Morgan was the seventh son of a seventh son and the daughter of a woman called Emily Burns, whom I’d once been very close to. So as a favor to her, and to help Morgan and get him away from that dreadful situation, where his adoptive parents held him responsible for their daughter’s death, I took him on as my apprentice. It proved to be one of the biggest mistakes of my long life.
During our winter visits to Anglezarke, unlikely though it might seem, Morgan seemed to grow closer to the Hursts. He took to visiting them at Moor View Farm and even spent the occasional night there. I didn’t object, thinking that his presence might afford them some consolation. Perhaps they’d realized that they had played a part in causing Eveline to take her own life and were trying to make amends in some way.
I was careless—I realize that now. The boy often wandered onto the bleak moor and was obsessed by an ancient burial mound called the Round Loaf. Beneath it, supposedly, was a secret chamber where the ancients once worshipped one of the Old Gods. This deity was Golgoth, the Lord of Winter, and it was believed that the meddling of those ancient priests as they tried to raise their god brought about the last Ice Age, when Golgoth had stayed in our world, freezing it in the grip of an extended winter that had resulted in thousands of deaths.
I’d caught Morgan digging into the mound more than once. He didn’t find the secret chamber then but discovered something else that I hadn’t even suspected was there. Morgan had been preparing for months to attempt a terrible summoning; as his master, I failed to guess the danger. As a spook, I must confess that I failed the County.
Late one winter’s night there was a loud rapping on the back door of my winter house; on the doorstep was Mr. Hurst, wrapped up well against the snow that was beginning to whirl down out of the dark clouds above.
“Come inside, man, before you freeze to death!” I cried, welcoming him into the kitchen. “What brings you out on such a night?”
The walk up from the farm was difficult in winter, but when a blizzard threatened, it was dangerous to life. Even someone with a lifetime of local knowledge might get lost in the snow, which would mean certain death before morning.
“We need you back at the farm quickly!” Mr Hurst told me. “Something terrible’s happening. . . .” At that, his jaw clamped shut and his whole body began to tremble.
“Take your time,” I said, sitting him down on a stool close to the fire and handing him the cup of the hot broth I’d prepared for my supper. “Your need may be urgent, but I must know exactly what I’m dealing with.”
So, as the old farmer sipped his broth and got some warmth back into his bones, he began to tell his tale.
“It’s that daft lad Morgan,” he said. “He’s locked himself in his room and is up to no good. He’s using dark magic, I’m sure of it!”
“His bedroom?” I asked.
“Nay, the front room, where he writes things in his notebook and does his reading.”
‘“Reading? What reading?” I asked. Writing up what he’d learned in his notebook was only to be expected, but I brought few books with me from Chipenden to my cold, damp house on Anglezarke Moor; those I did were kept in the warmest room and rarely allowed out of my sight. My books are precious to me, a store of knowledge that I fear to lose.
“He came home with a big leather book a few weeks ago, and he’s hardly had his nose out of it since. But tonight he locked himself in the room. First he carried a sack in there; then he dragged the farm dog in. Now he won’t answer the door, and the poor animal keeps whining. It sounds terrified out of its skin. There are other sounds, too. And the whole house seems to be getting really cold despite all the logs we heap on the fire. Our breath is steaming and ice is forming on the outside of the door of Morgan’s room.”
“What other sounds are there?” I cried, jumping to my feet. Suddenly I’d glimpsed how great the danger might be.
“Bells keep ringing. Not small bells. One sounds like a big church bell, so loud that the wooden floors vibrate with each peal. And from time to time there’s a deep grinding sound that seems to come from right under the house.”
At last, convinced of the need for urgency, I wasted no further time in leading Mr. Hurst out into the night. We headed down the steep clough and onto the slope that led off the snow-clad moor. White flakes were dancing into our faces, and it was bitterly cold. It was a good hour before we had finally trudged across to Moor View Farm. No sooner had we crossed the threshold than I realized that the old farmer had not exaggerated. The farmhouse was unnaturally cold, that strange chill that warns us spooks that something from the dark is close at hand.
As we approached the locked room, I heard an unnerving sound from deep beneath the house: a grinding, crunching, grating roar, as if some huge beast were munching on rock. We both became still, feeling the boards move beneath our feet. When the noise subsided, I rapped hard on the door and called out Morgan’s name loudly.
There was no reply. On the outside of the wooden door, rivulets of ice had formed. Suddenly the noise began again, as if some monster were rising up from the depths beneath, clawing aside rocks and earth in its eagerness to be free of its subterranean prison.
I threw my shoulder against the door again and again, desperation lending me strength. At last the hinges sheered away from the wood and the door burst open. I stepped into a cold more severe than that on the bleak moor from which we’d just descended.
I’d been in that room before and knew its layout. Longer than it was wide, it had one window on the far wall, shrouded with heavy black curtains. There was a big table with two chairs; these usually occupied the center of the room, but now they’d been pushed right back against the wall. Morgan was sitting inside a huge pentacle that he had chalked on the floor. At each of its five outer points was a black candle. Their yellow flickering light filled the room and showed me exactly what I was dealing with.
In his left hand Morgan held a grimoire, a book of dark magic incantations. It was bound in green leather, and there was a silver pentacle embossed on its cover. Where he had gotten it from I didn’t know, but he was chanting from it, reading words in the Old Tongue—the language of the ancients who first made their home in the County. His accent was far from perfect, but close enough to make the incantation potent, and although it was invisible, I sensed that something was taking shape just beyond the pentacle, between Morgan and the dark curtains at the window.
Behind me, in the open doorway, I heard Mrs. Hurst scream with fright, and her husband give a deep groan of pure terror. I too was very afraid, but something greater than fear for my own safety urged me forward and gave me the courage I needed. It was a realization of what threatened; the knowledge that the whole County was just a few seconds away from a disaster of almost unimaginable proportions.
There was one other creature in the room: the farm dog. It was chained to a hook in the wall just by the curtains. Flat on its belly, its ears back against its skull, the poor animal was whining softly and trembling all over. The dog was the blood sacrifice that Morgan was offering in order to bring Golgoth into our world. He was trying to raise the Lord of Winter and had almost succeeded.
The cold intensified, blasting toward me; it felt as if sharp knives were cutting into my face. But although my foolish apprentice was far closer to the emerging Old God, he was protected by the pentacle.
I ran forward and kicked over one of the candles, thus destroying its protective power. Immediately Morgan’s eyes widened as he felt the first icy fingers of cold reach toward him. But lust for power had filled him with madness, and although he rose to his feet, he continued to chant from the grimoire.
I stepped inside the pentacle and struck his wrists hard with my staff. The book flew from his hands. He stared at me, his expression a mixture of anger, bewilderment, and fear. For a moment he seemed in a trance, unaware of who he was or what he was trying to do. But then his eyes widened in alarm and he looked across to where Golgoth had begun to materialize.
Again
that roaring filled the house, the bare stone flags beneath our feet beginning to move. As the noise reached its climax, the dog gave a shrill cry, shuddered, and lay still. It was dead—not because Golgoth had touched it with his cold deadly fingers. It had died of fright.
Gradually the noises subsided, the cold began to lessen, and the fear that had been squeezing my heart slowly released its grip. I had knocked the grimoire from Morgan’s hand before he could complete the ritual. Golgoth had been forced to return to the dark. For now, the County was safe.
It was the end of Morgan’s apprenticeship to me. I couldn’t keep him on after he’d done that. I should really have bound him in a pit. After all, I do that to witches. But his mother begged me not to, and I relented. He turned fully to the dark after that.6
Shamans
A shaman uses animism magic and employs the spirit of an animal as his familiar. He feeds it some of his life essence in return for its guidance and protection. Using this, a shaman projects his soul from his body and can venture far in the twinkling of an eye; in addition to his journeys to earthly locations, he routinely ventures into limbo. One famous shaman called Lucius Grim crossed over to the domain of the dark several times, until his soul was finally devoured by a demon. His body continued to breathe for many years afterward, but it was just an empty vessel.
Not all shamans are malevolent. Using their animal spirit, some practice healing; others attempt to control the weather, bringing rainfall to alleviate droughts.
Grimoires
These are ancient books, full of spells and rituals, used to invoke the dark. Sometimes they are employed by witches, but they are mainly used by mages, and their spells have to be followed to the letter, or death can result.7
Many of these famous texts have been lost (the Patrixa and the Key of Solomon). The most dangerous and powerful grimoires, however, were written in the Old Tongue by the first men of the County. Primarily used to summon demons, these books contain terrible dark magic. Most have been deliberately destroyed or hidden far from human sight.
The most mysterious, and reputedly most deadly, of these is the Doomdryte. Some believe that this book was dictated word for word by the Fiend to a mage called Lukrasta. That grimoire contains just one long dark magic incantation. If successfully completed (in conjunction with certain rituals), it would allow a mage to achieve immortality, invulnerability, and godlike powers.
Fortunately no one has ever succeeded, as it requires intense concentration and great endurance: The book takes thirteen hours to read aloud, and you cannot pause for rest.
One word mispronounced brings about the immediate death of the mage. Lukrasta was the first to attempt the ritual, and the first to die. Others followed in his foolish footsteps.
We must hope that the Doomdryte remains lost for- ever.
The Pendle witches have their own grimoires, but they never contain the ritual for summoning the Fiend. They consider this too dangerous to be written down: it is learned by heart and passed down through the clans from mother to daughter.8
* * *
Once again it must be stressed that it is very dangerous to trust a woman—especially a witch. There are many good women in the world, but even when dealing with a benign witch, never tell her everything; always hold something in reserve.—John Gregory
1 This type of magic is rarely practiced by witches.—John Gregory
2 The above is based upon the writings of a very early spook called Nicholas Browne, who traveled far beyond the borders of the County. Apart from his notebooks, there is no evidence that any of his assertions are true, but we must keep an open mind. The world is a big place and much remains to be explored.—John Gregory
3 The word necromancer comes from the Greek nekros, which means corpse. —apprentice Mark Caster
4 The black candles are identical to those used by malevolent witches in their rituals. Bony Lizzie had them in her house when I rescued the child called Tommy. I’ve seen them many times since, and their presence is always a bad sign. Their dark color is achieved by mixing human blood into the wax.—Tom Ward
5 My master’s ex-apprentice, Morgan, turned from the light and practiced necromancy. In return for money, he summoned the dead from limbo for grieving families. Even worse, he trapped the spirit of my own father and made him believe that he was burning in Hell .—Tom Ward
6 Morgan tried to raise Golgoth a second time and succeeded. However, it cost him his life. It was a horrific death that I will never forget.—Tom Ward
7 Mr. Gregory keeps a grimoire in the locked writing desk of his Anglezarke house. I once saw him reading it and asked him why it was there. He told me to mind my own business.—apprentice Andy Cuerden
8 Alice told me that Bony Lizzie owned three grimoires, but they were destroyed by fire when a mob attacked their dwelling near Chipenden. —Tom Ward
A Pendle Witch
Witches
Witches have walked the earth from the earliest times, and the development of human language has allowed them to weave ever more complex curses, spells, and rituals. By trial and error they have also learned the potential of plants to either poison or cure. Some witches are benign healers, following a path toward the light and helping their communities; others choose to ally themselves with the dark, lured to sell their souls in exchange for the ability to wield dark magic.
HOW TO TEST A WITCH
Throughout time, witches have been seen as rivals to organized religion, and consequently persecuted. Some have been burned, some hanged, others drowned or decapitated. Certain tests are used to decide whether or not a woman is a witch. These are usually administered by a witchfinder or quisitor, an agent of the Church, although some communities take the law into their own hands. Many of these tests do not work, and spooks don’t hold with them.1
Swimming has been the test most frequently used. The suspected witch is taken to the nearest pond or lake and her hands tied to her feet before she is thrown in. If she floats, she is presumed guilty and taken away to be burned. Sinking supposedly proves her innocence, but in sinking, many innocent women drown or die of pneumonia or shock. Swimming someone in a lake or pond does not work as a means to identify a witch; whether the woman floats or not depends on luck and the kind of body she has.2
Pricking is equally cruel. A pin or bodkin (a sharp dagger) is jabbed hard into the flesh of a suspected witch in order to find the devil’s mark. The object is to discover a section of her body that cannot feel pain. Sometimes the mark is invisible, but a mole or skin discoloration is considered strong evidence of the guilt of the accused. Again, this is not a sufficient test for finding a true witch.
Pressing involves using thirteen stones. The witch is tied down onto a wooden rack, and the stones are then laid on her body one at a time. Once all are in place, she is left for an hour before the stones are removed. If she survives, it is assumed that the Devil has saved her and she is hanged. Some quisitors use stones so heavy that the suspected woman is pressed to death—either her internal organs are crushed, or she suffocates.
Alternatively, in some parts of the world quisitors use the stones as a means to force a confession from a suspected witch. After the eleventh stone, she is barely able to breathe, but one nod will free her from the press. Yet in admitting that she is a witch, the unfortunate woman has signed her own death warrant.
Human Witches
Water witches and lamia witches are only partly human, but each fully human type of witch can be divided up into four general categories.
THE BENIGN
These are wise women who have a great knowledge of herbs and potions. Some are midwives, others healers, and they have saved countless lives. They serve the light, and any monetary gain is small. If their clients are poor, they will usually work for nothing.
In the County there are a number of benign witches, mainly healers and midwives. The foremost among them are:
Maddy Hermside of Kirkham
Jenny Bentham of Oakenclough
/> Eliza Brinscall of Sabden
Angela Nateby of Belmont
Emma Hoole of Rochdale
Madge Claughton of Samlesbury3
These women can be relied on to help spooks and their apprentices with their local knowledge and healing capabilities. Charges of witchcraft may be brought against them from time to time, and we should be prepared to defend them and educate their neighbors where necessary.
THE FALSELY ACCUSED
These are poor women wrongly persecuted by a witchfinder. Often they are victims of malicious gossip, but sometimes conspiracy is involved when the witchfinder colludes with neighbors in order to have an innocent woman tried and condemned, usually with a view to seizing her house and possessions.
THE MALEVOLENT
These witches draw power from the dark and pursue their own ends—either without any consideration of the consequences for others, or deliberately setting out to do harm. While some serve the Fiend directly, many act of their own volition. There is also a whole spectrum of power and ability. At the lowest end of the scale, witchcraft is dabbled in to survive; it is a means to fill the belly and gain shelter against the cold ravages of winter. Such witches are little more than beggars. At the highest end of the scale, whole kingdoms may rise or fall at the whim of a powerful witch.