“Have you known Mr. Arkwright long?” I asked.
“Ten years or more,” Mr. Gilbert replied. “Bill used to live at the mill with his parents, but they died years ago. Since becoming the local spook, he’s become a very good customer of mine. Takes a big delivery of salt every month. I fill five large barrels for him. I also bring him other provisions: candles, food—you name it. Especially wine. Likes a tipple, Bill does. Not your common elderberry or dandelion wine for him. Prefers his wine red. It comes by ship to Sunderland Point then overland to Kendal, where I take it aboard once a month. He pays me well.”
I was intrigued by the quantity of salt. In combination with iron, spooks used salt to coat the inside of pits when binding boggarts. It could also be used as a weapon against creatures of the dark. But we used relatively small amounts and bought small bags from the village grocer. Why would he need five barrels of salt every month?
“Is that your cargo now—salt and wine?” I asked.
“At the moment the hold is empty,” he replied, shaking his head. “I’ve just delivered a load of slate to a builder in Caster, and I’m heading back up to the quarry to collect some more. We carry all sorts of stuff around in this job. I’ll carry anything but coal—it’s so plentiful and cheap that it’s not even worth bothering to lock the hatches in case of theft. And that black stuff gets everywhere so I leave that to the specialist carriers.”
“So, Mr. Arkwright’s mill—is it right on the canal?”
“Close enough,” Mr. Gilbert replied. “You won’t be able to see it from the barge—it’s hidden by trees and bushes—but from the canal bank you could throw a small stone into the edge of the garden without straining too hard. It’s a lonely place, but no doubt you’ll be well accustomed to that.”
We lapsed into silence again, but then I thought of something that had struck me on the journey. “There are a lot of bridges over the canal. Why does it need so many?”
“I wouldn’t quarrel with that observation,” Mr. Gilbert said, nodding. “When they dug the canal, it cut a lot of farms in two. They’d paid the farmers for taking their land but also had to provide them with access to fields that lay on the other side of the canal. But there’s another reason. Horses and barges travel keeping to the left. So when you want to change direction, your horses can switch banks. Anyway, we’d best get on now. You would do well to reach the mill before dark.”
Mr. Gilbert hitched the horses to the barge, and we were soon moving slowly north again. It had been misty at dawn, but rather than being burned off by the sun, the mist soon became a dense fog that closed the visibility to a few paces. I could see the backside of the nearest horse, but its companion and Matthew Gilbert were hidden from view. Even the rhythmical clip-clop of hooves was muffled. Every so often we passed under a bridge, but apart from that there was nothing to see and I grew weary just sitting there.
About an hour before dark Mr. Gilbert brought the horses to a halt and walked back to where I was sitting. “Here we are!” he called out cheerily, pointing out into the mist. “Bill Arkwright’s house is straight over there.”
Collecting my bag and staff, I clambered out onto the towpath. There was a large post on the canal bank, to which Mr. Gilbert tethered the leading horse. The upper section of the post resembled a hangman’s scaffold, and from this hung a large bell.
“I ring the bell when I bring supplies,” he said, nodding toward the post. “Five clear rings to tell him it’s me with a delivery and not somebody needing a spook—it’s customary to ring three times in that case. Bill comes out and collects what I’ve brought. If there’s a lot, I sometimes help him carry it back to the boundary of the garden. He’s none too keen on anyone going closer than that!”
I understood. He was just like my master in that respect. People needing help rang a bell at the crossroads, and I was usually sent to find out what they wanted.
All I could see beyond the post was a gray wall of fog, but I heard the gurgling of a stream somewhere below. At this point the canal was elevated above the surrounding fields. From the towpath a steep grassy bank sloped into the fog.
“It’s only about ninety paces or so to the edge of his garden,” Mr. Gilbert said. “At the foot of this bank there’s a stream. Just follow it. It flows right under the house and used to drive the waterwheel when it was a working mill. Anyway, good luck. I’ll probably see you again next time I’m passing by with salt—or cases of wine,” he added, giving me a wink.
With that he untied the horses and walked off into the fog. Once more there came the muffled sound of hooves and the barge glided away northward. I remained standing there until the sound of hooves faded away altogether. Then, apart from the babble of water below me, I was enveloped in a blanket of silence. I shivered. I’d hardly ever felt so alone.
I scrambled down the steep bank and found myself on the edge of a fast-flowing stream. The water surged toward me before rushing into a dark tunnel under the canal, no doubt to reappear on the other side. The visibility had improved somewhat but was still no better than a dozen paces in any direction. I began to walk upstream, following a muddy track in the direction of the house, expecting it to loom out of the fog at any moment.
But all I could see were trees—drooping willows on both banks, their branches trailing into the water. They immediately impeded my progress, and I kept having to duck. At last I reached the perimeter of Arkwright’s garden, a seemingly impenetrable thicket of leafless trees, shrubs, and saplings. First, however, there was another barrier to cross.
The garden was bounded by a rusty iron fence: sharp-pointed, six-foot palings linked by three rows of horizontal bars. How could I get into the garden? The fence would be difficult to climb, and I didn’t want to risk being impaled on the top. So I followed the curve of the railings to the left, hoping to find another entrance. By now I was beginning to get annoyed with Matthew Gilbert. He’d told me to follow the stream but hadn’t bothered to explain what I’d find or how actually to reach the house.
I’d been following the railings for a few minutes when the going began to get very soggy underfoot. There were tussocks of marsh grass and pools of water, and in order to find slightly firmer ground I was forced to walk with my right shoulder almost touching the railings. But at last I came to a narrow gap.
I stepped through into the garden, to be confronted by a trench filled with water. The water was murky and it was impossible to say just how deep it might be. It was also at least nine paces across—impossible to jump even with a running start. I looked right and left but there was no way around it. So I tested it with my staff and, to my surprise, found the water came no higher than my knees. It looked like a defensive moat but was surely too shallow. So what was it for?
Puzzled, I waded across, quickly soaking the bottoms of my breeches in the process. Thickets were waiting for me on the other side, but a narrow path led through them, and after a few moments it opened out onto a wide area of rough grass, from which grew some of the largest willow trees I’d ever seen. They emerged from the fog like giants, with long, thin wet fingers that trailed against my clothes and tangled in my hair.
At last I heard the babbling of the stream again—before catching my first glimpse of Arkwright’s mill. It was bigger than the Spook’s Chipenden house, but size was the only impressive thing about it. Constructed of wood, it was dilapidated and sat oddly on the ground, the roof and walls meeting at strange angles; the former was green with slime, and grass and small seedlings sprouted from the gutters. Parts of the building looked rotten and unsound, as if the whole structure were just biding its time, waiting for its inevitable demise in the first storm of the winter.
In front of the house the stream hurled itself at the huge wooden waterwheel, which remained idle, immobile despite the furious efforts of the torrent. The water rushed on into a dark tunnel beneath the building. Looking at the wheel more closely, I could see that it was rotten and broken and probably hadn’t moved for many a long year.<
br />
The first door I came to was boarded up, as were the three windows closest to it. So I walked on toward the stream until I reached a narrow porch enclosing a large, sturdy door. This looked like the main entrance so I knocked three times. Perhaps Arkwright was back by now? When nobody came in response, I rapped again, harder this time. Finally I tried the handle but found the door locked.
What was I supposed to do now? Sit on the step in the cold and damp? It was bad enough in daylight but soon it would be dark. There was no guarantee that Arkwright would be back before then. Investigating the body in the water might take him days.
There was a way to solve my problem. I had a special key, made by Andrew, the Spook’s locksmith brother. Although it would open most doors and I expected the one before me to present little difficulty, I was reluctant to use it. It just didn’t seem right to go into someone’s house without their permission, so I decided to wait a little longer to see if Arkwright turned up after all. But soon the cold and damp began to seep into my bones and changed my mind for me. After all, I was going to live there for six months, and he was expecting me.
The key turned easily in the lock, but the door groaned on its hinges as it slowly opened. The mill was gloomy within, the air damp and musty and tainted with the strong odor of stale wine. I took just one step inside, allowing my eyes to adjust, then looking about me. There was a large table at the far end of the room, at the center of which was a single candle set within a small brass candlestick. I put down my staff and used my bag to wedge open the door and allow some light into the room. Pulling my tinderbox from my pocket, I had the candle lit within moments. That done, I noticed a sheet of paper on the table held in position by the candlestick. One glance and I could see that it was a note for me so I picked it up and began to read.
Dear Master Ward,
It seems that you have used your initiative; otherwise you would have spent the night outside in the dark, an experience that would be less than pleasant. Here you will find things very different from Chipenden.
Although I follow the same trade as Mr. Gregory, we work in different ways. Your master’s house is a refuge, cleansed from within; but here, the unquiet dead walk and it is my wish that they do so. They will not harm you, so leave them be. Do nothing.
There is food in the larder and wood for the stove by the door, so eat your fill and sleep well. It would be wise to spend the night in the kitchen and await my return. Do not venture into the lowest part of the house nor attempt to enter the topmost room, which is locked.
Respect my wishes both for your good and for mine.
Bill Arkwright
CHAPTER V
A Shrill High Scream
I found Arkwright’s comments about the dead very strange. Why would he allow them to disturb the tranquility of his house? Surely it was his duty to give them peace by sending them toward the light? That’s certainly what the Spook would have done. But my master had already explained that Arkwright might do things differently and it would be my duty to adapt to his ways.
I looked about, now able to see the room properly for the first time. It was not in the least inviting; it wasn’t really a living room at all. The windows were boarded up, so no wonder it was gloomy. No doubt it had been used for storage when the building was a working mill. There was no fireplace, and apart from the table the only items of furniture were two hard-backed wooden chairs, standing in opposite corners of the room. But there were several crates of wine stacked against the wall and a long row of empty bottles. Dust and cobwebs festooned the walls and ceiling, and although the front door opened directly into the room, Arkwright clearly used the room only as a means to reach the other parts of the house.
I moved my bag away from the door before closing and locking it. Next I took the candle from the table and went through to the kitchen. The window over the sink wasn’t boarded up, but it was still very foggy outside and the light was starting to fail. On the window ledge lay one of the biggest knives I’d ever seen. It certainly wasn’t for the preparation of food! However, the kitchen was tidier than I’d expected, free of dust, with plates, cups, and pans neatly stacked in wall cupboards and a small dining table and three wooden chairs. I found the larder filled with cheese, ham, bacon, and half a loaf.
Rather than a fireplace, there was a large stove, wider than it was tall, with two doors and an iron chimney that twisted over it to enter the ceiling above. The left-hand door opened to reveal a frying pan; the right was filled with wood and straw, ready for lighting. No doubt this was the only way to heat and cook in a wooden building like this.
Wasting no time, I used my tinderbox to light the stove. The kitchen soon filled with warmth, and then I began frying three generous rashers of bacon. The bread was dry and past its best but still good enough to toast. There was no butter, but the food went down very well and I was soon feeling much better.
I began to feel sleepy so I decided to go upstairs and look at the bedrooms, hoping to work out which one was intended for me. I carried the candle with me and it proved to be a wise decision. The stairs could hardly have been darker. On the first floor there were four doors. The first led to a lumber room full of empty boxes, dirty sheets, blankets, and miscellaneous rubbish that gave off an unpleasant smell of mold and decay. The walls had damp patches, and some of the heaped sheets were heavily mildewed. The next two doors each led to single bedrooms. In the first the crumpled sheets showed that the bed had been slept in; the second contained a bed with a bare mattress. Was that meant to be mine? If so, I longed to be back in Chipenden. There was no other furniture in the bleak, uninviting room, and the air was chilly and damp.
The fourth room had a large double bed in it. The blankets lay in an untidy heap at its foot, and again the sheets were rumpled. Something didn’t feel right in this room, and the hairs on the back of my neck began to rise. I shivered, lifted the candle higher, and approached the bed. It actually looked wet, and when I touched it lightly with my fingers, I found it saturated. It couldn’t have been wetter if someone had emptied half a dozen bucketfuls of water over it. I looked at the ceiling but could see no hole there nor any signs of staining due to leaks. How had it got so wet? I quickly backed away through the door, closing it firmly behind me.
The more I thought about it, the less I liked this floor. There was another level above, but Arkwright had warned me, so I decided to take his advice and sleep on the kitchen floor. At least it didn’t feel damp and the heat from the stove would keep me warm until morning.
Just after midnight something woke me. The kitchen was in almost total darkness, with just the faintest of glows from the stove.
What had disturbed me? Had Arkwright returned home? But the hairs on the back of my neck were rising again and I shivered. Arkwright had said that the unquiet dead were present in the house. If so, more than likely I’d soon know about it.
Just then there was a deep rumbling sound from somewhere below that vibrated right through the walls of the mill. What was it? It seemed to be getting louder and louder.
I was intrigued but I decided not to get up. Arkwright had told me to do nothing. It was none of my business. Even so, the noise was scary and disturbing, and I couldn’t get back to sleep, no matter how hard I tried. Eventually I worked out what the sound was. The waterwheel. The waterwheel was turning! Or at least it sounded like it.
Then there was a shrill scream, and the rumbling stopped as quickly as it had started. It was a scream so terrible and filled with such extreme anguish that I covered my ears. Of course that didn’t help. The sound was inside my head—the remnants of something that had taken place many years earlier in this mill. I was listening to someone in terrible pain.
At last the scream faded away and everything became peaceful and quiet again. What I’d heard would have been enough to drive most people from the building. I was a spook’s apprentice and such things were part of the job, but I still felt scared—my whole body was trembling. Arkwright had said that nothin
g here would harm me but there was something strange going on. Something more than just a routine haunting.
Even so, gradually I became calmer, and soon I was fast asleep again.
I slept well, too well. It was long past sunrise when I awoke to find that someone else was with me in the kitchen.
“Well, boy!” a deep voice boomed. “You’re easily taken unawares. It doesn’t pay to sleep too deeply in these parts. Nowhere is safe!”
I sat up quickly, then stumbled clumsily to my feet. Facing me was a spook, holding his staff in his left hand and a bag in his right. And what a bag! It could have easily contained both my master’s and my own within it. Then I noticed the tip of the staff. My master’s staff and mine both had retractable blades but this staff had a clearly visible, wicked-looking knife at least twelve inches long, with six backward-facing barbs, three on each side.
“Mr. Arkwright?” I asked. “I’m Tom Ward. . . .”
“Aye, I’m Bill Arkwright, and I guessed who you must be. I’m pleased to meet you, Master Ward. Your master speaks highly of you.”
I stared at him, trying to rub the sleep from my eyes. He wasn’t quite as tall as my master, but he was sturdier in a sort of wiry way that suggested strength. His face was gaunt and he had large green eyes and a strikingly bald head, from which not even a solitary hair sprouted; it was shaved as closely as that of a monk. On his left cheek was a vivid scar, which looked to be from a wound recently inflicted.
I also saw that his lips were stained purple. The Spook didn’t drink, but once, when he’d been ill, raving with the fever, he’d drunk a whole bottle of red wine. Afterward his lips had been that same purple color.
The Last Apprentice: Complete Collection Page 94