lads they were! As alike as two peas, and Marco could catch Falco
blindfolded. Why, for a moment I
wondered if they were just like me -' She stopped, went a bit red on
both faces and coughed.
'Anyway,' she went on, 'one day I asked them how they managed to stay
on the high wire and Falco
said, "Never ask the tight-rope walker how he keeps his balance. If he
stops to think about it, he
falls off." Although actually he said it like this, "Nev-ah aska
tightaroper walkerer..." because
the lads pretended they were from Brindisi, you see, because that
sounds foreign and impressive
and they thought no one would want to watch acrobats called The Flying
Sidney and Frank
Cartwright. Good advice, though, wherever it came from.' The hands
worked. This was not a lone
Miss Level, a bit flustered, but the full Miss Level, all twenty
fingers working together. 'Of
course,' she said, 'it can be helpful to have the right sort of things
in your pocket. I always
carry a few sequins for the happy memories they bring back,' said Miss
Level from the other side
of the table, blushing again. She held up the shamble. There were
sequins, and a fresh egg in a
little bag made of thread, and a chicken bone and many other things
hanging or spinning in the
threads. Each part of Miss Level put both its hands into the threads
and pulled... The threads
took up a pattern. Did the sequins jump from one thread to another? It
looked like it. Did the
chicken bone pass through the egg? So it seemed. Miss Level peered
into it. She said: 'Something's
coming The stagecoach left Twoshirts half full and was well out over
the plains when one of the
passengers sitting on the rooftop tapped the driver on the shoulder.
'Excuse me, did you know
there's something trying to catch us up?' he said. 'Bless you, sir,'
said the driver, because he
hoped for a good tip at the end of the run, 'there's nothing that can
catch us up.' Then he heard
the screaming in the distance, getting louder. 'Er, I think he means
to,' said the passenger as
the carter's wagon overtook them. 'Stop! Stop, for pity's sake stopY
yelled the carter as he
sailed past. But there was no stopping Henry. He'd spent years pulling
the carrier's cart around
the villages, very slowly, and he'd always had this idea in his big
horse head that he was cut out
for faster things. He'd plodded along, being overtaken by coaches and
carts and three-legged dogs,
and now he was having the time of his life. Besides, the cart was a
lot lighter than usual, and
the road was slightly downhill here. All he was really having to do
was gallop fast enough to stay
in front. And, finally, he'd actually overtaken the stagecoach. Him,
Henry! He only stopped
because the stagecoach driver stopped first. Besides, the blood was
pumping through Henry now, and
there were a couple of mares in the team of horses pulling the coach
who he felt he'd really like
to get to know- find out when was their day off, what kind of hay they
liked, that kind of thing.
The carter, white in the face, got down carefully and then lay on the
ground and held on tight to
the dirt. His one passenger, who looked to the coach driver like some
sort of scarecrow, climbed
unsteadily down from the back and lurched towards the coach. 'I'm
sorry, we're full up,' the
driver lied. They weren't full, but there was certainly no room for a
thing that looked like that.
'Ach, and there wuz me willin' to pay wi' gold,' said the creature.
'Gold such as this here,' it
added, waving a ragged glove in the air. Suddenly there was plenty of
space for an eccentric
millionaire. Within a few seconds he was seated inside and, to the
annoyance of Henry, the coach
set off again. Outside Miss Level's cottage, a broomstick was heading
through the trees. A young
witch- or, at least, someone dressed as a witch: it never paid to jump
to conclusions- was sitting
on it side-saddle. She wasn't flying it very well. It jerked sometimes
and it was clear the girl
was no good at making it turn corners because sometimes she stopped,
jumped off and pointed the
stick in a new direction by hand. When she reached the garden gate she
got off again quickly and
tethered the stick to it with string. 'Nicely done, Petulia!' said
Miss Level, clapping with all
four hands. 'You're getting quite good!' 'Um, thank you, Miss Level,'
said the girl, bowing. She
stayed bowed, and said, 'Um, oh dear Half of Miss Level stepped
forward. 'Oh, I can see the
problem,' she said, peering down. 'Your amulet with the little owls on
it is tangled up with your
necklace of silver bats and they've both got caught around a button.
Just hold still, will you?'
'Um, I've come to see if your new girl would like come to the sabbat
tonight,' said the bent
Petulia, her voice a bit muffled. Tiffany couldn't help noticing that
Petulia had jewellery
everywhere; later she found that it was hard to be around Petulia for
any length of time without
having to unhook a bangle from a necklace or, once, an earring from an
ankle bracelet (nobody ever
found out how that one happened). Petulia couldn't resist occult
jewellery. Most of the stuff was
to magically protect her from things, but she hadn't found anything to
protect her from looking a
bit silly. She was short and plump and permanently red-faced and
slightly worried. 'Sabbat? Oh,
one of your meetings,' said Miss Level. 'That would be nice, wouldn't
it, Tiffany?' 'Yes?' said
Tiffany, not quite sure yet. 'Some of the girls meet up in the woods
in the evenings,' said Miss
Level. 'For some reason the craft is getting popular again. That's
very welcome, of course.' She
said it as if she wasn't quite sure. Then she added: 'Petulia here
works for Old Mother Blackcap,
over in Sidling Without. Specializes in animals. Very good woman with
pig diseases. I mean, with
pigs that've got diseases, I don't mean she has pig diseases. It'll be
nice for you to have
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friends here. Why don't you go? There, everything's unhooked.' Petulia
stood up and gave Tiffany a
worried smile. 'Um, Petulia Gristle,' she said, holding out a hand.
'Tiffany Aching,' said
Tiffany, shaking it gingerly in case the sound of all the bangles and
bracelets jangling together
deafened everyone. 'Um, you can ride with me on the broomstick, if you
like,' said Petulia. 'I'd
rather not,' said Tiffany. Petulia looked relieved, but said: 'Um, do
you want to get dressed?'
Tiffany looked down at her green dress. 'I am.' 'Um, don't you have
any gems or beads or amulets
or anything?' 'No, sorry,' said Tiffany. 'Um, you must at least have a
shamble, surely?' 'Um,
can't get the hang of them,' said Tiffany. She hadn't meant the 'um',
but around Petulia it was
catching. 'Um... a black dress, perhaps?' 'I don't really like black.
I prefer blue or green,'
said Tiffany. 'Um 'Um. Oh well, you're just starting,' said Petulia
generously. 'I've been Crafty
for three years.' Tiffany looked desperately at the nearest half of
Miss Level. 'In the craft,'
said Miss Level helpfully. 'Witchcraft.' 'Oh.' Tiffany knew she was
being very unfriendly, and
Petulia with her pink face was clearly a nice person, but she felt
awkward in front of her and she
couldn't work out why. It was stupid, she knew. She could do with a
friend. Miss Level was nice
enough, and she managed to get along with Oswald, but it would be good
to have someone around her
own age to talk to. 'Well, I'd love to come,' she said. 'I know I've
got a lot to learn.' The
passengers inside the stagecoach had paid good money to be inside on
the soft seats and out of the
wind and the dust and, therefore, it was odd that so many got out at
the next stop and went and
sat on the roof. The few who didn't want to ride up there or couldn't
manage the climb sat huddled
together on the seat opposite, watching the new traveller like a group
of rabbits watching a fox
and trying not to breathe. The problem wasn't that he smelled of
ferrets. Well, that was a
problem, but compared to the big problem it wasn't much of one. He
talked to himself. That is,
bits of him talked to other bits of him. All the time. 'Ah, it's fair
hoggin' doon here. Ah'm
tellin ye! Ah'rn sure it's my turn to be up inna heidl' 'Hah, at least
youse people are all cushy
in the stomach, it's us in the legs that has tae do all the work!' At
which the right hand said:
'Legs? Youse dinnae know the meanin' of the word "work"! Ye ought tae
try being stuck in a glove!
Ach, blow this forra game o' sojers! Ah 'm gonna stretch ma legs!' In
horrified silence the other
passengers watched one of the man's gloved hands drop off and walk
around on the seat. 'Aye, weel,
it's nae picnic doon here inna troosers, neither. A'm gonna let some
fresh air in right noo!'
'Daft Wullie, don't you dare do that-' The passengers, squeezing even
closer together, watched the
trousers with terrible fascination. There was some movement, some
swearing-under-the-breath in a
place where nothing should be breathing, and then a couple of buttons
popped and a very small redheaded
blue man stuck his head out, blinking in the light. He froze when he
saw the people. He
stared. They stared. Then his face widened into a mad smile. 'Youse
folks all right?' he said,
desperately. 'That's greaaat! Dinnae worry aboout me, I'm one o' they
opper-tickle aloosyon's, ye
ken?' He disappeared back into the trousers, and they heard him
whisper: 'I'm thinkin' I fooled
'em easily, no problemo!' A few minutes later, the coach stopped to
change horses. When it set off
again, it was minus the inside passengers. They got off, and asked for
their luggage to be taken
off, too. No thank you, they did not want to continue their ride.
They'd catch the coach tomorrow,
thank you. No, there was no problem in waiting here in this delightful
little, er, town of
Dangerous Corner. Thank you. Goodbye. The coach set off again,
somewhat lighter and faster. It
didn't stop that night. It should have done, and the rooftop
passengers were still eating their
dinner in the last inn when they heard it set off without them. The
reason probably had something
to do with the big heap of coins now in the driver's pocket.
Chapter 5
Tiffany walked through the woods while Petulia flew unsteadily
alongside in a series of straight
lines. Tiffany learned that Petulia was nice, had three brothers,
wanted to be a midwife for
humans as well as pigs when she grew up, and was afraid of pins. She
also learned that Petulia
hated to disagree about anything. So parts of the conversation went
like this: Tiffany said, 'I
live down on the Chalk.' And Petulia said, 'Oh, where they keep all
those sheep? I don't like
sheep much, they're so kind of... baggy.' Tiffany said, 'Actually,
we're very proud of our sheep.'
And then you could stand back as Petulia reversed her opinions like
someone trying to turn a cart
round in a very narrow space: 'Oh, I didn't really mean I hate them. I
expect some sheep are all
right. We've got to have sheep, obviously. They're better than goats,
and woollier. I mean, I
actually like sheep, really. Sheep are nice.' Petulia spent a lot of
time trying to find out what
other people thought so that she could think the same way. It would be
impossible to have an
argument with her. Tiffany had to stop herself from saying 'The sky is
green' just to see how long
it would take for Petulia to agree. But she liked her. You couldn't
not like her. She was restful
company. Besides, you couldn't help liking someone who couldn't make a
broomstick turn corners. It
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was a long walk through the woods. Tiffany had always wanted to see a
forest so big that you
couldn't see daylight through the other side, but now she'd lived in
one for a couple of weeks it
got on her nerves. It was quite open woodland here, at least around
the villages, and not hard to
walk though. She'd had to learn what maples and birches were, and
she'd never before seen the
spruces and firs that grew higher up the slopes. But she wasn't happy
in the company of trees. She
missed the horizons. She missed the sky. Everything was too close.
Petulia chattered nervously.
Old Mother Blackcap was a pig-borer, cow-shouter and all-round
veterinary witch. Petulia liked
animals, especially pigs because they had wobbly noses. Tiffany quite
liked animals too, but no
one except other animals liked animals as much as Petulia. 'So...
what's this meeting about?' she
said, to change the subject. 'Urn? Oh, it's just to keep in touch'
said Petulia. 'Annagramma says
it's important to make contacts.' 'Annagramma's the leader, then, is
she?' said Tiffany. 'Um, no.
Witches don't have leaders, Annagramma says.' 'Hmm,' said Tiffany.
They arrived at last at a
clearing in the woods, just as the sun was setting. There were the
remains of an old cottage
there, now covered mostly in brambles. You might miss it completely if
you didn't spot the rampant
growth of lilac and the gooseberry bushes, now a forest of thorns.
Someone had lived here once,
and had a garden. Someone else, now, had lit a fire. Badly. And they
had found that lying down
flat to blow on a fire because you hadn't started it with enough paper
and dry twigs was not a
good idea, because it would then cause your pointy hat, which you had
forgotten to take off, to
fall into the smoking mess and then, because it was dry, catch fire. A
young witch was now
flailing desperately at her burning hat, watched by several interested
spectators. Another one,
sitting on a log, said: 'Dimity Hubbub, that is literally the most
stupid thing anyone has ever
done anywhere in the whole world, ever.' It was a sharp, not very nice
voice, the sort most people
used for being sarcastic with. 'Sorry, Annagramma!' said Miss Hubbub,
pulling off the hat and
stamping on the point. 'I mean, just look at you, will you? You really
are letting everyone down.'
'Sorry, Annagramma!' 'Um,' said Petulia. Everyone turned to look at
the new arrivals. 'You're
late, Petulia Gristle!' snapped Annagramma. 'And who's this?' 'Urn,
you did ask me to call in at
Miss Level's to bring the new girl, Annagramma,' said Petulia, as if
she'd been caught doing
something wrong. Annagramma stood up. She was at least a head taller
than Tiffany and had a face
that seemed to be built backwards from her nose, which she held
slightly in the air. To be looked
at by Annagramma was to know that you'd already taken up too much of
her valuable time. 'Is this
her?' 'Um, yes, Annagramma.' 'Let's have a look at you, new girl.'
Tiffany stepped forward. It was
amazing. She hadn't really meant to. But Annagramma had the kind of
voice that you obeyed. 'What
is your name?' 'Tiffany Aching?' said Tiffany, and found herself
saying her name as if she was
asking permission to have it. 'Tiffany? That's a funny name,' said the
tall girl. 'My name is
Annagramma Hawkin.' 'Um, Annagramma works for-' Petulia began. '-
works with,' said Annagramma
sharply, still looking Tiffany up and down. 'Urn, sorry, works with
Mrs Earwig,' said Petulia.
'But she-' I intend to leave next year,' said Annagramma. 'Apparently,
I'm doing extremely well.
So you're the girl who's joined Miss Level, are you? She's weird, you
know. The last three girls
all left very quickly. They said it was just too strange trying to
keep track of which one of her
was which.' 'Which witch was which,' said one of the girls cheerfully.
'Anyone can do that pun,
Lucy Warbeck,' said Annagramma without looking round. 'It's not funny,
and it's not clever.' She
turned her attention back to Tiffany, who felt that she was being
examined as critically and
thoroughly as Granny Aching would check a ewe she might be thinking of
buying. She wondered if
Annagramma would actually try to open her mouth and make sure she had
all her teeth. 'They say you
can't breed good witches on chalk,' said Annagramma. All the other
girls looked from Annagramma to
Tiffany, who thought: Ha!, so witches don't have leaders, do they? But
she was in no mood to make
enemies. 'Perhaps they do,' she said quietly. This did not seem to be
what Annagramma wanted to
hear. 'You haven't even dressed the part,' said Annagramma. 'Sorry,'
said Tiffany. 'Urn,
Annagramma says that if you want people to treat you like a witch you
should look like one,'
Petulia said. 'Hmm,' said Annagramma, staring at Tiffany as if she'd
failed a simple test. Then
she nodded her head. 'Well, we all had to start somewhere.' She stood
back. 'Ladies, this is
Tiffany. Tiffany, you know Petulia. She crashes into trees. Dimity
Hubbub is the one with the
smoke coming out of her hat, so that she looks like a chimney. That's
Gertruder Tiring, that's the
hilariously funny Lucy Warbeck, that's Harrieta Bilk, who can't seem
to do anything about the
squint, and then that's Lulu Darling, who can't seem to do anything
about the name. You can sit in
for this evening... Tiffany, wasn't it? I'm sorry you've been taken on
by Miss Level. She's rather
sad. Complete amateur. Hasn't really got a clue. Just bustles about
and hopes. Oh, well, it's too
late now. Gertruder, Summon the World's Four Corners and Open the
Circle, please.' 'Er...' said
Gertruder, nervously. It was amazing how many people around Annagramma
became nervous. 'Do I have
to do everything around here?' said Annagramma. 'Try to remember,
please! We must have been
through this literally a million times!' 'I've never heard of the
world's four corners,' said
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Tiffany. 'Really? There's a surprise,' said Annagramma. 'Well, they're
the directions of power,
Tiffany, and I would advise you to do something about that name, too,
please.' 'But the world's
round, like a plate,' said Tiffany. 'Urn, you have to imagine them,'
Petulia whispered. Tiffany
wrinkled her forehead. 'Why?' she said. Annagramma rolled her eyes.
'Because that's the way to do
things properly.' 'Oh.' 'You have done some kind of magic, haven't
you?' Annagramma demanded.
Tiffany was a bit confused. She wasn't used to people like Annagramma.
'Yes,' she said. All the
other girls were staring at her, and Tiffany couldn't help thinking
about sheep. When a dog
attacks a sheep, the other sheep run away to a safe distance and then
turn and watch. They don't
gang up on the dog. They're just happy it's not them. 'What are you
best at then?' snapped
Annagramma. Tiffany, her mind still full of sheep, spoke without
thinking. 'Soft Nellies,' she
said. 'It's a sheep cheese. It's quite hard to make...' She looked
around at the circle of blank
faces and felt embarrassment rise inside her like hot jelly. 'Urn,
Annagramma meant what magic can
you do best,' said Petulia kindly. 'Although Soft Nellies is good,'
said Annagramma with a cruel
little smile. One or two of the girls gave that little snort that
meant they were trying not to
laugh out loud but didn't mind showing that they were trying. Tiffany
looked down at her boots
again. 'I don't know,' she mumbled, 'but I did throw the Queen of the
Fairies out of my country.'
'Really?' said Annagramma. 'The Queen of the Fairies, eh? How did you
do that?' 'I'm... not sure.
I just got angry with her.' And it was hard to remember exactly what
had happened that night.
Tiffany recalled the anger, terrible anger, and the world... changing.
She'd seen it clearer than
a hawk sees, heard it better than a dog hears, felt its age beneath
her feet, felt the hills still
living. And she remembered thinking that no one could do this for long
and still be human. 'Well,
you've got the right boots for stamping your foot,' said Annagramma.
There were a few more halfconcealed
giggles. 'A Queen of the Fairies,' she added. 'I'm sure you did. Well,
it helps to
dream.' 'I don't tell lies,' mumbled Tiffany, but no one was
listening. Sullen and upset, she
watched the girls Open the Corners and Summon the Circle, unless she'd
got that the wrong way
round. This went on for some time. It would have gone better if they'd
all been sure what to do,
but it was probably hard to know what to do when Annagramma was
around, since she kept correcting
everyone. She was standing with a big book open in her arms. '... now
you, Gertruder, go
widdershins, no, that's the other way, I must have told you literally
a thousand times, and Luluwhere's
Lulu? Well, you shouldn't have been there! Get the shriven chalice-
not that one, no, the
one without handles... yes. Harrieta, hold the Wand of the Air a bit
higher, I mean, it must be in
the air, d'you understand? And for goodness' sake, Petulia, please try
to look a little more
stately, will you? I appreciate that it doesn't come naturally to you,
but you might at least show
you're making an effort. By the way, I've been meaning to tell you, no
invocation ever written
starts with "um", unless I'm very much mistaken. Harrieta, is that the
Cauldron of the Sea? Does
it even look like a Cauldron of the Sea? I don't think so, do you?
What was that noise?' The girls
looked down. Then someone mumbled: 'Dimity trod on the Circlet of
Infinity, Annagramma.' 'Not the
one with the genuine seed-pearls on it?' said Annagramma in a tight
little voice. 'Um, yes,' said
Petulia. 'But I'm sure she's very sorry. Um... shall I make a cup of
tea?' The book slammed shut.
'What is the point?' said Annagramma to the world in general. 'What.
Is. The. Point? Do you want
to spend the rest of your lives as village witches, curing boils and
warts for a cup of tea and a
biscuit? Well? Do you?' There was a shuffling among the huddled
witches, and a general murmur of
'No, Annagramma.' 'You did all read Mrs Earwig's book, didn't you?'
she demanded. 'Well, did you?'
Petulia raised a hand nervously. 'Um-' she began. 'Petulia, I've told
you literally a million
times not to start. Every. Single. Sentence. With "Um"- haven't I?'
'Um-' said Petulia, trembling
with nervousness. 'Just speak up, for goodness' sake! Don't hesitate
all the time!' 'Um-'
'Petulia!' 'Um-' Really, you might make an effort. Honestly, I don't
know what's the matter with
all of you!' I do, Tiffany thought. You're like a dog worrying sheep
all the time. You don't give
them time to obey you and you don't let them know when they've done
things right. You just keep
barking. Petulia had lapsed into tongue-tied silence. Annagramma put
the book down on the log.
'Well, we've completely lost the moment,' she said. 'We may as well
have that cup of tea, Petulia.
Do hurry up.' Petulia, relieved, grabbed the kettle. People relaxed a
little. Tiffany looked at
the cover of the book. It read: The Higher MagiK by Letice Earwig,
Witch 'Magic with a K?' she
said aloud. 'Magikkkk?' 'That's deliberate,' said Annagramma coldly.
'Mrs Earwig says that if we
are to make any progress at all we must distinguish the higher MagiK
from the everyday sort.' 'The
everyday sort of magic?' said Tiffany. 'Exactly. None of that mumbling
in hedgerows for us. Proper
sacred circles, spells written down, A proper hierarchy, not everyone
running around doing
whatever they feel like. Real wands, not bits of grubby stick.
Professionalism, with respect.
Absolutely no warts. That's the only way forward.' 'Well, I think-'
Tiffany began. 'I don't really
care what you think because you don't know enough yet,' said
Annagramma sharply. She turned to the
group in general. 'Do we all at least have something for the Trials
this year?' she asked. There
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were general murmurs and nods in the theme of 'yes'. 'What about you,
Petulia?' said Annagramma.
I'm going to do the pig trick, Annagramma,' said Petulia meekly.
'Good. You're nearly good at
that,' said Annagramma, and pointed around the circle, from one girl
to another, nodding at their
answers, until she came to Tiffany. 'Soft Nellies?' she said, to
sniggering amusement. 'What are
Witch Trials?' said Tiffany. 'Miss Tick mentioned them, but I don't
know what they are.'
Annagramma gave one of her noisy sighs. 'You tell her, Petulia,' she
said. 'You brought her, after
all.' Hesitantly, with lots of 'urn's and glances at Annagramma,
Petulia explained about the Witch
Trials. Um, it was a time when witches from all over the mountains
could meet up, and um see old
friends and um pick up the latest news and gossip. Ordinary people
could come along too, and there
was a fair and um sideshows. It was quite an um big event. And in the
afternoon all the witches
that um wanted to could show off a spell or um something they'd been
working on, which was very um
popular. To Tiffany, they sounded like sheepdog trials, without the
dogs or the sheep. They were
in Sheercliff this year, which was quite close. 'And is there a
prize?' she asked. 'Um, oh no,'
said Petulia. 'It's all done in spirit of fun and good fellow- um,
good sistership.' 'Hah!' said
Annagramma. 'Not even she will believe that! It's all a fix, anyway.
They'll all applaud Mistress
Weatherwax. She always wins, whatever she does. She just messes up
people's minds. She just fools
them into thinking she's good. She wouldn't last five minutes against
a wizard. They do real
magic. And she dresses like a scarecrow, too! It's ignorant old women
like her who keep witchcraft
rooted in the past, as Mrs Earwig points out in chapter one!' One or
two girls looked uncertain.
Petulia even looked over her shoulder. 'Urn, people do say she's done
amazing things, Annagramma,'
she said. 'And, urn, they say she can spy on people miles away-' 'Yes,
they say that,' said
Annagramma. 'That's because they're all frightened of her! She's such
a bully! That's all she
does, bully people and mess up their heads! That's old witchcraft,
that is. Just one step away
from cackling, in my opinion. She's half cracked now, they say.' 'She
didn't seem cracked to me.'
'Who said that?' snapped Annagramma. Everyone looked at Tiffany, who
wished she hadn't spoken. But
now there was nothing for it but to go on. 'She was just a bit old and
stern,' she said. 'But she
was quite... polite. She didn't cackle.' 'You've met her?' 'Yes.' 'She
spoke to you, did she?'
snarled Annagramma. 'Was that before or after you kicked out the Fairy
Queen?' 'Just after,' said
Tiffany, who was not used to this sort of thing. 'She turned up on a
broomstick,' she added. 'I
am. telling the truth.' 'Of course you are,' said Annagramma, smiling
grimly. 'And she
congratulated you, I expect.' 'Not really,' said Tiffany. 'She seemed
pleased, but it was hard to
tell.' And then Tiffany said something really, really stupid. Long
afterwards, and long after all
sorts of things had happened, she'd go 'la la la!' to blot out the
memory whenever something
reminded her of that evening. She said: 'She did give me this hat.'
And they said, all of them,
with one voice: 'What hat?' Petulia took her back to the cottage. She
did her best, and assured
Tiffany that she believed her, but Tiffany knew she was just being
nice. Miss Level tried to talk
to her as she ran upstairs, but she bolted her door, kicked off her
boots and lay down on the bed
with the pillow over her head to drown out the laughter echoing
inside. Downstairs, there was some
muffled conversation between Petulia and Miss Level and then the sound
of the door closing as
Petulia left. After a while there was a scraping noise as Tiffany's
boots were dragged across the
floor and arranged neatly under the bed. Oswald was never off duty.
After another while the
laughter died down, although she was sure it'd never go completely.
Tiffany could feel the hat. At
least, she had been able to feel it. The virtual hat, on her real
head. But no one could see it,
and Petulia had even waved a hand back and forth over Tiffany's head
and encountered a complete
absence of hat. The worst part- and it was hard to find the worst
part, so humiliatingly bad had
it been- was hearing Annagramma say, 'No, don't laugh at her. That's
too cruel. She's just
foolish, that's all. I told you the old woman messes with people's
heads!' Tiffany's First
Thoughts were running around in circles. Her Second Thoughts were
caught up in the storm. Only her
Third Thoughts, which were very weak, came up with: Even though your
world is completely and
utterly ruined and can never be made better, no matter what, and you
're completely inconsolable,
it would be nice if you heard someone bringing some soup upstairs...
The Third Thoughts got
Tiffany off the bed and over to the door, where they guided her hand
to slide the bolt back. Then
they let her fling herself on the bed again. A few minutes later there
was a creak of footsteps on
the landing. It's nice to be right. Miss Level knocked, then came in
after a decent pause. Tiffany
heard the tray go down on the table, then felt the bed move as a body
sat down on it. Tetulia is a
capable girl, I've always thought,' said Miss Level, after a while.
'She'll make some village a
very serviceable witch one day.' Tiffany stayed silent. 'She told me
all about it,' said Miss
Level. 'Miss Tick never mentioned the hat, but if I was you I wouldn't
have told her about it
anyway. It sounds the sort of thing Mistress Weatherwax would do. You
know, sometimes it helps to
talk about these things.' More silence from Tiffany... 'Actually,
that's not true,' Miss Level
added. 'But as a witch I am incredibly inquisitive and would love to
know more.' That had no
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effect either. Miss Level sighed and stood up. 'I'll leave the soup,
but if you let it get too
cold Oswald will try to take it away.' She went downstairs. Nothing
stirred in the room for about
five minutes, then there was faintest of tinkles as the soup began to
move. Tiffany's hand shot
out and gripped the tray firmly. That's the job of Third Thoughts:
First and Second Thoughts might
understand your current tragedy, but something has to remember that
you haven't eaten since lunch
time. Afterwards, and after Oswald had speedily taken the empty bowl
away, Tiffany lay in the
dark, staring at nothing. The novelty of this new country had taken
all her attention in the past
few days, but now that had drained away in the storm of laughter, and
homesickness rushed to fill
in the empty spaces. She missed the sounds and the sheep and the
silences of the Chalk. She missed
seeing the blackness of the hills from her bedroom window, outlined
against the stars. She
missed... part of herself... But they 'd laughed at her. They 'd said,
'What hat?' and they'd
laughed even more when she'd raised her hand to touch the invisible
brim and hadn't found it...
She'd touched it every day for eighteen months, and now it had gone.
And she couldn't make a
shamble. And she just had a green dress, while all the other girls
wore black ones. Annagramma had
a lot of jewellery, too, in black and silver. All the other girls had
shambles, too, beautiful
ones. Who cared if they were just for show? Perhaps she wasn't a witch
at all. Oh, she'd defeated
the Queen, with the help of the little men and the memory of Granny
Aching, but she hadn't used
magic. She wasn't sure, now, what she had used. She'd felt something
go down through the soles of
the boots, down through the hills and through the years, and come back
loud and roaring in a rage
that shook the sky: ... how dare you invade my world, my land, my
life... But what had the virtual
hat done for her? Perhaps the old woman had tricked her, had just made
her think there was a hat
there. Perhaps she was a bit cracked, like Annagramma had said, and
had just got things wrong.
Perhaps Tiffany should go home and make Soft Nellies for the rest of
her life. Tiffany turned
round and crawled down the bed and opened her suitcase. She pulled out
the rough box, opened it in
the dark and closed a hand around the lucky stone. She'd hoped that
there'd be some kind of spark,
some kind of friendliness in it. There was none. There was just the
roughness of the outside of
the stone, the smoothness on the face where it had split, and the
sharpness between the two. And
the piece of sheep's wool did nothing but make her fingers smell of
sheep, and this made her long
for home and feel even more upset. The silver horse was cold. Only
someone quite close would have
heard the sob. It was quite faint, but it was carried on the dark red
wings of misery. She wanted,
longed for the hiss of wind in the turf and the feel of centuries
under her feet. She wanted that
sense, which had never left her before, of being where Achings had
lived for thousands of years.
She needed blue butterflies and the sounds of sheep and the big empty
skies. Back home, when she'd
felt upset, she'd gone up to the remains of the old shepherding hut
and sat there for a while.
That had always worked. It was a long way away now. Too far. Now, she
was full of a horrible,
heavy dead feeling, and there was nowhere to leave it. And it wasn't
how things were supposed to
go. Where was the magic? Oh, she understood that you had learn about
the basic, everyday craft,
but when did the 'witch' part turn up? She'd been trying to learn, she
really had, and she was
turning into... well, a good worker, a handy girl with potions and a
reliable person. Dependable,
like Miss Level. She'd expected- well, what? Well... to be doing
serious witch stuff, you know,
broomsticks, magic, guarding the world against evil forces in a noble
yet modest way, and then
also doing good for poor people because she was a really nice person.
And the people she'd seen in
the picture had rather less messy ailments and their children didn't
have such runny noses. Mr We
avail's flying toenails weren't in it anywhere. Some of them
boomeranged. She got sick on
broomsticks. Every time. She couldn't even make a shamble. She was
going to spend her days running
around after people who, to be honest, could sometimes be doing a bit
more for themselves. No
magic, no flying, no secrets... just toenails and bogeys. She belonged
to the Chalk. Every day,
she'd told the hills what they were. Every day, they'd told her who
she was. But now she couldn't
hear them. Outside it began to rain, quite hard, and in the distance
Tiffany heard the mutter of
thunder. What would Granny Aching have done? But even folded in the
wings of despair she knew the
answer to that. Granny Aching never gave up. She'd search all night
for a lost lamb... She lay
looking at nothing for a while, and then lit the candle by the bed and
swivelled her legs onto the
floor. This couldn't wait until morning. Tiffany had a little trick
for seeing the hat. If you
moved your hand behind it quickly, there was a slight, brief
blurriness to what you saw, as though
the light coming through the invisible hat took a little more time. It
had to be there... Well,
the candle should give enough light to be sure. If the hat was there,
everything would be fine and
it wouldn't matter what other people thought... She stood in the
middle of the carpet, while
lightning danced across the mountains outside, and closed her eyes.
Down in the garden the appletree
branches flayed in the wind, the dreamcatchers and cursenets clashing
and jangling... 'See
me,' she said. The world went quiet, totally silent. It hadn't done
that before. But Tiffany
tiptoed around until she knew she was opposite herself, and opened her
eyes again... And there she
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was, and so was the hat, as clear as it had ever been- And the image
of Tiffany below, a young
girl in a green dress, opened its eyes and smiled at her and said: 'We
see you. Now we are you.'
Tiffany tried to shout 'See me not!' But there was no mouth to
shout... Lightning struck somewhere
nearby. The window blew in. The candle flame flew out in a streamer of
fire, and died. And then
there was only darkness, and the hiss of the rain.
Chapter 6
Hiver Thunder rolled across the Chalk. Jeannie carefully opened the
package that her mother had
given her on the day she left the Long Lake mound. It was a
traditional gift, one that every young
kelda got when she went away, never to return. Keldas could never go
home. Keldas were home. The
gift was this: memory. Inside the bag was a triangle of tanned
sheepskin, three wooden stakes, a
length of string twisted out of nettle fibres, a tiny leather bottle
and a hammer. She knew what
to do, because she'd seen her mother do it many times. The hammer was
used to bang in the stakes
around the smouldering fire. The string was used to tie the three
corners of the leather triangle
to the stakes so that it sagged in the centre, just enough to hold a
small bucket of water which
Jeannie had drawn herself from the deep well. She knelt down and
waited until the water very
slowly began to seep through the leather, then built up the fire. She
was aware of all the eyes of
the Feegles in the shadowy galleries around and above her. None of
them would come near her while
she was boiling the cauldron. They'd rather chop their own leg off.
This was pure hiddlins. And
this was what a cauldron really was, back in the days before humans
had worked copper or poured
iron. It looked like magic. It was supposed to. But if you knew the
trick, you could see how the
cauldron would boil dry before the leather burned. When the water in
the skin was steaming, she
damped down the fire and added to the water the contents of the little
leather bottle, which
contained some of the water from her mother's cauldron. That's how it
had always gone, from mother
to daughter, since the very beginning. Jeannie waited until the
cauldron had cooled some more,
then took up a cup, filled it and drank. There was a sigh from the
shadowy Feegles. She lay back
and closed her eyes, waiting. Nothing happened except that the thunder
rattled the land and the
lightning turned the world black and white. And then, so gently that
it had already happened
before she realized that it was starting to happen, the past caught up
with her. There, around
her, were all the old keldas, starting with her mother, her
grandmothers, their mothers... back
until there was no one to remember... one big memory, carried for a
while by many, worn and hazy
in parts but old as a mountain. But all the Feegles knew about that.
Only the kelda knew about the
real hiddlin, which was this: the river of memory wasn't a river, it
was a sea. Keldas yet to be
born would remember, one day. On nights yet to come, they'd lie by
their cauldron and become, for
a few minutes, part of the eternal sea. By listening to unborn keldas
remembering their past, you
remember your future... You needed skill to find those faint voices,
and Jeannie did not have all
of it yet, but something was there. As lightning turned the world to
black and white again she sat
bolt upright. It's found her,' she whispered... 'Oh, the puir wee
thing!' Rain had soaked into the
rug when Tiffany woke up. Damp daylight spilled into the room. She got
up and closed the window. A
few leaves had blown in. O-K. It hadn't been a dream. She was certain
of that. Something...
strange had happened. The tips of her fingers were tingling. She
felt... different. But not, now
she took stock, in a bad way. No. Last night she'd felt awful, but
now, now she felt... full of
life. Actually, she felt happy. She was going to take charge. She was
going to take control of her
life. Get-up-and-go had got up and come. The green dress was rumpled
and really it needed a wash.
She'd got her old blue one in the chest of drawers but, somehow, it
didn't seem right to wear it
now. She'd have to make do with the green until she could get another
one. She went to put on her
boots, then stopped and stared at them. They just wouldn't do, not
now. She got the new shiny ones
out of her case and wore them instead. She found both of Miss Level
was out in the wet garden in
her nighties, sadly picking up bits of dreamcatcher and fallen apples.
Even some of the garden
ornaments had been smashed, although the madly grinning gnomes had
unfortunately escaped
destruction. Miss Level brushed her hair out of one pair of her eyes
and said: 'Very, very
strange. All the curse-nets seem to have exploded. Even the boredom
stones are discharged! Did you
notice anything?' 'No, Miss Level,' said Tiffany meekly. 'And all the
old shambles in the workroom
are in pieces! I mean, I know they are really only ornamental and have
next to no power left, but
something really strange must have happened.' Both of her gave Tiffany
a look that Miss Level
probably thought was very sly and cunning, but it made her look
slightly ill. The storm seemed a
touch magical to me. I suppose you girls weren't doing anything... odd
last night, were you,
dear?' she said. 'No, Miss Level. I thought they were a bit silly.'
'Because, you see, Oswald
seems to have gone,' said Miss Level. 'He's very sensitive to
atmospheres It took Tiffany a moment
to understand what she was talking about. Then she said: 'But he's
always here!' 'Yes, ever since
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I can remember!' said Miss Level. 'Have you tried putting a spoon in
the knife drawer?' 'Yes, of
course! Not so much as a rattle!' 'Dropped an apple core? He always-'
'That was the first thing I
tried!' 'How about the salt and sugar trick?' Miss Level hesitated.
'Well, no...' She brightened
up. 'He does love that one, so he's bound to turn up, yes?' Tiffany
found the big bag of salt and
another of sugar, and poured both of them into a bowl. Then she
stirred up the fine white crystals
with her hand. She'd found this was the ideal away of keeping Oswald
occupied while they did the
cooking. Sorting the salt and sugar grains back into the right bags
could take him an entire happy
afternoon. But now the mixture just lay there, Oswaldless. 'Oh,
well... I'll search the house,'
said Miss Level, as if that was a good way of finding an invisible
person. 'Go and see to the
goats, will you, dear? And then we'll have to try to remember how to
do the washing up!' Tiffany
let the goats out of the shed. Usually, Black Meg immediately went and
stood on the milking
platform and gave her an expectant look as if to say: I've thought up
a new trick. But not today.
When Tiffany looked inside the shed the goats were huddled in the dark
at the far end. They
panicked, nostrils flaring, and scampered around as she went towards
them, but she managed to grab
Black Meg by her collar. The goat twisted and fought her as she
dragged it out towards the milking
stand. It climbed up because it was either that or having its head
pulled off, then stood there
snorting and bleating. Tiffany stared at the goat. Her bones felt as
though they were itching. She
wanted to ... do things, climb the highest mountain, leap into the
sky, run around the world. And
she thought: This is silly, I start every day with a battle of wits
with an animal! Well, let's
show this creature who is in charge... She picked up the broom that
was used for sweeping out the
milking parlour. Black Meg's slot eyes widened in fear, and wham! went
the broom. It hit the
milking stand. Tiffany hadn't intended to miss like that. She'd wanted
to give Meg the wallop the
creature richly deserved but, somehow, the stick had twisted in her
hand. She raised it again, but
the look in her eye and the whack on the wood had achieved the right
effect. Meg cowered. 'No more
games!' hissed Tiffany, lowering the stick. The goat stood as still as
a log. Tiffany milked her
out, took the pail back into the dairy, weighed it, chalked up the
amount on the slate by the
door, and tipped the milk into a big bowl. The rest of the goats were
nearly as bad, but a herd
learns fast. Altogether they gave three gallons, which was pretty
pitiful for ten goats. Tiffany
chalked this up without enthusiasm and stood staring at it, fiddling
with the chalk. What was the
point of this? Yesterday she'd been full of plans for experimental
cheeses, but now cheese was
dull. Why was she here, doing silly chores, helping people too stupid
to help themselves? She
could be doing... anything! She looked down at the scrubbed wooden
table. Someone had written on
the wood in chalk. And the piece of chalk was still in her hand-
Tetulia's come to see you, dear,'
said Miss Level, behind her. Tiffany quickly shifted a milking bucket
over the words and turned
round guiltily. 'What?' she said. 'Why?' 'Just to see if you're all
right, I think,' said Miss
Level, watching Tiffany carefully. The dumpy girl stood very nervously
on the doorstep, her pointy
hat in her hands. 'Um, I just thought I ought to see how you, um,
are...' she muttered, looking
Tiffany squarely in the boots. 'Um, I don't think anyone really wanted
to be unkind...' 'You're
not very clever and you're too fat,' said Tiffany. She stared at the
round pink face for a moment
and knew things. 'And you still have a teddy bear help me and you
believe in fairies.' She slammed
the door, went back to the dairy and stared at the bowls of milk and
curds as if she were seeing
them for the first time. Good with Cheese. That was one of the things
everyone remembered about
her: Tiffany Aching, brown hair, Good with Cheese. But now the dairy
looked all wrong and
unfamiliar. She gritted her teeth. Good with Cheese. Was that really
what she wanted to be? Of all
the things people could be in the world, did she want to be known just
as a dependable person to
have around rotted milk? Did she really want to spend all day
scrubbing slabs and washing pails
and plates and... and... and that weird wire thing just there,
that- ... cheese-cutter...- that
cheese-cutter? Did she want her whole life to- Hold on... 'Who's
there?' said Tiffany. 'Did
someone just say "cheese-cutter"?' She peered around the room, as if
someone could be hiding
behind the bundles of dried herbs. It couldn't have been Oswald. He'd
gone, and he never spoke in
any case. Tiffany grabbed the pail, spat on her hand and rubbed out
the chalked HELP ME- tried to
rub it out. But her hand gripped the edge of the table and held it
firmly, no matter how much she
pulled. She flailed with her left hand, managing to knock over a pail
of milk, which washed across
the letters... and her right hand let go suddenly The door was pushed
open. Both of Miss Level was
there. When she pulled herself together like that, standing side by
side, it was because she felt
she had something important to say. 'I have to say, Tiffany, that I
think you were very nasty to
Petulia just now. She went off crying.' She stared at Tiffany's face.
'Are you all right, child?'
Tiffany shuddered. 'Er... yes. Fine. Feel a bit odd. Heard a voice in
my head. Gone now.' Miss
Level looked at her with her heads on one side, right and left in
different directions. 'If you're
sure, then. I'll get changed. We'd better leave soon. There's a lot to
do today.' 'A lot to do,'
said Tiffany weakly. 'Well, yes. There's Slapwick's leg, and I've got
to see to the sick Grimly