Now it was just a question of waiting.

As I said, rippers are some of the most dangerous boggarts of all because they feed on blood. Their minds are usually quick and very crafty, but while they’re feeding they think very slowly and it takes them a long time to work things out.

The amputated leg was still jammed into the crack in the church floor and the boggart was busily slurping blood from it, but sucking very slowly so as to make it last. That’s the way with a ripper. It just slurps and sucks, thinking of nothing else until it slowly realizes that less and less blood is reaching its mouth. It wants more blood, but blood comes in lots of different flavours and it likes the taste of what it’s been sucking. It likes it very much.

So it wants more of the same, and once it works out that the rest of the body has been separated from the leg, it goes after it. That’s why the riggers had to lift the priest up onto the cart. By now the cart would have reached the edge of Horshaw, every clip-clop of the horse’s hooves taking it further from the angry boggart, desperate for more of that same blood.

A ripper’s like a bloodhound. It would have a good idea of the direction in which the priest was being taken. It would also realize that he was getting further and further away. Then it would be aware of something else. That more of what it needed was very close by.

That’s why I’d put the dish into the pit. That was why it was called a ‘bait-dish’. It was the snare to lure the ripper into the trap. Once it was in there, feeding, we had to work fast and we couldn’t afford to make a single mistake.

I looked up. The mate was standing on the platform, one hand on the short chain, ready to start lowering the stone. The rigger was standing opposite me, his hand on the stone, ready to position it as it came down. Neither of them looked in the least bit afraid, not even nervous, and suddenly it felt good to be working with people like that. People who knew what they were doing. We’d all played our part, all done what had to be done as quickly and efficiently as possible. It made me feel good. It made me feel a part of something. Quietly we waited for the boggart.

After a few minutes I heard it coming. At first it sounded just like the wind whistling through the trees.

But there was no wind. The air was perfectly still and, in a narrow band of starlight between the edge of the thundercloud and the horizon, the crescent moon was visible, adding its pale light to that cast by the lanterns.

The rigger and his mate could hear nothing, of course, because they weren’t seventh sons of seventh sons like me. So I had to warn them.

‘It’s on its way,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell you when.’

By now the sound of its approach had become more shrill, almost like a scream, and I could hear something else too: a sort of low, rumbling growl. It was coming across the graveyard fast, heading straight for the dish of blood inside the pit.

Unlike a normal boggart, a ripper is slightly more than a spirit, especially when it’s just been feeding. Even then, most people can’t see it but they can feel it all right, if it ever gets a grip on their flesh.

Even I didn’t see much – just something shapeless and a sort of pinky red. Then I felt a movement of the air close to my face and the ripper went down into the pit.

I said ‘When’ to the rigger who, in turn, nodded to his mate, who tightened his grip upon the short chain. Even before he pulled it there came a sound from the pit. This time it was loud and all three of us heard it. I glanced quickly at my companions and saw their eyes widen and mouths tighten with the fear of what was below us.

The sound we heard was the boggart feeding from the dish. It was like the greedy lapping of some monstrous tongue, combined with the ravenous snuffling and snorting of a big carnivorous animal. We had less than a minute or so before it finished it all. Then it would sense our blood. It was rogue now and we were all on the menu.

The mate began to loosen the chain and the stone came down steadily. I was adjusting one end, the rigger the other. If they’d dug the pit accurately and the stone was exactly the size specified on the sketch, there should be no problem. That’s what I told myself – but I kept thinking of the Spook’s last apprentice, poor Billy Bradley, who’d died trying to bind a boggart like this. The stone had jammed, trapping his fingers under its edge. Before they could lift it free, the boggart had bitten his fingers off and sucked his blood. Later he’d died of shock. I couldn’t get him out of my mind no matter how hard I tried.

The important thing was to get the stone into the pit first time – and, of course, to keep my fingers out of the way.

The rigger was in control, doing the job of the mason. At his signal, the chain halted when the stone was just a fraction of an inch clear. He looked at me then, his face very stern, and raised his right eyebrow. I looked down and moved my end of the stone very slightly so that it seemed to be in perfect position. I checked again just to make sure, then nodded to the rigger, who signalled to his mate.

A few turns of the short chain and the stone eased down into position first time, searing the boggart into the pit. A scream of anger came from the ripper and we all heard it. But it didn’t matter because it was trapped now and there was nothing more to be scared of.

‘Job’s a good ‘un!’ shouted the mate, jumping down from the platform, a grin splitting his face from ear to ear. ‘It’s a perfect fit!’

‘Aye,’ said the rigger, joking drily, ‘It could’ve been made for the job.’

I felt a huge sense of relief, glad that it was all over. Then, as the thunder crashed and the lightning flashed directly overhead to illuminate the stone, I noticed, for the first time, what the mason had carved there and suddenly felt very proud.

The large Greek letter beta, crossed with a diagonal line, was the sign that a boggart had been laid under it. Below it, to the right, the Roman numeral for one meant that it was a dangerous boggart of the first rank. There were ten ranks in all and those from one to four could kill. Then, underneath, was my own name, Ward, which gave me the credit for what had been done.

I’d just bound my first boggart. And it was a ripper at that!

The Spook’s Past Two days later, back at Chipenden, the Spook made me tell him everything that had happened. When I’d finished, he made me repeat it. That done, he scratched at his beard and gave a great big sigh.

‘What did the doctor say about that daft brother of mine?’ the Spook asked. ‘Does he expect him to recover?’

‘He said he seemed to be over the worst but it was too early to tell.’

The Spook nodded thoughtfully. ‘Well, lad, you’ve done well,’ he said. ‘I can’t think of one thing you could have done better. So you can have the rest of the day off. But don’t let it go to your head. Tomorrow it’s

Joseph Delaney business as usual. After all that excitement you need to get back into a steady routine.’

The following day he worked me twice as hard as usual. Lessons began soon after dawn and included what he called ‘practicals’. Even though I’d now bound a boggart for real, that meant practising digging pits.

‘Do I really have to dig another boggart pit?’ I asked wearily.

The Spook gave me a withering look until I dropped my eyes, feeling very uncomfortable.

‘Think you’re above all that now, lad?’ he asked. ‘Well, you’re not, so don’t get complacent! You’ve still a lot to learn. You may have bound your first boggart but you’d good men helping. One day you might have to dig the pit yourself and do it fast in order to save a life.’