I was dealing with something very unusual. There was work to be done.
I returned to the house at Chipenden. I’d inherited it from my master, and it was mine to live in as long as I worked as a spook. That suited me fine. As far as I was concerned, this was a job for life.
The following day I got up soon after dawn, picked up my staff, and went out into the garden. There was a tree stump there that my master and I had routinely used for practicing our fighting skills.
Soon I was driving the blade of my staff into the wood again and again until I was breathing hard and dripping with sweat. I was out of condition, a long way off my former peak of fitness.
The staff, with its retractable silver-alloy blade crafted to fight witches, was a spook’s main weapon, and I needed to regain my former skill in using it as soon as possible.
I tried the move in which I flicked my staff from one hand to the other before driving it into the stump. I was clumsy, so I kept at it until I felt I’d improved.
Since my master had died, almost ten months ago now, I’d done my best to deal with the dark, but I hadn’t kept up my fighting skills. Gradually I’d done less and less. I hadn’t had the heart, because it reminded me too much of the days when John Gregory and I had trained together. But now I realized that this must become a daily routine again. I needed to be ready for any eventuality. The death of the third girl had brought home to me the fact that I needed to keep both my wits and my skills sharp and to continue to gather knowledge—there was still much I didn’t know.
Before going back to the house, I also practiced for ten minutes with my silver chain, the spook’s other main weapon, casting it again and again over the post in the garden. I was pleased to discover that my skill with this was undiminished. I didn’t miss once. It had always been one of my strengths—I could cast it over a witch even when she was running directly toward me.
Pleased with myself, I headed back for breakfast. I’d built up a good appetite.
I sat alone at the table with a big portion of ham and eggs steaming on the plate before me. At one time I would have wolfed it all down and helped myself to more. But my appetite was poor these days, and I only picked at my food.
During breakfast, my master and I used to discuss previous events or our plans for the coming day. I missed all that, but of course I wasn’t truly alone.
I could hear a faint purring.
It was the boggart, Kratch.
There were many different types of dark entities like this, and it was a spook’s job to deal with them. For example, there were ripper boggarts that drank the blood of animals and people; stone chuckers that threw stones. Both of these could kill, so a spook had to bind or slay them. Other boggarts just played tricks on folk and scared them; they were just moved on to a different location—usually a deserted spot far from human habitation. However, Kratch was a cat boggart, and although it was dangerous and could kill, my master had dealt with it in a different way.
This boggart cooked the breakfast and guarded the house and garden. In exchange, after issuing three warnings to any intruders, it was permitted to kill them and drink their blood. My master had made this pact with Kratch, and I had renewed it.
The creature rarely made itself visible, but when it did so, it took the form of a ginger tomcat that varied in size depending on its mood. The purring faded now, and I sensed it moving away from me. Moments later it appeared on the hearth rug, curling up in front of the embers of the fire. I wondered if perhaps it was some type of boggart that had killed the girls. But almost immediately I dismissed that possibility. For one thing, the murderous creature had worn a long coat, and boggarts definitely didn’t wear clothes of any type. Secondly, none of the places where the girls had been killed were on ley lines—the invisible paths along which boggarts moved from location to location.
After finishing what breakfast I could manage, I went down to the village to pick up the week’s provisions, calling in at the shops in the usual order: the butcher’s, the greengrocer’s, and finally the baker’s.
In recent months, the dark had been relatively quiet. Few had visited the withy trees crossroads outside the house to ring the bell that would summon me. However, I had spent much of my time thinking and trying to puzzle out what had killed the girls . . . so far, without success.
As I walked along the street, I received the usual furtive glances, and villagers would occasionally cross to the other side to avoid passing near me. That was to be expected, but today there was something new. I felt that people were whispering behind my back. It made me feel uncomfortable, but I ignored it and went about my business.
Carrying the full sack over my shoulder, I set off up the hill toward the house. As I neared the top of the lane, I saw someone waiting there.
A girl was sitting on the stile next to the gate. For a moment my heart leaped in my chest with a strange combination of anger and grief. It was Alice! Alice had been trained as a witch but had later become my friend and had stayed at the Chipenden house with us. She had been gone for a long time now, but I still missed her. However, almost immediately I realized that this was not Alice after all. Alice was about my own age—seventeen—while this girl was at least a couple of years younger. She had mousy hair, freckles, and a bright, cheerful face. She was wearing a neat dark blue dress that came down well below her knees, and a pair of sensible walking shoes. At first glance you’d have taken her for a healthy farmer’s daughter, but there was something about her eyes that was very unusual.
The left eye was blue and the right eye was brown.
Not only that—their expression was strange in a way that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Whatever it was, I knew instantly that she was no ordinary girl. I had no sensation of cold, so I knew she wasn’t a witch, but there was something about her I didn’t quite trust.
“Hello,” she said as I approached. “Are you Mr. Ward?”
“That I am,” I replied. “Are you here to ask for help? You should have inquired down in the village what to do. You see, it’s best to visit the withy trees crossroads and ring the bell. I’d have gone there right away, and you wouldn’t have had to wait like this.”
“I don’t need help,” she said, jumping down and coming toward me. “You’re a new spook, aren’t you? So you’ll be looking for an apprentice. I’m applying for the job.”
I put down the sack and smiled at her. “I’m sorry, but I’m not looking for an apprentice. Anyway, this is not a job that you can just apply for. You need certain innate abilities, even before you start—special talents that help you fight the dark. I’m new to the job myself. My own apprenticeship was cut short, and I’ll still be learning for at least a few more years. I’m hardly in a position to train anyone else, am I?”
“That’s not a problem,” she said with a smile. “We should spend all our lives learning, and I know you already have lots to teach me. I can help by doing chores as well. I could have collected your food from the village and saved you the bother. I could make your breakfast, too. My mam says I’m a good cook.”
“I don’t need anyone to make my breakfast,” I said, not bothering to explain that I had a boggart that did that already. “How did you know I’d been down in the village collecting provisions?”
“I watched you going into the shops. Then, when you went into the last one, I ran up here to wait for you.”
“How did you know it was the last one? Have you been spying on me?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t call it spying, but yes, I’ve watched you for a couple of weeks and I know your routine—you go to the butcher’s, the greengrocer’s, and finish at the baker’s shop. I’ve seen enough to make me realize that you are the one who should train me.”
“Listen, I’d better tell you what’s what so that you won’t get your hopes up. To become a spook’s apprentice you have to be a seventh son of a seventh son. That gives you some immunity against witches and enables you to see the dead and talk to them. That’s the bas
ic requirement. I might as well be blunt. You’re a girl, and you just don’t qualify.” I picked up my bag, nodded at her, and started to climb over the stile.
“I’m a seventh daughter of a seventh daughter,” she said. “And I can see the dead. Sometimes they talk to me.”
I turned and looked back at her—a seventh daughter of a seventh daughter with those powers . . . ? I’d never heard of such a thing.
“I’m sure you can,” I replied, “but I just don’t need an apprentice. Have I made myself clear?”
Then I headed for the house, putting her from my mind.
3
Bad Things Happen
I spent the afternoon and evening in the library. The house had been burned to the ground a couple of years ago, and John Gregory’s original library, a vast collection of books—some of them written by generations of previous spooks—had been destroyed.
The house had been rebuilt, but the library was far more difficult to replace.
Now the new shelves were mostly empty. They housed a very small collection of books. These included a few notebooks of my own and my master’s, including his Bestiary, the illustrated dictionary of the entities he’d encountered during his years as a spook defending the County against the dark.
I sat at the desk and began to write up the happenings of the previous day in my notebook. I’m sure John Gregory would have had much to say on the subject, but I was alone now, and it was up to me to find an explanation. The library couldn’t help me. I was getting nowhere and needed a plan.
The following morning I woke up early, no nearer to finding an answer to the mystery. It was too soon to go down to breakfast. The boggart became very angry if you went into the kitchen before it was ready for you, and it was not wise to annoy such a dangerous creature.
So I went outside and strode toward the western garden. It was a good place to think. The weather had turned, and I was surprised to find a thin coating of hoarfrost on the grass. The air was unusually cold for late August, much colder than I’d expected. Even in the County, which was known for its long winters, we didn’t usually get the first frosts until late September or early October. It could well be that winter would come early this year, more severe than ever.
I sat down on the bench and gazed toward the fells, listening to the birdsong and the hum of insects. This was where my master used to teach me. I would sit taking notes while he paced back and forth.
His grave lay near the bench, the mound of earth now covered with grass. I read the words on the gravestone. I’d chosen them myself.
HERE LIETH
JOHN GREGORY OF CHIPENDEN,
THE GREATEST OF THE COUNTY SPOOKS
The Spook had served the County well. He’d been a good master, and as I thought about him, tears came to my eyes.
I reflected on the years of training he had given me, and all his warnings against the dark; his instructions on how to deal with it. We’d faced many foes, but malevolent witches had been some of our most dangerous enemies. We had fought them, and captured them, and bound them in pits within his garden.
But a change had come. We weren’t strong enough by ourselves, so we had been forced to compromise in order to have any hope of finally defeating the Fiend. So, even though it had made my master uncomfortable, we had formed an alliance with Grimalkin, the witch assassin of the Malkin clan.
I remembered how Grimalkin had helped us, on so many occasions. She had forged a sword especially for me, and I had carried it during our final struggles to destroy the Fiend—a sword that, while I wore or held it, would protect me from dark magic. Grimalkin had named it the Starblade because she had crafted it from the ore of a meteorite.
I had carried the sword into battle gratefully, but afterward, sickened by all the killing and the death of John Gregory, I had told her that I would never use it again—that I would become the Spook my master had trained me to be and use only the weapons of my trade.
Suddenly I was roused from my thoughts by the ringing of the bell down at the withy trees. I went back to the house, pulled on my cloak, grabbed my staff from where I’d left it leaning against the wall by the back door, and set off at a brisk pace to answer the summons.
As I moved out of the morning sunlight and into the gloom of the willow trees that shrouded the crossroads, the bell stopped ringing. That sometimes happened. People lost patience and returned home. Or sometimes they were nervous about meeting a spook, persuading themselves that there would be no response and escaping while they could.
At first I thought that this was what had happened here. The rope was still dancing and the bell swinging. Perhaps the sound of my approach through the trees had sent my visitor home. Well, no doubt whoever it was needed help, so I decided to set off in pursuit.
I walked up to the bell and examined the flattened grass, searching around to discover which way the tracks led.
“You took your time!” The voice came from behind me. “I was starting to think that you’d left on a job.”
I spun round angrily, recognizing the voice. The girl from yesterday was smiling at me, arms folded, legs slightly apart, head held high.
“I thought I made myself clear,” I said. “You are wasting my time—and your own. I neither want nor need an apprentice.”
“A man never knows what he wants until he’s got it!” she replied, her smile widening into a grin. “Then he wonders how he ever managed without it.”
Her grin was infectious, but I didn’t allow it to work on me. “Look . . .” I attempted a different approach. “It’s a very dangerous job. People die learning the spook’s trade. I was my master’s last apprentice, and there’d been twenty-nine before me. A third of them died violent deaths during their training. The one before me, Billy Bradley, got his hand trapped beneath a big stone that he was using to bind a ripper boggart. It bit off the fingers of his left hand at the second knuckle, and he died of shock and loss of blood.”
“Bad things happen,” she said, no longer smiling. “I had a cousin who was a laborer. He got crushed between a farm wagon and a gatepost. It took him almost a week to die. He kept the whole village awake with his screams.”
“I’m sorry that your cousin died, but that was an accident. My job is a constant war against the creatures of the dark; they kill us if they get half a chance. John Gregory’s own master, Henry Horrocks, was once tracking a boggart known as a bone breaker. As they crossed a field, it struck without warning, tearing off his apprentice’s hand at the wrist. It was being controlled by a witch, and she wanted it to bring her his thumb bones. The poor lad died. There was nothing Horrocks could do to save him. If you became my apprentice, there’s no guarantee that you’d even survive the first six months.”
“Now you’re talking,” the girl said brightly, the smile returning to her face once more. “You’re considering the possibility, aren’t you?”
I shook my head, regretting my words. My patience was rapidly running out, but I tried to remember my dad’s advice about being polite. I spoke to her calmly and firmly. “You’re a girl, and so not suitable for the job, as I told you yesterday. You’re too old as well. My master took me on for training when I was only twelve. How old are you?”
“As old as my tongue and a little bit older than my teeth,” she replied.
I turned my back in exasperation, ready to return to the house.
“John Gregory trained for the priesthood first,” she said to my back. “He was almost twenty when Henry Horrocks took him on, but he turned out to be an excellent spook. I’m easily young enough to learn the trade.”
“How do you know that? Who told you that about John Gregory?” I demanded, stopping and turning around.
She smiled mysteriously, answering my earlier question instead. “I’m fifteen,” she said brightly. “I’m just two years younger than you. We have the same birthday—the third of August.”
“You’re making that up!” I snapped angrily.
It was late August now, and yes
, she was right about the date of my birthday. How could she know that? She really had been spying and digging for information.
“Why should I make things up?” she asked. “I like strange things, and the truth is often stranger than fiction. That’s what my mam once told me, anyway. Don’t you agree?”
I turned again and headed for the house, and didn’t look back this time. She was really starting to annoy me.
The boggart had cooked the bacon to perfection that morning, and my fried eggs were exactly the way I liked them—just slightly runny. I cut thick pieces of warm bread and buttered them before smearing them with yolk. I managed to eat about half the meal. My appetite was improving a little, though it was still nothing like it had been; previously I’d have polished off that breakfast and still been hungry.
“My compliments to the cook!” I announced, and in response I heard a purring from underneath the table. Kratch always liked to be thanked. For a couple of seconds it flickered into view; it was licking its ginger tail.
The movement suddenly reminded me of what the dead girl, Miriam, had told me about the creature that had killed her.
“It wore a long coat like a man’s, but it was definitely some kind of animal, because its arms were hairy and it had a long tail.”
Did it walk upright? It had clambered up onto her chest—so not necessarily. But it was unlike any creature I’d read about in my master’s once-extensive library. I suddenly realized that it might well have left some unusual tracks. It was certainly worth taking a look.
So after breakfast I collected my bag and staff and set off over the fells toward Caster. I could have visited Broughton or Penwortham, where I’d managed to send the other two murdered girls to the light, but it seemed best to go where the trail would be freshest. My destination lay northeast of Caster. I was going back to Kirkby Lonsdale, where the spirit of the dead girl had actually seen and remembered her killer. Now I was going to have another look at the surrounding area.
A New Darkness Page 2
