I WAS up an hour before dawn, but Mam was already in the kitchen, cooking my favorite breakfast, bacon and eggs.
Dad came downstairs while I was mopping the plate with my last slice of bread. As we said good-bye, he pulled something from his pocket and placed it in my hands. It was the
small tinderbox that had belonged to his own dad and to his granddad before that. One of his favorite posses-sions.
"I want you to have this, son," he said. "It might come in useful in your new job. And come back and see us soon. Just because you've left home, it doesn't mean that you can't come back and visit."
"It's time to go, son," Mam said, walking across to give me a final hug. "He's at the gate. Don't keep him waiting."
We were a family that didn't like too much fuss, and as we'd already said our good-byes, I walked out into the yard alone.
The Spook was on the other side of the gate, a dark silhouette against the gray dawn light. His hood was up and he was standing straight and tall, his staff in his left hand. I walked toward him, carrying my small bundle of possessions, feeling very nervous.
To my surprise, the Spook opened the gate and came into the yard. "Well, lad," he said, "follow me! We might as well start the way we mean to go on."
Instead of heading for the road, he led the way north, directly toward Hangman's Hill, and soon we were crossing the north pasture, my heart already starting to thump. When we reached the boundary fence, the Spook climbed over with the ease of a man half his age, but I froze. As I rested my hands against the top edge of the fence, I could already hear the sounds of the trees creaking, their branches bent and bowed under the weight of the hanging men.
"What's the matter, lad?" asked the Spook, turning to look back at me. "If you're frightened of something on your own doorstep, you'll be of little use to me."
I took a deep breath and clambered over the fence. We trudged upward, the dawn light darkening as we moved up into the gloom of the trees. The higher we climbed, the colder it seemed to get, and soon I was shivering. It was the kind of cold that gives you goose pimples and makes the hair on the back of your neck start to rise. It was a warning that something wasn't quite right. I'd felt it before when something had come close that didn't belong in this world.
Once we'd reached the summit of the hill, I could see them below me. There had to be a hundred at least, sometimes two or three hanging from the same tree, wearing soldiers' uniforms with broad leather belts and big boots. Their hands were tied behind their backs and all of them behaved differently. Some struggled desperately so that the branch above them bounced and jerked, while others were just spinning slowly on the end of the rope, pointing first one way, then the other.
As I watched, I suddenly felt a strong wind on my face, a wind so cold and fierce that it couldn't have been natural. The trees bowed low, and their leaves shriveled and began to fall. Within moments, all the branches were bare. When the wind had eased, the Spook put his hand on my shoulder and guided me nearer to the hanging men. We stopped just feet away from the nearest.
"Look at him," said the Spook. "What do you see?"
"A dead soldier," I replied, my voice beginning to wobble. "How old does he look?"
"Seventeen at the most."
"Good. Well done, lad. Now, tell me, do you still feel scared?"
"A bit. I don't like being so close to him."
"Why? There's nothing to be afraid of. Nothing that can hurt you. Think about what it must have been like for him. Concentrate on him rather than yourself. How must he have felt? What would be the worst thing?"
