Septimus Heap 3 - Physik (7 page)

“All right, all right,” snapped Lucy. “There's no need to be so picky about everything.”

There was another awkward silence and Septimus decided that there was no point trying to get Lucy to tell him anything more. He let go of the boat and pushed it out into the Moat.

“If you do see Simon,” he said, “you can tell him from me he's not welcome here.”

Lucy stuck her tongue out at Septimus, then she took up the paddles and started turning them. It looked strange to Septimus, for these were summer boats used for fun, and to see Lucy out in one on a misty, dank autumn night seemed odd. “Safe journey,” he told her, “wherever you're going.”

Lucy looked back. “I don't know where Simon is,” she said, “but he wrote me a note and I'm going to find him. So there.”

Septimus watched Lucy paddle off in her pink paddleboat until she rounded the bend and disappeared from view. He stood on the Slipway for a while, listening to the clunky sound of the paddles turning as Lucy made her determined way toward the river.

It was when he at last turned to go home that Septimus saw it—fire under the water.

Fire Under the Water

It made no sense—how can fire burn underwater? The water was dark and the flame flickered in the underwater currents as a candle does in the breeze. As Septimus watched, it moved steadily away from the Slipway, keeping close to the foot of the Castle wall.

Indeed, it seemed to him that the flame was held by someone walking along the bottom of the Moat. The Moat was about twenty feet deep and the light was, Septimus figured, about fourteen feet below him.

Entranced by the idea of a flame burning underwater, Septimus knelt down on the cold stone of the Slipway and stared into the depths of the Moat.

Slowly and surely, the flame was walking away from him. Septimus felt oddly upset, as though he was losing something precious. He leaned forward to take one last look.

Behind him the ghost of Queen Etheldredda stepped out of the shadows, a thin smile on her lips. So intent was Septimus on seeing what was under the water, he would not have noticed the ghost even if she had chosen to Appear to him—which she most definitely did not. He stepped right to the edge of the Slipway and leaned out.

If he just got a little closer to the water he would be able to see—

Etheldredda gave Septimus a vicious shove.

There was a loud splash and suddenly Septimus was in the water, tumbling to the bottom of the Moat, gasping with shock from the cold. The tide had turned and an icy current was running in from the river; it was swift and strong, and although Septimus was a good swimmer, it quickly dragged him away from the Slipway and out into the center of the Moat.

Septimus surfaced at last, shivering uncontrollably. He was beginning to lose the strength from his arms and legs, and there was more to struggle against than just the swift current. Now he could feel a strong undertow beneath his feet, as though someone had suddenly pulled a plug and the water around him was swirling down the drain.

A moment later, Septimus's head disappeared below the inky waters for a second time. The undertow took him down fast, and within seconds his feet touched the bottom of the Moat. Struggling to keep his eyes open in the murky water and with his lungs feeling as if they were about to burst, Septimus kicked himself up from the muddy bed and swam straight into a thick patch of sticky Moat weed. In moments, the tendrils of the weed were wrapped around him, and Septimus felt his remaining strength drain away. A dark mist fell in front of his eyes, and Septimus began to lose consciousness; yet, as he did so, he had the strangest sensation of an ice-cold grip on his arm, pulling him up ... up ... up through a dark tunnel toward a bright light.

“Ouch, Sep—that hurt!” Jenna's voice reached Septimus from the other end of the tunnel. Coughing, spluttering, Septimus gulped frantically for breath.

“Oh, stop making such a fuss, boy,” an irritable ghostly voice snapped. “Here, Granddaughter, take him now, for I have no wish to be Passed Through yet again—it is most unpleasant. No manners, young Apprentices nowadays.”

“Sep, Sep, you're okay now,” Jenna's voice whispered in his ear, and Septimus felt as if she was guiding him through the darkness and—at last—into the light.

“Aaaah!” Septimus suddenly sat bolt upright and took the deepest breath he had ever taken in his life. And then he took another, and another, and another.

“Sep, Sep, are you okay?” Jenna thumped him on the back. "Can you breathe now?

Can you?"

“Aah ... aah ... aah...” Septimus grabbed a few more lungfuls.

“It's okay, Sep. You're safe here.”

“Ah...” Septimus focused his eyes and looked around. He was sitting on the floor of a small sitting room at the back of the Palace. It was a cozy room; a fire was burning in the grate and a mass of thick candles burned brightly on the mantel, their wax dripping steadily onto the hearth. The room had once been a favorite of Queen Etheldredda's, who would sit there every afternoon and take a small glass of mead and read morality tales. It was now Sarah Heap's sitting room, where she too sat in the afternoon, except she would drink herb tea and read romantic novels lent to her by her good friend Sally Mullin. Queen Etheldredda did not approve of Sarah Heap's taste in furnishings and she most definitely did not approve of romantic novels. As for the general clutter and untidiness that pervaded the sitting room, Queen Etheldredda considered it a disgrace, but there was little she could do about it yet, for ghosts must put up with the bad habits of the living.

Queen Etheldredda wore her usual disapproving expression as she looked at the sodden Septimus. He sat in a puddle of muddy Moat water, steaming beside the fire and giving off a dank Moat-water smell. The ghost sat on the only chair that remained in the room from her time as Queen; it was an uncomfortable wooden chair with a straight back that Sarah had been meaning to throw out. Silas had left the remains of a bacon sandwich on it a few days earlier, and Queen Etheldredda was now perched precariously on top of it.

“I trust you have learned your lesson, young man,” Queen Etheldredda said, fixing Septimus with a severe stare.

Septimus coughed up some tendrils of slimy Moat weed and spat them out on the rug.

“Punctuality is a virtue,” pronounced Queen Etheldredda. "Lateness is a vice.

Farewell." Still remaining in the sitting position, Queen Etheldredda rose a few feet up from the chair. She glanced at the bacon sandwich with a look of horror, and then floated away through the ceiling. Her feet, clad in richly embroidered, extremely pointy shoes, hovered above Jenna and Septimus for two or three moments until, slowly, they faded away.

“Do you think she's gone now?” Jenna whispered to Septimus after a safe interval had passed. Septimus stood up to get a better look at the ceiling, but the floor came up to meet him with a crash and he found himself lying on Sarah Heap's favorite rag rug. Jenna looked concerned. “You'd better stay here tonight. I'll send a Message Rat over to tell Marcia.”

Septimus groaned. Marcia. He had forgotten about Marcia until now. “Perhaps you'd better not wake her up, Jen. Anyway you'll be lucky to get a Message Rat. Best tell her in the morning,” he said, thinking that it was not beyond Marcia to come over to the Palace right there and then and demand to know just what Septimus thought he was doing. It wasn't, Septimus thought, a question that he could easily answer right then.

“You feeling okay, Sep?” asked Jenna.

Septimus nodded and the room began to spin. “What happened, Jen?” he asked.

“How did I get here?”

“You fell into the Moat, Sep—at least that's what Queen Etheldredda said. She said it was your own fault and that you were late. She said you were lucky that she happened to be on the Slipway, and she rescued you. Well, Reclaimed you, is what she said. Whatever that means.”

“Er ... I learned it last week. But I can't remember it. Brain's not working.”

“No, I shouldn't think it is. You almost drowned.”

“I know. But I want to remember. Sometimes when you nearly drown your brain doesn't work so well afterward. Suppose that's happened to me, Jen?”

“Don't be ridiculous, Sep. Your brain seems fine to me. You're just tired and cold.”

“But ... oh, I do remember. It was in the latest edition of the Spirit Guide,” he said suddenly. “That's it. Reclaime: Ghostly transportation of living creatures in order to ensure they remain as such, i.e., living. Um ... may involve removing from imminent life-threatening danger or longer term planning, such as ensuring that they do not encounter approaching danger. Most commonly reported occurrence is being pushed from path of runaway horse by ghostly hands. There, brain's okay.” Septimus closed his eyes and looked pleased.

“Of course it is,” said Jenna soothingly. “Now look, Sep, you're soaked. I'm going to get you some dry things. Just rest while I go find the Night Housekeeper.”

Jenna tiptoed out, leaving Septimus dozing on the rug. Queen Etheldredda was waiting for her outside the door.

“Ah, Granddaughter,” she said in her high, piercing voice.

“What?” asked Jenna irritably.

“How is your dear adoptive brother?”

"My brother is fine, thank you. Now would you mind getting out of the way? I want to get him some dry clothes."

“Your manners are sorely lacking, Granddaughter. You know I saved the boy's life.”

“Yes. Thank you very much. It was ... very nice of you. Now, please, may I get past?” Jenna tried to duck to one side of the ghost, having no wish to Pass Through Queen Etheldredda.

“No, you may not.” Queen Etheldredda stepped in front of Jenna and barred her path.

The ghost's features took on a stony look. “I have something to tell you, Granddaughter, and I suggest you listen well. It will be greatly to your adoptive brother's disadvantage if you do not.”

Jenna stopped—she recognized a threat when she heard one. The Queen leaned down toward Jenna and a deep chill filled the air. Then she whispered in Jenna's ear, and Jenna had never felt so cold in all her life.

Prediction Practical

Alther, what do you mean, he spent the night at the Palace?"

Marcia demanded very early the next morning. “Why?”

“Well . . . er, it's a little complicated, Marcia,” Alther replied uncomfortably.

“Isn't it always, Alther?” snapped Marcia. “You do realize that if he doesn't get back right away he's going to miss his Prediction Practical?”

Marcia Overstrand was sitting at her desk in the Pyramid Library at the top of the Wizard Tower. The Library was dark and gloomy in the early morning light, and the few candles that Marcia had lit flickered as she thumped Septimus's Prediction Practical Papers down on the desk in exasperation. Her green eyes flashed crossly as Alther Mella floated along the book stacks peering at some of his favorite titles.

“This is very bad, Alther. I spent all day yesterday setting up the Prediction Practical and it's got to begin before 7:07 A.M. Any later than that and all the stuff will have started to happen—and then it's just Telepathy and Cognizance, which is not the point.”

“Give the lad a break, Marcia. He fell into the Moat last night and—”

“He did what?”

“Fell into the Moat. I really think you should postpone—”

“How come he fell into the Moat, Alther?” Marcia asked suspiciously.

Eager to change the subject, Alther wandered over to Marcia and sat down companionably on the corner of her desk. He knew he would regret it, but he could not resist saying, “Well, perhaps you should have predicted this would happen, Marcia, and scheduled the Prediction Practical for later in the day.”

“That's not funny,” snapped Marcia, checking through the papers. “In fact, you are getting horribly predictable yourself. Predictably childish. You are spending far too much of your time flying around with Septimus and generally showing off when at your age you should know better. I shall send Catchpole down to the Palace to fetch Septimus right now. That will wake him up.”

“I imagine you'll have to wake up Catchpole first, Marcia,” Alther commented.

“Catchpole's on night duty, Alther. He's been awake all night.”

“Funny habit he's got, that Catchpole,” said Alther pensively, “of snoring while he's awake. You'd think he'd find it irritating, wouldn't you?” Marcia did not deign to reply. She got up from her desk, drew her purple robes around her and stormed out, slamming the Library door behind her.

Alther floated through the hatch that led onto the golden Pyramid roof and wandered up to the top of the Pyramid itself. The autumn morning air was cool and a fine drizzle fell. The base of the Wizard Tower had disappeared into a thick white mist. A few roofs of the taller houses were visible as they broke through the white blanket, but most of the Castle was lost to view. Although as a ghost, Alther did not feel the cold, he felt like shivering in the wind that eddied around the top of the Wizard Tower. He drew his faded purple cloak around him and looked down at the hammered-silver platform that surmounted the Pyramid. Alther had always been fascinated by the hieroglyphs inscribed in the platform, but he had never deciphered them, as indeed no one else had. Many hundreds of years ago one ExtraOrdinary Wizard had been brave enough to climb to the top of the Pyramid and taken a rubbing of the hieroglyphs, which now hung in the Library. Every time Alther, as ExtraOrdinary Wizard, had looked at the old gray piece of paper framed on the Library wall, he had felt a horrible sense of vertigo, for it reminded him of the time when, as a young Apprentice, he had been forced to chase his Master, DomDaniel, up to that very place.

But now, as a ghost, Alther was fearless. He experimented with standing on the platform first on one leg and then the other; then he threw himself off, tumbling and turning through the air. As he fell, he tried to imagine what it must have felt like to fall as a human being, as DomDaniel had once done. Just above the mist he leveled out and set off for the Palace.

Catchpole was having a bad dream and it was about to get worse. He hated being on night duty down in the old spell cupboard beside the huge silver doors to the Wizard Tower. It wasn't so much the lingering smells of decaying spells that upset Catchpole; it was the fear of being asked to do something by a more senior Wizard.