Witch Week (UK)

by Diana Wynne Jones

  “What enchanter?” Brian said rudely. But of course no one dared leave the trees. They all waited, with their backs prickling, while the voices of policemen came slowly nearer. Finally, they seemed to be just outside the trees.

  “Nothing,” they heard the policeman saying. “Everyone go back and concentrate on the woods. Hills and MacIver, you two go down and see what those motorists by the hedge are waving about. The rest of you get the dogs back to that tent and start again from there.”

  After that, the voices all went away. Everyone relaxed a little, and Nan even began to hope that the stranger might be some help. But then he went all plaintive again. “Would one of you tell me where we are now?” he said.

  “Just outside Larwood Forest,” Nan said. “Hertfordshire.”

  “In England, the British Isles, the world, the solar system, the Milky Way, the Universe,” Brian said scornfully.

  “Ah yes,” said the man. “But which one?” Brian stared. “I mean,” the man said patiently, “do you happen to know which world, galaxy, universe, et cetera? There happen to be infinite numbers of them, and unless I know which this one is, I shall not find it very easy to help you.”

  This gave Charles a very strange feeling. He thought of outer space and bug-eyed monsters and his stomach turned over. His eyes ran over the man’s elegant jacket, fascinated, trying to make out if there was room under it for an extra pair of arms. There was not. The man was obviously a human being. “You’re not really from another world, are you?” he said.

  “I am precisely that,” said the man. “Another world full of people just like you, running side by side with this one. There are myriads of them. So which one is this one?”

  As far as most of them knew, the world was just the world. Everyone looked blank, except Estelle. Estelle said shyly, “There is one other world. It’s the one the witches’ rescue people send witches into to be safe.”

  “Ah!” The man turned to Estelle, and Estelle blushed violently. “Tell me about this safe world.”

  Estelle shook her head. “I don’t know any more,” she whispered, overwhelmed.

  “Then let’s get at it another way,” the man suggested. “You tell me all the events that led up to you summoning me here—”

  “Is Chrestomanci your name then?” Estelle interrupted in an adoring whisper.

  “I’m usually called that. Yes,” said the man. “Was it you who summoned me then?”

  Estelle nodded. “Some spell!” Brian said jeeringly.

  Brian was plainly determined not to help in any way. He stayed scornfully silent while the rest of them explained the events which had led up to their being here. Nobody told Chrestomanci quite everything. Brian’s contemptuous look made it all feel like a pack of lies anyway. Nan did not mention her meeting with Mr. Wentworth on his hearthrug. She felt rather noble not saying anything about that, considering the way Brian was behaving. She did not mention the way she had described the food, either, though Charles did. On the other hand, Charles did not feel the need to mention the Simon Says spell. Nirupam told Chrestomanci about that, but he somehow forgot to say that Dan Smith had eaten Charles’s shoes. And when the rest of them had finished, Chrestomanci looked at Brian.

  “Your narrative now, please,” he said politely.

  It was a very powerful politeness. Everyone had thought that Brian was not going to tell anything at all, but, grudgingly, he did. First he admitted to causing the birds in music. Then he claimed that Charles had advised him in the night to run away from school and confuse his trail by blaming the witch. And, while Charles was still stuttering with anger over that, Brian coolly explained that he had discovered Charles was a witch the next morning anyway and got Charles to take him to the matron so that the matron could see the effects of the Evil Eye at first hand. Finally, more grudgingly still, he confessed that he had written the anonymous note to Mr. Crossley and started everything. Then, as an afterthought, he turned on Nan.

  “And you kept stealing my broomstick, didn’t you?”

  “It’s not yours. It belongs to the school,” said Nan.

  At the same time, Charles was saying angrily to Chrestomanci, “It’s not true I advised him to blame the witch!”

  Chrestomanci was staring vaguely up into the beech trees and did not seem to hear. “The situation is quite impossible,” he remarked. “Let us all go and see the old lady who used to run the witches’ rescue service.”

  This struck them all as an excellent idea. It was clear the old lady could rescue them if she wanted. They agreed vigorously. Nirupam said, “But the police—”

  “Invisibly, of course,” said Chrestomanci. He was still obviously thinking of something else. He turned to walk away between the tree trunks, and, as he did so, everyone flicked out of sight. All that could be seen was the rustling circle of autumn beeches. “Come along,” said Chrestomanci’s voice.

  There followed a minute or so of almost indescribable confusion. It started with Nan assuming she had no body and walking into a tree. She was just as solid as ever, and knocked herself quite silly for a second. “Oh, sorry!” she said to the tree. The rest of them somehow forced their way under the low branches and found themselves out in the field. There, the first thing everybody saw was two cars parked almost in the hedge below, and a number of people from the cars leaning over the hedge to talk to two policemen. From the way all the people kept pointing up at the woods, it was clear they were describing how they saw two witches ride across the road on a mop and a hoe. That panicked everyone. They all set off the other way, towards the town, in a hurry. But as soon as they did, they saw that there was no one ahead of them and waited for the rest to catch up. Then they heard someone speak some way ahead, and ran to catch up. But of course they could not tell where the people they were running after were. Shortly, nobody knew where anybody was or what to do about it.

  “Perhaps,” Chrestomanci’s voice said out of the air, “you could all bring yourselves to hold hands? I have no idea where the Old Gate House is, you see.”

  Thankfully, everyone grabbed for everyone else. Nan found herself holding Brian’s hand and Charles Morgan’s. She had never thought the time would come when she would be glad to do that. Estelle had managed to be the one holding Chrestomanci’s hand. That became clear when the line of them began to move briskly down to the path that led into town and Estelle’s voice could be heard in front, piping up in answer to Chrestomanci’s questions.

  As soon as there was no chance of anyone else hearing them, Chrestomanci began asking a great many questions. He asked who was prime minister, and which were the most important countries, and what was the EEC, and how many world wars there had been. Then he asked about things from history. Before long, everyone was giving him answers, and feeling a little superior, because it was really remarkable the number of things Chrestomanci seemed not to know. He had heard of Hitler, though he asked Brian to refresh his memory about him, but he had only the haziest notion about Gandhi or Einstein, and he had never heard of Walt Disney or reggae. Nor had he heard of Dulcinea Wilkes. Nan explained about Dulcinea, and found herself saying, with great pride, that she was descended from Dulcinea.

  Why am I saying that? she thought, in sudden alarm. I don’t really know it’s safe to tell him! And yet, as soon as she thought that, Nan began to see why she had said it. It was the way Chrestomanci was asking those questions. It reminded Nan of the time she had kept coming out in a rash, and her aunt had taken her to a very important specialist. The specialist had worn a very good suit, though it was nothing like as beautiful as Chrestomanci’s, and he had asked questions in just the same way, trying to get at Nan’s symptoms. Remembering this specialist made Nan feel a lot more hopeful. If you thought of Chrestomanci, in spite of his vagueness and his elegance, as a sort of specialist trying to solve their problems, then you could believe that he might just be able to help them. He was certainly a strong and expert witch. Perhaps he could make the old lady send them somewhere really safe.<
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  When the path led them into the busy streets of the town, Chrestomanci stopped asking questions, but it was clear to Nan that he went on finding symptoms. He made everyone stop while he examined a truck parked by the supermarket. It was just an ordinary truck with Leyland on the front of it and Heinz Meanz Beanz on the side, but Chrestomanci murmured “Good Lord!” as if he was really astonished, before dragging them over to look through the windows of the supermarket. Then he towed them up and down in front of some cars. This part was really frightening. The car windows, the hubcaps, and the glass of the supermarket all showed faint, misty reflections of the six of them. They were quite sure some of the people who were shopping would notice any second.

  At last, Chrestomanci let Estelle drag him up the street as far as the tatty draper’s where nobody ever seemed to buy anything. “How long have you had decimal currency?” he asked. While they were telling him, the misty reflection in the draper’s window showed his tall shape bending to look at some packets of tights and a dingy blue nylon nightdress. “What are these stockings made of?”

  “Nylon, of course!” snapped Charles. He was wondering whether to let go of Nan’s hand and run away.

  Estelle, feeling much the same, heaved on Chrestomanci’s hand and led them all in a rush to the doorway of the Old Gate House. She dragged them up the steps and hurriedly rang the bell before Chrestomanci could ask any more questions.

  “There was no need to disturb her,” Chrestomanci remarked. As he said it, the pointed porch dissolved away around them. Instead, they were in an old-fashioned drawing room, full of little tables with bobbly cloths on and ornaments on the cloth. The old lady was reaching for her stick and trying to lever herself out of her chair, muttering something about “An endless stream of callers today!”

  Chrestomanci flicked into sight, tall and elegant and somehow very much in place in that old-fashioned room. Estelle, Nan, Charles, Nirupam, and Brian also flicked into sight, and they looked as much out of place as people could be. The old lady sank back in her chair and stared.

  “Forgive the intrusion, madam,” Chrestomanci said.

  The old lady beamed up at him. “What a splendid surprise!” she said. “No one’s appeared like this for years! Forgive me if I don’t get up. My knees are very arthritic these days. Would you care for some tea?”

  “We won’t trouble you, madam,” said Chrestomanci. “We came because I understand you are a keeper of some kind of way through.”

  “Yes, I am,” said the old lady. She looked dubious. “If you all have to use it, I suppose you have to, but it will take us hours. It’s down in the cellar, you see, hidden from the inquisitors under seven tons of coal.”

  “I assure you, we haven’t come to ask you to heave coal, madam,” said Chrestomanci. No, Charles thought, looking at Chrestomanci’s white shirt cuffs. It will be us that does that. “What I really need to know,” Chrestomanci went on, “is just which world it is on the other side of the way through.”

  “I haven’t seen it,” the old lady said regretfully. “But I’ve always understood that it’s a world exactly like ours, only with no witchcraft.”

  “Thank you. I wonder—” said Chrestomanci. He seemed to have gone very vague again. “What do you know of Dulcinea Wilkes? Was there much witchcraft here before her day?”

  “The Archwitch? Good gracious, yes!” said the old lady. “There were witches all over the place long before Dulcinea. I think it was Oliver Cromwell who made the first laws against witches, but it may be before that. Somebody did once tell me that Elizabeth I was probably a witch. Because of the storm which wrecked the Spanish Armada, you know.”

  Nan watched Chrestomanci nodding as he listened to this and realized that he was collecting symptoms again. She sighed, and wondered whether to offer to start shoveling the coal.

  Chrestomanci sighed a little too. “Pity,” he said. “I was hoping the Archwitch was the key to the problems here. Perhaps Oliver Cromwell—?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not a historian,” the old lady said firmly. “And you won’t find many people who know much more. Witch history is banned. All those kinds of books were burned long ago.”

  Charles, who was as impatient as Nan, butted in here. “Mr. Wentworth knows a lot of witch history, but—”

  “Yes!” Nan interrupted eagerly. “If you really want to know, you could summon Mr. Wentworth here. He’s a witch too, so it wouldn’t matter.” Here she realized that Brian was giving her a glare almost up to Charles Morgan’s standards, and that Charles himself was staring at her wildly. “Yes, he is,” she said. “You know he is, Brian. I met him out flying on his hearthrug last night, and he thought I was you on your broomstick.”

  That explained everything, Charles thought. The night Mr. Wentworth had vanished, he had gone out flying. The window had been wide open and, now he understood, Charles could remember distinctly the bald place in front of the gas fire where the ragged hearthrug had been. And it explained that time in detention, too, when he had thought his glasses were broken. They were broken, and Mr. Wentworth had restored them by witchcraft.

  “Can’t you keep your big mouth shut?” Brian said furiously to Nan. He pointed to Chrestomanci. “How do we know he’s safe? For all we know, he could be the Devil that you summoned up!”

  “Oh, you flatter me, Brian,” Chrestomanci said.

  The old lady looked shocked. “What an unpleasant thing to say,” she said to Brian. “Hasn’t anyone told you that the Devil, however he appears, is never a perfect gentleman? Quite unlike this Mr.—er—Mr.—?” She looked at Chrestomanci with her eyebrows politely raised.

  “Chrestomanci, madam,” he said. “Which reminds me. I wish you would tell me how you came to give Estelle and Nan my name.”

  The old lady laughed. “Was that what the spell was? I had no idea. It has been handed down in my family from my great-grandmother’s time, with strict instructions that it’s only to be used in an emergency. And those two poor girls were in such trouble—but I refuse to believe you can be that old, my dear sir.”

  Chrestomanci smiled. “No. Brian will be sorry to hear that the spell must have been meant to call one of my predecessors. Now. Shall we go? We must go to your school and consult Mr. Wentworth, evidently.”

  They stared at him, even the old lady. Then, as it dawned on them that Chrestomanci was not going to let them go into the coal cellar to safety, everyone broke out into protest. Brian, Charles, and Nan said, “Oh no! Please!” The old lady said, “Aren’t you taking rather a risk?” at the same moment as Nirupam said, “But I told you there’s an inquisitor coming to school!” And Estelle added, “Couldn’t we just all stay here quietly while you go and see Mr. Wentworth?”

  Chrestomanci looked from Estelle to Nirupam, to Nan, and then at Brian and Charles. He seemed astounded, and not vague at all. The room seemed to go very quiet and sinister and unloving. “What’s all this?” he said. It was so gentle that they all shivered. “I did understand you, didn’t I? The five of you, between you, turn your school upside down. You cause what I am sure is a great deal of trouble to a great many teachers and policemen. You summon me a long way from some extremely important business, in a manner which makes it very difficult for me to get back. And now you all propose just to walk out and leave the mess you’ve made. Is that what you mean?”

  “I didn’t summon you,” said Brian.

  “It wasn’t our fault,” Charles said. “I didn’t ask to be a witch.”

  Chrestomanci looked at him with faint, chilly surprise. “Didn’t you?” The way he said it made Charles actually wonder, for a moment, if he had somehow chosen to be born a witch. “And so,” said Chrestomanci, “you think your troubles give you a right to get this lady into much worse trouble with the inquisitors? Is that what you all say?”

  Nobody said anything.

  “I think we shall be going now,” Chrestomanci said, “if you would all hold one another’s hands again, please.” Wordlessly, they all held out hands
and took hold. Chrestomanci took hold of Brian’s, but, before he took hold of Estelle’s in the other hand, he took the old lady’s veined and knobby hand and kissed it. The old lady was delighted. She winked excitedly at Nan over Chrestomanci’s smooth head. Nan did not even feel up to smiling back. “Lead the way, Estelle,” Chrestomanci said, straightening up and taking Estelle’s hand. They found themselves invisible again. And, the same instant, they were outside in the street.

  Estelle set off toward Larwood House. If it had been anybody else but Estelle in the lead, Charles thought, they might have thought of taking the line of them somewhere else—anywhere else—because Chrestomanci would not know. But Estelle led them straight to school, and everyone else shuffled after, too crushed and nervous to do anything else. Brian was the only one who protested. Whenever there were no people about, his voice could be heard saying that it wasn’t fair. “What did you girls have to fetch him for?” he kept saying.

  By the time they were through the school gates and shuffling up the drive, Brian gave up protesting. Estelle led them to the main door, the grand one, which was only used for parents or visitors like Lord Mulke. There were two police cars parked on the gravel beside it, but they were empty and there was no one about.

  Here, in a sharp scuffling of gravel, Brian made a determined effort to run away. To judge by the sounds, and by the way Estelle came feeling her way along Nirupam and Nan, Chrestomanci was after Brian like a shot. Three thumps, and a scatter of small stones, and Chrestomanci suddenly reappeared, beside the nearest police car. He seemed to be on his own, but his right arm was stiffly bent and jerking a little, as the invisible Brian writhed on the end of it.