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Authors: Diana Wynne Jones
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because of his beastly shoes. Blast and magic Dan Smith! He knocked on the door.
“Come in!” said Mr. Wentworth.
He was sitting in an armchair smoking a pipe. The room was full of strong smoke. Charles was surprised to see how shabby Mr. Wentworth’s room was. The armchair was worn out. There were holes in the soles of Mr. Wentworth’s slippers, and holes in the hearthrug the slippers rested on. But the gas fire was churring away comfortably and the room was beautifully warm compared with the rest of school.
“Ah, Charles.” Mr. Wentworth laid his pipe in an ashtray that looked like Brian’s first attempt at pottery. “Charles, I was told this afternoon that you might be a witch.”
5
C HARLES HAD THOUGHT , in the locker room, that he had been as frightened as a person could possibly be. Now he discovered this was not so. Mr. Wentworth’s words seemed to hit him heavy separate blows. Under the blows, Charles felt as if he were dissolving and falling away somewhere far, far below. He thought at first he was falling somewhere so sickeningly deep that the whole of his mind had become one long horrible scream. Then he felt he was rising up as he screamed. The shabby room was blurred and swaying, but Charles could have sworn he was now looking down on it from somewhere near the ceiling. He seemed to be hanging there, screaming, looking down on the top of his own head, and the slightly bald top of Mr. Wentworth’s head, and the smoke writhing from the pipe in the ashtray. And that terrified him too. He must have divided into two parts. Mr. Wentworth was bound to notice.
To his surprise, the part of himself left standing on the worn carpet answered Mr. Wentworth quite normally. He heard his own voice, with just the right amount of amazement and innocence, saying, “Who, me? I’m not a witch, sir.”
“I didn’t say you were, Charles,” Mr. Wentworth replied. “I just said someone said you were. From the account I was given, you had a public row with Nan Pilgrim, in the course of which you spoke of worms and dead mice, and a number of other unpleasant things.”
The part of Charles left standing on the carpet answered indignantly, “Well I did. But I was only saying some of the things she said at lunch. You were there, sir. Didn’t you hear her, sir?” Meanwhile, the part of Charles hovering near the ceiling was thanking whatever lucky stars looked after witches that Mr. Wentworth had chanced to sit opposite Nan Pilgrim at high table.
“I did,” said Mr. Wentworth. “I recognized your reference at once. But my informant thought you were reciting a spell.”
“But I wasn’t, sir,” protested the part of Charles on the carpet.
“But you sounded as if you were,” Mr. Wentworth said. “You can’t be too careful, Charles, in these troubled times. It sounds as if I’d better explain the position to you.”
He picked up his pipe to help him in the explanation. In the way of pipes, it had gone out by then. Mr. Wentworth struck matches and puffed, and struck more matches and puffed. Smoke does not seem to mean fire where pipes are concerned. Mr. Wentworth used ten matches before the pipe was alight. As Charles watched, it dawned on him that Mr. Wentworth did not think he was a witch. Nor did Mr. Wentworth seem to have noticed the odd way he had split into two. Perhaps the part of him hovering near the ceiling was imaginary, and simply due to panic. As Charles thought this, he found the part of him near the ceiling slowly descending into the part of him standing normally on the carpet. By the time Mr. Wentworth risked putting his pipe out again by pressing the matchbox down on it, Charles found himself in one piece. He was still fizzing all over with terror, it is true, but he was feeling nothing like so peculiar.
“Now, Charles,” said Mr. Wentworth. “You know witchcraft has always been illegal. But I think it’s true to say that the laws against it have never been as strict as they are now.
“Come in!” said Mr. Wentworth.
He was sitting in an armchair smoking a pipe. The room was full of strong smoke. Charles was surprised to see how shabby Mr. Wentworth’s room was. The armchair was worn out. There were holes in the soles of Mr. Wentworth’s slippers, and holes in the hearthrug the slippers rested on. But the gas fire was churring away comfortably and the room was beautifully warm compared with the rest of school.
“Ah, Charles.” Mr. Wentworth laid his pipe in an ashtray that looked like Brian’s first attempt at pottery. “Charles, I was told this afternoon that you might be a witch.”
5
C HARLES HAD THOUGHT , in the locker room, that he had been as frightened as a person could possibly be. Now he discovered this was not so. Mr. Wentworth’s words seemed to hit him heavy separate blows. Under the blows, Charles felt as if he were dissolving and falling away somewhere far, far below. He thought at first he was falling somewhere so sickeningly deep that the whole of his mind had become one long horrible scream. Then he felt he was rising up as he screamed. The shabby room was blurred and swaying, but Charles could have sworn he was now looking down on it from somewhere near the ceiling. He seemed to be hanging there, screaming, looking down on the top of his own head, and the slightly bald top of Mr. Wentworth’s head, and the smoke writhing from the pipe in the ashtray. And that terrified him too. He must have divided into two parts. Mr. Wentworth was bound to notice.
To his surprise, the part of himself left standing on the worn carpet answered Mr. Wentworth quite normally. He heard his own voice, with just the right amount of amazement and innocence, saying, “Who, me? I’m not a witch, sir.”
“I didn’t say you were, Charles,” Mr. Wentworth replied. “I just said someone said you were. From the account I was given, you had a public row with Nan Pilgrim, in the course of which you spoke of worms and dead mice, and a number of other unpleasant things.”
The part of Charles left standing on the carpet answered indignantly, “Well I did. But I was only saying some of the things she said at lunch. You were there, sir. Didn’t you hear her, sir?” Meanwhile, the part of Charles hovering near the ceiling was thanking whatever lucky stars looked after witches that Mr. Wentworth had chanced to sit opposite Nan Pilgrim at high table.
“I did,” said Mr. Wentworth. “I recognized your reference at once. But my informant thought you were reciting a spell.”
“But I wasn’t, sir,” protested the part of Charles on the carpet.
“But you sounded as if you were,” Mr. Wentworth said. “You can’t be too careful, Charles, in these troubled times. It sounds as if I’d better explain the position to you.”
He picked up his pipe to help him in the explanation. In the way of pipes, it had gone out by then. Mr. Wentworth struck matches and puffed, and struck more matches and puffed. Smoke does not seem to mean fire where pipes are concerned. Mr. Wentworth used ten matches before the pipe was alight. As Charles watched, it dawned on him that Mr. Wentworth did not think he was a witch. Nor did Mr. Wentworth seem to have noticed the odd way he had split into two. Perhaps the part of him hovering near the ceiling was imaginary, and simply due to panic. As Charles thought this, he found the part of him near the ceiling slowly descending into the part of him standing normally on the carpet. By the time Mr. Wentworth risked putting his pipe out again by pressing the matchbox down on it, Charles found himself in one piece. He was still fizzing all over with terror, it is true, but he was feeling nothing like so peculiar.
“Now, Charles,” said Mr. Wentworth. “You know witchcraft has always been illegal. But I think it’s true to say that the laws against it have never been as strict as they are now.
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