The Seventh Apprentice

by Joseph Delaney

  One sniff was enough to tell anyone that Peter had been helping his dad with the work.

  “Tell me what your problem is and I’ll tell Mr. Gregory the moment he gets back.”

  “When will your master be back?” Peter demanded.

  “It could be three or four days, maybe longer.”

  “That’s too long!” the boy exclaimed. “My dad needs help now!” He turned bright red in the face, puffing and blowing as he paced about, clenching and unclenching his fists in frustration.

  “Why don’t you just calm down and tell me what the problem is? It might help to get it off your chest,” I suggested. I was doing my best to reassure him, but in truth, my head was spinning. The boy was obviously in desperate need of aid.

  “What can you do?” He halted in front of me. “We need a real spook for what’s got to be done. Something terrible has happened. . . . It’s some sort of pig witch!” he cried, his face twisting in anguish. “She’s got my dad and she’s doing horrible things to him! She’s cutting him with her knives. . . .”

  “Look, Peter, you need to tell me everything that’s happened from the beginning to the end. Don’t leave anything out!”

  That was what the Spook always said to people who had a problem with the dark. If they were made to relate the tale slowly and carefully, remembering all the details, they tended to calm down. And they were also supplying useful information. Besides, I was in no hurry. Nothing could be done until the Spook got back.

  But instead of telling me what the problem was, Peter asked, “Isn’t there another spook who could help?”

  I shook my head. “The only one I know of is Brian Houghton, one of my master’s former apprentices. But he’s practicing his trade somewhere south of the County—I don’t know where. Look, why don’t you tell me what happened?” I replied.

  Eventually Peter calmed down and managed to blurt out his tale. It was both terrible and incredible.

  Although I’d only just begun my study of them, I knew that there were many different types of witch—Pendle witches, water witches, Celtic witches, and lamia witches, to mention just a few—but never had my master mentioned pig witches. I found some of what Peter told me hard to believe.

  “Me and my dad have been working our way slowly east toward Blackburn, visiting two or three farms each day, slaughtering pigs that have been fattened up for Christmas,” he began. “Then, just two miles south of Blackburn, we called in at Sanderson’s farm. We’ve been dealing with the old farmer there for years and have a long-standing arrangement to pay him a visit in the second week of December. We arrived at dusk as usual. He lets us rest our weary bones in the barn so we’ll be ready for work at dawn the following day.

  “We always need that early start because there are a lot of pigs to slaughter. Most farmers have a mixture of animals—cows, sheep, hens, geese, and only a few pigs—but old Sanderson specializes in pigs. He keeps dozens of them and sells them at markets all over the County.

  “In his younger days he used to slaughter them himself, but now his back is giving him trouble. It’s hard work, so he gets us in two or three times a year. Of course, with people wanting to add pork, sausage, and bacon to their turkey-and-roast-potato Christmas dinner, December is our busiest time of all.

  “The farm lies in a deep valley, so I got off the cart and led the horse down the steep hill into the gloom. It was getting darker by the minute, and as we approached the buildings, I started to feel uneasy. Something seemed wrong.”

  “What was it?” I asked. “Any more than just a feeling?”

  Peter scratched his head. “Well, there was no light flickering in the farmhouse windows and everything was too quiet. Nothing seemed to be moving in the pigpens either. Even at night there are usually noises, but there was no snuffling, honking, or grunting—nothing. On top of all that, our old horse was nervous. He’s usually a placid creature, well able to cope with the sound of screaming pigs, but he was clearly unhappy. His eyes were rolling in his head, and when I brought him to a halt I saw that his legs were trembling.”

  Peter paused, and his eyes glazed over. He was obviously reliving the moment in his imagination.

  “What happened next?” I prompted him.

  “After lighting a lantern, I told my dad that I thought something was wrong. He just grunted at me—I couldn’t tell whether or not he agreed. Toward Christmas, farmers usually celebrate the end of each session of pig butchering with a pitcher of strong ale. We’d already visited two farms that day, and my dad had filled his boots with the stuff.

  “I unhitched the horse and led him into the barn where he could munch on some hay. Then I helped my dad down from the cart. His legs were still wobbly, so I guided him inside, and he collapsed on a heap of straw. Within seconds he was snoring away, dead to the world. So I went back to the cart to collect our blankets. I threw a couple over Dad, wrapped myself in another, closed the barn door, and did my best to ignore my uneasiness and get comfortable.”

  “If you knew something was wrong, wasn’t it difficult to sleep?” I asked.

  “I can sleep through anything—I must have dropped off quite quickly, because the next thing I knew, I was sitting upright and my heart was hammering in my chest fit to burst. It was pitch-dark inside the barn, but I could hear something being dragged across the floor, accompanied by a sort of rhythmic thumping sound.

  “I was terrified, and for a few moments I didn’t dare move a muscle. The barn door was pulled open—I heard it squeak on its hinges. Then the moon came out, and I was looking at something out of a nightmare.” Fear flickered across Peter’s face.

  “What did you see, Peter?” I asked him.

  “In the doorway I saw a woman dressed in an ankle-length black dress with two long knives thrust into the belt at her waist,” he went on. “I remember thinking that they looked like the blades my dad used to cut the throats of pigs. Her hands had long hooked nails like claws, but it was her face that was truly horrible. The cheeks were bloated, the nose was fat and squashed so that it looked more like a snout, and her ears were pointed, with tufts of hair sprouting from them. She had the face of a pig! And now she was holding my dad’s legs and dragging him out into the yard—those were the sounds I had heard. The thumping was his head bouncing on the ground. She couldn’t see me in the darkness, so I kept still until she’d dragged my dad away!” At that, Peter burst into tears.

  I didn’t know what to say, so for a little while I just watched him cry. I had never heard of a witch with the face of a pig. I wondered guiltily if the Spook had mentioned it one day while I was daydreaming.

  At last Peter stopped and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’m a coward,” he said. “I should have tried to save him, but I did nothing. My poor old dad! He’ll be dead by now. The witch will have cut him into pieces!”

  CHAPTER III

  THE JOURNEY EAST

  “THERE was nothing you could have done,” I said, in an attempt to make him feel better. “What chance did you stand against a witch?”

  Although it would have been my duty to try and deal with a creature like that, without my master at my side, I would probably have run, too. I felt sorry for Peter. He’d been in a terrible position.

  “So then you came here right away?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I waited about five minutes, and then crept out of the barn. But as I walked away, out of the corner of my eye I caught a movement and looked up. There was a pig on the roof, a big boar with sharp tusks, and it grunted at me. I’ve seen a lot of pigs in my life, but never one as large as that. And it had wings. As it flew off the barn roof toward me, I ran as fast as my legs would carry me.

  “The boar had chased me halfway up the hill before I managed to outrun it. At the summit I paused and looked back down into the valley. I couldn’t see the pig, but I could hear my dad shouting, ‘No! No! Please don’t cut me again! Please don’t do that, I beg you! It hurts so much!’ And then he started screaming at the top of his voi
ce, sounding like a pig when its throat’s being cut. I didn’t want to leave my dad. It was horrible to hear him screaming and shouting. But what could I do?

  “After I’d left the farm far behind, I realized that there was only one man who could help me—the Chipenden Spook, John Gregory. So here I am. It’s taken me two days to find this place, and it was all for nothing. He’s away, and by the time he gets back there’ll be nothing left of my poor dad. I should never have abandoned him there. . . .”

  For a moment all that came into my head was the expression my master had used when I’d promised to get my notebook up to date: “Pigs might fly!” he had said. It meant that it was very unlikely to happen—because whoever heard of a pig flying? But Peter clearly believed he’d seen one.

  I stood there for minute, deep in thought. The threat of being sent home by the Spook was now very real. If I went to try and help Peter, it would give me a good excuse for not getting my notebook up to date and improving my skill with the silver chain. How could I carry on with those tasks if I was busy with something that was much more important? I would show the Spook that I was not lacking in initiative and courage.

  I turned to the boy. “Look, Peter, the Spook’s gone to Burnley, which isn’t all that far beyond Blackburn. We could speed things up by going straight there, saving him from traveling all the way back here. We might even meet him. I’ve got a couple of things to get from the house. Wait for me here at the crossroads, and then we can travel together.”

  Peter looked doubtful, but he nodded. So, my heart thumping with nerves and excitement, I ran back to the house and collected my staff. I also picked up my bag and pushed the Spook’s silver chain into it. My master might just need it if this half pig, half woman really was a witch of some sort. Then I added some food for the journey: a few slices of cold ham, three fat pork sausages, a thick wedge of cheese, and half a loaf.

  I felt confident that the Spook would follow his usual route, and this was the one I intended to take. At the last moment I decided to write him a note just in case we missed each other.

  Dear Mr. Gregory,

  There’s serious spook business at Sanderson’s farm near Blackburn. Some sort of witch has got the pig butcher. It may already be too late to save him, but at least you can deal with the witch. His son, Peter, is with me, and we’re on our way to Burnley to find you. If we miss each other on the way, you’ll know where to go.

  William Johnson

  Ten minutes later, I met Peter back at the withy trees and we started walking south toward the ford across the River Ribble, taking the route that passed east of Priestown, which meant that we would very likely meet my master on the way. It was still cold, and I wore a sheepskin jacket underneath my cloak. All poor Peter had were his shirt and trousers and the smelly sack that served as an overcoat, but he didn’t complain. They usually killed pigs outdoors, so he must have been used to working in all sorts of weather.

  When it grew dark, we found ourselves shelter for the night in a ruined barn that the Spook and I had used before on our travels. Soon we had a good fire going and shared the food. We had one and a half pork sausages and a piece of bread each. I decided to save the ham for breakfast and the cheese for later on the journey. I wasn’t that keen on cheese, to be honest. John Gregory found the crumbly stuff very tasty—he always took some with him when we were on spook’s business, though he only doled out small amounts to nibble at. He believed that you fought the dark best on an empty stomach. Well, I had no intention of fighting this pig witch without my master; I ate my supper and put the cheese back in my bag for later.

  After we’d finished eating, we chatted for a while.

  “Do you like being a spook’s apprentice, Will?” Peter asked.

  I decided to be truthful and shook my head. “It’s a difficult, scary job, and I’m not very good at it. You see some awful things. . . .” I shivered at the memory of the boggart we’d confronted in a dark wood just outside Galgate a few months back. “We have to get up really early and go out in all weathers. And the Spook strides along very quickly while I struggle behind with his heavy bag. I reckon I’ll be lucky to complete my apprenticeship. What about you? Are you happy following your dad’s trade, or would you rather be doing something else?”

  Peter suddenly perked up. “I like killing pigs,” he told me. “It’s the best job in the world!”

  I was curious. “What exactly do you like about it?” Pigs were nasty, smelly animals, and killing them must be a messy business.

  “I like it best when we hang ’em up by their legs and cut their throats!” Peter exclaimed enthusiastically. “The blood pours down into the bucket, so hot that it steams. Every year we drink a small cup of blood from the first pig we slaughter. My dad says it puts hairs on your chest.”

  I looked at him in astonishment. How could he possibly enjoy that?

  “Has it put hairs on your chest?” I couldn’t imagine drinking pig’s blood like that, but I wouldn’t have minded a few hairs. My chest was pale, scrawny, and bare, and a thick thatch of hair would have been an improvement.

  “No . . . not yet,” confessed Peter. “It takes time to work. You have to keep drinking the blood.”

  I shuddered with disgust. No pig’s blood for me. I would just have to be patient.

  We were up early the next day, and after wolfing down the ham we continued our journey, splashing through the river ford. In the distance I could see a brown, smoky haze hanging over Priestown, with the pale limestone steeple of the cathedral rising above it.

  “I’m still hungry,” Peter muttered.

  “So am I,” I replied. “I’ve got a bit of cheese we can share for our lunch.”

  He didn’t look too keen on that. “What’s your favorite food?” he asked me.

  “Bacon and eggs!” I said, my stomach rumbling at the thought. “I like the bacon crispy and the eggs runny so that I can dip my bread into the yolks.”

  “I wouldn’t mind a plate of bacon and eggs now,” he said with a grin. “My favorite food is black pudding. But I like jellied eels and pork scratchings too.”

  Peter was leading the way as we began the ascent to Blackburn. It got colder as we climbed the hill; there were patches of ice in the hardened mud beside the road, and the hoarfrost still hadn’t melted. We met only a few other people on foot, and the odd farmer with a horse and cart taking produce to market.

  At the summit, Peter stopped and turned toward me. “What’s the best way to kill a witch?” he asked, looking into my eyes intently.

  “My master doesn’t usually kill witches,” I explained. “He puts them alive into pits. The walls of each pit are lined with a mixture of salt and iron, with iron bars over the top and another set buried beneath the soil to stop them from digging their way to freedom—there’s no chance of them escaping. They have to exist on a diet of slugs and worms. He never lets them out. That’s how he keeps the County safe.”

  “Yes, but supposing you did want to kill a witch. How would you do it?”

  “At Caster Castle they hang witches,” I told him. “But that’s no good because they can come back from the dead. Some are even more dangerous dead than alive. There are two ways to prevent them from returning: one is to burn the witch, and the other is to eat her heart—but it must be eaten raw. You can’t cook it.”

  Peter nodded thoughtfully. “So the Spook will throw this pig witch into a pit?”

  “Most likely, yes. He’ll bind her with his silver chain, then carry her back to Chipenden and put her in a pit in his garden forever.”

  Having gotten his reply, Peter turned and set off toward Blackburn at twice the pace he’d set earlier.

  I was puffing with exertion, my breath rising into the air in clouds. I wanted to ask Peter to slow down, but I reflected that it was only natural that he should be keen to find the Spook as soon as possible. He wanted to save his dad. From what he had told me, I didn’t hold out much hope that Mr. Snout would still be alive or in one piece, but I
saw no point in discouraging him. Even false hope was better than no hope at all.

  The route to Burnley passed right through Blackburn, and I had spotted the first of the houses in the distance when Peter halted just north of the main road. He was staring down a narrow track, clenching and unclenching his fists, his face contorted with emotion.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “That’s the way to Sanderson’s farm.” He pointed. “Look, Will, I’ve got to go down there now.”

  “It won’t do you or your dad any good, you know,” I said, my voice as calm and reassuring as possible. “What good will it do him if you get captured as well? The best thing is to find my master. He’s a really good spook. He’ll be able to deal with that witch.”

  “Wait here for me,” Peter insisted. “I’ll just go to the edge of the valley and shout down to my dad. I’ll feel a lot better if I hear his voice—then he’ll know I haven’t abandoned him. If he’s not able to answer, he’s probably dead. I have to find out, one way or the other.” And he hurried off down the hill without waiting for a reply.

  I knew that Peter was being foolish. Who could tell how powerful the witch might be? Even at the top of the hill, he might not be safe. And if he shouted down into the valley, she would know that he was there! She might chase him or use her magic to lure him into her clutches.

  I had to go and bring him back. Even an apprentice had a duty to save others from the dark. That was one lesson the Spook had drummed into my thick head. I felt sure that he would want me to intervene; this was another way to show him that I was made of the right stuff to be a spook.

  I was scared, but I hurried off down the path after Peter.

  CHAPTER IV

  THE VALLEY OF WHITE MIST

  AT first the path led steeply down through dense woods. Even without their leaves, the covering of trees made it very gloomy. But soon the ground leveled out before beginning to rise again, gradually at first and then more sharply.