Catweazle

caravan.
    ‘See,’
said Catweazle, ‘ ’tis the house of the sorcerer.’
    Carrot
was puzzled. What was a caravan doing in the woods?
    ‘Are
you sure it was Sam?’ he asked.
    ‘I know
the clodpole,’ nodded Catweazle.
    Together
they crept up to the side of the caravan. The curtains made it impossible to
see inside but a further investigation showed Carrot that the door was ajar.
    ‘Nay,
brother,’ whispered Catweazle, restraining him. ‘Enter not - ’tis a trap!’
    Carrot
went inside all the same. He was amazed by all the microphones and
tape-recorders and a map of the world on one wall, on which Cyril had stuck
little coloured flags at all the places he had made recordings. To Carrot, who
often read spy stories, the whole thing seemed very suspicious. Then he spotted
Sam’s shoes and stared at them in horror-
    ‘Catweazle!’
he called in a loud whisper.
    The
magician crept in.
    ‘Look!’
said Carrot. ‘They’re Sam’s!’
    ‘ ’Tis
so,’ nodded Catweazle.
    ‘But he
can’t be - ’ Carrot was unable to finish the sentence.
    ‘My
thumbs prick,’ muttered Catweazle. ‘Someone comes!’
    Through
the back window they were appalled to see Cyril returning from the ‘hide’. He
was carrying the spade over his shoulder.
    Now
Carrot was really scared. He darted out and ran for the shelter of the trees,
but Catweazle caught his robe on a hook and by the time he had freed himself,
it was too late for escape. Taking refuge in the wardrobe, he waited,
trembling, as Cyril entered the caravan. Unfortunately, Touchwood found the
strong smell of mothballs disturbing and began to croak loudly.
    Cyril
flung open the door.
    ‘What
on earth d’you think you’re doing in there?’ he said, looking with distaste at
Catweazle who was blowing furiously on his thumb-ring.
    ‘Spare
me!’ he pleaded.
    ‘Have
you taken anything?’
    Catweazle
shook his head.
    ‘You
haven’t touched any of this?’ said Cyril, looking anxiously at his beloved
tape-recorders. Catweazle shook his head again, too frightened to speak.
    ‘Well,
come on man, what are you doing here?’
    ‘S-S-S-Sam,’
Catweazle managed to stammer.
    ‘Sam?’
repeated Cyril, very puzzled. ‘Oh, I see!’ he went on, suddenly smiling. ‘You
must be Wally! You’ve come to record!’
    Catweazle
had no idea what the sorcerer was talking about.
    ‘Your
courage deserted you, so you hid in the wardrobe,’ smiled Cyril as he switched
on a tape-recorder. ‘Well don’t worry, it’s quite painless,’ and he chuckled at
his own feeble joke, as he reached for a pad.
    ‘I’d
better have a few details before we start. Now then, Mr... What’s your name?’
    ‘Catweazle,’
said the magician.
    ‘Wally
Catweazle,’ wrote Cyril. ‘How old are you?’
    Catweazle
was just going to say, ‘Nine hundred years,’ but thought better of it and
remained silent.
    ‘Forgotten
eh? Never mind, just tell me all about yourself,’ Cyril continued, putting a
microphone in front of Catweazle, who eyed it fearfully.
    ‘Pretend
it isn’t there,’ said Cyril and wound the tape forward at high speed. Hearing
the eerie chattering sound again, Catweazle made for the door, but Cyril
grabbed him and forced him down into the chair.
    ‘Wilt thou
murder me?’ cried Catweazle.
    ‘Of
course I won’t,’ said Cyril patiently. ‘I want to record you, don’t you
understand. For posterity. You are part of an England that has gone.’
     

     
    ‘Ay,
’tis true,’ said Catweazle sadly. ‘Long gone.’
    ‘You see,’
said Cyril. ‘I want you to take me back into the past.’
    ‘Nay,
master,’ Catweazle replied. ‘I have tried and tried in vain.’
    Cyril
looked puzzled at this. Perhaps the old man’s mind was going, he thought. Then,
in order to allay Catweazle’s fears, he began to explain just how he made a
recording.
    ‘The
tape goes past the head, you see,’ he said. ‘And you press this button when you
want to wind back.’
    ‘Wind
back!’ repeated Catweazle excitedly. ‘Wind back!’
    ‘Er ...
yes,’ said Cyril watching him nervously. ‘Shall we begin?’
    ‘Wilt
thou wind me back?’ asked Catweazle eagerly.
    ‘As
soon as we’ve finished.’
    Cyril
bent over the machine and put on a pair of headphones. Catweazle quaked when he
saw the giant ears again and looked so odd that he made Cyril press the wrong
button.
    ‘This
is Sam Woodyard speaking,’ said the tape recorder.
    Catweazle
leapt up, pointing a quivering finger at the machine.
    ‘