The Last Apprentice: Complete Collection

by Joseph Delaney

  “Can’t you just bring him here the way you brought me?” I asked.

  The witch shook her head. “Can’t use the spider spell on him. He’s too old and strong and crafty. Just tell him you were going to shelter from the storm in this cottage. Then you peered through the window and saw a child here, bound with rope to hooks on the wall while a witch stirred a big cauldron over a fire. That should do the trick. He’ll hope to take me by surprise, but I’ll be ready for him!”

  “What will you do then?” I asked nervously.

  The witch’s face cracked into a cruel smile. “Well, a spook’s bones are the most useful of all. Especially the thumbs. No doubt I’ll find something useful to do with the bits of him that are left over. Nothing ever goes to waste! But let me worry about that. You just bring him here. Once he’s through the door, I’ll do the rest, and you can get on your way and forget that you ever met me. What do you say?”

  It was horrible. She wanted me to lure the spook to his death. But if I didn’t do as she said, I’d never leave the witch’s cottage. I’d be the one to die.

  “I’ll do it,” I said, feeling like a coward. But what else could I have done?

  The witch gave me a wicked smile, and instantly my limbs were released from the spell and I was free to move.

  “Downstairs with you!” she commanded, then followed me into the kitchen and along to the small front room. She watched me from the front doorway as I walked away.

  “Don’t forget, child! Snatcher would love your bones! Once he sniffs this lock of hair, he’ll be able to find you anywhere! No matter how far you run, he’ll follow. So do as I say, or it’ll be the worse for you. Bring that spook here by nightfall, or I’ll send Snatcher after you. And you’ll never see the sun rise again!”

  Terrified, I set off in the direction the spook had indicated the previous night, my mind spinning with all that had happened. I felt as if I’d stepped into a nightmare—one that I’d never wake up from.

  The thunder was rumbling away into the distance, and the rain was now little more than drizzle. But another storm was exploding inside my head. What if I simply turned and headed toward Houghton? Could the boggart really follow and find me anywhere I went? Or was the witch just saying that to scare me? It seemed too big a chance to take. So I kept walking toward the place where the spook should be.

  What if I just told him the truth—that she’d ordered me to lure him back to the cottage? Would he be able to help me? It didn’t seem likely. After all, he’d failed to protect his own apprentice against the boggart.

  It didn’t take me long to find the spook. Grimshaw Wood, mainly composed of bare ash, oak, and sycamore trees, lay in a narrow valley. As I approached its southern end, my feet sinking into the dank moldering autumn leaves, I could hear someone digging in the soft earth.

  There, close to the roots of an ancient oak, two riggers in shirtsleeves were digging a pit. The spook was watching them with folded arms. Nearby stood a horse and cart with a large flat stone tied to the boards. As I drew nearer, the spook turned to watch me, but the men continued working, not even giving a single glance in my direction.

  “What’s wrong, boy? Lost again?” he demanded.

  “I’ve found the witch,” I told him. “I was going to shelter from the storm in what I thought was an abandoned cottage. But I looked through the window and saw a child tied up and a witch stirring a big cauldron. . . .”

  The spook looked at me hard, his eyes locked upon mine. “A child tied up, you say? That’s bad. But how do you know the woman was a witch?”

  I thought quickly, remembering the feeling of cold I’d experienced as she approached the cottage. “I felt cold, really cold,” I told him. “It’s the same sort of feeling I get when I’m near a ghost—which is something from the dark like a witch, isn’t it?”

  The spook nodded but looked suspicious. “See many ghosts, do you?”

  “There are two in our cellar. A miner and the wife he killed.”

  “What’s your name, boy?”

  “John Gregory.”

  The spook looked at me thoughtfully. “Have you any brothers, John?”

  “Six,” I told him. “I’m the last one to leave home.”

  “So you’re the youngest, no doubt. What about your father? How many brothers did he have?”

  “Six as well, just like me. He was the youngest, too.”

  “Do you know what that makes you, boy?”

  I shook my head.

  “It makes you a seventh son of a seventh son. You have gifts: the ability to see the dead and to deal with them if necessary, to talk to them and enable them to leave this world and go to the light. The strength to deal with witches, too, and all manner of other things that serve the dark. It’s a gift. Anyway, where is this cottage?” he asked, his voice suddenly very quiet.

  “Back there. Not that far north of the barn where we stayed last night.”

  “And you just happened to stumble upon a cottage where a witch is holding a child captive? Are you sure you’re telling me the truth, boy? You’re afraid, I can see that. And who can blame you, if that’s what you’ve really seen? But in my line of work it’s useful to be able to tell when someone’s telling a lie or holding something back. You rely on instincts and experience to do that. Looking at you, I’m getting that feeling now. Am I right, boy?”

  I looked down. I couldn’t meet his gaze any longer. I began to tremble. “There is no child!” I admitted, blurting out the truth. “The witch made me say that. She cut off a lock of my hair and said the boggart would snatch my bones if I didn’t. She wants to lure you to the cottage. She said if I took you there she’d let me go. I’m sorry for lying, but I’m scared. Really scared! She said I’ve till nightfall to bring you back to her cottage. After that she’ll send her boggart after me.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” said the spook. “Were you lying about feeling cold, too?”

  I shook my head. “No, that’s true. I was trapped upstairs, and when she came into the cottage, I felt that strange chill.”

  “So you really are a seventh son of a seventh son?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, I don’t tell lies, boy, under any circumstances. So I’m going to tell you the truth, unpleasant though it may be. The witch has a lock of your hair, and she can use it to weave dark spells. She could hurt you now if she wanted, make you feel seriously unwell. She can also use it to help the boggart track you down. There are mysterious lines of power under the earth—we call them ley lines, and the County is crisscrossed with them. Boggarts use them to travel quickly from place to place. That bone breaker could get to Houghton in the blinking of an eye and then snatch your bones, just as it did with my poor apprentice. And all the priests in that big seminary wouldn’t be able to help you. So you are in real danger, mark my words.

  “But I’ll tell you something else for nothing. It would have done you no good at all to have gotten me to that cottage. She wouldn’t have let you go. She’d have taken your bones, too. We’re both seventh sons of seventh sons, and that’s why our bones are so valuable to a witch. They make the dark magic she uses more powerful. Anyway, let’s see what we can do to save ourselves from such a fate.”

  The spook closed his eyes, deep in thought, and said nothing for several minutes. The only sound was the shovels cutting into the soft earth. I was very much aware of the passage of time. Sunset was drawing closer with every breath I took.

  At last the spook looked at me and nodded as if he’d just arrived at an important decision. “We could go to the cottage together in full knowledge of what we face. There’s a chance that I might take the witch by surprise and bind her, although there’s the boggart to deal with as well. Not only that, but we’d be going into the witch’s territory. If she’s lived in that cottage for some time, it could be full of traps and dark magic spells.

  “No,” he went on, his jaw suddenly firming with resolve. “Let her come to us. Let her face what we’ve prepa
red. Sorry, lads!” he called out to the two men. “That pit won’t do now. I’m afraid we’re going to have to start all over again elsewhere . . .”

  The two men rested their arms on their shovels and glared at us, their expressions a mixture of annoyance and disbelief.

  ”Cheer up!” called the spook. “I’ll be paying you extra for your trouble. But we need to get a move on. Do you know Demdike Tower?”

  “Aye,” the larger of the two men replied. “Nothing but a ruin, though. Place to keep well away from after dark, Mr. Horrocks, that’s for sure!”

  “You’ll be safe enough with me,” said the spook. “And what lingers there couldn’t hurt you anyway. But we need to work fast. The boggart we’re out to trap will be there soon after the sun sets, so follow me as quick as you can!”

  With those words he set off at a furious pace. I followed at his heels and glanced back to see that the two men were throwing their shovels onto the cart.

  “Why will the boggart go to Demdike Tower?” I asked.

  “You can’t be that wet behind the ears! Think about it, boy. Why do you think it’ll go there?”

  Suddenly it dawned on me. “Because I’ll be there.”

  “Aye, lad. You’ll be the bait.”

  CHAPTER IV

  The Blood Dish

  WE reached the tower late in the afternoon. It was a crumbling ab an-doned ruin, part of a larger fortification that had long since been leveled by time and the elements. Only a few half-buried stones marked the boundaries of what had once been a formidable castle. Looking up at it, I remembered what the riggers had said.

  “What was that about the tower?” I asked the spook. “You said something lingers there. Is it haunted?”

  “After a fashion—but only by a ghast, which is just what’s left after a spirit has gone on to the light. It’s the bad part of it, the baggage the soul had to leave behind to be free of this world. It’s nothing to worry about as long as you don’t show fear. You see, that’s what ghasts feed on, just like boggarts. It makes them more powerful. But what’s a ghast when we’ve a malevolent witch and a bone breaker to face? That’s the least of our worries!”

  To my surprise, the spook walked past the tower and headed for the sloping wood just beyond it, where I could hear the sound of water rushing over stones.

  Soon, picking our way through the trees, we were walking downstream beside a torrent of foaming water, a small river rather than a stream, the noise growing louder with every step we took. We left the bank and descended a steep, rocky path to emerge on the edge of a large pool into which a wide waterfall dropped with considerable force.

  The spook pointed at the curtain of water. “That’s just about the best chance you’ve got, boy,” he told me. “Creatures of the dark find it very difficult to cross running water. For example, witches can’t ford a flowing stream or a river. The same applies to boggarts. Behind that waterfall, there’s a small recess in the rock, just big enough for you to crouch inside. You should be safe enough there, so long as the water doesn’t dry up.” He looked up at the torrent.

  “It rained hard earlier,” he continued. “Let’s just hope it rained sufficiently to fill those hills with enough to last until well after dark. On some days that waterfall is reduced to little more than a trickle. If that were to happen at the wrong moment . . .”

  He didn’t need to finish his sentence. I could already imagine the water ceasing to flow, the barrier upon which my life depended failing, and the savage bone-breaker boggart racing toward me. The image of the apprentice without his hand flashed into my mind. I tried to shut it out but kept seeing the red stump of his wrist and the look of horror on his dead face. I also turned to look at the waterfall and whispered a silent prayer.

  We walked back up to meet the riggers, who were already unloading the stone from their cart. Under the spook’s direction, we carried it down through the trees. It was really heavy, and it took all four of us to manage it. That done, there was a second trip to bring down the riggers’ tools and other equipment, including a couple of heavy sacks. The spook then showed them where to dig a new pit. It was close to the waterfall, under the branch of a mature rowan tree.

  With only a couple of hours left to get everything prepared before dark, the riggers set to work with a vengeance and finished the pit with fifteen minutes to spare. They were sweating a lot, and I suddenly realized that it wasn’t just with exertion. They were nervous, but not half as afraid as I was. After all, the boggart was coming for me, not them.

  Once the pit had been dug, the riggers went back up to their wagon, this time returning with a large barrel, which they rolled down through the trees. When opened, it proved to be half full of a disgustingly smelly, sticky mixture.

  “It’s just bone glue, boy,” the spook told me. “Now we have to mix salt and iron into it—”

  “Salt and iron?” I interrupted. “What do you use that for?”

  “Salt burns a boggart; iron bleeds away its power. The trick is to mix those two substances into this glue and coat the inside of the pit with it to keep the boggart inside, not forgetting the lid. You lure the boggart into the pit, then down comes the stone lid, and it’s trapped. Artificially bound, we call it.”

  The spook poured half a sack of iron filings into the glue and began to stir it with a big stick. While he was working, the two riggers climbed up into the tree and fastened a block and tackle to the branch. I’d seen one used at the local mill to lift heavy flour sacks. After the iron was dispersed, the spook told me to pour the half sack of salt in slowly while he gave the mixture another thorough stirring. That done, he used a brush to coat the inside of the pit with it.

  “Can’t afford to miss the tiniest bit, boy,” he told me as he worked, “or the boggart will eventually escape!”

  I looked up uneasily at the sky and the low clouds. Already the light was beginning to go. The sun couldn’t be that far from the horizon by now. I hoped the spook could see what he was doing down there in the gloom of the pit and was sealing it properly.

  By now the riggers had hoisted the stone. The chain from the block had a hook at the end, and this fitted through a ring in the center of that heavy stone lid so that it was suspended directly above the pit. The spook quickly coated the underside, put down the brush, took something else out of his bag, and polished it on his sleeve. It was a metal dish with three small holes in it, close to the rim.

  “This is what we call a bait dish, boy. Or sometimes a blood dish. And now we need the blood. . . . There’s no easy way to break this to you—I need some of your blood. We’ll fill the dish with it, then lower it down into the pit. When the boggart arrives, it’ll make straight for you, hoping to get hold of your bones, but the waterfall should stop it. Denied the bones it wants, it’ll sniff out your blood—which is the next best thing—then go straight down into the pit after it. While it’s drinking, we’ll lower the stone into position, and the job’s complete. So roll up your sleeve, boy. Can’t say it won’t hurt, but it’s got to be done.”

  So saying, he pulled a knife from his bag and tested the blade against his thumb. The lightest of touches produced a thin line of blood. It was sharp, all right.

  “Kneel down,” he commanded, “and hold your arm over the dish.”

  Very nervously I did as I was told, and for the second time that day someone approached me with a knife. But whereas the witch only cut off a lock of my hair, the spook made a cut to the inner part of my arm, just below the elbow. It hurt and I flinched, closing my eyes. When I opened them again, the blood was dripping into the dish.

  “That should do,” the spook said at last. “Raise your arm and press the palm of your other hand hard against the cut. That’ll stop the bleeding.”

  I did as I was told, watching him work to distract myself from the stinging of the cut. He now produced from his bag a long chain with three smaller ones at the end, each furnished with a tiny hook. Carefully he inserted each hook into the holes in the edge of the
dish and lowered it into the pit. Once it was at the bottom, he relaxed the chain and gave a sort of flick, and the hooks came free without spilling even a drop of my blood. I could see that it took skill to do that—he must have practiced for a long time.

  Suddenly there was a bloodcurdling scream from the direction of the tower above. I shivered and locked eyes with the spook. He nodded to signify that he’d heard it too, but the two riggers just carried on making their preparations, oblivious to the sound.

  “That’s the ghast I was telling you about,” the spook explained. “The lord who once ruled that castle on the hill had a beautiful daughter called Miriam. She was young and foolish and fell in love with a poor forester without thinking of the consequences for them both. The boy was hunted down and killed by the savage dogs her father employed to hunt deer. When she found out, Miriam threw herself from the highest window of the tower to her death on the rocks below.”

  He shook his head and sighed wearily. “Her spirit was trapped in that tower, suffering over and over again the anguish of bereavement and the fear and pain of her own death. One of my very first tasks after completing my apprenticeship was to send that poor girl’s spirit to the light. Other spooks had tried and failed, but I persevered and finally managed to talk some sense into her—though she left that poor tormented fragment behind. That’s her ghast that you just heard cry out. As she fell, she screamed, and now the ghast relives that moment over and over again. Sometimes the sound is so strong that even ordinary folk like our two riggers hear it. That’s why the ruined tower is avoided, especially after dark.

  “Right, there’s no time to waste!” he finished, looking at me. “We need to get you into position before dark. Don’t worry. The recess is small, but it’s comfortable enough. Just don’t go to sleep and fall down the waterfall!”

  I didn’t know whether his last remark was meant to be a joke—there was little chance of me falling asleep when a dangerous boggart was about to arrive at any moment.