There were nine witch graves in all, each one marked with a gravestone, and in front of this six feet of soil edged with smaller stones. Fastened to those stones by bolts, and covering each patch of earth, were thirteen thick iron bars. They'd been placed there to stop the dead witches under them clawing and scratching their way to the surface.
Then, along one wall of the cellar, there were much heavier, larger stones. There were three of those and each one had been carved by the mason in exactly the same way:
The Greek letter beta told anyone who could read the signs that boggarts were safely bound beneath them, and the Latin numeral T in the bottom right-hand corner said that they were of the first rank, deadly creatures capable of killing a man quicker than you could blink your eyes. Nothing new there, I thought, and as the Spook was good at his job there was nothing to fear from the boggarts who were trapped there.
'There are two live witches down here as well,' said the Spook, 'and here's the first one,' he continued, pointing to a dark, square pit with a boundary of small stones crossed by thirteen iron bars to stop her from climbing out. 'Look at the corner stone,' he said, pointing downwards.
I saw something then that I hadn't noticed before, even back in Chipenden. The Spook held his candle closer so that I could see it better. There was a sign, much smaller than that on the boggart stones, followed by the witch's name.
'The sign is the Greek letter sigma because we classify all witches under 'S' for sorceress. There are so many types that, being female and subtle, they're often difficult to categorize precisely,' said the Spook. 'Even more so than a boggart, a witch has a personality that can change over time. So you have to refer to their history - the full history of each, bound or unbound, is recorded in the library back at Chipenden.'
I knew that wasn't true of Meg. There was very little written about her in the Spook's library, but I didn't say anything. Suddenly I heard a faint stirring from the darkness of the pit and took a quick step backwards.
'Is Bessy a first-rank witch?' I asked the Spook nervously, because they were the most dangerous and could kill. 'It isn't marked on the stone ...'
'All the witches and boggarts in this cellar are first rank,' the Spook told me, 'and I bound 'em all so if s not always worth putting the mason to extra trouble with the carving, but there's nothing to fear here, lad. Old Bessy's been in there a long time. We've disturbed her and she's just turning over in her sleep, that's all. Now come over here and look at this . . .'
It was another witch pit, exactly like the first one, but I suddenly shivered with cold. Something told me that whatever was in that pit was much more dangerous than Bessy, who was asleep and just trying to get herself comfortable on the cold, damp ground.
'You might as well take a closer look, lad,' said the Spook, 'so that you can see what we're dealing with. Hold up your candle and look down but be sure to keep your feet well back!'
I didn't want to do it but the Spook's voice was firm. It was a command. To look down into the pit was part of my training, so I had no choice.
I leaned my body forwards, keeping my toes well back from the bars, and held the candle up so that it cast a flickering yellow light down into the pit. At that very moment I heard a noise from below and something big scuttled across the floor and into the dark shadows in the near corner. It sounded wick with life, as if it could scamper up the wall of the pit faster than you could blink!
'Hold your candle right over the bars and take a proper look!' commanded the Spook.
I obeyed, holding it out at arm's length. At first all I could see were two large cruel eyes staring up at me, two points of fire reflecting the candle flame. As I looked more carefully, I saw a large gaunt face framed by a tangle of thick greasy hair, and a squat scaly body below it. There were four limbs and they were more like arms than legs, with large elongated hands that ended in long sharp claws.
I shuddered and my hand trembled so much that I almost dropped the candle through the bars. I stepped back too quickly and nearly fell over, but the
Spook caught hold of my shoulder and steadied me.
'Not a pretty sight, is it, lad' he muttered, shaking his head. 'What we've got down there is a lamia witch. She looked human enough over twenty years ago when I first put her there. Now she's become feral again. That's what happens when you put a lamia witch in a pit. Deprived of human companionship, she slowly reverts to type. And even after all these years she's still strong. That's why I have the iron gate on the stairs. If she ever managed to get out of here, that would slow her up for a while.
'And that's not all, lad. You see, a normal witch pit isn't good enough for her. There are iron bars on the sides and bottom of the pit too, buried under the soil. So she's really in a cage. That and a layer of salt and iron beyond that. She can dig fast and deep with those four clawed hands as well, so it's the only way we can stop her getting out! Anyway, do you know who she is?'
It was a strange sort of question. I looked down and read her name from the stone.
The Spook must have seen the expression on my face as the penny dropped because he smiled grimly. 'Aye, lad. That's Meg's sister ...'
'Does Meg know she's down here?' I asked.
'She did once, lad, but now she can't remember; so it's best to keep it that way. Now come over here - I've got something else to show you.'
He led the way between the stones to the far corner, which seemed to be the driest place in the cellar; the ceiling above seemed mostly clear of cobwebs. It was an open pit, ready for use, and the cover lay next to it on the ground, waiting to be dragged into position.
I saw then, for the first time, how the cover for a witch pit was made. The outer stones were cemented together in a square and long bolts went through them from end to end to make sure they stayed in place. The thirteen steel bars were also really long bolts too, which were tightened by nuts recessed into the stones. It was all quite clever, and a stonemason and a smith, working together, would have needed a lot of skill to make it.
Suddenly my mouth dropped open and stayed that way just long enough for the Spook to notice. This time there was no sign, but a name had already been carved on the nearest cornerstone:
'Which do you think's the better way, lad?' the Spook asked. 'Herb tea or this? Because it's got to be one or the other.'
'Herb tea,' I said, my voice hardly more than a whisper.
'Right, so now you know why you can't afford to forget to give it to her each morning. If you forget, she'll remember, and I don't want to have to bring her down here.'
I had a question I wanted to ask then, but I didn't because I knew the Spook wouldn't like it. I wanted to know why what was good enough for one witch wasn't good enough for them all. Still, I knew I couldn't complain that much: I would never forget how close to the dark Alice had once got. So close that the Spook had thought it best to put her in a pit. He'd only relented because I'd reminded him of how he'd let Meg off.
That night I found it difficult to get to sleep. My head whirled with what I'd seen and the realization of where I was living. I've seen some scary things, but living in a house with witch graves, bound boggarts and live witches in the cellar didn't make me rest easy. In the end I decided to tiptoe downstairs. I'd left my notebooks in the kitchen and I wanted my Latin one: I knew that half an hour staring at boring lists of nouns and verbs would be sure to send me off to sleep.
Even before I reached the foot of the stairs, I heard noises that I didn't expect. Someone was crying softly in the kitchen and I could hear the Spook talking in a low voice. When I reached the kitchen door, I didn't go in; it was slightly open and I saw something through the crack that halted me in my tracks.
Meg was sitting in her rocking chair close to the fire. She had her head in her hands and her shoulders were heaving with sobs. The Spook was leaning over her, speaking softly and stroking her hair. His face, lit by candlelight, was half turned towards me and wore an expression on it that I'd never seen before. It was similar to t
he way my brother Jack's big, craggy face sometimes softens when he looks at his wife, Ellie.
Then, as I watched, to my astonishment, a tear leaked from my master's left eye and ran all the way down his cheek to reach his mouth.
I knew not to pry any longer so I went back up to bed.
Chapter 6
A Nasty Piece Of Work
The days soon began to settle into a steady routine. In the mornings my chores were to light the downstairs fires and bring fresh water from the stream. Every second day I had to light all the fires in the house to keep the place from getting too damp. As I made the bedroom fires, my instructions were to open each window for about ten minutes to air the room. I had to clean out all the grates first, and I went up and down stairs so much that I was glad when it was over. The one in the attic was the worst, of course, and I always used to do that first, before my legs got too tired.
The attic was a really big room, the biggest in the house, with a lot of floor space. It only had one window and that was a huge skylight in the roof. The room was empty except for a large mahogany writing desk, which was locked.-On the brass plate around its keyhole was an embossed pentacle, a five-pointed star within three concentric circles. I knew that pentacles were used to protect magicians when they summoned daemons and I wondered why the plate had that design.
The desk looked very expensive, and I also wondered what was in it and why the Spook didn't bring it down to his study, which would have been a much more suitable and useful place. I never did get round to asking him about that desk. And when we finally talked about it, it was already too late.
After airing the attic, I would work my way down, a floor at a time. The three bedrooms directly below the attic weren't furnished. There were two at the front of the house and one at the back. The back room was the worst and darkest room in the whole house because it only had one window, which faced back towards the cliff. As I raised the sash and peered out, the damp rock was so close that I could almost reach out and touch it. There was a ledge on the cliff with a path running upwards. It seemed to me that it might be possible to climb out of the window and up onto the ledge. Not that I was daft enough to try it! One slip and I'd dash my brains out on the flags below.
After lighting the fires, I gave Meg her herb tea, then practised my Latin verbs until breakfast, which was a lot later in the morning than it had been at Chipenden. Following that, it was lessons for most of the day, but late in the afternoon I usually went for a short walk with the Spook, no more than twenty minutes downhill to the foot of the clough, where it opened out onto the lower slopes of the moor. Despite the hard work seeing to the fires, I'd got a lot more exercise back in Chipenden and was starting to feel restless. Each morning the air seemed colder and the Spook told me that the first of the snow would be with us soon.
One morning my master went off to Adlington to see his brother Andrew, the locksmith. When I asked if I could go with him, he refused.
'Nay, lad, somebody needs to keep a careful eye on Meg. Besides, I've got things to talk to Andrew about. Family things that are private. And I need to bring him up to date on what's been happening ...'
By that I guessed the Spook was going to tell his brother the full story of what had happened to us in Priestown, when my master had almost been burned to death by the Quisitor. Once we were back in Chipenden, the Spook had sent a letter to Adlington, telling his brother that he was safe, but now he probably wanted to fill in the details.
I was really disappointed to be left behind - I was desperate to find out how Alice was getting on - but I had no choice, and despite the herb tea Meg really did need watching carefully. The Spook was particularly concerned that she might leave the house and wander off so I had to make sure that both front and back doors were kept locked. As it happened, what she did was completely unexpected ...
It was getting late in the afternoon, and I'd been in the Spook's study writing up a lesson in my notebook. Every fifteen minutes or so I'd go and see if Meg was all right. Usually I'd find her dozing in front of the fire; either that or preparing the vegetables for supper. But when I checked this time she wasn't there.
I ran to the doors first, just in case, but they were both locked. After looking in the parlour, I went upstairs. I expected to find her in her room, but after knocking and receiving no reply, I tried the door. The room was empty.
The further upstairs I went, the worse I began to feel. When the attic was empty too, I started to panic. But then I took a deep breath. 'Think!' I told myself. Where else could Meg be?
There was only one other place and that was on the steps that led down to the cellar. It didn't seem likely because the Spook had told me even the thought of the steps made her nervous. First I checked in his study, standing on the stool to search the top of the bookcase. There was no way she could have got the key without me noticing but I confirmed that anyway. It was still there. With a sigh of relief, I lit a candle and went down the steps.
I heard the gate long before I reached it. It kept clanging loudly, sending that din reverberating right up through the house. If it hadn't been for the fact that I expected to find Meg there, I would have assumed something had come up from the cellar and was trying to get out.
But it was Meg all right. She was gripping the bars tightly and tears were streaming down her face. By the light of the candle I saw her shake the gate. From the force she put into it, I could tell that she was still very strong.
'Come on, Meg,' I said gently, 'let's go back upstairs. It's cold and draughty down here. If you're not careful, you'll catch a chill.'
'But there's someone down there, Billy. Someone down there who needs help.'
'There's nobody down there,' I told her, aware that I was lying. Her sister Marcia, the feral lamia, was down there, trapped in her pit. Was Meg starting to remember?
'But I'm sure there is, Billy. I can't remember her name but she's down there and she needs me. Please open the gate and help me. Let me go down and look. Why don't you come with me and bring your candle?'
'I can't, Meg. You see, I don't have the key to open the gate. Come on, please. Just come back up to the kitchen...'
'Will John know where the key is?' Meg asked. 'Probably. Why don't we ask him when he gets back?'
'Yes, Billy, that's a good idea. We'll do that!'
Meg smiled at me through her tears and walked back up the steps. I led her into the kitchen and sat her down in her rocking chair by the fire.
'You sit here and warm yourself, Meg. I'll go and make you another cup of herb tea. You'll need it after being down those cold damp stairs ...'
Meg had already drunk her usual dose for the day and I didn't want to risk making her ill, so I just put a very small amount in her cup and added hot water.
She thanked me and soon gulped it down. By the time the Spook returned she was already asleep.
When I told him what had happened, he shook his head. T don't like the sound of this, lad! From now on her morning dose needs to be three quarters of an inch in the bottom of a cup. I don't want to do it but we've no choice.'
He looked really down in the mouth. I'd rarely seen him look so dejected. But I soon found out that it wasn't just because of Meg.
'I've had some bad news, lad,' he told me, sinking wearily into a chair by the kitchen fire. 'Emily Burns has passed away. She's been cold in her grave for over a month.'
I didn't know what to say. Long years had passed since he'd been with Emily. Since then Meg had been the woman in his life. Why should he be so sad?
'I'm sorry' I said lamely.
'But not half as sorry as me, lad' the Spook said gruffly. 'She was a good woman, Emily. She had a hard life but always did her best. The world will be a poorer place now that she's gone! When the good die, it sometimes unshackles evil which would otherwise have been kept in check!'
I was going to ask him what he meant by those mysterious words, but at that point Meg started to stir and opened her eyes so we lapsed into silence an
d he didn't mention Emily again.
At breakfast on the eighth morning after we'd arrived, the Spook pushed back his plate, complimented Meg on her cooking and then turned to me.
'Well, lad, I think it's about time you went to see how the girl's coping. Think you can find your way?'
I nodded, trying not to grin too widely, and within ten minutes I was striding down the clough to emerge onto the hillside with the open sky above. I headed north of Adlington, towards Moor View Farm, where Alice was staying.
When the Spook had decided to travel to his winter house, I'd assumed that the weather would break soon afterwards, and indeed it had been getting steadily colder. But today things seemed to have changed for the better. Although it was a cold, frosty morning, the sun was shining, the air was clear and I could see for miles. It was the kind of morning when it feels good to be alive.
Alice must have seen me approaching down the hill because she came out of the farmyard and walked up to meet me. There was a small wood just outside the boundary of the farm and she waited there in the shadow of the trees. She looked really gloomy, so I knew, even before we spoke, that she wasn't happy in her new home.
'It ain't fair, Tom. Old Gregory couldn't have found me a worse place to stay! Ain't much fun staying with the Hursts.'
'Is it really that bad, Alice?' I asked.
'Be better off at Pendle, and that's saying something.'
Pendle was where most of Alice's family of witches lived. She hated it there because they treated her badly.
'Are they cruel to you, Alice?' I asked, becoming alarmed.
Alice shook her head. 'Ain't laid a hand on me yet. But they don't talk to me much either. And it didn't take me long to work out why they're so quiet and unhappy. It's that son of theirs - the one called Morgan, who Old Gregory asked about. Cruel and mean, he is. A really nasty piece of work. What kind of son would hit his own father and shout at his mother till she cries? He don't even call 'em Mam and Dad. 'Old Man' and 'Old Woman' is the best they get from him. Scared of him, they are, and they lied to Old Gregory because Morgan visits a lot. Dread his visits, they do. Nothing to do with me, but I can't stand much more of it. If need be, one way or another, I'll sort him out.'