‘I promise not to go near,’ I whispered, feeling uneasy about the whole thing. It seemed a terrible, cruel thing to keep any living creature – even a witch -in the ground, and I couldn’t imagine my mam liking the idea much.
‘That’s a good lad. We don’t want any more accidents like the one this morning. There are worse things than getting your ears boxed. Far worse.’
I believed him, but I didn’t want to hear about it. Still, he had other things to show me so I was spared more of his scary words. He led me out of the wood and strode towards another lawn.
‘This is the southern garden,’ the Spook said. ‘Don’t come here after dark either.’ The sun was quickly hidden by dense branches and the air grew steadily cooler so I knew we were approaching something bad. He halted about ten paces short of a large stone which lay flat on the ground, close to the roots of an oak tree. It covered an area a bit larger than a grave, and judging by the part that was above ground, the stone was very thick too.
‘What do you think’s buried under there?’ the Spook asked.
I tried to appear confident. ‘Another witch?’ ‘No,’ said the Spook. ‘You don’t need as much stone as that for a witch. Iron usually does the trick. But the thing under there could slip through iron bars in the twinkling of an eye. Look closely at the stone. Can you see what’s carved on it?
I nodded. I recognized the letter but I didn’t know what it meant.
‘That’s the Greek letter beta,’ said the Spook. ‘It’s the sign we use for a boggart. The diagonal line means it’s been artificially bound under that stone and the name underneath tells you who did it. Bottom right is the Roman numeral for one. That means it’s a boggart of the first rank and very dangerous. As I mentioned, we use grades from one to ten. Remember that – one day it might save your life. A grade ten is so weak that most folk wouldn’t even notice it was there. A grade one could easily kill you. Cost me a fortune to have that stone brought here but it was worth every penny. That’s a bound boggart now. It’s artificially bound and it’ll stay there until Gabriel blows his horn.
‘There’s a lot you need to learn about boggarts, lad, and I’m going to start your training right after breakfast, but there is one important difference between those that are bound and those that are free. A free boggart can often travel miles from its home and, if it’s so inclined, do endless mischief. If a boggart’s particularly troublesome and won’t listen to reason, then it’s our job to bind it. Do it well and it’s what we call artificially bound. Then it can’t move at all. Of course, it’s far easier said than done.’
The Spook frowned suddenly, as if he’d remembered something unpleasant. ‘One of my apprentices got into serious trouble trying to bind a boggart,’ he said, shaking his head sadly, ‘but as it’s only your first day, we won’t talk about that yet.’
Just then, from the direction of the house, the sound of a bell could be heard in the distance. The Spook smiled. ‘Are we awake or are we dreaming?’ he asked.
‘Awake.’
‘Are you sure?’
I nodded.
‘In that case let’s go and eat,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you the other garden when our bellies are full.’
Chapter Six. A Girl With Pointy Shoes
The kitchen had changed since my last visit. A small fire had been made up in the grate and two plates of bacon and eggs were on the table. There was a freshly baked loaf too and a large pat of butter.
‘Tuck in, lad, before it gets cold,’ invited the Spook.
I set to immediately and it didn’t take us long to finish off both platefuls and eat half the loaf as well. Then the Spook leaned back in his chair, tugged at his beard and asked me an important question.
‘Don’t you think,’ he asked, his eyes staring straight into mine, ‘that was the best plate of bacon and eggs you’ve ever tasted?’
I didn’t agree. The breakfast had been well cooked.
It was good, all right, better than cheese, but I’d tasted better. I’d tasted better every single morning when I’d lived at home. My mam was a far better cook, but somehow I didn’t think that was the answer the Spook was looking for. So I told a little white lie, the kind of untruth that doesn’t really do any harm and tends to make people happier for hearing it.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it was the very best breakfast that I’ve ever tasted. And I’m sorry for coming down too early and I promise that it won’t happen again.’
At that, the Spook grinned so much that I thought his face was going to split in two; then he clapped me on the back and led me out into the garden again.
It was only when we were outside that the grin finally faded. ‘Well done, lad,’ he said. ‘There are two things that respond well to flattery. The first’s a woman and the second’s a boggart. Gets them every time.’
Well, I hadn’t seen any sign of a woman in the kitchen so it confirmed what I’d suspected – that a boggart cooked our meals. It was a surprise, to say the least. Everyone thought that a spook was a boggart-slayer, or that he fixed them so they couldn’t get up to any mischief. Who would have credited that he had one cooking and cleaning for him?
‘This is the western garden,’ the Spook told me, as we walked along the third path, the white pebbles crunching under our feet. ‘It’s a safe place to be whether it’s day or night. I often come here myself when I’ve got a problem that needs thinking through.’
We passed through another gap in the hedge and were soon walking through the trees. I felt the difference right away. The birds were singing and the trees were swaying slightly in the morning breeze. It was a happier place.
We kept walking until we came out of the trees onto a hillside with a view of the fells to our right. The sky was so clear that I could see the dry-stone walls that divided the lower slopes into fields and marked out each farmer’s territory. In fact the view extended right to the summits of the nearest fell.
The Spook gestured towards a wooden bench to our left. ‘Take a pew, lad,’ he invited.
I did as I was told and sat down. For a few moments the Spook stared down at me, his green eyes locked upon mine. Then he began to pace up and down in front of the bench without speaking. He was no longer looking at me, but stared into space with a vacant expression in his eyes. He thrust back his long black cloak and put his hands in his breeches pockets then, very suddenly, he sat down beside me and asked questions.
‘How many different types of boggart do you think there are?’
I hadn’t a clue. ‘I know two types already,’ I said, ‘the free and the bound, but I couldn’t even begin to guess about the others.’
‘That’s good twice over, lad. You’ve remembered what I taught you and you’ve shown yourself to be someone who doesn’t make wild guesses. You see, there are as many different types of boggart as there are types of people and each one has a personality of its own. Having said that, though, there are some types that can be recognized and given a name. Sometimes on account of the shape they take and sometimes because of their behaviour and the tricks they get up to.’
He reached into his right pocket and pulled out a small book bound with black leather. Then he handed it to me. ‘Here, this is yours now,’ he said. ‘Take care of it, and whatever you do, don’t lose it.’