“You’ll be all right here,” I said, trying to be cheerful. “It’ll be nice when the sun shines.”
“Just have to make the best of it,” Alice said. “Can’t be worse than Pendle.”
I suddenly felt sorry for her again. I felt lonely at times, but at least I had the Spook to talk to; Alice didn’t even know her aunt properly, and the rough sea made everything seem bleak and cold.
“Look, Alice, I don’t expect we’ll see each other again, but if you ever need help, try to get word to me,” I offered.
I suppose I said that because Alice was the nearest thing to a friend I had. And as a promise, it wasn’t quite as daft as the first one I’d made her. I didn’t commit myself to actually doing anything. Next time she asked for anything, I’d be talking to the Spook first.
To my surprise, Alice smiled, and she had a strange look in her eyes. It reminded me of what Dad had once said about women sometimes knowing things that men don’t—and when you suspect that, you should never ask what they’re thinking.
“Oh, we’ll meet again,” Alice said. “Ain’t no doubt about that.”
“I’ll have to be off now,” I said, turning to leave.
“I’ll miss you, Tom,” Alice said. “Won’t be the same without you.”
“I’ll miss you, too, Alice,” I said, giving her a smile.
As the words came out, I thought that I’d said them out of politeness. But I hadn’t been on the road more than ten minutes before I knew I was wrong.
I’d meant every word, and I was feeling lonely already.
I’VE written most of this from memory, but some of it from my notebook and my diary. I’m back at Chipenden now, and the Spook is pleased with me. He thinks I’m making really good progress.
Bony Lizzie’s in the pit where the Spook used to keep Mother Malkin. The bars have been straightened out, and she certainly won’t be getting any midnight cakes from me. As for Tusk, he’s buried in the hole he dug for my grave.
Poor Billy Bradley’s back in his grave outside the churchyard at Layton, but at least he’s got his thumbs now. None of it’s pleasant, but it’s something that just goes with the job. You have to like it or lump it, as my dad says.
There’s something else I should tell you. The Spook agrees with what Mam said. He thinks that the winters are getting longer and that the dark is growing in power. He’s sure that the job’s getting harder and harder.
So keeping that in mind, I’ll carry on studying and learning—as my mam once told me, you never know just what you can do until you try. So I’m going to try. I’m going to try just as hard as I possibly can because I want her to be really proud of me.
Now I’m just an apprentice, but one day I’ll be the Spook.
Credits
Cover Art © 2005 by Scott Mckowen
Cover © 2005 HarperCollins Publishers
Cover Design by Chad W. Beckerman
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used to advance the fictional narrative. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
The Last Apprentice: Revenge of the Witch. Copyright © 2005 by Joseph Delaney. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
First published in 2004 in Great Britain by The Bodley Head, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, under the title The Spook’s Apprentice.
First published in 2005 in the United States by Greenwillow Books.
The right of Joseph Delaney to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Illustrations copyright © 2005 by Patrick Arrasmith
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Delaney, Joseph, (date).
Revenge of the witch / by Joseph Delaney.
p. cm.— (The last apprentice; bk. No. 1)
“Greenwillow Books.”
Summary: Young Tom, the seventh son of a seventh son, starts work as an apprentice for the village spook, whose job is to protect ordinary folk from “ghouls, boggarts, and all manner of wicked beasties.”
ISBN-10: 0-06-076618-2 (trade bdg.) ISBN-13: 978-0-06-076618-4 (trade bdg.)
ISBN-10: 0-06-076619-0 (lib. bdg.) ISBN-13: 978-0-06-076619-1 (lib. bdg.)
[1. Apprentices—Fiction. 2. Supernatural—Fiction. 3. Witches—Fiction.]
I. Title. II. Series: Delaney, Joseph. The last apprentice; bk. 1.
PZ7.D373183Re 2005 [Fic]—dc22 2004054003
FIRST EDITION 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
EPub Edition © NOVEMBER 2011 ISBN 9780062120953
Version 12142012
Dedication
For Marie
Contents
Dedication
Chapter I - The Horshaw Ripper
Chapter II - The Spook’s Past
Chapter III - The Bane
Chapter IV - Priestown
Chapter V - The Funeral
Chapter VI - A Pact with Hell
Chapter VII - Escape and Capture
Chapter VIII - Brother Peter’s Tale
Chapter IX - The Catacombs
Chapter X - Girl Spit
Chapter XI - The Spook’s Trial
Chapter XII - The Silver Gate
Chapter XIII - The Burning
Chapter XIV - Dad’s Tale
Chapter XV - The Silver Chain
Chapter XVI - A Pit for Alice
Chapter XVII - The Quisitor Arrives
Chapter XVIII - Nightmare on the Hill
Chapter XIX - The Stone Graves
Chapter XX - Mam’s Letter
Chapter XXI - A Sacrifice
Chapter XXII - A Bargain’s a Bargain
The Journal of Thomas J. Ward
Credits
Copyright
THE CURSE OF THE BANE
CHAPTER I
The Horshaw Ripper
WHEN I heard the first scream, I turned away and covered my ears with my hands, pressing hard until my head hurt. At that moment I could do nothing to help. But I could still hear it, the sound of a priest in torment, and it went on for a long time before finally fading away.
So I shivered in the dark barn, listening to rain drumming on the roof, trying to gather my courage. It was a bad night, and it was about to get worse.
Ten minutes later, when the rigger and his mate arrived, I rushed across to meet them in the doorway. Both of them were big men, and I barely came up to their shoulders.
“Well, lad, where’s Mr. Gregory?” asked the rigger, an edge of impatience in his voice. He lifted the lantern he was holding and peered about suspiciously. His eyes were shrewd and intelligent. Neither of the men looked like they would stand any nonsense.
“He’s been taken badly,” I said, trying to control the nerves that were making my voice sound weak and wobbly. “He’s been in bed with a bad fever this past week so he’s sent me in his place. I’m Tom Ward. His apprentice.”
The rigger looked me up and down quickly, like an undertaker measuring me up for future business. Then he raised one eyebrow so high that it disappeared under the peak of his flat cap, which was still dripping with rain.
“Well, Mr. Ward,” he said, an edge of sarcasm sharp in his voice, “we await your instructions.”
I put my left hand into my breeches pocket and pulled out the sketch that the stonemason
had made. The rigger set the lantern down on the earthen floor and then, with a world-weary shake of his head and a glance at his mate, accepted the sketch and began to examine it.
The mason’s instructions gave the dimensions of the pit that needed to be dug and the measurements of the stone that would be lowered into place.
After a few moments the rigger shook his head again and knelt beside the lantern, holding the paper very close to it. When he came to his feet, he was frowning. “The pit should be nine feet deep,” he said. “This only says six.”
The rigger knew his job all right. The standard boggart pit is six feet deep, but for a ripper, the most dangerous boggart of all, nine feet is the norm. We were certainly facing a ripper—the priest’s screams were proof of that— but there wasn’t time to dig nine feet.
“It’ll have to do,” I said. “It has to be done by morning or it’ll be too late and the priest will be dead.”
Until that moment they’d both been big men wearing big boots, oozing confidence from every pore. Now, suddenly, they looked nervous. They knew the situation from the note I’d sent summoning them to the barn. I’d used the Spook’s name to make sure they came right away.
“Know what you’re doing, lad?” asked the rigger. “Are you up to the job?”
I stared straight back into his eyes and tried hard not to blink. “Well, I’ve made a good start,” I said. “I’ve hired the best rigger and mate in the County.”
It was the right thing to say, and the rigger’s face cracked into a smile. “When will the stone arrive?” he asked.
“Well before dawn. The mason’s bringing it himself. We have to be ready.”
The rigger nodded. “Then lead the way, Mr. Ward. Show us where you want it dug.”
This time there was no sarcasm in his voice. His tone was businesslike. He wanted the job over and done with. We all wanted the same, and time was short, so I pulled up my hood and, carrying the Spook’s staff in my left hand, led the way out into the cold, heavy drizzle.
Their two-wheel cart was outside, the equipment covered with a waterproof sheet, the patient horse between the shafts steaming in the rain.
We crossed the muddy field, then followed the blackthorn hedge to the place where it thinned, beneath the branches of an ancient oak on the boundary of the churchyard. The pit would be close to holy ground, but not too close. The nearest gravestones were just twenty paces away.
“Dig the pit as close as you can get to that,” I said, pointing toward the trunk of the tree.
Under the Spook’s watchful eye I’d dug lots of practice pits. In an emergency I could have done the job myself, but these men were experts and they’d work fast.
As they went back for their tools, I pushed through the hedge and weaved between the gravestones toward the old church. It was in a bad state of repair: There were slates missing from the roof and it hadn’t seen a lick of paint for years. I pushed open the side door, which yielded with a groan and a creak.
The old priest was still in the same position, lying on his back near the altar. The woman was kneeling on the floor close to his head, crying. The only difference now was that the church was flooded with light. She’d raided the vestry for its hoard of candles and lit them all. There were a hundred at least, clustered in groups of five or six. She’d positioned them on benches, on the floor, and on window ledges, but the majority were on the altar.
As I closed the door, a gust of wind blew into the church and the flames all flickered together. She looked up at me, her face running with tears.
“He’s dying,” she said, her echoing voice full of anguish. “Why did it take you so long to get here?”
Since the message reached us at Chipenden, it had taken me two days to arrive at the church. It was over thirty miles to Horshaw, and I hadn’t set off right away. At first the Spook, still too ill to leave his bed, had refused to let me go.
Usually the Spook never sends apprentices out to work alone until he’s been training them for at least a year. I’d just turned thirteen and had been his apprentice for less than six months. It was a difficult, scary trade, which often involved dealing with what we call “the dark.” I’d been learning how to cope with witches, ghosts, boggarts, and things that go bump in the night. But was I ready for this?
There was a boggart to bind, which, if done properly, should be pretty straightforward. I’d seen the Spook do it twice. Each time he’d hired good men to help and the job had gone smoothly. But this job was a little different. There were complications.
You see, this priest was the Spook’s own brother. I’d seen him just once before, when we’d visited Horshaw in the spring. He’d glared at us and made a huge sign of the cross in the air, his face twisted with anger. The Spook hadn’t even glanced in his direction because there’d been little love lost between them and they hadn’t spoken for over forty years. But family was family, and that’s why he’d eventually sent me to Horshaw.
“Priests!” the Spook had raved. “Why don’t they stick to what they know? Why do they always have to meddle? What was he thinking of, trying to tackle a ripper? Let me get on with my business and other folks get on with theirs.”
At last he’d calmed down and spent hours giving me detailed instructions on what had to be done and telling me the names and addresses of the rigger and mason I had to hire. He’d also named a doctor, insisting that only he would do. That was another nuisance because the doctor lived some distance away. I’d had to send word, and I just hoped that he’d set off immediately.
I looked down at the woman, who was dabbing very gently at the priest’s forehead with a cloth. His greasy, lank white hair was pulled back from his face and his eyes were rolling feverishly in his head. He hadn’t known that the woman was going to send to the Spook for help. If he had, he would have objected, so it was a good job that he couldn’t see me now.
Tears were dripping from the woman’s eyes and sparkling in the candlelight. She was his housekeeper, not even family, and I remember thinking that he must have been really kind to her to make her get so upset.
“The doctor’ll be here soon,” I said, “and he’ll give him something for the pain.”
“He’s had pain all his life,” she answered. “I’ve been a big trouble to him, too. It’s made him terrified of dying. He’s a sinner and he knows where he’s going.”
Whatever he was or had done, the old priest didn’t deserve this. Nobody did. He was certainly a brave man. Either brave or very stupid. When the boggart had got up to its tricks, he’d tried to deal with it himself by using the priest’s tools: bell, book, and candle. But that’s no way to deal with the dark. In most cases it wouldn’t have mattered because the boggart would just have ignored the priest and his exorcism. Eventually it would have moved on and the priest, as often happens, would have taken the credit.
But this was the most dangerous type of boggart we ever have to deal with. Usually, we call them cattle rippers because of their main diet, but when the priest had started meddling, he had become the boggart’s victim. Now it was a full-blown ripper with a taste for human blood, and the priest would be lucky to escape with his life.
There was a crack in the flagged floor, a zigzag crack that ran from the foot of the altar to about three paces beyond the priest. At its widest point it was more a chasm and almost half a hand’s span wide. After splitting the floor, the boggart had caught the old priest by his foot and dragged his leg down into the ground almost as far as his knee. Now, in the darkness below, it was sucking his blood, drawing the life from him very slowly. It was like a big fat leech, keeping its victim alive as long as possible to extend its own enjoyment.
Whatever I did, it would be touch-and-go whether or not the priest survived. In any case, I had to bind the boggart. Now that it had drunk human blood, it would no longer be content with ripping cattle.
“Save him if you can,” the Spook had said as I prepared to leave. “But whatever else you do, make sure you deal with that bogga
rt. That’s your first duty.”
I started making my own preparations.
Leaving the rigger’s mate to carry on digging the pit, I went back to the barn with the rigger himself. He knew what to do: first of all, he poured water into the large bucket they’d brought with them. That was one advantage of working with people who had experience of the business: They provided the heavy equipment. This was a strong bucket, made of wood, bound with metal hoops and large enough to deal with even a twelve-foot pit.
After filling it about half full with water, the rigger began to shake brown powder into it from the large sack he’d brought in from the cart. He did this a little at a time and then, after each addition, began to stir it with a stout stick.
It soon became hard work as, very gradually, the mixture turned into a thick goo that became more and more difficult to mix. It stank as well, like something that had been dead for weeks, which wasn’t really surprising seeing as the bulk of the powder was crushed bone.
The end result would be a very strong glue, and the longer the rigger stirred, the more he began to sweat and gasp. The Spook always mixed his own glue, and he’d made me practice doing the same, but time was very short and the rigger had the muscles for the job. Knowing that, he’d started work without even being asked.
When the glue was ready, I began to add iron filings and salt from the much smaller sacks I’d brought with me, stirring slowly to ensure they were spread evenly right through the mixture. Iron is dangerous to a boggart because it can bleed away its strength, while the salt burns it. Once a boggart is in the pit, it will stay there because the underside of the stone and the sides of the pit are coated with the mixture, forcing it to make itself small and stay within the boundaries of the space inside. Of course, the problem is getting the boggart into the pit in the first place.
The Last Apprentice: Complete Collection Page 18