Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
1. The Brown Ointment
2. Greenmere
3. The Fidchell
4. The Hollow Hill
5. First Move
6. Inquisition
7. The Hosting
8. Ashton Bailey
9. The Oak Tree
10. Tod-lowery
11. Icicles
12. Sealed
13. The Fortress
14. The Players
About the Author
Also by Catherine Fisher
Copyright
Alick is fascinated by Luke Ferris – the Conjuror! Where does he get his strange powers of healing? Why has he got six fingers? What is his connection with the sinister goings-on at the Mere in Halcombe Great Wood?
Then Alick follows the Conjuror to the secret chamber under the hillside. There he discovers the ancient game of Fidchell and accidentally removes a key piece in the game – unleashing dark and terrifying forces on to the world.
Catherine Fisher was born in Newport, Wales. She graduated from the University of Wales with a degree in English and a fascination for myth and history. She has worked in education and archaeology and as a lecturer in creative writing at the University of Glamorgan. She is a Fellow of the Welsh Academy.
Catherine is an acclaimed poet and novelist, regularly lecturing and giving readings to groups of all ages. She has won many awards and much critical acclaim for her work. She won the Cardiff International Poetry Competition in 1990 and her first novel, The Conjurer’s Game, was shortlisted for the Smarties Book Prize. The Snow-Walker’s Son was shortlisted for the WHSmith Award.
Equally acclaimed is her quartet The Book of the Crow, a classic of fantasy fiction, recently retitled The Relic Master series.
The Oracle, the first volume in the Oracle trilogy, blends Egyptian and Greek elements of magic and adventure and was shortlisted for the Whitbread Children’s Books prize. The trilogy was an international bestseller and has appeared in over twenty languages.
Her futuristic novel Incarceron was published to widespread praise in 2007, and was selected by The Times as its Children’s Book of the Year. It became a New York Times bestseller and has now sold in over thirty languages. The sequel, Sapphique, was published in 2008.
Catherine’s latest novel The Crown of Acorns was nominated for the Carnegie Medal. For further details on Catherine and her work please see www.catherine-fisher.com.
To My Parents
Also by Catherine Fisher
Poetry
Immrama (1988)
The Unexplored Ocean (1994)
Altered States (1999)
Prose
The Conjuror’s Game (1990)
Fintan’s Tower (1991)
Saint Tarvel’s Bell (1992)
The Snow-Walker trilogy:
The Snow-Walker's Son (1993)
The Empty Hand (1995)
The Soul Thieves (1996)
The Candle Man (1994)
The Hare And Other Stories (1994)
Belin’s Hill (1997)
The Book of the Crow: (US title: Relic Master series)
The Relic Master (US title: The Dark City) (2011)
The Interrex (US title: The Lost Heiress) (2011)
Flain’s Coronet (US title: The Hidden Coronet) (2011)
The Margrave (US title: The Margrave) (2011)
The Lammas Field (1999)
Darkwater Hall (2000)
Corbenic (2002)
The Oracle trilogy:
The Oracle (US title: The Oracle Betrayed) (2003)
The Archon (US title: The Sphere of Secrets) (2004)
The Scarab (US title: Day of the Scarab) (2005)
Darkhenge (2005)
The Weather Dress (2005)
Incarceron series:
Incarceron (January 2010) (2007 in UK)
Sapphique (December 2010) (2008 in UK)
The Crown of Acorns (2010)
The Magic Thief (2010)
‘And as they looked they could hear a rider coming towards them, to the place where Arthur and Owein were over the gaming board. The squire greeted Arthur and said that Owein’s ravens were slaying his bachelors and squires. And Arthur looked at Owein and said, “Call off thy ravens.” “Lord,” said Owein “play thy game.” And they played. The rider returned towards the battle, and the ravens were no more called off than before.’
From ‘The Dream of Rhonabwy’ in the Mabinogion
(translated by Gwyn Jones and Thomas Jones)
‘THERE HE IS,’ Mr Webster said.
‘Who?’
‘Luke Ferris. The chap I was telling you about. The conjuror.’
Alick stood up and had a look. Out in the street, on the opposite pavement, a thin, dark-haired man was looking in the shop windows. Just behind him trotted a white dog.
‘Is that him?’ Alick sat down again, and picked up the pen. ‘I’ve seen him about before. He looks just like anybody else.’
‘Ah, yes. I expect that’s just what he wants you to think.’ His father’s mouth twitched. Alick knew something had amused him. ‘Anyway, he’s coming over, so you can find out for yourself.’
They watched the man cross the street, weaving between the cars. He came up to the window of Webster’s Second-hand Bookshop and paused, looking in at the bright display of Christmas books and posters that Alick had spent the morning arranging. Then the bell on the shop door jangled as he came in.
It was nearly five o’clock on a late December afternoon, and the shop was already quite dark. Down at one end, the fire had smouldered into embers, and the three shelves of musty, leatherbound books that never sold, gleamed in the warm glow. Mr Webster switched on the lamp near the window. ‘Cold enough for snow, Luke,’ he observed.
The conjuror nodded, and gave Alick a quick glance. His face was white with cold, and a gold earring glinted in the fire light. He wandered among the shelves, picking a book up now and again. Mr Webster searched the desk for his glasses, and Alick leaned his elbows on the counter and watched their customer.
A conjuror. And in Halcombe Great Wood that meant the real thing — not the man you saw on the television doing tricks with cards and white rabbits. And they said he was good. Well, he certainly looked at you in an odd way; as if he could see what you had for breakfast, if he wanted to. But he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it either, Alick thought bitterly. No one could. The whole thing was hopeless.
A movement by the door caught his eye, and he saw that the white dog was lying there, watching him. Chin on paws it lay, and there was an odd smirk about its mouth, as if it found something funny.
The ashes of the fire crackled. The lights in the butcher’s opposite went out. Finally, Mr Webster straightened up and slid the accounts book back to Alick with a satisfied nod. ‘Good. All done.’ He looked up.
‘Anything you want, Luke?’
‘Just these, I think.’ The conjuror came and put two books on the counter, and Alick took a sideways look at the titles. The Medicinal Properties of Herbs and Simples was the first, and the other was a small paperback called Poisons. He swallowed. Perhaps it would be better not to ask after all. But it was too late; as he wrapped the books his father had already begun.
‘I’m glad you called in, Luke, I’ve been wanting a word for a while now. It’s about Alick.’
‘Oh?’ Alick felt the man stare at him. ‘What’s he been up to?’
‘Nothing.’ Mr Webster laughed, pressing down a piece of sticky tape. ‘No, it’s his hands. Show him, Alick.’
Feeling foolish, Alick put both hands on the shop counter and stared at them gloomily.
Warts!
They looked horrible, and dirty, and they itched like mad. There were four on one hand and three on the other, including a big hard one like a knob of dried glue on the end of his thumb. He’d had them since he went fishing with Jamie in the Greenmere, but his father didn’t know about that. The Mere was strictly out of bounds — a man had drowned in it last year. The kids at school had been calling him Frog-face ever since. He was just about sick of it.
The conjuror looked down at the warts thoughtfully. ‘How long have you had these?’
‘About three weeks.’
‘And did they just appear?’
‘Sort of,’ Alick stammered.
‘I see. You hadn’t been anywhere wet? Mucky pools? Ponds?’
‘No.’
Luke Ferris nodded. ‘I see,’ he said again. Suddenly he smiled at Alick; Alick felt himself go red. He knew!
‘I’ve tried everything,’ his father put in, pushing the parcel of books across the counter. ‘Calamine, chilblain cream, every wart paint you’ve ever heard of. Then the doctor gave him some nasty, white burning stuff. None of it’s done the slightest good … That’ll be eight pounds fifty, please, Luke.’
‘I think,’ Luke said evenly, ‘that I may be able to help. It’ll cost you … eight pounds fifty. Payment on results.’
Mr Webster laughed. ‘Fair enough.’
The conjuror gave Alick another grin, and reaching into his coat pocket, pulled out a few, small, round boxes which he scattered along the counter. Then he spread out a clean, white handkerchief and told Alick to put his hands on it, palms down. Warily, Alick obeyed. The warts itched like crazy. Mr Webster bolted the shop door, turned the sign to ‘Closed’ and came and leaned on the counter, filling his pipe and watching the proceedings with interest.
Humming, Luke opened one of the boxes. Immediately a sharp, pungent smell began to fill the shop, making Alick’s eyes water. The dog by the door made a small noise in its throat.
‘It’s all right, Tam,’ the conjuror said, without turning his head. Dipping one finger into the sticky, brown ointment, he carefully put a small dab of it on each of the warts, and two dabs on the large one, all the time humming and muttering words that Alick, close as he was, could not catch.
The smell made him feel dizzy, but the ointment did not sting as the doctor’s had — it was just cold, like chocolate ice-cream. At last, the treatment seemed to be over; the shop was dim with a faint smoke. Luke wiped his finger clean on the edge of the handkerchief and replaced the box lid. He gathered the others up and dropped them in his pocket. Alick watched the brown blobs of ointment harden into crusts. ‘Can I move now?’
‘Not yet. Let it dry.’
Impatient, he kept still. Luke and his father began to talk about people they knew, and he had to wait. The smell bothered him, made him think of deep woods and wet, mushy leaves. And he felt daft, with his hands out flat like someone at a seance.
‘I hope it works,’ he said when the talk had stopped.
Luke did not answer.
‘It’s horrible having people stare at your hands all the time.’
For some reason this seemed the wrong thing to say. His father glared at him angrily. He couldn’t see why. But then the conjuror took his hands out of his pockets and laid them down flat beside Alick’s.
‘I know,’ he said.
It was all Alick could do not to shout out. The long, brown hand next to his had, not five fingers, but six! He glanced at the other. It was the same.
Luke was watching him. ‘Not so easy to cure as warts,’ he said.
Alick felt foolish. ‘I’m sorry,’ he stammered. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘I didn’t think you did …’ Luke paused, as if he was about to say something else, then, changing his mind, picked up the handkerchief and swiftly rubbed away the brown crusts from Alick’s fingers.
Mr Webster gave a whistle of amazement.
The warts were gone. Just a crumble of fine dust lay on the counter.
Alick couldn’t believe it. He stared at his fingers as if they did not belong to him, then touched them, carefully. No pain, no itching — not even a scar. Nothing!
Luke had already picked up his parcel of books and turned towards the door, nodding at Mr Webster’s astonished thanks.
‘Oh, that’s all right. But if I were you, Alick,’ he added, turning suddenly, ‘I’d give up fishing at the Greenmere. It’s not the sort of place you’ll catch anything fit to eat. Besides, it’s dangerous. Your father will tell you that.’
‘Indeed I will,’ Mr Webster said in a meaningful way.
The conjuror smiled. ‘Goodnight, Tom.’
‘Goodnight, Luke. Thanks again.’
And the door closed behind him.
Mr Webster turned around and took the pipe from his mouth, but before he could mention the Greenmere, Alick changed the subject.
‘I never thought he could do it!’ he announced, holding up his fingers to the light. ‘It’s magic!’
‘It might look like that to you,’ his father said, instantly sarcastic. ‘Luke knows a lot about folk medicine and such. But it’s true I’ve never seen warts done as fast as that, though there was an old chap down at Swinder’s End used to do them, once. Didn’t you feel anything?’
‘No,’ Alick plumped himself on to a stool. ‘Dad, why didn’t you tell me about his hands?’
‘Well, I didn’t know you’d come out with a tomfool remark like that, did I?’ his father said. ‘Besides, everyone knows. Or I thought they did. Odd, isn’t it?’
Alick nodded.
‘Mind, he’s an odd sort is Luke.’
Alick clasped his knees. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, it’s not just warts.’ Mr Webster crossed to the fire and began to rake it out. ‘You know McCarthy, the baker? He had arthritis last year, very bad. The doctor told him he might be in bed for the rest of his life. Then his son called on Luke, and the next week the old man’s in the Crown and Fiddle drinking pints. I’ll bet he charged more than eight pounds fifty for that.’ He straightened up and dusted his hands. ‘Well now, I think we’d better go upstairs and have some tea, don’t you? And a nice little chat. About the Greenmere.’
‘AND HE DID it just like that?’ Jamie stared at Alick’s hands. ‘Get out! It’s impossible!’
‘It’s not. Besides, Dad was there — ask him.’ Alick was annoyed. ‘You never believe anything I say.’
‘Too much imagination,’ Jamie said. ‘It’s all those batty old books, it is.’