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baby, and it's been a week since I've visited Surleigh Bottom, and,
let's see, Mr Plover's got
Gnats again, and I'd better just find a moment to have a word with
Mistress Slopes... then there's
Mr Weavall's lunch to cook, I think I'll have to do that here and run
down with it for him, and of
course Mrs Fanlight is near her time and,' she sighed, 'so is Miss
Hobblow, again... It's going to
be a full day. It's really hard to fit it all in, really it is.'
Tiffany thought: You stupid
woman, standing there looking worried because you just haven't got
time to give people everything
they demand! Do you think you could ever give them enough help?
Greedy, lazy, dumb people, always
wanting all the time! The Grimly baby? Mrs Grimly's got eleven
children! Who'd miss one? Mr
Weavall's dead already! He just won't go! You think they're grateful,
but all they are doing is
making sure you come round again! That's not gratitude, that's just
insurance! The thought
horrified part of her, but it had turned up and it flamed there in her
head, just itching to
escape from her mouth. 'Things need tidying up here,' she muttered.
'Oh, I can do that while we're
gone,' said Miss Level cheerfully. 'Come on, let's have a smile!
There's lots to do!' There was
always lots to do, Tiffany growled in her head as she trailed after
Miss Level to the first
village. Lots and lots. And it never made any difference. There was no
end to the wanting. They
went from one grubby, smelly cottage to another, ministering to people
too stupid to use soap,
drinking tea from cracked cups, gossiping with old women with fewer
teeth than toes. It made her
feel ill. It was a bright day, but it seemed dark as they walked on.
The feeling was like a
thunderstorm inside her head. Then the daydreams began. She was
helping to splint the arm of some
dull child who'd broken it when she glanced up and saw her reflection
in the glass of the cottage
window. She was a tiger, with huge fangs. She yelped, and stood up.
'Oh, do be careful,' said Miss
Level, and then saw her face. 'Is there something wrong?' she said.
'I... I... something bit me!'
lied Tiffany. That was a safe bet in these places. The fleas bit the
rats and the rats bit the
children. She managed to get out into the daylight, her head spinning.
Miss Level came out a few
minutes later and found her leaning against the wall, shaking. 'You
look dreadful,' she said.
'Ferns!' said Tiffany. 'Everywhere! Big ferns! And big things, like
cows made out of lizards!' She
turned a wide, mirthless smile onto Miss Level, who took a step back.
'You can eat them!' She
blinked. 'What's happening?' she whispered. 'I don't know but I'm
coming right down here this
minute to fetch you,' said Miss Level. 'I'm on the broomstick right
now!' 'They laughed at me when
I said I could trap one. Well, who's laughing now, tell me that, eh?'
Miss Level's expression of
concern turned into something close to panic. 'That didn't sound like
your voice. That sounded
like a man! Do you feel all right?' 'Feel... crowded,' murmured
Tiffany. 'Crowded?' said Miss
Level. 'Strange... memories... help me...' Tiffany looked at her arm.
It had scales on. Now it had
hair on it. Now it was smooth and brown, and holding- 'A scorpion
sandwich?' she said. 'Can you
hear me?' said Miss Tick, her voice a long way away. 'You're
delirious. Are you sure you girls
haven't been playing with potions or anything like that?' The
broomstick dropped out of the sky
and the other part of Miss Level nearly fell off. Without speaking,
both of Miss Level got Tiffany
onto the stick and part of Miss Level got on behind her. It didn't
take long to fly back to the
cottage. Tiffany spent the flight with her mind full of hot cotton-
wool and wasn't at all certain
where she was, although her body did know and threw up again. Miss
Level helped her off the stick
and sat her on the garden seat just outside the cottage door. 'Now
just you wait there,' said Miss
Level, who dealt with emergencies by talking incessantly and using the
word 'just' too often
because it's a calming word, 'and I'll just get you a drink and then
we'll just see what the
matter is...' There was a pause and then the stream of words came out
of the house again, dragging
Miss Level after them and I'll just check o n... things. Just drink
this, please!' Tiffany drank
the water and, out of the corner of her eye, saw Miss Level weaving
string around an egg. She was
trying to make a shamble without Tiffany noticing. Strange images were
floating around Tiffany's
mind. There were scraps of voices, fragments of memories... and one
little voice that was her own,
small and defiant and getting fainter: You're not me. You just think
you are! Someone help me!
'Now, then,' said Miss Level, 'let's just see what we can see-' The
shamble exploded, not just
into pieces but into fire and smoke. 'Oh, Tiffany,' said Miss Level,
frantically waving smoke
away. 'Are you all right?' Tiffany stood up slowly. It seemed to Miss
Level that she was slightly
taller than she remembered. 'Yes, I think I am,' said Tiffany. 'I
think I've been all wrong, but
now I'm all right. And I've been wasting my time, Miss Level.'
'What-?' Miss Level began. Tiffany
pointed a finger at her. 'I know why you had to leave the circus, Miss
Level,' she said. 'It was
to do with the clown Floppo, the trick ladder and... some custard...'
Miss Level went pale. 'How
could you possibly know that?' 'Just by looking at you!' said Tiffany,
pushing past her into the
dairy. 'Watch this, Miss Level!' She pointed a finger. A wooden spoon
rose an inch from the table.
Then it began to spin, faster and faster until, with a cracking sound,
it broke into splinters.
They whirled away across the room. 'And I can do this! Tiffany
shouted. She grabbed a bowl of
curds, tipped them out on the table and waved a hand at them. They
turned into a cheese. 'Now
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that's what cheesemaking should be!' she said. To think that I spent
stupid years learning the
hard way! That's how a real witch does it! Why do we crawl in the
dirt, Miss Level? Why do we
amble around with herbs and bandage smelly old men's legs? Why do we
get paid with eggs and stale
cakes? Annagramma is as stupid as a hen but even she can see it's
wrong. Why don't we use magic?
Why are you so afraid?' Miss Level tried to smile. "Tiffany, dear, we
all go through this,' she
said, and her voice was shaking. Though not as... explosively as you,
I have to say. And the
answer is... well, it's dangerous.' 'Yes, but that's what people
always say to scare children,'
said Tiffany. 'We get told stories to frighten us, to keep us scared!
Don't go into the big bad
wood help me because it's full of scary things, that's what we're
told. But really, the big bad
wood should be scared of us! I'm going out!' 'I think that would be a
good idea,' said Miss Level
weakly. 'Until you behave.' 'I don't have to do things your way,'
snarled Tiffany, slamming the
door behind her. Miss Level's broomstick was leaning against the wall
a little way away. Tiffany
stopped and stared at it, her mind on fire. She'd tried to keep away
from it. Miss Level had
wheedled her into a trial flight with Tiffany clinging on tightly with
arms and legs while both of
Miss Level ran alongside her, holding onto ropes and making
encouraging noises. They had stopped
when Tiffany threw up for the fourth time. Well, that was then! She
grabbed the stick, swung a leg
over it- and found that her other foot stuck to the ground as though
nailed there. The broomstick
twisted around wildly as she tried to pull it up and, when the boot
was finally tugged off the
ground, turned over so that Tiffany was upside down. This is not the
best position in which to
make a grand exit. She said, quietly, 'I am not going to learn you,
you are going to learn me. Or
the next lesson will involve an axe!' The broomstick turned upright,
then gently rose. 'Right,'
said Tiffany. There was no fear this time. There was just impatience.
The ground dropping away
below her didn't worry her at all. If it didn't have the sense to stay
away from her, she'd hit
it... As the stick drifted away, there was whispering in the long
grass of the garden. 'Ach, we're
too late, Rob. That wuz the hiver, that wuz.' 'Aye, but did ye see
that foot? It's nae won yetoor
hag's in there somewhere! She's fighting it! It cannae win until it's
taken the last scrap o'
her! Wullie, will ye stop tryin' to grab them apples!' 'It's sorry I
am tae say this, Rob, but no
one can fight a hiver. 'Tis like fightin' yoursel. The more you fight,
the more it'll tak' o' ye.
And when it has all o' ye-' 'Wash ootyer mouth wi' hedgehog pee, Big
Yan! That isnae gonna happen-
' 'Crivens! Here comes the big hag!' Half of Miss Level stepped out
into the ruined garden. She
stared up at the departing broomstick, shaking her head. Daft Wullie
was stuck out in the open
where he'd been trying to snag a fallen apple. He turned to flee and
would have got clean away if
he hadn't run straight into a pottery garden gnome. He bounced off,
stunned, and staggered wildly,
trying to focus on the big, fat, chubby-cheeked figure in front of
him. He was far too angry to
hear the click of the garden gate and soft tread of approaching
footsteps. When it comes to
choosing between running and fighting, a Feegle doesn't think twice.
He doesn't think at all.
'What're ye grinnin' at, pal?' he demanded. 'Oh aye, you reckon you're
the big man, eh, jus' 'cos
yez got a fishin' rod?' He grabbed a pink pointy ear in each hand and
aimed his head at what
turned out be quite a hard pottery nose. It smashed anyway, as things
tend to in these
circumstances, but it did slow the little man down and cause him to
stagger in circles. Too late,
he saw Miss Level bearing down on him from the doorway. He turned to
flee, right into the hands of
also Miss Level. Her fingers closed around him. I'm a witch, you
know,' she said. 'And if you
don't stop struggling this minute I will subject you to the most
dreadful torture. Do you know
what that is?' Daft Wullie shook his head in terror. Long years of
juggling had given Miss Level a
grip like steel. Down in the long grass, the rest of the Feegles
listened so hard it hurt. Miss
Level brought him a little closer to her mouth. 'I'll let you go right
now without giving you a
taste of the twenty-year-old MacAbre single malt I have in my
cupboard,' she said. Rob Anybody
leaped up. 'Ach, crivens, mistress, what a thing to taunt a body wi'!
D'ye no' have a drop of
mercy in you?' he shouted. 'Ye're a cruel hag indeed tae-' He stopped.
Miss Level was smiling. Rob
Anybody looked around, flung his sword on the ground and said: 'Ach,
crivens! The Nac Mac Feegle
respected witches, even if they did call them hags. And this one had
brought out a big loaf and a
whole bottle of whisky on the table for the taking. You had to respect
someone like that. 'Of
course, I'd heard of you, and Miss Tick mentioned you,' she said,
watching them eat, which is not
something to be done lightly. 'But I always thought you were just a
myth.' 'Aye, weel, we'll stay
that way if ye dinnae mind,' said Rob Anybody, and belched.' 'Tis bad
enough wi' them arky-ollygee
men wantin' to dig up oour mounds wi'oot them folklore ladies wantin'
to tak' pichoors o' us
an' that.' 'And you watch over Tiffany's farm, Mr Anybody?' 'Aye, we
do that, an' we dinnae ask
for any reward,' said Rob Anybody stoutly. 'Aye, we just tak' a few
wee eiggs an' fruits an' old
clothes and-' Daft Wullie began. Rob gave him a look. 'Er... wuz that
one o' those times when I
shouldna' open my big fat mouth?' said Wullie. 'Aye. It wuz,' said
Rob. He turned back to both of
Miss Level. 'Mebbe we tak' the odd bitty thing lyin' aboot in locked
cupboards an' such-' added
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Daft Wullie happily. '- but it's no' missed, an' we keeps an eye on
the ships in payment,' said
Rob, glaring at his brother. 'You can see the sea from down there?'
said Miss Level, entering that
state of general bewilderment that most people fell into when talking
to the Feegles. 'Rob Anybody
means the sheep,' said Awf'ly Wee Billy. Gonnagles know a bit more
about language. 'Aye, I said
so, ships,' said Rob Anybody. 'Anywa'... aye, we watch her farm. She's
the hag o' oor hills, like
her granny.' He added proudly, 'It's through her the hills knows they
are alive.' 'And a hiver
is... ?' Rob hesitated. 'Dunno the proper haggin' way o' talking aboot
it,' he said. 'Awf'ly Wee
Billy, you know them lang words.' Billy swallowed. 'There's old poems,
mistress. It's like a- a
mind wi'oot a body, except it disnae think. Some say it's nothing but
a fear, and never dies. And
what it does...' His tiny face wrinkled. 'It's like them things you
get on sheep,' he decided. The
Feegles who weren't eating and drinking came to his aid. 'Horns?'
'Wools?' 'Tails?' 'Legs?'
'Chairs?' This was Daft Wullie. 'Sheep ticks,' said Billy,
thoughtfully. 'A parasite, you mean?'
said Miss Level. 'Aye, that could be the word,' said Billy. 'It creeps
in, ye ken. It looks for
folks wi' power and strength. Kings, ye ken, magicians, leaders. They
say that way back in time,
afore there wuz people, it live in beasts. The strongest beasts, ye
ken, the one wi' big, big
teeths. An' when it finds ye, it waits for a chance tae creep intae
your head and it becomes ye.'
The Feegles fell silent, watching Miss Level. 'Becomes you?' she said.
'Aye. Wi' your memories an'
all. Only... it changes ye. It gives ye a lot o' power, but it takes
ye over, makes ye its own.
An' the last wee bit of ye that still is ye... well, that'll fight and
fight, mebbe, but it will
dwindle and dwindle until it's a' gone an' ye're just a memory The
Feegles watched both of Miss
Level. You never knew what a hag would do at a time like this.
'Wizards used to summon demons,'
she said. 'They may still do so, although I think that's considered so
fifteen centuries ago these
days. But that takes a lot of magic. And you could talk to demons, I
believe. And there were
rules.' 'Never heard o' a hiver talkin' said Billy. 'Or obeyin'
rules.' 'But why would it want
Tiffany?' said Miss Level. 'She's not powerful!' 'She has the power o'
the land in her,' said Rob
Anybody stoutly. ' 'Tis a power that comes at need, not for doin' wee
conjurin' tricks. We seen
it, mistress!' 'But Tiffany doesn't do any magic,' said Miss Level,
helplessly. 'She's very bright
but she can't even make a shamble. You must be wrong about that.' 'Any
o' youse lads seen the hag
do any hagglin' lately?' Rob Anybody demanded. There were a lot of
shaken heads, and a shower of
beads, beetles, feathers and miscellaneous head items. 'Do you spy- I
mean, do you watch over her
all the time?' said Miss Level, slightly horrified. 'Oh, aye,' said
Rob, airily. 'No' in the
privy, o'course. An' it's getting harder in her bedroom 'cuz she's
blocked up a lot o' the cracks,
for some reason.' 'I can't imagine why,' said Miss Level carefully.
'No' us, neither,' said Ron.
'We reckon it was 'cuz o' the draughts.' 'Yes, I expect that's why it
was,' said Miss Level. 'So
mostly we get in through a mousehole and hides out in her old dolly
house until she guz tae
sleep,' said Rob. 'Dinnae look at me like that, mistress, all the lads
is perrrfect gentlemen an'
keeps their eyes tight shut when she's gettin' intae her nightie. Then
there's one guarding her
window and another at the door.' 'Guarding her from what?'
'Everything.' For a moment Miss Level
had a picture in her mind of a silent, moonlit bedroom with a sleeping
child. She saw, by the
window, lit by the moon, one small figure on guard, and another in the
shadows by the door. What
were they guarding her from? Everything... But now something, this
thing, has taken her over and
she's locked inside somewhere. But she never used to do magic! I could
understand it if it was one
of the other girls, messing around, but... Tiffany? One of the Feegles
was slowly raising a hand.
'Yes?' she said. 'It's me, mistress, Big Yan. I dinnae know if it wuz
proper hagglin', mistress,'
he said nervously, 'but me an' Nearly Big Angus saw her doin'
something odd a few times, eh,
Nearly Big Angus?' The Feegle next to him nodded and the speaker went
on. 'It was when she got her
new dress and her new hat 'And verra bonny she looked, too,' said
Nearly Big Angus. 'Aye, she did
that. But she'd put 'em on, and then standing in the middle o' the
floor and said- whut wuz it she
said, Nearly Big Angus?' ' "See me",' Nearly Big Angus volunteered.
Miss Tick looked blank. The
speaker, now looking a bit sorry that he'd raised this, went on: 'Then
after a wee while we'd hear
her voice say "See me not" and then she'd adjust the hat, ye know,
mebbe to a more fetchin'
angle.' 'Oh, you mean she was looking at herself in what we call a
mirror,' said Miss Level.
'That's a kind of-' 'We ken well what them things are, mistress,' said
Nearly Big Angus. 'She's
got a tiny one, all cracked and dirty. But it's nae good for a body as
wants tae see herself
properly.' 'Verra good for the stealin', mirrors,' said Rob Anybody.
'We got oor Jeannie a silver
one wi' garnets in the frame.' 'And she'd say "See me"?' said Miss
Level. 'Aye, an' then "See me
not",' said Big Yan. 'An' betweentimes she'd stand verra still, like a
stachoo.' 'Sounds like she
was trying to invent some kind of invisibility spell,' Miss Level
mused. 'They don't work like
that, of course.' 'We reckoned she was just tryin' to throw her
voice,' said Nearly Big Angus. 'So
it sounds like it's comin' fra' somewhere else, ye ken? Wee Iain can
do that a treat when we're
huntin'.' 'Throw her voice?' said Miss Level, her brow wrinkling. 'Why
did you think that?' ' 'Cuz
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when she said "See me not", it sounded like it wuz no' comin fra' her
and her lips didnae move.'
Miss Level stared at the Feegles. When she spoke next, her voice was a
little strange. 'Tell me,'
she said, 'when she was just standing there, was she moving at all?'
'Just breathin' verra slow,
mistress,' said Big Yan. 'Were her eyes shut?' 'Aye!' Miss Level
started to breathe very fast.
'She walked out of her own body! There's not one witch in a hundred
who can do that!' she said.
'That's Borrowing, that is! It's better than any circus trick! It's
putting your mind somewhere
else! You have to learn how to protect yourself before you ever try
it! And she just invented it
because she didn't have a mirror? The little fool, why didn't she say?
She walked out of her own
body and left it there for anything to take over! I wonder what she
thought she was doing?' After
a while Rob Anybody gave a polite cough. 'We're better at questions
about fightin', drinkin' and
stealin' he mumbled. 'We dinna have the knowin' o' the hagglin'.'
Chapter 7
Something that called itself Tiffany flew across the treetops. It
thought it was Tiffany. It could
remember everything -nearly everything- about being Tiffany. It looked
like Tiffany. It even
thought like Tiffany, more or less. It had everything it needed to be
Tiffany... ... except
Tiffany. Except the tiny part of her that was ... me. It peered from
her own eyes, tried to hear
with her own ears, think with her own brain. A hiver took over its
victim not by force, exactly,
but simply by moving into any space, like the hermit elephant* It just
*The hermit elephant of
Howondaland has a very thin hide, except on its head, and young ones
will often move into a small
mud hut while the owners are out. It is far too shy to harm anyone,
but most people quit their
huts pretty soon after an elephant moves in. For one thing, it lifts
the hut off the ground and
carries it away on its back across the veldt, settling it down over
any patch of nice grass that
it finds. This makes housework very unpredictable. Nevertheless, an
entire village of hermit
elephants moving across the plains is one of the finest sights on the
continent. took you over
because that was what it did, until it was in all the places and there
was no room left... Except-
- it was having trouble. It had flowed through her like a dark tide
but there was a place, tight
and sealed, that was still closed. If it had the brains of a tree, it
would have been puzzled. If
it had the brains of a human, it would have been frightened... Tiffany
brought the broomstick in
low over the trees, and landed it neatly in Mrs Earwig's garden. There
really was nothing to it,
she decided. You just had to want it to fly. Then she was sick again
or, at least, tried to be,
but since she'd thrown up twice in the air there wasn't much left to
be sick with. It was
ridiculous! She wasn't frightened of flying any more, but her stupid
stomach was! She wiped her
mouth carefully and looked around. She'd landed on a lawn. She'd heard
of them, but had never seen
a real one before. There was grass all round Miss Level's cottage, but
that was just, well, the
grass of the clearing. Every other garden she'd seen was used for
growing vegetables, with perhaps
just a little space for flowers if the wife had got tough about it. A
lawn meant you were posh
enough to afford to give up valuable potato space. This lawn had
stripes. Tiffany turned to the
stick and said, 'Stay!' and then marched across the lawn to the house.
It was a lot grander than
Miss Level's cottage but, from what Tiffany had heard, Mrs Earwig was
a more senior witch. She'd
also married a wizard, although he didn't do any wizarding these days.
It was a funny thing, Miss
Level said, but you didn't often meet a poor wizard. She knocked at
the door and waited. There was
a curse-net hanging in the porch. You'd have thought that a witch
wouldn't need such a thing, but
Tiffany supposed they used them as decoration. There was also a
broomstick leaning against the
wall, and a five-pointed silver star on the door. Mrs Earwig
advertised. Tiffany knocked on the
door again, much harder. It was instantly opened by a tall, thin
woman, all in black. But it was a
very decorative rich, deep black, all lacy and ruffled, and set off
with more silver jewellery
than Tiffany imagined could exist. She didn't just have rings on her
fingers. Some fingers had
sort of silver finger gloves, designed to look like claws. She gleamed
like the night sky. And she
was wearing her pointy hat, which Miss Level never did at home. It was
taller than any hat that
Tiffany had ever seen. It had stars on it, and silver hatpins
glittered. All of this should have
added up to something pretty impressive. It didn't. Partly it was
because there was just too much
of everything, but mostly it was because of Mrs Earwig. She had a long
sharp face and looked very
much as though she was about to complain about the cat from next door
widdling on her lawn. And
she looked like that all the time. Before she spoke, she very
pointedly looked at the door to see
if the heavy knocking had made a mark. 'Well?' she said, haughtily, or
what she probably thought
was haughtily. It sounded a bit strangled. 'Bless all in this house,'
said Tiffany. 'What? Oh,
yes. Favourable runes shine on this our meeting,' said Mrs Earwig
hurriedly. 'Well?' 'I've come to
see Annagramma,' said Tiffany. There really was too much silver. 'Oh,
are you one of her girls?'
said Miss Earwig. 'Not... exactly,' said Tiffany. 'I work with Miss
Level' 'Oh, her,' said Mrs
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Earwig, looking her up and down. 'Green is a very dangerous colour.
What is your name, child?'
'Tiffany.' 'Hmm,' said Mrs Earwig, not approving at all. 'Well, you
had better come in.' She
glanced up and made a tch! sound. 'Oh, will you look at that? I bought
that at the craft fair over
in Slice, too. It was very expensive!' The curse-net was hanging in
tatters. 'You didn't do that,
did you?' Mrs Earwig demanded. 'It's too high, Mrs Earwig,' said
Tiffany. 'It's pronounced Ahwij,'
said Mrs Earwig coldly. 'Sorry, Mrs Earwig.' 'Come.' It was a strange
house. You couldn't
doubt that a witch lived in it, and not just because every doorframe
had a tall pointy bit cut out
of the top of it to allow Mrs Earwig's hat to pass through. Miss Level
had nothing on her walls
except circus posters, but Mrs Earwig had proper big paintings
everywhere and they were all...
witchy. There were lots of crescent moons and young women with quite
frankly not enough clothes
on, and big men with horns and, ooh, not just horns. There were suns
and moon on the tiles of the
floor, and the ceiling of the room Tiffany was led into was high, blue
and painted with stars. Mrs
Earwig (pronounced Ah-wij) pointed to a chair with gryphon's feet and
crescent-shaped cushions.
'Sit there,' she said. 'I will tell Annagramma you are here. Do not
kick the chairlegs, please.'
She went out via another door. Tiffany looked around- the hiver looked
around and thought: I've
got to be the strongest. When I am strongest, I shall be safe. That
one is weak. She thinks you
can buy magic. 'Oh, it really is you,' said a sharp voice behind her.
'The cheese girl.' Tiffany
stood up.- the hiver had been many things, including a number of
wizards, because wizards sought
power all the time and sometimes found, in their treacherous circles,
not some demon who was so
stupid that it could be tricked with threats and riddles, but the
hiver, which was so stupid that
it could not be tricked at all. And the hiver remembered- Annagramma
was drinking a glass of milk.
Once you'd seen Mrs Earwig, you understood something about Annagramma.
There was an air about her
that she was taking notes about the world in order to draw up a list
of suggestions for
improvements. 'Hello,' said Tiffany. 'I suppose you came along to beg
to be allowed to join after
all, have you? I suppose you might be fun.' 'No, not really. But I
might let you join me,' said
Tiffany. 'Are you enjoying that milk?' The glass of milk turned into a
bunch of thistles and
grass. Annagramma dropped it hurriedly. When it hit the floor, it
became a glass of milk again,
and shattered and splashed. Tiffany pointed at the ceiling. The
painted stars flared, filling the
room with light. But Annagramma stared at the spilled milk. 'You know
they say the power comes?'
said Tiffany, walking around her. 'Well, it's come to me. Do you want
to be my friend? Or do you
want to be... in my way? I should clean up that milk, if I was you.'
She concentrated. She didn't
know where this was coming from, but it seemed to know exactly what to
do. Annagramma rose a few
inches off the floor. She struggled and tried to run, but that only
made her spin. To Tiffany's
dreadful delight, the girl started to cry. 'You said we ought to use
our power,' said Tiffany,
walking around her as Annagramma tried to break free. 'You said if we
had the gift, people ought
to know about it. You're a girl with her head screwed on right.'
Tiffany bent down a bit to look
her in the eye. 'Wouldn't it be awful if it got screwed on wrong?' She
waved a hand and her
prisoner dropped to the ground. But while Annagramma was unpleasant
she wasn't a coward, and she
rose up with her mouth open to yell and a hand upraised- 'Careful,'
said Tiffany. I can do it
again.' Annagramma wasn't stupid either. She lowered her hand and
shrugged. 'Well, you have been
lucky,' she said grudgingly. 'But I still need your help,' said
Tiffany. 'Why would you need my
help?' said Annagramma sulkily.- We need allies, the hiver thought
with Tiffany's mind. They can
help protect us. If necessary, we can sacrifice them. Other creatures
will always want to be
friends with the powerful, and this one loves power- To start with,'
said Tiffany, 'where can I
get a dress like yours?' Annagramma's eyes lit up. 'Oh, you want
Zakzak Stronginthearm, over in
Sallett Without,' she said. 'He sells everything for the modern
witch.' 'Then I want everything,'
said Tiffany. 'He'll want paying,' Annagramma went on. 'He's a dwarf.
They know real gold from
illusion gold. Everyone tries it out on him, of course. He just
laughs. If you try it twice, he'll
make a complaint to your mistress.' 'Miss Tick said a witch should
have just enough money,' said
Tiffany. That's right,' said Annagramma. 'Just enough to buy
everything she wants! Mrs Earwig says
that just because we're witches we don't have to live like peasants.
But Miss Level is oldfashioned,
isn't she? Probably hasn't got any money in the house.' And Tiffany
said, 'Oh, I know
where I can get some money. I'll meet you please help me! here this
afternoon and you can show me
where his place is.' 'What was that?' said Annagramma sharply. 'I just
said I'd stop me! meet you
here this-' Tiffany began. 'There it was again! There was a sort of...
odd echo in your voice,'
said Annagramma. 'Like two people trying to talk at once.' 'Oh, that,'
said the hiver. That's
nothing. It'll stop soon.' It was an interesting mind and the hiver
enjoyed using it- but always
there was that one place, that little place that was closed; it was
annoying, like an itch that
wouldn't go away... It did not think. The mind of the hiver was just
what remained of all the
other minds it had once lived in. They were like echoes after the
music is taken away. But even
echoes, bouncing off one another, can produce new harmonies. They
clanged now. They rang out
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things like: Fit in. Not strong enough yet to make enemies. Have
friends... Zakzak's lowceilinged,
dark shop had plenty to spend your money on. Zakzak was indeed a
dwarf, and they're not
traditionally interested in using magic, but he certainly knew how to
display merchandise, which
is what they are very good at. There were wands, mostly of metal, some
of rare woods. Some had
shiny crystals stuck on them, which of course made them more
expensive. There were bottles of
coloured glass in the 'potions' section and, oddly enough, the smaller
the bottle, the more
expensive it was. That's because there's often very rare ingredients,
like the tears of some rare
snake or something,' said Annagramma. 'I didn't know snakes cried,'
said Tiffany. 'Don't they? Oh,
well, I expect that's why it's expensive.' There was plenty of other
stuff. Shambles hung from the
ceiling, much prettier and more interesting than the working ones that
Tiffany had seen. Since
they were made up complete, then surely they were dead, just like the
ones Miss Level kept for
ornamentation. But they looked good- and looking good was important.
There were even stones for
looking into. 'Crystal balls,' said Annagramma as Tiffany picked one
up. 'Careful! They're very
expensive!' She pointed to a sign, which had been placed thoughtfully
amongst the glittering
globes. It said: Lovely to look at Nice to hold If you drop it You get
torn apart by wild horses
Tiffany held the biggest one in her hand and saw how Zakzak moved
slightly away from his counter,
ready to rush forward with a bill if she dropped it. 'Miss Tick uses a
saucer of water with a bit
of ink poured into it,' she said. 'And she usually borrows the water
and cadges the ink, at that.'
'Oh, a fundamentalist' said Annagramma. 'Letice -that's Mrs Earwig-
says they let us down
terribly. Do we really want people to think witches are just a bunch
of mad old women who look
like crows? That's so gingerbread-cottagey! We really ought to be
professional about these
things.' 'Hmm,' said Tiffany, throwing the crystal ball up into the
air and catching it again with
one hand. 'People should be made to fear witches.' 'Well, er,
certainly they should respect us,'
said Annagramma. 'Urn... I should be careful with that, if I was
you...' 'Why?' said Tiffany,
tossing the ball over her shoulder. That was finest quartz!' shouted
Zakzak, rushing around his
counter. 'Oh, Tiffany,' said Annagramma, shocked but trying not to
giggle. Zakzak rushed past them
to where the shattered ball lay in hundreds of very expensive
fragmen-- did not lie in very
expensive fragments. Both he and Annagramma turned to Tiffany. She was
spinning the crystal globe
on the tip of her finger. 'Quickness of the hand deceives the eye,'
she said. 'But I heard it
smash!' said Zakzak. 'Deceives the ear, too,' said Tiffany, putting
the ball back on its stand. 'I
don't want this, but'- and she pointed a finger- 'I'll take that
necklace and that one and the one
with the cats and that ring and a set of those and two, no, three of
those and- what are these?'
'Um, that's a Book of Night,' said Annagramma nervously. 'It's a sort
of magical diary. You write
down what you've been working on...' Tiffany picked up the leather-
bound book. It had an eye set
in heavier leather on the cover. The eye rolled to look at her. This
was a real witch's diary, and
much more impressive than some shamefully cheap old book bought off a
pedlar. 'Whose eye was it?'
said Tiffany. 'Anyone interesting?' 'Er, I get the books from the
wizards at Unseen University,'
said Zakzak, still shaken. 'They're not real eyes, but they're clever
enough to swivel around
until they see another eye.' It just blinked,' said Tiffany. 'Very
clever people, wizards,' said
the dwarf, who knew a sale when he saw one. 'Shall I wrap it up for
you?' 'Yes,' said Tiffany.
'Wrap everything up. And now can anyone hear me? show me the clothes
department...' ... where
there were hats. There are fashions in witchery, just like everything
else. Some years the
slightly concertina'd look is in, and you'll even see the point
twisting around so much it's
nearly pointing at the ground. There are varieties even in the most
traditional hat (Upright Cone,
Black), such as 'the Countrywoman' (inside pockets, waterproof), 'the
Cloudbuster' (low drag
coefficient for broomstick use), and, quite importantly, 'the
Safety' (guaranteed to survive 80%
of falling farmhouses). Tiffany chose the tallest upright cone. It was
more than two feet high and
had big stars sewn on it. 'Ah, the Sky Scraper. Very much your Look,'
said Zakzak, bustling around
and opening drawers. 'It's for the witch on the way up, who knows what
she wants and doesn't care
how many frogs it takes, aha. Incidentally, many ladies like a cloak
with that. Now, we have the
Midnight, pure wool, fine knit, very warm, but'- he gave Tiffany a
knowing look- 'we currently
have very limited supplies of the Zephyr Billow, just in, very rare,
black as coal and thin as a
shadow. Completely useless for keeping you warm or dry but it looks
fabulous in even the slightest
breeze. Observe-' He held up the cloak and blew gently. It billowed
out almost horizontally,
flapping and twisting like a sheet in a gale. 'Oh, yes,' breathed
Annagramma. 'I'll take it,' said
Tiffany. 'I shall wear it to the Witch Trials on Saturday.' 'Well, if
you win, be sure to tell
everyone you bought it here,' said Zakzak. 'When I win I shall tell
them I got it at a
considerable discount,' said Tiffany. 'Oh, I don't do discounts,' said
Zakzak, as loftily as a
dwarf can manage. Tiffany stared at him, then picked up one of the
most expensive wands from the
display. It glittered. 'That's a Number Six,' whispered Annagramma.
'Mrs Earwig has one of those!'
'I see it's got runes on it,' said Tiffany, and something about the
way she said it made Zakzak go
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pale. 'Well, of course,' said Annagramma. 'You've got to have runes.'
'These are in Oggham,' said
Tiffany, smiling nastily at Zakzak. 'It's a very ancient language of
the dwarfs. Shall I tell you
what they say? They say "Oh What A Wally Is Waving This".' 'Don't you
take that nasty lying tone
with me, young lady!' said the dwarf. 'Who's your mistress? I know
your type! Learn one spell and
you think you're Mistress Weatherwax! I'm not standing for this kind
of behaviour! Brian'.' There
was a rustling from the bead curtains that led to the back of the shop
and a wizard appeared. You
could tell he was a wizard. Wizards never wanted you to have to guess.
He had long flowing robes,
with stars and magical symbols on them; there were even some sequins.
His beard would have been
long and flowing if indeed he'd been the kind of young man who could
really grow a beard. Instead,
it was ragged and wispy and not very clean. And the general effect was
also spoiled by the fact
that he was smoking a cigarette, had a mug of tea in his hand and a
face that looked a bit like
something that lives under damp logs. The mug was chipped and on it
were the jolly words 'You
Don't Have to Be Magic to Work Here But It Helps!!!!!' 'Yeah?' he
said, adding reproachfully, 'I
was on my tea break, you know.' 'This young... lady is being awkward,'
said Zakzak. 'Throwing
magic about. Talking back and being smart at me. The usual stuff.'
Brian looked at Tiffany. She
smiled. 'Brian's been to Unseen University,' said Zakzak with a 'so
there' smirk. 'Got a degree.
What he doesn't know about magic could fill a book! These ladies need
showing the way out, Brian.'
'Now then, ladies,' said Brian nervously, putting down his mug. 'Do
what Mr Stronginthearm says
and push off, right? We don't want trouble, do we? Go on, there's good
kids.' 'Why do you need a
wizard to protect you, with all these magical amulets around the
place, Mr Stronginthearm?' said
Tiffany sweetly. Zakzak turned to Brian. 'What're you standing there
for?' he demanded. 'She's
doing it again! I pay you, don't I? Put a 'fluence on 'em, or
something!' 'Well, er... that one
could be a bit of an awkward customer...' Brian said, nodding towards
Tiffany. 'If you studied
wizardry, Brian, then you know about conservation of mass, don't you?'
she said. 'I mean, you know
what really happens when you try to turn someone into a frog?' 'Well,
er...' the wizard began.
'Ha! That's just a figure of speech!' snapped Zakzak. I'd like to see
you turn someone into a
frog!' 'Wish granted,' said Tiffany, and waved the wand. Brian started
to say, 'Look, when I said
I'd been to Unseen University I meant-' But he ended up saying, 'Erk.'
Take the eye away from
Tiffany, up through the shop, high, high about the village until the
landscape spreads out in a
patchwork of field, woods and mountains. The magic spreads out like
the ripples made when a stone
is dropped in water. Within a few miles of the place it makes shambles
spin and breaks the threads
of curse-nets. As the ripples widen the magic gets fainter, although
it never dies, and still can
be felt by things far more sensitive than any shamble... Let the eye
move and fall now on this
wood, this clearing, this cottage... There is nothing on the walls but
whitewash, nothing on the
floor but cold stone. The huge fireplace doesn't even have a cooking
stove. A black tea kettle
hangs on a black hook over what can hardly be called a fire at all;
it's just a few little sticks
huddling together. This is the house of a life peeled to the core.
Upstairs, an old woman, all in
faded black, is lying on a narrow bed. But you wouldn't think she was
dead, because there is a big
card on a string around her neck which reads: I Ain't Dead ... and you
have to believe it when
it's written down like that. Her eyes are shut, her hands are crossed
on her chest, her mouth is
open. And bees crawl into her mouth, and over her ears, and all over
her pillow. They fill the
room, flying in and out of the open window, where someone has put a
row of saucers filled with
sugary water on the sill. None of the saucers match, of course. A
witch never has matching
crockery. But the bees work on, coming and going... busy as bees. When
the ripple of magic passes
through, the buzz rises to a roar. Bees pour in though the window
urgently, as though driven by a
gale. They land on the still old woman until her head and shoulders
are a boiling mass of tiny
brown bodies. And then, as one insect, they rise in a storm and pour
away into the outside air,
which is full of whirling seeds from the sycamore trees outside.
Mistress Weatherwax sat bolt
upright and said: 'Bzzzt!' Then she stuck a finger into her mouth,
rootled around a bit and pulled
out a struggling bee. She blew on it and shooed it out of the window.
For a moment her eyes seemed
to have many facets, just like a bee. 'So,' she said. 'She's learned
how to Borrow, has she? Or
she's been Borrowed!' Annagramma fainted. Zakzak stared, too afraid to
faint. 'You see,' said
Tiffany, while something in the air went gloop, gloop above them, 'a
frog weighs only a few ounces
but Brian weighs, oh, about a hundred and twenty pounds, yes? So, to
turn someone big into a frog
you've got to find something to do with all the bits you can't fit
into a frog, right?' She bent
down and lifted up the pointy wizard's hat on the floor. 'Happy,
Brian?' she said. A small frog,
squatting on a heap of clothes, looked up and said, 'Erk!' Zakzak
didn't look at the frog. He was
looking at the thing that went gloop, gloop. It was like a large pink
balloon full of water, quite
pretty really, wobbling gently against the ceiling. 'You've killed
him!' he mumbled. 'What? Oh,
no. That's just the stuff he doesn't need right now. It's sort of...
spare Brian.' 'Erk,' said
Brian. Gloop went the rest of him. 'About this discount-' Zakzak began
hurriedly. 'Ten per cent
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would be-' Tiffany waved the wand. Behind her, the whole display of
crystals rose in the air and
began to orbit one another in a glittering and above all fragile way.
'That wand shouldn't do
that!' he said. 'Of course it can't. It's rubbish. But I can,' said
Tiffany. 'Ninety per cent
discount, did I hear you say? Think quickly, I'm getting tired. And
the spare Brian is getting...
heavy.' 'You can keep it all!' Zakzak screamed. 'For free! Just don't
let him splash! Please!'
'No, no, I'd like you to stay in business,' said Tiffany. 'A ninety
per cent discount would be
fine. I'd like you to think of me as... a friend 'Yes! Yes! I am your
friend! I'm a very friendly
person! Now please put him baaack! Please!' Zakzak dropped to his
knees, which wasn't very far.
'Please! He's not really a wizard! He just did evening classes there
in fretwork! They hire out
classrooms, that sort of thing. He thinks I don't know! But he read a
few of the magic books on
the quiet and he pinched the robes and he can talk wizard lingo so's
you'd hardly know the
difference! Please! I'd never get a real wizard for the money I pay
him! Don't hurt him, please!
Tiffany waved a hand. There was a moment even more unpleasant than the
one which had ended up with
the spare Brian bumping against the ceiling, and then the whole Brian
stood there, blinking.
'Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!' gasped Zakzak. Brian blinked. 'What
just happened?' he said.
Zakzak, beside himself with horror and relief, patted him frantically.
'You're all there?' he
said. 'You're not a balloon?' 'Here, get off!' said Brian, pushing him
away. There was a groan
from Annagramma. She opened her eyes, saw Tiffany and tried to
scramble to her feet and back away,
which meant that she went backwards like a spider. 'Please don't do
that to me! Please don't!' she
shouted. Tiffany ran after her and pulled her to her feet. 'I wouldn't
do anything to you,
Annagramma,' she said happily. 'You're my friend! We're all friends!
Isn't that nice please please
stop me...' You had to remember that pictsies weren't brownies. In
theory, brownies would do the
housework for you if you left them a saucer of milk. The Nac Mac
Feegle... wouldn't. Oh, they'd
try, if they liked you and you didn't insult them with milk in the
saucer. They were helpful. They
just weren't good at it. For example, you shouldn't try to remove a
stubborn stain from a plate by
repeatedly hitting it with your head. And you didn't want to see a
sink full of them and your best
china. Or a precious pot rolling backwards and forwards across the
floor while the Feegles inside
simultaneously fought the ground-in dirt and each other. But Miss
Level, once she'd got the better
china out of the way, found she rather liked the Feegles. There was
something unsquashable about
them. And they were entirely unamazed by a woman with two bodies, too.
'Ach, that's no thin',' Rob
Anybody had said. 'When we wuz raidin' for the Quin, we once found a
world where there wuz people
wi' five bodies each. All sizes, ye ken, for doin' a' kinds of jobs.'
'Really?' said both of Miss
Level. 'Aye, and the biggest body had a huge left hand, just for
openin' pickle jars.' 'Those lids
can get very tight, it's true,' Miss Level had agreed. 'Oh, we saw
some muckle eldritch places
when we wuz raiding for the Quin' said Rob Anybody. 'But we gave that
up for she wuz a schemin',
greedy, ill-fared carlin, that she was!' 'Aye, and it wuz no' because
she threw us oot o'
Fairyland for being completely pished at two in the afternoon,
whatever any scunner might mphf
mphf...' said Daft Wullie. 'Pished?' said Miss Level. 'Aye... oh, aye,
it means... tired. Aye.
Tired. That's whut it means,' said Rob Anybody, holding his hands
firmly over his brother's mouth.
'An' ye dinnae ken how to talk in front o' a lady, yah shammerin' wee
scunner!' 'Er... thank you
for doing the washing up,' said Miss Level. 'You really didn't need
to...' 'Ach, it wasnae any
trouble,' said Rob Anybody cheerfully, letting Daft Wullie go. 'An'
I'm sure all them plates an'
stuff will mend fine wi' a bit o' glue.' Miss Level looked up at the
clock with no hands. 'It's
getting late,' she said. 'What exactly is it you propose to do, Mr
Anybody?' 'Whut?' 'Do you have
a plan?' 'Oh, aye!' Rob Anybody rummaged around in his spog, which is
a leather bag most Feegles
have hanging from their belt. The contents are usually a mystery, but
sometimes include
interesting teeth. He flourished a much-folded piece of paper. Miss
Level carefully unfolded it. '
"PLN"?' she said. 'Aye,' said Rob proudly. 'We came prepared! Look,
it's written doon. Pee El Ner.
Plan.' 'Er... how can I put this... ?' Miss Level mused. 'Ah, yes. You
came rushing all this way
to save Tiffany from a creature that can't be seen, touched, smelled
or killed. What did you
intend to do when you found it?' Rob Anybody scratched his head, to a
general shower of objects.
'I think mebbe you've put yer finger on the one weak spot, mistress,'
he admitted. 'Do you mean
you charge in regardless?' 'Oh, aye. That's the plan, sure enough,'
said Rob Anybody, brightening
up. 'And then what happens?' 'Weel, gen'raly people are tryin' tae
wallop us by then, so we just
mak' it up as we gae along.' 'Yes, Robert, but the creature is inside
her head!' Rob Anybody gave
Billy a questioning look. 'Robert is a heich-heidit way o' sayin'
Rob,' said the gonnagle, and to
save time he said to Miss Level: 'That means kinda posh.' 'Ach, we can
get inside her heid, if we
have to,' said Rob. 'I'd hoped tae get here afore the thing got to
her, but we can chase it.' Miss
Level's face was a picture. Two pictures. 'Inside her head!' she said.
'Oh, aye,' said Rob, as if
that sort of thing happened every day. 'No problemo. We can get in or
oot o' anywhere. Except
maybe pubs, which for some reason we ha' trouble leavin'. A heid?
Easy.' 'Sorry, we're talking
let's see, Mr Plover's got
Gnats again, and I'd better just find a moment to have a word with
Mistress Slopes... then there's
Mr Weavall's lunch to cook, I think I'll have to do that here and run
down with it for him, and of
course Mrs Fanlight is near her time and,' she sighed, 'so is Miss
Hobblow, again... It's going to
be a full day. It's really hard to fit it all in, really it is.'
Tiffany thought: You stupid
woman, standing there looking worried because you just haven't got
time to give people everything
they demand! Do you think you could ever give them enough help?
Greedy, lazy, dumb people, always
wanting all the time! The Grimly baby? Mrs Grimly's got eleven
children! Who'd miss one? Mr
Weavall's dead already! He just won't go! You think they're grateful,
but all they are doing is
making sure you come round again! That's not gratitude, that's just
insurance! The thought
horrified part of her, but it had turned up and it flamed there in her
head, just itching to
escape from her mouth. 'Things need tidying up here,' she muttered.
'Oh, I can do that while we're
gone,' said Miss Level cheerfully. 'Come on, let's have a smile!
There's lots to do!' There was
always lots to do, Tiffany growled in her head as she trailed after
Miss Level to the first
village. Lots and lots. And it never made any difference. There was no
end to the wanting. They
went from one grubby, smelly cottage to another, ministering to people
too stupid to use soap,
drinking tea from cracked cups, gossiping with old women with fewer
teeth than toes. It made her
feel ill. It was a bright day, but it seemed dark as they walked on.
The feeling was like a
thunderstorm inside her head. Then the daydreams began. She was
helping to splint the arm of some
dull child who'd broken it when she glanced up and saw her reflection
in the glass of the cottage
window. She was a tiger, with huge fangs. She yelped, and stood up.
'Oh, do be careful,' said Miss
Level, and then saw her face. 'Is there something wrong?' she said.
'I... I... something bit me!'
lied Tiffany. That was a safe bet in these places. The fleas bit the
rats and the rats bit the
children. She managed to get out into the daylight, her head spinning.
Miss Level came out a few
minutes later and found her leaning against the wall, shaking. 'You
look dreadful,' she said.
'Ferns!' said Tiffany. 'Everywhere! Big ferns! And big things, like
cows made out of lizards!' She
turned a wide, mirthless smile onto Miss Level, who took a step back.
'You can eat them!' She
blinked. 'What's happening?' she whispered. 'I don't know but I'm
coming right down here this
minute to fetch you,' said Miss Level. 'I'm on the broomstick right
now!' 'They laughed at me when
I said I could trap one. Well, who's laughing now, tell me that, eh?'
Miss Level's expression of
concern turned into something close to panic. 'That didn't sound like
your voice. That sounded
like a man! Do you feel all right?' 'Feel... crowded,' murmured
Tiffany. 'Crowded?' said Miss
Level. 'Strange... memories... help me...' Tiffany looked at her arm.
It had scales on. Now it had
hair on it. Now it was smooth and brown, and holding- 'A scorpion
sandwich?' she said. 'Can you
hear me?' said Miss Tick, her voice a long way away. 'You're
delirious. Are you sure you girls
haven't been playing with potions or anything like that?' The
broomstick dropped out of the sky
and the other part of Miss Level nearly fell off. Without speaking,
both of Miss Level got Tiffany
onto the stick and part of Miss Level got on behind her. It didn't
take long to fly back to the
cottage. Tiffany spent the flight with her mind full of hot cotton-
wool and wasn't at all certain
where she was, although her body did know and threw up again. Miss
Level helped her off the stick
and sat her on the garden seat just outside the cottage door. 'Now
just you wait there,' said Miss
Level, who dealt with emergencies by talking incessantly and using the
word 'just' too often
because it's a calming word, 'and I'll just get you a drink and then
we'll just see what the
matter is...' There was a pause and then the stream of words came out
of the house again, dragging
Miss Level after them and I'll just check o n... things. Just drink
this, please!' Tiffany drank
the water and, out of the corner of her eye, saw Miss Level weaving
string around an egg. She was
trying to make a shamble without Tiffany noticing. Strange images were
floating around Tiffany's
mind. There were scraps of voices, fragments of memories... and one
little voice that was her own,
small and defiant and getting fainter: You're not me. You just think
you are! Someone help me!
'Now, then,' said Miss Level, 'let's just see what we can see-' The
shamble exploded, not just
into pieces but into fire and smoke. 'Oh, Tiffany,' said Miss Level,
frantically waving smoke
away. 'Are you all right?' Tiffany stood up slowly. It seemed to Miss
Level that she was slightly
taller than she remembered. 'Yes, I think I am,' said Tiffany. 'I
think I've been all wrong, but
now I'm all right. And I've been wasting my time, Miss Level.'
'What-?' Miss Level began. Tiffany
pointed a finger at her. 'I know why you had to leave the circus, Miss
Level,' she said. 'It was
to do with the clown Floppo, the trick ladder and... some custard...'
Miss Level went pale. 'How
could you possibly know that?' 'Just by looking at you!' said Tiffany,
pushing past her into the
dairy. 'Watch this, Miss Level!' She pointed a finger. A wooden spoon
rose an inch from the table.
Then it began to spin, faster and faster until, with a cracking sound,
it broke into splinters.
They whirled away across the room. 'And I can do this! Tiffany
shouted. She grabbed a bowl of
curds, tipped them out on the table and waved a hand at them. They
turned into a cheese. 'Now
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that's what cheesemaking should be!' she said. To think that I spent
stupid years learning the
hard way! That's how a real witch does it! Why do we crawl in the
dirt, Miss Level? Why do we
amble around with herbs and bandage smelly old men's legs? Why do we
get paid with eggs and stale
cakes? Annagramma is as stupid as a hen but even she can see it's
wrong. Why don't we use magic?
Why are you so afraid?' Miss Level tried to smile. "Tiffany, dear, we
all go through this,' she
said, and her voice was shaking. Though not as... explosively as you,
I have to say. And the
answer is... well, it's dangerous.' 'Yes, but that's what people
always say to scare children,'
said Tiffany. 'We get told stories to frighten us, to keep us scared!
Don't go into the big bad
wood help me because it's full of scary things, that's what we're
told. But really, the big bad
wood should be scared of us! I'm going out!' 'I think that would be a
good idea,' said Miss Level
weakly. 'Until you behave.' 'I don't have to do things your way,'
snarled Tiffany, slamming the
door behind her. Miss Level's broomstick was leaning against the wall
a little way away. Tiffany
stopped and stared at it, her mind on fire. She'd tried to keep away
from it. Miss Level had
wheedled her into a trial flight with Tiffany clinging on tightly with
arms and legs while both of
Miss Level ran alongside her, holding onto ropes and making
encouraging noises. They had stopped
when Tiffany threw up for the fourth time. Well, that was then! She
grabbed the stick, swung a leg
over it- and found that her other foot stuck to the ground as though
nailed there. The broomstick
twisted around wildly as she tried to pull it up and, when the boot
was finally tugged off the
ground, turned over so that Tiffany was upside down. This is not the
best position in which to
make a grand exit. She said, quietly, 'I am not going to learn you,
you are going to learn me. Or
the next lesson will involve an axe!' The broomstick turned upright,
then gently rose. 'Right,'
said Tiffany. There was no fear this time. There was just impatience.
The ground dropping away
below her didn't worry her at all. If it didn't have the sense to stay
away from her, she'd hit
it... As the stick drifted away, there was whispering in the long
grass of the garden. 'Ach, we're
too late, Rob. That wuz the hiver, that wuz.' 'Aye, but did ye see
that foot? It's nae won yetoor
hag's in there somewhere! She's fighting it! It cannae win until it's
taken the last scrap o'
her! Wullie, will ye stop tryin' to grab them apples!' 'It's sorry I
am tae say this, Rob, but no
one can fight a hiver. 'Tis like fightin' yoursel. The more you fight,
the more it'll tak' o' ye.
And when it has all o' ye-' 'Wash ootyer mouth wi' hedgehog pee, Big
Yan! That isnae gonna happen-
' 'Crivens! Here comes the big hag!' Half of Miss Level stepped out
into the ruined garden. She
stared up at the departing broomstick, shaking her head. Daft Wullie
was stuck out in the open
where he'd been trying to snag a fallen apple. He turned to flee and
would have got clean away if
he hadn't run straight into a pottery garden gnome. He bounced off,
stunned, and staggered wildly,
trying to focus on the big, fat, chubby-cheeked figure in front of
him. He was far too angry to
hear the click of the garden gate and soft tread of approaching
footsteps. When it comes to
choosing between running and fighting, a Feegle doesn't think twice.
He doesn't think at all.
'What're ye grinnin' at, pal?' he demanded. 'Oh aye, you reckon you're
the big man, eh, jus' 'cos
yez got a fishin' rod?' He grabbed a pink pointy ear in each hand and
aimed his head at what
turned out be quite a hard pottery nose. It smashed anyway, as things
tend to in these
circumstances, but it did slow the little man down and cause him to
stagger in circles. Too late,
he saw Miss Level bearing down on him from the doorway. He turned to
flee, right into the hands of
also Miss Level. Her fingers closed around him. I'm a witch, you
know,' she said. 'And if you
don't stop struggling this minute I will subject you to the most
dreadful torture. Do you know
what that is?' Daft Wullie shook his head in terror. Long years of
juggling had given Miss Level a
grip like steel. Down in the long grass, the rest of the Feegles
listened so hard it hurt. Miss
Level brought him a little closer to her mouth. 'I'll let you go right
now without giving you a
taste of the twenty-year-old MacAbre single malt I have in my
cupboard,' she said. Rob Anybody
leaped up. 'Ach, crivens, mistress, what a thing to taunt a body wi'!
D'ye no' have a drop of
mercy in you?' he shouted. 'Ye're a cruel hag indeed tae-' He stopped.
Miss Level was smiling. Rob
Anybody looked around, flung his sword on the ground and said: 'Ach,
crivens! The Nac Mac Feegle
respected witches, even if they did call them hags. And this one had
brought out a big loaf and a
whole bottle of whisky on the table for the taking. You had to respect
someone like that. 'Of
course, I'd heard of you, and Miss Tick mentioned you,' she said,
watching them eat, which is not
something to be done lightly. 'But I always thought you were just a
myth.' 'Aye, weel, we'll stay
that way if ye dinnae mind,' said Rob Anybody, and belched.' 'Tis bad
enough wi' them arky-ollygee
men wantin' to dig up oour mounds wi'oot them folklore ladies wantin'
to tak' pichoors o' us
an' that.' 'And you watch over Tiffany's farm, Mr Anybody?' 'Aye, we
do that, an' we dinnae ask
for any reward,' said Rob Anybody stoutly. 'Aye, we just tak' a few
wee eiggs an' fruits an' old
clothes and-' Daft Wullie began. Rob gave him a look. 'Er... wuz that
one o' those times when I
shouldna' open my big fat mouth?' said Wullie. 'Aye. It wuz,' said
Rob. He turned back to both of
Miss Level. 'Mebbe we tak' the odd bitty thing lyin' aboot in locked
cupboards an' such-' added
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Daft Wullie happily. '- but it's no' missed, an' we keeps an eye on
the ships in payment,' said
Rob, glaring at his brother. 'You can see the sea from down there?'
said Miss Level, entering that
state of general bewilderment that most people fell into when talking
to the Feegles. 'Rob Anybody
means the sheep,' said Awf'ly Wee Billy. Gonnagles know a bit more
about language. 'Aye, I said
so, ships,' said Rob Anybody. 'Anywa'... aye, we watch her farm. She's
the hag o' oor hills, like
her granny.' He added proudly, 'It's through her the hills knows they
are alive.' 'And a hiver
is... ?' Rob hesitated. 'Dunno the proper haggin' way o' talking aboot
it,' he said. 'Awf'ly Wee
Billy, you know them lang words.' Billy swallowed. 'There's old poems,
mistress. It's like a- a
mind wi'oot a body, except it disnae think. Some say it's nothing but
a fear, and never dies. And
what it does...' His tiny face wrinkled. 'It's like them things you
get on sheep,' he decided. The
Feegles who weren't eating and drinking came to his aid. 'Horns?'
'Wools?' 'Tails?' 'Legs?'
'Chairs?' This was Daft Wullie. 'Sheep ticks,' said Billy,
thoughtfully. 'A parasite, you mean?'
said Miss Level. 'Aye, that could be the word,' said Billy. 'It creeps
in, ye ken. It looks for
folks wi' power and strength. Kings, ye ken, magicians, leaders. They
say that way back in time,
afore there wuz people, it live in beasts. The strongest beasts, ye
ken, the one wi' big, big
teeths. An' when it finds ye, it waits for a chance tae creep intae
your head and it becomes ye.'
The Feegles fell silent, watching Miss Level. 'Becomes you?' she said.
'Aye. Wi' your memories an'
all. Only... it changes ye. It gives ye a lot o' power, but it takes
ye over, makes ye its own.
An' the last wee bit of ye that still is ye... well, that'll fight and
fight, mebbe, but it will
dwindle and dwindle until it's a' gone an' ye're just a memory The
Feegles watched both of Miss
Level. You never knew what a hag would do at a time like this.
'Wizards used to summon demons,'
she said. 'They may still do so, although I think that's considered so
fifteen centuries ago these
days. But that takes a lot of magic. And you could talk to demons, I
believe. And there were
rules.' 'Never heard o' a hiver talkin' said Billy. 'Or obeyin'
rules.' 'But why would it want
Tiffany?' said Miss Level. 'She's not powerful!' 'She has the power o'
the land in her,' said Rob
Anybody stoutly. ' 'Tis a power that comes at need, not for doin' wee
conjurin' tricks. We seen
it, mistress!' 'But Tiffany doesn't do any magic,' said Miss Level,
helplessly. 'She's very bright
but she can't even make a shamble. You must be wrong about that.' 'Any
o' youse lads seen the hag
do any hagglin' lately?' Rob Anybody demanded. There were a lot of
shaken heads, and a shower of
beads, beetles, feathers and miscellaneous head items. 'Do you spy- I
mean, do you watch over her
all the time?' said Miss Level, slightly horrified. 'Oh, aye,' said
Rob, airily. 'No' in the
privy, o'course. An' it's getting harder in her bedroom 'cuz she's
blocked up a lot o' the cracks,
for some reason.' 'I can't imagine why,' said Miss Level carefully.
'No' us, neither,' said Ron.
'We reckon it was 'cuz o' the draughts.' 'Yes, I expect that's why it
was,' said Miss Level. 'So
mostly we get in through a mousehole and hides out in her old dolly
house until she guz tae
sleep,' said Rob. 'Dinnae look at me like that, mistress, all the lads
is perrrfect gentlemen an'
keeps their eyes tight shut when she's gettin' intae her nightie. Then
there's one guarding her
window and another at the door.' 'Guarding her from what?'
'Everything.' For a moment Miss Level
had a picture in her mind of a silent, moonlit bedroom with a sleeping
child. She saw, by the
window, lit by the moon, one small figure on guard, and another in the
shadows by the door. What
were they guarding her from? Everything... But now something, this
thing, has taken her over and
she's locked inside somewhere. But she never used to do magic! I could
understand it if it was one
of the other girls, messing around, but... Tiffany? One of the Feegles
was slowly raising a hand.
'Yes?' she said. 'It's me, mistress, Big Yan. I dinnae know if it wuz
proper hagglin', mistress,'
he said nervously, 'but me an' Nearly Big Angus saw her doin'
something odd a few times, eh,
Nearly Big Angus?' The Feegle next to him nodded and the speaker went
on. 'It was when she got her
new dress and her new hat 'And verra bonny she looked, too,' said
Nearly Big Angus. 'Aye, she did
that. But she'd put 'em on, and then standing in the middle o' the
floor and said- whut wuz it she
said, Nearly Big Angus?' ' "See me",' Nearly Big Angus volunteered.
Miss Tick looked blank. The
speaker, now looking a bit sorry that he'd raised this, went on: 'Then
after a wee while we'd hear
her voice say "See me not" and then she'd adjust the hat, ye know,
mebbe to a more fetchin'
angle.' 'Oh, you mean she was looking at herself in what we call a
mirror,' said Miss Level.
'That's a kind of-' 'We ken well what them things are, mistress,' said
Nearly Big Angus. 'She's
got a tiny one, all cracked and dirty. But it's nae good for a body as
wants tae see herself
properly.' 'Verra good for the stealin', mirrors,' said Rob Anybody.
'We got oor Jeannie a silver
one wi' garnets in the frame.' 'And she'd say "See me"?' said Miss
Level. 'Aye, an' then "See me
not",' said Big Yan. 'An' betweentimes she'd stand verra still, like a
stachoo.' 'Sounds like she
was trying to invent some kind of invisibility spell,' Miss Level
mused. 'They don't work like
that, of course.' 'We reckoned she was just tryin' to throw her
voice,' said Nearly Big Angus. 'So
it sounds like it's comin' fra' somewhere else, ye ken? Wee Iain can
do that a treat when we're
huntin'.' 'Throw her voice?' said Miss Level, her brow wrinkling. 'Why
did you think that?' ' 'Cuz
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when she said "See me not", it sounded like it wuz no' comin fra' her
and her lips didnae move.'
Miss Level stared at the Feegles. When she spoke next, her voice was a
little strange. 'Tell me,'
she said, 'when she was just standing there, was she moving at all?'
'Just breathin' verra slow,
mistress,' said Big Yan. 'Were her eyes shut?' 'Aye!' Miss Level
started to breathe very fast.
'She walked out of her own body! There's not one witch in a hundred
who can do that!' she said.
'That's Borrowing, that is! It's better than any circus trick! It's
putting your mind somewhere
else! You have to learn how to protect yourself before you ever try
it! And she just invented it
because she didn't have a mirror? The little fool, why didn't she say?
She walked out of her own
body and left it there for anything to take over! I wonder what she
thought she was doing?' After
a while Rob Anybody gave a polite cough. 'We're better at questions
about fightin', drinkin' and
stealin' he mumbled. 'We dinna have the knowin' o' the hagglin'.'
Chapter 7
Something that called itself Tiffany flew across the treetops. It
thought it was Tiffany. It could
remember everything -nearly everything- about being Tiffany. It looked
like Tiffany. It even
thought like Tiffany, more or less. It had everything it needed to be
Tiffany... ... except
Tiffany. Except the tiny part of her that was ... me. It peered from
her own eyes, tried to hear
with her own ears, think with her own brain. A hiver took over its
victim not by force, exactly,
but simply by moving into any space, like the hermit elephant* It just
*The hermit elephant of
Howondaland has a very thin hide, except on its head, and young ones
will often move into a small
mud hut while the owners are out. It is far too shy to harm anyone,
but most people quit their
huts pretty soon after an elephant moves in. For one thing, it lifts
the hut off the ground and
carries it away on its back across the veldt, settling it down over
any patch of nice grass that
it finds. This makes housework very unpredictable. Nevertheless, an
entire village of hermit
elephants moving across the plains is one of the finest sights on the
continent. took you over
because that was what it did, until it was in all the places and there
was no room left... Except-
- it was having trouble. It had flowed through her like a dark tide
but there was a place, tight
and sealed, that was still closed. If it had the brains of a tree, it
would have been puzzled. If
it had the brains of a human, it would have been frightened... Tiffany
brought the broomstick in
low over the trees, and landed it neatly in Mrs Earwig's garden. There
really was nothing to it,
she decided. You just had to want it to fly. Then she was sick again
or, at least, tried to be,
but since she'd thrown up twice in the air there wasn't much left to
be sick with. It was
ridiculous! She wasn't frightened of flying any more, but her stupid
stomach was! She wiped her
mouth carefully and looked around. She'd landed on a lawn. She'd heard
of them, but had never seen
a real one before. There was grass all round Miss Level's cottage, but
that was just, well, the
grass of the clearing. Every other garden she'd seen was used for
growing vegetables, with perhaps
just a little space for flowers if the wife had got tough about it. A
lawn meant you were posh
enough to afford to give up valuable potato space. This lawn had
stripes. Tiffany turned to the
stick and said, 'Stay!' and then marched across the lawn to the house.
It was a lot grander than
Miss Level's cottage but, from what Tiffany had heard, Mrs Earwig was
a more senior witch. She'd
also married a wizard, although he didn't do any wizarding these days.
It was a funny thing, Miss
Level said, but you didn't often meet a poor wizard. She knocked at
the door and waited. There was
a curse-net hanging in the porch. You'd have thought that a witch
wouldn't need such a thing, but
Tiffany supposed they used them as decoration. There was also a
broomstick leaning against the
wall, and a five-pointed silver star on the door. Mrs Earwig
advertised. Tiffany knocked on the
door again, much harder. It was instantly opened by a tall, thin
woman, all in black. But it was a
very decorative rich, deep black, all lacy and ruffled, and set off
with more silver jewellery
than Tiffany imagined could exist. She didn't just have rings on her
fingers. Some fingers had
sort of silver finger gloves, designed to look like claws. She gleamed
like the night sky. And she
was wearing her pointy hat, which Miss Level never did at home. It was
taller than any hat that
Tiffany had ever seen. It had stars on it, and silver hatpins
glittered. All of this should have
added up to something pretty impressive. It didn't. Partly it was
because there was just too much
of everything, but mostly it was because of Mrs Earwig. She had a long
sharp face and looked very
much as though she was about to complain about the cat from next door
widdling on her lawn. And
she looked like that all the time. Before she spoke, she very
pointedly looked at the door to see
if the heavy knocking had made a mark. 'Well?' she said, haughtily, or
what she probably thought
was haughtily. It sounded a bit strangled. 'Bless all in this house,'
said Tiffany. 'What? Oh,
yes. Favourable runes shine on this our meeting,' said Mrs Earwig
hurriedly. 'Well?' 'I've come to
see Annagramma,' said Tiffany. There really was too much silver. 'Oh,
are you one of her girls?'
said Miss Earwig. 'Not... exactly,' said Tiffany. 'I work with Miss
Level' 'Oh, her,' said Mrs
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Earwig, looking her up and down. 'Green is a very dangerous colour.
What is your name, child?'
'Tiffany.' 'Hmm,' said Mrs Earwig, not approving at all. 'Well, you
had better come in.' She
glanced up and made a tch! sound. 'Oh, will you look at that? I bought
that at the craft fair over
in Slice, too. It was very expensive!' The curse-net was hanging in
tatters. 'You didn't do that,
did you?' Mrs Earwig demanded. 'It's too high, Mrs Earwig,' said
Tiffany. 'It's pronounced Ahwij,'
said Mrs Earwig coldly. 'Sorry, Mrs Earwig.' 'Come.' It was a strange
house. You couldn't
doubt that a witch lived in it, and not just because every doorframe
had a tall pointy bit cut out
of the top of it to allow Mrs Earwig's hat to pass through. Miss Level
had nothing on her walls
except circus posters, but Mrs Earwig had proper big paintings
everywhere and they were all...
witchy. There were lots of crescent moons and young women with quite
frankly not enough clothes
on, and big men with horns and, ooh, not just horns. There were suns
and moon on the tiles of the
floor, and the ceiling of the room Tiffany was led into was high, blue
and painted with stars. Mrs
Earwig (pronounced Ah-wij) pointed to a chair with gryphon's feet and
crescent-shaped cushions.
'Sit there,' she said. 'I will tell Annagramma you are here. Do not
kick the chairlegs, please.'
She went out via another door. Tiffany looked around- the hiver looked
around and thought: I've
got to be the strongest. When I am strongest, I shall be safe. That
one is weak. She thinks you
can buy magic. 'Oh, it really is you,' said a sharp voice behind her.
'The cheese girl.' Tiffany
stood up.- the hiver had been many things, including a number of
wizards, because wizards sought
power all the time and sometimes found, in their treacherous circles,
not some demon who was so
stupid that it could be tricked with threats and riddles, but the
hiver, which was so stupid that
it could not be tricked at all. And the hiver remembered- Annagramma
was drinking a glass of milk.
Once you'd seen Mrs Earwig, you understood something about Annagramma.
There was an air about her
that she was taking notes about the world in order to draw up a list
of suggestions for
improvements. 'Hello,' said Tiffany. 'I suppose you came along to beg
to be allowed to join after
all, have you? I suppose you might be fun.' 'No, not really. But I
might let you join me,' said
Tiffany. 'Are you enjoying that milk?' The glass of milk turned into a
bunch of thistles and
grass. Annagramma dropped it hurriedly. When it hit the floor, it
became a glass of milk again,
and shattered and splashed. Tiffany pointed at the ceiling. The
painted stars flared, filling the
room with light. But Annagramma stared at the spilled milk. 'You know
they say the power comes?'
said Tiffany, walking around her. 'Well, it's come to me. Do you want
to be my friend? Or do you
want to be... in my way? I should clean up that milk, if I was you.'
She concentrated. She didn't
know where this was coming from, but it seemed to know exactly what to
do. Annagramma rose a few
inches off the floor. She struggled and tried to run, but that only
made her spin. To Tiffany's
dreadful delight, the girl started to cry. 'You said we ought to use
our power,' said Tiffany,
walking around her as Annagramma tried to break free. 'You said if we
had the gift, people ought
to know about it. You're a girl with her head screwed on right.'
Tiffany bent down a bit to look
her in the eye. 'Wouldn't it be awful if it got screwed on wrong?' She
waved a hand and her
prisoner dropped to the ground. But while Annagramma was unpleasant
she wasn't a coward, and she
rose up with her mouth open to yell and a hand upraised- 'Careful,'
said Tiffany. I can do it
again.' Annagramma wasn't stupid either. She lowered her hand and
shrugged. 'Well, you have been
lucky,' she said grudgingly. 'But I still need your help,' said
Tiffany. 'Why would you need my
help?' said Annagramma sulkily.- We need allies, the hiver thought
with Tiffany's mind. They can
help protect us. If necessary, we can sacrifice them. Other creatures
will always want to be
friends with the powerful, and this one loves power- To start with,'
said Tiffany, 'where can I
get a dress like yours?' Annagramma's eyes lit up. 'Oh, you want
Zakzak Stronginthearm, over in
Sallett Without,' she said. 'He sells everything for the modern
witch.' 'Then I want everything,'
said Tiffany. 'He'll want paying,' Annagramma went on. 'He's a dwarf.
They know real gold from
illusion gold. Everyone tries it out on him, of course. He just
laughs. If you try it twice, he'll
make a complaint to your mistress.' 'Miss Tick said a witch should
have just enough money,' said
Tiffany. That's right,' said Annagramma. 'Just enough to buy
everything she wants! Mrs Earwig says
that just because we're witches we don't have to live like peasants.
But Miss Level is oldfashioned,
isn't she? Probably hasn't got any money in the house.' And Tiffany
said, 'Oh, I know
where I can get some money. I'll meet you please help me! here this
afternoon and you can show me
where his place is.' 'What was that?' said Annagramma sharply. 'I just
said I'd stop me! meet you
here this-' Tiffany began. 'There it was again! There was a sort of...
odd echo in your voice,'
said Annagramma. 'Like two people trying to talk at once.' 'Oh, that,'
said the hiver. That's
nothing. It'll stop soon.' It was an interesting mind and the hiver
enjoyed using it- but always
there was that one place, that little place that was closed; it was
annoying, like an itch that
wouldn't go away... It did not think. The mind of the hiver was just
what remained of all the
other minds it had once lived in. They were like echoes after the
music is taken away. But even
echoes, bouncing off one another, can produce new harmonies. They
clanged now. They rang out
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things like: Fit in. Not strong enough yet to make enemies. Have
friends... Zakzak's lowceilinged,
dark shop had plenty to spend your money on. Zakzak was indeed a
dwarf, and they're not
traditionally interested in using magic, but he certainly knew how to
display merchandise, which
is what they are very good at. There were wands, mostly of metal, some
of rare woods. Some had
shiny crystals stuck on them, which of course made them more
expensive. There were bottles of
coloured glass in the 'potions' section and, oddly enough, the smaller
the bottle, the more
expensive it was. That's because there's often very rare ingredients,
like the tears of some rare
snake or something,' said Annagramma. 'I didn't know snakes cried,'
said Tiffany. 'Don't they? Oh,
well, I expect that's why it's expensive.' There was plenty of other
stuff. Shambles hung from the
ceiling, much prettier and more interesting than the working ones that
Tiffany had seen. Since
they were made up complete, then surely they were dead, just like the
ones Miss Level kept for
ornamentation. But they looked good- and looking good was important.
There were even stones for
looking into. 'Crystal balls,' said Annagramma as Tiffany picked one
up. 'Careful! They're very
expensive!' She pointed to a sign, which had been placed thoughtfully
amongst the glittering
globes. It said: Lovely to look at Nice to hold If you drop it You get
torn apart by wild horses
Tiffany held the biggest one in her hand and saw how Zakzak moved
slightly away from his counter,
ready to rush forward with a bill if she dropped it. 'Miss Tick uses a
saucer of water with a bit
of ink poured into it,' she said. 'And she usually borrows the water
and cadges the ink, at that.'
'Oh, a fundamentalist' said Annagramma. 'Letice -that's Mrs Earwig-
says they let us down
terribly. Do we really want people to think witches are just a bunch
of mad old women who look
like crows? That's so gingerbread-cottagey! We really ought to be
professional about these
things.' 'Hmm,' said Tiffany, throwing the crystal ball up into the
air and catching it again with
one hand. 'People should be made to fear witches.' 'Well, er,
certainly they should respect us,'
said Annagramma. 'Urn... I should be careful with that, if I was
you...' 'Why?' said Tiffany,
tossing the ball over her shoulder. That was finest quartz!' shouted
Zakzak, rushing around his
counter. 'Oh, Tiffany,' said Annagramma, shocked but trying not to
giggle. Zakzak rushed past them
to where the shattered ball lay in hundreds of very expensive
fragmen-- did not lie in very
expensive fragments. Both he and Annagramma turned to Tiffany. She was
spinning the crystal globe
on the tip of her finger. 'Quickness of the hand deceives the eye,'
she said. 'But I heard it
smash!' said Zakzak. 'Deceives the ear, too,' said Tiffany, putting
the ball back on its stand. 'I
don't want this, but'- and she pointed a finger- 'I'll take that
necklace and that one and the one
with the cats and that ring and a set of those and two, no, three of
those and- what are these?'
'Um, that's a Book of Night,' said Annagramma nervously. 'It's a sort
of magical diary. You write
down what you've been working on...' Tiffany picked up the leather-
bound book. It had an eye set
in heavier leather on the cover. The eye rolled to look at her. This
was a real witch's diary, and
much more impressive than some shamefully cheap old book bought off a
pedlar. 'Whose eye was it?'
said Tiffany. 'Anyone interesting?' 'Er, I get the books from the
wizards at Unseen University,'
said Zakzak, still shaken. 'They're not real eyes, but they're clever
enough to swivel around
until they see another eye.' It just blinked,' said Tiffany. 'Very
clever people, wizards,' said
the dwarf, who knew a sale when he saw one. 'Shall I wrap it up for
you?' 'Yes,' said Tiffany.
'Wrap everything up. And now can anyone hear me? show me the clothes
department...' ... where
there were hats. There are fashions in witchery, just like everything
else. Some years the
slightly concertina'd look is in, and you'll even see the point
twisting around so much it's
nearly pointing at the ground. There are varieties even in the most
traditional hat (Upright Cone,
Black), such as 'the Countrywoman' (inside pockets, waterproof), 'the
Cloudbuster' (low drag
coefficient for broomstick use), and, quite importantly, 'the
Safety' (guaranteed to survive 80%
of falling farmhouses). Tiffany chose the tallest upright cone. It was
more than two feet high and
had big stars sewn on it. 'Ah, the Sky Scraper. Very much your Look,'
said Zakzak, bustling around
and opening drawers. 'It's for the witch on the way up, who knows what
she wants and doesn't care
how many frogs it takes, aha. Incidentally, many ladies like a cloak
with that. Now, we have the
Midnight, pure wool, fine knit, very warm, but'- he gave Tiffany a
knowing look- 'we currently
have very limited supplies of the Zephyr Billow, just in, very rare,
black as coal and thin as a
shadow. Completely useless for keeping you warm or dry but it looks
fabulous in even the slightest
breeze. Observe-' He held up the cloak and blew gently. It billowed
out almost horizontally,
flapping and twisting like a sheet in a gale. 'Oh, yes,' breathed
Annagramma. 'I'll take it,' said
Tiffany. 'I shall wear it to the Witch Trials on Saturday.' 'Well, if
you win, be sure to tell
everyone you bought it here,' said Zakzak. 'When I win I shall tell
them I got it at a
considerable discount,' said Tiffany. 'Oh, I don't do discounts,' said
Zakzak, as loftily as a
dwarf can manage. Tiffany stared at him, then picked up one of the
most expensive wands from the
display. It glittered. 'That's a Number Six,' whispered Annagramma.
'Mrs Earwig has one of those!'
'I see it's got runes on it,' said Tiffany, and something about the
way she said it made Zakzak go
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pale. 'Well, of course,' said Annagramma. 'You've got to have runes.'
'These are in Oggham,' said
Tiffany, smiling nastily at Zakzak. 'It's a very ancient language of
the dwarfs. Shall I tell you
what they say? They say "Oh What A Wally Is Waving This".' 'Don't you
take that nasty lying tone
with me, young lady!' said the dwarf. 'Who's your mistress? I know
your type! Learn one spell and
you think you're Mistress Weatherwax! I'm not standing for this kind
of behaviour! Brian'.' There
was a rustling from the bead curtains that led to the back of the shop
and a wizard appeared. You
could tell he was a wizard. Wizards never wanted you to have to guess.
He had long flowing robes,
with stars and magical symbols on them; there were even some sequins.
His beard would have been
long and flowing if indeed he'd been the kind of young man who could
really grow a beard. Instead,
it was ragged and wispy and not very clean. And the general effect was
also spoiled by the fact
that he was smoking a cigarette, had a mug of tea in his hand and a
face that looked a bit like
something that lives under damp logs. The mug was chipped and on it
were the jolly words 'You
Don't Have to Be Magic to Work Here But It Helps!!!!!' 'Yeah?' he
said, adding reproachfully, 'I
was on my tea break, you know.' 'This young... lady is being awkward,'
said Zakzak. 'Throwing
magic about. Talking back and being smart at me. The usual stuff.'
Brian looked at Tiffany. She
smiled. 'Brian's been to Unseen University,' said Zakzak with a 'so
there' smirk. 'Got a degree.
What he doesn't know about magic could fill a book! These ladies need
showing the way out, Brian.'
'Now then, ladies,' said Brian nervously, putting down his mug. 'Do
what Mr Stronginthearm says
and push off, right? We don't want trouble, do we? Go on, there's good
kids.' 'Why do you need a
wizard to protect you, with all these magical amulets around the
place, Mr Stronginthearm?' said
Tiffany sweetly. Zakzak turned to Brian. 'What're you standing there
for?' he demanded. 'She's
doing it again! I pay you, don't I? Put a 'fluence on 'em, or
something!' 'Well, er... that one
could be a bit of an awkward customer...' Brian said, nodding towards
Tiffany. 'If you studied
wizardry, Brian, then you know about conservation of mass, don't you?'
she said. 'I mean, you know
what really happens when you try to turn someone into a frog?' 'Well,
er...' the wizard began.
'Ha! That's just a figure of speech!' snapped Zakzak. I'd like to see
you turn someone into a
frog!' 'Wish granted,' said Tiffany, and waved the wand. Brian started
to say, 'Look, when I said
I'd been to Unseen University I meant-' But he ended up saying, 'Erk.'
Take the eye away from
Tiffany, up through the shop, high, high about the village until the
landscape spreads out in a
patchwork of field, woods and mountains. The magic spreads out like
the ripples made when a stone
is dropped in water. Within a few miles of the place it makes shambles
spin and breaks the threads
of curse-nets. As the ripples widen the magic gets fainter, although
it never dies, and still can
be felt by things far more sensitive than any shamble... Let the eye
move and fall now on this
wood, this clearing, this cottage... There is nothing on the walls but
whitewash, nothing on the
floor but cold stone. The huge fireplace doesn't even have a cooking
stove. A black tea kettle
hangs on a black hook over what can hardly be called a fire at all;
it's just a few little sticks
huddling together. This is the house of a life peeled to the core.
Upstairs, an old woman, all in
faded black, is lying on a narrow bed. But you wouldn't think she was
dead, because there is a big
card on a string around her neck which reads: I Ain't Dead ... and you
have to believe it when
it's written down like that. Her eyes are shut, her hands are crossed
on her chest, her mouth is
open. And bees crawl into her mouth, and over her ears, and all over
her pillow. They fill the
room, flying in and out of the open window, where someone has put a
row of saucers filled with
sugary water on the sill. None of the saucers match, of course. A
witch never has matching
crockery. But the bees work on, coming and going... busy as bees. When
the ripple of magic passes
through, the buzz rises to a roar. Bees pour in though the window
urgently, as though driven by a
gale. They land on the still old woman until her head and shoulders
are a boiling mass of tiny
brown bodies. And then, as one insect, they rise in a storm and pour
away into the outside air,
which is full of whirling seeds from the sycamore trees outside.
Mistress Weatherwax sat bolt
upright and said: 'Bzzzt!' Then she stuck a finger into her mouth,
rootled around a bit and pulled
out a struggling bee. She blew on it and shooed it out of the window.
For a moment her eyes seemed
to have many facets, just like a bee. 'So,' she said. 'She's learned
how to Borrow, has she? Or
she's been Borrowed!' Annagramma fainted. Zakzak stared, too afraid to
faint. 'You see,' said
Tiffany, while something in the air went gloop, gloop above them, 'a
frog weighs only a few ounces
but Brian weighs, oh, about a hundred and twenty pounds, yes? So, to
turn someone big into a frog
you've got to find something to do with all the bits you can't fit
into a frog, right?' She bent
down and lifted up the pointy wizard's hat on the floor. 'Happy,
Brian?' she said. A small frog,
squatting on a heap of clothes, looked up and said, 'Erk!' Zakzak
didn't look at the frog. He was
looking at the thing that went gloop, gloop. It was like a large pink
balloon full of water, quite
pretty really, wobbling gently against the ceiling. 'You've killed
him!' he mumbled. 'What? Oh,
no. That's just the stuff he doesn't need right now. It's sort of...
spare Brian.' 'Erk,' said
Brian. Gloop went the rest of him. 'About this discount-' Zakzak began
hurriedly. 'Ten per cent
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would be-' Tiffany waved the wand. Behind her, the whole display of
crystals rose in the air and
began to orbit one another in a glittering and above all fragile way.
'That wand shouldn't do
that!' he said. 'Of course it can't. It's rubbish. But I can,' said
Tiffany. 'Ninety per cent
discount, did I hear you say? Think quickly, I'm getting tired. And
the spare Brian is getting...
heavy.' 'You can keep it all!' Zakzak screamed. 'For free! Just don't
let him splash! Please!'
'No, no, I'd like you to stay in business,' said Tiffany. 'A ninety
per cent discount would be
fine. I'd like you to think of me as... a friend 'Yes! Yes! I am your
friend! I'm a very friendly
person! Now please put him baaack! Please!' Zakzak dropped to his
knees, which wasn't very far.
'Please! He's not really a wizard! He just did evening classes there
in fretwork! They hire out
classrooms, that sort of thing. He thinks I don't know! But he read a
few of the magic books on
the quiet and he pinched the robes and he can talk wizard lingo so's
you'd hardly know the
difference! Please! I'd never get a real wizard for the money I pay
him! Don't hurt him, please!
Tiffany waved a hand. There was a moment even more unpleasant than the
one which had ended up with
the spare Brian bumping against the ceiling, and then the whole Brian
stood there, blinking.
'Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!' gasped Zakzak. Brian blinked. 'What
just happened?' he said.
Zakzak, beside himself with horror and relief, patted him frantically.
'You're all there?' he
said. 'You're not a balloon?' 'Here, get off!' said Brian, pushing him
away. There was a groan
from Annagramma. She opened her eyes, saw Tiffany and tried to
scramble to her feet and back away,
which meant that she went backwards like a spider. 'Please don't do
that to me! Please don't!' she
shouted. Tiffany ran after her and pulled her to her feet. 'I wouldn't
do anything to you,
Annagramma,' she said happily. 'You're my friend! We're all friends!
Isn't that nice please please
stop me...' You had to remember that pictsies weren't brownies. In
theory, brownies would do the
housework for you if you left them a saucer of milk. The Nac Mac
Feegle... wouldn't. Oh, they'd
try, if they liked you and you didn't insult them with milk in the
saucer. They were helpful. They
just weren't good at it. For example, you shouldn't try to remove a
stubborn stain from a plate by
repeatedly hitting it with your head. And you didn't want to see a
sink full of them and your best
china. Or a precious pot rolling backwards and forwards across the
floor while the Feegles inside
simultaneously fought the ground-in dirt and each other. But Miss
Level, once she'd got the better
china out of the way, found she rather liked the Feegles. There was
something unsquashable about
them. And they were entirely unamazed by a woman with two bodies, too.
'Ach, that's no thin',' Rob
Anybody had said. 'When we wuz raidin' for the Quin, we once found a
world where there wuz people
wi' five bodies each. All sizes, ye ken, for doin' a' kinds of jobs.'
'Really?' said both of Miss
Level. 'Aye, and the biggest body had a huge left hand, just for
openin' pickle jars.' 'Those lids
can get very tight, it's true,' Miss Level had agreed. 'Oh, we saw
some muckle eldritch places
when we wuz raiding for the Quin' said Rob Anybody. 'But we gave that
up for she wuz a schemin',
greedy, ill-fared carlin, that she was!' 'Aye, and it wuz no' because
she threw us oot o'
Fairyland for being completely pished at two in the afternoon,
whatever any scunner might mphf
mphf...' said Daft Wullie. 'Pished?' said Miss Level. 'Aye... oh, aye,
it means... tired. Aye.
Tired. That's whut it means,' said Rob Anybody, holding his hands
firmly over his brother's mouth.
'An' ye dinnae ken how to talk in front o' a lady, yah shammerin' wee
scunner!' 'Er... thank you
for doing the washing up,' said Miss Level. 'You really didn't need
to...' 'Ach, it wasnae any
trouble,' said Rob Anybody cheerfully, letting Daft Wullie go. 'An'
I'm sure all them plates an'
stuff will mend fine wi' a bit o' glue.' Miss Level looked up at the
clock with no hands. 'It's
getting late,' she said. 'What exactly is it you propose to do, Mr
Anybody?' 'Whut?' 'Do you have
a plan?' 'Oh, aye!' Rob Anybody rummaged around in his spog, which is
a leather bag most Feegles
have hanging from their belt. The contents are usually a mystery, but
sometimes include
interesting teeth. He flourished a much-folded piece of paper. Miss
Level carefully unfolded it. '
"PLN"?' she said. 'Aye,' said Rob proudly. 'We came prepared! Look,
it's written doon. Pee El Ner.
Plan.' 'Er... how can I put this... ?' Miss Level mused. 'Ah, yes. You
came rushing all this way
to save Tiffany from a creature that can't be seen, touched, smelled
or killed. What did you
intend to do when you found it?' Rob Anybody scratched his head, to a
general shower of objects.
'I think mebbe you've put yer finger on the one weak spot, mistress,'
he admitted. 'Do you mean
you charge in regardless?' 'Oh, aye. That's the plan, sure enough,'
said Rob Anybody, brightening
up. 'And then what happens?' 'Weel, gen'raly people are tryin' tae
wallop us by then, so we just
mak' it up as we gae along.' 'Yes, Robert, but the creature is inside
her head!' Rob Anybody gave
Billy a questioning look. 'Robert is a heich-heidit way o' sayin'
Rob,' said the gonnagle, and to
save time he said to Miss Level: 'That means kinda posh.' 'Ach, we can
get inside her heid, if we
have to,' said Rob. 'I'd hoped tae get here afore the thing got to
her, but we can chase it.' Miss
Level's face was a picture. Two pictures. 'Inside her head!' she said.
'Oh, aye,' said Rob, as if
that sort of thing happened every day. 'No problemo. We can get in or
oot o' anywhere. Except
maybe pubs, which for some reason we ha' trouble leavin'. A heid?
Easy.' 'Sorry, we're talking
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