The Lives of Christopher Chant. Diana Wynne Jones

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 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 swop. 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 round 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. 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 round 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 half-way up was a shiny silver hand-grip 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 spear-head 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 hand-grip to pull it out. And everything stopped with a bump.

       CHAPTER FIVE

      It was early morning. Christopher realised that what had woken him were 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 pyjamas 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 manoeuvre 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 leant 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 СКАЧАТЬ