The Last Apprentice: Complete Collection

by Joseph Delaney

  For now I wasn’t worrying about that. At last the rigger and I were both satisfied. The glue was ready.

  As the pit wasn’t finished yet, I had nothing to do but wait for the doctor in the narrow, crooked lane that led into Horshaw.

  The rain had stopped, and the air seemed very still. It was late September, and the weather was changing for the worse. We were going to have more than just rain soon, and the sudden, first, faint rumble of thunder from the west made me even more nervous. After about twenty minutes I heard the sound of hooves pounding in the distance. Riding as though all the hounds of hell were on his tail, the doctor came around the corner, his horse at full gallop, his cloak flying behind him.

  I was holding the Spook’s staff, so there was no need for introductions, and in any case the doctor had been riding so fast he was out of breath. So I just nodded at him, and he left his sweating horse munching at the long grass in front of the church and followed me around to the side door. I held it open out of respect so that he could go in first.

  My dad’s taught me to be respectful to everyone, because that way they’ll respect you back. I didn’t know this doctor, but the Spook had insisted on him so I knew he’d be good at his job. His name was Sherdley and he was carrying a black leather bag. It looked almost as heavy as the Spook’s, which I’d brought with me and left in the barn. The doctor put it down about six feet from his patient and, ignoring the housekeeper, who was still heaving with dry sobs, he began his examination.

  I stood just behind him and to one side so that I had the best possible view. Gently he pulled up the priest’s black cassock to reveal his legs.

  His right leg was thin, white, and almost hairless, but the left, the one gripped by the boggart, was red and swollen, bulging with purple veins that darkened the closer they were to the wide crack in the floor.

  The doctor shook his head and let out his breath very slowly. Then he spoke to the housekeeper, his voice so low that I barely caught the words.

  “It’ll have to come off,” he said. “That’s his only hope.”

  At that, the tears started running down her cheeks again and the doctor looked at me and pointed to the door. Once outside, he leaned back against the wall and sighed.

  “How long before you’re ready?” he asked.

  “Less than an hour, Doctor,” I replied, “but it depends on the mason. He’s bringing the stone himself.”

  “If it’s much longer, we’ll lose him. The truth is, I don’t really give much for his chances anyway. I can’t even give him anything for the pain yet because his body won’t stand two doses and I’ll have to give him something just before I amputate. Even then, the shock could kill him outright. Having to move him straight afterward makes it even worse.”

  I shrugged. I didn’t even like to think about it. “You do know exactly what has to be done?” the doctor asked, studying my face carefully.

  “Mr. Gregory explained everything,” I said, trying to sound confident. In fact, if he’d explained it once, the Spook had explained it a dozen times. Then he’d made me recite it back to him over and over again until he was satisfied.

  “About fifteen years ago we dealt with a similar case,” the doctor said. “We did what we could, but the man died anyway, and he was a young farmer, fit as a butcher’s dog and in the prime of life. Let’s just cross our fingers. Sometimes the old ones are a lot tougher than you think.”

  There was a long silence then, which I broke by checking something I’d been worrying about.

  “So you know that I’ll need some of his blood.”

  “Don’t tell your grandfather how to suck eggs,” the doctor growled, then he gave me a tired smile and pointed down the lane toward Horshaw. “The mason’s on his way, so you’d better get off and do your job. You can leave the rest to me.”

  I listened and heard the distant sound of a cart approaching, so I headed back through the gravestones to see how the riggers were getting on.

  The pit was ready, and they’d already assembled the wooden platform under the tree. The rigger’s mate had climbed up into the tree and was fixing the block and tackle onto a sturdy branch. It was a device the size of a man’s head, made out of iron and hanging with chains and a big hook. We would need it to support the weight of the stone and position it very precisely.

  “The mason’s here,” I said.

  Immediately, both men left what they were doing and followed me back toward the church.

  Now another horse was waiting in the lane, the stone resting in the back of the cart. No problems so far, but the mason didn’t look too happy and he avoided my eyes. Still, wasting no time, we brought the cart around the long way to the gate that led into the field.

  Once close to the tree, the mason slipped the hook into the ring in the center of the stone, and it was lifted off the cart. Whether or not it would fit precisely, we’d have to wait and see. The mason had certainly fitted the ring correctly, because the stone hung from the chain balanced horizontally.

  It was lowered into a position about two paces from the edge of the pit. Then the mason gave me the bad news.

  His youngest daughter was very ill with a fever, the one that had swept right through the County, confining the Spook to his bed. His wife was by her bedside, and he had to get back right away.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, meeting my eyes properly for the first time. “But the stone’s a good ’un and you’ll have no problems. I can promise you that.”

  I believed him. He’d done his best and had worked on the stone at short notice, when he’d rather have been with his daughter. So I paid him and sent him on his way with the Spook’s thanks, my thanks, and best wishes for the recovery of his daughter.

  Then I turned back to the business in hand. As well as chiseling stone, masons are experts at positioning it, so I’d rather he’d stayed in case anything went wrong. Still, the rigger and mate were good at their job. All I had to do was keep calm and be careful not to make any silly mistakes.

  First I had to work fast and coat the sides of the pit with the glue; then, finally, the underside of the stone, just before it was lowered into position.

  I climbed down into the pit and, using a brush and working by the light of a lantern held by the rigger’s mate, I got to work. It was a careful process. I couldn’t afford to miss the tiniest spot because that would be enough to let the boggart escape. And with the pit only being six feet deep rather than the regulation nine, I had to be extra careful.

  The mixture keyed itself into the soil as I worked, which was good, because it wouldn’t easily crack and flake off as the soil dried out in summer. The bad thing was that it was difficult to judge just how much to apply so that a thick enough outer coat was left on the soil. The Spook had told me that it was something that would come with experience. Up to now he’d been there to check my work and add a few finishing touches. Now, I would have to do the job right myself. First time.

  Finally I climbed out of the pit and attended to its upper edge. The top thirteen inches, the thickness of the stone, were longer and broader than the pit itself, so there was a ledge for the stone to rest on without leaving the slightest crack for the boggart to slip through. This needed very careful attention because it was where the stone made its seal with the ground.

  As I finished there was a flash of lightning and, seconds later, a heavy rumble of thunder. The storm had moved almost directly overhead.

  I went back to the barn to get something important from my bag. It was what the Spook called a bait dish. Made out of metal, it was specially crafted for the job and had three small holes drilled at equal distances from one another, close to its rim. I eased it out, polished it on my sleeve, then ran to the church to tell the doctor that we were ready.

  As I opened the door there was a strong smell of tar and, just left of the altar, a small fire was blazing. Over it, on a metal tripod, a pot bubbled and spat. Dr. Sherdley was going to use the tar to stop the bleeding. Painting the stump with it woul
d also prevent the rest of the leg from going bad afterward.

  I smiled to myself when I saw where the doctor had got his wood from. It was wet outside, so he’d gone for the only dry kindling available. He’d chopped up one of the church pews. No doubt the priest wouldn’t be too happy, but it might just save his life. In any case he was now unconscious, breathing very deeply, and would stay that way for several hours until the effects of the potion wore off.

  From the crack in the floor came the noise of the boggart feeding. It made a nasty gulping, slurping sound as it continued to draw blood from the leg. It was too preoccupied to realize that we were close by and about to bring its meal to an end.

  We didn’t speak. I just nodded at the doctor and he nodded back. I handed him the deep metal dish to catch the blood I needed, and he took a small metal saw from his bag and laid its cold, shiny teeth against the bone just below the priest’s knee.

  The housekeeper was still in the same position, but her eyes were squeezed tight shut and she was muttering to herself. She was probably praying, and it was obvious she wouldn’t be much help. So, with a shiver, I knelt down beside the doctor.

  He shook his head. “There’s no need for you to see this,” he said. “No doubt you’ll witness worse one day, but it needn’t be now. Go on, lad. Back to your own business. I can deal with this. Just send the other two back to give me a hand getting him up onto the cart when I’ve finished.”

  I’d been gritting my teeth ready to face it, but I didn’t need to be told twice. Full of relief, I went back to the pit. Even before I reached it, a loud scream cut through the air, followed by the sound of anguished weeping. But it wasn’t the priest. He was unconscious. It was the housekeeper.

  The rigger and his mate had already hoisted the stone aloft again and were busy wiping off the mud. Then, as they went back to the church to help the doctor, I dipped the brush into the last of the mixture and gave the underside of the stone a thorough coating.

  I’d hardly time to admire my handiwork before the mate came back at a run. Behind him, moving much more slowly, came the rigger. He was carrying the dish with the blood in it, being careful not to spill a single drop. The bait dish was a very important piece of equipment. The Spook had a store of them back in Chipenden, and they’d been made according to his own specifications.

  I lifted a long chain from the Spook’s bag. Fastened to a large ring at one end were three shorter chains, each ending in a small metal hook. I slipped the three hooks into the three holes close to the rim of the dish.

  When I lifted the chain, the bait dish hung below it in perfect balance, so it didn’t need that much skill to lower it into the pit and set it down very gently at its center.

  No, the skill was in freeing the three hooks. You had to be very careful to relax the chains so that the hooks dropped away from the dish without tipping it over and spilling the blood.

  I’d spent hours practicing this, and despite being very nervous I managed to get the hooks out at my first attempt.

  Now it was just a question of waiting.

  As I said, rippers are some of the most dangerous boggarts of all because they feed on blood. Their minds are usually quick and very crafty, but while they’re feeding they think very slowly and it takes them a long time to work things out.

  The amputated leg was still jammed into the crack in the church floor and the boggart was busily slurping blood from it, but sucking very slowly so as to make it last. That’s the way with a ripper. It just slurps and sucks, thinking of nothing else until it slowly realizes that less and less blood is reaching its mouth. It wants more blood, but blood comes in lots of different flavors and it likes the taste of what it’s been sucking. It likes it very much.

  So it wants more of the same, and once it works out that the rest of the body has been separated from the leg, it goes after it. That’s why the riggers had to lift the priest up onto the cart. By now the cart would have reached the edge of Horshaw, every clip-clop of the horse’s hooves taking it farther from the angry boggart, desperate for more of that same blood.

  A ripper’s like a bloodhound. It would have a good idea of the direction in which the priest was being taken. It would also realize that he was getting farther and farther away. Then it would be aware of something else. That more of what it needed was very close by.

  That’s why I’d put the dish into the pit. That was why it was called a bait dish. It was the snare to lure the ripper into the trap. Once it was in there, feeding, we had to work fast, and we couldn’t afford to make a single mistake.

  I looked up. The mate was standing on the platform, one hand on the short chain, ready to start lowering the stone. The rigger was standing opposite me, his hand on the stone, ready to position it as it came down. Neither of them looked in the least bit afraid, not even nervous, and suddenly it felt good to be working with people like that. People who knew what they were doing. We’d all played our part, all done what had to be done as quickly and efficiently as possible. It made me feel good. It made me feel a part of something.

  Quietly we waited for the boggart.

  After a few minutes I heard it coming. At first it sounded just like the wind whistling through the trees.

  But there was no wind. The air was perfectly still, and in a narrow band of starlight between the edge of the thundercloud and the horizon, the crescent moon was visible, adding its pale light to that cast by the lanterns.

  The rigger and his mate could hear nothing, of course, because they weren’t seventh sons of seventh sons like me. So I had to warn them.

  “It’s on its way,” I said. “I’ll tell you when.”

  By now the sound of its approach had become more shrill, almost like a scream, and I could hear something else, too: a sort of low, rumbling growl. It was coming across the graveyard fast, heading straight for the dish of blood inside the pit.

  Unlike a normal boggart, a ripper is slightly more than a spirit, especially when it’s just been feeding. Even then, most people can’t see it, but they can feel it all right, if it ever gets a grip on their flesh.

  Even I didn’t see much—just something shapeless and a sort of pinky red. Then I felt a movement of the air close to my face and the ripper went down into the pit.

  I said “When” to the rigger, who, in turn, nodded to his mate, who tightened his grip upon the short chain. Even before he pulled it, there came a sound from the pit. This time it was loud, and all three of us heard it. I glanced quickly at my companions and saw their eyes widen and mouths tighten with the fear of what was below us.

  The sound we heard was the boggart feeding from the dish. It was like the greedy lapping of some monstrous tongue, combined with the ravenous snuffling and snorting of a big carnivorous animal. We had less than a minute or so before it finished it all. Then it would sense our blood. It was rogue now, and we were all on the menu.

  The mate began to loosen the chain and the stone came down steadily. I was adjusting one end, the rigger the other. If they’d dug the pit accurately and the stone was exactly the size specified on the sketch, there should be no problem. That’s what I told myself—but I kept thinking of the Spook’s last apprentice, poor Billy Bradley, who’d died trying to bind a boggart like this. The stone had jammed, trapping his fingers under its edge. Before they could lift it free, the boggart had bitten his fingers off and sucked his blood. Later Billy had died of shock. I couldn’t get him out of my mind, no matter how hard I tried.

  The important thing was to get the stone into the pit first time—and, of course, to keep my fingers out of the way.

  The rigger was in control, doing the job of the mason. At his signal, the chain halted when the stone was just a fraction of an inch clear. He looked at me then, his face very stern, and raised his right eyebrow. I looked down and moved my end of the stone very slightly so that it seemed to be in perfect position. I checked again just to make sure, then nodded to the rigger, who signaled to his mate.

  A few turns of the s
hort chain, and the stone eased down into position first time, sealing the boggart into the pit. A scream of anger came from the ripper, and we all heard it. But it didn’t matter because it was trapped now and there was nothing more to be scared of.

  “Job’s a good ’un!” shouted the mate, jumping down from the platform, a grin splitting his face from ear to ear. “It’s a perfect fit!”

  “Aye,” said the rigger, joking drily. “It could’ve been made for the job.”

  I felt a huge sense of relief, glad that it was all over. Then, as the thunder crashed and the lightning flashed directly overhead to illuminate the stone, I noticed, for the first time, what the mason had carved there and suddenly felt very proud.

  The large Greek letter beta, crossed with a diagonal line, was the sign that a boggart had been laid under it. Below it, to the right, the Roman numeral for one meant that it was a dangerous boggart of the first rank. There were ten ranks in all, and those from one to four could kill. Then, underneath, was my own name, Ward, which gave me the credit for what had been done.

  I’d just bound my first boggart. And it was a ripper at that!

  CHAPTER II

  The Spook’s Past

  TWO days later, back at Chipenden, the Spook made me tell him everything that had happened. When I’d finished, he made me repeat it. That done, he scratched at his beard and gave a great big sigh.

  “What did the doctor say about that daft brother of mine?” the Spook asked. “Does he expect him to recover?”

  “He said he seemed to be over the worst, but it was too early to tell.”

  The Spook nodded thoughtfully. “Well, lad, you’ve done well,” he said. “I can’t think of one thing you could have done better. So you can have the rest of the day off. But don’t let it go to your head. Tomorrow it’s business as usual. After all that excitement you need to get back into a steady routine.”

  The following day he worked me twice as hard as usual. Lessons began soon after dawn and included what he called practicals. Even though I’d now bound a boggart for real, that meant practicing digging pits.