Catweazle Read Free

jump. He wondered how far
he had flown and if there were Normans near. He looked around for somewhere to
hide. At the other side of the field was an old barn, and still dripping with
water, he stumbled across to it.
    He peered in, sniffing suspiciously, and reassured that the barn was
empty, crept inside. It was large and smelt of straw, a warm, comforting smell.
Catweazle stood carefully looking in every corner while a puddle formed at his
feet, and a faint rumbling began somewhere outside the barn. It was like no sound
he had ever heard before and as it approached it became louder and louder,
until it was a great roaring, shaking the earth. It was coming nearer, it was
coming into the barn! The noise was deafening, as Catweazle, blowing
frantically on his magic thumb-ring, backed in horror from the barn doors.
    It was the monster from his dream! Its great red head poked its way into
the barn. With a cry, Catweazle dived behind a pile of straw bales and buried
his face in his hands.
    A large tractor with a front loader attached to it drove into the barn
and came to a stop. Sam Woodyard, a big, raw-boned farm-worker, switched off
the engine and turned to the boy sitting beside him.
    ‘Von Trips, his name was. Great driver he was an’ all. Drove for Ferrari
mostly. They don’t make racing drivers like him any more.’
    Edward Bennet, nicknamed Carrot because of his red hair, jumped down
from the tractor and began to unload turkey boxes.
    ‘What time’s the programme?’
    ‘Half nine. Should be a good ’un.’
    ‘Your telly’s working again then?’ asked Carrot, dumping the boxes near
Catweazle’s hiding-place.
    ‘Yes, but I’m cornin’ back here to watch it - yer Dad said I could. Mum
always watches “Memory Lane” you see, and that’s on the other channel.’
    Catweazle peered through a gap in the bales. Who were these strange
sorcerers, he wondered. He eyed their magic chariot with fear and tried to
understand the gibberish they were talking.
    Sam went over to an old bike leaning against the wall.
    ‘ “They Diced with Death”, it’s called. Ought to be full of spins. One
mile an hour too fast is enough you know. Even the best of ’em do it,’ and he
put on his cycle clips.
    ‘Sounds dangerous,’ said Carrot.
    ‘No, not really. The cars are so low slung you see. You’d never turn one
of ’em over. Mind you, if there’s one close behind, it could be dangerous!’ Sam
leant over the bike. ‘I’ll never forget Mike Hawthorne at Silverstone. Spun
off, he did, in front of the stands and then spun on again - and he still kept
the lead.’
    ‘Fantastic,’ said Carrot.
    ‘Soon as I git Apollo Twelve goin’ agin I’ll show yer how he did it.’
    Apollo Twelve, Sam’s car, was hardly ever on the road, and it was only
by spending hours underneath it that he ever got it going at all.
    ‘I’ll get a gear-box from somewhere,’ he said, mounting his bike. ‘Now
don’t forgit. Nine thirty, “They Diced with Death”. See ya, Carrot,’ and he
rode out of the barn.
    Catweazle, who had found this conversation beyond him, watched with
amazement as the man balanced himself on two wheels and silently rode out
through the door. Truly, they were sorcerers! He shivered and then, as the boy
once more came near carrying the boxes with the magic signs on them, he sneezed
loudly.
    Carrot stopped piling the boxes. Catweazle sneezed again, and the boy
crossed to the magician’s hiding-place. Pulling away one of the bales he stared
at the drip-ping figure.
    ‘Who the heck are you?’ gasped Carrot.
    Catweazle’s teeth chattered and drops of water fell from his beard.
    ‘Come out,’ said ' Carrot, thinking Catweazle was a tramp.
    Catweazle remained where he was.
    ‘Look, you’ve got to come out.’
    ‘Art thou Norman?’ managed Catweazle after a moment or two.
    ‘No. My name’s Edward,’ Carrot replied, still very taken aback.
    ‘What is this place?’ asked the magician fearfully.
    ‘Hexwood Turkey