The Lives of Christopher Chant. Diana Wynne Jones

first,” said the Goddess.

      “I swear,” said Christopher. But that was not enough. The Goddess hooked her thumbs into her jewelled sash and stared stonily. She was actually a little shorter than Christopher, but that did not make the stare any less impressive. “I swear by the Goddess that I’ll come back with what you want in exchange for the cat – will that do?” said Christopher. “Now what do you want?”

      “Books to read,” said the Goddess. “I’m bored,” she explained. She did not say it in a whine, but in a brisk way that made Christopher see it was true.

      “Aren’t there any books here?” he said.

      “Hundreds,” the Goddess said gloomily. “But they’re all educational or holy. And the Living Goddess isn’t allowed to touch anything in this world outside the Temple. Anything in this world. Do you understand?”

      Christopher nodded. He understood perfectly. “Which cat can I have?”

      “Throgmorten,” said the Goddess. Upon that word, Christopher’s feet came loose from the tiles. He was able to walk beside the Goddess as she lifted the curtain from the doorway and went out into the shady yard. “I don’t mind you taking Throgmorten,” she said. “He smells and he scratches and he bullies all the other cats. I hate him. But we’ll have to be quick about catching him. The priestesses will be waking up from siesta quite soon. Just a moment!”

      She dashed aside into an archway in a clash of anklets that made Christopher jump. She whirled back almost at once, a whirl of rusty robe, flying girdle, and swirling mouse-coloured hair. She was carrying a basket with a lid. “This should do,” she said. “The lid has a good strong fastening.” She led the way through the creeper-hung archway into the courtyard with the blinding sunlight. “He’s usually lording it over the other cats somewhere here,” she said. “Yes, there he is – that’s him in the corner.”

      Throgmorten was ginger. He was at that moment glaring at a black and white female cat, who had lowered herself into a miserable crouch while she tried to back humbly away. Throgmorten swaggered towards her, lashing a stripy snake-like tail, until the black and white cat’s nerve broke and she bolted. Then he turned to see what Christopher and the Goddess wanted.

      “Isn’t he horrible?” said the Goddess. She thrust the basket at Christopher. “Hold it open and shut the lid down quick after I’ve got him into it.”

      Throgmorten was, Christopher had to admit, a truly unpleasant cat. His yellow eyes stared at them with a blank and insolent leer, and there was something about the set of his ears – one higher than the other – which told Christopher that Throgmorten would attack viciously anything that got in his way. This being so, he was puzzled that Throgmorten should remind him remarkably much of Uncle Ralph. He supposed it must be the gingerness.

      At this moment, Throgmorten sensed they were after him. His back arched incredulously. Then, he fairly levitated up into the creepers on the wall, racing and scrambling higher and higher, until he was far above their heads.

      “No, you don’t!” said the Goddess.

      And Throgmorten’s arched ginger body came flying out of the creepers like a furry orange boomerang and landed slap in the basket. Christopher was deeply impressed – so impressed that he was a bit slow getting the lid down. Throgmorten came pouring over the edge of the basket again in an instant ginger stream. The Goddess seized him and crammed him back, whereupon a large number of flailing ginger legs – at least seven, to Christopher’s bemused eyes – clawed hold of her bracelets and her robe and her legs under the robe, and tore pieces off them.

      Christopher waited and aimed for an instant when one of Throgmorten’s heads – he seemed to have at least three, each with more fangs than seemed possible – came into range. Then he banged the basket lid on it, hard. Throgmorten, for the blink of an eye, became an ordinary dazed cat instead of a fighting devil. The Goddess shook him off into the basket. Christopher slapped the lid on. A huge ginger paw loaded with long pink razors at once oozed itself out of the latch hole and tore several strips off Christopher while he fastened the basket.

      “Thanks,” he said, sucking his wounds.

      “I’m glad to see the back of him,” said the Goddess, licking a slash on her arm and mopping blood off her leg with her torn robe.

      A melodious voice called from the creeper-hung archway. “Goddess, dear! Where are you?”

      “I have to go,” whispered the Goddess. “Don’t forget the books. You swore to a swop. Coming!” she called, and went running back to the archway, clash-tink, clash-tink.

      Christopher turned quickly to the wall and tried to go through it. And he could not. No matter how he tried turning that peculiar sideways way, it would not work. He knew it was Throgmorten. Holding a live cat snarling in a basket made him part of this Anywhere and he had to obey its usual rules. What was he to do? More melodious voices were calling to the Goddess in the distance, and he could see people moving inside at least two more of the archways round the yard. He never really considered putting the basket down. Uncle Ralph wanted this cat. Christopher ran for it instead, sprinting for the nearest archway that seemed to be empty.

      Unfortunately the jigging of the basket assured Throgmorten that he was certainly being kidnapped. He protested about it at the top of his voice – and Christopher would never have believed that a mere cat could make such a powerful noise. Throgmorten’s voice filled the dark passages beyond the archway, wailing, throbbing, rising to a shriek like a dying vampire’s, and then falling to a strong curdled contralto howl. Then it went up to a shriek again.

      Before Christopher had run twenty yards, there were shouts behind him, and the slap of sandals and the thumping of bare feet. He ran faster than ever, twisting into a new passage whenever he came to one, and sprinting down that, but all the time Throgmorten kept up his yells of protest from the basket, showing the pursuers exactly where to follow. Worse, he fetched more. There were twice the number of shouts and thumping feet behind by the time Christopher saw daylight. He burst out into it, followed by a jostling mob.

      And it was not really daylight, but a huge confusing temple, full of worshippers and statues and fat painted pillars. The daylight was coming from great open doors a hundred yards away. Christopher could see the man with the yellow umbrella outlined beyond the doors and knew exactly where he was. He dashed for the doors, dodging pillars and sprinting round people praying. “Wong – wong – WONG-WONG!” howled Throgmorten from the basket in his hand.

      “Stop thief!” screamed the people chasing him. “Arm of Asheth!”

      Christopher saw a man in a silver mask, or maybe a woman – a silver-masked person anyway – standing on a flight of steps carefully aiming a spear at him. He tried to dodge, but there was no time, or the spear followed him somehow. It crashed into his chest with a jolting thud.

      Things seemed to go very slowly then. Christopher stood still, clutching the howling basket, and stared disbelievingly at the shaft of the spear sticking out of his chest through his dirty shirt. He saw it in tremendous detail. It was made of beautifully polished brown wood, with words and pictures carved along it. About half-way up was a shiny silver hand-grip which had designs that were almost rubbed out with wear. A few drops of blood were coming out where the wood met his shirt. The spear-head must be buried deep inside him. He looked up to see the masked person advancing triumphantly towards him. Beyond, in the doorway, Tacroy must have been fetched by the noise. He was standing frozen there, staring in horror.

      Falteringly, Christopher put out his free hand and took hold of the spear by the hand-grip to pull it out. And everything stopped with a bump.

       CHAPTER FIVE