“Oh, it’s you!” she and Boy both said.
“Aha!” said Old Man. “Hee-hee! So you and she know each other, do you? How you did it, boy, I won’t inquire, but it makes things much easier for me.” He began on his chanting.
“Give the golden ball to Princess,” Good Thing said to me. “Hurry. Make Boy tell her to swallow it.”
I ran across to Princess and spit the golden ball into her star. She pulled her skirt back from it.
“Brindle wants you to swallow it,” Boy said. “I think it’s important.”
People are peculiar. Princess must have known it was very important, but she said faintly, “I can’t! Not something that’s been in a cat’s mouth!”
Old Man saw the golden ball. He glared, still chanting, and raised his stick. The ball floated up and came toward him. Princess gave a last despairing snatch and caught it, just in time. She put it in her mouth.
“Ah! Back again!” said Good Thing.
Princess swallowed. She changed. She had been nice before but sort of stupid. Now she was nice and as clever as Boy. “You toad!” she said to Old Man. “That was part of my soul! You took it, didn’t you?”
Old Man raised his stick again. Princess held up both hands. Magic raged, strong enough to make my fur stand up, and Old Man did not seem to be able to do much at first. It was interesting. Princess had magic, too, only I think it had all gone into Good Thing. But not quite enough. She started to lose. “Help me!” she said to Boy.
Boy started to say a spell, but at that moment the door of the cellar burst open, and half the wall fell in with it. The Man rushed in with a crowd of others.
“Father!” said Princess. “Thank goodness!”
“Are you all right?” said the Man. “We traced you through those kittens. What are you trying to do here, Old Man? The life transfer, is it? Well, that’s enough of that!” The Man made signs that stood my coat up on end again.
Old Man screamed. I could tell he was dying. The spell had somehow turned back on him. He was withering and shrinking and getting older and older. Boy jumped out of his star and ran to Princess. They both looked very happy. Old Man snarled at them, but he could do nothing but round on me. Everyone does that. They all kick the cat when they can’t kick a person. “So you had kittens!” he screamed. “This is all your fault, cat! For that, you shall have kittens to drown for the next thousand years!”
“I soften that curse!” the Man shouted.
Then everything went away, and I was not in the town I knew anymore. I have been wandering about, all these years, ever since. Old Man’s curse means that I am good at having kittens. It is not a bad curse because the Man has softened it. Old Man meant my kittens to be drowned every time. But instead, if I can find an understanding person—like you—who will listen to my story, then my kittens will have good homes, and so will I for a time. You won’t mind. They’ll be beautiful kittens. They always are. You’ll see very soon now. After supper.
The Green Stone
The heroes were gathering for the Quest in the inn yard. It was chaos. Since this was my first Quest as recording Cleric, I was racing around among them trying to get each hero’s name and run down my checklist with them. They tell me more experienced Clerics don’t even try. Half of them were barbarians who didn’t speak any language I knew, large greasy fellows in the minimum of leather armor, with a lot of hairy flesh showing. Most of them were busy waxing and honing at a variety of weapons: gigantic swords, whose name they insisted on telling me instead of their own, monstrous cudgels, ten-foot spears and the like. Every one of them was also shouting for provisions and equipment and running about for last-minute extras. There was a constant tooth-splitting din from the grindstone, where a squat person with a long gray beard was carefully putting a surgical edge on an axe blade as wide as his own shoulders.
“Rono?” I screamed over the din at a tower of muscle in a leather loincloth. “Is that your name or your sword’s name?”
He was in a bad mood. He had been waiting half an hour for his turn at the grindstone. He glowered and fingered what looked like a shrunken human head dangling from his loincloth. “No. Name secret!” he snarled.
I wrote ?Rono? on my tablets and went on to my checklist. “And are you aware of the nature of the Quest? We travel in search of the Green Stone of Katta Rhyne—”
“Yah, yah. We go now,” he snarled.
“Not quite now,” I bawled. “We wait until the King comes to give us his personal blessing.” In view of the screaming chaos in that yard, I was rather glad the King hadn’t arrived yet. “And you are properly aware of the difficulties and dangers? The Green Stone is in the hands of a powerful wizard and can transform fatally anyone who touches it—”
“I know!” he bawled. “I hero!”
“Yes, yes,” I said hurriedly. His hand was meaningfully caressing that shrunken human head of his. I went on down my list. “And you have proper equipment, weapons, armor, warm clothes? It will be cold in the mountains.” He glared at me. I gulped, “Well, you ought to have a warm cloak at least. And transport. Have you horse, dragon, or other means of conveyance?”
Here I was rudely interrupted by a very large female who plucked me by the shoulder and spun me away from ?Rono? Apart from the fact that she had added a leather bra with knobs on, she was dressed just like him, mostly in a big sword and shrunken human head. I stared into her grubby navel, shaken. She was big. “You try coddle my little brother?” she demanded.
“No, no,” I said. “This list. I have to make sure everyone has what’s on it. Name, please.”
“Name secret. We walk. We carry nothing,” she said.
I hoped that keeping up with the horses would warm them up in the mountains and scuttled quickly on to the next hero. He was a suave young man in a turban who had brought a camel to ride. The creature was something like a moldy hearthrug on long knobbly legs, out of which stuck a long neck with a temper worse than ?Rono’s? on the end of it. It made three attempts to bite me while I was finding out that the young man was called Haroun and that he carried a talisman of some kind. He didn’t actually say, but I assumed he was our statutory magic-user. I wrote down ?Magician? and dodged away among the crush, worrying about it. We really had to have a magic-user. I couldn’t control this lot on my own.
I made another attempt to collect the name of the person monopolizing the grindstone, but he couldn’t hear me for the noise he was making. So I wrote down Dwarf, because he obviously was, and reckoned that with that axe he was certainly properly equipped. I skirted an argument, two horses, and an aggressive griffon and found we had a harpist at least. He was seated on the horse trough, strumming inaudibly, a very pleasant young fellow with curly hair who said his name was Trouvere. There was a smiling man with white teeth next to him, carrying a pack, but when I tried to take this one’s name he turned out to be a tinker, come to see his friend the harpist off. Embarrassing. But I felt better when I spotted a tall figure in a cowled cloak a little way off beside one of the store sheds. That had to be our magician.
I hastened up to him. “Name, please.”
His hooded head turned, giving me a glimpse of a piercing eye staring at me across a hooked nose. “Why?” he said. “Does it matter?”
“I have to have you all down in my records,” I explained.
“How diligent,” he said. “Then I am Basileus for your records.” His tone was deeply sarcastic. I knew it was a false name, but I wrote it down—with the usual query.
I was just turning away, when a tall pallid figure leaped out through the door of the shed. “Don’t go without me!” he said breathlessly. “I won’t be long now.”
He was wearing some kind of apron and long gloves, both of which were dripping with something greenish. His right hand clutched a knife, also dripping green.
“Er—who are you?” I said faintly.
“Pelham,” he said. “I’m your healer. You’ll need me.”
“Oh,” I said.
&nb
sp; “I’ll be about ten minutes,” he said. “I’m just finishing a postmortem.” And he added to the cowled Basileus, “You were right. The creature was definitely human once.” After which he dived back into the shed.
I wrote him down too, wishing I had not eaten breakfast, and went back to the rest of the chaos. To my surprise, it was beginning to sort itself out. The Dwarf backed away from the grindstone, lovingly stroking his axe, and ?Rono? dived forward for his turn. Everyone else began climbing up on to their mounts. As recording Cleric, I had been allotted a cart to ride in which had a cunning desk-attachment I could swing over my knees, so that I could go on writing down all things at all times. The cart was drawn by a highly opinionated mule. But nobody had thought of providing it with a driver.
It was my turn to make some chaos. “How on earth am I supposed to write and drive?” I screamed. “This mule is a full-time job! Am I expected to make an exact record of everyone’s deeds while controlling the brute with one hand, or something?”
Every hero there stared reprovingly and then turned away. Clerics are not supposed to fuss. I was eventually rescued by the harper Trouvere, who pushed through the crowd and climbed smilingly into the driving seat. “I’ll deal with the mule,” he said. “I’m no hand at riding and—to be frank—I can’t afford a horse anyway.” While I was gushing grateful thanks at him, Trouvere dumped his harp beside me and collected the reins as if it was something he’d been doing all his life. The mule stopped trying to kick the front of the cart in and stood still. Now we were only waiting for the King to arrive and give us his blessing.
In the sudden hush, Pelham emerged from the shed again, without the gloves and apron this time. Looking pallidly smug, he whispered to Basileus and passed him a small bag. Basileus was clearly delighted. He patted the healer on the shoulder. Then, deliberately and jauntily, he climbed to a high mounting block by the inn door, where everyone could see him, even those, like me, who had Haroun and his bad-tempered camel in the way. Basileus threw off his hood and flung back his cloak. There was a crown on his head and the rest of his clothes were purple and ermine.
“I am your King,” he said. Everyone gave an uncertain, muttering sort of cheer. He smiled. “I was coming here,” he said, “to bless this Quest on its way, when I was attacked by a strange green man. I was fortunate enough to kill him. And when I examined the body, it reminded me very strongly of the hero Seigro, who went in search of the Green Stone a year ago. So I brought it here and asked my Royal Healer, Pelham, to dissect the corpse. This is what we have been waiting for. Pelham cut the creature open and discovered that, in place of a heart, it had the Green Stone of Katta Rhyne. Here it is.” He held up the bag. “It only remains for me to thank you all very much for answering my call and to tell you that there is now no longer any need for the Quest.”
There was an instant of thunderstruck silence. Then a growl arose in a dozen languages. Such words as I could pick out were “Recompense!” “Something for our trouble!” and “Cost of travel!” mixed with cries of “Swindle!” and “Cheat!” Axes and swords were waved. I did not blame them for feeling cheated. This was my first Quest. Though it had promised to be nothing but trouble, I found I was furious to be deprived of it. Haroun’s camel seemed to have the same feelings. It vented bubbling howls and plunged about. My mule was not the animal to take noises from a mere camel. It went for the camel, dragging my cart with it, Trouvere wrestling at the reins, Haroun wrestling at his reins—both laughing for some reason—myself screaming, every hero in the yard roaring … I had a glimpse of the King with the bag in one hand and the other making soothing gestures. The next glimpse I had of him, the bag was gone from his hand. The tinker leaped nimbly up beside me, flourishing a bag that looked just the same. “Got it! Let’s go!” he shouted.
Trouvere whipped on the reins. The mule forgot the camel and dashed for the yard gate. “Cover our backs, Haroun!” Trouvere shouted as we thundered out into the town. And we galloped madly from under the noses of heroes.
We have been galloping almost ever since. Haroun caught us up after an hour, laughing heartily.
“The heroes didn’t know what hit them,” he said. “Never seen an angry camel before. Aren’t you going to throw that whinging Cleric out?”
“Oh no,” said Trouvere—if that is his name. “She can stay and do her job. Let her write down how we get on against all the heroes the King is going to send after us.”
“Not to speak of the wizard who had the Stone in the first place,” said the tinker. “Don’t forget him.”
“Then write, woman!” Haroun laughed. “Write, or my camel may get angry.”
So I write. …
The Fat Wizard
The Fat Wizard lived up at the Big House in our village and he always opened the Church Fête. As well as being very fat, he had a purple face and pop eyes and a gray bristly beard. He despised everyone. When he opened the Fête, he said things like, “This Fête gets more boring every year. Why do you silly people love it?” This was considered very witty, because the Fat Wizard was rich. I preferred Mrs. Ward’s cousin Old Ned, myself. Everyone despised Old Ned, but at least he went mad in the Church porch every full moon. The Fat Wizard never did anything but grumble.
My auntie May always went to the Church Fête, although we were Chapel. She went for the jumble. Auntie May was the most respectable witch I have ever known and she did not like Chapel people to know she bought cast-off clothes.
She lived in the house on the corner opposite the White Horse and everything indoors was just so. I came to live in that house as soon as I left school, to train to be Auntie May’s assistant. Auntie May used to look through her curtains and count how often Mrs. Ward went into the pub. “Look at her!” she would snort. “Red dress, hung all over with jewelry, and enough makeup to sink a battleship!” Though they were both witches, Auntie May and Mrs. Ward were opposites in every way. Auntie May was tall and lean and dour, and she wore dour brown clothes. Mrs. Ward was small and glamorous, and she had lovely legs. I used to admire Mrs. Ward and wish I was her assistant, not Auntie May’s.
Anyway, the Church Fête was only two days away. Auntie May and I were talking about it while I cleared away breakfast.
“And you’re not to bowl for the pig this year, Cheryl,” Auntie May was saying, when there was a sort of boom and a flash. The Fat Wizard’s manservant George appeared in the middle of the kitchen.
“The Wizard wants to see you at once,” George said. Really it was a wonder I didn’t drop the teapot! Everyone said George was really a demon, but I didn’t think even demons had a right to appear in people’s kitchens like that.
Auntie May took it quite calmly. “What does he want?” she said. But George only vanished, with another boom and a flash. “Well, we’d better go,” Auntie May said, getting her flat brown hat off its peg and pinning it bolt upright across her head.
So off we went, with me wondering what gave the Fat Wizard the right to order us about. As we passed the Vicarage and came to the church, I was wishing for about the thousandth time that I could go and live in Town. The Vicar was trying to chase my pig Ranger out of the churchyard.
“About that pig,” Auntie May said forbiddingly.
“I won’t do it again,” I said guiltily, as we turned into the drive of the Big House. I’d won Ranger at the Church Fête last year, you see, and I’m pretty sure I won him by unfair use of magic. You know how it is, when you’re willing and willing for the skittles to fall over. I went a bit far in my willing, and I’m pretty sure half the skittles went over without my bowls even touching them. I was given this squealing, struggling, long-legged piglet, and there was only my mother’s tiny backyard to keep him in. He kept getting out. At first, people in the village kept catching him and bringing him back. But he got cleverer and cleverer, until everyone gave up. By now Ranger was a large white amiable pig, and you were likely to meet him anywhere.
The Vicar was still shouting at Ranger as we came to the Big Hous
e. George opened the tradesmen’s door to us. “Took your time, didn’t you?” he said, and he led the way down a corridor, waggling his rump as he walked. I think he waggled because he was allowing for a tail, and he didn’t have a tail in human form. But he shocked Auntie May. She whispered to me not to look.
The Fat Wizard was in a sunny morning-room having breakfast. When we came in, he was scraping up the last of a quart tub of fat-free yogurt. Then he poured a pint of milk on a hill of bran flakes, emptied the sugar bowl over it, and ate most of that before he looked up. “Here at last, are you, May?” he grunted. He didn’t notice me.
“What can we do for you, sir?” Auntie May asked.
The Fat Wizard guzzled up the rest of his bran flakes. Then he cut a giant slice off a starch-reduced loaf. He spread that with most of a packet of slimmers’ margarine and ladled marmalade on top of that. “The doctors say I’m too fat,” he said peevishly. “They make me eat this chicken feed all the time, but it’s not doing a scrap of good. I’ve got to lose weight. Make me up a potion that will do the trick.”
“Of course, sir,” Auntie May said politely. “But couldn’t you do that yourself, sir?”
The Fat Wizard tipped the rest of the jar of marmalade on his bread and ate it in two bites. “Potions are not men’s work,” he said with his mouth full. “Go away, woman, and mix me a weight-reducing potion, and get it here today, or I’ll get Tallulah Ward to do it.”
Rude old man! We hurried home, and Auntie May did her best for him, but it is not easy to set that kind of spell quickly, even when she had me to grind up the ingredients for her. We worked hard the rest of the day. We were straining the mixture all evening, and we only had it bottled just before midnight.
“Take it round to him, Cheryl,” Auntie May said, breathlessly slapping a label on the bottle. “And run!”
Unexpected Magic Page 16
