The Seventh Apprentice by Joseph Delaney Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joseph Delaney
least, was changing back to its human condition.
I looked down at my trotters. They seemed real enough, but as I continued to stare at them, they began to shimmer. For a moment I grew dizzy, and the world spun about me. Then, suddenly, it was my hands that I was looking at. I was on all fours, and turning my head, I could see my boots. I was still wearing my sheepskin jacket and cloak, although they were covered in stinking slime and dirt.
I hadn’t changed after all. It truly had been just an illusion—and I had finally managed to overcome it.
I glanced across the pen at Peter. Now he too had reverted to his former human shape, the piece of dirty sacking still clinging to his shoulders.
Finally I looked up at the three dead pigs hanging from the beam by their hind legs.
My heart lurched as I realized that they were no longer pigs. I could see their true shape.
In the middle was a human skeleton. Next to this hung an old man—probably Farmer Sanderson, I guessed. The other man was big, with a huge belly and a leather apron that hung down below his head. His eyes were wide open in death; they stared toward me but saw nothing. It was a pig butcher. It was Peter’s father.
From all three murdered humans, something was missing.
Their thumb bones had been cut away.
I vomited until I feared that my stomach would twist itself into knots. This attracted Peter’s attention; he came over and sniffed at my vomit for a few moments before moving away. At last I stopped retching and my breath returned to normal. Horrified, I stared up at the grisly sight again, realizing that the skeleton must be that of the farmer’s wife.
Peter was now in the far corner of the pen, snuffling away happily in his search for food. He was still under the influence of the witch’s magic and believed he was a pig.
For now, that was a good thing, because he didn’t yet know what had happened to his father.
Now that I could think and act, I needed to try and get out of the pen. I stood up and walked across to the gate, lifted the latch, and swung it open. My legs felt stiff and shaky; I struggled to keep my balance—something that I normally took for granted. No doubt it was a consequence of spending so many days on all fours.
Now I had to get Peter out. We had to escape before the witch returned.
I went back to the center of the pen and called Peter’s name, gently taking hold of his left arm and attempting to lead him toward the gate.
Peter didn’t like it. He looked human to me, but he still squealed like a terrified pig and resisted with formidable strength. He was making a lot of noise and I feared he might attract the attention of the witch, but somehow I managed to drag him through the open gate.
The moment I released him, Peter hurried away at a good speed for someone crawling on his hands and knees. It didn’t worry me too much because he was heading in the right direction: toward the slope we had come down—away from the farm and the pig witch.
I was about to follow him when something in the distance caught my eye. Just beyond the gate that led to the farmyard, something glittered on the dark frozen mud. I ran toward it, hardly daring to hope.
Yes! It was the Spook’s silver chain, and beside it was my bag. My staff was about twenty paces beyond them.
Why hadn’t the witch taken them? I wondered. In the case of the silver chain, that was easy to work out. Even touching it would cause a witch severe pain, burning her skin. The rowan wood of the staff would also have repelled her. Some of the things in my bag had been disturbed, so she’d obviously searched it to see what she could find, but it hadn’t been moved. Among other things, such as my small parcel of crumbly cheese, it contained bags of salt and iron, also harmful to a witch. Perhaps she’d decided to leave it alone, thinking that I’d never be able to use its contents again.
I turned around to see if Peter was still making progress. For some reason he had
I looked down at my trotters. They seemed real enough, but as I continued to stare at them, they began to shimmer. For a moment I grew dizzy, and the world spun about me. Then, suddenly, it was my hands that I was looking at. I was on all fours, and turning my head, I could see my boots. I was still wearing my sheepskin jacket and cloak, although they were covered in stinking slime and dirt.
I hadn’t changed after all. It truly had been just an illusion—and I had finally managed to overcome it.
I glanced across the pen at Peter. Now he too had reverted to his former human shape, the piece of dirty sacking still clinging to his shoulders.
Finally I looked up at the three dead pigs hanging from the beam by their hind legs.
My heart lurched as I realized that they were no longer pigs. I could see their true shape.
In the middle was a human skeleton. Next to this hung an old man—probably Farmer Sanderson, I guessed. The other man was big, with a huge belly and a leather apron that hung down below his head. His eyes were wide open in death; they stared toward me but saw nothing. It was a pig butcher. It was Peter’s father.
From all three murdered humans, something was missing.
Their thumb bones had been cut away.
I vomited until I feared that my stomach would twist itself into knots. This attracted Peter’s attention; he came over and sniffed at my vomit for a few moments before moving away. At last I stopped retching and my breath returned to normal. Horrified, I stared up at the grisly sight again, realizing that the skeleton must be that of the farmer’s wife.
Peter was now in the far corner of the pen, snuffling away happily in his search for food. He was still under the influence of the witch’s magic and believed he was a pig.
For now, that was a good thing, because he didn’t yet know what had happened to his father.
Now that I could think and act, I needed to try and get out of the pen. I stood up and walked across to the gate, lifted the latch, and swung it open. My legs felt stiff and shaky; I struggled to keep my balance—something that I normally took for granted. No doubt it was a consequence of spending so many days on all fours.
Now I had to get Peter out. We had to escape before the witch returned.
I went back to the center of the pen and called Peter’s name, gently taking hold of his left arm and attempting to lead him toward the gate.
Peter didn’t like it. He looked human to me, but he still squealed like a terrified pig and resisted with formidable strength. He was making a lot of noise and I feared he might attract the attention of the witch, but somehow I managed to drag him through the open gate.
The moment I released him, Peter hurried away at a good speed for someone crawling on his hands and knees. It didn’t worry me too much because he was heading in the right direction: toward the slope we had come down—away from the farm and the pig witch.
I was about to follow him when something in the distance caught my eye. Just beyond the gate that led to the farmyard, something glittered on the dark frozen mud. I ran toward it, hardly daring to hope.
Yes! It was the Spook’s silver chain, and beside it was my bag. My staff was about twenty paces beyond them.
Why hadn’t the witch taken them? I wondered. In the case of the silver chain, that was easy to work out. Even touching it would cause a witch severe pain, burning her skin. The rowan wood of the staff would also have repelled her. Some of the things in my bag had been disturbed, so she’d obviously searched it to see what she could find, but it hadn’t been moved. Among other things, such as my small parcel of crumbly cheese, it contained bags of salt and iron, also harmful to a witch. Perhaps she’d decided to leave it alone, thinking that I’d never be able to use its contents again.
I turned around to see if Peter was still making progress. For some reason he had