He pitched down further than he had climbed up, upside down on to the back of his head. When he got to his knees, things in his neck grated and his head wobbled about. He felt very queer.
Somehow he made it back to the jutting crag, helped by the way The Place Between always pushed him back where he came from. Somehow he put his pyjamas on again and got through the slit in the Castle spells, back into bed. He fell asleep with a strong suspicion that he had broken his neck again. Good, he thought. Now I won’t have to go and see Gabriel de Witt in the morning.
But there was nothing at all wrong with him when he woke up. Christopher would have been very puzzled had he not been dreading seeing Gabriel. He crawled along to breakfast and found there was a pretty, scented letter from Mama on his tray. Christopher picked it up eagerly, hoping it would take his mind off Gabriel. And it did not, or not straight away. He could tell it had been opened and then stuck down again. He could feel the spell still hanging about it. Hating the people in the Castle more than ever, he unfolded the letter.
Dear Christopher,
The laws are so unjust. Only your Papa’s signature was required to sell you into slavery with that dreadful old man, and I have still not forgiven your Papa. Your uncle sends his sympathies and hopes to hear from you by next Thursday. Be polite to him, dear.
Your affectionate
Mama
Christopher was very pleased to think that Gabriel had read himself being called ‘that dreadful old man’ and he was impressed at the cunning way Uncle Ralph had sent his message through Mama. As he ate his breakfast, he rejoiced at the thought of seeing Tacroy again next Thursday. What a lucky thing he had made that split in the Castle spells! And ‘slavery’ was the right word for it, he thought, as he got up to go to Gabriel’s office.
But on the way, he found himself thinking of the Goddess again, very guiltily this time. He really would have to take her some more books. Throgmorten was a cat worth paying for.
In his twilight room, Gabriel stood up behind his great black desk. That was a bad sign, but Christopher now had so many other things to think of that he was not as scared as he might have been. “Really, Christopher,” Gabriel said in his driest voice, “a boy your age should know better than to climb about in a ruined tower. The result is that you have foolishly and carelessly wasted a life and now have only six left. You will need those lives when you are the next Chrestomanci. What have you to say for yourself?”
Christopher’s anger rose. He felt it being pushed down again by the Castle spells, and that made him angrier than ever. “Why don’t you make Throgmorten the next Chrestomanci?” he said. “He’s got nine lives too.”
Gabriel stared at him a second. “This is not a matter for jokes,” he said. “Do you not realise the trouble you have caused? Some of my staff will have to go to the towers, and to the attics and cellars, in case you take it into your head to climb about there too, and it will take them days to make it all safe.” At this, Christopher thought ruefully that they would certainly find and mend the split he had made and he would have to make another. “Please attend,” said Gabriel. “I can ill spare any of my staff at this time. You are too young to be aware of this, but I wish to explain that we are all working full stretch just now in an effort to catch a gang of interworld villains.” He looked at Christopher fiercely. “You have probably never heard of the Wraith.”
After three boring Sunday lunches, Christopher felt he knew all about the Wraith. It was what everyone talked of all the time. But he sensed that Gabriel was quite likely to get side-tracked from telling him off if he went on explaining about the gang, so he said, “No, I haven’t, sir.”
“The Wraith is a gang of smugglers,” Gabriel said. “We know they operate through London, but that is about all we know, for they are slippery as eels. In some way, despite all our traps and watchfulness, they smuggle in illicit magical produce by the hundredweight from all over the Related Worlds. They have brought in cartloads of dragons’ blood, narcotic dew, magic mushrooms, eel livers from Series Two, poison balm from Six, dream juice from Nine and eternal fire from Ten. We set a trap in Ten, which took out at least one of their operatives, but that did not stop them. The only success we have had is in Series Five, where the Wraith was butchering mermaids and selling the parts in London. There we were helped by the local police and were able to put a stop to it. But—” By this time, Gabriel had his eyes fixed on the sunset light of his ceiling and seemed lost in his worries. “But this year,” he said, “we have had reports of the most appalling weapons that the Wraith is bringing in from Series One, each one capable of destroying the strongest enchanter, and we still cannot lay hands on the gang.” Here, to Christopher’s dismay, Gabriel turned his eyes down to him. “You see what mischief your careless climbing could do? While we rush round the Castle on your account, we could miss our one chance of catching this gang. You should learn to think of others, Christopher.”
“I do,” Christopher said bitterly, “but none of you think of me. When most people die, they don’t get told off for it.”
“Go down to the library,” said Gabriel, “and write one hundred times ‘I must look before I leap’. And kindly shut the door when you leave.”
Christopher went to the door and opened it, but he did not shut it. He left it swinging so that Gabriel would hear what he said as he went towards the pink marble staircase. “I must be the only person in the world,” he called out, “ever to be punished for breaking my neck!”
“Wong,” agreed Throgmorten, who was waiting for him on the landing.
Christopher did not see Throgmorten in time. He tripped over him and went crashing and sliding the whole way down the staircase. As he went, he could hear Throgmorten wailing again. Oh no! he thought.
When his next life took over, he was lying on his back near the pentacle in the hall, looking up into the glass dome. Almost the first thing he saw was the clock over the library, which said half past nine. It seemed as if every time he lost a life, the new one took over more quickly and easily than the last. The next thing he saw was everyone in the Castle, standing round him staring solemnly. Just like a funeral! he thought.
“Did I break my neck again?” he asked.
“You did,” said Gabriel de Witt, stepping up to lean over him. “Really, after what I had just said to you, it is too bad! Can you get up?”
Christopher turned over and got to his knees. He felt slightly bruised but otherwise all right. Dr Simonson strode over and felt his neck. “The fracture has vanished already,” he said. Christopher could tell from his manner that he was not going to be allowed to stay in bed this time.
“Very well,” said Gabriel. “Go to the library now, Christopher, and write the lines I gave you. In addition write one hundred times ‘I have only five lives remaining’. That might teach you prudence.”
Christopher limped to the library and wrote the lines at one of the red leather tables on paper headed Government Property. As he wrote, his mind was elsewhere, thinking how odd it was that Throgmorten always seemed to be there when he lost a life. And there was that time in Series Ten. Just before the hook hit him, a man had mentioned Asheth. Christopher began to be afraid he might be under a curse from Asheth. It made another very good reason for taking the Goddess some more books.
When the lines were done, Christopher got up and inspected the bookshelves. The library was large and lofty and seemed to contain thousands of books. But Christopher discovered that there were really ten times as many as the ones you saw. There was a spell-plate at the end of each shelf. When Christopher put his hand on one, the books at the right of the shelf moved up and vanished and new books appeared on the left. Christopher found the storybook section and stood with his hand on the plate, keeping the line of books slowly moving until he found the kind he wanted.
It was a long row of fat books by someone called Angela Brazil. Most of them had School in the title. Christopher knew at a glance they were just right for the Goddess. He took t
hree and spread the others out. Each of them was labelled Rare Book: Imported from World XIIB, which made Christopher hope that they might just be valuable enough to pay for Throgmorten at last.
He carried the books up to his room in a pile of others he thought he might like to read himself, and it seemed just his luck that he had to meet Flavian in the corridor. “Lessons as usual this afternoon,” Flavian said cheerfully. “Dr Simonson doesn’t seem to think they’ll harm you.”
“Slavery as usual!” Christopher muttered as he went into his room.
But in fact that afternoon was not so bad. In the middle of practical magic, Flavian said suddenly, “Are you interested in cricket at all?”
What a question! Christopher felt his face light up even while he was answering coolly, “No, I’m only passionate about it. Why?”
“Good,” said Flavian. “The Castle plays the village on Saturday, down on the village green. We thought you might like to work the scoreboard for us.”
“Only if someone takes me out through the gate,” Christopher said acidly. “The spell stops me going through on my own. Otherwise, yes – like a shot.”
“Oh Lord! I should have got you a pass!” Flavian said. “I didn’t realise you liked to go out. I go on long hikes all the time. I’ll take you with me next time I go – there are all sorts of outdoor practicals we can do – only I think you’d better master witch-sight first.”
Christopher saw that Flavian was trying to bribe him. They were on enchanter’s magic now. Christopher had had no trouble learning how to conjure things from one place to another – it was a little like the levitation he had worked so spectacularly for Dr Pawson, and not unlike raising a wind too – and he had learnt with only a little more difficulty how to make things invisible. He thought he would not have too much trouble conjuring fire, either, as soon as Flavian allowed him to try. But he could not get the hang of witch-sight.
It was quite simple, Flavian kept telling him. It was only making yourself see through a magical disguise to what was really there. But when Flavian put an illusion spell on his right hand and held that hand out as a lion’s paw, a lion’s paw was all Christopher could see.
Flavian did it over and over again. Christopher yawned and looked vague and kept seeing a lion’s paw. The only good thing was that while his mind wandered he hit on the perfect way to keep those books for the Goddess dry in The Place Between.
That night Christopher went round the corner between his trunk and the fireplace all prepared to tear a new split in the Castle spells. To his surprise, the split was still there. It looked as though the Castle people had no idea he had made it. Very gently, not to disturb it, he tore two long strips off it, one wide and one narrow. Then, with a vague shimmering piece of spell in each hand, he went back to the books and wrapped them in the wide piece. The narrow piece he used like string to tie the parcel up, leaving a loose length to tie to his belt. When he spat on the parcel, the spit rolled off it in little round balls. Good.
Then it was like old times, climbing across the rocks the well-known way, in clothes that had got even shorter and tighter since yesterday night. It did not worry Christopher at all that he had fallen last time. He knew this way too well. And again like old times, the old men were still charming snakes in front of the city walls. They must do it for religion or something, Christopher supposed, because they did not seem to want money for it. Inside the gates, the city was still the same loud smelly place, full of goats and umbrellas, and the small shrines at the street corners were still surrounded with offerings. The only difference was that it did not seem quite so hot here as last time, though it was still plenty hot enough for someone who had just come from an English summer.
Yet, oddly enough, Christopher was not comfortable here. He was not frightened of people throwing spears. It was because, after the hushed dignity and dark clothes at the Castle, this city made every nerve he had jangle. He had a headache long before he got to the Temple of Asheth. It made him need to rest a bit among the latest pile of old cabbages in the alley, before he could muster the inclination to push his way through the wall and the creepers. The cats were still sunning themselves in the yard. No one was about.
The Goddess was in a room further along from her usual one. She was on a big white cushion that was probably a bed, with more white cushions to prop her up and a shawl over her in spite of the heat. She had grown too, though not as much as Christopher. But he thought she might be ill. She was lying there, staring into nothing, and her face was not as round as he remembered, and a good deal paler.
“Oh, thanks,” she said, as if she was thinking of something else, when Christopher dumped the parcel of books on her shawl. “I’ve nothing to swop.”
“I’m still paying for Throgmorten,” Christopher said.
“Was he that valuable?” the Goddess said listlessly. In a slow, lacklustre way she began stripping the spell off the books. Christopher was interested to see that she had no more trouble tearing it than he had. Being the Living Asheth obviously meant you were given strong magic. “These look good books,” the Goddess said politely. “I’ll read them – when I can concentrate.”
“You’re ill, aren’t you?” said Christopher. “What have you got?”
“Not germs,” the Goddess said weakly. “It’s the Festival. It was three days ago. You know it’s the one day in the year when I go out, don’t you? After months and months all quiet and dark here in the Temple, there I am suddenly out in the sun, riding in a cart, dressed in huge heavy clothes and hung with jewels, with my face covered with paint. Everyone shouts. And they all jump up on the cart and try to touch me – for luck, you know, and not as if I was a person.” Tears began slowly rolling down her face. “I don’t think they notice I’m alive. And it goes on all day, the shouting and the sun and hands banging at me until I’m bruised all over.” The tears rolled faster. “It used to be exciting when I was small,” she said. “But now it’s too much.”
The Goddess’s white cat came galloping into the room and jumped possessively on to her lap. The Goddess stroked it weakly. Like Throgmorten sitting on my bed, Christopher thought. Temple cats know when their people are upset. He thought he could understand a little, after his own feelings in the city just now, the way the Festival had felt to the Goddess.
“I think it’s being inside all year and then suddenly going out,” the Goddess explained as she stroked Bethi.
Christopher had meant to ask if it was the curse of Asheth that kept killing him all the time, but he could see this was not the moment. The Goddess needed her mind taken off Asheth. He sat down on the tiles beside her cushions. “It was clever of you to see that silver stopped me doing magic,” he said. “I didn’t know myself – not until Papa took me to Dr Pawson.” Then he told her about the levitation spell.
The Goddess smiled. When he told her about old Mrs Pawson and the chamberpot, she turned her face to him and almost laughed. It was obviously doing her so much good that he went on and told her about the Castle and Gabriel de Witt, and even managed to make that funny too. When he told her about the way he kept seeing a lion’s paw, he had her in fits of laughter.
“But that’s stupid of you!” she chuckled. “When there are things I can’t do for Mother Proudfoot, I just pretend I can. Just say you can see his hand. He’ll believe you.”
“I never thought of that,” Christopher confessed.
“No, you’re too honest,” she said, and looked at him closely. “Silver forces you to tell the truth,” she said. “The Gift of Asheth tells me. So you got into the habit of never lying.” Mentioning Asheth sobered her up. “Thank you for telling me about yourself,” she said seriously. “I think you’ve had a rotten life, even worse than mine!” Quite suddenly she was crying again. “People only want either of us for what use we are to them!” she sobbed. “You for your nine lives and me for my Goddess attributes. And both of us are caught and stuck and trapped in a life with a future all planned out by someone else – like a lo
ng, long tunnel with no way out!”
Christopher was a little astonished at this way of putting things, even though his anger at being forced to be the next Chrestomanci certainly made him feel trapped most of the time. But he saw the Goddess was mostly talking about herself. “You stop being the Living Asheth when you grow up,” he pointed out.
“Oh, I do so want to stop!” the Goddess wept. “I want to stop being her now! I want to go to school, like Millie in the Millie books. I want to do Prep and eat stodge and learn French and play hockey and write lines—”
“You wouldn’t want to write lines,” Christopher said, quite anxious at how emotional she was getting. “Honestly, you wouldn’t.”
“Yes, I do!” screamed the Goddess. “I want to cheek the Prefects and cheat in Geography tests and sneak on my friends! I want to be bad as well as good! I want to go to school and be bad, do you hear!”
By this time she was kneeling up on her cushion, with tears pouring off her face into the white cat’s fur, making more noise than Throgmorten had when Christopher ran through the Temple with him in the basket. It was not surprising that somebody in sandals came hurrying and stumbling through the rooms beyond, calling breathlessly, “Goddess, dear! Goddess! What’s wrong, love?”
Christopher spun himself round and dived through the nearest wall without bothering to get up first. He came out face down in the hot yard full of cats. There he picked himself up and sprinted for the outside wall. After that, he did not stop running until he reached the city gate. Girls! he thought. They really were a Complete Mystery. Fancy wanting to write lines!
Nevertheless, as he went up the valley and climbed through The Place Between, Christopher found himself thinking seriously about some of the things the Goddess had said. His life did indeed seem to be a long tunnel planned out by somebody else. And the reason he hated everyone so at the Castle was that he was just a Thing to them, a useful Thing with nine lives that was going to be moulded into the next Chrestomanci some day. He thought he would tell Tacroy that. Tacroy would understand. Tomorrow was Thursday, and he could see Tacroy. He thought he had never looked forward to a Thursday more.
The Chrestomanci Series Page 71