A New Darkness by Joseph Delaney
“What puzzles me,” said Jack, resting his knife and fork on his plate to give Jenny a stare from beneath his bushy eyebrows, “is why a young girl like you would want to do such a dangerous and terrifying job. Wouldn’t it be better to find a kind man and raise a family together?”
“Oh, Jack!” cried Ellie. “Leave Jenny alone! A woman can do most jobs that a man does. She’s even better at certain tasks! What you’ve got to remember is that Tom’s job often involves helping people and making it possible for them to live their lives without fear—something to which a woman’s well suited.”
“I want to be a spook!” Mary cried out. “Want to talk to a bog!”
We all laughed, and I smiled at Ellie. More than once my job had brought danger into their lives. It had scared Ellie, and I knew that she preferred it if I wasn’t around the farm after dark. But it was nice to hear her talk about my job like that. It made me feel that she appreciated what I did.
“Why don’t we let the girl speak for herself?” Jack wiped up the last of his gravy with a big slice of bread.
“A woman has to make her way in the world as well as a man. There aren’t that many jobs she can do to keep the wolf from the door,” Jenny said, meeting Jack’s eyes. “Like Tom, I have special abilities that make me fit for this line of work. Of course, one day I would like to have children, but having a family doesn’t stop you from working. Your mother was a healer and a midwife, perhaps the best in the County. She raised seven sons and yet found time for other work. I hope to do something similar.”
Once again, I was stunned by all that Jenny knew. She must have asked around to find out about Mam. Or maybe Mam had visited her village . . . she’d been well known and respected throughout the County.
The table became quiet at that. What Jenny had said was quite true, but it made us think of Mam and her absence from the family table. She was sorely missed.
“Is this just a family visit, Tom?” James said, breaking the silence. “Or have you got spook’s business in the area?”
“No, things are fairly quiet at the moment. I was just passing nearby and took the opportunity to visit you, that’s all. But have you heard about any problems around here? Has anyone gone missing . . . ?” I didn’t want to alarm my family, but I was worried that other Kobalos mages might be loose in the County; I had to ask.
“There’s been nothing untoward in these parts,” Jack said, frowning at me. I knew he would probably be annoyed at me saying that in front of Ellie. He didn’t want her scared.
“Nobody’s said anything to me,” James agreed. “They travel to my forge from miles around and always give me the latest gossip while I work. The thing that seems to be bothering everybody is nothing to do with the dark. It’s the weather. We’ve never known it so cold at this time of year, especially at night. It looks like winter’s on its way early, and my fear is that it’ll be a bad one. But of course that’s just Mother Nature—it doesn’t concern you in your line of work.”
I smiled at James and nodded, but his words filled me with foreboding. Until now I hadn’t given much thought to the unseasonably cold weather, but I suddenly remembered that the Kobalos came from a land of ice and snow far to the north. They thrived in cold conditions. Their god, Talkus, had been born and would now be growing in power, strengthening their mages. Could their magic even be changing the climate? I wondered.
We set off back to Chipenden in the afternoon. Ellie said good-bye to us at the gate.
“Lovely to see you again, Tom—and wonderful to meet you, Jenny!” she exclaimed. “I wish you all the best in your new job. Taking you on as his apprentice is one of the wisest decisions Tom’s ever made!”
Jenny grinned so widely I thought that her face was going to split in half.
With that, I headed off up the hill again. Jenny followed at my heels, carrying my bag.
On the way home, I thought through all I would now need to do. I must begin Jenny’s training in earnest. I needed to supply her with a temporary staff and a notebook. She could have my old spook’s bag—I had started using John Gregory’s, as it had a certain sentimental value and, being of good-quality leather, had many years of use left in it. She would also need a cloak; I would order one for her from the village tailor.
I realized that with Jenny to do some of the chores, such as collecting groceries, I was likely to have more free time. Perhaps I should write something to add to the library—a book that would advance our knowledge; part of my legacy to future spooks. . . .
It was something to think about.
Jenny Calder
14
Mother and Daughter
WHAT I have dreamed of for more than a year has finally happened.
At last I am a spook’s apprentice!
My master has given me a notebook, in which I write up the theory that he teaches me, and also the practical work that we do in dealing with the dark.
But he has also given me another little book, in which to tell the story of my development during my training and the dangers we encounter. He did the same while being trained by John Gregory. So much is lost from our memories as the years pass, and he says that it helps to record such events and review them later. We learn from the past, and so avoid repeating our mistakes.
So here is my first account. It will tell the story of how I came to become involved in what Tom Ward calls “spook’s business.”
I chose my future job after the day that changed my life forever—the day I met my true mother.
I’ll never forget that afternoon. I was hurrying away from the market with my groceries when an old woman approached me. She wore a shawl over her head even though the day was sunny and warm, and walked with slow, shuffling steps.
“Good day to you, daughter,” she wheezed, looking up into my eyes. “Would you be willing to listen to me for a while?”
I smiled at her, wondering how best to get away without offending her. I was in a rush to get back and make the evening meal. I’d stayed at the market too long, and my father got very angry when his tea was late. Although it was more than a year since he’d last taken his belt to me, I was still scared of him. The previous week he’d trembled with rage when I simply dropped a spoon, clenching his fists so that the veins on his arms bulged in purple knots.
“You’re not too old to feel my belt, girl!” he’d roared.
I had decided that if he hit me again, I’d leave home. But to think it was easier than to do it. Where could I run to? I’d no relatives to offer me shelter. How could I pay my own way in the world?
“I’m afraid I have to get home,” I said to the woman apologetically. “Perhaps we could talk next market day?”
“I may not be here next market day, daughter,” she said, a little breathlessly. “I think it best that we speak now. This may be our only chance.”
It was then that our eyes met for the first time and I noted with a shock that her eyes were like mine—the left one blue; the right one brown. I wondered if people sometimes stared at her as they did me and made cruel remarks or whispered behind their hands. Most folk didn’t like it if you were a little different.
The woman’s face was lined and yellow, and suddenly I saw that she was not old at all. She was just very ill.
“Shall we go and sit over there in the shade?” She pointed to a bench against the church wall in the shade of an old elm tree.
Despite my fear of the consequences of getting home late, I nodded and followed her. There was something strange and compelling about this woman, I thought. I just knew that it was the right thing to do.
We sat together on the bench and turned to face each other. Our eyes locked again, and I shivered. Suddenly, in the shade of the tree, I felt cold.
“Twice I have named you ‘daughter,’” said the woman. “It was not merely a manner of address that might be used in friendliness from an older woman to a younger one. You are indeed my daughter. I am truly your mother. You are the flesh of my flesh. My blood runs thr
I stared at her and saw the truth in her eyes, and anger flared within me. “You are my mother!” I hissed. “You are the mother who abandoned me, who left a defenseless baby exposed to the elements!”
The woman nodded, and two tears trickled down her cheeks. “I had no choice, child. Your father was dead, and I already had six daughters whom I could barely feed. I knew of the couple who adopted you. They wanted another child, so I placed you where they would find you. I knew they would put a roof over your head and fill your belly. I loved you, child. I loved you with all my heart, and it tore me apart to leave you like that. But it had to be done, for all our sakes.”
I could understand why she’d done it, but it still hurt. Of course, she couldn’t have known that the man she chose to be my foster father would turn out to be violent.
She buried her face in her hands; her whole body was trembling with emotion.
There were tears running down my own cheeks. “So why seek me out now? Why, after all these years?”
“Because I am dying, child.” She looked straight at me again. “Something is eating me from within. It is a disease that twists my stomach and withers my skin. Within weeks I will be dead. So, while I can still walk, I have come to tell you what you are.”
“What do you mean?” I cried, frightened by her words. Was she really my mother, or some madwoman?
“The blood of the Samhadre runs through the veins of our family. In most it is weak or nonexistent, but in a seventh daughter of a seventh daughter it first flares up around the time of her thirteenth birthday. I am such a daughter—and so, my daughter, are you. Your foster mother named you Jennifer, but that is not the name I gave you, which you must not reveal to anyone.”
“Who are the Samhadre, and what name did you give me?” I demanded. I’d never heard of such a people.
“They are the Old Ones, daughter—those beings who walked the earth while humans were no better than dumb animals who sat in their own excrement. The Old Ones were powerful, wise, swift, and compassionate, but deadly. You will inherit some small part of what they were. Soon gifts will come to you. I want you to prepare your mind to receive them. Nobody told me what to expect; I thought I was going mad. I want you to accept that the gifts are real. That is the first step that will enable you to survive.”
This seemed to me like an old wives’ tale, something told before a winter fire to wide-eyed children while the shadows of the night deepened. But I was certainly intrigued; I couldn’t tear my gaze away from the face of the woman who claimed me as her daughter.
“There are many possible gifts, but it is different with a seventh daughter of a seventh daughter,” she continued. “One is empathy—the ability to feel what others feel, to share both their sorrow and their joy, and thus to respond and counsel them if necessary. That is one of the basic talents, but sometimes it can be more than that. . . .”
I’d certainly never experienced anything like this—but I was still only twelve. Could such a big change suddenly take place in me when I turned thirteen? “You told me that these gifts came to you as a surprise and made you believe you were going insane,” I said to her. “Why didn’t your own mother explain what would happen?”
“She was just a seventh daughter, and had neither the power nor the knowledge. She didn’t know what was wrong with me. Finally, after years of torment, another found me—using one of her gifts, she sensed my anguish—and told me what I was.”
“What name did you give me?” I asked.
The woman—my mother—leaned forward and whispered my true name into my left ear but warned again that I must never reveal it to others: some who served the dark could gain power over a seventh daughter of a seventh daughter by knowing her true name.
So I will keep it to myself. Tom Ward told me that my notebooks should eventually go into the library. They are a legacy of experience and knowledge that we leave to future spooks. I’ll not write anything down here that I am not prepared for others to read.
We talked for almost an hour that day, my mother and I, and she told me of the other possible gifts that I might inherit. After this, we agreed that, if she was well enough, we would meet at the market the following week.
As we parted, we embraced, tears trickling down our cheeks.
Then I ran home with my basket—but I ran in vain.
My false father took off his belt and, for the first time in more than a year, thrashed me.
The pain was excruciating, but I did not allow myself to cry. I think that angered him even more.
15
A Girl Like You
MY mother did not come to the market the following week.
I never saw her again.
No doubt her illness had become worse, preventing her from returning. I imagined her slowly dying but still able to speak. I was desperate to talk to her and find out more about what I would become. I knew now that she was indeed my true mother, and all my bitterness at having been abandoned melted away. I understood why she had acted as she did. I needed to see her just one more time before we were parted forever.
That was the beginning of my wanderings. I searched for her in the surrounding villages, starting with the Long Ridge. After that I tried the towns, and ventured as far south as Priestown and as far north as Caster. Sometimes I was away for days; each time I returned to receive a fresh beating.
Gradually I was forced to accept that I would never see my mother again, but still I wandered. Even in winter, it was better to be abroad in the cold than home in that hateful cottage with a violent foster father and a foster mother who was terrified of her husband.
I didn’t fully understand why he was doing it. As I spent more time away, he reacted ever more fiercely, trying to beat me into submission. Did he beat me because he felt I was disobedient and beyond his control? I wondered. If so, the beatings just made me worse. He didn’t know what he was doing; he was like a dumb animal, acting without thinking. It frightened me but didn’t change the way I behaved. And still I would not cry.
Then, on the eve of my thirteenth birthday, everything changed. I woke up suddenly in the middle of the night and saw my first ghost. It was the night of the full moon, and a bright shaft of yellow light illuminated the foot of my bed. There was a fat old lady sitting across my legs, squashing me. She was so heavy that I felt as if the bed might collapse at any moment. She looked at me, opened her mouth, and gave a cackle. She had no teeth, just slobbery gums, and she was blind in one eye—it was all milky white.
As I screamed in shock and fear, the weight left my legs. The ghost floated upward and disappeared through the ceiling, drool dibbling from her open mouth.
My frantic scream woke up my father, and I received another beating.
That was the last time he ever hit me.
Before the week was out, another gift had emerged—the first one my true mother had spoken of: that of empathy. I will never forget the moment when it came to me.
I’d been walking through the center of the village when I saw a youth slouched on a bench opposite the greengrocer’s. He was staring at the shop doorway. His face was blank and expressionless, but I had to stop, suddenly deeply aware of the sadness that filled him. He was fighting to hold back tears.
What radiated from him was overpowering; it brought a lump to my throat and tears to my own eyes. It was much more than just a feeling: I knew what he was thinking. He was remembering how, as a young child, he’d once sat on that very bench waiting for his mother to come out of that shop. She’d come out and smiled at him, put down her shopping bag, and opened her arms wide. He’d run straight into them.
But now he was almost fully grown; his mother had died the previous winter. He was concentrating hard, trying to see that moment of happiness again, seeking to re-create the past.
I could almost read his thoughts—and it was painful to share them, so I moved on quickly.
This gift wasn’t something I’d be telling other people
Once the new gift was known to me, I could read my father’s moods—and my mother’s, too. As newlyweds they had been happy; had remained happy while raising their own children. But when my two sisters had married and gone off to have families of their own, there’d been nothing left between them: no love, just boredom and emptiness. Finding and adopting me had made them feel better for a while, but it hadn’t lasted.
Now at last I knew why my father beat me. I felt his pain. He’d been beaten by his own father and was scarred by that experience, and angry because he himself had never become a man of any consequence. He had dreamed of owning some land, but he worked for farmers who paid him a pittance. He felt bitter knowing that he would never be able to realize that dream.
He felt sorry for himself. He was a selfish pig, wallowing in self-pity, and he hurt others to lessen his own pain. But I saw too that he was a coward at heart. He would never strike a man. I was his easiest victim—along with my adoptive mother, whom he also slapped occasionally. Sometimes I heard raised voices from their bedroom, and in the morning she’d sob while making the breakfast, head bowed to hide her bruises.
Then I discovered my third gift.
I suppose I’d had it quite a while before I became aware of it. I had noticed for years that, on the way to market, when I smiled at people who seemed down in the dumps, they would cheer up. Hours later, on my way home, they still looked far brighter.
After meeting my real mother, I began to wonder. Could it be that I was having some effect on them?
Then I got proof that it was indeed so. At the market there was a stallholder who always looked so sad that I longed to cheer him up—especially as I knew exactly what was wrong with him.
His wife had died suddenly the previous year, and his children had all left home; he had nothing to brighten his life or give him hope. He’d once been a keen gardener, growing both produce and flowers to please his wife. On warm summer evenings, they used to sit in the garden together and watch the sun go down. It had been one of their greatest pleasures.