The Chrestomanci Series

by Jones, Diana Wynne

  “Oh don’t!” he said. The three other somethings flopped on to the carpet, too, and he saw they were the apparition at the window and three others like it. The first was like a baby that was too small to walk – except that it was walking, with its big head wobbling. The next was a cripple, so twisted and cramped upon itself that it could barely hobble. The third was the apparition at the window, pitiful, wrinkled and draggled. The last had its white skin barred with blue stripes. All were weak and white and horrible. Cat shuddered all over.

  “Please send them away!” he said.

  Gwendolen only laughed again and waved the four apparitions towards the door.

  They set off, toiling weakly. But they were only halfway there, when Chrestomanci came through the door and Mr Saunders came after him. In front of them came a shower of bones and small dead creatures, pattering on to the carpet and getting squashed under Chrestomanci’s long, shiny shoes. The apparitions hesitated, gibbering. Then they fled back to the flaming bowl and vanished. The flames vanished at the same time, into thick black smelly smoke.

  Gwendolen stared at Chrestomanci and Mr Saunders through the smoke. Chrestomanci was magnificent in dark blue velvet, with lace ruffles at his wrists and on the front of his shirt. Mr Saunders seemed to have made an effort to find a suit that reached to the ends of his legs and arms, but he had not quite succeeded. One of his big black patent-leather boots was unlaced, and there was a lot of shirt and wrist showing as he slowly coiled an invisible skein of something round his bony right hand. Both he and Chrestomanci looked back at Gwendolen most unpleasantly.

  “You were warned, you know,” Chrestomanci said. “Carry on, Michael.”

  Mr Saunders put the invisible skein in his pocket. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ve been itching to for a week now.” He strode down on Gwendolen in a billow of black coat, yanked her to her feet, hauled her to a chair and put her face down over his knee. There he dragged off his unlaced black boot and commenced spanking her with it, hard and often.

  While Mr Saunders laboured away, and Gwendolen screamed and squirmed and kicked, Chrestomanci marched up to Cat and boxed Cat’s ears, twice on each side. Cat was so surprised that he would have fallen over, had not Chrestomanci hit the other side of his head each time and brought him upright again.

  “What did you do that for?” Cat said indignantly, clutching both sides of his ringing face. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “That’s why I hit you,” said Chrestomanci. “You didn’t try to stop her, did you?” While Cat was gasping at the unfairness of this, he turned to the labouring Mr Saunders. “I think that’ll do now, Michael.”

  Mr Saunders ceased swatting, rather regretfully. Gwendolen slid to her knees on the floor, sobbing with pain, and making screams in between her sobs at being treated like this.

  Chrestomanci went over and poked at her with his shiny foot. “Stop it. Get up and behave yourself.” And, when Gwendolen rose to her knees, staring piteously and looking utterly wronged, he said, “You thoroughly deserved that spanking. And, as you probably realise, Michael has taken away your witchcraft, too. You’re not a witch any longer. In future, you are not going to work one spell, unless you can prove to both of us that you are not going to do mischief with it. Is that clear? Now go to bed, and for goodness sake try and think about what you’ve been doing.”

  He nodded to Mr Saunders, and they both went out, Mr Saunders hopping because he was still putting his boot back on, and squashing the rest of the dead creatures as he hopped.

  Gwendolen flopped forward on her face and drummed her toes on the carpet. “The beast! The beasts! How dare they treat me like this! I shall do a worse thing than this now, and serve you all right!”

  “But you can’t do things without witchcraft,” Cat said. “Was what Mr Saunders was winding up your witchcraft?”

  “Go away!” Gwendolen screamed at him. “Leave me alone. You’re as bad as the rest of them!” And, as Cat went to the door, leaving her drumming and sobbing, she raised her head and shouted after him, “I’m not beaten yet! You’ll see!”

  Not surprisingly, Cat had bad dreams that night. They were terrible dreams, full of giant earthworms and great slimy, porous frogs. They became more and more feverish. Cat sweated and moaned and finally woke up, feeling wet and weak and rather too bony, the way you do when you have just had a bad illness or a fearsome dream. He lay for a little while feeling wretched. Then he began to feel better and fell asleep again.

  When Cat woke again, it was light. He opened his eyes on the snowy silence of the Castle and was suddenly convinced that Gwendolen had done something else. He had no idea what made him so sure. He thought he was probably imagining it. If Mr Saunders had truly taken Gwendolen’s witchcraft away from her, she could not have done a thing. But he still knew she had.

  He got up and padded to the windows to see what it was. But, for once, there was nothing abnormal about the view from any of them. The cedars spread above the lawn. The gardens blazed down the hill. The day was swimming in sun and mist, and not so much as a footprint marked the pearly grey-green of the grass. But Cat was still so sure that something, somewhere, was different that he got dressed and stole off downstairs to ask Gwendolen what she had done.

  When Cat opened the door of her room, he could smell the sweet, charred, heavy smell that went with witchcraft. But that could have been left over from last night. The room was quite tidy. The dead creatures and the burnt bowl had been cleared away. The only thing out of place was Gwendolen’s box, which had been pulled out of the painted wardrobe and stood with its lid half off near her bed.

  Gwendolen was a sleeping hump under the blue velvet bedspread. Cat shut the door very gently behind him, in order not to disturb her. Gwendolen heard it. She sat up in bed with a bounce and stared at him.

  As soon as she did, Cat knew that whatever was wrong, it was wrong with Gwendolen herself. She had her nightdress on back to front. The ribbons which usually tied it at the back were dangling at the front. That was the only thing obviously wrong. But there was something odd about the way Gwendolen was staring at him. She was astonished, and rather frightened.

  “Who are you?” she said.

  “I’m Cat, of course,” said Cat.

  “No you’re not. You’re a boy.” said Gwendolen. “Who are you?”

  Cat realised that when witches lost their witchcraft, they also lost their memories. He saw he would have to be very patient with Gwendolen.

  “I’m your brother, Eric,” he said patiently, and came across to the bed so that she could look at him. “Only you always call me Cat.”

  “My brother!” she exclaimed, in the greatest astonishment. “Well, that can’t be bad. I’ve always wanted a brother. And I know I can’t be dreaming. It was too cold in the bath, and it hurts when I pinch myself. So would you mind telling me where I am? It’s a Stately Home of some kind, isn’t it?”

  Cat stared at her. He began to suspect that her memory was perfectly good. It was not only the way she spoke and what she said. She was thinner than she should be. Her face was the right pretty face, with the right blue eyes, but the downright look on it was not right. The golden hair hanging over her shoulders was an inch longer than it had been last night.

  “You’re not Gwendolen!” he said.

  “What a dreadful name!” said the girl in the bed. “I should hope not! I’m Janet Chant.”

  By this time, Cat was as bewildered as the strange girl seemed to be. Chant? he thought. Chant? Has Gwendolen a twin sister she hasn’t told me about? “But my name’s Chant, too,” he said.

  “Is it now?” said Janet. She knelt up in bed and scrubbed her hands thoughtfully about in her hair, in a way Gwendolen never would have done. “Truly Chant? It’s not that much of a common name. And you thought I was your sister? Well, I’ve put two and two together about a hundred times since I woke up in the bath, and I keep getting five. Where are we?”

  “In Chrestomanci Castle,” said Cat. “Chrestomanci had us
to live here about a year after our parents died.”

  “There you are!” said Janet. “My Mum and Dad are alive and kicking – or they were when I said goodnight to them last night. Who’s Chrestomanci? Could you just sketch your life history for me?”

  Puzzled and uneasy, Cat described how and why he and Gwendolen had come to live in the Castle, and what Gwendolen had done then.

  “You mean Gwendolen really was a witch!” Janet exclaimed.

  Cat wished she had not said was. He had a growing suspicion that he would never see the real Gwendolen again.

  “Of course she is,” he said. “Aren’t you?”

  “Great heavens no!” said Janet. “Though I’m beginning to wonder if I mightn’t have been, if I’d lived here all my life. Witches are quite common, are they?”

  “And warlocks and necromancers,” said Cat. “But wizards and magicians don’t happen so often. I think Mr Saunders is a magician.”

  “Medicine-men, witch-doctors, shamans, devils, enchanters?” Janet asked rapidly. “Hags, fakirs, sorcerers? Are they thick on the ground too?”

  “Most of those are for savages,” Cat explained. “Hag is rude. But we have sorcerers and enchanters. Enchanters are very strong and important. I’ve never met one.”

  “I see,” said Janet. She thought for a moment and then swung herself out of bed, in a sort of scramble that was more like a boy’s than a girl’s, and again quite unlike the way Gwendolen would have done it. “We’d better have a hunt round,” she said, “in case dear Gwendolen has been kind enough to leave a message.”

  “Don’t call her that,” Cat said desolately. “Where do you think she is?”

  Janet looked at him and saw he was miserable. “Sorry,” she said. “I won’t again. But you do see I might be a bit cross with her, don’t you? She seems to have dumped me here and gone off somewhere. Let’s hope she has a good explanation.”

  “They spanked her with a boot and took away her magic,” Cat said.

  “Yes, you said,” Janet replied, pulling open drawers in the golden dressing-table. “I’m terrified of Chrestomanci already. But did they really take away her magic? How did she manage to do this, if they did?”

  “I don’t understand that either,” Cat said, joining in the search. By now, he would have given his little finger for a word from Gwendolen – any kind of word. He felt horribly lonely. “Why were you in the bath?” he said, wondering whether to search the bathroom.

  “I don’t know. I just woke up there,” said Janet, shaking out a tangle of hair ribbons in the bottom drawer. “I felt as if I’d been dragged through a hedge backwards, and I’d no clothes on, so I was freezing.”

  “Why had you no clothes on?” Cat said, stirring Gwendolen’s underclothes about, without success.

  “I was hot in bed last night,” said Janet. “So naked I came into this world. And I wandered about pinching myself – ’specially after I found this fabulous room. I thought I must have been turned into a princess. But there was this nightdress lying on the bed, so I put it on—”

  “You’ve got it on back to front,” said Cat.

  Janet stopped scanning the things on the mantelpiece to look down at the trailing ribbons. “Have I? It won’t be the only thing I’m going to get back to front, by the sound of it. Try looking in that artistic wardrobe. Then I explored outside here, and all I found was miles of long green corridor, which gave me the creeps, and stately grounds out of the windows, so I came back in here and went to bed. I hoped that when I woke up it would all have gone away. And instead there was you. Found anything?”

  “No,” said Cat. “But there’s her box—”

  “It must be in there,” said Janet.

  They squatted down and unpacked the box. There was not much in it. Cat knew that Gwendolen must have taken a lot of things with her to wherever she had gone. There were two books, Elementary Spells and Magic for Beginners and some pages of notes on them. Janet looked at Gwendolen’s large round writing.

  “She writes just like I do. Why did she leave these books? Because they’re First Form standard and she’s up to O Levels, I suppose.” She put the books and notes to one side and, as she did so, the little red book of matches fell out from among them. Janet picked it up and opened it, and saw that half the matches were burnt without having been torn out. “That looks suspiciously like a spell to me,” she said. “What are these bundles of letters?”

  “My parents’ love-letters, I think,” said Cat.

  The letters were in their envelopes still, stamped and addressed. Janet squatted with a bundle in each hand. “These stamps are penny blacks! No, it’s a man’s head on them. What’s your King called?”

  “Charles the Seventh,” said Cat.

  “No Georges?” Janet asked. But she saw Cat was mystified and looked back at the letters again. “Your mother and father were both called Chant, I see. Were they first cousins? Mine are. Granny didn’t want them to marry, because it’s supposed to be a bad thing.”

  “I don’t know. They may have been. They looked rather alike,” Cat said, and felt lonelier than ever.

  Janet looked rather lonely too. She tucked the little book of matches carefully inside the pink tape that tied together the letters addressed to Miss Caroline Chant – like Gwendolen, she evidently had a tidy mind – and said, “Both tall and fair, with blue eyes? My mum’s name is Caroline too. I’m beginning to see. Come on, Gwendolen, give!” And saying this, Janet tossed aside the letters and, in a most untidy way, scrabbled up the remaining folders, papers, writing-sets, pen-wipers and the bag with Souvenir from Blackpool on it. At the very bottom of the box was a large pink sheet of paper, covered all over with Gwendolen’s best and roundest writing.

  “Ah!” said Janet, pouncing on it. “I thought so! She’s got the same secretive mind as I have.” And she spread the letter on the carpet so that Cat could read it too. Gwendolen had written:

  Dear Replacement,

  I have to leave this terible place. Nobody understands me. Nobody notices my talents. You will soon see because you are my exact double so you will be a witch too. I have been very clever. They do not know all my resauces. I have found out how to go to another world and I am going there for good. I know I shall be Queen of it because my fortune was told and said so. There are hundreds of other worlds only some are nicer than others, they are formed when there is a big event in History like a battle or an earthquake when the result can be two or more quite diferent things. Both those things hapen but they cannot exist together so the world splits into two worlds witch start to go diferent after that. I know there must be Gwendolens in a lot of worlds but not how many. One of you will come here when I go because when I move it will make an empty space that will suck you in. Do not grieve however if your parents still live. Some other Gwendolen will move into your place and pretend to be you because we are all so clever. You can carry on here making Chrestomanci’s life a misery and I shall be greatful knowing it is in good hands.

  Your loving

  Gwendolen Chant

  PS. Burn this.

  PS2 Tell Cat I am quite sorry but he must do what Mr Nostrum says.

  Having read this, Cat knelt wanly beside Janet, knowing he really would never see Gwendolen again. He seemed to be stuck with Janet instead. If you know a person as well as Cat knew Gwendolen, an exact double is hardly good enough. Janet was not a witch. The expressions on her face were nothing like the same. Looking at her now, Cat saw that, where Gwendolen would have been furious at being dragged into another world, Janet was looking as wan as he felt.

  “I wonder how Mum and Dad are getting on with my Dear Replacement,” she said wryly. Then she pulled herself together. “Do you mind if I don’t burn this? It’s the only proof I’ve got that I’m not Gwendolen who’s suddenly gone mad and thinks she’s this girl called Janet Chant. May I hide it?”

  “It’s your letter,” said Cat.

  “And your sister,” said Janet. “God bless her dear little sugar-coa
ted shining soul! Don’t get me wrong, Cat. I admire your sister. She thinks big. You have to admire her! All the same, I wonder if she’s thought of the clever hiding-place where I’m going to put her letter. I shall feel better if she hasn’t.”

  Janet bounced up in her un-Gwendolenlike way and took the letter over to the gilded dressing-table. Cat bounced up and followed her. Janet took hold of the gold-garlanded mirror and swung it towards her on its swivels. The back was plain plywood. She dug her nails under the edge of the plywood and prised. It came free quite easily.

  “I do this with my mirror at home,” Janet explained. “It’s a good hiding-place – it’s about the one place my parents never think of. Mum and Dad are dears, but they’re terribly nosy. I think it’s because I’m their only one. And I like to be private. I write private stories for my eyes only, and they will try to read them. Oh, purple spotted dalmatians!”

  She raised the wood up and showed Cat the signs painted on the red-coated back of the glass itself.

  “Cabbala, I think,” said Cat. “It’s a spell.”

  “So she did think of it!” said Janet. “Really, it’s hell having a double. You both get the same ideas. And working on that principle,” she said, sliding Gwendolen’s letter between the plywood and the glass and pressing the plywood back in place, “I bet I know what the spell’s for. It’s so Gwendolen can have a look from time to time and see how Dear Replacement’s getting on. I hope she’s looking now.” Janet swung the mirror back to its usual position and crossed her eyes at it, hideously. She took hold of the corners of her crossed eyes and pulled them long and Chinese, and stuck her tongue out as far as it would go. Then she pushed her nose up with one finger and twisted her mouth right round to one cheek. Cat could not help laughing. “Can’t Gwendolen do this?” Janet said out of the side of her face.

  “No,” Cat giggled.

  That was the moment when Euphemia opened the door. Janet jumped violently. She was much more nervous than Cat had realised. “I’ll thank you to stop pulling faces,” said Euphemia, “and get out of your nightdress, Gwendolen.” She came into the room to make sure that Gwendolen did. She gave a croaking sort of shriek. Then she melted into a brown lump.