Catweazle

with Carrot’s matches.
    ‘Venite
spiritus, coeli et terrae, ignis et aquae, ab hoc loco abripite me,’ commanded Catweazle.
    Carrot,
who had seen Catweazle making for the water tower, began to climb up himself.
    ‘Asparaspes!’
shouted Catweazle. ‘Askoraskis!’
    He
looked around. He was still in the water tank.
    ‘Salmay,
Dalmay, Adonay!’ he cried, as Carrot reached the top of the ladder outside and
began to climb in.
    “That
was a near thing,’ said Carrot. He stopped in bewilderment. In the magic circle
stood the suitcase of rubbish and Rapkyn’s book lay open on a turkey box with
the hazel wand propped against it, but of Touchwood and Catweazle there was no
sign. They had disap-

THE TELLING BONE
     
    The next morning Ted Wilkins, the verger of St Edmunds,
Banden, looked up at the church steeple and saw a man clinging to it about two
feet below the weather cock.
    He
shaded his eyes and peered up at the man.
    ‘What
are you up to?’ he called.
    Catweazle,
who had spent a miserable night wondering where he was, looked down at the
figure in the churchyard and shook with fright.
    ‘Nothing
worksl’ he groaned.
    Wilkins,
convinced that the whole thing was a practical joke, probably aimed at him,
walked slowly over to the vicarage, where he found the vicar, a big
smooth-faced man, knocking croquet-hoops into the lawn.
    ‘There’s
a feller on the spire,’ said Wilkins laconically.
    ‘What’s
that, Wilkins?’ said the vicar.
    ‘On the
spire,’ Wilkins repeated patiently. ‘There’s this feller.’
    The
vicar put down his mallet. What was the man babbling about?
    ‘Better
come,’ said Wilkins darkly. ‘In case he falls.’
    The
sight of Catweazle hanging on to the spire had already attracted a small group
of onlookers. The vicar pushed his way through them.
    ‘Stand
back!’ he commanded. ‘He may be going to jump!’
    The
group scattered hurriedly.
    ‘He
ain’t going to jump,’ said Wilkins cynically. ‘It’s a publicity stunt if you
ask me. Next thing one of these hellycopters will come over and start chuckin’
down packets of cornflakes.’
    ‘Get a
ladder,’ ordered the vicar, ignoring Wilkins’s flight of fancy. ‘I am going up
to the belfry.’
    ‘I’ll
get the police,’ said Wilkins.
    ‘No,’ said
the vicar. ‘He’s on my spire and I shall deal with him. The poor man’s
obviously demented.’
    ‘Don’t
do anything foolish!’ he shouted up to Catweazle. ‘We must talk this thing
over. Whatever you do, don’t jump!’
    Catweazle,
who had no intention of jumping, gripped the spire desperately. Touchwood poked
his head out of his pocket, but, after a quick look, stuck it back in again.
Eventually the vicar, helped by Wilkins, managed to get a ladder through the
trapdoor of the belfry and lean it against the spire.
    While
Wilkins supported the base, the vicar, hampered a bit by his long black
cassock, climbed shakily up towards Catweazle.
    ‘Is it
trouble with the police?’ he asked.
    There
was no reply.
    ‘Financial
difficulties?’
    Again
there was no reply.
    ‘I mean,’
said the vicar, adopting his best professional manner, ‘whatever the problem
is, it can be solved. Helping people is my job, you know.’
    The
ladder wobbled. In a sudden panic, the vicar looked down at Wilkins. ‘Hold it
still, you fool,’ he yelled.
    ‘You’ll
never shift him, Vicar,’ said Wilkins. ‘He’s made up his mind to be awkward.’
    ‘Salmay,
Dalmay, Adonayl’ cried Catweazle. ‘Let
me fly!’

    ‘Oh, I
really would advise against any attempt to fly,’ the vicar said hurriedly.
    ‘Venite, venite spiritus!’ called Catweazle, hoping
that the Spirits of the Brazen Vessel might help.
    Hearing
the Latin, the vicar took heart. The man was obviously educated: no doubt
fallen on hard times.
    ‘Dum vivimus, vivamus,’ he said cheerfully.
‘Where there’s life, there’s hope. If you come down to, er, terra firma things might look very different. I mean, nil desperandum, old chap!’
    Catweazle
looked at the big man in the long black robe with interest. Clearly he was a
fellow sorcerer.
    ‘Dost
thou follow the Path?’ he muttered, uneasily.
    ‘Well,
I try, you know, I try. Narrow though it is,’ said the vicar.
    ‘I have
failed,’ said Catweazle. The Great Spell had gone very wrong.
    ‘We all
do. But sometimes it’s a blessing in disguise.’
    ‘Art thou
my brother?’ asked Catweazle, showing the vicar his magic thumb-ring.
    The
vicar, mistaking the meaning