Something struck me like lightning. I could go and tell Arkwright, the spook, and lead him to the children. I could take him through the magical cloak, straight to the house.
But that would be very risky. He might assume that I was a witch, and either put me in a pit or kill me on sight! Still, it was a chance. I might be able to persuade him of the danger that faced the children; and I was the only one who could lead him through the magic cloak to save them . . .
Once there, I could slip away while he sorted out the witches and that pig, Salty Betsy. No doubt Lizzie would get away; she was crafty and had more lives than a cat.
Yes, that’s what I would do, I thought. So I pressed on faster towards the canal. Once I reached it, the mill lay only a little way further north.
I couldn’t have been more than five minutes from the canal when it began to rain really hard – the kind of downpour that could soak you to the skin in minutes. Next, forked lightning suddenly split the sky, to be followed moments later by a loud thunderclap almost directly overhead. It reminded me of that bad storm the night Lizzie had snatched me from Agnes’s house.
I’ve always been afraid of being struck by lightning. It scares me almost as much as spiders and flies. The Malkin coven was once caught in a bad storm on Pendle Hill. One of ’em was struck dead on the spot. And when they carried her corpse back to the village, it was all blackened and burned. It happened before I was born, but they say the stink of her charred body hung in the air for weeks afterwards.
Where could I shelter? There were a few isolated trees, but it was dangerous to take refuge beneath them, and the nearby hedgerow wouldn’t keep me dry for long, or safe from the lightning.
It was almost dark, and in the distance I now saw a faint light – it seemed to come from south of the canal. That probably meant a farm. Perhaps I could shelter in one of the out-buildings. No doubt there’d be dogs – they’d get my scent and bark fit to wake the dead – but the farmer wasn’t likely to venture out in such filthy weather after dark.
So I began to walk faster, cutting across two big fields and climbing over a gate, all the while making directly for that light.
Because of the cloud cover, there was neither moon nor stars to light my way, and the rain was driving horizontally into my face now, making it hard to see much. So it wasn’t until I got much closer to the light that I realized my mistake.
Its source wasn’t a farmhouse window, or a lantern hanging from a barn door.
It was a barge moored on the canal.
I halted on the towpath and stared at it. It was big, black and shiny, a far cry from the working craft that usually plied the canal, carrying food, coal and other materials between Caster and Kendal. It had a flat deck and one closed hatch.
Then I looked at the source of the light that had drawn me across the fields like a foolish moth to the flame that would consume it. On the prow stood thirteen large black candles: they burned steadily without even the slightest flicker, despite the gusts of wind that snatched the breath from my open mouth. It was still raining hard, churning up the surface of the canal, but not one drop reached the deck of that mysterious barge.
The candles bothered me. Black ones were used by witches – they made me think of the dark. But the barge was very grand and beautiful, which made me put aside most of my fears.
I was rooted to the spot, unable to tear my gaze from the candles and run away. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a movement. I finally turned and saw that the hatch was slowly sliding open.
I gasped in astonishment at what was revealed. There were steps leading downwards – too many steps. Canals were not deep, so barges were flat-bottomed. These steps went down too far. It was impossible, yet I could see them there in front of me.
Anyone with a shred of common sense would have turned and fled. But I wasn’t thinking straight. I felt compelled to step onto the deck of that black barge and go down into that deep hold. And that’s what I did, as if walking in a dream.
A dream? Looking back, it was a nightmare!
Apart from dozens of candles positioned in clusters, there was just one object in that big hold: a large throne of dark, shiny wood. It was covered in carvings of evil-looking creatures – dragons, snakes, and all sorts of monstrosities. But the throne was unoccupied; there was no one else in the hold – at least, nobody I could see. The hairs on the back of my neck began to stand up, and I felt as if someone was watching me. Nevertheless, I walked forward and stood facing the empty throne.
Who would sit on a throne like that, anyway?
I hadn’t spoken those words aloud, but immediately I got an answer to my question.
‘A good friend of yours would sit on that throne if he could, Alice. I am that friend. One day, with your help, that may be possible.’
I was confused. I didn’t have any good friends. The words had come from some distance behind the throne. It was a young voice; that of a boy.
‘How do you know my name?’ I asked.
‘I know your name as well as your predicament, Alice. I know that you serve Elizabeth of the Bones unwillingly, and you fear what she might soon do to a number of poor innocent children.’
I had never heard her referred to by that name, but I knew he meant Bony Lizzie.
‘Who are you? And how do you know so much about me?’ I asked nervously. I noticed that whereas the candle flames on the deck had burned steadily despite the storm, here in the perfect calm of the hold they flickered wildly, as if in response to some ghostly wind.
‘I am an unseen prince of this world and it is my duty to know all about my subjects. I can help you, Alice. All you need to do is ask.’
‘Where are you now? Could I see you?’
‘I am far away, but you may see my image for a moment. Look just directly above the throne. But don’t blink – it cannot stay here long!’
As bidden, I looked at a point just above that shiny ebony throne. For a moment nothing happened, but then there was a shimmer, and a face, without a body, appeared before me.
It was the face of a boy of about thirteen or fourteen – barely older than me. He wore a broad smile, and his hair was a mass of golden curls which gleamed in the candlelight. He was good to look at: it was clear that he would grow up to become a very handsome young man. Not only that: kindness and friendship beamed out at me. I felt as if he really cared what happened to me; as if he would do anything he could to help me. No one had ever cared much for me – apart from Agnes maybe. My mam and dad had been cruel to me and I hadn’t seen much of Agnes anyway. So it warmed my heart to see someone looking at me like that. I felt that my life might begin properly if he was my friend.