“Now our world should really just be a rainbow stripe in another proper world,” she said. “But it isn’t. And I’m going to tell you why, so that we can all do something about it. I told you Guy Fawkes was a failure. Well, the trouble was, he knew he was. And that made him very nervous, because he wanted to do at least this one thing right and blow up Parliament properly. He kept going over in his mind all the things that could go wrong: he could be betrayed, or the gunpowder would be damp, or his candle would go out, or his fuse wouldn’t light – he thought of all the possibilities, all the things that make the rainbow-stripes of not-quite-different worlds. And in the middle of the night, he got so nervous that he went and lit the fuse, just to make sure it would light. He wasn’t thinking that 5 November, the day he was doing it, was the last day of Witch Week, when there is so much magic around in the world that all sorts of peculiar things happen—”
“Will somebody silence that girl!” said Inquisitor Littleton.
He made Charles jump. Charles had been sitting all this time trying to understand the way he was feeling. He seemed to have divided into two again, but inside himself, where it did not show. Half of him was plain terrified. It felt as if it had been buried alive, in screaming, shut-in despair. The other half was angry, angry with Chrestomanci, Miss Cadwallader, 2Y, Inquisitor Littleton – everything.
Now, when Inquisitor Littleton suddenly spoke in his loud grating voice, Charles looked at the Inquisitor. He was a small man with a stupid face, in a blue suit which did not fit, who enjoyed arresting witches.
Charles found himself remembering his first witch again. The fat man who had been so astonished at being burnt. And he suddenly understood the witch’s amazement. It was because someone so ordinary, so plain stupid as Inquisitor Littleton had the power to burn him. And that was all wrong.
“Oh come on, all of you!” said Nan. “Don’t you see? When Guy Fawkes lit that fuse, that made a new spread of rainbow possibilities. In our proper world, the world we ought to belong to, the fuse should have gone straight out again, and the Houses of Parliament would have been perfectly safe. But once the fuse was alight, the night watchman could have smelt it, or Guy Fawkes could have put it out with water, or the thing could have happened which made us the way we are. Guy Fawkes could have stamped the fuse out, but left just one tiny spark alight, which went on burning and creeping towards the kegs of gunpowder—”
“I told you to shut that girl up!” said Inquisitor Littleton.
Charles was in one piece again now. He looked from the Inquisitor to Chrestomanci. Chrestomanci did not look so elegant just then. His suit was crumpled as if he had fallen away inside it, and his face was pale and hollow. Charles could see sweat on his forehead. And he understood that Chrestomanci was putting out a huge effort and somehow holding the whole world still, to give Nan time to persuade 2Y to use their combined witchcraft to change it.
But 2Y were still sitting there like dumb things. That was why Inquisitor Littleton had started talking again. He was obviously one of those people who were very hard to keep quiet, and Chrestomanci had had to let go of him in order to have strength to hold everything else.
“Will you be quiet, girl!” said Inquisitor Littleton.
“BOOM!” said Nan. “And up went Parliament, but with no people in it. It wasn’t very important, because even Guy Fawkes wasn’t killed. But remember it was Witch Week. That made it a much worse explosion than it should have been. In it, this whole stripe of the rainbow, where we are now, and all the magic anywhere near, got blown out of the rest of the world, like a sort of long coloured splinter. But it wasn’t blown quite free. It was still joined to the rest of the rainbow at both ends. And that’s the way it still is. And we could put it back if only we could make it so that the explosion never happened. And because it’s Hallowe’en today, and there’s even more magic about than usual—”
Charles saw that Chrestomanci was beginning to shake. He looked tired out. At this rate, Chrestomanci was not going to have any strength left to put their splinter of world back where it belonged. Charles jumped up. He wanted to apologise. It was obvious that someone with power like Chrestomanci’s could easily have just gone away the moment Inquisitor Littleton arrived. Instead, he had chosen to stay and help them. But saying sorry would have to wait. Charles knew he had to do something. And thanks to Nan, he knew just what to do.
“Sit down, boy!” rasped Inquisitor Littleton.
Charles took no notice. He dived across the gangway and took hold of Simon Silverson by the front of his blazer. “Simon. Say what Guy Fawkes did. Quick!”
Simon gazed at Charles. He shook his head and pointed to his mouth.
“Go on! Say it, you fool!” said Charles, and he shook Simon.
Simon kept his mouth shut. He was afraid to say anything. It was like a bad dream. “Say what Guy Fawkes did!” Charles yelled at him. He gave up shaking Simon and poured witchcraft at him to make him say it. And Simon just shook his head.
Nirupam saw the point. “Say it, Simon!” he said. And that made all the rest of 2Y understand what Charles was trying to do.
Everyone stood up in their seats and shouted at Simon: “SAY IT, SIMON!” Mr Wentworth shouted. Brian’s voice joined in. Witchcraft was blasting at Simon from all sides, and even Karen and Delia were shouting at him. Nan joined in the shouting. She was bubbling with pride and delight. She had done this, just by describing what happened. It was as good as witchcraft any day.
“SAY IT, SIMON!” everyone screamed.
Simon opened his mouth. “I – Oh, leave off!” He was terrified of what might happen, but once he had started to speak, all the witchcraft beating at him was too much for him. “He – he – Guy Fawkes blew up the Houses of Parliament.”
Everything at once began to ripple.
It was as if the world had turned into a vast curtain, hanging in folds, with every fold in it rippling in and out. The ripples ran through desks, windows, walls and people alike. Each person was rippled through. They were tugged, and rippled again, until everyone felt they were coming to pieces. By then, the ripples were so strong and steep that everyone could see right down into the folds.
For just a moment, on the outside of each fold, was the classroom everyone knew, with the Inquisitor and his huge men on the same fold as Miss Cadwallader, and Chrestomanci on another fold beside them. The inner parts of the folds were all different places.
Charles realised that if he was going to apologise to Chrestomanci, he had better do it at once. He turned round to say it. But the folds had already rippled flat and nothing was the same any more.
“I’m very sorry, sir,” said one of the boys. He sounded as if he meant it, for a wonder.
Mr Crossley jumped, and wondered if he had been asleep. He seemed to have had that kind of shiver that makes you say “Someone walked over my grave.” He looked up from the books he was marking.
The janitor was in the classroom. What was his name? He had a raucous voice and a lot of stupid opinions. Littleton, that was it. Littleton seemed to be clearing up broken glass. Mr Crossley was puzzled, because he did not remember a window being broken. But when he looked over at the windows, he saw one of them was newly mended, with a lot of putty and many thumbprints.
“There you are, Mr Crossley. All tidy now,” Mr Littleton rasped.
“Thank you, Littleton,” Mr Crossley said coldly. If you let Littleton get talking, he stayed and tried to teach the class. He watched the janitor collect his things and back himself through the door. Thank goodness!
“Thank you, Charles,” said someone.
Mr Crossley jerked round and discovered a total stranger in the room. This man was tall and tired-looking and seemed, from his clothes, to be on his way to a wedding. Mr Crossley thought he must be a school governor and started to stand up politely.
“Oh, please don’t get up,” Chrestomanci said. “I’m just on my way out.” He walked to the door. Before he went out of it, he looked round 2Y and said, “
If any of you want me again, a message to the Old Gate House should find me.”
The door closed behind him. Mr Crossley sat down to his marking again. He stared. There was a note on top of the topmost exercise book. He knew it had not been there before. It was written in ordinary blue ballpoint, in capital letters, and it gave Mr Crossley the oddest feeling of having been in the same situation before.
Why was that? He must have dozed off and had a dream. Yes. Now Mr Crossley thought about it, he had had the strangest dream. He had dreamed he taught in a dreadful boarding school called Larwood House. He looked thankfully up at the bent, busy heads of 2Y.
This was, as he well knew, Portway Oaks Comprehensive, and everyone went home every evening. Thank goodness! Mr Crossley hated the idea of teaching in a boarding school. You were always on the job.
He wondered who had written the note. And here, as his eyes went over the class, he had a momentary feeling of shock. A lot of faces were missing from his dream. He remembered a batch of tiresome girls: Theresa Mullett, Delia Martin, Heather Something, Karen Something Else. None of them were there. Nor was Daniel Smith.
Ah but—Mr Crossley remembered now. Dan Smith should have been there. He was in hospital. Two days ago, the stupid boy had eaten a handful of tin-tacks for a bet. No one had believed he had, at first. But when Mr Wentworth, the Headmaster, had put Dan in his car and driven him to be X-rayed, there he was, full of tin-tacks. Idiots some boys were!
And here was another mad thing about Mr Crossley’s dream: he had dreamt that Miss Cadwallader was Head in place of Mr Wentworth! Quite mad. Mr Crossley knew perfectly well that Miss Cadwallader was the lady who ran The Gate House School for Girls, where Eileen Hodge was a teacher. Come to think of it, that must have been why he dreamt of Theresa Mullett and her friends. He had seen their faces staring out at him from the prim line of girls walking behind Eileen Hodge.
And now Mr Crossley remembered something else that almost made him forget his dream and the mysterious note. Eileen Hodge had at last agreed to go out with him. He was to call for her on Tuesday, because she was going away for half-term. He was getting somewhere at last!
But even through his pleasure about Eileen, the dream and the note kept nagging at Mr Crossley. Why should it bother him who had written the note? He looked at Brian Wentworth, sitting next to his great friend Simon Silverson. The two of them were giggling about something. The note was quite probably one of Brian’s jokes. But it could equally well be some deep scheme masterminded by Charles Morgan and Nirupam Singh. Mr Crossley looked at those two.
Charles looked back at Mr Crossley over his glasses and across the piece of paper he was supposed to be writing on. How much did Mr Crossley know? Charles’s writing had got no further than the title: Hallowe’en Poem. Neither had Nirupam’s. On the floor between them was a pair of spiked running shoes and, filling them with wonder, was the name marked on the shoes: Daniel Smith. Both of them knew that Dan did not own any running shoes. Of course, Smith was not exactly an uncommon name, but – both of them were struggling with strange double memories.
Charles wondered particularly at the sense of relief and peace he had. He felt at ease inside. He also felt rather hungry. One part of his memory told him that this was because Brian Wentworth had invisibly eaten half his lunch. The other half suggested that it was because chess club had taken up most of the dinner hour. And here was an odd thing. Up till that moment, Charles had intended to be a chess grand master. Now those double memories caused him to change his mind.
Someone – whose name he could not quite remember now – had suggested to him that he was going to have a very strong talent indeed for something, and it was not for chess, Charles was sure now. Perhaps he would be an inventor instead. Anyway, the chess club half of his memory, which seemed to be the important half, suggested that he hurried home early so he could eat the last of the cornflakes before his sister Bernadine hogged them.
“Guy Fawkes,” Nirupam murmured.
Charles did not know if Nirupam was referring to witchcraft, or to Dan Smith’s idea for half-term. They had been going to collect money for the guy, using Nirupam for a guy. Nirupam, in the Morgans’ old pushchair, made a beautiful long, thin, floppy guy. Now they were both wondering if they would have the nerve to do it on their own, without Dan to keep them up to it.
“Why did you have to bet Dan he couldn’t eat tin-tacks?” Charles whispered to Nirupam.
“Because I didn’t think he would!” Nirupam answered grumpily. He had been in a lot of trouble with Mr Wentworth about that bet. “Could we get Estelle and Nan to help push me?”
“They’re girls,” Charles objected. But he considered the idea while he underlined Hallowe’en Poem in red ink, with blood-drops. Those two girls might just do it, at that. As he inked the last drop of blood, he noticed a blister on his finger. It had reached the flat, white, empty stage by now. Carefully, Charles inked it bright red. He was not sure he wanted to forget about things that soon.
Mr Crossley was still considering the note. It could be another flight of fancy from Nan Pilgrim. Nan, as usual, since she had arrived at the school from Essex at the beginning of term, was sitting next to Estelle Green. They were thick as thieves, those two. A good thing, because Estelle had been rather lonely before Nan arrived.
Nan glanced up at Mr Crossley, and down again at her pen rushing across her paper. Fascinated, she read:
And in this part of the rainbow, Guy Fawkes stamped the fuse out, but a little, tiny smouldering spark remained. The spark crept and ate its way to the kegs of gunpowder. BOOM!!!
“Estelle! Look at this!”
Estelle leaned over, looked, and goggled. “Do you know what I think?” she whispered. “When you grow up to be an author and write books, you’ll think you’re making the books up, but they’ll all really be true, somewhere.” She sighed. “My poem’s going to be about a great enchanter.”
Mr Crossley suddenly wondered why he was worrying about the note. It was only a joke, after all. He cleared his throat. Everyone looked up hopefully.
“Somebody,” said Mr Crossley, “seems to have sent me a Hallowe’en message.” And he read out the note.
“SOMEONE IN THIS CLASS IS A WITCH.”
2Y thought this was splendid news. Hands shot up all over the room like a bed of beansprouts.
“It’s me, Mr Crossley!”
“Mr Crossley, I’m the witch!”
“Can I be the witch, Mr Crossley?”
“Me, Mr Crossley, me, me, me!”
This book is for Leo,
who got hit on the head
with a cricket bat
CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
It was years before Christopher told anyone about his dreams. This was because he mostly lived in the nurseries at the top of the big London house, and the nursery maids who looked after him changed every few months.
He scarcely saw his parents. When Christopher was small, he was terrified that he would meet Papa out walking in the park one day and not recognise him. He used to kneel down and look through the banisters on the rare days when Papa came home from the City before bedtime, hoping to fix Papa’s face in his mind. All he got was a foreshortened view of a figure in a frock coat with a great deal of well-combed black whisker, handing a tall black hat to the footman, and then a view of a very neat white parting in black hair, as Papa marched rapidly under the stairway an
d out of sight. Beyond knowing that Papa was taller than most footmen, Christopher knew little else.
Some evenings, Mama was on the stairs to meet Papa, blocking Christopher’s view with wide silk skirts and a multitude of frills and draperies. “Remind your master,” she would say icily to the footman, “that there is a Reception in this house tonight and that he is required, for once in his life, to act as host.”
Papa, hidden behind Mama’s wide clothing, would reply in a deep gloomy voice, “Tell Madam I have a great deal of work brought home from the office tonight. Tell her she should have warned me in advance.”
“Inform your master,” Mama would reply to the footman, “that if I’d warned him, he would have found an excuse not to be here. Point out to him that it is my money that finances his business and that I shall remove it if he does not do this small thing for me.”
Then Papa would sigh. “Tell Madam I am going up to dress,” he would say. “Under protest. Ask her to stand aside from the stairs.”
Mama never did stand aside, to Christopher’s disappointment. She always gathered up her skirts and sailed upstairs ahead of Papa, to make sure Papa did as she wanted. Mama had huge lustrous eyes, a perfect figure and piles of glossy brown curls. The nursery maids told Christopher Mama was a Beauty. At this stage in his life Christopher thought everyone’s parents were like this; but he did wish Mama would give him a view of Papa just once.
He thought everyone had the kind of dreams he had, too. He did not think they were worth mentioning. The dreams always began the same way. Christopher got out of bed and walked round the corner of the night-nursery wall – the part with the fireplace, which jutted out – on to a rocky path high on the side of a valley. The valley was green and steep, with a stream rushing from waterfall to waterfall down the middle, but Christopher never felt there was much point in following the stream down the valley. Instead he went up the path, round a large rock, into the part he always thought of as The Place Between. Christopher thought it was probably a left-over piece of the world, from before somebody came along and made the world properly.
The Chrestomanci Series Page 58