever seen, and they snorted in the harness. The driver cried out to them and shook his reins, and the wagon shimmied across the road. He was a small man, hunched in the seat, wearing a bully-cocked hat white with dust, a neckerchief across his nose and mouth. And over his shoulder rose a woman’s face and a flowing mass of pure white hair.
“They say the Widow commands the winds,” said Mary. “She raises tempests.”
The Widow stood up and held on to the driver’s shoulders as the wagon lurched between the ruts. Her face was brown as old parchment, wrinkled like a much-folded map. She looked right at me, with eyes that glowed pink as embers of coal. When the wagon was a dozen yards off,she cried out; not to the driver, but to the horses themselves. The animals bared their teeth and tossed their heads, huffing clouds of fog as though it was smoke they breathed. They slowed to a walk, and their hooves beat a steady march on the roadbed.
The Widow kept her hands on the driver, her feet spaced wide apart. She turned only her head, and stared at me as the wagon rolled past. It was a deep, probing look, and her eyes burned with an awful hatred. I stared back, because I couldn’t take my eyes away. I could feel her reaching into my mind, as though fingers crawled in my skull. And still her head swung round as the
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