The Lives of Christopher Chant (9 page)

There was a big metal door down at the other end of the cold room. Christopher seized its handle and tugged. When the door turned out to be locked, he kicked it and beat at it with both hands and rattled the handle. He was still telling himself to be sensible, but he was shaking all over, and the panic was rapidly getting out of control.

After a minute or so, the door was wrenched open by a fat, jolly-looking man in a white over-all, who stared into the room irritably. He did not see Christopher at first. He was looking over Christopher’s head, expecting someone taller.

Christopher wrapped the sheet around himself accusingly. “What do you mean by locking this door?” he demanded. “Everybody’s dead in here. They’re not going to run away.”

The man’s eyes turned down to Christopher. He gave a slight moan. His eyes rolled up to the ceiling. His plump body slid down the door and he landed at Christopher’s feet in a dead faint.

Christopher though
he
was dead too. It put the last touch to his panic. He jumped over the man’s body and rushed down the corridor beyond, where he found himself in a hospital. There a nurse tried to stop him, but Christopher was beyond reason by then. “Where’s school?” he shrieked at her. “I’m missing cricket practice!” For half an hour after that the hospital was in total confusion, while everyone tried to catch a five-foot corpse clothed mostly in a flying sheet, which raced up and down the corridors shrieking that it was missing cricket practice.

They caught him at last outside the Maternity Ward, where a doctor hastily gave him something to make him sleep. “Calm down, son,” he said. “It’s a shock to us too, you know. When I last saw you, your head was like a run-over pumpkin.”

“I’m missing cricket practice, I tell you!” Christopher said.

He woke up next day in a hospital bed. Mama and Papa were both there, facing one another across it, dark clothes and whiskers on one side, scents and pretty colors on the other. As if to make it clear to Christopher that this was a bad crisis, the two of them were actually speaking to one another.

“Nonsense, Cosimo,” Mama was saying. “The doctors just made a mistake. It was only a bad concussion after all and we’ve both had a fright for nothing.”

“The school Matron said he was dead too,” Papa said somberly.

“And she’s a flighty sort of type,” Mama said. “I don’t believe a word of it.”

“Well I do,” said Papa. “He has more than one life, Miranda. It explains things about his horoscope that have always puzzled—”

“Oh
fudge
to your wretched horoscopes!” Mama cried. “Be quiet!”

“I shall not be quiet where I know the truth!” Papa more or less shouted. “I have done what needs to be done and sent a telegram to de Witt about him.”

This obviously horrified Mama. “What a wicked thing to do!” she raged. “And without consulting me! I tell you I shall
not
lose Christopher to your gloomy connivings, Cosimo!”

At this point both Mama and Papa became so angry that Christopher closed his eyes. Since the stuff the doctor had given him was still making him feel sleepy, he dropped off almost at once, but he could still hear the quarrel, even asleep. In the end he climbed out of bed, slipping past Mama and Papa without either of them noticing, and went to The Place Between. He found a new valley there, leading to somewhere where there was some kind of circus going on. Nobody in that world spoke English, but Christopher got by quite well, as he had often done before, by pretending to be deaf and dumb.

When he came slipping back, the room was full of soberly dressed people who were obviously just leaving. Christopher slipped past a stout, solemn young man in a tight collar, and a lady in a gray dress who was carrying a black leather instrument case. Neither of them knew he was there. By the look of things, the part of him left lying in the bed had just been examined by a specialist. As Christopher slipped around Mama and got back into bed, he realized that the specialist was just outside the door, with Papa and another man in a beard.

“I agree that you were right in the circumstance to call me in,” Christopher heard an old, dry voice saying, “but there is only one life present, Mr. Chant. I admit freakish things can happen, of course, but we have the report of the school magic teacher to back up our findings in this case. I am afraid I am not convinced at all . . .” The old dry voice went away up the corridor, still talking, and the other people followed, all except Mama.

“What a relief!” Mama said. “Christopher, are you awake? I thought for a moment that that dreadful old man was going to get hold of you, and I would never have forgiven your papa! Never! I don’t want you to grow up into a boring law-abiding
policeman
sort of person, Christopher. Mama wants to be proud of you.”

C
HRISTOPHER WENT BACK
to school the next day. He was rather afraid that Mama was going to be disappointed in him when he turned out to be a professional cricketer, but that did not alter his ambition in the least.

Everyone at school treated him as if he were a miracle. Oneir apologized, almost in tears. That was the only thing which made Christopher uncomfortable. Otherwise he basked in the attention he got. He insisted on playing cricket just as before, and he could hardly wait for next Thursday to come so that he could tell Tacroy all his adventures.

On Wednesday morning the Headmaster sent for Christopher. To his surprise, Papa was there with the Head, both of them standing uneasily beside the Head’s mahogany desk.

“Well, Chant,” the Head said, “we shall be sorry to lose our nine-days’ wonder so quickly. Your father has come to fetch you away. It seems you are to go to a private tutor instead.”

“What? Leave school, sir?” Christopher said. “But it’s cricket practice this afternoon, sir!”

“I have suggested to your father that you might remain at least until the end of term,” the Head said, “but it seems that the great Dr. Pawson will not agree to it.”

Papa cleared his throat. “These Cambridge Dons,” he said. “We both know what they are, Headmaster.” He and the Head smiled at one another, rather falsely.

“Matron is packing you a bag now,” said the Head. “In due course, your box and your school report will be sent after you. Now we must say good-bye, as I gather your train leaves in half an hour.” He shook hands with Christopher, a brisk, hard, Headmasterly shake, and Christopher was whisked away, there and then, in a cab with Papa, without even a chance to say good-bye to Oneir and Fenning. He sat in the train seething about it, staring resentfully at Papa’s whiskered profile.

“I was hoping to get into the school cricket team,” he said pointedly, when Papa did not seem to be going to explain.

“Shame about that,” Papa said, “but there will be other cricket teams no doubt. Your future is more important than cricket, my son.”

“My future
is
cricket,” Christopher said boldly. It was the first time he had come right out with his ambition to an adult. He went hot and cold at his daring in speaking like this to Papa. But he was glad, too, because this was an important step on the road to his career.

Papa gave a melancholy smile. “There was a time when I myself wanted to be an engine driver,” he said. “These whims pass. It was more important to get you to Dr. Pawson before the end of term. Your mama was planning to take you abroad with her then.”

Christopher’s teeth clenched so tightly with anger that his tooth-brace cut his lip. Cricket a whim indeed! “Why is it so important?”

“Dr. Pawson is the most eminent Diviner in the country,” said Papa. “I had to pull a few strings to get him to take you on at such short notice, but when I put the case to him, he himself said that it was urgent not to give de Witt time to forget about you. De Witt will revise his opinion of you when he finds you have a gift for magic after all.”

“But I can’t
do
magic,” Christopher pointed out.

“And there must be some reason why not,” said Papa. “On the face of it, your gifts should be enormous, since I am an enchanter, and so are both my brothers, while your mama—this I will grant her—is a highly gifted sorceress. And
her
brother, that wretched Argent fellow, is an enchanter, too.”

Christopher watched houses rushing past behind Papa’s profile as the train steamed into the outskirts of London, while he tried to digest this. No one had told him about his heredity before. Still, he supposed there were duds born into the most wizardly families. He thought he must be a dud. So Papa was truly an enchanter? Christopher resentfully searched Papa for the signs of power and riches that went with an enchanter, and the signs did not seem to be there. Papa struck him as threadbare and mournful. The cuffs of his frock coat were worn and his hat looked dull and unprosperous. Even the black whiskers were thinner than Christopher remembered, with streaks of gray in them.

But the fact was, enchanter or not, Papa had snatched him out of school in the height of the cricket season, and from the way the Head had talked, he was not expected to go back. Why not? Why had Papa taken it into his head to do this to him?

Christopher brooded about this while the train drew into the Great Southern terminus and Papa towed him through the bustle to a cab. Galloping and rattling towards St. Pancras Cross, he realized that it was going to be difficult even to see Tacroy and get some cricket coaching that way. Papa had told him to have nothing to do with Uncle Ralph, and Papa was an enchanter.

In the small sooty carriage of the train to Cambridge, Christopher asked resentfully, “Papa, what made you decide to take me to Dr. Pawson?”

“I thought I had explained,” Papa said. That, for a while, seemed all he was going to say. Then he turned towards Christopher, sighing rather, and Christopher saw that he had just been gathering himself for a serious talk. “Last Friday,” he said, “you were certified dead, my son, by two doctors and a number of other people. Yet when I arrived to identify your body on Saturday, you were alive and recovering and showing no signs of injury. This made me certain that you had more than one life—the more so as I suspect that this has happened once before. Tell me, Christopher, that time last year when they told me a curtain pole had fallen on you—you were mortally injured then, weren’t you? You may confess to me. I shan’t be angry.”

“Yes,” Christopher said reluctantly. “I suppose I was.”

“I thought so!” Papa said with dismal satisfaction. “Now, my son, those people who are lucky enough to have several lives are always, invariably, highly gifted enchanters. It was clear to me last Saturday that you are one. This was why I sent for Gabriel de Witt. Now Monsignor de Witt”—here Papa lowered his voice and looked nervously around the sooty carriage as if he thought Monsignor de Witt could hear—“is the strongest enchanter in the world. He has nine lives. Nine, Christopher. This makes him strong enough to control the practice of magic throughout this world and several others. The Government has given him that task. For this reason you will hear some people call him the Chrestomanci. The post bears that title.”

“But,” said Christopher, “what has all this and the krest-oh-man-see got to do with pulling me out of school?”

“Because I wish de Witt to take an interest in your case,” said Papa. “I am a poor man now. I can do nothing for you. I have made considerable sacrifices to afford Dr. Pawson’s fee, because I think de Witt was wrong when he said you were a normal boy with only one life. My hope is that Dr. Pawson can prove he was wrong and that de Witt can then be persuaded to take you onto his staff. If he does, your future is assured.”

Take me onto his staff, Christopher thought. Like Oneir in his father’s business having to start as an office boy. “I don’t think,” he said, “that I want my future assured like that.”

His father looked at him sorrowfully. “There speaks your mama in you,” he said. “Proper tuition should cure that sort of levity.”

This did nothing to reconcile Christopher to Papa’s plans. But I said that for
myself
! he thought angrily. It had nothing to
do
with Mama! He was still in a state of seething resentment when the train steamed into Cambridge, and he walked with Papa through streets full of young men in gowns like the coats people wore in Series Seven, past tall turreted buildings that reminded him of the Temple of Asheth, except that the Cambridge buildings had more windows. Papa had rented rooms in a lodg-ing house, a dark, mingy place that smelled of old dinners.

“We shall be staying here together while Dr. Pawson sorts you out,” he told Christopher. “I have brought ample work with me, so that I can keep a personal eye on your well-being.”

This about put the lid on Christopher’s angry misery. He wondered if he dared go to The Place Between to meet Tacroy on Thursday with a full-grown enchanter keeping a careful eye on him. To crown it all, the lodging house bed was even worse than the beds at school and twanged every time he moved. He went to sleep thinking he was about as miserable as he could be. But that was before he saw Dr. Pawson and realized his miseries had only just begun.

Papa delivered him to Dr. Pawson’s house in the Trumpington Road at ten the next morning. “Dr. Pawson’s learning gives him a disconcerting manner at times,” Papa said, “but I know I can trust my son to bear himself with proper politeness notwithstanding.”

This sounded ominous. Christopher’s knees wobbled while the housemaid showed him into Dr. Pawson’s room. It was a bright, bright room stuffed full of clutter. A harsh voice shouted out of the clutter.

“Stop!”

Christopher stood where he was, bewildered.

“Not a step further. And keep your
knees
still, boy! Lord, how the young do fidget!” the harsh voice bellowed. “How am I to assess you if you won’t stay still? Now, what do you say?”

The largest thing among the clutter was a fat armchair. Dr. Pawson was sitting in it, not moving a muscle except for a quiver from his vast purple jowls. He was probably too fat to move. He was vastly, hugely, grossly fat. His belly was like a small mountain with a checked waistcoat stretched over it. His hands reminded Christopher of some purple bananas he had seen in Series Five. His face was stretched, and purple too, and out of it glared two merciless, watery eyes.

“How do you do, sir?” Christopher said, since Papa trusted him to be polite.

“No,
no
!” shouted Dr. Pawson. “This is an examination, not a social call. What’s your problem—Chant your name is, isn’t it? State your problem, Chant.”

“I can’t do magic, sir,” Christopher said.

“So can’t a lot of people. Some are born that way,” Dr. Pawson bawled. “Do better than that, Chant. Show me. Don’t do some magic and let me see.”

Christopher hesitated, out of bewilderment mostly.

“Go on, boy!” howled Dr. Pawson. “Don’t do it!”

“I can’t not do something I can’t do,” Christopher said, thoroughly harassed.

“Of course you can!” yelled Dr. Pawson. “That’s the essence of magic. Get on with it. Mirror on the table beside you. Levitate it and be quick about it!”

If Dr. Pawson hoped to startle Christopher into succeeding, he failed. Christopher stumbled to the table, looked into the elegant silver-framed mirror that was lying there, and went through the words and gestures he had learned at school. Nothing at all happened.

“Hm,” said Dr. Pawson. “Don’t do it again.”

Christopher realized he was supposed to try once more. He tried, with shaking hands and voice, and exasperated misery growing inside him. This was hopeless! He hated Papa for dragging him off to be terrorized by this appalling fat man. He wanted to cry, and he had to remind himself, just as if he were his own governess, that he was far too big for that. And, as before, the mirror simply lay where it was.

“Um,” said Dr. Pawson. “Turn around, Chant. No,
right
around, boy, slowly, so that I can see all of you. Stop!”

Christopher stopped and stood, and waited. Dr. Pawson shut his watery eyes and lowered his purple chins. Christopher suspected he had gone to sleep. There was utter silence in the room except for clocks ticking among the clutter. Two clocks were the kind with all the works showing, one was a grandfather, and one was a mighty marble timepiece that looked as if it had come off someone’s grave. Christopher nearly jumped out of his skin when Dr. Pawson suddenly barked at him like the clap of doom.

“EMPTY YOUR POCKETS, CHANT!”

Eh? thought Christopher. But he did not dare disobey. He began hurriedly unloading the pockets of his Norfolk jacket: Uncle Ralph’s sixpence which he always kept, a shilling of his own, a grayish handkerchief, a note from Oneir about algebra, and then he was down to shaming things like string and rubber bands and furry toffees. He hesitated.

“All of it!” yelled Dr. Pawson. “Out of every single pocket. Put it all down on the table.”

Christopher went on unloading: a chewed rubber, a bit of pencil, peas for Fenning’s pea-shooter, a silver threepenny bit he had not known about, a cough drop, fluff, more fluff, string, a marble, an old pen nib, more rubber bands, more fluff, more string. And that was it.

Dr. Pawson’s eyes glared over him. “No, that’s
not
all! What else have you got on you? Tiepin. Get rid of that too.”

Reluctantly Christopher unpinned the nice silver tiepin Aunt Alice had given him for Christmas. And Dr. Pawson’s eyes continued to glare at him.

“Ah!” Dr. Pawson said. “And that stupid thing you have on your teeth. That’s got to go too. Get it out of your mouth and put it on the table. What the devil’s it
for
anyway?”

“To stop my teeth growing crooked,” Christopher said rather huffily. Much as he hated the tooth-brace, he hated even more being criticized about it.

“What’s wrong with crooked teeth?” howled Dr. Pawson, and he bared his own teeth. Christopher rather started back from the sight. Dr. Pawson’s teeth were brown, and they lay higgledy-piggledy in all directions, like a fence trampled by cows. While Christopher was blinking at them, Dr. Pawson bellowed, “Now do that levitation spell again!”

Christopher ground his teeth—which felt quite straight by contrast and very smooth without the brace—and turned to the mirror again. Once more he looked into it, once more said the words, and once more raised his arms aloft. And as his arms went up, he felt something come loose with them—come loose with a vengeance.

Everything in the room went upwards except Christopher, the mirror, the tiepin, the tooth-brace and the money. These slid to the floor as the table surged upwards, but were collected by the carpet which came billowing up after it. Christopher hastily stepped off the carpet and stood watching everything soar around him—all the clocks, several tables, chairs, rugs, pictures, vases, ornaments, and Dr. Pawson too. He and his armchair both went up, majestically, like a balloon, and bumped against the ceiling. The ceiling bellied upwards and the chandelier plastered itself sideways against it. From above came crashings, shrieks, and an immense airy grinding. Christopher could feel that the roof of the house had come off and was on its way to the sky, pursued by the attics. It was an incredible feeling.