The Last Apprentice: Complete Collection

by Joseph Delaney

  “Follow me, Master Ward,” Arkwright said, his voice softer, “and I’ll show you the garden.”

  Rather than leading the way back up the steps to the front room, Arkwright walked back toward the waterwheel. At first I thought he was going to squeeze past it, but then I noticed a narrow door to the left, which he unlocked. We strode out into the garden. I saw that the mist had lifted but still lingered in the distance beyond the trees. We made a complete inner circuit of the moat; from time to time Arkwright halted to point things out.

  “That’s Monastery Marsh,” he said, jabbing his finger toward the southwest. “And beyond it is Monks’ Hill. Never try to cross that marsh alone—or at least not until you know your way around or have studied a map. Beyond the marsh, more directly to the west, is a high earthen bank that holds back the tide from the bay.” I looked around, taking in everything he said. “Now,” he continued, “I want you to meet somebody else. . . .”

  That said, he put two fingers in his mouth and let out a long, piercing whistle. He repeated it, and almost immediately from the direction of the marsh, I heard something running toward us. Two large wolfhounds bounded into view, both leaping the moat with ease. I was used to farm dogs, but these animals had a savage air about them and seemed to be heading directly toward me. They had more wolf in them than dog, and had I been alone, I’m sure they’d have pulled me to the ground in seconds. One was a dirty-looking gray with streaks of black; its companion was as black as coal but for a dash of gray at the tip of its tail. Their jaws gaped wide, teeth ready to bite.

  But at Arkwright’s command, “Down!” they halted immediately, sat back upon their haunches, and gazed up at their master, tongues lolling from their open mouths.

  “The black one’s the bitch,” Arkwright said. “Her name is Claw. Don’t turn your back on her; she’s dangerous. And this is Tooth,” he added, pointing to the gray. “Better temperament, but they’re both working dogs, not pets. They obey me because I feed ’em well, and they know not to cross me. The only affection they get is from each other. They’re a pair, all right. Inseparable.”

  “I lived on a farm. We had working dogs,” I told him.

  “Did you now? Well, you’ll have an inkling of what I mean. No room for sentiment with a working dog. Treat them fairly, feed them well, but they have to earn their keep in return. I’m afraid there’s little in common between farm dogs and these two, though. At night they’re usually kept chained up close to the house and trained to bark if anything approaches. During the day they hunt rabbits and hares out on the edge of the marsh and keep watch for anything that might threaten the house.

  “But when I go out on a job, they come with me. Once they get a scent they never let it go. They hunt down whatever I set ’em on. And if it proves necessary, on my command they kill, too. As I said, they work hard and feed well. When I kill a witch, they get something extra in their diet. I cut out her heart and throw it to them. That, as your master will already have told you, stops her from coming back to this world in another body and also from using her dead one to scratch her way to the surface. That’s why I don’t keep dead witches. It saves time and space.”

  There was a ruthless edge to Arkwright—he certainly wasn’t a man to cross. As we turned to walk back to the house, the dogs following at our heels, I happened to glance up and saw something that surprised me. Two separate columns of smoke were curling upward from the roof of the mill. One must be from the stove in the kitchen. But where was the second fire? I wondered if it was coming from the locked room I’d been warned about. Was there something or someone up there Arkwright didn’t want me to see? Then I remembered about the unquiet dead that he allowed the run of his house. I knew he was a man who was quick to anger, and I was pretty sure that he wouldn’t want me prying, but I was feeling very curious.

  “Mr. Arkwright,” I began politely, “could I ask you a question?”

  “That’s why you’re here, Master Ward.”

  “It’s about what you put in the note you left me. Why do you allow the dead to walk in your house?”

  Again an angry expression flickered across his face. “The dead here are family. My family, Master Ward. And it’s not something I wish to discuss with you or anyone else, so you’ll have to contain your curiosity. When you get back to Mr. Gregory, ask him. He knows something about it, and no doubt he’ll tell you. But I don’t want to hear another word on the matter. Do you understand? It’s something I just don’t talk about.”

  I nodded and followed him back to the house. I might be there to ask questions, but getting them answered was another matter!

  CHAPTER VII

  Frog Kicks

  AS soon as it was dark, we had a light supper and then Arkwright helped me to carry the mattress and sheets back up to my room. The sheets were fine, but the mattress still felt damp, though I knew better than to complain.

  I was tired and settled down in my bare little room, hoping to get a good night’s sleep, but within the hour I was awoken by the same disturbing noises I’d heard the night before: the deep rumble of the waterwheel and that terrible scream that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. But this time, as the sound finally faded away, I heard two sets of footsteps climbing the stairs from the kitchen.

  I was sure that Arkwright was still in bed, so I knew it had to be the ghosts that haunted the mill. The sounds reached the landing and passed my bedroom door. I heard the door of the next room open and then close, and something sat down on the large double bed—the one with the saturated sheets. The springs creaked as if something was turning over, trying to get comfortable, and then there was utter silence.

  For a long while the peace continued, and I was just starting to relax and drift off to sleep when a voice spoke from the other side of my bedroom wall.

  “I can’t get myself comfy,” complained a man’s voice. “Oh, I wish I could sleep in a dry bed just once more!”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Abe. So sorry. I don’t mean to cause you such discomfort. It’s the water from the millstream. The water I drowned in. Can’t ever get away from it, no matter how hard I try. My broken bones ache but the wet plagues me most of all. Why don’t you go and leave me be? Nothing good can ever come of our staying together like this.”

  “Leave you? How can I ever leave you, my love? What’s a bit of discomfort when we’ve got each other?”

  At that the woman began to cry, filling the whole house with misery and pain. Moments later there were heavy boots descending the stairs from the room above. But these footsteps weren’t ghostly. I’d thought Arkwright had gone to bed, but he must have been upstairs in that topmost room.

  He came along the landing and I heard him halt at the door beyond mine and open it before calling out: “Please come upstairs. Why don’t you climb the stairs to my room, where you’ll both be warm and comfortable? Let’s talk. Tell me tales from the days when we were all happy together.”

  There was a long pause and then I heard him climb the stairs once more. I didn’t hear the ghosts following him, but after a while there was the murmur of his voice from above, as if he were engaging somebody in conversation.

  I couldn’t make out what was being said, but at one point Arkwright laughed with what sounded like forced joviality. After a while I drifted off to sleep again, and when I awoke, gray light filled the room.

  I was up before my new master and managed to cook the fish to his satisfaction. We ate in silence. I just didn’t feel comfortable with him and really missed living with the Spook and Alice. John Gregory could be a bit stern at times, but I liked him. When I occasionally spoke out of turn, he put me firmly in my place, but he certainly didn’t threaten to beat me.

  I wasn’t looking forward to my lessons much, but I would have felt even worse if I’d known what was going to happen next.

  “Can you swim, Master Ward?” Arkwright asked as he rose from the table.

  I shook my head. There’d never been much need to learn. The only wate
r near our farm had been a few shallow streams and ponds while the nearest river had a good solid bridge over it. And as for my master, John Gregory, he’d never even mentioned swimming. For all I knew he couldn’t swim himself.

  “Well, we need to sort that out as soon as possible. Follow me! And don’t bother to bring your staff. Mine’s the only one we’ll be needing. You won’t be needing your jacket or cloak either!”

  I followed Arkwright through the garden and downstream toward the canal. Once up on the canal bank, he came to a halt and pointed down at the water.

  “Looks cold, doesn’t it?”

  I nodded. It made me shiver just to look at it.

  “Well, it’s only October now and it’ll be a lot colder before the winter’s out, but sometimes we’ve no choice but to plunge in. Being able to swim could save your life in this part of the County. And what chance would you have against a water witch if you couldn’t swim? So jump in, Master Ward, and let’s make a start. The first part’s the hardest and the sooner you get it over with the better!”

  I just stared at the murky canal water. I couldn’t believe I was supposed to jump into that. When I hesitated and turned back to face him, about to protest, Arkwright sighed and reversed his staff so that he was gripping the end with the murderous spear and barbs. Next, to my utter astonishment, he leaned forward and pushed me hard in the chest. I overbalanced, fell back, and hit the canal with a tremendous splash. The shock of the cold water made me gasp, but by then my head was already under the water and I began to choke as it surged up my nose and into my open mouth.

  For a moment I didn’t know which way up I was. Only too aware that I was out of my depth, I thrashed around. Mercifully, my head soon bobbed above the surface and I could see the sky. I heard Arkwright shout something, but then, before I could even suck in a breath, I went under again. I was floundering, panicking, drowning, moving my arms and legs in all directions, trying to grab hold of something, anything, that would pull me to safety.

  Why didn’t Arkwright help? Couldn’t he see that I was drowning? But then something prodded me in the chest and I reached out and gripped it tightly. Holding on like grim death, I felt myself being pulled through the water. The next moment someone wrapped their fingers tightly in my hair and dragged me to the surface.

  I was against the bank, looking up into Arkwright’s grinning face. I tried to speak, tried to give him a piece of my mind. How stupid was that? He’d tried to drown me! But I was still choking and gasping for breath, water not words being expelled from my mouth.

  “Listen, Master Ward, when a diver wants to go deep, the easiest way is for him to hold a big stone so the weight takes him down quickly. You won’t sink to the bottom because it’s easier to float than sink. Your body does it naturally. All you need to do is keep your head up so you can breathe and learn a few strokes. Have you seen a frog kick its legs?” he asked me.

  I looked at him in puzzlement. Only now was I able to suck in the first proper lungfuls of air. It was so good just to be able to breathe.

  “I’ll pull you along with my staff, Master Ward. Practice frog kicks. We’ll work on your arms tomorrow. . . .”

  I wanted to let go of his staff and pull myself onto the bank, but before I could move or protest, Arkwright began walking south along the canal bank, his left hand pulling the staff so that I had to follow.

  “Kick!” he commanded.

  I did as he ordered. The chill was starting to get into my bones so I needed to move in order to keep warm. After a few hundred yards he changed direction.

  “Kick! Kick! Kick! Come on, Master Ward, you can do better than that. Kick harder! Imagine a water witch is after you!”

  After about fifteen minutes he pulled me out of the water. I was cold and saturated and my boots were full of dirty water. Arkwright looked down at them and shook his head.

  “Of course, swimming is a lot easier without your heavy boots, but you might not get the chance to take them off. Anyway, let’s get you back to the mill so you can dry off.”

  I spent the rest of the morning wrapped in a blanket before the stove, getting the warmth back into my body. Arkwright left me alone and spent a lot of the time upstairs. I was far from happy at the methods he’d used to try and teach me to swim and certainly wasn’t looking forward to my next lesson.

  Late in the afternoon he led me out into the garden, this time telling me to bring my staff. He stopped in a clearing and turned to face me.

  I looked at him in astonishment. He was holding his staff raised at forty-five degrees, as if he intended to hit me with it or defend himself. But he’d reversed it again so that the blade was at the bottom, the thicker end at the top.

  “Turn your staff as I’ve done!” he commanded. “No doubt your blade would stay retracted but we wouldn’t want any accidents, would we? Now, try and hit me! Let’s see what you’re made of!”

  I swung at him halfheartedly a few times, and he parried each blow easily.

  “That the best you can do?” he asked. “I’m trying to see what you’re capable of so I know how to help you improve. Try harder. Don’t worry, you won’t hurt me. Mr. Gregory said you were good at jabbing. Let’s see what you can do. . . .”

  So I tried. I really tried. I swung fast until I was breathing hard, and then finally I tried a jab—the special trick my master had taught me. You feinted with one hand before flicking the staff to the other. It was a trick that had saved my life when I’d faced the witch assassin Grimalkin. I felt sure I’d get through Arkwright’s guard, but when I tried it, he knocked aside my staff with ease.

  But he seemed satisfied that I’d finally tried my best and started showing me how to position my feet better as I made each lunge. We carried on until it was almost dark and then he called a halt.

  “Well, Master Ward, this is only the beginning. Get a good night’s sleep because it’ll be an even harder day tomorrow. I’ll start by getting you to work with the dogs. Then it’ll be back to the canal for your second swimming lesson, followed by more combat training. Next time I’ll be trying to hit you! Let’s hope you can defend yourself or you’ll have a bruise to show for each defensive skill you lack.”

  We went in to a well-deserved supper. It had been a difficult day, to say the least, but there was one thing I did have to admit. Arkwright’s methods might be harsh but he was a good teacher. I felt that I’d learned a lot already.

  CHAPTER VIII

  The Fisherman’s Wife

  AS it happened, I didn’t get any training the next day. We’d no sooner finished our breakfast than there was the sound of a distant bell. It rang three times.

  “Sounds like trouble,” Arkwright observed. “Bring your staff, Master Ward. Let’s go and see what the matter is.”

  That said, he led the way into the garden, across the salt moat, and toward the canal. A tall elderly man was waiting beneath the bell. He was clutching a piece of paper to his chest.

  “So you’ve decided . . . ,” Arkwright said when we drew near.

  The man nodded. He was thin as well as tall, with gray, wispy hair around his temples. It looked as though a strong gust of wind would blow him over. He held the paper out so that Arkwright could see. There were nineteen names on one side, three on the other. “We had a vote yesterday,” he said, a plaintive whine to his voice. “It was decided by a large majority. We don’t want her living nearby. It’s not right. Not right at all . . .”

  “I told you last time,” Arkwright said, sounding irritated. “We don’t even know for sure that she is one. Have they any children?”

  The thin man shook his head. “No children, but if she is one, your dogs will know, won’t they? They’ll be able to tell?”

  “Perhaps, but it’s not always as simple as that. Anyway, I’ll come and sort it out—one way or the other.”

  The man nodded and hastened away northward along the canal.

  When he’d gone, Arkwright sighed. “Not one of my favorite jobs, this. A bunch of good folk
s farther north think a local fisherman’s living with a selkie,” he said, the word good heavy with sarcasm. “They’ve been dithering for almost a year, trying to make up their minds. Now they want me to deal with it.”

  “A selkie? What’s that?” I asked.

  “A selkie is a shape-shifter and what’s commonly known as a seal-woman, Master Ward. Mostly they spend their lives in the sea but occasionally they take a fancy to a man—perhaps spying him when he’s out in his boat or mending his nets. The more attached to him they become, the more human they appear. The change takes a day or so at the most—they shift into a perfect female form, into the semblance of an extremely attractive woman. The fisherman usually falls head over heels in love at the very first meeting and marries the selkie.

  “They can’t have children, but apart from that it’s a perfectly happy marriage. I don’t see the harm in it, but if there’s a complaint, we have to act. It’s part of the job. We have to make people feel safe. That means using the dogs. Selkies sometimes live among people for years before there’s even the faintest whiff of suspicion. Mostly it’s the women who stir up their menfolk to complain. They get jealous. You see, as well as having more than her fair share of beauty, a selkie hardly ages at all.”

  “That fisherman—if his wife is a selkie,” I asked, “is he likely to know?”

  “After a while some work it out. But they don’t complain. . . .”

  With that Arkwright shrugged his shoulders and let out a long piercing whistle. Almost immediately it was answered by the distant barking of the dogs, and they bounded up, jaws agape, teeth threatening. Soon he was leading us north, striding along the canal bank with Tooth and Claw panting at his heels and me following a few paces behind. Before long we passed the man from the village; Arkwright didn’t even nod in his direction.

  I didn’t like the sound of this job at all, and hard though he seemed, Arkwright clearly wasn’t happy about it either. In one respect a selkie reminded me of a lamia: They could also shape-shift slowly into human form. I thought of Meg, the lamia witch my master once loved. How would he have felt if someone had gone after her with dogs? No better than the fisherman would feel when we went after his wife. My mam was probably a lamia, too, just like her sisters, and I knew how my dad would feel if she was hunted down like this. The whole situation made me feel bad. If the fisherman’s wife did no harm, why did she have to be hunted?