The Affair of the Chalk Cliffs by James P. Blaylock Page B

sheathed sword. And thank God it was sheathed, because if it had not been the man’s head would have been split like a melon, and although dead men tell no tales, as they say, there’s no virtue in collecting specimens.
    The keeper pitched forward, and Uncle Gilbert struck him again, hard, and snatched the cane back for the third blow, the sheath flying off the blade now, end over end. Tubby parried the sword blow with the blackthorn to save his uncle from the gallows, but the keeper scrambled to his feet more nimbly than I would have thought possible and attempted to hit Tubby another savage blow on the side of the head, although it caught him on the shoulder as Tubby twisted away. Hasbro was up and out of the blind now, running down the slope toward the lighthouse, vanishing in the rising fog, which sailed through heavier this time. Right before the curtain closed, however, I saw the door of the cottage fly open, and a man—a small man—come out at a dead run. It was the Tipper, wearing his slouch hat, turning up like a bad penny. I scanned the downs with the glasses, trying to sort things out but hampered by the wall of mist. Then I saw him briefly at the very edge of the precipice, where he disappeared like a goblin over the ledge as if he meant to scramble down the face of Beachy Head and swim across the Channel to France.
    “I’m following him!” I said to Alice, which would be senseless blather if she hadn’t seen the Tipper emerge from the cottage. I crawled out the back of the copse to open ground and ran toward the cliff, slowing down when I neared the edge, wary of suffering the fate of Captain Sawney. I looked back toward the lighthouse but made out nothing, although I could dimly hear the sounds of the struggle. I could see perhaps thirty feet downward through the mist, and straightaway spotted the shadowy form of the Tipper as he made his way along what was apparently a narrow trail cut into the chalk. From far below came the muffled sound of the swell washing in over the rocky beach, but I couldn’t see it, which was just as well, because I meant to follow the Tipper downward, and I wasn’t keen on the view.
    It was then that I saw a length of three-inch line below and to the right, the color of the chalk of the cliffs and nearly invisible. It was affixed to a heavy iron ring-and-bolt driven into the rock, a holdfast that allowed for a person to climb downward in comparative safety. It had been there for some time, for it was weather-frayed and there was rust on the bolt. I waited until the Tipper was safely out of sight, and then stepped onto the narrow trail, which was steep, but fortunately clear of loose debris. I didn’t tarry, but intended to remain just out of sight in the fog, which meant keeping one eye on what I was doing and another farther down the path in case the Tipper came into view.
    I scuttled down sideways, hanging on to the rope carefully, all the time watching and listening for the Tipper. I had made my way perhaps fifty feet from the top of the precipice, when the wind gusted and the fog cleared utterly. I found myself looking down the edge of the cliff, which was unnervingly sheer, the sea moving over the shingle nearly five hundred feet below. My head spun with sudden vertigo when I saw that moving water, and I threw myself into a crouch against the cliff face, grasping the hand-line and closing my eyes. When I opened them again, the fit having passed, the Tipper was gone, although he might still be somewhere on the trail farther below, hidden by an outcropping.
    I heard a scrabbling sound above me, and there was Alice, coming along downward with considerably more grace and agility than I had shown. She clutched her dress out of the way with one hand and held onto the line with the other, and within moments she stood beside me. “He’s vanished,” she said, apparently referring to the Tipper. “I assumed you meant to follow him, so I decided to do the same. He’ll lead us