“I miss you, too, Alice, but there’s nothing I can do about it at the moment. I will tell the Spook what you’ve said, though, and ask him again. I’ll do my best, I promise. Anyway, is Morgan down there now?” I asked, nodding toward the farm.
Alice shook her head. “Not seen him since yesterday. No doubt he’ll be back soon.”
We didn’t talk much longer after that because Mrs. Hurst, the farmer’s wife, came to the back door and started yelling Alice’s name, so she had to go.
Alice pulled a face and raised her eyes to heaven.
“I’ll come back and see you soon!” I said as she turned to go.
“Do that, Tom. But ask Old Gregory, please!”
I didn’t go straight back to the Spook’s house, though. I climbed right up onto the moor, to where the wind could blow the cobwebs from my mind. My first impression was that the moortop was pretty flat, and the scenery was nowhere near as good as on the fells above Chipenden. Neither was the view of the countryside below as dramatic.
Still, there were higher hills to the south and east, and beyond Anglezarke, even more moors. There was Winter Hill and Rivington directly south, Smithhills beyond that and, to the east, Turton Moor and Darwen Moor. I knew that because I’d studied the Spook’s maps before we left, taking care to fold them properly afterward. So I already had a good idea of the layout of the area in my head. There was lots to explore, and I decided I’d ask the Spook if I could have a day off to do just that before the winter weather really closed in. I thought he’d probably agree, because part of a spook’s job is to know the geography of the County, in order to get quickly from place to place and find the way when someone sends for help.
I walked farther until I saw a small, domed hill in the distance, right on top of the moor. It looked artificial and I guessed that it was a barrow, a burial mound for some ancient chieftain. Just as I was about to turn away, a figure appeared on its summit. He carried a staff in his left hand and wore a cloak with its hood pulled forward. It had to be Morgan!
His appearance on the barrow was so sudden that it almost seemed as if he’d materialized out of thin air. However, common sense told me that he’d simply walked up the slope on the far side of the hill.
But what was he doing? I couldn’t work it out. It looked like some sort of dance! He was throwing himself about and waving his arms in the air. Then, very suddenly, he gave a roar of rage and hurled his staff to the ground. He was in a fury. But at what?
A moment later, and a patch of mist drifted in from the east to hide him, so I walked on. I certainly didn’t fancy meeting him face-to-face. Especially with the mood he was in!
After that I didn’t stay too long up on the moors. Anyway, if I returned in reasonable time, the Spook would be more likely to let me go and see Alice again soon. And I wanted to get back and tell him what I had learned.
So after our midday meal, I told my master about seeing Morgan up on the moor and all that Alice had said about him.
The Spook scratched his beard and sighed. “The girl’s right. Morgan’s a nasty piece of work, that’s for sure. He dresses like a spook, and that’s what some gullible folk now think he is. But he lacked the discipline to master our trade. He was lazy, too, and liked to cut corners. It’s almost eighteen years since he left me, and since then he’s mostly been up to no good. He fancies himself as a mage and takes money from good honest folk who are at their most vulnerable. I tried to stop him from falling into bad ways, but some people, it seems, just refuse to be helped.”
“A mage?” I asked, not familiar with the word.
“It’s another word for a magician or wizard, lad. Someone who practices so-called magic. He does a bit of healing, too, but his speciality is necromancy.”
“Necromancy? What’s that?” I asked. I’d never heard the Spook use that term before, either, and I realized I’d have a lot of notes to write up in my book after our chat.
“Think, lad. It comes from the Greek, so you should be able to work out what it means!”
“Well, nekros means corpse,” I said, after a bit of careful thinking. “So I suppose it’s something to do with the dead.”
“Good lad! He’s a mage who uses the dead to help him and give him power.”
“How?” I asked.
“Well, as you know, ghosts and ghasts are both part of the job. But whereas we give ’em a good talking-to and send ’em on their way, he does the opposite. He uses the dead. He uses them as spies. Encourages them to stay trapped on earth—to serve his purposes and help him line his pockets with silver. Sometimes by tricking vulnerable, grieving folk.”
“Is he just a fraud, then?” I asked.
“No, he talks to the dead, all right. So remember this and remember it well: Morgan is a dangerous man, and his meddlings with the dark have given him some very real and dangerous powers that we should fear. He’s ruthless, too, and would seriously hurt anyone who got in his way. So stay well clear, lad.”
“Why haven’t you stopped him before now?” I asked. “Shouldn’t you have sorted him out years ago?”
“It’s a long story,” said my master. “Happens I should have, but the time wasn’t right then. We’ll deal with him soon. Try to steer clear of him till we’re ready—and stop telling me how to do my job!”
I hung my head, and my master tapped me lightly on the arm. “Come on, lad, no harm done. Your point’s a good one. I’m glad to see you’re thinking with your head. And the girl did well to spot him talking to his sister’s ghost. That’s exactly why I placed her there, to look out for things like that!”
“But that’s not fair!” I protested. “You knew that Alice would have a hard time of it there.”
“I knew it wouldn’t be a bed of roses, lad. But the girl has to make up for what she’s done in the past, and she’s more than capable of looking after herself. Still, once we’ve dealt with Morgan, it’ll be a far happier household. But first we’ve got to find him.”
“Alice says the Hursts lied. Morgan visits the farm a lot.”
“Does he now!”
“She said he isn’t there at the moment but he could come back at any time.”
“Well, perhaps that’s where we should start our search tomorrow,” the Spook said, looking thoughtful.
When the silence lengthened, I kept my promise to Alice, even though I knew it was a waste of time asking.
“Couldn’t Alice stay with us again?” I asked. “She’s really having a terrible time. It’s cruel to leave her when there’s room enough for her here.”
“Why ask a question when you already know the answer?” said the Spook, glaring at me angrily. “Don’t talk soft. If you let your heart rule your head, then the dark will beat you every time. Remember that, lad—it may just save your life one day. And we’ve enough witches living here already.”
So that was the end of that. But we didn’t visit the Hursts’ farm the following day. Something happened that changed everything.
CHAPTER VII
The Stone-Chucker
STRAIGHT after breakfast, a big, burly farmer’s lad hammered on the back door with both fists, as if his very life depended on it.
“What are you trying to do, you big lummox?” cried the Spook, opening the door wide. “Break the blooming thing?”
The lad stopped banging at the door, and his face turned a bright red. “I asked for you down in the village,” he said, pointing back toward Adlington. “A carpenter came out of his yard and pointed the way up here. He told me to knock hard at the back door.”
“Aye, but he said knock, not thump it back into a tree,” said the Spook angrily. “Anyway, what’s your business with me?”
“Dad sent me. He said to come right away. It’s a bad business. A man’s dead.”
“Who’s your dad?” asked the Spook.
“Henry Luddock. We’re at Stone Farm near Owshaw Clough.”
“I’ve met your dad and I’ve worked for him before. Are you William, by any chance?”
�
��That’s right.”
“Well, William, the last time I visited Stone Farm, you were just a tiny babe in arms. Now, I can see you’re upset, so come inside and take the weight off your feet. Then take a deep breath, calm yourself, and start right at the beginning. I want all the details, so leave nothing out,” ordered the Spook.
As we walked through the kitchen to reach the parlor, I saw no sign at all of Meg. When she wasn’t working, it was usual for her to sit in her rocking chair, warming her hands at the kitchen fire. I wondered if she was keeping out of the way now that we had visitors—something she should have done when the groceries were delivered by Shanks.
Once in the parlor, William began his tale of events that had begun badly and then got a whole lot worse. It seemed that a boggart, probably the one my master and I had heard passing along the ley line nights before, had settled itself at Stone Farm, starting its mischief by making a few noises during the night. It had rattled the pots and pans in the kitchen, banged on the front door, and thumped the walls a few times. That was enough for me to identify it right away from the notes I had made about boggarts.
It was a hall-knocker, so I’d already guessed what was coming next in William’s story. The next morning it had started throwing stones. At first they were just small pebbles that it pinged against the windows, rolled down the slates, or dropped down the chimney. Then the stones got bigger. Much bigger.
The Spook had taught me that hall-knockers sometimes developed into stone-chuckers. These were bad-tempered boggarts and very dangerous to deal with. The dead man was a shepherd employed by Henry Luddock. His body was found on the lower slope of the moor.
“He’d been brained,” William told us. “The stone that did it was bigger than his head.”
“Can you be sure it wasn’t an accident?” the Spook asked. “He might just have tripped up, fallen, and bashed himself.”
“We’re sure, all right: he was lying on his back and the stone was on top of him. Then, while we were bringing the body down, other stones started falling around us. It was terrible. I thought I was going to die. So will you come and help? Please. My dad’s going mad with worry. There’s work to be done, but it’s not safe to go outdoors.”
“Aye, go back and tell your dad I’m on my way. As for the work, milk the cows and do only what’s necessary. The sheep can take care of themselves, at least until the snows come, so stay off the hillside.”
When William had left, the Spook turned to me and shook his head gravely. “It’s a bad business, lad,” he said. “Stone-chuckers cause mischief but rarely kill, so this one’s a rogue that could well do the same again. I’ve sorted out one or two like this before and usually ended up with at least a bad headache for my trouble. It’s different to dealing with a ripper, but sometimes it can be just as dangerous. Spooks have been killed by stone-chuckers.”
I’d dealt with a ripper in the autumn. The Spook had been ill, and I’d had to do it without him, helped by a rigger and his mate. It had been pretty scary, because rippers kill their prey. This was scary too, but in a different way. There wasn’t much you could do to defend yourself against boulders falling from the sky!
“Well, someone has to do it!” I said with a smile, putting a brave face on it.
The Spook nodded gravely. “They certainly do, lad, so let’s get on with it.”
There was something that had to be done before we left. The Spook led me back into the parlor and told me to take down the brown bottle labeled HERB TEA.
“Make Meg up another drink, lad,” said the Spook. “Only this time make it stronger. Pour out a good couple of inches. That’ll do the trick, because we should be back within the week.”
I did as I was told, using at least two inches of the dark mixture. Then I boiled the kettle and filled the cup almost to the brim with hot water.
“Drink this, Meg,” the Spook told her as I handed her the steaming cup. “You’ll need this because the weather’s turning colder and it might make your bones ache.”
Meg smiled at him, and within ten minutes she’d drained the cup and her head was already beginning to nod. The Spook handed me the key to the gate on the stairs and told me to lead the way. Then he picked Meg up as if she were a baby and followed hard on my heels.
I unlocked the gate, then went down the steps and waited at the middle door of the three while my master carried Meg into the darkness inside. He left the door open, and I could hear every word he said to her.
“Good night, my love,” he said. “Dream about our garden.”
I’m sure I shouldn’t have heard that, but I had, and I did feel a little embarrassed to hear my master of all people talk like that.
And what garden was the Spook talking about? Did he mean the gardens at Chipenden? If so, I hoped he meant the western garden with its view of the fells. The other two, with their boggart pits and graves for witches, didn’t bear thinking about.
Meg said nothing in reply, but the Spook must have woken her up when he came out and locked the door behind him, because she suddenly started to cry like a child afraid of the dark. Hearing that sound, the Spook paused, and we waited outside the door a long time until the crying finally subsided and was replaced by another very faint sound. I could hear the breath whistling out through Meg’s teeth as she exhaled.
“She’s all right now,” I said quietly to my master. “She’s asleep. I can hear her snoring.”
“Nay, lad!” said the Spook, giving me one of his withering glances. “It’s more like singing than snoring!”
Well, it certainly sounded like snoring to me, and all I could think was that the Spook didn’t like even the slightest criticism of Meg. Anyway, that said, we went up, locked the gate behind us, and packed our things for the journey.
We went east, climbing deeper into the clough, until it grew so narrow that we were almost walking in the stream and there was just a tiny crack of gray sky above us. Then, to my surprise, we came to some steps cut into the rock.
They were narrow, steep steps, slippery with patches of ice. I was carrying the Spook’s heavy bag, which meant that, if I slipped, I only had one hand free to save myself.
Following my master, I managed to get to the top in one piece, and it was certainly worth the climb because I was back in the fresh air again, with wide-open spaces on every side. The wind was gusting fit to blow us right off the moor, and the clouds were dark and menacing, racing so close above our heads that it felt like you could almost reach up and touch them.
As I told you, being a moor, Anglezarke was high but a lot flatter than the fells we’d left behind in Chipenden. There were some hills and valleys though, some of them very strange shapes. One in particular stood out because it was a smallish mound, too rounded and smooth to be natural. As we passed close to it, I suddenly recognized it as the barrow where I’d seen the Hursts’ son.
“That’s where I saw Morgan,” I told the Spook. “He was standing right on top of it.”
“No doubt he was, lad. He always was fascinated by that barrow and just couldn’t stay away. They call it the Round Loaf, you know, because of its shape,” said the Spook, leaning on his staff. “It was built in ancient times, by the first men who came to the County from the west. They landed at Heysham, as you well know.”
“What’s it for?” I asked.
“Few know for sure, but many are daft enough to make a guess. Most think it’s just a barrow where an ancient king was laid to rest with all his armor and gold. Greedy folks have dug deep pits, but for all their hard work, they found nothing. Do you know what the word Anglezarke means, lad?”
I shook my head and shivered with cold.
“Well, it means ‘pagan temple.’ The whole moor was a vast church, open to the skies, where that ancient people worshipped the old gods. And, as your mam told you, the most powerful of those gods was called Golgoth, which means Lord of Winter. This mound, some say, was his special altar. To begin with, he was a powerful elemental force, a spirit of nature who lov
ed the cold. But because he was worshipped so long and so fervently, he became aware and willful, sometimes lingering long after his allotted season and threatening a year-long grip of ice and snow. Some even think that it was Golgoth’s power that brought about the last Ice Age. Who knows the truth? In any event, in the depths of winter, at the solstice, fearing that the cold would never end and that spring would never return, people made sacrifices to appease him. Blood sacrifices, they were, because men never learn.”
“Animals?” I asked.
“Humans, lad—they did it so that, gorged on the blood of those victims, Golgoth would fall satisfied into a deep sleep, allowing spring to return. The bones of those sacrificed still remain. Dig anywhere within a mile of this spot and it won’t be long before you find bones aplenty.
“This mound is something else that’s always bothered me about Morgan. He couldn’t keep away from the place and was always interested in Golgoth—far too much for my liking—and he probably still is. You see, some folks think Golgoth could be the key to achieving magical supremacy, and if a mage like Morgan were to tap into the power of Golgoth, then the power of the dark could overwhelm the County.”
“And you think Golgoth is still here, somewhere on the moor. . . .”
“Aye. It’s said that he sleeps far beneath it. And that’s why Morgan’s interest in Golgoth is dangerous. The thing is, lad, the old gods wax strong when they’re worshipped by foolish men. Golgoth’s power waned when that worship ceased and he fell into a deep slumber. A slumber we don’t want him waking from.”
“But why did the people stop worshipping him? I thought they were afraid that the winter would never end?”
“Aye, lad, that’s true, but other circumstances are sometimes more important. Perhaps a stronger tribe moves onto the moor with a different god. Or maybe crops fail and a people have to move on to a more fertile area. The reason is lost in time, but now Golgoth sleeps. And that’s the way I want it to stay. So keep away from this spot, lad, that’s my advice. And let’s try to keep Morgan away from it, too. Now come on, there can’t be much daylight left, so we’d better press on.”
The Last Apprentice: Complete Collection Page 47