The Nostrum brothers and the Willing Warlock collected him from there, and wound the rope around his stiff body. Janet did her best to prevent them.
“Oh, please stop! What are you doing?”
“Now, now, Gwendolen,” Henry Nostrum said, rather perplexed. “You know perfectly well. I explained to you most carefully that the garden has to be disenchanted by cutting the throat of an innocent child on that slab of stone there. You agreed it must be so.”
“I didn’t! It wasn’t me!” said Janet.
“Be quiet!” Chrestomanci said from the tree. “Do you want to be put in Cat’s place?”
Janet stared at him, and went on staring as all the implications struck her. While she stared, Cat, stiff as a mummy and wound in rope, was carried by the Willing Warlock and dumped rather painfully down on the block of stone. Cat stared resentfully at the Willing Warlock. He had always seemed so friendly. Apart from that, Cat was not as frightened as he might have been. Of course Gwendolen had known he had lives to spare. But he hoped his throat would heal after they cut it. He was bound to be very uncomfortable until it did. He turned his eyes up to Janet, meaning to give her a reassuring look.
To his astonishment, Janet was snatched away backwards into nothingness. The only thing which remained of her was a yell of surprise. And the same yell rumbled around the meadow. Everyone there was quite as astonished as Cat.
“Oh, good!” Gwendolen said, from the other side of the stone. “I got here in time.”
Everyone stared at her. Gwendolen came from between the pillars, dusting off the dragons’ blood from her fingers with one of Cat’s school essays. Cat could see his signature at the top: Eric Emelius Chant, 26 Coven St., Wolvercote, England, Europe, The World, The Universe—it was his, all right. Gwendolen still had her hair up in that strange headdress, but she had taken off the massive golden robes. She had on what must have amounted to underclothes in her new world. They were more magnificent than any of Chrestomanci’s dressing gowns.
“Gwendolen!” exclaimed Henry Nostrum. He pointed to the space Janet had vanished from. “What—who—?”
“Just a replacement,” Gwendolen explained, in her airiest way. “I saw her and Cat here just now, so I knew—” She noticed Chrestomanci limply tied to the apple tree. “Oh, good! You caught him! Just a moment.” She marched over to Chrestomanci and held up her golden underclothes in order to kick him hard on both shins. “Take that! And that!” Chrestomanci did not try to pretend the kicks did not hurt. He doubled up. The toes of Gwendolen’s shoes were as pointed as nails.
“Now, where was I?” Gwendolen said, turning back to the Nostrum brothers. “Oh, yes. I thought I’d better come back because I wanted to see the fun, and I remembered I’d forgotten to tell you Cat has nine lives. You’ll have to kill him several times, I’m afraid.”
“Nine lives!” shouted Henry Nostrum. “You foolish girl!”
After that, there was such a shouting and outcry from every witch and warlock in the meadow, that no one could have heard anything else. From where Cat lay, he could see William Nostrum leaning towards Gwendolen, red in the face, both eyes whirling, bawling furiously at her, and Gwendolen leaning forward to shout back. As the noise died down a little, he heard William Nostrum booming, “Nine lives! If he has nine lives, you stupid girl, that means he’s an enchanter in his own right!”
“I’m not stupid!” Gwendolen yelled back. “I know that as well as you do! I’ve been using his magic ever since he was a baby. But I couldn’t go on using it if you were going to kill him, could I? That’s why I had to go away. I think it was nice of me to come back and tell you. So there!”
“How can you have used his magic?” demanded Henry Nostrum, even more put out than his brother.
“I just did,” said Gwendolen. “He never minds.”
“I do mind, rather,” Cat said from his uncomfortable slab. “I am here, you know.”
Gwendolen looked down at him as if she was rather surprised that he was. But before she could say anything to Cat, William Nostrum was loudly shushing for silence. He was very agitated. He took a long shiny thing out of his pocket and nervously bent it about.
“Silence!” he said. “We’ve gone too far to draw back now. We’ll just have to discover the boy’s weak point. We certainly can’t kill him unless we find it. He must have one. All enchanters do.” So saying, William Nostrum rounded on Cat and pointed the shiny thing at him. Cat was appalled to see that it was a long silver knife. The knife pointed at his face, even though William Nostrum’s eyes did not. “What is your weak point, boy? Out with it.”
Cat was not saying. It seemed the only chance he had of keeping any of his lives.
“I know,” said Gwendolen. “I did it. I put all his lives into a book of matches. They were easier to use like that. It’s in my room in the Castle. Shall I get it?”
Everyone Cat could see from his uncomfortable position looked relieved to hear this. “That’s all right, then,” said Henry Nostrum. “Can he be killed without burning a match?”
“Oh, yes,” said Gwendolen. “He drowned once.”
“So the question,” said William Nostrum, very much relieved, “is simply how many lives he has left. How many have you, boy?” The knife pointed at Cat again.
Again Cat was not saying.
“He doesn’t know,” Gwendolen said impatiently. “I had to use quite a few. He lost one being born and another being drowned. And I used one to put him in the book of matches. It gave him cramps, for some reason. Then that toad tied up in silver there wouldn’t give me magic lessons and took my witchcraft away, so I had to fetch another of Cat’s lives in the night and make it send me to my nice new world. He was awfully disobliging about it, but he did it. And that was the end of that life. Oh, I nearly forgot! I put his fourth life into that violin he kept playing, to turn it into a cat—Fiddle—remember, Mr. Nostrum?”
Henry Nostrum clutched his two wings of hair. Consternation broke out around the meadow again. “You are a foolish girl! Someone took that cat away. We can’t kill him at all!”
For a moment, Gwendolen looked very dashed. Then an idea struck her. “If I go away again, you can use my replacem—”
The watch-chains around Chrestomanci chinked. “Nostrum, you’re upsetting yourself needlessly. It was I who had the cat-violin removed. The creature’s around in the garden somewhere.”
Henry Nostrum swung around to look at Chrestomanci suspiciously, still hanging on to his two wings of hair as if that kept his mind in place. “I doubt you, sir, very seriously. You are known to be a very wily person.”
“You flatter me,” said Chrestomanci. “Unfortunately I can’t speak anything but the truth tied up in silver like this.”
Henry Nostrum looked at his brother. “That is correct,” William said, dubiously. “Silver constrains him to utter facts. Then I suppose the boy’s missing life must be here somewhere.”
This was enough for Gwendolen, the Willing Warlock, and for most of the witches and necromancers. Gwendolen said, “I’ll go and find it, then,” and minced up the meadow towards the trees as fast as she could in her pointed shoes, with the Willing Warlock bouncing ahead. As they pushed past a witch in a high green hat, the witch said, “That’s right, dear. We must all hunt for the pussy.” She turned to the crowd with a witch’s piercing scream. “Hunt for pussy, everyone!”
And everyone raced off to do it, picking up skirts and holding on Sunday hats. The meadow emptied. The trees around it shook and waved and crashed. But the garden would not let anyone get very far. Brightly colored witches, cloaked wizards, and dark warlocks kept being spilled out of the trees into the meadow again. Cat heard Chrestomanci say, “Your friends seem very ignorant, Nostrum. The way out is widdershins. Perhaps you should tell them so. The cat will certainly be in summer or spring.”
William Nostrum gave him a swirling glare and hurried off shouting, “Widdershins, brot
hers and sisters! Widdershins!”
“Let me tell you, sir,” Henry Nostrum said to Chrestomanci, “you are beginning to annoy me considerably.” He hovered for a second but, as quite a crowd of people, with Gwendolen and the Willing Warlock among them, were whirled out of the trees into the meadow again, and seemed very indignant about it, Henry Nostrum set off trotting towards them, calling, “No, my dear friends! My dear pupil! Widdershins. You have to go widdershins.”
Cat and Chrestomanci were left alone for the time being by the broken arch and the apple tree.
16
“C AT,” SAID CHRESTOMANCI, from almost behind Cat’s head. “Cat!”
Cat did not want to talk. He was lying looking up at the blue sky through the leaves of the apple tree. Every so often it went blurred. Then Cat shut his eyes and tears ran out across both his ears. Now he knew how little Gwendolen cared about him, he was not sure he wanted any lives at all. He listened to the shouting and crashing among the trees and almost wished Fiddle would be caught soon. From time to time, he had an odd feeling that he was Fiddle himself—Fiddle furious and frightened, lashing out and scratching a huge fat witch in a flower hat.
“Cat,” said Chrestomanci. He sounded almost as desperate as Fiddle. “Cat, I know how you’re feeling. We hoped you wouldn’t find out about Gwendolen for years yet. But you are an enchanter. I suspect that you’re a stronger enchanter than I am when you set your mind to it. Could you use some of your magic now, before someone catches poor Fiddle? Please. As a great favor. Just to help me get out of this wretched silver, so that I can summon the rest of my power.”
Cat was being Fiddle again while Chrestomanci talked. He climbed a tree, but the Willing Warlock and the Accredited Witch shook him out of it. He ran and he ran, and then jumped from between the Willing Warlock’s grabbing hands, a huge jump, from somewhere immensely high. It was such a sickening jump that Cat opened his eyes. The apple leaves fluttered against the sky. The apple he could see was nearly ripe.
“What do you want me to do?” he said. “I don’t know how to do anything.”
“I know,” said Chrestomanci. “I felt the same when they told me. Can you move your left hand at all?”
“Backwards and forwards,” Cat said, trying. “I can’t get it out of the rope though.”
“No need,” said Chrestomanci. “You’ve more ability in the little finger of that hand than most people—including Gwendolen—have in their entire lives. And the magic of the garden should help you. Just saw at the rope with your left hand and presume that the rope is made of silver.”
Cat tipped his head back and looked at Chrestomanci unbelievingly. Chrestomanci was untidy and pale and very much in earnest. He must be telling the truth. Cat moved his left hand against the rope. It felt rough and ropish. He told himself it was not rough rope, it was silver. And the rope felt smooth. But sawing was rather a strain. Cat lifted his hand as far as he could get it and brought the edge of it down on the silver rope.
Clink. Jingle. The rope parted.
“Thank you,” said Chrestomanci. “There go two watch-chains. But there seems to be a very firm spell on these handcuffs. Can you try again?”
The rope was a great deal looser. Cat fought his way out of it with a series of clatters and thumps—he was not sure quite what he had turned it into—and knelt up on the stone. Chrestomanci walked weakly towards him, with his hands still hanging limply in the handcuffs. At the same time, the Willing Warlock spilled out of the trees, arguing with the witch in the flower hat.
“I tell you the cat’s dead. It fell a good fifty feet.”
“But I tell you they always fall on their feet.”
“Then why didn’t it get up then?”
Cat realized there was no time to waste trying to imagine things. He put both hands to the handcuffs and wrenched.
“Ow!” said Chrestomanci.
But the handcuffs were off. Cat was suddenly very pleased with his newfound talent. He took the handcuffs in two and told them to be ferocious eagles. “Get after the Nostrums,” he said. The left handcuff took off savagely as ordered, but the right half was still a silver handcuff and it fell on the grass. Cat had to pick it up in his left hand before it would do as it was told.
Cat looked around then to see what Chrestomanci was doing. He was standing under the apple tree, and the talkative little man called Bernard was stumbling down the hillside towards him. Bernard’s Sunday cravat was comfortably undone. He was carrying a pencil and a newspaper folded open at the crossword. “Enchantment, five letters, ending in C,” he was murmuring, before he looked up and saw Chrestomanci green with tree mold. He stared at the two watch-chains, Cat, the rope, and the numbers of people who were hurrying among the trees around the top of the meadow. “Bless my soul!” he said. “I’m sorry—I had no idea I was needed. You need the others too?”
“Rather quickly,” said Chrestomanci.
The witch in the flower hat saw him standing away from the tree and raised her voice in a witch’s scream. “They’re getting away! Stop them!”
Witches, warlocks, necromancers, and wizards poured out into the meadow, with Gwendolen mincing among them, and hurriedly cast spells as they came. Muttering rolled around the garden. The smell of magic grew thick. Chrestomanci held up one hand as if he was asking for silence. The muttering grew instead, and sounded angry. But none of the people muttering came any nearer. The only ones who were still moving were William and Henry Nostrum, who kept spilling out from the trees, running hard and bawling faintly, each with a large flapping eagle after him.
Bernard chewed his pencil and his face looked ribby. “This is awful! There are so many of them!”
“Keep trying. I’m giving you all the help I can spare,” Chrestomanci said, with an anxious look at the muttering crowd.
Bernard’s bushy eyebrows bobbed up. “Ah!”
Miss Bessemer was standing above him on the slope. She had the works of a clock in one hand and a cloth in the other. Perhaps because of the slope, she seemed taller and more purple of dress than usual. She took in the situation at a glance. “You’ll need a full muster to deal with this lot,” she said to Chrestomanci.
A witch in the muttering crowd screamed, “He’s getting help!” Cat thought it was Gwendolen. The smell of magic grew, and the muttering became like a long roll of thunder. The crowd seemed to be edging forward slowly, in a bobbing of fancy hats and a bristle of dark suits. The hand Chrestomanci was holding up to stop them began to shake.
“The garden’s helping them too,” said Bernard. “Put forth your best, Bessie-girl.” He chewed his pencil and frowned intensely. Miss Bessemer wrapped her cloth neatly around her pieces of clock and grew noticeably taller.
And suddenly the rest of the Family began to appear around the apple tree, all in the middle of the peaceful Sunday things they had been doing when they were summoned. One of the younger ladies had a skein of wool between her hands, and one of the younger men was winding it. The next man was holding a billiard cue, and the other young lady had a lump of chalk. The old lady with mittens was crocheting a new pair of mittens. Mr. Saunders appeared with a thump. He had the dragon tucked playfully under one arm, and both of them looked startled to be fetched in the middle of a romp.
The dragon saw Cat. It wriggled out from under Mr. Saunders’ arm, bounded across the grass, and jumped rattling and flaming into Cat’s arms. Cat found himself staggering about under the apple tree with quite a heavy dragon squirming on his chest and enthusiastically licking his face with flame. It would have burned him badly if he had not remembered in time to tell the flames they were cool.
He looked up to see Roger and Julia appear-ing. They both had their arms stretched stiffly above their heads, because they had been playing mirrors again, and they were both very much astonished. “It’s the garden!” said Roger. “And loads of people!”
“You never summoned us before, Daddy,�
� said Julia.
“This is rather special,” said Chrestomanci. He was holding his right hand up with his left one by now, and looking tired out. “I need you to fetch your mother. Quickly.”
“We’re holding them,” Mr. Saunders said. He was trying to sound encouraging, but he was nervous. The muttering crowd was coming nearer.
“No, we aren’t!” snapped the old lady in mittens. “We can’t do anything more without Millie.”
Cat had a feeling that everyone was trying to fetch Millie. He thought he ought to help, since they needed her so much, but he did not know what to do. Besides, the dragon’s flames were so hot that he needed all his energy not to get burned.
Roger and Julia could not fetch Millie. “What’s wrong?” said Julia. “We’ve always been able to before.”
“All these people’s spells are stopping us,” said Roger.
“Try again,” said Chrestomanci. “I can’t. Something’s stopping me too.”
“Are you joining in the magic?” the dragon asked Cat. Cat was finding the heat of it really troublesome by now. His face was red and sore. But, as soon as the dragon spoke, he understood. He was joining in the magic. Only he was joining in on the wrong side, because Gwendolen was using him again. He was so used to her doing it that he barely noticed. But he could feel her doing it now. She was using so much of his power to stop Chrestomanci fetching Millie that Cat was getting burned.
For the first time in his life, Cat was angry about it. “She’s no business to!” he told the dragon. And he took his magic back. It was like a cool draft in his face.
“Cat! Stop that!” Gwendolen screamed from the crowd.
Charmed Life Page 18
