That night, the first cry of the banshee witch told me that she was very close! This time she had further to run in order to reach the safety of the mound. I might even be able to catch her before the edge of the wood. So, putting my silver chain in my pocket and gripping my staff, I ran towards the sound.
There was often an edge of competition between my temporary master and me; it would be really pleasing to bind her with my chain before he could intercept her, I thought. So I ran just as fast as I could in the direction of the cry. She would hear me coming, but I didn't care. I was on the attack. My heart was pounding and I was filled with exhilaration.
The second cry came very soon after the first. The witch would be using some kind of curse that demanded a precise form of words. Surely there had to be a limit to how fast she could utter it? But, to my dismay, the third cry echoed over the lake before I reached her. I groaned, remembering Mistress Wicklow's blue-tinged lips and breathlessness. Now she would have suffered further pain.
I drove myself on even harder. I could hear the witch running through the trees ahead. I had to catch her. We hadn't managed to stop her uttering her third cry tonight - what chance had we of doing that tomorrow, when it would kill her victim? I wondered.
I could see her just ahead of me now and I was closing fast, readying my silver chain. As I was about to cast it, she swerved to the left so that a tree lay between me and my target.
Suddenly a burly figure rose up to confront her. Arkwright! They seemed to collide… he fell… she staggered and ran on. We were in the open now, beyond the trees, making straight for the mound. Just as I was about to cast my chain, the light blazed out again. Again I was blinded, but this time I kept going. The witch's silhouette came into view against the round yellow doorway. Then, all at once, darkness and silence.
For a moment I didn't realize what had happened. The air was warmer and absolutely still. Lights flared on the rocky walls - I saw black candles in brackets. And furniture! My eyes hadn't deceived me. There was a small table and two wooden straight-backed chairs. I was inside the burial mound!
I'd followed the witch through the magical door, and there she was, standing directly ahead of me, still gripping the rolled-up burial shroud, an expression of anger and bemusement on her face. I took a few deep breaths to calm myself and slow my pounding heart.
'What a fool you be, to follow me!' cried the witch.
'Do you always talk in rhyme?' I asked.
The witch didn't reply because, as I spoke, I cast my silver chain and it brought her to her knees, the links tight against her mouth to silence her. It was a perfect shot. I'd bound the witch - but now I had a real problem…
There was no visible door. How was I going to get out of the mound?
I searched the inside of the chamber carefully, running my fingers over the place where I thought I'd entered, but it was seamless. I was in a rocky cave without an entrance. Arkwright was on the outside; I was trapped inside. Had I bound the witch - or had she bound me? I looked at her. She was still gripping the shroud; despite the chain she hadn't dropped it.
I knelt close to her, staring into her eyes, which seemed to crinkle with amusement. Beneath the chain her mouth was pulled away from her teeth; half smile, half grimace. But her face wasn't that of the hideous hag I'd glimpsed as she washed the shroud. It could have belonged to any young country woman passed without a second glance at a market. Perhaps she'd used some spell to try and scare me off - a mild form of dread perhaps?
I eased the chain from her mouth so that she could speak. It was a dangerous thing to do, but I urgently needed to question her; make her tell me how I could get out. But I soon realized that it was a big mistake…
Her lips free of the chain, the witch was free to speak dark magic spells, and she began to do that immediately. She uttered three quick phrases, each in a language I'd never heard before, each ending in a rhyme. Then she opened her mouth very wide, and a thick black cloud of smoke erupted from it.
I sprang to my feet and staggered backwards. The cloud continued to grow - to the point where her whole face was engulfed. It reminded me of the blood from the shroud that had stained the water of the lake. Now the air between us grew dark and tainted.
The cloud was becoming even denser and taking on a shape. There were wings. Outstretched claws. A ravenous beak. It had become a black crow. The witch's open mouth was a portal to the dark! It was the Morrigan!
But this was no longer a bird of normal size and proportions; it was nothing like the seemingly ordinary crow that had swooped through the trees to attack Bill Arkwright. This creature was immense; it was distorted and twisted into something grotesque. The beak, legs and claws were elongated, stretching out towards me, while the head and body remained relatively small.
But then the wings grew too, until they reached out on either side of the monstrous bird to fill all the available space. They flapped violently, battering against the walls of the chamber and smashing the table so that it broke in half. Its claws struck out at me. I ducked and they raked the wall over my head, gouging deep grooves into the rock.
For a moment I was filled with panic. A spook has little chance of defeating one of the Old Gods. I was going to die here, I was sure. But then I took a deep breath and calmed myself. My master had taught me well, and I knew that the first and most important thing to do was control my fear. I'd faced great dangers from the dark before and survived. I could do so again…
So I concentrated hard, feeling the strength rise within me. And confidence began to replace fear. There was anger too.
I acted without conscious decision, with a speed that astonished even me. I stepped forward, closer to the Morrigan, released the retractable blade and swept my staff across from left to right. The blade cut deep into the bird's breast, slicing a bloody red line through the black feathers.
There was a tremendous scream. The Morrigan convulsed and contracted, shrinking rapidly until she was no larger than my fist. Then she vanished -leaving behind only a few black feathers smeared with blood that fluttered slowly to the ground.
The witch shook her head, her expression one of acute astonishment. 'That's not possible!' she cried. 'Who are you to be able to do such a thing?'
'My name is Tom Ward,' I told her. 'I'm a spook's apprentice and my job is to fight the dark.'
She smiled grimly. 'Well, you've fought your last fight, boy. There is no way you can escape this place. Soon the goddess will return. You will not find it so easy a second time.'
I smiled and looked down at the blood-splattered feathers littering the floor. Then I looked up and stared her straight in the eye, doing my best not to blink. 'We'll see. Next time I might cut off her head…'
I was bluffing, of course; trying to appear more confident than I felt. I had to persuade this witch to open the door of the mound.
'You're a fool, boy. She'll return, slay you, then carry off your soul to her kingdom in the dark!'
'In that case you may suffer the same fate!' I warned. 'You brought her into a dangerous situation that caused her pain. She might feel that should earn its own reward…'
I watched expressions flicker across the witch's face: anger, uncertainty, and then fear. The Old Gods could be vindictive and vengeful, even towards their own servants. There was some truth in what I'd just said, and the witch knew it.
'So why don't you open the door so that we can leave this mound?' I continued.
'What? So that you can kill me or bind me forever? Which fate do you have in store for me?'
'Neither. Once outside I'll release you from the chain. But, in return, you must promise to stop cursing Mistress Wicklow and go back to Ireland.'
'Why worry about her? She and her man were landowners who cared nothing at all for their servants and tenants. Six years ago, when the crops failed, they let the people starve. They could have helped but they didn't…'
I know nothing about that. But you've killed her husband. Isn't that enough?' I asked.
The witch frowned, but then she allowed the shroud to fall from her left hand to the floor. 'Help me to my feet!' she commanded.
I did as she asked, and she hobbled towards the rock wall and muttered words in the same strange language as before. There was a flare of pale light and the doorway opened before us. Gripping the chain, I pulled her forward into the cold night air. The moon bathed the mound behind us in silver light.
'Release me!' she commanded.
'Will you keep your word?'
'Yes, but will you keep yours?'
I nodded and, with a flick of my wrist, released the witch from the chain. She smiled. 'Don't ever visit my land, boy. The Morrigan is much more powerful there. And she is vengeful. She would torment you beyond anything you can imagine. Whatever you do, stay away from Ireland.'
With that, the banshee witch turned her back on me and made a sign in the air, muttering under her breath. Beyond her, the door faded and became the sheer grassy wall of the burial mound.
I think she was about to turn back and say something to me, but she never got the chance.
Something flew through the air towards her and buried itself between her shoulder blades. She fell down in the mud, a knife buried to the hilt in her back. She groaned, twitched twice and lay still.
Bill Arkwright walked towards me from the edge of the trees, carrying his staff and bag.
'You did a deal with her, Master Ward? Can't blame you, I suppose. How else could you have got out of that mound?'
'She would have kept her promise!' I protested.
'She was going home. She wasn't going to complete the curse…'
'You've just the word of a witch for that,' Arkwright said. 'What I've just done makes things more certain. Now she can't complete the curse. Am I right?'
'But I gave her my word—'
'Blood and bone!' cursed Arkwright. 'Grow up, boy! This is what we do. We kill witches. We fight the dark. If you can't stomach the job, go back to your farm!'
I didn't speak. I just stared down at the dead witch.
'What's done is done,' said Arkwright, pulling the knife out of her back. 'If you're squeamish, don't linger here…'
So I walked back through the trees and waited for him on the bridge. Dead witches could scratch their way to the surface of their graves and go hunting for victims. He was cutting out her heart to make sure that she couldn't come back.
We went to see Mistress Wicklow, and Arkwright told her most of what had happened. She seemed even more breathless than the previous night, but felt confident that she'd now make a full recovery. My master told her where the dead witch was, and she made arrangements to have her buried close to the mound. Then she paid him and we took our leave of her.
We walked back to the mill in silence. I was far from happy with what had happened and couldn't bring myself to chat to Arkwright; he too seemed lost in his own thoughts.
At last we waded through the salt moat that protects his garden from water witches and other creatures of the dark, and headed for the side door. Before we reached it, Claw started to bark.
'Well, at least somebody's speaking to me!' Arkwright said. But when we went in, Claw didn't bound towards him as I'd expected. She was otherwise occupied…
'Good girl! Good girl!' Arkwright said, kneeling down to pat her on the head.
She was feeding her new-born pups. There were two of them.
'So what shall we call these two little beauties, Master Ward?'
I smiled. 'Blood and Bone?' I suggested.
Arkwright grinned up at me. 'Perfect!' he exclaimed. 'Couldn't have chosen better myself. That's what I'll call them.'
The pups had stopped feeding now. Arkwright got to his feet and reached down into his bag. 'Better safe than sorry,’ he said. 'And a nice treat for a new mother!'
Then he pulled out the witch's heart and threw it to Claw.
I had other adventures with Bill Arkwright, but that's the one I'll never forget. It's because of what Mistress Wicklow said: that those cut or scratched by the Morrigan are marked for death - they always die within the year.
And Bill Arkwright did die less than a year later, sacrificing his life in Greece so that the Spook, Alice and I could escape. Perhaps we paid a high price for dealing with that banshee witch.
BOOK SIX
Read an extract - if you dare…
I'd taken no more than a dozen paces when there was a blood-curdling yell from my left and I heard the pounding of feet. Someone was running across the lawn, directly towards me. I readied my staff, pressing the recess so that, with a click, the retractable blade sprang from the end.
Lightning flashed again and I saw what threatened. It was a tall thin woman brandishing a long, murderous blade in her left hand. Her hair was tied back, her gaunt face twisted in hatred and painted with some dark pigment. She wore a long dress, which was soaked with rain, and rather than shoes, her feet were bound with strips of leather. So this was a maenad, I thought to myself…
About the Author
Joseph Delaney lives in Lancashire. His home is in the middle of boggart territory and his village has a boggart called the Hall Knocker which was laid to rest under the step of a house near the church.
ALSO AVAILABLE
THE SPOOK’S STORIES:
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THE SPOOK’S STORIES: WITCHES
AN RHCB DIGITAL EBOOK 9781862309876
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Spook's Stories: Witches, The Page 12
