The Last Apprentice: Complete Collection

by Joseph Delaney

  After all that had happened, I felt like dragging Meg by the feet and letting her head bounce on every step. But I didn’t. She was probably suffering a lot already because the silver chain was binding her tightly. And in any case, despite everything, the Spook would want her treated as well as possible. So I was careful with Meg.

  But when I eased her over the edge of the pit, I couldn’t resist saying what I did.

  “Dream about your garden!” I told her, making the tone of my voice as sarcastic as possible. Then I left her and, clutching my stub of candle, went back up the steps. Now it was time to deal with the other witch, Bessy Hill. I must have woken her up on my way down, because now she was snuf-fling and spitting her way slowly up toward the gate again. I reached into my breeches pockets and pulled out a handful of salt and a handful of iron. But I didn’t throw them at her; about three steps above her, I scattered a line of salt from wall to wall, then sprinkled the iron on top of it. After that, I moved along the step and carefully mixed them together to form a barrier that the witch would be unable to cross.

  Finally I walked up to the gate and sat about three steps below it, just in case the feral lamia came down and tried to reach me through the bars.

  I sat there and watched the candle burn lower and lower. Long before it threatened to go out, I was feeling sorry for what I’d said to Meg. My dad wouldn’t have liked me being sarcastic like that. He’d brought me up better than that. Meg couldn’t be all bad. The Spook loved her and she’d loved him once. And how was he going to feel when he saw that I’d put her in the pit? That I’d done something he’d never been able to face doing himself?

  After a while the candle finally guttered out, and I was left in the dark. There were faint whispers and scratching sounds from the cellar far below where the dead witches were stirring and, every so often, the sound of the feeble live witch, sniffing and snuffling in frustration, unable to cross the barrier of salt and iron.

  I’d almost dozed off when the feral lamia arrived suddenly, having finally clawed her way through the attic door. My night vision is good, but it was really dark on the cellar steps, and all I heard was the rush of her legs scuttling forward and then a bang as a dark shape hurled itself at the gate and started to rasp at the metal. My heart lurched into my mouth. It sounded like she was ravenous again already, so I picked up my rowan staff and desperately jabbed at her through the bars.

  At first it made no difference to her frenzy, and I heard the grille groan as the metal bent and yielded. But then I got lucky. I must have jabbed her in a sensitive spot, probably her eye, because she screamed shrilly and fell back from the gate, whimpering her way back up the steps.

  When the blizzard stopped and the Spook was strong enough, he’d come back to the house to sort things out—I was sure of that. What I didn’t know was when. It would be a long afternoon and a longer night after that. I might even have to spend days there on the stairs. I wasn’t sure how many times Marcia would assault the gate.

  Twice more she attacked, and after I’d driven her away for the third time she retreated right back up the steps and out of sight. I wondered if she’d gone back up into the house. Maybe she’d go hunting for rats or mice. After a while I had to fight to keep awake. I couldn’t afford to sleep, because the gate was already weakened. If I wasn’t ready to fend her off, it wouldn’t take her long to force her way through.

  I was in serious trouble. If only I hadn’t gone back for the grimoire, I’d have been safe and sound with the Spook and Alice at Andrew’s house.

  CHAPTER XVII

  Home Truths

  IT was uncomfortable on the steps and very cold. After a while, according to my calculations, night turned to day again. I was hungry, and my mouth was dry with thirst.

  How long would I have to spend down there? How long before the Spook came? What if my master hadn’t recovered properly and was too ill to come? Then I began to worry about Alice. What if she came back to the house looking for me? She would think the lamia was still trapped in the cellar. She didn’t know that it had been in the attic, that it was now loose in the house.

  At last I heard noises from somewhere above. Not scuttling legs, but the welcome murmur of human voices and the thump of boots clumping downward and then the sound of something heavy being dragged down the steps. Candlelight flickered around the corner and I came to my feet.

  “Well, Andrew! Looks like you won’t be needed after all,” said a voice that I immediately recognized.

  The Spook walked down to the gate. He was dragging the feral lamia behind him, bound tightly in a silver chain. At his side was Andrew, who’d accompanied him down to pick the lock.

  “Well, lad, don’t stand there gawping,” said the Spook. “Open the gate and let us in.”

  Quickly I did as I was told. I wanted to tell the Spook what I’d done to Meg, but when I opened my mouth to speak, he shook his head and put a hand on my shoulder.

  “First things first, lad,” he said, his voice kind and understanding, as if he knew exactly what I’d done. “It’s been hard for all of us, and we’ve a lot to talk through. But the time for that is later. First there’s work to be done.”

  That said, with Andrew in the lead holding the candle aloft, we set off down the steps. As we approached the live witch, Andrew halted and the candle started to quiver in his hand.

  “Andrew, give the candle to the lad,” said the Spook. “It’s best if you go up top and wait at the door for the mason and smith to arrive. Then you can tell them we’re down here.”

  With a sigh of relief, Andrew handed the candle to me, and after nodding in the Spook’s direction, walked back up the steps. We continued down until we reached the cellar, with its low ceiling thickly hung with cobwebs. The Spook led the way directly to the feral lamia’s pit, where the bars were yawning wide, leaving plenty of space to drop her into the darkness—and the Spook wasted no time in preparing to do just that.

  “Staff at the ready, lad!” he commanded.

  So I stepped close to his side, the candle in my right hand to illuminate the lamia and the pit, my rowan staff in my left hand positioned to jab downward.

  The Spook held the lamia over the gaping bars and, with a sudden jerk, twisted the silver chain to the right, giving it a flick. It unraveled and, with a shrill cry, the lamia fell into the darkness. Immediately the Spook knelt beside the pit and began to fasten the silver chain from bar to bar across the top of the opening to make a temporary barrier that the lamia couldn’t cross. From the shadows below, the lamia hissed up at us angrily but made no attempt to scuttle upward; within a few moments the job was done.

  “There, that should hold her fast until the mason and the blacksmith arrive,” my master said, coming to his feet. “Now let’s see how Meg is. . . .”

  He walked over toward Meg’s pit and I followed, carrying the candle. He looked down and shook his head sadly. Meg was lying on her back looking up at us, her eyes wide and angry, but the chain still bound her tightly and she couldn’t speak.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Really sorry. I was—”

  The Spook held up his hand to silence me. “Save your words for later, lad. It hurts me to see this. . . .”

  I heard the choke in the Spook’s voice and caught a glimpse of the grief on his face. I looked away quickly. There was a long silence, but at last he gave a deep sigh.

  “What’s done is done,” he said sadly, “but I never thought it would come to this. Not after all these years. Anyway, let’s go and attend to the other one.”

  We went back up the steps until we reached the live witch, Bessy Hill.

  “By the way, that was well thought out, lad!” exclaimed the Spook, indicating the line of salt and iron. “Good to see you using your initiative.”

  Bessy Hill turned her head slowly to the left and seemed to be trying to speak herself. The Spook shook his head sadly and pointed downward at her feet.

  “There, lad. You take her right foot, I’ll take her left.
We’ll pull her down slowly. Gently, now! We don’t want to bang her head. . . .”

  We did just that, and it was unpleasant work: Bessy’s right foot felt cold, damp, and slimy, and as we dragged her downward she began to snuffle and spit. It didn’t take long, though, and soon she was back in her pit. All it needed now was the bent bars to be replaced, and she’d be safe for a long time.

  We didn’t speak for a while and I guessed that the Spook was thinking about Meg, but soon there was the distant sound of men’s voices and heavy boots.

  “Right, lad, this’ll be the smith and the mason. I’d half a mind to ask you to deal with Meg, but it’s not right and I won’t shirk what has to be done. So you get yourself back up those steps and light a big fire in every downstairs room. You’ve done well—we’ll talk later.”

  On the way up I met the smith and the mason. “Mr. Gregory’s at the bottom of the steps,” I told them. They nodded and carried on down. Neither of them looked happy. It was grim work, but it had to be done.

  Later, when I went back down into the cellar to tell my master that I’d lit the fires, Meg was still in her pit, but my silver chain was safely back in his possession, and he handed it to me without a word. The stone-and-iron cover had been dragged into place and locked with metal pins driven deep into the ground.

  Now she was imprisoned beneath iron bars just as firmly as the other witches. The Spook must have been really sad having to do that, but he’d done it anyway. It had taken him almost a lifetime, but Meg was finally bound.

  It was late afternoon before the work was done and the mason and smith had finally gone on their way. The Spook turned to me as he closed the door after them and scratched at his beard.

  “There’s just one more job before we eat, lad. You might as well get yourself upstairs and clean up that mess in the attic.”

  Even after all that had happened, I hadn’t forgotten about the grimoire. I hadn’t forgotten what Morgan might do to Dad. And here was my chance! So, my hands shaking at the thought of how I was going to betray the Spook and steal the grimoire, I carried a mop and bucket up to the attic. After closing the skylight, I began to clean the floor just as fast as I could. Once the job was done, it would take just a few moments to force the desk and hide the grimoire in my bedroom. I’d never seen the Spook go up to the attic, so I could give it to Morgan without him realizing that it had gone.

  Having cleaned the floor of feathers and blood, I turned my attention to the writing desk. Although it was a well-crafted desk, ornate but soundly made, it wasn’t going to take me long to get it open. I pulled the small crowbar from my jacket pocket and eased it into the crack between the doors.

  At that moment I heard footsteps behind me and jumped up guiltily to see the Spook standing in the doorway, a look of anger and disbelief on his face.

  “Well, lad! What have we here?”

  “Nothing,” I lied. “I was just cleaning this old desk.”

  “Don’t lie to me, lad. There’s nothing worse in this world than a liar. So this is why you went back into the house. The girl couldn’t understand it.”

  “Morgan told me to get the grimoire from your desk in the attic!” I blurted out, and hung my head in shame. “I’m supposed to take it to him on Tuesday night at the graveyard chapel. I’m sorry—really sorry. I never wanted to betray you. I just couldn’t bear the thought of what he might do to Dad if I didn’t.”

  “Your dad?” The Spook frowned. “How can Morgan harm your dad?”

  “My dad died, Mr. Gregory.”

  “Yes, the girl told me last night. I was sorry to hear that.”

  “Well, Morgan summoned Dad’s spirit and terrified him—”

  The Spook held up his hand. “Calm yourself down, lad. Stop gabbling and slow down. Where did all this happen?”

  “In his room at the farm. He summoned his sister first, and she brought Dad. It was Dad’s voice, and Morgan made him think he was in hell. He did it again in Adlington—I definitely heard Dad’s voice inside my head—and Morgan said he’d keep doing it if I didn’t obey him. I went back to get the grimoire, but when I got up to the attic, the feral lamia was there feeding on the birds. I ran downstairs in a panic to find Meg there waiting. My first throw of the chain I missed her and thought I was done for.”

  “Aye, it could have cost you your life,” my master said, shaking his head in disapproval.

  “I was desperate,” I told him.

  “I don’t care, lad,” said the Spook, scratching at his beard. “Didn’t I tell you to steer clear of him? You should have told me everything, not sneaked up to steal something on the word of that fool Morgan.”

  I was hurt by his use of the word “steal.” There was no denying that it would have been theft, but to hear him use that word hurt me badly.

  “I couldn’t. Meg had you prisoner. Anyway, you didn’t tell me everything,” I said angrily. “Why didn’t you tell me Morgan was your son? How can I know who to trust when you keep things like that a secret? You told me he was Mr. and Mrs. Hurst’s son—but he isn’t, he’s yours. The seventh you had with Emily Burns. I did what I did because I love my father. But your son would never do the same for you. He hates you. He wants to destroy you. He says you’re an old fool!”

  I knew I’d gone too far, but the Spook just smiled grimly and shook his head. “I suppose there is no fool like an old fool, and I’ve certainly sometimes been that, but as for the rest . . .”

  He looked at me hard, his green eyes glinting fiercely. “Morgan is no son of mine! He’s a liar!” he said, suddenly thumping the top of the desk, his face livid with anger. “He was, he is, and he always will be. He’s just trying to confuse and manipulate you. I don’t have any children— I’ve sometimes regretted that, but if I had a child, do you think I’d deny it? Would your father have disowned one of you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Would you like to hear the full story, if it means that much to you?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, I won’t deny that I took Emily Burns from my own brother. Or that it hurt my own family badly. My brother particularly. I’ve never disputed that, and I’ve little to say in my defense except that I was young. I wanted her, lad, and I had to have her. One day you’ll find out what I mean, but only half the fault was mine. Emily was a strong woman, and she wanted me, too. But it wasn’t long before she tired of me, just as she’d tired of my brother. She moved on and found herself another man.

  “Edwin Furner was his name, and although he was a seventh son of a seventh son, he worked as a tanner. Not everybody qualified to do so follows our trade. It was fine for just over two years, and they were happy together. But very soon after their second child was born, he took himself off for almost a year, leaving her to fend for herself with two young children.

  “It would have been better had he stayed away, but he kept turning up again like a bad penny. Each time he went away again, she was expecting another of his children. There were seven in all. Morgan was Furner’s seventh. After that he never came back.”

  The Spook shook his head wearily. “Emily had a hard life, lad, and we still stayed friends. So I helped her out when I could. Sometimes with money, sometimes finding work for her growing lads. As there was no father to fend for them, what else could I do? When Morgan was sixteen, I got him a job at Moor View Farm. The Hursts took to him so much that they eventually adopted him. They had no son of their own, and the farm would have been his. But he couldn’t stick to the work and things started to turn sour. It lasted barely a year.

  “As I told you, they had a daughter. She was about the same age and her name was Eveline. Young as they were, Morgan and Eveline fell in love. Her parents would have none of it because they wanted them to be brother and sister, so they beat them both; made their lives not worth living. Finally, unable to stand it any longer, Eveline drowned herself in the lake. After that, Emily begged me to get Morgan away from there and take him on as my apprentice. At the time it seemed a reasona
ble solution, but I had my doubts and I was proved right. Three years he lasted, until finally he went back to Emily, but he couldn’t keep away from Moor View Farm. He still lives there sometimes—at least, that’s when he’s not making mischief elsewhere.

  “The sister must be a lingerer, someone who’s not been able to cross over to the other side. And because of that, he’s got her in his power. And there’s no doubt that he is growing stronger. He certainly seems to have had some power over you. You’d better tell me exactly what’s been happening between you.”

  So I did, and as I talked, the Spook kept prompting me for details. I began with my meeting with Morgan at the graveyard chapel on the edge of the moor and ended with our conversation at Emily Burns’s grave.

  “I see,” said the Spook when I’d finished. “It’s clear enough now. As I told you before, Morgan was always fascinated by that ancient burial mound up on the moor. Dig into it long enough, and you’re bound to find something. Well, when he was my apprentice, he finally found a sealed chest with the grimoire inside. And that grimoire contains a ritual that is the only way to raise Golgoth. So that’s what he tried to do. Fortunately I got there before the ritual had gone too far and put a stop to it.”

  “What would have happened if he’d succeeded?” I asked.

  “Doesn’t bear thinking about, lad. One mistake in the ritual, and he’d have been dead. Better that than completing it successfully. You see, he’d followed the instructions to the letter and drawn a pentacle on the floor of his room in Moor View Farm, a five-pointed star within three concentric circles. So if he got the rest right, he was safe enough inside there. But Golgoth would have materialized on the outside of the pentacle and been loose in the County. Not for nothing was he called the Lord of Winter. It might have been years before summer returned. Freezing death and famine might have been our lot. Morgan offered up the farm dog as a sacrifice. Golgoth never touched it, but the poor animal died of fright.