Wintersmith (11 page)

“Er, well, yes, but it was never anyone we knew,” said the woman virtuously.

“And the demon in the cellar?”

“So they say. O’ course, I never saw it pers’nally.” The woman gave Tiffany a worried look. “It is down there, isn’t it?”

You want it to be, Tiffany thought. You actually want there to be a monster in the cellar!

But as far as Tiffany knew, what was in the cellar this morning was a lot of snoring Feegles who had been boozin’. If you put a lot of Feegles in a desert, within twenty minutes they’d find a bottle of something dreadful to drink.

“Believe me, madam, you wouldn’t want to wake what’s down there now,” she said, giving the woman a worried smile.

The woman seemed satisfied with that but suddenly looked concerned again.

“And the spiders? She really eats spiders?” she asked.

“Well, there’s lots of webs,” said Tiffany, “but you never see a spider!”

“Ah, right,” said the woman, as if she’d been let into a big secret. “Say what you like, Miss Treason’s been a real witch. With skulls! I expect you have to polish ’em, eh? Ha! She could spit your eye out as soon as look at you!”

“She never did, though,” said a man delivering a huge tray of sausages. “Not to anyone local, anyway.”

“That’s true,” the woman admitted reluctantly. “She was very gracious in that respect.”

“Ah, she was a proper old-time witch, Miss Treason,” said the sausage man. “Many a man has widdled in his boots when she’s turned the sharp side of her tongue on him. You know that weaving she’s always doing? She weaves your name into the loom, that’s what she does! And if you tell her a lie, your thread breaks and you drop down dead on the spot!”

“Yes, that happens all the time,” said Tiffany, thinking: This is amazing! Boffo has a life of its own!

“Well, we don’t get witches like her these days,” said a man delivering four dozen eggs. “These days it’s all airy-fairy and dancin’ around without your drawers on.”

They all looked inquiringly at Tiffany.

“It’s wintertime,” she said coldly. “And I’ve got to get on with my work. The witches will be here soon. Thank you very much.”

While they were putting the eggs on to boil, she told Petulia about it. It didn’t come as a surprise.

“Um, they’re proud of her,” Petulia said. “I’ve heard them boasting about her up at the pig market in Lancre.”

“They boast?”

“Oh, yes. Like: You think old Mistress Weatherwax is tough?
Ours has got skulls! And a demon! She’s gonna live forever ’cuz she’s got a clockwork heart she winds up every day! And she eats spiders, sure of it! How d’you like them poisoned apples, huh?”

Boffo works all by itself, Tiffany thought, once you get it started. Our Baron is bigger than your Baron, our witch is witchier than your witch….

T
he witches started arriving around four o’clock, and Tiffany went out into the clearing to do air traffic control. Annagramma arrived by herself, looking very pale and wearing more occult jewelry than you could imagine. And there was a difficult moment when Mrs. Earwig and Granny Weatherwax arrived at the same time, and circled in a ballet of careful politeness as each waited for the other to land. In the end, Tiffany directed them into different corners of the clearing and hurried away.

There was no sign of the Wintersmith, and she was sure she’d know if he was near. He’d gone far away, she hoped, arranging a gale or conducting a blizzard. The memory of that voice in her mouth remained, awkward and worrying. Like an oyster dealing with a piece of grit, Tiffany coated it with people and hard work.

Now the day was just another pale, dry, early winter’s day. Apart from the food, nothing else at the funeral had been arranged. Witches arrange themselves. Miss Treason sat in her big chair, greeting old friends and old enemies alike.
*
The cottage was far too small for them all, so they spilled out into the garden in gossiping groups,
like a flock of old crows or, possibly, chickens. Tiffany didn’t have much time to talk, because she was kept too busy carrying trays.

But something was going on, she could tell. Witches would pause and turn to watch her as she staggered past, and then turn back to their group and the level of hubbub in the group would rise a bit. Groups would come together and separate again. Tiffany recognized this. The witches were making a Decision.

Lucy Warbeck sidled up to her while she was bringing out a tray of tea, and whispered, as if it were a guilty secret: “Mistress Weatherwax has suggested
you
, Tiff.”

“No!”

“It’s true! They’re talking about it! Annagramma’s having a fit!”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive! Best of luck!”

“But I don’t want the—” Tiffany pushed the tray into Lucy’s arms. “Look, can you take that around for me, please? They’ll just grab as you go past. I’ve got to get the, er, put the things in, er…got things to do….”

She hurried down the steps to the cellar, which was suspiciously empty of Feegles, and leaned against the wall.

Granny Weatherwax must be cackling, rules or no rules! But her Second Thoughts crept up to whisper: You could do it, though. She may be right. Annagramma annoys people. She talks to them as if they are children. She’s interested in magic (sorry, magik with a “K”), but people get on her nerves. She’ll make a mess of it, you know she will. She just happens to be tall and wears lots of occult jewelry and looks impressive in a pointy hat.

Why would Granny suggest Tiffany? Oh, she was good. She knew she was good. But didn’t everyone know she didn’t want to spend her life up here? Well, it had to be Annagramma, didn’t
it? Witches tended to be cautious and traditional, and she was the oldest of the coven. Okay, a lot of witches didn’t like Mrs. Earwig, but Granny Weatherwax didn’t exactly have many friends either.

She went back upstairs before she could be missed, and tried to be inconspicuous as she sidled through the crowd.

She saw Mrs. Earwig and Annagramma as the center of one group; the girl looked worried, and hurried over when she caught sight of Tiffany. She was red in the face.

“Have you heard anything?” she demanded.

“What? No!” said Tiffany, starting to pile up used plates.

“You’re trying to take the cottage away from me, aren’t you?” Annagramma was nearly crying.

“Don’t be silly! Me? I don’t want a cottage at all!”

“So you say. But some of
them
are saying you should get it! Miss Level and Miss Pullunder have spoken up for you!”

“What? I couldn’t possibly follow Miss Treason!”

“Well, of course that’s what Mrs. Earwig is telling everyone,” said Annagramma, settling down a bit. “Completely unacceptable, she says.”

I took the hiver through the Dark Door, Tiffany thought, as she viciously scraped food scraps into the garden for the birds. The White Horse came out of the hill for me. I got my brother and Roland back from the Queen of the Elves. And I danced with the Wintersmith, who turned me into ten billion snowflakes. No, I don’t want to be in a cottage in these damp woods, I don’t want to be a kind of slave to people who can’t be bothered to think for themselves, I don’t want to wear midnight and make people afraid of me. There is no name for what I want to be. But I was old enough to do all those things, and I was
acceptable
.

But she said: “I don’t know what this is about!”

At which point she felt someone looking at her, and she knew, if she turned around, that it would be Granny Weatherwax.

Her Third Thoughts—the ones that paid attention out of the corner of her ear and the edge of her eye all the time—told her: Something is going on. All you can do about it is be yourself. Don’t look around.

“You’re really not interested?” said Annagramma uncertainly.

“I’ve come up here to learn witching,” said Tiffany stiffly. “And then I’m going to go home. But…are you
sure
you want the cottage?”

“Well, of course! Every witch wants a cottage!”

“But they’ve had years and years of Miss Treason,” Tiffany pointed out.

“Then they’ll just have to get used to me,” said Annagramma. “I expect they’ll be pretty glad to see the back of skulls and cobwebs and being frightened! I know she’s got the local people really scared of her.”

“Ah,” said Tiffany.

“I’ll be a new broom,” said Annagramma. “Frankly, Tiffany, after that old woman, just about anyone would be popular.”

“Er, yes…” said Tiffany. “Tell me, Annagramma, have you ever worked with any other witch?”

“No, I’ve always been with Mrs. Earwig. I’m her first pupil, you know,” Annagramma added proudly. “She’s very exclusive.”

“And she doesn’t go around the villages much, does she?” said Tiffany.

“No. She concentrates on the Higher Magik.” Annagramma wasn’t particularly observant and was very vain, even by the standard of witches, but now she looked a little less confident. “Well,
someone has to. We can’t all tramp around bandaging cut fingers, you know,” she added. “Is there a problem?”

“Hmm? Oh, no. I’m sure you’ll get on well,” said Tiffany. “Er…I know my way around the place, so if you need any help, just ask.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll get things sorted out to my liking,” said Annagramma, whose boundless self-confidence couldn’t stay squashed for long. “I’d better go. By the way, it looks as though the food is running low.”

She swept away.

The big vats on the trestle table just inside the door were indeed looking a bit empty. Tiffany saw one witch stuff four hard-boiled eggs into her pocket.

“Good afternoon, Miss Tick,” she said loudly.

“Ah, Tiffany,” said Miss Tick smoothly, turning around without the least sign of embarrassment. “Miss Treason has just been telling us how well you have been doing here.”

“Thank you, Miss Tick.”

“She says that you have a fine eye for hidden detail,” Miss Tick went on.

Like the labels on skulls, Tiffany thought. “Miss Tick,” she said, “do you know anything about people wanting me to take over the cottage?”

“Oh, that’s all been decided,” said Miss Tick. “There was some suggestion that it should be you, since you’re already here, but really, you are still young, and Annagramma has had much more experience. I’m sorry, but—”

“That’s not fair, Miss Tick,” said Tiffany.

“Now, now, Tiffany, that’s not the sort of thing a witch says—” Miss Tick began.

“I don’t mean not fair to me, I mean unfair to Annagramma. She’s going to make a mess of it, isn’t she?”

Just for the skin of a moment Miss Tick looked guilty. It really was a very short space of time indeed, but Tiffany spotted it.

“Mrs. Earwig is certain that Annagramma will do a very good job,” said Miss Tick.

“Are you?”

“Remember whom you are talking to, please!”

“I’m talking to you, Miss Tick! This is…wrong!” Tiffany’s eyes blazed.

She saw movement out of the corner of her eye. An entire plate of sausages was moving across the white cloth at very high speed.

“And
that
is stealing,” she growled, leaping after it.

She chased after the dish as, skimming a few inches above the ground, it rounded the cottage and disappeared behind the goat shed. She plunged after it.

There were several plates lying on the leaves behind the shed. There were potatoes, oozing butter, and a dozen ham rolls, and a pile of boiled eggs, and two cooked chickens. Everything except the sausages in the dish, which was now stationary, had a gnawed look.

There was absolutely no sign of the Feegles. That was how she could tell they were there. They always hid from her when they knew she was angry.

Well, this time she was really angry. Not at the Feegles (much), although the stupid hiding trick got on her nerves, but at Miss Tick and Granny Weatherwax and Annagramma and Miss Treason (for dying), and the Wintersmith himself (for a lot of reasons she hadn’t had time to sort out yet).

She stepped back and went quiet.

There was always a feeling of sinking slowly and peacefully, but this time it was like a dive into darkness.

When she opened her eyes, it felt as if she were looking through windows into a huge hall. Sound seemed to be coming from a long way away, and there was an itching between her eyes.

Feegles appeared, from under leaves, behind twigs, even from under plates. Their voices sounded as though they were underwater.

“Ach, crivens! She’s done some big hagglin’ on us!”

“She’s ne’er done that before!”

Hah, I’m hiding from you, thought Tiffany. Bit of a change, eh? Hmm, I wonder if I can move. She took a step sideways. The Feegles didn’t seem to see it.

“She’s gonna jump oot on us any moment! Ooohhh, waily—”

Ha! If I could walk up to Granny Weatherwax like this, she’d have to be so impressed—

The itch on Tiffany’s nose was getting worse, and there was a feeling that was similar to, but fortunately not yet the same as, the need to visit the privy. It meant: Something is going to happen soon, so it would be a good idea to be ready for it.

The sound of the voices began to get clearer, and little blue and purple spots ran across her vision.

And then there was something that, if it had made a noise, would have gone
wwwhamp!
It was like the popping you got in your ears after a high broomstick flight. She reappeared in the middle of the Feegles, causing immediate panic.

“Stop stealing the funeral meats right now, you wee scuggers!” she shouted.

The Feegles stopped and stared at her. Then Rob Anybody said: “Socks wi’oot feets?”

There was one of those moments—you got a lot of them around the Feegles—when the world seems to have got tangled up and it is so important to unravel the knot before you can go any further.

“What are you talking about?” asked Tiffany.

“Scuggers,” said Rob Anybody. “They’re like socks wi’oot feets in ’em. For keepin’ yer legs warm, ye ken?”

“You mean like legwarmers?” said Tiffany.

“Aye, aye, that would be a verra guid name for ’em, it bein’ what they do,” said Rob. “In point o’ fact, mebbe the term ye meant to use wuz ‘thievin’ scunners,’ which means—”

“—us,” said Daft Wullie helpfully.

“Oh. Yes. Thank you,” said Tiffany quietly. She folded her arms and then shouted, “Right, you thieving scunners! How dare you steal Miss Treason’s funeral meats!”

“Oh, waily waily, it’s the Foldin’ o’ the Arms, the Foooldin’ o’ the Aaaarmss!” cried Daft Wullie, dropping to the ground and trying to cover himself with leaves. Around him Feegles started to wail and cower, and Big Yan began to bang his head on the rear wall of the dairy.

“Now then, ye must all stay calm!” yelled Rob Anybody, turning around and waving his hands desperately at his brothers.

“There’s the Pursin’ o’ the Lips!” a Feegle shouted, pointing a shaking finger at Tiffany’s face. “She’s got the knowin’ o’ the Pursin’ o’ the Lips! ’Tis Doom come upon us a’!”

The Feegles tried to run, but since they were panicking again, they mostly collided with one another.

“I’m waiting for an explanation!” said Tiffany.

The Feegles froze, and every face turned toward Rob Anybody.

“An Explanation?” he said, shifting uneasily. “Oh, aye. An
Explanation. Nae problemo. An Explanation. Er…what kind would you like?”

“What kind? I just want the truth!”

“Aye? Oh. The truth? Are you sure?” Rob ventured rather nervously. “I can do much more interestin’ Explanations than that—”

“Out with it!” snapped Tiffany, tapping her foot.

“Ach, crivens, the Tappin’ o’ the Feets has started!” moaned Daft Wullie. “There’s gonna be witherin’ scoldin’ at any moment!”

And that was it. Tiffany burst out laughing. You couldn’t look at a bunch of frightened Nac Mac Feegles and not laugh. They were so bad at it. One sharp word and they were like a basket of scared puppies, only smellier.

Rob Anybody gave her a lopsided grin.

“Weel, all the big hags is doin’ it too,” he said. “The wee fat one’s thieved fifteen ham rolls!” he added admiringly.

“That’d be Nanny Ogg,” said Tiffany. “Yes, she always carries a string bag up her knicker leg.”

“Ach, this is no’ a proper wake,” said Rob Anybody. “There should be singin’ an’ boozin’ an’ the flexin’ o’ the knees, no’ all this standin’ aroond gossipin’.”

“Well, gossiping’s part of witchcraft,” said Tiffany. “They’re checking to see if they’ve gone batty yet. What is the flexin’ o’ the knees?”

“The dancin’, ye ken,” said Rob. “The jigs an’ reels. ’Tis no’ a good wake unless the hands is flingin’ an’ the feets is twinklin’ an’ the knees is flexin’ an’ the kilts is flyin’.”

Tiffany had never seen the Feegles dance, but she had heard them. It sounded like warfare, which was probably how it ended up. The flyin’ o’ the kilts sounded a bit worrying, though, and reminded her of a question she had never quite dared to ask up until now.