The Seventh Apprentice (4 page)

The hairs at the back of my neck began to stand on end. I felt certain I was being followed. Cautiously, I continued downhill for three or four minutes. At the bottom of the slope, the grass gave way to frozen mud. Then my feet crunched on something.

I halted and looked down. White fragments of bone were scattered across the mud. Terrible thoughts went through my mind. Were they
human
bones? Could these be the remains of Peter’s father?

I took a few paces forward and saw a huge rib cage lying on the ground, then a skull. I sighed with relief when I realized that they weren’t human. They formed part of the skeleton of a horse—perhaps the horse that had drawn the pig butcher’s cart? But if that was the case, it had died only a few days ago. What had killed it, and how had the bones been picked so clean already?

Suddenly I heard the deep grunt of a pig. I flinched, imagining the teeth of the huge flying boar Peter had described biting through my flesh to crunch my bones. Where had the grunt come from? I put down my bag and held out my staff in front of me. It was made of rowan wood, which is a powerful deterrent to witches. It could be used as a club to bludgeon your enemy, but it could also be used to kill. I pressed the button beneath my left hand that made the retractable blade emerge from the end with a
click
. The blade was made of a silver alloy, which was also harmful to a witch; I just had to hope that it was also a good weapon to fend off a big hungry pig.

The sound came again—another grunt, somewhere to my left. I whirled around to face it, ready to drive back the creature with my blade. Then there was another noise; more of a snort this time, from another direction. Was it circling me and preparing to charge? I wondered.

I held my breath, kept perfectly still, and listened. I didn’t know how good a pig’s eyes were. Could it see through the mist better than me? No doubt like most animals, it had a far better sense of smell than a human.

Finally I was forced to breathe out, but still I listened for any sign of its approach. I must have remained in the same position for almost a quarter of an hour; then I moved cautiously forward again.

Every ten paces I halted for a moment and listened. After a while I became confused. Even if I’d somehow missed the farmhouse, the barn, and the pigpens, by now I should have reached the other side of the small valley.

Then, directly ahead, I saw something that was totally unexpected. Rather than a fence, a barn, a farmyard, a heap of straw, a mound of pig muck, or even a farmhouse . . . what I found in front of me was a gleaming white marble pillar.

A few of the County churches are constructed of wood; most are made of local stone. But Priestown Cathedral is not only made of stone; most of it is lined with marble. That was the only place I had ever come across a marble pillar.

I recalled my visit to the cathedral. When a County priest dies, he is taken back to Priestown for burial. Some of his parishioners usually accompany the body. When I was about seven, our local priest, Father McMahon, fell down the altar steps, struck his head a terrible blow, and died three days later.

My dad took me to the funeral, and I was astonished by my first sight of Priestown Cathedral. It was huge, and its tall steeple rose over three hundred feet high, reaching right up into the clouds on that gray, drizzly day. I was also amazed by its interior. The whole floor was covered with a blue, green, and purple mosaic, while the altar and the tall pillars were constructed of white marble.

Of course, this pillar differed from those in the cathedral. For one thing, it wasn’t supporting a roof and was only about five feet high. But it did support something: a very lifelike carved marble head.

The head was totally white but for one thing—the eyes were a vivid blue and seemed to be made of precious stones. It was the head of a young girl, with a very pretty face and long, curly hair.

As I stared at it in awe, I felt the warmth of the sun on my head. I pulled my gaze away and looked up into a blue sky. The mist had started to drift away, but I soon realized that something was very wrong. Previously the winter sun had been close to the horizon, shining into my face without any discernible warmth. Now it was high in the sky, and felt hotter than during the County summer.

The mist was rolling away more quickly now, and I almost staggered as the scene spread out before me. I was standing on the slope of a hill rather than in a valley. The mud had been replaced by grass—but not the green grass fed by the usual County rain. This was yellow-brown, scorched by the sun, and there were cracks in the dry earth. There was no farm, no barn, and no pigpens. Instead I saw ahead of me a large white building that reminded me of a cathedral. White marble steps led up to the entrance, and it was fronted by eight more tall white pillars that supported the roof.

How could this be happening? I wondered. Had I been transported to a different location by some powerful dark magic? And where was Peter? Had he already been seized by the pig witch?

I turned slowly through a full circle, checking around for danger. The grassy slope was bare of trees or scrub. The only place anything could be lying in wait was behind that marble building—or inside.

So, holding my staff and bag tightly, I approached the row of marble pillars. The entrance had no doors and the interior looked dark. . . .

W
HEN I reached the pillars, I halted, allowing my eyes to adjust to the gloom within.

As I waited there, another thought drifted into my mind: What if I
hadn’t
been transported to some other, magical realm?

I remembered the book I’d been reading in the Spook’s library before the bell summoned me to the withy trees. It was about spells such as dread and glamour; spells of illusion. What if all
this
was some kind of magical illusion? That would mean I was really still standing in the valley close to Sanderson’s pigpens.

I tested my suspicion. First I peered very closely at the nearest of the pillars. It stood up to close scrutiny and certainly appeared to be real. Next I gave it a resounding blow with the base of my staff.

Thwack!

The impact jarred my arm and traveled up to my shoulder. It certainly
felt
solid enough. I touched the marble with my fingertips. It was cool and smooth. How could this be an illusion?

I thought of my father: always the schoolmaster, he had taught me what he called “logical thought.” He claimed that one needed to explore a question in detail before reaching a conclusion.

We had once discussed what he termed “seeming reality.” He had explained that our understanding of the world was based upon what our senses taught us. Our eyes showed us what
seemed
to be there; our sense of touch confirmed it in another way. If I wished, I could touch that pillar with the tip of my tongue; I could taste it. In this case, its flavor wouldn’t matter. But if I was testing cheese, the taste might prove it was cheese rather than chalk. What was important was that all the senses combined to confirm what was real.

I applied that to my present situation. But what if
all
my senses were in the grip of a spell of illusion? That was surely possible. So how could I ever know the truth? I wondered.

Still, I remembered that I was a seventh son of a seventh son and had some resistance to the magic of a witch. If I was observant and concentrated, I might eventually be able to see through a chink in the magic to the truth of things.

Carrying my bag and staff, I advanced slowly, walking past the pillars into the deeper gloom. It was much cooler here. Before me stood more statues mounted on pillars. I halted before one to study it more closely.

It was the image of a man dressed in a cloak. He was gazing into the distance, one hand raised to shield his eyes from the sun, the other holding a staff. At first I thought it was supposed to be a spook, but then I noted that the end of his staff was curved; it was quite different from mine. It was a shepherd’s crook, the special stick that could be used to recover fallen sheep by hooking it round the neck or a leg.

I moved on into the darkness and grew ever more nervous. Was I being watched from the shadows? What if some of the statues were really servants of the witch, waiting to pounce if I got too close? I made my way slowly between the plinths, keeping as far away from them as possible. Every so often I paused and listened for danger. The last thing I wanted was to be attacked by that big, hairy boar with its deadly tusks.

Then I saw that there was light in the distance. Had I passed right through? Before long I emerged into an open grassy space, surrounded by the building on all sides. I was now standing in what my father called an atrium. My eyes flickered over the area quickly, noting several more statues—and a huge oblong block of white marble, about six feet square and six feet high . . . the same dimensions as the pits the Spook had dug in his garden to contain boggarts.

Two people were standing in front of this block of marble. One was a very pretty girl of about fourteen; the other was Peter Snout.

To my surprise, I saw that Peter was no longer wearing his piece of sacking and dirty bloodstained clothes. As I approached, I realized that his face, hands, and arms were pink, as if they had been scrubbed clean, and he was dressed in clean trousers and a spotless white shirt. The girl was talking to him, and he gazed back at her with a silly grin on his face, as if she was the most wonderful thing he’d ever seen.

As I joined them, the girl transferred her gaze from Peter to me. “Welcome, William.” She gave me a dazzling smile. “It is so nice to meet you at last.”

I’d never seen a prettier girl. She had long, curly golden hair and wore a white silk dress that came down to her ankles, cut away at the shoulders to reveal smooth brown arms adorned with golden bracelets that glittered in the sunlight.

Then I noted her incredible blue eyes. Had the carved head I’d just seen been her likeness?

“How do you know my name?” I asked.

“Peter told me. We’ve been having a little talk about his loss. I have promised to help him find his father.” She gestured to the huge block of white marble. Strangely, it was being used as a table, and at its center was a large bowl of grapes—something you rarely saw in County shops. They had to make a long journey to the main County port, Sunderland Point, so they were expensive. I’d only eaten them a couple of times in my life, but I could still remember their sweet, juicy taste. On either side of the grapes stood a long-stemmed glass—but surely you’d need a really high chair if you wanted to eat or drink at such a table? I thought.

Then I noticed a fourth object atop the marble. It was a long, thin stick, like the switches sometimes used to punish children. But there was something different about it—the stick had been sharpened at one end.

But then I was distracted by the girl’s voice.

“How remiss of me,” she said sweetly. “You must both be very tired after your journey. Allow me to offer you refreshments.”

She reached up and lifted the nearest glass from that strange table. She smiled at Peter and offered it to him. “Drink!” she urged. “It will revitalize both your body and your mind and take away all your fears.” She leaned forward so that her hair brushed against his forehead and kissed him gently on the cheek.

Peter blushed a bright red but accepted the glass and stared at the liquid within. “What is it?” he asked.

The girl moved away from him and smiled. “It is nectar.”

Peter looked puzzled, but he took a sip.

I was puzzled too. Nectar was the name for the liquid produced by flowering plants to attract insects such as bees. I’d never heard of people drinking it.

But no sooner had he taken a sip than Peter’s face broke into a broad grin. “It’s delicious!” he remarked enthusiastically, and started to gulp it down as if this was his last day on earth and he had to grab as much pleasure as possible.

“Now it is your turn, William. Put down your bag and staff—you have no need of such things here.”

I was about to protest, but when I looked down, my bag and staff were already at my side, although I had no recollection of putting them there. Then, to my astonishment, I saw that I was wearing different clothes too—my spook’s cloak had gone, and I was dressed like Peter in a clean shirt and trousers. How had that happened?

The girl reached up and lifted the second glass from the table. “Now, William, it is your turn to drink!” she said.

Usually I didn’t like being called William. The only time I ever used the name was when signing letters. But the way it slipped off the silken tongue of that pretty girl made it sound really special. I remember thinking that from this moment on, I should start using my full name. It made me feel important.

Then, with a smile, she leaned forward to kiss my cheek, her golden hair brushing my forehead. But as she did so, I smelled something on her skin, a strange odor.

My mind immediately flashed back to my earlier musings on the way the senses confirmed reality. Sight, hearing, and touch confirmed that this was a pretty girl who was pleasant and courteous. But what my father called the olfactory sense, which was a big word for the sense of smell, contradicted that. I was a seventh son of a seventh son, and my resistance to witchcraft told me what Peter had failed to detect on the girl’s silky-smooth skin.

It was the stink of pig.

T
HIS pretty girl was really the pig witch.

“Drink, William! Drink every drop!” she commanded.

I had no intention of obeying. I remember thinking,
I won’t do it!

I summoned all my willpower in an attempt to refuse. But she was strong, and I was weak. Compelled by her command, I lifted the glass to my mouth and took a sip. One taste and I was lost. Peter had been right—it was the most delicious liquid that had ever passed my lips. It was a mixture of two tastes: predominant was the sweetness of grapes, but that was perfectly balanced by something spicy that tingled on the tip of my tongue.