“Gammon by name and gammon’s what I love to eat!” Betsy cackled as if this were a great joke, then bade us sit at the grimy table and handed out plates.
She’d cooked the gammon so that it melted in my mouth. The problem was, it immediately sent me into a coughing fit. Gammon is always on the salty side, but this was almost inedible, and I found myself choking.
Lizzie nibbled a little, trying to hide her annoyance at being given salty gammon. Then I saw her slyly spit it out under the table when Betsy wasn’t looking. Witches had an aversion to salt. Even in food, it could be dangerous. Betsy knew that only too well and was enjoying Lizzie’s discomfort.
Betsy herself was no witch. There was a small pot of salt on the table, and she kept dipping her fingers into it and licking them with relish.
After a while Lizzie commented on it. “You certainly like a bit of salt with your food, Betsy,” she said with an ingratiating smile.
“Aye, that I do,” she replied. “That’s why some call me Salty Betsy!”
Lizzie and Betsy had a good old cackle over that, but once they’d calmed down, Betsy became serious.
“I don’t have any magic of my own, you see. Nothing to keep ’em at bay. And the slimy sisters can be funny at times. It’s bloodlust that does it. They can turn on you in an instant. But salt discourages them. So I eat lots of it. Smear it in my hair, too. It works a treat!”
With that meal, the contract was sealed, and leaving Betsy still stuffing salty gammon into her mouth, I followed Lizzie out the door into the chilly night air.
Lizzie looked up at the moon and faint stars, and then did a slow circle, her eyes sweeping the house, nearby trees, and the distant horizon to the west.
“Just fixing this place in my head, girl,” she told me with a smirk. “Wouldn’t do to catch our brat an’ not be able to find it again.”
We hadn’t gone more than fifty paces east before the old farmhouse, its pond and big mound of dirt all disappeared from view, cloaked again by dark magic.
We covered about a dozen miles before dawn, and then settled down to hide for the daylight hours in a small copse. We were less than two miles from a village, and there were lights showing from a couple of farmhouses ahead, the farmers already up and beginning their predawn chores.
“I’m famished, girl! Get us some rabbits!” Lizzie snapped.
I was still hungry too, not having been able to eat more than a mouthful of that salty gammon. So I caught, skinned, and gutted a couple of rabbits and cooked them on the smallest fire I could manage. It was no more than embers when the tip of the sun peered above the horizon. We didn’t want smoke to give away our position.
Stomachs full, we settled down to sleep. I was still thinking about everything that had happened over the past few days, but Lizzie was very soon lying on her back, mouth wide open, snoring away. Occasionally she muttered in her sleep and a smile split her face. She was dreaming, probably about her clever scheme to fool the water witches and their keeper and have the power of the leather egg all to herself. But I couldn’t sleep, no matter how hard I tried.
I couldn’t stop thinking about what we were planning to do. When night fell, Lizzie would target one of the outlying village houses and snatch a child. And that child would die—either as part of the ritual or to be drained by a skelt.
I would be a murderer, too.
Lizzie managed to sleep right through the day until the sun went down. The moment the light began to fail, she sat up, stretched, yawned, and spat into the cold gray embers of the fire.
“Well, girl, let’s get on with it,” she said, clambering to her feet.
I followed her out of the trees, and keeping to the shelter of a hedgerow, we approached the nearer of two farms.
Lizzie paused and sniffed three times. “Nowt there!” she exclaimed. “No young bones, just a skinny old farmer and his fat, stinky sow of a wife. And they’ve got big dogs, too!”
No sooner had she spoken than they began to bark, and Lizzie moved on quickly, keeping her distance from the threat.
We headed northeast, approaching the village at a tangent. It was dark now, and the moon had yet to rise, but there were lights showing from the bedroom windows of one of the houses. It was set some distance from the others, and Lizzie made a beeline for it.
This time, after pausing to sniff, she gave a cackle of delight. “Just a woman and her brat of a daughter, so it couldn’t be better!” she crowed. “No dog, either.”
She led the way to the front door. I could just make out the shape of a cat on the step.
The poor animal made two mistakes. First, it hissed at Lizzie. That was bad enough. But when she tried to sweep it off the step with the back of her hand, it scratched and hung on to her, its claws embedded in her flesh.
Faster than a snake striking, Lizzie picked it up and, holding it with two hands, twisted the animal violently. I heard a sound like a twig snapping underfoot. She flung the body away into a clump of nettles. Then she knelt and spat into the lock.
Moments later the lock clicked, and Lizzie eased the door open. She stepped inside and turned to face me. “Wait at the bottom of the stairs. If anybody gets past me, don’t let them out of the house, understand?”
I nodded, though my heart was pounding, and watched Lizzie climb slowly up toward the bedroom. It was dark inside the house—the bedroom lights were off now—and she disappeared into the gloom at the top. I heard her open a door, and then, suddenly, a child began to scream in terror. The cries quickly gave way to a shrill, frantic pleading.
“Mam! Mam! Help me, please! A horrible thing is here. It’s got me. Help me! Help me, Mam!”
One part of me felt sorry for the child and wanted to help her. I couldn’t help putting myself in her place and experiencing the terror of being snatched by a witch in the middle of the night. But there was nothing I could do.
I heard another door open, and then heavy footsteps. The mother was awake and rushing toward her daughter. But what chance did she have against a witch such as Bony Lizzie?
There was another terrible scream, this time from the woman, followed by a heavy thump.
“You’ve killed Mam!” the child cried out. “Oh, Mam! Mam! My poor mam!”
Lizzie had murdered the mother! And in front of her own daughter, too! I felt sick to my stomach.
CHAPTER XIV
WHAT CAN YOU DO?
“YOU’LL be next if you don’t shut your stinking gob!” Lizzie cried, and I heard her clumping down the stairs toward me.
She pushed past, carrying the child, who was sobbing pitifully. She was a skinny little thing, no older than six. I suddenly felt angry. I raced after Lizzie, grabbed her arm, and brought her to a halt. She spun around to face me, eyes wild with anger.
“Why did you have to murder her mother?” I demanded. “Ain’t the rest of it bad enough without that?”
Lizzie glared at me. Had her hands been free, she’d have slapped me hard for sure. I was shaking with fear at what I’d just done—grabbing her arm and shouting at her like that. True, we’d had words before, but I’d never been so openly defiant.
“Know your place, girl, or you’ll be sorry!” she warned, her mouth twitching dangerously, showing how close she was to hurting me. “I just used a sleep-now spell on her. Her mam shouldn’t be dead, not unless she broke her silly neck when she fell. And that would serve her right for being so fat!”
With that, she strode off westward, into the dark, carrying the sobbing child.
I really wanted to help that little girl. But what could I do against Lizzie’s magic? If she stopped to sleep or rest, I might get a chance to try something, but it would be risky; I’d pay a terrible price if I was caught. I was probably wasting my time even thinking about it, because I knew she wouldn’t stop until we reached the water witches’ lair.
By morning there’d be a hue and cry—that was, if the mother did recover from the effects of Lizzie’s spell. If she had broken her neck, it might be h
ours or even days before neighbors found her body and realized that the girl was missing. But no doubt the witches were grabbing other children right now, and the hunt for the abductors would begin. Every able-bodied person for miles would be up in arms. Despite the distance from the mill, they’d finally alert the spook, Arkwright. His dogs and eyes might be baffled by the cloaking magic, but this whole area would be searched. I knew Lizzie wanted to reach that refuge as quickly as possible.
We got back well before dawn and found that the cloaking of the farm was still of the highest standard. Lizzie sniffed and cursed, studying the stars and the horizon in frustration for nearly an hour. I hoped she might hand the girl to me—I could pretend to stumble and allow her to make a run for it. But Lizzie kept a fierce grip on her prize every second of the way. Finally she backtracked and led us to a place where the air shimmered to reveal the house.
Betsy was waiting at the open door, and she grinned and beckoned us inside. As we followed her down the cellar steps, I heard the cries. The child Lizzie carried was still sobbing, but this was a loud wail from more than one child . . . a cacophony of misery.
The sight that greeted me in that gloomy cellar made me sick to my stomach. There were more than a dozen new cages now—larger ones, intended to hold children rather than skelts. Four of these had occupants; one was asleep, three crying their lungs out with fear. All were covered in slime, and one, a little boy with two front teeth missing, was dripping wet.
There were more confined skelts than last time, too—six of them now, all staring out at the children and twitching with hunger.
“Give her to me!” Betsy Gammon demanded, and Lizzie handed the little girl over without question. The huge woman lifted her up and held her at arm’s length. “A skinny little thing, but better than nowt! We’ll need to feed her up!” she declared, before thrusting her into a cage and clicking a lock into place.
“We’re still two short of the seven we require,” Lizzie said, “but I’ve kept my end of the bargain.”
“That you have,” Betsy agreed. “But don’t worry. Tomorrow night a bunch of my girls will be on their way to a place where there should be rich pickings. It’s an orphanage run by a few scrawny old nuns. So soon we should have brats to spare!”
The next couple of days became a nightmare. Lizzie and Betsy were getting on like a house on fire now, cackling together in an upstairs room and sipping dandelion wine. While they did that, I was given all the chores to do, the worst being to look after the children they’d stolen.
I didn’t want to face them, didn’t want to be confronted by their misery . . . but someone had to do it. They needed to be fed and kept alive until the ritual at the full moon. Lizzie would have been happy for me to push stale bread through the bars of their cage and tip a cupful of water into each little mouth.
However, I couldn’t leave them sitting there in their own stink, so I dealt with them one at a time, opening each cage to let them out to be fed and cleaned up.
One night Lizzie caught me asking one little girl her name. I was just trying to be friendly and make the child feel a little better, but Lizzie scoffed at me.
“You’re a fool, girl!” she hissed into my ear, giving the child a false smile. “Why waste your time learning her name when she’ll be dead soon? You’d be better off studying your spells.”
But once Lizzie had gone, I carried on as before. I also gave each child ten minutes to walk about and stretch their legs a bit. Most sniffled and sobbed and stared at the caged skelts openmouthed, clearly terrified of the creatures.
Just a few hours before midnight, when they were due to be sacrificed, I was cleaning up the little girl that Lizzie had snatched. She didn’t stop talking, and her words were painful to hear: “Mam’s dead! She killed her. Struck her down dead!” she wailed.
“She ain’t dead.” I tried to make my voice as soft and reassuring as possible. “It was just a spell to make her sleep. By now she’ll have woken up. So don’t you worry. Your mam’s all right.”
“She hit her head when she fell. Made a big thump. Blood trickled out of her ear. I saw it.”
“She’ll recover. Your mam is strong. It’ll take more than a bump on the head to finish her off,” I insisted, taking her hand.
Despite my reassuring words, I began to wonder if the girl’s mother might actually be dead. I didn’t like what she’d said about blood trickling out of her ear. Back in Pendle I’d once watched a boy climb a big tree, cheered on by his friends. He’d climbed too high, onto a thin branch that wouldn’t bear his weight. It had snapped, and he’d plunged to the ground and hit his head on a rock. He’d bled from both ears and never woke up. They carried him home, and I heard he’d died soon afterward.
“But what if Mam’s hurt and can’t walk? She might die of thirst without help. She might be dying now!”
With that, the little girl tore her hand free of mine and ran toward the door. I managed to catch her before she reached the top of the steps. Good thing I did, or there’d have been hell to pay. I carried her kicking and screaming back to her cage, locked her inside, and was forced to feed her through the bars.
“What’s your name?” I asked when she’d finally calmed down.
“Emily. My name’s Emily Jenks,” she replied with a sniff.
“Well, Emily, there’s no need to worry. Your mam will be fine.”
“Will I ever see her again?”
“Of course you will.”
“Maybe it’d be better if Mam was dead,” Emily said softly.
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“Because then I will see her again. We’ll be together again when we’re both dead.”
“Don’t be silly, you’re just a child. It’ll be a long time before you die,” I lied.
“That isn’t what the fat lady said. She said we’d be given to those horrible things!” Emily cried, pointing through the bars toward the nearest skelt cage. The occupant was staring at us with evident interest. “She said it would stick its long, sharp snout into us and suck up our blood until our hearts stopped beating.”
Some of the nearer children heard that and started crying. I was appalled. The children were scared enough as it was. Why make it worse by telling them they were going to die in such a horrible way?
What kind of a monster was Betsy Gammon? In some ways she was far worse than the witches she kept. Without her, the killing would be random and less frequent. She organized the water witches and made the slaying of innocents happen on a bigger scale. Of course, this time Lizzie had started it, seeking the power of that egg.
“Look . . . that’s not going to happen,” I said, hoping one of the cackling hags from upstairs didn’t suddenly decide to pay the children a visit. “She’s just trying to scare you.”
“Then why did you steal me from my mam and bring me here? And why are those creatures in the cages staring at us all the time? Are they hungry? Do they want our blood?” Emily cried.
I was just as guilty as Lizzie. “Don’t worry, they ain’t going to get your blood,” I said.
“But the fat lady said they would.”
“It ain’t true. I won’t let that happen.”
“You’re only a girl. What can you do? The witches are fierce, with big teeth and claws, and there’s lots and lots of ’em!”
I thought for a moment before answering. Up until now I’d just tried to be cheerful and optimistic, to give the child some hope. Then words just flowed from my mouth as if my answer had come from somebody else.
“I’m Alice, and I won’t let them hurt you. I can stop them. I can and I will!”
I must have said it with real conviction, because the girl’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open in astonishment. For the first time she seemed calm.
My business in the cellar finished, I walked back up the steps to ground level. I heard Lizzie and Betsy still chatting and laughing together upstairs. I couldn’t bear the sight of either of them, so I walked out into the yard and
stared at the pond for a while, thinking things through.
How foolish I’d been to claim that I could prevent the child from being hurt. What could I actually do? I wondered.
Nothing! Nothing at all!
No, that wasn’t quite true. Within hours those children would all be dead, but I could do something for myself. I could run away from this terrible place so that when they died I would no longer be here. I wouldn’t be a murderer, then.
Not only that—I could escape from Lizzie. That way I wouldn’t have to become a witch.
But how badly would she want me back? Last time she’d known I was staying with Agnes Sowerbutts. And Agnes hadn’t been strong enough to protect me from such a strong malevolent witch. But this time I could flee far from Pendle, and Lizzie wouldn’t know where. Even if she managed to scry my whereabouts, she’d be too busy wielding the power from that leather egg to bother her head about me.
So why waste time? Better to go now, this very minute.
CHAPTER XV
ELIZABETH OF THE BONES
WITHOUT a backward glance, I left the yard and walked east, back in the direction of the canal. I intended to follow it south, but I wouldn’t be heading toward Pendle. I’d keep going until I was far beyond the County. They said the weather was warmer down south and that it didn’t rain as much. It would be good to get a bit more sun on my face. I hated this damp, blustery County climate.
The light was beginning to fail, so the sun must be very close to the horizon. Not that there was much chance of seeing it. Low gray clouds were rushing in from the west. Soon it would rain.
I felt no lifting of my spirits, no happiness at the thought that I was leaving my old life forever. In my chest, where my heart should have been, was a lump of cold lead that made it difficult to breathe. I kept seeing the hungry skelts and those frightened children in their cages. Seven of them would be sacrificed in order to release the power of the egg; the remainder would be given to those bloodthirsty creatures.
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