DEDICATION
FOR MARIE
CONTENTS
DEDICATION
CHAPTER I
THE LAZIEST APPRENTICE
CHAPTER II
PETER’S TALE
CHAPTER III
THE JOURNEY EAST
CHAPTER IV
THE VALLEY OF WHITE MIST
CHAPTER V
THE LAIR OF THE WITCH
CHAPTER VI
DELIGHTFUL THINGS
CHAPTER VII
THE SLAUGHTER PEN
CHAPTER VIII
THUMB BONES
CHAPTER IX
SHARP CLAWS
CHAPTER X
LET THAT BE A LESSON
CHAPTER XI
HAIRY EARS
EXTRACTS FROM WILL JOHNSON’S NOTEBOOK
BACK ADS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY JOSEPH DELANEY
COPYRIGHT
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
CHAPTER I
THE LAZIEST APPRENTICE
I’M Will Johnson, apprentice to John Gregory, the Chipenden Spook.
It’s a very dangerous job. Two of my predecessors were slain by boggarts—troublesome entities that are mostly invisible but sometimes take on the shape of animals such as cats, rats, horses, and dogs. Often they do little damage and simply scare people. Then it’s a spook’s job either to move them away or bind them in pits so that folk can get on with their lives.
However, some boggarts are lethal. For example, there’s an extremely dangerous type known as a ripper. They usually start by killing cattle but eventually prey upon people, ripping out their throats and draining their blood. My master’s first apprentice, Benjamin Roberts, was struck dead by a stone chucker, a violent sort of boggart with six arms that throws missiles—sometimes even large boulders. It split Benjamin’s skull wide open and dashed out his brains on the grass.
Mr. Gregory’s second apprentice, Paul Preston, was attacked by a deadly goat boggart as he walked across a muddy field near Wheeton. The creature’s horns pierced him under the ribs and speared his heart. He died instantly.
My master’s next three apprentices ran away because they found the job too difficult and scary. Mr. Gregory is still annoyed that he wasted all that time training them.
His sixth apprentice, Brian Houghton, completed his five-year apprenticeship successfully and is now practicing his trade somewhere south of the County. So far he has been the Spook’s only success. This is hardly surprising: Ours is a dangerous and terrifying occupation. We fight the dark, dealing with ghosts, ghasts, boggarts, and witches.
I’m the Spook’s seventh apprentice, and now it’s my turn to be trained. Recently I’ve been thinking of running away myself—before my master kicks me out. The truth is, my apprenticeship hasn’t been going too well, and recently things got a lot worse. . . .
One cold December afternoon, just a couple of weeks before Christmas, we were in the garden. I was shivering despite my exertions—I’d been using the Spook’s silver chain, casting it at the practice post. It’s a way of dealing with witches. If you do it right, the chain forms a spiral in the air and falls over the witch, pinning her arms to her sides. Then you can drag her away and put her in a pit.
So far I hadn’t accompanied the Spook when he’d been summoned to deal with witches, and I certainly wasn’t looking forward to meeting one. They kill people—sometimes even young children—and drink their blood or cut away their bones, which is why many end up in a pit dug by my master or his apprentice.
My practice session hadn’t gone too well. In theory, this should have been easy. A wooden post kept still; a witch wouldn’t. However, I’d managed only about twenty successful throws out of more than fifty attempts. My final throw of the session was the worst of all: I somehow managed to wrap the chain around my head and shoulders. I slipped and fell heavily to my knees. Struggling to my feet, I readied myself for a lashing from the Spook’s tongue.
Sure enough, it came immediately: “That’s not good enough, lad!” he snapped angrily, the look in his green eyes making me cringe. He was tall—I hardly reached his shoulder—and his black beard had only a few flecks of gray. His fierce face looked like it was chiseled from stone. He was not someone to be trifled with.
“Have you been keeping up with that extra practice I set you?” he demanded.
I couldn’t meet his gaze, hanging my head instead. I was supposed to work with the chain for an hour each day. I been going to the practice post, but I hadn’t actually cast the chain much. It seemed like a waste of time—I never got any better at it—so I’d mostly spent my time leaning on the post and staring into space, daydreaming.
The Spook shook his head angrily. “Give me your notebook, lad!” he demanded, holding out his hand.
He gave each apprentice a blank notebook in which to keep a record of everything we learned and the things we encountered. He flicked through the pages now, and I waited for his anger to erupt. A lot of the pages were blank . . . too many. When he’d given me lessons, pacing backward and forward beside the bench in the garden, I’d taken notes. I could do nothing else under the Spook’s fierce gaze. But whenever he’d sent me up to the library to make additional notes from the books there, I’d done little work—sometimes nothing at all.
“This is a disgrace,” he said. At first his voice was very calm, which somehow made it worse than if he’d shouted. “You must be the laziest apprentice I’ve trained so far.”
I was annoyed at being called lazy. The job was exhausting and difficult. I felt like telling him that this was too much to ask of a boy my age and that only a fool would become a spook, but I managed to control my anger and make the apology I knew he expected.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll get the notes up to date by the end of the week, I promise. I’ll not procrastinate anymore.”
“Aye, and pigs might fly!” snapped the Spook, raising his voice and glaring at me angrily. “You sound like you’ve swallowed a dictionary, lad. If you’re good with words, why don’t you try writing a few more down? What would your father think of this? No doubt he taught you that procrastination is the thief of time! It’s very true. Keep putting things off until later and you waste your time on this earth, which is short enough as it is.”
My father was the village schoolmaster at Cockerham. The Spook had first met him when a dark entity—believed to be the devil—was plaguing the local church, terrifying the parishioners, who didn’t even dare cross the churchyard to attend Sunday service. The priest had been too scared to do anything about it, so the villagers, judging my father to be the cleverest and wisest man in the village, had elected him to deal with the problem.
Rather than trying to face the dark himself, he’d sent for a man who was an expert on such things—John Gregory, who quickly discovered that the entity in question was a very dangerous boggart that couldn’t be persuaded to move elsewhere. The Spook had to throw salt and iron at it, and that was enough to destroy it.
My six elder brothers all had good jobs. Some were clerks, and one had become a lawyer, which made my father especially proud. But although I had an aptitude for both writing and sums, that kind of work didn’t appeal to me at all. It had been a relief when the Spook approached my father and suggested that he take me on.
At that point, I hadn’t realized what the job entailed. Being a seventh son of a seventh son meant that I had been born with gifts that fitted me to be trained as a spook—for example, the ability to see and talk to the dead. But apart from the boggart in the churchyard, a visitation that had occurred when I was too small to understand what was happening, the dark had not come near our village. I had little idea what I was getting involved with and little chance f
or my seventh-son skills to be put to the test. The rumors I had heard made the job sound much more glamorous and exciting than the boring work of a clerk or a lawyer. Although many folk from the County feared Mr. Gregory because he worked close to the dark, they also respected his bravery and competence. It would be nice to have people look up to you like that.
The Spook was right in what he said—my father expected a high standard of conduct from his sons. He would be very angry if he knew how badly I was doing.
“I really don’t see the point in keeping you on,” Mr. Gregory continued. “I think it would be for the best if you went back home and found yourself another trade.”
I bowed my head. This wasn’t really a surprise—I’d been expecting to be dismissed for some time. But how could I face my father if I was sent home?
“Please give me another chance!” I blurted out. “I really will try harder.”
The Spook stared at me without blinking. Eventually he gave a long, deep sigh. “Look, lad, I’ll give you one final chance. There’s some serious boggart trouble at Coate Farm, near Burnley. I was going to take you with me, but I think it’s best if I go alone and give you a chance to put things right. You can stay here and do two things. First, put in some practice with that chain. You need to show me some significant improvement when I return. Second, get your notes up to date. Accomplish both those tasks, and I’ll keep you on. Otherwise, you go back home. Understand?”
“Yes. Thank you,” I said. “I’ll do my best.”
“Then let’s hope that your best is good enough, lad. I’ll be away for about a week. If there’s any spook’s business, just keep a record of what and where the problem is. That’s all you need to do. Don’t go anywhere near it yourself.”
I was only too happy to comply with the Spook’s orders. I’d been his apprentice for just over a year, and I’d seen some pretty scary things: a boggart with six arms that threw rocks, a ghost with its skull split wide open so that you could see its brains (which were filled with wriggling maggots), and the inside of a witch’s cottage. Fortunately, the witch herself had already left the County, but the cellar was full of human bones and the kitchen sink was filled to the brim with blood. So far I hadn’t faced a witch, and I certainly didn’t want to do so alone.
I nodded, and within the hour the Spook was on his way to Burnley, carrying his bag and staff himself, for a change. As he was dealing with boggarts, he wouldn’t need his silver chain. He’d left it behind for me to practice with. Silver chains were very costly, and a young apprentice sometimes had to save up for years before he could buy one of his own. I had to take great care of it.
As soon as he’d gone, I put my feet up in front of the kitchen fire, closed my eyes, and drifted off to sleep. I was always tired. Each morning we got up really early, and I was keen to take the chance to grab forty winks. There would be plenty of time to work tomorrow. . . .
While my master was away, the weather continued to be bitterly cold and wet. It was much nicer to sit indoors by the fire than to be out in the rain practicing with the Spook’s silver chain. I wasn’t completely idle, though, and started to work through the list of reading assignments that I was set each month—passages from books in the Spook’s library. This was an easier task than writing things up in my notebook.
However, at breakfast on the third day, I was suddenly forced to change my attitude.
My master had made a long-term pact with a cat boggart that guarded the house and garden. After challenging intruders, it was permitted to slay them and drink their blood. As well as protecting the house, the creature also made breakfast every day—but you had to be down in the kitchen at the right time; put in an appearance either too early or too late, and it got very angry.
That morning I was on time, but as I began to tuck into my bacon and eggs I heard the creature give an angry growl, followed by a hiss that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Then the boggart briefly appeared on the hearth rug, swishing its tail; it looked as if it was preparing to attack me. I was so scared that my heart almost stopped beating.
I tried to recall what my master had told me about the boggart. I suddenly remembered why it knew so much about what went on in the house: It apparently listened to every instruction the Spook issued, whoever it was aimed at. Then I knew what was wrong. The boggart was aware of my master’s orders and was warning me that I should follow them and not spend my time lounging about!
With another angry growl the boggart disappeared, but I knew that it was still close by, and I could sense it watching me.
“My breakfast was really well cooked and delicious!” I exclaimed, attempting to placate it. “Now I’m off to practice with my master’s chain.”
With that, I gulped down my breakfast, snatched up the silver chain, and headed for the practice post.
It wasn’t just the threat from the boggart that made me work now. The Spook had given me a last chance to prove myself, and I certainly didn’t want to go home in disgrace. I was determined to improve my throwing.
I spent about an hour casting the chain, but I didn’t seem to be getting any better. I started to lose heart. No matter how hard I practiced, I’d never be good at it, I thought. Maybe I just wasn’t cut out for the job.
It was already noon, and it didn’t look like the weather was going to improve. So, full of despondency, I returned to the comforting warmth of the kitchen. I went in nervously, wary of the boggart, but it made no sound and did not appear. Up in the library, I turned to one of the almost-blank pages in my notebook and read the single heading in my own handwriting.
Pendle Witch Magic
Now I had to make some notes. My master had just started to teach me about witches. Knowing that I needed to fill the pages of my notebook before he returned, I searched the shelves for a suitable title. At last I found one. It was thick and heavy, bound with soft brown leather, and the title on the spine read Spells Used by the Pendle Clans.
I opened the book. There was lots of useful information about each spell. I made notes about three spells called dread, glamour, and fascination. Dread makes a witch appear terrifying to her victim; her hair seems to turn into snakes. Glamour and fascination work together: a witch can make herself appear a lot more attractive than she really is, compelling a man to believe all that she tells him. All three were spells of illusion.
Soon I’d filled two pages with notes and felt really proud of myself. I might not be any better with the chain, but I was catching up on the other task that my master had set me. There was hope for me yet.
It was then that I heard a bell in the distance. It was the one that hung at the withy trees crossroads. People went there to summon the Spook when they were threatened by the dark.
Well, Mr. Gregory wasn’t here now, so I had to go and find out what the problem was myself. Filled with new enthusiasm for my job as a spook’s apprentice, I put on my cloak, grabbed my staff, and set off for the crossroads as fast as I could. It didn’t do to delay. Some folk were nervous about meeting the Spook, and if you didn’t get there quickly, they often took to their heels even though they desperately needed help.
But never before had I heard that bell being rung so fast and so furiously.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Each peal sounded desperate, fearful and angry, and all at once a shiver ran down my spine.
CHAPTER II
PETER’S TALE
THE Spook had told me that the crossroads wasn’t haunted. There was nothing to worry about, he said, but I had never felt happy there. There were too many shadows under the big willow trees with their droopy branches, far too many places for something to hide. I’d already seen enough boggarts and ghosts to give me nightmares.
It seemed to me that old buildings like churches and ruined farmhouses held the memories, mostly bad ones, of the people who’d frequented them. Maybe gloomy crossroads like this were similar. Over the years, many terrified people had come here to ring the bell and tell their tale
s of witches, boggarts, and hauntings, so their fear might have remained behind, trapped in the roots, trunks, and branches of the trees. . . . It was a possibility.
The bell had stopped ringing by the time I neared the crossroads, but as I walked under the dark branches of the first trees, it started up again with renewed fury. As I approached, I saw that the person creating the commotion was a boy of about my own age—maybe fifteen at the most.
He saw me approaching and let go of the rope. The bell danced and swung from the branch, still ringing for a couple of seconds before lapsing into silence. Then there was only the chill wind whistling through the bare branches and two boys standing face-to-face and staring at each other.
“I need to see Mr. Gregory,” the stranger said.
He was fair-haired and rosy-cheeked, with so many freckles on his brow and chin that he looked like he had a bad case of measles. He was slightly taller than me, and a lot broader. Then I noticed his stomach—it hung over his belt. Well, at first glance I thought it was a belt. It was actually just a piece of dirty string looped twice around his waist to hold up his breeches, which were covered in dark stains. Instead of a coat, he had a piece of sacking draped over his shoulders, and that was stained too. An unpleasant smell came from him, a mixture of sweat and something else that I recognized but couldn’t place.
“Mr. Gregory’s away on business,” I told him. “I’m his apprentice, Will Johnson. What’s your name?”
“I’m Peter Snout,” he said. “My dad’s the pig butcher.”
I sniffed again. That was the familiar smell. In addition to the smell of sweat, there was a ripe blend of blood and pig muck.
The pig butcher traveled the length of the County, slaughtering pigs for farmers. The lead up to Christmas was his busiest time of year. Killing pigs could be a messy business, and most people preferred to bring in an expert. He cleaned them up afterward, collecting the blood in buckets and scraping the bristles off the carcasses. He got the job done with the minimum of fuss.