“Here, Meg,” I told her as she opened her eyes. “Here’s your herb tea. Sip it carefully so that you don’t burn your mouth.”
She accepted the cup, but then stared at it thoughtfully. “Haven’t I already had my tea today, Billy?”
“You need an extra cup, Meg, because the weather’s getting colder by the day.”
“Oh! Who’s your friend, Billy? She’s such a pretty girl! What lovely brown eyes!”
Alice smiled when she called me “Billy” and introduced herself. “I’m Alice, and I used to live at Chipenden. Now I’m staying at a farm nearby.”
“Well, come and visit us whenever you want,” Meg invited her. “I don’t get much female company these days. I’d be glad to see you.”
“Drink your tea, Meg,” I interrupted. “Sip it while it’s hot. It’s best for you that way.”
So Meg began to sip the potion, and it didn’t take that long for her to finish the lot and nod off to sleep.
“Better get her down the steps into the cold and damp!” Alice said, an edge of bitterness in her voice.
I didn’t get a chance to reply, because the Spook came out of the study and lifted Meg from her chair. I took the candle and unlocked the gate while he carried her down to her room in the cellar. Alice stayed in the kitchen. Five minutes after our return, the three of us were on the road.
Moor View Farm had taken a battering. Just as Alice had described, the yard was full of stones and almost every pane of glass had been smashed. The kitchen window was the only one still intact. The front door was locked, but the Spook used his key and had it open in seconds. We searched for the Hursts and found them cowering in the cellar; of the boggart there was no sign at all.
The Spook wasted no time.
“You’ll have to leave here right away,” he told the old farmer and his wife. “I’m afraid there’s nothing else for it. Just pack essentials and get yourselves gone. Leave me to do what’s necessary.”
“But where will we go?” Mrs. Hurst asked, close to tears.
“If you stay, I can’t guarantee your lives,” the Spook told them bluntly. “You’ve relatives down in Adlington. They’ll have to take you in.”
“How long before we can come back?” asked Mr. Hurst. He was worried about his livelihood.
“Three days at the most,” answered the Spook. “But don’t worry about the farm. My lad’ll do what’s necessary.”
While they packed, my master ordered me to do as many of the farm chores as possible. Everything was quiet: no stones were falling, and it seemed that the boggart was resting. So, making the best of that situation, I started by milking the cows; it was nearly dark by the time I’d finished. When I walked into the kitchen, the Spook was sitting at the table alone.
“Where’s Alice?” I asked.
“Gone with the Hursts, where else? We can’t have a girl getting under our feet when there’s a boggart to be dealt with.”
I was really tired, so I didn’t bother to argue with him. I’d just half hoped that Alice would have been allowed to stay.
“Sit yourself down and take that glum look off your face, lad. It’s enough to turn the milk sour. We need to be ready.”
“Where’s the boggart now?” I asked.
The Spook shrugged. “Resting under a tree or a big boulder, I suppose. Now that it’s dark, it won’t be long before it arrives. Boggarts can be active in daylight and, as we found to our cost up on the fell, will certainly defend themselves if provoked. But night is their favorite time and when they’re at their strongest.
“If it is the same boggart we met up at Stone Farm, then things are likely to get rough. For one thing, it’ll remember us as soon as it gets close, and it’ll want revenge for what we did. Breaking windows and knocking a few chimney pots down won’t be enough. It’ll try to smash this farmhouse to the ground, with us inside it. So it’ll be a fight to the finish. Anyway, lad, cheer up,” he said, catching a glimpse of my worried face. “It’s an old house, but it’s built of good County stone on very strong foundations. Most boggarts are even more stupid than they look, so we’re not dead yet. What we need to do is weaken it further. I’ll offer myself as a target. When I’ve sapped its strength, you finish it off with salt and iron, so get your pockets filled, lad, and be ready!”
I’d used that old salt-and-iron trick myself when I’d faced the old witch Mother Malkin. The two combined substances were very effective against the dark. Salt would burn the boggart; iron would bleed away its power.
So I did as my master instructed, filling my pockets from the pouches of salt and iron that he kept in his bag.
Just before midnight, the boggart attacked. A big storm had been brewing for hours, and the first distant rumbles had given way to crashes of thunder overhead and flashes of sheet lightning. We were both in the kitchen, sitting at the table, when it happened.
“Here it comes,” muttered the Spook, his voice so low that he seemed to be talking more to himself than to me.
He was right: a couple of seconds later the boggart came ranting and raving down the fell and rushed at the farmhouse. It sounded as if a river had burst its banks and a flood was racing toward us.
The kitchen window blew in, scattering shards of glass everywhere, and the back door bulged inward as if some great weight were leaning against it. Then the whole house shook like a tree in a storm, leaning first one way, then the other. I know that sounds impossible, but I swear it happened.
Next there was a ripping and popping noise overhead and the tiles began to fly off the roof and crash down into the farmyard. Then, for a few seconds, everything became quiet and still, as if the boggart were resting or thinking what to do next.
“Time to get this over with, lad,” said the Spook. “You stay here and watch through the window. Things’ll turn nasty out there for sure.”
I thought things were pretty nasty already, but I didn’t say so.
“At all costs, whatever happens,” continued my master, “don’t go outside. Only use the salt and iron when the boggart comes into the kitchen. If you use it outside in this weather, he won’t get the full impact. I’ll lure the boggart inside. So be ready.”
The Spook unlocked the door and, carrying his staff, went out into the farmyard. He was the bravest man I’d ever met. I certainly wouldn’t have liked to face that boggart in the dark.
It was pitch black out there, and in the kitchen all the candles had blown out. Being plunged into total darkness was the last thing I wanted, but fortunately we still had a lantern. I brought it near to the window, but it didn’t cast much light out into the yard. The Spook was some distance away, so I still couldn’t see all of what was happening and had to rely on flashes of lightning.
I heard the Spook rap three times with his staff on the flags; then, with a howl, the boggart flew at him, rushing across the farmyard from left to right. Next there was a cry of pain and a sound just like a branch snapping. When the lightning flashed again, I saw the Spook on his knees, his hands held up in front of him, trying to protect his head. His staff lay on the flags some distance from him, broken into three pieces.
In the darkness I heard stones hitting the flags close to the Spook and more tiles falling off the roof above him. He cried out in pain maybe two or three times, and despite having been told to watch from the window and wait for the boggart to come inside, I wondered if I should go out and try to help. My master was having a hard time of it and seemed certain to come off worst.
I stared out into the darkness, trying to see what was happening, hoping for lightning to light up the yard again. I just couldn’t see the Spook at all. But then the back door began to creak open very slowly. Terrified, I moved away from it, retreating until my back was against the wall. Was the boggart coming for me now? I placed the lantern on the table and got ready to reach into my breeches pockets for the salt and iron. A dark shape slowly crossed the threshold into the kitchen, and I froze, petrified, but then sucked in a breath as I saw the Spook
on his hands and knees. He’d been crawling toward the door in the shadow of the wall. That’s why I hadn’t been able to see him.
I rushed forward, slammed the door shut, then helped him to the table. It was a struggle, because his whole body seemed to be trembling and there wasn’t much strength in his legs. He was a mess. The boggart had hurt him badly: there was blood all over his face and a lump the size of an egg on his forehead. He rested both hands against the table’s edge, struggling to keep on his feet. When he opened his mouth to speak, I could see that one of his front teeth was missing. He wasn’t a pretty sight.
“Don’t worry, lad,” he croaked. “We’ve got him on the run. He hasn’t much strength left, and now it’s time to finish him off. Get ready to use the salt and iron, but whatever happens, don’t miss!”
By “on the run,” the Spook meant he’d offered himself as a target and the boggart had used up a lot of its energy in trying to destroy him and was now a lot weaker. But how much weaker? It would still be very dangerous.
At that very moment the door burst open again, and this time the boggart did come in. The lightning flashed, and I saw the round head and the six arms caked in mud. But there was a difference: it looked much smaller now. It had lost some of its power, and the Spook hadn’t suffered in vain.
My heart hammering and my knees trembling, I moved forward to face the boggart. Then I reached into my pockets and pulled out two handfuls and hurled them straight at the boggart. Salt from my right hand; iron from my left.
Despite what it had cost him, the Spook had done everything by the book. Firstly he’d burned the boggart’s tree, taking away its store of energy. Secondly he’d offered himself as a target outside, bleeding away even more of the boggart’s strength. But I had to finish the job inside. And I couldn’t afford to miss.
There was only the draft from the window and open door, and my aim was good. The cloud of salt and iron struck the boggart full on. There was a scream, so loud and shrill that it set my teeth on edge and almost burst my eardrums. The salt was burning the creature, the iron sapping the last of its power. The next moment the boggart disappeared.
It was gone. Gone forever. I’d finished it off!
But my relief was short-lived. I saw the Spook stagger and knew that he was about to fall. I tried to reach him— I really tried. But I was too late. His knees buckled; he lost his grip on the table and collapsed backward, banging his head on the kitchen flags very hard. I struggled to lift him, but he was a dead weight, and I noticed, to my dismay, that his nose was bleeding badly.
I began to panic. At first I couldn’t hear him breathing. Then, at last, I made out the breath fluttering very faintly in his throat. The Spook was seriously hurt and needed a doctor urgently.
CHAPTER IX
Intimations of Death
I ran all the way down the hill to the village in the torrential rain, the thunder crashing overhead and vivid streaks of lightning forking the sky.
I hadn’t a clue where the doctor lived and, in desperation, knocked on the first door I came to. There was no answer, so I hammered on the next one with my fists. When that brought no answer either, I remembered that the Spook’s brother, Andrew, had a shop somewhere in the village. So I ran farther down toward the center, stumbling across the cobbles and through the rivulets of rainwater that were cascading down the hill.
It took me a long time to find Andrew’s place. It was smaller than the Priestown one he’d rented, but it was in a good location, in Babylon Lane, just around the corner from what seemed to be the village’s main row of shops. A flash of lightning illuminated the sign above the window.
ANDREW GREGORY
MASTER LOCKSMITH
I rapped hard on the shop door with my knuckles and, when that brought no response, seized the handle and rattled it violently, still to no avail. I wondered if Andrew was away doing a job somewhere. Maybe staying overnight in another village. Then I heard the sash window of a bedroom above the next shop being raised, and a man’s angry voice called out into the night.
“Be off with you! Be off at once! What do you mean making all that commotion at this time o’ night when decent folk need their sleep?”
“I need a doctor!” I shouted up toward the dark oblong of the window. “It’s urgent. A man could be dying!”
“Well, you’re wasting your time here! That’s a lock-smith’s shop!”
“I work for Andrew Gregory’s brother. He lives in the house up the clough, on the edge of the moor. I’m his apprentice!”
The lightning flashed again, and I glimpsed the face above and saw fear etched into it. The whole village probably knew that Andrew’s brother was a spook.
“There’s a doctor lives on the Bolton Road, about a hundred yards or so to the south!”
“Where’s the Bolton Road?” I demanded.
“Go down the hill to the crossroads and turn left. That’s Bolton Road. Then keep going. It’s the last house on the row!”
With that, the window was slammed shut, but it didn’t matter: I had the information I needed. So I sprinted down the hill, turned left, ran on, breathing hard, and was soon knocking on the door of the last house in the row.
Doctors are used to being woken up in the middle of the night for emergencies, so it didn’t take him long to answer the door. He was a small man with a thin black mustache and hair that was turning gray at his temples. He was holding a candle and nodded as I spoke, seeming very calm and businesslike. I told him that the injured man was at Moor View Farm, but when I explained who needed help and why, his manner changed and the candle began to shake in his hand.
“You get back, and I’ll follow you as soon as I can,” he said, closing the door in my face.
I went back up toward the moor, but I was worried. The doctor was clearly scared at having to treat a spook. Would he do as he’d promised? Would he really follow me to the farm? If he didn’t, the Spook could die. For all I knew he might be dead already, and with a heavy heart I trudged up the hill as fast as I could. By then the worst of the storm had moved away and all that could be heard were distant rumbles of thunder over the moor and the occasional flash of sheet lightning.
I needn’t have worried about the doctor. He was true to his word and reached the farm only fifteen or so minutes after me.
But he didn’t stay long. When he examined the Spook, his hands shook so badly I didn’t need the wide-eyed expression on his face to tell me that he was terrified. Nobody likes to be near a spook. I’d also told him what had happened in the yard and kitchen, which made it even worse. He kept looking around as though he expected to see the boggart creeping up on him. I would have found it funny if I hadn’t felt so sad and worried.
He did help me carry the Spook up the stairs and get him to bed. Then he put his ear against the Spook’s chest and listened carefully. When he stood up, he was shaking his head.
“Pneumonia is creeping into his lungs,” he said at last. “There’s nothing I can do.”
“He’s strong!” I protested. “He’ll get better.”
He turned to me with an expression on his face that I’d seen doctors use before. It was a professional face, a mixture of compassion and calm, a mask adopted when they have to break bad news to relatives of the seriously ill.
“I’m afraid the prognosis is very bad, boy,” he said, patting me gently on the shoulder. “Your master is dying— it’s unlikely that he’ll survive the night. But death comes to us all in the end, so I’m afraid we have to accept it. Are you here alone?”
I nodded.
“Will you be all right?”
I nodded again.
“Well, I’ll send someone up here in the morning,” he said, picking up his bag and preparing to go. “He’ll want washing,” he added ominously.
I knew what he meant by that. It was a County tradition to wash the dead before burial. It had always seemed a daft idea to me. What was the point of washing someone when they were just going to end up in a coffin in the
ground? I was angry and almost told him as much, but I managed to control myself and went and sat beside the bed, listening to the Spook gasping for breath.
He couldn’t be dying! I refused to believe it. How could he die after all he’d been through? I just wasn’t prepared to accept it. The doctor was wrong, surely? But no matter how hard I tried to convince myself that the doctor was mistaken, I began to despair. You see, I remembered what Mam had said about intimations of death. I remembered the smell in Dad’s room, that stench of flowers, and how Mam had said it was a sign of the approach of death. I had her gift and I could smell it now, because it was coming from the Spook, and it was getting stronger and stronger by the minute.
But when daylight came, my master was still alive and the woman sent by the doctor to wash his body couldn’t keep the disappointment from her face.
“I can’t stay longer than noon. I’ve another one to do this afternoon!” she snapped, but then she told me to get a clean bedsheet and rip it into seven pieces, and to bring her a bowl of cold water.
After I’d done what she asked, she took a strip of the sheet, folded it until it was no bigger than the palm of her hand, and dipped it into the water. Then she used it to bathe the Spook’s forehead and chin. It was hard to tell whether she’d done that to make him feel better or to save herself a bit of time washing the body later.
That done, she sat down beside the bed and started knitting what looked like baby clothes. She talked a lot, too, telling me the story of her life and boasting about her two jobs. Besides washing the dead and preparing them for burial, she was also the local midwife. She had a bad cold and kept coughing all over the Spook and blowing her red nose into a large, mottled handkerchief.
Just before noon, she started to pack her things ready to go. “I’ll be back in the morning to lay him out,” she said. “He won’t survive a second night.”
The Last Apprentice: Complete Collection Page 49