“Where will you take him to?” said Sally.
“Paris,” said the Englishman. “I expect you will be coming too, young lady.”
“No thank you,” said Sally. “I want to take Maddox to Weymouth as soon as Geoffrey’s foot is better. If you could find us another horse, we could ride down. And we’ll need some money. The weatherman stole all ours.”
The General grunted and sucked his lower lip over the little moustache.
“We had expected Mr. Tinker to come to Paris to make a report,” said the Englishman.
“Can you make me?” said Geoffrey. “I’ll come if I have to, but I’d much rather not. We don’t know anything, Sally and I. He went when we came. I’ll write to Lord Montagu and explain about the Rolls. It was struck by lightning.”
“You have already one horse?” barked the General.
Geoffrey pointed. Maddox was coming disconsolately around the courtyard looking for tender fragments of green weed and finding nothing. Some he’d eaten already, and the rest the earthquake had obliterated. He was in a bitter temper, but stumped over toward the steps to see if Sally had any horse bait left. The General was in the way. Maddox plodded toward him, snarling, then stopped. For a moment these two manifestations of absolute willpower gazed at each other; then the General laughed his yapping laugh and stepped aside.
“I am no more astonished that you have succeeded. With a weapon of that caliber.”
The staff officers smiled obediently.
“Thomas,” said the General, “envoyez des hommes chercher un bon cheval. Au delà de ces collines j’ai vu des petites fermes. We will talk to Mr. Furbelow in Paris. Goodbye, M’sieu.”
As the stretcher-bearers stooped to the poles Mr. Furbelow turned to the children.
“I trust I shall see you again, my dears,” he said. “I have much to thank you for.”
“You are not alone,” barked the General. “I too, England too, all have much to thank them for.”
“The General will send you to Weymouth to stay with us,” said Sally, “when your leg’s better.”
“I should appreciate that,” said Mr. Furbelow.
He was lifted into a helicopter, which heaved itself rowdily off the ground, tilted its tail up and headed south. Five soldiers left to look for a second horse, but before they’d been gone ten minutes there was a noise of baying, followed by shots.
“Oh, Lord,” said Geoffrey, “I forgot about the wolves. I hope your men are all right.”
The Englishman grinned. “Excellent practice,” he said.
“This Mr. Furbelow,” snapped the General, “he will tell me the truth.”
“Yes,” said Geoffrey, “as much as he knows.”
The General looked at him, sucking his moustache, for ages.
“Could somebody please look at my ankle?” said Geoffrey.
The third man shouted again, and one of the stretchermen ran over. He had very strong, efficient hands, like tools designed to do a particular job, and he dressed Geoffrey’s leg with ointments and a tight bandage. He spoke friendlily to Geoffrey in French, which the Englishman translated. Apparently there was only a mild strain, but the pain was caused by bruising. The General strutted off to listen to a radio in one of the helicopters. Watching him, Geoffrey realized why he had been so helpful about sending them back to Weymouth: it wouldn’t do to have two heroes returning to France.
The soldiers began to lounge at their posts, but still kept a sharp watch on the forest, a ring of modern weapons directed outward against an enemy who all the time lay in their midst, deep under the ridged rock, sleeping away the centuries.
They rode south three days later. The General had left six men to guard them, and together they went up the higher track. Half the oaks had fallen in the earthquake, and the ride was blocked every few yards. They saw no wolves. On the shoulder of the hill they said good-bye to their escort and went on alone.
The countryside was in a strange state. At almost every cottage gate there would be a woman standing to ask for news. On the first day, as they passed a group of farm buildings, they heard a wild burst of cheering and a rusty tractor chugged out into the open followed by a gang of excited men. Later they passed a car which had been pushed out into the road. Tools lay all around it and a man was sitting on the bank with his head between oily hands. The sky was busy with airplanes. They bought lunch at a store which was full of people who hadn’t really come to buy anything, but only to swap stories and rumors. One woman told how she’d found herself suddenly wide awake in the middle of the night and had stretched out, for the first time in five years, to switch on the bedside light. Other people nodded. They’d done the same. Another woman came in brandishing a can opener, and was immediately besieged with requests to borrow it. There was an old man who blamed the whole thing on the atom bomb, and got into an angry argument with another old man who thought it had all been done by Communists.
While they were eating their lunch it began to rain. They sheltered under a chestnut tree, but the rain didn’t stop and drips began to seep between the broad leaves.
“Oh, Jeff, please stop it!”
Geoffrey felt under his jerkin for the gold robe, but didn’t put it on. He realized, with a shock of regret, that now that the Necromancer lay asleep again other things had settled back into place, and his own powers were gone. Nothing that he could do would alter the steady march of weeping clouds, or call down perfect summers, or summon snow for Christmas. Not ever again.
And the English air would soon be reeking with petrol fumes.
A Biography of Peter Dickinson
Peter Dickinson is a tall, elderly, bony, beaky, wrinkled sort of fellow, with a lot of untidy gray hair and a weird, hooting voice—in fact, he looks and sounds a bit like Gandalf’s crazy twin, but he’s just rather absentminded, thinking about something else, or daydreaming.
He was born in the middle of Africa, within earshot of the Victoria Falls. Baboons sometimes came into the school playground. When people went swimming in the Zambezi they did it in a big wooden cage let down into the water so that the crocs couldn’t get at them. For the hot weather the family went south to his grandfather’s sheep and ostrich farm in South Africa.
When Peter was seven the family came back to England so that he and his brothers could go to English schools, where they taught him mostly Latin and Greek. He didn’t have an English lesson after he was twelve, and nobody ever told him to write a story. He was fairly good at games.
He’s led an ordinary kind of life—not much by way of adventures, but some silly things. Such as? Well, when he had to join the army just after World War II, they managed to turn him into two people, so he was bashing away at infantry training at a camp in Northern Ireland when two seasick military policemen showed up and tried to arrest him for being a deserter from a different camp in the South of England, where his other self was supposed to be bashing away.
He was tutoring a boy in a huge old castle in Scotland when the butler (it was that sort of household) said to him at breakfast one day, “Ah, sir, it’s a long time since we heard screams coming from the West Wing!” (Peter’s screams, not the boy’s.)
And he was knocked down by a tram on his way to the interview for his first job with the magazine Punch and arrived all covered with blood and dirt, but they gave him the job because he was the only candidate. He stayed there seventeen years.
He and his first wife had two daughters and two sons, and he now has six grandchildren. He and his second wife, the American writer Robin McKinley, live in an almost-too-pretty country town in the South of England.
Peter says he didn’t become a writer. He just is one and always has been, ever since he can remember, the way a goldfish is a goldfish and can’t be anything else. Go to a zoo and look at one of the big birds, a condor, say, a creature made to soar above the Andes. They’ve probably clipped one of its wings so that it can’t hurt itself trying to fly around its cage, but it’s still a creature made to soar above the
Andes. If you somehow stopped Peter writing, he’d still be a writer.
But he was a poet and a journalist before he started on books. He tried a murder story first, but got stuck halfway through. Then he had a science fiction–y kind of nightmare and decided to turn it into a children’s story, mainly to see if writing it would unstick the other book. (It did. That book won a prize for the best murder story of the year, and the children’s book was made into a TV series.)
Since then Peter has written almost sixty books, most of them on a little old portable typewriter—one draft to see what he’s got and what else he needs to know and so on, then a bit of research, then a complete rewrite, beginning to end, and then, if all’s well, only a bit more tinkering. Sometimes it used to take a few months, sometimes a year or more. A few years back he moved over to a PC. It makes writing seem a very different kind of process—easier in some ways, harder in others.
The ideas come from all over the place—daydreams, sometimes, or a kid on a long car trip saying, “Tell us a new story, Dad.” Or something he’s heard or read—a voice on the radio saying, “Even a hardened government soldier may hesitate a fatal half second before he guns down a child.” For the best of them it feels as if the book had knocked on the door of Peter’s mind and said, “Write me.” Then he’ll spend half a year or more letting the stranger in and finding out who or what it is.
Peter has written all sorts of books—crime mainly for adults, though some of these are almost straight literary novels. For children, he has written fantasies, historical fiction, modern adventure, science fiction, and so on. There won’t be many more. They used to come gushing out of the hillside like a mountain stream. Then he had to lift them up bucket by bucket from deeper and deeper wells, but now the wells are empty. He says.
Peter Dickinson was the second of four sons of a British colonial civil servant and a South African farmer’s daughter, born December 16, 1927, in the middle of Africa, in Livingstone, Northern Rhodesia (now Zambia).
Here are Peter and his brother Richard as children in Africa, where many of Peter’s books take place. In fact, he used this photo as a pivotal clue in Perfect Gallows.
The family came “home” in 1935 so that the boys could go to British boarding schools, but within a few months, when Peter was seven, their father died suddenly of a strangulated gut, leaving their mother with very little money. Their British relations were close knit and supportive, and in 1936 Peter was sent to Saint Ronan’s, a prep school in Worthing with a charismatic headmaster named Dick Harris. Pictured here are Peter (in the red jersey), age eight, with his mother, elder brother, Richard, and younger brother Hugh.
This is a photo taken in 1936 during a family holiday at Stutton. The Fisons had been very good friends with Peter’s father and stayed close to his family after his death. They invited the Dickinsons to stay with them for several vacations at their house on one of the Suffolk inlets. They would spend most of the day in boats on a local pond or on the nearby beach. Here you can see the kids lined up on the beach from tallest to shortest. From left to right: Elizabeth Fison, Peter’s brother Richard, Peter, Gay Fison, and Peter’s youngest brother, David. Peter doesn’t remember why his brother Hugh is not in this picture. Perhaps he was taking the photo.
Here’s a picture from 1937. One of Peter’s aunts had a home on the Sussex coast at Littlestone, and Peter’s family used to go there during school vacations. Peter remembers that they used to play a lot of games there, including a family version of hide-and-seek. Here you can see them taking a break for some ice cream. From left to right: Peter’s cousin Anthony Butterwick, Richard, Peter, and Hugh. David was too young then to play these sorts of games.
When the German invasion of England looked imminent, St. Ronan’s was evacuated to Bicton Park, a great red-brick Georgian house in the idyllic setting of a large deer park in Devon. Peter’s novel Hindsight is based on his time here. The curriculum was mainly Latin, Greek, and math, with some French, history, and geography, and only one English class a week. Peter was never asked to write a story, either while at St. Ronan’s or later.
In 1941 Peter took the scholarship exam for Eton against the advice of Dick Harris, who thought he wasn’t up to it. But his math score saved him, even though he was the bottom scholar in a bad year, just as his father had been, and he was accepted. After an uncertain start at Eton, Peter enjoyed his time there. He turned out to be fairly good at the bizarre versions of soccer they played, and was elected to Pop, the equally bizarre society of school prefects chosen not by the authorities but by the students themselves.
In 1948 Peter went to King’s College, Cambridge, on a closed exhibition (a minor sort of scholarship, exclusive to Etonians). He feels he wasted his time there and worked ineffectually, having taken little part in the many extracurricular activities on offer. After a year he switched from classics to English studies. He failed to get the hoped-for first in his finals, but the college gave him a bursary to study for a PhD. Halfway through this, he walked into the dean’s office. The dean looked up from the letter he was reading and asked, “Would you like a job on Punch?”
Peter Dickinson at an editorial meeting at Punch in the early 1950s. (Photo credit: Picture Post, Bert Hardy)
Peter and Mary Rose Barnard (1926–1988) were married at Bramdean, Hampshire, on April 26, 1953. She was the daughter of a naval officer who was senior enough to ride a white horse along with the other Lords of the Admiralty in the coronation procession for Queen Elizabeth. Peter and Mary set up house in an apartment in Pimlico, he continuing at Punch and she working in the display department of Heal’s furniture store.
In 1955 Philippa Dickinson was born at Wingrave, near Aylesbury, Bucks; Polly arrived thirteen months later in a small house behind Harrods in London; John came five years after that; and James followed eighteen months after John in the terrace house in Notting Dale, London, where the family lived for the next twenty years. Here the family is pictured at the weekend cottage on a hill above Crondall, Hampshire, with a marvelous view northeastward over the village and across miles of countryside. This is the setting for The Devil’s Children, the third book in the Changes Trilogy.
Peter loved reading to his children at bedtime and carried on doing so long after they learned to read for themselves. Here he is reading to John and James in 1967.
Peter’s author photo from the jacket of The Seventh Raven, taken by Faye Godwin in 1981.
In 1990 Peter was asked to give a talk at a conference in Boston and arranged to take advantage of the free Atlantic flights by seeing various people in New York the following week. Vastly underestimating the distances involved, he invited himself to stay with Robin McKinley, author of The Red Magician, in Maine for the intervening weekend. The result was like a car accident, changing lives. Within ten days of his return, they had arranged by telephone that she would lease her house and come and live with him in England. They married on January 3, 1991.
Peter and Robin love traveling with their dogs. They have often explored the outer fringes of the British Isles, taking the dogs with them.
Peter’s wonderful family during Christmas in 2002.
In 2009 Peter was appointed an Officer of the Order of the British Empire for services to children’s literature in the Queen’s birthday honors list.
Peter currently resides in southern England with Robin. He now has six grandchildren.
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All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictiti
ously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Devil’s Children copyright © 1970, 1986 by Peter Dickinson
The Devil’s Children introduction copyright © 1975 by Peter Dickinson
Heartsease copyright © 1969, 1986 by Peter Dickinson
Heartsease introduction copyright © 1975 by Peter Dickinson
The Weathermonger copyright © 1968, 1986 by Peter Dickinson
The Weathermonger introduction copyright © 1975 by Peter Dickinson
Introductions to The Devil’s Children, Heartsease, and The Weathermonger were first published in Great Britain by Gollancz
Cover design by Mimi Bark
ISBN: 978-1-5040-0138-0
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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The Changes Trilogy Page 44