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barn, and no pigpens. Instead I saw ahead of me a large white building that reminded me of a cathedral. White marble steps led up to the entrance, and it was fronted by eight more tall white pillars that supported the roof.
    How could this be happening? I wondered. Had I been transported to a different location by some powerful dark magic? And where was Peter? Had he already been seized by the pig witch?
    I turned slowly through a full circle, checking around for danger. The grassy slope was bare of trees or scrub. The only place anything could be lying in wait was behind that marble building—or inside.
    So, holding my staff and bag tightly, I approached the row of marble pillars. The entrance had no doors and the interior looked dark. . . .

CHAPTER V
T HE L AIR OF THE W ITCH
    W HEN I reached the pillars, I halted, allowing my eyes to adjust to the gloom within.
    As I waited there, another thought drifted into my mind: What if I hadn’t been transported to some other, magical realm?
    I remembered the book I’d been reading in the Spook’s library before the bell summoned me to the withy trees. It was about spells such as dread and glamour; spells of illusion. What if all this was some kind of magical illusion? That would mean I was really still standing in the valley close to Sanderson’s pigpens.
    I tested my suspicion. First I peered very closely at the nearest of the pillars. It stood up to close scrutiny and certainly appeared to be real. Next I gave it a resounding blow with the base of my staff.
    Thwack!
    The impact jarred my arm and traveled up to my shoulder. It certainly felt solid enough. I touched the marble with my fingertips. It was cool and smooth. How could this be an illusion?
    I thought of my father: always the schoolmaster, he had taught me what he called “logical thought.” He claimed that one needed to explore a question in detail before reaching a conclusion.
    We had once discussed what he termed “seeming reality.” He had explained that our understanding of the world was based upon what our senses taught us. Our eyes showed us what seemed to be there; our sense of touch confirmed it in another way. If I wished, I could touch that pillar with the tip of my tongue; I could taste it. In this case, its flavor wouldn’t matter. But if I was testing cheese, the taste might prove it was cheese rather than chalk. What was important was that all the senses combined to confirm what was real.
    I applied that to my present situation. But what if all my senses were in the grip of a spell of illusion? That was surely possible. So how could I ever know the truth? I wondered.
    Still, I remembered that I was a seventh son of a seventh son and had some resistance to the magic of a witch. If I was observant and concentrated, I might eventually be able to see through a chink in the magic to the truth of things.
    Carrying my bag and staff, I advanced slowly, walking past the pillars into the deeper gloom. It was much cooler here. Before me stood more statues mounted on pillars. I halted before one to study it more closely.
    It was the image of a man dressed in a cloak. He was gazing into the distance, one hand raised to shield his eyes from the sun, the other holding a staff. At first I thought it was supposed to be a spook, but then I noted that the end of his staff was curved; it was quite different from mine. It was a shepherd’s crook, the special stick that could be used to recover fallen sheep by hooking it round the neck or a leg.
    I moved on into the darkness and grew ever more nervous. Was I being watched from the shadows? What if some of the statues were really servants of the witch, waiting to pounce if I got too close? I made my way slowly between the plinths, keeping as far away from them as possible. Every so often I paused and listened for danger. The last thing I wanted was to be attacked by that big, hairy boar with its deadly tusks.
    Then I saw that there was light in the distance. Had I