'Meg no longer lives with me!' I said. 'She's gone to Sunderland Point to sail for her homeland, Greece.'
It was a lie of course, but what could I do? There was no way I was going to deliver Meg into his hands. The man would take her north to Caster - where, no doubt, she'd eventually hang.
I could see that the parish constable wasn't satisfied, but there was little he could do about it immediately. Being a local, he knew not to enter my garden for fear of what he might find there. Generations of spooks had lived and worked at Chipenden, and the villagers believed the house and its surroundings were haunted by denizens of the dark. So he went away with his tail between his legs. I had to keep Meg away from the village from that day forth. It proved difficult and was the cause of many arguments between us, but there was worse to come.
Egged on by his sister, the constable went to Caster and made a formal complaint to the High Sheriff there. Consequently they sent a young constable with a warrant to arrest Meg. I was told about his imminent arrival by the village blacksmith, so I was ready. I needed to get Meg away as quickly as possible.
My former master had bequeathed another house to me: it lay on the edge of brooding Anglezarke Moor. I had visited it just once and found little about it to my taste. Now it could be put to good use. In the dead of night, very late in the autumn, Meg and I journeyed to Anglezarke and set up home there.
It was a bleak place, wet and windy, with the winter threatening long months of ice and snow. The house had no garden and was built in a ravine, right back against a sheer rocky crag that kept it in shadow for most of the day. It was big, with ten bedrooms, including an attic, and a deep cellar; but even though I lit fires in every room, it was cold and damp - not a place where I could safely store books. However, we made the best of it and were happy for a while. But then there was an unexpected development that made my life much more difficult.
Unbeknown to me, Meg had written to her sister, giving her our new address. When the reply arrived, she became agitated. I found her pacing up and down in the kitchen, the letter clutched to her chest.
'What ails you, woman?' I demanded.
'It's my sister, Marcia, she admitted at last. 'Unless we help, she'll be killed for sure. Can she come here to us?'
I groaned inside. Her sister? Another lamia witch!
'Where is she now?'
'Far to the north beyond the boundaries of the County. She's being hidden and protected but it can't go on for much longer or those who guard her will be in danger themselves. There's a quisitor in the area and he's already growing suspicious. A thorough search is being carried out. Please say she can come here,' Meg begged. 'Please do. She's my only relative in the whole world…'
Quisitors worked for the Church, and hunted down and burned witches. I had no love for such men - they would burn a spook too if they got the chance. Often they were corrupt and colluded with jealous neighbours to burn women who were totally innocent of witchcraft. Afterwards they confiscated their land and grew rich.
'She can come for a while until the danger is over, I said, relenting at last. I was too much in love with Meg to deny her anything.
Meg wrote back, and later that week a reply came. Her sister was travelling to Anglezarke by coach. We were to meet her on the Bolton road at the foot of the moor.
'She's coming by night,' Meg said. 'It'll be safer for her that way…'
So it was that just after midnight we waited shivering at the crossroads for the coach that would bring her sister to stay with us. There was still snow on the ground, but there had been no fresh falls for over three days so I was reasonably confident that the road would be open. At last, in the distance, we saw the coach approaching, the breath of the team of six horses steaming in the cold night air.
I waited for Marcia to alight from the coach, but instead, the driver and his mate jumped down and began to unfasten the ropes that bound something large to the back. They carried it towards us and laid it at our feet. It was a black coffin…
Without a word the two men climbed back up onto the coach; then the driver cracked his whip, brought the horses about and off they went again, back the way they'd come. I felt cold inside. Colder than the air freezing my forehead and cheeks.
'Don't tell me this is what I think it is…' I said softly.
'My sister is inside. How else could she have got here undetected?'
'She's feral, isn't she?'
Meg nodded.
'Why didn't you tell me?'
'Because you would never have allowed her to come here…'
Cursing under my breath, I helped Meg drag the coffin back up the slope towards the house. Beautiful though she was, Meg was extremely strong, and once back in the house she wasted no time in tearing off the lid with her bare hands.
I stood back, my staff at the ready. 'Can you control her?' I asked.
'She's just a pussycat.' Meg smiled, stepping back to allow Marcia to scuttle from the open coffin.
It was the first time I'd seen a lamia in the feral form. My master had described them to me and I'd read entries from books in the Chipenden library, but nothing could have prepared me for the actual thing.
Marcia was far from human in shape: she balanced herself, as if ready to spring, on four thin limbs which ended in large hands; each finger had a long claw. Her back was covered in green and yellow scales and her hair was long and greasy, falling over her shoulders as far as the ground. Her face, which looked up at us each in turn, was like something out of a nightmare, with gaunt features and heavy-lidded eyes.
Marcia first took up residence in the attic, and this worked well enough for a week or so. A feral lamia can summon birds to her side, where they wait in thrall, unable to fly off, until she finally devours them. The attic had a big skylight and I would hear the birds gathering on the roof; then their cries of terror as she pulled off their wings and, too late, they realized they were food for a lamia.
Then there were the rats. She could summon them too. I would hear them squealing in excitement as they climbed up the drainpipes, finally using the same route as the birds and dropping through the skylight to scamper across the floorboards. Every evening I would hear Marcia scuttling about as she chased them, and Meg would look up from her weaving and give me a warm smile.
'She likes a juicy rat, that sister of mine. But the chase is as good as the eating!'
Every week Meg would bring Marcia raw meat from the butcher's to supplement her diet. She looked after her sister well, regularly sweeping the attic floor clean of feathers and rat-skins. I wasn't happy, but what could I do? I didn't want to lose Meg. And I reasoned that a feral lamia was better off safe in the attic of my house than roaming free and threatening the County.
But then, one dark moonless night, Marcia got out through the skylight, went up onto the moor and killed a sheep. There was a bloody trail leading back to the house where she'd dragged the carcass behind her. Luckily a fresh fall of snow before dawn obscured the tracks so the farmer was none the wiser. I imagine he put the loss down to wolves or the wild dogs that sometimes ran in packs on Anglezarke Moor during the winter.
Meg gave her sister a good talking to and told me that she'd promised never to do it again.
It was just a few weeks later that Marcia first came downstairs…
I had been sitting next to Meg, facing the fire, when I heard unexpected sounds on the stairs: the clip-clop of shoes. I turned and saw Marcia peering at us from the doorway. It was as if a savage animal, a predator, had suddenly dressed itself in human clothes; a creature that was breathing too rapidly and noisily and still hadn't learned how to stand properly.
'Come here, sister, and sit beside us. Warm yourself at the fire,' Meg invited.
I was shocked by the change in her appearance.
Lamias are slow shape-shifters, and the weeks Marcia had lived at the house and the long hours she'd spent in the company of her sister had altered her form significantly towards the domestic. She was wearing a pai
r of her sister's pointy shoes and one of her dresses: the garment's hem was knee-length and cut away at the shoulders, and I could see how Marcia's arms and legs had fleshed out. Her hair had been cut neatly too, and her long deadly claws were the only visible aspect of the feral that remained. Her face was almost fully human, with a wild, savage beauty.
Marcia sat herself down and looked at me out of the corners of her eyes; she licked her lips before giving me a twisted smile.
'We could share him, sister, couldn't we? A man between us. Why not?'
'He's mine!' Meg retorted. 'I don't share my man with anyone - not even my sister!'
I think that was what hardened Meg against Marcia; what spurred her to alert me to danger in the middle of the night.
'Marcia's not in the attic!' she told me breathlessly. 'She's gone out onto the moor, looking for food.'
'Not another sheep,' I groaned, swinging my legs out over the edge of the bed and starting to pull on my boots. It seemed that Marcia, despite her changed appearance, still had much of the feral lamia's inner urges.
'No. It's worse than that. Far worse. She's after a child. One she spied at the farm when she killed that sheep. I thought I'd talked her out of it!'
'How long has she been gone?'
'A few minutes at most. I heard a noise on the roof and went up to the attic and found her missing.'
Marcia's tracks were easy enough to follow across the snow-clad moor. Meg went with me, offering to help as best she could.
'If she kills a child, they'll find her eventually. She'll never get away with that and we'll have to move again,' Meg complained.
'That may well be true, but we should be thinking of the poor child. The child and her family!' I retorted angrily, increasing my pace. Would we be too late? I wondered with sinking heart.
The footprints led through the farm gate and into the yard. Then we saw Marcia crouching in the shadow of the barn, looking up at a window -no doubt the bedroom of her intended prey. I breathed a sigh of relief. We could still save the child.
'No, sister, you're going too far!' Meg called out, keeping her voice low so as not to disturb the household. 'Come back with us now!'
But blood-lust held Marcia in its grip; she was beyond words. She hissed at us, then looked up at the bedroom again. Suddenly she kicked off her pointy shoes, surged forward and scampered straight up the sheer wall of the house, her finger- and toenails gouging into the stone.
She smashed the glass with her left fist, then seized the window frame and plucked the whole thing, wood and remaining glass panes, from the wall and hurled it down into the yard, where it fell with a tremendous crash. She climbed into the bedroom and I heard a child cry out with fear. The next moment she jumped out through the window again, down into the yard, and landed facing me, carrying the child under her arm. It was more baby than toddler and it was screaming its lungs out.
'Give the child to me, Marcia!' I commanded, my left hand targeting her with the blade of my staff, my right reaching out towards the baby.
She hesitated, and maybe she would have done as I instructed. But all at once the farmer burst out of the front door brandishing a big stick, his wife at his heels wailing as loud as a banshee. He went straight for Marcia, but she swiped him with the fingers of her free hand, the talons laying open his forehead to the bone. He fell to his knees, blood running into his eyes, while his wife screamed even louder and started tearing at her hair.
Seizing her chance, Marcia raced off across the farmyard and I immediately gave chase. She started to climb, heading up towards the moor tops. She seemed to be pulling ahead even though I was running as fast as I could. I glanced back. Meg was quickly catching up with me. When she drew level, I shouted out angrily.
'If your sister kills that baby, I'll put my blade through her heart! Do something now or she's dead!' I warned, and I meant every word.
In response Meg began to surge ahead of me. I was slowing because of the deepening snow, but she was starting to close on her sister. I lost sight of them as they passed beyond the brow of one of the lower slopes. When they came into view again, there was a series of blood-curdling yells and screams.
They were fighting: clawing, biting and scratching so that blood sprayed out onto the snow. But where was the baby?
To my relief, I saw that it lay on the ground to one side, still crying loudly. My first instinct was to pick the child up and get it away from the danger of that furious fight. But then the two witches broke apart and I saw my chance.
With a flick of my wrist, I cast my silver chain towards Marcia; it was the one I'd inherited from my master - though I also had the one that had once bound Meg in the abhuman's tower. It was a good shot and it dropped over Marcia's head and bound her tightly, bringing her down into the snow.
Meg wiped the blood from her face, went over to pick up the child and started to whisper in its ear. I don't know what she said, but it was effective: within seconds it became silent, closed its eyes and nestled against her neck.
I hefted the bound Marcia into position over my left shoulder and headed back towards the farm. When we arrived, the mother cried louder than ever at being re-united with her baby, but they were tears of joy
'Thank you! Thank you! I never thought I'd see my little girl again!' she said between sobs. 'My poor husband though - he'll be scarred for life!'
I wondered how grateful she'd be if she knew that I'd been harbouring her baby's abductor in my own house? So with Meg walking silently at my side, I trudged back to my house, deep in thought. Once inside I told Meg what I intended.
'Down in the cellar there are graves and pits ready for boggarts and witches. So far they're all empty. My master, Henry Horrocks, had them prepared for the work he was doing locally. But after staying here for a while he decided that he didn't like this house, so they've never been used—'
'No! Please, John, don't put my sister in a pit. Don't do that…'
'I'll give her just one chance to avoid a pit, and one chance only. There are rooms on the upper levels of the cellar. She can stay in one of them - she'll be comfortable enough there. The iron gate on the cellar steps will give us extra security, so effectively she'll be sealed behind that gate and the neighbourhood will be safe.'
So that's what we did. A lamia has more resistance to iron than other witches, but the gate was very strong;
Marcia was in a secure place. Of course, Meg insisted on seeing her sister every day. They chatted in her room below the gate, and Meg often took her fresh meat and offal from the butcher. Marcia couldn't summon birds down there, but she ate a lot of rats - as I could see from all the skins Meg had to clear up.
The winter moved on and the days began to lengthen. I did a few jobs locally, including moving on a troublesome hall-knocker boggart and slaying a ripper with salt and iron. I realized that there was a lot of work to be done on Anglezarke Moor, but Chipenden also needed my help. Could I leave Meg here while I paid the village and its surroundings a short spring visit?
Eventually the decision was made for me, but in a way I didn't expect. It began in a similar fashion to the difficulties in Chipenden. A few words were exchanged between Meg and the local women. This time the constable didn't get involved because the people of Adlington had a strong sense of community and believed in sorting things out for themselves.
Meg still liked to go shopping, but I'd employed the local odd-job man, Bill Battersby, to bring me bulky supplies of potatoes and other vegetables up from the village to save her the trouble of carrying them. It was he who gave me warning of what was happening. To begin with it was nothing that I hadn't heard before: accusations of using curses - a woman suffering night-terrors; another too afraid to venture beyond her own front door. But then there was something new…
'She's after someone's husband. The villagers won't stand for that. Your Meg has gone too far!' Battersby Warned.
'What do you mean? Make yourself clear!' I demanded, my heart already torn by his words. I knew
precisely what he meant but couldn't bring myself to believe it.
'She's taken a fancy to Dan Crumbleholme, the village tanner. His wife, Dolly, spied them together. And there are reports that they've been seen kissing behind the tannery. Folks won't stand for it. They think she's used witchcraft to turn his head. If it happens again…'
I sent Battersby away with bitter words, still unable to believe that Meg would betray me by seeing another man. But I'd noticed that she'd taken to shopping later, when the sun was about to go down - something I could see no reason for. So the following afternoon I resolved to follow her.
I noticed that she had put on a pair of pointy shoes that she'd only bought the previous week. It was the first time she'd worn them and I remember thinking how attractively they set off her ankles. I kept my distance but was always in danger of being detected. A seventh son of a seventh son has certain immunity against the powers of a witch, but Meg was exceptionally strong and I had to be vigilant.
Meg did her shopping, being the last customer at each shop she visited, and I began to feel better. No doubt she just shopped late to avoid the throng of local women and the opportunity for quarrels and disputes. But my relief was short-lived. She went to the tannery last of all. Worse, rather than knocking at the front door, which was already locked for the night, she went to the rear of the premises.
I didn't wait long before following her. I had hardly gone round the corner when the back door slammed and I saw Meg walking towards me.
'What are you up to, Meg?' I demanded.
'Nothing. Nothing at all,' she protested. 'I wanted some soft leather to stitch myself a new bag, that's all. The shop was shut but I knocked on the back door and Dan was kind enough to take my order even though his business has just shut for the night.'
I didn't believe her. She seemed flustered, which was unusual for Meg. We quarrelled bitterly, and following the heat of our exchange, a coldness came between us to rival that of the winter top of Anglezarke Moor. It persisted, and three days later, despite my protests, Meg went shopping again.
The Spook's Stories: Witches Page 2
