The Last Apprentice: Complete Collection Page 4

  “I walked down the steps and sat there in this cellar in the darkness. Then I took three deep breaths, and I faced my fear. I faced the darkness itself, which is the most terrifying thing of all, especially for people like us, because things come to us in the dark. They seek us out with whispers and take shapes that only our eyes can see. But I did it, and when I left this cellar the worst was over.”

  At that moment the candle guttered and then went out, plunging us into absolute darkness.

  “This is it, lad,” the Spook said. “There’s just you, me, and the dark. Can you stand it? Are you fit to be my apprentice?”

  His voice sounded different, sort of deeper and strange. I imagined him on all fours by now, wolf hair covering his face, his teeth growing longer. I was trembling and couldn’t speak until I’d taken my third deep breath. Only then did I give him my answer. It was something my dad always said when he had to do something unpleasant or difficult.

  “Someone has to do it,” I said. “So it might as well be me.”

  The Spook must have thought that was funny, because his laughter filled the whole cellar before rumbling up the steps to meet the next peal of thunder, which was on its way down.

  “Nearly thirteen years ago,” said the Spook, “a sealed letter was sent to me. It was short and to the point and it was written in Greek. Your mother sent it. Do you know what it said?”

  “No,” I said quietly, wondering what was coming next.

  “ ‘I’ve just given birth to a baby boy,’ she wrote, ‘and he’s the seventh son of a seventh son. His name is Thomas J. Ward, and he’s my gift to the County. When he’s old enough we’ll send you word. Train him well. He’ll be the best apprentice you’ve ever had, and he’ll also be your last.’

  “We don’t use magic, lad,” the Spook said, his voice hardly more than a whisper in the darkness. “The main tools of our trade are common sense, courage, and the keeping of accurate records, so we can learn from the past. Above all, we don’t believe in prophecy. We don’t believe that the future is fixed. So if what your mother wrote comes true, then it’s because we make it come true. Do you understand?”

  There was an edge of anger in his voice, but I knew it wasn’t directed at me, so I just nodded into the darkness.

  “As for being your mother’s gift to the County, every single one of my apprentices was the seventh son of a seventh son. So don’t you start thinking you’re anything special. You’ve a lot of study and hard work ahead of you.

  “Family can be a nuisance,” the Spook went on after a pause, his voice softer, the anger gone. “I’ve only got two brothers left now. One’s a locksmith and we get on all right, but the other one hasn’t spoken to me for well over forty years, though he still lives here in Horshaw.”

  By the time we left the house, the storm had blown itself out and the moon was visible. As the Spook closed the front door, I noticed for the first time what had been carved there in the wood.

  The Spook nodded toward it. “I use signs like this to warn others who’ve the skill to read them or sometimes just to jog my own memory. You’ll recognize the Greek letter gamma. It’s the sign for either a ghost or a ghast. The cross on the lower right is the Roman numeral for ten, which is the lowest grading of all. Anything above six is just a ghast. There’s nothing in that house that can harm you, not if you’re brave. Remember, the dark feeds on fear. Be brave and there’s nothing much a ghast can do.”

  If only I’d known that to begin with!

  “Buck up, lad,” said the Spook. “Your face is nearly down in your boots! Well, maybe this’ll cheer you up.” He pulled the lump of yellow cheese out of his pocket, broke off a small piece, and handed it to me. “Chew on this,” he said, “but don’t swallow it all at once.”

  I followed him down the cobbled street. The air was damp, but at least it wasn’t raining, and to the west the clouds looked like lamb’s wool against the sky and were starting to tear and break up into ragged strips.

  We left the village and continued south. Right on its edge, where the cobbled street became a muddy lane, there was a small church. It looked neglected—there were slates missing off the roof and paint peeling from the main door. We’d hardly seen anyone since leaving the house, but there was an old man standing in the doorway. His hair was white and it was lank, greasy, and unkempt.

  His dark clothes marked him out as a priest, but as we approached him, it was the expression on his face that really drew my attention. He was scowling at us, his face all twisted up. And then, dramatically, he made a huge sign of the cross, actually standing on tiptoe as he began it, stretching the forefinger of his right hand as high into the sky as he could. I’d seen priests make the sign before but never with such a big, exaggerated gesture, filled with so much anger. An anger that seemed directed toward us.

  I supposed he’d some grievance against the Spook, or maybe against the work he did. I knew the trade made most people nervous, but I’d never seen a reaction like that.

  “What was wrong with him?” I asked when we had passed him and were safely out of earshot.

  “Priests!” snapped the Spook, the anger sharp in his voice. “They know everything but see nothing! And that one’s worse than most. That’s my other brother.”

  I’d have liked to know more but had the sense not to question him further. It seemed to me that there was a lot to learn about the Spook and his past, but I had a feeling they were things he’d only tell me when he was good and ready.

  So I just followed him south, carrying his heavy bag and thinking about what my mam had written in the letter. She was never one to boast or make wild statements. Mam only said what had to be said, so she’d meant every single word. Usually she just got on with things and did what was necessary. The Spook had told me there was nothing much could be done about ghasts, but Mam had once silenced the ghasts on Hangman’s Hill.

  Being a seventh son of a seventh son was nothing that special in this line of work—you needed that just to be taken on as the Spook’s apprentice. But I knew there was something else that made me different.

  I was my mam’s son, too.

  CHAPTER V

  Boggarts and Witches

  WE were heading for what the Spook called his Winter House.

  As we walked, the last of the morning clouds melted away and I suddenly realized that there was something different about the sun. Even in the County, the sun sometimes shines in winter, which is good because it usually means that at least it isn’t raining; but there’s a time in each new year when you suddenly notice its warmth for the first time. It’s just like the return of an old friend.

  The Spook must have been thinking almost exactly the same thoughts, because he suddenly halted in his tracks, looked at me sideways, and gave me one of his rare smiles. “This is the first day of spring, lad,” he said, “so we’ll go to Chipenden.”

  It seemed an odd thing to say. Did he always go to Chipenden on the first day of the spring, and if so, why? So I asked him.

  “Summer quarters. We winter on the edge of Anglezarke Moor and spend the summer in Chipenden.”

  “I’ve never heard of Anglezarke. Where’s that?” I asked.

  “To the far south of the County, lad. It’s the place where I was born. We lived there until my father moved us to Horshaw.”

  Still, at least I’d heard of Chipenden, so that made me feel better. It struck me that, as the Spook’s apprentice, I’d be doing a lot of traveling and would have to learn how to find my way about.

  Without further delay we changed direction, heading northeast toward the distant hills. I didn’t ask any more questions, but that night, as we sheltered in a cold barn once more and supper was just a few more bites of the yellow cheese, my stomach began to think that my throat had been cut. I’d never been so hungry.

  I wondered where we’d be staying in Chipenden and if we’d get something proper to eat there. I didn’t know anyone who’d ever been there, but it was supposed to be a remote, unfrien
dly place somewhere up in the fells—the distant gray-and-purple hills that were just visible from my dad’s farm. They always looked to me like huge sleeping beasts, but that was probably the fault of one of my uncles, who used to tell me tales like that. At night, he said, they started to move, and by dawn whole villages had sometimes disappeared from the face of the earth, crushed into dust beneath their weight.

  The next morning, dark gray clouds were covering the sun once more, and it looked as if we’d wait some time to see the second day of spring. The wind was getting up as well, tugging at our clothes as we gradually began to climb and hurling birds all over the sky, the clouds racing one another east to hide the summits of the fells.

  Our pace was slow, and I was grateful for that because I’d developed a bad blister on each heel. So it was late in the day when we approached Chipenden, the light already beginning to fail.

  By then, although it was still very windy, the sky had cleared and the purple fells were sharp against the skyline. The Spook hadn’t talked much on the journey, but now he sounded almost excited as he called out the names of the fells one by one. There were names such as Parlick Pike, which was the nearest to Chipenden; others—some visible, some hidden and distant—were called Mellor Knoll, Saddle Fell, and Wolf Fell.

  When I asked my master if there were any wolves on Wolf Fell, he smiled grimly. “Things change rapidly here, lad,” he said, “and we must always be on our guard.”

  As the first rooftops of the village came into sight, the Spook pointed to a narrow path that led away from the road to twist upward by the side of a small, gurgling stream.

  “My house is this way,” he said. “It’s a slightly longer route, but it means we can avoid going through the village. I like to keep my distance from the folk who live there. They prefer it that way, too.”

  I remembered what Jack had said about the Spook, and my heart sank. He’d been right. It was a lonely life. You ended up working by yourself.

  There were a few stunted trees on each bank, clinging to the hillside against the force of the wind, but then suddenly, directly ahead was a wood of sycamore and ash; as we entered, the wind died away to a distant sigh. It was just a large collection of trees, a few hundred or so maybe, that offered shelter from the buffeting wind, but after a few moments I realized it was more than that.

  I’d noticed before, from time to time, how some trees are noisy, always creaking their branches or rustling their leaves, while others hardly make any sound at all. Far above, I could hear the distant breath of the wind, but within the wood the only sounds to be heard were our boots. Everything was very still, a whole wood full of trees that were so silent it made a shiver run up and down my spine. It almost made me think that they were listening to us.

  Then we came out into a clearing, and directly ahead was a house. It was surrounded by a tall hawthorn hedge so that just its upper story and the roof were visible. From the chimney rose a line of white smoke. Straight up into the air it went, undisturbed until, just above the trees, the wind chased it away to the east.

  The house and garden, I noticed then, were sitting in a hollow in the hillside. It was just as if an obliging giant had come along and scooped away the ground with his hand.

  I followed the Spook along the hedge until we reached a metal gate. The gate was small, no taller than my waist, and it had been painted a bright green, a job that had been completed so recently that I wondered if the paint had dried properly and whether the Spook would get it on his hand, which was already reaching toward the latch.

  Suddenly something happened that made me catch my breath. Before the Spook touched the latch, it lifted up on its own and the gate swung slowly open as if moved by an invisible hand.

  “Thank you,” I heard the Spook say.

  The front door didn’t move by itself, because first it had to be unlocked with the large key that the Spook pulled from his pocket. It looked similar to the one he’d used to unlock the door of the house in Watery Lane.

  “Is that the same key you used in Horshaw?” I asked.

  “Aye, lad,” he said, glancing down at me as he pushed open the door. “My brother, the locksmith, gave me this. It opens most locks as long as they’re not too complicated. Comes in quite useful in our line of work.”

  The door yielded with a loud creak and a deep groan, and I followed the Spook into a small, gloomy hallway. There was a steep staircase to the right and a narrow flagged passage on the left.

  “Leave everything at the foot of the stairs,” said the Spook. “Come on, lad. Don’t dawdle. There’s no time to waste. I like my food piping hot!”

  So leaving his bag and my bundle where he’d said, I followed him down the passage toward the kitchen and the appetizing smell of hot food.

  When we got there I wasn’t disappointed. It reminded me of my mam’s kitchen. Herbs were growing in big pots on the wide window ledge, and the setting sun was dappling the room with leaf-shadows. In the far corner a huge fire was blazing, filling the room with warmth, and right in the middle of the flagged floor was a large oaken table. On it were two enormous empty plates and, at its center, five serving dishes piled high with food next to a jug filled to the brim with hot, steaming gravy.

  “Sit down and tuck in, lad,” invited the Spook, and I didn’t need to be asked twice.

  I helped myself to large slices of chicken and beef, hardly leaving enough room on my plate for the mound of roasted potatoes and vegetables that followed. Finally I topped it off with a gravy so tasty that only my mam could have done better.

  I wondered where the cook was and how she’d known we’d be arriving just at that exact time to put out the hot food ready on the table. I was full of questions, but I was also tired, so I saved all my energy for eating. When I’d finally swallowed my last mouthful, the Spook had already cleared his own plate.

  “Enjoy that?” he asked.

  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 he 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 toward 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 color 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 un
wrapping 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.