The Seventh Apprentice (3 page)

At last Peter stopped and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’m a coward,” he said. “I should have tried to save him, but I did nothing. My poor old dad! He’ll be dead by now. The witch will have cut him into pieces!”

“T
HERE was nothing you could have done,” I said, in an attempt to make him feel better. “What chance did you stand against a witch?”

Although it would have been my duty to try and deal with a creature like that, without my master at my side, I would probably have run, too. I felt sorry for Peter. He’d been in a terrible position.

“So then you came here right away?” I asked.

He nodded. “I waited about five minutes, and then crept out of the barn. But as I walked away, out of the corner of my eye I caught a movement and looked up. There was a pig on the roof, a big boar with sharp tusks, and it grunted at me. I’ve seen a lot of pigs in my life, but never one as large as that. And it had wings. As it flew off the barn roof toward me, I ran as fast as my legs would carry me.

“The boar had chased me halfway up the hill before I managed to outrun it. At the summit I paused and looked back down into the valley. I couldn’t see the pig, but I could hear my dad shouting, ‘No! No! Please don’t cut me again! Please don’t do that, I beg you! It hurts so much!’ And then he started screaming at the top of his voice, sounding like a pig when its throat’s being cut. I didn’t want to leave my dad. It was horrible to hear him screaming and shouting. But what could I do?

“After I’d left the farm far behind, I realized that there was only one man who could help me—the Chipenden Spook, John Gregory. So here I am. It’s taken me two days to find this place, and it was all for nothing. He’s away, and by the time he gets back there’ll be nothing left of my poor dad. I should never have abandoned him there. . . .”

For a moment all that came into my head was the expression my master had used when I’d promised to get my notebook up to date: “Pigs might fly!” he had said. It meant that it was very unlikely to happen—because whoever heard of a pig flying? But Peter clearly believed he’d seen one.

I stood there for minute, deep in thought. The threat of being sent home by the Spook was now very real. If I went to try and help Peter, it would give me a good excuse for not getting my notebook up to date and improving my skill with the silver chain. How could I carry on with those tasks if I was busy with something that was much more important? I would show the Spook that I was not lacking in initiative and courage.

I turned to the boy. “Look, Peter, the Spook’s gone to Burnley, which isn’t all that far beyond Blackburn. We could speed things up by going straight there, saving him from traveling all the way back here. We might even meet him. I’ve got a couple of things to get from the house. Wait for me here at the crossroads, and then we can travel together.”

Peter looked doubtful, but he nodded. So, my heart thumping with nerves and excitement, I ran back to the house and collected my staff. I also picked up my bag and pushed the Spook’s silver chain into it. My master might just need it if this half pig, half woman really
was
a witch of some sort. Then I added some food for the journey: a few slices of cold ham, three fat pork sausages, a thick wedge of cheese, and half a loaf.

I felt confident that the Spook would follow his usual route, and this was the one I intended to take. At the last moment I decided to write him a note just in case we missed each other.

Ten minutes later, I met Peter back at the withy trees and we started walking south toward the ford across the River Ribble, taking the route that passed east of Priestown, which meant that we would very likely meet my master on the way. It was still cold, and I wore a sheepskin jacket underneath my cloak. All poor Peter had were his shirt and trousers and the smelly sack that served as an overcoat, but he didn’t complain. They usually killed pigs outdoors, so he must have been used to working in all sorts of weather.

When it grew dark, we found ourselves shelter for the night in a ruined barn that the Spook and I had used before on our travels. Soon we had a good fire going and shared the food. We had one and a half pork sausages and a piece of bread each. I decided to save the ham for breakfast and the cheese for later on the journey. I wasn’t that keen on cheese, to be honest. John Gregory found the crumbly stuff very tasty—he always took some with him when we were on spook’s business, though he only doled out small amounts to nibble at. He believed that you fought the dark best on an empty stomach. Well, I had no intention of fighting this pig witch without my master; I ate my supper and put the cheese back in my bag for later.

After we’d finished eating, we chatted for a while.

“Do you like being a spook’s apprentice, Will?” Peter asked.

I decided to be truthful and shook my head. “It’s a difficult, scary job, and I’m not very good at it. You see some awful things. . . .” I shivered at the memory of the boggart we’d confronted in a dark wood just outside Galgate a few months back. “We have to get up really early and go out in all weathers. And the Spook strides along very quickly while I struggle behind with his heavy bag. I reckon I’ll be lucky to complete my apprenticeship. What about you? Are you happy following your dad’s trade, or would you rather be doing something else?”

Peter suddenly perked up. “I like killing pigs,” he told me. “It’s the best job in the world!”

I was curious. “What exactly do you like about it?” Pigs were nasty, smelly animals, and killing them must be a messy business.

“I like it best when we hang ’em up by their legs and cut their throats!” Peter exclaimed enthusiastically. “The blood pours down into the bucket, so hot that it steams. Every year we drink a small cup of blood from the first pig we slaughter. My dad says it puts hairs on your chest.”

I looked at him in astonishment. How could he possibly enjoy that?

“
Has
it put hairs on your chest?” I couldn’t imagine drinking pig’s blood like that, but I wouldn’t have minded a few hairs. My chest was pale, scrawny, and bare, and a thick thatch of hair would have been an improvement.

“No . . . not yet,” confessed Peter. “It takes time to work. You have to keep drinking the blood.”

I shuddered with disgust. No pig’s blood for me. I would just have to be patient.

We were up early the next day, and after wolfing down the ham we continued our journey, splashing through the river ford. In the distance I could see a brown, smoky haze hanging over Priestown, with the pale limestone steeple of the cathedral rising above it.

“I’m still hungry,” Peter muttered.

“So am I,” I replied. “I’ve got a bit of cheese we can share for our lunch.”

He didn’t look too keen on that. “What’s your favorite food?” he asked me.

“Bacon and eggs!” I said, my stomach rumbling at the thought. “I like the bacon crispy and the eggs runny so that I can dip my bread into the yolks.”

“I wouldn’t mind a plate of bacon and eggs now,” he said with a grin. “
My
favorite food is black pudding. But I like jellied eels and pork scratchings too.”

Peter was leading the way as we began the ascent to Blackburn. It got colder as we climbed the hill; there were patches of ice in the hardened mud beside the road, and the hoarfrost still hadn’t melted. We met only a few other people on foot, and the odd farmer with a horse and cart taking produce to market.

At the summit, Peter stopped and turned toward me. “What’s the best way to kill a witch?” he asked, looking into my eyes intently.

“My master doesn’t usually
kill
witches,” I explained. “He puts them alive into pits. The walls of each pit are lined with a mixture of salt and iron, with iron bars over the top and another set buried beneath the soil to stop them from digging their way to freedom—there’s no chance of them escaping. They have to exist on a diet of slugs and worms. He never lets them out. That’s how he keeps the County safe.”

“Yes, but supposing you
did
want to kill a witch. How would you do it?”

“At Caster Castle they hang witches,” I told him. “But that’s no good because they can come back from the dead. Some are even more dangerous dead than alive. There are two ways to prevent them from returning: one is to burn the witch, and the other is to eat her heart—but it must be eaten raw. You can’t cook it.”

Peter nodded thoughtfully. “So the Spook will throw this pig witch into a pit?”

“Most likely, yes. He’ll bind her with his silver chain, then carry her back to Chipenden and put her in a pit in his garden forever.”

Having gotten his reply, Peter turned and set off toward Blackburn at twice the pace he’d set earlier.

I was puffing with exertion, my breath rising into the air in clouds. I wanted to ask Peter to slow down, but I reflected that it was only natural that he should be keen to find the Spook as soon as possible. He wanted to save his dad. From what he had told me, I didn’t hold out much hope that Mr. Snout would still be alive or in one piece, but I saw no point in discouraging him. Even false hope was better than no hope at all.

The route to Burnley passed right through Blackburn, and I had spotted the first of the houses in the distance when Peter halted just north of the main road. He was staring down a narrow track, clenching and unclenching his fists, his face contorted with emotion.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“That’s the way to Sanderson’s farm.” He pointed. “Look, Will, I’ve got to go down there now.”

“It won’t do you or your dad any good, you know,” I said, my voice as calm and reassuring as possible. “What good will it do him if you get captured as well? The best thing is to find my master. He’s a really good spook. He’ll be able to deal with that witch.”

“Wait here for me,” Peter insisted. “I’ll just go to the edge of the valley and shout down to my dad. I’ll feel a lot better if I hear his voice—then he’ll know I haven’t abandoned him. If he’s not able to answer, he’s probably dead. I have to find out, one way or the other.” And he hurried off down the hill without waiting for a reply.

I knew that Peter was being foolish. Who could tell how powerful the witch might be? Even at the top of the hill, he might not be safe. And if he shouted down into the valley, she would know that he was there! She might chase him or use her magic to lure him into her clutches.

I had to go and bring him back. Even an apprentice had a duty to save others from the dark. That was one lesson the Spook had drummed into my thick head. I felt sure that he would want me to intervene; this was another way to show him that I was made of the right stuff to be a spook.

I was scared, but I hurried off down the path after Peter.

A
T
first the path led steeply down through dense woods. Even without their leaves, the covering of trees made it very gloomy. But soon the ground leveled out before beginning to rise again, gradually at first and then more sharply.

I heard Peter before I saw him.

“Dad! Dad! Are you down there?” His voice echoed back from the valley below. “Are you all right?”

I emerged from the trees and found myself just behind him. The pale winter sun was low, but it shone straight into my eyes, dazzling me. I put down my bag and went to stand beside him, shielding my eyes and leaning on my staff. We gazed down into the valley—it was shaped like a big dinner plate with one bite taken out of the far corner. The farm was quite small; most farms need lots of fields for their different animals, but pigs could be kept in pens and fed on swill. A large number could be kept in a relatively small area.

I could just make out a farmhouse, some pigpens, and a barn, but the whole valley was filled with a mist that swirled and shifted from side to side. White tendrils reached up toward us like thin, undulating fingers, and a cold feeling ran down my spine. It was a warning to a seventh son of a seventh son—a warning that something dangerous from the dark was nearby.

“Dad! It’s Peter. Can you hear me?” Peter shouted again.

There was no answer. In fact, everything seemed unnaturally quiet. The breeze had died away to nothing, and the birds had fallen silent.

“Come with me, Peter,” I said. “It’s dangerous to linger here. Don’t shout anymore, or the witch might hear you. She could be creeping up the slope toward us right now. Some of them can run really fast.”

Peter shook his head. “I’ve got to go down there,” he insisted. “There’s just a chance that my poor dad is still alive. I shouldn’t have left him before—I panicked, and I feel so ashamed now. I’ve got to go down there and see.”

“Please, Peter,” I begged. “We’d better go on to Burnley. My master will know what to do. He’s your dad’s best chance. Go down there, and you’ll end up in that witch’s clutches too.”

“What’s the point of putting the witch in a pit?” Peter demanded angrily. “That’s too soft a punishment. She deserves worse than that, and I’m going to make sure it happens!”

Before I could reply, he had disappeared into the mist.

I waited there for a few moments, not daring to move. The sensible course of action was to walk away as quickly as I could, head for Burnley, and find my master. He had explicitly told me just to record any problem and not to investigate myself.

But how could I abandon Peter now?

Moments later I was heading downhill, entering the mist. I could see no more than a few feet in front of me. I slowed down immediately. I didn’t want to step into a rabbit hole and break my ankle. Everything was silent and still, but who knew what might be watching me? There might be something standing six feet away and I wouldn’t be able to see it.