CHAPTER I
T HE L AZIEST A PPRENTICE
I ’M Will Johnson, apprentice to John Gregory, the Chipenden Spook.
It’s a very dangerous job. Two of my predecessors were slain by boggarts—troublesome entities that are mostly invisible but sometimes take on the shape of animals such as cats, rats, horses, and dogs. Often they do little damage and simply scare people. Then it’s a spook’s job either to move them away or bind them in pits so that folk can get on with their lives.
However, some boggarts are lethal. For example, there’s an extremely dangerous type known as a ripper. They usually start by killing cattle but eventually prey upon people, ripping out their throats and draining their blood. My master’s first apprentice, Benjamin Roberts, was struck dead by a stone chucker, a violent sort of boggart with six arms that throws missiles—sometimes even large boulders. It split Benjamin’s skull wide open and dashed out his brains on the grass.
Mr. Gregory’s second apprentice, Paul Preston, was attacked by a deadly goat boggart as he walked across a muddy field near Wheeton. The creature’s horns pierced him under the ribs and speared his heart. He died instantly.
My master’s next three apprentices ran away because they found the job too difficult and scary. Mr. Gregory is still annoyed that he wasted all that time training them.
His sixth apprentice, Brian Houghton, completed his five-year apprenticeship successfully and is now practicing his trade somewhere south of the County. So far he has been the Spook’s only success. This is hardly surprising: Ours is a dangerous and terrifying occupation. We fight the dark, dealing with ghosts, ghasts, boggarts, and witches.
I’m the Spook’s seventh apprentice, and now it’s my turn to be trained. Recently I’ve been thinking of running away myself—before my master kicks me out. The truth is, my apprenticeship hasn’t been going too well, and recently things got a lot worse. . . .
One cold December afternoon, just a couple of weeks before Christmas, we were in the garden. I was shivering despite my exertions—I’d been using the Spook’s silver chain, casting it at the practice post. It’s a way of dealing with witches. If you do it right, the chain forms a spiral in the air and falls over the witch, pinning her arms to her sides. Then you can drag her away and put her in a pit.
So far I hadn’t accompanied the Spook when he’d been summoned to deal with witches, and I certainly wasn’t looking forward to meeting one. They kill people—sometimes even young children—and drink their blood or cut away their bones, which is why many end up in a pit dug by my master or his apprentice.
My practice session hadn’t gone too well. In theory, this should have been easy. A wooden post kept still; a witch wouldn’t. However, I’d managed only about twenty successful throws out of more than fifty attempts. My final throw of the session was the worst of all: I somehow managed to wrap the chain around my head and shoulders. I slipped and fell heavily to my knees. Struggling to my feet, I readied myself for a lashing from the Spook’s tongue.
Sure enough, it came immediately: “That’s not good enough, lad!” he snapped angrily, the look in his green eyes making me cringe. He was tall—I hardly reached his shoulder—and his black beard had only a few flecks of gray. His fierce face looked like it was chiseled from stone. He was not someone to be trifled with.
“Have you been keeping up with that extra practice I set you?” he demanded.
I couldn’t meet his gaze, hanging my head instead. I was supposed to work with the chain for an hour each day. I been going to the practice post, but I hadn’t actually cast the chain much. It seemed like a waste of time—I never got any better at it—so I’d mostly spent my time leaning on the post and staring into space, daydreaming.
The Spook shook his head angrily. “Give me your notebook, lad!” he
T HE L AZIEST A PPRENTICE
I ’M Will Johnson, apprentice to John Gregory, the Chipenden Spook.
It’s a very dangerous job. Two of my predecessors were slain by boggarts—troublesome entities that are mostly invisible but sometimes take on the shape of animals such as cats, rats, horses, and dogs. Often they do little damage and simply scare people. Then it’s a spook’s job either to move them away or bind them in pits so that folk can get on with their lives.
However, some boggarts are lethal. For example, there’s an extremely dangerous type known as a ripper. They usually start by killing cattle but eventually prey upon people, ripping out their throats and draining their blood. My master’s first apprentice, Benjamin Roberts, was struck dead by a stone chucker, a violent sort of boggart with six arms that throws missiles—sometimes even large boulders. It split Benjamin’s skull wide open and dashed out his brains on the grass.
Mr. Gregory’s second apprentice, Paul Preston, was attacked by a deadly goat boggart as he walked across a muddy field near Wheeton. The creature’s horns pierced him under the ribs and speared his heart. He died instantly.
My master’s next three apprentices ran away because they found the job too difficult and scary. Mr. Gregory is still annoyed that he wasted all that time training them.
His sixth apprentice, Brian Houghton, completed his five-year apprenticeship successfully and is now practicing his trade somewhere south of the County. So far he has been the Spook’s only success. This is hardly surprising: Ours is a dangerous and terrifying occupation. We fight the dark, dealing with ghosts, ghasts, boggarts, and witches.
I’m the Spook’s seventh apprentice, and now it’s my turn to be trained. Recently I’ve been thinking of running away myself—before my master kicks me out. The truth is, my apprenticeship hasn’t been going too well, and recently things got a lot worse. . . .
One cold December afternoon, just a couple of weeks before Christmas, we were in the garden. I was shivering despite my exertions—I’d been using the Spook’s silver chain, casting it at the practice post. It’s a way of dealing with witches. If you do it right, the chain forms a spiral in the air and falls over the witch, pinning her arms to her sides. Then you can drag her away and put her in a pit.
So far I hadn’t accompanied the Spook when he’d been summoned to deal with witches, and I certainly wasn’t looking forward to meeting one. They kill people—sometimes even young children—and drink their blood or cut away their bones, which is why many end up in a pit dug by my master or his apprentice.
My practice session hadn’t gone too well. In theory, this should have been easy. A wooden post kept still; a witch wouldn’t. However, I’d managed only about twenty successful throws out of more than fifty attempts. My final throw of the session was the worst of all: I somehow managed to wrap the chain around my head and shoulders. I slipped and fell heavily to my knees. Struggling to my feet, I readied myself for a lashing from the Spook’s tongue.
Sure enough, it came immediately: “That’s not good enough, lad!” he snapped angrily, the look in his green eyes making me cringe. He was tall—I hardly reached his shoulder—and his black beard had only a few flecks of gray. His fierce face looked like it was chiseled from stone. He was not someone to be trifled with.
“Have you been keeping up with that extra practice I set you?” he demanded.
I couldn’t meet his gaze, hanging my head instead. I was supposed to work with the chain for an hour each day. I been going to the practice post, but I hadn’t actually cast the chain much. It seemed like a waste of time—I never got any better at it—so I’d mostly spent my time leaning on the post and staring into space, daydreaming.
The Spook shook his head angrily. “Give me your notebook, lad!” he
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