Catweazle

frightened. They gaped at each other for a moment,
then Mrs Woodyard turned and hobbled back to the car as fast as she could,
while the vicar ran back to the study.
    Carrot
had just hidden Catweazle in the back of the car when Mrs Woodyard came
hurrying back from the vicarage, and Sam reappeared from the pub.
    ‘Hullo,
mother,’ said Sam, surprised to see the old lady awake.
    ‘What
have you been up to?’ said Mrs Woodyard.
    ‘Went
for a pint,’ said Sam, rather sheepishly.
    Mrs
Woodyard looked at both of them very suspiciously.
    ‘Somebody’s
tellin’ lies,’ she said. ‘I ain’t got to the bottom of it yet, but I will.’
    Carrot
glanced anxiously down the road. ‘Could we go back a different way, Sam?’ he
asked. He didn’t want to meet his father on the road.
    ‘Good
idea,’ said Sam, helping his mother into the car. ‘Hope it starts.’
    Apollo
Twelve was hardly out of sight when Mr Bennet drove up to the vicarage and rang
the bell.
    The
vicar opened the door at once. ‘He’s gone!’ he said.
    ‘The
man you phoned me about?’ said Mr Bennet.
    ‘You’re
Bennet? How d’you do. Yes, gone. Vanished. Oh, do come in.’
    ‘What
was he like?’ said Mr Bennet, as they entered the study.
    ‘Oh,
peculiar,’ said the Vicar. ‘And mad. Mad as a march hare. At least - ’ He broke
off, a sudden thought striking him.
    ‘Well?’
said Mr Bennet.
    ‘Then
this woman came. I wonder if it was all a trick to get me out of here.’
    ‘I wish
you’d explain,’ said Mr Bennet.
    ‘Suppose
they were after the collection money!’ gasped the vicar as he quickly opened
his safe. ‘No it’s all here,’ he said. ‘But we’d better phone for the police.’
He reached for the receiver. ‘He’s taken it with him!’
    None of
them were any the wiser what had happened. Mr Bennet returned home wondering if
the vicar was mad, and so did Mrs Woodyard. Even Sam never realized that he had
an extra passenger on the way home, for Catweazle managed to escape unseen when
Apollo Twelve broke down a few miles from Hexwood and Sam crawled underneath to
repair it. Only Carrot knew the whole story and he, of course, kept it to
himself.

THE POWER OF ADAMCOS
     
    Catweazle sat on a fallen tree sharpening Adamcos. It was a calm
and beautiful day in the wood and the magician was at peace. Beside him
Touchwood sat motionless, patiently watching some gnats dancing above his head.
     
    ‘Buzz quoth the blue fly,
    Hum quoth the bee,
    Buzz and hum they cry,
    And so do we’
     
    sang Catweazle, honing his
knife with a stone and occasionally testing the blade with his dirty thumb.
When at last he was satisfied he carefully replaced Adamcos in its sheath round
his neck.
    ‘Now
Adamcos,’ he said, ‘even thistledown shall fall to thy keen blade,’ and he grinned
his crooked grin.
    He
delved into his torn robe and took out the vicar’s telephone. He had been
trying for several days to conjure the spirits.
    ‘Come,
O magic telling bone,’ he said, holding the receiver like a votive offering.
‘Summon the voices!’ and he placed the mouthpiece to his ear. ‘Are you there
Spirits? Are you there?’
    There
was silence. Touchwood, whose patience had been rewarded, gulped a gnat and
regarded his master stonily.
    ‘Come, Spirits,’
commanded the old sorcerer testily. ‘I charge thee, speak to Catweazle, Master
of the Secret Path.’
    ‘Thou
shalt die!’ said a voice.
     

     
    Catweazle
dropped the telephone in terror.
    ‘Have
at thee, villain!’ said another voice.
    Catweazle
looked wildly round and suddenly realized that the voices did not come from the
telling bone but from somewhere behind him. Cautiously he climbed on the fallen
tree and peered through the bushes.
    It was
a Norman! He stood brandishing a long sword, menacing a Saxon warrior who was
desperately trying to defend himself.
    Catweazle
fell off the tree trunk in fear and amazement. He could hardly believe it but
he was back in his own time again! Somehow it must have happened without his
knowledge. His beard and whiskers trembled and picking up Touchwood he ran off
in terror.
    Had
Catweazle looked longer, however, he would have seen Apollo Twelve standing on
the road at the far edge of the clearing, and Sam, also dressed as a Norman,
but wearing a sports coat over his chain-mail, bent over the engine.
    With a
yell, the Norman warrior dropped his wooden sword.
    ‘Take
it easy, Fred,’ he said. ‘That was my fingers!’
    ‘Sorry,
Dick,’ said the