For now, that was a good thing, because he didn’t yet know what had happened to his father.
Now that I could think and act, I needed to try and get out of the pen. I stood up and walked across to the gate, lifted the latch, and swung it open. My legs felt stiff and shaky; I struggled to keep my balance—something that I normally took for granted. No doubt it was a consequence of spending so many days on all fours.
Now I had to get Peter out. We had to escape before the witch returned.
I went back to the center of the pen and called Peter’s name, gently taking hold of his left arm and attempting to lead him toward the gate.
Peter didn’t like it. He looked human to me, but he still squealed like a terrified pig and resisted with formidable strength. He was making a lot of noise and I feared he might attract the attention of the witch, but somehow I managed to drag him through the open gate.
The moment I released him, Peter hurried away at a good speed for someone crawling on his hands and knees. It didn’t worry me too much because he was heading in the right direction: toward the slope we had come down—away from the farm and the pig witch.
I was about to follow him when something in the distance caught my eye. Just beyond the gate that led to the farmyard, something glittered on the dark frozen mud. I ran toward it, hardly daring to hope.
Yes! It was the Spook’s silver chain, and beside it was my bag. My staff was about twenty paces beyond them.
Why hadn’t the witch taken them? I wondered. In the case of the silver chain, that was easy to work out. Even touching it would cause a witch severe pain, burning her skin. The rowan wood of the staff would also have repelled her. Some of the things in my bag had been disturbed, so she’d obviously searched it to see what she could find, but it hadn’t been moved. Among other things, such as my small parcel of crumbly cheese, it contained bags of salt and iron, also harmful to a witch. Perhaps she’d decided to leave it alone, thinking that I’d never be able to use its contents again.
I turned around to see if Peter was still making progress. For some reason he had veered away from the slope and was now moving parallel with it; he seemed to be crawling even faster. In his confused state, he was heading away from the best escape route. I would have to go after him.
First I picked up the chain. When I found the Spook and led him back to this valley, he would have need of it, I reflected.
It was then that I heard a terrifying noise, a ferocious scream of rage. I’d dawdled here too long.
I suddenly saw the witch, sprinting toward me from the direction of the farmhouse, long hair streaming behind her. She had a blade in each hand, and her face was twisted with anger. My heart quailed. Within seconds she would reach me; then she would cut me into pieces.
I had no time to reach my staff. The chain was my only hope. But I remembered how, even practicing against the stationary post, I had missed more times than I’d succeeded—and now I faced a terrifying moving target. But the pig witch was very close now, and terror spurred me into action.
Quickly I coiled the chain about my left wrist, just as I’d been taught. I took aim and cast it toward the witch, twisting my wrist widdershins, against the clock, so that it spun out of my hand.
I watched it form a helix in the air above the witch, still slowly revolving, glinting in the moonlight. My heart was in my mouth, but as I watched, I was filled with sudden hope. It looked good. The elevation was correct. It was falling toward her. I had also achieved what the Spook called spread. The length of the helix, from narrow top to wide bottom, looked spot on. If it dropped over her cleanly, it would bind her from knees to head, ideally tightening against her teeth so that she couldn’t utter a spell.
It was the best throw I’d managed in months of practice.
It was close—so very close.
But close isn’t good enough.
CHAPTER IX
SHARP CLAWS
THE silver chain fell a little askew, dropping over the witch’s head and left shoulder. It was enough to bring her down hard, her left leg twisting underneath her, and the impact of the fall shook the knives out of her hands. But it hadn’t rendered her helpless, as it should have.
She screamed as the deadly silver bit into her skin, and she rolled over and over, fighting to free herself from its coils.
Forgetting Peter, I ran over to my staff, snatched it up, and sprinted toward the slope that would take me out of the valley. I glanced back once and saw that the witch was already on her feet, free of the chain. She was limping toward me, her face contorted with pain. She must have hurt her leg or ankle, which would slow her down. Now I could escape!
But then I saw that she was making signs in the air. She was casting spells, and I was the target.
Instantly my legs grew sluggish and heavy. I seemed no closer to the grassy slope. I struggled, fighting to cast off the power of the magic. I was a seventh son of a seventh son: I would not let her dark spells work on me. . . .
But now tendrils of mist were rising from the ground, coiling like snakes about my knees, reaching up to my throat. Soon it would envelop me completely again—would this whole nightmare then start all over again? I wondered.
Then, suddenly, I glimpsed something that turned my legs to jelly. Right at the top of the hill, looking down the slope toward me, was that terrible servant of the witch—the beast that had stripped the farmer’s wife to the bone with its teeth and saliva.
My escape was blocked. No doubt that was why Peter had changed course; perhaps he wasn’t as confused as I had thought.
The witch clapped her hands rapidly. At the third clap, the vile creature began to descend the steep incline, approaching rapidly in spite of its awkward waddle.
Within seconds, the mist had blotted out the moon, and it was lost to view. Now I headed across the valley at an angle, away from where I’d last seen the witch. My legs were starting to feel much better. I seemed to have cast off the spell that had made them feel heavy, and so I ran as fast as I could, sobs rising in my throat. I still had my staff, but that fearsome creature was fast. I didn’t hold out much hope for my chances.
As I ran, I saw the barn to my left. Could I hide in there? The door ahead was slightly ajar, so I didn’t need to open it or make any noise that would give away my position.
Inside, the mist was much thinner, and I searched around desperately for a place to conceal myself. A lantern hanging from a hook up in the rafters cast a weak light, showing me that I had few options. A few bales of straw lay on the floor, along with a number of large barrels, twenty or more. Some stood upright; others on their sides, as if ready to roll away. Most were empty. I crept farther into the barn and crouched down behind one of the barrels. It was large enough to hide me from anything coming in through the big door.
As I held my breath, waiting, I suddenly remembered that the hairy creature had no eyes. Would it use its sense of smell to find me? Maybe I was wasting my time hiding at all. But where else could I go?
I stayed where I was. It was quiet in the barn, and all I could hear was the noise of my breathing and my heart hammering inside my ears.
But then there was a pattering and a scratching. Something with sharp claws was walking across the three rows of flagstones at the entrance to the barn. It was coming! Next I heard a wet, snuffling, slithering sound, and it waddled into the barn, its distended belly still trailing on the floor. I saw again the sharp triangular nose, the rodentlike teeth that had made such quick work of the farmer’s wife. The plate of bone looked different now that I could see it clearly. It wasn’t smooth after all. It had sharp ridges and small pointed protuberances. They could do a lot of damage to soft flesh.
But most eye-catching were its long, thick whiskers. They twitched and moved as the creature advanced. Some hung down and scraped along the floor. The upper ones seemed to be testing the air.
Suddenly I understood how it located its living prey. The victim’s scent played a part—the witch had been standing r
ight next to the body of the farmer’s wife when the creature leaped off her shoulder. But with something that was alive, its whiskers would no doubt detect the tiny movements of the air caused by the rising and falling of a chest or even the beating of a heart.
In seconds it would locate me. I needed to take the initiative.
The big barrel next to the one I was hiding behind lay on its side. I leaped to my feet and started rolling it toward the creature. It rumbled across the floor, faster and faster.
The strange beast didn’t move. Had its enormous meal made it sluggish? I wondered. In another second, it would be crushed. But at the last moment, it leaped into the air and landed on the barrel just before it reached the barn door and came to a grinding halt. Its claws scratched and slithered, trying to find a purchase, concentrating on keeping its balance. This was my chance!
I moved faster than ever before. My life depended on it. I ran forward, stabbed downward with all my strength, and had my first stroke of luck since entering the valley.
The blade of my staff had pinned the creature to the barrel. It screeched at me and showed its sharp teeth, all the while twisting under the blade, desperate to be free. Trickles of blood ran down the barrel as its nails clawed the air, but it couldn’t reach me. Suddenly more blood gushed from its mouth, and it twitched a few times before falling still.
I waited for a moment to make sure that it was dead, and then tugged my blade out of the wood, allowing the creature’s body to slide to the floor. I had been lucky that it had fed so recently. But for that, it might have been too quick for me.
It was dead now, and for that I was thankful, but I was not out of the woods yet. Where was the witch?
She would surely be approaching the barn—slowly, because of her injury. But by now she must be close, and once she reached me, I was as good as dead.
I panicked. I had to get out, but I saw that the barrel had become jammed against the door. I couldn’t move it. Finally I managed to clamber over it and stagger outside.
The mist was thicker than ever. The witch could be mere paces away and I wouldn’t see her. I took a few steps toward the path that led out of the valley, then paused and listened hard. I thought I could hear movement about twenty yards to my left. I kept perfectly still and held my breath as long as I could.
As I did so, I suddenly remembered Peter. I didn’t want to leave him behind—it seemed so cowardly—but how could I hope to find him in this mist? I had just as much chance of blundering into the witch.
I crouched down and waited, not daring to move . . . until in the distance I thought I heard a scream. Had the witch caught up with Peter? I wondered. Was she cutting him with her blades? I shuddered and rose to my feet, preparing to flee. I realized that I was acting just as he had when he left his father in the clutches of the pig witch. But now I understood why he’d done it. I was terrified of what the witch might to do me; she must surely be somewhere close by, coming for me. She would hang me up by my legs and cut my throat. I had to escape.
In a blind panic, I flew up the slope. There was grass under my feet now, and it was slippery. All at once, my feet went from under me, and the staff flew out of my hands. I rolled back down, frantically clawing at the grass, desperate to slow my descent. When I finally came to a halt and tried to stand, all the strength in my legs was gone. They would no longer obey me. I was forced to crawl, dragging myself along, moaning in terror.
CHAPTER X
LET THAT BE A LESSON
THE mist was thinning; I could now make out bushes and the stump of a tree. To my right, I saw a mound with a tall, thin sapling growing out of it.
There was someone standing beside it, glaring at me. Terror almost stopped my heart. I had assumed that I was crawling away from danger, but instead I had been moving toward it.
It was the witch. She had been waiting here for me. No doubt she had used her magic to draw me to this spot.
She began to walk toward me, a gloating smile on her fat, piggy face. In each hand she held a sharp blade—and she looked ready to use them.
“You’ve put me to a lot of trouble, boy, so I’ll take your thumbs while you’re still alive!” she said, her voice filled with venom. “The pain will be so terrible that you’ll beg for death!”
I struggled to my feet, my knees trembling with fear. I had dropped my staff at the bottom of the slope. I was defenseless.
I tried to turn and run, but her tiny glittering eyes held me rooted to the spot. I attempted to resist her spell, summoning all my strength. Her magic was too strong. Nevertheless, I resolved to fight for my freedom—fight until the last moment.
Then another voice spoke. It was deep, calm, and assured.
“Leave the boy alone, witch! Turn and face me!”
I glanced to my right. A tall, bearded figure had emerged from the mist and was facing the witch. His hood was pulled down over his forehead so that his face was in shadow.
It was my master, John Gregory, and he was holding his staff before him in the diagonal defensive position. I stared at him in astonishment, my mouth open.
The witch gave a shriek and ran straight at him, her blades held high to pierce his flesh. My heart was in my mouth, for I knew that he didn’t have his silver chain, the weapon of choice against a witch. That was my fault.
But when the witch reached the point where he’d been standing, he was no longer there; in a flash he had stepped to one side. She was already past him, almost stumbling as she whirled back to renew her attack.
He met that second attack with a swing of his staff, which cracked against her head with a loud thwack. This time she fell to her knees.
The Spook waited as she scrambled to her feet, his staff once more in the diagonal position. He breathing was still normal, and he looked totally calm and relaxed. He knew exactly what he was doing, and stood poised and ready.
The way he fought was impressive. One day I could be like him, I told myself. It was what I wanted. I had to work hard to emulate my master’s skills.
The witch was now chanting spells as she raised her blades again. My master wasn’t moving, and I suddenly grew concerned. Was he being controlled by her magic?
But then I saw that he was striding purposefully forward, lunging toward her with his staff; the blade at its tip buried itself in the witch’s body. The knives fell from her hands, and with a scream she tumbled backward and rolled away down the slope into the mist.
The Spook followed her, and now I saw that the blade at the end of his staff was red with blood. “Where’s my silver chain, lad?” he demanded in a gruff voice.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I said. “It’s down there in the valley. I threw it at the witch, but it didn’t bind her properly. I should have listened to you and practiced more.”
“Well, let that be a lesson to you,” he growled. “Now you know what those long hours of practice are for. Without my silver chain, I was forced to do it the hard way and stab her through the heart.”
“Is she dead?” I asked.
“Aye, lad.”
“But won’t she come back from the dead?”
“You’re right—that will happen eventually, unless we do something about it. But it takes days. . . . Sometimes a witch doesn’t stir until the light of the full moon shines over her body or her grave. We’ll wait for dawn and then, when we can see better, we’ll go down and do what’s necessary. Then we must deal with the remains of the farmer, his wife, and that boy’s father. They should be laid to rest properly. But now, lad, tell me all that happened to you. Tell me every detail and leave nothing out!”
So we sat down together on the tree stump and I began my tale, taking my time and giving a full and careful account of all that had transpired. As I talked, my breathing and heartbeat returned to normal. I became calmer and started to feel safe for the first time in days.
“You weren’t really turned into a pig, lad. You know that, don’t you?” my master said when I’d finished.
I
nodded. “But it seemed so real. At the time I was totally convinced.”
“From what you’ve told me, that witch was just about the most powerful creator of magical illusions I’ve ever encountered. But I’ve no doubt that the majority of the magic was in that potion she made you drink. It altered your mind, changed your perceptions. If it hadn’t been for the fact that you’re a seventh son of a seventh son, you’d have stayed that way until the witch was dead.”
“So Peter will recover now?”
“It might take a while, but he’ll get back to normal. We’d better go down and make sure he’s all right, but there’s nothing dangerous in this valley anymore.”
As we set off down the slope, I turned to the Spook and asked him. “What about before I drank the potion? I really thought I was standing on a hill, and those marble pillars seemed real enough.”
“There’s a legend that comes from a country called Greece. It tells of a powerful witch called Circe who turned men into pigs. I’ve never visited Greece myself, but I’ve heard of it. It’s a very warm country in summer, and many of the old buildings have marble pillars such as you described.”
“So you think the pig witch was Circe and I was transported to Greece?”
The Spook smiled and shook his head. “Nay, lad, I don’t believe in that legend, so I never included it in my Bestiary.”
The Bestiary was an account of his encounters with the dark, and a guide to the different categories of creature he had faced; he’d illustrated it himself. It was one of the few books I’d glanced at in his library, and I suddenly decided to read it from cover to cover when we returned to the house—if indeed he wanted to take me back with him after what had happened. I resolved there and then that if my master gave me another chance, I would work really hard.
“Will you put Circe in the Bestiary now?” I asked him.
“I’ll consider it, lad. As I said, that witch cast very powerful spells of illusion, some of which took effect even before you drank that potion. Marble pillars like that are often found in Greece, and the fact that the witch appeared to turn people into pigs certainly makes you think. It might well have been Circe. Those old stories sometimes turn out to be true. . . .”