Fury of the Seventh Son (Book 13) (3 page)

“Are you all right?” I asked. “Do you want to slow down a bit?”

“Nay, lad, this pace is fine. I'm just thinking things through, that's all.”

So it was the thoughts in his head that gave him that grim expression. I wondered what was bothering him.

We continued in silence until we came to a row of three small terraced houses set on the edge of a large grassy meadow, fronted by a low hawthorn hedge. They had been built many years earlier, for farm laborers and their families, but were now in a bad state of repair. The windows of the middle one were boarded up, and the small front gardens of all three were unkempt and overgrown.

Only the nearest house had a number—a crude three, carved high on the top left-hand corner of the front door.

“Well, lad, you go and talk to Mr. Briggs, and I'll go for a little walk. See you in about five minutes!”

To my astonishment, the Spook headed off along the row and disappeared round the corner of the last house. His manner had seemed almost flippant. This wasn't like him at all. I felt disappointed. My master of old would have been eager to sort out the problem. After all, this was spook's business—I thought that was why he'd decided to join me.

I walked up to the front door of the house and rapped on it three times. Within moments I heard footsteps approaching, and the door was eased open. A scowling face peered out at me. Then it opened fully to reveal the old man I'd talked to earlier at the crossroads. He had a bald head, a large red bulbous nose, and a fierce, angry face.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Briggs,” I said.

“Where's Gregory?” he demanded. “When I spoke to you earlier, I told you quite clearly that I wanted your master to deal with the situation, not a stripling still wet behind the ears.”

“He's sent me in his place,” I told him politely. “I've been working alone for weeks now and getting each job completed successfully. I know exactly what I'm doing, and I'm capable of sorting out your problem. But first you need to tell me a little more about it.”

“There's nothing more to tell,” he cried, his face contorting with rage. “The old witch used a spell to stop my chickens laying. When I went to complain, she just laughed in my face, and the day afterward my dog dropped stone dead right in front of me!”

I couldn't just accept what he said without looking into it more closely. I had to be sure that he really
was
a victim of witchcraft. The Spook had taught me that there were four categories of witch: the benign, the malevolent, the falsely accused, and the unaware. The first were usually healers. The second was the largest category—those who used dark magic to increase their power and hurt people. The fourth were extremely rare—those who used magic without knowing that they were doing so. But it was the third category I had to consider here. Anybody could accuse a person of witchcraft. An innocent person couldn't be made to suffer because of someone's mistaken belief. I had to be sure.

“Did this happen recently?”

“Yes, this week.”

“And when did your dog die?”

“Are your ears made out of cloth?
This week
, as I told you!”

“But
which
day?”

“Yesterday evening. I came to see you at first light.”

“Could I see the dog, please?” I asked.

It was a reasonable request, but Mr. Briggs didn't seem to be a reasonable man.

“Don't be daft! I buried it, didn't I?” he exclaimed.

“Even so, we might have to dig it up,” I warned him. “How old was it?”

I'd no intention of digging up a dead dog, but I needed to prod him for information.

“It was witchcraft! Haven't you listened to a word I've said?”

I was being polite, but he wasn't, and I was starting to get annoyed.

“How old was your dog?” I persisted.

“Sixteen years, but it was fit and healthy.”

“That's old for most types of dog. It could have died of natural causes. . . . Where does the woman whom you accuse live?” I took a slow, deep breath to keep myself calm.

“There!” he shouted, jabbing his finger at the only other occupied house. “That's where you'll find her. She calls herself Bertha, but no doubt she goes by another name after dark.”

Then, his face red with anger, he went back inside and slammed the door in my face.

What he'd said was nonsense. Some people believed that the witches in a coven had special secret names for one another, but it was just superstition.

I walked along the front hedge that separated the small front gardens from the track and went down the path of the first house in order to talk to Bertha. I was about to knock on the door when I heard the sound of voices. One of them sounded like my master's.

So I strolled round the side of the house. My first surprise was that there was a large, well-maintained back garden, an area of lawn bordered by flowers, and beyond that an extensive vegetable and herb garden. Two people were sitting on a bench sipping tea from small cups. One was indeed the Spook; the other was a dainty white-haired woman. I liked the look of her immediately. She was old, yet there was something extremely youthful about the joyful expression in her laughing green eyes.

It was good to see the Spook looking so relaxed and at ease. It was a rare sight these days.

“Well, lad, you certainly took your time!” he exclaimed. “Come here and meet Bertha.”

“Hello, boy,” said the old lady. “I've been hearing all about you. Your master tells me you're a good apprentice. But let me judge for myself. Come closer and tell me what you think. Am I a witch or not?”

I approached her as she beamed up at me from the bench. There was no feeling of coldness to warn me that I was dealing with someone or something from the dark. That wasn't always a factor, but I was almost certain that she wasn't a witch.

“Well, lad, speak up!” commanded my master. “Don't be afraid to talk in front of Bertha. Is she or isn't she?”

“Bertha isn't a malevolent witch,” I answered.

“On what do you base that judgment?” he asked.

“I have no feeling of warning coldness, but more than that, I trust my instincts. They tell me that Bertha isn't a servant of the dark. And Mr. Briggs didn't offer any real evidence. Anyone can accuse someone of being a witch for their own reasons. Some witch finders do that, don't they? They burn someone as a witch just so they can confiscate their property.”

“That they do, lad.”

“What am I supposed to have done?” Bertha asked, still smiling.

“Mr. Briggs's hens won't lay, and he says his dog dropped down dead after he complained to you.”

“She was a very old dog and not in good health,” she told me. “And there could be lots of reasons why his hens have stopped laying.”

“Aye, I totally agree,” said the Spook, coming to his feet. “Thanks for the tea, Bertha Briggs. You make the best in the County!”

I glanced at them both in astonishment. She had the same name as her accuser. . . . What was going on? Was my master testing me in some way—trying to see if I could quickly get to the root of a situation that he was already familiar with?

With that, the Spook led me out of the garden and back along the front hedge, toward the house where Mr. Briggs lived. He rapped hard on the front door.

The man opened it and scowled at us aggressively.

“Bertha isn't a witch,” asserted the Spook, “as you well know! This isn't the first time she's been falsely accused by you. So let that be an end to it. Don't waste my time or that of my apprentice again. Do you hear?”

“Scratch
any
woman, and just beneath the skin you'll find a witch!” said Briggs with a sneer.

The Spook shook his head. “Well, you should know, you old fool! After all, you were married to Bertha for thirty-eight years! So she must have used some pretty powerful magic to tolerate being close to a malicious idiot like you for so long!

“Come on, lad!” he said, turning to me. “We have more important things on our minds.”

Soon we were striding back across the fields toward Chipenden, my master setting quite a pace. His joints did indeed seem better today.

“They were married? So what was all that about?” I asked.

“Bertha finally got sick of him, and when her mother died and left her the other cottage, she left him. No doubt she'd prefer to be twenty miles farther away, but it's better than sharing a house. It's the third time he's accused her of witchcraft since they parted, and that was my third visit here. I just thought I'd come along and see how you handled the situation. Not all spook's business involves dealing with the dark.

“But you did well, lad,” he continued. “And there was another reason why I came along. I wanted to stretch my legs, get a bit of pure County air into my lungs and do a bit of clearheaded thinking. I've spent too much time brooding recently, worrying and doing little. Now sit yourself down and listen to what I've got to say,” he said, pointing to a stile we were approaching.

I set down our bags next to the hedge, took a seat, and watched the Spook pacing up and down in front of me, his boots flattening the long grass. It reminded me of our lessons in the pretty western garden behind his house, where there were no bound witches or boggarts. It was a long time since we'd done that, and I missed it. Nowadays he usually taught me in his new library or at the kitchen table.

“We've already agreed that we can't use the ritual—it's barbaric. But we need to ask ourselves some serious questions.” The Spook came to a halt and looked me straight in the eye. “I asked you what your mam looked like when she appeared to you in Malkin Tower. You said she was like a fierce angel, but then she changed into the woman I spoke to at your farm, the woman we accompanied to Greece to fight the Ordeen. I remember her well. She had an honest, open face. I sensed a tremendous strength in her and, above all, goodness. That woman would never ask you to sacrifice Alice—never mind kill her in such a cruel, inhuman way. So my conclusion is this, lad. You've been deceived. That
wasn't
your mam. Someone or something was impersonating her.”

I could understand why the Spook said what he did. But this time his instincts had let him down. I still knew things that he didn't. Now was the time to tell him more.

“Just before she left me, Mam turned back into that cruel angel. She's very old, and only a very small part of her existence has been in human form. She became Mam for two reasons. One was because she loved my dad and wanted to repay him for rescuing her when she was chained to a rock, about to perish in the sun's lethal rays. The other reason was so that she could have me, a seventh son of a seventh son. I would be
her
son as well as my father's, so I would inherit some of her gifts, such as the ability to slow or halt time—the gifts that have helped us come through some dangerous situations and bind the Fiend. She had me so that I would be a weapon to be used against the Fiend. That was why I was born. She would do anything to put an end to him. And if it means killing Alice, then she would do that, too.”

“I'm still not convinced, lad.”

There was nothing for it. I had to tell him the whole truth, something I'd always hoped to avoid.

“Mam was the first lamia,” I told him. “She was the mother of them all.”

CHAPTER IV

T
HE
U
NEXPLAINED

T
HE Spook stared at me for a long time without saying a word. Then he turned, bowed his head, and started to walk slowly away. He'd almost reached the gate at the far end of the field before he stopped and paced back toward me.

“This seems to be a day for truths,” he said quietly. “Let's get ourselves back to the library.”

I stood up, allowing my master to climb over the stile first, then picked up our bags and followed him miserably back to the Chipenden house.

Once there, he led the way up to the library and pointed to my usual chair at the table. I took a seat while he went to get a book from the almost-empty shelves. I knew which book it would be.

The Bestiary.

There was an entry that the Spook had made in this book, which was the only one that had survived the fire. I knew it almost word for word because it was so important and painful to me personally. He set the book down in front of me, open at the page I'd predicted. The heading was
LAMIA WITCHES
.

“Read the full entry—not out loud, because I remember what I wrote. I just want to be sure you know what you're saying about your mam.”

Feeling more and more despondent, I read the account silently.

The first Lamia was a powerful enchantress of great beauty. She loved Zeus, the leader of the Old Gods, who was already married to the goddess Hera. Unwisely, Lamia then bore Zeus children. On discovering this, the jealous Hera slew all but one of these unfortunate infants. Driven insane by grief, Lamia began to kill children wherever she found them, so that streams and rivers ran red with their blood and the air trembled with the cries of distraught parents. At last the gods punished her by shifting her shape so that her lower body became sinuous and scaled like that of a serpent.