“Tell them what you saw, Matthew,” Mistress Wicklow commanded.
The gardener nodded and shivered. “It was yonder,” he said, pointing toward the lake. “I was standing on the narrow bridge, thinking how the lilies wanted thinning out, when I saw her kneeling on the bank—”
“On this shore or on the island?” Arkwright interrupted.
“This shore, sir. She was kneeling right on the edge of the lake, washing something in the water. It looked like a burial shroud to me. The moon was shining brightly, and I could see that the material was covered in dark stains. I was scared; fixed to the spot. I couldn’t tear my gaze away. She kept dipping the shroud into the water, then wringing it out, but the stains were still there. The water was darkening each time, but she couldn’t wash it clean.
“Then she turned her head and looked straight at me. Gave a terrible wailing cry that almost killed me stone dead on the spot. A second later she disappeared, but I’ll never forget her.”
“What did she look like? Was she young or old?” my master asked.
“That was the surprising thing, sir. She was young and really pretty. It was hard to believe that such a terrible cry could be uttered by such a comely mouth.”
“Well, ma’am, we’ll stay here tonight and keep watch,” Arkwright told Mistress Wicklow. “I suggest that nobody approaches this part of the garden for at least twenty-four hours. By then we should know what’s what.”
“Then I’ll leave everything in your hands,” she said. “I have faith in you, Mr. Arkwright. You look strong and dependable. If anyone can save my husband’s life, it’ll be you.”
Arkwright bowed, and with a little smile for both of us, Mistress Wicklow turned and walked back toward the house.
I looked at my temporary master. I wondered if he had forgotten all about the farmer he’d promised to help with the water witch that evening. I was about to ask him about it when he looked at me and shook his head. “I fear there’s nothing to be done here,” he said sadly. “If Mistress Wicklow’s husband is going to die, he’ll die, and there’s nothing you or I can do about it. But there’s no point me telling her that.”
I wasn’t happy with Arkwright’s attitude. John Gregory would have told her the truth, but it wasn’t worth saying anything to him. My new master was a law unto himself. And he soon answered my question about the farmer.
“Well, Master Ward, I’ll be off to deal with the water witch but should be back sometime tomorrow. Probably best if they think I’m keeping watch, too. It means that when you go to the kitchen at dawn, they’ll give you two breakfasts to bring back here. Aren’t you a lucky lad?”
“Looks like being a long, cold night first,” I grumbled. I didn’t like the idea of misleading Mistress Wicklow.
But he simply shrugged and told me, “You’ve got the easy job! Forget all that fairies and fays nonsense—a banshee is just an elemental, and a low-level one at that. And this one’s pretty, with it! What more could you want? She can’t hurt you, so get as close as you can and see what she’s about.”
With that, Arkwright gave me a wink, headed for the edge of the garden, and pushed through the hedge to rejoin the lane.
Soon the mist began to lift and the large disk of the moon rose over the trees. It was waning, two days beyond full, but it cast a strong silver light over the garden.
I decided to keep watch from the bridge. At first I stood leaning against the wooden rail, but finally I grew weary and settled myself down cross-legged on the boards, my staff in my left hand, my bag close by me. I kept nodding off and waking up suddenly, so finally I lay down on my back and rested my head on my bag. Then I closed my eyes.
Had Bill Arkwright been here, we’d have taken it in turns to keep watch while the other slept. But what did it matter in this case? The banshee couldn’t actually hurt anyone, and if it appeared on the lake shore, its cry would wake me up instantly. So I allowed myself to fall asleep.
But suddenly I awoke. Something was wrong. . . . A cold feeling was running the length of my spine—the one that warned me when something from the dark was close. I seized my staff and got quickly to my feet. Instantly I heard a terrible wail, which made me shiver and shake. No animal or bird of the night could utter such a terrifying sound—I knew it had to be the banshee.
That unnerving cry seemed to have come from the far side of the lake. I decided to go and take a closer look, as my master had instructed, so I left the bridge and began to follow the shore counterclockwise, heading for the source of that chilling scream. There were lots of shrubs and trees close to the lake—mainly willows with long trailing branches. The ground was boggy underfoot, so my progress was slow.
Again I heard the wail of the banshee, this time much closer. It stopped me dead in my tracks. Arkwright had said that a banshee wasn’t dangerous, but that cry suggested otherwise, and the hairs on the back of my neck were beginning to rise.
And then I saw her.
She had her back to me and was kneeling in the mud right on the very edge of the water.
Arkwright had advised me to get a really close look. Why not? She couldn’t harm me, he’d said. So I took a cautious step nearer, then another one. Yes, she was washing something in the lake. And the gardener had been right. It certainly looked like the shroud they wrapped a corpse in before nailing it inside the coffin. I moved closer still. The figure had her back to me, and I could see stains spreading in the water like black ink.
Blood from the shroud? It certainly looked like it. And what was it that I’d read in the Spook’s Bestiary? Blood on the banshee shroud meant that a violent death was being foretold.
But Mr. Wicklow was ill with worsening congestion of the lungs, perhaps resulting from pneumonia. So that didn’t fit—unless someone else in the house was going to die violently.
I took another couple of steps. Then I became aware of something else. . . .
Perched on a branch directly above the banshee, I saw a large black crow. It seemed to be staring directly at me. I shivered. There was something baleful and malevolent about that bird.
Suddenly the banshee pulled the shroud out of the water and started to wring it dry. At the same time, she wailed for a third time, a cry so terrible and intense that I held my breath until it was finished and felt myself trembling all over.
The cry stopped as quickly as it had begun, and she carried on twisting the shroud as if determined to wring every last drop of moisture from it. While she was thus occupied, I took another step toward her. That was a mistake. A twig cracked under my foot, and the banshee turned her head and looked directly at me.
My mouth grew dry, and my whole body started to tremble. The cold feeling down my spine was much more intense. The gardener had been right about the burial shroud, but wrong about the banshee’s face.
It was hideous—pitted and cracked like the surface of a dry lake bed in high summer. The eyes were just two dark holes. She opened her mouth wide, but instead of that bloodcurdling wail, the banshee hissed at me like an angry cat. No doubt she meant to terrify me, but I stood my ground, gazing directly into that horrible face.
I expected the water elemental to disappear, but to my surprise, she got to her feet. And then she spoke.
“Be gone, boy! Don’t linger here or you’ll be dead!”
No sooner had she uttered those words than the black crow flapped its wings and took flight.
I didn’t think banshees spoke. They were known only for their terrible wail. Now she began to move away from me along the lake shore, walking quickly. I followed, but as I passed the place where she’d been washing the shroud, a shaft of moonlight showed me footprints in the mud. She was barefoot. Not only that: I could hear the sound of squelching feet moving away from me. This wasn’t a banshee, I was sure of it, because they weren’t solid. But what exactly was I dealing with? Some sort of witch? Had that black crow been her familiar? Mouldheel witches went barefoot. Surely there wasn’t one here?
She started to run, an
d I gave chase. Now I regretted leaving my silver chain in my bag—I could have cast it ahead of me and brought her down. I hadn’t thought I’d be dealing with something solid that ran so quickly. She was beginning to widen the gap between us. And there, directly ahead, right at the edge of the trees, was the burial mound. She made straight for it and was now out in the open, while I was still hampered by trees. There was a sudden flash of bright light directly ahead. It blinded me momentarily, and I almost ran into a low branch, grazing it with my head. Then I burst out of the trees. I was in the open too now, but there was no sign of the banshee.
I stopped and looked about me. Nothing. Then I approached the grassy mound cautiously. It was roughly oval in shape, and on the side nearest me rose up quite steeply in an almost vertical wall. I looked down and saw the footprints in the mud. They led right up to the earthen wall. It was as if the witch had suddenly disappeared. Either that, or somehow run right into the mound . . .
Puzzled, I did one full circuit of the mound and then headed back through the trees toward the ornamental bridge. Once there, I settled down for the night again, wrapped in my cloak with my head resting on my bag. It was very cold and my sleep was fitful. I kept thinking over what had happened. What was going on? This certainly wasn’t a banshee we were facing—not according to what I’d read. I had a lot to tell Bill Arkwright.
By dawn I was pacing back and forth across the bridge, deciding whether or not it was too early to go to the kitchen and ask for my breakfast. Perhaps I would get two as Arkwright had suggested. Why not? I was certainly hungry enough. Thinking I’d waited long enough, I was just about to set off for the house when I heard footsteps in the lane and Bill Arkwright forced his way through the hedge and back into the garden. I started—I hadn’t expected him back so soon.
As soon as I saw his face, I groaned inwardly. He was leaning heavily on his staff and walking with a pronounced roll of his shoulders. He looked very angry. What was worse, his lips were stained purple. He’d been drinking red wine. He did so only rarely these days, but it never helped his mood.
“Shall I go and get us some breakfast?” I suggested as he approached the bridge.
“Breakfast? You can forget about that, Master Ward. It’s the last thing I want. I should have gone straight to the farm instead of bringing you here to see this blessed banshee.”
“It’s not—” I began, about to tell him what I’d discovered, but his face instantly darkened with anger.
“Shut your mouth! Just listen for once!” he roared. “It was a worme, not a water witch, and a blooming big one at that. It got into the farmhouse and killed a child! Blood and bone!” he cursed. “A child died because I came here.”
I bowed my head, not knowing what to say.
“We’re going back there right away. It’s holed up somewhere in an old boathouse, and it’ll take two of us to flush it out. A very dangerous thing, is a worme. So come on, let’s waste no time or it’ll kill again.”
With those words, he led us back onto the lane, and soon we were hurrying back toward the canal and the farm beyond it—the banshee far from our thoughts.
CHAPTER III
The Worme
A cold wind was blowing in from the sea, so I pulled up my hood to keep my ears warm. I lagged behind Arkwright for most of the way, knowing of old that he was not in the mood for company and that the only words I’d hear would be curses. But once we’d crossed the canal and were on the track that led to the farm, he beckoned me forward to walk alongside him.
“Listen carefully, Master Ward, because what I say might just save your life. I’m going to tell you what I know about wormes—which, as you know, are spelled with an E at the end to set them apart from ordinary earthworms. Some have legs, most have tails, and all are vicious and very bad tempered. I saw the tracks the creature made in the mud; this one has legs and a tail. The legs’ll give it speed, so watch out!”
The thought of facing such a danger made me feel nervous. Arkwright hadn’t been prepared to risk tackling it alone, so this was clearly going to be a very hazardous job.
“Their bodies are eel-like but covered with very tough green scales like armor plates, which are very difficult to penetrate with a blade,” he went on. “And as for their jaws, they’re long, with a mouth full of razor-sharp fangs that can easily bite off a head or an arm. Wormes are very dangerous creatures, Master Ward—they can be the size of a small dog or as big as a horse. This one is bigger than me, surprisingly big to stray this far south, away from the lakes. That’s where they are usually to be found.
“When they catch a human, they usually kill their victim by squeezing him to death before eating him, bones and all, leaving hardly a trace. But with animals such as cattle, they just bite deeply and suck out the blood. That’s what this one did with the sheep; that’s why I made the mistake of thinking it was a water witch. A mistake that cost a young boy’s life. It got into the house and dragged him from his bed. When the farmer went upstairs to check on the boy before going to bed himself, it was already too late. The worme had eaten him. All that remained was bloodstained fragments of his nightshirt.”
What Arkwright had described was terrible and sad. I felt really sorry for the parents. No wonder my master was angry, but it was a mistake that any spook could have made.
“Some people call them dragons,” Arkwright continued. “That’s because they breathe out clouds of steam to confuse their prey. It hides them while they spit. That spit is poisonous and can kill a fully grown man in just minutes. If it makes contact with your skin, you’re as good as dead. If it even touched your breeches or shirt, it would soak through in seconds, still probably delivering a lethal dose. But with two of us on the attack, it’ll be confused. It won’t know which of us to tackle first, and that’ll give us a better chance of dealing with it. Any questions?”
“Will I be able to use my silver chain against it?”
Arkwright shook his head. “You’d be wasting your time, Master Ward. Despite those scales, it’s sinuous and slippery and would soon wriggle clear of it. No, it’s immune to silver and to salt. We use our staffs. That’s the safest and surest way. Let me deal with it directly while you approach it from one side; keep some distance between us to confuse it—then it won’t be absolutely sure where the main threat will come from. Hopefully I’ll be able to get in close and finish it off before it can do me any serious damage.”
As we passed the farmhouse, we heard a woman wailing inside—no doubt the poor mother who’d lost her young son. We continued down the narrow, muddy track, which led to a water channel and then ran alongside it. We were now passing through a marsh and approaching the sea. There was little water in the channel at that moment, but it was tidal and allowed small boats access to the sea. A number of wooden boathouses were dotted along its edges, and Arkwright stopped outside the largest. The building was as big as a barn but dilapidated and fallen into disrepair. I saw that the clasp on the small door was fastened with a coil of barbed wire.
“Well, here we are,” Arkwright said. “This is the place I tracked it to. Let’s hope it’s still lurking in here. It’s likely to stay here, because it’s fed recently and will remain under cover until it next goes hunting again—probably after dark tonight. Let’s check before we go in.”
Arkwright circled the boathouse warily. Around us the marsh grass was bent and twisted; it danced to the dictates of the wind. The landscape was flat and bleak, with mudflats in the distance. It seemed totally deserted, but for the seabirds far above descending in long, slow spirals out of the gray winter sky.
“There! Can you see the tracks? That’s where it went in. . . .”
On the channel side of the boathouse there was a mud slope that led from a huge door down to the water. This was where boats were launched. There were clawed tracks, smeared in places where the worme’s tail had slicked across the mud. The door was rotten, with most of the planks broken away near the bottom, leaving a jagged lower edge. The creature
had squeezed itself in underneath.
We completed the circuit and Arkwright nodded in satisfaction. “No fresh tracks, Master Ward, so it’s still here. Light a candle. It’ll be dark in there.”
I pulled a candle stub from my pocket and got the tinderbox from my bag. I had to crouch low near the door and shield both from the cold wind, but in moments I’d managed to light the wick.
“Ready?” Arkwright asked.
I nodded. It took Arkwright just seconds to twist the wire free of the clasp across the small door; then he stepped inside cautiously, his staff at the ready. I followed close behind, protecting the flickering candle as best I could.
The moment I entered, I knew that the worme was lurking nearby. The whole area was filled with a dense, warm mist that had a noxious, acrid stink, making my eyes water. It was the breath of the creature. No wonder some people confused wormes with dragons, thinking that they breathed fire.
The rotting hulk of a boat filled most of the space inside. It was supported by wooden beams, three feet or more above the earthen floor, and something large scuttled out toward us from the darkness beneath.
I caught a glimpse of a wide mouth full of sharp, murderous teeth. Then most of the worme came into view. It was big, all right. Had it been able to stand upon its hind legs, it would have been taller than Arkwright, and the tail trailing behind it added another third to that. But its legs were stubby and the large toes were webbed and armed with sharp curved talons, so that its body was almost scraping the earth. As Arkwright had told me, it had green scales covering its long body.
With a sudden loud hiss, the worme breathed out, and a large plume of steam erupted from its nostrils, making it difficult to see. Arkwright jabbed downward at it with his staff. He missed the head by inches, and it scampered backward until the rear half of its body was once more under the hulk of the boat. It snarled up at us, its small eyes glittering in the candlelight.
The Last Apprentice: Complete Collection Page 286