A New Darkness (15 page)

For some reason I’d thought that the thumper would be invisible or semitransparent and that Tom would have to direct his throws by sound alone.

I was wrong. There was a great dark shape looming over us, blotting out the light from the cottage window; a shape that threatened to tread us into the earth and pulverize our flesh and bones.

Tom pulled his hands out of his pockets. There was salt in his left hand, iron filings in his right, and he threw them perfectly so they came together in a cloud against the center of the dark shape.

Suddenly there was a thin wail, and the thumping ceased.

It was gone.

I couldn’t believe it had been so easy.

“Now for the witch,” Tom said as he headed toward the cottage.

Surely it wouldn’t be so easy to deal with the witch herself, I thought. What if he missed with the chain?

The witch came out to meet us, shrieking her hatred to the sky. She was tall and thin, with a great mass of long, tangled hair. Her eyes were wild and angry, her face like something from a nightmare—thin, bony, and warty; the flesh looked as if it had laid rotting underground for a long time. She radiated malevolence; it was a pain inside my head.

But suddenly things got a lot worse. She began to change into something truly grotesque and terrifying. Her hair became a nest of snakes writhing toward us with forked tongues spitting deadly poison. Her eyes bulged and turned red; her forehead distorted and erupted with yellow-headed boils. Now she had the face of a demon, and I was overcome by waves of terror and dread of the creature that was striding toward us.

How could anyone face that horror? It just wasn’t possible. I was indeed afraid of the witch—though my greater fear was that I might turn and run. Tom wouldn’t give me another chance after that. It would mean the end of my apprenticeship. It was at this moment that a strange calm came over me.

I took a deep breath and looked more closely at the witch.

As I stared, she changed back, returning to her previous shape: the snakes became hair; her eyes no longer bulged; the boils melted back into the flesh. It had all just been some sort of magical illusion . . . and for a moment I breathed a sigh of relief.

But then she was running at Tom, shrieking at the top of her voice, “I’ll take your bones! I’ll gouge out your eyes! I’ll drink your blood! I’ll flay you slowly until you scream and writhe. I’ll strip the meat from your skinny ribs and boil up your brains to make a broth! You’re mine, young spook! I’ve a use for every tasty inch of you, and the soft flesh of the girl will be my sweet dessert!”

The witch clutched a long blade in each hand and looked like she knew how to use them. Suddenly I was scared again. Those blades could slice me to pieces. Once she’d dealt with Tom, I would be next. My breath caught in my throat, and my heart began to hammer.

At first Tom didn’t react. He just stood there, waiting for her to get closer. I wondered what his plan was. His mind seemed blank . . . either that, or my gift wasn’t working properly. Was it because I was scared and couldn’t concentrate?

At that moment, the moon came out from behind a cloud.

Despite my fear, in those seconds I saw something really strange.

I saw Tom’s shadow cast by the moon. It was impossibly big, stretching over the witch and right up the wall of the cottage behind her.

Distracted, I missed seeing Tom cast his chain, but it now formed a helix, hovering in the air and gleaming in the moonlight. Then it fell perfectly over the witch and tightened around her body and across her mouth so that she collapsed to her knees.

“That’s why you need to practice,” Tom said, turning to smile at me. “It comes in very useful at moments like this.”

We left the witch there and went into the cottage to see what had happened to the child.

As we had feared, little Katie was dead. And we found the bones of other children, too. The sight made me so sick that I almost wrenched my stomach inside out.

I could have killed that witch. I could have stabbed her with her own blades. That’s what I really wanted to do.

And I knew then that, in the right circumstances, I was capable of killing someone.

How could she have done this to little children? I wondered. She didn’t deserve to live another second longer.

Tom dragged Bibby Longtooth back to Chipenden, still wrapped from head to toe in his silver chain, and together we dug a pit for her in the eastern garden. This time he did most of the work, sending me down to the village to engage the services of a blacksmith and a stonemason. It was probably for the best; I was so filled with rage that I couldn’t bear to look at the witch.

The men carved a stone to go over the pit and fitted it with iron bars. Once Tom had rolled the witch into the pit, they set to work, lowering it into place while she glared up at them with wild eyes, spitting and cursing.

At last the witch was safe in the pit, but I still felt nauseous. I thought I would enjoy being a spook’s apprentice, but now I have real doubts about the job.

It’s dark, terrible work. Nobody should have to see the sights we do and face witches like Bibby Longtooth—and, what’s worse, see what they’ve done.

I’m not sure about being a spook now. I’m not sure at all.

Never until my dying day will I forget those little bones . . . the bones of all those children.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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Thomas Ward

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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17

Practical Lessons

T
WO
days ago we captured a malevolent bone witch called Bibby Longtooth and brought her back to Chipenden. Now she’s safely bound within a pit. But we were unable to save the child she’d snatched, and Jenny took it badly. She told me that she was thinking of ending her apprenticeship. It was hard to talk her out of it, but I remembered my early days of doubt; I’d once gone back to the farm and begged my mam to let me give up the job. I told Jenny how my mam had been right to refuse, that I’d achieved a lot—and she would too.

The only way I could snap her out of her despondency was to work her hard. So her training began in earnest. Each morning now, we visited the six-foot post in the western garden and I let Jenny practice with my silver chain, something she really enjoyed. From a distance of eight feet, she was able to cast the chain over the stump successfully two out of every three times she tried. It had taken me a long time before I managed a sequence of one hundred perfect casts. She was making good progress.

I demonstrated the casting technique for her again. “Look . . . you must coil it over your left hand like this, and then flick your wrist so that it falls in a left-handed spiral. Ideally it should cover a good part of the witch’s body, from her head to her knees. Get it across her mouth, and she can’t mutter spells at you.” I cast the chain, and lit by the morning sun, its shining spiral seemed to pause in midair before falling perfectly and tightening against the post.

“Of course, you have to keep practicing,” I told Jenny as I collected the chain and handed it back to her. “It’s a skill that should be honed, not just for your apprenticeship but during the whole of your subsequent life as a spook. And don’t forget—this is just a post. As you saw the other night, a witch won’t stand still for you! Later, when you improve, you can practice casting the chain from different distances, and then while on the run. You can use me as a target.”

I watched her for another five minutes or so. She was left-handed like me—maybe it was something that all seventh daughters had in common with seventh sons.

“Right, that’s enough!” I said after a while; Jenny was panting with the exertion. “Let’s go and have some breakfast.”

Even though the sun was shining, there was the chill to the air and our breath steamed. It was still a lot colder than was usual in early September—a fact that was really beginning to worry me.

“Why don’t you teach me about witches rather than boggarts?” Jenny asked as we walked back through the trees. I’d told her that boggarts was the best topic with which to start her training—and I’d noticed a momentary tightening of her mouth. She hadn’t said anything at the time, but now she’d obviously had time to reflect.

“In the first year, an apprentice always learns about boggarts,” I told her sternly.

“Some of the practical work, such as casting the chain, applies to witches. So why can’t I learn some theory too? Witches are scary, but they’re more interesting.”

“Are they now?” I said, an edge of sarcasm in my voice. “Well, soon you might get to meet another witch face-to-face. Grimalkin, the witch assassin of the Malkin clan, is studying the lair of the Kobalos mage that captured you. When she’s finished, she’ll no doubt call in here to tell me what she’s learned.”

Jenny’s face showed a flicker of fear.

“Don’t be scared,” I said gently. “She’s an ally.”

“I wasn’t thinking about the witch,” Jenny retorted. “I was remembering how it felt to be helpless in the jaws of that beast.”

“It’ll take time to get over a terrible experience like that, but the memory will pass.”

Jenny nodded and looked thoughtful. “She’s a witch who kills people—is that right?” she asked.

“Yes, but she usually kills clan enemies.”

“You’re a spook and she’s a witch, so why aren’t you dealing with her? Shouldn’t you put her in a pit? It’s almost as if you’re on the same side.”

“A few years ago we formed an alliance with her,” I explained. “My master, John Gregory, didn’t like it, but in the end even he accepted it as a necessity. The beast that nearly killed you is just the advance guard of thousands of dangerous Kobalos warriors. They are Grimalkin’s enemies, and also ours. That’s why a spook is in alliance with a witch.”

Jenny fell silent, and we headed for the kitchen and had our breakfast. Immediately afterward, I collected the measuring rod and a spade and led the way to the southern garden. Holding the spade brought back the sad memory of burying my master, but I forced it from my mind and concentrated on the lesson.

I halted under the branch of a tree and pointed upward. “You’re going to dig a pit suitable to bind a boggart in,” I told Jenny. “First of all, you have to choose the right location. This must always be under a branch. It has to be a strong branch, too, because a block and tackle—a system of chains and a pulley—will be hung from it to support the stone lid that is eventually lowered to bind the boggart in the pit.”

Jenny nodded doubtfully. “So I’m going to dig a pit here, even though we have no boggart to bind?”

“Yes, you got it first time. It’s good to know that you’re listening to what I say,” I told her, failing to keep the sarcasm from my voice. My dad always used to say, “Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit!” He’d had no time for it, and I was suddenly disappointed in myself. I resolved to do my best to avoid it in future. It wasn’t a good idea when you were trying to teach someone.

“This is a practical lesson, and you are going to dig a practice pit,” I explained more kindly. “Ours is a craft that involves certain skills, and this is one of them. You have to dig the pit to meet precise measurements, because the stone lid has to fit perfectly. It’s got to be exactly six feet long, six feet deep, and three feet wide.”

“Why does the depth have to be so precise? Surely that can vary a little?”

I forced myself to control my anger. I’d certainly not questioned my master in this way. I had asked him questions—he’d encouraged me to do so on many occasions. I could hear his voice now saying those very words: “Come on, spit it out! Don’t be afraid to ask questions, lad!” But it seemed to me that there was something disrespectful in Jenny’s tone.

“The width and length have to be precise so that the stone will fit. Six feet has been proven to be the best depth for containing a boggart. Generations of spooks agree that it should measure exactly that!” I said firmly.

I showed Jenny how to use the measuring rod to mark out the pit’s outline, and then I told her to start digging. After a while I could see that she was finding it hard; she was breathing heavily, and sweat was dripping from her forehead. But it was part of a spook’s trade. She had to learn how to do it.

After about an hour I took pity on her. I told her to take a break, and I leaned against the tree while she sat on the edge of the pit, red in the face from her exertions. Digging practice pits hadn’t been one of my favorite lessons, either.

“Did you hear those strange noises last night?” Jenny asked once she’d gotten her breath back.

I shook my head. I’d slept like a log, only waking when the dawn light came through the window. What strange noises did she mean? She was new to Chipenden, and what I accepted as normal might be startling to her. The boggart sometimes made noises as it moved through the garden.

“I like to sleep with my window open, and I could hear them clearly.”

“You’ve been sleeping with your window open on these cold nights?” I asked in astonishment.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s good for you. The air in a bedroom can get stale.”