Catweazle

cried.
    ‘Now,
now, Laura. There’s a good girl,’ soothed Madame Rosa. ‘I’ve had her for
years,’ she said to Catweazle. ‘I’ve got goldfish for tranquillity, but it’s
not the same as someone talking to you, is it?’
    She
took a chocolate from a box on the table. ‘Shouldn’t eat these in front of her.
She gets very jealous, and they’re not good for her.’
    ‘ ’Tis
a Demon!’ said Catweazle.
    ‘Well,
she can be a bit of a demon at times, but she’s a heart of gold, haven’t you my
angel?’ she said to the parrot. The bird glared at her malevolently and picked
up a nut in its claw. ‘Shut up Laura!’ it screeched in a passable imitation of
Madame Rosa.
    ‘And
now to work, as they say,’ said the fortune-teller sitting down opposite
Catweazle.
    ‘May I
hold a personal possession of yours? It helps the vibrations. Any familiar
object.’
    ‘Familiar?’
said Catweazle, ‘ay!’ and he put Touchwood into her outstretched hand.
    ‘Aaaaaah!’
screamed Madame Rosa, jumping up and dropping the toad on the table. Touchwood
crawled up to the crystal ball and gazed at himself in the glass.
    ‘Take
it away! Ugh! The nasty slimy thing!’
    Catweazle
put Touchwood back in his pocket, puzzled by the witch’s behaviour.
    ‘Why do
you carry a dreadful thing like that around with you?’ she said.
    ‘I am a
magician,’ said Catweazle with great dignity.
    ‘Oh, I
see! A magician! Oh, I get quite a lot of theatrical people in, you know.
There’s a ventriloquist who comes every fortnight.’ She took another chocolate
from the box. ‘What do you call yourself?’ she asked.
    ‘Catweazle.’
     

     
    ‘How
very unusual. Are you appearing anywhere at the moment?’ she asked.
    ‘Ay,’ said
Catweazle sadly. ‘Here.’
    ‘Yes,
well, shall we look into the crystal?’ she said, crouching over the table.
Catweazle also peered into the ball and, as their heads bumped, they looked at
each other, nose to nose, over the top.
    ‘What
are you doing?’ Madame Rosa asked irritably.
    ‘Looking,’
said Catweazle.
    ‘You
don’t do it, I do it,’ she said. ‘I see a long journey, you will travel far.’
    ‘You’re
a very lucky person, did you know? You ought to have a little flutter now and
then.’
    Catweazle
glanced at the parrot. A little flutter? Was the witch going to turn him into a
bird? He crossed his fingers and blew on his thumb-ring.
    ‘Dost
seek to enchant me?’ he said, rising from the table.
    ‘What
on earth’s the matter with you? I only suggested - ’
    ‘Thou
canst not gain power over me.’ He looked at her, suddenly realizing she was a
sham. ‘ ’Tis all pretence.’ ‘What did you say?’
    ‘ ’Tis
all pretence,’ said Catweazle getting excited. ‘Thine eye is shut. Thou knowest
nothing!’
    ‘I’ve
never been so insulted,’ said Madame Rosa, also getting to her feet, and
putting the chocolates safely behind her on the chair. ‘You get out of here, Mr
Catferret, or whatever your name is - ’
    ‘Cease
thy squalling, thou shrew!’ shouted Catweazle at the top of his voice. ‘I see
all clearly, like a hovering hawk. Thy name is Ethel, thy man’s name is Albert.
Many men give him gold for the horses. Thou sendest them to him, saying that
they will have good fortune.’ Madame Rosa stared at Catweazle. ‘How did you
find out?’
    ‘Mine
eye is open. I have the Eye of Time,’ and before the amazed fortune-teller
could stop him Catweazle grabbed the crystal ball.
    ‘Put
that down!’ she cried, fighting for possession. ‘They’re off! They’re off!’
screamed the parrot. ‘Six to four the field.’ Suddenly Madame Rosa lost her
hold on the crystal ball and sat down on the box of chocolates. With a cry of
glee Catweazle hugged it to him and vanished down the stairs while Madame Rosa
collapsed in hysterics.

THE ENCHANTING BOX
     
    In the strange half light before dawn Catweazle sat in
Castle Saburac hunched over his new scrying glass. The candles were lit and the
Sacred Fire was burning. Beside him, on one of the boxes, Touchwood squatted,
puffing himself out complacently.
    The magician,
once more wearing his ragged robe, stared intently into the crystal ball.
    ‘See,
Touchwood,’ he muttered. ‘In the scrying glass, the years melting like snow.’
He paused and threw some ivy leaves into the fire.
    ‘I have
eaten mugwort,’ he told his familiar. ‘Soon I shall see down the well of time;
our past lies there.’ He bent closer. ‘The glass is