“Dunderhead,” Tacroy said while Christopher hastily firmed him up. “I was going to lose this trance any second. You know there’s more than one place in a series. What got into you?”
“I was probably thinking of cricket,” Christopher said.
The place beyond the new valley was nothing like as primitive and Heathen-seeming as the place where the Goddess lived. It was a vast dockside with tremendous cranes towering overhead. Some of the biggest ships Christopher had ever seen, enormous rusty iron ships, very strangely shaped, were tied up to cables so big that he had to step over them as if they were logs. But he knew it was still Series Ten when the man waiting with an iron cart full of little kegs said, “Praise Asheth! I thought you were never coming!”
“Yes, make haste,” Tacroy said. “This place is safer than that Heathen city, but there may be enemies around all the same. Besides, the sooner you finish, the sooner we can get to work on your forward defensive play.”
Christopher hurried to roll the little kegs from the iron cart to the carriage. When all the kegs were in, he hurried to fasten the straps that held the loads on it. And, of course, because he was hurrying, one of the straps slithered out of his hand and fell back on the other side of the carriage. He had to lean right over the load to get it. He could hear iron clanking in the distance and a few shouts, but he thought nothing of it, until Tacroy suddenly sprang into sight beside him.
“Off there! Get off!” Tacroy shouted, tugging uselessly at Christopher with misty hands.
Christopher, still lying across the kegs, looked up to see a giant hook on the end of a chain traveling towards him faster than he could run.
That was really all he knew about it. The next thing he knew—rather dimly—was that he was lying in the path in his own valley beside his pajamas. He realized that the iron hook must have knocked him out and it was lucky that he had been more or less lying across the carriage or Tacroy would never have got him home. A little shakily, he got back into his pajamas. His head ached, so he shambled straight back to bed in the dormitory.
In the morning he did not even have a headache. He forgot about it and went straight out after breakfast to play cricket with Oneir and six other boys.
“Bags I bat first!” he shouted.
Everyone shouted it at the same time. But Oneir had been carrying the bat and he was not going to let go. Everyone, including Christopher, grabbed at him. There was a silly laughing tussle, which ended when Oneir swung the bat around in a playful, threatening circle.
The bat met Christopher’s head with a heavy THUK. It hurt. He remembered hearing several other distinct cracks, just over his left ear, as if the bones of his skull were breaking up like an ice puddle. Then, in a way that was remarkably like the night before, he knew nothing at all for quite a long time.
When he came around, he knew it was much later in the day. Though the sheet had somehow got over his face, he could see late evening light coming in through a window high up in one corner. He was very cold, particularly his feet. Someone had obviously taken his shoes and socks off to put him to bed. But where had they put him? The window was in the wrong place for the dormitory—or for any other room he had slept in for that matter. He pushed the sheet off and sat up.
He was on a marble slab in a cold, dim room. It was no wonder he felt cold. He was only wearing underclothes. All around him were other marble slabs, most of them empty. But some slabs had people lying on them, very still and covered all over with white sheets.
Christopher began to suspect where he might be. Wrapping the sheet around him for what little warmth it gave, he slid down from the marble slab and went over to the nearest white slab with a person on it. Carefully he pulled back the sheet. This person had been an old tramp and he was dead as a doornail—Christopher poked his cold, bristly face to make sure. Then he told himself to keep quite calm, which was a sensible thing to tell himself, but much too late. He was already in the biggest panic of his life.
There was a big metal door down at the other end of the cold room. Christopher seized its handle and tugged. When the door turned out to be locked, he kicked it and beat at it with both hands and rattled the handle. He was still telling himself to be sensible, but he was shaking all over, and the panic was rapidly getting out of control.
After a minute or so, the door was wrenched open by a fat, jolly-looking man in a white over-all, who stared into the room irritably. He did not see Christopher at first. He was looking over Christopher’s head, expecting someone taller.
Christopher wrapped the sheet around himself accusingly. “What do you mean by locking this door?” he demanded. “Everybody’s dead in here. They’re not going to run away.”
The man’s eyes turned down to Christopher. He gave a slight moan. His eyes rolled up to the ceiling. His plump body slid down the door and he landed at Christopher’s feet in a dead faint.
Christopher though he was dead too. It put the last touch to his panic. He jumped over the man’s body and rushed down the corridor beyond, where he found himself in a hospital. There a nurse tried to stop him, but Christopher was beyond reason by then. “Where’s school?” he shrieked at her. “I’m missing cricket practice!” For half an hour after that the hospital was in total confusion, while everyone tried to catch a five-foot corpse clothed mostly in a flying sheet, which raced up and down the corridors shrieking that it was missing cricket practice.
They caught him at last outside the Maternity Ward, where a doctor hastily gave him something to make him sleep. “Calm down, son,” he said. “It’s a shock to us too, you know. When I last saw you, your head was like a run-over pumpkin.”
“I’m missing cricket practice, I tell you!” Christopher said.
He woke up next day in a hospital bed. Mama and Papa were both there, facing one another across it, dark clothes and whiskers on one side, scents and pretty colors on the other. As if to make it clear to Christopher that this was a bad crisis, the two of them were actually speaking to one another.
“Nonsense, Cosimo,” Mama was saying. “The doctors just made a mistake. It was only a bad concussion after all and we’ve both had a fright for nothing.”
“The school Matron said he was dead too,” Papa said somberly.
“And she’s a flighty sort of type,” Mama said. “I don’t believe a word of it.”
“Well I do,” said Papa. “He has more than one life, Miranda. It explains things about his horoscope that have always puzzled—”
“Oh fudge to your wretched horoscopes!” Mama cried. “Be quiet!”
“I shall not be quiet where I know the truth!” Papa more or less shouted. “I have done what needs to be done and sent a telegram to de Witt about him.”
This obviously horrified Mama. “What a wicked thing to do!” she raged. “And without consulting me! I tell you I shall not lose Christopher to your gloomy connivings, Cosimo!”
At this point both Mama and Papa became so angry that Christopher closed his eyes. Since the stuff the doctor had given him was still making him feel sleepy, he dropped off almost at once, but he could still hear the quarrel, even asleep. In the end he climbed out of bed, slipping past Mama and Papa without either of them noticing, and went to The Place Between. He found a new valley there, leading to somewhere where there was some kind of circus going on. Nobody in that world spoke English, but Christopher got by quite well, as he had often done before, by pretending to be deaf and dumb.
When he came slipping back, the room was full of soberly dressed people who were obviously just leaving. Christopher slipped past a stout, solemn young man in a tight collar, and a lady in a gray dress who was carrying a black leather instrument case. Neither of them knew he was there. By the look of things, the part of him left lying in the bed had just been examined by a specialist. As Christopher slipped around Mama and got back into bed, he realized that the specialist was just outside the door, with Papa and another man in a beard.
“I agree that you were right in the circu
mstance to call me in,” Christopher heard an old, dry voice saying, “but there is only one life present, Mr. Chant. I admit freakish things can happen, of course, but we have the report of the school magic teacher to back up our findings in this case. I am afraid I am not convinced at all . . .” The old dry voice went away up the corridor, still talking, and the other people followed, all except Mama.
“What a relief!” Mama said. “Christopher, are you awake? I thought for a moment that that dreadful old man was going to get hold of you, and I would never have forgiven your papa! Never! I don’t want you to grow up into a boring law-abiding policeman sort of person, Christopher. Mama wants to be proud of you.”
9
CHRISTOPHER WENT BACK to school the next day. He was rather afraid that Mama was going to be disappointed in him when he turned out to be a professional cricketer, but that did not alter his ambition in the least.
Everyone at school treated him as if he were a miracle. Oneir apologized, almost in tears. That was the only thing which made Christopher uncomfortable. Otherwise he basked in the attention he got. He insisted on playing cricket just as before, and he could hardly wait for next Thursday to come so that he could tell Tacroy all his adventures.
On Wednesday morning the Headmaster sent for Christopher. To his surprise, Papa was there with the Head, both of them standing uneasily beside the Head’s mahogany desk.
“Well, Chant,” the Head said, “we shall be sorry to lose our nine-days’ wonder so quickly. Your father has come to fetch you away. It seems you are to go to a private tutor instead.”
“What? Leave school, sir?” Christopher said. “But it’s cricket practice this afternoon, sir!”
“I have suggested to your father that you might remain at least until the end of term,” the Head said, “but it seems that the great Dr. Pawson will not agree to it.”
Papa cleared his throat. “These Cambridge Dons,” he said. “We both know what they are, Headmaster.” He and the Head smiled at one another, rather falsely.
“Matron is packing you a bag now,” said the Head. “In due course, your box and your school report will be sent after you. Now we must say good-bye, as I gather your train leaves in half an hour.” He shook hands with Christopher, a brisk, hard, Headmasterly shake, and Christopher was whisked away, there and then, in a cab with Papa, without even a chance to say good-bye to Oneir and Fenning. He sat in the train seething about it, staring resentfully at Papa’s whiskered profile.
“I was hoping to get into the school cricket team,” he said pointedly, when Papa did not seem to be going to explain.
“Shame about that,” Papa said, “but there will be other cricket teams no doubt. Your future is more important than cricket, my son.”
“My future is cricket,” Christopher said boldly. It was the first time he had come right out with his ambition to an adult. He went hot and cold at his daring in speaking like this to Papa. But he was glad, too, because this was an important step on the road to his career.
Papa gave a melancholy smile. “There was a time when I myself wanted to be an engine driver,” he said. “These whims pass. It was more important to get you to Dr. Pawson before the end of term. Your mama was planning to take you abroad with her then.”
Christopher’s teeth clenched so tightly with anger that his tooth-brace cut his lip. Cricket a whim indeed! “Why is it so important?”
“Dr. Pawson is the most eminent Diviner in the country,” said Papa. “I had to pull a few strings to get him to take you on at such short notice, but when I put the case to him, he himself said that it was urgent not to give de Witt time to forget about you. De Witt will revise his opinion of you when he finds you have a gift for magic after all.”
“But I can’t do magic,” Christopher pointed out.
“And there must be some reason why not,” said Papa. “On the face of it, your gifts should be enormous, since I am an enchanter, and so are both my brothers, while your mama—this I will grant her—is a highly gifted sorceress. And her brother, that wretched Argent fellow, is an enchanter, too.”
Christopher watched houses rushing past behind Papa’s profile as the train steamed into the outskirts of London, while he tried to digest this. No one had told him about his heredity before. Still, he supposed there were duds born into the most wizardly families. He thought he must be a dud. So Papa was truly an enchanter? Christopher resentfully searched Papa for the signs of power and riches that went with an enchanter, and the signs did not seem to be there. Papa struck him as threadbare and mournful. The cuffs of his frock coat were worn and his hat looked dull and unprosperous. Even the black whiskers were thinner than Christopher remembered, with streaks of gray in them.
But the fact was, enchanter or not, Papa had snatched him out of school in the height of the cricket season, and from the way the Head had talked, he was not expected to go back. Why not? Why had Papa taken it into his head to do this to him?
Christopher brooded about this while the train drew into the Great Southern terminus and Papa towed him through the bustle to a cab. Galloping and rattling towards St. Pancras Cross, he realized that it was going to be difficult even to see Tacroy and get some cricket coaching that way. Papa had told him to have nothing to do with Uncle Ralph, and Papa was an enchanter.
In the small sooty carriage of the train to Cambridge, Christopher asked resentfully, “Papa, what made you decide to take me to Dr. Pawson?”
“I thought I had explained,” Papa said. That, for a while, seemed all he was going to say. Then he turned towards Christopher, sighing rather, and Christopher saw that he had just been gathering himself for a serious talk. “Last Friday,” he said, “you were certified dead, my son, by two doctors and a number of other people. Yet when I arrived to identify your body on Saturday, you were alive and recovering and showing no signs of injury. This made me certain that you had more than one life—the more so as I suspect that this has happened once before. Tell me, Christopher, that time last year when they told me a curtain pole had fallen on you—you were mortally injured then, weren’t you? You may confess to me. I shan’t be angry.”
“Yes,” Christopher said reluctantly. “I suppose I was.”
“I thought so!” Papa said with dismal satisfaction. “Now, my son, those people who are lucky enough to have several lives are always, invariably, highly gifted enchanters. It was clear to me last Saturday that you are one. This was why I sent for Gabriel de Witt. Now Monsignor de Witt”—here Papa lowered his voice and looked nervously around the sooty carriage as if he thought Monsignor de Witt could hear—“is the strongest enchanter in the world. He has nine lives. Nine, Christopher. This makes him strong enough to control the practice of magic throughout this world and several others. The Government has given him that task. For this reason you will hear some people call him the Chrestomanci. The post bears that title.”
“But,” said Christopher, “what has all this and the krest-oh-man-see got to do with pulling me out of school?”
“Because I wish de Witt to take an interest in your case,” said Papa. “I am a poor man now. I can do nothing for you. I have made considerable sacrifices to afford Dr. Pawson’s fee, because I think de Witt was wrong when he said you were a normal boy with only one life. My hope is that Dr. Pawson can prove he was wrong and that de Witt can then be persuaded to take you onto his staff. If he does, your future is assured.”
Take me onto his staff, Christopher thought. Like Oneir in his father’s business having to start as an office boy. “I don’t think,” he said, “that I want my future assured like that.”
His father looked at him sorrowfully. “There speaks your mama in you,” he said. “Proper tuition should cure that sort of levity.”
This did nothing to reconcile Christopher to Papa’s plans. But I said that for myself! he thought angrily. It had nothing to do with Mama! He was still in a state of seething resentment when the train steamed into Cambridge, and he walked with Papa through streets full of you
ng men in gowns like the coats people wore in Series Seven, past tall turreted buildings that reminded him of the Temple of Asheth, except that the Cambridge buildings had more windows. Papa had rented rooms in a lodg-ing house, a dark, mingy place that smelled of old dinners.
“We shall be staying here together while Dr. Pawson sorts you out,” he told Christopher. “I have brought ample work with me, so that I can keep a personal eye on your well-being.”
This about put the lid on Christopher’s angry misery. He wondered if he dared go to The Place Between to meet Tacroy on Thursday with a full-grown enchanter keeping a careful eye on him. To crown it all, the lodging house bed was even worse than the beds at school and twanged every time he moved. He went to sleep thinking he was about as miserable as he could be. But that was before he saw Dr. Pawson and realized his miseries had only just begun.
Papa delivered him to Dr. Pawson’s house in the Trumpington Road at ten the next morning. “Dr. Pawson’s learning gives him a disconcerting manner at times,” Papa said, “but I know I can trust my son to bear himself with proper politeness notwithstanding.”
This sounded ominous. Christopher’s knees wobbled while the housemaid showed him into Dr. Pawson’s room. It was a bright, bright room stuffed full of clutter. A harsh voice shouted out of the clutter.
“Stop!”
Christopher stood where he was, bewildered.
“Not a step further. And keep your knees still, boy! Lord, how the young do fidget!” the harsh voice bellowed. “How am I to assess you if you won’t stay still? Now, what do you say?”
The largest thing among the clutter was a fat armchair. Dr. Pawson was sitting in it, not moving a muscle except for a quiver from his vast purple jowls. He was probably too fat to move. He was vastly, hugely, grossly fat. His belly was like a small mountain with a checked waistcoat stretched over it. His hands reminded Christopher of some purple bananas he had seen in Series Five. His face was stretched, and purple too, and out of it glared two merciless, watery eyes.
The Lives of Christopher Chant Page 9
