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ignored them. 'She tells the land whut it is, and it tells her who she
is,' said Awf'ly Wee Billy,
tears running down his face. I cannae write a song aboot this! I'm nae
good enough!' 'Is that the
big wee hag dreamin' she's the hills or the hills dreamin' they're the
big wee hag?' said Daft
Wullie. 'Both, mebbe,' said Rob Anybody. They watched the huge hand
close and winced. 'But ye
cannae kill a hiver,' said Daft Wullie. 'Aye, but ye can frit it
awa',' said Rob Anybody. 'It's a
big wee universe oot there. If I was it, I'd no' think o' try in' her
again!' There were three
more booms in the distance, louder this time. 'I think,' he went on,
'that's it's time we were off
ski.' In Miss Level's cottage, someone was knocking heavily on the
front door. Thump. Thump.
Thump.
Chapter 9
Soul ant Tiffany opened her eyes, remembered, and thought: Was that a
dream, or was that real? And
the next thought was: How do I know I'm me? Suppose I'm not me but
just think I'm me? How can I
tell if I'm me or not? Who's the 'me' that's asking the question? Am I
thinking these thoughts?
How would I know if it wasn't? 'Dinnae ask me,' said a voice by her
head. 'Is this one of them
tricksie ones?' It was Daft Wullie. He was sitting on her pillow.
Tiffany squinted down. She was
in bed in Miss Level's cottage. A green quilt stretched out in front
of her. A quilt. Green. Not
turf, not hills... but it looked like the downland, from here. 'Did I
say all that aloud?' she
asked. 'Oh, aye.' 'Er... it did all happen, didn't it?' said Tiffany.
'Oh, aye,' said Daft Wullie
cheerfully. 'The big hag wuz up here till just noo, but she said ye
probably wasnae gonna wake up
a monster.' More bits of memory landed in Tiffany's memory like red-
hot rocks landing on a
peaceful planet. 'Are you all right?' 'Oh, aye' said Daft Wullie. 'And
Miss Level?' And this rock
of memory was huge, a flaming mountain that'd make a million dinosaurs
flee for their lives.
Tiffany's hands flew to her mouth. 'I killed her!' she said. 'Noo,
then, ye didnae-' 'I did! I
felt my mind thinking it. She made me angry! I just waved my hand like
this'- a dozen Nac Mac
Feegle dived for cover- 'and she just exploded into nothing! It was
me! I remember!' 'Aye, but the
big hag o' hags said it wuz usin' your mind tae think with-' Daft
Wullie began. 'I've got the
memories! It was me, with this hand!' The Feegles who had raised their
heads ducked back down
again. 'And... the memories I've got... I remember dust, turning into
stars... things... the
heat... blood... the taste of blood... I remember ... I remember the
see-me trick! Oh, no! I
practically invited it in! I killed Miss Level!' Shadows were closing
in around her vision, and
there was a ringing in her ears. Tiffany heard the door swing open and
hands picked her up as
though she was as light as a bubble. She was slung over a shoulder and
carried swiftly down the
stairs and out into the bright morning, where she was swung down onto
the ground. '... And all of
us... we killed her... take one crucible of silver...' she mumbled. A
hand slapped her sharply
across the face. She stared through inner mists at the tall dark
figure in front of her. A bucket
handle was pressed firmly into her hand. 'Milk the goats now, Tiffany!
Now, Tiffany, d'you hear!
The trusting creatures look to you! They wait for you! Tiffany milks
the goats. Do it, Tiffany!
The hands know how, the mind will remember and grow stronger,
Tiffany!' She was thrust down onto
the milking stool and, through the mist in her head, made out the
cowering shape of... of... Black
Meg. The hands remembered. They placed the pail, grasped a teat and
then, as Meg raised a leg to
play the foot-in-the-bucket game, grabbed it and forced it safely back
down onto the milking
platform. She worked slowly, her head full of hot fog, letting her
hands have their way. Buckets
were filled and emptied, milked goats got a bucket of feed from the
bin... Sensibility Bustle was
rather puzzled that his hands were milking a goat. He stopped. 'What
is your name?' said a voice
behind him. 'Bustle. Sensibil- 'No! That was the wizard, Tiffany! He
was the strongest echo, but
you're not him! Get into the dairy, TIFFANY!' She stumbled into the
cool room under the command of
that voice and the world focused. There was a foul cheese on the slab,
sweating and stinking. 'Who
put this here?' she asked. 'The hiver did, Tiffany. Tried to make a
cheese by magic, Tiffany.
Hah!' said the voice. 'And you are not it, Tiffany! You know how to
make cheese the right way,
don't you, Tiffany? Indeed you do! What is your name?' ... all was
confusion and strange smells.
In panic, she roared- Her face was slapped again. 'No, that was the
sabre-toothed tiger, Tiffany!
They're all just old memories the hiver left behind, Tiffany! It's
worn a lot of creatures but
they are not you! Come forward, Tiffany!' She heard the words without
really understanding them.
They were just out there somewhere, between people who were just
shadows. But it was unthinkable
to disobey them. 'Drat!' said the hazy tall figure. 'Where's that
little blue feller? Mister
Anyone?' 'Here, mistress. It's Rob Anybody, mistress. I beg o' ye not
tae turn me intae somethin'
unnatural, mistress!' 'You said she had a box of keepsakes. Fetch it
down here this minute. I
feared this might happen. I hates doin' it this way!' Tiffany was
turned round and once again
looked into the blurry face while strong hands gripped her arms. Two
blue eyes stared into hers.
They shone in the mist like sapphires. 'What's your name, Tiffany?'
said the voice. 'Tiffany!' The
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eyes bored into her. 'Is it? Really? Sing me the first song you ever
learned, Tiffany! Now!'
'Hzan, hzana, m'taza-' 'Stop! That was never learned on a chalk hill!
You ain't Tiffany! I reckon
you're that desert queen who killed twelve of her husbands with
scorpion sandwiches! Tiffany is
the one I'm after! Back into the dark with you!' Things went blurry
again. She could hear
whispered discussions through the fog and the voice said: 'Well, that
might work. What's your
name, pictsie?' 'Awf'ly Wee Billy Bigchin Mac Feegle, mistress.'
'You're very small, aren't you?'
'Only for my height, mistress.' The grip tightened on Tiffany's arms
again. The blue eyes glinted.
'What does your name mean in the Old Speech of the Nac Mac Feegle,
Tiffany? Think ...' It rose
from the depths of her mind, trailing the fog behind it. It came up
through the clamouring voices
and lifted her beyond the reach of ghostly hands. Ahead, the clouds
parted. 'My name is Land Under
Wave,' said Tiffany and slumped forward. 'No, no, none of that, we
can't have that,' said the
figure holding her. 'You've slept enough. Good, you know who you are!
Now you must be up and
doing! You must be Tiffany as hard as you may, and the other voices
will leave you alone, depend
on it. Although it might be a good idea if you don't make sandwiches
for a while.' She did feel
better. She'd said her name. The clamouring in her head had calmed
down, although it was still a
chatter that made it hard to think straight. But now at least she
could see clearly. The blackdressed
figure holding her wasn't tall, but she was so good at acting as if
she was that it tended
to fool most people. 'Oh... you're... Mistress Weatherwax?' Mistress
Weatherwax pushed her down
gently into a chair. From every flat surface in the kitchen, the Nac
Mac Feegles watched Tiffany.
'I am. And a fine mess we have here. Rest for a moment and then we
must be up and doing-' 'Good
morning, ladies. Er, how is she?' Tiffany turned her head. Miss Level
stood in the door. She
looked pale and she was walking with a stick. 'I was lying in bed and
I thought, Well, there's no
reason to stay up here feeling sorry for myself,' she said. Tiffany
stood up. 'I'm so sor-' she
began, but Miss Level waved a hand vaguely. 'Not your fault,' she
said, sitting down heavily at
the table. 'How are you? And, for that matter, who are you?' Tiffany
blushed. 'Still me, I think,'
she mumbled. 'I got here last night and saw to Miss Level,' said
Mistress Weatherwax. 'Watched
over you, too, girl. You talked in your sleep or, rather, Sensibility
Bustle did, what's left of
him. That ol' wizard was quite helpful, for something that's nothing
much more'n a bunch of
memories and habits.' 'I don't understand about the wizard,' said
Tiffany. 'Or the desert queen.'
'Don't you?' said the witch. 'Well, a hiver collects people. Tries to
add them to itself, you
might say, use them to think with. Dr Bustle was studying them
hundreds of years ago, and set a
trap to catch one. It got him instead, silly fool. It killed him in
the end. It gets 'em all
killed in the end. They go mad, one way or the other, they stop
remembering what they shouldn't
do. But it keeps a sort of ... pale copy of them, a sort of living
memory...' She looked at
Tiffany's puzzled expression and shrugged. 'Something like a ghost,'
she said. 'And it's left
ghosts in my head?' 'More like ghosts of ghosts, really,' said
Mistress Weatherwax. 'Something we
don't have a word for, maybe.' Miss Level shuddered. 'Well, thank
goodness you've got rid of the
thing, at least,' she quavered. 'Would anyone like a nice cup of tea?'
'Ach, leave that tae us!'
shouted Rob Anybody, leaping up. 'Daft Wullie, you an' the boys mak'
some tea for the ladies!'
'Thank you,' said Miss Level weakly, as a clattering began behind her.
'I feel so clum- what? I
thought you broke all the teacups when you did the washing up!' 'Oh,
aye,' said Rob cheerfully.
'But Wullie found a whole load o' old ones shut awa' in a cupboard-'
'That very valuable bone
china was left to me by a very dear friend!' shouted Miss Level. She
sprang to her feet and turned
towards the sink. With amazing speed for someone who was partly dead
she snatched teapot, cup and
saucer from the surprised pictsies and held them up as high as she
could. 'Crivens!' said Rob
Anybody, staring at the crockery. 'Now that's what I call hagglin'!'
'I'm sorry to be rude, but
they're of great sentimental value!' said Miss Level. 'Mister Anybody,
you and your men will
kindly get away from Miss Level and shut up! said Mistress Weatherwax
quickly. 'Pray do not
disturb Miss Level while she's making tea!' 'But she's holding-'
Tiffany began, in amazement. 'And
let her get on with it without your chatter either, girl!' the witch
snapped. 'Aye, but she picked
up yon teapot wi'oot-' a voice began. The old witch's head spun round.
Feegles backed away like
trees bending to a gale. 'Daft William,' she said coldly, 'there's
room in my well for one more
frog, except that you don't have the brains of one!' 'Ahahaha, that's
wholly correct, mistress,'
said Daft Wullie, sticking out his chin with pride. 'I fooled you
there! I ha' the brains o' a
beetle!' Mistress Weatherwax glared at him, then turned back to
Tiffany. 'I turned someone into a
frog!' Tiffany said. It was dreadful! He didn't all fit in so there
was this sort of huge pink-'
'Never mind that right now,' said Mistress Weatherwax in a voice that
was suddenly so nice and
ordinary that it tinkled like a bell. 'I expect you finds things a bit
different here than they
were at home, eh?' 'What? Well, yes, at home I never turned-' Tiffany
began in surprise, then saw
that just above her lap the old woman was making frantic circular hand
motions that somehow meant
Keep going as if nothing has happened. So they chatted madly about
sheep and Mistress Weatherwax
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said they were very woolly, weren't they, and Tiffany said that they
were, extremely so, and
Mistress Weatherwax said extremely woolly was what she'd heard...
while every eye in the room
watched Miss Level- - making tea using four arms, two of which did not
exist, and not realizing
it. The black kettle sailed across the room and apparently tipped
itself into the pot. Cups and
saucers and spoons and the sugar bowl floated with a purpose. Mistress
Weatherwax leaned across to
Tiffany. 'I hope you're still feeling... alone?' she whispered. 'Yes,
thank you. I mean, I can...
sort of... feel them there, but they're not getting in the way...
er... sooner or later she's
going to realize... I mean, isn't she?' 'Very funny thing, the human
mind,' whispered the old
woman. 'I once had to see to a poor young man who had a tree fall on
his legs. Lost both legs from
the knee down. Had to have wooden legs made. Still, they were made out
of that tree, which I
suppose was some comfort, and he gets about pretty well. But I
remember him saying, "Mistress
Weatherwax, I can still feel my toes sometimes." It's like the head
don't accept what's happened.
And it's not like she's... your everyday kind of person to start with,
I mean, she's used to
havin' arms she can't see-' 'Here we are,' said Miss Level, bustling
over with three cups and
saucers and the sugar bowl. 'One for you, one for you, and one for- Oh
The sugar bowl dropped from
an invisible hand and spilled its sugar onto the table. Miss Level
stared at it in horror while,
in the other hand that wasn't there, a cup and saucer wobbled without
visible means of support.
'Shut your eyes, Miss Level!' And there was something in the voice,
some edge or strange tone that
made Tiffany shut her eyes too. 'Right! Now, you know the cup's there,
you can feel your arm,'
said Mistress Weatherwax, standing up. 'Trust it! Your eyes are not in
possession of all the
facts! Now put the cup down gently... thaaat's right. You can open
your eyes now, but what I wants
you to do, right, as a favour to me, is put the hands that you can see
flat down on the table.
Right. Good. Now, without takin' those hands away, just go over to the
dresser and fetch me that
blue biscuit tin, will you? I'm always partial to a biscuit with my
tea. Thank you very much.'
'But... but I can't do that now-' 'Get past "I can't", Miss Level,'
Mistress Weather-wax snapped.
'Don't think about it, just do it! My tea's getting cold!' So this is
witchcraft too, Tiffany
thought. It's like Granny Aching talking to animals. It's in the
voice! Sharp and soft by turns,
and you use little words of command and encouragement and you keep
talking, making the words fill
the creature's world, so that the sheepdogs obey you and the nervous
sheep are calmed... The
biscuit tin floated away from the dresser. As it neared the old woman
the lid unscrewed and
hovered in the air beside it. She reached in delicately. 'Ooh, store-
bought Teatime Assortment,'
she said, taking four biscuits and quickly putting three of them in
her pocket. 'Very posh.' 'It's
terribly difficult to do this!' Miss Level moaned. 'It's like trying
not to think of a pink
rhinoceros!' 'Well?' said Mistress Weatherwax. 'What's so special
about not thinking of a pink
rhinoceros?' 'It's impossible not to think of one if someone tells you
you mustn't,' Tiffany
explained. 'No it ain't,' said Mistress Weatherwax, firmly. 'I ain't
thinking of one right now,
and I gives you my word on that. You want to take control of that
brain of yours, Miss Level. So
you've lost a spare body? What's another body when all's said and
done? Just a lot of upkeep,
another mouth to feed, wear and tear on the furniture... in a word,
fuss. Get your mind right,
Miss Level, and the world is your The old witch leaned down to Tiffany
and whispered: 'What's that
thing, lives in the sea, very small, folks eat it?' 'Shrimp?' Tiffany
suggested, a bit puzzled.
'Shrimp? All right. The world is your shrimp, Miss Level. Not only
will there be a great saving on
clothes and food, which is not to be sneezed at in these difficult
times, but when people see you
moving things though the air, well, they'll say, "There's a witch and
a half, and no mistake!" and
they will be right. You just hold on to that skill, Miss Level. You
maintain. Think on what I've
said. And now you stay and rest. We'll see to what needs doing today.
You just make a little list
for me, and Tiffany'll know the way.' 'Well, indeed, I do feel...
somewhat shaken,' said Miss
Level, absent-mindedly brushing her hair out of her eyes with an
invisible hand. 'Let me see...
you could just drop in on Mr Umbril, and Mistress Turvy, and the young
Raddle boy, and check on
Mrs Towney's bruise, and take some Number Five ointment to Mr Drover,
and pay a call on old Mrs
Hunter at Saucy Corner and... now, who have I forgotten... ?' Tiffany
realized she was holding her
breath. It had been a horrible day, and a dreadful night, but what was
looming and queuing up for
its place on Miss Level's tongue was, somehow, going to be worse than
either. '... Ah, yes, have a
word with Miss Quickly at Uttercliff, and then probably you'll need to
talk to Mrs Quickly, too,
and there're a few packages to be dropped off on the way, they're in
my basket, all marked up. And
I think that's it... oh, no, silly me, I almost forgot... and you need
to drop in on Mr Weavall,
too.' Tiffany breathed out. She really didn't want to. She'd rather
not breathe ever again than
face Mr Weavall and open an empty box. 'Are you sure you're... totally
yourself, Tiffany?' said
Miss Level, and Tiffany leaped for this lifesaving excuse not to go.
'Well, I do feel a bit-' she
began, but Mistress Weatherwax interrupted with, 'She's fine, Miss
Level, apart from the echoes.
The hiver has gone away from this house, I can assure you.' 'Really?'
said Miss Level. 'I don't
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mean to be rude, but how can you be so certain?' Mistress Weatherwax
pointed down. Grain by grain,
the spilled sugar was rolling across the tabletop and leaping into the
sugar bowl. Miss Level
clasped her hands together. 'Oh, Oswald' she said, her face one huge
smile, 'you've come back!'
Miss Level, and possibly Oswald, watched them go from the gate.
'She'll be fine with your little
men keeping her company,' said Mistress Weatherwax as she and Tiffany
turned away and took the
lane through the woods. 'It could be the making of her, you know,
being half dead.' Tiffany was
shocked. 'How can you be so cruel?' 'She'll get some respect when
people see her moving stuff
through the air. Respect is meat and drink to a witch. Without
respect, you ain't got a thing. She
doesn't get much respect, our Miss Level.' That was true. People
didn't respect Miss Level. They
liked her, in an unthinking sort of way, and that was it. Mistress
Weatherwax was right, and
Tiffany wished she wasn't. 'Why did you and Miss Tick send me to her,
then?' she said. 'Because
she likes people,' said the witch, striding ahead. 'She cares about
'em. Even the stupid, mean,
dribbling ones, the mothers with the runny babies and no sense, the
feckless and the silly and the
fools who treat her like some kind of a servant. Now that's what I
call magic- seein' all that,
dealin' with all that, and still goin' on. It's sittin' up all night
with some poor old man who's
leavin' the world, taking away such pain as you can, comfortin' their
terror, seein' 'em safely on
their way... and then cleanin' 'em up, layin' 'em out, making 'em neat
for the funeral, and
helpin' the weeping widow strip the bed and wash the sheets- which is,
let me tell you, no errand
for the faint-hearted- and stayin' up the next night to watch over the
coffin before the funeral,
and then going home and sitting down for five minutes before some
shouting angry man comes bangin'
on your door 'cos his wife's havin' difficulty givin' birth to their
first child and the midwife's
at her wits' end and then getting up and fetching your bag and going
out again... We all do that,
in our own way, and she does it better'n me, if I was to put my hand
on my heart. That is the root
and heart and soul and centre of witchcraft, that is. The soul and
centre!' Mistress Weatherwax
smacked her fist into her hand, hammering out her words. 'The...
soul. .. and... centre!' Echoes
came back from the trees in the sudden silence. Even the grasshoppers
by the side of the track had
stopped sizzling. 'And Mrs Earwig,' said Mistress Weatherwax, her
voice sinking to a growl, 'Mrs
Earwig tells her girls it's about cosmic balances and stars and
circles and colours and wands
and... and toys, nothing but toys!' She sniffed. 'Oh, I daresay
they're all very well as
decoration, somethin' nice to look at while you're workin', somethin'
for show, but the start and
finish, the start and finish, is helpin' people when life is on the
edge. Even people you don't
like. Stars is easy, people is hard.' She stopped talking. It was
several seconds before birds
began to sing again. 'Anyway, that's what I think,' she added in the
tone of someone who suspects
that they might have gone just a bit further than they meant to. She
turned round when Tiffany
said nothing, and saw that she had stopped and was standing in the
lane looking like a drowned
hen. 'Are you all right, girl?' she said. 'It was me!' wailed Tiffany.
'The hiver was me! It
wasn't thinking with my brain, it was using my thoughts! It was using
what it found in my head!
All those insults, all that...' She gulped. 'That... nastiness. All it
was was me with without the
bit of you that was locked away,' said Mistress Weatherwax sharply.
'Remember that.' 'Yes, but
supposing-' Tiffany began, struggling to get all the woe out. 'The
locked-up bit was the important
bit,' said Mistress Weatherwax. 'Learnin' how not to do things is as
hard as learning how to do
them. Harder, maybe. There'd be a sight more frogs in this world if I
didn't know how not to turn
people into them. And big pink balloons, too.' 'Don't,' said Tiffany,
shuddering. 'That's why we
do all the tramping around and doctorin' and stuff,' said Mistress
Weatherwax. 'Well, and because
it makes people a bit better, of course. But doing it moves you into
your centre, so's you don't
wobble. It anchors you. Keeps you human, stops you cackling. Just like
your granny with her sheep,
which are to my mind as stupid and wayward and ungrateful as humans.
You think you've had a sight
of yourself and found out you're bad? Hah! I've seen bad, and you
don't get near it. Now, are you
going to stop grizzling?' 'What?' snapped Tiffany. Mistress Weatherwax
laughed, to Tiffany's
sudden fury. 'Yes, you're a witch to your boots,' she said. 'You're
sad, and behind that you're
watching yourself being sad and thinking, Oh, poor me, and behind that
you're angry with me for
not going "There, there, poor dear." Let me talk to those Third
Thoughts then, because I want to
hear from the girl who went to fight a fairy queen armed with nothin'
but a fryin' pan, not some
child feelin' sorry for herself and wallowing in misery!' 'What? I am
not wallowing in misery!'
Tiffany shouted, striding up to her until they were inches apart. 'And
what was all that about
being nice to people, eh?' Overhead, leaves fell off the trees. 'That
doesn't count when it's
another witch, especially one like you!' Mistress Weatherwax snapped,
prodding her in the chest
with a finger as hard as wood. 'Oh? Oh? And what's that supposed to
mean?' A deer galloped off
through the woods. The wind got up. 'One who's not paying attention,
child!' 'Why, what have I
missed that you 've seen... old woman?' 'Old woman I may be, but I'm
tellin' you the hiver is
still around! You only threw it out!' Mistress Weatherwax shouted.
Birds rose from the trees in
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panic. 'I know!' screamed Tiffany. 'Oh yes? Really? And how do you
know that?' 'Because there's a
bit of me still in it! A bit of me I'd rather not know about, thank
you! I can feel it out there!
Anyway, how do you know!' 'Because I'm a bloody good witch, that's
why,' snarled Mistress
Weatherwax, as rabbits burrowed deeper to get out of the way. 'And
what do you want me to do about
the creature while you sit there snivellin', eh?' 'How dare you! How
dare you! It's my
responsibility! I'll deal with it, thank you so very much!' 'You? A
hiver? It'll take more than a
frying pan! They can't be killed!' 'I'll find a way! A witch deals
with things!' 'Hah! I'd like to
see you try!' 'I will!' shouted Tiffany. It started to rain. 'Oh? So
you know how to attack it, do
you?' 'Don't be silly! I can't! It can always keep out of my way! It
can even sink into the
ground! But it'll come looking for me, understand? Me, not anyone
else! I know it! And this time
I'll be ready!' 'Will you, indeed?' said Mistress Weatherwax, folding
her arms. 'Yes!' 'When?'
'Now!' 'No!' The old witch held up a hand. 'Peace be on this place,'
she said, quietly. The wind
dropped. The rain stopped. 'No, not yet,' she went on as peace once
again descended. 'It's not
attackin' yet. Don't you think that's odd? It'd be licking its wounds,
if it had a tongue. And
you're not ready yet, whatever you thinks. No, we've got somethin'
else to do, haven't we?'
Tiffany was speechless. The tide of outrage inside her was so hot that
it burned her ears. But
Mistress Weatherwax was smiling. The two facts did not work well
together. Her first thoughts
were: I've just had a blazing row with Mistress Weatherwax! They say
that if you cut her with a
knife she wouldn't bleed until she wanted to! They say that when some
vampires bit her they all
started to crave tea and sweet biscuits. She can do anything, be
anywhere! And I called her an old
woman! Her Second Thoughts were: Well, she is. Her Third Thoughts
were: Yes, she is Mistress
Weatherwax. And she's keeping you angry. If you're full of anger,
there's no room left for fear.
'You hold that anger,' Mistress Weatherwax said, as if reading all of
her mind. 'Cup it in your
heart, remember where it came from, remember the shape of it, save it
until you need it. But now
the wolf is out there somewhere in the woods, and you need to see to
the flock.' It's the voice,
Tiffany thought. She really does talk to people like Granny Aching
talked to sheep, except she
hardly cusses at all. But I feel... better. 'Thank you,' she said.
'And that includes Mr Weavall.'
'Yes,' said Tiffany. 'I know.'
Chapter 10 The Late BLOOMER
It was an... interesting day. Everyone in the mountains had heard of
Mistress Weatherwax. If you
didn't have respect, she said, you didn't have anything. Today, she
had it all. Some of it even
rubbed off on Tiffany. They were treated like royalty- not the sort
who get dragged off to be
beheaded or have something nasty done with a red-hot poker, but the
other sort, when people walk
away dazed, saying, 'She actually said hello to me, very graciously! I
will never wash my hand
again!' Not that many people they dealt with washed their hands at
all, Tiffany thought, with the
primness of a dairy worker. But people crowded around outside the
cottage doors, watching and
listening, and people sidled up to Tiffany to say things like, 'Would
she like a cup of tea? I've
cleaned our cup!' And in the garden of every cottage they passed,
Tiffany noticed, the beehives
were suddenly bustling with activity. She worked away, trying to stay
calm, trying to think about
what she was doing. You did the doctoring work as neatly as you could,
and if it was on something
oozy then you just thought about how nice things would be when you'd
stopped doing it. She felt
Mistress Weatherwax wouldn't approve of this attitude. But Tiffany
didn't much like hers either.
She lied all the- she didn't tell the truth all the time. For example,
there was the Raddles'
privy. Miss Level had explained carefully to Mr and Mrs Raddle several
times that it was far too
close to the well, and so the drinking water was full of tiny, tiny
creatures that were making
their children sick. They'd listened very carefully, every time they
heard the lecture, and still
they never moved the privy. But Mistress Weatherwax told them it was
caused by goblins who were
attracted to the smell, and by the time they left that cottage Mr
Raddle and three of his friends
were already digging a new well the other end of the garden. 'It
really is caused by tiny
creatures, you know,' said Tiffany, who'd once handed over an egg to a
travelling teacher so she
could line up and look through his '** Astounding Mikroscopical
Device! A Zoo in Every Drop of
Ditchwater!**' She'd almost collapsed next day from not drinking. Some
of those creatures were
hairy. 'Is that so?' said Mistress Weatherwax sarcastically. 'Yes. It
is. And Miss Level believes
in telling them the truth!' 'Good. She's a fine, honest woman,' said
Mistress Weatherwax. 'But
what I say is, you have to tell people a story they can understand.
Right now I reckon you'd have
to change quite a lot of the world, and maybe bang Mr Raddle's stupid
fat head against the wall a
few times, before he'd believe that you can be sickened by drinking
tiny invisible beasts. And
while you're doing that, those kids of theirs will get sicker. But
goblins, now, they makes sense
today. A story gets things done. And when I see Miss Tick tomorrow
I'll tell her it's about time
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them wandering teachers started coming up here.' 'All right,' said
Tiffany reluctantly, 'but you
told Mr Umbril the shoemaker that his chest pains will clear up if he
walks to the waterfall at
Tumble Crag every day for a month and throws three shiny pebbles into
the pool for the water
sprites! That's not doctoring!' 'No, but he thinks it is. The man
spends too much time sitting
hunched up. A fivemile walk in the fresh air every day for a month
will see him as right as rain,'
said Mistress Weatherwax. 'Oh,' said Tiffany. 'Another story?' 'If you
like,' said Mistress
Weatherwax, her eyes twinkling. 'And you never know, maybe the water
sprites will be grateful for
the pebbles.' She glanced sidelong at Tiffany's expression, and patted
her on the shoulder. 'Never
mind, miss,' she said. 'Look at it this way. Tomorrow, your job is to
change the world into a
better place. Today, my job is to see that everyone gets there.'
'Well, I think-' Tiffany began,
then stopped. She looked up at the line of woods between the small
fields of the valleys and the
steep meadows of the mountains. 'It's still there,' she said. 'I
know,' said Mistress Weatherwax.
'It's moving around but it's keeping away from us.' 'I know,' said
Mistress Weatherwax. 'What does
it think it's doing?' 'It's got a bit of you in it. What do you think
it's doing?' Tiffany tried
to think. Why wouldn't it attack? Oh, she'd be better prepared this
time, but it was strong.
'Maybe it's waiting until I'm upset again,' she said. 'But I keep
having a thought. It makes no
sense. I keep thinking about... three wishes.' 'Wishes for what?' 'I
don't know. It sounds silly.'
Mistress Weatherwax stopped. 'No, it's not,' she said. 'It's a deep
part of you trying to send
yourself a message. Just remember it. Because now-' Tiffany sighed.
'Yes, I know. Mr Weavall.' No
dragon's cave was ever approached as carefully as the cottage in the
overgrown garden. Tiffany
paused at the gate and looked back, but Mistress Weatherwax had
diplomatically vanished. Probably
she's found someone to give her a cup of tea and a sweet biscuit, she
thought. She lives on them!
She opened the gate and walked up the path. You couldn't say: It's not
my fault. You couldn't say:
It's not my responsibility. You could say: I will deal with this. You
didn't have to want to. But
you had to do it. Tiffany took a deep breath and stepped into the dark
cottage. Mr Weavall, in his
chair, was just inside the door and fast asleep, showing the world an
open mouth full of yellow
teeth. 'Urn... hello, Mr Weavall,' Tiffany quavered, but perhaps not
quite loud enough. 'Just, er,
here to see that you, that everything is... is all right There was a
snort nonetheless, and he
woke, smacking his lips to get the sleep out of his mouth. 'Oh, 'tis
you,' he said. 'Good
afternoon to ye.' He eased himself more upright and started to stare
out of the doorway, ignoring
her. Maybe he won't ask, she thought as she washed up and dusted and
plumped the cushions and, not
to put too fine a point on it, emptied the commode. But she nearly
yelped when the arm shot out
and grabbed her wrist and the old man gave her his pleading look.
'Just check the box, Mary, will
you? Before you go? Only I heard clinking noises last night, see.
Could be one o' the sneaky
thieves got in.' 'Yes, Mr Weavall' said Tiffany, while she thought:
Idon'twanttobehereldon'twanttobehere! She pulled out the box. There
was no choice. It felt heavy.
She stood up and lifted the lid. After the creak of the hinges, there
was silence. 'Are you all
right, gel?' said Mr Weavall. 'Urn...' said Tiffany. 'It's all there,
ain't it?' said the old man
anxiously. Tiffany's mind was a puddle of goo. 'Urn... it's all here,'
she managed. 'Um... and now
it's all gold, Mr Weavall.' 'Gold? Hah! Don't you pull my leg, gel. No
gold ever came my way!'
Tiffany put the box on the old man's lap, as gently as she could, and
he stared into it. Tiffany
recognized the worn coins. The pictsies ate off them in the mound.
There had been pictures on
them, but they were too worn to make out now. But gold was gold,
pictures or not. She turned her
head sharply and was certain she saw something small and redheaded
vanish into the shadows. 'Well
now,' said Mr Weavall. 'Well now.' And that seemed to exhaust his
conversation for a while. Then
he said, 'Far too much money here to pay for a buryin'. I don't recall
savin' all this. I reckon
you could bury a king for this amount of money.' Tiffany swallowed.
She couldn't leave things like
this. She just couldn't. 'Mr Weavall, I've got something I must tell
you,' she said. And she told
him. She told him all of it, not just the good bits. He sat and
listened carefully. 'Well, now,
isn't that interesting,' he said when she'd finished. 'Urn... I'm
sorry,' said Tiffany. She
couldn't think of anything else to say. 'So what you're saying, right,
is 'cos that creature made
you take my burying money, right, you think these fairy friends o'
yourn filled my ol' box with
gold so's you wouldn't get into trouble, right?' 'I think so,' said
Tiffany. 'Well, it looks like
I should thank you, then,' said Mr Weavall. 'What?' 'Well, it seems to
I, if you hadn't ha' took
the silver and copper, there wouldn't have been any room for all this
gold, right?' said Mr
Weavall. 'And I shouldn't reckon that ol' dead king up on yon hills
needs it now.' 'Yes, but-' Mr
Weavall fumbled in the box and held up a gold coin that would have
bought his cottage. 'A little
something for you, then, girl,' he said. 'Buy yourself some ribbons or
something 'No! I can't!
That wouldn't be fair!' Tiffany protested, desperately. This was
completely going wrong! 'Wouldn't
it, now?' said Mr Weavall, and his bright eyes gave her a long, shrewd
look. 'Well, then, let's
call it payment for this little errand you're gonna run for I, eh?
You're gonna run up they
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stairs, which I can't quite manage any more, and bring down the black
suit that's hanging behind
the door, and there's a clean shirt in the chest at the end of the
bed. And you'll polish my boots
and help I up, but I'm thinking I could prob'ly make it down the lane
on my own. 'Cos, y'see, this
is far too much money to buy a man's funeral, but I reckon it'll do
fine to marry him off, so I am
proposin' to propose to the Widow Tussy that she engages in matrimony
with I!' The last sentence
took a little working out, and then Tiffany said, 'You are?' 'That I
am,' said Mr Weavall,
struggling to his feet. 'She's a fine woman who bakes a very
reasonable steak-and-onion pie and
she has all her own teeth. I know that because she showed I. Her
youngest son got her a set of
fancy store-bought teeth all the way from the big city, and very
handsome she looks in 'em. She
was kind enough to loan 'em to I one day when I had a difficult piece
of pork to tackle, and a man
doesn't forget a kindness like that.' 'Er... you don't think you ought
to think about this, do
you?' said Tiffany. Mr Weavall laughed. 'Think? I got no business to
be thinking about it, young
lady! Who're you to tell me an old 'un like I that he ought to be
thinking? I'm ninety-one, I am!
Got to be up and doing! Besides, I have reason to believe by the
twinkle in her eye that the Widow
Tussy will not turn up her nose at my suggestion. I've seen a fair
number of twinkles over the
years, and that was a good'un. And I daresay that suddenly having a
box of gold will fill in the
corners, as my ol' dad would say.' It took ten minutes for Mr Weavall
to get changed, with a lot
of struggling and bad language and no help from Tiffany, who was told
to turn her back and put her
hands over her ears. Then she had to help him out into the garden,
where he threw away one walking
stick and waggled a finger at the weeds. 'And I'll be chopping down
the lot of you tomorrow!' he
shouted triumphantly. At the garden gate he grasped the post and
pulled himself nearly vertical,
panting. 'All right,' he said, just a little anxiously. It's now or
never. I look OK, does I?'
'You look fine, Mr Weavall.' 'Everything clean? Everything done up?'
'Er... yes,' said Tiffany.
'How's my hair look?' 'Er... you don't have any, Mr Weavall,' she
reminded him. 'Ah, right. Yes,
'tis true. I'll have to buy one o' the whatdyoucallem's, like a hat
made of hair? Have I got
enough money for that, d'you think?' 'A wig? You could buy thousands,
Mr Weavall!' 'Hah! Right.'
His gleaming eyes looked around the garden. 'Any flowers out? Can't
see too well... Ah...
speckatickles, I saw 'em once, made of glass, makes you see good as
new. That's what I need...
have I got enough for speckatickles?' 'Mr Weavall,' said Tiffany,
'you've got enough for
anything.' 'Why, bless you!' said Mr Weavall. 'But right now I need a
bow-kwet of flowers, girl.
Can't go courtin' without flowers and I can't see none. Anythin'
left?' A few roses were hanging
on among the weeds and briars in the garden. Tiffany fetched a knife
from the kitchen and made
them up into a bouquet. 'Ah, good,' he said. 'Late bloomers, just like
I!' He held them tightly in
his free hand, then suddenly frowned, fell silent and stood like a
statue 'I wish my Toby and my
Mary was goin' to be able to come to the weddin',' he said quietly.
'But they're dead, you know.'
'Yes,' said Tiffany. 'I know, Mr Weavall.' 'And I could wish that my
Nancy was alive, too,
although bein' as I hopes to be marryin' another lady that ain't a
sensible wish, maybe. Hah!
Nearly everyone I knows is dead.' Mr Weavall stared at the bunch of
flowers for a while, and then
straightened up again. 'Still, can't do nothin' about that, can we?
Not even for a box full of
gold!' 'No, Mr Weavall," said Tiffany hoarsely. 'Oh, don't cry, gel!
The sun is shinin', the birds
is singin' and what's past can't be mended, eh?' said Mr Weavall
jovially. 'And the Widow Tussy is
waitin'!' For a moment he looked panicky, and then he cleared his
throat. 'Don't smell too bad, do
I?' he said. 'Er... only of mothballs, Mr Weavall.' 'Mothballs?
Mothballs is OK. Right, then!
Time's a wastin'!' Using only the one stick, waving his other arm with
the flowers in the air to
keep his balance, Mr Weavall set off with surprising speed. 'Well,'
said Mistress Weatherwax as,
with jacket flying, he rounded the corner. 'That was nice, wasn't it?'
Tiffany looked around
quickly. Mistress Weather-wax was still nowhere to be seen, but she
was somewhere to be unseen.
Tiffany squinted at what was definitely an old wall with some ivy
growing up it, and it was only
when the old witch moved that she spotted her. She hadn't done
anything to her clothes, hadn't
done any magic as far as Tiffany knew, but she'd simply... faded in.
'Er, yes,' said Tiffany,
taking out a handkerchief and blowing her nose. 'But it worries you,'
said the witch. 'You think
it shouldn 't have ended like that, right?' 'No!' said Tiffany hotly.
'It would have been better
if he'd been buried in some ol' cheap coffin paid for by the village,
you think?' 'No!' Tiffany
twisted up her fingers. Mistress Weatherwax was sharper than a field
of pins. 'But... all right,
it just doesn't seem... fair. I mean, I wish the Feegles hadn't done
that. I'm sure I could
have... sorted it out somehow, saved up...' 'It's an unfair world,
child. Be glad you have
friends.' Tiffany looked up at the tree line. 'Yes,' said Mistress
Weatherwax. 'But not up there.'
'I'm going away,' said Tiffany. 'I've been thinking about it, and I'm
going away.' 'Broomstick?'
said Mistress Weatherwax. 'It don't move fast-' 'No! Where would I fly
to? Home? I don't want to
take it there! Anyway, I can't just fly off with it roaming around!
When it... when I meet it, I
don't want to be near people, you understand? I know what I... what it
can do if it's angry! It
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half-killed Miss Level!' 'And if it follows you?' 'Good! I'll take it
up there somewhere!' Tiffany
waved at the mountains. 'All alone?' 'I don't have a choice, do I?'
Mistress Weatherwax gave her a
look that went on too long. 'No,' she said. 'You don't. But neither
have I. That's why I will come
with you. Don't argue, miss. How would you stop me, eh? Oh, that
reminds me... them mysterious
bruises Mrs Towny gets is because Mr Towny beats her, and the father
of Miss Quickly's baby is
young Fred Turvey. You might mention that to Miss Level.' As she
spoke, a bee flew out of her ear.
Bait, thought Tiffany a few hours later, as they walked away from Miss
Level's cottage and up
towards the high moors. I wonder if I'm bait, just like in the old
days when the hunters would
tether a lamb or a baby goat to bring the wolves nearer? She's got a
plan to kill the hiver. I
know it. She's worked something out. It'll come for me and she'll just
wave a hand. She must think
I'm stupid. They had argued, of course. But Mistress Weatherwax had
made a nasty personal remark.
It was: You're eleven. Just like that. You're eleven, and what is Miss
Tick going to tell your
parents? Sorry about Tiffany, but we let her go off by herself to
fight an ancient monster that
can't be killed and what's left of her is in this jar? Miss Level had
joined in at that part,
almost in tears. If Tiffany hadn't been a witch, she would have whined
about everyone being so
unfair! In fact they were being fair. She knew they were being fair.
They were not thinking just
of her, but of other people, and Tiffany hated herself -well,
slightly- because she hadn't. But it
was sneaky of them to choose this moment to be fair. That was unfair.
No one had told her she was
only nine when she went into Fairyland armed with just a frying pan.
Admittedly, no one else had
known she was going, except the Nac Mac Feegle, and she was much
taller than they were. Would she
have gone if she'd known what was in there? she wondered. Yes. I
would. And you're going to face
the hiver even though you don't know how to beat it? Yes. I am.
There's part of me still in it. I
might be able to do something- But aren't you just ever so slightly
glad that Mistress Weatherwax
and Miss Level won the argument and now you're going off very bravely
but you happen to be
accompanied, completely against your will, by the most powerful witch
alive? Tiffany sighed. It
was dreadful when your own thoughts tried to gang up on you. The
Feegles hadn't objected to her
going to find the hiver. They did object to not being allowed to come
with her. They'd been
insulted, she knew. But, as Mistress Weatherwax had said, this was
true haggling and there was no
place in it for Feegles. If the hiver came, out there, not in a dream
but for real, it'd have
nothing about it that could be kicked or head-butted. Tiffany had
tried to make a little speech,
thanking them for their help, but Rob Anybody had folded his arms and
turned his back. It had all
gone wrong. But the old witch had been right. They could get hurt. The
trouble was, explaining to
a Feegle how dangerous things were going to be only got them more
enthusiastic. She left them
arguing with one another. It had not gone well. But now that was all
behind her, in more ways that
one. The trees beside the track were less bushy and more pointy or, if
Tiffany had known more
about trees, she would have said that the oaks were giving way to
evergreens. She could feel the
hiver. It was following them, but a long way back. If you had to
imagine a head witch, you
wouldn't imagine Mistress Weatherwax. You might imagine Mrs Earwig,
who glided across the floor as
though she was on wheels, and had a dress as black as the darkness in
a deep cellar, but Mistress
Weatherwax was just an old woman with a lined face and rough hands in
a dress as black as night,
which is never as black as people think. It was dusty and ragged round
the hem, too. On the other
hand, thought her Second Thoughts, you once bought Granny Aching a
china shepherdess, remember?
All blue and white and sparkly? Her First Thoughts thought: Well, yes,
but I was a lot younger
then. Her Second Thoughts thought: Yes, but which one was the real
shepherdess? The shiny lady in
the nice clean dress and buckled shoes, or the old woman who stumped
around in the snow with boots
filled with straw and a sack across her shoulders? At which point,
Mistress Weatherwax stumbled.
She caught her balance very quickly. 'Dangerously loose stones on this
path,' she said. 'Watch out
for them.' Tiffany looked down. There weren't that many stones and
they didn't seem very dangerous
or particularly loose. How old was Mistress Weatherwax? That was
another question she wished she
hadn't asked. She was skinny and wiry, just like Granny Aching, the
kind of person who goes on and
on- but one day Granny Aching had gone to bed and had never got up
again, just like that... The
sun was setting. Tiffany could feel the hiver in the same way that you
can sense that someone is
looking at you. It was still in the woods that hugged the mountain
like a scarf. At last the witch
stopped at a spot where rocks like pillars sprouted out of the turf.
She sat down with her back to
a big rock. This'll have to do,' she said. It'll be dark soon and you
could turn an ankle on all
this loose stone.' There were huge boulders around them, house-sized,
which had rolled down from
the mountains in the past. The rock of the peaks began not far away, a
wall of stone that seemed
to hang above Tiffany like a wave. It was a desolate place. Every
sound echoed. She sat down by
Mistress Weatherwax and opened the bag that Miss Level had packed for
the journey. Tiffany wasn't
very experienced at things like this but, according to the book of
fairy tales, the typical food
for taking on an adventure was bread and cheese. Hard cheese, too.
Miss Level had made them ham
is,' said Awf'ly Wee Billy,
tears running down his face. I cannae write a song aboot this! I'm nae
good enough!' 'Is that the
big wee hag dreamin' she's the hills or the hills dreamin' they're the
big wee hag?' said Daft
Wullie. 'Both, mebbe,' said Rob Anybody. They watched the huge hand
close and winced. 'But ye
cannae kill a hiver,' said Daft Wullie. 'Aye, but ye can frit it
awa',' said Rob Anybody. 'It's a
big wee universe oot there. If I was it, I'd no' think o' try in' her
again!' There were three
more booms in the distance, louder this time. 'I think,' he went on,
'that's it's time we were off
ski.' In Miss Level's cottage, someone was knocking heavily on the
front door. Thump. Thump.
Thump.
Chapter 9
Soul ant Tiffany opened her eyes, remembered, and thought: Was that a
dream, or was that real? And
the next thought was: How do I know I'm me? Suppose I'm not me but
just think I'm me? How can I
tell if I'm me or not? Who's the 'me' that's asking the question? Am I
thinking these thoughts?
How would I know if it wasn't? 'Dinnae ask me,' said a voice by her
head. 'Is this one of them
tricksie ones?' It was Daft Wullie. He was sitting on her pillow.
Tiffany squinted down. She was
in bed in Miss Level's cottage. A green quilt stretched out in front
of her. A quilt. Green. Not
turf, not hills... but it looked like the downland, from here. 'Did I
say all that aloud?' she
asked. 'Oh, aye.' 'Er... it did all happen, didn't it?' said Tiffany.
'Oh, aye,' said Daft Wullie
cheerfully. 'The big hag wuz up here till just noo, but she said ye
probably wasnae gonna wake up
a monster.' More bits of memory landed in Tiffany's memory like red-
hot rocks landing on a
peaceful planet. 'Are you all right?' 'Oh, aye' said Daft Wullie. 'And
Miss Level?' And this rock
of memory was huge, a flaming mountain that'd make a million dinosaurs
flee for their lives.
Tiffany's hands flew to her mouth. 'I killed her!' she said. 'Noo,
then, ye didnae-' 'I did! I
felt my mind thinking it. She made me angry! I just waved my hand like
this'- a dozen Nac Mac
Feegle dived for cover- 'and she just exploded into nothing! It was
me! I remember!' 'Aye, but the
big hag o' hags said it wuz usin' your mind tae think with-' Daft
Wullie began. 'I've got the
memories! It was me, with this hand!' The Feegles who had raised their
heads ducked back down
again. 'And... the memories I've got... I remember dust, turning into
stars... things... the
heat... blood... the taste of blood... I remember ... I remember the
see-me trick! Oh, no! I
practically invited it in! I killed Miss Level!' Shadows were closing
in around her vision, and
there was a ringing in her ears. Tiffany heard the door swing open and
hands picked her up as
though she was as light as a bubble. She was slung over a shoulder and
carried swiftly down the
stairs and out into the bright morning, where she was swung down onto
the ground. '... And all of
us... we killed her... take one crucible of silver...' she mumbled. A
hand slapped her sharply
across the face. She stared through inner mists at the tall dark
figure in front of her. A bucket
handle was pressed firmly into her hand. 'Milk the goats now, Tiffany!
Now, Tiffany, d'you hear!
The trusting creatures look to you! They wait for you! Tiffany milks
the goats. Do it, Tiffany!
The hands know how, the mind will remember and grow stronger,
Tiffany!' She was thrust down onto
the milking stool and, through the mist in her head, made out the
cowering shape of... of... Black
Meg. The hands remembered. They placed the pail, grasped a teat and
then, as Meg raised a leg to
play the foot-in-the-bucket game, grabbed it and forced it safely back
down onto the milking
platform. She worked slowly, her head full of hot fog, letting her
hands have their way. Buckets
were filled and emptied, milked goats got a bucket of feed from the
bin... Sensibility Bustle was
rather puzzled that his hands were milking a goat. He stopped. 'What
is your name?' said a voice
behind him. 'Bustle. Sensibil- 'No! That was the wizard, Tiffany! He
was the strongest echo, but
you're not him! Get into the dairy, TIFFANY!' She stumbled into the
cool room under the command of
that voice and the world focused. There was a foul cheese on the slab,
sweating and stinking. 'Who
put this here?' she asked. 'The hiver did, Tiffany. Tried to make a
cheese by magic, Tiffany.
Hah!' said the voice. 'And you are not it, Tiffany! You know how to
make cheese the right way,
don't you, Tiffany? Indeed you do! What is your name?' ... all was
confusion and strange smells.
In panic, she roared- Her face was slapped again. 'No, that was the
sabre-toothed tiger, Tiffany!
They're all just old memories the hiver left behind, Tiffany! It's
worn a lot of creatures but
they are not you! Come forward, Tiffany!' She heard the words without
really understanding them.
They were just out there somewhere, between people who were just
shadows. But it was unthinkable
to disobey them. 'Drat!' said the hazy tall figure. 'Where's that
little blue feller? Mister
Anyone?' 'Here, mistress. It's Rob Anybody, mistress. I beg o' ye not
tae turn me intae somethin'
unnatural, mistress!' 'You said she had a box of keepsakes. Fetch it
down here this minute. I
feared this might happen. I hates doin' it this way!' Tiffany was
turned round and once again
looked into the blurry face while strong hands gripped her arms. Two
blue eyes stared into hers.
They shone in the mist like sapphires. 'What's your name, Tiffany?'
said the voice. 'Tiffany!' The
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eyes bored into her. 'Is it? Really? Sing me the first song you ever
learned, Tiffany! Now!'
'Hzan, hzana, m'taza-' 'Stop! That was never learned on a chalk hill!
You ain't Tiffany! I reckon
you're that desert queen who killed twelve of her husbands with
scorpion sandwiches! Tiffany is
the one I'm after! Back into the dark with you!' Things went blurry
again. She could hear
whispered discussions through the fog and the voice said: 'Well, that
might work. What's your
name, pictsie?' 'Awf'ly Wee Billy Bigchin Mac Feegle, mistress.'
'You're very small, aren't you?'
'Only for my height, mistress.' The grip tightened on Tiffany's arms
again. The blue eyes glinted.
'What does your name mean in the Old Speech of the Nac Mac Feegle,
Tiffany? Think ...' It rose
from the depths of her mind, trailing the fog behind it. It came up
through the clamouring voices
and lifted her beyond the reach of ghostly hands. Ahead, the clouds
parted. 'My name is Land Under
Wave,' said Tiffany and slumped forward. 'No, no, none of that, we
can't have that,' said the
figure holding her. 'You've slept enough. Good, you know who you are!
Now you must be up and
doing! You must be Tiffany as hard as you may, and the other voices
will leave you alone, depend
on it. Although it might be a good idea if you don't make sandwiches
for a while.' She did feel
better. She'd said her name. The clamouring in her head had calmed
down, although it was still a
chatter that made it hard to think straight. But now at least she
could see clearly. The blackdressed
figure holding her wasn't tall, but she was so good at acting as if
she was that it tended
to fool most people. 'Oh... you're... Mistress Weatherwax?' Mistress
Weatherwax pushed her down
gently into a chair. From every flat surface in the kitchen, the Nac
Mac Feegles watched Tiffany.
'I am. And a fine mess we have here. Rest for a moment and then we
must be up and doing-' 'Good
morning, ladies. Er, how is she?' Tiffany turned her head. Miss Level
stood in the door. She
looked pale and she was walking with a stick. 'I was lying in bed and
I thought, Well, there's no
reason to stay up here feeling sorry for myself,' she said. Tiffany
stood up. 'I'm so sor-' she
began, but Miss Level waved a hand vaguely. 'Not your fault,' she
said, sitting down heavily at
the table. 'How are you? And, for that matter, who are you?' Tiffany
blushed. 'Still me, I think,'
she mumbled. 'I got here last night and saw to Miss Level,' said
Mistress Weatherwax. 'Watched
over you, too, girl. You talked in your sleep or, rather, Sensibility
Bustle did, what's left of
him. That ol' wizard was quite helpful, for something that's nothing
much more'n a bunch of
memories and habits.' 'I don't understand about the wizard,' said
Tiffany. 'Or the desert queen.'
'Don't you?' said the witch. 'Well, a hiver collects people. Tries to
add them to itself, you
might say, use them to think with. Dr Bustle was studying them
hundreds of years ago, and set a
trap to catch one. It got him instead, silly fool. It killed him in
the end. It gets 'em all
killed in the end. They go mad, one way or the other, they stop
remembering what they shouldn't
do. But it keeps a sort of ... pale copy of them, a sort of living
memory...' She looked at
Tiffany's puzzled expression and shrugged. 'Something like a ghost,'
she said. 'And it's left
ghosts in my head?' 'More like ghosts of ghosts, really,' said
Mistress Weatherwax. 'Something we
don't have a word for, maybe.' Miss Level shuddered. 'Well, thank
goodness you've got rid of the
thing, at least,' she quavered. 'Would anyone like a nice cup of tea?'
'Ach, leave that tae us!'
shouted Rob Anybody, leaping up. 'Daft Wullie, you an' the boys mak'
some tea for the ladies!'
'Thank you,' said Miss Level weakly, as a clattering began behind her.
'I feel so clum- what? I
thought you broke all the teacups when you did the washing up!' 'Oh,
aye,' said Rob cheerfully.
'But Wullie found a whole load o' old ones shut awa' in a cupboard-'
'That very valuable bone
china was left to me by a very dear friend!' shouted Miss Level. She
sprang to her feet and turned
towards the sink. With amazing speed for someone who was partly dead
she snatched teapot, cup and
saucer from the surprised pictsies and held them up as high as she
could. 'Crivens!' said Rob
Anybody, staring at the crockery. 'Now that's what I call hagglin'!'
'I'm sorry to be rude, but
they're of great sentimental value!' said Miss Level. 'Mister Anybody,
you and your men will
kindly get away from Miss Level and shut up! said Mistress Weatherwax
quickly. 'Pray do not
disturb Miss Level while she's making tea!' 'But she's holding-'
Tiffany began, in amazement. 'And
let her get on with it without your chatter either, girl!' the witch
snapped. 'Aye, but she picked
up yon teapot wi'oot-' a voice began. The old witch's head spun round.
Feegles backed away like
trees bending to a gale. 'Daft William,' she said coldly, 'there's
room in my well for one more
frog, except that you don't have the brains of one!' 'Ahahaha, that's
wholly correct, mistress,'
said Daft Wullie, sticking out his chin with pride. 'I fooled you
there! I ha' the brains o' a
beetle!' Mistress Weatherwax glared at him, then turned back to
Tiffany. 'I turned someone into a
frog!' Tiffany said. It was dreadful! He didn't all fit in so there
was this sort of huge pink-'
'Never mind that right now,' said Mistress Weatherwax in a voice that
was suddenly so nice and
ordinary that it tinkled like a bell. 'I expect you finds things a bit
different here than they
were at home, eh?' 'What? Well, yes, at home I never turned-' Tiffany
began in surprise, then saw
that just above her lap the old woman was making frantic circular hand
motions that somehow meant
Keep going as if nothing has happened. So they chatted madly about
sheep and Mistress Weatherwax
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said they were very woolly, weren't they, and Tiffany said that they
were, extremely so, and
Mistress Weatherwax said extremely woolly was what she'd heard...
while every eye in the room
watched Miss Level- - making tea using four arms, two of which did not
exist, and not realizing
it. The black kettle sailed across the room and apparently tipped
itself into the pot. Cups and
saucers and spoons and the sugar bowl floated with a purpose. Mistress
Weatherwax leaned across to
Tiffany. 'I hope you're still feeling... alone?' she whispered. 'Yes,
thank you. I mean, I can...
sort of... feel them there, but they're not getting in the way...
er... sooner or later she's
going to realize... I mean, isn't she?' 'Very funny thing, the human
mind,' whispered the old
woman. 'I once had to see to a poor young man who had a tree fall on
his legs. Lost both legs from
the knee down. Had to have wooden legs made. Still, they were made out
of that tree, which I
suppose was some comfort, and he gets about pretty well. But I
remember him saying, "Mistress
Weatherwax, I can still feel my toes sometimes." It's like the head
don't accept what's happened.
And it's not like she's... your everyday kind of person to start with,
I mean, she's used to
havin' arms she can't see-' 'Here we are,' said Miss Level, bustling
over with three cups and
saucers and the sugar bowl. 'One for you, one for you, and one for- Oh
The sugar bowl dropped from
an invisible hand and spilled its sugar onto the table. Miss Level
stared at it in horror while,
in the other hand that wasn't there, a cup and saucer wobbled without
visible means of support.
'Shut your eyes, Miss Level!' And there was something in the voice,
some edge or strange tone that
made Tiffany shut her eyes too. 'Right! Now, you know the cup's there,
you can feel your arm,'
said Mistress Weatherwax, standing up. 'Trust it! Your eyes are not in
possession of all the
facts! Now put the cup down gently... thaaat's right. You can open
your eyes now, but what I wants
you to do, right, as a favour to me, is put the hands that you can see
flat down on the table.
Right. Good. Now, without takin' those hands away, just go over to the
dresser and fetch me that
blue biscuit tin, will you? I'm always partial to a biscuit with my
tea. Thank you very much.'
'But... but I can't do that now-' 'Get past "I can't", Miss Level,'
Mistress Weather-wax snapped.
'Don't think about it, just do it! My tea's getting cold!' So this is
witchcraft too, Tiffany
thought. It's like Granny Aching talking to animals. It's in the
voice! Sharp and soft by turns,
and you use little words of command and encouragement and you keep
talking, making the words fill
the creature's world, so that the sheepdogs obey you and the nervous
sheep are calmed... The
biscuit tin floated away from the dresser. As it neared the old woman
the lid unscrewed and
hovered in the air beside it. She reached in delicately. 'Ooh, store-
bought Teatime Assortment,'
she said, taking four biscuits and quickly putting three of them in
her pocket. 'Very posh.' 'It's
terribly difficult to do this!' Miss Level moaned. 'It's like trying
not to think of a pink
rhinoceros!' 'Well?' said Mistress Weatherwax. 'What's so special
about not thinking of a pink
rhinoceros?' 'It's impossible not to think of one if someone tells you
you mustn't,' Tiffany
explained. 'No it ain't,' said Mistress Weatherwax, firmly. 'I ain't
thinking of one right now,
and I gives you my word on that. You want to take control of that
brain of yours, Miss Level. So
you've lost a spare body? What's another body when all's said and
done? Just a lot of upkeep,
another mouth to feed, wear and tear on the furniture... in a word,
fuss. Get your mind right,
Miss Level, and the world is your The old witch leaned down to Tiffany
and whispered: 'What's that
thing, lives in the sea, very small, folks eat it?' 'Shrimp?' Tiffany
suggested, a bit puzzled.
'Shrimp? All right. The world is your shrimp, Miss Level. Not only
will there be a great saving on
clothes and food, which is not to be sneezed at in these difficult
times, but when people see you
moving things though the air, well, they'll say, "There's a witch and
a half, and no mistake!" and
they will be right. You just hold on to that skill, Miss Level. You
maintain. Think on what I've
said. And now you stay and rest. We'll see to what needs doing today.
You just make a little list
for me, and Tiffany'll know the way.' 'Well, indeed, I do feel...
somewhat shaken,' said Miss
Level, absent-mindedly brushing her hair out of her eyes with an
invisible hand. 'Let me see...
you could just drop in on Mr Umbril, and Mistress Turvy, and the young
Raddle boy, and check on
Mrs Towney's bruise, and take some Number Five ointment to Mr Drover,
and pay a call on old Mrs
Hunter at Saucy Corner and... now, who have I forgotten... ?' Tiffany
realized she was holding her
breath. It had been a horrible day, and a dreadful night, but what was
looming and queuing up for
its place on Miss Level's tongue was, somehow, going to be worse than
either. '... Ah, yes, have a
word with Miss Quickly at Uttercliff, and then probably you'll need to
talk to Mrs Quickly, too,
and there're a few packages to be dropped off on the way, they're in
my basket, all marked up. And
I think that's it... oh, no, silly me, I almost forgot... and you need
to drop in on Mr Weavall,
too.' Tiffany breathed out. She really didn't want to. She'd rather
not breathe ever again than
face Mr Weavall and open an empty box. 'Are you sure you're... totally
yourself, Tiffany?' said
Miss Level, and Tiffany leaped for this lifesaving excuse not to go.
'Well, I do feel a bit-' she
began, but Mistress Weatherwax interrupted with, 'She's fine, Miss
Level, apart from the echoes.
The hiver has gone away from this house, I can assure you.' 'Really?'
said Miss Level. 'I don't
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mean to be rude, but how can you be so certain?' Mistress Weatherwax
pointed down. Grain by grain,
the spilled sugar was rolling across the tabletop and leaping into the
sugar bowl. Miss Level
clasped her hands together. 'Oh, Oswald' she said, her face one huge
smile, 'you've come back!'
Miss Level, and possibly Oswald, watched them go from the gate.
'She'll be fine with your little
men keeping her company,' said Mistress Weatherwax as she and Tiffany
turned away and took the
lane through the woods. 'It could be the making of her, you know,
being half dead.' Tiffany was
shocked. 'How can you be so cruel?' 'She'll get some respect when
people see her moving stuff
through the air. Respect is meat and drink to a witch. Without
respect, you ain't got a thing. She
doesn't get much respect, our Miss Level.' That was true. People
didn't respect Miss Level. They
liked her, in an unthinking sort of way, and that was it. Mistress
Weatherwax was right, and
Tiffany wished she wasn't. 'Why did you and Miss Tick send me to her,
then?' she said. 'Because
she likes people,' said the witch, striding ahead. 'She cares about
'em. Even the stupid, mean,
dribbling ones, the mothers with the runny babies and no sense, the
feckless and the silly and the
fools who treat her like some kind of a servant. Now that's what I
call magic- seein' all that,
dealin' with all that, and still goin' on. It's sittin' up all night
with some poor old man who's
leavin' the world, taking away such pain as you can, comfortin' their
terror, seein' 'em safely on
their way... and then cleanin' 'em up, layin' 'em out, making 'em neat
for the funeral, and
helpin' the weeping widow strip the bed and wash the sheets- which is,
let me tell you, no errand
for the faint-hearted- and stayin' up the next night to watch over the
coffin before the funeral,
and then going home and sitting down for five minutes before some
shouting angry man comes bangin'
on your door 'cos his wife's havin' difficulty givin' birth to their
first child and the midwife's
at her wits' end and then getting up and fetching your bag and going
out again... We all do that,
in our own way, and she does it better'n me, if I was to put my hand
on my heart. That is the root
and heart and soul and centre of witchcraft, that is. The soul and
centre!' Mistress Weatherwax
smacked her fist into her hand, hammering out her words. 'The...
soul. .. and... centre!' Echoes
came back from the trees in the sudden silence. Even the grasshoppers
by the side of the track had
stopped sizzling. 'And Mrs Earwig,' said Mistress Weatherwax, her
voice sinking to a growl, 'Mrs
Earwig tells her girls it's about cosmic balances and stars and
circles and colours and wands
and... and toys, nothing but toys!' She sniffed. 'Oh, I daresay
they're all very well as
decoration, somethin' nice to look at while you're workin', somethin'
for show, but the start and
finish, the start and finish, is helpin' people when life is on the
edge. Even people you don't
like. Stars is easy, people is hard.' She stopped talking. It was
several seconds before birds
began to sing again. 'Anyway, that's what I think,' she added in the
tone of someone who suspects
that they might have gone just a bit further than they meant to. She
turned round when Tiffany
said nothing, and saw that she had stopped and was standing in the
lane looking like a drowned
hen. 'Are you all right, girl?' she said. 'It was me!' wailed Tiffany.
'The hiver was me! It
wasn't thinking with my brain, it was using my thoughts! It was using
what it found in my head!
All those insults, all that...' She gulped. 'That... nastiness. All it
was was me with without the
bit of you that was locked away,' said Mistress Weatherwax sharply.
'Remember that.' 'Yes, but
supposing-' Tiffany began, struggling to get all the woe out. 'The
locked-up bit was the important
bit,' said Mistress Weatherwax. 'Learnin' how not to do things is as
hard as learning how to do
them. Harder, maybe. There'd be a sight more frogs in this world if I
didn't know how not to turn
people into them. And big pink balloons, too.' 'Don't,' said Tiffany,
shuddering. 'That's why we
do all the tramping around and doctorin' and stuff,' said Mistress
Weatherwax. 'Well, and because
it makes people a bit better, of course. But doing it moves you into
your centre, so's you don't
wobble. It anchors you. Keeps you human, stops you cackling. Just like
your granny with her sheep,
which are to my mind as stupid and wayward and ungrateful as humans.
You think you've had a sight
of yourself and found out you're bad? Hah! I've seen bad, and you
don't get near it. Now, are you
going to stop grizzling?' 'What?' snapped Tiffany. Mistress Weatherwax
laughed, to Tiffany's
sudden fury. 'Yes, you're a witch to your boots,' she said. 'You're
sad, and behind that you're
watching yourself being sad and thinking, Oh, poor me, and behind that
you're angry with me for
not going "There, there, poor dear." Let me talk to those Third
Thoughts then, because I want to
hear from the girl who went to fight a fairy queen armed with nothin'
but a fryin' pan, not some
child feelin' sorry for herself and wallowing in misery!' 'What? I am
not wallowing in misery!'
Tiffany shouted, striding up to her until they were inches apart. 'And
what was all that about
being nice to people, eh?' Overhead, leaves fell off the trees. 'That
doesn't count when it's
another witch, especially one like you!' Mistress Weatherwax snapped,
prodding her in the chest
with a finger as hard as wood. 'Oh? Oh? And what's that supposed to
mean?' A deer galloped off
through the woods. The wind got up. 'One who's not paying attention,
child!' 'Why, what have I
missed that you 've seen... old woman?' 'Old woman I may be, but I'm
tellin' you the hiver is
still around! You only threw it out!' Mistress Weatherwax shouted.
Birds rose from the trees in
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panic. 'I know!' screamed Tiffany. 'Oh yes? Really? And how do you
know that?' 'Because there's a
bit of me still in it! A bit of me I'd rather not know about, thank
you! I can feel it out there!
Anyway, how do you know!' 'Because I'm a bloody good witch, that's
why,' snarled Mistress
Weatherwax, as rabbits burrowed deeper to get out of the way. 'And
what do you want me to do about
the creature while you sit there snivellin', eh?' 'How dare you! How
dare you! It's my
responsibility! I'll deal with it, thank you so very much!' 'You? A
hiver? It'll take more than a
frying pan! They can't be killed!' 'I'll find a way! A witch deals
with things!' 'Hah! I'd like to
see you try!' 'I will!' shouted Tiffany. It started to rain. 'Oh? So
you know how to attack it, do
you?' 'Don't be silly! I can't! It can always keep out of my way! It
can even sink into the
ground! But it'll come looking for me, understand? Me, not anyone
else! I know it! And this time
I'll be ready!' 'Will you, indeed?' said Mistress Weatherwax, folding
her arms. 'Yes!' 'When?'
'Now!' 'No!' The old witch held up a hand. 'Peace be on this place,'
she said, quietly. The wind
dropped. The rain stopped. 'No, not yet,' she went on as peace once
again descended. 'It's not
attackin' yet. Don't you think that's odd? It'd be licking its wounds,
if it had a tongue. And
you're not ready yet, whatever you thinks. No, we've got somethin'
else to do, haven't we?'
Tiffany was speechless. The tide of outrage inside her was so hot that
it burned her ears. But
Mistress Weatherwax was smiling. The two facts did not work well
together. Her first thoughts
were: I've just had a blazing row with Mistress Weatherwax! They say
that if you cut her with a
knife she wouldn't bleed until she wanted to! They say that when some
vampires bit her they all
started to crave tea and sweet biscuits. She can do anything, be
anywhere! And I called her an old
woman! Her Second Thoughts were: Well, she is. Her Third Thoughts
were: Yes, she is Mistress
Weatherwax. And she's keeping you angry. If you're full of anger,
there's no room left for fear.
'You hold that anger,' Mistress Weatherwax said, as if reading all of
her mind. 'Cup it in your
heart, remember where it came from, remember the shape of it, save it
until you need it. But now
the wolf is out there somewhere in the woods, and you need to see to
the flock.' It's the voice,
Tiffany thought. She really does talk to people like Granny Aching
talked to sheep, except she
hardly cusses at all. But I feel... better. 'Thank you,' she said.
'And that includes Mr Weavall.'
'Yes,' said Tiffany. 'I know.'
Chapter 10 The Late BLOOMER
It was an... interesting day. Everyone in the mountains had heard of
Mistress Weatherwax. If you
didn't have respect, she said, you didn't have anything. Today, she
had it all. Some of it even
rubbed off on Tiffany. They were treated like royalty- not the sort
who get dragged off to be
beheaded or have something nasty done with a red-hot poker, but the
other sort, when people walk
away dazed, saying, 'She actually said hello to me, very graciously! I
will never wash my hand
again!' Not that many people they dealt with washed their hands at
all, Tiffany thought, with the
primness of a dairy worker. But people crowded around outside the
cottage doors, watching and
listening, and people sidled up to Tiffany to say things like, 'Would
she like a cup of tea? I've
cleaned our cup!' And in the garden of every cottage they passed,
Tiffany noticed, the beehives
were suddenly bustling with activity. She worked away, trying to stay
calm, trying to think about
what she was doing. You did the doctoring work as neatly as you could,
and if it was on something
oozy then you just thought about how nice things would be when you'd
stopped doing it. She felt
Mistress Weatherwax wouldn't approve of this attitude. But Tiffany
didn't much like hers either.
She lied all the- she didn't tell the truth all the time. For example,
there was the Raddles'
privy. Miss Level had explained carefully to Mr and Mrs Raddle several
times that it was far too
close to the well, and so the drinking water was full of tiny, tiny
creatures that were making
their children sick. They'd listened very carefully, every time they
heard the lecture, and still
they never moved the privy. But Mistress Weatherwax told them it was
caused by goblins who were
attracted to the smell, and by the time they left that cottage Mr
Raddle and three of his friends
were already digging a new well the other end of the garden. 'It
really is caused by tiny
creatures, you know,' said Tiffany, who'd once handed over an egg to a
travelling teacher so she
could line up and look through his '** Astounding Mikroscopical
Device! A Zoo in Every Drop of
Ditchwater!**' She'd almost collapsed next day from not drinking. Some
of those creatures were
hairy. 'Is that so?' said Mistress Weatherwax sarcastically. 'Yes. It
is. And Miss Level believes
in telling them the truth!' 'Good. She's a fine, honest woman,' said
Mistress Weatherwax. 'But
what I say is, you have to tell people a story they can understand.
Right now I reckon you'd have
to change quite a lot of the world, and maybe bang Mr Raddle's stupid
fat head against the wall a
few times, before he'd believe that you can be sickened by drinking
tiny invisible beasts. And
while you're doing that, those kids of theirs will get sicker. But
goblins, now, they makes sense
today. A story gets things done. And when I see Miss Tick tomorrow
I'll tell her it's about time
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them wandering teachers started coming up here.' 'All right,' said
Tiffany reluctantly, 'but you
told Mr Umbril the shoemaker that his chest pains will clear up if he
walks to the waterfall at
Tumble Crag every day for a month and throws three shiny pebbles into
the pool for the water
sprites! That's not doctoring!' 'No, but he thinks it is. The man
spends too much time sitting
hunched up. A fivemile walk in the fresh air every day for a month
will see him as right as rain,'
said Mistress Weatherwax. 'Oh,' said Tiffany. 'Another story?' 'If you
like,' said Mistress
Weatherwax, her eyes twinkling. 'And you never know, maybe the water
sprites will be grateful for
the pebbles.' She glanced sidelong at Tiffany's expression, and patted
her on the shoulder. 'Never
mind, miss,' she said. 'Look at it this way. Tomorrow, your job is to
change the world into a
better place. Today, my job is to see that everyone gets there.'
'Well, I think-' Tiffany began,
then stopped. She looked up at the line of woods between the small
fields of the valleys and the
steep meadows of the mountains. 'It's still there,' she said. 'I
know,' said Mistress Weatherwax.
'It's moving around but it's keeping away from us.' 'I know,' said
Mistress Weatherwax. 'What does
it think it's doing?' 'It's got a bit of you in it. What do you think
it's doing?' Tiffany tried
to think. Why wouldn't it attack? Oh, she'd be better prepared this
time, but it was strong.
'Maybe it's waiting until I'm upset again,' she said. 'But I keep
having a thought. It makes no
sense. I keep thinking about... three wishes.' 'Wishes for what?' 'I
don't know. It sounds silly.'
Mistress Weatherwax stopped. 'No, it's not,' she said. 'It's a deep
part of you trying to send
yourself a message. Just remember it. Because now-' Tiffany sighed.
'Yes, I know. Mr Weavall.' No
dragon's cave was ever approached as carefully as the cottage in the
overgrown garden. Tiffany
paused at the gate and looked back, but Mistress Weatherwax had
diplomatically vanished. Probably
she's found someone to give her a cup of tea and a sweet biscuit, she
thought. She lives on them!
She opened the gate and walked up the path. You couldn't say: It's not
my fault. You couldn't say:
It's not my responsibility. You could say: I will deal with this. You
didn't have to want to. But
you had to do it. Tiffany took a deep breath and stepped into the dark
cottage. Mr Weavall, in his
chair, was just inside the door and fast asleep, showing the world an
open mouth full of yellow
teeth. 'Urn... hello, Mr Weavall,' Tiffany quavered, but perhaps not
quite loud enough. 'Just, er,
here to see that you, that everything is... is all right There was a
snort nonetheless, and he
woke, smacking his lips to get the sleep out of his mouth. 'Oh, 'tis
you,' he said. 'Good
afternoon to ye.' He eased himself more upright and started to stare
out of the doorway, ignoring
her. Maybe he won't ask, she thought as she washed up and dusted and
plumped the cushions and, not
to put too fine a point on it, emptied the commode. But she nearly
yelped when the arm shot out
and grabbed her wrist and the old man gave her his pleading look.
'Just check the box, Mary, will
you? Before you go? Only I heard clinking noises last night, see.
Could be one o' the sneaky
thieves got in.' 'Yes, Mr Weavall' said Tiffany, while she thought:
Idon'twanttobehereldon'twanttobehere! She pulled out the box. There
was no choice. It felt heavy.
She stood up and lifted the lid. After the creak of the hinges, there
was silence. 'Are you all
right, gel?' said Mr Weavall. 'Urn...' said Tiffany. 'It's all there,
ain't it?' said the old man
anxiously. Tiffany's mind was a puddle of goo. 'Urn... it's all here,'
she managed. 'Um... and now
it's all gold, Mr Weavall.' 'Gold? Hah! Don't you pull my leg, gel. No
gold ever came my way!'
Tiffany put the box on the old man's lap, as gently as she could, and
he stared into it. Tiffany
recognized the worn coins. The pictsies ate off them in the mound.
There had been pictures on
them, but they were too worn to make out now. But gold was gold,
pictures or not. She turned her
head sharply and was certain she saw something small and redheaded
vanish into the shadows. 'Well
now,' said Mr Weavall. 'Well now.' And that seemed to exhaust his
conversation for a while. Then
he said, 'Far too much money here to pay for a buryin'. I don't recall
savin' all this. I reckon
you could bury a king for this amount of money.' Tiffany swallowed.
She couldn't leave things like
this. She just couldn't. 'Mr Weavall, I've got something I must tell
you,' she said. And she told
him. She told him all of it, not just the good bits. He sat and
listened carefully. 'Well, now,
isn't that interesting,' he said when she'd finished. 'Urn... I'm
sorry,' said Tiffany. She
couldn't think of anything else to say. 'So what you're saying, right,
is 'cos that creature made
you take my burying money, right, you think these fairy friends o'
yourn filled my ol' box with
gold so's you wouldn't get into trouble, right?' 'I think so,' said
Tiffany. 'Well, it looks like
I should thank you, then,' said Mr Weavall. 'What?' 'Well, it seems to
I, if you hadn't ha' took
the silver and copper, there wouldn't have been any room for all this
gold, right?' said Mr
Weavall. 'And I shouldn't reckon that ol' dead king up on yon hills
needs it now.' 'Yes, but-' Mr
Weavall fumbled in the box and held up a gold coin that would have
bought his cottage. 'A little
something for you, then, girl,' he said. 'Buy yourself some ribbons or
something 'No! I can't!
That wouldn't be fair!' Tiffany protested, desperately. This was
completely going wrong! 'Wouldn't
it, now?' said Mr Weavall, and his bright eyes gave her a long, shrewd
look. 'Well, then, let's
call it payment for this little errand you're gonna run for I, eh?
You're gonna run up they
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stairs, which I can't quite manage any more, and bring down the black
suit that's hanging behind
the door, and there's a clean shirt in the chest at the end of the
bed. And you'll polish my boots
and help I up, but I'm thinking I could prob'ly make it down the lane
on my own. 'Cos, y'see, this
is far too much money to buy a man's funeral, but I reckon it'll do
fine to marry him off, so I am
proposin' to propose to the Widow Tussy that she engages in matrimony
with I!' The last sentence
took a little working out, and then Tiffany said, 'You are?' 'That I
am,' said Mr Weavall,
struggling to his feet. 'She's a fine woman who bakes a very
reasonable steak-and-onion pie and
she has all her own teeth. I know that because she showed I. Her
youngest son got her a set of
fancy store-bought teeth all the way from the big city, and very
handsome she looks in 'em. She
was kind enough to loan 'em to I one day when I had a difficult piece
of pork to tackle, and a man
doesn't forget a kindness like that.' 'Er... you don't think you ought
to think about this, do
you?' said Tiffany. Mr Weavall laughed. 'Think? I got no business to
be thinking about it, young
lady! Who're you to tell me an old 'un like I that he ought to be
thinking? I'm ninety-one, I am!
Got to be up and doing! Besides, I have reason to believe by the
twinkle in her eye that the Widow
Tussy will not turn up her nose at my suggestion. I've seen a fair
number of twinkles over the
years, and that was a good'un. And I daresay that suddenly having a
box of gold will fill in the
corners, as my ol' dad would say.' It took ten minutes for Mr Weavall
to get changed, with a lot
of struggling and bad language and no help from Tiffany, who was told
to turn her back and put her
hands over her ears. Then she had to help him out into the garden,
where he threw away one walking
stick and waggled a finger at the weeds. 'And I'll be chopping down
the lot of you tomorrow!' he
shouted triumphantly. At the garden gate he grasped the post and
pulled himself nearly vertical,
panting. 'All right,' he said, just a little anxiously. It's now or
never. I look OK, does I?'
'You look fine, Mr Weavall.' 'Everything clean? Everything done up?'
'Er... yes,' said Tiffany.
'How's my hair look?' 'Er... you don't have any, Mr Weavall,' she
reminded him. 'Ah, right. Yes,
'tis true. I'll have to buy one o' the whatdyoucallem's, like a hat
made of hair? Have I got
enough money for that, d'you think?' 'A wig? You could buy thousands,
Mr Weavall!' 'Hah! Right.'
His gleaming eyes looked around the garden. 'Any flowers out? Can't
see too well... Ah...
speckatickles, I saw 'em once, made of glass, makes you see good as
new. That's what I need...
have I got enough for speckatickles?' 'Mr Weavall,' said Tiffany,
'you've got enough for
anything.' 'Why, bless you!' said Mr Weavall. 'But right now I need a
bow-kwet of flowers, girl.
Can't go courtin' without flowers and I can't see none. Anythin'
left?' A few roses were hanging
on among the weeds and briars in the garden. Tiffany fetched a knife
from the kitchen and made
them up into a bouquet. 'Ah, good,' he said. 'Late bloomers, just like
I!' He held them tightly in
his free hand, then suddenly frowned, fell silent and stood like a
statue 'I wish my Toby and my
Mary was goin' to be able to come to the weddin',' he said quietly.
'But they're dead, you know.'
'Yes,' said Tiffany. 'I know, Mr Weavall.' 'And I could wish that my
Nancy was alive, too,
although bein' as I hopes to be marryin' another lady that ain't a
sensible wish, maybe. Hah!
Nearly everyone I knows is dead.' Mr Weavall stared at the bunch of
flowers for a while, and then
straightened up again. 'Still, can't do nothin' about that, can we?
Not even for a box full of
gold!' 'No, Mr Weavall," said Tiffany hoarsely. 'Oh, don't cry, gel!
The sun is shinin', the birds
is singin' and what's past can't be mended, eh?' said Mr Weavall
jovially. 'And the Widow Tussy is
waitin'!' For a moment he looked panicky, and then he cleared his
throat. 'Don't smell too bad, do
I?' he said. 'Er... only of mothballs, Mr Weavall.' 'Mothballs?
Mothballs is OK. Right, then!
Time's a wastin'!' Using only the one stick, waving his other arm with
the flowers in the air to
keep his balance, Mr Weavall set off with surprising speed. 'Well,'
said Mistress Weatherwax as,
with jacket flying, he rounded the corner. 'That was nice, wasn't it?'
Tiffany looked around
quickly. Mistress Weather-wax was still nowhere to be seen, but she
was somewhere to be unseen.
Tiffany squinted at what was definitely an old wall with some ivy
growing up it, and it was only
when the old witch moved that she spotted her. She hadn't done
anything to her clothes, hadn't
done any magic as far as Tiffany knew, but she'd simply... faded in.
'Er, yes,' said Tiffany,
taking out a handkerchief and blowing her nose. 'But it worries you,'
said the witch. 'You think
it shouldn 't have ended like that, right?' 'No!' said Tiffany hotly.
'It would have been better
if he'd been buried in some ol' cheap coffin paid for by the village,
you think?' 'No!' Tiffany
twisted up her fingers. Mistress Weatherwax was sharper than a field
of pins. 'But... all right,
it just doesn't seem... fair. I mean, I wish the Feegles hadn't done
that. I'm sure I could
have... sorted it out somehow, saved up...' 'It's an unfair world,
child. Be glad you have
friends.' Tiffany looked up at the tree line. 'Yes,' said Mistress
Weatherwax. 'But not up there.'
'I'm going away,' said Tiffany. 'I've been thinking about it, and I'm
going away.' 'Broomstick?'
said Mistress Weatherwax. 'It don't move fast-' 'No! Where would I fly
to? Home? I don't want to
take it there! Anyway, I can't just fly off with it roaming around!
When it... when I meet it, I
don't want to be near people, you understand? I know what I... what it
can do if it's angry! It
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half-killed Miss Level!' 'And if it follows you?' 'Good! I'll take it
up there somewhere!' Tiffany
waved at the mountains. 'All alone?' 'I don't have a choice, do I?'
Mistress Weatherwax gave her a
look that went on too long. 'No,' she said. 'You don't. But neither
have I. That's why I will come
with you. Don't argue, miss. How would you stop me, eh? Oh, that
reminds me... them mysterious
bruises Mrs Towny gets is because Mr Towny beats her, and the father
of Miss Quickly's baby is
young Fred Turvey. You might mention that to Miss Level.' As she
spoke, a bee flew out of her ear.
Bait, thought Tiffany a few hours later, as they walked away from Miss
Level's cottage and up
towards the high moors. I wonder if I'm bait, just like in the old
days when the hunters would
tether a lamb or a baby goat to bring the wolves nearer? She's got a
plan to kill the hiver. I
know it. She's worked something out. It'll come for me and she'll just
wave a hand. She must think
I'm stupid. They had argued, of course. But Mistress Weatherwax had
made a nasty personal remark.
It was: You're eleven. Just like that. You're eleven, and what is Miss
Tick going to tell your
parents? Sorry about Tiffany, but we let her go off by herself to
fight an ancient monster that
can't be killed and what's left of her is in this jar? Miss Level had
joined in at that part,
almost in tears. If Tiffany hadn't been a witch, she would have whined
about everyone being so
unfair! In fact they were being fair. She knew they were being fair.
They were not thinking just
of her, but of other people, and Tiffany hated herself -well,
slightly- because she hadn't. But it
was sneaky of them to choose this moment to be fair. That was unfair.
No one had told her she was
only nine when she went into Fairyland armed with just a frying pan.
Admittedly, no one else had
known she was going, except the Nac Mac Feegle, and she was much
taller than they were. Would she
have gone if she'd known what was in there? she wondered. Yes. I
would. And you're going to face
the hiver even though you don't know how to beat it? Yes. I am.
There's part of me still in it. I
might be able to do something- But aren't you just ever so slightly
glad that Mistress Weatherwax
and Miss Level won the argument and now you're going off very bravely
but you happen to be
accompanied, completely against your will, by the most powerful witch
alive? Tiffany sighed. It
was dreadful when your own thoughts tried to gang up on you. The
Feegles hadn't objected to her
going to find the hiver. They did object to not being allowed to come
with her. They'd been
insulted, she knew. But, as Mistress Weatherwax had said, this was
true haggling and there was no
place in it for Feegles. If the hiver came, out there, not in a dream
but for real, it'd have
nothing about it that could be kicked or head-butted. Tiffany had
tried to make a little speech,
thanking them for their help, but Rob Anybody had folded his arms and
turned his back. It had all
gone wrong. But the old witch had been right. They could get hurt. The
trouble was, explaining to
a Feegle how dangerous things were going to be only got them more
enthusiastic. She left them
arguing with one another. It had not gone well. But now that was all
behind her, in more ways that
one. The trees beside the track were less bushy and more pointy or, if
Tiffany had known more
about trees, she would have said that the oaks were giving way to
evergreens. She could feel the
hiver. It was following them, but a long way back. If you had to
imagine a head witch, you
wouldn't imagine Mistress Weatherwax. You might imagine Mrs Earwig,
who glided across the floor as
though she was on wheels, and had a dress as black as the darkness in
a deep cellar, but Mistress
Weatherwax was just an old woman with a lined face and rough hands in
a dress as black as night,
which is never as black as people think. It was dusty and ragged round
the hem, too. On the other
hand, thought her Second Thoughts, you once bought Granny Aching a
china shepherdess, remember?
All blue and white and sparkly? Her First Thoughts thought: Well, yes,
but I was a lot younger
then. Her Second Thoughts thought: Yes, but which one was the real
shepherdess? The shiny lady in
the nice clean dress and buckled shoes, or the old woman who stumped
around in the snow with boots
filled with straw and a sack across her shoulders? At which point,
Mistress Weatherwax stumbled.
She caught her balance very quickly. 'Dangerously loose stones on this
path,' she said. 'Watch out
for them.' Tiffany looked down. There weren't that many stones and
they didn't seem very dangerous
or particularly loose. How old was Mistress Weatherwax? That was
another question she wished she
hadn't asked. She was skinny and wiry, just like Granny Aching, the
kind of person who goes on and
on- but one day Granny Aching had gone to bed and had never got up
again, just like that... The
sun was setting. Tiffany could feel the hiver in the same way that you
can sense that someone is
looking at you. It was still in the woods that hugged the mountain
like a scarf. At last the witch
stopped at a spot where rocks like pillars sprouted out of the turf.
She sat down with her back to
a big rock. This'll have to do,' she said. It'll be dark soon and you
could turn an ankle on all
this loose stone.' There were huge boulders around them, house-sized,
which had rolled down from
the mountains in the past. The rock of the peaks began not far away, a
wall of stone that seemed
to hang above Tiffany like a wave. It was a desolate place. Every
sound echoed. She sat down by
Mistress Weatherwax and opened the bag that Miss Level had packed for
the journey. Tiffany wasn't
very experienced at things like this but, according to the book of
fairy tales, the typical food
for taking on an adventure was bread and cheese. Hard cheese, too.
Miss Level had made them ham
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