The Weirdstone of Brisingamen and The Moon of Gomrath - Alan Garner

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three fatal seconds the children stared, unable to think or move. And as they faltered, the jaws of the trap closed about them; for, like a myriad snakes, the grass within the circle, alive with the magic of the place, writhed about their feet, shackling them in a net of blade and root, tight as a vice.

      As if in some dark dream, Colin and Susan strained to tear themselves free, but they were held like wasps in honey.

      Slowly the figure rose from its seat and came towards them. Of human shape it was, though like no mortal man, for it stood near eight feet high, and was covered from head to foot in a loose habit, dank and green, and ill concealing the terrible thinness and spider strength of the body beneath. A deep cowl hid the face, skin mittens were on the wasted hands, and the air was laden with the reek of foul waters.

      The creature stopped in front of Susan and held out a hand; not a word was spoken.

      “No!” gasped Susan. “You shan’t have it!” And she put her arm behind her back.

      “Leave her alone!” yelled Colin. “If you touch her Cadellin will kill you!”

      The shrouded head turned slowly towards him, and he gazed into the cavern of the hood; courage melted from him, and his knees were water.

      Then, suddenly, the figure stretched out its arms and seized both the children by the shoulder.

      They had no chance to struggle or to defend themselves. With a speed that choked the cry of anguish in their throats, an icy numbness swept down from the grip of those hands into their bodies, and the children stood paralysed, unable to move a finger.

      In a moment the bracelet was unfastened from Susan’s wrist, and the grim shape turned on its heel and strode into the mist. And the mist gathered round it and formed a swirling cloud that moved swiftly away among the trees, and was lost to sight.

      The sun shone upon the stone circle, and upon the figures standing motionless in the centre. The warm rays poured life and feeling into those wooden bodies, and they began to move. First an arm stirred jerkily, doll-like, then a head turned, a leg moved, and slowly the numbness drained from their limbs, the grass released its hold, and the children crumpled forward on to their hands and knees, shivering and gasping, the blood in their heads pounding like triphammers.

      “Out – circle!” wheezed Colin.

      They staggered sideways and almost fell down a small bank on to a path.

      “Find Cadellin: perhaps … he … can stop it. I think that may be … Stormy Point ahead.”

      Their legs were stiff, and every bone ached, but they hurried along as best they could, and a few minutes later they cried out with relief, for the path did indeed come out on Stormy Point.

      Across the waste of stones they ran, and down to the iron gates; and when they came to the rock they flung themselves against it, beating with their fists, and calling the wizard’s name. But bruised knuckles were all they achieved: no gates appeared, no cavern opened.

      Colin was in a frenzy of desperation. He prised a stone out of the ground, almost as big as his head, and, using both hands, began to pound the silent wall, shouting, “Open up! Open up! Open up! Open up! Open up!!!”

      “Now that is no way to come a-visiting wizards,” said a voice above them.

       CHAPTER 7

       FENODYREE

      Colin and Susan looked up, not knowing what to expect: the voice sounded friendly, but was that any guide now?

      Over the top of the rock dangled a pair of feet, and between these were two eyes, black as sloes, set in a leathery face, bearded and bushy-browed.

      “Rocks are old, stubborn souls; they were here before we came, and they will be here when we are gone. They have all the time there is, and will not be hurried.”

      With this, the face disappeared, the legs swung out of sight, there was a slithering noise, a bump, and from behind the rock stepped a man four feet high. He wore a belted tunic of grey, patterned with green spirals along the hem, pointed boots, and breeches bound tight with leather thongs. His black hair reached to his shoulders, and on his brow was a circlet of gold.

      “Are – are you a dwarf?” said Susan.

      “That am I.” He bowed low. “By name, Fenodyree; Wineskin, or Squabnose, to disrespectful friends. Take your pick.”

      He straightened up and looked keenly from one to the other of the children. His face had the same qualities of wisdom, of age without weakness, that they had seen in Cadellin, but here there was more of merriment, and a lighter heart.

      “Oh please,” said Susan, “take us to the wizard, if you can. Something dreadful has happened, and he must be told at once, in case it’s not too late.”

      “In case what is not too late?” said Fenodyree. “Oh, but there I go, wanting gossip, when all around is turmoil and urgent deeds! Let us find Cadellin.”

      He ran his hand down the rough stone, like a man stroking the flanks of a favourite horse. The rock stirred ponderously and clove in two, and there were the iron gates, and the blue light of Fundindelve.

      “Now the gates,” said Fenodyree briskly. “My father made them, and so they hear me, though I have not the power of wizards.”

      He laid his hand upon the metal, and the gates opened.

      “Stay close, lest you lose the way,” called Fenodyree over his shoulder.

      He set off at a jog-trot down the swift-sloping tunnel. Colin and Susan hurried after him, the rock and iron closed behind them, and they were again far from the world of men.

      Down they went into the edge, and came at last, by many zigzag paths, to the cave where they had rested after their meeting with Cadellin. And there they found him; he had been reading at the table, but had risen at the sound of their approach.

      “The day’s greeting to you, Cadellin Silverbrow,” said Fenodyree.

      “And to you, Wineskin. Now what bad news do you bring me, children? I have been expecting it, though I know not what it may be.”

      “Cadellin,” cried Susan, “my Tear must be Firefrost, and it’s just been stolen!”

      “What – tear is this?”

      “My Tear! The one my mother gave me. She had it from Bess Mossock.”

      And out poured the whole story in a tumble of words.

      The wizard grew older before their eyes. He sank down upon his chair, his face lined and grey.

      “It is the stone. It is the stone. No other has that heart of fire. And it was by me, and I did not hear it call.”

      He sat, his eyes clouded, a tired, world-weary, old man.

      Then wrath kindled in him, and spread like flame. He sprang from his chair with all the vigour of youth, and he seemed to grow in stature, and his presence filled the cave.

      “Grimnir!” he cried. “Are you to be my ruin at the end? Quick! We must take him in the open before he gains the lake! I shall slay him, if I must.”

      “Nay, Cadellin,” said Fenodyree. “Hot blood has banished cool thought! It is near an hour since the hooded one strode swampwards; he will be far from the light by now, and even you dare not follow there. He would sit and mock you. Would you want that, old friend?”

      “Mock me! Why did he leave these children unharmed, if not for that? It is not his way to show mercy for mercy’s sake! And how else could despair have been brought to me so quickly? I am savouring his triumph now, as he meant me to.

      “But

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