Throgmorten was ginger. He was at that moment glaring at a black and white female cat, who had lowered herself into a miserable crouch while she tried to back humbly away. Throgmorten swaggered towards her, lashing a stripy snakelike tail, until the black and white cat’s nerve broke and she bolted. Then he turned to see what Christopher and the Goddess wanted.
“Isn’t he horrible?” said the Goddess. She thrust the basket at Christopher. “Hold it open and shut the lid down quick after I’ve got him into it.”
Throgmorten was, Christopher had to admit, a truly unpleasant cat. His yellow eyes stared at them with a blank and insolent leer, and there was something about the set of his ears—one higher than the other—which told Christopher that Throgmorten would attack viciously anything that got in his way. This being so, he was puzzled that Throgmorten should remind him remarkably much of Uncle Ralph. He supposed it must be the gingerness.
At this moment, Throgmorten sensed they were after him. His back arched incredulously. Then he fairly levitated up into the creepers on the wall, racing and scrambling higher and higher, until he was far above their heads.
“No you don’t!” said the Goddess.
And Throgmorten’s arched ginger body came flying out of the creepers like a furry orange boomerang and landed slap in the basket. Christopher was deeply impressed—so impressed that he was a bit slow getting the lid down. Throgmorten came pouring out over the edge of the basket again in an instant ginger stream. The Goddess seized him and crammed him back, whereupon a large number of flailing ginger legs—at least seven, to Christopher’s bemused eyes—clawed hold of her bracelets and her robe and her legs under the robe, and tore pieces off them. Christopher waited and aimed for an instant when one of Throgmorten’s heads—he seemed to have at least three, each with more fangs than seemed possible—came into range. Then he banged the basket lid on it, hard. Throgmorten, for the blink of an eye, became an ordinary dazed cat instead of a fighting devil. The Goddess shook him off into the basket. Christopher slapped the lid on. A huge ginger paw loaded with long pink razors at once oozed itself out of the latch hole and tore several strips off Christopher while he fastened the basket.
“Thanks,” he said, sucking his wounds.
“I’m glad to see the back of him,” said the Goddess, licking a slash on her arm and mopping blood off her leg with her torn robe.
A melodious voice called from the creeper-hung archway. “Goddess dear! Where are you?”
“I have to go,” whispered the Goddess. “Don’t forget the books. You swore to a swap. Coming!” she called, and went running back to the archway, clash-tink, clash-tink.
Christopher turned quickly to the wall and tried to go through it. And he could not. No matter how he tried turning that peculiar sideways way, it would not work. He knew it was Throgmorten. Holding a live cat snarling in a basket made him part of this Anywhere and he had to obey its usual rules. What was he to do? More melodious voices were calling to the Goddess in the distance, and he could see people moving inside at least two more of the archways around the yard. He never really considered putting the basket down. Uncle Ralph wanted this cat. Christopher ran for it instead, sprinting for the nearest archway that seemed to be empty.
Unfortunately the jigging of the basket assured Throgmorten that he was certainly being kidnapped. He protested about it at the top of his voice—and Christopher would never have believed that a mere cat could make such a powerful noise. Throgmorten’s voice filled the dark passages beyond the archway, wailing, throbbing, rising to a shriek like a dying vampire’s, and then falling to a strong curdled contralto howl. Then it went up to a shriek again. Before Christopher had run twenty yards, there were shouts behind him, and the slap of sandals and the thumping of bare feet. He ran faster than ever, twisting into a new passage whenever he came to one, and sprinting down that, but all the time Throgmorten kept up his yells of protest from the basket, showing the pursuers exactly where to follow. Worse, he fetched more. There were twice the number of shouts and thumping feet behind by the time Christopher saw daylight ahead. He burst out into it, followed by a jostling mob.
And it was not really daylight, but a huge confusing temple, full of worshippers and statues and fat painted pillars. The daylight was coming from great open doors a hundred yards away. Christopher could see the man with the yellow umbrella outlined beyond the doors and knew exactly where he was. He dashed for the doors, dodging pillars and sprinting around people praying. “Wong-wong—WONG-WONG!” howled Throgmorten from the basket in his hand.
“Stop thief!” screamed the people chasing him. “Arm of Asheth!”
Christopher saw a man in a silver mask, or maybe a woman—a silver-masked person anyway—standing on a flight of steps carefully aiming a spear at him. He tried to dodge, but there was no time, or the spear followed him somehow. It crashed into his chest with a jolting thud.
Things seemed to go very slowly then. Christopher stood still, clutching the howling basket, and stared disbelievingly at the shaft of the spear sticking out of his chest through his dirty shirt. He saw it in tremendous detail. It was made of beautifully polished brown wood, with words and pictures carved along it. About halfway up was a shiny silver handgrip which had designs that were almost rubbed out with wear. A few drops of blood were coming out where the wood met his shirt. The spearhead must be buried deep inside him. He looked up to see the masked person advancing triumphantly towards him. Beyond, in the doorway, Tacroy must have been fetched by the noise. He was standing frozen there, staring in horror.
Falteringly, Christopher put out his free hand and took hold of the spear by the handgrip to pull it out. And everything stopped with a bump.
5
IT WAS EARLY MORNING. Christopher realized that what had woken him was angry cat noises from the basket lying on its side in the middle of the floor. Throgmorten wanted out. Instantly. Christopher sat up beaming with triumph because he had proved he could bring a live animal from an Anywhere. Then he remembered he had a spear sticking out of his chest. He looked down. There was no sign of a spear. There was no blood. Nothing hurt. He felt his chest. Then he undid his pajamas and looked. Incredibly he saw only smooth pale skin without a sign of a wound.
He was all right. The Anywheres were really only a kind of dream after all. He laughed.
“Wong!” Throgmorten said angrily, making the basket roll about.
Christopher supposed he had better let the beast out. Remembering those spiked tearing claws, he stood up on his bed and unhitched the heavy bar that held the curtains. It was hard to maneuver with the curtains hanging from it and sliding about, but Christopher rather thought he might need the curtains to shield him from Throgmorten’s rage, so he kept them in a bunch in front of him. After a bit of swaying and prodding, he managed to get the brass point at the end of the curtain bar under the latch of the lid and open the basket.
The cat sounds stopped. Throgmorten seemed to have decided that this was a trick. Christopher waited, gently bouncing on his bed and clutching the bar and the bundle of curtain, for Throgmorten to attack. But nothing happened. Christopher leaned forward cautiously until he could see into the basket. It contained a round ginger bundle gently moving up and down. Throgmorten, disdaining freedom now he had it, had curled up and gone to sleep.
“All right then,” said Christopher. “Be like that!” With a bit of a struggle, he hitched the curtain pole back on its supports again and went to sleep himself.
Next time he woke, Throgmorten was exploring the room. Christopher lay on his back and warily watched Throgmorten jump from one piece of furniture to another all around the room. As far as he could tell, Throgmorten was not angry anymore. He seemed simply full of curiosity. Or maybe, Christopher thought, as Throgmorten gathered himself and jumped from the top of the wardrobe to the curtain pole, Throgmorten had a bet on with himself that he could get all around the night nursery without touching the floor. As Throgmorten began scrambling along the pole, hanging on
to it and the curtains with those remarkable claws of his, Christopher was sure of it.
What happened then was definitely not Throgmorten’s fault. Christopher knew it was his own fault for not putting the curtain pole back properly. The end furthest from Throgmorten and nearest Christopher came loose and plunged down like a harpoon, with the curtains rattling along it and Throgmorten hanging on frantically. For an instant, Christopher had Throgmorten’s terror-stricken eyes glaring into his own as Throgmorten rode the pole down. Then the brass end hit the middle of Christopher’s chest. It went in like the spear. It was not sharp and it was not heavy, but it went right into him all the same. Throgmorten landed on his stomach an instant later, all claws and panic. Christopher thought he screamed. Anyway either he or Throgmorten made enough noise to fetch the Last Governess running. The last thing Christopher saw for the time being was the Last Governess in her white nightdress, gray with horror, moving her hands in quick peculiar gestures and gabbling very odd words . . .
. . .He woke up a long time later, in the afternoon by the light, very sore in front and not too sure of very much, to hear Uncle Ralph’s voice.
“This is a damned nuisance, Effie, just when things were looking so promising! Is he going to be all right?”
“I think so,” the Last Governess replied. The two of them were standing by Christopher’s bed. “I got there in time to say a staunching spell and it seems to be healing.” While Christopher was thinking, Funny, I didn’t know she was a witch! she went on, “I haven’t dared breathe a word to your sister.”
“Don’t,” said Uncle Ralph. “She has her plans for him cut and dried, and she’ll put a stop to mine if she finds out. Drat that cat! I’ve got things set up all over the Related Worlds on the strength of that first run and I don’t want to cancel them. You think he’ll recover?”
“In time,” said the Last Governess. “There’s a strong spell in the dressing.”
“Then I shall have to postpone everything,” Uncle Ralph said, not sounding at all pleased. “At least we’ve got the cat. Where’s the thing got to?”
“Under the bed. I tried to fetch it out but I just got scratched for my pains,” said the Last Governess.
“Women!” said Uncle Ralph. “I’ll get it.” Christopher heard his knees thump on the floor. His voice came up from underneath. “Here. Nice pussy. Come here, pussy.”
There was a very serious outbreak of cat noises.
Uncle Ralph’s knees went thumping away backwards and his voice said quite a string of bad words. “The creature’s a perfect devil!” he added. “It’s torn lumps off me!” Then his voice came from higher up and further away. “Don’t let it get away. Put a holding spell on this room until I get back.”
“Where are you going?” the Last Governess asked.
“To fetch some thick leather gloves and a vet,” Uncle Ralph said from by the door. “That’s an Asheth Temple cat. It’s almost priceless. Wizards will pay five hundred pounds just for an inch of its guts or one of its claws. Its eyes will fetch several thousand pounds each—so make sure you set a good tight spell. It may take me an hour or so to find a vet.”
There was silence after that. Christopher dozed. He woke up feeling so much better that he sat up and took a look at his wound. The Last Governess had efficiently covered it with smooth white bandage. Christopher peered down inside it with great interest. The wound was a round red hole, much smaller than he expected. It hardly hurt at all.
While he wondered how to find out how deep it was, there was a piercing wail from the windowsill behind him. He looked around. The win-dow was open—the Last Governess had a passion for fresh air—and Throgmorten was crouched on the sill beside it, glaring appealingly. When he saw Christopher was looking, Throgmorten put out one of his razor-loaded paws and scraped it down the space between the window and the frame. The empty air made a sound like someone scratching a blackboard.
“Wong,” Throgmorten commanded.
Christopher wondered why Throgmorten should think he was on his side. One way and another, Throgmorten had half-killed him.
“Wong?” Throgmorten asked piteously.
On the other hand, Christopher thought, none of the half-killing had been Throgmorten’s fault. And though Throgmorten was probably the ugliest and most vicious cat in any Anywhere, it did not seem fair to kidnap him and drag him to a strange world and then let him be sold to wizards, parcel by parcel.
“All right,” he said and climbed out of bed. Throgmorten stood up eagerly, with his thin ginger snake of a tail straight up behind. “Yes, but I’m not sure how to break spells,” Christopher said, approaching very cautiously. Throgmorten backed away and made no attempt to scratch. Christopher put his hand out to the open part of the window. The empty space felt rubbery and gave when he pressed it, but he could not put his hand through even if he shoved it hard. So he did the only thing he could think of and opened the window wider. He felt the spell tear like a rather tough cobweb.
“Wong!” Throgmorten uttered appreciatively. Then he was off. Christopher watched him gallop down a slanting drain and levitate to a windowsill when the drain stopped. From there it was an easy jump to the top of a bay window and then to the ground. Throgmorten’s ginger shape went trotting away into the bushes and squeezed under the next-door fence, already with the air of looking for birds to kill and other cats to bully. Christopher put the window carefully back the way it had been and got back to bed.
When he woke up next Mama was outside the door saying anxiously, “How is he? I hope it’s not infectious.”
“Not in the least, Madam,” said the Last Governess.
So Mama came in, filling the room with her scents—which was just as well, since Throgmorten had left his own penetrating odor under the bed—and looked at Christopher. “He seems a bit pale,” she said. “Do we need a doctor?”
“I saw to all that, Madam,” said the Last Governess.
“Thank you,” said Mama. “Make sure it doesn’t interrupt his education.”
When Mama had gone, the Last Governess fetched her umbrella and poked it under the bed and behind the furniture, looking for Throgmorten. “Where has it got to?” she said, climbing up to jab at the space on top of the wardrobe.
“I don’t know,” Christopher said truthfully, since he knew Throgmorten would be many streets away by now. “He was here before I went to sleep.”
“It’s vanished!” said the Last Governess. “A cat can’t just vanish!”
Christopher said experimentally, “He was an Asheth Temple cat.”
“True,” said the Last Governess. “They are wildly magic by all accounts. But your uncle’s not going to be at all pleased to find it gone.”
This made Christopher feel decidedly guilty. He could not go back to sleep, and when, about an hour later, he heard brisk heavy feet approaching the door, he sat up at once, wondering what he was going to say to Uncle Ralph. But the man who came in was not Uncle Ralph. He was a total stranger—No, it was Papa! Christopher recognized the black whiskers. Papa’s face was fairly familiar too, because it was quite like his own, except for the whiskers and a solemn, anxious look. Christopher was astonished because he had somehow thought—without anyone ever having exactly said so—that Papa had left the house in disgrace after whatever went wrong with the money.
“Are you all right, son?” Papa said, and the hurried, worried way he spoke, and the way he looked around nervously at the door, told Christopher that Papa had indeed left the house and did not want to be found here. This made it plain that Papa had come specially to see Christopher, which astonished Christopher even more.
“I’m quite well, thank you,” Christopher said politely. He had not the least idea how to talk to Papa, face-to-face. Politeness seemed safest.
“Are you sure?” Papa asked, staring attentively at him. “The life-spell I have for you showed—In fact it stopped, as if you were—um—Frankly I thought you might be dead.”
Christopher was more aston
ished still. “Oh no, I’m feeling much better now,” he said.
“Thank God for that!” said Papa. “I must have made an error setting the spell—it seems a habit with me just now. But I have drawn up your horoscope, too, and checked it several times, and I must warn you that the next year and a half will be a time of acute danger for you, my son. You must be very careful.”
“Yes,” said Christopher. “I will.” He meant it. He could still see the curtain rod coming down if he shut his eyes. And he had to keep trying not to think at all of the way the spear had stuck out of him.
Papa leaned a little closer and looked fur-tively at the door again. “That brother of your mama’s—Ralph Argent—I hear he’s managing your mama’s affairs,” he said. “Try to have as little to do with him as you can, my son. He is not a nice person to know.” And having said that, Papa patted Christopher’s shoulder and hurried away. Christopher was quite relieved. One way and another, Papa had made him very uncomfortable. Now he was even more worried about what he would say to Uncle Ralph.
But to his great relief, the Last Governess told him that Uncle Ralph was not coming. He said that he was too annoyed about losing Throgmorten to make a good sick-visitor. Christopher sighed thankfully and settled down to enjoy being an invalid. He drew pictures, he ate grapes, he read books, and he spun out his illness as long as he could. This was not easy. The next morning his wound was only a round itchy scab, and on the third day it was hardly there at all. On the fourth day, the Last Governess made him get up and have lessons as usual; but it had been lovely while it lasted.
On the day after that, the Last Governess said, “Your uncle wants to try another experiment tomorrow. He wants you to meet the man at Series Eight this time. Do you think you feel well enough?”
The Lives of Christopher Chant Page 5