Oh my lord! Cat thought. That’s what they’ve been up to in that shed! “All right,” he said. “I’d better bring you in here. Let yourself go loose.”
By using a spur-of-the-minute mixture of conjuring and levitation, Cat managed to pull Joe off the roof and bend him round through the window and into his room. Unfortunately, this seemed to dislodge the crashed flying machine. As Joe flopped heavily on to Cat’s carpet, there was a set of long sliding sounds from above, followed by a cry of horror from Roger. Cat was only just in time to catch Roger as he fell past the window and to levitate him inside too.
“Thanks!” Roger gasped.
Both of them stood by the window, panting, pale and speckled with rain. Instead of doing as Cat would have expected and crawling away to bed, the two of them went into an anxious conference. Joe said, “Where do you reckon we went wrong then? Think it was the rain?”
Roger answered, “No. I think we got the wiring wrong on the stuffed eagle.”
Joe said, “May have to start again from scratch then.”
“No, no,” Roger said. “I’m sure we’ve got the basics. We just need to refine it some more.”
They’re mad! Cat thought. He looked past them at the wreckage. It was now hanging down across the window, growing wetter by the second. As far as Cat could see, it was a number of interlocked pieces of tables and chairs, with a three-legged stool in there somewhere, and dangling upside down in the midst of it a forlorn and draggled stuffed golden eagle. The eagle had wires coming out of it, together with a few damp tufts of herbs.
“I belong to Chrestomanci Castle,” the eagle remarked sadly. Everything in the Castle was bespelled to say this if it was taken more than a few feet from the castle walls.
“Where did you get the eagle?” Cat asked.
“It was in one of the attics,” Roger said. “We have to insulate the dandelion seeds, for a start.”
“We might try using willow herb instead,” Joe replied.
The griffin woke up. Instead of screaming for food, it sat up and stared at the two wet boys and the dangling wreckage with interest. Mopsa sat on Cat’s bed and stared too, disapprovingly.
“You can’t leave all that stuff hanging there,” Cat said.
“We know,” said Roger. “Or we could use both kinds of seeds.”
“And gear up the bikes a bit,” Joe replied.
“It’s a real nuisance,” Roger said, “having to do things at night in order not to be found out. Cat, we’ll go down into the garden. When we whistle, can you levitate the flying machine down to us? Gently, mind, in order not to break it any more.”
“I suppose so,” Cat said.
Joe went down on one knee to pet the griffin as if it were a dog. “Aren’t you soft!” he said to it. “All that fluff. Where have I seen one of you before? It’ll come down in bits, you know. Part of it got hooked on your turret.”
Cat giggled. If he had been Chrestomanci, he knew he would have said, The griffin got hooked on the turret? “All right,” he said. “I’ll send it up first, to unhook it, before I send it down. You two get down to the garden before someone notices it.”
The two aviators hurried off, both limping slightly. The griffin opened its beak.
“All right,” Cat said. “Don’t say it!”
He had time to feed the griffin a square meal before a soft whistle came from the garden below. Cat put the bowl away and leant out of the window to levitate the wreckage.
“I belong to Chrestomanci Castle,” the stuffed eagle said piteously.
“I know,” said Cat. “But this is difficult.”
The remains of the flying machine were wedged on to the turret. Cat had to spread the various bits of it apart and send them downwards piece by piece. He had no idea what most of the bits were. He simply floated them away from his roof and down to the ground. Another soft whistle and a faint chorus of voices singing “I belong to Chrestomanci Castle!” told him when all the parts had landed safely under the cedar trees. Wooden clatterings and the occasional soft clang showed that the two aviators were now hauling the stuff away, protesting that it belonged to the Castle.
“They’re mad!” Cat told Mopsa and the griffin. “Quite mad.” He went back to bed.
The griffin did not wake him again that night. In the morning, it climbed out of its basket and woke Cat by nudging him with its beak. Cat opened his eyes to find two yellow griffin eyes staring into his, interested and friendly. “Oh, I do like you!” Cat said, before he had had time to think. Then he felt guilty, because Syracuse was bound to be jealous.
Still, there was nothing to be done about Syracuse just then. Cat got dressed, while the griffin staggered around the room investigating everything Cat owned. There was no doubt that it had grown again in the night. The dark beginnings of feathers were showing on its neck and on its absurd, stubby wings.
“Isn’t it growing too quickly?” Cat asked Millie anxiously, when he had got it down to the kitchen. The griffin was now far too heavy for Cat to carry. The two of them came downstairs in a mixture of staggering and levitating – and some flopping – and the griffin looked very pleased with himself for getting there.
Millie pursed up her mouth and studied the griffin. “You have to remember,” she said, “that griffins are strongly magical creatures, and this one must have spent years inside that stasis spell in the egg. I think it’s making up for lost time. I wonder how big it’s going to be.”
Only about the size of Syracuse, Cat hoped. Any bigger would be really awkward. He was about to say so, when Millie added, “Cat, I’m worried about Roger. He seems so tired today.”
“Um,” Cat said. “He could have been up all night reading.”
“He must have been,” Millie agreed. “He had six books by his bed when I went in, all from other worlds. They were all about flying. I do hope he’s not going to do anything silly.”
“He won’t,” Cat said, because he knew Roger already had.
He left Millie shoving mince into the griffin and went to muck out Syracuse, soon done by enchanter’s methods. While Cat was grooming Syracuse, wishing that there was some magical method to do this too, Joss Callow came in.
“It’s my day off today,” Joss said. “If you want a ride, you’d better make it now before breakfast.”
“Yes, please,” Cat said.
He had Syracuse out in the yard and saddled up, and Syracuse was bouncing, tugging and dancing as usual, too glad to be ridden to let Cat get up and ride him, when Syracuse abruptly stopped dead and flung his head up. Cat looked round to see the griffin staggering enthusiastically towards them. Cat could only stare at it. He could not think what to do.
Syracuse stared too, down his upheld nose. It was hard to blame him. The griffin was such a plump, scrawny, unfinished-looking creature. It still had not got the hang of walking. It rolled from side to side, scratching the stones of the yard with its long pink claws, and whirling its stringy tail behind it. Cat could see it was terribly proud at having found him.
“It’s only a baby,” he said pleadingly to Syracuse.
As the griffin staggered near, Syracuse swayed backwards on all four feet, snorting. The griffin stopped. It stared upwards at Syracuse. Its beak fell open with what seemed to be admiration. It made a whirring noise and stretched its face up. And Syracuse, to Cat’s relief and astonishment, lowered his own shapely head and nosed the griffin’s beak. At this, the griffin’s little wings worked with excitement. It cooed, and Cat could have sworn that a grin grew at the sides of its beak. But he had to stop it when it put out a clumsy front paw that was obviously meant to be friendly but threatened to scratch Syracuse’s nose.
“That’ll do. So you like one another. That’s good,” Cat said. “How did you get out here anyway?”
Millie came dashing across the yard. “Oh, I only turned my back for a minute when Miss Bessemer came to ask about towels! And off he went. Come on, come back with Millie, little griffin. Oh, I wish he had a name, Cat!”
“Klartch,” said the griffin.
“That’s a new noise,” said Millie. “Whatever it means, you’ve got to come in, griffin.”
“No – wait,” Cat said. “I think it’s his name. Is your name Klartch, griffin?”
The griffin turned its face up to him. It was definitely smiling. “Klartch,” it said happily.
“Mr Vastion said they named themselves,” Millie said, “but I didn’t realise that meant they talked. Well, Klartch, that goes two ways. If you can talk, you can understand too. Come indoors with me at once and finish your breakfast. Now.”
The griffin made a small noise like “Yup” and followed Millie obediently back to the kitchen. Well, well! Cat thought.
Joss, who had been standing looking utterly dumbfounded, said, “That creature – where did it come from?”
“A girl called Marianne gave me his egg,” Cat said.
“Marianne did?” Joss said. “Marianne Pinhoe?” Cat nodded. Joss said dubiously, “Well, I suppose in a way she had a right to. But you’d better not let Mr Farleigh get a sight of the thing. He’d go spare.”
Cat could not really see why the sight of a baby griffin should annoy Mr Farleigh, but he was sure Joss knew. Everything seemed to annoy Mr Farleigh anyway.
Marianne did catch Uncle Charles on his way home from Woods House, but he refused to believe that Gammer could do any wrong. He laughed and said, “You have to be older to understand, my chuck. None of us Pinhoes would do a thing like that. We work with the Farleighs.”
Though this seemed to show that no one was going to believe her, Marianne went on trying to make someone understand about Gammer. Almost everyone she spoke to over the next few days said, “Gammer wouldn’t do a thing like that!” and refused to talk about it any more. Uncle Arthur gave Marianne a pat on the head and a bag of scrittlings for Nutcase. “She was a good mother to me and a good Gammer to all of us,” he said. “You never knew her in her prime.”
Marianne wondered about this. She supposed that a mother with seven sons had to be a good one, but she went and asked Mum about it all the same.
“Good mother!” Mum said. “What gave you that idea? When I was your age, my mother and her friends were always looking out cast-off clothes for your dad and his brothers, or they’d have been running round in rags. She said those boys were too scared of Gammer to tell her when they’d grown out of their things.”
“But didn’t Gammer notice their clothes?” Marianne said.
“Not that I ever saw,” Mum said. “She left the younger ones to Dad to look after.”
But Mum had never liked Gammer, Marianne thought, trying to be fair. Uncle Arthur truly believed what he had said. In many ways Uncle Arthur was very like Dad, though, always believing the best of everyone. Mum snorted whenever Dad said kind and respectful things about Gammer, and called it “rewriting history”. So where did the real truth lie? Somewhere in the middle? Marianne sighed. The facts seemed to be that no one, even Mum, was going to believe that Gammer had sent the Farleighs a plague of frogs or – Marianne stopped on her way upstairs to go on with her story of Princess Irene.
Oh, heavens! she thought. Suppose it wasn’t only frogs!
She turned and went downstairs again. “Just going down to the Dell!” she called to Mum and went straight there to talk to Aunt Dinah.
As she passed the Post Office, she was glad to see that some of Uncle Simeon’s people were now working on the ruined wall. They were working in that deceptively slow way that witchcraftly workmen did such things and the wall was nearly waist high already. That must mean that the alterations up at Woods House were almost finished, with the same deceptive, witchcraftly speed.
And here was an example of the way no one would believe any ill of Gammer, Marianne thought. Gammer had broken that Post Office wall. But everyone was treating it as an accident, or an act of God.
She had half a mind to go into the Post Office. Aunt Joy would believe her. But Aunt Joy always believed the worst of everyone. And, more importantly, no one believed Aunt Joy. Marianne went on down the lane towards the Dell. There were still a few of the charmed frogs jumping about in the hedges there. It had been impossible to catch every single one.
Aunt Dinah had surprise all over her square blonde face, when Marianne said she wanted to talk to her and not Gammer. But she led the way into her little dark kitchen, where there were fresh-cooked queen cakes on wire trays all over the table. Aunt Dinah pushed them aside, telling Marianne to eat as many as she wanted, and made them both a cup of coffee. “Now, dear. What is it?”
Marianne had decided to approach this very carefully. Sniffing the lovely smell of new cake, she said, “Does Gammer do any magic at all these days?”
Aunt Dinah looked perplexed, and a little worried. “Why do you want to know, dear?”
“Well,” Marianne said. “It looks as if I might have to be the next Gammer, doesn’t it? And I don’t really know enough.” This was perfectly true, but the next bit wasn’t. She said, in a bit of a rush, “I wondered if she was up to giving me some lessons, seeing her mind isn’t quite right these days. Does she do any workings? Does she get them wrong at all?”
“You have a point,” Aunt Dinah agreed. “But I don’t see how she can, dear. You’d be better off asking your dad to teach you. Gammer just sits these days. Of course she mutters a bit.”
“Don’t tell me,” Marianne said artificially, “that she’s still going on about the Farleighs!”
“Well, you’ve heard her,” said Aunt Dinah. “I admit she can sound quite abusive at times, but it doesn’t mean a thing, bless her!”
“Does she do anything else at all?” Marianne asked, trying to sound disappointed.
Aunt Dinah smiled and shook her head. “Nothing. She just sits and plays with things like a child. The other day she’d got hold of a rose hip and a bit of sneezewort, and she was taking them apart and twiddling them for hours.” (Oh dear! That’s itches and rashes and colds in the head! Marianne thought.) “Lately,” Aunt Dinah said, “she’s been asking for water all the time. I’ve watched her pour it from one glass to another and smile —” (What’s that for? Marianne wondered. It has to be another spell, if she smiled!) “And she mixed soot with some of it,” Aunt Dinah went on, “and made it so dirty I had to take it away from her.” (So some of it’s a filth spell, Marianne thought.) “Oh and the other day,” Aunt Dinah admitted, lowering her voice because this was disgraceful, “she caught a flea. I was so ashamed. I don’t mind her catching ants, the way she does, but a flea! I try to keep her clean as clean, but there she was, holding it and saying, “Look, Dinah, here’s a flea!” I offered to kill it for her, but she did it herself.”
So now she’s done a plague of ants and a plague of fleas! Marianne thought. Right under Aunt Dinah’s nose, too! Those poor Farleighs! No wonder they ill-chanced us!
Nerving herself up to say such a thing to a grown-up aunt, Marianne asked, “But don’t all those things seem to be spells of some kind, Aunt Dinah?” Particularly the water, Marianne thought. If she’s poisoned their water, that’s wicked!
“Oh, no, dear,” Aunt Dinah said kindly. “She’s just amusing herself, bless her. She’s left the craft behind her now.”
Marianne drew in a deep, cake-scented breath and said boldly, “I don’t think she has.”
Aunt Dinah laughed. “And I know she has. Don’t worry your head, Marianne, and get your dad to teach you. You can trust Isaac and I to look after Gammer for you.”
So here was another person who would only believe the best of Gammer, Marianne thought sadly as she got up to go. It was almost as if they were under a spell. “I’ll let myself out. Thanks for the coffee,” she told Aunt Dinah.
She strode straight through the hall and ignored Gammer’s voice, raised from behind the door of the front room. “Is that you, Marianne?” Gammer always seemed to know when Marianne was in the Dell.
“No, it isn’t!” she muttered, with her teeth clenched.
> As she marched off down the lane between the rustling, croaking hedges, Marianne considered Gammer’s spells and wished she knew how to cancel them. They would be strong. If she had any doubts about how strong, she only had to remember the blast of magic Gammer had sent at the Farleighs. That wasn’t just a plain blast, either. It was meant to send the Farleighs away, certainly, but it was also intended to make them believe that Gammer was upright and innocent and in her right mind. Gammer was an expert at interwoven spells.
“Oh!” Marianne said out loud, and almost stopped walking.
Of course Gammer had laid a spell on everyone. She didn’t want anyone to stop her getting her revenge on the Farleighs and she didn’t want to be blamed when the Farleighs fought back. So she had bespelled every single Pinhoe in the village to think only the best of her. The thing that had confused Marianne was the way she herself seemed to be immune to the spell.
Or not quite immune. Marianne walked slowly on, remembering the day they had moved Gammer out of Woods House. It had been perfectly reasonable to her then – if annoying – that Gammer should have rooted herself to her bed, and not at all unreasonable that Gammer should have chased Dolly with the kitchen table and knocked the Post Office wall down. Now she looked back on it, she saw that it was dreadful behaviour. Gammer must have been pouring on the ensorcellment that day.
But she had probably started setting the spell before that, probably while she was poltergeisting those poor nurses. None of the aunts and uncles had blamed Gammer for that – but then they almost never did blame Gammer for anything she did —
Marianne’s eyes went wide as she realised that Gammer might have been setting this spell all of Marianne’s own life. No one ever blamed Gammer. She had only to look at the Farleighs to realise how unlikely that was. The Farleighs certainly obeyed old Mr Farleigh, because he was their Gaffer, but they grumbled that he was set in his ways and very few of them liked him. But the Pinhoes treated Gammer as if she was something natural and precious, like rain in April that was good for the crops – and people grumbled about rain, but never about Gammer.
The Chrestomanci Series Page 132