The Whistle

Complete version

Rose looked out of the window from her sea view terrace house: the tide was out far enough, but the dark clouds of the new weather front were rapidly coming inland. The beach had been absolutely hammered by the last storm, parts of cliff had already fallen, and there were signs that this wasn’t the end of the landslide. As bad as the weather was looking, she certainly didn’t want any more fossilised treasures to be washed away. It was also the last day before the low tide shifted to night-time, so it was now or never.

She had already changed into her men’s trousers and shirt, much more practical for the task in hand than the advertised 1920’s women’s fashion. She laced up her boots, checked everything she needed was in her rolltop canvas backpack, wrapped her shawl around her neck and shoulders, and pulled on her full-length Mackintosh coat. She buttoned it up, put her cloche hat on, and checked herself in the hallway mirror. She took her red lipstick tube off the mirror shelf and touched up her lips. She looked at herself again, and put the tiniest bit of lipstick onto her cheeks and rubbed it in.

‘Got to keep up appearances,’ she replied to her reflection.

Not that she cared much about how she looked, staying dry was more important, but still, she would like to avoid some of the locals’ gossip. It was bad enough, in their eyes, that she lived alone and went on solo hairbrained fossil hunting excursions.

Rose unlocked the front door, opened it, and paused. The change in temperature, along with the wind, took her breath away. The air tasted salty from the incoming storm, it was going to be a rough time when it settled over land. Yes, she could stay in the nice warmth of her house, but then the ammonites on the beach would likely not be there tomorrow. She secretly hoped she would get lucky and find a full skeleton like some of her predecessors.

She braced herself, pulled her collar up, and stepped outside. She locked the door behind her, safely stashed the key in her coat pocket, and headed down the steep cobbled street towards the beach. The buildings each side offered her some protection from the wind, although the full strength hit her as she crossed over to the promenade.

‘Onwards we go,’ she mumbled, in part to convince herself to keep going.

She walked along the promenade to the cliff steps, then navigated her way up and over the first part of the cliff to her favourite beach. The beach was only accessible at low tide, and the sea should have been be further out but the wind was bringing the water in closer. She walked down the beach, traversed the rocks, and headed towards the most recent cliff fall. She looked up the cliff face. She could see how precariously some large areas were holding on. The shoreline was a better option.

And the effort of getting there quickly paid off – a beautiful pyrite ammonite the size of her hand, followed by another slightly smaller one, and then another. She found a belemnite or two, carefully stashing them in her bag. She rubbed each fossil to try and get a better look, but everything was covered in the thick clay from the cliffs.

‘That can be washed off later,’ she reminded her frustration.

The focus was to recover everything that had been uncovered, before the tide and weather really turned. She clambered over the rocks, further away from the path, picking up a couple of other finds as she went, and then she saw it. A glint in the sand, just under a larger rock. Intrigued, she paused to take a look.

It was going to need a bit of digging. She put her bag down and got out her hand trowel. She kept her eye on the glint, and a wave lapped at the sole of her boot. She wasn’t going to get long today. She started to dig around the glint, it wasn’t very big, but it was stuck. She tried to wiggle it out, but it was glued to the sand under the mini boulder. She tried digging a bit more, but it wouldn’t budging. She sighed. She would have to move the rock.

The rock in question was under half the size of a flour sack, so not an unsurmountable feat to move, but it weighted considerably more. She positioned her feet either side of it, got her hands underneath and pulled. Not much happened. She tried again, bending her knees, keeping her back straight, utilising her body weight, it unstuck from the wet sand. Third time lucky, she pulled, it rolled back revealing the glint underneath, and she then fell back on her bottom. She caught her breath, got up, tried to brush herself off, but she was covered in wet sticky mud, not dust. She eagerly walked back to where the rock had been, a wave has washed some of the newly exposed sand away, making a little pool of water in the indent. Although not fully exposed, she could tell it was not a fossil.

She reached down and prised it out. It was covered in so much mud, she couldn’t make out what it was at first. She manipulated some of the mud off it, gave it a quick rinse in the newly formed rock pool, and laid it in her palm for inspection – it was an old cylindrical silver whistle.

A wave wet up her feet and she took a step back. Time to go, she has collected enough for today, and she really wanted to have a proper look at the whistle. She collected her bag and looked out to sea: the rain looked heavy, but she should be able to miss it. She carefully hurried back along the beach, and when she reached the beach steps, she had a quick glance back to where she had come from and noticed a man in the distance. She hadn’t noticed him before, but she had been too busy looking down at the sand. Probably one of the fishermen, or another fossil hunter. Oh well. It had started to spit, she hurried up the cliff path and managed to get back just before the heavens opened.

Rose didn’t know how much she needed the warmth of her house until she was inside and the door was locked and bolted. It wasn’t the biggest house, but it was generally warm and dry, and was just hers. She carefully took off her coat and hat, trying to minimise the wet mud splatter, and hung them to dry. She looked out the window. The rain was pounding on the street outside, mini rivers driving through the cobbles. The sky had gone very dark, her lights would go on early. It had been the absolute perfect timing to return home. She hoped that other person had got inside too, the weather was particularly foul. She hung her shawl on the back of the dining chair, put her backpack on the table, and the kettle on the stove.

Back at the table, she put an old towel down, got a bowl or water and nail brush for cleaning, and started unpacking her finds. She looked at the largest ammonite first - an absolute stunner. Well preserved, good definition, someone would pay well for it. She washed it off and put it to one side. The next couple of fossils were less defined, but equally as pretty. Good specimens all around. She then got to the whistle. The kettle sung. She scooped tea in the tea pot, poured the water in and set it on the table. The wind had picked up. She had another glance out the window. The figure from the beach had made it back up and was on the promenade.

Rose sat back down in front of the whistle. It looked well made. It was covered in cliff mud both inside and out. Gently she teased off mud with water and a cloth. It looked like it had some wear markings on it. She took her magnifying glass and looked closer; they could even be engravings. She was going to need some additional tools to clean it. She rummaged in her cutlery draw for a skewer, and her cupboard for more rags and old toothbrush. She shivered. The storm had brought a cold front, as it usually does. She put another log on the fire, and held her hands out to warm them. It doesn’t do much. She goes and gets a dry shawl and wraps herself in it. She wonders if that man had had got inside. A quick glance told her no, he was still out there, but now on her street. She didn’t recognise him. He didn’t seem in a hurry, despite the weather.

‘Odd.’

She poured a little tea onto the saucer to test the strength. Still a bit pale. She stood at the fire again, frantically rubbing her hands, but she still felt cold. ~She would need layers to sleep in.

Rose went back to the whistle and held it in her hands. It felt heavier than it should. She lightly rubbed the markings with a damp cloth- definitely engravings, but still too engrained in mud to be made out. She took her old toothbrush, wet it and gently rubbed the side of the whistle. The inscription became clearer. Random letters really, in a square formation.

FL

R B

F E

Maybe Latin, but she had no idea what it meant. She kept cleaning the outside, it really was a beautiful piece. Now moistened, the mud came off more easily, and she could make out a second, even fainter, inscription:

QUIS EST ISTE QUI UENIT

That was Latin. She finished cleaning the outside, put it down and went to her bookcase for her Latin dictionary. She had picked up a little Latin at school, but it hadn’t been the done subject for girls. She wished she had protested more to take the class, but she also loved a library, and there had been plenty of ways there for her to consume what she wanted to learn. Having found the dictionary, she test poured the tea again, a much better colour. She poured her tea through the strainer into the cup, added a little sugar and milk, and settled down in her seat at the table again. The cup felt so warm in her hands, and tea so sweet, she didn’t want to break the spell, but she must. She needed to solve the enigma of the inscription. She put the cup down. The wind picked up again and whistled through the window. She frowned at the window, got up, and closed the curtains tightly. She saw the figure has made his way further up the street towards her house. She hoped he got inside soon. She pulled the scarf tighter around her shoulders and sat back down. She rotated whistle so she could better see the longer inscription. A sentence should be easier to translate. Flicking through her Latin dictionary, quick work was made of the task, each word precisely recorded. She sat back and took in her writing.

‘So, “who…is…this…”,’ she paused to absorb the words, ‘ “who…is…coming”’. She frowns. The window blew open upstairs.

‘Not again!’ she sighed.

Rose again put the whistle down and went up to the offending window in the front bedroom. The latch had come loose again. She closed the window, pulling over the offending latch, and jammed in a wooden wedge for good measure. Out of the window she saw, the man was now the other side of her house. He must be soaked by now. He turned his head to match her gaze. He was watching her. She yanked the curtain shut, tucking it in around the windowsill. Why would he be watching her? She decided to make enquiries in the morning. They may think she’s a bit mad, but her neighbours still looked out for her.

She went downstairs and back to the table, the wind and rain still serenaded her. Her attention turned to the inside of the whistle. It was absolutely solid with mud, and looked like there were stones in the mouthpiece. Looking up the barrel from the bottom, it was compactly filled. She took her skewer and poked at the inside of the whistle. Bit by bit, little pieces of mud were prised out. Persisting, a larger lump came out, but the skewer will not go in farther. Instead, it got stuck. She managed to pull it out along with more mud, cleaned off the skewer and looked inside: paper had been shoved up the whistle. Rose was puzzled. Who would shove a piece of paper in a whistle? And, come to that, was the whistle lost or discarded?’

‘Right, tweezers.’ She got up, rummaging through her dresser, and pulled out a sewing kit, and from that a long pair of tweezers.

‘Always handy having tweezers.’

The fire was burning low already. The rain was absolutely pelting the front door and window, and a small amount of water was coming under the door. She sighed, it was always something in the house. She grabbed a couple of tea towels and put them down. That was not going to do much, so she grabbed an old woollen scarf of the coat stand and rammed it into the gap. That would work for now.

Rose went back to fire and added a few extra logs: at least the storm could be weathered in warmth. She noticed a shadow at her window. She tried to pretend she hadn’t seen it, she didn’t investigate it, but she knew it was the man. She really didn’t like this. For good measure, she double checked both front and back doors were still locked. A quick glance confirmed the yard gate was secured, along with the other downstairs windows.

She went back to her tea, and again relished the warm cup in her hands, and sweet tea on her lips. For a brief moment, she forgot what she had been doing, and in turn the storm also forgot to howl. She was trying to forget about the figure. Best to keep busy. She sat back down with renewed vigour and made a start on retrieving the paper from inside the whistle. The storm ramped up again. She finally managed to get a good grip on the paper, and with gentle twists and tugs, extracted it from the whistle. It was a little paper scroll.

‘How exciting… a message in a whistle!’ Rose exclaimed to herself.

The paper itself did not immediately look that old. It was obviously weathered, but on first inspection looked more modern. Possibly calligraphy paper, encrusted with mud, but sturdy enough to try and open. This was going to need a very delicate hand, and it was a good job she had just that.

‘What secrets do you hold?’ She started to brush the paper and bit by bit, the roll uncurled, as if it was meant to be found. She took it as a sign to keep going. The paper though pretty thick started to tear where it was wet. She sighed, laid the scroll on a dry cloth and pushed it over the table nearer the fire. Hopefully the warmth would help it dry.

Back to the whistle. The inside of the barrel of the whistle was now clear enough for a proper clean. She wrapped a rag over the end of the skewer, dipped it in the water, rammed it up the barrel, twisted it a few times, and bit by bit, the remaining mud came out. She looked down it: no light from the top. Now the mud was gone, she could see how wedged in the stones were. She tried pushing them from the bottom, but nothing moved.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The wind was howling so loudly it was hard to make out any other sounds, and she’d been so engrossed with the cleaning to notice it initially, but the tap was too rhythmic to be the weather. It didn’t sound like a water drip, or drain pipe leak. But there it was.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

It sounded like it was coming from the window. Someone tapping on the glass. She looked over apprehensively. The shadow of the figure was still there. She put the whistle down, and apprehensively got up to investigate. On her way to the window, she paused, turned, went back to the fireplace and picked up the poker, then returned to the window. One thing about living on her own, she had learnt how to deal with intruders. She did not care who the figure was, it was not appropriate to harass a woman in her own house. She would defend herself. She took a deep breath and flung the curtains open.

Nothing. Just the rain and storm doing its worst. She looked up and down the street, she couldn’t see the man there now. Maybe she imagined it. No, it was definitely someone tapping on the window. But they were gone now. She shook her head, sighed, closed the curtains again, re-tucking them back in, and went to put the poker back in its stand. She hesitated , and instead, repositioned the poker stand next to her chair at the table, checking it was in reaching distance.

Her next sip of tea was not quite as warming. She rummaged in her dresser, and retrieved her well-hidden bottle of rum, and took little sip. God forbid any of the neighbours found out she drank. It burnt her chest a little as she swallowed it. She topped up her tea, adding a little rum along with the milk. The neighbours needed to remember that they had much worse secrets.

Rose gathered her thoughts over little sips from her cup. She had been happy to find the whistle, but now it was more annoying. Not to mention the strange man lurking about. It was probably someone who was just looking for shelter, he had seen her go home so knew the house was habited. Or at least, that is what she told herself.

The fire spat, it needed tending again. She gave it a prod, and noticed the scroll had opened a bit. A closer look gave her a view inside; there was a hint of writing.

‘Well look at that, maybe it is message.’ Maybe with bit more drying time it would open more, she concluded.

More positive, she sat back down in front her foe, the whistle. She didn’t like losing. The stones would come out. The storm outside showed no sign of abating, but there hadn’t been a repeat of the window tapping. She picked the whistle up again and reviewed the outside, inside, and blocked top. Maybe what it needed was a soak to loosen it all up a bit. The water bowl was emptied and refilled with clean water, along with touch of warm from the kettle to make it nicer for her hands.

She paused, the whistle was made of metal, submerging it shouldn’t damage it, and the markings should be clearer. She carefully submerged the whistle in the water bath, and massaged it with the toothbrush. She took it out, dried it on the towel, the clarity of other engravings was much better:

FLA

FUR BIS

FLE

She still hadn’t got a clue what it meant, but at least it was legible. She would consult Lord Stannard tomorrow. She hated admitting defeat, but at least he wasn’t condescending when she had consulted him in the past. He would likely be excited at the puzzle. She looked inside: the tiniest bit of light coming through. There was hope. The top had another scrub.

Knock, knock, knock.

Rose sat bolt upright; she had heard that straight away. It was distinct. Someone knocking at the door, and not the weather playing tricks. She looked at the window. No shadow.

Knock, knock, knock.

It was a very determined knock, quite hard. Her hand reached over for the poker.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

She put the whistle back down, quietly got up, took a deep breath and headed to the window. She crept up to the edge of the curtain and very gently pulled it back so she could get a glimpse of the front door. Shaking, she took a look.

No one was there. The storm was still blowing wild. Someone was playing pranks on her. Someone who knew she lived on her own, that there was no man in the house. And she was stuck there because of the storm. She pulled back from the window, and tried to catch her breath. What should she do?

The scroll on the table caught her eye. Curiously it had opened more. It shouldn’t dry that quickly, should it? She went over to it, and the writing inside was becoming more visible, but not enough to get a full grasp of what it said.

It was so cold now that she could see her breath. She got the blanket off the back of the fireside chair and threw it around her body, hugging it tight. The fire was burning through the wood. She put coal on the glowing embers and extra wood on top. The fire crackled back alive again, but it did little to the ambient temperature. She sat opposite the fire with her tea. What to make of it all. The day had started off well but was rapidly becoming one of her least favourite ones. She looked over at the ammonites on the table edge. She reached for one and held it. These were some of her best finds. If only the storm would stop, this would be one of her better days. And why would someone be pranking her. She finished her tea and watched the fire take hold of the coal lumps.

Feeling more composed, Rose went back to the table, the note, and the whistle. The scroll was inspected. The writing was became clearer with each passing minute. She didn’t understand how, invisible ink could work in weird and wonderful ways, but normally it would vanish as it dried, or you would need a different substance to reveal it. It really was curious. A few letters were very clear now, but not a whole word. She would usually relish at the chance to decode a puzzle like this, but that night, she didn’t have the patience. However it was doing it, she was happy for the scroll to fully reveal its mysteries in its own time. Her attention turned back to the whistle.

The curious whistle. She held it in her hands again, and she could hear the rain picking up again. The weather was typically random at this time of year, but this storm was something else. She inspected the outside again. It really was a pretty thing, it was shame it was blocked.

‘One last try, I guess.’

Now it was time for a bit more brute force. She got her pen knife from the drawer, and a cake fork. Her mother would not approve of her brutalising the cake fork, but it was the perfect size. The wind was howling again. How long would the storm go on for? She took the knife and gently scraped around the top, more mud came out. The cake fork was pushed and wiggled against the stones.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

She jumped. Someone was at the back door. Trembling, she stood up. From where she was, she saw out the of back window that the gate was shut. She went back for the poker, the whistle still in her hand.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

She had closer look out the kitchen window, nobody was there. What was going on? She looked towards the front window and door. Nothing apparent there either. Who was banging?

The fire spat, and she turned. The scroll was now almost completely uncurled and flat on the table. She walked over to it, the writing was clear as day.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

She read it aloud: ‘Oh thief, you will blow it, and you will weep.’ She realised the whistle was still in her hand. She looked at it.

BANG.

She read at her other notes. ‘Who is this? Who is coming?’ she whispers, she looks again at the inscription on the whistle.

BANG.

She put the whistle back down on the table. The third bang didn’t come. She stood not daring to move. The third bang never came. And the rain started to ease. She sat down and tried to process what had just happened. Was it all to do with the whistle? If this was what happened just cleaning the whistle, what would happen if she had blown it?

She decided to put the whistle away. She found a clean handkerchief, wrapped it up and put it in her dresser drawer. She remembered the note, reopened the drawer and put it on top of the whistle, along with her translations, and quickly shut it again. She instantly felt lighter.

‘Out of sight, out of mind,’ she whispered.

The next morning was glorious. More of the cliff had fallen, but other than that, there was no signs of the storm. Curiously, her neighbours had not heard any of the banging. They had been suitably concerned, and they now were aware of a possible lurking stranger, which gave her a small feeling of security if anything else did happen. But looking at it with fresh eyes, she was confident the events of the previous day would be relegated to being one of those stories told at the fireside over a cup of hot chocolate.

She got to the manor just in time for elevenses. As predicted Lord Stannard was fascinated by the whole story. He confirmed she had correctly translated the longer inscription, and they would spend some time that afternoon deciphering the other parts. They sat either side of his desk in the library, the whistle sat between them, returning thier gaze, along with the note and her translations.

‘It’s probably a good job you didn’t blow it, no idea what could’ve happened. You say it all stopped when you put it away?,’ he enquired.

‘Yes. The tapping may have been the storm, but I can’t see how the knocking or banging was.’

‘Strange.’

His maid informed them that morning tea was served for them in the drawing room. Following the maid’s lead, they exit the library. As Rose passed the last bookcase, a book fell down onto the floor, opening itself at the start of a chapter. Without thinking about it, Rose picked it up. She scanned the bookcase, it had not fallen from a place she could reach, let alone accidentally knock. Very strange it had just fallen like that. She looked at the page it had opened to. The chapter title was “Whistle and I’ll Come To You, My Lad”. She turned it to look at the front cover, “Ghost Stories of Antiquity”, author M.R. James, published 1904. She looked again at open chapter. Lord Stannard had returned to her, and saw the book.

‘Ah that’s a good book, which story caught your eye?’

‘It fell off the shelf’, she replied, still puzzled as to how it fell.

The Lord took the book from her and read the page ‘Oh how funny, that one is about a scholar who found a whistle, and accidentally summoned a demon. Drove him mad, he threw the damned thing back in the sea. That whistle had markings on too. What a coincidence.’ He paused. He scanned the bookcase to see where it had come from. It was a place he could barely reach. ‘You say it fell?’

‘Yes.’

They looked at each other, and then both looked at the whistle laid out on his desk.

‘I think we had better put that away for safe keeping,’ The Lord adds.

‘Good idea,’ Rose agrees.

The whistle, scroll and Rose’s notes were locked in the Lord’s hidden desk drawer. They left again for morning tea, and spend the afternoon studying fossils.

And the whistle, still unblown, stayed under lock and key, out of sight and out of mind.