Fury of the Seventh Son (Book 13) (5 page)

“We'll sleep late, lad,” said the Spook. “It'll be wet enough up on yonder hill without turning ourselves into drowned rats before we even begin.”

It was almost noon before the rain finally stopped and we were able to continue our journey east. The wind had died away almost to nothing, but the visibility was worsening.

“I'll carry my own bag,” the Spook told me. “The going gets difficult soon, and you'll need the support of your staff.” He was quickly proved correct as we left what he told me was Grit Fell to follow a meandering muddy track through clumps of reddish grass.

“Keep to the path, lad,” he warned. “The ground on either side is not just soggy. There are deep pools of stagnant water, no doubt swollen by the recent heavy rain. It's worse where the grass grows tallest.”

Without the Spook to guide me, I'd probably have blundered into the bog. He knew the County like the back of his hand and still had lots to teach me about traveling across it, particularly remote places like this.

Finally we reached the summit of the Wardstone. Here we were shrouded in low cloud and unable to see that we were walking across one of the highest places in the County.

“There it is!” The Spook pointed ahead of us. Through the mist I could see a gigantic rock to which the name Wardstone was also given. There were smaller rocks surrounding it, half buried in the ground.

My master walked right up to it and put his left hand against the wall of stone that rose into the sky before him. “Place your palm against it, too,” he commanded.

I obeyed.

“Tell me what you feel,” he said.

“It's warm to the touch.”

It was strange but true. There was no doubt. Despite the chill, damp air, the rock seemed to be radiating heat.

“And what else, lad? There's something else. Can you tell what it is?”

At first I couldn't work out what he meant, but then I became aware that everything seemed very still. I was breathing very slowly . . . unnaturally slowly. I could feel the pulse of blood circulating through my body, too. It was so slow that I thought for a moment that my heart had stopped.

I snatched my hand away from the rock, and immediately my breathing and heart rate returned to normal. When I put my hand back on it, everything slowed again. The Spook beckoned me away from the Wardstone, and I followed him for about twenty paces.

“Did you feel it?” he asked, coming to a halt.

“It slows time. The Wardstone slows down time!” I exclaimed excitedly.

“And you can do that too, lad, can't you? But what's the difference here?”

My ability to slow down time was a gift that had saved my life on many occasions when fighting servants of the dark—most importantly the Fiend, who had the same power. I'd prevented him from moving for long enough for us to launch our attack on him.

But what
was
the difference here? I thought carefully before replying.

“When I use my gift, I'm in control. Everything slows down, but I'm free to move. Here it's the Wardstone slowing time, affecting everything around it. But, of course, being a big chunk of rock, it can't move.”

“Can't it, lad? Are you sure?”

“How can a rock move?”

“Maybe it can move through time. I'm just speculating, but it's a possibility. I'll tell you the reason for my thinking. There are eyewitness accounts from some who've climbed to the summit of this big hill to find, to their astonishment, that the rock wasn't there. It had vanished. So where would it go, lad, but into a different time?”

“Were they reliable witnesses?”

“Some were fools, that's for sure,” the Spook answered with a smile, “but others were sensible folk not much given to flights of fantasy. But it's a coincidence, isn't it—a rock that goes by your name also being able to affect time? And isn't it strange that this should be the location specified for the ritual? There's a lot needs explaining. . . . Now I'm going to show you something that's also strange.”

My master led the way widdershins around the rock. He came to a sudden halt, staring at its surface, then moved closer. For a moment I thought he intended to place his hand against it again. Instead he pointed with his index finger.

“Read that,” he commanded.

I approached it and saw that words had been carved into the rock face. It looked a little like a poem, because it was set out in a pattern and not all the lines were of equal length. The inscription was partly covered in moss, making sections of it hard to read, so it took me a few moments to decipher it while my master waited patiently.

           
The highest point in the County
is marked by mystery.
It is said that a man died there in a
great storm, while binding an evil
that threatened the whole world.
Then the ice came again, and when it
retreated, even the shapes of the
hills and the names of the towns
in the valleys changed.
Now, at that highest point on
the fells, no trace remains of what
was done so long ago,
but its name has endured.
They call it
The Wardstone.

“Well, lad, you've read it. What have you to say for yourself?”

“It might have been someone with my name who bound the evil, whatever it was,” I suggested.

“Aye, it might—that's a possibility. But the word ‘ward' also means something else. It's the old name for a district. So the stone might simply mark the corner of some plot of land whose ownership has long been forgotten; it might be nothing to do with your family name. Does anything else come to mind?” my master asked.

“Whatever happened here was a long time ago. How long ago was the last ice age?”

“Thousands of years, lad. I reckon it was thousands and thousands of years back in time.”

“That's a long time ago to have an ancestor called Ward— and language changes, doesn't it? You once told me that during an ice age, when it is difficult to survive, men forget knowledge and live in caves and hunt, concentrating on survival. How old is this inscription? It might not be that old—just somebody commemorating a legend.”

“It's hard to estimate its age, but it was there at least a hundred years ago, because my own master, Henry Horrocks, saw it when he visited the spot as a new apprentice in the company of his master. The truth is, we'll probably never find out when that lettering was carved into the stone. It's one of the great mysteries—another example of the unexplained. However, I want to put something else to you, lad. What if this big rock really
can
move through time? If that were true, it would open up two possibilities. The inscription might be a record of something that happened long ago in the past. But what else could it be?”

I didn't have to think. It was as if a deep part of my brain had always known and now surrendered the knowledge to my conscious mind. When I opened my mouth, the words just fell out, as if they had been readying themselves to escape.

“It could point to something that's going to happen in the future. It could have been written in the distant future, looking back on events yet to happen in our time. It could be a prophecy.”

The Spook seemed deep in thought. He didn't believe in scrying—for him the future could not be fixed. But during my years of training with him, I had seen that belief challenged over and over again.

“On the other hand, the Wardstone might go somewhere else but stay in our own time,” he suggested.

“What do you mean? Where else could it go?”

“Some folks believe that there are other worlds, invisible but very close to ours. You should know, lad. You've been to one of 'em yourself—the Hollow Hills, where you got that sword, is one example. Of course, that could be just an extension of the dark.”

“Could the Wardstone go to the dark?”

“Who knows? It's part of the unexplained, and another mystery to be solved.”

Then, without another word, my master led me off the fell, and we headed back toward Chipenden.

CHAPTER VI

T
HE
D
OOMDRYTE

A
FTER spending another night outdoors, we arrived back at the Spook's house early in the afternoon. I was tired, but my master seemed bright and full of energy.

“That was just what I needed, lad. Despite the wet weather on the way there, the pains in my joints have gone. That walk has done me a power of good.”

I smiled and nodded. It was good to see the Spook's health and attitude so much improved, but I was feeling down again. I had hoped to find Alice waiting for me at the Chipenden house, but she wasn't there. Moreover, the Spook's suggestion that the inscription on the stone might be a prophecy troubled me.

It said that a “man died there.” Who could that be . . . the Spook? But I was turned sixteen now, so I probably counted as a man, too. Was the end in sight for me? Perhaps I wouldn't be the Spook's last apprentice, after all.

“Cheer up, lad!” my master said. “Things have a way of sorting themselves out.”

I forced myself to smile back at him. He meant well.

That night I didn't sleep well. No sooner had my head touched the pillow than I was plunged straight into a nightmare. And in that dream I was reliving one of the scariest experiences I'd ever endured as a Spook's apprentice.

I was back in Read Hall, south of Pendle Hill, living moment by moment the night, years ago now, that I'd been visited by the evil creature called Tibb. He had been created from the body of a sow by the Malkin clan, in order to see into the future. They needed a powerful seer because they were being challenged by the young Mab Mouldheel, who had tremendous powers of prophecy.

I was lying in bed, paralyzed by a dark magical spell. Tibb was above me, and I could hear the sound of his claws biting into the wood as he clung to the ceiling. He resembled a giant spider, but he had four limbs and his head hung down backward from his long neck. The mouth was open wide, and I could see his sharp teeth. In the dream I was just as terrified as I'd been then. Something fell from his gaping mouth onto my shirt. It was sticky and warm. At the time I hadn't realized what it was, but now, despite the terror of the dream, I knew that it was human blood; Tibb had been in the next room feeding on Father Stocks. I had heard the poor priest crying out in anguish.

It was then that Tibb spoke to me—the terrible words of a prophecy:

“I see a girl, soon to be a woman. She will love you, she will betray you, and finally she will die for you.”

I awoke dripping with sweat, my heart racing.

Alice would be using dangerous magic, perhaps even at this very moment.

Had Tibb foretold her death?

Early in the afternoon I went to collect the week's groceries from Chipenden, visiting the butcher's, the greengrocer's, and then the baker's, as usual. The village had been attacked during the recent war, a patrol of enemy soldiers killing some of the inhabitants and setting fire to several houses. I was pleased to see that things were almost back to normal.

Like the Spook's, most of the damaged houses had been rebuilt, and the main cobbled street that sloped down between the shops was bustling with housewives clutching shopping baskets. People came to Chipenden from distant farms and hamlets, for here they could find the best cheese in the County, and mutton and beef of the highest quality.

I threw the sack of provisions over my shoulder and set off back toward my master's house. I was trudging up the lane toward the gate when I saw that I was being watched.

To my left, not far from the place where I had first met Alice, three people were standing underneath a large, wide-branched oak. I knew them of old, and automatically put down my sack and brought my staff up into the diagonal defensive position—for they were witches.

It was Mab, Beth, and Jennet Mouldheel.

They came toward me, but halted about five paces away. I kept my staff at the ready.

Mab was a girl of about seventeen; despite her youth, she was a dangerous malevolent witch and the leader of the Mouldheel witch clan. I'd found out what she was capable of on my first visit to Pendle. I'd gone there with the Spook to rescue my brother Jack and his family, who'd been kidnapped. She had a strong personality, powerful magic, and was without a doubt the best scryer in the County. She was attractive, too, with big bright-green eyes and fair hair. Like the rest of her clan, she went barefoot, and her feet and legs and tattered skirt were spattered with mud.

Her two younger sisters, Jennet and Beth, were twins, and it was difficult to tell them apart. They lacked the good looks of their elder sister and had thin, pinched faces and hooked noses.

All of them appeared a little older than when I'd last seen them. They were taller, and their faces and bodies were now those of young women.

“You've taken your time! Been waiting here for you for almost an hour, we have. And you don't seem too pleased to see me, Tom.” Mab smiled. “Should be glad, because we're here to help you again.”