Catweazle

replacing the toad
on the book, and he pounded away at the mess in the bowl and began to howl out
a long incantation at the top of his voice.
    He was so absorbed in protecting himself that he didn’t notice the group
of figures peering down at him from the mouth of the cave. It was a party of
Norman soldiers, who stared with astonishment as Catweazle began skipping round
his magic circle, sprinkling the crushed plants on the ground.
    ‘Salmay, Dalmay, Adonay!’ yelled Catweazle, flinging bits of plant all
over the place.
    The Normans were bewildered. They drew their swords, and, reversing
them, held the hilts like crosses in front of their faces. They weren’t taking
any chances.
    ‘Guard me, O Spirits !’ sang Catweazle.
    The Normans gripped their swords. What strange magic was the English
sorcerer making? ‘I conjure thee,’ continued Catweazle, his voice echoing round
the cave. The Normans prepared to attack. ‘Tetragrammaton!’ shouted Catweazle
at the top of his voice. The Normans charged down the steps into the cave and
Catweazle turned in sudden terror as he saw the armed men thundering towards
him. As two of them grabbed at him, he ducked under their reaching hands and
they overbalanced and fell into each other’s arms. A third soldier thrust at
him with his sword but Catweazle hurled his magic book straight at him and the
man fell over backwards to avoid it. A fourth, however, caught Catweazle
offguard, and gripped his shoulder, but like lightning Catweazle sank his teeth
in the soldier’s unprotected hand, and the burly Norman let go with a yell. The
cave seemed full of lumbering figures crashing against each other. Then
Catweazle stamped out the Sacred Fire and plunged the cave into darkness.
    The advantage was all his now. He could see as clearly in the dark as he
could by daylight, and he wove his way between all the flailing arms and legs,
picked up Touchwood, and stumbled up the steps.
    As he ran off into the forest, putting Touchwood into his special
pocket, Catweazle looked back. The Normans were beginning to stagger out
through the bushes, waving their swords and blinking in the sunlight.
    ‘Fools!’ shouted Catweazle, ‘Norman fools! I will lead thee a dance,’
and he thumbed his nose at them. The sight of the bony old man hopping about
between the trees and jeering at them infuriated the soldiers, and they gave
chase. Catweazle stuck out his tongue and then scampered off into the forest.
    He hated the Normans. Only a few years earlier, he had watched a great
battle from the southern edge of the forest near the tiny village of Hastings.
He had seen the shield wall broken by the charging horsemen and watched the
pitiless rain of arrows, and when the English army was routed and the forest
full of running men, Catweazle had gone back to his cave to tell Touchwood that
the end of the world was at hand.
    He’d show them, he thought to himself, as he led the infuriated Normans
deeper and deeper into the forest. He led them through brambles and stinging
nettles where they would never catch him. Leaving them searching in some
bushes, he climbed a tree and rested, while below him the confused and cursing
men slashed away at the undergrowth with their swords. Then, bewildered by
Catweazle’s sudden vanishing trick, they began to move away.
    Catweazle started to climb down the far side of the tree, but, just as
he reached the lowest branch and prepared to jump down, Touchwood did an
unforgivable thing: he put his head out of the pocket, and croaked loudly. The
Normans turned, Catweazle lost his balance and fell out of the tree, and the
chase was on again.
    Catweazle was spitting with fury at Touchwood’s stupidity, and he ran as
fast as he could towards a stretch of swampy ground. There was a secret path
across it that he knew well and he ran on to it without hesitating. The Normans
followed, and one by one they slipped off the path and began to sink into the
mud. They wallowed about, swearing at Catweazle and trying vainly to find the
path again. At the other side of the swamp, he turned and mocked them.
    ‘Know that I am Catweazle,’ he called. ‘Thou canst not catch me, thou
wood-lice!’ And he left them struggling in the mud.
    He chuckled gleefully to himself as he made his way across a clearing,
but there were three more soldiers crouching in the bushes and as he drew level
with them they leapt out on him. Try as they might they could not hold him. He
wriggled out of their grasp,