The Seventh Apprentice (7 page)

In seconds it would locate me. I needed to take the initiative.

The big barrel next to the one I was hiding behind lay on its side. I leaped to my feet and started rolling it toward the creature. It rumbled across the floor, faster and faster.

The strange beast didn’t move. Had its enormous meal made it sluggish? I wondered. In another second, it would be crushed. But at the last moment, it leaped into the air and landed on the barrel just before it reached the barn door and came to a grinding halt. Its claws scratched and slithered, trying to find a purchase, concentrating on keeping its balance. This was my chance!

I moved faster than ever before. My life depended on it. I ran forward, stabbed downward with all my strength, and had my first stroke of luck since entering the valley.

The blade of my staff had pinned the creature to the barrel. It screeched at me and showed its sharp teeth, all the while twisting under the blade, desperate to be free. Trickles of blood ran down the barrel as its nails clawed the air, but it couldn’t reach me. Suddenly more blood gushed from its mouth, and it twitched a few times before falling still.

I waited for a moment to make sure that it was dead, and then tugged my blade out of the wood, allowing the creature’s body to slide to the floor. I had been lucky that it had fed so recently. But for that, it might have been too quick for me.

It was dead now, and for that I was thankful, but I was not out of the woods yet. Where was the witch?

She would surely be approaching the barn—slowly, because of her injury. But by now she must be close, and once she reached me, I was as good as dead.

I panicked. I had to get out, but I saw that the barrel had become jammed against the door. I couldn’t move it. Finally I managed to clamber over it and stagger outside.

The mist was thicker than ever. The witch could be mere paces away and I wouldn’t see her. I took a few steps toward the path that led out of the valley, then paused and listened hard. I thought I could hear movement about twenty yards to my left. I kept perfectly still and held my breath as long as I could.

As I did so, I suddenly remembered Peter. I didn’t want to leave him behind—it seemed so cowardly—but how could I hope to find him in this mist? I had just as much chance of blundering into the witch.

I crouched down and waited, not daring to move . . . until in the distance I thought I heard a scream. Had the witch caught up with Peter? I wondered. Was she cutting him with her blades? I shuddered and rose to my feet, preparing to flee. I realized that I was acting just as he had when he left his father in the clutches of the pig witch. But now I understood why he’d done it. I was terrified of what the witch might to do me; she must surely be somewhere close by, coming for me. She would hang me up by my legs and cut my throat. I had to escape.

In a blind panic, I flew up the slope. There was grass under my feet now, and it was slippery. All at once, my feet went from under me, and the staff flew out of my hands. I rolled back down, frantically clawing at the grass, desperate to slow my descent. When I finally came to a halt and tried to stand, all the strength in my legs was gone. They would no longer obey me. I was forced to crawl, dragging myself along, moaning in terror.

T
HE mist was thinning; I could now make out bushes and the stump of a tree. To my right, I saw a mound with a tall, thin sapling growing out of it.

There was someone standing beside it, glaring at me. Terror almost stopped my heart. I had assumed that I was crawling away from danger, but instead I had been moving toward it.

It was the witch. She had been waiting here for me. No doubt she had used her magic to draw me to this spot.

She began to walk toward me, a gloating smile on her fat, piggy face. In each hand she held a sharp blade—and she looked ready to use them.

“You’ve put me to a lot of trouble, boy, so I’ll take your thumbs while you’re still alive!” she said, her voice filled with venom. “The pain will be so terrible that you’ll beg for death!”

I struggled to my feet, my knees trembling with fear. I had dropped my staff at the bottom of the slope. I was defenseless.

I tried to turn and run, but her tiny glittering eyes held me rooted to the spot. I attempted to resist her spell, summoning all my strength. Her magic was too strong. Nevertheless, I resolved to fight for my freedom—fight until the last moment.

Then another voice spoke. It was deep, calm, and assured.

“Leave the boy alone, witch! Turn and face me!”

I glanced to my right. A tall, bearded figure had emerged from the mist and was facing the witch. His hood was pulled down over his forehead so that his face was in shadow.

It was my master, John Gregory, and he was holding his staff before him in the diagonal defensive position. I stared at him in astonishment, my mouth open.

The witch gave a shriek and ran straight at him, her blades held high to pierce his flesh. My heart was in my mouth, for I knew that he didn’t have his silver chain, the weapon of choice against a witch. That was my fault.

But when the witch reached the point where he’d been standing, he was no longer there; in a flash he had stepped to one side. She was already past him, almost stumbling as she whirled back to renew her attack.

He met that second attack with a swing of his staff, which cracked against her head with a loud
thwack
. This time she fell to her knees.

The Spook waited as she scrambled to her feet, his staff once more in the diagonal position. He breathing was still normal, and he looked totally calm and relaxed. He knew exactly what he was doing, and stood poised and ready.

The way he fought was impressive.
One day I could be like him,
I told myself. It was what I wanted. I had to work hard to emulate my master’s skills.

The witch was now chanting spells as she raised her blades again. My master wasn’t moving, and I suddenly grew concerned. Was he being controlled by her magic?

But then I saw that he was striding purposefully forward, lunging toward her with his staff; the blade at its tip buried itself in the witch’s body. The knives fell from her hands, and with a scream she tumbled backward and rolled away down the slope into the mist.

The Spook followed her, and now I saw that the blade at the end of his staff was red with blood. “Where’s my silver chain, lad?” he demanded in a gruff voice.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I said. “It’s down there in the valley. I threw it at the witch, but it didn’t bind her properly. I should have listened to you and practiced more.”

“Well, let that be a lesson to you,” he growled. “Now you know what those long hours of practice are for. Without my silver chain, I was forced to do it the hard way and stab her through the heart.”

“Is she dead?” I asked.

“Aye, lad.”

“But won’t she come back from the dead?”

“You’re right—that will happen eventually, unless we do something about it. But it takes days. . . . Sometimes a witch doesn’t stir until the light of the full moon shines over her body or her grave. We’ll wait for dawn and then, when we can see better, we’ll go down and do what’s necessary. Then we must deal with the remains of the farmer, his wife, and that boy’s father. They should be laid to rest properly. But now, lad, tell me all that happened to you. Tell me every detail and leave nothing out!”

So we sat down together on the tree stump and I began my tale, taking my time and giving a full and careful account of all that had transpired. As I talked, my breathing and heartbeat returned to normal. I became calmer and started to feel safe for the first time in days.

“You weren’t really turned into a pig, lad. You know that, don’t you?” my master said when I’d finished.

I nodded. “But it seemed so real. At the time I was totally convinced.”

“From what you’ve told me, that witch was just about the most powerful creator of magical illusions I’ve ever encountered. But I’ve no doubt that the majority of the magic was in that potion she made you drink. It altered your mind, changed your perceptions. If it hadn’t been for the fact that you’re a seventh son of a seventh son, you’d have stayed that way until the witch was dead.”

“So Peter will recover now?”

“It might take a while, but he’ll get back to normal. We’d better go down and make sure he’s all right, but there’s nothing dangerous in this valley anymore.”

As we set off down the slope, I turned to the Spook and asked him. “What about
before
I drank the potion? I really thought I was standing on a hill, and those marble pillars seemed real enough.”

“There’s a legend that comes from a country called Greece. It tells of a powerful witch called Circe who turned men into pigs. I’ve never visited Greece myself, but I’ve heard of it. It’s a very warm country in summer, and many of the old buildings have marble pillars such as you described.”

“So you think the pig witch was Circe and I was transported to Greece?”

The Spook smiled and shook his head. “Nay, lad, I don’t believe in that legend, so I never included it in my Bestiary.”

The Bestiary was an account of his encounters with the dark, and a guide to the different categories of creature he had faced; he’d illustrated it himself. It was one of the few books I’d glanced at in his library, and I suddenly decided to read it from cover to cover when we returned to the house—if indeed he wanted to take me back with him after what had happened. I resolved there and then that if my master gave me another chance, I would work really hard.

“Will you put Circe in the Bestiary now?” I asked him.

“I’ll consider it, lad. As I said, that witch cast very powerful spells of illusion, some of which took effect even before you drank that potion. Marble pillars like that are often found in Greece, and the fact that the witch appeared to turn people into pigs certainly makes you think. It might well have been Circe. Those old stories sometimes turn out to be true. . . .”

“What was the creature I killed?” I wondered. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

“Most likely it was her familiar—a creature from the dark that did her bidding. You did well to put paid to it with your staff.”

It was rare to receive praise from the Spook, and it made me hope that maybe this wouldn’t be the end of my apprenticeship.

We had almost reached the valley floor when I heard a noise. Someone was approaching through the mist ahead of us.

“Did you hear that?” I asked my master.

“Better to be safe than sorry,” he said.

I tensed as he readied his staff, then relaxed as he lowered it, seeing that it was Peter who was shuffling out of the mist toward us.

He looked a mess. His clothes and hair were covered with stinking slime, but at least he was walking upright again. Then I noticed the knives at his belt—and the expression on his face . . . I’ll never forget it! He looked content, pleased with himself. He looked like someone satisfied with a job well done.

“I’ve dealt with the body of the pig witch,” he told us. “She won’t be coming back from the dead.”

I stared at him; at the blood smeared across his lips.

I knew then that Peter had eaten her heart.

T
HE Spook made Peter wait at the top of the hill while we did what was necessary. It was dawn now, and Peter had fully recovered his human senses, though he seemed to have little memory of his time as a pig. He barely reacted at the news that his father was dead and seemed bemused by what had happened; no doubt he would feel sorrow later.

The mist had gone—no doubt it had been part of the witch’s dark magic, summoned to cloak her lair. As we approached the farm, the wintry sun came out, but there was no warmth in it.

I found a spade in the barn, and we buried the remains of the pig witch in one of the pens. The ground was frozen, and the digging proved difficult. The Spook left it all to me, but I didn’t complain. I knew that I was lucky to be alive.

After that we went over to the slaughter pen, undid the chains, and lowered the bodies to the ground. Next we located the Spook’s silver chain, and I retrieved my staff and bag before climbing the hill to rejoin Peter.

On our way to Blackburn, we found a priest willing to say prayers over Mr. and Mrs. Sanderson and Peter’s father. Priests don’t usually care for spooks, but if this one was nervous, he didn’t show it: He helped us find a horse and cart to bring the bodies to the churchyard, even performing the burial service himself.

After the prayers, the three bodies were laid to rest. As we left the church, the bell mournfully tolling in the distance, it started to snow. We were going to have a white Christmas, the first for many years. It didn’t usually snow until January or February.

“Is your mother still alive?” the Spook asked Peter.

Peter shook his head sadly. “She died from a fever soon after I was born. My dad brought me up by himself. He was a good dad. He taught me a lot about the job.” I saw two tears trickle down his cheeks.

“It seems to me that your dad has prepared you well to follow in his footsteps. Is that what you propose to do?” the Spook asked kindly.

Peter shrugged. “I’d like to . . . though the cart and tools are still at Sanderson’s farm. You can’t pull a big cart like that without a horse.”

I remembered the large skeleton I had come across—it must indeed have been his dad’s horse.

The Spook nodded, put down his bag, and reached inside for his purse, then counted out four silver coins. “Here, Peter,” he said. “That should buy you a horse with a bit of wind.”

At first I thought Peter was going to refuse, but then his face creased into a sad smile. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “I’ll think of this as a loan, and one day I’ll pay you back. And if you ever want any pig slaughtering, I’ll do it for free!”

We left Peter on the outskirts of Blackburn. After saying good-bye to him, the Spook set off, striding on ahead. I remained behind for a moment. Peter and I had been through a lot together, and I sensed that he wanted to say something.