The Spook's Apprentice (6 page)

I didn’t need a second warning. I ran from the room and up the stairs. Then, halfway up, I froze. There was someone standing at the top. Someone tall and menacing, silhouetted against the light from the door of my room.

I halted, unsure which way to go until I was reassured by a familiar voice. It was the Spook.

It was the first time I’d seen him without his long black cloak. He was wearing a black tunic and grey breeches and I could see that, although he was a tall man with broad shoulders, the rest of his body was thin, probably because some days all he got was a nibble of cheese. He was like the very best farm labourers when they get older. Some, of course, just get fatter, but the majority - like the ones my dad sometimes hires for the harvest now that most of my brothers have left home - are thin, with tough, wiry bodies. ‘Thinner means fitter,’ Dad always says and now, looking at the Spook, I could see why he was able to walk at such a furious pace and for so long without resting.

‘I warned you about going down early,’ he said quietly. ‘No doubt you got your ears boxed. Let that be a lesson to you, lad. Next time it might be far worse.’

‘I thought I heard the bell,’ I said. ‘But it must have been a bell in my dream.’

The Spook laughed softly. ‘That’s one of the first and most important lessons that an apprentice has to learn,’ he said; ‘the difference between waking and dreaming. Some never learn that.’

He shook his head, took a step towards me and patted me on the shoulder. ‘Come, I’ll show you round the garden. We’ve got to start somewhere and it’ll pass the time until breakfast’s ready’

When the Spook led me out, using the back door of the house, I saw that the garden was very large, much larger than it had looked from outside the hedge.

We walked east, squinting into the early morning sun, until we reached a wide lawn. The previous evening I’d thought that the garden was completely surrounded by the hedge, but now I realized that I was mistaken. There were gaps in it, and directly ahead was the wood. The path of white pebbles divided the lawn and vanished into the trees.

‘There’s really more than one garden,’ said the Spook. ‘Three, in fact, each reached by a path like this. We’ll look at the eastern garden first. It’s safe enough when the sun’s up, but never walk down this path after dark. Well, not unless you have very good reason and certainly never when you’re alone.’

Nervously I followed the Spook towards the trees. The grass was longer at the edge of the lawn and it was dotted with bluebells. I like bluebells because they flower in spring and always remind me that the long, hot days of summer are not too far away, but now I hardly gave them a second glance. The morning sun was hidden by the trees and the air had suddenly got much cooler. It reminded me of my visit to the kitchen.

There was something strange and dangerous about this part of the wood, and it seemed to be getting steadily colder the further we advanced into the trees.

There were rooks’ nests high above us, and the birds’ harsh, angry cries made me shiver even more than the cold. They were about as musical as my dad, who used to start singing as we got to the end of the milking. If the milk ever went sour my mam used to blame it on him.

The Spook halted and pointed to the ground about five paces ahead. ‘What’s that?’ he asked, his voice hardly more than a whisper.

The grass had been cleared and at the centre of the large patch of bare earth was a gravestone. It was vertical but leaning slightly to the left. On the ground before it, six feet of soil was edged with smaller stones, which was unusual. But there was something else even more strange: across the top of the patch of earth, and fastened to the outer stones by bolts, lay thirteen thick iron bars.

I counted them twice just to be sure.

‘Well, come on, lad -I asked you a question. What is it?’

My mouth was so dry I could hardly speak but I managed to stammer out three words: ‘It’s a grave ...’

‘Good lad. Got it first time. Notice anything unusual?’ he asked.

I couldn’t speak at all by then. So I just nodded.

He smiled and patted me on the shoulder. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s just a dead witch and a pretty feeble one at that. They buried her on unhallowed ground outside a churchyard not too many miles from here. But she kept scratching her way to the surface. I gave her a good talking to but she wouldn’t listen, so I had her brought here. It makes people feel better. That way they can get on with their lives in peace. They don’t want to think about things like this. That’s our job.’

I nodded again and suddenly realized that I wasn’t breathing, so I sucked in a deep lungful of air. My heart was hammering away in my chest, threatening to break out any minute, and I was trembling from head to foot.

‘No, she’s little trouble now,’ the Spook continued. ‘Sometimes, at the full moon, you can hear her stirring, but she lacks the strength to get to the surface and the iron bars would stop her anyway. But there are worse things further off there in the trees,’ he said, gesturing east with his bony finger. ‘About another twenty paces would bring you to the spot.’

Worse? What could be worse? I wondered, but I knew he was going to tell me anyway.

‘There are two other witches. One’s dead and one’s alive. The dead one’s buried vertically, head down, but even then, once or twice each year we have to straighten out the bars over her grave. Just keep well away after dark.’

‘Why bury her head down?’ I asked.

‘That’s a good question, lad,’ the Spook said. ‘You see, the spirit of a dead witch is usually what we call "bone-bound". They’re trapped inside their bones and some don’t even know they’re dead. We try them first head up and that’s enough for most. All witches are different but some are really stubborn. Still bound to her bones, a witch like that tries hard to get back into the world. It’s as if they want to be born again, so we have to make things difficult for them and bury them the other way up. Coming out feet first isn’t easy. Human babies sometimes have the same trouble. But she’s still dangerous, so keep well away.

‘Make sure you keep clear of the live one. She’d be more dangerous dead than alive because a witch that powerful would have no trouble at all getting back into the world. That’s why we keep her in a pit. Her name’s Mother Malkin and she talks to herself. Well, it’s more of a whisper really. She’s just about as evil as you can get, but she’s been in her pit for a long time and most of her power’s bled away into the earth. She’d love to get her hands on a lad like you. So stay well away. Promise me now that you won’t go near. Let me hear you say it...’

‘I promise not to go near,’ I whispered, feeling uneasy about the whole thing. It seemed a terrible, cruel thing to keep any living creature - even a witch -in the ground, and I couldn’t imagine my mam liking the idea much.

‘That’s a good lad. We don’t want any more accidents like the one this morning. There are worse things than getting your ears boxed. Far worse.’

I believed him, but I didn’t want to hear about it. Still, he had other things to show me so I was spared more of his scary words. He led me out of the wood and strode towards another lawn.

‘This is the southern garden,’ the Spook said. ‘Don’t come here after dark either.’ The sun was quickly hidden by dense branches and the air grew steadily cooler so I knew we were approaching something bad. He halted about ten paces short of a large stone which lay flat on the ground, close to the roots of an oak tree. It covered an area a bit larger than a grave, and judging by the part that was above ground, the stone was very thick too.

‘What do you think’s buried under there?’ the Spook asked.

I tried to appear confident. ‘Another witch?’ ‘No,’ said the Spook. ‘You don’t need as much stone as that for a witch. Iron usually does the trick. But the thing under there could slip through iron bars in the twinkling of an eye. Look closely at the stone. Can you see what’s carved on it?

I nodded. I recognized the letter but I didn’t know what it meant.

‘That’s the Greek letter beta,’ said the Spook. ‘It’s the sign we use for a boggart. The diagonal line means it’s been artificially bound under that stone and the name underneath tells you who did it. Bottom right is the Roman numeral for one. That means it’s a boggart of the first rank and very dangerous. As I mentioned, we use grades from one to ten. Remember that - one day it might save your life. A grade ten is so weak that most folk wouldn’t even notice it was there. A grade one could easily kill you. Cost me a fortune to have that stone brought here but it was worth every penny. That’s a bound boggart now. It’s artificially bound and it’ll stay there until Gabriel blows his horn.

‘There’s a lot you need to learn about boggarts, lad, and I’m going to start your training right after breakfast, but there is one important difference between those that are bound and those that are free. A free boggart can often travel miles from its home and, if it’s so inclined, do endless mischief. If a boggart’s particularly troublesome and won’t listen to reason, then it’s our job to bind it. Do it well and it’s what we call artificially bound. Then it can’t move at all. Of course, it’s far easier said than done.’

The Spook frowned suddenly, as if he’d remembered something unpleasant. ‘One of my apprentices got into serious trouble trying to bind a boggart,’ he said, shaking his head sadly, ‘but as it’s only your first day, we won’t talk about that yet.’

Just then, from the direction of the house, the sound of a bell could be heard in the distance. The Spook smiled. ‘Are we awake or are we dreaming?’ he asked.

‘Awake.’

‘Are you sure?’

I nodded.

‘In that case let’s go and eat,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you the other garden when our bellies are full.’

The kitchen had changed since my last visit. A small fire had been made up in the grate and two plates of bacon and eggs were on the table. There was a freshly baked loaf too and a large pat of butter.

‘Tuck in, lad, before it gets cold,’ invited the Spook.

I set to immediately and it didn’t take us long to finish off both platefuls and eat half the loaf as well. Then the Spook leaned back in his chair, tugged at his beard and asked me an important question.

‘Don’t you think,’ he asked, his eyes staring straight into mine, ‘that was the best plate of bacon and eggs you’ve ever tasted?’

I didn’t agree. The breakfast had been well cooked.

It was good, all right, better than cheese, but I’d tasted better. I’d tasted better every single morning when I’d lived at home. My mam was a far better cook, but somehow I didn’t think that was the answer the Spook was looking for. So I told a little white lie, the kind of untruth that doesn’t really do any harm and tends to make people happier for hearing it.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it was the very best breakfast that I’ve ever tasted. And I’m sorry for coming down too early and I promise that it won’t happen again.’

At that, the Spook grinned so much that I thought his face was going to split in two; then he clapped me on the back and led me out into the garden again.

It was only when we were outside that the grin finally faded. ‘Well done, lad,’ he said. ‘There are two things that respond well to flattery. The first’s a woman and the second’s a boggart. Gets them every time.’

Well, I hadn’t seen any sign of a woman in the kitchen so it confirmed what I’d suspected - that a boggart cooked our meals. It was a surprise, to say the least. Everyone thought that a spook was a boggart-slayer, or that he fixed them so they couldn’t get up to any mischief. Who would have credited that he had one cooking and cleaning for him?

‘This is the western garden,’ the Spook told me, as we walked along the third path, the white pebbles crunching under our feet. ‘It’s a safe place to be whether it’s day or night. I often come here myself when I’ve got a problem that needs thinking through.’

We passed through another gap in the hedge and were soon walking through the trees. I felt the difference right away. The birds were singing and the trees were swaying slightly in the morning breeze. It was a happier place.

We kept walking until we came out of the trees onto a hillside with a view of the fells to our right. The sky was so clear that I could see the dry-stone walls that divided the lower slopes into fields and marked out each farmer’s territory. In fact the view extended right to the summits of the nearest fell.

The Spook gestured towards a wooden bench to our left. ‘Take a pew, lad,’ he invited.

I did as I was told and sat down. For a few moments the Spook stared down at me, his green eyes locked upon mine. Then he began to pace up and down in front of the bench without speaking. He was no longer looking at me, but stared into space with a vacant expression in his eyes. He thrust back his long black cloak and put his hands in his breeches pockets then, very suddenly, he sat down beside me and asked questions.

‘How many different types of boggart do you think there are?’

I hadn’t a clue. ‘I know two types already,’ I said, ‘the
free
and the
bound
, but I couldn’t even begin to guess about the others.’

‘That’s good twice over, lad. You’ve remembered what I taught you and you’ve shown yourself to be someone who doesn’t make wild guesses. You see, there are as many different types of boggart as there are types of people and each one has a personality of its own. Having said that, though, there are some types that can be recognized and given a name. Sometimes on account of the shape they take and sometimes because of their behaviour and the tricks they get up to.’

He reached into his right pocket and pulled out a small book bound with black leather. Then he handed it to me. ‘Here, this is yours now,’ he said. ‘Take care of it, and whatever you do, don’t lose it.’

The smell of leather was very strong and the book appeared to be brand new. It was a bit of a disappointment to open it and find it full of blank pages. I suppose I’d expected it to be full of the secrets of the Spook’s trade - but no, it seemed that I was expected to write them down, because next the Spook pulled a pen and a small bottle of ink from his pocket.

‘Prepare to take notes,’ he said, standing up and beginning to pace back and forth in front of the bench again. ‘And be careful not to spill the ink, lad. It doesn’t dribble from a cow’s udder.’

I managed to uncork the bottle, then, very carefully, I dipped the nib of the pen into it and opened the notebook at the first page.

The Spook had already begun the lesson and he was talking very fast.

‘Firstly, there are hairy boggarts which take the shape of animals. Most are dogs but there are almost as many cats and the odd goat or two. But don’t forget to include horses as well - they can be very tricky. And whatever their shape, hairy boggarts can be divided up into those which are hostile, friendly or somewhere between.

‘Then there are hall-knockers, which sometimes develop into stone-chuckers, which can get very angry when provoked. One of the nastiest types of all is the cattle-ripper because it’s just as partial to human blood. But don’t run away with the idea that we spooks just deal with boggarts, because the unquiet dead are never very far away. Then, to make things worse, witches are a real problem in the County. We don’t have any local witches to worry about now, but to the east, near Pendle Hill, they’re a real menace. And remember, not all witches are the same. They fall into four rough categories - the malevolent, the benign, the falsely accused and the unaware.’

By now, as you might have guessed, I was in real trouble. To begin with, he was talking so fast I hadn’t managed to write down a single word. Secondly, I didn’t even know all the big words he was using. However, just then he paused. I think he must have noticed the dazed expression on my face.

‘What’s the problem, lad?’ he asked. ‘Come on, spit it out. Don’t be afraid to ask questions.’

‘I didn’t understand all that you said about witches,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what "malevolent" means. Or "benign" either.’

‘Malevolent means evil,’ he explained. ‘Benign means good. And an unaware witch means a witch who doesn’t know she’s a witch, and because she’s a woman that makes her double trouble. Never trust a woman,’ said the Spook.

‘My mother’s a woman,’ I said, suddenly feeling a little angry, ‘and I trust her.’

‘Mothers usually are women,’ said the Spook. ‘And mothers are usually quite trustworthy, as long as you’re their son. Otherwise look out! I had a mother once and I trusted her, so I remember the feeling well.  Do you like girls?’ he asked suddenly.

 ‘I don’t really know any girls,’ I admitted. ‘I don’t have any sisters.’

‘Well, in that case you could fall easy victim to their tricks. So watch out for the village girls. Especially any who wear pointy shoes. Jot that down. It’s as good a place to start as any.’

I wondered what was so terrible about wearing pointy shoes. I knew my mam wouldn’t be happy with what the Spook had just said. She believed you should take people as you find them, not just depend on someone else’s opinion. Still, what choice did I have? So at the top of the very first page I wrote down ‘Village Girls with Pointy Shoes’.

He watched me write, then asked for the book and pen. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘you’re going to have to take notes faster than that. There’s a lot to learn and you’ll have filled a dozen notebooks before long, but for now three or four headings will be enough to get you started.’

He then wrote
‘Hairy Boggarts’
at the top of page two. Then
‘Hall-Knockers’
at the top of page three; then, finally, ‘Witches’ at the top of page four.

‘There,’ he said. ‘That’s got you started. Just write anything you learn today under one of those four headings. But now for something more urgent. We need provisions. So go down to the village or we’ll go hungry tomorrow. Even the best cook can’t cook without provisions. Remember that everything goes inside my sack. The butcher has it, so go there first. Just ask for Mr Gregory’s order.’

He gave me a small silver coin, warning me not to lose my change, then sent me off down the hill on the quickest route to the village.

Soon I was walking through trees again, until at last I reached a stile that brought me onto a steep, narrow lane. A hundred or so paces further, I turned a corner and the grey slates of Chipenden’s rooftops came into view.

The village was larger than I’d expected. There were at least a hundred cottages, then a pub, a schoolhouse and a big church with a bell tower. There was no sign of a market square, but the cobbled main street, which sloped quite steeply, was full of women with loaded baskets scurrying in and out of shops. Horses and carts were waiting on both sides of the street so it was clear that the local farmers’ wives came here to shop and, no doubt, also folk from hamlets nearby.

I found the butcher’s shop without any trouble and joined a queue of boisterous women, all calling out to the butcher, a cheerful, big, red-faced man with a ginger beard. He seemed to know every single one of them by name and they kept laughing loudly at his jokes, which came thick and fast. I didn’t understand most of them but the women certainly did and they really seemed to be enjoying themselves.

Nobody paid me much attention, but at last I reached the counter and it was my turn to be served.

‘I’ve called for Mr Gregory’s order,’ I told the butcher.

As soon as I’d spoken, the shop became quiet and the laughter stopped. The butcher reached behind the counter and pulled out a large sack. I could hear people whispering behind me, but even straining my ears, I couldn’t quite catch what they were saying. When I glanced behind, they were looking everywhere but at me. Some were even staring down at the floor.

I gave the butcher the silver coin, checked my change carefully, thanked him and carried the sack out of the shop, swinging it up onto my shoulder when I reached the street. The visit to the greengrocer’s took no time at all. The provisions there were already wrapped so I put the parcel in the sack, which was now starting to feel a bit heavy.

Until then everything had gone well, but as I went into the baker’s, I saw the gang of lads.

There were seven or eight of them sitting on a garden wall. Nothing odd about that, except for the fact that they weren’t speaking to each other - they were all busy staring at me with hungry faces, like a pack of wolves, watching every step I took as I approached the baker’s.

When I came out of the shop they were still there and now, as I began to climb the hill, they started to follow me. Well, although it was too much of a coincidence to think that they’d just decided to go up the same hill, I wasn’t that worried. Six brothers had given me plenty of practice at fighting.

I heard the sound of their boots getting closer and closer. They were catching up with me pretty quickly but maybe that was because I was walking slower and slower. You see, I didn’t want them to think I was scared, and in any case, the sack was heavy and the hill I was climbing was very steep.

They caught up with me about a dozen paces before the stile, just at the point where the lane divided a small wood, the trees crowding in on either side to shut out the morning sun.

‘Open the sack and let’s see what we’ve got,’ said a voice behind me.

It was a loud, deep voice accustomed to telling people what to do. There was a hard edge of danger that told me its owner liked to cause pain and was always looking out for his next victim.

I turned to face him but gripped the sack even tighter, keeping it firmly on my shoulder. The one who’d spoken was the leader of the gang. There was no doubt about that. The rest of them had thin, pinched faces, as if they were in need of a good meal, but he looked as if he’d been eating for all of them. He was at least a head taller than me, with broad shoulders and a neck like a bull’s. His face was broad too, with red cheeks, but his eyes were very small and he didn’t seem to blink at all.

I suppose if he hadn’t been there and hadn’t tried to bully me, I might have relented. After all, some of the boys looked half starved and there were a lot of apples and cakes in the sack. On the other hand, they weren’t mine to give away.