Dear Alice,
I am missing you and our life at Chipenden very much.
Being Arkwright’s apprentice isn’t easy. He is a hard, sometimes cruel man, but despite that, he knows his job very well and has much to teach me about things that come out of the water. Recently we’ve had an encounter with a water witch that he calls Morwena. Soon we are going to find her lair and hunt her down once and for all.
I hope to see you soon.
Love,
Tom
Next I wrote my letter to the Spook.
Dear Mr. Gregory,
I hope you are well. I must confess that I did not get off to a good start with Mr. Arkwright, but the situation has settled down now. He has a good knowledge of things that come out of the water, and I hope to learn a lot.
Recently, on a marsh path close to the water mill, I was attacked by a water witch called Morwena. It seems that she is an old enemy of Arkwright’s who has never, until now, ventured so close to his house. Perhaps you’ve heard of her. Arkwright says she is the Fiend’s own daughter and he thinks that she has been sent against me by her father.
Soon we are going to hunt her down. I look forward to working with you again in the spring.
Your apprentice,
Tom Ward
Both letters written, I sealed them into an envelope which I addressed: To Mr. Gregory of Chipenden.
As I sat on the bank of the canal to wait for Matthew Gilbert, Claw sat to my left, her eyes constantly flicking between me and the water. It was a crisp, bright day and the canal looked anything but threatening, yet it was reassuring to have her there to guard me.
About an hour later, the barge came into sight from the south. After mooring the barge Mr. Gilbert unhitched the horses and tethered them to graze.
“Well, that saves me ringing the bell!” he called out merrily when he saw me. I helped lift the barrels of salt from the hold and onto the bank. Although relatively small, they were heavy.
“I’ll have a five-minute break before I set off again,” he said, settling himself down on the stern of the barge, his feet resting on the towpath. “How’ve you found it working for Bill Arkwright? It looks like you’ve got yourself an injury already.” He gestured toward my ear.
I grinned and sat down beside him. “Yes, it’s been a hard start, as you predicted,” I told him. “So bad that I nearly went back to Mr. Gregory. But we’re getting along better now. I’m starting to grow used to the dogs as well,” I said, nodding toward Claw.
“Dogs like this take a bit of getting used to, no doubt,” Mr. Gilbert said. “As does their master. More than one lad has gone back to Chipenden with his tail between his legs, so you wouldn’t be the first. If you ever decide to leave, I pass here on my way south every Wednesday. It’s a salt run that eventually takes me to the end of the canal at Priestown. As far as speed goes, it’s no faster than walking but it would save your legs and get you through Caster by the most direct route. Might be a bit of company for you, too. I’ve a son and a daughter about your age. They take turns to help me on the barge from time to time.”
I thanked him for the offer, then handed him the envelope with a coin to pay the post wagon. He promised to drop it off at Priestown. As he harnessed the horses, I lifted one of the barrels. I tried positioning it under my arm.
“On your shoulder! That’s the best way!” Mr. Gilbert called out cheerfully.
His advice proved sound. Once in position, the barrel was easy to carry. So, with Claw at my heels, I made the five trips to the house in just under half an hour.
After that, Arkwright gave me another theory lesson.
“Open your notebook, Master Ward. . . .”
I opened it immediately and looked up, waiting to hear what he would say.
“Your heading is Morwena,” he told me. “I want you to write down everything I’ve told you and you’ve read so far. Such knowledge will come in useful. It’ll soon be time to go a-hunting. We’ve got her finger and we’ll be putting it to very good use.”
“How are we going to use it?” I asked.
“You’ll find out soon enough, so curb your impatience. The dog’s wounds don’t seem to have become infected, and so far your ear hasn’t dropped off. Assuming there’s no change tomorrow, we’ll set off across the sands to Cartmel. If we find out what we need to know—well then, we might not be back here for quite some time. Not until we’ve dealt with Morwena once and for all!”
CHAPTER XIII
The Hermit of Cartmel
SOON after dawn the following day, with the dogs at our heels, we made our way toward Cartmel; the quickest way was across the sands of Morecambe Bay. It was another bright day, and I was happy to get away from the mill for a while. I was looking forward to seeing the County north of the bay, with its picturesque mountains and lakes.
Had I been with the Spook, I’d have been carrying both bags, but it seemed that Arkwright always carried his own. We didn’t have very far to walk before we reached Hest Bank, the starting point for our journey across the sands. Here we found two coaches and three horsemen, as well as a number of people on foot. The bare sands seemed to be inviting us to cross, and the sea was a long way out; I wondered what they were all waiting for and asked Arkwright.
“It may look safe now, but the sands of the bay can be treacherous,” he replied. “A sand guide will walk ahead of the front coach—a man who knows the tides and terrain like the back of his own hand. We have to cross two river channels; the second one in particular, the Kent, can be dangerous after heavy rains. It can turn to quicksand. We’re waiting now for the ebb tide to reach the point that’ll give those carriages time to cross safely.
“Never try to walk across the bay without a guide, Master Ward. I’ve lived here most of my life and even I wouldn’t try it. You might have just learned to swim but even a grown man with years of experience wouldn’t survive. The water comes in down the channels so fast you can soon get cut off and drown!”
A tall man wearing a wide-brimmed hat approached; he walked barefoot and carried a staff. “This is Mr. Jennings, the sand guide,” Arkwright told me. “He’s watched over these sands for almost twenty years.”
“It’s a grand day!” Mr. Jennings called out. “Who’s this you’ve got with you, Bill?”
“A good day to you, Sam. This is Tom Ward, my apprentice for the next six months.”
The sand guide’s suntanned, weather-beaten face cracked into a smile as he shook my hand. He had the air of a man who enjoyed his work. “No doubt, Bill, you’ll have warned him of the dangers of these sands?”
“I’ve told him, all right. Let’s just hope he listens.”
“Aye, let’s hope so. Not everybody does. We should be setting off in about half an hour.”
That said, he moved away to chat with the others.
Eventually we set off, Sam Jennings striding ahead of the coaches, with those on foot bringing up the rear. The flat sands were still wet and marked with an intricate pattern of ridges made by the tides. There had been hardly any wind before, but now a stiff breeze was blowing into our faces from the northwest while in the far distance the sun was dazzling off the sea.
The coaches traveled slowly and we caught up with them when we reached the first riverbed. Sam went into the channel to inspect it, wading in as far as his knees. He paddled about two hundred paces east before whistling and waving his stick to indicate the point where we should cross. Then he walked back toward the first coach.
“This is where we get ourselves a ride!” Arkwright said.
He ran forward suddenly and jumped onto the back of the rear coach. Following his lead, I soon saw why. As we crossed the channel, the water came up to the horses’ bellies. We’d just saved ourselves a soaking. The dogs didn’t seem to mind getting wet and swam strongly, reaching the far bank well before the horses.
We climbed down and walked for a while until we reached the channel of the river Kent, which proved to be about the same depth.
“I wouldn’t like to be here when the tide’s in!” I remarked.
“That you wouldn’t, Master Ward. At spring tide the water would be deep enough to cover you three times over or more. See over there?” Arkwright asked, pointing toward the land.
I could see forested slopes with purple fells rising above.
“Those fells behind Cartmel—that’s where we’re heading. Soon be there now.”
The crossing was about nine miles but Arkwright told me that wasn’t always the case. The course of the river Kent kept shifting, so the distance to safe fording places varied. It was a dangerous place, all right, but a much shorter route than following the curve of the bay.
We reached a place called Kent’s Bank where, after paying and thanking the guide, we left the flat sands and began the climb up to Cartmel, which took us almost an hour. We passed a large priory, a couple of taverns, and about thirty or so dwellings. Cartmel reminded me of Chipenden, with hungry children staring from doorways, the surrounding fields depleted of livestock. The effects of the war were widespread and would no doubt soon start to bite deeper. I thought we would stop and stay in Cartmel for the night, but it seemed that our business lay farther on.
“We’re going to visit Judd Atkins, a hermit who lives up on those fells,” Arkwright said without even looking at me. His gaze was fixed upon the steep slope ahead.
I knew that a hermit was usually a holy man who liked to live alone beyond the reach of people, so I didn’t expect him to be pleased to see us. But was he the one who’d be able to use the severed finger in some way to locate Morwena?
I was about to ask, but as we passed the last cottage, an old woman emerged from the gloom of her front room and shuffled out toward us down the muddy path.
“Mr. Arkwright! Mr. Arkwright! Thank the Lord, you’ve come at last,” she exclaimed, grabbing his sleeve and holding it fast.
“Let me be, old mother!” Arkwright snapped, irritation in his voice. “Can’t you see I’m in a rush. I’ve urgent business of my own to attend to!”
For a moment I thought he would push her away and stride off, but he glared down at her, the veins starting to bulge at his temples.
“But we’re all scared rigid,” said the old woman. “Nobody’s safe. They take what they want, night and day. We’ll soon starve if something ain’t done. Help us, please, Mr. Arkwright—”
“What are you babbling about? Who takes what they want?”
“A press-gang—though they’re more like common thieves. Not content with dragging our lads off to war, they rob us of everything we’ve got. They’ve made their den up at Saltcombe Farm. The whole village is scared witless. . . .”
Was this the same press-gang that captured me? They’d talked about heading north and had fled this way when Alice scared them. It seemed likely. I certainly didn’t want to meet them again.
“It’s a job for the constable, not me,” Arkwright said with a scowl.
“Three weeks ago they beat the constable to within an inch of his life. He’s only just risen from his sickbed and will do nothing now. He knows what’s good for him. So help us, please. Food’s scarce enough anyway, but if they carry on like that once the winter sets in proper, we’ll starve for sure. They take everything they can lay their hands on—”
Arkwright shook his head and tugged his sleeve free of the woman’s grasp. “Maybe when I pass this way again, I’ll see. But I’m too busy now. I’ve got important business that just can’t wait!”
With that, he continued up the incline, the dogs racing ahead, and the old woman shuffled sadly back inside her cottage. I felt sorry for her and her village but thought it was strange that she should ask Arkwright for help. After all, it wasn’t spook’s business. Did she really think my master could take on an armed gang? Somebody should send a message to the High Sheriff at Caster; no doubt he’d send another constable. And what about the men of the village? Couldn’t they band together and do something? I wondered.
After about an hour climbing up into the fells, we saw smoke ahead. It seemed to be coming from a hole in the ground, and I realized that the rocky bank we were crossing was the roof of the hermitage. After descending some well-worn stone steps we came to the entrance of a sizable cave.
Arkwright made the dogs sit and wait some distance away and then led the way into the gloom. There was a strong smell of wood smoke inside the cave and my eyes watered. But I could just make out the form of someone squatting before a fire, his head in his hands.
“And how are you, old man?” Arkwright called out. “Still doing penance for your sins?”
The hermit made no reply, but undeterred, Arkwright sat down on his left. “Look, I know you like to be alone so let’s get this over with quickly and we’ll leave you in peace. Have a look at this and tell me where she’s to be found. . . .”
He opened his bag, pulled out a crumpled rag, and unfolded it on the earth floor between the hermit and the fire.
As my eyes adjusted to the poor light, I could see that Judd Atkins had a white beard and a wild mop of unruly gray hair. For almost a minute he didn’t move. In fact he hardly seemed to be breathing, but at last he reached forward and picked up the witch’s finger. He held it very close and turned it over a few times, seemingly rapt.
“Can you do it?” Arkwright demanded.
“Are lambs born in spring?” the hermit asked, his voice barely more than a croak. “Do dogs howl at the moon? I’ve dowsed for many a long year, and when I’ve put my mind to it, nothing’s defeated me yet. Why should that change?”
“Good man!” Arkwright cried, his voice filled with excitement.
“Yes, I’ll do it for you, William,” the hermit continued. “But you must pay a price.”
“A price? What price?” Arkwright said, astonishment in his voice. “Your needs are few, old man. That’s the life you’ve chosen. So what can you want from me?”
“I ask nothing for myself,” the hermit replied, his voice growing stronger with every word. “But others are in need. Down in the village hungry people live in fear. Free them from that and you shall have what you desire.”
Arkwright spat into the fire, and I saw his jaw tighten. “You mean that lot at Saltcombe Farm? That press-gang? You expect me to sort ’em out?”
“These are lawless times. When things fall apart, someone must put them back together. Sometimes a farrier must mend a door or a carpenter shoe a horse. Who else is there, William? Who else but you?”
“How many are there?” Arkwright asked at last. “And what do you know about them?”
“There are five in all. A sergeant, a corporal, and three soldiers. They take what they want from the village without paying.”
“A press-gang was taking people near Chipenden,” I said with a frown. “They captured me and I was lucky to get away. Five of them, too, so it sounds like the same lot. I don’t want to meet them again. One of them’s only a boy not much older than me, but the sergeant’s a nasty piece of work. They’re armed with clubs and blades, too. I don’t think you’d be able to take them on, Mr. Arkwright.”
Arkwright stared at me, then nodded. “The odds are against me,” he complained, turning to the hermit again. “There are only three and a half of us: me, two dogs, and a lad who’s wet behind the ears. I’ve a trade of my own. I’m not the constable—”
“You were a soldier once, William. And everyone knows you still like to crack heads, especially after you’ve been at the bottle. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the experience.”
Arkwright came to his feet and looked down at the hermit, his face filled with fury. “Just make sure it’s not your head I crack, old man. I’ll be back before dark. In the meantime get on with it. I’ve wasted enough time already! Have you got a map of the Lakelands?”
Judd Atkins shook his head, so Arkwright rummaged in his bag and pulled out a folded map. He placed it in front of the old man. “Try that!” he snapped. “Her lair will be there; I’m sure of it. Somewhere close to o
ne of the southern lakes.”
That said, he left the cave and marched east at a furious pace.
CHAPTER XIV
A Dead Man!
WE hadn’t traveled far from the hermit’s cave when Arkwright stopped, settled himself down on a grassy bank, and opened his bag. He pulled out a bottle of red wine, drew the cork with his teeth, and started to swig from it.
I stood there unhappily for a while, wondering if this was the best preparation for dealing with dangerous thugs, but the hermit had made a good point: Arkwright was always much more aggressive after a drink. He must have seen the look on my face because he scowled and gestured angrily for me to sit down.
“Take the weight off your feet, Master Ward. That and the misery from your face!” he exclaimed.
Sensing that his mood was worsening, I obeyed immediately. The sun was sinking toward the horizon, and I wondered if he intended to wait until after dark before attempting to deal with the press-gang. That seemed the most sensible thing to do. Either that or go in at first light while they were still groggy with sleep. But Arkwright was an impatient man who, probably by choice, often did things the hard way.
I was right. He soon finished off the wine and we were on our way again. After about ten minutes I came up alongside him. I was curious and wanted to know if he had some sort of plan.
“Mr. Arkwright—” I began tentatively.
“Shut up!” he snarled. “Speak when you’re spoken to and not before!”
So I dropped back again. I was angry and a little hurt. I’d felt that I was starting to get along better with Arkwright but it seemed that little had changed. The Spook sometimes silenced me, saying that questions could come later, but he never did it so aggressively and rudely. No doubt my new master’s manner could be blamed on the wine.
Soon we came to a ridge and Arkwright halted, shielding his eyes against the setting sun. I could see a house below, brown smoke drifting up almost vertically from its chimney. The house lay at the head of a narrow valley. No doubt it had once been a hill farm specializing in sheep, but now there were no animals to be seen.
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