The Seventh Apprentice (6 page)

She clapped her hands three times.

At the first clap, the creature began to climb up her skirt. By the second, it was perching on her shoulder. No sooner had the echo of the third clap died away than it went into action, leaping from the witch’s shoulder straight onto the belly of the sow—the smallest of the dead pigs—clinging there with its sharp finger- and toenails.

It was ferocious and very fast. Teeth gleaming in the moonlight, it began to eat ravenously. I couldn’t believe the speed with which it guzzled the raw flesh. It gnawed its way right into the belly and disappeared. I could hear it biting and tearing from within, making the carcass slowly spin back and forth on its creaking chains.

I watched in astonishment as the creature emerged, having eaten its fill of the pig’s insides, and clambered up onto the sow’s back, giving me my first clear view of it in the moonlight.

It had a narrow face and teeth, and I saw that its nose was a triangle of sharp bone, which it used to cut and tear at the dead flesh it feasted upon. It had whiskers too, very long and thick, more like bristles than hair. Then I noticed that it had no eyes, just a hard plate of bone that served as a forehead.

As I watched, pink froth started to bubble from its mouth, and within seconds its whole face was obscured. Soon I realized the purpose of this.

It had by now eaten enough flesh to lay bare the white ridged spine of the sow; raw flesh and gristle still clung to it. The froth from the creature’s mouth soon covered the bone, and then the creature began to lick it off. When the spine reappeared, it was absolutely clean.

The creature proceeded to devour the whole pig in less than ten minutes, it seemed, and then it returned to the witch, grasping her skirt. All that remained of the pig was a skeleton gleaming in the moonlight.

But the creature’s gluttony had changed it. The hairy limbs were still very thin, but now its belly was so bloated that it hung down and trailed on the ground. It waddled awkwardly as the witch led it away.

Peter had stayed fast asleep throughout the whole terrible scene, so I was the only one who heard the witch’s threatening words:

“Tomorrow I’ll hang you both up and slit your throats,” she hissed, her voice dripping with venom. “After that I’ll cut away your thumbs and then feed you to my little pet. Enjoy your last night on earth.”

A
FTER the witch had left the pen, I kept still for a long time, hardly daring to breathe lest the sound drew attention to me. I feared that she might change her mind and come back early to slaughter me.

Then I started thinking over what she’d said:
“I’ll cut away your thumbs and then feed you to my little pet.”

My master had told me that some witches cut off the thumbs of those they killed. Then they boiled them in a cauldron until the flesh fell off from the bones. Magic could be stored in those bones.

But I didn’t have thumbs anymore, did I? I had trotters.

My mind seemed sharper now, and words that had been beyond my grasp now tumbled into my head and waited eagerly for me to use them.

Illusion!
That was an important word.

I remembered my earlier thoughts on how all our senses combined and reinforced one another. But if we were being deceived, one sense might just point to the truth. I had recognized the witch for what she was because she stank of pig. No doubt the nectar I’d drunk had altered my senses in some way. Maybe now, at last, they were returning to normal—which was why I could no longer bear the smell of the manure. Peter didn’t seem to have undergone a similar change. As I watched, he opened his eyes and trotted over to the pig muck again. He began rooting inside it with his snout, found something interesting, and gulped it down.

A seventh son of a seventh son had some resistance to the spells of a witch. Maybe that was why my mind, at least, was changing back to its human condition.

I looked down at my trotters. They seemed real enough, but as I continued to stare at them, they began to shimmer. For a moment I grew dizzy, and the world spun about me. Then, suddenly, it was my hands that I was looking at. I was on all fours, and turning my head, I could see my boots. I was still wearing my sheepskin jacket and cloak, although they were covered in stinking slime and dirt.

I hadn’t changed after all. It truly
had
been just an illusion—and I had finally managed to overcome it.

I glanced across the pen at Peter. Now he too had reverted to his former human shape, the piece of dirty sacking still clinging to his shoulders.

Finally I looked up at the three dead pigs hanging from the beam by their hind legs.

My heart lurched as I realized that they were no longer pigs. I could see their true shape.

In the middle was a human skeleton. Next to this hung an old man—probably Farmer Sanderson, I guessed. The other man was big, with a huge belly and a leather apron that hung down below his head. His eyes were wide open in death; they stared toward me but saw nothing. It was a pig butcher. It was Peter’s father.

From all three murdered humans, something was missing.

Their thumb bones had been cut away.

I vomited until I feared that my stomach would twist itself into knots. This attracted Peter’s attention; he came over and sniffed at my vomit for a few moments before moving away. At last I stopped retching and my breath returned to normal. Horrified, I stared up at the grisly sight again, realizing that the skeleton must be that of the farmer’s wife.

Peter was now in the far corner of the pen, snuffling away happily in his search for food. He was still under the influence of the witch’s magic and believed he was a pig.

For now, that was a good thing, because he didn’t yet know what had happened to his father.

Now that I could think and act, I needed to try and get out of the pen. I stood up and walked across to the gate, lifted the latch, and swung it open. My legs felt stiff and shaky; I struggled to keep my balance—something that I normally took for granted. No doubt it was a consequence of spending so many days on all fours.

Now I had to get Peter out. We had to escape before the witch returned.

I went back to the center of the pen and called Peter’s name, gently taking hold of his left arm and attempting to lead him toward the gate.

Peter didn’t like it. He looked human to me, but he still squealed like a terrified pig and resisted with formidable strength. He was making a lot of noise and I feared he might attract the attention of the witch, but somehow I managed to drag him through the open gate.

The moment I released him, Peter hurried away at a good speed for someone crawling on his hands and knees. It didn’t worry me too much because he was heading in the right direction: toward the slope we had come down—away from the farm and the pig witch.

I was about to follow him when something in the distance caught my eye. Just beyond the gate that led to the farmyard, something glittered on the dark frozen mud. I ran toward it, hardly daring to hope.

Yes! It was the Spook’s silver chain, and beside it was my bag. My staff was about twenty paces beyond them.

Why hadn’t the witch taken them? I wondered. In the case of the silver chain, that was easy to work out. Even touching it would cause a witch severe pain, burning her skin. The rowan wood of the staff would also have repelled her. Some of the things in my bag had been disturbed, so she’d obviously searched it to see what she could find, but it hadn’t been moved. Among other things, such as my small parcel of crumbly cheese, it contained bags of salt and iron, also harmful to a witch. Perhaps she’d decided to leave it alone, thinking that I’d never be able to use its contents again.

I turned around to see if Peter was still making progress. For some reason he had veered away from the slope and was now moving parallel with it; he seemed to be crawling even faster. In his confused state, he was heading away from the best escape route. I would have to go after him.

First I picked up the chain. When I found the Spook and led him back to this valley, he would have need of it, I reflected.

It was then that I heard a terrifying noise, a ferocious scream of rage. I’d dawdled here too long.

I suddenly saw the witch, sprinting toward me from the direction of the farmhouse, long hair streaming behind her. She had a blade in each hand, and her face was twisted with anger. My heart quailed. Within seconds she would reach me; then she would cut me into pieces.

I had no time to reach my staff. The chain was my only hope. But I remembered how, even practicing against the stationary post, I had missed more times than I’d succeeded—and now I faced a terrifying moving target. But the pig witch was very close now, and terror spurred me into action.

Quickly I coiled the chain about my left wrist, just as I’d been taught. I took aim and cast it toward the witch, twisting my wrist widdershins, against the clock, so that it spun out of my hand.

I watched it form a helix in the air above the witch, still slowly revolving, glinting in the moonlight. My heart was in my mouth, but as I watched, I was filled with sudden hope. It looked good. The elevation was correct. It was falling toward her. I had also achieved what the Spook called spread. The length of the helix, from narrow top to wide bottom, looked spot on. If it dropped over her cleanly, it would bind her from knees to head, ideally tightening against her teeth so that she couldn’t utter a spell.

It was the best throw I’d managed in months of practice.

It was close—so very close.

But close isn’t good enough.

T
HE silver chain fell a little askew, dropping over the witch’s head and left shoulder. It was enough to bring her down hard, her left leg twisting underneath her, and the impact of the fall shook the knives out of her hands. But it hadn’t rendered her helpless, as it should have.

She screamed as the deadly silver bit into her skin, and she rolled over and over, fighting to free herself from its coils.

Forgetting Peter, I ran over to my staff, snatched it up, and sprinted toward the slope that would take me out of the valley. I glanced back once and saw that the witch was already on her feet, free of the chain. She was limping toward me, her face contorted with pain. She must have hurt her leg or ankle, which would slow her down. Now I could escape!

But then I saw that she was making signs in the air. She was casting spells, and I was the target.

Instantly my legs grew sluggish and heavy. I seemed no closer to the grassy slope. I struggled, fighting to cast off the power of the magic. I was a seventh son of a seventh son: I would not let her dark spells work on me. . . .

But now tendrils of mist were rising from the ground, coiling like snakes about my knees, reaching up to my throat. Soon it would envelop me completely again—would this whole nightmare then start all over again? I wondered.

Then, suddenly, I glimpsed something that turned my legs to jelly. Right at the top of the hill, looking down the slope toward me, was that terrible servant of the witch—the beast that had stripped the farmer’s wife to the bone with its teeth and saliva.

My escape was blocked. No doubt that was why Peter had changed course; perhaps he wasn’t as confused as I had thought.

The witch clapped her hands rapidly. At the third clap, the vile creature began to descend the steep incline, approaching rapidly in spite of its awkward waddle.

Within seconds, the mist had blotted out the moon, and it was lost to view. Now I headed across the valley at an angle, away from where I’d last seen the witch. My legs were starting to feel much better. I seemed to have cast off the spell that had made them feel heavy, and so I ran as fast as I could, sobs rising in my throat. I still had my staff, but that fearsome creature was fast. I didn’t hold out much hope for my chances.

As I ran, I saw the barn to my left. Could I hide in there? The door ahead was slightly ajar, so I didn’t need to open it or make any noise that would give away my position.

Inside, the mist was much thinner, and I searched around desperately for a place to conceal myself. A lantern hanging from a hook up in the rafters cast a weak light, showing me that I had few options. A few bales of straw lay on the floor, along with a number of large barrels, twenty or more. Some stood upright; others on their sides, as if ready to roll away. Most were empty. I crept farther into the barn and crouched down behind one of the barrels. It was large enough to hide me from anything coming in through the big door.

As I held my breath, waiting, I suddenly remembered that the hairy creature had no eyes. Would it use its sense of smell to find me? Maybe I was wasting my time hiding at all. But where else could I go?

I stayed where I was. It was quiet in the barn, and all I could hear was the noise of my breathing and my heart hammering inside my ears.

But then there was a pattering and a scratching. Something with sharp claws was walking across the three rows of flagstones at the entrance to the barn. It was coming! Next I heard a wet, snuffling, slithering sound, and it waddled into the barn, its distended belly still trailing on the floor. I saw again the sharp triangular nose, the rodentlike teeth that had made such quick work of the farmer’s wife. The plate of bone looked different now that I could see it clearly. It wasn’t smooth after all. It had sharp ridges and small pointed protuberances. They could do a lot of damage to soft flesh.

But most eye-catching were its long, thick whiskers. They twitched and moved as the creature advanced. Some hung down and scraped along the floor. The upper ones seemed to be testing the air.

Suddenly I understood how it located its living prey. The victim’s scent played a part—the witch had been standing right next to the body of the farmer’s wife when the creature leaped off her shoulder. But with something that was alive, its whiskers would no doubt detect the tiny movements of the air caused by the rising and falling of a chest or even the beating of a heart.