The Spook's Apprentice by Joseph Delaney
I nodded, almost too full to speak. I felt sleepy.
‘After a diet of cheese, it’s always good to come home to a hot meal,’ he said. ‘We eat well here. It makes up for the times when we’re working.’
I nodded again and started to yawn.
‘There’s lots to do tomorrow so get yourself off to bed. Yours is the room with the green door, at the top of the first flight of stairs,’ the Spook told me. ‘Sleep well, but stay in your room and don’t go wandering about during the night. You’ll hear a bell ring when breakfast’s ready. Go down as soon as you hear it -when someone’s cooked good food they may get angry if you let it go cold. But don’t come down too early either because that could be just as bad.’
I nodded, thanked him for the meal and went down the passage towards the front of the house. The Spook’s bag and my bundle had disappeared. Wondering who could have moved them, I climbed the stairs to bed.
My new room turned out to be much larger than my bedroom at home, which at one time I’d had to share with two of my brothers. This new room had space for a bed, a small table with a candle, a chair and a dresser, but there was still lots of room to walk about in as well. And there, on top of the dresser, my bundle of belongings was waiting.
Directly opposite the door was a large sash window, divided into eight panes of glass so thick and uneven that I couldn’t see much but whorls and swirls of colour from outside. The window didn’t look as if it had been opened for years. The bed was pushed right up along the wall beneath it, so I pulled off my boots, kneeled up on the quilt and tried to open the window. Although it was a bit stiff, it proved easier than it had looked. I used the sash cord to raise the bottom half of the window in a series of jerks, just far enough to pop my head out and have a better look around.
I could see a wide lawn below me, divided into two by a path of white pebbles that disappeared into the trees. Above the tree line to the right were the fells, the nearest one so close that I felt I could almost reach out and touch it. I sucked in a deep breath of cool fresh air and smelled the grass before pulling my head back inside and unwrapping my small bundle of belongings. They fitted easily into the dresser’s top drawer. As I was closing it, I suddenly noticed the writing on the far wall, in the shadows opposite the foot of the bed.
It was covered in names, all scrawled in black ink on the bare plaster. Some names were larger than others, as if those who’d written them thought a lot of themselves. Many had faded with time, and I wondered if they were the names of other apprentices who’d slept in this very room. Should I add my own name or wait until the end of the first month, when I might be taken on permanently? I didn’t have a pen or ink so it was something to think about later, but I examined the wall more closely, trying to decide which was the most recent name.
I decided it was BILLY BRADLEY - that seemed the clearest and had been squeezed into a small space as the wall filled up. For a few moments I wondered what Billy was doing now, but I was tired and ready for sleep.
The sheets were clean and the bed inviting, so wasting no more time I undressed, and the very moment my head touched the pillow I fell asleep.
When I next opened my eyes, the sun was streaming through the window. I’d been dreaming and had been woken suddenly by a noise. I thought it was probably the breakfast bell.
I felt worried then. Had it really been the bell downstairs summoning me to breakfast or a bell in my dream? How could I be sure? What was I supposed to do? It seemed that I’d be in trouble with the cook whether I went down early or late. So, deciding that I probably had heard the bell, I dressed and went downstairs right away.
On my way down I heard a clatter of pots and pans coming from the kitchen, but the moment I eased open the door, everything became deathly silent.
I made a mistake then. I should have gone straight back upstairs because it was obvious that the breakfast wasn’t ready. The plates had been cleared away from last night’s supper but the table was still bare and the fireplace was full of cold ashes. In fact the kitchen was chilly and, worse than that, it seemed to be growing colder by the second.
My mistake was in taking a step towards the table. No sooner had I done that than I heard something make a sound right behind me. It was an angry sound. There was no doubt about that. It was a definite hiss of anger and it was very close to my left ear. So close that I felt the breath of it.
The Spook had warned me not to come down early and I suddenly felt that I was in real danger.
As soon as I had entertained that thought something hit me very hard on the back of the head; I staggered towards the door, almost losing my balance and falling headlong.
I didn’t need a second warning. I ran from the room and up the stairs. Then, halfway up, I froze. There was someone standing at the top. Someone tall and menacing, silhouetted against the light from the door of my room.
I halted, unsure which way to go until I was reassured by a familiar voice. It was the Spook.
It was the first time I’d seen him without his long black cloak. He was wearing a black tunic and grey breeches and I could see that, although he was a tall man with broad shoulders, the rest of his body was thin, probably because some days all he got was a nibble of cheese. He was like the very best farm labourers when they get older. Some, of course, just get fatter, but the majority - like the ones my dad sometimes hires for the harvest now that most of my brothers have left home - are thin, with tough, wiry bodies. ‘Thinner means fitter,’ Dad always says and now, looking at the Spook, I could see why he was able to walk at such a furious pace and for so long without resting.
‘I warned you about going down early,’ he said quietly. ‘No doubt you got your ears boxed. Let that be a lesson to you, lad. Next time it might be far worse.’
‘I thought I heard the bell,’ I said. ‘But it must have been a bell in my dream.’
The Spook laughed softly. ‘That’s one of the first and most important lessons that an apprentice has to learn,’ he said; ‘the difference between waking and dreaming. Some never learn that.’
He shook his head, took a step towards me and patted me on the shoulder. ‘Come, I’ll show you round the garden. We’ve got to start somewhere and it’ll pass the time until breakfast’s ready’
When the Spook led me out, using the back door of the house, I saw that the garden was very large, much larger than it had looked from outside the hedge.
We walked east, squinting into the early morning sun, until we reached a wide lawn. The previous evening I’d thought that the garden was completely surrounded by the hedge, but now I realized that I was mistaken. There were gaps in it, and directly ahead was the wood. The path of white pebbles divided the lawn and vanished into the trees.
‘There’s really more than one garden,’ said the Spook. ‘Three, in fact, each reached by a path like this. We’ll look at the eastern garden first. It’s safe enough when the sun’s up, but never walk down this path after dark. Well, not unless you have very good reason and certainly never when you’re alone.’
Nervously I followed the Spook towards the trees. The grass was longer at the edge of the lawn and it was dotted with bluebells. I like bluebells because they flower in spring and always remind me that the long, hot days of summer are not too far away, but now I hardly gave them a second glance. The morning sun was hidden by the trees and the air had suddenly got much cooler. It reminded me of my visit to the kitchen.
There was something strange and dangerous about this part of the wood, and it seemed to be getting steadily colder the further we advanced into the trees.
There were rooks’ nests high above us, and the birds’ harsh, angry cries made me shiver even more than the cold. They were about as musical as my dad, who used to start singing as we got to the end of the milking. If the milk ever went sour my mam used to blame it on him.
The Spook halted and pointed to the ground about five paces ahead. ‘What’s that?’ he asked, his voice hardly more than a whisper.
&
I counted them twice just to be sure.
‘Well, come on, lad -I asked you a question. What is it?’
My mouth was so dry I could hardly speak but I managed to stammer out three words: ‘It’s a grave ...’
‘Good lad. Got it first time. Notice anything unusual?’ he asked.
I couldn’t speak at all by then. So I just nodded.
He smiled and patted me on the shoulder. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s just a dead witch and a pretty feeble one at that. They buried her on unhallowed ground outside a churchyard not too many miles from here. But she kept scratching her way to the surface. I gave her a good talking to but she wouldn’t listen, so I had her brought here. It makes people feel better. That way they can get on with their lives in peace. They don’t want to think about things like this. That’s our job.’
I nodded again and suddenly realized that I wasn’t breathing, so I sucked in a deep lungful of air. My heart was hammering away in my chest, threatening to break out any minute, and I was trembling from head to foot.
‘No, she’s little trouble now,’ the Spook continued. ‘Sometimes, at the full moon, you can hear her stirring, but she lacks the strength to get to the surface and the iron bars would stop her anyway. But there are worse things further off there in the trees,’ he said, gesturing east with his bony finger. ‘About another twenty paces would bring you to the spot.’
Worse? What could be worse? I wondered, but I knew he was going to tell me anyway.
‘There are two other witches. One’s dead and one’s alive. The dead one’s buried vertically, head down, but even then, once or twice each year we have to straighten out the bars over her grave. Just keep well away after dark.’
‘Why bury her head down?’ I asked.
‘That’s a good question, lad,’ the Spook said. ‘You see, the spirit of a dead witch is usually what we call "bone-bound". They’re trapped inside their bones and some don’t even know they’re dead. We try them first head up and that’s enough for most. All witches are different but some are really stubborn. Still bound to her bones, a witch like that tries hard to get back into the world. It’s as if they want to be born again, so we have to make things difficult for them and bury them the other way up. Coming out feet first isn’t easy. Human babies sometimes have the same trouble. But she’s still dangerous, so keep well away.
‘Make sure you keep clear of the live one. She’d be more dangerous dead than alive because a witch that powerful would have no trouble at all getting back into the world. That’s why we keep her in a pit. Her name’s Mother Malkin and she talks to herself. Well, it’s more of a whisper really. She’s just about as evil as you can get, but she’s been in her pit for a long time and most of her power’s bled away into the earth. She’d love to get her hands on a lad like you. So stay well away. Promise me now that you won’t go near. Let me hear you say it...’
‘I promise not to go near,’ I whispered, feeling uneasy about the whole thing. It seemed a terrible, cruel thing to keep any living creature - even a witch -in the ground, and I couldn’t imagine my mam liking the idea much.
‘That’s a good lad. We don’t want any more accidents like the one this morning. There are worse things than getting your ears boxed. Far worse.’
I believed him, but I didn’t want to hear about it. Still, he had other things to show me so I was spared more of his scary words. He led me out of the wood and strode towards another lawn.
‘This is the southern garden,’ the Spook said. ‘Don’t come here after dark either.’ The sun was quickly hidden by dense branches and the air grew steadily cooler so I knew we were approaching something bad. He halted about ten paces short of a large stone which lay flat on the ground, close to the roots of an oak tree. It covered an area a bit larger than a grave, and judging by the part that was above ground, the stone was very thick too.
‘What do you think’s buried under there?’ the Spook asked.
I tried to appear confident. ‘Another witch?’ ‘No,’ said the Spook. ‘You don’t need as much stone as that for a witch. Iron usually does the trick. But the thing under there could slip through iron bars in the twinkling of an eye. Look closely at the stone. Can you see what’s carved on it?
I nodded. I recognized the letter but I didn’t know what it meant.
‘That’s the Greek letter beta,’ said the Spook. ‘It’s the sign we use for a boggart. The diagonal line means it’s been artificially bound under that stone and the name underneath tells you who did it. Bottom right is the Roman numeral for one. That means it’s a boggart of the first rank and very dangerous. As I mentioned, we use grades from one to ten. Remember that - one day it might save your life. A grade ten is so weak that most folk wouldn’t even notice it was there. A grade one could easily kill you. Cost me a fortune to have that stone brought here but it was worth every penny. That’s a bound boggart now. It’s artificially bound and it’ll stay there until Gabriel blows his horn.
‘There’s a lot you need to learn about boggarts, lad, and I’m going to start your training right after breakfast, but there is one important difference between those that are bound and those that are free. A free boggart can often travel miles from its home and, if it’s so inclined, do endless mischief. If a boggart’s particularly troublesome and won’t listen to reason, then it’s our job to bind it. Do it well and it’s what we call artificially bound. Then it can’t move at all. Of course, it’s far easier said than done.’
The Spook frowned suddenly, as if he’d remembered something unpleasant. ‘One of my apprentices got into serious trouble trying to bind a boggart,’ he said, shaking his head sadly, ‘but as it’s only your first day, we won’t talk about that yet.’
Just then, from the direction of the house, the sound of a bell could be heard in the distance. The Spook smiled. ‘Are we awake or are we dreaming?’ he asked.
‘Awake.’
‘Are you sure?’
I nodded.
‘In that case let’s go and eat,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you the other garden when our bellies are full.’
Chapter Six
A Girl With Pointy Shoes
The kitchen had changed since my last visit. A small fire had been made up in the grate and two plates of bacon and eggs were on the table. There was a freshly baked loaf too and a large pat of butter.
‘Tuck in, lad, before it gets cold,’ invited the Spook.
I set to immediately and it didn’t take us long to finish off both platefuls and eat half the loaf as well. Then the Spook leaned back in his chair, tugged at his beard and asked me an important question.
‘Don’t you think,’ he asked, his eyes staring straight into mine, ‘that was the best plate of bacon and eggs you’ve ever tasted?’
I didn’t agree. The breakfast had been well cooked.
It was good, all right, better than cheese, but I’d tasted better. I’d tasted better every single morning when I’d lived at home. My mam was a far better cook, but somehow I didn’t think that was the answer the Spook was looking for. So I told a little white lie, the kind of untruth that doesn’t really do any harm and tends to make people happier for hearing it.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it was the very best breakfast that I’ve ever tasted. And I’m sorry for coming down too early and I promise that it won’t happen again.’
At that, the Spook grinned so much that I thought his face was going to split in two; then he clapped me on the back and led me out into the garden again.
It was only when we were outside that the grin finally faded. ‘Well done, lad,’ he said. ‘There are two things
Well, I hadn’t seen any sign of a woman in the kitchen so it confirmed what I’d suspected - that a boggart cooked our meals. It was a surprise, to say the least. Everyone thought that a spook was a boggart-slayer, or that he fixed them so they couldn’t get up to any mischief. Who would have credited that he had one cooking and cleaning for him?
‘This is the western garden,’ the Spook told me, as we walked along the third path, the white pebbles crunching under our feet. ‘It’s a safe place to be whether it’s day or night. I often come here myself when I’ve got a problem that needs thinking through.’
We passed through another gap in the hedge and were soon walking through the trees. I felt the difference right away. The birds were singing and the trees were swaying slightly in the morning breeze. It was a happier place.
We kept walking until we came out of the trees onto a hillside with a view of the fells to our right. The sky was so clear that I could see the dry-stone walls that divided the lower slopes into fields and marked out each farmer’s territory. In fact the view extended right to the summits of the nearest fell.
The Spook gestured towards a wooden bench to our left. ‘Take a pew, lad,’ he invited.
I did as I was told and sat down. For a few moments the Spook stared down at me, his green eyes locked upon mine. Then he began to pace up and down in front of the bench without speaking. He was no longer looking at me, but stared into space with a vacant expression in his eyes. He thrust back his long black cloak and put his hands in his breeches pockets then, very suddenly, he sat down beside me and asked questions.
‘How many different types of boggart do you think there are?’
I hadn’t a clue. ‘I know two types already,’ I said, ‘the free and the bound, but I couldn’t even begin to guess about the others.’
‘That’s good twice over, lad. You’ve remembered what I taught you and you’ve shown yourself to be someone who doesn’t make wild guesses. You see, there are as many different types of boggart as there are types of people and each one has a personality of its own. Having said that, though, there are some types that can be recognized and given a name. Sometimes on account of the shape they take and sometimes because of their behaviour and the tricks they get up to.’