Catweazle and the Magic Zodiac

here?’
    Catweazle
decided to trust him. ‘Canst thou keep a secret?’ he said, almost whispering in
Wenik’s left ear.
    ‘But of
course, my dear boy!’ said Wenik.
    For a
moment, Catweazle warmed his wrinkled brown hands over the fire bucket. ‘One
day soon,’ he confided, ‘I shall fly.’
    Wenik
was careful not to betray his surprise. After all, lots of people in the past
had told him they were really Julius Caesar or Alexander the Great.
    ‘You
mean — ’ he flapped his arms ‘ — fly?’
    ‘ ’Tis
so,’ said Catweazle, ‘I will tell thee more!’
    ‘Yes,’
said Wenik, his professional interest aroused, ‘why not, my boy? Why not?’
    ‘I can
no longer return to the past.’
    Wenik
looked at Catweazle. So the old man had lost his memory had he? Perhaps he
could be helped.
    ‘This
worries you?’ said Wenik confidently.
    ‘I am
trapped,’ said Catweazle sadly.
    ‘It’s
nothing to get upset about. It’s quite a common feeling. You feel trapped. So. Even
I feel trapped. Sometimes.’
    ‘Ah!’
said Catweazle, ‘thou also!’ He leant nearer to Wenik. ‘Didst thou come through
water?’
    ‘Oh...
Oh yes!’ said Wenik, wondering what water had to do with it. ‘Tell me, what do
you remember most clearly?’
    ‘The
Battle of Hastings,’ said Catweazle.
    Wenik
looked at him. The old man was obviously trying to hide something. ‘Ah yes,’ he
said finally. ‘The Battle of Hastings, King Harold with the arrow in his eye.’
    ‘Nay,
nay,’ snorted Catweazle contemptously, ‘twas grit in his eye. The arrow was in
his chest.’
    Wenik
wiped his forehead. ‘Oh, was it?’ he said feebly.
    ‘What
dost thou remember?’ said Catweazle, suddenly anxious to swop stories about the
Norman invasion.
    ‘I’m
supposed to be helping you,’ said Wenik, querulously.
    ‘Then
canst thou help me to get back?’
    ‘Of
course. Of course. Er . .. what else do you remember?’
    ‘The
dungeons...’
    ‘Dungeons!’
    Aye,
but I escaped.’
    ‘That’s
a big step forward,’ said Wenik.
    ‘Indeed,’
agreed Catweazle. ‘Nine hundred years.’
    Wenik
began to feel the whole thing was getting beyond him.
    ‘Dost
know — the Signs?’ whispered Catweazle, coming very close to him again.
    ‘Er...
I can recognize most of them,’ said Wenik, nervously.
    ‘I have
the Twelve,’ said Catweazle triumphantly.
    ‘Twelve?’
    ‘Ay.
Dost thou know of the Thirteenth?’ By now Wenik was convinced he was dealing
with a lunatic. He stood up but Catweazle grabbed him by the arm and pulled him
over to the Zodiac.
    ‘Let us
fly together!’ said Catweazle.
    ‘Let go
of me!’ shouted Wenik in a panic.
    ‘Nay,’
said Catweazle drawing Adamcos, ‘give me the Sign!’
    Wenik,
convinced he was about to be killed, collapsed on to his knees in the middle of
the circle. ‘Help! Help!’ he shouted at the top of his voice.
    ‘Dost thou
call on the Spirits?’ said Catweazle, waving Adamcos and kneeling beside him.
    ‘Help!
Help!’ roared Wenik again.
    ‘Help!
Help!’ Catweazle joined in, releasing his hold on Wenik. ‘Salmay! Dalmay!
Adonay!’
    Wenik
immediately scrambled to his feet, panting with fear. Then he rushed back to
Mrs Gowdie’s bike and rode off as fast as he could. Catweazle, now sure that
the black-clad sorcerer had the Sign, scampered outside and gave chase on his
tricycle.
    Wenik
rode wildly through the woods, occasionally throwing desperate glances over his
houlder at Catweazle, who hung grimly on his tail. Just as they reached the
road the Elderford Eagles, with Groome still trapped in the middle of them,
came sweeping down the hill towards them.
    They
seemed bound to collide, but at the last second the avalanche of cyclists
divided and flowed round Wenik and Catweazle in a blur of shining wheels and
muddy knees. Groome braked hard as Catweazle flashed past, while the Elderford
Eagles re-bunched and disappeared down the road. Then Groome turned and set off
after Catweazle.
    At
Kings Farthing, Lord and Lady Collingford were about to organize a search
party, when Mrs Gowdie came running into the sitting-room.
    ‘Doctor
Wenik’s back!’ she said.
    ‘What
about Mr Groome?’ said Lord Collingford.
    ‘No, my
lord. But there’s a strange man chasing Doctor Wenik.’
    ‘Chasing
him?’ asked Cedric.
    ‘And
he’s just like Henry said,’ Mrs Gowdie went on excitedly. ‘Brown robe and a
beard!’
    Meanwhile
Catweazle had chased the wretched Wenik across the croquet lawn and down to