I Am Alice Page 10

  I shrugged. I hadn’t got a clue.

  ‘When John Gregory puts a witch in a pit, he means her to stay there until the end of her days, so the bars are permanent. That ain’t the case with Arkwright. If a witch kills an adult, it’s one year in the pit; two if it’s a child. He’s like a judge passing sentence, and at the end of their time he pulls ’em out and kills ’em. To make sure they ain’t coming back from the dead, he cuts out the heart, slices it in half and feeds it to his dogs.’

  Bill Arkwright was a really scary spook. Lizzie’s tale made me nervous. What if he tired of the chase and came back? I didn’t fancy being shut in one of his slimy pits!

  Lizzie spat into each lock, and within moments both had clicked open. The lid was free, but there was no way that she was going to touch it.

  ‘Made of iron, those bars are. You’ll have to lift the lid, girl. You ain’t a witch yet, so you shouldn’t feel much. Get on with it!’

  Lizzie might be training me as a witch, but I still had a long way to go yet. So she was right: touching those iron bars didn’t hurt at all. The problem was the weight. I struggled for some time before I managed to raise them high enough for Lizzie to kneel at the pit’s edge and lean down to offer the water witch her hands.

  My whole body was shaking with the effort, but I managed to hold it up long enough for the water witch to be dragged to safety. No sooner was she on the mud floor beside the pit than I let the lid fall back into place with a clang.

  Then I stepped back two paces very rapidly. The water witch was crouching, face distorted into a bestial snarl, as if ready to spring at us. She looked hungry for blood rather than grateful for being rescued.

  ‘Right,’ said Lizzie, who didn’t seem in the least perturbed by the witch’s attitude. ‘Let’s get clear of here before Arkwright returns with those bog dogs of his. Lead on, sister,’ she said. ‘Guide us to somewhere safe.’

  In reply the water witch merely gave a sort of grimace; it twisted her face so that her mouth opened, revealing more of her sharp yellow teeth. She was covered in slime and dripping with water. She smelled bad too – the stench of mud, rot and stagnant ponds. As she walked ahead of us, she waddled slightly. If I hadn’t been so nervous, I would have laughed. Water witches weren’t suited to land.

  We left the mill, and to my surprise, the water witch led us eastwards, away from the marsh. We crossed the canal by the nearest bridge and then kept to the hedgerows.

  Where could we be going? And how could we ever be safe? Once those wolfhounds got our scent, they’d track us down for sure. Hadn’t Lizzie said that Arkwright was relentless and never gave up?

  At last, after nearly two hours of scrambling through muddy countryside, the witch pointed across a big field. There was nothing ahead but another distant hedgerow. However, I could sense something; something unseen.

  But then the witch uttered some disgusting guttural noises and waved her arm about, making signs in the air.

  The air shimmered, and suddenly the outline of a building came into view. It had been hidden by magic – some sort of powerful cloaking spell I’d never seen before. As we approached, I saw that it had once been a farmhouse but now seemed deserted. There were no animals in the fields; no dog set to guard the house. It was in pitch blackness.

  Then, by the light of the moon, I saw that there was a large pond beside the house. Most ponds, like middens, were kept some distance away to avoid leakage into the house’s cellar. This one had been extended – and in a most unusual way. The water was deep and came right up to the walls of the house, lapping against the brickwork. There was something else strange too. In what should have been the farmyard sat a huge mound of soil almost as big as the house. It was covered with grass and nettles but didn’t look natural. Who had put it there? What was its purpose, and where had the soil come from?

  Without looking back at us, the witch slipped into the dark water and disappeared from sight. She was gone a long time and I wondered if she were gathering some of her sisters to drag us down after her. But then there was a flicker of light from an upstairs window.

  ‘There’ll be an entrance under the water,’ Lizzie said. ‘No doubt the cellar has been flooded deliberately. But we ain’t going in that way. Let’s go back to the front door.’

  Leading the way past the pond, she headed round the side of the house. The glass had gone from the windows, but they had been fixed with board so that you couldn’t see inside. The front door looked rotten but was closed. I felt that a good kick with a pointy shoe would shatter it into soggy pieces.

  However, we didn’t need to do that. I heard the sounds of chains being released and bolts being drawn back, and then the door slowly opened, creaking on its hinges.

  A stout, round-faced woman with piggy eyes was standing in the doorway holding up a candle, the better to examine our faces. Her hair was a tangle of grey and her eyebrows were unkempt: hairs stuck out like a cat’s whiskers. She looked anything but friendly.

  ‘What do you want?’ she demanded abruptly.

  ‘We rescued one of yours from a pit in the spook’s mill,’ Lizzie said, as if that were all she needed to say to gain entry to the house.

  But, if so, she was wrong. I didn’t like the look of this woman and sensed some threat from her. She wasn’t a witch, but she looked very confident as she faced Lizzie. That was unusual. This must be the ‘keeper’ of the water witches that Lizzie had referred to earlier. I couldn’t see why she’d want to live here with all those witches. What did she get out of it?

  ‘Aye, I know that, but what do you want?’

  Lizzie forced a smile onto her face. ‘There’s something needs doing, so I want your help to form a coven with those you keep. Just once and for something special. There’ll be lots of blood for them; power too. What do you say?’

  ‘What’s your name and where be you from?’

  ‘My name is Bony Lizzie and I’m from Pendle.’

  ‘Not much love lost between those from Pendle and those I keep here,’ the woman replied. ‘There’s been trouble in the past – deaths on both sides.’

  ‘You’ll get no trouble from me, or the girl.’ Lizzie nodded at me. ‘Let bygones be bygones, eh? What I propose will be to the benefit of us all. Can’t I come inside and talk about it? What’s your name – can’t you at least tell me who I’m speaking to?’

  I thought at first that she was going to refuse, but then she nodded. ‘My name’s Betsy Gammon and I’ll give you just five minutes of my time.’

  With that, she stood aside, so I followed Lizzie inside. Betsy led us to the rear of the house and into the kitchen. It was dirty, full of rubbish, and there were flies everywhere, most of them disgusting big bluebottles. There was a small door on the right, and she opened it and began to descend some narrow stone steps, her candle sending scary shadows onto the wall. When we reached the cellar, I gazed about me in astonishment.

  It was huge – at least three or four times the area of the farmhouse above. At some point, a great deal of excavation had been carried out – the reason, I realized, for the huge pile of soil next to the house. About half the cellar was taken up by a big pit full of water, but on a huge earthen shelf there were several tables and more than twenty stools. In the far corner lay four of those tubular skelt cages. Two of them were occupied; the creatures stared at us with hungry eyes, their long bone-tubes jutting out through the bars and quivering with anticipation.

  Betsy settled herself down on a stool and stared up at us shrewdly. She didn’t invite us to sit. ‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘tell me what your proposal is.’

  Although the woman wasn’t a witch, there was something very threatening about her. She was one of the most horrible people I’d ever met – and that says a lot when you come from a village of Pendle witches as I do.

  ‘Summon twelve of the sisters first,’ Lizzie said. ‘I’ll put it to all of ’em while you tell me what they say.’

  Betsy Gammon shook her head. ‘I don’t thin
k you understand what’s what here. Not very bright, most of them, are they? So they listen to me and do exactly what I say. They’ve got the talons and teeth, and I’ve got the brains.’ She tapped her head and gave us an evil smile. ‘So don’t waste any more of my time. Explain fully why you’re here! It don’t do to mess with Betsy!’

  Lizzie’s face had gone red with anger and she began to mutter under her breath.

  ‘And don’t waste your Pendle spells on me!’ Betsy cried. ‘I’ve no magic of my own but I’m shielded by the sisters. Your spells can’t hurt me. And all I have to do is whistle, and twenty or more of those I keep will surge up out of that pit and rip you and the girl to shreds. I’ve half a mind to do it anyway!’ She lurched to her feet.

  I jumped up in terror, but then Lizzie spoke. ‘Nay, hear us out . . .’ Her voice was surprisingly gentle, placating the woman. ‘I didn’t know how it was here, but you’ve put us right. I can see that you run things. Here, let me show you something . . .’

  Lizzie pulled the egg out of her pocket, slowly unfolded the blue silken cloth and showed it to Betsy. ‘There’s power in this, lots of power!’ she exclaimed, eyes bright with excitement. ‘Stole it from a spook, I did. And a coven could get that power for itself. I’m offering to share it with those you keep.’

  Betsy scowled at Lizzie, her little piggy eyes almost lost within her bloated face. ‘Why would you come here when you could share it with your own clan back in Pendle?’

  ‘Had a falling out with my sisters there,’ Lizzie lied smoothly. ‘Almost sent the Malkin assassin after me, they did. Best I stay away until things cool down a bit. That’s why I’ve come to you.’

  ‘You’re as good as dead if they send Grimalkin after you . . .’ Betsy nodded in agreement, her voice softening too. ‘So, tell me: what needs be done to get that power?’

  ‘It’s a full moon three nights from now,’ said Lizzie. ‘It has to be done then. We need to sacrifice seven children and drip their blood onto the egg. Then the whole coven performing this rite gets power. Each one of us can make any wish and it’ll come true within seven days!’

  Lizzie was crafty, she was. I remembered the exact wording of what the egg had said:

  Give me the heart’s blood of seven human children on the night of a full moon. Give me thirteen witches united in that deed, and I will give the one who holds the egg her heart’s desire! More power than she has ever dreamed of. Once my need is met, let her think only upon what she wishes, and it will be done within seven days.

  Lizzie would be holding the egg, and only she would get her wish. The others would be cheated. And to achieve that, seven children would be murdered.

  I KNEW LIZZIE killed people for their bones. I knew she probably sometimes murdered children – though she’d never done it in front of me before.

  There was nothing I could do. If I made a fuss, it would be my bones she’d take. She didn’t have to spell it out. I knew how it was.

  But this was worse than anything that had happened so far.

  Seven children were going to be murdered so that Lizzie could get her wish from that evil leather egg. And this time I would be right there in the thick of it.

  I’d be as guilty as Lizzie.

  I had never wanted to be a witch, but what choice had I been given?

  I like to think I was upset on the awful night Lizzie came to claim me, but I don’t remember crying. My mam and dad had been cold and dead in the damp earth for three days, and I still hadn’t managed to shed a single tear – though it wasn’t for want of trying. Tried to remember the good times, I really did. And there were a few, despite the fact that they fought like cat and dog and clouted me harder than they ever hit each other. I mean, you should be upset, shouldn’t you? It’s your own mam and dad that have just died, so you should be able to squeeze out one tear at least.

  It wasn’t until much later that I found out that they weren’t my real mam and dad after all. Not only that, they’d been murdered by Lizzie, using a spell that made their blood grow hot and bubble within their veins so that later it appeared as if they’d just died of a fever. She’d done it so that she could control me and teach me the dark arts.

  I had an aunt, Agnes Sowerbutts, and she was kind to me and took me in. But Lizzie wanted me herself, so that was that. The night she came for me there was a bad storm, forks of Fiend-lightning sizzling across the sky and crashes of thunder shaking the walls of the cottage and rattling the pots and pans.

  But that was nowt compared to what Lizzie did. All day I’d been nervous, waiting for her to come calling, but Agnes had scryed that it would most likely be after dark – Lizzie’s favourite time. At last there was a hammering on the door fit to wake the rotting dead, and when Agnes drew back the bolt, Bony Lizzie strode into the room, her black hair matted with rain, water streaming from her cape to cascade onto the stone flags. Poor Agnes was scared, but she stood her ground, bravely placing herself between me and Lizzie.

  But I wasn’t brave at all. I was terrified – so much so that my knees knocked together and big sobs kept snatching my breath away.

  ‘Leave the girl alone!’ Agnes said calmly. ‘Her home is with me now. She’ll be well looked after, don’t you worry.’

  Lizzie’s first response was a sneer. They say there’s a family resemblance, but I could never have twisted my face the way she did that night. It was enough to turn the milk sour, or send the cat shrieking up the chimney as if Old Nick himself were reaching for its tail.

  I’d always done my best to keep out of Aunt Lizzie’s way. It had been over a year since I’d last seen her and she was scarier than ever. But the day before, news had reached us that she wanted me to live with her. Agnes was supposed to take me to Lizzie’s cottage, but I’d pleaded with her not to, and she’d sent word that she wouldn’t do it. We’d both known that wouldn’t be the end of it.

  ‘The girl belongs to me, Sowerbutts,’ Lizzie said, her voice cold and quiet, filled with malice. ‘We share the same dark blood. I can teach her what she has to know. I’m the one she needs.’

  I’d known that Lizzie wanted me to live with her but hadn’t realized she wanted to train me as a witch. That came as a real shock.

  I remember thinking that she was just about the last thing I needed, but as I said, I was really scared and kept my mouth shut.

  ‘Alice needn’t be a witch like you!’ Agnes retorted. ‘Her mam and dad weren’t witches, so why should she follow your dark path? Leave her be. Leave the girl with me and go about your business.’

  ‘She’s the blood of a witch inside her and that’s enough!’ Lizzie hissed angrily. ‘You’re just an outsider and not fit to raise the girl.’

  It wasn’t true. Agnes was a Deane, all right, but she’d married a good honest man from Whalley, an ironmonger. When he’d died she’d returned to Roughlee, where the Deane witch clan made its home.

  ‘I’m her aunt and I’ll be a mother to her now,’ Agnes retorted. She still spoke bravely, but her face was pale, and I could see her plump chin wobbling, her hands fluttering and trembling with fear.

  By now I’d edged away into the far corner of the room, wondering if I could slip away into the kitchen, reach the back door and make a run for it. I knew that the argument between Lizzie and Agnes wouldn’t last long. I knew who’d win.

  Next thing, Lizzie stamped her left foot. It was as easy as that. In the twinkling of an eye, the fire died in the grate, the candles flickered and went out, and the whole room became instantly dark, cold and terrifying. I heard Agnes cry out in terror, and I was screaming myself, desperate to flee. I would have run through the closed door, jumped through a window or even scrabbled my way up the chimney. I’d have done anything, just to escape.

  But I couldn’t move a muscle; I was paralysed with fear.

  I did get out, but with Lizzie at my side. She just seized me by the wrist and dragged me off into the night. It was no use trying to resist – she was too strong and held me tight, her nails digging
into my skin. I belonged to her now, and there was no way she was ever going to let me go. And that night she began my training as a witch. It was the start of all my troubles.

  That was how it had begun with Lizzie, and my training had indeed been hard and unpleasant.

  With the murder of seven children it was going to get a whole lot worse.

  I was about to take the first proper step towards becoming a malevolent witch. If I helped Lizzie with this, there would be no going back.

  Betsy put two fingers in her mouth and gave a piercing shriek. It was enough to make your ears bleed. Something surged up out of the water and landed on its feet on the soft ground facing her. Muddy water went everywhere, and I took a quick step backwards.

  It was a water witch, wearing rags covered in green and brown scum, her hair matted, face filthy with muck. I’d seen those murderous talons before, but what I hadn’t noticed was the deadly feet. The witch had webbed toes, each one ending in a sharp talon. I guessed they would propel her fast through the water; she could fight, cut and kill with all four limbs.

  Betsy Gammon began to talk to her in the language of the water witches. Most of it was made up of grunts and other noises – something between a bark and an old tom-cat spitting up a hairball. But there were a few words I recognized: ‘blood’ and ‘skelt’ were two that I would have expected to be part of the conversation between a water witch and her keeper, and both were uttered several times.

  I also heard the name ‘Arkwright’ – which didn’t surprise me. The local spook must be an ever-present danger to these witches. He hunted them down with his two fearsome dogs and kept them away from the monastery ruins, a place that was sacred to them. There was also the considerable danger that he would one day discover the whereabouts of this farm and put an end to their keeper, scattering the witches and making their activities as a coven more difficult. They must be using powerful magic to cloak the building and keep the dogs from following the scent of a witch here. But how long could they keep that up? The use of magic could be very taxing; it must require a good deal of blood.