Spook's Secret (wc-3) (5 page)

    I followed him down the stone cellar steps. I wasn't exactly scared because he knew what he was doing, but I was certainly very nervous. I'd never met a lamia witch before, and although I'd read a bit about them, I didn't know what to expect. And how had she managed to survive down there in the cold and dark all through the spring, summer and autumn? What had she been eating? Slugs, worms, insects and snails, like the witches the Spook bound in pits?

    When the steps turned the first corner, there was an iron trellis gate blocking our way. Beyond it, the steps suddenly became much wider so that four people could have walked down side by side. I'd never seen such wide cellar steps before. Not far beyond the gate I could see a door set into the wall and I wondered what was behind it. The Spook took a key from his pocket and inserted it into the lock. It wasn't his usual key.

    'Is it a complicated lock?' I asked.

    'That it is, lad' he said. 'More complicated than most. If you ever need it, I usually keep this key on top of the bookcase in the study closest to the door.'

    When he opened the gate, it made a clanging noise so loud that it seemed to ring right through the stones both upwards and downwards, so that the whole house acted like a huge bell.

    'The iron would stop most of 'em getting past this point, but even if it didn't, we'd hear what was going on from upstairs. This door's better than a guard dog.'

    'Most of who? And why are the steps so wide?' I asked.

    'First things first,' snapped the Spook. 'Questions and answers can come later. First we need to see to Meg.'

    As we carried on down the steps, I started to hear faint noises from below. There was a groan and what sounded like a faint scratching, which made me even more nervous. It didn't take me long to realize that there must be at least as much of the house below ground as there was above it: each time the steps turned a corner there was a wooden door set into the wall, and on the third turning, a small landing with three doors.

    The Spook paused directly in front of the middle door of the three, then turned to me. 'You wait here, lad,' he said. 'Meg's always a bit nervous when she first wakes up. We need to give her time to get used to you.'

    With those words he handed me the candle, turned his key in the lock and went into the darkness, closing the door behind him.

    I was left waiting outside for about ten minutes, and I don't mind telling you it was very creepy on those stairs. For one thing, the further down the steps we'd gone, the colder it had seemed to get. For another, I could hear more disturbing noises coming from below, around the next corner out of sight. They were mostly very faint whisperings, but once I thought I heard a distant groan, as if someone or something was having a very bad time of it.

    Then there were muffled noises from inside the room the Spook had entered. My master seemed to be talking quietly but firmly, and at one point I heard a woman crying. That didn't last long and there were more whisperings, as though neither of them wanted me to hear what they were saying.

    At last the door creaked open. The Spook appeared and someone followed him out onto the landing.

    This is Meg,' said my master, stepping to one side so that I could see her properly. 'You'll like her, lad. She's just about the best cook in the whole County.'

    As Meg looked me up and down, she looked puzzled. I stared back at her in sheer astonishment. You see, she was just about the prettiest woman I'd ever seen, and she was wearing pointy shoes. When I'd first gone to Chipenden, in my very first lesson, the Spook had warned me about the dangers of talking to girls who wore pointy shoes. Whether they realized it or not, he'd told me, some of them would be witches.

    I'd paid no heed to his warning and talked to Alice, who'd got me into all sorts of trouble before eventually helping me to get out of it. But here was my master, ignoring his own advice! Only Meg wasn't a girl; she was a woman, and everything about her face was so perfect that you couldn't help just staring at it: her eyes, her high cheekbones, her complexion.

    It was her hair that gave her away though. It was silver, the colour you'd expect in someone much older. Meg was no taller than me and only came up to the Spook's shoulder. Looking at her more closely, you could tell that she'd been sleeping for months in the cold and damp: there were bits of cobweb in her hair and patches of mould on her faded purple dress.

    There are several different types of witches and I'd filled pages of my notebooks with lessons the Spook had taught me about them. But I'd discovered what I knew about lamia witches by sneaking a look at books in the Spook's library that I wasn't supposed to be studying.

    Lamia witches come from overseas, and in their own lands they feed upon the blood of men. Their natural condition is known as the 'feral', and in that state they aren't like humans at all and have scales covering their bodies and long thick claws on their fingers. But they are slow shape-shifters, and the more contact they have with humans, the more human their appearance gradually becomes. After a while they turn into whaf s known as 'domestic lamias', who look like human females but for a line of green and yellow scales that runs the length of their spine. Some even become benign rather than malevolent. So had Meg become good? Was that another reason why the Spook hadn't dealt with her, putting her in a pit as he had with Bony Lizzie?

    'Well, Meg,' said the Spook, 'this is Tom, my apprentice. He's a good lad so you two should get along just fine.'

    Meg held out her hand towards me. I thought she wanted to shake mine, but just before our fingers touched, she dropped her arm suddenly, as if she'd been burned, and a worried expression came into her eyes.

    'Where's Billy?' she asked, her voice silky smooth but edged with uncertainty. T liked Billy.'

    I knew she was talking about Billy Bradley, the Spook's apprentice before me who'd died.

    'Billy's gone, Meg,' the Spook explained gently. 'I've told you that already. Don't worry about it. Life goes on. You'll have to get used to Tom now' 'But it's
another
name to remember,' Meg complained sadly. 'Is it worth the effort when none of them last very long?'

    Meg didn't start on our supper right away.

    I was sent to get more water from the stream and it took me a dozen trips back and forth before Meg was finally satisfied. Then, using two of the fireplaces, she began to heat the water, but to my disappointment I realized that it wasn't for cooking purposes.

    I helped the Spook to drag a big iron bath into the kitchen and fill it with hot water. It was for Meg.

    'We'll retire to the parlour,' said the Spook, 'so that Meg can have a little privacy. She's been down in that cellar for months and wants to freshen up.'

    I grumbled silently to myself that if my master hadn't locked her down there she could have kept the house clean and tidy for his return each winter. And, of course, that led to another question - why didn't the Spook take Meg with him to his summer house at Chipenden?

    'This is the parlour' said my master, opening the door and inviting me in. 'This is where we do our talking. This is where we meet people who need our help.'

    Having a parlour is an old County tradition. It's the best room, as posh as you can make it, and it's rarely used because it's always kept nice and tidy to receive guests. The Spook didn't have a parlour back in Chipenden because he liked to keep people away from the house. That's why they had to go to the crossroads under the withy trees and ring the bell and wait. It seemed that the rules were going to be different here.

    Back home on the farm we didn't bother with a parlour either, because seven brothers made us a big family, and when we all lived at home, we needed all the rooms just to live in. Anyway, Mam, who wasn't born in the County, thinks that keeping a parlour is a really daft idea.

    'What's the use of a best room that's hardly ever used?' she always says. 'People can take us as they find us.'

    The Spook's parlour wasn't really that posh, but the battered old settee was as comfortable as the two armchairs looked and the room had warmed up nicely, so no sooner had I sat down than I began to feel sleepy. It had been a long day and we'd walked for miles and miles.

    I stifled a yawn but I couldn't fool the Spook. T was going to give you another Latin lesson but you need a bright sharp mind for that' he said. 'Straight after supper you'd better take yourself off to bed, but get up early and revise your verbs.'

    I nodded.

    'Just one more thing' my master said, opening the cupboard next to the fireplace. He pulled out a big brown glass bottle and held it up high so I could see it. 'Know what this is?' he asked, raising his eyebrows.

    I shrugged, then I saw the label on the bottle and read it out to him. 'Herb tea' I said.

    'Never trust the label on a bottle' said the Spook. T want you to pour half an inch of this into a cup first thing each morning, fill it up with very hot water, stir it thoroughly and give it to Meg. Then I want you to wait around until she's finished every last drop. It'll take a while because she likes to sip it. That'll be your most important job of the day. Always tell her it's her usual cup of herb tea to keep her joints supple and her bones strong. That'll keep her happy.'

    'What is it?' I asked.

    The Spook didn't answer for a moment.

    'As you know, Meg's a lamia witch,' he said eventually, 'but the drink makes her forget who she is. If s a dangerous and upsetting thing for anyone to remember who they
really
are, so hope that it never happens to you, lad. It'll be an especially dangerous thing for all of us if Meg remembers who she is and what she can do.'

    Ts that why you keep her in the cellar and away from Chipenden?'

    'Aye, best to be safe. And I can't have folks knowing she's here. No one would understand. There's a few in these parts who remember what she's capable of -even if she can't herself.'

    'But how does she survive without food all summer?'

    'In their feral state lamia witches can sometimes go without food for years, apart from insects, grubs or the odd rat of two. Even when they're domestic like Meg, going hungry for months is no problem. And as well as making her sleep, a large dose of the potion has lots of nutrients, so Meg comes to no real harm.

    'Anyway, lad, I'm sure you're going to like her. She's an excellent cook, as you'll find out soon enough,' said the Spook, 'as well as being a really methodical and tidy person. She always keeps her pots and pans as clean and shiny as new and sets them out in the cupboard exactly as she likes them. Her cutlery is the same. Always tidy in the drawer, knives on the left, forks on the right.'

    I wondered what she'd have thought of the mess we'd found. Maybe that's why the Spook had been so anxious to make sure that everything was made clean and tidy.

    'Well, lad, we've talked enough. Let's go and see how she's doing...'

    After her bath, Meg's face had scrubbed up to a nice healthy pink so that she looked younger and prettier than ever, and even with her silver hair you'd have thought her half the Spook's age. She was now wearing a clean frock, which was brown, the colour of her eyes, and fastened at the back with white buttons. It was hard to be sure, but they looked like they'd been made from bone! I didn't like to think about that. If it
was
bone, where had it come from?

    To my disappointment, she didn't make the supper. How could she when there wasn't any food in the house apart from half a mouldy loaf?

    So we had to make do with the last of the cheese that the Spook had brought with him for the journey. It was good County cheese, a nice crumbly pale yellow, but there wasn't anywhere near enough of it to satisfy three people.

    We sat round the kitchen table nibbling at it slowly to make it last. There wasn't much conversation: all I could think about was breakfast.

    'As soon as it's light, I'll go and get the week's provisions,' I suggested to the Spook. 'Should I go to Adlington or Blackrod?'

    'You just keep away from both villages, lad,' said the Spook. 'Especially Blackrod. Bringing provisions is one job you won't have to do while we're staying here. Stop worrying. What you need is an early night, so get off to bed now. Yours is the room at the front of the house - go and get a good night's sleep. Meg and I have a few things to say to each other.'

    I did as I was told and went straight to bed. My room was a lot bigger than the one I'd been given back in Chipenden, but it still only contained a bed, a chair and a very small chest of drawers. Had it faced the rear, I'd have been able to see nothing but the sheer wall of rock at the back of the house. Luckily it was at the front, and the moment I raised the sash window, I could hear a very faint murmur from the stream below and the whine of the wind gusting past the house. The cloud had cleared and a full moon was shining, casting its silvery light down into the clough to be reflected back by the stream. It was going to be a cold, frosty night.

    I stuck my head out of the window for a better look. The moon was sitting right on top of the cliff directly ahead, looking impossibly large. Against it, in silhouette, I could see someone kneeling on the facing cliff, looking down. In an instant the figure was gone, but not before I'd seen that it was wearing a hood!

    I stared up at the cliff for a few moments but the figure didn't reappear. Cold air was beginning to fill the room so I closed the window. Was it Morgan? And if so, why was he spying on us? Had it been Morgan watching us too when we were getting water from the stream?

    I got undressed and climbed into bed. I was tired but still found it hard to get to sleep. The old house creaked and groaned a lot, and at one point there were patterings near the foot of the bed. It was probably just mice under the floorboards, but being a seventh son of a seventh son, I might well have been hearing something very different.