Hexwood by Diana Wynne Jones

By Diana Wynne Jones

Unusual issues start to take place at Hexwood Farm as Ann Staveley watches individual after individual vanish into the outdated farmhouse and not reappear, but if she investigates, she discovers that the strangeness is spreading. via the writer of Witch Week.

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Yam turned and bent his head, far farther than a human could, to watch what was going on. “Those fuel cells have slipped,” he told Mordion. “Yes, the clips are worn,” Mordion agreed. “How’s that? ” “Better,” said Yam. “No, stop. That red wire goes to the torsor head. ” “Punctured,” said Mordion. He bent down to the roll of tools. “More fluid. Where are the small patches? Ah, here. ” “Lower left leg,” said Yam. Ann was fascinated. Mordion working on Yam was a different person, neither the mad-seeming enchanter who had created Hume nor the harassed monk trying to build a house and watch Hume at the same time.

He commanded. Ann put her hand on the old rusty knob, turned it, pulled, rattled, and was just deciding the door was locked when she discovered it opened inward. She put her shoulder to the blistered panels and pushed. Hume hindered in a helping way. And the door groaned and scraped and finally came half open, which was enough to let them both slip through. Hume shot inside with a squeal of excitement. Ann stepped after more cautiously. She stopped in astonishment. There was an ancient farmhouse beyond, standing in a walled garden of chest-high weeds.

Refuel then by all means,” Yam said graciously. ” Ann remarked as Mordion came and stirred the iron pot. Mordion looked up at her from under his eyebrow. “I brought it on myself,” he said. ” Ann exclaimed. ” Mordion straightened up over the cooking pot. For that instant Ann knew what it meant when people said someone was towering in his wrath. She backed away. “Of course I—” Mordion began. Then he stopped and thought, with his brow riding in over his nose, just as if Ann had asked him something very difficult.

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