Catweazle

stolidly chewing an earwig. This made Catweazle remember
how hungry he was. His belly rumbled; he was very empty. He thought of
delicacies like roots and berries and his belly rumbled again. Blowing out the
candles and putting some more branches on the Sacred Fire, he climbed the rough
steps and crawled out of the cave.
    The sky was turning pink above the trees as he pushed aside the bushes
that concealed the entrance, and, straightening up, sniffed all the interesting
smells of the early morning. It was going to be another hot day.
    Catweazle was very dirty. His hair was wild and matted but his eyes were
bright and his wrinkled brown face emphasized their blueness. He looked around,
sneezed, coughed, scratched himself, and set off through the forest.
    For an old man, he moved surprisingly quickly. He seemed almost to hop
along, and he turned his head from side to side like a chicken, as he searched
for food. His sharp eyes missed nothing. A wild boar snuffled against a fallen
tree, ripping the bark away with its curved tusks, and took no notice of the
thin ragged figure running past.
    Catweazle’s dream was still bothering him, and, occasionally, he glanced
behind him, just in case there was a monster following, and muttered a few quick
spells to give himself a bit more protection. Then he stopped suddenly, seeing
his breakfast ahead.
    At the other side of a forest pool there was a tree and from it grew a
large pink fungus with white spots. Catweazle’s mouth watered. He knew it was
safe to eat because the birds were pecking at it.
    He skirted the pool as carefully as Touchwood had gone round the Sacred
Fire. Catweazle was terrified of water and kept well away from it. He had once
cast his horoscope and had learnt that water might mean a special danger, and
that he would be wise to avoid it.
    He reached the tree, and he broke off a piece of the fungus, and bit
into it, holding it like a bun. It was delicious, and very filling. He sat
down, munching contentedly, and watched the deer coming down to the pool to
drink. He would try the Flying Spell again today, he thought.
    He had worked for years at the Flying Spell, but, so far, he had never
left the ground. He couldn’t understand it. He said all the right Words of
Power and made all the potions properly, but nothing worked. There must be
something he always forgot, but what was it? He twisted his scraggy beard round
one dirty finger. And then it happened.
    An owl appeared on a low branch nearby - and hooted.
    Catweazle leapt to his feet, his bony knees knocking together under his
robe and his white hair standing on end. Quickly he raised his left hand, ‘Gab,
gaba, agaba,’ he gasped, and blew on his magic yellow thumb-ring. Owls that
hooted in the daylight were very bad luck.
    The charm had no effect on the owl. It merely blinked, swivelled its
head round and gave another hoot. ‘B-b-b-bird of Night, hoot not,’ stammered
Catweazle, trying
    hard to remember the owl spell. ‘Er… Feathered Omen, hoot not,’ he
continued uneasily, ‘Son of Tanit, hoot not!’
    The owl stared at him for a moment, hooted again, and then flew off over
his head. Catweazle ducked, almost falling over backwards. He was very
frightened. First monsters, and now birds of ill omen. He turned in the direction
of his cave and scampered home.
    When he reached the cave, he almost fell down the steps in his eagerness
to hide. ‘Oh Touchwood, Touchwood,’ he gasped, collapsing on the floor, ‘the
Bird of Night doth hoot by day. Ill luck, ill luck!’
    Touchwood, who was squatting on the book of magic, remained calm, almost
impassive. His tongue flicked out at a passing fly, and the fly vanished. He
gulped, croaked reassuringly at his master, and crawled off the book.
    Gradually Catweazle’s panic subsided and he picked up the book. Powerful
magic had to be made - and quickly.
    After studying the book for several minutes, he began to assemble a
weird collection of plants and herbs on the floor in front of him. Hemlock and foxglove,
ivy and deadnettle, henbane and marigold: putting all the bits of the various
plants into a stone bowl, he began to grind them to pulp with a long piece of
flint. As he did so, he recited spells from the book, using Touchwood to hold
down the pages like a four-legged paper-weight, but Touchwood kept wandering
off in search of spiders and the pages would turn so that Catweazle read the
wrong spells.
    ‘I will feed thee anon, Grizzle-guts,’ he muttered,