Read Online Bartimaeus: The Golem’s Eye by Jonathan Stroud - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jonathan Stroud
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claimed she was 102 years old.
He flicked a beetle off a grass stalk. “She’d reckon they were spirits. Servants of the magicians. That’s one of their preferred forms, according to her. It’s all stuff she learned from her mum, who came over from Prague. She hates windows being left open at night, no matter how hot it gets.” He put on an aged, quivering voice.” ‘Close it up, boy! It lets the demons in.’She’s full of things like that.”
Kitty frowned. “You don’t believe in demons, then?”
“Of course I do! How else d’you think the magicians get their power? It’s all in the spell books they send over to get bound or printed. That’s what magic is all about. The magicians sell their souls and the demons help them in return— if they get the spells right. If they don’t, the demons kill ’em dead. Who’d be a magician? I wouldn’t, for all their jewels.”
For a few minutes, Kitty lay silently on her back, watching the clouds. A thought occurred to her. “So, let me get this right…” she began. “If your dad, and his dad before him, have always worked on spell books for magicians, they must have read a lot of the spells, right? So that means—”
“I can see where you’re going with this. Yeah, they must have seen stuff, enough to know to keep well clear of it, anyway. But a lot of it’s written in weird languages, and you need more than just the words; I think there are things to draw, and potions and all sorts of horrid extras to learn, if you’re going to master demons. It’s not something anybody decent wants to be part of; my dad just keeps his head down and makes the books.” He sighed. “Mind you, people have always assumed my family is in on it all. After the magicians fell from power in Prague, one of my grandpapa’s uncles was chased by a mob and thrown from a high window. Landed on a roof and died. Grandpapa came to England soon after and started the business again. It was safer for him here. Anyway …” He sat up, stretched. “Whether those crows are demons, I very much doubt. What would they be doing sitting in a tree? Come on—” He tossed her the bat. “Your turn, and I bet I get you out first ball.”
To Kitty’s vast frustration, this was exactly what he did. And the next time, and the next. The park rang with the metallic bong of cricket ball on drinking fountain. Jakob’s whoops resounded high and low. At last, Kitty threw down the bat.
“This isn’t fair!” she cried. “You’ve weighted the ball, or something.”
“It’s called sheer skill. My turn.”
“One more go.”
“All right.” Jakob tossed the ball with an ostentatiously gentle underarm throw. Kitty swung the bat with savage desperation, and to her vast surprise made contact so firmly that she jarred her arm up to her elbow.
“Yes! A hit! Catch that one if you can!” She began a dance of victory, expecting to see Jakob pelting off across the lawn … but he was quite stationary, standing in an uncertain posture and gazing up into the sky somewhere up behind her head.
Kitty turned and looked. The ball, which she had contrived to swipe high up over her shoulder, plummeted serenely out of the sky, down, down, down, behind the wall, out of the park, into the road.
There followed a terrible smash of breaking glass, a squeal of tires, a loud, metallic crump.
Silence. A faint hissing sound from behind the wall, as of steam escaping from a broken machine.
Kitty looked at Jakob. He looked at her.
Then they ran.
Hard across the grass they went, making for the distant bridge. They ran side by side, heads down, fists pumping, not looking back. Kitty was still holding the bat. It weighed her down; with a gasp she tossed it from her grip. At this, Jakob gave a gulping cry and skidded to a halt.
“You idiot! My name’s on it—” He darted back; Kitty slowed, turned to watch him pick it up. As she did so, she saw, in the middle distance, an open gate in the wall, leading to the
He flicked a beetle off a grass stalk. “She’d reckon they were spirits. Servants of the magicians. That’s one of their preferred forms, according to her. It’s all stuff she learned from her mum, who came over from Prague. She hates windows being left open at night, no matter how hot it gets.” He put on an aged, quivering voice.” ‘Close it up, boy! It lets the demons in.’She’s full of things like that.”
Kitty frowned. “You don’t believe in demons, then?”
“Of course I do! How else d’you think the magicians get their power? It’s all in the spell books they send over to get bound or printed. That’s what magic is all about. The magicians sell their souls and the demons help them in return— if they get the spells right. If they don’t, the demons kill ’em dead. Who’d be a magician? I wouldn’t, for all their jewels.”
For a few minutes, Kitty lay silently on her back, watching the clouds. A thought occurred to her. “So, let me get this right…” she began. “If your dad, and his dad before him, have always worked on spell books for magicians, they must have read a lot of the spells, right? So that means—”
“I can see where you’re going with this. Yeah, they must have seen stuff, enough to know to keep well clear of it, anyway. But a lot of it’s written in weird languages, and you need more than just the words; I think there are things to draw, and potions and all sorts of horrid extras to learn, if you’re going to master demons. It’s not something anybody decent wants to be part of; my dad just keeps his head down and makes the books.” He sighed. “Mind you, people have always assumed my family is in on it all. After the magicians fell from power in Prague, one of my grandpapa’s uncles was chased by a mob and thrown from a high window. Landed on a roof and died. Grandpapa came to England soon after and started the business again. It was safer for him here. Anyway …” He sat up, stretched. “Whether those crows are demons, I very much doubt. What would they be doing sitting in a tree? Come on—” He tossed her the bat. “Your turn, and I bet I get you out first ball.”
To Kitty’s vast frustration, this was exactly what he did. And the next time, and the next. The park rang with the metallic bong of cricket ball on drinking fountain. Jakob’s whoops resounded high and low. At last, Kitty threw down the bat.
“This isn’t fair!” she cried. “You’ve weighted the ball, or something.”
“It’s called sheer skill. My turn.”
“One more go.”
“All right.” Jakob tossed the ball with an ostentatiously gentle underarm throw. Kitty swung the bat with savage desperation, and to her vast surprise made contact so firmly that she jarred her arm up to her elbow.
“Yes! A hit! Catch that one if you can!” She began a dance of victory, expecting to see Jakob pelting off across the lawn … but he was quite stationary, standing in an uncertain posture and gazing up into the sky somewhere up behind her head.
Kitty turned and looked. The ball, which she had contrived to swipe high up over her shoulder, plummeted serenely out of the sky, down, down, down, behind the wall, out of the park, into the road.
There followed a terrible smash of breaking glass, a squeal of tires, a loud, metallic crump.
Silence. A faint hissing sound from behind the wall, as of steam escaping from a broken machine.
Kitty looked at Jakob. He looked at her.
Then they ran.
Hard across the grass they went, making for the distant bridge. They ran side by side, heads down, fists pumping, not looking back. Kitty was still holding the bat. It weighed her down; with a gasp she tossed it from her grip. At this, Jakob gave a gulping cry and skidded to a halt.
“You idiot! My name’s on it—” He darted back; Kitty slowed, turned to watch him pick it up. As she did so, she saw, in the middle distance, an open gate in the wall, leading to the
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