Taking care not to make too much noise and wake her, I added a bit more coal to the fire and soon had it blazing away. That done, I settled down on a stool by the hearth and began to revise my Latin verbs. I had two notebooks with me: one to write down everything the Spook taught me about boggarts and other spook business: the second for my Latin lessons.
Mam had taught me Greek, which saved me from having to study that language as well, but I was still hard pressed to keep up with Latin, and the verbs in particular gave me a lot of trouble. Many of the Spook’s books were written in Latin, so I had to work hard to learn it.
I started at the beginning with the first verb the Spook had ever drummed into me. He’d taught me to learn Latin verbs in a sort of pattern. That’s important because the ending of each word is different according to what you’re trying to say. It’s also useful to recite them aloud because, as the Spook explained, it helps to fix them into your memory. I didn’t want to wake Meg so I kept my voice to hardly more than a whisper.
“Amo, amas, amat,” I said, without glancing at my notebook, reciting three words that mean “I love, you love, he, she, or it loves.”
“I used to love someone once,” said a voice from the rocking chair, “but now I can’t even remember who it was.”
It startled me so much that I almost dropped my note-book and fell off my stool. Meg was looking into the fire rather than at me, with an expression on her face that was a mixture of puzzlement and sadness.
“Good morning, Meg,” I said, managing a smile. “I hope you’ve had a good night’s sleep.”
“It’s nice of you to ask, Billy,” Meg replied, “but I didn’t sleep well at all. There were a lot of loud noises and I’ve been trying to remember something all night but it just keeps whirling round in my head. It’s something very fast and slippery and I just can’t manage to catch hold of it. I don’t give up easily though, and I’m just going to sit here by the fire until it comes back to me.”
At that I became alarmed. What if Meg remembered who she was? What if she realized that she was a lamia witch! I had to do something quickly, before it was too late.
“Don’t worry about it, Meg,” I said, putting down my notebook and leaping to my feet. “I’ll make you a nice hot drink.”
Quickly I filled the copper kettle with water and hung it from the hook in the chimney so that, as my dad says, the fire could warm its bottom. Then I picked up a clean cup and took it with me into the parlor. There I took the brown bottle from the cupboard and poured half an inch of the mixture into the cup. That done, I went back into the kitchen and waited for the kettle to boil before top-ping up the cup almost to the brim and stirring it thoroughly as the Spook had instructed.
“Here, Meg, here’s your herb tea. It’ll help to keep your joints supple and your bones strong.”
“Thank you, Billy,” she said with a smile. She accepted the cup and began to blow into it, then sipped very slowly, still staring into the flames.
“This is delicious,” she said after a while. “You really are a kind boy. It’s just what I need to get my old bones started in the morning. . . .”
I felt sad when she said that. Part of me wasn’t happy about what I’d done. She’d been awake most of the night, trying to remember something, and now the drink would make her memory even worse. While she was busy leaning forward and sipping her drink, I moved behind her to get a better look at something that had bothered me the previous evening.
I stared hard at the thirteen white buttons that did up her brown dress from neck to hem. Of course, I couldn’t be absolutely certain, but I was sure enough.
Each button was made out of bone. She wasn’t a witch who practiced bone magic; she was a lamia witch, a type that wasn’t native to the County. But I wondered about the bone buttons. Had they come from victims she’d killed in the past? And underneath those buttons, inside the dress, I knew that as a domestic lamia witch she’d have a line of green and yellow scales running the length of her spine.
Soon afterward there was a knock at the back door. I went to answer it as my master was still sleeping after his disturbed night.
A man stood outside, wearing a strange leather cap with flaps that came down over his ears. He was holding a lantern in his right hand; with his left he led a little pony that was loaded up with so many brown sacks that it was a wonder its legs weren’t buckling.
“Hello, young man, I’ve brought Mr. Gregory’s order,” he said, giving me a tight-lipped smile. “You must be the new apprentice. He was a nice lad, that Billy, and I was sorry to hear what happened.”
“My name’s Tom,” I said, introducing myself.
“Well, Tom, how d’you do? My name’s Shanks. Could you please tell your master I’ve brought up extra provisions and that I’ll double up each week until the weather turns nasty. Looks like being a harsh winter, and when the snow comes, it might be a long time before I can get up here again.”
I nodded at him, smiled, then looked up. It was still dark, but it was just beginning to lighten and the crack of sky was mostly full of gray clouds blowing in from the west. Just then, Meg joined me in the doorway. She was loitering slightly behind me, but Shanks saw her all right, because his eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets and he took two quick reverse steps, almost backing into the little pony.
I could tell that he was scared, but after Meg had turned and gone back inside, he calmed down a bit and I helped him to unload the sacks. While we were doing that, the Spook came out and paid the man.
When Shanks turned to go, the Spook followed him down the clough about thirty paces or so. They started talking but were too far away for me to catch every word of their conversation. It was about Meg, though, I was sure of it, because I heard her name twice.
I distinctly heard Shanks say, “You told us she’d been dealt with!” to which the Spook replied, “I have her safe enough, don’t you worry yourself. I know my business all right, so it’s no concern of yours. And you’ll keep it to yourself, if you know what’s good for you!”
My master didn’t look too happy when he walked back toward me. “Did you give Meg her herb tea?” he asked suspiciously.
“I did it just as you said,” I told him, “as soon as she woke up.”
“Did she go outside?” he asked.
“No, but she came to the door and stood behind me. Shanks saw her, and it seemed to scare him.”
“It’s a pity he saw her at all,” said the Spook. “She doesn’t usually show herself like that. Not in recent years, anyway. Maybe we need to increase the dose. As I told you last night, lad, Meg used to cause a lot of trouble in the County. Folk were afraid of her and still are. And until now the locals didn’t know she had the freedom of the house. If it were to get out, I would never hear the last of it. People round here are stubborn: once they get their teeth into something they don’t easily let it go. But Shanks’ll keep his mouth closed. I pay him well enough.”
“Is Shanks the grocer?” I asked.
“No, lad, he’s the local carpenter and undertaker. The only person in Adlington who’s got the courage to venture up here. I pay him to collect and deliver.”
After that we got the sacks safely inside, and the Spook opened the largest one and gave Meg what she needed to start cooking the breakfast.
The bacon was better than the Spook’s pet boggart had managed, even on the best of mornings, and Meg had fried potato cakes and scrambled fresh eggs with cheese. The Spook hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said that Meg was a good cook. While we wolfed down our breakfast, I asked him about the strange noises in the night.
“It’s nothing much to worry about for now,” he told me, swallowing another big mouthful of potato cake. “This house is built on a ley line, so we can expect problems occasionally. Sometimes an earthquake thousands of miles away can cause disturbances to a whole series of leys. Boggarts can be forced to move from places where they’ve been happily settled for years. Last night a boggart passed under us. I
had to go down to the cellar just to see that everything was safe and secure.”
The Spook had told me all about leys when we were back in Chipenden. They were lines of power beneath the earth, like roads that some types of boggart could use to travel quickly from place to place.
“Mind you, it sometimes means trouble ahead,” he continued. “When they set up home in a new location, they often begin by playing tricks—sometimes dangerous tricks—and that means work for us. You mark my words, lad, we could well have a boggart to deal with locally before the week’s out.”
After breakfast we went to the Spook’s study for my Latin lesson. It was a small room with a couple of straight-backed wooden chairs, a large table, a solitary wooden stool with three legs, bare boards, and lots of tall, dark-stained bookcases. It was a bit chilly, too: yesterday’s fire was now just gray ashes in the grate.
“Sit yourself down, lad. The chairs are hard, but it doesn’t do to get too comfortable when you’re studying. Wouldn’t want you to fall asleep,” said the Spook, giving me a sharp look.
I looked around at the bookcases. The room was gloomy, lit only by the gray light from the window and a couple of candles, so I hadn’t noticed until then that the shelves were empty.
“Where are all the books?” I asked.
“Back in Chipenden—where do you think, lad? Not much point in keeping books here in the cold and damp. Books don’t like those conditions. No, we’ll just have to manage with what we’ve brought with us and maybe write some of our own while we’re here. You can’t just be reading books all the time and leaving the writing of them to others.”
I knew the Spook had brought quite a few books with him and it had made his bag very heavy, whereas I’d just brought my notebooks. For the next hour I struggled with Latin verbs. It was hard work, and I was pleased when the Spook suggested that we have a rest, but not by what he did next.
He dragged the wooden stool close to the bookcase nearest the door. Then he climbed up onto it and searched the top shelf with his fingers.
“Well, lad,” he said, holding up the key, his face very grim. “We can’t put it off any longer. Let’s go down and look at the cellar itself. But first we’ll go and see that Meg is all right. I don’t want her to know we’re going down there. It might make her nervous. She doesn’t like the thought of those steps one little bit!”
Those words made me excited and scared at the same time. I’d been bursting with curiosity to find out what was farther down the cellar steps, but at the same time I knew that to go down there would be anything but a pleasant experience.
We found Meg still in the kitchen. She’d done the washing-up and was now sitting in front of the fire, dozing again.
“She’s happy enough for now,” said the Spook. “As well as affecting her memory, the potion makes her sleep a lot.”
We each lit a candle before going down the stone steps, the Spook leading the way. This time I took more notice of my surroundings, trying to fix the underground part of the house in my memory. I’d been down in quite a few cellars, but I had a feeling that this was likely to be the most scary and unusual one yet.
After the Spook had unlocked the iron gate, he turned and tapped me on the shoulder. “Meg rarely goes into my study,” he said, “but whatever happens, don’t ever let her get hold of this key.”
I nodded, watching the Spook lock the gate behind us. I looked down.
“Why are the steps below so wide?” I asked again.
“They need to be, lad. Things are fetched and carried down these steps. Workmen need good access—”
“Workmen?”
“Blacksmiths and stonemasons, of course—the trades we depend on in our line of work!”
As we descended, the Spook leading the way, my candle flickered his shadow up onto the wall, and despite the echo of our boots on the stone steps, I heard the first faint noises from far below. There was a sigh and a distant choking cough. There was definitely something or someone down there!
There were four levels underground. The first two both had just one door, set into the stone, but at last we came to the third, which had the three doors I’d seen the day before.
“The middle one, as you know, is where Meg usually sleeps when I’m away,” the Spook said.
Now she’d been given a room upstairs, next to the Spook’s, probably so that he could keep an eye on her— though based on the evidence from last night, she preferred to sleep in her rocking chair by the fire.
“I don’t use the others much,” continued the Spook, “but they can be very useful for keeping a witch locked up safely while all the arrangements are made—”
“You mean while a pit is prepared?”
“Aye, I do that, lad. As you’ll have noticed, it’s not like Chipenden here. I don’t have the luxury of a garden, so I have to make use of the cellar.”
The fourth and lowest level was, of course, the cellar itself. Even before we turned the final corner and it came into full view, I could hear things that made the candle tremble in my hand, sending the Spook’s shadow dancing wildly.
There were whisperings and groans and, worst of all, a faint sound of scratching. Being the seventh son of a seventh son I can hear things that most people can’t, but I never really get used to it. On some days I’m braver than others, that’s all I can say. The Spook seemed calm enough, but he’d been doing this for a lifetime.
The cellar was big, even bigger than I’d expected, so big, in fact, that it must have been larger in area than the actual ground floor of the house. One wall was dripping with water, and the low ceiling directly above it was oozing with damp, so I wondered if it was on the edge of the stream or actually underneath it.
The dry part of the ceiling was covered in cobwebs, so thick and tangled that an army of spiders must have been at work. If just one or two had spun all that, I didn’t want to meet them.
I spent a lot of time looking at the ceiling and walls because I was delaying the moment when I had to look at the ground. But after a few seconds I could feel the Spook’s eyes on me, so I had no choice and finally forced myself to look down.
I’d seen what the Spook kept in two of the gardens back at Chipenden. I suppose this was just more of the same, but whereas the graves and pits back there had been scattered among the trees where the sun occasionally shone to dapple the ground with shadows, here there were lots more, and I felt trapped, closed in by the four walls and the low cobwebbed ceiling.
There were nine witch graves in all, each one marked with a gravestone, and in front of this six feet of soil edged with smaller stones. Fastened to those stones by bolts, and covering each patch of earth, were thirteen thick iron bars. They’d been placed there to stop the dead witches under them from clawing and scratching their way to the surface.
Then, along one wall of the cellar, there were much heavier, larger stones. There were three of those, and each one had been carved by the mason in exactly the same way:
I Gregory The Greek letter beta told anyone who could read the signs that boggarts were safely bound beneath them, and the Latin numeral “I” in the bottom right-hand corner said that they were of the first rank, deadly creatures capable of killing a man quicker than you could blink your eyes. Nothing new there, I thought, and as the Spook was good at his job there was nothing to fear from the boggarts who were trapped there.
“There are two live witches down here as well,” said the Spook, “and here’s the first one,” he continued, pointing to a dark, square pit with a boundary of small stones crossed by thirteen iron bars to stop her from climbing out. “Look at the cornerstone,” he said, pointing downward.
I saw something then that I hadn’t noticed before, even back in Chipenden. The Spook held his candle closer so that I could see it better. There was a sign, much smaller than that on the boggart stones, followed by the witch’s name.
“The sign is the Greek letter sigma because we classify all witches under S for sorceress. There are so many t
ypes that, being female and subtle, they’re often difficult to categorize precisely,” said the Spook. “Even more so than a boggart, a witch has a personality that can change over time. So you have to refer to their history—the full history of each, bound or unbound, is recorded in the library back at Chipenden.”
I knew that wasn’t true of Meg. There was very little Gregory Bessy Hill written about her in the Spook’s library, but I didn’t say anything. Suddenly I heard a faint stirring from the darkness of the pit and took a quick step backward.
“Is Bessy a first-rank witch?” I asked the Spook nervously, because they were the most dangerous and could kill. “It isn’t marked on the stone. . . .”
“All the witches and boggarts in this cellar are first rank,” the Spook told me, “and I bound ’em all, so it’s not always worth putting the mason to extra trouble with the carving, but there’s nothing to fear here, lad. Old Bessy’s been in there a long time. We’ve disturbed her and she’s just turning over in her sleep, that’s all. Now come over here and look at this. . . .”
It was another witch pit, exactly like the first one, but I suddenly shivered with cold. Something told me that whatever was in that pit was much more dangerous than Bessy, who was asleep and just trying to get herself comfortable on the cold, damp ground.
“You might as well take a closer look, lad,” said the Spook, “so that you can see what we’re dealing with. Hold up your candle and look down, but be sure to keep your feet well back!”
I didn’t want to do it, but the Spook’s voice was firm. It was a command. To look down into the pit was part of my training, so I had no choice.
I leaned my body forward, keeping my toes well back from the bars, and held the candle up so that it cast a flickering yellow light down into the pit. At that very moment I heard a noise from below, and something big scuttled across the floor and into the dark shadows in the near corner. It sounded wick with life, as if it could scamper up the wall of the pit faster than you could blink!
The Last Apprentice: Complete Collection Page 45