Catweazle

receptionist sat at a small desk reading a magazine called True Love, and
behind her, through a partition, several ladies draped in pink sat under the
driers.
    ‘ ’Tis
a torture chamber!’ the magician said with horror.
    ‘No
it’s not. It’s a hairdresser’s. They cut people’s hair.’
    ‘Monstrous!
Monstrous!’ muttered the sorcerer, ‘Hair is magic; ’tis strength! Whoever hath
thy hair hath power over thee!’
    Carrot
looked at him and then peered through the window to where Miss Bonnington sat
having her hair trimmed. Small pieces of hair fell to the floor.
    ‘You’ve
given me an idea,’ he said to Catweazle.
    Inside
Dorrice and Jayne’s Miss Bonnington turned to the occupant of the next chair.
‘You’ll be at the meeting, Mrs Willoughby?’ she asked coldly.
    ‘I
certainly will,’ replied Mrs Willoughby, who was also having her hair trimmed.
    ‘We can
look forward to a long session then,’ said Miss Bonnington, and then broke off
in surprise when she saw Carrot at her elbow.
    ‘Good
heavens, Edward,’ she said, ‘I didn’t really mean you to come!’
    There
was a sudden commotion from the receptionist’s desk and a thin squeal of alarm.
A moment later Catweazle rushed in through the partition and raised his arms
above his head.
     

     
    ‘Foolish
wenches!’ he yelled, dancing madly and waving his skinny arms. ‘Three bitter
bitter hath thee bitten,’ he sang.
    ‘He’s
dotty!’ gasped Miss Bonnington.
    ‘Three bitter
bitter hath thee nippen!’ Catweazle went on, capering like a demented Morris
dancer.
    ‘Phone
for the police,’ screamed an assistant, holding him at bay with her scissors.
    ‘Three
bitter bitter hath thee stricken!’ sang Catweazle, prancing over to the driers
where the ladies sat in a terrified row. Colliding with a trolley, he sat down
on it, shot across the room and crashed into a giant vase full of paper
flowers.
    No one
noticed Carrot scoop up a handful of hair as Catweazle rushed out into the
street.
    ‘Hey
you, come back,’ yelled Carrot running out after him. Round the corner they
went to where Carrot’s bike stood ready, and, with Catweazle perched
precariously behind him, Carrot wobbled off downhill.
     
    Later,
Carrot was in the water tank helping to put the finishing touches to the doll.
    ‘I do
hope we’re doing the right thing,’ he said as they stuck on the hair.
    ‘Ay,
brother,’ said Catweazle pointing to the spell in Rapkyn’s book.
    ‘I didn’t
mean that,’ said Carrot. ‘Oh well, never mind, we’ll have to go through with it
now, I suppose. Looks quite like her,’ he added.
    ‘It
will serve,’ said Catweazle, giving ‘Miss Bonnington’ a bit more chin.
    ‘You’re
sure this new spell will be all right.’
    ‘If
that is thy wish.’
    ‘Well I
think it’s better than piercing with a long pin.’
    ‘Very
well,’ said Catweazle, disappointed, ‘spots it shall be. Not boils?’ he added
hopefully.
    ‘No,
just spots. Lots of spots. All over. Like heat bumps,’ explained Carrot.
    ‘It
shall be done.’
    ‘Good!
Now, don’t forget what old Rapkyn says “At the striking of the church bell”.
Can you hear it from here?’
    ‘Ay,
brother, I have marked it. “At the seventh hour”.’
    He
looked hopefully at Carrot, ‘And the little fire sticks?’
    Carrot
took a match from the box. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘One on account, the rest
if it works!’
    But a
shock awaited Carrot when he got back to the farm.
    ‘Why
don’t you like Susan Bonnington?’ said his father.
    ‘I
don’t know, Dad,’ said Carrot, feeling embarrassed.
    ‘There
must be a reason,’ said Mr Bennet. Carrot glanced up at the cuckoo clock. It
was nearly seven.
    ‘Well,
I just wish she didn’t come here,’ he said lamely.
    ‘But
why?’ said Mr Bennet, puffing away at his pipe. ‘You’re so rude to her. You
make it so obvious you don’t like her.’
    The
clock struck seven. In Castle Saburac, Catweazle passed the doll backwards and
forwards in the smoke of the burning garlic, and called down a plague of spots
on Miss Bonnington.
    ‘Ah!’
said Mr Bennet glancing at the clock, ‘the witching hour!’
    ‘What
did you say?’ said Carrot horrified.
    ‘The
Council meets at seven you see. I hope she’ll be able to swing it.’
    ‘Swing
what, Dad?’ said Carrot.
    ‘Well,
I told you about the sheds I want to put up, and having to get the Council’s permission
didn’t I? That’s w hy I’ve been making such a fuss of