The Seventh Apprentice (2 page)

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.

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.

T
HE 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 tales 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.

One sniff was enough to tell anyone that Peter had been helping his dad with the work.

“Tell me what your problem is and I’ll tell Mr. Gregory the moment he gets back.”

“When
will
your master be back?” Peter demanded.

“It could be three or four days, maybe longer.”

“That’s too long!” the boy exclaimed. “My dad needs help
now
!” He turned bright red in the face, puffing and blowing as he paced about, clenching and unclenching his fists in frustration.

“Why don’t you just calm down and tell me what the problem is? It might help to get it off your chest,” I suggested. I was doing my best to reassure him, but in truth, my head was spinning. The boy was obviously in desperate need of aid.

“What can
you
do?” He halted in front of me. “We need a real spook for what’s got to be done. Something terrible has happened. . . . It’s some sort of pig witch!” he cried, his face twisting in anguish. “She’s got my dad and she’s doing horrible things to him! She’s cutting him with her knives. . . .”

“Look, Peter, you need to tell me everything that’s happened from the beginning to the end. Don’t leave anything out!”

That was what the Spook always said to people who had a problem with the dark. If they were made to relate the tale slowly and carefully, remembering all the details, they tended to calm down. And they were also supplying useful information. Besides, I was in no hurry. Nothing could be done until the Spook got back.

But instead of telling me what the problem was, Peter asked, “Isn’t there another spook who could help?”

I shook my head. “The only one I know of is Brian Houghton, one of my master’s former apprentices. But he’s practicing his trade somewhere south of the County—I don’t know where. Look, why don’t you tell me what happened?” I replied.

Eventually Peter calmed down and managed to blurt out his tale. It was both terrible and incredible.

Although I’d only just begun my study of them, I knew that there were many different types of witch—Pendle witches, water witches, Celtic witches, and lamia witches, to mention just a few—but never had my master mentioned pig witches. I found some of what Peter told me hard to believe.

“Me  and my dad have been working our way slowly east toward Blackburn, visiting two or three farms each day, slaughtering pigs that have been fattened up for Christmas,” he began. “Then, just two miles south of Blackburn, we called in at Sanderson’s farm. We’ve been dealing with the old farmer there for years and have a long-standing arrangement to pay him a visit in the second week of December. We arrived at dusk as usual. He lets us rest our weary bones in the barn so we’ll be ready for work at dawn the following day.

“We always need that early start because there are a lot of pigs to slaughter. Most farmers have a mixture of animals—cows, sheep, hens, geese, and only a few pigs—but old Sanderson specializes in pigs. He keeps dozens of them and sells them at markets all over the County.

“In his younger days he used to slaughter them himself, but now his back is giving him trouble. It’s hard work, so he gets us in two or three times a year. Of course, with people wanting to add pork, sausage, and bacon to their turkey-and-roast-potato Christmas dinner, December is our busiest time of all.

“The farm lies in a deep valley, so I got off the cart and led the horse down the steep hill into the gloom. It was getting darker by the minute, and as we approached the buildings, I started to feel uneasy. Something seemed wrong.”

“What was it?” I asked. “Any more than just a feeling?”

Peter scratched his head. “Well, there was no light flickering in the farmhouse windows and everything was
too
quiet. Nothing seemed to be moving in the pigpens either. Even at night there are usually noises, but there was no snuffling, honking, or grunting—nothing. On top of all that, our old horse was nervous. He’s usually a placid creature, well able to cope with the sound of screaming pigs, but he was clearly unhappy. His eyes were rolling in his head, and when I brought him to a halt I saw that his legs were trembling.”

Peter paused, and his eyes glazed over. He was obviously reliving the moment in his imagination.

“What happened next?” I prompted him.

“After lighting a lantern, I told my dad that I thought something was wrong. He just grunted at me—I couldn’t tell whether or not he agreed. Toward Christmas, farmers usually celebrate the end of each session of pig butchering with a pitcher of strong ale. We’d already visited two farms that day, and my dad had filled his boots with the stuff.

“I unhitched the horse and led him into the barn where he could munch on some hay. Then I helped my dad down from the cart. His legs were still wobbly, so I guided him inside, and he collapsed on a heap of straw. Within seconds he was snoring away, dead to the world. So I went back to the cart to collect our blankets. I threw a couple over Dad, wrapped myself in another, closed the barn door, and did my best to ignore my uneasiness and get comfortable.”

“If you knew something was wrong, wasn’t it difficult to sleep?” I asked.

“I can sleep through anything—I must have dropped off quite quickly, because the next thing I knew, I was sitting upright and my heart was hammering in my chest fit to burst. It was pitch-dark inside the barn, but I could hear something being dragged across the floor, accompanied by a sort of rhythmic thumping sound.

“I was terrified, and for a few moments I didn’t dare move a muscle. The barn door was pulled open—I heard it squeak on its hinges. Then the moon came out, and I was looking at something out of a nightmare.” Fear flickered across Peter’s face.

“What did you see, Peter?” I asked him.

“In the doorway I saw a woman dressed in an ankle-length black dress with two long knives thrust into the belt at her waist,” he went on. “I remember thinking that they looked like the blades my dad used to cut the throats of pigs. Her hands had long hooked nails like claws, but it was her face that was truly horrible. The cheeks were bloated, the nose was fat and squashed so that it looked more like a snout, and her ears were pointed, with tufts of hair sprouting from them. She had the face of a pig! And now she was holding my dad’s legs and dragging him out into the yard—those were the sounds I had heard. The thumping was his head bouncing on the ground. She couldn’t see me in the darkness, so I kept still until she’d dragged my dad away!” At that, Peter burst into tears.

I didn’t know what to say, so for a little while I just watched him cry. I had never heard of a witch with the face of a pig. I wondered guiltily if the Spook had mentioned it one day while I was daydreaming.