“That would take years though, wouldn’t it?” I asked. “A newborn baby can’t do much. She’d have to grow up first.”
“That’s the worst part of it,” the Spook said. “It could happen sooner than you think. Her spirit could seize someone else’s body and use it as her own. It’s called possession, and it’s a bad business for everybody concerned. After that, you’ll never know when, and from which direction, the danger will come.
“She might possess the body of a young woman, a lass with a dazzling smile, who’ll win your heart before she takes your life. Or she might use her beauty to bend some strong man to her will, a knight or a judge, who’ll have you thrown into a dungeon where you’ll be at her mercy. Then again, time will be on her side. She might attack when I’m not here to help—maybe years from now when you’re long past your prime, when your eyesight’s failing and your joints are starting to creak.
“But there’s another type of possession—one that’s more likely in this case. Much more likely. You see, lad, there’s a problem with keeping a live witch in a pit like that. Especially one so powerful, who’s spent her long life practicing blood magic. She’ll have been eating worms and other slithery things, with the wet constantly soaking into her flesh. So in the same way that a tree can slowly be petrified and turned into rock, her body will have been slowly starting to change. Gripping the rowan staff would have stopped her heart, pushing her over the barrier into death, and being washed away by the river might have speeded up the process.
“In this case, she’ll still be bound to her bones, like most other malevolent witches, but because of her great strength, she’ll be able to move her dead body. You see, lad, she’ll be what we call wick. It’s an old County word that you’re no doubt familiar with. Just as a head of hair can be wick with lice, her dead body is now wick with her wicked spirit. It’ll be heaving like a bowl of maggots and she’ll crawl, slither, or drag herself toward her chosen victim. And instead of being hard, like a petrified tree, her dead body will be soft and pliable, able to squeeze into the tiniest space. Able to ooze up someone’s nose or into his ear and possess his body.
“There are only two ways to make sure that a witch as powerful as Mother Malkin can’t come back. The first is to burn her. But nobody should have to suffer pain like that. The other way is too horrible even to think about. It’s a method few have heard about because it was practiced long ago, in a land far away over the sea. According to their ancient books, if you eat the heart of a witch, she can never return. And you have to eat it raw.
“If we practice either method, we’re no better than the witch we kill,” said the Spook. “Both are barbaric. The only alternative left is the pit. That’s cruel as well, but we do it to protect the innocents, those who’d be her future victims. Well, lad, one way or the other, now she’s free. There’s trouble ahead for sure, but there’s little we can do about it now. We’ll just have to be on our guard.”
“I’ll be all right,” I said. “I’ll manage somehow.”
“Well, you’d better start by learning how to manage a boggart,” the Spook said, shaking his head sadly.
“That was your other big mistake. A whole Sunday off every week? That’s far too generous! Anyway, what should we do about that?” he asked, gesturing toward a thin plume of smoke that was still just visible to the southeast.
I shrugged. “I suppose it’ll be all over by now,” I said. “There were a lot of angry villagers, and they were talking about stoning.”
“All over with? Don’t you believe it, lad. A witch like Lizzie has a sense of smell better than any hunting dog. She can sniff out things before they happen and would’ve been gone long before anyone got near. No, she’ll have fled back to Pendle, where most of the brood live. We should follow now, but I’ve been on the road for days, and I’m too weary and sore and need to gather my strength. But we can’t leave Lizzie free for too long, or she’ll start to work her mischief again. I’ll have to go after her before the end of the week, and you’ll be coming with me. It won’t be easy, but you might as well get used to the idea. But first things first, so follow me. . . .”
As I followed, I noticed that he had a slight limp and was walking more slowly than usual. So whatever had happened on Pendle, it hadn’t been without cost to himself. He led me into the house, up the stairs, and into the library, halting beside the farthest shelves, the ones near the window.
“I like to keep my books in my library,” he said, “and I like my library to get bigger rather than smaller. But because of what’s happened, I’m going to make an exception.”
He reached up and took a book from the very top shelf and handed it to me. “You need this more than I do,” he said. “A lot more.”
As books went, it wasn’t very big. It was even smaller than my notebook. Like most of the Spook’s books, it was bound in leather and had its title printed both on the front cover and on the spine. It said Possession: The Damned, the Dizzy, and the Desperate.
“What does the title mean?” I asked.
“What it says, lad. Exactly what it says. Read the book and you’ll find out.”
When I opened the book, I was disappointed. Inside, every word on every page was printed in Latin, a language I couldn’t read.
“Study it well and carry it with you at all times,” said the Spook. “It’s the definitive work.”
He must have seen me frowning, because he smiled and jabbed at the book with his finger. “Definitive means that so far it’s the best book that’s ever been written about possession, but it’s a very difficult subject and it was written by a young man who still had a lot to learn. So it’s not the last word on the subject, and there’s more to discover. Turn to the back of the book.”
I did as he told me and found that the last ten or so pages were blank.
“If you find out anything new, then just write it down there. Every little bit helps. And don’t worry about the fact that it’s in Latin. I’ll be starting your lessons as soon as we’ve eaten.”
We went for our afternoon meal, which was cooked almost to perfection. As I swallowed down my last mouthful, something moved under the table and began to rub itself against my legs. Suddenly the sound of purring could be heard. It gradually got louder and louder until all the plates and dishes on the sideboard began to rattle.
“No wonder it’s happy,” said the Spook, shaking his head. “One day off a year would have been nearer the mark! Still, not to worry, it’s business as usual and life goes on. Bring your notebook with you, lad, we’ve a lot to get through today.”
So I followed the Spook down the path to the bench, uncorked the bottle of ink, dipped in my pen, and prepared to take notes.
“Once they’ve passed the test in Horshaw,” said the Spook, starting to limp up and down in front of the bench, “I usually try to ease my apprentices into the job as gently as possible. But now that you’ve been face-to-face with a witch, you know how difficult and dangerous the job can be, and I think you’re ready to find out what happened to my last apprentice. It’s linked to boggarts, the topic we’ve been studying, so you might as well learn from it. Find a clean page and write down this for a heading . . .”
I did as I was told. I wrote down How to Bind a Boggart. Then, as the Spook told the tale, I took notes, struggling to keep up as usual.
As I already knew, binding a boggart involved a lot of hard work which the Spook called “laying.” First a pit had to be dug as close as possible to the roots of a large, mature tree. After all the digging the Spook had made me do, I was surprised to learn that a spook rarely dug the pit himself. That was something only done in an absolute emergency. A rigger and his helper usually attended to it.
Next you had to employ a mason to cut a thick slab of stone to fit over the pit like a gravestone. It was very important that the stone be cut to size accurately so as to make a good seal. After you’d coated the lower edge of the stone and the inside of the pit with the mixture of iron, salt, and strong
glue, it was time to get the boggart safely inside.
That wasn’t too difficult. Blood, milk, or a combination of the two worked every time. The really difficult bit was dropping the stone into position as it fed. Success depended on the quality of the help you hired.
It was best to have a mason standing by and a couple of riggers using chains controlled from a wooden gantry placed above the pit, so as to lower the stone down quickly and safely.
That was the mistake that Billy Bradley made. It was late winter and the weather was foul and Billy was in a rush to get back to his warm bed. So he cut corners.
He used local laborers, who hadn’t done that type of work before. The mason had gone off for his supper, promising to return within the hour, but Billy was impatient and couldn’t wait. He got the boggart into the pit without too much trouble, but he ran into difficulties with the slab of stone. It was a wet night, and it slipped, trapping his left hand under its edge.
The chain jammed so they couldn’t lift the stone, and while the laborers struggled with it and one of them ran back to get the mason, the boggart, in a fury at being trapped under the stone, began to attack Billy’s fingers. You see, it was one of the most dangerous boggarts of all: cattle rippers that had got the taste for human blood.
By the time the stone was lifted, almost half an hour had passed, and by then it was too late. The boggart had bitten off Billy’s fingers as far down as the second knuckle and had been busily sucking the blood from his body. Billy’s screams of pain had faded away to a whimper, and when they got his hand free, only his thumb was left. Soon afterward he died of shock and loss of blood.
“It was a sad business,” said the Spook, “and now he’s buried under the hedge, just outside the churchyard at Layton—those who follow our trade don’t get to rest their bones in hallowed ground. It happened just over a year ago, and if Billy had lived, I wouldn’t be talking to you now, because he’d still be my apprentice. Poor Billy, he was a good lad and he didn’t deserve that, but it’s a dangerous job and if it’s not done right . . .”
The Spook looked at me sadly, then shrugged. “Learn from it, lad. We need courage and patience, but above all, we never rush. We use our brains, we think carefully, then we do what has to be done. In the normal course of events I never send an apprentice out on his own until his first year of training is over. Unless, of course,” he added with a faint smile, “he takes matters into his own hands. Then again, I’ve got to feel sure he’s ready for it. Anyway, now it’s time for your first Latin lesson. . . .”
CHAPTER XI
The Pit
IT happened just three days later.
The Spook had sent me down into the village to collect the week’s groceries. It was very late in the afternoon, and as I left his house carrying the empty sack, the shadows were already beginning to lengthen.
As I approached the stile, I saw someone standing right on the edge of the trees near the top of the narrow lane. When I realized that it was Alice, my heart lurched into a more rapid beat. What was she doing here? Why hadn’t she gone off to Pendle? And if she was still here, what about Lizzie?
I slowed down, but I had to pass her to get to the village. I could’ve gone back and taken a longer route, but I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of thinking I was scared of her. Even so, once I’d climbed over the stile, I stayed on the left-hand side of the lane, keeping close to the high hawthorn hedge, right on the edge of the deep ditch that ran along its length.
Alice was standing in the gloom, with just the toes of her pointy shoes poking out into the sunlight. She beckoned me closer, but I kept my distance, staying a good three paces away. After all that had happened, I didn’t trust her one little bit, but I was still glad that she hadn’t been burned or stoned.
“I’ve come to say good-bye,” Alice said, “and warn you never to go walking near Pendle. That’s where we’re going. Lizzie has family living there.”
“I’m glad you escaped,” I said, coming to a halt and turning to face directly toward her. “I watched the smoke when they burned your house down.”
“Lizzie knew they were coming,” Alice said, “so we got away with plenty of time to spare. Didn’t sniff you out, though, did she? Knows what you did to Mother Malkin, but only found out after it happened. Didn’t sniff you out at all, and that worries her. And she said your shadow had a funny smell.”
I laughed out loud at that. I mean, it was crazy. How could a shadow have a smell?
“Ain’t funny,” Alice accused. “Ain’t nothing to laugh at. She only smelled your shadow where it had fallen on the barn. I actually saw it, and it was all wrong. The moon showed the truth of you.”
Suddenly she took two steps nearer, into the sunlight, then leaned forward a little and sniffed at me. “You do smell funny,” she said, wrinkling up her nose. She stepped backward quickly and suddenly looked afraid.
I smiled and put on my friendly voice. “Look,” I said, “don’t go to Pendle. You’re better off without them. They’re just bad company.”
“Bad company don’t matter to me. Won’t change me, will it? I’m bad already. Bad inside. You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve been and done. I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been bad again. I’m just not strong enough to say no—”
Suddenly, too late, I understood the real reason for the fear on Alice’s face. It wasn’t me she was scared of. It was what was standing right behind me.
I’d seen nothing and heard nothing. When I did, it was already too late. Without warning, the empty sack was snatched out of my hand and dropped over my head and shoulders, and everything went dark. Strong hands gripped me, pinning my arms to my sides. I struggled for a few moments, but it was useless: I was lifted and carried as easily as a farmhand carries a sack of potatoes. While I was being carried, I heard voices—Alice’s voice and then the voice of a woman; I supposed it was Bony Lizzie. The person carrying me just grunted, so it had to be Tusk.
Alice had lured me into a trap. It had all been carefully planned. They must have been hiding in the ditch as I came down the hill from the house.
I was scared, more scared than I’d ever been in my life before. I mean, I’d killed Mother Malkin, and she’d been Lizzie’s grandmother. So what were they going to do to me now?
After an hour or so I was dropped onto the ground so hard that all the air was driven from my lungs.
As soon as I could breathe again, I struggled to get free of the sack, but somebody thumped me twice in the back—thumped me so hard that I kept very still. I’d have done anything to avoid being hit like that again, so I lay there, hardly daring to breathe while the pain slowly faded to a dull ache.
They used rope to tie me then, binding it over the sack, around my arms and head and knotting it tightly. Then Lizzie said something that chilled me to the bone.
“There, we’ve got him safe enough. You can start digging now.”
Her face came very close to mine, so that I could smell her foul breath through the sacking. It was like the breath of a dog or a cat. “Well, boy,” she said. “How does it feel to know that you’ll never see the light of day again?”
When I heard the sound of distant digging, I began to shiver with fright. I remembered the Spook’s tale of the miner’s wife, especially the worst bit of all when she’d laid there paralyzed, unable to cry out while her husband dug her grave. Now it was going to happen to me. I was going to be buried alive, and I’d have done anything just to see daylight again, even for a moment.
At first, when they cut my ropes and pulled the sack from me, I was relieved. By then the sun had gone down, but I looked up and could see the stars, with the waning moon low over the trees. I felt the wind on my face, and it had never felt so good. My feeling of relief didn’t last more than a few moments, though, because I started to wonder exactly what they had in mind for me. I couldn’t think of anything worse than being buried alive, but Bony Lizzie probably could.
To be honest, when I saw Tusk close
up for the first time, he wasn’t quite as bad as I expected. In a way he’d looked worse the night he was chasing me. He wasn’t as old as the Spook, but his face was lined and weather-beaten, and a mass of greasy gray hair covered his head. His teeth were too big to fit into his mouth, which meant that he could never close it properly, and two of them curved upward like yellow tusks on either side of his nose. He was big, too, and very hairy, with powerful, muscular arms. I’d felt that grip and had thought it bad enough, but I knew that he had the power in those shoulders to squeeze me so tightly that all the air would be forced from my body and my ribs would shatter.
Tusk had a big curved knife at his belt, with a blade that looked very sharp. But the worst thing about him was his eyes. They were completely dull. It was as if there was nothing alive inside his head; he was just something that obeyed Bony Lizzie without even a thought. I knew that he’d do anything she told him without question, no matter how terrible it was.
As for Bony Lizzie, she wasn’t skinny at all, and I knew, from my reading in the Spook’s library, that she was probably called that because she used bone magic. I’d already smelled her breath, but at a glance you’d never have taken her for a witch. She wasn’t like Mother Malkin, all shriveled with age, looking like something that was already dead. No, Bony Lizzie was just an older version of Alice. Probably no older than thirty-five, she had pretty brown eyes and hair as black as her niece’s. She wore a green shawl and a black dress fastened neatly at her slim waist with a narrow leather belt. There was certainly a family resemblance—except for her mouth. It wasn’t the shape of it, it was the way she moved it; the way it twisted and sneered when she talked. One other thing I noticed was that she never looked me in the eye.
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