“Can you walk?” I asked.
Alice nodded. “Think so,” she said, so I gripped her hand and helped her to her feet. “Carried me out of range of the binding, you did. It hurt a lot, but I’m almost free now. Though Mab’s still got that lock of my hair. Dread to think what other mischief she could get up to, using that. She has the advantage of me there, all right!”
We carried on north toward Downham. At first Alice seemed to find it difficult to walk, but with every step she appeared to grow a little stronger, and soon we were making reasonable progress. The trouble was, the sounds of pursuit were gradually getting closer. They were gaining on us.
As we climbed to the edge of Downham Moor and entered a small wood, Alice suddenly put her hand on my arm and brought us to a halt.
“What is it, Alice? We’ve got to keep going—”
“Something ahead, Tom. There’s a dead witch heading this way.”
I saw a hunched figure moving directly toward us through the trees, feet shuffling through last autumn’s soggy leaves. It would be one of the really strong witches who were able to leave the dell and hunt for prey. The witch was heading in our direction, but she didn’t seem to be moving very fast. We couldn’t go back because the Mouldheels weren’t too far behind, but we could move to the right or the left and give her a wide enough berth. But when I tried to lead Alice off the path, she put her hand on my arm again.
“No, Tom. It’ll be all right. I know this witch. It’s old Maggie Malkin. She’s family. They hanged her at Caster three years ago but let us bring her home for burial. Didn’t bury her though, did we? Carried her to the dell where she’d have company. And here she is now. Wonder if she’ll remember me. Don’t worry, Tom. This could be just what we need. . . .”
I moved away from Alice and readied my staff. I didn’t like the look of the dead witch one little bit. Her long dark gown was slimy and covered in patches of mold. There were leaves stuck to it—no doubt she buried herself under the trees to sleep away the daylight hours. Her eyes were open, but they bulged from their sockets as if about to pop out onto her cheeks, and her neck was too long, with her head twisted round to the left. And where the moonlight dappled through the trees, there was a faint silver trail behind her, the kind that a slug or snail leaves in its wake.
“Good to see you, Cousin Maggie,” Alice called out in a cheerful voice.
At that, the dead witch came to a halt. She was now no more than five paces away.
“Who speaks my name?” she croaked.
“It’s me, Alice Deane. Don’t you remember me, cousin?”
“My memory ain’t what it used to be,” sighed the witch. “Come closer, child, and let me see you.”
To my horror, Alice obeyed, stepping right up to Maggie, who put her hand on her shoulder and sniffed loudly at her three times. I wouldn’t have liked that hand touching me. Her long fingernails resembled the talons of a predatory bird.
“You’ve grown, child,” said the witch. “So much so that I hardly recognize you. But you still smell like family, and that’s enough for me. But who’s the stranger with you? Who’s the boy?”
“It’s my friend Tom,” Alice said.
The dead witch stared hard at me and sniffed the air. Then she frowned and opened her mouth to reveal two jagged rows of blackened teeth.
“He’s a strange one, that,” she said. “Don’t smell right and his shadow’s too long. He’s not good company for a young girl like you!”
A shaft of moonlight had pierced the trees, casting our shadows along the ground. My shadow was very long, at least twice the length of Alice’s and Maggie’s—something that always happens in moonlight. I never give it much thought. I’ve just gotten used to it.
“Better choose friends from your own kind,” continued the witch. “That’s what you should do. Anything else only ends in sorrow and regret. You’d be better off rid of him. Give him to me, that’s a good girl. The hunt ain’t gone well tonight, and my tongue is bone-dry. So give me the boy . . .”
With those words the dead witch thrust out her tongue so far that, momentarily, it hung well below her chin.
“No, Maggie—need something juicier than him, you do,” Alice said. “Ain’t got much meat on his bones, and his blood’s too thin for your taste. No, back yonder, that’s where the hunting’s good tonight,” she went on, pointing back the way we’d come. “Mouldheel blood is what you need.”
“Be there Mouldheels back there?” asked Maggie, raising her head and gazing through the trees while running her tongue over her lips. “Mouldheels, you say?”
“Enough to last you a week or more,” said Alice. “Mab and her sisters and more besides. You won’t go hungry tonight.”
Saliva began to dribble from the witch’s open mouth, dripping onto the moldy leaves at her feet. Then, without another word or even a glance back, she set off toward the sound of the voices to our rear. She was still shuffling, but her progress was far more rapid than before, while we carried on our journey, walking fast.
“Should keep ’em busy for a while,” Alice said with a grim smile. “Dead Maggie hates the Mouldheels. Pity we can’t stay and watch!”
Now that the immediate danger was over, my mind turned to other things. I was dreading the answer, but I just had to know.
“Did you find out anything about Jack and his family?” I asked Alice.
“Ain’t no easy way to tell you this, Tom,” she said. “But no point in not telling you the truth, is there?”
My heart lurched up into my mouth. “They’re not dead, are they?” I asked.
“Two days ago they were still alive,” Alice told me. “But they won’t be for long if something ain’t done. Got ’em locked away in the pits under Malkin Tower. The Malkins done it. My family are in the thick of it.” She shook her head. “Got your trunks, too.”
CHAPTER VII
Alice’s Tale
WITHIN an hour or so we were knocking on the door of the presbytery. Both Father Stocks and the Spook had returned, and at first my master was angry that I’d gone off by myself.
As we sat down at the kitchen table, I noticed that the mirror above the fireplace had been turned to the wall. It was still dark, and Father Stocks had obviously taken that wise precaution against being spied on by witches.
My master made me give a detailed account of what had happened, and by the time I’d finished, Father Stocks had placed four bowls of hot chicken soup on the table. As my master clearly had no desire to face the witches just yet, it seemed we weren’t fasting, so I wolfed down the soup gratefully.
Of course, although I explained how we’d had to flee the Mouldheels, I didn’t mention that Alice had talked to the dead witch. I didn’t think that would be the kind of thing the Spook would like to hear. To him, it would be an indication of how close Alice still was to her family and how little we could trust her.
“Well, lad,” he said, dunking a big slice of crusty bread into his steaming soup, “though you were foolish to go off alone with that girl in the first place, all’s well that ends well. But now I’d like to hear what Alice has to say,” he went on, looking at her. “So start at the beginning and tell me everything that happened before Tom found you. Leave nothing out. The tiniest detail may be important.”
“Spent a day and a night sniffing around before the Mouldheels caught me,” Alice began. “Long enough to find things out. Went to talk to Agnes Sowerbutts, one of my aunts, and she told me most of it. Some things are as clear as the nose on your face. Ain’t too difficult to work out what’s going on there. But other things are a mystery. As I told Tom, his brother Jack and his family are prisoners in the dungeons under Malkin Tower. No surprise, that. No surprise either that the Malkins done it. Tom’s trunks are there, too. And having real trouble with them three big ones, they are. Got the little boxes open easy enough, but they can’t get into the big trunks. They don’t know what’s in ’em either. Just that it’s something well worth having—”
“How did they know about the trunks in the first place?” the Spook interrupted.
“Got themselves a seer,” Alice said. “Calls himself Tibb. Sees things at a distance, he does, but can’t see into the trunks. Just knows they’re worth opening. Knows about Tom, too; sees the future and thinks Tom’s a real serious threat. More dangerous even than you,” she said, nodding toward the Spook. “Can’t afford to let him grow up. Want Tom dead, the Malkins do. But first they want Tom’s keys—so that they can open his mam’s trunks.”
“Who is this so-called seer?” asked the Spook, a touch of disdain in his voice. “Was he born and bred in the County?”
My master didn’t believe that anyone could see into the future, but I’d witnessed a few things that made me think he could be wrong. Mam wrote to me before we finally faced the Priestown Bane. She’d predicted what was likely to happen and had been proved right.
“Born in the County, after a fashion, but Tibb ain’t human,” answered Alice. “One glance at him tells you that—”
“You’ve seen him?” asked the Spook.
“Seen him all right, and so has Tom. We saw him in a mirror. The Mouldheels kept me prisoner in a cellar most of the time, and there were mirrors in there, so they could keep an eye on me. But Tibb was too strong and used one of those Mouldheel mirrors to scry and spy for himself. He’s seen that I’m here, but more importantly he knows that Tom rescued me. Ugly, he is, with sharp teeth. Small but strong and dangerous. Only got three toes on each foot, too. No, he ain’t human—that’s for sure.”
“So where’s he from? I’ve not heard of him before,” said my master.
“Last Halloween the Malkins called a truce with the Deanes, and both covens got together to make Tibb. Put a big boar’s head in a cauldron and cooked it. Boiled off all the pig flesh and brains and made it into brawn. Each member of the covens spat into it thirteen times. Then they fed it to a sow. Seven months or so later they slit open the sow’s belly, and out crawled Tibb. Ain’t got much bigger since, but he’s stronger than a fully grown man.”
“Sounds more a tale of dreaming than waking,” said the Spook wryly, an edge of mockery in his voice. “Where did you hear it? From your aunt?”
“Some of it. The rest from the Mouldheel sisters—Mab, Beth, and Jennet. They caught me while I was skirting Bareleigh. But for Tom, they’d have put an end to me for sure. Tried to talk them into setting me free. Said I no longer belonged to my family. But they hurt me really bad. Made me say things I didn’t want to say. Sorry, Tom, but I couldn’t help myself. Told ’em about you, I did, and how you’d come to Pendle to try and rescue your family. Even told Mab where you were staying. I’m really sorry, but I couldn’t help myself. . . .”
Tears began to glisten in Alice’s eyes, and I went across and put my arm around her shoulder.
“No harm done,” I said.
“One other thing you should know,” she went on, biting at her bottom lip before taking a deep breath. “While I was a prisoner of the Mouldheels, the Deanes and Malkins came a-calling. Just a couple of each, that’s all. Talked round the fire outside, they did—I was too far away to hear most of what was said, but I think they were trying to persuade Mab to help them do something. But I clearly saw Mab shake her head and send them away.”
The Spook frowned in puzzlement. “Why would the Malkins and Deanes speak to a mere girl about something like that?” he asked.
“A lot’s changed since you were last here, John,” Father Stocks observed thoughtfully. “The Mouldheel coven is growing in power and starting to present a serious challenge to the other two. And it’s a new generation that’s responsible. Mab can’t be much more than fourteen, but she’s more menacing than a witch twice that age. She’s already the leader of the whole clan, and the others fear her. It’s said that she’s an expert scryer and can read the future better than any witch has ever done before. Perhaps this Tibb is something the Malkins have bred to counter her growing power.”
“Then let’s hope she doesn’t change her mind and join with the other covens,” the Spook said gravely. “Tibb sees things at a distance, you say,” he continued, directing his words toward Alice. “Is it a type of long-sniffing?”
“Long-sniffing and scrying together, it is,” explained Alice. “But he can’t do it all the time. Needs to drink fresh human blood.”
A hush fell over the room. I could see that Father Stocks and the Spook were thinking about what had been said. Scrying was the term witches used for prophecy. The Spook didn’t believe in it, but I could tell that he was disturbed by the way Tibb had found out about Mam’s trunks. The more I’d heard, the worse the situation seemed. From the first time the Spook had warned me that we’d be traveling to Pendle to deal with the witches, I’d had serious misgivings. How could he possibly hope to deal with so many? And what were we going to do now that Jack and his family were prisoners in the dungeons under Malkin Tower?
“Why did they take them?” I asked. “They’d gotten the trunks. Why didn’t they just leave them behind?”
“Sometimes witches do things just for badness,” Alice answered. “Might easily have killed them before leaving the farm. Capable of that, they are. But most likely they took ’em alive because they’re your family. Need the keys, they do, and hostages are a way to put pressure on you.”
“We know where Jack, Ellie, and Mary are now,” I said, my anger and impatience growing. “What are we going to do about getting them free? How are we going to do it?”
“I think there’s only one thing we can do, lad,” said the Spook. “Get help. My plan was to spend the summer and the autumn harrying our enemies; trying to divide the clans. Now we’ve got to act quickly. Father Stocks has suggested something that I’m not entirely happy with, but he’s convinced me that it’s the only way we’ll have any chance at all of saving your family.”
“There’s an element of risk involved, I’ll grant you that. But what other choice do we have?” asked Father Stocks. “There are some rough elements living in those three villages, who either willingly or through fear of the covens lend them their support. Then there are the clan menfolk, of course. And even if we could somehow fight our way past them, Malkin Tower is formidable indeed. It’s built of good County stone and has a moat, a drawbridge, and a stout wooden door studded with iron beyond that. In effect it’s a small castle.
“So, young Tom, this is what I propose. Tomorrow you and I will walk over to the big house at Read and speak to the local magistrate there. As next of kin to those who were abducted, you’ll have to make a formal complaint. The magistrate’s name is Roger Nowell and until about five years ago he was high sheriff at Caster. He’s an esquire, one rank below a knight, and also a good, honest man. We’ll see if we can persuade him to take action.”
“Aye,” said the Spook, “and during his period of office at Caster, not one single witch was brought to trial. As we well know, those charged are usually falsely accused anyway, but it does tell us a lot about him. You see, he doesn’t believe in witchcraft. He’s a rationalist. A man of common sense. For him witches simply don’t exist—”
“How can he think like that when he lives in Pendle, of all places?” I asked.
“Some people have closed minds,” my master answered. “And it’s in the interests of the Pendle clans to keep his mind closed. So he’s allowed to see and hear nothing that could make him the least bit suspicious.”
“But, of course, we won’t be bringing any charges of witchcraft,” Father Stocks said, pulling a piece of paper from his cassock and holding it up. “Robbery and kidnapping are what Master Nowell will understand. Here I have accounts by two witnesses who saw your brother and his family being taken through Goldshaw Booth on the way to Malkin Tower. I wrote out their testimony yesterday and they made their mark. You see, not everyone in that Devil’s Triangle is in league with witches or afraid for their own skin. But I’ve promised them that they’ll remain anonymous. Otherwise their lives wouldn’t
be worth a wisp of straw. But it’ll be enough to get Nowell to act.”
I wasn’t that happy with what was being proposed. The Spook had also expressed reservations. But something had to be done, and I couldn’t think of an alternative plan.
Father Stocks’s cottage had four upstairs rooms, so there was accommodation for three guests. We had a few hours’ sleep and were up at dawn. Then, after a breakfast of cold mutton, the Spook and Alice stayed behind while I accompanied the priest south. This time we took the westerly route, traveling with Pendle Hill to our left.
“Read is south of Sabden, Tom,” the priest explained, “but even if we were heading for Bareleigh, this would be the way I’d go. It’s safer. You were lucky to get through that dell in one piece last night.”
I was traveling without my cloak and staff so as not to draw attention to myself. Not only was it witch country, but Master Nowell didn’t believe in witchcraft, so he probably wouldn’t have much time for spooks or their apprentices. Nor did I take any weapons that could be used against the dark. I trusted Father Stocks to get us safely to Read and back before sunset. And, as he’d explained, we’d be traveling on the safer side of the hill.
After about an hour we halted and slaked our thirst with the cold waters of a stream. When we’d drunk our fill Father Stocks pulled off his boots and socks, sat down on the bank, and dangled his bare feet in the fast-flowing water.
“That feels good,” he said with a smile.
I nodded and smiled back. I sat near the bank, but I didn’t bother to take off my own boots. It was a pleasant morning; the sun was starting to take the chill from the air and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. We were in a picturesque spot, and the nearby trees didn’t obscure our view of Pendle Hill. Today it looked different, somehow friendlier, and its green slopes were dotted with white spots, some of them moving.
“Lots of sheep up there,” I said, nodding toward the hill. Closer by, beyond the stream, the field was also full of sheep and bleating, almost fully grown lambs, soon to be separated from their mothers. It seemed cruel, but farming was a livelihood and they’d end up at the butcher’s.
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