We left the canal, heading west toward the coast, and soon a level expanse of flat, light brown sand came into view. The day was chilly—there was no warmth in the sun, although it was sparkling on the distant sea. Giving the wolfhounds a wide berth, I moved up to walk at Arkwright’s side. I was curious and had questions to ask.
“Do selkies have any powers?” I asked. “Do they use dark magic?”
He shook his head without looking at me. “Their only real power is to shift their shape,” he replied morosely. “Once in human shape, they can revert back in minutes if threatened.”
“Does a selkie belong to the dark?” I asked.
“Not directly,” he answered. “They’re like humans in that respect: They can go either way.”
Soon we passed through a small hamlet of seven or so houses where the faint stink of rotten fish tainted the air. There were fishing nets and a couple of small boats in view but no sign of any people. Not even a twitch of lace curtains. They must have seen Arkwright coming and knew to stay indoors.
Once clear of the hamlet, I saw a solitary cottage in the distance and saw a man mending his nets on a small hillock behind it. In front on the edge of the sands, a washing line stretched from a metal hook in the wall by the front door to a wooden post. Clothes flapped on only half of the line. A woman came out of the cottage carrying an armful of wet clothes and a handful of pegs and started to hang out her washing.
“Well, let’s see what’s what,” Arkwright growled, giving a low whistle. Immediately both dogs bounded forward. “Don’t worry, Master Ward,” he continued. “They’re well-trained. If she’s human, they won’t so much as lick her!”
He suddenly began to sprint toward the house, and at that moment the fisherman looked up from his mending and came to his feet. His hair was white and he looked quite old. I saw then that my master wasn’t running toward the woman; his target was the fisherman. But the dogs were. The woman looked up, dropped her washing, pulled her skirts above her knees, and began to run toward the distant sea.
Without thinking I began to run, too, following the dogs toward their prey. Was she a selkie? If not, why had she run away? Perhaps her neighbors were vindictive and she’d been expecting trouble. Or maybe she was simply afraid of dogs; some people were. And Tooth and Claw would scare anybody. But something about the way she made directly for the sea unnerved me.
She looked young—far younger than the fisherman, young enough to be his daughter. We were closing on her now, despite the fact that she was running fast, long hair streaming behind her, legs pumping. She seemed to have no chance of outrunning Tooth and Claw. The sea was still a long way out. But then I noticed the channel directly ahead. It was like a river running through the sands, and the tide was racing in from the west. The choppy water already looked deep. Claw was at the woman’s heels now, jaws open wide, but suddenly she put on an extra spurt, almost leaving the dog standing.
Then she began to throw off her clothes as she ran and dived straight into the water. I reached the edge of the channel, looking down into the gulley. There was no sign of her. Had she drowned? Chosen to die that way rather than be ripped apart by the dogs?
The dogs were howling, running along the banks but not following. Then a face and shoulders appeared briefly above the water. The woman glanced back toward me and I knew. . . .
It was no longer a human face. The eyes were bulbous, the skin sleek. She was a selkie, all right. And now she was safe in her watery home. But I was surprised by the dogs. Why hadn’t they pursued her into the sea?
She was swimming powerfully up the channel against the surge of the tide, heading for the open sea. I watched her bobbing head for a few moments until she disappeared from sight. Then I turned and walked slowly back toward the cottage, the dogs following forlornly at my heels. In the distance I could see Arkwright, his arms wrapped around the fisherman, holding him fast. He’d prevented him from going to the aid of his wife.
As I drew closer, Arkwright released the man, who began to wave his arms frantically. Up close he looked older than ever.
“What harm were we doing? What harm?” wailed the fisherman, tears streaming down his face. “My life’s over now. She was all I lived for. Nearly twenty years we’ve been together, and you end it like that. And for what? The word of a few jealous so-called neighbors. What kind of man are you? She was gentle and kind and wouldn’t harm a soul!”
Arkwright shook his head but didn’t answer. He turned his back on the fisherman, and we strode away toward the hamlet, beyond which dark, heavy rain clouds were gathering. As we approached, doors started opening and curtains twitched. Only one person came out into the street, however: the thin man who’d rung the bell and summoned us to this unhappy task. He approached and held out a handful of coins. It looked like they’d taken a collection to pay my master’s bill. It was a surprisingly prompt payment. John Gregory rarely got paid immediately after a job. He often had to wait months—sometimes until after the next harvest.
I thought for a moment that Arkwright wasn’t going to accept the money. Even when it was in his hand, he looked more likely to throw it back in the man’s face than put it in his pocket. But pocket it he did and without a word moved on up the street.
“Won’t she come back when we’ve gone?” I asked as we began to walk back toward the canal.
“They never come back, Master Ward,” Arkwright answered, his face grim. “Nobody knows why but she’ll spend years out at sea now. Maybe the rest of her long life. Unless she spies another man she takes a fancy to. Perhaps she’ll get lonely out there. . . .”
“Why didn’t the dogs follow her into the water?” I asked.
Arkwright shrugged. “Had they caught her first she’d have been dead by now; make no mistake. But she’s very strong in her own element and well able to defend herself. Left alone she’s harmless, so I don’t ever put the dogs at risk unnecessarily. With a water witch it’s different and I expect the animals to put their lives on the line. But for a seal-woman, why bother? She’s no real threat to anybody. She’s away now and the villagers will feel safer in their beds tonight. So our job’s done.”
It seemed cruel to me, and I was far from happy at having taken part in what seemed an unnecessary act. Nearly twenty years they’d been together, and now the fisherman would face a lonely and bitter old age. I vowed to myself, there and then, that when I became a spook, there were some jobs I wouldn’t touch.
CHAPTER IX
Whacks and Lumps!
WE were back at the mill by early afternoon just as it started to rain. I’d hoped that we were going to eat, but Arkwright told me to get my notebook and sit at the kitchen table. It seemed that he was going to give me a lesson.
I sat waiting for quite a while, and finally he came out of the front room clutching a lit lantern and a bottle of red wine, which was already half empty. Had he drunk all that just now? He wore a scowl darker than a thundercloud and didn’t look in any mood for teaching.
“Write up what I taught you this morning,” he said, placing the lantern in the center of the table. I looked at it in surprise: It was a bit gloomy in the kitchen but still light enough to work by. Then he took a big gulp from the wine bottle and stared through the grimy kitchen window at the torrential rain cascading from the roof.
While I wrote, working within the large circle of yellow light, Arkwright just continued to stare, taking the occasional swig from the bottle. By the time I’d written up all I’d learned about kelpies, it was almost empty.
“Finished, Master Ward?” he asked as I put down my pen.
I nodded and gave him a smile, which he didn’t return. Instead he drained the last of the wine and came swiftly to his feet.
“I think it’s time for some whacks and lumps! Get your staff and follow me!”
My mouth opened and I looked at him in astonishment. I was nervous, too. I didn’t like the hard, cruel gleam in his eye. He snatched up his own staff and the lantern and strode off, his sh
oulders rolling aggressively. So I picked up my staff and rushed to follow at his heels.
He led me through the kitchen and along the corridor to the door at the end. It had two heavy bars but both of them were drawn back.
“Ever been inside here, Master Ward?”
I shook my head, and Arkwright opened the door and stamped down a couple of steps into the gloom. I followed him, and he hung the lantern from a hook in the middle of the ceiling. The first thing I noticed was that the room had no windows. It was perhaps ten feet by ten feet and set lower than the rest of the house, with stone flags rather than a wooden floor.
“What are whacks and lumps?” I asked nervously.
“It’s the phrase I sometimes use for practicals. You’ll have practiced throwing your chain in Mr. Gregory’s garden and using your staff against that dead tree stump. Yesterday we took it a step further when you tried to hit me and failed. But now it’s time to move on to something a little more painful. I’m going to do my best to whack you with my staff. No doubt you’ll suffer a few lumps and bruises, but you’ll gain useful combat skills as well. Come on, Master Ward. Let’s see what you’re made of!”
That said, he swung his staff at me, aiming for my head. Just in time I stepped backward, the heavy wooden end missing my nose by inches. He came at me again and I was forced to back away.
The Spook often made me practice the physical skills we used in fighting the dark. Trained and watched by my master, I’d worked at them until I was weary. But it had paid off in the end. In dangerous situations they’d saved my life. But I’d never fought against him, staff against staff. And Arkwright had been drinking again, which seemed to make him more hot-tempered.
He came in fast with his second blow, swinging his staff hard. Just in time I managed to block it with my own, the contact jarring up my arms and into my shoulders. I was moving widdershins, retreating warily, wondering if he really did intend to hurt me or was simply forcing me to practice my defense.
The answer came quickly. He feinted to the right, then swung his staff in a sharp arc to strike high on my left shoulder. The shock of that contact was tremendous and I immediately dropped my staff.
“Pick up your staff, Master Ward. As yet we’ve hardly begun. . . .”
My left hand was shaking as I grasped the staff. My shoulder was throbbing, the whole arm tingling.
“Well, you’re in trouble already, Master Ward. Had you practiced and readied yourself for this eventuality, you’d have been able to fight right-handed!”
I lifted my staff in defense now, gripping it with both hands to steady it. Three blows rained in hard, three tremendous thwacks against the wood. Each time I barely managed to block; had I failed, the blows would have struck my head or body. Arkwright was breathing faster now and his face was red with anger, his eyes bulging from their sockets, the veins standing out on his temples. He looked like he wanted to kill me: Time after time he swung at me ferociously until I lost count of the blows that I’d parried. As yet, I hadn’t struck a blow of my own, and my own anger was building inside me. What sort of man was this? Was this any way for a spook to train his apprentice?
He had the superior strength. He was a man and I was still a boy. But maybe I did have one thing to my advantage: speed. . . .
All I had to do was take my chance. No sooner had that thought entered my head than my chance came. He swung. I ducked. He overbalanced slightly—probably because of the wine he’d drunk—extended himself, and I struck him hard on the left shoulder, a precise retaliation for the hurt he’d inflicted on me.
But Arkwright didn’t drop his staff. He just came back harder than ever. One blow caught me on the right shoulder, another on the same arm, and it was my staff that fell onto the flags. The next thing I knew he’d swung his staff toward my head. I tried to step back, but it caught me a glancing blow on my forehead and I stumbled to my knees.
“Get up,” he said, looking down at me. “I didn’t hit you that hard. Just a little tap to show you what could have happened in a real fight. That final blow could have meant you’d never see daylight again. Life is tough, Master Ward, and there are lots of foes out there who’d just love to see you six feet under. It’s my job to train you well. My job to make sure you have the skills to stop ’em! And if it costs you a few lumps, then so be it. It’ll be a price well worth paying!”
I was relieved when, at last, he declared the lesson over. The rain had stopped and he was going to check the canal to the south, taking the dogs with him. He told me to review my Latin nouns and verbs while he was away. It seemed to me that he didn’t want me with him and would be happier if I went back to the Spook.
Obediently I worked on my verbs for a while but found it hard to concentrate. It was then that I heard a noise from somewhere above. Was it the first floor or the one above that?
I listened carefully at the foot of the stairs. After a few moments it started up again. It wasn’t footsteps or bumps and bangs—I couldn’t quite place the noise. It was a sort of crunching. Was there somebody up there? Or was it one of the ghosts I’d heard the previous night? The ghost of one of Arkwright’s family?
I knew it wasn’t wise to go upstairs; my new master certainly wouldn’t like it. But I was bored and curious and angry with him for that blow to my head. He’d called it a “little tap” but it had been more than that. I was also just about fed up with him and his secrets.
He was out and what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. So I set off up the stairs, one step at a time, trying to make as little noise as possible. On the first-floor landing, directly outside the double room, I paused and listened intently. I thought I could hear a faint rustling from inside. I eased open the door and entered the room, but it proved to be deserted. On the double bed, the covers were still pulled back. Once more I touched the sheet lightly with my finger. The mattress felt the same. Saturated with water. But there was something slightly different. The covers appeared to be pulled down slightly farther today.
I shivered, left the room quickly, and checked inside the other three. There, nothing seemed to have changed. I was standing in my own room when I heard the sound again. It came from the floor above.
So, very curious by now, I continued up the stairs. On the next landing there was only one door. I tried the handle and found it locked. I should have turned and gone back down the stairs then. After all, Arkwright had specifically warned me to keep away from this room. But I wasn’t happy with the way he’d treated me—that and the way he often refused to answer my questions. So on impulse and a little annoyed, I pulled my special key from my pocket and opened the door.
Once inside I was struck by the size of the room. I saw by the light of two large candles that it was big. Very big. Its floor space was the whole area of the house. The second thing I noticed was the temperature. It was warm and dry. There was another stove, twice the size of the one in the kitchen, and it was radiating heat. Next to it was a large coal scuttle, from which protruded a poker and a pair of tongs.
Bookshelves covered two whole walls—so Arkwright did have a library of his own. The floor was a very dark polished wood, and there was a lamb’s-wool rug placed before three chairs that stood facing the stove. It was then that I noticed something in the far, rear corner. . . .
At first glance I’d thought that the candles were resting on two low oblong tables. But I was wrong. They were actually two coffins, side by side, each supported by trestles. I walked toward them, feeling the hairs begin to rise on the back of my neck. The room was gradually growing colder. Or so it seemed. It was a warning that the unquiet dead were approaching.
I looked at the coffins and read the brass plaques. The first one was shiny and said: ABRAHAM ARKWRIGHT.
But unlike this first coffin, which was clean and polished and looked almost new, the wood of the second casket appeared rotten and was covered in mildew; to my astonishment, I could actually see steam rising from it into the warm air. The brass plate was tarnished and it was
only with great difficulty that I managed to read what was etched there: AMELIA ARKWRIGHT.
Then I saw, just below the brass plate, a thin golden ring resting on the wood. It looked like a wedding ring. It must have been Amelia’s.
I heard two sounds behind me: the clink of metal upon metal, then the door of the stove being opened. I spun around to see the stove door open and a poker being thrust into the burning coals. As I watched, it began to move. That was the noise I’d heard from below. The crunching, stirring sound of the fire being poked!
Afraid, I turned to leave the room immediately and ran down the stairs. What kind of ghost was this? Boggarts could manipulate matter, throwing rocks and boulders, breaking dishes and throwing pans about a kitchen. But not ghosts. Certainly not ghosts. Their power was usually confined to scaring people, very rarely driving the weak-minded to the edge of insanity. Ghosts didn’t usually have the power to do you much physical harm. Sometimes they tugged at your hair; strangler ghosts put their hands about your throat and squeezed. But this was a spirit beyond anything I’d been taught about or encountered. It had lifted the heavy metal poker from the coal scuttle, opened the door of the stove, and started to poke the fire.
That was all bad enough, but there was worse to come. At the foot of the stairs, waiting in the hall, Arkwright stood clutching another half-empty bottle of wine, his face like thunder.
“I’ve been listening here for a few moments and couldn’t believe I was hearing right. Haven’t just been in your own room, have you, Master Ward? You’ve been meddling. Been pushing your nose in where it doesn’t belong!”
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