and spoke his name and asked him to sing. Caedmon protested, but the stranger paid no attention to his excuses. “Yet shall ye sing to me,” he insisted. When Caedmon asked what he should sing about, the man replied, “Praise ye Creation.” And Caedmon found his inspiration.
There was no blinding flash of light, but as Kirsten read, the dark cloud that had lodged itself in her mind since the attack seemed to disperse. In addition to her own silent voice, she could hear another voice reading along with her a perversion of Bede’s words: “And, lo, I asked, Of what shall I sing? and the Dark One told me, Sing of Destruction.’ ” It was the story he had told her as he beat her and slashed at her in the park that night. The summer garden turned to mist around her like a place filmed through a greasy lens, and her book slipped onto the grass. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Afterimages of light and leaves danced before her eyelids, then the memories flowed back unbidden.
She could see his face now, in shadow, with the moon over his shoulder catching one lined cheek, as he smeared the smell of fish all over her lips and nostrils. He stuffed a piece of oily rag in her mouth and it made her feel sick. Then he started slapping her, back and forth across her face, and talking in that raspy singsong voice about how he had left the Feast of Whores one night and had a vision of the Dark One, to whom he confessed his impotence. The Dark One, he said, gave him the power to sing to women. That’s what he was doing with his knife; he was singing to her, just like that old poet from his town, who had suddenly been blessed with the gift of poetry late in life.
The images went on. She could easily recall every painful moment of consciousness now. But she held herself back and pulled out with a sharp gasp when the unbearable image of the knife blade flashing in moonlight took shape.
When she had breathed in the warm air and run her fingers over the tree’s smooth bark to bring herself back to earth, she remembered that he had actually said, “just like the old poet from my town.” She could play the words back now as if they were on a tape inside her mind. She picked up the book and found that, according to Bede, Caedmon came from a place called Streanaeshalch. Of course, that would be the Anglo-Saxon name; Bede often used the Roman or Saxon names. Flipping through the index, Kirsten found it in no time: “Streanaeshalch: see Whitby.” So he came from Whitby. It made perfect sense. It all added up: the fishy smell, the accent and now the reference to Caedmon, poet of his town.
He had had no reason to assume that Kirsten would survive the attack; her continued existence had not been his intention. Hadn’t Superintendent Elswick said something about his trying to get to her at the hospital, too? That must have been because he was worried that she might remember what he had said in his ritual chant. And as time went by and nothing happened, he must have realized that she had lost her memory and that he had nothing more to worry about. Then, he had continued blithely with his mission, singing his song with a knife on a woman’s body.
So now she knew. What was she to do next? First, she hurried inside to find one of her father’s old AA Members Handbooks. He usually kept a couple along with the telephone directory in the bureau drawer in the hall. She turned to the maps at the back and found Whitby. It was on the coast between Scarborough and Redcar, and it didn’t look too big. She ran her finger down the W s in the gazetteer: Whimple, Whippingham, Whiston-there it was, “ Whitby, population 13,763.” Bigger than she thought. Still, if the man she was after had such rough hands and smelled of fish, then she would probably find him around the docks or on the boats. She thought she would be able to recognize him, and now the voice would confirm it.
And she had guidance in her mission-Margaret, Kathleen, Kim and the rest-they wouldn’t let her fail, not now she had come so far. There was a holiness about what she had to do, a reason that she, out of all of them, had been saved. She had been chosen as his nemesis; it was her destiny to find him and face him. She couldn’t picture the actual occasion of their meeting, what would happen. It would be in the open and it would take place at night; that was all she knew. As for the outcome: one of them would die.
But even a nemesis, she thought wryly, has to plan and deal with practical realities. The AA handbook also gave information about distances from London, York and Scarborough, and listed market days. There followed a selection of hotels, most of which would probably be too expensive for Kirsten. No matter, she could go into Bath and buy a local travel guide that would probably list bed and breakfast accommodation.
Excited and nervous at the prospect of the hunt, Kirsten settled down to make preparations. She would visit Sarah first and go to Whitby from there. She wouldn’t take much with her, just the handy holdall, jeans, a couple of shirts, and whatever she needed to do the job. It would have to be something small, something she could conceal in her hand, as she knew she might have to act quickly.
Kirsten shuddered at the thought and began to doubt herself. Then she reminded herself again of all that she had suffered and survived, and the reason for that. She had to be strong; she had to concentrate on practical matters as far as she could and trust to instinct and fate to take care of the rest.
Two days later, after she had bought a Whitby guide and written to Sarah, she informed her parents that she had decided to go back up north to university. They both expressed concern and displeasure, but that was balanced by relief that she seemed to have come out of her long depression and decided to get on with her life.
“I won’t say I’m happy you’re going away,” her father said with a sad smile, “but I will say I’m happy that you’ve decided to go. Do you know what I mean?”
Kirsten nodded. “I suppose I must have been a bit of a pest. I haven’t been very good company, have I?”
Her father shook his head quickly as if to dismiss her apology. “You know you’re welcome here,” he said, “for as long as you want to stay.”
All the time, her mother sat stiffly, twisting her hands in her lap. She’ll be glad to see the back of me, Kirsten thought, but she’ll never admit such a horrible thought to herself. Her mother’s life, Kirsten realized, was dominated by the need to keep all unpleasantness at a distance, look good in the eyes of her neighbors, and savagely maintain the borders of her closed and narrow world.
“I thought I’d go up before term, just to get my bearings again. I think it’d do me good to get out and about a bit. Sarah and I might do some walking in the Dales.”
“The Yorkshire Dales?” her mother said.
“Yes. Why?”
“Well, dear, I’m just not sure it’s a very suitable environment for a well-brought-up girl such as yourself, that’s all. It’s so very…well, so very bleak and muddy, I hear, and so uncivilized. I’m not sure you even have the proper clothes for such an excursion.”
“Oh, Mother,” Kirsten said. “Don’t be such a snob.”
Her mother sniffed. “I was only thinking of your comfort, darling. Of course, I dare say your friend is used to such a…a rough life. But not you.”
“Mother, Sarah’s family owns half of Herefordshire. She’s not quite the bit of rough you seem to think she is.”
Her mother looked at her blankly. “I don’t know what you mean, Kirsten. Breeding shows. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Well, I’m going, anyway. And that’s that.”
“Of course you must go,” her father said, patting her knee. “Your mother’s only concerned about your health, that’s all. Make sure you take plenty of warm clothes and some sensible hiking boots. And stick to the pathways.”
Kirsten laughed. “You’re almost as bad,” she said. “Anyone would think I was off to the North Pole or somewhere. It’s only a couple of hundred miles north, you know, not a couple of thousand.”
“All the same,” her father said, “the landscape can be quite treacherous in those parts, and it does rain an awful lot. Just be careful, that’s all I’m asking of you.”
“Don’t worry, I will.”
“When are you planning on going?” he asked.
“Well, I’ll have to wait till I hear from Sarah first and make sure she can put me up and get some time off, but I thought I’d go as soon as I can.”
“And you’ll be coming back before term starts?”
“Oh yes. That’s not until the beginning of October. I’ll come back and pick up my books and stuff. I’m hoping I can find a flat up there first, too. Perhaps Sarah and I can share.”
“Do you think that’s wise?” her mother asked.
“It’ll be better than being on my own, won’t it?”
