The spook looked up at the witch and gave a groan of fear. “No! No! Not like this!” he pleaded. “Please, God, don’t let it end like this!”
Without thinking, I put down the bag, lifted the spook’s staff, and ran down the steps, straight toward the witch. At the very last moment she looked up at me, but she was too late. I swung the staff and hit her hard on the forehead. She fell backward with a cry, the knife flying out of her hand, though she was up on her knees again almost at once, face twisted with fury. And for the second time I felt the solid ground move beneath my feet, this time with a violent lurch that brought me down hard onto the cellar floor, jolting the staff from my grasp.
I was flat on my back and started to sit up, but within seconds the witch was on me, both hands around my throat, trying to choke the life from me. Her face was close to my own, her eyes wild, her open mouth showing sharp teeth. Her foul breath made me heave. It stank like a cat’s or a dog’s, of stale meat with a sweet hint of blood.
I glanced to my right and saw the spook struggle shakily to his feet and stagger against the cellar wall. He was in no fit state to help me. If I didn’t do something, I’d be dead in moments!
I gripped the witch by the shoulders and tried to throw her off me, but she was squeezing my throat so hard I couldn’t breathe. I could feel myself weakening, my sight darkening, and I desperately reached out with both hands, trying to find the spook’s staff. It wasn’t there. But then my left hand closed over something else. The silver chain!
I gripped it and swung it across. It caught her head a glancing blow and she screamed, withdrew her hands from my throat, and pressed them to her face. I whipped the chain back in the opposite direction, this time catching her on the chin. She stood up, then staggered and dropped to her knees. I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up to see the spook standing over me, breathing hard.
“Here, boy. You’ve done well. Now give me the chain.”
I handed it to him, and after quickly coiling it about his wrist, he sent it soaring aloft with a crack, and it dropped over the witch and coiled about her tightly. She rolled over and over, her eyes bulging from their sockets, the chain tight against her teeth and binding her arms to her side.
“She’s bound good and proper now,” the spook said, smiling grimly. “I owe you a big thanks, boy.”
With the witch safely bound, we searched the cottage, and the spook made a fire outside and burned the things he found: powders, herbs, and a book of dark magic that he called a grimoire. Eventually he found my lock of hair in a leather pouch that the witch wore on a chain around her neck. He burned that, too. At last I was safe, and I began to feel a lot better.
We sat by the fire for a while, both of us locked into our own thoughts, until a question came into my mind and I broke the silence.
“What was it on the steps that made you fall?” I asked. “I felt the ground tremble beneath my feet. Later, in the cellar, it gave another lurch and I fell, too.”
“One of the snares she’d set to defend herself, boy,” the spook said, throwing another handful of the witch’s possessions into the flickering flames of the bonfire. “It’s called slither, a spell that causes the victim to feel unsteady on his feet, lose his balance, slide, and fall. It nearly did for me, all right. Even if you anticipate it, little can be done. As I said, I owe you a big thanks, and I’d like to make you an offer. How would you like to train as a spook? As it happens, I’m looking for an apprentice to replace the one I’ve just lost. Would you be interested? I need a brave lad for my line of work.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I’m going to be a priest,” I told him. “It’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time.”
“It’s your choice, boy. I won’t say anything against the priesthood, because some of them are good men who mean well—”
“Father Ainsworth works hard to help the poor,” I interrupted. “He’s spent his whole life helping people. I want to be like him.”
“Well, good luck to you then, young John. But if you ever change your mind, you can find my house near Chipenden village, west of the Long Ridge. Just ask any of the locals. My name’s Henry Horrocks. They’ll point you in the right direction.”
With that we parted. Carrying the witch over his shoulder, the spook set off toward Chipenden, where he’d bind her in a pit. I watched him walk away and supposed that would be the last I’d ever see of him.
I continued my journey to Houghton and began to train for the priesthood. I did become a priest, but not for long—though that’s another story. But as a young man of twenty, I eventually went to Chipenden and asked Henry Horrocks if he would train me as a spook.
He took awhile to make up his mind. Could you blame him? After all, it had taken me a long time to change mine! I was far older than the boys he usually trained. But he remembered what I’d done back in that dark cottage when we’d faced the dangerous witch. That finally decided him.
I became his apprentice. His last one. Finally, after his death, I inherited his house at Chipenden and began working as a spook from there. Now, after all these years, I’m training Tom Ward. He’ll be my last apprentice. The house will belong to him, and he’ll be the new spook. Our work will go on. Someone has to fight the dark.
John Gregory
ALICE’S TALE
TOM Ward’s friend Alice Deane has the potential to travel two different paths in her life. She has the opportunity to become an agent of the light, combining her powers with those of Tom Ward to bind or destroy their deadly enemy, the Fiend. Or she could become the most powerful and dangerous malevolent witch who ever existed. But, always, Alice walks a narrow, crooked path meandering between the forces of light and dark that tug first one way, then another.
Mouldheels and Maggots
BORN into the Pendle witch clans, I was—my mother a Malkin, my father a Deane. But though I was raised there, the last place in the world I’d ever want to visit is Pendle. The clans fight one another, and I’ve a lot of enemies there, mostly Mouldheels. Lots of spite, there is. Lots of hatred. Vendettas that’ve lasted centuries. Fall into the hands of enemies there, and they’ll take your bones and drink your blood. Even so, I went back. I went back alone. I did it for Tom Ward. Did it all for him.
Because Tom’s the only person in this whole world I really care about—he’s my best friend. Ain’t like me, Tom. He belongs to the light, and he’s apprenticed to a spook named John Gregory.
We’d traveled from Chipenden to visit the farm where Tom was born and grew up. He wanted to see inside the boxes that his mam had left him. Must say I wanted to see inside them, too. Curious, I was. Very curious and just dying to know all their secrets. But when we got there, the boxes were gone. Stolen. The barn had been burned to the ground, the farmhouse ransacked, and Tom’s family kidnapped. Didn’t take me long to sniff out that witches had done it. That they’d taken Tom’s brother Jack, his wife, Ellie, and their little child, Mary. The trail led toward Pendle, and Tom was desperate to set off after them then and there. But I talked him out of it.
I mean, how long would a spook’s apprentice survive alone in the shadow of that brooding hill? Seventh son of a seventh son, he is. Love his bones, they would. Cut ’em out just before dawn. Ain’t any bones better than Tom’s, that’s for sure.
So I traveled on alone while Tom went back to Chipenden to tell the Spook what had happened. Went east to Pendle. Told you I’d enemies there—and that’s true—but I got friends, too, though precious few. And the best friend I got in that hag-ridden place is my aunt, Agnes Sowerbutts. Got a soft spot for Agnes, I have. She’d have brought me up but for Bony Lizzie.
I remember the night that Lizzie came for me. I like to think I was upset, but I don’t remember crying. My mam and dad had been cold and dead in the earth for three days, and I still hadn’t managed to shed a single tear. Wasn’t for want of trying. I tried to remember the good times, I really did. And there were a few, even though they fought like cat and dog and clouted m
e even harder than they hit each other. I mean, you should be upset, shouldn’t you? It’s your own mam and dad, and they’ve just died, so you should be able to squeeze out one tear at least.
There was a bad storm that night, forks of lightning sizzling across the sky and crashes of thunder shaking the walls of the cottage and rattling the pots and pans. But that was nowt compared to what Lizzie did. There was a hammering at the door fit to wake the rotting dead, and when Agnes drew back the bolt, Bony Lizzie strode into the room, her black hair matted with rain, water streaming from her cape onto the stone flags. Agnes was scared, but she stood her ground, placing herself between me and Lizzie.
“Leave the girl alone!” Agnes said calmly, trying to be brave. “Her home is with me now. She’ll be well looked after, don’t you worry.”
Lizzie’s first response was a sneer. They say there’s a family resemblance. That I’m the spitting image of her. But I could never have twisted my face the way she did that night. It was enough to turn the milk sour or send the cat shrieking up the chimney as if the Devil himself was reaching for its tail.
“The girl belongs to me, Sowerbutts,” Lizzie said, her voice cold and quiet, filled with malice. “We share the same dark blood. I can teach her what she has to know. I’m the one she needs.”
“Alice needn’t be a witch like you!” Agnes retorted. “Her mam and dad weren’t witches, so why should she follow your dark path? Leave her be. Leave the girl with me and get about your business.”
“She’s the blood of a witch inside her and that’s enough!” Lizzie hissed angrily. “You’re just an outsider and not fit to raise the girl.”
It wasn’t true. Agnes was a Deane, all right, but she’d married a good man from Whalley. An ironmonger. When he died, she’d returned to where the Deane witch clan made its home.
“I’m her aunt, and I’ll be a mother to her now,” Agnes retorted. She still spoke bravely, but her face was white and I could see her plump chin wobbling, her hands fluttering and trembling with fear.
Next thing, Lizzie stamped her left foot. It was as easy as that. In the twinkling of an eye, the fire died in the grate, the candles flickered and went out, and the whole room became instantly dark, cold, and terrifying. I heard Agnes scream with fear, and then I was screaming myself and desperate to get out. I would have run through the door, jumped through a window, or even scrabbled my way up the chimney. I’d have done anything, just to escape.
I did get out, but with Lizzie at my side. She just seized me by the wrist and dragged me into the night. It was no use trying to resist. She was too strong and she held me tight, her nails digging into my skin. I belonged to her now, and there was no way she was ever going to let me go. And that night she began my training as a witch. It was the start of all my troubles.
I’d only seen Agnes once since that awful night, but I knew I’d be welcome at her house now as I returned to Pendle. In fact, no sooner had I walked down through the darkness of the trees than her door opened wide and she stood there, her smile brighter than the beeswax candles that illuminated her rooms. Uses a mirror for scrying, Agnes does, and she’d seen me coming.
“Come in, Alice girl, and warm your bones!” she called out in her gruff but kindly voice. “It’s good to see you again. Just sit yourself down by the fire and I’ll boil you up some tasty broth.”
While Agnes busied herself, I sat in her rocking chair facing the warm fire, my eyes drawn upward to the rows of shelves that I remembered so well. She was a healer, and the shelves were full of pots and jars. There were also leather pouches tied with string containing the blends of herbs and potions she used to practice her craft.
Soon I was sipping delicious hot broth while my aunt seated herself on a stool by the fire. It was a long time before she spoke. “What brings you to Pendle again, girl?” she asked cautiously. “Is Lizzie nearby?”
I shook my head. “No, Agnes. Ain’t you heard? No need to worry yourself about Lizzie. Trapped in a pit in Old Gregory’s garden at Chipenden, she is. Stay there till she rots! Best place for her.”
So I explained how I’d befriended Tom Ward and was now staying at the Spook’s Chipenden house, helping to make copies of the precious books in his library. I told her about the theft of Tom’s boxes and the kidnapping of his family—Jack, Ellie, and their young child.
“Thought you might like to help me, aunt. I’ve no clue where they’ve been taken and I don’t know where else to turn. Thought you might scry ’em for me with your special mirror.”
Without a word, Agnes went and fetched her scrying mirror from the cupboard. It was small but set in a brass frame with a heavy base. Then she blew out all her candles but one, which she set just to the left of it. Soon she was muttering incantations under her breath, and the glass flickered to brightness. She was searching for Tom’s family. Images began to form. . . . .
I glimpsed a dark stone wall. Curved, it was. We were looking up at it. Not much doubt, was there? We were looking at Malkin Tower. Agnes was using the surface of the moat to see it. Water’s as good as a mirror if you’re skilled like Agnes. Quickly a new image flashed across the mirror: the arched ceiling of a dark, dank dungeon with dripping water. Then a weary pain-racked face filled the glass, eyes closed. It was Ellie!
Her hands reached toward us, and I realized that we were peering up at her from a bowl of water. The image distorted and fragmented. She was dabbing water onto her face. Then the mirror darkened, and Agnes gave a sigh and turned toward me.
“Was that Ellie, girl?”
I nodded.
“Just used the mirror to be sure,” Agnes said. “But I suspected the Malkins from the start. You’ve no chance of getting them out of that tower alive. Best get yourself away from Pendle, girl. It’s more dangerous than it’s ever been. Go while you’re still able to breathe!”
I spent the rest of the night with Agnes. We chatted about old times, and she told me what had been happening more recently. How the Mouldheels were growing in strength and had a new coven leader, a girl witch called Mab. Apparently this Mab could peer into the future so well that, to counteract her power, the Malkins and Deanes had called a truce and created an evil creature called Tibb using dark magic. Tibb was a seer and could also see things at a distance. Agnes reckoned that was how they’d found Tom’s boxes.
I spent the night in Agnes’s back room, and at dawn I headed for Malkin Tower. Knew I couldn’t do much on my own, but I thought I might as well just sniff around a bit before pushing on to the church at Downham, where I’d meet up with Tom and Old Gregory. Might find out something useful. It was worth a try. But then, as I circled through Crow Wood, skirting Bareleigh to the north, the sun dappling the tree trunks, I saw a girl ahead, sitting on a stump. Staring at me, she was. Sniffed her out right away and knew she was a witch.
As I got nearer, her feet told me more. Barefooted, so she had to be a Mouldheel. Last of the three main clans to settle in Pendle, they were. Before that they were nomads. Called “stink feet” by some and, later, “moldy heels.”
She didn’t look much older than me and was certainly no bigger. So why should I run? I kept walking toward her, ready to fight if necessary. She had pale hair that hung down beyond her shoulders, and green eyes. Her clothes were in tatters, too. No pride in their appearance, the Mouldheels. She was one of them, all right.
I halted about five paces away and tried to stare her out, but she wouldn’t look away. “Shouldn’t have come here, Alice Deane,” she warned, a faint smile on her face. “You’ll never leave Pendle alive.”
How did she know who I was? I gave her a dirty look and spat at her feet. “Haven’t met before, have we? Know that for sure ’cause I’d have remembered your ugly face!”
“Scried you in a mirror. Knew who you were the moment you crossed into Pendle. Don’t you know who I am?”
“Don’t really care who you are, girl,” I told her. “You’re nothing! You’re nothing to me!”
“Well, you should car
e who I am ’cause you’ll have good cause to remember me. My name’s Mab. Mab Mouldheel.”
It was the girl Agnes had told me about, the new leader of the Mouldheels. I wasn’t impressed, I can tell you, so there wasn’t much point in wasting words. Mab was supposed to be a seer. Good at seeing the future. But she didn’t see what hit her.
I went straight for Mab, gave her a good slapping in the face, and grabbed a handful of her hair. She fell sideways off the log, and we rolled over and over. Couple of seconds and I knew I was stronger than she was. I was just getting the better of her when there were shouts in the distance. More Mouldheels! Lots of ’em!
Struggled to get away then, I did, but Mab hung on to my clothes and hair. Almost tore myself free, but she held me fast. Then rapid footsteps. Somebody running hard toward us. Next something hit me really hard on the side of the head, and everything went dark.
I woke up with a thumping headache to find myself sitting in a meadow, my back against a drystone wall. My hands were free, but my legs were chained together. I wasn’t in Crow Wood any longer. Cottages in the near distance looked like Bareleigh, the Mouldheel village. The sun was high in the sky. Had to be almost noon.
“She’s awake!” someone called out, and I turned my head to see three girls walking barefoot toward me through the long grass. One of them was Mab; the other two looked like twins. They had thin faces with hooked noses and narrow, mean mouths.
The three girls sat down in the grass opposite me, Mab in the middle. “Meet my twin sisters, Alice Deane,” Mab called out. “This is Jennet and this is Beth. Both younger than me but older than you.”
I looked at Jennet. She was eating something from the palm of her left hand. White, soft, squishy, wriggling things that didn’t like sunlight. They were maggots!
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