Catweazle and the Magic Zodiac

Dottie
darling?’ he asked.
    ‘I’ve
seen that old man again!’ she said.
    ‘What
old man?’ asked Lord Collingford.
    ‘The
one at the unveiling. The one who knocked over the statue.’
    Groome
and Cedric, who were putting out the chairs, stopped to listen. ‘He was in the
woods. Talking to a boot.’
    ‘A
boot?’ exclaimed Lord Collingford.
    ‘Yes,
Charles. A rubber boot.’
    Groome
cleared his throat. ‘Haven’t I said something peculiar’s going on?’ he remarked
to no one in particular.
    ‘There
are always a few tramps this time of year,’ said Lord Collingford.
    ‘I’ll
have a look round,’ said Groome grimly.
    ‘Er...
so will I,’ said Cedric quickly.
    Luckily
for Catweazle, Cedric saw him first. The magician was hurrying, bent double,
along the hedge that skirted the kitchen garden.
    ‘You’ve
been seen again!’ said Cedric.
    ‘I need
thy help,’ said Catweazle. ‘Touchwood is sick. My magic cannot cure him.’
    Cedric
stopped being angry at once. This was clearly an emergency. ‘What’s wrong with
him?’
    Catweazle
had just taken the toad from the boot to show Cedric, when the boy saw Groome
approaching and pulled Catweazle behind the hedge. Silently, the two of them
crept away to the comparative safety of a derelict greenhouse.
    ‘I
think we’re O.K. here,’ said Cedric, leading Catweazle inside.
    It was
a melancholy place with rows of dead bedding plants and rusty iron pipes.
Catweazle brushed away pieces of broken glass and put Touchwood down on the
cold tiled floor.
    ‘He
would not eat his bluebottle,’ he said.
    ‘Gosh!’
said Cedric. ‘He must be ill!’
    ‘Mayhap
he is bewitched.’
    ‘Of
course he’s not. He’s just a bit off colour, that’s all.’
    ‘Ay,’
agreed Catweazle. ‘He hath a yellow look.’
    Touchwood
remained inert, and stared fixedly ahead with dull-eyed fatality.
    ‘Maybe
it’s jaundice,’ Cedric sighed. ‘I wish I knew more about toads.’
    ‘I will
fetch leeches,’ suggested Catweazle.
    ‘No,
you’d better not,’ said Cedric hastily. ‘He might eat them.’
    ‘Hast
thou no potion?’ demanded Catweazle desperately. ‘What is a magician, if he
hath no familiar? How shall I find the Sign of the Scorpion? How shall I fly?’
He began to rock backwards and forwards on his knees, moaning and wringing his
hands. ‘Without Touchwood I am lost!’
    ‘Oh, do
shut up!’ said Cedric. ‘He’s going to be O.K. You talk as if he’s had it.’
    ‘Had
what?’ asked Catweazle, suspiciously.
    ‘I
suppose we could take him to the vet,’ said Cedric dubiously.
    Touchwood
turned his back on them.
    ‘Wait a
minute!’ said Cedric. ‘There’s a zoologist in Maybury. Why didn’t I think of
him before! Professor... Habbleman’s his name.’
    Some
time later, they walked into the outskirts of Maybury. Cedric had found an old
coat and hat of his father’s which he had forced Catweazle to wear, hoping it
would make him less noticeable.
    As they
crossed the road to Habbleman’s house, Cedric yanked Catweazle back on to the
pavement just as he was about to be mown down by a passing milk-float.
    ‘Look
both ways!’ said Cedric angrily.
    Catweazle
looked behind him and then straight ahead again.
    ‘No,’
said Cedric. ‘Look right, look left, look right again.’
    ‘What
sayest thou?’
    Cedric
demonstrated. ‘Now cross,’ he said.
    Catweazle
crossed his fingers.’
    ‘The
road, you idiot!’
    Catweazle
made an imaginary X at the road ahead, while Cedric grabbed him and hurried him
over to the house.
    ‘Now
don’t forget,’ said Cedric. ‘If he asks who you are, you’re a visitor... from
overseas.’
    He rang
the bell and presently the door was opened by a bald-headed man who squinted
nervously at them through thick pebbled glasses.
    ‘Professor
Habbleman?’ asked Cedric politely.

    ‘I am
he,’ said the Professor, staring at the boot Catweazle was holding.
    ‘I hope
you don’t mind us calling on you like this, but we thought you might help — ’
    ‘Why
are you carrying that boot?’ asked the Professor uneasily.
    ‘ ’Tis
Touchwood,’ said Catweazle.
    ‘Touch...
wood?’ said Habbleman.
    ‘Touchwood!’
repeated Catweazle fiercely.
    Professor
Habbleman touched the door hastily.
    ‘He’s
ill, you see,’ explained Cedric.
    ‘Is
he?’ said Habbleman, looking at Catweazle.
    ‘He
wouldn’t eat his bluebottle,’ said Cedric.
    ‘I
don’t think he should,’ said Habbleman.
    Catweazle
held out the boot. ‘