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Chapter 1
Leaving

It came crackling over the hills, like an invisible fog. Movement without a body tired it, and it
drifted very slowly. It wasn 't thinking now. It had been months since it had last thought,
because the brain that was doing the thinking for it had died. They always died. So now it was
naked again, and frightened. It could hide in one of the blobby white creatures that baa 'd
nervously as it crawled over the turf. But they had useless brains, capable of thinking only about
grass and making other things that went baa. No. They would not do. It needed, needed something
better, a strong mind, a mind with power, a mind that could keep it safe. It searched... The new
boots were all wrong. They were stiff and shiny. Shiny boots! That was disgraceful. Clean boots,
that was different. There was nothing wrong with putting a bit of a polish on boots to keep the
wet out. But boots had to work for a living. They shouldn't shine. Tiffany Aching, standing on the
rug in her bedroom, shook her head. She'd have to scuff the things as soon as possible. Then there
was the new straw hat, with a ribbon on it. She had some doubts about that, too. She tried to look
at herself in the mirror, which wasn't easy because the mirror was not much bigger than her hand,
and cracked and blotchy. She had to move it around to try and see as much of herself as possible
and remember how the bits fitted together. But today... well, she didn't usually do this sort of
thing in the house, but it was important to look smart today, and since no one was around... She
put the mirror down on the rickety table by the bed, stood in the middle of the threadbare rug,
shut her eyes and said: 'See me.' And away on the hills something, a thing with no body and no
mind but a terrible hunger and a bottomless fear, felt the power. It would have sniffed the air,
if it had a nose. It searched. It found. Such a strange mind, like a lot of minds inside one
another, getting smaller and smaller! So strong! So close! It changed direction slightly, and went
a little faster. As it moved, it made a noise like a swarm of flies. The sheep, nervous for a
moment about something they couldn 't see, hear or smell, baa 'd..... and went back to chewing
grass. Tiffany opened her eyes. There she was, a few feet away from herself. She could see the
back of her own head. Carefully, she moved around the room, not looking down at the 'her' that was
moving, because she found that if she did that then the trick was over. It was quite difficult,
moving like that, but at last she was in front of herself and looking herself up and down. Brown
hair to match brown eyes... there was nothing she could do about that. At least her hair was clean
and she'd washed her face. She had a new dress on, which improved things a bit. It was so unusual
to buy new clothes in the Aching family that, of course, it was bought big so that she'd 'grow
into it'. But at least it was pale green, and it didn't actually touch the floor. With the shiny
new boots and the straw hat she looked... like a farmer's daughter, quite respectable, going off
to her first job. It'd have to do. From here she could see the pointy hat on her head, but she had
to look hard for it. It was like a glint in the air, gone as soon as you saw it. That's why she'd
been worried about the new straw hat, but it had simply gone through it as if the new hat wasn't
there. This was because, in a way, it wasn't. It was invisible, except in the rain. Sun and wind
went straight through, but rain and snow somehow saw it, and treated it as if it were real. She'd
been given it by the greatest witch in the world, a real witch with a black dress and a black hat
and eyes that could go through you like turpentine goes through a sick sheep. It had been a kind
of reward. Tiffany had done magic, serious magic. Before she had done it she hadn't known that she
could; when she had been doing it she hadn't known that she was; and after she had done it she
hadn't known how she had. Now she had to learn how. 'See me not,' she said. The vision of her...
or whatever it was, because she was not exactly sure about this trick... vanished. It had been a
shock, the first time she'd done this. But she'd always found it easy to see herself, at least in
her head. All her memories were like little pictures of herself doing things or watching things,
rather than the view from the two holes in the front of her head. There was a part of her that was
always watching her. Miss Tick- another witch, but one who was easier to talk to than the witch
who'd given Tiffany the hat- had said that a witch had to know how to 'stand apart', and that
she'd find out more when her talent grew, so Tiffany supposed the 'see me' was part of this.
Sometimes Tiffany thought she ought to talk to Miss Tick about 'see me'. It felt as if she was
stepping out of her body, but still had a sort of ghost body that could walk around. It all worked
as long as her ghost eyes didn't look down and see that she was just a ghost body. If that
happened, some part of her panicked and she found herself back in her solid body immediately.
Tiffany had, in the end, decided to keep this to herself. You didn't have to tell a teacher
everything. Anyway, it was a good trick for when you didn't have a mirror. Miss Tick was a sort of
witch-finder. That seemed to be how witchcraft worked. Some witches kept a magical lookout for
girls who showed promise, and found them an older witch to help them along. They didn't teach you
how to do it. They taught you how to know what you were doing. Witches were a bit like cats. They


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didn't much like one another's company, but they did like to know where all the other witches
were, just in case they needed them. And what you might need them for was to tell you, as a
friend, that you were beginning to cackle. Witches didn't fear much, Miss Tick had said, but what
the powerful ones were afraid of, even if they didn't talk about it, was what they called 'going
to the bad'. It was too easy to slip into careless little cruelties because you had power and
other people hadn't, too easy to think other people didn't matter much, too easy to think that
ideas like right and wrong didn't apply to you. At the end of that road was you dribbling and
cackling to yourself all alone in a gingerbread house, growing warts on your nose. Witches needed
to know other witches were watching them. And that, Tiffany thought, was why the hat was there.
She could touch it any time, provided she shut her eyes. It was a kind of reminder... Tiffany!'
her mother shouted up the stairs. 'Miss Tick's here!' Yesterday, Tiffany had said goodbye to
Granny Aching... The iron wheels of the old shepherding hut were half buried in the turf, high up
on the hills. The potbellied stove, which still stood lopsided in the grass, was red with rust.
The chalk hills were taking them, just like they'd taken the bones of Granny Aching. The rest of
the hut had been burned on the day she'd been buried. No shepherd would have dared to use it, let
alone spend the night there. Granny Aching had been too big in people's minds, too hard to
replace. Night and day, in all seasons, she was the Chalk country: its best shepherd, its wisest
woman, and its memory. It was as if the green downland had a soul that walked about in old boots
and a sacking apron and smoked a foul old pipe and dosed sheep with turpentine. The shepherds said
that Granny Aching had cussed the sky blue. They called the fluffy little white clouds of summer
'Granny Aching's little lambs'. And although they laughed when they said these things, part of
them was not joking. No shepherd would have dared presume to live in that hut, no shepherd at all.
So they had cut the turf and buried Granny Aching in the Chalk, watered the turf afterwards to
leave no mark, then they burned her hut. Sheep's wool, Jolly Sailor tobacco and turpentine... ...
had been the smells of the shepherding hut, and the smell of Granny Aching. Such things have a
hold on people that goes right to the heart. Tiffany only had to smell them now to be back there,
in the warmth and silence and safety of the hut. It was the place she had gone to when she was
upset, and the place she had gone to when she was happy. And Granny Aching would always smile and
make tea and say nothing. And nothing bad could happen in the shepherding hut. It was a fort
against the world. Even now, after Granny had gone, Tiffany still liked to go up there. Tiffany
stood there, while the wind blew over the turf and sheep bells clonked in the distance. 'I've
got...' She cleared her throat. I've got to go away. I... I've got to learn proper witching, and
there's no one here now to teach me, you see. I've got to... to look after the hills like you did.
I can... do things but I don't know things, and Miss Tick says what you don't know can kill you. I
want to be as good as you were. I will come back! I will come back soon! I promise I will come
back, better than I went!' A blue butterfly, blown off course by a gust, settled on Tiffany's
shoulder, opened and shut its wings once or twice, then fluttered away. Granny Aching had never
been at home with words. She collected silence like other people collected string. But she had a
way of saying nothing that said it all. Tiffany stayed for a while, until her tears had dried, and
then went off back down the hill, leaving the everlasting wind to curl around the wheels and
whistle down the chimney of the pot-bellied stove. Life went on. It wasn't unusual for girls as
young as Tiffany to go 'into service'. It meant working as a maid somewhere. Traditionally, you
started by helping an old lady who lived by herself; she wouldn't be able to pay much, but since
this was your first job you probably weren't worth much, either. In fact Tiffany practically ran
Home Farm's dairy by herself, if someone helped her lift the big milk churns, and her parents had
been surprised she had wanted to go into service at all. But as Tiffany said, it was something
everyone did. You got out into the world a little bit. You met new people. You never knew what it
could lead to. That, rather cunningly, got her mother on her side. Her mother's rich aunt had gone
off to be a scullery maid, and then a parlour maid, and had worked her way up until she was a
housekeeper and married to a butler and lived in a fine house. It wasn't her fine house, and she
only lived in a bit of it, but she was practically a lady. Tiffany didn't intend to be a lady.
This was all a ruse, anyway. And Miss Tick was in on it. You weren't allowed to charge money for
the witching, so all witches did some other job as well. Miss Tick was basically a witch disguised
as a teacher. She travelled around with the other wandering teachers who went in bands from place
to place teaching anything to anybody in exchange for food or old clothes. It was a good way to
get around, because people in the chalk country didn't trust witches. They thought they danced
around on moonlit nights without their drawers on. (Tiffany had made enquiries about this, and had
been slightly relieved to find out that you didn't have to do this to be a witch. You could if you
wanted to, but only if you were certain where all the nettles, thistles and hedgehogs were.) But
if it came to it, people were a bit wary of the wandering teachers, too. They were said to pinch
chickens and steal away children (which was true, in a way) and they went from village to village


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with their gaudy carts and wore long robes with leather pads on the sleeves and strange flat hats
and talked amongst themselves using heathen lingo no one could understand, like 'Aha jacta esf and
'Quid pro quo'. It was quite easy for Miss Tick to lurk amongst them. Her pointy hat was a stealth
version, which looked just like a black straw hat with paper flowers on it until you pressed the
secret spring. Over the last year or so Tiffany's mother had been quite surprised, and a little
worried, at Tiffany's sudden thirst for education, which people in the village thought was a good
thing in moderation but if taken unwisely could lead to restlessness. Then a month ago, the
message had come: Be ready. Miss Tick, in her flowery hat, had visited the farm and had explained
to Mr and Mrs Aching that an elderly lady up in the mountains had heard of Tiffany's excellent
prowess with cheese and was willing to offer her the post of maid at four dollars a month, one day
off a week, her own bed and a week's holiday at Hogswatch. Tiffany knew her parents. Three dollars
a month was a bit low, and five dollars would be suspiciously high, but prowess with cheese was
worth the extra dollar. And a bed all to yourself was a very nice perk. Before most of Tiffany's
sisters had left home, sleeping two sisters to a bed had been normal. It was a good offer. Her
parents had been impressed and slightly scared of Miss Tick, but they had been brought up to
believe that people who knew more than you and used long words were quite important, so they'd
agreed. Tiffany accidentally heard them discussing it after she had gone to bed that night. It's
quite easy to accidentally overhear people talking downstairs if you hold an upturned glass to the
floorboards and accidentally put your ear to it. She heard her father say that Tiffany didn't have
to go away at all. She heard her mother say that all girls wondered what was out there in the
world, so it was best to get it out of her system. Besides, she was a very capable girl with a
good head on her shoulders. Why, with hard work there was no reason why one day she couldn't be a
servant to someone quite important, like Aunt Hetty had been, and live in a house with an inside
privy. Her father said she'd find that scrubbing floors was the same everywhere. Her mother said,
well, in that case she'd get bored and come back home after the year was up and, by the way, what
did 'prowess' mean? 'Superior skill', thought Tiffany to herself. They did have an old dictionary
in the house, but her mother never opened it because the sight of all those words upset her.
Tiffany had read it all the way through. And that was it, and suddenly here she was, a month
later, wrapping her old boots, which'd been worn by all her sisters before her, in a piece of
clean rag and putting them in the second-hand suitcase her mother had bought her, which looked as
if it was made of bad cardboard or pressed grape pips mixed with ear wax, and had to be held
together with string. There were goodbyes. She cried a bit, and her mother cried a lot, and her
little brother Wentworth cried as well just in case he could get a sweet for doing so. Tiffany's
father didn't cry but gave her a silver dollar and rather gruffly told her to be sure to write
home every week, which is a man's way of crying. She said goodbye to the cheeses in the dairy and
the sheep in the paddock and even to Ratbag the cat. Then everyone apart from the cheeses and the
cat stood at the gate and waved to her and Miss Tick -well, except for the sheep, too- until
they'd gone nearly all the way down the chalky-white lane to the village. And then there was
silence except for the sound of their boots on the flinty surface and the endless song of the
skylarks overhead. It was late August, and very hot, and the new boots pinched. 'I should take
them off, if I was you,' said Miss Tick after a while. Tiffany sat down by the side of the lane
and got her old boots out of the case. She didn't bother to ask how Miss Tick knew about the tight
new boots. Witches paid attention. The old boots, even though she had to wear several pairs of
socks with them, were much more comfortable and really easy to walk in. They had been walking
since long before Tiffany was born, and knew how to do it. 'And are we going to see any... little
men today?' Miss Tick went on, once they were walking again. 'I don't know, Miss Tick,' said
Tiffany. 'I told them a month ago I was leaving. They're very busy at this time of year. But
there's always one or two of them watching me.' Miss Tick looked around quickly. 'I can't see
anything,' she said. 'Or hear anything.' 'No, that's how you can tell they're there,' said
Tiffany. 'It's always a bit quieter if they're watching me. But they won't show themselves while
you're with me. They're a bit frightened of hags- that's their word for witches,' she added
quickly. 'It's nothing personal.' Miss Tick sighed. 'When I was a little girl I'd have loved to
see the pictsies,' she said. 'I used to put out little saucers of milk. Of course, later on I
realized that wasn't quite the thing to do.' 'No, you should have used strong licker,' said
Tiffany. She glanced at the hedge and thought she saw, just for the snap of a second, a flash of
red hair. And she smiled, a little nervously. Tiffany had been, if only for a few days, the
nearest a human being can be to a queen of the fairies. Admittedly, she'd been called a kelda
rather than a queen, and the Nac Mac Feegle should only be called fairies to their face if you
were looking for a fight. On the other hand the Nac Mac Feegle were always looking for a fight, in
a cheerful sort of way, and when they had no one to fight they fought one another, and if one was
all by himself he'd kick his own nose just to keep in practice. Technically, they had lived in


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Fairyland, but had been thrown out, probably for being drunk. And now, because if you'd ever been
their kelda they never forgot you . .. ... they were always there. There was always one somewhere
on the farm, or circling on a buzzard high over the chalk downs. And they watched her, to help and
protect her, whether she wanted them to or not. Tiffany had been as polite as possible about this.
She'd hidden her diary right at the back of a drawer and blocked up the cracks in the privy with
wadded paper, and done her best with the gaps in her bedroom floorboards, too. They were little
men, after all. She was sure they tried to remain unseen so as not to disturb her, but she'd got
very good at spotting them. They granted wishes- not the magical fairytale three wishes, the ones
that always go wrong in the end, but ordinary, everyday ones. The Nac Mac Feegle were immensely
strong and fearless and incredibly fast, but they weren't good at understanding that what people
said often wasn't what they meant. One day, in the dairy, Tiffany had said, I wish I had a sharper
knife to cut this cheese,' and her mother's sharpest knife was quivering in the table beside her
almost before she'd got the words out. 'I wish this rain would clear up' was probably OK, because
the Feegles couldn't do actual magic, but she had learned to be careful not to wish for anything
that might be achievable by some small, determined, strong, fearless and fast men who were also
not above giving someone a good kicking if they felt like it. Wishes needed thought. She was never
likely to say, out loud, 'I wish that I could marry a handsome prince,' but knowing that if you
did you'd probably open the door to find a stunned prince, a tied-up priest and a Nac Mac Feegle
grinning cheerfully and ready to act as Best Man definitely made you watch what you said. But they
could be helpful, in a haphazard way, and she'd taken to leaving out for them things that the
family didn't need but might be useful to little people, like tiny mustard spoons, pins, a soup
bowl that would make a nice bath for a Feegle and, in case they didn't get the message, some soap.
They didn't steal the soap. Her last visit to the ancient burial mound high on the chalk down
where the pictsies lived had been to attend the wedding of Rob Anybody, the Big Man of the clan,
to Jeannie of the Long Lake. She was going to be the new kelda and spend most of the rest of her
life in the mound, having babies like a queen bee. Feegles from other clans had all turned up for
the celebration, because if there's one thing a Feegle likes more than a party, it's a bigger
party, and if there's anything better than a bigger party, it's a bigger party with someone else
paying for the drink. To be honest, Tiffany had felt a bit out of place, being ten times as tall
as the next tallest person there, but she'd been treated very well and Rob Anybody had made a long
speech about her, calling her 'our fine big wee young hag' before falling face first into the
pudding. It had all been very hot, and very loud, but she'd joined in the cheer when Jeannie had
carried Rob Anybody over a tiny broomstick that had been laid on the floor. Traditionally, both
the bride and the groom should jump over the broomstick but, equally traditionally, no
selfrespecting Feegle would be sober on his wedding day. She'd been warned that it would be a good
idea to leave then, because of the traditional fight between the bride's clan and the groom's
clan, which could take until Friday. Tiffany had bowed to Jeannie, because that's what hags did,
and had a good look at her. She was small and sweet and very pretty. She also had a glint in her
eye and a certain proud lift to her chin. Nac Mac Feegle girls were very rare and they grew up
knowing they were going to be keldas one day, and Tiffany had a definite feeling that Rob Anybody
was going to find married life trickier than he thought. She was going to be sorry to leave them
behind, but not terribly sorry. They were nice in a way but they could, after a while, get on your
nerves. Anyway, she was eleven now, and had a feeling that after a certain age you shouldn't slide
down holes in the ground to talk to little men. Besides, the look that Jeannie had given her, just
for a moment, had been pure poison. Tiffany had read its meaning without having to try. Tiffany
had been the kelda of the clan, even if it was only for a short time. She had also been engaged to
be married to Rob Anybody, even if that had only been a sort of political trick. Jeannie knew all
that. And the look had said: He is mine. This place is mine. I do not want you here! Keep out! A
pool of silence followed Tiffany and Miss Tick down the lane, since the usual things that rustle
in hedges tended to keep very quiet when the Nac Mac Feegle were around. They reached the little
village green and sat down to wait for the carrier's cart that went just a bit faster than walking
pace and would take five hours to get to the village of Twoshirts, where- Tiffany's parents
thought- they'd get the big coach that ran all the way to the distant mountains and beyond.
Tiffany could actually see it coming up the road when she heard the hoofbeats across the green.
She turned, and her heart seemed to leap and sink at the same time. It was Roland, the Baron's
son, on a fine black horse. He leaped down before the horse had stopped, and then stood there
looking embarrassed. 'Ah, I see a very fine and interesting example of a... a... a big stone over
there,' said Miss Tick in a sticky-sweet voice. I'll just go and have a look at it, shall I?'
Tiffany could have pinched her for that. 'Er, you're going, then,' said Roland as Miss Tick
hurried away. 'Yes,' said Tiffany. Roland looked as though he was going to explode with
nervousness. I got this for you,' he said. 'I had it made by a man, er, over in Yelp.' He held out


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a package wrapped in soft paper. Tiffany took it and put it carefully in her pocket. Thank you,'
she said, and dropped a small curtsy. Strictly speaking that's what you had to do when you met a
nobleman, but it just made Roland blush and stutter. 'O-open it later on,' said Roland. 'Er, I
hope you'll like it.' 'Thank you,' said Tiffany sweetly. 'Here's the cart. Er... you don't want to
miss it.' 'Thank you,' said Tiffany, and curtsied again, because of the effect it had. It was a
little bit cruel, but sometimes you had to be. Anyway, it would be very hard to miss the cart. If
you ran fast, you could easily overtake it. It was so slow that 'stop' never came as a surprise.
There were no seats. The carrier went around the villages every other day, picking up packages
and, sometimes, people. You just found a place where you could get comfortable among the boxes of
fruit and rolls of cloth. Tiffany sat on the back of the cart, her old boots dangling over the
edge, swaying backwards and forwards as the cart lurched away on the rough road. Miss Tick sat
beside her, her black dress soon covered in chalk dust to the knees. Tiffany noticed that Roland
didn't get back on his horse until the cart was nearly out of sight. And she knew Miss Tick. By
now she would be just bursting to ask a question, because witches hate not knowing things. And,
sure enough, when the village was left behind, Miss Tick said, after a lot of shifting and
clearing her throat: 'Aren't you going to open it?' 'Open what?' said Tiffany, not looking at her.
'He gave you a present,' said Miss Tick. 'I thought you were examining an interesting stone, Miss
Tick,' said Tiffany accusingly. 'Well, it was only fairly interesting,' said Miss Tick, completely
unembarrassed. 'So... are you?' 'I'll wait until later,' said Tiffany. She didn't want a
discussion about Roland at this point or, really, at all. She didn't actually dislike him. She'd
found him in the land of the Queen of the Fairies and had sort of rescued him, although he had
been unconscious most of the time. A sudden meeting with the Nac Mac Feegle when they're feeling
edgy can do that to a person. Of course, without anyone actually lying, everyone at home had come
to believe that he had rescued her. A nine-year-old girl armed with a frying pan couldn't possibly
have rescued a thirteen-year-old boy who'd got a sword. Tiffany hadn't minded that. It stopped
people asking too many questions she didn't want to answer or even know how to. But he'd taken
to... hanging around. She kept accidentally running into him on walks more often than was really
possible, and he always seemed to be at the same village events she went to. He was always polite,
but she couldn't stand the way he kept looking like a spaniel that had been kicked. Admittedly-
and it took some admitting- he was a lot less of a twit than he had been. On the other hand, there
had been such of lot of twit to begin with. And then she thought, Horse, and wondered why until
she realized that her eyes had been watching the landscape while her brain stared at the past...
'I've never seen that before,' said Miss Tick. Tiffany welcomed it as an old friend. The Chalk
rose out of the plains quite suddenly on this side of the hills. There was a little valley cupped
into the fall of the down, and there was a carving in the curve it made. Turf had been cut away in
long flowing lines so that the bare chalk made the shape of an animal. 'It's the White Horse,'
said Tiffany. 'Why do they call it that?' said Miss Tick. Tiffany looked at her. 'Because the
chalk is white?' she suggested, trying not to suggest that Miss Tick was being a bit dense. 'No, I
meant why do they call it a horse? It doesn't look like a horse. It's just... flowing lines...'
... that look as if they're moving, Tiffany thought. It had been cut out of the turf right back in
the old days, people said, by the folk who'd built the stone circles and buried their kind in big
earth mounds. And they'd cut out the Horse at one end of this little green valley, ten times
bigger than a real horse and, if you didn't look at it with your mind right, the wrong shape, too.
Yet they must have known horses, owned horses, seen them every day, and they weren't stupid people
just because they lived a long time ago. Tiffany had once asked her father about the look of the
Horse, when they'd come all the way over here for a sheep fair, and he told her what Granny Aching
had told him, too, when he was a little boy. He passed on what she said word for word, and Tiffany
did the same now. "Taint what a horse looks like,' said Tiffany. It's what a horse be.' 'Oh,' said
Miss Tick. But because she was a teacher as well as a witch, and probably couldn't help herself,
she added, The funny thing is, of course, that officially there is no such thing as a white horse.
They're called grey.' [She had to say that, because she was a witch and a teacher and that's a
terrible combination. They want things to be right. They like things to be correct. If you want to
upset a witch you don't have to mess around with charms and spells, you just have to put her in a
room with a picture that's hung slightly crooked and watch her squirm.] 'Yes, I know,' said
Tiffany. This one's white,' she added, flatly. That quietened Miss Tick down, for a while, but she
seemed to have something on her mind. 'I expect you're upset about leaving the Chalk, aren't you?'
she said as the cart rattled on. 'No,' said Tiffany. It's OK to be,' said Miss Tick. Thank you,
but I'm not really,' said Tiffany. 'If you want to have a bit of a cry, you don't have to pretend
you've got some grit in your eye or anything-' I'm all right, actually,' said Tiffany. 'Honestly.'
'You see, if you bottle that sort of thing up it can cause terrible damage later on.' 'I'm not
bottling, Miss Tick.' In fact, Tiffany was a bit surprised at not crying, but she wasn't going to


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tell Miss Tick that. She left a sort of space in her head to burst into tears in, but it wasn't
filling up. Perhaps it was because she'd wrapped up all those feelings and doubts and left them up
on the hill by the pot-bellied stove. 'And if of course you were feeling a bit downcast at the
moment, I'm sure you could open the present he-' Miss Tick tried. 'Tell me about Miss Level,'
Tiffany said quickly. The name and address was all she knew about the lady she was going to stay
with, but an address like 'Miss Level, Cottage in the Woods near the dead oak tree in Lost Man's
Lane, High Overhang, If Out Leave Letters in Old Boot by Door' sounded promising. 'Miss Level,
yes,' said Miss Tick, defeated. 'Er, yes. She's not really very old but she says she'll be happy
to have a third pair of hands around the place.' You couldn't slip words past Tiffany, not even if
you were Miss Tick. 'So there's someone else there already?' she said. 'Er... no. Not exactly,'
said Miss Tick. 'Then she's got four arms?' said Tiffany. Miss Tick had sounded like someone
trying to avoid a subject. Miss Tick sighed. It was difficult to talk to someone who paid
attention all the time. It put you off. 'It's best if you wait until you meet her,' she said.
'Anything I tell you will only give you the wrong idea. I'm sure you'll get along with her. She's
very good with people, and in her spare time she's a research witch. She keeps bees- and goats,
the milk of which, I believe, is very good indeed owing to homogenized fats.' 'What does a
research witch do?' Tiffany asked. 'Oh, it's a very ancient craft. She tries to find new spells by
learning how old ones were really done. You know all that stuff about "ear of bat and toe of
frog"? They never work, but Miss Level thinks it's because we don't know exactly what kind of
frog, or which toe-' 'I'm sorry, but I'm not going to help anyone chop up innocent frogs and
bats,' said Tiffany firmly. 'Oh, no, she never kills any!' said Miss Tick hurriedly. 'She only
uses creatures that have died naturally or been run over or committed suicide. Frogs can get quite
depressed at times.' The cart rolled on, down the white, dusty road, until it was lost from view.
Nothing happened. Skylarks sang, so high up they were invisible. Grass seeds filled the air. Sheep
baa'd, high up on the Chalk. And then something came along the road. It moved like a little slow
whirlwind, so it could be seen only by the dust it stirred up. As it went past, it made a noise
like a swarm of flies. Then it, too, disappeared down the hill... After a while a voice, low down
in the long grass, said: 'Ach, crivensl And it's on her trail, right enough!' A second voice said:
'Surely the old hag will spot it?' 'Whut? The teachin' hag? She's nae a proper hag!' 'She's got
the pointy hat under all them flowers, Big Yan,' said the second voice, a bit reproachfully. 'I
seen it. She presses a wee spring an' the point comes up!' 'Oh, aye, Hamish, an' I daresay she
does the readin' and the writin' well enough, but she disnae ken aboot stuff that's no' in books.
An' I'm no' showin' meself while she's aroond. She's the kind of a body that'd write things doon
about a man! C'mon, let's go and find the kelda!' The Nac Mac Feegle of the Chalk hated writing
for all kinds of reasons, but the biggest one was this: writing stays. It fastens words down. A
man can speak his mind and some nasty wee scuggan will write it down and who knows what he'll do
with those words? Ye might as weel nail a man's shadow tae the wall! But now they had a new kelda,
and a new kelda brings new ideas. That's how it's supposed to work. It stopped a clan getting too
set in its ways. Kelda Jeannie was from the Long Lake clan, up in the mountains- and they did
write things down. She didn't see why her husband shouldn't, either. And Rob Anybody was finding
out that Jeannie was definitely a kelda. Sweat was dripping off his forehead. He'd once fought a
wolf all by himself, and he'd cheerfully do it again with his eyes shut and one hand tied behind
him rather than do what he was doing now. He had mastered the first two rules of writing, as he
understood them. 1) Steal some paper. 2) Steal a pencil. Unfortunately there was more to it than
that. Now he held the stump of pencil in front of him in both hands, and leaned backwards as two
of his brothers pushed him towards the piece of paper pinned up on the chamber wall (it was an old
bill for sheep bells, stolen from the farm). The rest of the clan watched, in fascinated horror,
from the galleries around the walls. 'Mebbe I could kind o' ease my way inta it gently,' he
protested as his heels left little grooves in the packed-earth floor of the mound. 'Mebbe I could
just do one o' they commeras or full stoppies-' 'You're the Big Man, Rob Anybody, so it's fittin'
ye should be the first tae do the writin',' said Jeannie. 'I canna hae a husband who canna even
write his ain name. I showed you the letters, did I not?' 'Aye, wumman, the nasty, loopy, bendy
things!' growled Rob. 'I dinnae trust that Q, that's a letter that has it in for a man. That's a
letter with a sting, that one!' 'You just hold the pencil on the paper and I'll tell ye what marks
to make,' said Jeannie, folding her arms. 'Aye, but 'tis a bushel of trouble, writin',' said Rob.
'A word writ doon can hang a man!' 'Wheest, now, stop that! 'Tis easy!' snapped Jeannie. 'Bigjob
babbies can do it, and you're a full growed Feegle!' 'An' writin' even goes on sayin' a man's
wurds after he's deid' said Rob Anybody, waving the pencil as if trying to ward off evil spirits.
'Ye cannae tell me that's right!' 'Oh, so you're afeared o' the letters, is that it?' said
Jeannie, artfully. 'Ach, that's fine. All big men fear something. Take the pencil off'f him,
Wullie. Ye cannae ask a man to face his fears.' There was silence in the mound as Daft Wullie


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nervously took the pencil stub from his brother. Every beady eye was turned to Rob Anybody. His
hands opened and shut. He started to breathe heavily, still glaring at the blank paper. He stuck
out his chin. 'Ach, ye're a harrrrd wumman, Jeannie Mac Feegle!' he said at last. He spat on his
hands and snatched back the pencil stub from Daft Wullie. 'Gimme that tool o' perdition! Them
letters won't know whut's hit them!' 'There's my brave lad!' said Jeannie as Rob squared up to the
paper. 'Right, then. The first letter is an R. That's the one that looks like a fat man walking,
remember?' The assembled pictsies watched as Rob Anybody, grunting fiercely and with his tongue
sticking out of the corner of his mouth, dragged the pencil through the curves and lines of the
letters. He looked at the kelda expectantly after each one. That's it,' she said, at last. 'A
bonny effort!' Rob Anybody stood back and looked critically at the paper. 'That's it?' he said.
'Aye,' said Jeannie. 'Ye've writ your ain name, Rob Anybody!' Rob stared at the letters again.
'I'm gonna go to pris'n noo?' he said. There was a polite cough from beside Jeannie. It had
belonged to the Toad. He had no other name, because toads don't go in for names. Despite sinister
forces that would have people think differently, no toad has ever been called Tommy the Toad, for
example. It's just not something that happens. This toad had once been a lawyer (a human lawyer;
toads manage without them) who'd been turned into a toad by a fairy godmother who'd intended to
turn him into a frog but had been a bit hazy on the difference. Now he lived in the Feegle mound,
where he ate worms and helped them out with the difficult thinking. I've told you, Mr Anybody,
that just having your name written down is no problem at all,' he said. There's nothing illegal
about the words "Rob Anybody". Unless, of course,' and the toad gave a little legal laugh, It's
meant as an instruction!' None of the Feegles laughed. They liked their humour to be a bit, well,
funnier. Rob Anybody stared at his very shaky writing. 'That's my name, aye?' 'It certainly is, Mr
Anybody.' 'An' no thin' bad's happenin' at a',' Rob noted. He looked closer. 'How can you tell
it's my name?' 'Ah, that'll be the readin' side o' things,' said Jeannie. 'That's where the
lettery things make a sound in yer heid?' said Rob. 'That's the bunny,' said the toad. 'But we
thought you'd like to start with the more physical aspect of the procedure.' 'Could I no' mebbe
just learn the writin' and leave the readin' to someone else?' Rob asked, without much hope. 'No,
my man's got to do both,' said Jeannie, folding her arms. When a female Feegle does that, there's
no hope left. 'Ach, it's a terrible thing for a man when his wumman gangs up on him wi' a toad,'
said Rob, shaking his head. But, when he turned to look at the grubby paper, there was just a hint
of pride in his face. 'Still, that's my name, right?' he said, grinning. Jeannie nodded. 'Just
there, all by itself and no' on a Wanted poster or anything. My name, drawn by me.' 'Yes, Rob,'
said the kelda. 'My name, under my thumb. No scunner can do anythin' aboot it? I've got my name,
nice and safe?' Jeannie looked at the toad, who shrugged. It was generally held by those who knew
them that most of the brains in the Nac Mac Feegle clans ended up in the women. 'A man's a man o'
some standin' when he's got his own name where no one can touch it,' said Rob Anybody. 'That's
serious magic, that is-' 'The R is the wrong way roond and you left the A and a Y out of
"Anybody",' said Jeannie, because it is a wife's job to stop her husband actually exploding with
pride. 'Ach, wumman, I didna' ken which way the fat man wuz walking',' said Rob, airily waving a
hand. 'Ye canna trust the fat man. That's the kind of thing us nat'ral writin' folk knows about.
One day he might walk this way, next day he might walk that way.' He beamed at his name: ROB NybO
D 'And I reckon you got it wrong wi' them Y's,' he went on. 'I reckon it should be N E Bo D.
That's Enn... eee... bor... dee, see? That's senseY He stuck the pencil into his hair, and gave
her a defiant look. Jeannie sighed. She'd grown up with seven hundred brothers and knew how they
thought, which was often quite fast while being totally in the wrong direction. And if they
couldn't bend their thinking around the world, they bent the world around their thinking. Usually,
her mother had told her, it was best not to argue. Actually, only half a dozen Feegles in the Long
Lake clan could read and write very well. They were considered odd, strange hobbies. After all,
what -when you got out of bed in the morning- were they good for? You didn't need to know them to
wrestle a trout or mug a rabbit or get drunk. The wind couldn't be read and you couldn't write on
water. But things written down lasted. They were the voices of Feegles who'd died long ago, who'd
seen strange things, who'd made strange discoveries. Whether you approved of that depended on how
creepy you thought it was. The Long Lake clan approved. Jeannie wanted the best for her new clan,
too. It wasn't easy, being a young kelda. You came to a new clan, with only a few of your brothers
as a bodyguard, where you married a husband and ended up with hundreds of brothers-inlaw. It could
be troubling if you let your mind dwell on it. At least back on the island in the Long Lake she'd
had her mother to talk to, but a kelda never went home again. Except for her bodyguard brothers, a
kelda was all alone. Jeannie was homesick and lonely and frightened of the future, which is why
she was about to get things wrong... 'Rob!' Hamish and Big Yan came tumbling through the fake
rabbit hole that was the entrance to the mound. Rob Anybody glared at them. 'We wuz engaged in a
lit'try enterprise,' he said. 'Yes, Rob, but we watched the big wee young hag safe awa', like you


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said, but there's a hiver after her!' Hamish blurted out. 'Are ye sure?' said Rob, dropping his
pencil. 'I never heard o' one of them in this world!' 'Oh, aye,' said Big Yan. 'Its buzzin' fair
made my teeths ache!' 'So did you no' tell her, ye daftie?' said Rob. 'There's that other hag wi'
her, Rob,' said Big Yan. The educatin' hag.' 'Miss Tick?' said the toad. 'Aye, the one wi' a face
like a yard o' yoghurt,' said Big Yan. 'An' you said we wuzna' to show ourselves, Rob.' 'Aye,
weel, this is different-' Rob Anybody began, but stopped. He hadn't been a husband for very long,
but upon marriage men get a whole lot of extra senses bolted into their brain, and one is there to
tell a man that he's suddenly neck deep in real trouble. Jeannie was tapping her foot. Her arms
were still folded. She had the special smile women learn about when they marry, too, which seems
to say 'Yes, you're in big trouble but I'm going to let you dig yourself in even more deeply.'
'What's this about the big wee hag?' she said, her voice as small and meek as a mouse trained at
the Rodent College of Assassins. 'Oh, ah, ach, weel, aye...' Rob began, his face falling. 'Do ye
not bring her to mind, dear? She was at oor wedding, aye. She was oor kelda for a day or two, ye
ken. The Old One made her swear to that just afore she went back to the Land o' the Livin',' he
added, in case mentioning the wishes of the last kelda would deflect whatever storm was coming.
'It's as well tae keep an eye on her, ye ken, her being oor hag and a'...' Rob Anybody's voice
trailed away in the face of Jeannie's look. 'A true kelda has tae marry the Big Man,' said
Jeannie. 'Just like I married ye, Rob Anybody Feegle, and am I no' a good wife tae ye?' 'Oh, fine,
fine,' Rob burbled. 'But-' 'And ye cannae be married to two wives, because that would be bigamy,
would it not?' said Jeannie, her voice dangerously sweet. 'Ach, it wasnae that big,' said Rob
Anybody, desperately looking around for a way of escape. 'And it wuz only temp'ry, an' she's but a
lass, an' she wuz good at thinkin'-' 'I'm good at thinking, Rob Anybody, and I am the kelda o'
this clan, am I no'? There can only be one, is that not so? And I am thinking that there will be
no more chasin' after this big wee girl. Shame on ye, anyway. She'll no' want the like o' Big Yan
agawpin' at her all the time, I'm sure.' Rob Anybody hung his head. 'Aye... but...,' he said. 'But
what?' 'A hiver's chasin' the puir wee lass.' There was a long pause before Jeannie said, 'Are ye
sure?' 'Aye, Kelda,' said Big Yan. 'Once you hear that buzzin' ye never forget it.' Jeannie bit
her lip. Then, looking a little pale, she said, 'Ye said she's got the makin's o' a powerful hag,
Rob?' 'Aye, but nae one in his'try has survived a hiver! Ye cannae kill it, ye cannae stop it, ye
cannae-' 'But wuz ye no' tellin' me how the big wee girl even fought the Quin and won?' said
Jeannie. "Wanged her wi' a skillet, ye said. That means she's good, aye? If she is a true hag,
she'll find a way hersel'. We all ha' to dree our weird. Whatever's out there, she's got to face
it. If she cannae, she's no true hag.' 'Aye, but a hiver's worse than-' Rob began. 'She's off to
learn hagglin' from other hags,' said Jeannie. 'An' I must learn keldarin' all by myself. Ye must
hope she learns as fast as me, Rob Anybody.'

Chapter 2 Twoshirts and Two Noses

Twoshirts was just a bend in the road, with a name. There was nothing there but an inn for the
coaches, a blacksmith's shop, and a small store with the word SOUVENIRS written optimistically on
a scrap of cardboard in the window. And that was it. Around the place, separated by fields and
scraps of woodland, were the houses of people for whom Twoshirts was, presumably, the big city.
Every world is full of places like Twoshirts. They are places for people to come from, not go to.
It sat and baked silently in the hot afternoon sunlight. Right in the middle of the road an
elderly spaniel, mottled brown and white, dozed in the dust. Twoshirts was bigger than the village
back home and Tiffany had never seen souvenirs before. She went into the store and spent half a
penny on a small wood carving of two shirts on a washing line, and two postcards entitled 'View of
Twoshirts' which showed the souvenir shop and what was quite probably the same dog sleeping in the
road. The little old lady behind the counter called her 'young lady' and said that Twoshirts was
very popular later in the year, when people came from up to a mile around for the Cabbage-
Macerating Festival. When Tiffany came out she found Miss Tick standing next to the sleeping dog,
frowning back the way they'd come. Is there something the matter?' said Tiffany. 'What?' said Miss
Tick, as if she'd forgotten that Tiffany existed. 'Oh... no. I just... I thought I... look, shall
we go and have something to eat?' It took a while to find someone in the inn, but Miss Tick
wandered into the kitchens and found a woman who promised them some scones and a cup of tea. She
was actually quite surprised she'd promised that, since she hadn't intended to, it strictly
speaking being her afternoon free until the coach came, but Miss Tick had a way of asking
questions that got the answers she wanted. Miss Tick also asked for a fresh egg, not cooked, in
its shell. Witches were also good at asking questions that weren't followed by the other person
saying 'Why?' They sat and ate in the sun, on the bench outside the inn. Then Tiffany took out her
diary. She had one in the dairy too, but that was for cheese and butter records. This one was


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personal. She'd bought it off a pedlar, cheap, because it was last year's. But, as he said, it had
the same number of days. It also had a lock, a little brass thing on a leather flap. It had its
own tiny key. It was the lock that had attracted Tiffany. At a certain age, you see the point of
locks. She wrote down 'Twoshirts', and spent some time thinking before adding ya bend in the
road'. Miss Tick kept staring at the road. 'Is there something wrong, Miss Tick?' Tiffany asked
again, looking up. 'I'm... not sure. Is anyone watching us?' Tiffany looked around. Twoshirts
slept in the heat. There was no one watching. 'No, Miss Tick.' The teacher removed her hat and
took from inside it a couple of pieces of wood and a reel of black thread. She rolled up her
sleeves, looking around quickly in case Twoshirts had sprouted a population, then broke off a
length of the thread and picked up the egg. Egg, thread and fingers blurred for a few seconds and
there was the egg, hanging from Miss Tick's fingers in a neat little black net. Tiffany was
impressed. But Miss Tick hadn't finished. She began to draw things from her pockets, and a witch
generally has a lot of pockets. There were some beads, a couple of feathers, a glass lens and one
or two strips of coloured paper. These all got threaded into the tangle of wood and cotton. 'What
is that?' said Tiffany. 'It's a shamble,' said Miss Tick, concentrating. 'Is it magic?' 'Not
exactly. It's trickery.' Miss Tick lifted her left hand. Feathers and beads and egg and pocket
junk spun in the web of threads. 'Hmm,' she said. 'Now let me see what I can see...' She pushed
the fingers of her right hand into the spiderwork of threads and pulled.. . Egg and glass and
beads and feathers danced through the tangle, and Tiffany was sure that at one point one thread
had passed straight through another. 'Oh,' she said. 'It's like Cat's Cradle!' 'You've played
that, have you?' said Miss Tick vaguely, still concentrating. 'I can do all the common shapes,'
said Tiffany. 'The Jewels and The Cradle and The House and The Flock and The Three Old Ladies, One
With A Squint, Carrying The Bucket Of Fish To Market When They Meet The Donkey... although you
need two people for that one, and I only ever did it once, and Betsy Tupper scratched her nose at
the wrong moment and I had to get some scissors to cut her loose Miss Tick's fingers worked like a
loom. 'Funny it should be a children's toy now,' she said. 'Aha...' She stared into the complex
web she had created. 'Can you see anything?' said Tiffany. If I may be allowed to concentrate,
child? Thank you...' Out in the road the sleeping dog woke, yawned and pulled itself to its feet.
It ambled over to the bench the two of them were sitting on, gave Tiffany a reproachful look and
then curled up by her feet. It smelled of old damp carpets. There's... something...' said Miss
Tick, very quietly. Panic gripped Tiffany. Sunlight reflected off the white dust of the road and
the stone wall opposite. Bees hummed between the little yellow flowers that grew on top of the
wall. By Tiffany's feet, the spaniel snorted and farted occasionally. But it was all wrong. She
could feel the pressure bearing down on her, pushing at her, pushing at the landscape, squeezing
it under the bright light of day. Miss Tick and her cradle of threads were motionless beside her,
frozen in the moment of bright horror. Only the threads moved, by themselves. The egg danced, the
glass glinted, the beads slid and jumped from string to string- The egg burst. The coach rolled
in. It arrived dragging the world behind it, in a cloud of dust and noise and hooves. It blotted
out the sun. Doors opened. Harness jingled. Horses steamed. The spaniel sat up and wagged its tail
hopefully. The pressure went- no, it fled. Beside Tiffany, Miss Tick pulled out a handkerchief and
started to wipe egg off her dress. The rest of the shamble had disappeared into a pocket with
remarkable speed. She smiled at Tiffany, and kept the smile as she spoke, making herself look
slightly mad. 'Don't get up, don't do anything, just be as quiet as a little mouse,' she said.
Tiffany felt in no state to do anything but sit still; she felt like you feel when you wake up
after a nightmare. The richer passengers got out of the coach, and the poorer ones climbed down
from the roof. Grumbling and stamping their feet, trailing road dust behind them, they
disappeared. 'Now,' said Miss Tick, when the inn door had swung shut, 'we're... we're going to go
for a- a stroll. See that little wood up there? That's where we're heading. And when Mr Crabber
the carter sees your father tomorrow he'll say he- he dropped you off here just before the coach
arrived and- and- and everyone will be happy and no one will have lied. That's important.' 'Miss
Tick?' said Tiffany, picking up the suitcase. 'Yes?' 'What happened just now?' 'I don't know,'
said the witch. 'Do you feel all right?' 'Er... yes. You've got some yolk on your hat.' And you're
very nervous, Tiffany thought. That was the most worrying part. 'I'm sorry about your dress,' she
added. 'It's seen a lot worse,' said Miss Tick. 'Let's go.' 'Miss Tick?' said Tiffany again as
they trudged away. 'Er, yes?' 'You are very nervous,' said Tiffany. 'If you told me why, that
means there's two of us, which is only half the nervousness each.' Miss Tick sighed. 'It was
probably nothing,' she said. 'Miss Tick, the egg exploded!' 'Yes. Um. A shamble, you see, can be
used as a simple magic detector and amplifier. It's actually very crude, but it's always useful to
make one in times of distress and confusion. I think I... probably didn't make it right. And
sometimes you do get big discharges of random magic' 'You made it because you were worried,' said
Tiffany. 'Worried? Certainly not. I am never worried!' snapped Miss Tick. 'However, since you


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raise the subject, I was concerned. Something was making me uneasy. Something close, I think. It
was probably nothing. In fact I feel a lot better now we're leaving.' But you don't look it,
Tiffany thought. And I was wrong. Two people means twice as much nervousness each. But she was
sure there was nothing magical about Twoshirts. It was just a bend in the road. Twenty minutes
later the passengers came out to get into the coach. The coachman did notice that the horses were
sweating, and wondered why he could hear a swarm of flies when there were no flies to be seen. The
dog that had been lying in the road was found later cowering in one of the inn's stables,
whimpering. The wood was about half an hour's walk away, with Miss Tick and Tiffany taking turns
to carry the suitcase. It was nothing special, as woods go, being mostly full-grown beech,
although once you know that beech drips unpleasant poisons on the ground beneath it to keep it
clear it's not quite the timber you thought it was. They sat on a log and waited for sunset. Miss
Tick told Tiffany about shambles. They're not magical then?' said Tiffany. 'No. They're something
to be magical through.' 'You mean like spectacles help you see but don't see for you?' 'That's
right, well done! Is a telescope magical? Certainly not. It's just glass in a tube, but with one
you could count the dragons on the moon. And... well, have you ever used a bow? No, probably not.
But a shamble can act like a bow, too. A bow stores up muscle power as the archer draws it, and
sends a heavy arrow much further than the archer could actually throw it. You can make one out of
anything, so long as it... looks right.' 'And then you can tell if magic is happening?' 'Yes, if
that's what you're looking for. When you're good at it you can use it to help you do magic
yourself, to really focus on what you have to do. You can use it for protection, like a curse-net,
or to send a spell, or... well, it's like those expensive penknives, you know? The ones with the
tiny saw and the scissors and the toothpick? Except that I don't think any witch has ever used a
shamble as a toothpick, ha ha. All young witches should learn how to make a shamble. Miss Level
will help you.' Tiffany looked around the wood. The shadows were growing longer, but they didn't
worry her. Bits of Miss Tick's teachings floated through her head: Always face what you fear. Have
just enough money, never too much, and some string. Even if it's not your fault it's your
responsibility. Witches deal with things. Never stand between two mirrors. Never cackle. Do what
you must do. Never lie, but you don't always have to be honest. Never wish. Especially don't wish
upon a star, which is astronomically stupid. Open your eyes, and then open your eyes again. 'Miss
Level has got long grey hair, has she?' she said. 'Oh, yes.' 'And she's quite a tall lady, just a
bit fat, and she wears quite a lot of necklaces,' Tiffany went on. 'And glasses on a chain. And
surprisingly high-heeled boots.' Miss Tick wasn't a fool. She looked around the clearing. 'Where
is she?' she said. 'Standing by the tree over there,' said Tiffany. Even so, Miss Tick had to
squint. What Tiffany had noticed was that witches filled space. In a way that was almost
impossible to describe, they seemed to be more real than others around them. They just showed up
more. But if they didn't want to be seen, they became amazingly hard to notice. They didn't hide,
they didn't magically fade away, although it might seem like that, but if you had to describe the
room afterwards you'd swear there hadn't been a witch in it. They just seemed to let themselves
get lost. 'Ah yes, well done,' said Miss Tick. 'I was wondering when you'd notice.' Ha! thought
Tiffany. Miss Level got realer as she walked towards them. She was all in black, but clattered
slightly as she walked because of all the black jewellery she wore, and she did have glasses, too,
which struck Tiffany as odd for a witch. Miss Level reminded Tiffany of a happy hen. And she had
two arms, the normal number. 'Ah, Miss Tick,' she said. 'And you must be Tiffany Aching.' Tiffany
knew enough to bow; witches don't curtsy (unless they want to embarrass Roland). 'I'd just like to
have a word with Miss Level, Tiffany, if you don't mind,' said Miss Tick, meaningfully. 'Senior
witch business.' Ha! thought Tiffany again, because she liked the sound of it. 'I'll just go and
have a look at a tree then, shall I?' she said with what she hoped was withering sarcasm. I should
use the bushes if I was you, dear,' Miss Level called after her. 'I don't like stopping once we're
airborne.' There were some holly bushes that made a decent screen, but after being talked to as
though she were ten years old Tiffany would rather have allowed her bladder to explode. I beat the
Queen of the Fairies! she thought as she wandered into the wood. All right, I'm not sure how,
because it's all like a dream now, but I did do it! She was angry at being sent away like that. A
little respect wouldn't hurt, would it? That's what the old witch Mistress Weatherwax had said,
wasn't it? 'I show you respect, as you in turn will respect me.' Mistress Weatherwax, the witch
who all the other witches secretly wanted to be like, had showed her respect, so you'd think the
others could make a bit of effort in that department. She said: 'See me.' ... and stepped out of
herself and walked away towards Miss Tick and Miss Level, in her invisible ghost body. She didn't
dare look down, in case she saw her feet weren't there. When she turned and looked back at her
solid body, she saw it standing demurely by the holly bushes, clearly too far away to be listening
to anyone's conversation. As Tiffany stealthily drew nearer she heard Miss Tick say: '- but quite
frighteningly precocious.' 'Oh dear. I've never got on very well with clever people,' said Miss


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Level. 'Oh, she's a good child at heart,' said Miss Tick, which annoyed Tiffany rather more than
'frighteningly precocious' had. 'Of course, you know my situation,' said Miss Level as the
invisible Tiffany inched closer. 'Yes, Miss Level, but your work does you great credit. That's why
Mistress Weatherwax suggested you.' 'But I am afraid I'm getting a bit absent-minded,' Miss Level
worried. 'It was terrible flying down here, because like a big silly I left my long-distance
spectacles on my other nose...' Her other nose? thought Tiffany. Both witches froze, at exactly
the same time. I'm without an egg!' said Miss Tick. 'I have a beetle in a matchbox against just
such an emergency!' squeaked Miss Level. Their hands flew to their pockets and pulled out string
and feathers and bits of coloured cloth- They know I'm here! thought Tiffany, and whispered, 'See
me not!' She blinked and rocked on her heels as she arrived back in the patient little figure by
the holly bushes. In the distance, Miss Level was frantically making a shamble and Miss Tick was
staring around the wood. 'Tiffany, come here at once!' she shouted. 'Yes, Miss Tick,' said
Tiffany, trotting forward like a good girl. They spotted me somehow, she thought. Well, they are
witches, after all, even if in my opinion they're not very good ones- Then the pressure came. It
seemed to squash the wood flat and filled it with the horrible feeling that something is standing
right behind you. Tiffany sank to her knees with her hands over her ears and a pain like the worst
earache squeezing her head. 'Finished!' shouted Miss Level. She held up a shamble. It was quite
different from Miss Tick's, and made up of string and crow feathers and glittery black beads and,
in the middle, an ordinary matchbox. Tiffany yelled. The pain was like red-hot needles and her
ears filled with the buzz of flies. The matchbox exploded. And then there was silence, and
birdsong, and nothing to show that anything had happened apart from a few pieces of matchbox
spiralling down, along with an iridescent fragment of wing case. 'Oh dear,' said Miss Level. 'He
was quite a good beetle, as beetles go...' "Tiffany, are you all right?' said Miss Tick. Tiffany
blinked. The pain had gone as fast as it had arrived, leaving only a burning memory. She scrambled
to her feet. 'I think so, Miss Tick!' Then a word, if you please!' said Miss Tick, marching over
to a tree and standing there looking stern. 'Yes, Miss Tick?' said Tiffany. 'Did you... do
anything?' said Miss Tick. 'You haven't been summoning things, have you?' 'No! Anyway, I don't
know how to!' said Tiffany. 'It's not your little men then, is it?' said Miss Tick doubtfully.
'They're not mine, Miss Tick. And they don't do that sort of thing. They just shout "Crivens!" and
then start kicking people on the ankle. You definitely know it's them.' 'Well, whatever it was, it
seems to have gone,' said Miss Level. 'And we should go, too, otherwise we'll be flying all
night.' She reached behind another tree and picked up a bundle of firewood. At least, it looked
exactly like that, because it was supposed to. 'My own invention,' she said, modestly. 'One never
knows down here on the plains, does one? And the handle shoots out by means of this button- Oh,
I'm so sorry, it sometimes does that. Did anyone see where it went?' The handle was located in a
bush, and screwed back in. Tiffany, a girl who listened to what people said, watched Miss Level
closely. She definitely had only one nose on her face, and it was sort of uncomfortable to imagine
where anyone might have another one and what they'd use it for. Then Miss Level pulled some rope
out of her pocket and passed it to someone who wasn't there. That's what she did, Tiffany was
sure. She didn't drop it, she didn't throw it, she just held it out and let go, as though she'd
thought she was hanging it on an invisible hook. It landed in a coil on the moss. Miss Level
looked down, then saw Tiffany staring at her and laughed nervously. 'Silly me,' she said. 'I
thought I was over there! I'll forget my own head next!' 'Well... if it's the one on top of your
neck,' said Tiffany cautiously, still thinking about the other nose, 'you've still got it.' The
old suitcase was roped to the bristle end of the broomstick, which now floated calmly a few feet
above the ground. 'There, that'll make a nice comfy seat,' said Miss Level, now the bag of nerves
that most people turned into when they felt Tiffany staring at them. 'If you'd just hang on behind
me. Er. That's what I normally do.' 'You normally hang on behind you?' said Tiffany. 'How can-?'
"Tiffany, I've always encouraged your forthright way of asking questions,' said Miss Tick loudly.
'And now, please, I would love to congratulate you on your mastery of silence! Do climb on behind
Miss Level, I'm sure she'll want to leave while you've still got some daylight.' The stick bobbed
a little as Miss Level climbed onto it. She patted it, invitingly. 'You're not frightened of
heights, are you, dear?' she said as Tiffany climbed on. 'No,' said Tiffany. 'I shall drop in when
I come up for the Witch Trials,' said Miss Tick as Tiffany felt the stick rise gently under her.
'Take care!' It turned out that when Miss Level had asked Tiffany if she was scared of heights, it
had been the wrong question. Tiffany was not afraid of heights at all. She could walk past tall
trees without batting an eyelid. Looking up at huge towering mountains didn't bother her a bit.
What she was afraid of, although she hadn't realized it up until this point, was depths. She was
afraid of dropping such a long way out of the sky that she'd have time to run out of breath
screaming before hitting the rocks so hard that she'd turn to a sort of jelly and all her bones
would break into dust. She was, in fact, afraid of the ground. Miss Level should have thought


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before asking the question. Tiffany clung to Miss Level's belt and stared at the cloth of her
dress. 'Have you ever flown before, Tiffany?' asked the witch as they rose. 'Gnf!' squeaked
Tiffany. 'If you like, I could take us round in a little circle,' said Miss Level. 'We should have
a fine view of your country from up here.' The air was rushing past Tiffany now. It was a lot
colder. She kept her eyes fixed firmly on the cloth. 'Would you like that?' said Miss Level,
raising her voice as the wind grew louder. 'It won't take a moment!' Tiffany didn't have time to
say no, and in any case was sure she'd be sick if she opened her mouth. The stick lurched under
her and the world went sideways. She didn't want to look, but remembered that a witch is always
inquisitive to the point of nosiness. To stay a witch, she had to look. She risked a glance and
saw the world under her. The red-gold light of sunset was flowing across the land, and down there
were the long shadows of Twoshirts and, further away, the woods and villages all the way back to
the long curved hill of the Chalk- - which glowed red, and the white carving of the chalk Horse
burned gold like some giant's pendant. Tiffany stared at it; in the fading light of the afternoon,
with the shadows racing away from the sliding sun, it looked alive. At that moment she wanted to
jump off, fly back, get there by closing her eyes and clicking her heels together, do anything-
No! She 'd bundled those thoughts away, hadn 't she? She had to learn, and there was no one on the
hills to teach her! But the Chalk was her world. She walked on it every day. She could feel its
ancient life under her feet. The land was in her bones, just as Granny Aching had said. It was in
her name, too; in the old language of the Nac Mac Feegle her name sounded like 'Land Under Wave',
and in the eye of her mind she 'd walked in those deep prehistoric seas when the Chalk had been
formed, in a million-year rain made of the shells of tiny creatures. She trod a land made of life,
and breathed it in, and listened to it, and thought its thoughts for it. To see it now, small,
alone, in a landscape that stretched to the end of the world, was too much. She had to go back to
it- For a moment the stick wobbled in the air. No! I know I must go! It jerked back, and there was
a sickening feeling in her stomach as the stick curved away towards the mountains. 'A little bit
of turbulence there, I think,' said Miss Level over her shoulder. 'By the way, did Miss Tick warn
you about the thick woolly pants, dear?' Tiffany, still shocked, mumbled something which managed
to sound like 'no'. Miss Tick had mentioned the pants, and how a sensible witch wore at least
three pairs to stop ice forming, but she had forgotten about them. 'Oh dear,' said Miss Level.
'Then we'd better hedge-hop.' The stick dropped like a stone. Tiffany never forgot that ride,
though she often tried to. They flew just above the ground, which was the blur just below her
feet. Every time they came to a fence or a hedge Miss Level would jump it with a cry of 'Here we
go!' or 'Upsadaisy!' which was probably meant to make Tiffany feel better. It didn't. She threw up
twice. Miss Level flew with her head bent so far down as to be almost level with the stick, thus
getting the maximum aerodynamic advantage from the pointy hat. It was quite a stubby one, only
about nine inches high, rather like a clown hat without the bobbles; Tiffany found out later that
this was so that she didn't have to take it off when entering low-ceilinged cottages. After a
while- an eternity from Tiffany's point of view- they left the farmlands behind and started to fly
through foothills. Before long they'd left trees behind, too, and the stick was flying above the
fast white waters of a wide river, studded with boulders. Spray splashed over their boots. She
heard Miss Level yell above the roar of the river and the rush of the wind: 'Would you mind
leaning back? This bit's a little tricky!' Tiffany risked peeking over the witch's shoulder, and
gasped. There was not much water on the Chalk, except for the little streams that people called
bournes, which flowed down the valleys in late winter and dried up completely in the summer. Big
rivers flowed around it, of course, but they were slow and tame. The water ahead wasn't slow and
tame. It was vertical. The river ran up into the dark blue sky, soared up to the early stars. The
broom followed it. Tiffany leaned back and screamed, and went on screaming as the broomstick
tilted in the air and climbed up the waterfall. She'd known the word, certainly, but the word
hadn't been so big, so wet, and above all it hadn't been so loud. The mist of it drenched her. The
noise pounded on her ears. She held onto Miss Level's belt as they climbed through spray and
thunder and felt that she'd slip at any minute- - and then she was thrown forward, and the noise
of the fall died away behind her as the stick, now once again going 'along' rather than 'up', sped
across the surface of a river that, while still leaping and foaming, at least had the decency to
do it on the ground. There was a bridge high above, and walls of cold rock hemmed in the river on
either side, but the walls got lower and the river got slower and the air got warmer again until
the broomstick skimmed across calm flat water that probably didn't know what was going to happen
to it. Silver fish zigzagged away as they passed over the surface. After a while Miss Tick sent
them curving up across new fields, smaller and greener than the ones at home. There were trees
again, and little woods in deep valleys. But the last of the sunlight was draining away and, soon,
all there was below was darkness. Tiffany must have dozed off, clinging onto Miss Level, because
she felt herself jerk awake as the broomstick stopped in mid-air. The ground was some way below,


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but someone had set out a ring of what turned out to be candle ends, burning in old jars.
Delicately, turning slowly, the stick settled down until it stopped just above the grass. At this
point Tiffany's legs decided to untwist, and she fell off. 'Up we get!' said Miss Level
cheerfully, picking her up. 'You did very well!' 'Sorry about screaming and being sick...' Tiffany
mumbled, tripping over one of the jars and knocking the candle out. She tried to make out anything
in the dark, but her head was spinning. 'Who lit candles, Miss Level?' 'I did. Let's get inside,
it's getting chilly-' Miss Level began. 'Oh, by magic,' said Tiffany, still dizzy. 'Well, it can
be done by magic, yes,' said Miss Level. 'But I prefer matches, which are of course a lot less
effort and quite magical in themselves, when you come to think about it.' She untied the suitcase
from the stick and said: 'Here we are, then! I do hope you'll like it here!' There was that
cheerfulness again. Even when she felt sick and dizzy, and quite interested in knowing where the
privy was as soon as possible, Tiffany still had ears that worked and a mind that, however much
she tried, wouldn't stop thinking. And it thought: That cheerfulness has got cracks around the
edges. Something isn't right here.. .

Chapter 3 Latry

There was a cottage, but Tiffany couldn't see much in the gloom. Apple trees crowded in around it.
Something hanging from a branch brushed against her as, walking unsteadily, she followed Miss
Level. It swung away with a tinkling sound. There was the sound of rushing water, too, some way
away. Miss Level was opening a door. It led into a small, brightly lit and amazingly tidy kitchen.
A fire was burning briskly in the iron stove. 'Urn... I'm supposed to be the apprentice,' said
Tiffany, still groggy from the flight. 'I'll make something to drink if you show me where things
are-' 'No!' Miss Level burst out, raising her hands. The shout seemed to have shocked her, because
she was shaking when she lowered them. 'No -I -I wouldn't dream of it,' she said in a more normal
voice, trying to smile. 'You've had a long day. I'll show you to your room and where things are,
and I'll bring you up some stew, and you can be an apprentice tomorrow. No rush.' Tiffany looked
at the bubbling pot on the iron stove, and the loaf on the table. It was fresh baked bread, she
could smell that. The trouble with Tiffany was her Third Thoughts.[First Thoughts are the everyday
thoughts. Everyone has those. Second Thoughts are the thoughts you think about the way you think.
People who enjoy thinking have those. Third Thoughts are thoughts that watch the world and think
all by themselves. They're rare, and often troublesome. Listening to them is part of witchcraft.]
They thought: She lives by herself. Who lit the fire? A bubbling pot needs stirring from time to
time. Who stirred it? And someone lit the candles. Who? 'Is there anyone else staying here, Miss
Level?' she said. Miss Level looked desperately at the pot and the loaf and back to Tiffany. 'No,
there's only me,' she said, and somehow Tiffany knew she was telling the truth. Or a truth,
anyway. 'In the morning?' said Miss Level, almost pleading. She looked so forlorn that Tiffany
actually felt sorry for her. She smiled. 'Of course, Miss Level,' she said. There was a brief tour
by candlelight. There was a privy not far from the cottage; it was a two-holer, which Tiffany
thought was a bit odd but, of course, maybe other people had lived here once. There was also a
room just for a bath, a terrible waste of space by the standards of Home Farm. It had its own pump
and a big boiler for heating the water. This was definitely posh. Her bedroom was a... nice room.
Nice was a very good word. Everything had frills. Anything that could have a cover on it was
covered. Some attempt had been made to make the room... jolly, as if being a bedroom was a jolly
wonderful thing to be. Tiffany's room back on the farm had a rag rug on the floor, a water jug and
basin on a stand, a big wooden box for clothes, an ancient dolls' house and some old calico
curtains and that was pretty much it. On the farm, bedrooms were for shutting your eyes in. This
room had a chest of drawers. The contents of Tiffany's suitcase filled one drawer easily. The bed
made no sound when Tiffany sat on it. Her old bed had a mattress so old that it had a comfy hollow
in it, and the springs all made different noises; if she couldn't sleep she could move various
parts of her body and play The Bells of St Ungulants on the springs- cling twing glong, gling ping
bloyinnng, dlink plang dyonnng, ding ploink. This room smelled different, too. It smelled of spare
rooms, and other people's soap. At the bottom of her suitcase was a small box that Mr Block the
farm's carpenter had made for her. He did not go in for delicate work, and it was quite heavy. In
it, she kept... keepsakes. There was a piece of chalk with a fossil in it, which was quite rare,
and her personal butter stamp (which showed a witch on a broomstick) in case she got a chance to
make butter here, and a dobby stone, which was supposed to be lucky because it had a hole in it.
(She'd been told that when she was seven, and had picked it up. She couldn't quite see how the
hole made it lucky, but since it had spent a lot of time in her pocket, and then safe and sound in
the box, it probably was more fortunate than most stones, which got kicked around and run over by
carts and so on.) There was also a blue-and-yellow wrapper from an old packet of Jolly Sailor


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tobacco, and a buzzard feather, and an ancient flint arrowhead wrapped up carefully in a piece of
sheep's wool. There were plenty of these on the Chalk. The Nac Mac Feegle used them for spear
points. She lined these up neatly on the top of the chest of drawers, alongside her diary, but
they didn't make the place look more homely. They just looked lonely. Tiffany picked up the old
wrapper and the sheep's wool and sniffed them. They weren't quite the smell of the shepherding
hut, but they were close enough to it to bring tears to her eyes. She had never spent a night away
from the Chalk before. She knew the word 'homesickness' and wondered whether this cold, thin
feeling growing inside her was what it felt like- Someone knocked at the door. 'It's me,' said a
muffled voice. Tiffany jumped off the bed and opened the door. Miss Level came in with a tray that
held a bowl of beef stew and some bread. She put it down on the little table by the bed. 'If you
put it outside the door when you're finished, I'll take it down later,' she said. 'Thank you very
much,' said Tiffany. Miss Level paused at the door. 'It's going to be so nice having someone to
talk to, apart from myself,' she said. 'I do hope you won't want to leave, Tiffany.' Tiffany gave
her a happy little smile, then waited until the door had shut and she'd heard Miss Level's
footsteps go downstairs before tiptoeing to the window and checking there were no bars in it.
There had been something scary about Miss Level's expression. It was sort of hungry and hopeful
and pleading and frightened, all at once. Tiffany also checked that she could bolt the bedroom
door on the inside. The beef stew tasted, indeed, just like beef stew and not, just to take an
example completely and totally at random, stew made out of the last poor girl who'd worked here.
To be a witch, you have to have a very good imagination. Just now, Tiffany was wishing that hers
wasn't quite so good. But Mistress Weatherwax and Miss Tick wouldn't have let her come here if it
was dangerous, would they? Well, would they? They might. They just might. Witches didn't believe
in making things too easy. They assumed you used your brains. If you didn't use your brains, you
had no business being a witch. The world doesn't make things easy, they'd say. Learn how to learn
fast. But... they'd give her a chance, wouldn't they? Of course they would. Probably. She'd nearly
finished the not-made-of-people-at-all-honestly stew when something tried to take the bowl out of
her hand. It was the gentlest of tugs, and when she automatically pulled it back, the tugging
stopped immediately. O-K, she thought. Another strange thing. Well, this is a witch's cottage.
Something pulled at the spoon but, again, stopped as soon as she tugged back. Tiffany put the
empty bowl and spoon back on the tray. 'All right,' she said, hoping she sounded not scared at
all. I've finished.' The tray rose into the air and drifted gently towards the door where it
landed with a faint tinkle. Up on the door, the bolt slid back. The door opened. The tray rose up
and sailed through the doorway. The door shut. The bolt slid across. Tiffany heard the rattle of
the spoon as, somewhere on the dark landing, the tray moved on. It seemed to Tiffany that it was
vitally important that she thought before doing anything. And so she thought: It would be stupid
to run around screaming because your tray had been taken away. After all, whatever had done it had
even had the decency to bolt the door after itself, which meant that it respected her privacy,
even while it ignored it. She cleaned her teeth at the washstand, got into her night-gown and slid
into the bed. She blew out the candle. After a moment she got up, re-lit the candle and with some
effort dragged the chest of drawers in front of the door. She wasn't quite certain why, but she
felt better for doing it. She lay back in the dark again. Tiffany was used to sleeping while,
outside on the downland, sheep baa'd and sheep bells occasionally went tonk. Up here, there were
no sheep to baa and no bells to tonk and, every time one didn't, she woke up thinking, What was
that? But she did get to sleep eventually, because she remembered waking up in the middle of the
night to hear the chest of drawers very slowly slide back to its original position. Tiffany woke
up, still alive and not chopped up, when the dawn was just turning grey. Unfamiliar birds were
singing. There were no sounds in the cottage, and she thought: I'm the apprentice, aren't I? I'm
the one who should be cleaning up and getting the fire lit. I know how this is supposed to go. She
sat up and looked around the room. Her old clothes had been neatly folded on top of the chest of
drawers. The fossil and the lucky stone and the other things had gone, and it was only after a
frantic search that she found them back in the box in her suitcase. 'Now, look,' she said to the
room in general. 'I am a hag, you know. If there are any Nac Mac Feegle here, step out this
minute!' Nothing happened. She hadn't expected anything to happen. The Nac Mac Feegle weren't
particularly interested in tidying things up, anyway. As an experiment she took the candlestick
off the bedside table, put it on the chest of drawers and stood back. More nothing happened. She
turned to look out of the window and, as she did so, there was a faint tint noise. When she spun
round, the candlestick was back on the table. Well... today was going to be a day when she got
answers. Tiffany enjoyed the slightly angry feeling. It stopped her thinking about how much she
wanted to go home. She went to put her dress on and realized that there was something soft yet
crackly in a pocket. Oh, how could she have forgotten? But it had been a busy day, a very busy
day, and maybe she'd wanted to forget, anyway. She pulled out Roland's present and opened the


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white tissue paper carefully. It was a necklace. It was the Horse. Tiffany stared at it. Not what
a horse looks like, but what a horse be... It had been carved in the turf back before history
began, by people who had managed to convey in a few flowing lines everything a horse was:
strength, grace, beauty and speed, straining to break free of the hill. And now someone- someone
clever and, therefore, probably also someone expensive- had made it out of silver. It was flat,
just like it was on the hillside and, just like the Horse on the hillside, some parts of it were
not joined to the rest of the body. The craftsman, though, had joined these carefully together
with tiny silver chain, so that when Tiffany held it up in astonishment it was all there, moving-
while-standing-still in the morning light. She had to put it on. And... there was no mirror, not
even a tiny hand one. Oh, well... 'See me,' said Tiffany. And far away, down on the plains,
something that had lost the trail awoke. Nothing happened for a moment, and then the mist on the
fields parted as something invisible started to move, making a noise like a swarm of flies...
Tiffany shut her eyes, took a couple of small steps sideways, a few steps forward, turned round
and carefully opened her eyes again. There she stood, in front of her, as still as a picture. The
Horse looked very well on the new dress, silver against green. She wondered how much it must have
cost Roland. She wondered why. 'See me not,' she said. Slowly she took the necklace off, wrapped
it up again in its tissue paper and put it in the box with the other things from home. Then she
found one of the postcards from Twoshirts, and a pencil, and with care and attention, wrote Roland
a short thank-you note. After a flash of guilt she carefully used the other postcard to tell her
parents that she was completely still alive. Then, thoughtfully, she went downstairs. It had been
dark last night, so she hadn't noticed the posters stuck up all down the stairs. They were from
circuses, and were covered with clowns and animals and that old-fashioned poster lettering where
no two lines of type are the same. They said things like: Thrills Galore! Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!
Professor Monty Bladder's Three-Ring Circus Cabinet of Curiosities!! In His Actual Mouth!!! See
the Horse With His Head Where His Tail Should Be! See the Egress!!!!! CLOWNS! CLOWNS! CLOWNS! The
Flying Pastrami Brothers will defy Gravity, The Greatest Force in the Universe without a net!* See
Clarence The Tap-Dancing Mule! Wonder at the * The Astounding Mind Reading Act * Wonder at Topsy
and Tipsy And so it went on, right down to tiny print. They were strange, bright things to find in
a little cottage in the woods. She found her way into the kitchen. It was cold and quiet, except
for the ticking of a clock on the wall. Both the hands had fallen off the clock face, and lay at
the bottom of the glass cover, so while the clock was still measuring time it wasn't inclined to
tell anyone about it. As kitchens went, it was very tidy. In the cupboard drawer beside the sink,
forks, spoons and knives were all in neat sections, which was a bit worrying. Every kitchen drawer
Tiffany had ever seen might have been meant to be neat but over the years had been crammed with
things that didn't quite fit, like big ladles and bent bottle-openers, which meant that they
always stuck unless you knew the trick of opening them. Experimentally she took a spoon out of the
spoon section, dropped it amongst the forks and shut the drawer. Then she turned her back. There
was a sliding noise and a tinkle exactly like the tinkle a spoon makes when it's put back amongst
the other spoons, who have missed it and are anxious to hear its tales of life amongst the
frighteningly pointy people. This time she put a knife in with the forks, shut the drawer- and
leaned on it. Nothing happened for a while, and then she heard the cutlery rattling. The noise got
louder. The drawer began to shake. The whole sink began to tremble- 'All right,' said Tiffany,
jumping back. 'Have it your way!' The drawer burst open, the knife jumped from section to section
like a fish and the drawer slammed back. Silence. 'Who are you?' said Tiffany. No one replied. But
she didn't like the feeling in the air. Someone was upset with her now. It had been a silly trick,
anyway. She went out into the garden, quickly. The rushing noise she had heard last night had been
made by a waterfall not far from the cottage. A little water-wheel pumped water into a big stone
cistern, and there was a pipe that led into the house. The garden was full of ornaments. They were
rather sad, cheap ones- bunny rabbits with mad grins, pottery deer with big eyes, gnomes with
pointy red hats and expressions that suggested they were on bad medication. Things hung from the
apple trees or were tied to posts all around the place. There were some dreamcatchers and curse-
nets, which she sometimes saw hanging up outside cottages at home. Other things looked like big
shambles, spinning and tinkling gently. Some... well, one looked like a bird made out of old
brushes, but most looked like piles of junk. Odd junk, though. It seemed to Tiffany that some of
it moved slightly as she went past. When she went back into the cottage, Miss Level was sitting at
the kitchen table. So was Miss Level. There were, in fact, two of her. 'Sorry,' said the Miss
Level on the right. I thought it was best to get it over with right now.' The two women were
exactly alike. 'Oh, I see,' said Tiffany. 'You're twins.' 'No,' said the Miss Level on the left,
I'm not. This might be a little difficult for you to understand,' said the other Miss Level. 'Let
me see, now. You know how twins are sometimes said to be able to share thoughts and feelings?'
said the first Miss Level. Tiffany nodded. 'Well,' said the second Miss Level, 'I'm a bit more


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complicated than that, I suppose, because I'm one person with two bodies,' said the first Miss
Level, and now they spoke like players in a tennis match, slamming the words back and forth. 'I
wanted to break this to you gently, because some people get upset by the idea and find it creepy
or just plain weird.' The two bodies stopped. 'Sorry about that last sentence,' said the Miss
Level on the left. I only do that when I'm really nervous.' 'Er, do you mean that you both-'
Tiffany began, but the Miss Level on the right said quickly, There is no both. There's just me, do
you understand? I know it's hard. But I have a right right hand and a right left hand and a left
right hand and a left left hand. It's all me. I can go shopping and stay home at the same time,
Tiffany. If it helps, think of me as one person with four arms and four legs and four eyes.' All
four of those eyes now watched Tiffany nervously. 'And two noses,' said Tiffany. 'That's right.
You've got it. My right body is slightly clumsier than my left body, but I have better eyesight in
my right pair of eyes. I'm human, just like you, except that there's more of me.' 'But one of you-
that is, one half of you- came all the way to Twoshirts for me,' said Tiffany. 'Oh yes, I can
split up like that,' said Miss Level. 'I'm quite good at it. But if there's a gap of more than
twenty miles or so, I get rather clumsy. And now a cup of tea would do us both good, I think.'
Before Tiffany could move both the Miss Levels stood up and crossed the kitchen. Tiffany watched
one person make a cup of tea using four arms. There are quite a few things that need to be done to
make a cup of tea and Miss Level did them all at once. The bodies stood side by side, passing
things from hand to hand to hand, moving kettle and cups and spoon in a sort of ballet. 'When I
was child they thought I was twins,' she said over one of her shoulders. 'And then... they thought
I was evil,' she said over another shoulder. 'Are you?' said Tiffany. Both of Miss Level turned
round, looking shocked. 'What kind of question is that to ask anyone?' she said. 'Um... the
obvious one?' said Tiffany. 'I mean, if they said "Yes I am! Mwahahaha!", that would save a lot of
trouble, wouldn't it?' Four eyes narrowed. 'Mistress Weatherwax was right,' said Miss Level. 'She
said you were a witch to your boots.' Inside, Tiffany beamed with pride. 'Well, the thing about
the obvious,' said Miss Level, 'is that it so often isn't... Did Mistress Weatherwax really take
off her hat to you?' 'Yes.' 'One day perhaps you'll know how much honour she did you,' said Miss
Level. 'Anyway... no, I'm not evil. But I nearly became evil, I think. Mother died not long after
I was born, my father was at sea and never came back-' 'Worse things happen at sea,' said Tiffany.
It was something Granny Aching had told her. 'Yes, right, and probably they did, or possibly he
never wanted to come back in any case,' said Miss Level dryly. 'And I was put in a charity home,
bad food, horrible teachers, blah, blah, and I fell into the worst company possible, which was my
own. It's amazing the tricks you can get up to when you've got two bodies. Of course, everyone
thought I was twins. In the end I ran away to join the circus. Me! Can you imagine that?' Topsy
and Tipsy, The Astounding Mind-Reading Act?' said Tiffany. Miss Level stood stock still, her mouth
open. 'It was on the posters over the stairs,' Tiffany added. Now Miss Level relaxed. 'Oh, yes. Of
course. Very... quick of you, Tiffany. Yes. You do notice things, don't you...' 'I know I wouldn't
pay money to see the egress,' said Tiffany. 'It just means "the way out".' [Knowing the dictionary
all the way through does have some uses.] 'Clever!' said Miss Level. 'Monty put that on a sign to
keep people moving though the Believe-It-or-Not tent. "This way to the Egress!" Of course, people
thought it was a female eagle or something, so Monty had a big man with a dictionary outside to
show them they got exactly what they paid for! Have you ever been to a circus?' Once, Tiffany
admitted. It hadn't been much fun. Things that try too hard to be funny often aren't. There had
been a moth-eaten lion with practically no teeth, a tightrope walker who was never more than a few
feet above the ground, and a knifethrower who threw a lot of knives at an elderly woman in pink
tights on a big spinning wooden disc and completely failed to hit her every time. The only real
amusement was afterwards, when a cart ran over the clown. 'My circus was a lot bigger,' said Miss
Level when Tiffany mentioned this. 'Although as I recall our knife-thrower was also very bad at
aiming. We had elephants and camels and a lion so fierce it bit a man's arm nearly off.' Tiffany
had to admit that this sounded a lot more entertaining. 'And what did you do?' she said. 'Well, I
just bandaged him up while I shoo'd the lion off him-' 'Yes, Miss Level, but I meant in the
circus. Just reading your own mind?' Miss Level beamed at Tiffany. 'That, yes, and nearly
everything else, too,' she said. 'With different wigs on I was the Stupendous Bohunkus Sisters. I
juggled plates, you know, and wore costumes covered in sequins. And I helped with the high wire
act. Not walking the wire, of course, but generally smiling and glittering at the audience.
Everyone assumed I was twins, and circus people don't ask too many personal questions in any case.
And then what with one thing and another, this and that... I came up here and became a witch.'
Both of Miss Level watched Tiffany carefully. That was quite a long sentence, that last sentence,'
said Tiffany. 'Yes, it was, wasn't it,' said Miss Level. 'I can't tell you everything. Do you
still want to stay? The last three girls didn't. Some people find me slightly... odd.' 'Urn...
I'll stay,' said Tiffany, slowly. The thing that moves things about is a bit strange, though.'


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Miss Level looked surprised, and then said, 'Oh, do you mean Oswald?' There's an invisible man
called Oswald who can get into my bedroom?' said Tiffany, horrified. 'Oh, no. That's just a name.
Oswald isn't a man, he's an ondageist. Have you heard of poltergeists?' 'Er... invisible spirits
that throw things around?' 'Good,' said Miss Level. 'Well, an ondageist is the opposite. They're
obsessive about tidiness. He's quite handy around the house but he's absolutely dreadful if he's
in the kitchen when I'm cooking. He keeps putting things away. I think it makes him happy. Sorry,
I should have warned you, but he normally hides if anyone comes to the cottage. He's shy.' 'And
he's a man? I mean, a male spirit?' 'How would you tell? He's got no body and he doesn't speak. I
just called him Oswald because I always picture him as a worried little man with a dustpan and
brush.' The left Miss Level giggled when the right Miss Level said this. The effect was odd and,
if you thought that way, also creepy. 'Well, we are getting on well,' said the right Miss Level
nervously. 'Is there anything more you want to know, Tiffany?' 'Yes, please,' said Tiffany. 'What
do you want me to do? What do you do?' And mostly, it turned out, what Miss Level did was chores.
Endless chores. You could look in vain for much broomstick tuition, spelling lessons or pointy-hat
management. They were, mostly, the kind of chores that are just... chores. There was a small flock
of goats, technically led by Stinky Sam who had a shed of his own and was kept on a chain, but
really led by Black Meg, the senior nanny, who patiently allowed Tiffany to milk her and then,
carefully and deliberately, put a hoof in the milk bucket. That's a goat's idea of getting to know
you. A goat is a worrying thing if you're used to sheep, because a goat is a sheep with brains.
But Tiffany had met goats before, because a few people in the village kept them for their milk,
which was very nourishing. And she knew that with goats you had to use persykology.[Tiffany knew
what psychology was, but it hadn't been a pronunciation dictionary.] If you got excited, and
shouted, and hit them (hurting your hand, because it's like slapping a sack full of coat hangers)
then they had Won and sniggered at you in goat language, which is almost all sniggering anyway. By
day two, Tiffany learned that the thing to do was reach out and grab Black Meg's hind leg just as
she lifted it up to kick the bucket, and lift it up further. That made her unbalanced and nervous
and the other goats sniggered at her and Tiffany had Won. Next there were the bees. Miss Level
kept a dozen hives, for the wax as much as the honey, in a little clearing that was loud with
buzzing. She made Tiffany wear a veil and gloves before she opened a hive. She wore some, too. 'Of
course,' she observed, 'if you are careful and sober and well centred in your life the bees won't
sting. Unfortunately, not all the bees have heard about this theory. Good morning, Hive Three,
this is Tiffany, she will be staying with us for a while Tiffany half expected the whole hive to
pipe up, in some horrible high-pitched buzz, 'Good morning, Tiffany!' It didn't. 'Why did you tell
them that?' she asked. 'Oh, you have to talk to your bees,' said Miss Level. It's very bad luck
not to. I generally have a little chat with them most evenings. News and gossip, that sort of
thing. Every beekeeper knows about "Telling the Bees".' 'And who do the bees tell?' asked Tiffany.
Both of Miss Level smiled at her. 'Other bees, I suppose,' she said. 'So... if you knew how to
listen to the bees, you'd know everything that was going on, yes?' Tiffany persisted. 'You know,
it's funny you should say that,' said Miss Level. 'There have been a few rumours... But you'd have
to learn to think like a swarm of bees. One mind with thousands of little bodies. Much too hard to
do, even for me.' She exchanged a thoughtful glance with herself. 'Maybe not impossible, though.'
Then there were the herbs. The cottage had a big herb garden, although it contained very little
that you'd stuff a turkey with, and at this time of year there was still a lot of work to be done
collecting and drying, especially the ones with important roots. Tiffany quite enjoyed that. Miss
Level was big on herbs. There is something called the Doctrine of Signatures. It works like this:
when the Creator of the Universe made helpful plants for the use of people, he (or in some
versions, she) put little clues on them to give people hints. A plant useful for toothache would
look like teeth, one to cure earache would look like an ear, one good for nose problems would drip
green goo and so on. Many people believed this. You had to use a certain amount of imagination to
be good at it (but not much in the case of Nose Dropwort) and in Tiffany's world the Creator had
got a little more... creative. Some plants had writing on them, if you knew where to look. It was
often hard to find and usually difficult to read, because plants can't spell. Most people didn't
even know about it and just used the traditional method of finding out whether plants were
poisonous or useful by testing them on some elderly aunt they didn't need, but Miss Level was
pioneering new techniques that she hoped would mean life would be better for everyone (and, in the
case of the aunts, often longer, too). This one is False Gentian,' she told Tiffany when they were
in the long, cool workroom behind the cottage. She was holding up a weed triumphantly. 'Everyone
thinks it's another toothache cure, but just look at the cut root by stored moonlight, using my
blue magnifying glass Tiffany tried it, and read: 'GoOD FoR Colds May cors drowsniss Do nOt oprate
heavE mashinry' 'Terrible spelling, but not bad for a daisy,' said Miss Level. 'You mean plants
really tell you how to use them?' said Tiffany. 'Well, not all of them, and you have to know where


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to look,' said Miss Level. 'Look at this, for example, on the common walnut. You have to use the
green magnifying glass by the light of a taper made from red cotton, thus...' Tiffany squinted.
The letters were small and hard to read. ' "May contain Nut"?' she ventured. 'But it's a nutshell.
Of course it'll contain a nut. Er... won't it?' 'Not necessarily,' said Miss Level. 'It may, for
example, contain an exquisite miniature scene wrought from gold and many coloured precious stones
depicting a strange and interesting temple set in a far-off land. Well, it might,' she added,
catching Tiffany's expression. 'There's no actual law against it. As such. The world is full of
surprises.' That night Tiffany had a lot more to put in her diary. She kept it on top of her chest
of drawers with a large stone on it. Oswald seemed to get the message about this, but he had
started to polish the stone. And pull back, and rise above the cottage, and fly the eye across the
night-time... Miles away, pass invisibly across something that is itself invisible, but which
buzzes like a swarm of flies as it drags itself over the ground... Continue, the roads and towns
and trees rushing behind you with zip-zip noises, until you come to the big city and, near the
centre of the city, the high old tower, and beneath the tower the ancient magical university, and
in the university the library, and in the library the bookshelves, and... the journey has hardly
begun. Bookshelves stream past. The books are on chains. Some snap at you as you pass. And here is
the section of the more dangerous books, the ones that are kept locked in cages or in vats of iced
water or simply clamped between lead plates. But here is a book, faintly transparent and glowing
with thaumic radiation, under a glass dome. Young wizards about to engage in research are
encouraged to go and read it. The title is Hivers: A Dissertation Upon a Device of Amazing Cunning
by Sensibility Bustle, D.M. Phil., B.El L., Patricius Professor of Magic. Most of the hand-written
book is about how to construct a large and powerful magical apparatus to capture a hiver without
harm to the user, but on the very last page Dr Bustle writes, or wrote: According to the ancient
and famous volume JR.es Centum et Una Quas Magus Facere Totest [*'One Hundred and One Things a
Wizard Can Do'] hivers are a type of demon (indeed, Professor Poledread classifies them as such in
Spy Demons, and Cuvee gives them a section under 'wandering spirits' in LIBER IMMANIS MONSTRORUM
[The Monster Book of Monsters]. However, ancient texts discovered in the Cave of Jars by the ill-
fated First Expedition to the Loko Region give quite a different story, which bears out my own not
inconsiderable research. Hivers were formed in the first seconds of Creation. They are not alive
but they have, as it were, the shape of life. They have no body, brain or thoughts of their own
and a naked hiver is a sluggish thing indeed, tumbling gently through the endless night between
the worlds. According to Poledread, most end up at the bottom of deep seas, or in the bellies of
volcanoes, or drifting through the hearts of stars. Poledread was a very inferior thinker compared
to myself, but in this case he is right. Yet a hiver does have the ability to fear and to crave.
We cannot guess what frightens a hiver, but they seem to take refuge in bodies that have power of
some sort- great strength, great intellect, great prowess with magic. In this sense they are like
the common hermit elephant of Howondaland, Elephantus SoUtarms, that will always seek the
strongest mud hut as its shell. There is no doubt in my mind that hivers have advanced the cause
of life. Why did fish crawl out of the sea? Why did humanity grasp such a dangerous thing as fire?
Hivers, I believe, have been behind this, firing outstanding creatures of various species with the
flame of necessary ambition which drove them onwards and upwards! What is it that a hiver seeks?
What is it that drives them forward? What is it they want? This I shall find out! Oh, lesser
wizards warn us that a hiver distorts the mind of its host, curdling it and inevitably causing an
early death through brain fever. I say, Poppycock! People have always been afraid of what they do
not understand! But I have understanding. This morning, at two o'clock, I captured a hiver with my
device! And now it is locked inside my head. I can sense its memories, the memories of every
creature it has inhabited. Yet, because of my superior intellect, I control the hiver. It does not
control me. I do not feel that it has changed me in any way. My mind is as extraordinarily
powerful as it always has been!! At this point the writing is smudgy, apparently because Bustle
was beginning to dribble. Oh, how they have held me back over the years, those worms and cravens
that have through sheer luck been allowed to call themselves my superiors! They laughed at me! BUT
THEY ARE NOT LAUGHING NOW!!! Even those who called themselves my friends, OH YES, they did nothing
but hinder me. What about the warnings? they said. Why did the jar you found the plans in have the
words 'Do Not Open in Any Circumstances!' engraved in fifteen ancient languages on the lid? they
said. Cowards! Socalled 'chums'! Creatures inhabited by a hiver become paranoid and insane, they
said! Hivers cannot be controlled, they squeaked!! DO ANY OF US BELIEVE THIS FOR ONE MINUTE??? Oh,
what glories AWAIT!!! Now I have cleansed my life of such worthlessness!!! And as for those even
now having the DISRESPECT YES DISRESPECT to hammer on my door because of what I did to the so-
called Archchancellor and the College Council... HOW DARE THEY JUDGE ME!!!!! Like all insects they
have NO CONCEPT OF GREATNESS!!!!! I WILL SHOW THEM!!!!! But... I insoleps... blit!!!!!
hammeringggg dfgujf blort... ... And there the writing ends. On a little card beside the book some


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wizard of former times has written: All that could be found of Professor Bustle was buried in a
jar in the old Rose Garden. We advise all research students to spend some time there, and reflect
upon the manner of his death. The moon was on the way to being full. A gibbous moon, it's called.
It's one of the duller phases of the moon and seldom gets illustrated. The full moon and the
crescent moon get all the publicity. Rob Anybody sat alone on the mound, just outside the fake
rabbit hole, staring at the distant mountains where the snow on the peaks gleamed in the
moonlight. A hand touched him lightly on the shoulder. ' 'Tis not like ye to let someone creep up
on ye, Rob Anybody' said Jeannie, sitting down beside him. Rob Anybody sighed. 'Daft Wullie was
telling me ye havenae been eatin' your meals,' said Jeannie, carefully. Rob Anybody sighed. 'And
Big Yan said when ye wuz out huntin' today ye let a fox go past wi'out gieing it a good kickin'?'
Rob sighed again. There was a faint pop followed by a glugging noise. Jeannie held out a tiny
wooden cup. In her other hand was a small leather bottle. Fumes from the cup wavered in the air.
'This is the last o' the Special Sheep Liniment your big wee hag gave us at our wedding,' said
Jeannie. I put it safely by for emergencies.' 'She's no' my big wee hag, Jeannie,' said Rob,
without looking at the cup. 'She's oor big wee hag. An' I'll tell ye, Jeannie, she has it in her
tae be the hag o' hags. There's power in her she doesnae dream of. But the hiver smells it.' 'Aye,
well, a drink's a drink whomsoever ye call her,' said Jeannie, soothingly. She waved the cup under
Rob's nose. He sighed, and looked away. Jeannie stood up quickly. 'Wullie! Big Yan! Come quick!'
she yelled. 'He willnae tak' a drink! I think he's deidY 'Ach, this is no' the time for strong
licker,' said Rob Anybody. 'My heart is heavy, wumman.' 'Quickly now!' Jeannie shouted down the
hole... 'He's deid and still talkin'!' 'She's the hag o' these hills,' said Rob, ignoring her.
'Just like her granny. She tells the hills what they are, every day. She has them in her bones.
She holds 'em in her heart. Wi'out her, I dinnae like tae think o' the future.' The other Feegles
had come scurrying out of the hole and were looking uncertainly at Jeannie. 'Is somethin' wrong?'
said Daft Wullie. 'Aye!' snapped the kelda. 'Rob willnae tak' a drink o' Special Sheep Liniment!'
Wullie's little face screwed up in instant grief. 'Ach, the Big Man's deidY he sobbed. 'Oh waily
waily waily-' 'Will ye hush yer gob, ye big mudlin!' shouted Rob Anybody, standing up. 'I am no'
deid! I'm trying to have a moment o' existential dreed here, right? Crivens, it's a puir lookout
if a man cannae feel the chilly winds o' Fate lashing aroound his nethers wi'out folks telling him
he's deid, eh?' 'Ach, and I see ye've been talking to the toad again, Rob,' said Big Yan. 'He's
the only one arroond here that used them lang words that tak' all day to walk the length of ...'
He turned to Jeannie. 'It's a bad case o' the thinkin' he's caught, missus. When a man starts
messin' wi' the readin' and the writin' then he'll come doon with a dose o' the thinkin' soon
enough. I'll fetch some o' the lads and we'll hold his heid under water until he stops doin' it,
'tis the only cure. It can kill a man, the thinkin'.' I'll wallop ye and ten like ye!' yelled Rob
Anybody in Big Yan's face, raising his fists. I'm the Big Man in this clan and-' 'And I am the
Kelda,' said their kelda, and one of the hiddlins of keldaring is to use your voice like that:
hard, cold, sharp, cutting the air like a dagger of ice. 'And I tell you men to go back doon the
hole and dinnae show you faces back up here until I say. Not you, Rob Anybody Feegle! You stay
here until I tell ye!' 'Oh waily waily-' Daft Wullie began, but Big Yan clapped a hand over his
mouth and dragged him away quickly. When they were alone, and scraps of cloud were beginning to
mass around the moon, Rob Anybody hung his head. 'I willnae go, Jeannie, if you say,' he said.
'Ach, Rob, Rob,' said Jeannie, beginning to cry. 'Ye dinnae understand. I want no harm to come to
the big wee girl, truly I don't. But I cannae face thinkin' o' you out there fightin' this monster
that cannae be killed! It's you I'm worried aboot, can ye no' seel' Rob put his arm around her.
'Aye, I see,' he said. 'I'm your wife, Rob, askin' ye not to go!' 'Aye, aye. I'll stay,' said Rob.
Jeannie looked up to him. Tears shone in the moonlight. 'Ye mean it?' 'I never braked my word
yet,' said Rob. 'Except to polis'men and other o' that kidney, ye ken, and they dinnae count.'
'Yell stay? Yell abide by my word?' said Jeannie, sniffing. Rob sighed. 'Aye. I will.' Jeannie was
quiet for a while, and then said, in the sharp cold voice of a kelda: 'Rob Anybody Feegle, I'm
tellin' ye now to go and save the big wee hag.' 'Whut?' said Rob Anybody, amazed. 'Jus' noo ye
said I was tae stay-' 'That was as your wife, Rob. Now I'm telling you as your kelda.' Jeannie
stood up, chin out and looking determined. 'If ye dinnae heed the word o' yer kelda, Rob Anybody
Feegle, ye can be banished fra' the clan. Ye ken that. So you'll listen t' me guid. Tak' what men
you need afore it's too late, and go to the mountains, and see that the big wee girl comes tae nae
harm. And come back safe yoursel'. That is an order! Nay, 'tis more'n an order. 'Tis a geas I'm
laying on ye! That cannae be brake!' 'But I-' Rob began, completely bewildered. 'I'm the kelda,
Rob,' said Jeannie. 'I cannae run a clan with the Big Man pinin'. And the hills of our children
need their hag. Everyone knows the land needs someone tae tell it whut it is.' There was something
about the way Jeannie had said 'children'. Rob Anybody was not the fastest of thinkers, but he
always got there in the end. 'Aye, Rob,' said Jeannie, seeing his expression. 'Soon I'll be


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birthing seven sons.' 'Oh,' said Rob Anybody. He didn't ask how she knew the number. Keldas just
knew. 'That's great!' he said. 'And one daughter, Rob.' Rob blinked. 'A daughter? This soon?'
'Aye,' said Jeannie. 'That's wonderful good luck for a clan!' said Rob. 'Aye. So you've got
something to come back safe to me for, Rob Anybody. An' I beg ye to use your heid for somethin'
other than nuttin' folk.' 'I thank ye, Kelda,' said Rob Anybody. 'I'll do as ye bid. I'll tak'
some lads and find the big wee hag, for the good o' the hills. It cannae be a good life for the
puir wee big wee thing, all alone and far fra' home, among strangers.' 'Aye,' said Jeannie,
turning her face away. 'I ken that, too.'

Chapter 4 PLAN

At dawn Rob Anybody, watched with awe by his many brothers, wrote the word: PLN ... on a scrap of
paper bag. Then he held it up. 'Plan, ye ken,' he said to the assembled Feegles. 'Now we have a
Plan, all we got tae do is work out what tae do. Yes, Wullie?' 'Whut was that about this geese
Jeannie hit ye with?' said Daft Wullie, lowering his hand. 'Not geese, geas,' said Rob Anybody. He
sighed. 'I told yez. That means it's serious. It means I got tae bring back the big wee hag, an'
no excuses, otherwise my soul gaes slam-bang intae the big cludgie in the sky. It's like a magical
order. 'Tis a heavy thing, tae be under a geas.' 'Well, they're big birds,' said Daft Wullie.
'Wullie,' said Rob, patiently, 'ye ken I said I would tell ye when there wuz times you should've
kept your big gob shut?' 'Aye, Rob.' 'Weel, that wuz one o' them times.' He raised his voice.
'Now, lads, ye ken all aboot hivers. They cannae be killed! But 'tis oor duty to save the big wee
hag, so this is, like, a sooey-side mission and yell probably all end up back in the land o' the
living doin' a borin' wee job. So... I'm askin' for volunteers!' Every Feegle over the age of four
automatically put his hand up. 'Oh, come on,' said Rob. 'You cannae all come! Look, I'll tak'...
Daft Wullie, Big Yan and... you, Awf'ly Wee Billy Bigchin. An' I'm takin' no weans, so if yez
under three inches high ye're not comin'! Except for ye, o'course, Awf'ly Wee Billy. As for the
rest of youse, we'll settle this the traditional Feegle way. I'll tak' the last fifty men still
standing!' He beckoned the chosen three to a place in the corner of the mound while the rest of
the crowd squared up cheerfully. A Feegle liked to face enormous odds all by himself, because it
meant you didn't have to look where you were hitting. 'She's more'n a hundret miles awa',' said
Rob as the big fight started. 'We cannae run it, 'tis too far. Any of youse scunners got any
ideas?' 'Hamish can get there on his buzzard,' said Big Yan, stepping aside as a cluster of
punching, kicking Feegles rolled past. 'Aye, and he'll come wi' us, but he cannae tak' more'n one
passenger,' shouted Rob over the din. 'Can we swim it?' said Daft Wullie, ducking as a stunned
Feegle hurtled over his head. The others looked at him. 'Swim it? How can we swim there fra' here,
yer daftie?' said Rob Anybody. 'It's just worth consid'ring, that's all,' said Wullie, looking
hurt. 'I wuz just tryin' to make a contribution, ye ken? Just wanted to show willin'.' 'The big
wee hag left in a cart,' said Big Yan. 'Aye, so what?' said Rob. 'Weel, mebbe we could?' 'Ach,
no!' said Rob. 'Showin' oursels tae hags is one thing, but not to other folks! You remember what
happened a few years back when Daft Wullie got spotted by that lady who wuz painting the pretty
pictures doon in the valley? I dinnae want to have them Folklore Society bigjobs pokin' aroound
again!' 'I have an idea, Mister Rob. It's me, Awf'ly Wee Billy Bigchin Mac Feegle. We could
disguise oursels.' Awf'ly Wee Billy Bigchin Mac Feegle always announced himself in full. He seemed
to feel that if he didn't tell people who he was, they'd forget about him and he'd disappear. When
you're half the size of most grown pictsies you're really short; much shorter and you'd be a hole
in the ground. He was the new gonnagle. A gonnagle is the clan's bard and battle poet, but they
don't spend all their lives in the same clan. In fact, they're a sort of clan all by themselves.
Gonnagles move around among the other clans, making sure the songs and stories get spread around
all the Feegles. Awf'ly Wee Billy had come with Jeannie from the Long Lake clan, which often
happens. He was very young for a gonnagle, but as Jeannie had said, there was no age limit to
gonnagling. If the talent was in you, you gonnagled. And Awf'ly Wee Billy knew all the songs and
could play the mousepipes so sadly that outside it would start to rain. 'Aye, lad?' said Rob
Anybody kindly. 'Speak up, then.' 'Can we get hold o' some human clothes?' said Awf'ly Wee Billy.
'Because there's an old story about the big feud between the Three Peaks clan and the Windy River
clan and the Windy River boys escaped by making a tattie-bogle walk, and the men o' Three Peaks
thought it was a bigjob and kept oot o' its way.' The others looked puzzled, and Awf'ly Wee Billy
remembered that they were men of the Chalk and had probably never seen a tattie-bogle. 'A
scarecrow?' he said. 'It's like a bigjob made o' sticks, wi' clothes on, for to frighten away the
birdies fra' the crops? Now, the song says the Windy River's kelda used magic to make it walk, but
I reckon it was done by cunnin' and strength.' He sang about it. They listened. He explained how
to make a human that would walk. They looked at one another. It was a mad, desperate plan, which


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was very dangerous and risky and would require tremendous strength and bravery to make it work.
Put like that, they agreed to it instantly. Tiffany found that there was more than chores and the
research, though. There was what Miss Level called 'filling what's empty and emptying what's
full'. Usually only one of Miss Level's bodies went out at a time. People thought Miss Level was
twins, and she made sure they continued to do so, but she found it a little bit safer all round to
keep the bodies apart. Tiffany could see why. You only had to watch both of Miss Level when she
was eating. The bodies would pass plates to one another without saying a word, sometimes they'd
eat off one another's forks, and it was rather strange to see one person burp and the other one
say 'Oops, pardon me'. 'Filling what's empty and emptying what's full' meant wandering round the
local villages and the isolated farms and, mostly, doing medicine. There were always bandages to
change or expectant mothers to talk to. Witches did a lot of midwifery, which is a kind of
'emptying what's full', but Miss Level, wearing her pointy hat, had only to turn up at a cottage
for other people to suddenly come visiting, by sheer accident. And there was an awful lot of
gossip and tea-drinking. Miss Level moved in a twitching, living world of gossip, although Tiffany
noticed that she picked up a lot more than she passed on. It seemed to be a world made up entirely
of women, but occasionally, out in the lanes, a man would strike up a conversation about the
weather and somehow, by some sort of code, an ointment or a potion would get handed over. Tiffany
couldn't quite work out how Miss Level got paid. Certainly the basket she carried filled up more
than it emptied. They'd walk past a cottage and a woman would come scurrying out with a fresh-
baked loaf or a jar of pickles, even though Miss Level hadn't stopped there. But they'd spend an
hour somewhere else, stitching up the leg of a farmer who'd been careless with an axe, and get a
cup of tea and a stale biscuit. It didn't seem fair. 'Oh, it evens out,' said Miss Level, as they
walked on through the woods. 'You do what you can. People give what they can, when they can. Old
Slapwick there, with the leg, he's as mean as a cat, but there'll be a big cut of beef on my
doorstep before the week's end, you can bet on it. His wife will see to it. And pretty soon people
will be killing their pigs for the winter, and I'll get more brawn, ham, bacon and sausages
turning up than a family could eat in a year.' 'You do? What do you do with all that food?' 'Store
it,' said Miss Level. 'But you-' 'I store it in other people. It's amazing what you can store in
other people.' Miss Level laughed at Tiffany's expression. 'I mean, I take what I don't need round
to those who don't have a pig, or who're going through a bad patch, or who don't have anyone to
remember them.' 'But that means they'll owe you a favour!' 'Right! And so it just keeps on going
round. It all works out.' 'I bet some people are too mean to pay-' 'Not pay,' said Miss Level,
severely. 'A witch never expects payment and never asks for it and just hopes she never needs to.
But, sadly, you are right.'
And then what happens?' 'What do you mean?' 'You stop helping them, do you?' 'Oh, no,' said Miss
Level, genuinely shocked. 'You can't not help people just because they're stupid or forgetful or
unpleasant. Everyone's poor round here. If I don't help them, who will?' 'Granny Aching... that
is, my grandmother said someone has to speak up for them as has no voices,' Tiffany volunteered
after a moment. 'Was she a witch?' I'm not sure,' said Tiffany. 'I think so, but she didn't know
she was. She mostly lived by herself in an old shepherding hut up on the downs.' 'She wasn't a
cackler, was she?' said Miss Level, and when she saw Tiffany's expression she said hurriedly,
'Sorry, sorry. But it can happen, when you're a witch who doesn't know it. You're like a ship with
no rudder. But obviously she wasn't like that, I can tell.' 'She lived on the hills and talked to
them and she knew more about sheep than anybody!' said Tiffany hotly. 'I'm sure she did, I'm sure
she did-' 'She never cackled!' 'Good, good,' said Miss Level soothingly. 'Was she clever at
medicine?' Tiffany hesitated. 'Urn... only with sheep,' she said, calming down. 'But she was very
good. Especially if it involved turpentine. Mostly if it involved turpentine, actually. But always
she... was... just... there. Even when she wasn't actually there 'Yes,' said Miss Level. 'You know
what I mean?' said Tiffany. 'Oh, yes,' said Miss Level. 'Your Granny Aching lived down on the
uplands-' 'No, up on the downland,' Tiffany corrected her. 'Sorry, up on the downland, with the
sheep, but people would look up sometimes, look up at the hills, knowing she was there somewhere,
and say to themselves "What would Granny Aching do?" or "What would Granny Aching say if she found
out?" or "Is this the sort of thing Granny Aching would be angry about?"' said Miss Level. 'Yes?'
Tiffany narrowed her eyes. It was true. She remembered when Granny Aching had hit a pedlar who'd
overloaded his donkey and was beating it. Granny usually used only words, and not many of them.
The man had been so frightened by her sudden rage that he'd stood there and taken it. It had
frightened Tiffany, too. Granny, who seldom said anything without thinking about it for ten
minutes beforehand, had struck the wretched man twice across the face in a brief blur of movement.
And then news had got around, all along the Chalk. For a while, at least, people were a little
more gentle with their animals... For months after that moment with the pedlar, carters and
drovers and farmers all across the downs would hesitate before raising a whip or a stick, and


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think: Suppose Granny Aching is watching? But- 'How did you know that?' she said. 'Oh, I guessed.
She sounds like a witch to me, whatever she thought she was. A good one, too.' Tiffany inflated
with inherited pride. 'Did she help people?' Miss Level added. The pride deflated a bit. The
instant answer 'yes' jumped onto her tongue, and yet... Granny Aching hardly ever came down off
the hills, except for Hogswatch and the early lambing. You seldom saw her in the village unless
the pedlar who sold Jolly Sailor tobacco was late on his rounds, in which case she'd be down in a
hurry and a flurry of greasy black skirts to cadge a pipeful off one of the old men. But there
wasn't a person on the Chalk, from the Baron down, who didn't owe something to Granny. And what
they owed to her, she made them pay to others. She always knew who was short of a favour or two.
'She made them help one another' she said. 'She made them help themselves.' In the silence that
followed, Tiffany heard the birds singing by the road. You got a lot of birds here, but she missed
the high scream of the buzzards. Miss Level sighed. 'Not many of us are that good,' she said. 'If
I was that good, we wouldn't be going to visit old Mr Weavall again.' Tiffany said 'Oh dear'
inside. Most days included a visit to Mr Weavall. Tiffany dreaded them. Mr Weavall's skin was
paper-thin and yellowish. He was always in the same old armchair, in a tiny room in a small
cottage that smelled of old potatoes and was surrounded by a more or less overgrown garden. He'd
be sitting bolt upright, his hands on two walking sticks, wearing a suit that was shiny with age,
staring at the door. 'I make sure he has something hot every day, although he eats like a bird,'
Miss Level had said. 'And old Widow Tussy down the lane does his laundry, such as it is. He's
ninety-one, you know.' Mr Weavall had very bright eyes and chatted away to and at them as they
tidied up the room. The first time Tiffany had met him he'd called her Mary. Sometimes he still
did. And he'd grabbed her wrist with surprising force as she walked past... It had been a real
shock, that claw of a hand suddenly gripping her. You could see blue veins under the skin. 'I
shan't be a burden on anyone' he'd said urgently. 'I got money put by for when I go. My boy Toby
won't have nothin' to worry about. I can pay my way! I want the proper funeral show, right? With
the black horses and the plumes and the mutes and a knife-and-fork tea for everyone afterwards.
I've written it all down, fair and square. Check in my box to make sure, will you? That witch
woman's always hanging around here!' Tiffany had given Miss Level a despairing look. She'd nodded,
and pointed to an old wooden box tucked under Mr Weavall's chair. It had turned out to be full of
coins, mostly copper, but there were quite a few silver ones. It looked like a fortune, and for a
moment she'd wished she had as much money. There's a lot of coins in here, Mr Weavall,' she'd
said. Mr Weavall relaxed. 'Ah, that's right,' he'd said. 'Then I won't be a burden.' Today Mr
Weavall was asleep when they called on him, snoring with his mouth open and his yellow-brown teeth
showing. But he awoke in an instant, stared at them and then said, 'My boy Toby's coming to see I
Sat'day.' 'That's nice, Mr Weavall,' said Miss Level, plumping up his cushions. 'We'll get the
place nice and tidy.' 'He's done very well for hisself, you know,' said Mr Weavall, proudly. 'Got
a job indoors with no heavy lifting. He said he'll see I all right in my old age, but I told him,
I told him I'd pay my way when I go- the whole thing, the salt and earth and tuppence for the
ferryman, too!' Today, Miss Level gave him a shave. His hands shook too much for him to do it
himself. (Yesterday she'd cut his toenails, because he couldn't reach them; it was not a safe
spectator sport, especially when one smashed a windowpane.) 'It's all in a box under my chair,' he
said as Tiffany nervously wiped the last bits of foam off him. 'Just check for me, will you,
Mary?' Oh, yes. That was the ceremony, every day. There was the box, and there was the money. He
asked every time. There was always the same amount of money. 'Tuppence for the ferryman?' said
Tiffany, as they walked home. 'Mr Weavall remembers all the old funeral traditions,' said Miss
Level. 'Some people believe that when you die you cross the River of Death and have to pay the
ferryman. People don't seem to worry about that these days. Perhaps there's a bridge now.' 'He's
always talking about... his funeral.' 'Well, it's important to him. Sometimes old people are like
that. They'd hate people to think that they were too poor to pay for their own funeral. Mr
Weavall'd die of shame if he couldn't pay for his own funeral.' It's very sad, him being all alone
like that. Something should be done for him,' said Tiffany. 'Yes. We're doing it,' said Miss
Level. 'And Mrs Tussy keeps a friendly eye on him.' 'Yes, but it shouldn't have to be us, should
it?' 'Who should it have to be?' said Miss Level. 'Well, what about this son he's always talking
about?' said Tiffany. 'Young Toby? He's been dead for fifteen years. And Mary was the old man's
daughter, she died quite young. Mr Weavall is very short-sighted, but he sees better in the past.'
Tiffany didn't know what to reply except: 'It shouldn't be like this.' 'There isn't a way things
should be. There's just what happens, and what we do.' 'Well, couldn't you help him by magic?' 'I
see to it that he's in no pain, yes,' said Miss Level. 'But that's just herbs.' 'It's still magic.
Knowing things is magical, if other people don't know them.' 'Yes, but you know what I mean,' said
Tiffany, who felt she was losing this argument. 'Oh, you mean make him young again?' said Miss
Level. 'Fill his house with gold? That's not what witches do.' 'We see to it that lonely old men


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get a cooked dinner and cut their toenails?' said Tiffany, just a little sarcastically. 'Well,
yes,' said Miss Level. 'We do what can be done. Mistress Weatherwax said you've got to learn that
witchcraft is mostly about doing quite ordinary things.' 'And you have do what she says?' said
Tiffany. 'I listen to her advice' said Miss Level, coldly. 'Mistress Weatherwax is the head witch,
then, is she?' 'Oh no!' said Miss Level, looking shocked. 'Witches are all equal. We don't have
things like head witches. That's quite against the spirit of witchcraft.' 'Oh, I see,' said
Tiffany. 'Besides,' Miss Level added, 'Mistress Weatherwax would never allow that sort of thing.'
Suddenly, things were going missing from the households around the Chalk. This wasn't the
occasional egg or chicken. Clothes were vanishing off washing lines. A pair of boots mysteriously
disappeared from under the bed of Nosey Hinds, the oldest man in the village- 'And they was damn
good boots, they could walk home from the pub all by themselves if I but pointed they in the right
direction,' he complained to anyone who would listen. 'And they marched off wi' my old hat, too.
And I'd got he just as I wanted he, all soft and floppy!' A pair of trousers and a long coat
vanished from a hook belonging to Abiding Swindell, the ferret-keeper, and the coat still had
ferrets living in the inside pockets. And who, who climbed through the bedroom window of Clem
Doins and shaved off his beard, which had been so long that he could tuck it into his belt? Not a
hair was left. He had to go around with a scarf over his face, in case the sight of his poor pink
chin frightened the ladies... It was probably witches, people agreed, and made a few more curse-
nets to hang in their windows. However... On the far side of the Chalk, where the long green
slopes came down to the flat fields of the plain, there were big thickets of bramble and hawthorn.
Usually, these were alive with birdsong, but this particular one, the one just here, was alive
with cussing. 'Ach, crivens! Will ye no' mind where ye 're puttin' yer foot, ye spavie!' 'I cannae
help it! It's nae easy, bein' a knee!' ' Ye think ye got troubles? Ye wannae be doon here in the
boots! That old man Swindell couldnae ha' washed his feet in years! It's fair reekin' doon here!'
'Reekin', izzit? Well, you try bein' in this pocket! Them ferrets ne 'er got oot to gae to the
lavie, if you get my meanin'!' 'Crivens! Will ye dafties no' shut up?' 'Oh, aye? Hark at him! Just
'cuzye're up in the held, you think you know everythin'? Fra' doon here ye're nothing but dead
weight, pal!' 'Aye, right! I'm wi' the elbows on this one! Where'dyou be if it wuzn'tfor us
carryin' ye aroound? Who's ye think ye are?' 'I'm Rob Anybody Feegle, as you ken well enough, an'
I've had enough o' the lot o' yezf 'OK, Rob, but it's real stuffy in here!' 'Ach, an' I'm fed up
wi' the stomach complainin', too!' 'Gentlemen.' This was the voice of the toad; no one else would
dream of calling the Nac Mac Feegle gentlemen. 'Gentlemen, time is of the essence. The cart will
be here soon! You must not miss it!' 'We need more time to practise, Toad! We're walkin' like a
feller wi' nae bones and a serious case o' the trots!' said a voice a little higher up than the
rest. 'At least you are walking. That's good enough. I wish you luck, gentlemen.' There was a cry
from further along the thickets, where a lookout had been watching the road. 'The cart's comin'
doon the hill!' 'OK, lads!' shouted Rob Anybody. 'Toad, you look after Jeannie, y'hear? She'll
need a thinkin' laddie to rely on while I'm no' here! Right, ye scunners! It's do or die! Ye ken
what to do! Ye lads on the ropes, pull us up noo!' The bushes shook. 'Right! Pelvis, are ye
ready?' 'Aye, Rob!' 'Knees? Knees? I said, knees?' 'Aye, Rob, but-' 'Feets?' 'Aye, Rob!' The
bushes shook again. 'Right! Remember: right, left, right, left! Pelvis, knee, foot on the groond!
Keep a spring in the step, feets! Are you ready? Altogether, boys... walk!' It was a big surprise
for Mr Crabber the carter. He'd been staring vaguely at nothing, thinking only of going home, when
something stepped out of the bushes and into the road. It looked human or, rather, looked slightly
more human than it looked like anything else. But it seemed to be having trouble with its knees,
and walked as though they'd been tied together. However, the carter didn't spend too much time
thinking about that because, clutched in one gloved hand that was waving vaguely in the air, was
something gold. This immediately identified the stranger, as far as the carter was concerned. He
was not, as first sight might suggest, some old tramp to be left by the roadside, but an obvious
gentleman down on his luck, and it was practically the carter's duty to help him. He slowed the
horse to a standstill. The stranger didn't really have a face. There was nothing much to see
between the droopy hat brim and the turned-up collar of the coat except a lot of beard. But from
somewhere within the beard a voice said: '... Shudupshudup... will ye all shudup while I'm
talkin'... Ahem. Good day ta' ye, carter fellow my ol' fellowy fellow! If ye'll gie us- me a lift
as far as ye are goin', we- I'll gie ye this fine shiny golden coin!' The figure lurched forward
and thrust its hand in front of Mr Crabber's face. It was quite a large coin. And it was certainly
gold. It had come from the treasure of the old dead king who was buried in the main part of the
Feegles' mound. Oddly enough, the Feegles weren't hugely interested in gold once they'd stolen it,
because you couldn't drink it and it was difficult to eat. In the mound, they mostly used the old
coins and plates to reflect candlelight and give the place a nice glow. It was no hardship to give
some away. The carter stared at it. It was more money than he had ever seen in his life. 'If...


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sir... would like to... hop on the back of the cart, sir,' he said, carefully taking it. 'Ach,
right you are, then,' said the bearded mystery man after a pause. 'Just a moment, this needs a wee
bitty organizin'... OK, youse hands, you just grab the side o' the cart, and' you leftie leg, ye
gotta kinda sidle along... ach, crivens! Ye gotta bend! Bend! C'mon, get it right!' The hairy face
turned to the carter. 'Sorry aboot this,' it said. 'I talk to my knees, but they dinnae listen to
me.' 'Is that right?' said the carter weakly. 'I have trouble with my knees in the wet weather.
Goose grease works.' 'Ah, weel, these knees is gonna get more'n a greasin' if I ha' to get doon
there an' sort them oot!' snarled the hairy man. The carter heard various bangs and grunts behind
him as the man hauled himself onto the tail of the cart. 'OK, let's gae,' said a voice. 'We'
havenae got all day. And youse knees, you're sacked! Crivens, I'm walkin' like I got a big touch
of the stoppies! You gae up to the stomach and send doon a couple of good knee men!' The carter
bit the coin thoughtfully as he urged the horse into a walk. It was such pure gold that he left
toothmarks. That meant his passenger was very, very rich. That was becoming very important at this
point. 'Can ye no' go a wee bitty faster, my good man, my good man?' said the voice behind him,
after they had gone a little way. 'Ah, well, sir,' said the carter, 'see them boxes and crates?
I've got a load of eggs, and those apples mustn't be bruised, sir, and then there's those jugs of-
' There were some bangs and crashes behind him, including the sploosh that a large crate of eggs
makes when it hits a road. 'Ye can gae faster noo, eh?' said the voice. 'Hey, that was my-' Mr
Crabber began. 'I've got another one o' they big wee gold coins for ye!' And a heavy and smelly
arm landed on the carter's shoulder. Dangling from the glove on the end of it was, indeed, another
coin. It was ten times what the load had been worth. 'Oh, well...' said the carter, carefully
taking the coin. 'Accidents do happen, eh, sir?' 'Aye, especially if I dinnae think I'm goin' fast
enough,' said the voice behind him. 'We- I mean I'm in a big hurry tae get tae yon mountains, ye
ken!' 'But I'm not a stagecoach, sir,' said the carter reproachfully as he urged his old horse
into a trot. 'Stagecoach, eh? What's one o' them things?' 'That's what you'll need to catch to
take you up into the mountains, sir. You can catch one in Twoshirts, sir. I never go any further
than Twoshirts, sir. But you won't be able to get the stage today, sir.' 'Why not?' 'I've got to
make stops at the other villages, sir, and it's a long way, and on Wednesdays it runs early, sir,
and this cart can only go so fast, sir, and-' 'If we- I dinnae catch yon coach today I'll gi'e ye
the hidin' o' yer life,' growled the passenger. 'But if I do catch yon coach today, I'll gie ye
five o' them gold coins.' Mr Crabber took a deep breath, and yelled: 'Hi! Hyah! Giddyup, Henry!'
All in all, it seemed to Tiffany, most of what witches did really was very similar to work. Dull
work. Miss Level didn't even use her broomstick very much. That was a bit depressing. It was all a
bit... well, goody-goody. Obviously that was better than being baddy-baddy, but a little more...
excitement would be nice. Tiffany wouldn't like anyone to think she'd expected to be issued with a
magic wand on Day One but, well, the way Miss Level talked about magic, the whole point of
witchcraft lay in not using any. Mind you, Tiffany thought she would be depressingly good at not
using any. It was doing the simplest magic that was hard. Miss Level patiently showed her how to
make a shamble, which could more or less be made of anything that seemed a good idea at the time
provided it also contained something alive, like a beetle or a fresh egg. Tiffany couldn't even
get the hang of it. That was... annoying. Didn't she have the virtual hat? Didn't she have First
Sight and Second Thoughts? Miss Tick and Miss Level could throw a shamble together in seconds, but
Tiffany just got a tangle, dripping with egg. Over and over again. I know I'm doing it right but
it just twists up!' Tiffany complained. 'What can I do?' 'We could make an omelette?' said Miss
Level cheerfully. 'Oh, please, Miss Level!' Tiffany wailed. Miss Level patted her on the back.
'It'll happen. Perhaps you're trying too hard. One day it'll come. The power does come, you know.
You just have to put yourself in its path-' 'Couldn't you make one that I could use for a while,
to get the hang of it?' 'I'm afraid I can't,' said Miss Level. 'A shamble is a very tricky thing.
You can't even carry one around, except as an ornament. You have to make it for yourself, there
and then, right where and when you want to use it.' 'Why?' said Tiffany. 'To catch the moment,'
said the other part of Miss Level, coming in. The way you tie the knots, the way the string runs
the freshness of the egg, perhaps, and the moisture in the air -' said the first Miss Level. '-
the tension of the twigs and the kind of things that you just happen to have in your pocket at
that moment even the way the wind is blowing,' the first Miss Level concluded. 'All these things
make a kind of... of picture of the here-and-now when you move them right. And I can't even tell
you how to move them, because I don't know.' 'But you do move them,' said Tiffany, getting lost.
'I saw you-' 'I do it but I don't know how I do,' said Miss Level, picking up a couple of twigs
and taking a length of thread. Miss Level sat down at the table opposite Miss Level, and all four
hands started to put a shamble together. 'This reminds me of when I was in the circus,' she said.
I was walking out for a while with Marco and Falco, the Flying Pastrami Brothers,' the other part
of Miss Level went on. 'They would do triple somersaults fifty feet up with no safety net. What


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lads they were! As alike as two peas, and Marco could catch Falco blindfolded. Why, for a moment I
wondered if they were just like me -' She stopped, went a bit red on both faces and coughed.
'Anyway,' she went on, 'one day I asked them how they managed to stay on the high wire and Falco
said, "Never ask the tight-rope walker how he keeps his balance. If he stops to think about it, he
falls off." Although actually he said it like this, "Nev-ah aska tightaroper walkerer..." because
the lads pretended they were from Brindisi, you see, because that sounds foreign and impressive
and they thought no one would want to watch acrobats called The Flying Sidney and Frank
Cartwright. Good advice, though, wherever it came from.' The hands worked. This was not a lone
Miss Level, a bit flustered, but the full Miss Level, all twenty fingers working together. 'Of
course,' she said, 'it can be helpful to have the right sort of things in your pocket. I always
carry a few sequins for the happy memories they bring back,' said Miss Level from the other side
of the table, blushing again. She held up the shamble. There were sequins, and a fresh egg in a
little bag made of thread, and a chicken bone and many other things hanging or spinning in the
threads. Each part of Miss Level put both its hands into the threads and pulled... The threads
took up a pattern. Did the sequins jump from one thread to another? It looked like it. Did the
chicken bone pass through the egg? So it seemed. Miss Level peered into it. She said: 'Something's
coming The stagecoach left Twoshirts half full and was well out over the plains when one of the
passengers sitting on the rooftop tapped the driver on the shoulder. 'Excuse me, did you know
there's something trying to catch us up?' he said. 'Bless you, sir,' said the driver, because he
hoped for a good tip at the end of the run, 'there's nothing that can catch us up.' Then he heard
the screaming in the distance, getting louder. 'Er, I think he means to,' said the passenger as
the carter's wagon overtook them. 'Stop! Stop, for pity's sake stopY yelled the carter as he
sailed past. But there was no stopping Henry. He'd spent years pulling the carrier's cart around
the villages, very slowly, and he'd always had this idea in his big horse head that he was cut out
for faster things. He'd plodded along, being overtaken by coaches and carts and three-legged dogs,
and now he was having the time of his life. Besides, the cart was a lot lighter than usual, and
the road was slightly downhill here. All he was really having to do was gallop fast enough to stay
in front. And, finally, he'd actually overtaken the stagecoach. Him, Henry! He only stopped
because the stagecoach driver stopped first. Besides, the blood was pumping through Henry now, and
there were a couple of mares in the team of horses pulling the coach who he felt he'd really like
to get to know- find out when was their day off, what kind of hay they liked, that kind of thing.
The carter, white in the face, got down carefully and then lay on the ground and held on tight to
the dirt. His one passenger, who looked to the coach driver like some sort of scarecrow, climbed
unsteadily down from the back and lurched towards the coach. 'I'm sorry, we're full up,' the
driver lied. They weren't full, but there was certainly no room for a thing that looked like that.
'Ach, and there wuz me willin' to pay wi' gold,' said the creature. 'Gold such as this here,' it
added, waving a ragged glove in the air. Suddenly there was plenty of space for an eccentric
millionaire. Within a few seconds he was seated inside and, to the annoyance of Henry, the coach
set off again. Outside Miss Level's cottage, a broomstick was heading through the trees. A young
witch- or, at least, someone dressed as a witch: it never paid to jump to conclusions- was sitting
on it side-saddle. She wasn't flying it very well. It jerked sometimes and it was clear the girl
was no good at making it turn corners because sometimes she stopped, jumped off and pointed the
stick in a new direction by hand. When she reached the garden gate she got off again quickly and
tethered the stick to it with string. 'Nicely done, Petulia!' said Miss Level, clapping with all
four hands. 'You're getting quite good!' 'Um, thank you, Miss Level,' said the girl, bowing. She
stayed bowed, and said, 'Um, oh dear Half of Miss Level stepped forward. 'Oh, I can see the
problem,' she said, peering down. 'Your amulet with the little owls on it is tangled up with your
necklace of silver bats and they've both got caught around a button. Just hold still, will you?'
'Um, I've come to see if your new girl would like come to the sabbat tonight,' said the bent
Petulia, her voice a bit muffled. Tiffany couldn't help noticing that Petulia had jewellery
everywhere; later she found that it was hard to be around Petulia for any length of time without
having to unhook a bangle from a necklace or, once, an earring from an ankle bracelet (nobody ever
found out how that one happened). Petulia couldn't resist occult jewellery. Most of the stuff was
to magically protect her from things, but she hadn't found anything to protect her from looking a
bit silly. She was short and plump and permanently red-faced and slightly worried. 'Sabbat? Oh,
one of your meetings,' said Miss Level. 'That would be nice, wouldn't it, Tiffany?' 'Yes?' said
Tiffany, not quite sure yet. 'Some of the girls meet up in the woods in the evenings,' said Miss
Level. 'For some reason the craft is getting popular again. That's very welcome, of course.' She
said it as if she wasn't quite sure. Then she added: 'Petulia here works for Old Mother Blackcap,
over in Sidling Without. Specializes in animals. Very good woman with pig diseases. I mean, with
pigs that've got diseases, I don't mean she has pig diseases. It'll be nice for you to have


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friends here. Why don't you go? There, everything's unhooked.' Petulia stood up and gave Tiffany a
worried smile. 'Um, Petulia Gristle,' she said, holding out a hand. 'Tiffany Aching,' said
Tiffany, shaking it gingerly in case the sound of all the bangles and bracelets jangling together
deafened everyone. 'Um, you can ride with me on the broomstick, if you like,' said Petulia. 'I'd
rather not,' said Tiffany. Petulia looked relieved, but said: 'Um, do you want to get dressed?'
Tiffany looked down at her green dress. 'I am.' 'Um, don't you have any gems or beads or amulets
or anything?' 'No, sorry,' said Tiffany. 'Um, you must at least have a shamble, surely?' 'Um,
can't get the hang of them,' said Tiffany. She hadn't meant the 'um', but around Petulia it was
catching. 'Um... a black dress, perhaps?' 'I don't really like black. I prefer blue or green,'
said Tiffany. 'Um 'Um. Oh well, you're just starting,' said Petulia generously. 'I've been Crafty
for three years.' Tiffany looked desperately at the nearest half of Miss Level. 'In the craft,'
said Miss Level helpfully. 'Witchcraft.' 'Oh.' Tiffany knew she was being very unfriendly, and
Petulia with her pink face was clearly a nice person, but she felt awkward in front of her and she
couldn't work out why. It was stupid, she knew. She could do with a friend. Miss Level was nice
enough, and she managed to get along with Oswald, but it would be good to have someone around her
own age to talk to. 'Well, I'd love to come,' she said. 'I know I've got a lot to learn.' The
passengers inside the stagecoach had paid good money to be inside on the soft seats and out of the
wind and the dust and, therefore, it was odd that so many got out at the next stop and went and
sat on the roof. The few who didn't want to ride up there or couldn't manage the climb sat huddled
together on the seat opposite, watching the new traveller like a group of rabbits watching a fox
and trying not to breathe. The problem wasn't that he smelled of ferrets. Well, that was a
problem, but compared to the big problem it wasn't much of one. He talked to himself. That is,
bits of him talked to other bits of him. All the time. 'Ah, it's fair hoggin' doon here. Ah'm
tellin ye! Ah'rn sure it's my turn to be up inna heidl' 'Hah, at least youse people are all cushy
in the stomach, it's us in the legs that has tae do all the work!' At which the right hand said:
'Legs? Youse dinnae know the meanin' of the word "work"! Ye ought tae try being stuck in a glove!
Ach, blow this forra game o' sojers! Ah 'm gonna stretch ma legs!' In horrified silence the other
passengers watched one of the man's gloved hands drop off and walk around on the seat. 'Aye, weel,
it's nae picnic doon here inna troosers, neither. A'm gonna let some fresh air in right noo!'
'Daft Wullie, don't you dare do that-' The passengers, squeezing even closer together, watched the
trousers with terrible fascination. There was some movement, some swearing-under-the-breath in a
place where nothing should be breathing, and then a couple of buttons popped and a very small red-
headed blue man stuck his head out, blinking in the light. He froze when he saw the people. He
stared. They stared. Then his face widened into a mad smile. 'Youse folks all right?' he said,
desperately. 'That's greaaat! Dinnae worry aboout me, I'm one o' they opper-tickle aloosyon's, ye
ken?' He disappeared back into the trousers, and they heard him whisper: 'I'm thinkin' I fooled
'em easily, no problemo!' A few minutes later, the coach stopped to change horses. When it set off
again, it was minus the inside passengers. They got off, and asked for their luggage to be taken
off, too. No thank you, they did not want to continue their ride. They'd catch the coach tomorrow,
thank you. No, there was no problem in waiting here in this delightful little, er, town of
Dangerous Corner. Thank you. Goodbye. The coach set off again, somewhat lighter and faster. It
didn't stop that night. It should have done, and the rooftop passengers were still eating their
dinner in the last inn when they heard it set off without them. The reason probably had something
to do with the big heap of coins now in the driver's pocket.

Chapter 5

Tiffany walked through the woods while Petulia flew unsteadily alongside in a series of straight
lines. Tiffany learned that Petulia was nice, had three brothers, wanted to be a midwife for
humans as well as pigs when she grew up, and was afraid of pins. She also learned that Petulia
hated to disagree about anything. So parts of the conversation went like this: Tiffany said, 'I
live down on the Chalk.' And Petulia said, 'Oh, where they keep all those sheep? I don't like
sheep much, they're so kind of... baggy.' Tiffany said, 'Actually, we're very proud of our sheep.'
And then you could stand back as Petulia reversed her opinions like someone trying to turn a cart
round in a very narrow space: 'Oh, I didn't really mean I hate them. I expect some sheep are all
right. We've got to have sheep, obviously. They're better than goats, and woollier. I mean, I
actually like sheep, really. Sheep are nice.' Petulia spent a lot of time trying to find out what
other people thought so that she could think the same way. It would be impossible to have an
argument with her. Tiffany had to stop herself from saying 'The sky is green' just to see how long
it would take for Petulia to agree. But she liked her. You couldn't not like her. She was restful
company. Besides, you couldn't help liking someone who couldn't make a broomstick turn corners. It


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was a long walk through the woods. Tiffany had always wanted to see a forest so big that you
couldn't see daylight through the other side, but now she'd lived in one for a couple of weeks it
got on her nerves. It was quite open woodland here, at least around the villages, and not hard to
walk though. She'd had to learn what maples and birches were, and she'd never before seen the
spruces and firs that grew higher up the slopes. But she wasn't happy in the company of trees. She
missed the horizons. She missed the sky. Everything was too close. Petulia chattered nervously.
Old Mother Blackcap was a pig-borer, cow-shouter and all-round veterinary witch. Petulia liked
animals, especially pigs because they had wobbly noses. Tiffany quite liked animals too, but no
one except other animals liked animals as much as Petulia. 'So... what's this meeting about?' she
said, to change the subject. 'Urn? Oh, it's just to keep in touch' said Petulia. 'Annagramma says
it's important to make contacts.' 'Annagramma's the leader, then, is she?' said Tiffany. 'Um, no.
Witches don't have leaders, Annagramma says.' 'Hmm,' said Tiffany. They arrived at last at a
clearing in the woods, just as the sun was setting. There were the remains of an old cottage
there, now covered mostly in brambles. You might miss it completely if you didn't spot the rampant
growth of lilac and the gooseberry bushes, now a forest of thorns. Someone had lived here once,
and had a garden. Someone else, now, had lit a fire. Badly. And they had found that lying down
flat to blow on a fire because you hadn't started it with enough paper and dry twigs was not a
good idea, because it would then cause your pointy hat, which you had forgotten to take off, to
fall into the smoking mess and then, because it was dry, catch fire. A young witch was now
flailing desperately at her burning hat, watched by several interested spectators. Another one,
sitting on a log, said: 'Dimity Hubbub, that is literally the most stupid thing anyone has ever
done anywhere in the whole world, ever.' It was a sharp, not very nice voice, the sort most people
used for being sarcastic with. 'Sorry, Annagramma!' said Miss Hubbub, pulling off the hat and
stamping on the point. 'I mean, just look at you, will you? You really are letting everyone down.'
'Sorry, Annagramma!' 'Um,' said Petulia. Everyone turned to look at the new arrivals. 'You're
late, Petulia Gristle!' snapped Annagramma. 'And who's this?' 'Urn, you did ask me to call in at
Miss Level's to bring the new girl, Annagramma,' said Petulia, as if she'd been caught doing
something wrong. Annagramma stood up. She was at least a head taller than Tiffany and had a face
that seemed to be built backwards from her nose, which she held slightly in the air. To be looked
at by Annagramma was to know that you'd already taken up too much of her valuable time. 'Is this
her?' 'Um, yes, Annagramma.' 'Let's have a look at you, new girl.' Tiffany stepped forward. It was
amazing. She hadn't really meant to. But Annagramma had the kind of voice that you obeyed. 'What
is your name?' 'Tiffany Aching?' said Tiffany, and found herself saying her name as if she was
asking permission to have it. 'Tiffany? That's a funny name,' said the tall girl. 'My name is
Annagramma Hawkin.' 'Um, Annagramma works for-' Petulia began. '- works with,' said Annagramma
sharply, still looking Tiffany up and down. 'Urn, sorry, works with Mrs Earwig,' said Petulia.
'But she-' I intend to leave next year,' said Annagramma. 'Apparently, I'm doing extremely well.
So you're the girl who's joined Miss Level, are you? She's weird, you know. The last three girls
all left very quickly. They said it was just too strange trying to keep track of which one of her
was which.' 'Which witch was which,' said one of the girls cheerfully. 'Anyone can do that pun,
Lucy Warbeck,' said Annagramma without looking round. 'It's not funny, and it's not clever.' She
turned her attention back to Tiffany, who felt that she was being examined as critically and
thoroughly as Granny Aching would check a ewe she might be thinking of buying. She wondered if
Annagramma would actually try to open her mouth and make sure she had all her teeth. 'They say you
can't breed good witches on chalk,' said Annagramma. All the other girls looked from Annagramma to
Tiffany, who thought: Ha!, so witches don't have leaders, do they? But she was in no mood to make
enemies. 'Perhaps they do,' she said quietly. This did not seem to be what Annagramma wanted to
hear. 'You haven't even dressed the part,' said Annagramma. 'Sorry,' said Tiffany. 'Urn,
Annagramma says that if you want people to treat you like a witch you should look like one,'
Petulia said. 'Hmm,' said Annagramma, staring at Tiffany as if she'd failed a simple test. Then
she nodded her head. 'Well, we all had to start somewhere.' She stood back. 'Ladies, this is
Tiffany. Tiffany, you know Petulia. She crashes into trees. Dimity Hubbub is the one with the
smoke coming out of her hat, so that she looks like a chimney. That's Gertruder Tiring, that's the
hilariously funny Lucy Warbeck, that's Harrieta Bilk, who can't seem to do anything about the
squint, and then that's Lulu Darling, who can't seem to do anything about the name. You can sit in
for this evening... Tiffany, wasn't it? I'm sorry you've been taken on by Miss Level. She's rather
sad. Complete amateur. Hasn't really got a clue. Just bustles about and hopes. Oh, well, it's too
late now. Gertruder, Summon the World's Four Corners and Open the Circle, please.' 'Er...' said
Gertruder, nervously. It was amazing how many people around Annagramma became nervous. 'Do I have
to do everything around here?' said Annagramma. 'Try to remember, please! We must have been
through this literally a million times!' 'I've never heard of the world's four corners,' said


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Tiffany. 'Really? There's a surprise,' said Annagramma. 'Well, they're the directions of power,
Tiffany, and I would advise you to do something about that name, too, please.' 'But the world's
round, like a plate,' said Tiffany. 'Urn, you have to imagine them,' Petulia whispered. Tiffany
wrinkled her forehead. 'Why?' she said. Annagramma rolled her eyes. 'Because that's the way to do
things properly.' 'Oh.' 'You have done some kind of magic, haven't you?' Annagramma demanded.
Tiffany was a bit confused. She wasn't used to people like Annagramma. 'Yes,' she said. All the
other girls were staring at her, and Tiffany couldn't help thinking about sheep. When a dog
attacks a sheep, the other sheep run away to a safe distance and then turn and watch. They don't
gang up on the dog. They're just happy it's not them. 'What are you best at then?' snapped
Annagramma. Tiffany, her mind still full of sheep, spoke without thinking. 'Soft Nellies,' she
said. 'It's a sheep cheese. It's quite hard to make...' She looked around at the circle of blank
faces and felt embarrassment rise inside her like hot jelly. 'Urn, Annagramma meant what magic can
you do best,' said Petulia kindly. 'Although Soft Nellies is good,' said Annagramma with a cruel
little smile. One or two of the girls gave that little snort that meant they were trying not to
laugh out loud but didn't mind showing that they were trying. Tiffany looked down at her boots
again. 'I don't know,' she mumbled, 'but I did throw the Queen of the Fairies out of my country.'
'Really?' said Annagramma. 'The Queen of the Fairies, eh? How did you do that?' 'I'm... not sure.
I just got angry with her.' And it was hard to remember exactly what had happened that night.
Tiffany recalled the anger, terrible anger, and the world... changing. She'd seen it clearer than
a hawk sees, heard it better than a dog hears, felt its age beneath her feet, felt the hills still
living. And she remembered thinking that no one could do this for long and still be human. 'Well,
you've got the right boots for stamping your foot,' said Annagramma. There were a few more half-
concealed giggles. 'A Queen of the Fairies,' she added. 'I'm sure you did. Well, it helps to
dream.' 'I don't tell lies,' mumbled Tiffany, but no one was listening. Sullen and upset, she
watched the girls Open the Corners and Summon the Circle, unless she'd got that the wrong way
round. This went on for some time. It would have gone better if they'd all been sure what to do,
but it was probably hard to know what to do when Annagramma was around, since she kept correcting
everyone. She was standing with a big book open in her arms. '... now you, Gertruder, go
widdershins, no, that's the other way, I must have told you literally a thousand times, and Lulu-
where's Lulu? Well, you shouldn't have been there! Get the shriven chalice- not that one, no, the
one without handles... yes. Harrieta, hold the Wand of the Air a bit higher, I mean, it must be in
the air, d'you understand? And for goodness' sake, Petulia, please try to look a little more
stately, will you? I appreciate that it doesn't come naturally to you, but you might at least show
you're making an effort. By the way, I've been meaning to tell you, no invocation ever written
starts with "um", unless I'm very much mistaken. Harrieta, is that the Cauldron of the Sea? Does
it even look like a Cauldron of the Sea? I don't think so, do you? What was that noise?' The girls
looked down. Then someone mumbled: 'Dimity trod on the Circlet of Infinity, Annagramma.' 'Not the
one with the genuine seed-pearls on it?' said Annagramma in a tight little voice. 'Um, yes,' said
Petulia. 'But I'm sure she's very sorry. Um... shall I make a cup of tea?' The book slammed shut.
'What is the point?' said Annagramma to the world in general. 'What. Is. The. Point? Do you want
to spend the rest of your lives as village witches, curing boils and warts for a cup of tea and a
biscuit? Well? Do you?' There was a shuffling among the huddled witches, and a general murmur of
'No, Annagramma.' 'You did all read Mrs Earwig's book, didn't you?' she demanded. 'Well, did you?'
Petulia raised a hand nervously. 'Um-' she began. 'Petulia, I've told you literally a million
times not to start. Every. Single. Sentence. With "Um"- haven't I?' 'Um-' said Petulia, trembling
with nervousness. 'Just speak up, for goodness' sake! Don't hesitate all the time!' 'Um-'
'Petulia!' 'Um-' Really, you might make an effort. Honestly, I don't know what's the matter with
all of you!' I do, Tiffany thought. You're like a dog worrying sheep all the time. You don't give
them time to obey you and you don't let them know when they've done things right. You just keep
barking. Petulia had lapsed into tongue-tied silence. Annagramma put the book down on the log.
'Well, we've completely lost the moment,' she said. 'We may as well have that cup of tea, Petulia.
Do hurry up.' Petulia, relieved, grabbed the kettle. People relaxed a little. Tiffany looked at
the cover of the book. It read: The Higher MagiK by Letice Earwig, Witch 'Magic with a K?' she
said aloud. 'Magikkkk?' 'That's deliberate,' said Annagramma coldly. 'Mrs Earwig says that if we
are to make any progress at all we must distinguish the higher MagiK from the everyday sort.' 'The
everyday sort of magic?' said Tiffany. 'Exactly. None of that mumbling in hedgerows for us. Proper
sacred circles, spells written down, A proper hierarchy, not everyone running around doing
whatever they feel like. Real wands, not bits of grubby stick. Professionalism, with respect.
Absolutely no warts. That's the only way forward.' 'Well, I think-' Tiffany began. 'I don't really
care what you think because you don't know enough yet,' said Annagramma sharply. She turned to the
group in general. 'Do we all at least have something for the Trials this year?' she asked. There


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were general murmurs and nods in the theme of 'yes'. 'What about you, Petulia?' said Annagramma.
I'm going to do the pig trick, Annagramma,' said Petulia meekly. 'Good. You're nearly good at
that,' said Annagramma, and pointed around the circle, from one girl to another, nodding at their
answers, until she came to Tiffany. 'Soft Nellies?' she said, to sniggering amusement. 'What are
Witch Trials?' said Tiffany. 'Miss Tick mentioned them, but I don't know what they are.'
Annagramma gave one of her noisy sighs. 'You tell her, Petulia,' she said. 'You brought her, after
all.' Hesitantly, with lots of 'urn's and glances at Annagramma, Petulia explained about the Witch
Trials. Um, it was a time when witches from all over the mountains could meet up, and um see old
friends and um pick up the latest news and gossip. Ordinary people could come along too, and there
was a fair and um sideshows. It was quite an um big event. And in the afternoon all the witches
that um wanted to could show off a spell or um something they'd been working on, which was very um
popular. To Tiffany, they sounded like sheepdog trials, without the dogs or the sheep. They were
in Sheercliff this year, which was quite close. 'And is there a prize?' she asked. 'Um, oh no,'
said Petulia. 'It's all done in spirit of fun and good fellow- um, good sistership.' 'Hah!' said
Annagramma. 'Not even she will believe that! It's all a fix, anyway. They'll all applaud Mistress
Weatherwax. She always wins, whatever she does. She just messes up people's minds. She just fools
them into thinking she's good. She wouldn't last five minutes against a wizard. They do real
magic. And she dresses like a scarecrow, too! It's ignorant old women like her who keep witchcraft
rooted in the past, as Mrs Earwig points out in chapter one!' One or two girls looked uncertain.
Petulia even looked over her shoulder. 'Urn, people do say she's done amazing things, Annagramma,'
she said. 'And, urn, they say she can spy on people miles away-' 'Yes, they say that,' said
Annagramma. 'That's because they're all frightened of her! She's such a bully! That's all she
does, bully people and mess up their heads! That's old witchcraft, that is. Just one step away
from cackling, in my opinion. She's half cracked now, they say.' 'She didn't seem cracked to me.'
'Who said that?' snapped Annagramma. Everyone looked at Tiffany, who wished she hadn't spoken. But
now there was nothing for it but to go on. 'She was just a bit old and stern,' she said. 'But she
was quite... polite. She didn't cackle.' 'You've met her?' 'Yes.' 'She spoke to you, did she?'
snarled Annagramma. 'Was that before or after you kicked out the Fairy Queen?' 'Just after,' said
Tiffany, who was not used to this sort of thing. 'She turned up on a broomstick,' she added. 'I
am. telling the truth.' 'Of course you are,' said Annagramma, smiling grimly. 'And she
congratulated you, I expect.' 'Not really,' said Tiffany. 'She seemed pleased, but it was hard to
tell.' And then Tiffany said something really, really stupid. Long afterwards, and long after all
sorts of things had happened, she'd go 'la la la!' to blot out the memory whenever something
reminded her of that evening. She said: 'She did give me this hat.' And they said, all of them,
with one voice: 'What hat?' Petulia took her back to the cottage. She did her best, and assured
Tiffany that she believed her, but Tiffany knew she was just being nice. Miss Level tried to talk
to her as she ran upstairs, but she bolted her door, kicked off her boots and lay down on the bed
with the pillow over her head to drown out the laughter echoing inside. Downstairs, there was some
muffled conversation between Petulia and Miss Level and then the sound of the door closing as
Petulia left. After a while there was a scraping noise as Tiffany's boots were dragged across the
floor and arranged neatly under the bed. Oswald was never off duty. After another while the
laughter died down, although she was sure it'd never go completely. Tiffany could feel the hat. At
least, she had been able to feel it. The virtual hat, on her real head. But no one could see it,
and Petulia had even waved a hand back and forth over Tiffany's head and encountered a complete
absence of hat. The worst part- and it was hard to find the worst part, so humiliatingly bad had
it been- was hearing Annagramma say, 'No, don't laugh at her. That's too cruel. She's just
foolish, that's all. I told you the old woman messes with people's heads!' Tiffany's First
Thoughts were running around in circles. Her Second Thoughts were caught up in the storm. Only her
Third Thoughts, which were very weak, came up with: Even though your world is completely and
utterly ruined and can never be made better, no matter what, and you 're completely inconsolable,
it would be nice if you heard someone bringing some soup upstairs... The Third Thoughts got
Tiffany off the bed and over to the door, where they guided her hand to slide the bolt back. Then
they let her fling herself on the bed again. A few minutes later there was a creak of footsteps on
the landing. It's nice to be right. Miss Level knocked, then came in after a decent pause. Tiffany
heard the tray go down on the table, then felt the bed move as a body sat down on it. Tetulia is a
capable girl, I've always thought,' said Miss Level, after a while. 'She'll make some village a
very serviceable witch one day.' Tiffany stayed silent. 'She told me all about it,' said Miss
Level. 'Miss Tick never mentioned the hat, but if I was you I wouldn't have told her about it
anyway. It sounds the sort of thing Mistress Weatherwax would do. You know, sometimes it helps to
talk about these things.' More silence from Tiffany... 'Actually, that's not true,' Miss Level
added. 'But as a witch I am incredibly inquisitive and would love to know more.' That had no


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effect either. Miss Level sighed and stood up. 'I'll leave the soup, but if you let it get too
cold Oswald will try to take it away.' She went downstairs. Nothing stirred in the room for about
five minutes, then there was faintest of tinkles as the soup began to move. Tiffany's hand shot
out and gripped the tray firmly. That's the job of Third Thoughts: First and Second Thoughts might
understand your current tragedy, but something has to remember that you haven't eaten since lunch
time. Afterwards, and after Oswald had speedily taken the empty bowl away, Tiffany lay in the
dark, staring at nothing. The novelty of this new country had taken all her attention in the past
few days, but now that had drained away in the storm of laughter, and homesickness rushed to fill
in the empty spaces. She missed the sounds and the sheep and the silences of the Chalk. She missed
seeing the blackness of the hills from her bedroom window, outlined against the stars. She
missed... part of herself... But they 'd laughed at her. They 'd said, 'What hat?' and they'd
laughed even more when she'd raised her hand to touch the invisible brim and hadn't found it...
She'd touched it every day for eighteen months, and now it had gone. And she couldn't make a
shamble. And she just had a green dress, while all the other girls wore black ones. Annagramma had
a lot of jewellery, too, in black and silver. All the other girls had shambles, too, beautiful
ones. Who cared if they were just for show? Perhaps she wasn't a witch at all. Oh, she'd defeated
the Queen, with the help of the little men and the memory of Granny Aching, but she hadn't used
magic. She wasn't sure, now, what she had used. She'd felt something go down through the soles of
the boots, down through the hills and through the years, and come back loud and roaring in a rage
that shook the sky: ... how dare you invade my world, my land, my life... But what had the virtual
hat done for her? Perhaps the old woman had tricked her, had just made her think there was a hat
there. Perhaps she was a bit cracked, like Annagramma had said, and had just got things wrong.
Perhaps Tiffany should go home and make Soft Nellies for the rest of her life. Tiffany turned
round and crawled down the bed and opened her suitcase. She pulled out the rough box, opened it in
the dark and closed a hand around the lucky stone. She'd hoped that there'd be some kind of spark,
some kind of friendliness in it. There was none. There was just the roughness of the outside of
the stone, the smoothness on the face where it had split, and the sharpness between the two. And
the piece of sheep's wool did nothing but make her fingers smell of sheep, and this made her long
for home and feel even more upset. The silver horse was cold. Only someone quite close would have
heard the sob. It was quite faint, but it was carried on the dark red wings of misery. She wanted,
longed for the hiss of wind in the turf and the feel of centuries under her feet. She wanted that
sense, which had never left her before, of being where Achings had lived for thousands of years.
She needed blue butterflies and the sounds of sheep and the big empty skies. Back home, when she'd
felt upset, she'd gone up to the remains of the old shepherding hut and sat there for a while.
That had always worked. It was a long way away now. Too far. Now, she was full of a horrible,
heavy dead feeling, and there was nowhere to leave it. And it wasn't how things were supposed to
go. Where was the magic? Oh, she understood that you had learn about the basic, everyday craft,
but when did the 'witch' part turn up? She'd been trying to learn, she really had, and she was
turning into... well, a good worker, a handy girl with potions and a reliable person. Dependable,
like Miss Level. She'd expected- well, what? Well... to be doing serious witch stuff, you know,
broomsticks, magic, guarding the world against evil forces in a noble yet modest way, and then
also doing good for poor people because she was a really nice person. And the people she'd seen in
the picture had rather less messy ailments and their children didn't have such runny noses. Mr We
avail's flying toenails weren't in it anywhere. Some of them boomeranged. She got sick on
broomsticks. Every time. She couldn't even make a shamble. She was going to spend her days running
around after people who, to be honest, could sometimes be doing a bit more for themselves. No
magic, no flying, no secrets... just toenails and bogeys. She belonged to the Chalk. Every day,
she'd told the hills what they were. Every day, they'd told her who she was. But now she couldn't
hear them. Outside it began to rain, quite hard, and in the distance Tiffany heard the mutter of
thunder. What would Granny Aching have done? But even folded in the wings of despair she knew the
answer to that. Granny Aching never gave up. She'd search all night for a lost lamb... She lay
looking at nothing for a while, and then lit the candle by the bed and swivelled her legs onto the
floor. This couldn't wait until morning. Tiffany had a little trick for seeing the hat. If you
moved your hand behind it quickly, there was a slight, brief blurriness to what you saw, as though
the light coming through the invisible hat took a little more time. It had to be there... Well,
the candle should give enough light to be sure. If the hat was there, everything would be fine and
it wouldn't matter what other people thought... She stood in the middle of the carpet, while
lightning danced across the mountains outside, and closed her eyes. Down in the garden the apple-
tree branches flayed in the wind, the dreamcatchers and cursenets clashing and jangling... 'See
me,' she said. The world went quiet, totally silent. It hadn't done that before. But Tiffany
tiptoed around until she knew she was opposite herself, and opened her eyes again... And there she


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was, and so was the hat, as clear as it had ever been- And the image of Tiffany below, a young
girl in a green dress, opened its eyes and smiled at her and said: 'We see you. Now we are you.'
Tiffany tried to shout 'See me not!' But there was no mouth to shout... Lightning struck somewhere
nearby. The window blew in. The candle flame flew out in a streamer of fire, and died. And then
there was only darkness, and the hiss of the rain.

Chapter 6

Hiver Thunder rolled across the Chalk. Jeannie carefully opened the package that her mother had
given her on the day she left the Long Lake mound. It was a traditional gift, one that every young
kelda got when she went away, never to return. Keldas could never go home. Keldas were home. The
gift was this: memory. Inside the bag was a triangle of tanned sheepskin, three wooden stakes, a
length of string twisted out of nettle fibres, a tiny leather bottle and a hammer. She knew what
to do, because she'd seen her mother do it many times. The hammer was used to bang in the stakes
around the smouldering fire. The string was used to tie the three corners of the leather triangle
to the stakes so that it sagged in the centre, just enough to hold a small bucket of water which
Jeannie had drawn herself from the deep well. She knelt down and waited until the water very
slowly began to seep through the leather, then built up the fire. She was aware of all the eyes of
the Feegles in the shadowy galleries around and above her. None of them would come near her while
she was boiling the cauldron. They'd rather chop their own leg off. This was pure hiddlins. And
this was what a cauldron really was, back in the days before humans had worked copper or poured
iron. It looked like magic. It was supposed to. But if you knew the trick, you could see how the
cauldron would boil dry before the leather burned. When the water in the skin was steaming, she
damped down the fire and added to the water the contents of the little leather bottle, which
contained some of the water from her mother's cauldron. That's how it had always gone, from mother
to daughter, since the very beginning. Jeannie waited until the cauldron had cooled some more,
then took up a cup, filled it and drank. There was a sigh from the shadowy Feegles. She lay back
and closed her eyes, waiting. Nothing happened except that the thunder rattled the land and the
lightning turned the world black and white. And then, so gently that it had already happened
before she realized that it was starting to happen, the past caught up with her. There, around
her, were all the old keldas, starting with her mother, her grandmothers, their mothers... back
until there was no one to remember... one big memory, carried for a while by many, worn and hazy
in parts but old as a mountain. But all the Feegles knew about that. Only the kelda knew about the
real hiddlin, which was this: the river of memory wasn't a river, it was a sea. Keldas yet to be
born would remember, one day. On nights yet to come, they'd lie by their cauldron and become, for
a few minutes, part of the eternal sea. By listening to unborn keldas remembering their past, you
remember your future... You needed skill to find those faint voices, and Jeannie did not have all
of it yet, but something was there. As lightning turned the world to black and white again she sat
bolt upright. It's found her,' she whispered... 'Oh, the puir wee thing!' Rain had soaked into the
rug when Tiffany woke up. Damp daylight spilled into the room. She got up and closed the window. A
few leaves had blown in. O-K. It hadn't been a dream. She was certain of that. Something...
strange had happened. The tips of her fingers were tingling. She felt... different. But not, now
she took stock, in a bad way. No. Last night she'd felt awful, but now, now she felt... full of
life. Actually, she felt happy. She was going to take charge. She was going to take control of her
life. Get-up-and-go had got up and come. The green dress was rumpled and really it needed a wash.
She'd got her old blue one in the chest of drawers but, somehow, it didn't seem right to wear it
now. She'd have to make do with the green until she could get another one. She went to put on her
boots, then stopped and stared at them. They just wouldn't do, not now. She got the new shiny ones
out of her case and wore them instead. She found both of Miss Level was out in the wet garden in
her nighties, sadly picking up bits of dreamcatcher and fallen apples. Even some of the garden
ornaments had been smashed, although the madly grinning gnomes had unfortunately escaped
destruction. Miss Level brushed her hair out of one pair of her eyes and said: 'Very, very
strange. All the curse-nets seem to have exploded. Even the boredom stones are discharged! Did you
notice anything?' 'No, Miss Level,' said Tiffany meekly. 'And all the old shambles in the workroom
are in pieces! I mean, I know they are really only ornamental and have next to no power left, but
something really strange must have happened.' Both of her gave Tiffany a look that Miss Level
probably thought was very sly and cunning, but it made her look slightly ill. The storm seemed a
touch magical to me. I suppose you girls weren't doing anything... odd last night, were you,
dear?' she said. 'No, Miss Level. I thought they were a bit silly.' 'Because, you see, Oswald
seems to have gone,' said Miss Level. 'He's very sensitive to atmospheres It took Tiffany a moment
to understand what she was talking about. Then she said: 'But he's always here!' 'Yes, ever since


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I can remember!' said Miss Level. 'Have you tried putting a spoon in the knife drawer?' 'Yes, of
course! Not so much as a rattle!' 'Dropped an apple core? He always-' 'That was the first thing I
tried!' 'How about the salt and sugar trick?' Miss Level hesitated. 'Well, no...' She brightened
up. 'He does love that one, so he's bound to turn up, yes?' Tiffany found the big bag of salt and
another of sugar, and poured both of them into a bowl. Then she stirred up the fine white crystals
with her hand. She'd found this was the ideal away of keeping Oswald occupied while they did the
cooking. Sorting the salt and sugar grains back into the right bags could take him an entire happy
afternoon. But now the mixture just lay there, Oswaldless. 'Oh, well... I'll search the house,'
said Miss Level, as if that was a good way of finding an invisible person. 'Go and see to the
goats, will you, dear? And then we'll have to try to remember how to do the washing up!' Tiffany
let the goats out of the shed. Usually, Black Meg immediately went and stood on the milking
platform and gave her an expectant look as if to say: I've thought up a new trick. But not today.
When Tiffany looked inside the shed the goats were huddled in the dark at the far end. They
panicked, nostrils flaring, and scampered around as she went towards them, but she managed to grab
Black Meg by her collar. The goat twisted and fought her as she dragged it out towards the milking
stand. It climbed up because it was either that or having its head pulled off, then stood there
snorting and bleating. Tiffany stared at the goat. Her bones felt as though they were itching. She
wanted to ... do things, climb the highest mountain, leap into the sky, run around the world. And
she thought: This is silly, I start every day with a battle of wits with an animal! Well, let's
show this creature who is in charge... She picked up the broom that was used for sweeping out the
milking parlour. Black Meg's slot eyes widened in fear, and wham! went the broom. It hit the
milking stand. Tiffany hadn't intended to miss like that. She'd wanted to give Meg the wallop the
creature richly deserved but, somehow, the stick had twisted in her hand. She raised it again, but
the look in her eye and the whack on the wood had achieved the right effect. Meg cowered. 'No more
games!' hissed Tiffany, lowering the stick. The goat stood as still as a log. Tiffany milked her
out, took the pail back into the dairy, weighed it, chalked up the amount on the slate by the
door, and tipped the milk into a big bowl. The rest of the goats were nearly as bad, but a herd
learns fast. Altogether they gave three gallons, which was pretty pitiful for ten goats. Tiffany
chalked this up without enthusiasm and stood staring at it, fiddling with the chalk. What was the
point of this? Yesterday she'd been full of plans for experimental cheeses, but now cheese was
dull. Why was she here, doing silly chores, helping people too stupid to help themselves? She
could be doing... anything! She looked down at the scrubbed wooden table. Someone had written on
the wood in chalk. And the piece of chalk was still in her hand- Tetulia's come to see you, dear,'
said Miss Level, behind her. Tiffany quickly shifted a milking bucket over the words and turned
round guiltily. 'What?' she said. 'Why?' 'Just to see if you're all right, I think,' said Miss
Level, watching Tiffany carefully. The dumpy girl stood very nervously on the doorstep, her pointy
hat in her hands. 'Um, I just thought I ought to see how you, um, are...' she muttered, looking
Tiffany squarely in the boots. 'Um, I don't think anyone really wanted to be unkind...' 'You're
not very clever and you're too fat,' said Tiffany. She stared at the round pink face for a moment
and knew things. 'And you still have a teddy bear help me and you believe in fairies.' She slammed
the door, went back to the dairy and stared at the bowls of milk and curds as if she were seeing
them for the first time. Good with Cheese. That was one of the things everyone remembered about
her: Tiffany Aching, brown hair, Good with Cheese. But now the dairy looked all wrong and
unfamiliar. She gritted her teeth. Good with Cheese. Was that really what she wanted to be? Of all
the things people could be in the world, did she want to be known just as a dependable person to
have around rotted milk? Did she really want to spend all day scrubbing slabs and washing pails
and plates and... and... and that weird wire thing just there, that- ... cheese-cutter...- that
cheese-cutter? Did she want her whole life to- Hold on... 'Who's there?' said Tiffany. 'Did
someone just say "cheese-cutter"?' She peered around the room, as if someone could be hiding
behind the bundles of dried herbs. It couldn't have been Oswald. He'd gone, and he never spoke in
any case. Tiffany grabbed the pail, spat on her hand and rubbed out the chalked HELP ME- tried to
rub it out. But her hand gripped the edge of the table and held it firmly, no matter how much she
pulled. She flailed with her left hand, managing to knock over a pail of milk, which washed across
the letters... and her right hand let go suddenly The door was pushed open. Both of Miss Level was
there. When she pulled herself together like that, standing side by side, it was because she felt
she had something important to say. 'I have to say, Tiffany, that I think you were very nasty to
Petulia just now. She went off crying.' She stared at Tiffany's face. 'Are you all right, child?'
Tiffany shuddered. 'Er... yes. Fine. Feel a bit odd. Heard a voice in my head. Gone now.' Miss
Level looked at her with her heads on one side, right and left in different directions. 'If you're
sure, then. I'll get changed. We'd better leave soon. There's a lot to do today.' 'A lot to do,'
said Tiffany weakly. 'Well, yes. There's Slapwick's leg, and I've got to see to the sick Grimly


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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 yet-
oor 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-olly-
gee 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 Ah-
wij,' 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 old-
fashioned, 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 low-
ceilinged, 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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about a real head here, are we?' said Miss Level, horrified. 'What do you do, go in through the
ears?' Once again, Rob stared at Billy, who looked puzzled. 'No, mistress. They'd be too small,'
he said, patiently. 'But we can move between worlds, ye ken. We're fairy folk.' Miss Level nodded
both heads. It was true, but it was hard to look at the assembled ranks of the Nac Mac Feegle and
remember that they were, technically, fairies. It was like watching penguins swimming underwater
and having to remember that they were birds. 'And?' she said. 'We can get intae dreams, ye see...
And what's a mind but another world o' dreamin'?' 'No, I must forbid that!' said Miss Level. 'I
can't have you running around inside a young girl's head! I mean, look at you! You're fully-
grow... well, you're men! It'd be like, like... well, it'd be like you looking at her diary!' Rob
Anybody looked puzzled. 'Oh, aye?' he said. 'We looked at her diary loads o' times. Nae harm
done.' 'You looked at her diary?' said Miss Level, horrified. 'Why?' Really, she thought later,
she should have expected the answer. "Cuz it wuz locked,' said Daft Wullie. 'If she didnae want
anyone tae look at it, why'd she keep it at the back o' her sock drawer? Anyway, all there wuz wuz
a load o' words we couldnae unnerstan' an' wee drawings o' hearts and flowers an' that.' 'Hearts?
Tiffany?' said Miss Level. 'Really?' She shook herself. 'But you shouldn't have done that! And
going into someone's mind is even worse!' 'The hiver is in there, mistress,' said Awf'ly Wee Billy
meekly. 'But you said you can't do anything about it!' 'She might. If we can track her doon,' said
the gonnagle. 'If we can find the wee bitty bit o' her that's still her. She's a bonny fighter
when she's roused. Ye see, mistress, a mind's like a world itself. She'll be hidin' in it
somewhere, lookin' oot through her own eyes, listenin' wi' her own ears, tryin' to make people
hear, tryin' no' to let yon beast find her... and it'll be hunting her all the time, trying tae
break her doon Miss Level began to look hunted herself. Fifty small faces, full of worry and hope
and broken noses, looked up at her. And she knew she didn't have a better plan. Or even a PLN.
'All right,' she said. 'But at least you ought to have a bath. I know that's silly, but it will
make me feel better about the whole thing.' There was a general groan. 'A bath? But we a' had one
no' a year ago,' said Rob Anybody. 'Up at the big dew pond for the ships!' 'Ach, crivens!' said
Big Yan. 'Ye cannae ask a man tae take a bath again this soon, mistress! There'll be nothin' left
o' us!' 'With hot water and soap!' said Miss Level. 'I mean it! I'll run the water and I... I'll
put some rope over the edge so you can climb in and out, but you will get clean. I'm a wi- a hag,
and you'd better do what I say!' 'Oh, all reet!' said Rob. 'We'll do it for the big wee hag. But
ye're no' tae peek, OK?' 'Peek?' said Miss Level. She pointed a trembling finger. 'Get into that
bathroom now!' Miss Level did, however, listen at the door. It's the sort of thing a witch does.
There was nothing to hear at first but the gentle splash of water, and then: "This is no' as bad
as I thought!' 'Aye, very pleasin'.' 'Hey, there's a big yellow duck here. Who 're ye pointin'
that beak at, yer scunner-' There was a wet quack and some bubbling noises as the rubber duck
sank. 'Rob, we oughtae get one o' these put in back in the mound. Verra warmin' in the winter
time.' 'Aye, it's no' that good for the ship, havin' tae drink oot o' that pond after we 've been
bathin'. It's terrible, hearin' a ship try tae spit.' 'Ach, it'll make us softies! It's nae a guid
wash if ye dinnae ha' the ice formin' on yer held!' ' Who 're you callin' a softie?' There
followed a lot more splashing and water started to seep under the door. Miss Level knocked. 'Come
on out now, and dry yourselves off!' she commanded. 'She could be back at any minute!' In fact it
wasn't for another two hours, by which time Miss Level had got so nervous that her necklaces
jingled all the time. She'd come to witching later than most, being naturally qualified by reason
of the two bodies, but she'd never been very happy about magic. In truth, most witches could get
through their whole life without having to do serious, undeniable magic (making shambles and curse-
nets and dreamcatchers didn't really count, being rather more like arts-and-crafts, and most of
the rest of it was practical medicine, common sense and the ability to look stern in a pointy
hat). But being a witch and wearing the big black hat was like being a policeman. People saw the
uniform, not you. When the mad axeman was running down the street you weren't allowed to back away
muttering, 'Could you find someone else? Actually, I mostly just do, you know, stray dogs and road
safety...' You were there, you had the hat, you did the job. That was a basic rule of witchery:
It's up to you. She was two bags of nerves when Tiffany arrived back, and stood side by side
holding hands with herself to give herself confidence. 'Where have you been, dear?' 'Out,' said
Tiffany. 'And what have you been doing?' 'Nothing.' 'I see you've been shopping.' 'Yes.' 'Who
with?' 'Nobody.' 'Ah, yes,' Miss Level trilled, completely adrift. I remember when I used to go
out and do nothing. Sometimes you can be your own worst company. Believe me, I know-' But Tiffany
had already swept upstairs. Without anyone actually seeming to move, Feegles started to appear
everywhere in the room. 'Well, that could ha' gone better,' said Rob Anybody. 'She looked so
different!' Miss Level burst out. 'She moved differently! I just didn't know what to do! And those
clothes!' 'Aye. Sparklin' like a young raven,' said Rob. 'Did you see all those bags? Where could
she have got the money? I certainly don't have that kind of-' She stopped, and both of Miss Level


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spoke at once. 'Oh, no surely not! She wouldn't have, would she?' 'I dinnae ken whut ye're talkin'
aboot,' said Awf'ly Wee Billy, 'but whut she would dae isnae the point. That's the hiver doin' the
thinkin'!' Miss Level clasped all four hands together in distress. 'Oh dear... I must go down to
the village and check!' One of her ran towards the door. 'Well, at least she's brought the
broomstick back,' muttered the Miss Level who stayed. She started to wear the slightly unfocused
expression she got when both her bodies weren't in the same place. They could hear noises from
upstairs. 'I vote we just tap her gently on the heid,' said Big Yan. 'It cannae give us any
trouble if it's gone sleepies, aye?' Miss Level clenched and unclenched her fists nervously. 'No,'
she said. 'I'll go up there and have a serious talk with her!' 'I told yez, mistress, it's not
her,' said Awf'ly Wee Billy, wearily. 'Well, at least I'll wait until I've visited Mr Weavall,'
said Miss Level, standing in her kitchen. 'I'm nearly there... ah... he's asleep. I'll just eease
the box out quietly... if she's taken his money I'm going to be so angry-' It was a good hat,
Tiffany thought. It was at least as tall as Mrs Earwig's hat, and it shone darkly. The stars
gleamed. The other packages covered the floor and the bed. She pulled out another one of the black
dresses, the one covered in lace, and the cloak, which spread out in the air. She really liked the
cloak. In anything but a complete dead calm, it floated and billowed as if whipped by a gale. If
you were going to be a witch, you had to start by looking like one. She twirled in it once or
twice, and then said something without thinking, so that the hiver part of her was caught
unawares. 'See me.' The hiver was suddenly thrust outside her body, Tiffany was free. She hadn't
expected it... She felt herself to the tips of her fingers. She dived towards the bed, grabbed one
of Zakzak's best wands and waved it desperately in front of her like a weapon. 'You stay out!' she
said. 'Stay away! It's my body, not yours! You've made it do dreadful things! You stole Mr
Weavall's money! Look at these stupid clothes! And don't you know about eating and drinking? You
stay away! You're not coming back! Don't you dare! I've got power, you know!' So have we, said her
own voice, in her own head. Yours. They fought. A watcher would have seen only a girl in a black
dress, spinning around the room and flailing her arms as if she'd been stung, but Tiffany fought
for every toe, every finger. She bounced off a wall, banged against the chest of drawers, slammed
into another wall- - and the door was flung open. One of Miss Level was there, no longer nervous,
but trembling with rage. She pointed a shaking finger. 'Listen to me, whoever you are! Did you
steal Mr Weav-?' she began. The hiver turned. The hiver struck. The hiver... killed.

Chapter Secret

It's bad enough being dead. Waking up and seeing a Nac Mac Feegle standing on your chest and
peering intently at you from an inch away only makes things worse. Miss Level groaned. It felt as
though she was lying on the floor. 'Ach, this one's alive, right enough,' said the Feegle. Told
yez! That's a weasel skull ye owe me!' Miss Level blinked one set of eyes, and then froze in
horror. 'What happened to me?' she whispered. The Feegle in front of her was replaced by the face
of Rob Anybody. It was not an improvement. 'How many fingers am I holdin' up?' he said. 'Five,'
whispered Miss Level. 'Am I? Ah, well, ye could be right, ye'd have the knowin' o' the countin','
said Rob, lowering his hand. 'Ye've had a wee bittie accident, ye ken. You're a wee bittie dead.'
Miss Level's head slumped back. Through the mist of something that wasn't exactly pain, she heard
Rob Anybody say to someone she couldn't see: 'Hey, I wwzbreakin' it tae her gently! I did say "wee
bittie" twice, right?' 'It's as though part of me is... a long way off,' murmured Miss Level.
'Aye, you're aboot right there,' said Rob, champion of the bedside manner. Some memories bobbed to
the surface of the thick soup in Miss Level's mind. Tiffany killed me, didn't she,' she said. 'I
remember seeing that black figure turn round and her expression was horrible-' That wuz the
hiver,' said Rob Anybody. That was no' Tiffany! She was fightin' it! She still is, inside! But it
didnae remember you ha' two bodies! We got tae help her, mistress!' Miss Level pushed herself
upright. It wasn't pain she felt, but it was the... ghost of pain. 'How did I die?' she said,
weakly. There was, like, an explosion, an' smoke an' that,' said Rob. 'Not messy, really.' 'Oh,
well, that's a small mercy, anyway,' said Miss Level, sagging back. 'Aye, there was just this,
like, big purple cloud o', like, dust,' said Daft Wullie. 'Where's my... I can't feel... where's
my other body?' 'Aye, that was what got blown up in that big cloud, right enough,' said Rob. 'Good
job ye has a spare, eh?' 'She's all mithered in her heid,' whispered Awf'ly Wee Billy. Take it
gently, eh?' 'How do you manage, only seeing one side of things?' said Miss Level dreamily to the
world in general. 'How will I get everything done with only one pair of hands and feet? Being in
just one place all the time... how do people manage? It's impossible She shut her eyes. 'Mistress
Level, we need ye!' shouted Rob Anybody into her ear. 'Need, need, need,' murmured Miss Level.
'Everyone needs a witch. No one cares if a witch needs. Giving and giving always... a fairy
godmother never gets a wish, let me tell you 'Mistress Level!' Rob screamed. 'Ye cannae pass oot


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on us noo!' 'I'm weary,' whispered Miss Level. 'I'm very, very pished.' 'Mistress Level!' Rob
Anybody yelled. The big wee hag is lying on the floor like a dead person, but she's cold as ice
and sweatin' like a horse! She's fightin' the beast inside her, mistress! An' she's losin'!' Rob
peered into Miss Level's face, and shook his head. 'Auchtahelweit! She's swooned! C'mon, lads,
let's move her!' Like many small creatures, Feegles are immensely strong for their size. It still
took ten of them to carry Miss Level up the narrow stairs without banging her head more than
necessary, although they did use her feet to push open the door to Tiffany's room. Tiffany lay on
the floor. Sometimes a muscle twitched. Miss Level was propped up like a doll. 'How're we gonna
bring the big hag roound?' said Big Yan. I heard where ye has to put someone's heid between their
legs,' said Rob, doubtfully. Daft Wullie sighed, and drew his sword. 'Sounds a wee bit drastic tae
me,' he said, 'but if someone will help me hold her steady-' Miss Level opened her eyes, which was
just as well. She focused unsteadily on the Feegles and smiled a strange, happy little smile.
'Ooo, fairies!' she mumbled. 'Ach, noo she's ramblin',' said Rob Anybody. 'No, she means fairies
like bigjobs think they are,' said Awf'ly Wee Billy. 'Tiny wee tinkly creatures that live in
flowers an' fly aroound cuddlin' butterflies an' that.' 'What? Have they no' seen real fairies?
They're worse'n wasps!' said Big Yan. 'We havnae got time for this! ' snapped Rob Anybody. He
jumped onto Miss Level's knee. 'Aye, ma'am, we's fairies from the land o'-' He stopped and looked
imploringly at Billy. 'Tinkle?' Billy suggested. 'Aye, the land o' Tinkle, ye ken, and we found
this puir wee princess,' said Billy. 'Aye, princess, who's been attacked by a bunch o' scunners
wicked goblins,' said Billy. '- yeah, wicked goblins, right, an' she's in a bad way, so we wuz
wonderin' if ye could kinda tell us how tae look after her until the handsome prince turns up on a
big white horse wi' curtains roound it an' wakes her with a magical kiss,' said Billy. Rob gave
him a desperate look, and turned back to the bemused Miss Level. 'Aye, what ma friend Fairy Billy
just said,' he managed. Miss Level tried to focus. 'You're very ugly for fairies,' she said. 'Aye,
well, the ones you gen'rally see are for the pretty flowers, ye ken,' said Rob Anybody, inventing
desperately. 'We're more for the stingin' nettles and bindweed an' Old Man's Troosers an'
thistles, OK? It wouldna be fair for only the bonny flowers tae have fairies noo, would it? It'd
prob'ly be against the law, eh? Noo, can ye please help us wi' this princess here before them
scunners wicked goblins-' said Billy. 'Aye, before they come back,' said Rob. Panting, he watched
Miss Level's face. There seemed to be a certain amount of thinking going on. Is her pulse rapid?'
murmured Miss Level. 'You say her skin is cold but she's sweating? Is she breathing rapidly? It
sounds like shock. Keep her warm. Raise her legs. Watch her carefully. Try to remove... the
cause...' Her head slumped. Rob turned to Awf'ly Wee Billy. 'A horse wi' curtains roond it?' he
said. 'Where did ye get all that blethers?' 'There's a big hoose near the Long Lake an' they read
stories tae their wee bairn an' I go along an' listen fra' a mousehole,' said Awf'ly Wee Billy.
'One day I snuck in and looked at the pichurs, and there was bigjobs called k'nits wi' shields and
armour and horses wi' curtains-' 'Weel, it worked, blethers though it be,' said Rob Anybody. He
looked at Tiffany. She was lying down, so he was about as high as her chin. It was like walking
around a small hill. 'Crivens, it does me nae guid at all ta see the puir wee thing like this,' he
said, shaking his head. 'C'mon, lads, get that cover off the bed and put that cushion under her
feet.' 'Er, Rob?' said Daft Wullie. 'Aye?' Rob was staring up at the unconscious Tiffany. 'How are
we goin' taw get inta her heid? There's got tae be somethin' tae guide us in.' 'Aye, Wullie, an' I
ken whut it's gonna be, 'cuz I've been usin' mah heid for thinkin'!' said Rob. 'Ye've seen the big
wee hag often enough, right? Well, see this necklet?' He reached up. The silver horse had slipped
around Tiffany's neck as she lay on the floor. It hung there, amid the amulets and dark glitter.
'Aye?' said Wullie. 'It was a present from that son o' the Baron,' said Rob. 'An' she's kept it.
She's tried tae turn hersel' intae some kind of creature o' the night, but somethin' made her keep
this. It'll be in her heid, too. 'Tis important tae her. All we need tae do is frannit a
wheelstone on it and it'll tak' us right where she is.' [If anyone knew what this meant, they'd
know a lot more about the Nac Mac Feegles' way of travelling.] Daft Wullie scratched his head.
'But I thought she thought he was just a big pile of jobbies?' he said. 'I seen her oot walkin',
an' when he comes ridin' past she sticks her nose in th' air and looks the other wa'. In fact,
sometimes I seen her wait aroond a full five-and-twenty minutes for him tae come past, just so's
she can do that.' 'Ah, weel, no man kens the workin's o' the female mind,' said Rob Anybody
loftily. 'We'll follow the horse.' From Fairies and How to Avoid Them' by Miss Perspicacia Tick:
No one knows exactly how the Nac Mac Feegle step from one world to another. Those who have seen
Feegles actually travel this way say that they apparently throw back their shoulders and thrust
out one leg straight ahead of them. Then they wiggle their foot and are gone. This is known as the
crawstep', and the only comment on the subject by a Feegle is It's all in the ankle movement, ye
ken.' They appear to be able to travel magically between worlds of all kinds but not within a
world. For this purpose, they assure people, they have 'feets'. The sky was black, even though the


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sun was high. It hung at just past noon, lighting the landscape as brilliantly as a hot summer
day, but the sky was midnight black, shorn of stars. This was the landscape of Tiffany Aching's
mind. The Feegles looked around them. There seemed to be downland underfoot, rolling and green.
'She tells the land what it is. The land tells her who she is,' whispered Awf'ly Wee Billy. 'She
really does hold the soul o' the land in her heid 'Aye, so 'tis,' muttered Rob Anybody. 'But
there's nae creatures, ye ken. Nae ships. Nae burdies.' 'Mebbe... mebbe somethin's scared them
awa'?' said Daft Wullie. There was, indeed, no life. Stillness and silence ruled here. In fact
Tiffany, who cared a lot about getting words right, would have said it was a hush, which is not
the same as silence. A hush is what you get in cathedrals at midnight. 'OK, lads,' Rob Anybody
whispered. 'We dinnae ken what we're goin' tae find, so ye tread as light as e'er foot can fall,
unnerstan'? Let's find the big wee hag.' They nodded, and stepped forward like ghosts. The land
rose slightly ahead of them, to some kind of earthworks. They advanced on it carefully, wary of
ambush, but nothing stopped them as they climbed two long mounds in the turf which made a sort of
cross. 'Man-made,' said Big Yan, when they reached the top. 'Just like in the old days, Rob.' The
silence sucked his speech away. 'This is deep inside o' the big wee hag's head,' said Rob Anybody,
looking around warily. 'We dinnae know whut made 'em.' 'I dinnae like this, Rob,' said a Feegle.
'It's too quiet.' 'Aye, Slightly Sane Georgie, it is that-' 'You are my sunshine, my only su-'
'Daft Wullie!' snapped Rob, without taking his eyes off the strange landscape. The singing
stopped. 'Aye, Rob?' said Daft Wullie from behind him. 'Ye ken I said I'd tell ye when ye wuz
guilty o' stupid and inna-pro-pre-ate behaviour?' 'Aye, Rob,' said Daft Wullie. 'That wuz another
one o' those times, wuz it?' 'Aye.' They moved on again, staring around them. And still there was
the hush. It was the pause before an orchestra plays, the quietness before thunder. It was as if
all the small sounds of the hills had shut down to make room for one big sound to happen. And then
they found the Horse. They'd seen it, back on the Chalk. But here it was, not carved into the
hillside but spread out before them. They stared at it. 'Awf'ly Wee Billy?' said Rob, beckoning
the young gonnagle towards him. 'You're a gonnagle, ye ken aboot poetry and dreams. What's this?
Why's it up here? It shouldnae be on the top o' the hills!' 'Serious hiddlins, Mr Rob,' said
Billy. 'This is serious hiddlins. I cannae work it out yet.' 'She knows the Chalk. Why'd she get
this wrong?' I'm thinkin' aboot it, Mr Rob.' 'You wouldnae care tae think a bit faster, would ye?'
'Rob?' said Big Yan, hurrying up. He'd been scouting ahead. 'Aye?' said Rob gloomily. 'Ye'd better
come and see this On top of a round hill was a four-wheeled shepherding hut, with a curved roof
and a chimney for the pot-bellied stove. Inside, the walls were covered with the yellow and blue
wrappers from hundreds of packets of Jolly Sailor tobacco. There were old sacks hanging up there,
and the back of the door was covered with chalk marks where Granny Aching had counted sheep and
days. And there was a narrow iron bedstead, made comfortable with old fleeces and feed sacks.
'D'ye have the unnerstandin' of this, Awf'ly Wee Billy?' said Rob. 'Can ye tell us where the big
wee hag is?' The young gonnagle looked worried. 'Er, Mister Rob, ye ken I've only just been made a
gonnagle? I mean, I know the songs an' a', but I'm no' verra experienced at this 'Aye?' said Rob
Anybody. 'An' just how many gonnagles afore ye ha' walked through the dreams o' a hag?' 'Er...
none I've ever heard of, Mister Rob,' Billy confessed. 'Aye. So you already know more aboot it
than any o' them big men,' said Rob. He gave the boy a smile. 'Do yer best, laddie. I dinnae
expect any more of you than that.' Billy looked out of the shed door, and took a deep breath:
'Then I'll tell ye I think she's hidin' somewhere close like a hunted creature, Mr Rob. This is a
wee bit o' her memory, the place o' her granny, the place where she's always felt safe. I'll tell
ye I think that we're in the soul and centre o' her. The bit o' her that is her. And I'm
frightened for her. Frightened to mah boots.' 'Why?' 'Because I've been watchin' the shadows, Mr
Rob,' said Billy. 'The sun is movin'. It's slippin' doon the sky.' 'Aye, weel, that's whut the sun
does-' Rob began. Billy shook his head. 'Nay, Mr Rob. Ye dinnae understand! I'm tellin' ye that's
no' the sun o' the big wide world. That's the sun o' the soul o' her.' The Feegles looked at the
sun, and at the shadows, then back at Billy. He'd stuck his chin out bravely but he was trembling.
'She'll die when night comes?' Rob said. There's worser things than death, Mr Rob. The hiver will
have her, head tae toe-' That is nae gonna happen!' shouted Rob Anybody, so suddenly that Billy
backed away. 'She's a strong big wee lass! She fought the Quin wi' no more than a fryin' pan!'
Awf'ly Wee Billy swallowed. There were a lot of things he'd rather do than face Rob Anybody now.
But he pressed on. 'Sorry, Mr Rob, but I'm telling ye she had iron then, an' she wuz on her ain
turf. She's a lang, lang way fra' hame here. An' it'll squeeze this place when it finds it, leave
no more room for it, and the night will come, an'-' ' 'Scuse me, Rob. I ha' an idea.' It was Daft
Wullie, twisting his hands nervously. Everyone turned to look at him. 'Ye ha' an idea?' said Rob.
'Aye, an' if I tell youse, I dinnae want you ta' say it's inna-pro-pre-ate, OK, Rob?' Rob Anybody
sighed. 'OK, Wullie, ye ha' my word on it.' 'Weel,' said Wullie, his fingers knotting and
unknotting. 'What is this place if it's not truly her ain place? What is it if not her ain turf?


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If she cannae fight the creature here, she cannae fight it anywhere!' 'But it willnae come here,'
said Billy. 'It doesnae need to. As she grows weaker, this place will fade away.' 'Oh, crivens,'
mumbled Daft Wullie. 'Weel, it was a good idea, right? Even if it doesnae work?' Rob Anybody
wasn't paying any attention. He stared around the shepherding hut. My man's got to use his heid
for something other than nuttin' folk, Jeannie had said. 'Daft Wullie is right,' he said quietly.
This is her safe place. She holds the land, she has it in her eye. The creature can ne'er touch
her here. Here, she has power. But 'twill be a jail hoose for her here unless she fights the
monster. She'd be locked in here and watch her life gae doon the cludgie. She'll look oot at the
world like a pris'ner at a tiny window, and see hersel' hated and feared. So we'll fetch the beast
in here against its will, and here it will die!' The Feegles cheered. They weren't sure what was
going on, but they liked the sound of it. 'How?' said Awf'ly Wee Billy. 'Ye had to gae and ask
that, eh?' said Rob Anybody bitterly. 'An' I wuz doin' sae weel wi' the thinkin'-' He turned.
There was a scratching noise on the door above him. Up there, across the rows and rows of half
rubbed-out markings, freshly chalked letters were appearing one by one, as if an invisible hand
was writing them. 'Worrds,' said Rob Anybody. 'She's tryin' tae tell us somethin'!' 'Yes, they say-
' Billy began. 'I ken weel what they say!' snapped Rob Anybody. 'I ha' the knowin' of the readin'!
They say-' He looked up again. 'OK, they say... that's the snake, an' that's the kinda like a gate
letter, an' the comb on its side, two o' that, an' the fat man standin' still, an' the snake
again, and then there's whut we calls a "space" and then there's the letter like a saw's teeth,
and two o' the letters that's roound like the sun, and the letter that's a man sittin' doon, and
onna next line we ha'... the man wi' his arms oot, and the letter that's you, an' ha, the fat man
again but noo he's walkin, an' next he's standin' still again, an' next is the comb, an' the up-
an'-doon ziggy-zaggy letter, and the man's got his arms oot, and then there's me, and that ziggy-
zaggy and we end the line with the comb again... an' on the next line we starts wi' the bendy
hook, that's the letter roound as the sun, them's twa' men sittin' doon, there's the letter
reaching ooot tae the sky! then there's a space 'cos there's nae letter, then there's the snaky
again, an' the letter like a hoose frame, and then there's the letter that's me, aye, an' another
fella sitting doon, an' another big roound letter, and, ha, oor ol' friend, the fat man walkin'!
The End!' He stood back, hands on hips, and demanded: There! Is that readin' I just did, or wuz it
no'?' There was a cheer from the Feegles, and some applause. Awf'ly Wee Billy looked up at the
chalked words: And then he looked at Rob Anybody's expression. 'Aye, aye,' he said, 'Ye're doin
great, Mr Rob. Sheep's wool, turpentine and Jolly Sailor tobacco.' 'Ach, weel, anyone can read it
all in one go,' said Rob Anybody, dismissively. 'But youse gotta be guid to break it doon intae
all the tricksie letters. And veera guid to have the knowin' o' the meanin' o' the whole.' 'What
is that?' said Awf'ly Wee Billy. 'The meaning, gonnagle, is that you are gonna' go stealin' There
was a cheer from the rest of the Feegles. They hadn't been keeping up very well, but they
recognized that word all right. 'An' it's gonna be a stealin' tae remember!' Rob yelled, to
another cheer. 'Daft Wullie!' 'Aye!' 'Ye'll be in charge! Ye ha' not got the brains o' a beetle,
brother o' mine, but when it comes tae the thievin' ye hae no equal in this wurld! Ye've got tae
fetch turpentine and fresh ship wool and some o' the Jolly Sailor baccy! Ye got tae get them to
the big hag wi' twa' bodies! Tell her she must mak' the hiver smell them, right? It'll bring it
here! And ye'd best be quick, because that sun is movin' down the sky. Ye'll be stearin' fra' Time
itself- aye? Ye have a question?' Daft Wullie had raised a finger. 'Point o' order, Rob,' he said,
'but it was a wee bittie hurtful there for you to say I dinnae hae the brains of a beetle Rob
hesitated, but only for a moment. 'Aye, Daft Wullie, ye are right in whut ye say. It was unricht
o' me to say that. It was the heat o' the moment, an' I am full sorry for it. As I stand here
before ye now, I will say: Daft Wullie, ye do hae the brains o' a beetle, an' I'll fight any
scunner who says different!' Daft Wullie's face broke into a huge smile, then crinkled into a
frown. 'But ye are the leader, Rob,' he said. 'No' on this raid, Wullie. A'm staying here. I have
every confidence that ye'll be a fiiinne leader on this raid an' not totally mess it up like ye
did the last seventeen times!' There was a general groan from the crowd. 'Look at the sun, will
ye!' said Rob, pointing. 'It's moved since we've been talkin'! Someone's got tae stay wi' her! I
will no' ha' it said we left her tae die alone! Now, get movin', ye scunners, or feel the flat o'
my blade!' He raised his sword and growled. They fled. Rob Anybody laid his sword down with care,
then sat on the step of the shepherding hut to watch the sun. After a while, he was aware of
something else... Hamish the aviator gave Miss Level's broomstick a doubtful look. It hung a few
feet above the ground and it worried him. He hitched up the bundle on his back that contained his
parachute, although it was technically the 'paradrawers', since it was made of string and an old
pair of Tiffany's best Sunday drawers, well washed. They still had flowers on, but there was
nothing like them for getting a Feegle safely to the ground. He had a feeling it (or they) were
going to be needed. 'It's no' got feathers,' he complained. 'Look, we dinnae ha' time to argue!'


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said Daft Wullie. 'We're in a hurry, ye ken, an' you're the only one who knows how tae fly!' 'A
broomstick isnae flyin',' said Hamish. 'It's magic. It hasnae any wings! I dinnae ken that stuff!'
But Big Yan had already thrown a piece of string over the bristle end of the stick and was
climbing up. Other Feegles followed. 'Besides, how do they steer these things?' Hamish went on.
'Weel, how do ye do it with wi' the birdies?' Daft Wullie demanded. 'Oh, that's easy. Ye just
shift your weight, but-' 'Ach, yell learn as we go,' said Wullie. 'Flying can-nae be that
difficult. Even ducks can do it, and they have nae brains at a'.' And there was really no point in
arguing, which is why, a few minutes later, Hamish inched his way along the stick's handle. The
rest of the Feegles clung to the bristles at the other end, chattering. Firmly tied to the
bristles was a bundle of what looked like sticks and rags, with a battered hat and the stolen
beard on top of it. At least this extra weight meant that the stick end was pointing up, towards a
gap in the fruit trees. Hamish sighed, took a deep breath, pulled his goggles over his eyes and
put a hand on a shiny area of stick just in front of him. Gently, the stick began to move through
the air. There was a cheer from the Feegles. 'See? Told yez ye'd be OK,' Daft Wullie called out.
'But can ye no' make it go a wee bit faster?' Carefully, Hamish touched the shiny area again. The
stick shuddered, hung motionless for a moment, and then shot upwards trailing a noise very like
Arrrrrrrrrgg00ggg0gg0ghhhh.hhhhhh.hhhh... In the silent world of Tiffany's head, Rob Anybody
picked up his sword again and crept across the darkening turf. There was something there, small
but moving. It was a tiny thorn bush, growing so fast that its twigs visibly moved. Its shadow
danced on the grass. Rob Anybody stared at it. It had to mean something. He watched it carefully.
Little bush, growing... And then he remembered what the old kelda had told them when he'd been a
wee boy. Once, the land had been all forest, heavy and dark. Then men came and cut down trees.
They let the sun in. The grass grew up in the clearings. The bigjobs brought in sheep, which ate
the grass, and also what grew in the grass: tree seedlings. And so the dark forests died. There
hadn't been much life in them, not once the tree trunks closed in behind you; it had been dark as
the bottom of the sea in there, the leaves far above keeping out the light. Sometimes there was
the crash of a branch, or the rattle and patter as acorns the squirrels had missed bounced down,
from branch to branch, into the gloom. Mostly it was just hot and silent. Around the edges of the
forest were the homes of many creatures. Deep inside the forest, the everlasting forest, was the
home of wood. But the turf lived in the sun, with its hundreds of grasses and flowers and birds
and insects. The Nac Mac Feegle knew that better than most, being so much closer to it. What
looked like a green desert at a distance was a tiny, thriving, roaring jungle... 'Ach,' said Rob
Anybody. 'So that's yer game, izzit? Weel, ye're no' takin' over in here too!' He chopped at the
spindly thing with his sword, and stood back. The rustling of leaves behind him made him turn.
There were two more saplings unfolding. And a third. He looked across the grass and saw a dozen, a
hundred tiny trees beginning their race for the sky. Worried though he was, and he was worried to
his boots, Rob Anybody grinned. If there's one thing a Feegle likes, it's knowing that wherever
you strike you're going to hit an enemy. The sun was going down and the shadows were moving and
the turf was dying. Rob charged. Arrrrrrrrrgggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh... What happened during the
Nac Mac Feegles' search for the right smell was remembered by several witnesses (quite apart from
all the owls and bats who were left spinning in the air by a broomstick being navigated by a bunch
of screaming little blue men). One of them was Number 95, a ram owned by a not very imaginative
farmer. But all he remembered was a sudden noise in the night and a draughty feeling on his back.
That was about as exciting as it got for Number 95, so he went back to thinking about grass.
Arrrrrrrrrgggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh... Then there was Mildred Pusher, aged seven, who was the
daughter of the farmer who owned Number 95. One day, when she'd grown up and become a grandmother,
she told her grandchildren about the night she came downstairs by candlelight for a drink of water
and heard the noises under the sink... 'And there were these little voices, you see, and one said,
"Ach, Wullie, you cannae drink that, look, it says 'Poison!!' on the bottle," and another voice
said, "Aye, gonnagle, they put that on tae frighten a man from havin' a wee drink," and the first
voice said, "Wullie, it's rat poison!" and the second voice said, "That's fine, then, 'cos I'm no'
a rat!" And then I opened the cupboard under the sink and, what do you think, it was full of
fairies! And they looked at me and I looked at them and one of them said, "Hey, this is a dream
you're having, big wee girl!" and immediately they all agreed! And the first one said, "So, in
this dream ye're having, big wee girl, you wouldna mind telling us where the turpentine is,
wouldya?" And so I told them it was outside in the barn, and he said, "Aye? Then we're offski. But
here's a wee gift fra' the fairies for a big wee girl who's gonna go right back tae sleep!" And
then they were gone!' One of her grandchildren, who'd been listening with his mouth open, said,
'What did they give you, Grandma?' 'This!' Mildred held up a silver spoon. 'And the strange thing
is, it's just like the ones my mother had, which vanished mysteriously from the drawer the very
same night! I've kept it safe ever since!' This was admired by all. Then one of the grandchildren


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asked: 'What were the fairies like, Grandma?' Grandma Mildred thought about this. 'Not as pretty
as you might expect,' she said at last. 'But definitely more smelly. And just after they'd gone
there was a sound like-' Arrrrrrrrrgggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh... People in the King's Legs (the
owner had noticed that there were lots of inns and pubs called the King's Head or the King's Arms,
and spotted a gap in the market) looked up when they heard the noise outside. After a minute or
two the door burst open. 'Good night to ye, fellow bigjobs!' roared a figure in the doorway. The
room fell horribly silent. Awkwardly, legs going in every direction, the scarecrow figure wove
unsteadily towards the bar and grabbed it thankfully, hanging on as it sagged onto its knees. 'A
big huge wee drop o' yer finest whisky, me fine fellow barman fellow,' it said from somewhere
under the hat. 'It seems to me that you've already had enough to drink, friend,' said the barman,
whose hand had crept to the cudgel he kept under the bar for special customers. 'Who're ye calling
"friend", pal?' roared the figure, trying to pull itself up. That's fightin' talk, that is! And I
havenae had enough to drink, pal, 'cos if I have, why've I still got all this money, eh? Answer me
that!' A hand sagged into a coat pocket, came out jerkily and slammed down onto the top of the
bar. Ancient gold coins rolled in every direction and a couple of silver spoons dropped out of the
sleeve. The silence of the bar became a lot deeper. Dozens of eyes watched the shiny discs as they
spun off the bar and rolled across the floor. 'An' I want an ounce o' Jolly Sailor baccy,' said
the figure. 'Why, certainly, sir,' said the barman, who had been brought up to be respectful to
gold coins. He felt under the bar and his expression changed. 'Oh. I'm sorry, sir, we've sold out.
Very popular, Jolly Sailor. But we've got plenty of- ' The figure had already turned round to face
the rest of the room. 'OK, I'll gi'e a handful o' gold to the first scunner who gi'es me a pipeful
o' Jolly Sailor!' it yelled. The room erupted. Tables scraped. Chairs overturned. The scarecrow
man grabbed the first pipe and threw the coins into the air. As fights immediately broke out, he
turned back to the bar and said: 'And I'll ha' that wee drop o' whisky before I go, barman. Ach,
no you willnae, Big Yan! Shame on ye! Hey, youse legs can shut up right noo! A wee pint of
whisky'll do us no harm! Oh, aye? Who deid and made ye Big Man, eh? Listen, ye scunner, oor Rob is
in there! Aye, and he'd have a wee drink, too!' The customers stopped pushing one another out of
the way to get at the coins, and got up to face a whole body arguing with itself. 'Anywa', I'm in
the heid, right? The heid's in charge. I dinnae ha' tae listen to a bunch o' knees! I said this
wuz a bad idea, Wullie, ye ken we ha' trouble getting oot of pubs! Well, speaking on behalf o' the
legs, we're not gonna stand by and watch the heid get pished, thank ye so veerae much!' To the
horror of the customers the entire bottom half of the figure turned round and started to walk
towards the door, causing the top half to fall forward. It gripped the edge of the bar
desperately, managed to say, 'OK! Is a deep-fried pickled egg totally oot o' the question?' and
then the figure- - tore itself in half. The legs staggered a few steps towards the door, and fell
over. In the shocked silence a voice from somewhere in the trousers said: 'Crivens! Time for
offski!' The air blurred for a moment and the door slammed. After a while one of the customers
stepped forward cautiously and prodded the heap of old clothes and sticks that was all that
remained of the visitor. The hat rolled off and he jumped back. A glove that was still hanging
onto the bar fell onto the floor with a thwap! that sounded very loud. 'Well, look at it this
way,' said the barman. 'Whatever it was, at least it's left its pockets-' From outside came the
sound of: The broomstick hit the thatched roof of Miss Level's cottage hard, and stuck in it.
Feegles fell off, still fighting. In a struggling, punching mass they rolled into the cottage,
conducted guerrilla warfare all the way up the stairs and ended up in a head-butting, kicking heap
in Tiffany's bedroom, where those who'd been left behind to guard the sleeping girl and Miss Level
joined in out of interest. Gradually, the fighters became aware of a sound. It was the skirl of
the mousepipes, cutting through the battle like a sword. Hands stopped gripping throats, fists
stopped in mid-punch, kicks hovered in mid-air. Tears ran down Awf'ly Wee Billy's face as he
played The Bonny Flowers, the saddest song in the world. It was about home, and mothers, and good
times gone past, and faces no longer there. The Feegles let go of one another and stared down at
their feet as the forlorn notes wound about them, speaking of betrayal and treachery and the
breaking of promises- 'Shame on ye!' screamed Awf'ly Wee Billy, letting the pipe drop out of his
mouth. 'Shame on ye! Traitors! Betrayers! Ye shame hearth and hame! Your hag is fightin' for her
verra soul! Have ye no honour?' He flung down the mousepipes, which wailed into silence. 'I curse
my feets that let me stand here in front o' ye! Ye shame the verra sun shinin' on ye! Ye shame the
kelda that birthed ye! Traitors! Scuggans! What ha' I done to be among this parcel o' rogues? Any
man here want tae fight? Then fight me! Aye, fight me! An' I swear by the harp o' bones I'll tak'
him tae the deeps o' the sea an' then kick him tae the craters o' the moon an' see him ride tae
the Pit o' Heel itself on a saddle made o' hedgehogs! I tell ye, my rage is the strength of the
storm that tears mountains intae sand! Who among ye will stand agin me?' Big Yan, who was almost
three times the size of Awf'ly Wee Billy, cowered back as the little gonnagle stood in front of


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him. Not a Feegle would have raised a hand at that moment, for fear of his life. The rage of a
gonnagle was a dreadful thing to see. A gonnagle could use words like swords. Daft Wullie shuffled
forward. 'I can see ye're upset, gonnagle,' he mumbled. "Tis me that's at fault, on account o'
being daft. I shoulda remembered aboout us and pubs.' He looked so dejected that Awf'ly Wee Billy
calmed down a little. 'Very well then,' he said, but rather coldly because you can't lose that
much anger all at once. 'We'll not talk aboot this again. But we will remember it, right?' He
pointed to the sleeping shape of Tiffany. 'Now pick up that wool, and the tobacco, and the
turpentine, understand? Someone tak' the top off the turpentine bottle and pour a wee drop onto a
bit o' cloth. And no one, let me mak' myself clear, is tae drink any of it!' The Feegles fell over
themselves to obey. There was a ripping noise as 'the bit o' cloth' was obtained from the bottom
of Miss Level's dress. 'Right,' said Awf'ly Wee Billy. 'Daft Wullie, you tak' all the three things
and put them up on the big wee hag's chest, where she can smell them.' 'How can she smell them
when she's oot cold like that?' said Wullie. 'The nose disnae sleep,' said the gonnagle flatly.
The three smells of the shepherding hut were laid reverentially just below Tiffany's chin. 'Noo we
wait,' said Awf'ly Wee Billy. 'We wait, and hope.' It was hot in the little bedroom with the
sleeping witches and a crowd of Feegles. It wasn't long before the smells of sheep's wool,
turpentine and tobacco rose and twined and filled the air... Tiffany's nose twitched. The nose is
a big thinker. It's good at memory -very good. So good that a smell can take you back in memory so
hard that it hurts. The brain can't stop it. The brain has nothing to do with it. The hiver could
control brains, but it couldn't control a stomach that threw up when it was flown on a broomstick.
And it was useless at noses. .. The smell of sheep's wool, turpentine and Jolly Sailor tobacco
could carry a mind away, all the way to a silent place that was warm and safe and free from
harm... The hiver opened its eyes and looked around. The shepherding hut?' it said. It sat up. Red
light shone in through the open door, and through the trunks of the saplings growing everywhere.
Many of them were quite big now and cast long shadows, putting the setting sun behind bars. Around
the shepherding hut, though, they had been cut down. This is a trick,' it said. 'It won't work. We
are you. We think like you. We're better at thinking like you than you are.' Nothing happened. The
hiver looked like Tiffany, although here it was slightly taller because Tiffany thought she was
slightly taller than she really was. It stepped out of the hut and onto the turf. It's getting
late,' it said to the silence. 'Look at the trees! This place is dying. We don't have to escape.
Soon all this will be part of us. Everything that you really could be. You're proud of your little
piece of ground. We can remember when there were no worlds! We- you could change things with a
wave of your hand! You could make things right or make things wrong, and you could decide which is
which! You will never die!' Then why are ye sweatin', ye big heap o' jobbies? Ach, what a
scunner!' said a voice behind it. For a moment the hiver wavered. Its shape changed, many times in
the fractions of a second. There were bits of scales, fins, teeth, a pointy hat, claws... and then
it was Tiffany again, smiling. 'Oh, Rob Anybody, we are glad to see you,' it said. 'Can you help
us-?' 'Dinnae gi' me all that swiddle!' shouted Rob, bouncing up and down in rage. 'I know a hiver
when I sees one! Crivens but ye're due a kickin'!' The hiver changed again, became a lion with
teeth the size of swords and roared at him. 'Ach, it's like that, is it?' said Rob Anybody.
'Dinnae go awa'!' He ran a few steps and vanished. The hiver changed back to its Tiffany shape
again. 'Your little friend has gone,' it said. 'Come out now. Come out now. Why fear us? We are
you. You won't be like the rest, the dumb animals, the stupid kings, the greedy wizards. Together-
' Rob Anybody returned, followed by... well, everyone. 'Ye cannae die,' he yelled. 'But we'll make
ye wish ye could!' They charged. The Feegles had the advantage in most fights because they were
small and fought big enemies. If you're small and fast you're hard to hit. The hiver fought back
by changing shape, all the time. Swords clanged on scales, heads butted fangs- it whirled across
the turf, growling and screaming, calling up past shapes to counter every attack. But Feegles were
hard to kill. They bounced when thrown, sprang back when trodden on and easily dodged teeth and
claws. They fought- - and the ground shook so suddenly that even the hiver lost its footing. The
shepherding hut creaked and began to settle into the turf, which opened up around it as easily as
butter. The saplings trembled and began to fall over, one after the other, as if their roots were
being cut under the grass. The land... rose. Rolling down the shifting slope, the Feegles saw the
hills climbing towards the sky. What was there, what had always been there, become more plain.
Rising into the dark sky was a head, shoulders, a chest... Someone who had been lying down,
growing turf, their arms and legs the hills and valleys of the downland, was sitting up. They
moved with great stony slowness, millions of tons of hill shifting and creaking around them. What
had looked like two long mounds in the shape of a cross became giant green arms, unfolding. A hand
with fingers longer than houses reached down, picked up the hiver and lifted it up into the air.
Far off, something thumped three times. The sound seemed to be coming from outside the world. The
Feegles, turning and watching from the small hill that was one of the knees of the giant girl,


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ignored them. 'She tells the land whut it is, and it tells her who she is,' said Awf'ly Wee Billy,
tears running down his face. I cannae write a song aboot this! I'm nae good enough!' 'Is that the
big wee hag dreamin' she's the hills or the hills dreamin' they're the big wee hag?' said Daft
Wullie. 'Both, mebbe,' said Rob Anybody. They watched the huge hand close and winced. 'But ye
cannae kill a hiver,' said Daft Wullie. 'Aye, but ye can frit it awa',' said Rob Anybody. 'It's a
big wee universe oot there. If I was it, I'd no' think o' try in' her again!' There were three
more booms in the distance, louder this time. 'I think,' he went on, 'that's it's time we were off
ski.' In Miss Level's cottage, someone was knocking heavily on the front door. Thump. Thump.
Thump.

Chapter 9
Soul ant Tiffany opened her eyes, remembered, and thought: Was that a dream, or was that real? And
the next thought was: How do I know I'm me? Suppose I'm not me but just think I'm me? How can I
tell if I'm me or not? Who's the 'me' that's asking the question? Am I thinking these thoughts?
How would I know if it wasn't? 'Dinnae ask me,' said a voice by her head. 'Is this one of them
tricksie ones?' It was Daft Wullie. He was sitting on her pillow. Tiffany squinted down. She was
in bed in Miss Level's cottage. A green quilt stretched out in front of her. A quilt. Green. Not
turf, not hills... but it looked like the downland, from here. 'Did I say all that aloud?' she
asked. 'Oh, aye.' 'Er... it did all happen, didn't it?' said Tiffany. 'Oh, aye,' said Daft Wullie
cheerfully. 'The big hag wuz up here till just noo, but she said ye probably wasnae gonna wake up
a monster.' More bits of memory landed in Tiffany's memory like red-hot rocks landing on a
peaceful planet. 'Are you all right?' 'Oh, aye' said Daft Wullie. 'And Miss Level?' And this rock
of memory was huge, a flaming mountain that'd make a million dinosaurs flee for their lives.
Tiffany's hands flew to her mouth. 'I killed her!' she said. 'Noo, then, ye didnae-' 'I did! I
felt my mind thinking it. She made me angry! I just waved my hand like this'- a dozen Nac Mac
Feegle dived for cover- 'and she just exploded into nothing! It was me! I remember!' 'Aye, but the
big hag o' hags said it wuz usin' your mind tae think with-' Daft Wullie began. 'I've got the
memories! It was me, with this hand!' The Feegles who had raised their heads ducked back down
again. 'And... the memories I've got... I remember dust, turning into stars... things... the
heat... blood... the taste of blood... I remember ... I remember the see-me trick! Oh, no! I
practically invited it in! I killed Miss Level!' Shadows were closing in around her vision, and
there was a ringing in her ears. Tiffany heard the door swing open and hands picked her up as
though she was as light as a bubble. She was slung over a shoulder and carried swiftly down the
stairs and out into the bright morning, where she was swung down onto the ground. '... And all of
us... we killed her... take one crucible of silver...' she mumbled. A hand slapped her sharply
across the face. She stared through inner mists at the tall dark figure in front of her. A bucket
handle was pressed firmly into her hand. 'Milk the goats now, Tiffany! Now, Tiffany, d'you hear!
The trusting creatures look to you! They wait for you! Tiffany milks the goats. Do it, Tiffany!
The hands know how, the mind will remember and grow stronger, Tiffany!' She was thrust down onto
the milking stool and, through the mist in her head, made out the cowering shape of... of... Black
Meg. The hands remembered. They placed the pail, grasped a teat and then, as Meg raised a leg to
play the foot-in-the-bucket game, grabbed it and forced it safely back down onto the milking
platform. She worked slowly, her head full of hot fog, letting her hands have their way. Buckets
were filled and emptied, milked goats got a bucket of feed from the bin... Sensibility Bustle was
rather puzzled that his hands were milking a goat. He stopped. 'What is your name?' said a voice
behind him. 'Bustle. Sensibil- 'No! That was the wizard, Tiffany! He was the strongest echo, but
you're not him! Get into the dairy, TIFFANY!' She stumbled into the cool room under the command of
that voice and the world focused. There was a foul cheese on the slab, sweating and stinking. 'Who
put this here?' she asked. 'The hiver did, Tiffany. Tried to make a cheese by magic, Tiffany.
Hah!' said the voice. 'And you are not it, Tiffany! You know how to make cheese the right way,
don't you, Tiffany? Indeed you do! What is your name?' ... all was confusion and strange smells.
In panic, she roared- Her face was slapped again. 'No, that was the sabre-toothed tiger, Tiffany!
They're all just old memories the hiver left behind, Tiffany! It's worn a lot of creatures but
they are not you! Come forward, Tiffany!' She heard the words without really understanding them.
They were just out there somewhere, between people who were just shadows. But it was unthinkable
to disobey them. 'Drat!' said the hazy tall figure. 'Where's that little blue feller? Mister
Anyone?' 'Here, mistress. It's Rob Anybody, mistress. I beg o' ye not tae turn me intae somethin'
unnatural, mistress!' 'You said she had a box of keepsakes. Fetch it down here this minute. I
feared this might happen. I hates doin' it this way!' Tiffany was turned round and once again
looked into the blurry face while strong hands gripped her arms. Two blue eyes stared into hers.
They shone in the mist like sapphires. 'What's your name, Tiffany?' said the voice. 'Tiffany!' The


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eyes bored into her. 'Is it? Really? Sing me the first song you ever learned, Tiffany! Now!'
'Hzan, hzana, m'taza-' 'Stop! That was never learned on a chalk hill! You ain't Tiffany! I reckon
you're that desert queen who killed twelve of her husbands with scorpion sandwiches! Tiffany is
the one I'm after! Back into the dark with you!' Things went blurry again. She could hear
whispered discussions through the fog and the voice said: 'Well, that might work. What's your
name, pictsie?' 'Awf'ly Wee Billy Bigchin Mac Feegle, mistress.' 'You're very small, aren't you?'
'Only for my height, mistress.' The grip tightened on Tiffany's arms again. The blue eyes glinted.
'What does your name mean in the Old Speech of the Nac Mac Feegle, Tiffany? Think ...' It rose
from the depths of her mind, trailing the fog behind it. It came up through the clamouring voices
and lifted her beyond the reach of ghostly hands. Ahead, the clouds parted. 'My name is Land Under
Wave,' said Tiffany and slumped forward. 'No, no, none of that, we can't have that,' said the
figure holding her. 'You've slept enough. Good, you know who you are! Now you must be up and
doing! You must be Tiffany as hard as you may, and the other voices will leave you alone, depend
on it. Although it might be a good idea if you don't make sandwiches for a while.' She did feel
better. She'd said her name. The clamouring in her head had calmed down, although it was still a
chatter that made it hard to think straight. But now at least she could see clearly. The black-
dressed figure holding her wasn't tall, but she was so good at acting as if she was that it tended
to fool most people. 'Oh... you're... Mistress Weatherwax?' Mistress Weatherwax pushed her down
gently into a chair. From every flat surface in the kitchen, the Nac Mac Feegles watched Tiffany.
'I am. And a fine mess we have here. Rest for a moment and then we must be up and doing-' 'Good
morning, ladies. Er, how is she?' Tiffany turned her head. Miss Level stood in the door. She
looked pale and she was walking with a stick. 'I was lying in bed and I thought, Well, there's no
reason to stay up here feeling sorry for myself,' she said. Tiffany stood up. 'I'm so sor-' she
began, but Miss Level waved a hand vaguely. 'Not your fault,' she said, sitting down heavily at
the table. 'How are you? And, for that matter, who are you?' Tiffany blushed. 'Still me, I think,'
she mumbled. 'I got here last night and saw to Miss Level,' said Mistress Weatherwax. 'Watched
over you, too, girl. You talked in your sleep or, rather, Sensibility Bustle did, what's left of
him. That ol' wizard was quite helpful, for something that's nothing much more'n a bunch of
memories and habits.' 'I don't understand about the wizard,' said Tiffany. 'Or the desert queen.'
'Don't you?' said the witch. 'Well, a hiver collects people. Tries to add them to itself, you
might say, use them to think with. Dr Bustle was studying them hundreds of years ago, and set a
trap to catch one. It got him instead, silly fool. It killed him in the end. It gets 'em all
killed in the end. They go mad, one way or the other, they stop remembering what they shouldn't
do. But it keeps a sort of ... pale copy of them, a sort of living memory...' She looked at
Tiffany's puzzled expression and shrugged. 'Something like a ghost,' she said. 'And it's left
ghosts in my head?' 'More like ghosts of ghosts, really,' said Mistress Weatherwax. 'Something we
don't have a word for, maybe.' Miss Level shuddered. 'Well, thank goodness you've got rid of the
thing, at least,' she quavered. 'Would anyone like a nice cup of tea?' 'Ach, leave that tae us!'
shouted Rob Anybody, leaping up. 'Daft Wullie, you an' the boys mak' some tea for the ladies!'
'Thank you,' said Miss Level weakly, as a clattering began behind her. 'I feel so clum- what? I
thought you broke all the teacups when you did the washing up!' 'Oh, aye,' said Rob cheerfully.
'But Wullie found a whole load o' old ones shut awa' in a cupboard-' 'That very valuable bone
china was left to me by a very dear friend!' shouted Miss Level. She sprang to her feet and turned
towards the sink. With amazing speed for someone who was partly dead she snatched teapot, cup and
saucer from the surprised pictsies and held them up as high as she could. 'Crivens!' said Rob
Anybody, staring at the crockery. 'Now that's what I call hagglin'!' 'I'm sorry to be rude, but
they're of great sentimental value!' said Miss Level. 'Mister Anybody, you and your men will
kindly get away from Miss Level and shut up! said Mistress Weatherwax quickly. 'Pray do not
disturb Miss Level while she's making tea!' 'But she's holding-' Tiffany began, in amazement. 'And
let her get on with it without your chatter either, girl!' the witch snapped. 'Aye, but she picked
up yon teapot wi'oot-' a voice began. The old witch's head spun round. Feegles backed away like
trees bending to a gale. 'Daft William,' she said coldly, 'there's room in my well for one more
frog, except that you don't have the brains of one!' 'Ahahaha, that's wholly correct, mistress,'
said Daft Wullie, sticking out his chin with pride. 'I fooled you there! I ha' the brains o' a
beetle!' Mistress Weatherwax glared at him, then turned back to Tiffany. 'I turned someone into a
frog!' Tiffany said. It was dreadful! He didn't all fit in so there was this sort of huge pink-'
'Never mind that right now,' said Mistress Weatherwax in a voice that was suddenly so nice and
ordinary that it tinkled like a bell. 'I expect you finds things a bit different here than they
were at home, eh?' 'What? Well, yes, at home I never turned-' Tiffany began in surprise, then saw
that just above her lap the old woman was making frantic circular hand motions that somehow meant
Keep going as if nothing has happened. So they chatted madly about sheep and Mistress Weatherwax


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said they were very woolly, weren't they, and Tiffany said that they were, extremely so, and
Mistress Weatherwax said extremely woolly was what she'd heard... while every eye in the room
watched Miss Level- - making tea using four arms, two of which did not exist, and not realizing
it. The black kettle sailed across the room and apparently tipped itself into the pot. Cups and
saucers and spoons and the sugar bowl floated with a purpose. Mistress Weatherwax leaned across to
Tiffany. 'I hope you're still feeling... alone?' she whispered. 'Yes, thank you. I mean, I can...
sort of... feel them there, but they're not getting in the way... er... sooner or later she's
going to realize... I mean, isn't she?' 'Very funny thing, the human mind,' whispered the old
woman. 'I once had to see to a poor young man who had a tree fall on his legs. Lost both legs from
the knee down. Had to have wooden legs made. Still, they were made out of that tree, which I
suppose was some comfort, and he gets about pretty well. But I remember him saying, "Mistress
Weatherwax, I can still feel my toes sometimes." It's like the head don't accept what's happened.
And it's not like she's... your everyday kind of person to start with, I mean, she's used to
havin' arms she can't see-' 'Here we are,' said Miss Level, bustling over with three cups and
saucers and the sugar bowl. 'One for you, one for you, and one for- Oh The sugar bowl dropped from
an invisible hand and spilled its sugar onto the table. Miss Level stared at it in horror while,
in the other hand that wasn't there, a cup and saucer wobbled without visible means of support.
'Shut your eyes, Miss Level!' And there was something in the voice, some edge or strange tone that
made Tiffany shut her eyes too. 'Right! Now, you know the cup's there, you can feel your arm,'
said Mistress Weatherwax, standing up. 'Trust it! Your eyes are not in possession of all the
facts! Now put the cup down gently... thaaat's right. You can open your eyes now, but what I wants
you to do, right, as a favour to me, is put the hands that you can see flat down on the table.
Right. Good. Now, without takin' those hands away, just go over to the dresser and fetch me that
blue biscuit tin, will you? I'm always partial to a biscuit with my tea. Thank you very much.'
'But... but I can't do that now-' 'Get past "I can't", Miss Level,' Mistress Weather-wax snapped.
'Don't think about it, just do it! My tea's getting cold!' So this is witchcraft too, Tiffany
thought. It's like Granny Aching talking to animals. It's in the voice! Sharp and soft by turns,
and you use little words of command and encouragement and you keep talking, making the words fill
the creature's world, so that the sheepdogs obey you and the nervous sheep are calmed... The
biscuit tin floated away from the dresser. As it neared the old woman the lid unscrewed and
hovered in the air beside it. She reached in delicately. 'Ooh, store-bought Teatime Assortment,'
she said, taking four biscuits and quickly putting three of them in her pocket. 'Very posh.' 'It's
terribly difficult to do this!' Miss Level moaned. 'It's like trying not to think of a pink
rhinoceros!' 'Well?' said Mistress Weatherwax. 'What's so special about not thinking of a pink
rhinoceros?' 'It's impossible not to think of one if someone tells you you mustn't,' Tiffany
explained. 'No it ain't,' said Mistress Weatherwax, firmly. 'I ain't thinking of one right now,
and I gives you my word on that. You want to take control of that brain of yours, Miss Level. So
you've lost a spare body? What's another body when all's said and done? Just a lot of upkeep,
another mouth to feed, wear and tear on the furniture... in a word, fuss. Get your mind right,
Miss Level, and the world is your The old witch leaned down to Tiffany and whispered: 'What's that
thing, lives in the sea, very small, folks eat it?' 'Shrimp?' Tiffany suggested, a bit puzzled.
'Shrimp? All right. The world is your shrimp, Miss Level. Not only will there be a great saving on
clothes and food, which is not to be sneezed at in these difficult times, but when people see you
moving things though the air, well, they'll say, "There's a witch and a half, and no mistake!" and
they will be right. You just hold on to that skill, Miss Level. You maintain. Think on what I've
said. And now you stay and rest. We'll see to what needs doing today. You just make a little list
for me, and Tiffany'll know the way.' 'Well, indeed, I do feel... somewhat shaken,' said Miss
Level, absent-mindedly brushing her hair out of her eyes with an invisible hand. 'Let me see...
you could just drop in on Mr Umbril, and Mistress Turvy, and the young Raddle boy, and check on
Mrs Towney's bruise, and take some Number Five ointment to Mr Drover, and pay a call on old Mrs
Hunter at Saucy Corner and... now, who have I forgotten... ?' Tiffany realized she was holding her
breath. It had been a horrible day, and a dreadful night, but what was looming and queuing up for
its place on Miss Level's tongue was, somehow, going to be worse than either. '... Ah, yes, have a
word with Miss Quickly at Uttercliff, and then probably you'll need to talk to Mrs Quickly, too,
and there're a few packages to be dropped off on the way, they're in my basket, all marked up. And
I think that's it... oh, no, silly me, I almost forgot... and you need to drop in on Mr Weavall,
too.' Tiffany breathed out. She really didn't want to. She'd rather not breathe ever again than
face Mr Weavall and open an empty box. 'Are you sure you're... totally yourself, Tiffany?' said
Miss Level, and Tiffany leaped for this lifesaving excuse not to go. 'Well, I do feel a bit-' she
began, but Mistress Weatherwax interrupted with, 'She's fine, Miss Level, apart from the echoes.
The hiver has gone away from this house, I can assure you.' 'Really?' said Miss Level. 'I don't


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mean to be rude, but how can you be so certain?' Mistress Weatherwax pointed down. Grain by grain,
the spilled sugar was rolling across the tabletop and leaping into the sugar bowl. Miss Level
clasped her hands together. 'Oh, Oswald' she said, her face one huge smile, 'you've come back!'
Miss Level, and possibly Oswald, watched them go from the gate. 'She'll be fine with your little
men keeping her company,' said Mistress Weatherwax as she and Tiffany turned away and took the
lane through the woods. 'It could be the making of her, you know, being half dead.' Tiffany was
shocked. 'How can you be so cruel?' 'She'll get some respect when people see her moving stuff
through the air. Respect is meat and drink to a witch. Without respect, you ain't got a thing. She
doesn't get much respect, our Miss Level.' That was true. People didn't respect Miss Level. They
liked her, in an unthinking sort of way, and that was it. Mistress Weatherwax was right, and
Tiffany wished she wasn't. 'Why did you and Miss Tick send me to her, then?' she said. 'Because
she likes people,' said the witch, striding ahead. 'She cares about 'em. Even the stupid, mean,
dribbling ones, the mothers with the runny babies and no sense, the feckless and the silly and the
fools who treat her like some kind of a servant. Now that's what I call magic- seein' all that,
dealin' with all that, and still goin' on. It's sittin' up all night with some poor old man who's
leavin' the world, taking away such pain as you can, comfortin' their terror, seein' 'em safely on
their way... and then cleanin' 'em up, layin' 'em out, making 'em neat for the funeral, and
helpin' the weeping widow strip the bed and wash the sheets- which is, let me tell you, no errand
for the faint-hearted- and stayin' up the next night to watch over the coffin before the funeral,
and then going home and sitting down for five minutes before some shouting angry man comes bangin'
on your door 'cos his wife's havin' difficulty givin' birth to their first child and the midwife's
at her wits' end and then getting up and fetching your bag and going out again... We all do that,
in our own way, and she does it better'n me, if I was to put my hand on my heart. That is the root
and heart and soul and centre of witchcraft, that is. The soul and centre!' Mistress Weatherwax
smacked her fist into her hand, hammering out her words. 'The... soul. .. and... centre!' Echoes
came back from the trees in the sudden silence. Even the grasshoppers by the side of the track had
stopped sizzling. 'And Mrs Earwig,' said Mistress Weatherwax, her voice sinking to a growl, 'Mrs
Earwig tells her girls it's about cosmic balances and stars and circles and colours and wands
and... and toys, nothing but toys!' She sniffed. 'Oh, I daresay they're all very well as
decoration, somethin' nice to look at while you're workin', somethin' for show, but the start and
finish, the start and finish, is helpin' people when life is on the edge. Even people you don't
like. Stars is easy, people is hard.' She stopped talking. It was several seconds before birds
began to sing again. 'Anyway, that's what I think,' she added in the tone of someone who suspects
that they might have gone just a bit further than they meant to. She turned round when Tiffany
said nothing, and saw that she had stopped and was standing in the lane looking like a drowned
hen. 'Are you all right, girl?' she said. 'It was me!' wailed Tiffany. 'The hiver was me! It
wasn't thinking with my brain, it was using my thoughts! It was using what it found in my head!
All those insults, all that...' She gulped. 'That... nastiness. All it was was me with without the
bit of you that was locked away,' said Mistress Weatherwax sharply. 'Remember that.' 'Yes, but
supposing-' Tiffany began, struggling to get all the woe out. 'The locked-up bit was the important
bit,' said Mistress Weatherwax. 'Learnin' how not to do things is as hard as learning how to do
them. Harder, maybe. There'd be a sight more frogs in this world if I didn't know how not to turn
people into them. And big pink balloons, too.' 'Don't,' said Tiffany, shuddering. 'That's why we
do all the tramping around and doctorin' and stuff,' said Mistress Weatherwax. 'Well, and because
it makes people a bit better, of course. But doing it moves you into your centre, so's you don't
wobble. It anchors you. Keeps you human, stops you cackling. Just like your granny with her sheep,
which are to my mind as stupid and wayward and ungrateful as humans. You think you've had a sight
of yourself and found out you're bad? Hah! I've seen bad, and you don't get near it. Now, are you
going to stop grizzling?' 'What?' snapped Tiffany. Mistress Weatherwax laughed, to Tiffany's
sudden fury. 'Yes, you're a witch to your boots,' she said. 'You're sad, and behind that you're
watching yourself being sad and thinking, Oh, poor me, and behind that you're angry with me for
not going "There, there, poor dear." Let me talk to those Third Thoughts then, because I want to
hear from the girl who went to fight a fairy queen armed with nothin' but a fryin' pan, not some
child feelin' sorry for herself and wallowing in misery!' 'What? I am not wallowing in misery!'
Tiffany shouted, striding up to her until they were inches apart. 'And what was all that about
being nice to people, eh?' Overhead, leaves fell off the trees. 'That doesn't count when it's
another witch, especially one like you!' Mistress Weatherwax snapped, prodding her in the chest
with a finger as hard as wood. 'Oh? Oh? And what's that supposed to mean?' A deer galloped off
through the woods. The wind got up. 'One who's not paying attention, child!' 'Why, what have I
missed that you 've seen... old woman?' 'Old woman I may be, but I'm tellin' you the hiver is
still around! You only threw it out!' Mistress Weatherwax shouted. Birds rose from the trees in


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panic. 'I know!' screamed Tiffany. 'Oh yes? Really? And how do you know that?' 'Because there's a
bit of me still in it! A bit of me I'd rather not know about, thank you! I can feel it out there!
Anyway, how do you know!' 'Because I'm a bloody good witch, that's why,' snarled Mistress
Weatherwax, as rabbits burrowed deeper to get out of the way. 'And what do you want me to do about
the creature while you sit there snivellin', eh?' 'How dare you! How dare you! It's my
responsibility! I'll deal with it, thank you so very much!' 'You? A hiver? It'll take more than a
frying pan! They can't be killed!' 'I'll find a way! A witch deals with things!' 'Hah! I'd like to
see you try!' 'I will!' shouted Tiffany. It started to rain. 'Oh? So you know how to attack it, do
you?' 'Don't be silly! I can't! It can always keep out of my way! It can even sink into the
ground! But it'll come looking for me, understand? Me, not anyone else! I know it! And this time
I'll be ready!' 'Will you, indeed?' said Mistress Weatherwax, folding her arms. 'Yes!' 'When?'
'Now!' 'No!' The old witch held up a hand. 'Peace be on this place,' she said, quietly. The wind
dropped. The rain stopped. 'No, not yet,' she went on as peace once again descended. 'It's not
attackin' yet. Don't you think that's odd? It'd be licking its wounds, if it had a tongue. And
you're not ready yet, whatever you thinks. No, we've got somethin' else to do, haven't we?'
Tiffany was speechless. The tide of outrage inside her was so hot that it burned her ears. But
Mistress Weatherwax was smiling. The two facts did not work well together. Her first thoughts
were: I've just had a blazing row with Mistress Weatherwax! They say that if you cut her with a
knife she wouldn't bleed until she wanted to! They say that when some vampires bit her they all
started to crave tea and sweet biscuits. She can do anything, be anywhere! And I called her an old
woman! Her Second Thoughts were: Well, she is. Her Third Thoughts were: Yes, she is Mistress
Weatherwax. And she's keeping you angry. If you're full of anger, there's no room left for fear.
'You hold that anger,' Mistress Weatherwax said, as if reading all of her mind. 'Cup it in your
heart, remember where it came from, remember the shape of it, save it until you need it. But now
the wolf is out there somewhere in the woods, and you need to see to the flock.' It's the voice,
Tiffany thought. She really does talk to people like Granny Aching talked to sheep, except she
hardly cusses at all. But I feel... better. 'Thank you,' she said. 'And that includes Mr Weavall.'
'Yes,' said Tiffany. 'I know.'

Chapter 10 The Late BLOOMER

It was an... interesting day. Everyone in the mountains had heard of Mistress Weatherwax. If you
didn't have respect, she said, you didn't have anything. Today, she had it all. Some of it even
rubbed off on Tiffany. They were treated like royalty- not the sort who get dragged off to be
beheaded or have something nasty done with a red-hot poker, but the other sort, when people walk
away dazed, saying, 'She actually said hello to me, very graciously! I will never wash my hand
again!' Not that many people they dealt with washed their hands at all, Tiffany thought, with the
primness of a dairy worker. But people crowded around outside the cottage doors, watching and
listening, and people sidled up to Tiffany to say things like, 'Would she like a cup of tea? I've
cleaned our cup!' And in the garden of every cottage they passed, Tiffany noticed, the beehives
were suddenly bustling with activity. She worked away, trying to stay calm, trying to think about
what she was doing. You did the doctoring work as neatly as you could, and if it was on something
oozy then you just thought about how nice things would be when you'd stopped doing it. She felt
Mistress Weatherwax wouldn't approve of this attitude. But Tiffany didn't much like hers either.
She lied all the- she didn't tell the truth all the time. For example, there was the Raddles'
privy. Miss Level had explained carefully to Mr and Mrs Raddle several times that it was far too
close to the well, and so the drinking water was full of tiny, tiny creatures that were making
their children sick. They'd listened very carefully, every time they heard the lecture, and still
they never moved the privy. But Mistress Weatherwax told them it was caused by goblins who were
attracted to the smell, and by the time they left that cottage Mr Raddle and three of his friends
were already digging a new well the other end of the garden. 'It really is caused by tiny
creatures, you know,' said Tiffany, who'd once handed over an egg to a travelling teacher so she
could line up and look through his '** Astounding Mikroscopical Device! A Zoo in Every Drop of
Ditchwater!**' She'd almost collapsed next day from not drinking. Some of those creatures were
hairy. 'Is that so?' said Mistress Weatherwax sarcastically. 'Yes. It is. And Miss Level believes
in telling them the truth!' 'Good. She's a fine, honest woman,' said Mistress Weatherwax. 'But
what I say is, you have to tell people a story they can understand. Right now I reckon you'd have
to change quite a lot of the world, and maybe bang Mr Raddle's stupid fat head against the wall a
few times, before he'd believe that you can be sickened by drinking tiny invisible beasts. And
while you're doing that, those kids of theirs will get sicker. But goblins, now, they makes sense
today. A story gets things done. And when I see Miss Tick tomorrow I'll tell her it's about time


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them wandering teachers started coming up here.' 'All right,' said Tiffany reluctantly, 'but you
told Mr Umbril the shoemaker that his chest pains will clear up if he walks to the waterfall at
Tumble Crag every day for a month and throws three shiny pebbles into the pool for the water
sprites! That's not doctoring!' 'No, but he thinks it is. The man spends too much time sitting
hunched up. A fivemile walk in the fresh air every day for a month will see him as right as rain,'
said Mistress Weatherwax. 'Oh,' said Tiffany. 'Another story?' 'If you like,' said Mistress
Weatherwax, her eyes twinkling. 'And you never know, maybe the water sprites will be grateful for
the pebbles.' She glanced sidelong at Tiffany's expression, and patted her on the shoulder. 'Never
mind, miss,' she said. 'Look at it this way. Tomorrow, your job is to change the world into a
better place. Today, my job is to see that everyone gets there.' 'Well, I think-' Tiffany began,
then stopped. She looked up at the line of woods between the small fields of the valleys and the
steep meadows of the mountains. 'It's still there,' she said. 'I know,' said Mistress Weatherwax.
'It's moving around but it's keeping away from us.' 'I know,' said Mistress Weatherwax. 'What does
it think it's doing?' 'It's got a bit of you in it. What do you think it's doing?' Tiffany tried
to think. Why wouldn't it attack? Oh, she'd be better prepared this time, but it was strong.
'Maybe it's waiting until I'm upset again,' she said. 'But I keep having a thought. It makes no
sense. I keep thinking about... three wishes.' 'Wishes for what?' 'I don't know. It sounds silly.'
Mistress Weatherwax stopped. 'No, it's not,' she said. 'It's a deep part of you trying to send
yourself a message. Just remember it. Because now-' Tiffany sighed. 'Yes, I know. Mr Weavall.' No
dragon's cave was ever approached as carefully as the cottage in the overgrown garden. Tiffany
paused at the gate and looked back, but Mistress Weatherwax had diplomatically vanished. Probably
she's found someone to give her a cup of tea and a sweet biscuit, she thought. She lives on them!
She opened the gate and walked up the path. You couldn't say: It's not my fault. You couldn't say:
It's not my responsibility. You could say: I will deal with this. You didn't have to want to. But
you had to do it. Tiffany took a deep breath and stepped into the dark cottage. Mr Weavall, in his
chair, was just inside the door and fast asleep, showing the world an open mouth full of yellow
teeth. 'Urn... hello, Mr Weavall,' Tiffany quavered, but perhaps not quite loud enough. 'Just, er,
here to see that you, that everything is... is all right There was a snort nonetheless, and he
woke, smacking his lips to get the sleep out of his mouth. 'Oh, 'tis you,' he said. 'Good
afternoon to ye.' He eased himself more upright and started to stare out of the doorway, ignoring
her. Maybe he won't ask, she thought as she washed up and dusted and plumped the cushions and, not
to put too fine a point on it, emptied the commode. But she nearly yelped when the arm shot out
and grabbed her wrist and the old man gave her his pleading look. 'Just check the box, Mary, will
you? Before you go? Only I heard clinking noises last night, see. Could be one o' the sneaky
thieves got in.' 'Yes, Mr Weavall' said Tiffany, while she thought:
Idon'twanttobehereldon'twanttobehere! She pulled out the box. There was no choice. It felt heavy.
She stood up and lifted the lid. After the creak of the hinges, there was silence. 'Are you all
right, gel?' said Mr Weavall. 'Urn...' said Tiffany. 'It's all there, ain't it?' said the old man
anxiously. Tiffany's mind was a puddle of goo. 'Urn... it's all here,' she managed. 'Um... and now
it's all gold, Mr Weavall.' 'Gold? Hah! Don't you pull my leg, gel. No gold ever came my way!'
Tiffany put the box on the old man's lap, as gently as she could, and he stared into it. Tiffany
recognized the worn coins. The pictsies ate off them in the mound. There had been pictures on
them, but they were too worn to make out now. But gold was gold, pictures or not. She turned her
head sharply and was certain she saw something small and redheaded vanish into the shadows. 'Well
now,' said Mr Weavall. 'Well now.' And that seemed to exhaust his conversation for a while. Then
he said, 'Far too much money here to pay for a buryin'. I don't recall savin' all this. I reckon
you could bury a king for this amount of money.' Tiffany swallowed. She couldn't leave things like
this. She just couldn't. 'Mr Weavall, I've got something I must tell you,' she said. And she told
him. She told him all of it, not just the good bits. He sat and listened carefully. 'Well, now,
isn't that interesting,' he said when she'd finished. 'Urn... I'm sorry,' said Tiffany. She
couldn't think of anything else to say. 'So what you're saying, right, is 'cos that creature made
you take my burying money, right, you think these fairy friends o' yourn filled my ol' box with
gold so's you wouldn't get into trouble, right?' 'I think so,' said Tiffany. 'Well, it looks like
I should thank you, then,' said Mr Weavall. 'What?' 'Well, it seems to I, if you hadn't ha' took
the silver and copper, there wouldn't have been any room for all this gold, right?' said Mr
Weavall. 'And I shouldn't reckon that ol' dead king up on yon hills needs it now.' 'Yes, but-' Mr
Weavall fumbled in the box and held up a gold coin that would have bought his cottage. 'A little
something for you, then, girl,' he said. 'Buy yourself some ribbons or something 'No! I can't!
That wouldn't be fair!' Tiffany protested, desperately. This was completely going wrong! 'Wouldn't
it, now?' said Mr Weavall, and his bright eyes gave her a long, shrewd look. 'Well, then, let's
call it payment for this little errand you're gonna run for I, eh? You're gonna run up they


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stairs, which I can't quite manage any more, and bring down the black suit that's hanging behind
the door, and there's a clean shirt in the chest at the end of the bed. And you'll polish my boots
and help I up, but I'm thinking I could prob'ly make it down the lane on my own. 'Cos, y'see, this
is far too much money to buy a man's funeral, but I reckon it'll do fine to marry him off, so I am
proposin' to propose to the Widow Tussy that she engages in matrimony with I!' The last sentence
took a little working out, and then Tiffany said, 'You are?' 'That I am,' said Mr Weavall,
struggling to his feet. 'She's a fine woman who bakes a very reasonable steak-and-onion pie and
she has all her own teeth. I know that because she showed I. Her youngest son got her a set of
fancy store-bought teeth all the way from the big city, and very handsome she looks in 'em. She
was kind enough to loan 'em to I one day when I had a difficult piece of pork to tackle, and a man
doesn't forget a kindness like that.' 'Er... you don't think you ought to think about this, do
you?' said Tiffany. Mr Weavall laughed. 'Think? I got no business to be thinking about it, young
lady! Who're you to tell me an old 'un like I that he ought to be thinking? I'm ninety-one, I am!
Got to be up and doing! Besides, I have reason to believe by the twinkle in her eye that the Widow
Tussy will not turn up her nose at my suggestion. I've seen a fair number of twinkles over the
years, and that was a good'un. And I daresay that suddenly having a box of gold will fill in the
corners, as my ol' dad would say.' It took ten minutes for Mr Weavall to get changed, with a lot
of struggling and bad language and no help from Tiffany, who was told to turn her back and put her
hands over her ears. Then she had to help him out into the garden, where he threw away one walking
stick and waggled a finger at the weeds. 'And I'll be chopping down the lot of you tomorrow!' he
shouted triumphantly. At the garden gate he grasped the post and pulled himself nearly vertical,
panting. 'All right,' he said, just a little anxiously. It's now or never. I look OK, does I?'
'You look fine, Mr Weavall.' 'Everything clean? Everything done up?' 'Er... yes,' said Tiffany.
'How's my hair look?' 'Er... you don't have any, Mr Weavall,' she reminded him. 'Ah, right. Yes,
'tis true. I'll have to buy one o' the whatdyoucallem's, like a hat made of hair? Have I got
enough money for that, d'you think?' 'A wig? You could buy thousands, Mr Weavall!' 'Hah! Right.'
His gleaming eyes looked around the garden. 'Any flowers out? Can't see too well... Ah...
speckatickles, I saw 'em once, made of glass, makes you see good as new. That's what I need...
have I got enough for speckatickles?' 'Mr Weavall,' said Tiffany, 'you've got enough for
anything.' 'Why, bless you!' said Mr Weavall. 'But right now I need a bow-kwet of flowers, girl.
Can't go courtin' without flowers and I can't see none. Anythin' left?' A few roses were hanging
on among the weeds and briars in the garden. Tiffany fetched a knife from the kitchen and made
them up into a bouquet. 'Ah, good,' he said. 'Late bloomers, just like I!' He held them tightly in
his free hand, then suddenly frowned, fell silent and stood like a statue 'I wish my Toby and my
Mary was goin' to be able to come to the weddin',' he said quietly. 'But they're dead, you know.'
'Yes,' said Tiffany. 'I know, Mr Weavall.' 'And I could wish that my Nancy was alive, too,
although bein' as I hopes to be marryin' another lady that ain't a sensible wish, maybe. Hah!
Nearly everyone I knows is dead.' Mr Weavall stared at the bunch of flowers for a while, and then
straightened up again. 'Still, can't do nothin' about that, can we? Not even for a box full of
gold!' 'No, Mr Weavall," said Tiffany hoarsely. 'Oh, don't cry, gel! The sun is shinin', the birds
is singin' and what's past can't be mended, eh?' said Mr Weavall jovially. 'And the Widow Tussy is
waitin'!' For a moment he looked panicky, and then he cleared his throat. 'Don't smell too bad, do
I?' he said. 'Er... only of mothballs, Mr Weavall.' 'Mothballs? Mothballs is OK. Right, then!
Time's a wastin'!' Using only the one stick, waving his other arm with the flowers in the air to
keep his balance, Mr Weavall set off with surprising speed. 'Well,' said Mistress Weatherwax as,
with jacket flying, he rounded the corner. 'That was nice, wasn't it?' Tiffany looked around
quickly. Mistress Weather-wax was still nowhere to be seen, but she was somewhere to be unseen.
Tiffany squinted at what was definitely an old wall with some ivy growing up it, and it was only
when the old witch moved that she spotted her. She hadn't done anything to her clothes, hadn't
done any magic as far as Tiffany knew, but she'd simply... faded in. 'Er, yes,' said Tiffany,
taking out a handkerchief and blowing her nose. 'But it worries you,' said the witch. 'You think
it shouldn 't have ended like that, right?' 'No!' said Tiffany hotly. 'It would have been better
if he'd been buried in some ol' cheap coffin paid for by the village, you think?' 'No!' Tiffany
twisted up her fingers. Mistress Weatherwax was sharper than a field of pins. 'But... all right,
it just doesn't seem... fair. I mean, I wish the Feegles hadn't done that. I'm sure I could
have... sorted it out somehow, saved up...' 'It's an unfair world, child. Be glad you have
friends.' Tiffany looked up at the tree line. 'Yes,' said Mistress Weatherwax. 'But not up there.'
'I'm going away,' said Tiffany. 'I've been thinking about it, and I'm going away.' 'Broomstick?'
said Mistress Weatherwax. 'It don't move fast-' 'No! Where would I fly to? Home? I don't want to
take it there! Anyway, I can't just fly off with it roaming around! When it... when I meet it, I
don't want to be near people, you understand? I know what I... what it can do if it's angry! It


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half-killed Miss Level!' 'And if it follows you?' 'Good! I'll take it up there somewhere!' Tiffany
waved at the mountains. 'All alone?' 'I don't have a choice, do I?' Mistress Weatherwax gave her a
look that went on too long. 'No,' she said. 'You don't. But neither have I. That's why I will come
with you. Don't argue, miss. How would you stop me, eh? Oh, that reminds me... them mysterious
bruises Mrs Towny gets is because Mr Towny beats her, and the father of Miss Quickly's baby is
young Fred Turvey. You might mention that to Miss Level.' As she spoke, a bee flew out of her ear.
Bait, thought Tiffany a few hours later, as they walked away from Miss Level's cottage and up
towards the high moors. I wonder if I'm bait, just like in the old days when the hunters would
tether a lamb or a baby goat to bring the wolves nearer? She's got a plan to kill the hiver. I
know it. She's worked something out. It'll come for me and she'll just wave a hand. She must think
I'm stupid. They had argued, of course. But Mistress Weatherwax had made a nasty personal remark.
It was: You're eleven. Just like that. You're eleven, and what is Miss Tick going to tell your
parents? Sorry about Tiffany, but we let her go off by herself to fight an ancient monster that
can't be killed and what's left of her is in this jar? Miss Level had joined in at that part,
almost in tears. If Tiffany hadn't been a witch, she would have whined about everyone being so
unfair! In fact they were being fair. She knew they were being fair. They were not thinking just
of her, but of other people, and Tiffany hated herself -well, slightly- because she hadn't. But it
was sneaky of them to choose this moment to be fair. That was unfair. No one had told her she was
only nine when she went into Fairyland armed with just a frying pan. Admittedly, no one else had
known she was going, except the Nac Mac Feegle, and she was much taller than they were. Would she
have gone if she'd known what was in there? she wondered. Yes. I would. And you're going to face
the hiver even though you don't know how to beat it? Yes. I am. There's part of me still in it. I
might be able to do something- But aren't you just ever so slightly glad that Mistress Weatherwax
and Miss Level won the argument and now you're going off very bravely but you happen to be
accompanied, completely against your will, by the most powerful witch alive? Tiffany sighed. It
was dreadful when your own thoughts tried to gang up on you. The Feegles hadn't objected to her
going to find the hiver. They did object to not being allowed to come with her. They'd been
insulted, she knew. But, as Mistress Weatherwax had said, this was true haggling and there was no
place in it for Feegles. If the hiver came, out there, not in a dream but for real, it'd have
nothing about it that could be kicked or head-butted. Tiffany had tried to make a little speech,
thanking them for their help, but Rob Anybody had folded his arms and turned his back. It had all
gone wrong. But the old witch had been right. They could get hurt. The trouble was, explaining to
a Feegle how dangerous things were going to be only got them more enthusiastic. She left them
arguing with one another. It had not gone well. But now that was all behind her, in more ways that
one. The trees beside the track were less bushy and more pointy or, if Tiffany had known more
about trees, she would have said that the oaks were giving way to evergreens. She could feel the
hiver. It was following them, but a long way back. If you had to imagine a head witch, you
wouldn't imagine Mistress Weatherwax. You might imagine Mrs Earwig, who glided across the floor as
though she was on wheels, and had a dress as black as the darkness in a deep cellar, but Mistress
Weatherwax was just an old woman with a lined face and rough hands in a dress as black as night,
which is never as black as people think. It was dusty and ragged round the hem, too. On the other
hand, thought her Second Thoughts, you once bought Granny Aching a china shepherdess, remember?
All blue and white and sparkly? Her First Thoughts thought: Well, yes, but I was a lot younger
then. Her Second Thoughts thought: Yes, but which one was the real shepherdess? The shiny lady in
the nice clean dress and buckled shoes, or the old woman who stumped around in the snow with boots
filled with straw and a sack across her shoulders? At which point, Mistress Weatherwax stumbled.
She caught her balance very quickly. 'Dangerously loose stones on this path,' she said. 'Watch out
for them.' Tiffany looked down. There weren't that many stones and they didn't seem very dangerous
or particularly loose. How old was Mistress Weatherwax? That was another question she wished she
hadn't asked. She was skinny and wiry, just like Granny Aching, the kind of person who goes on and
on- but one day Granny Aching had gone to bed and had never got up again, just like that... The
sun was setting. Tiffany could feel the hiver in the same way that you can sense that someone is
looking at you. It was still in the woods that hugged the mountain like a scarf. At last the witch
stopped at a spot where rocks like pillars sprouted out of the turf. She sat down with her back to
a big rock. This'll have to do,' she said. It'll be dark soon and you could turn an ankle on all
this loose stone.' There were huge boulders around them, house-sized, which had rolled down from
the mountains in the past. The rock of the peaks began not far away, a wall of stone that seemed
to hang above Tiffany like a wave. It was a desolate place. Every sound echoed. She sat down by
Mistress Weatherwax and opened the bag that Miss Level had packed for the journey. Tiffany wasn't
very experienced at things like this but, according to the book of fairy tales, the typical food
for taking on an adventure was bread and cheese. Hard cheese, too. Miss Level had made them ham


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sandwiches, with pickles, and she'd included napkins. That was kind of a strange thought to keep
in your head: We're trying to find a way of killing a terrible creature, but at least we won't be
covered in crumbs. There was a bottle of cold tea, too, and a bag of biscuits. Miss Level knew
Mistress Weatherwax. 'Shouldn't we light a fire?' Tiffany suggested. 'Why? It's a long way down to
the tree line to get the firewood, and there'll be a fine half-moon up in twenty minutes. Your
friend's keeping his distance and there nothing else that'll attack us up here.' 'Are you sure?'
'I walk safely in my mountains,' said Mistress Weatherwax. 'But aren't there trolls and wolves and
things?' 'Oh, yes. Lots.' 'And they don't try to attack you?' 'Not any more,' said a self-
satisfied voice in the dark. 'Pass me the biscuits, will you?' 'Here you are. Would you like some
pickles?' Tickles gives me the wind something awful' 'In that case-' 'Oh, I wasn't saying no,'
said Mistress Weatherwax, taking two large pickled cucumbers. Oh, good, Tiffany thought. She'd
brought three fresh eggs with her. Getting the hang of a shamble was taking too long. It was
stupid. All the other girls were able to use them. She was sure she was doing everything right.
She'd filled her pocket with random things. Now she pulled them out without looking, wove the
thread around the egg like she'd done a hundred times before, grasped the pieces of wood and moved
them so that... Pod The egg cracked, and oozed. 'I told you,' said Mistress Weatherwax, who'd
opened one eye. 'They're toys. Sticks and stones.' 'Have you ever used one?' said Tiffany. 'No.
Couldn't get the hang of them. They got in the way.' Mistress Weatherwax yawned, wrapped the
blanket around her, made a couple of mnup, mnup noises as she tried to get comfortable against the
rock and, after a while, her breathing became deeper. Tiffany waited in silence, her blanket
around her, until the moon came up. She'd expected that to make things better, but it didn't.
Before, there had just been darkness. Now there were shadows. There was a snore beside her. It was
one of those good solid ones, like ripping canvas. Silence happened. It came across the night on
silver wings, noiseless as the fall of a feather, silence made into a bird, which alighted on a
rock close by. It swivelled its head to look at Tiffany. There was more than just the curiosity of
a bird in that look. The old woman snored again. Tiffany reached out, still staring at the owl,
and shook her gently. When that didn't work, she shook her hardly. There was a sound like three
pigs colliding and Mistress Weatherwax opened one eye and said, 'Whoo?' 'There's an owl watching
us! It's right up close!' Suddenly the owl blinked, looked at Tiffany as if amazed to see her,
spread its wings and glided off into the night. Mistress Weatherwax gripped her throat, coughed
once or twice, and then said hoarsely, 'Of course it was an owl, child! It took me ten minutes to
lure it this close! Now just you be quiet while I starts again, otherwise I shall have to make do
with a bat, and when I goes out on a bat for any time at all I ends up thinkin' I can see with my
ears, which is no way for a decent woman to behave!' 'But you were snoring!' 'I was not snoring! I
was just resting gently while I tickled an owl closer! If you hadn't shaken me and scared it away,
I'd have been up there with this entire moor under my eye.' 'You... take over its mind?' said
Tiffany nervously. 'No! I'm not one of your hivers! I just... borrows a lift from it, I just...
nudges it now and again, it don't even know I'm there. Now try to rest!' 'But what if the hiver-?'
'If it comes anywhere near it'll be me that tells you' Mistress Weatherwax hissed, and lay back.
Then her head jerked up one more time. 'And I do not snore!' she added. After half a minute, she
started to snore again. Minutes after that the owl came back, or perhaps it was a different owl.
It glided onto the same rock, settled there for a while and then sped away. The witch stopped
snoring. In fact, she stopped breathing. Tiffany leaned closer and finally lowered an ear to the
skinny chest to see if there was a heartbeat. Her own heart felt as if it was clenched like a fist-
- because of the day she'd found Granny Aching in the hut. She was lying peacefully on the narrow
iron bed, but Tiffany had known something was wrong as soon as she had stepped inside- Boom.
Tiffany counted to three. Boom. Well, it was a heartbeat. Very slowly, like a twig growing, a
stiff hand moved. It slid like a glacier into a pocket, and came up holding a large piece of card
on which was written: I Ain't Dead, Tiffany decided she wasn't going to argue. But she pulled the
blanket over the old woman and wrapped her own around herself. By moonlight, she tried again with
her shamble. Surely she should be able to make it do something. Maybe if- By moonlight, she very,
very carefully- Pod The egg cracked. The egg always cracked, and now there was only one left.
Tiffany didn't dare try it with a beetle, even if she could find one. It would be too cruel. She
sat back and looked across the landscape of silver and black, and her Third Thoughts thought: It's
not going to come near. Why? She thought, I'm not sure why I know. But I know. It's keeping away.
It knows Mistress Weatherwax is with me. She thought: How can it know that? It's not got a mind.
It doesn't know what a Mistress Weatherwax is! Still thinking, thought her Third Thoughts. Tiffany
slumped against the rock. Sometimes her head was too... crowded... And then it was morning, and
sunlight, and dew on her hair, and mist coming off the ground like smoke... and an eagle sitting
on the rock where the owl had been, eating something furry. She could see every feather on its
wing. It swallowed, glared at Tiffany with its mad bird eyes and flapped away, making the mist


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swirl. Beside her, Mistress Weatherwax began to snore again, which Tiffany took to mean that she
was in her body. She gave the old woman a nudge, and the sound that had been a regular
gnaaaargrgrgrgrg suddenly became blort. The old woman sat up, coughing, and waved a hand irritably
at Tiffany to pass her the tea bottle. She didn't speak until she'd gulped half of it. 'Ah, say
what you like, but rabbit tastes a lot better cooked,' she gasped, shoving the cork back in. 'And
without the fur on!' 'You took- borrowed the eagle?' said Tiffany. 'O'course. I couldn't expect
the poor ol' owl to fly around after daybreak, just to see who's about. It was hunting voles all
night and, believe me, raw rabbit's better'n voles. Don't eat voles.' 'I won't,' said Tiffany, and
meant it. 'Mistress Weatherwax, I think I know what the hiver's doing. It's thinking.' 'I thought
it had no brains!' Tiffany let her thoughts speak for themselves. 'But there's an echo of me in
it, isn't there? There must be. It has an echo of everyone it's... been. There must be a bit of me
in it. I know it's out there, and it knows I'm here with you. And it's keeping away.' 'Oh? Why's
that, then?' 'Because it's frightened of you, I think.' 'Huh! And why's that?' 'Yes,' said Tiffany
simply. 'It's because I am. A bit.' 'Oh dear. Are you?' 'Yes,' said Tiffany again. 'It's like a
dog that's been beaten but won't run away. It doesn't understand what it's done wrong. But...
there's something about it that... there's a thought that I'm nearly having Mistress Weatherwax
said nothing. Her face went blank. 'Are you all right?' said Tiffany. 'I was just leavin' you time
to have that thought,' said Mistress Weatherwax. 'Sorry. It's gone now. But... we're thinking
about the hiver in the wrong way.' 'Oh, yes? And why's that?' 'Because...' Tiffany struggled with
the idea. 'I think it's because we don't want to think about it the right way. It's something to
do with... the third wish. And I don't know what that means.' The witch said, 'Keep picking at
that thought,' and then looked up and added, 'We've got company.' It took Tiffany several seconds
to spot what Mistress Weatherwax had seen- a shape at the edge of the woods, small and dark. It
was coming closer, but rather uncertainly. It resolved itself into the figure of Petulia, flying
slowly and nervously a few feet above the heather. Sometimes she jumped down and wrenched the
stick in a slightly different direction. She got off again when she reached Tiffany and Mistress
Weatherwax, grabbed the broom hastily and aimed it at a big rock. It hit it gently and hung there,
trying to fly through stone. 'Urn, sorry,' she panted. 'But I can't always stop it, and this is
better than having an anchor... Urn.' She started to bob a curtsy to Mistress Weatherwax,
remembered she was a witch and tried to turn it into a bow halfway down, which was an event you'd
pay money to see. She ended up bent double, and from somewhere in there came the little voice,
'Urn, can someone help, please? I think my Octogram of Trimontane has got caught up on my Pouch of
Nine Herbs...' There was a tricky minute while they untangled her, with Mistress Weatherwax
muttering Toys, just toys' as they unhooked bangles and necklaces. Petulia stood upright, red in
the face. She saw Mistress Weatherwax's expression, whipped off her pointy hat and held it in
front on her. This was a mark of respect, but it did mean that a two-foot, sharp, pointy thing was
being aimed at them. 'Urn... I went to see Miss Level and she said you'd come up here after some
horrible thing,' she said. 'Um... so I thought I'd better see how you were.' 'Um... that was very
kind of you,' said Tiffany, but her treacherous Second Thoughts thought: And what would you have
done if it had attacked us? She had a momentary picture of Petulia standing in front of some
horrible raging thing, but it wasn't as funny as she'd first thought. Petulia would stand in front
of it, shaking with terror, her useless amulets clattering, scared almost out of her mind... but
not backing away. She'd thought there might be people facing something horrible here, and she'd
come anyway. 'What's your name, my girl?' said Mistress Weatherwax. 'Urn, Petulia Gristle,
mistress. I'm learning with Gwinifer Blackcap.' 'Old Mother Blackcap?' said Mistress Weatherwax.
'Very sound. A good woman with pigs. You did well to come here.' Petulia looked nervously at
Tiffany. 'Urn, are you all right? Miss Level said you'd been... ill.' 'I'm much better now, but
thank you very much for asking, anyway,' said Tiffany wretchedly. 'Look, I'm sorry about-' 'Well,
you were ill,' said Petulia. And that was another thing about Petulia. She always wanted to think
the best of everybody. This was sort of worrying if you knew that the person she was doing her
best to think nice thoughts about was you. 'Are you going to go back to the cottage before the
Trials?' Petulia went on. 'Trials?' said Tiffany, suddenly lost. 'The Witch Trials,' said Mistress
Weatherwax. 'Today,' said Petulia. 'I'd forgotten all about them!' said Tiffany. 'I hadn't,' said
the old witch calmly. 'I never miss a Trial. Never missed a Trial in sixty years. Would you do a
poor old lady a favour, Miss Gristle, and ride that stick of yours back to Miss Level's place and
tell her that Mistress Weatherwax presents her compliments and intends to head directly to the
Trials. Was she well?' 'Urn, she was juggling balls without using her hands' said Petulia in
wonderment. 'And, d'you know what? I saw a. fairy in her garden! A blue one!' 'Really?' said
Tiffany, her heart sinking. 'Yes! It was rather scruffy, though. And when I asked it if it really
was a fairy, it said it was... um... "the big stinky horrible spiky iron stinging nettle fairy
from the Land o' Tinkle", and called me a "scunner". Do you know what that means?' Tiffany looked


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into that round, hopeful face. She opened her mouth to say, 'It means someone who likes fairies,'
but stopped in time. That just wouldn't be fair. She sighed. 'Petulia, you saw a Nac Mac Feegle,'
she said. 'It is a kind of fairy, but they're not the sweet kind. I'm sorry. They're good... well,
more or less... but they're not entirely nice. And "scunner" is a kind of swearword. I don't think
it's a particularly bad one though.' Petulia's expression didn't change for a while. Then she
said: 'So it was a fairy, then?' 'Well, yes. Technically.' The round pink face smiled. 'Good, I
did wonder, because it was, um, you know... having a wee up against one of Miss Level's garden
gnomes?' 'Definitely a Feegle,' said Tiffany. 'Oh well, I suppose the big stinky horrible spiky
iron stinging nettle needs a fairy, just like every other plant,' said Petulia.

Chapter

When Petulia had gone, Mistress Weatherwax stamped her feet and said, 'Let's go, young lady. It's
about eight miles to Sheercliff. They'll have started before we get there.' 'What about the
hiver?' 'Oh, it can come if it likes.' Mistress Weatherwax smiled. 'Oh, don't frown like that.
There'll be more'n three hundred witches at the Trials, and they're right out in the country.
It'll be as safe as anything. Or do you want to meet the hiver now? We could probably do that. It
don't seem to move fast.' 'No!' said Tiffany, louder than she'd intended. 'No, because... things
aren't what they seem. We'd do things wrong. Er... I can't explain it. It's because of the third
wish.' 'Which you don't know what it is?' 'Yes. But I will soon, I hope.' The witch stared at her.
'Yes, I hope so, too,' she said. 'Well, no point in standing around. Let's get moving.' And with
that the witch picked up her blanket and set off as though being pulled by a string. 'We haven't
even had anything to eat!' said Tiffany, running after her. 'I had a lot of voles last night,'
said Mistress Weatherwax over her shoulder. 'Yes, but you didn't actually eat them, did you?' said
Tiffany. 'It was the owl that actually ate them.' 'Technic'ly, yes,' Mistress Weatherwax admitted.
'But if you think you've been eating voles all night you'd be amazed how much you don't want to
eat anything next morning. Or ever again.' She nodded at the distant, departing figure of Petulia.
'Friend of yours?' she said, as they set out. 'Er... if she is, I don't deserve it,' said Tiffany.
'Hmm,' said Mistress Weatherwax. 'Well, sometimes we get what we don't deserve.' For an old woman
Mistress Weatherwax could move quite fast. She strode over the moors as if distance was a personal
insult. But she was good at something else too. She knew about silence. There was the swish of her
long skirt as it snagged the heathers, but somehow that became part of the background noise. In
the silence, as she walked, Tiffany could still hear the memories. There were hundreds of them
left behind by the hiver. Most of them were so faint that they were nothing more than a slight
uncomfortable feeling in her head, but the ancient tiger still burned brightly in the back of her
brain, and behind that was the giant lizard. They'd been killing machines, the most powerful
creatures in their world- once. The hiver had taken them both. And then they'd died fighting.
Always taking fresh bodies, always driving the owners mad with the urge for power which would
always end with getting them killed... and just as Tiffany wondered why, a memory said: Because it
is frightened. Frightened of what? Tiffany thought. It's so powerful! Who knows? But it's mad with
terror. Completely binkers! 'You're Simplicity Bustle, aren't you,' said Tiffany, and then her
ears informed her that she'd said this aloud. 'Talkative, ain't he,' said Mistress Weatherwax. 'He
talked in your sleep the other night. Used to have a very high opinion of himself. I reckon that's
why his memories held together for so long.' 'He doesn't know binkers from bonkers, though,' said
Tiffany. 'Well, memory fades,' said Mistress Weatherwax. She stopped and leaned against a rock.
She sounded out of breath. 'Are you all right, mistress?' said Tiffany. 'Sound as a bell,' said
Mistress Weatherwax, wheezing slightly. 'Just getting my second wind. Anyway, it's only another
six miles.' 'I notice you're limping a bit,' said Tiffany. 'Do you, indeed? Then stop noticing!'
The shout echoed off the cliffs, full of command. Mistress Weatherwax coughed, when the echo had
died away. Tiffany had gone pale. 'It seems to me,' said the old witch, 'that I might just've been
a shade on the sharp side there. It was prob'ly the voles.' She coughed again. 'Them as knows me,
or has earned it one way or the other, calls me Granny Weatherwax. I shall not take it amiss if
you did the same.' 'Granny Weatherwax?' said Tiffany, shocked out of her shock by this new shock.
'Not technic'ly,' said Mistress Weatherwax quickly. 'It's what they call a honorific, like Old
Mother So-and-so, or Goodie Thingy, or Nanny Whatshername. To show that a witch has... is fully...
has been-' Tiffany didn't know whether to laugh or burst into tears. 'I know,' she said. 'You do?'
'Like Granny Aching,' said Tiffany. 'She was my granny, but everyone on the Chalk called her
Granny Aching.' 'Mrs Aching' wouldn't have worked, she knew. You needed a big, warm, billowing,
open kind of word. Granny Aching was therefor everybody. 'It's like being everyone's grandmother,'
she added. And didn't add: who tells them stories! 'Well, then. Perhaps so. Granny Weatherwax it
is,' said Granny Weatherwax, and added quickly, 'but not technic'ly. Now we're best be moving.'


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She straightened up and set off again. Granny Weatherwax. Tiffany tried it out in her head. She'd
never known her other grandmother, who'd died before she was born. Calling someone else Granny was
strange but, oddly, it seemed right. And you could have two. The hiver followed them. Tiffany
could feel it. But it was still keeping its distance. Well, there's a trick to take to the Trials,
she thought. Granny- her brain tingled as she thought the word- Granny has got a plan. She must
have. But... things weren't right. There was another thought she wasn't quite having; it ducked
out of sight every time she thought she had it. The hiver wasn't acting right. She made sure she
kept up with Granny Weatherwax. As they got nearer to the Trials, there were clues. Tiffany saw at
least three broomsticks in the air, heading the same way. They reached a proper track, too, and
groups of people were travelling in the same direction; there were a few pointy hats amongst them,
which was a definite clue. The track dropped on down through some woods, came up in a patchwork of
little fields and headed for a tall hedge, from behind which came the sound of a brass band
playing a medley of Songs from the Shows, although by the sound of it no two musicians could agree
on what Song or which Show. Tiffany jumped when she saw a balloon sail up above the trees, catch
the wind and swoop away, but it turned out to be just a balloon and not a lump of excess Brian.
She could tell this because it was followed by a long scream of rage mixed with a roar of
complaint: 'AAaargwannawannaaaagongongonaargggaaaa BLOON!' which is the traditional sound of a
very small child learning that with balloons, as with life itself, it is important to know when
not to let go of the string. The whole point of balloons is to teach small children this. However,
on this occasion a broomstick with a pointy-hatted passenger rose above the trees, caught up with
the balloon and towed it back down to the Trials ground. 'Didn't used to be like this,' Granny
Weatherwax grumbled as they reached a gate. 'When I was a girl, we just used to meet up in some
meadow somewhere, all by ourselves. But now, oh no, it has to be a Grand Day Out For All The
Family. Hah!' There had been a crowd around the gate leading into the field, but there was
something about that 'Hah!' The crowd parted, as if by magic, and the women pulled their children
a little closer to them as Granny walked right up to the gate. There was a boy there, selling
tickets and wishing, now, that he'd never been born. Granny Weatherwax stared at him. Tiffany saw
his ears go red. 'Two tickets, young man,' said Granny. Little bits of ice tinkled off her words.
'That'll, er, be, er... one child and one senior citizen?' the young man quavered. Granny leaned
forward and said: 'What is a senior citizen, young man?' 'It's like... you know... old folks,' the
boy mumbled. Now his hands were shaking. Granny leaned further forward. The boy really, really
wanted to step back but his feet were rooted to the ground. All he could do was bend backwards.
'Young man,' said Granny, 'I am not now, nor shall I ever be, an "old folk". We'll take two
tickets, which I see on that board there is a penny apiece.' Her hand shot out, fast as an adder.
The boy made a noise like gneeee as he leaped back. 'Here's tuppence,' said Granny Weatherwax.
Tiffany looked at Granny's hand. The first finger and thumb were held together, but there did not
appear to be any coins between them. Nevertheless, the young man, grinning horribly, took the
total absence of coins very carefully between his thumb and finger. Granny twitched two tickets
out of his other hand. 'Thank you, young man,' she said, and walked into the field. Tiffany ran
after her. 'What did-?' she began, but Granny Weatherwax raised a finger to her lips, grasped
Tiffany's shoulder and swivelled her round. The ticket-seller was still staring at his fingers. He
even rubbed them together. Then he shrugged, held them over his leather moneybag and let go.
Clink, clink... The crowd around the gate gave a gasp, and one or two of them started to applaud.
The boy looked around with a sick kind of grin, as if of course he'd expected that to happen. 'Ah,
right,' said Granny Weatherwax happily. 'And now I could just do with a cup of tea and maybe a
sweet biscuit.' 'Granny, there are children here! Not just witches!' People were looking at them.
Granny Weatherwax jerked Tiffany's chin up so that she could look into her eyes. 'Look around, eh?
You can't move down here for amulets and wands and whatnot! It'll be bound to keep away, eh?'
Tiffany turned to look. There were sideshows all around the field. A lot of them were funfair
stuff that she'd seen before at agricultural shows around the Chalk: Roll-a- Penny, Lucky Dip,
Bobbing for Piranhas, that sort of thing. The Ducking Stool was very popular among young children
on such a hot day. There wasn't a fortune-telling tent, because no fortune-teller would turn up at
an event where so many visitors were qualified to argue and answer back, but there were a number
of witch stalls. Zakzak's had a huge tent, with a display dummy outside wearing a Sky Scraper hat
and a Zephyr Billow cloak, which had drawn a crowd of admirers. The other stalls were smaller, but
they were thick with things that glittered and tinkled and they were doing a brisk trade amongst
the younger witches. There were whole stalls full of dream-catchers and curse-nets, including the
new selfemptying ones. It was odd to think of witches buying them, though. It was like fish buying
umbrellas. Surely a hiver wouldn't come here, with all these witches? She turned to Granny
Weatherwax. Granny Weatherwax wasn't there. It is hard to find a witch at the Witch Trials. That
is, it is too easy to find a witch at the Witch Trials, but very hard to find the one you're


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looking for, especially if you suddenly feel lost and all alone and you can feel panic starting to
open inside you like a fern. Most of the older witches were sitting at trestle tables in a huge
roped-off area. They were drinking tea. Pointy hats bobbed as tongues wagged. Every woman seemed
capable of talking while listening to all the others on the table at the same time, although this
talent isn't confined to witches. It was no place to search for an old woman in black with a
pointy hat. The sun was quite high in the sky now. The field was filling up. Witches were circling
to land at the far end, and more and more people were pouring in through the gateway. The noise
was intense. Everywhere Tiffany turned, black hats were scurrying. Pushing her way through the
throng, she looked desperately for a friendly face, like Miss Tick or Miss Level or Petulia. If it
came to it, an unfriendly one would do- even Mrs Earwig. And she tried not to think. She tried not
to think that she was terrified and alone in this huge crowd, and that up on the hill, invisible,
the hiver now knew this because just a tiny part of it was her. She felt the hiver stir. She felt
it begin to move. Tiffany stumbled through a chattering group of witches, their voices sounding
shrill and unpleasant. She felt ill, as though she'd been in the sun too long. The world was
spinning. A remarkable thing about a hiver, a reedy voice began, somewhere in the back of her
head, is that its hunting pattern mimics that of the common shark, among other creatures- 'I do
not want a lecture, Mr Bustle,' Tiffany mumbled. 'I do not want you in my head!' But the memory of
Simplicity Bustle had never taken much notice of other people when he was alive and it wasn't
going to begin now. It went on in its self-satisfied squeak:- in that, once it has selected its
prey, it will completely ignore other attractive targets- She could see right across the Trials
field, and something was coming. It moved through the crowd like the wind through a field of
grass. You could plot its progress by the people. Some fainted, some yelped and turned round, some
ran. Witches stopped their gossip, chairs were overturned and the shouting started. But it wasn't
attacking anything. It was only interested in Tiffany. Like a shark, thought Tiffany. The killer
of the sea, where worse things happened. Tiffany backed away, the panic filling her up. She bumped
into witches hurrying towards the commotion and shouted at them: 'You can't stop it! You don't
know what it is! You'll flail at it and wave glittery sticks and it will keep coming! It will keep
coming!' She put her hands into her pockets and touched the lucky stone. And the string. And the
piece of chalk. If this was a story, she thought bitterly, I'd trust in my heart and follow my
star and all that other stuff and it would all turn out all right, right now, by tinkly Magikkkk.
But you're never in a story when you need to be. Story, story, story... The third wish. The Third
Wish. The third wish is the important one. In stories the genie or the witch or the magic cat...
offers you three wishes. Three wishes... She grabbed a hurrying witch and looked into the face of
Annagramma, who stared at her in terror and tried to cower away. 'Please don't do anything to me!
Please!' she cried. I'm your friend, aren't I?' 'If you like, but that wasn't me and I'm better
now,' said Tiffany, knowing she was lying. It had been her, and that was important. She had to
remember that. 'Quick, Annagramma! What's the third wish? Quickly! When you get three wishes,
what's the third wish!' Annagramma's face screwed up into the affronted frown she wore when
something had the nerve not to be understandable. 'But why do-?' 'Don't think about it, please!
Just answer!' 'Well, er... it could be anything... being invisible or... or blonde, or anything-'
Annagramma burbled, her mind coming apart at the seams. Tiffany shook her head and let her go. She
ran to an old witch who was staring at the commotion. 'Please, mistress, this is important! In
stories, what's the third wish! Don't ask me why, please! Just remember!' 'Er... happiness. It's
happiness, isn't it?' said the old lady. 'Yes, definitely. Health, wealth and happiness. Now if I
was you I'd-' 'Happiness? Happiness... thank you,' said Tiffany, and looked around desperately for
someone else. It wasn't happiness, she knew that in her boots. You couldn't get happiness by
magic, and that was another clue right there. There was Miss Tick, hurrying between the tents.
There was no time for halfmeasures. Tiffany pulled her round and shouted:
'HelloMissTickYesI'mFinel HopeYouAreWellTooWhatlsTheThirdWishQuickly
ThisIsImportantPleaseDon'tArgueOrAskQuestions Therelsn'tTime!' Miss Tick, to her credit, hesitated
only for a moment or two. 'To have a hundred more wishes, isn't it?' she said. Tiffany stared at
her and then said, Thank you. It isn't, but that's a clue, too.' Tiffany, there's a-' Miss Tick
began. But Tiffany had seen Granny Weatherwax. She was standing in the middle of the field, in a
big square that had been roped off for some reason. No one seemed to notice her. She was watching
the frantic witches around the hiver, where there was an occasional flash and sparkle of magic.
She had a calm, faraway look. Tiffany brushed Miss Tick's arm away, ducked under the rope and ran
up to her. 'Granny!' The blue eyes turned to her. 'Yes?' 'In stories, where the genie or the magic
frog or the fairy godmother gives you three wishes... what's the third wish?' 'Ah, stories,' said
Granny. That's easy. In any story worth the tellin', that knows about the way of the world, the
third wish is the one that undoes the harm the first two wishes caused.' 'Yes! That's it! That's
it!' shouted Tiffany, and the words piling up behind the question poured out. 'It's not evil! It


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can't be! It hasn't got a mind of its own! This is all about wishes! Our wishes! It's like in the
stories, where they-' 'Calm down. Take a deep breath,' said Granny. She took Tiffany by the
shoulders so that she faced the panicking crowd. 'You got frightened for a moment, and now it's
comin' and it's not going to turn back, not now, 'cos it's desperate. It don't even see the crowd,
they don't mean a thing to it. It's you it wants. It's you it's after. You should be the one who
faces it. Are you ready?' 'But supposing I lose-' 'I never got where I am today by supposin' I was
goin' to lose, young lady. You beat it once, you can do it again!' 'But I could turn into
something terrible!' Then you'll face me,' said Granny. 'You'll face me, on my ground. But that
won't happen, will it? You were fed up with grubby babies and silly women? Then this is... the
other stuff. It's noon now. They should've started the Trials proper, but, hah, it looks as though
people have forgotten. Now, then... do you have it in you to be a witch by noonlight, far away
from your hills?' 'Yes!' There was no other answer, not to Granny Weatherwax. Granny Weatherwax
bowed low and then took a few steps back. 'In your own time, then, madam,' she said. Wishes,
wishes, wishes, thought Tiffany, distracted, fumbling in her pockets for the bits to make a
shamble. It's not evil. It gives us what we think we want! And what do people ask for? More
wishes! You couldn't say: A monster got into my head and made me do it. She'd wished the money was
hers. The hiver just took her at her thought. You couldn't say: Yes, but I'd never have really
taken it! The hiver used what it found- the little secret wishes, the desires, the moments of
rage, all the things that real humans knew how to ignore! It didn't let you ignore them! Then, as
she fumbled to tie the pieces together, the egg flipped out of her hands, trusted in gravity and
smashed on the toe of her boot. She stared at it, the blackness of despair darkening the
noonlight. Why did I try this? I've never made a shamble that worked, so why did I try? Because I
believed it had to work this time, that's why. Like in a story. Suddenly it would all be... all
right. But this isn't a story, and there are no more eggs... There was a scream but it was high up
and the sound of it took Tiffany home in the bounce of a heartbeat. It was a buzzard, in the eye
of the sun, getting bigger in its plunge towards the field. It soared up again as it passed over
Tiffany's head, fast as an arrow, and as it did so, something small let go its hold on the
buzzard's talons with a cry of 'Crivens!' Rob Anybody dropped like a stone, but there was a thwap!
and suddenly a balloon of cloth snapped open above him. Two balloons, in fact, or to put it
another way, Rob Anybody had 'borrowed' Hamish's parachute. He let go of them as soon as they'd
slowed him down, and dropped neatly into the shamble. 'Did ye think we'd leave ye?' he shouted,
holding onto the strings. 'I'm under a geas, me! Get on wi' it, right noo!' 'What? I can't!' said
Tiffany, trying to shake him off. 'Not with you! I'll kill you! I always crack the eggs! What
goose?' 'Dinnae argue!' shouted Rob, bouncing up and down in the strings. 'Do it! Or ye're no' the
hag of the hills! An' I know ye are!' People were running past now. Tiffany glanced up. She
thought she could see the hiver now as a moving shape in the dust. She looked at the tangle in her
hands and at Rob's grinning face. The moment twanged. A witch deals with things, said her Second
Thoughts. Get past the 'I can't.' O-K... Why hasn't it ever worked before? Because there was no
reason for it to work. I didn't need it to work. I need it to help me now. No. I need me to help
me. So think about it. Ignore the noise, ignore the hiver rolling towards her over the trodden
grass... She'd use the things she'd had, so that was right. Calm down. Slow down. Look at the
shamble. Think about the moment. There were all the things from home... No. Not all the things.
Not all the things at all. This time, she felt the shape of what wasn't there- - and tugged at the
silver horse around her neck, breaking its chain, then hanging it in the threads. Suddenly her
thoughts were as cool and clear as ice, as bright and shiny as they needed to be. Let's see...
that looks better there... and that needs to be pulled this way... The movement jerked the silver
horse into life. Then it spun gently, passing through the threads and Rob Anybody, who said,
'Didnae hurt a bit! Keep goin'!' Tiffany felt a tingle in her feet. The horse gleamed as it
turned. 'I dinnae want to hurry ye!' said Rob Anybody. 'But hurry!' I'm far from home, thought
Tiffany, in the same clear way, but I have it in my eye. Now I open my eyes. Now I open my eyes
again- Ahh... Can I be a witch away from my hills? Of course I can. I never really leave you, Land
Under Wave... Shepherds on the Chalk felt the ground shake, like thunder under the turf. Birds
scattered from the bushes. The sheep looked up. Again, the ground trembled. Some people said a
shadow crossed the sun. Some people said they heard the sound of hooves. And a boy trying to catch
hares in the little valley of the Horse said the hillside had burst and a horse had leaped out
like a wave as high as the sky, with a mane like the wave of the sea and a coat as white as chalk.
He said it had galloped into the air like rising mist, and flew towards the mountains like a
storm. He got punished for telling stories, of course, but he thought it was worth it. The shamble
glowed. Silver coursed along the threads. It was coming from Tiffany's hands, sparking like stars.
In that light, she saw the hiver reach her and spread out until it was all around her,
invisibility made visible. It rippled and reflected the light oddly. In those glints and sparkles


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there were faces, wavering and stretching like reflections in water. Time was going slowly. She
could see, beyond the wall of hiver, witches staring at her. One had lost her hat in the
commotion, but it was hanging in the air. It hadn't had time to fall yet. Tiffany's fingers moved.
The hiver shimmered in the air, disturbed like a pond when a pebble has been dropped into it.
Tendrils of it reached towards her. She felt its panic, felt its terror as it found itself caught-
'Welcome,' said Tiffany. Welcome? said the hiver in Tiffany's own voice. 'Yes. You are welcome in
this place. You are safe here.' No! We are never safe! 'You are safe here,' Tiffany repeated.
Please! said the hiver. Shelter us! The wizard was nearly right about you,' said Tiffany. 'You hid
in other creatures. But he didn't wonder why. What are you hiding from?' Everything, said the
hiver. 'I think I know what you mean,' said Tiffany. Do you? Do you know what it feels like to be
aware of every star, every blade of grass? Yes. You do. You call it 'opening your eyes again'. But
you do it for a moment. We have done it for eternity. No sleep, no rest, just endless... endless
experience, endless awareness. Of everything. All the time. How we envy you, envy you! Lucky
humans, who can close your minds to the endless cold deeps of space! You have this thing you
call... boredom? That is the rarest talent in the universe! We heard a song, it went 'Twinkle
twinkle little star...' What power! What wondrous power! You can take a billion trillion tons of
flaming matter, a furnace of unimaginable strength, and turn it into a little song for children!
You build little worlds, little stories, little shells around your minds and that keeps infinity
at bay and allows you to wake up in the morning without screaming! Completely binkers! said a
cheerful voice at the back of Tiffany's memory. You just couldn't keep Dr Bustle down. Pity us,
yes, pity us, said the voices of the hiver. No shield for us, no rest for us, no sanctuary. But
you, you withstood us. We saw that in you. You have minds within minds. Hide us! 'You want
silence?' said Tiffany. Yes, and more than silence, said the voice of the hiver. You humans are so
good at ignoring things. You are almost blind and almost deaf You look at a tree and see... just a
tree, a stiff weed. You don't see its history, feel the pumping of the sap, hear every insect in
the bark, sense the chemistry of the leaves, notice the hundred shades of green, the tiny
movements to follow the sun, the subtle growth of the wood... 'But you don't understand us,' said
Tiffany. 'I don't think any human could survive you. You give us what you think we want, as soon
as we want it, just like in fairy stories. And the wishes always go wrong.' Yes. We know that now.
We have an echo of you now. We have... understanding, said the hiver. So now we come to you with a
wish. It is the wish that puts the others right. 'Yes,' said Tiffany. 'That's always the last
wish, the third wish. It's the one that says "Make this not have happened".' Teach us the way to
die, said the voices of the hiver. 'I don't know it!' All humans know the way, said the voices of
the hiver. You walk it every day of your short, short lives. You know it. We envy you your
knowledge. You know how to end. You are very talented. I must know how to die, Tiffany thought.
Somewhere deep down. Let me think. Let me get past the 'I can't'... She held up the glittering
shamble. Shafts of light still spun off it, but she didn't need it any more. She could hold the
power in the centre of herself. It was all a matter of balance. The light died. Rob Anybody was
still hanging in the threads, but all his hair had come unplaited and stood out from his head in a
great red ball. He looked stunned. 'I could just murrrder a kebab,' he said. Tiffany lowered him
to the ground, where he swayed slightly, then she put the rest of the shamble in her pocket.
'Thank you, Rob,' she said. 'But I want you to go now. It could get... serious.' It was, of
course, the wrong thing to say. 'I'm no' leavin'!' he snapped. 'I promised Jeannie to keep ye
safe! Let's get on wi' it!' There was no arguing. Rob was standing in that half-crouch of his,
fists bunched, chin out, ready for anything and burning with defiance. 'Thank you,' said Tiffany,
and straightened up. Death is right behind us, she thought. Life ends, and there's death, waiting.
So... it must be close. Very close. It would be... a door. Yes. An old door, old wood. Dark, too.
She turned. Behind her, there was a black door in the air. The hinges would creak, she thought.
When she pushed it open, they did. So-oo... she thought, this isn't exactly real. I'm telling
myself a story I can understand, about doors, and I'm fooling myself just enough for it all to
work. I just have to keep balanced on that edge for it to go on working, too. And that's as hard
as not thinking about a pink rhinoceros. And if Granny Weatherwax can do that, I can too. Beyond
the door, black sand stretched away under a sky of pale stars. There were some mountains on the
distant horizon. You must help us through, said the voices of the hiver. 'If you'll tak' my
advice, you'll no' do that,' said Rob Anybody from Tiffany's ankle. 'I dinnae trust the scunner
one wee bitty!' 'There's part of me in there. I trust that,' she said. 'I did say you don't have
to come, Rob.' 'Oh, aye? An' I'm ta' see you go through there alone, am I? Yell not find me
leavin' you now!' 'You've got a clan and a wife, Rob!' 'Aye, an' so I willnae dishonour them by
lettin' yer step across Death's threshold alone,' said Rob Anybody firmly. So, thought Tiffany as
she stared through the doorway, this is what we do. We live on the edges. We help those who can't
find the way... She took a deep breath and stepped across. Nothing much changed. The sand felt


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gritty underfoot and crunched when she walked over it, as she expected, but when it was kicked up
it fell back as slowly as thistledown, and she hadn't expected that. The air wasn't cold, but it
was thin and prickly to breathe. The door shut softly behind her. Thank you, said the voices of
the hiver. What do we do now? Tiffany looked around her, and up at the stars. They weren't ones
that she recognized. 'You die, I think,' she said. But there is no 'me' to die, said the voices of
the hiver. There is only us. Tiffany took a deep breath. This was about words, and she knew about
words. 'Here is a story to believe,' she said. 'Once we were blobs in the sea, and then fishes,
and then lizards and rats and then monkeys, and hundreds of things in between. This hand was once
a fin, this hand once had claws! In my human mouth I have the pointy teeth of a wolf and the
chisel teeth of a rabbit and the grinding teeth of a cow! Our blood is as salty as the sea we used
to live in! When we're frightened the hair on our skins stands up, just like it did when we had
fur. We are history! Everything we've ever been on the way to becoming us, we still are. Would you
like the rest of the story?' Tell us, said the hiver. 'I'm made up of the memories of my parents
and grandparents, all my ancestors. They're in the way I look, in the colour of my hair. And I'm
made up of everyone I've ever met who's changed the way I think. So who is "me"?' The piece that
just told us that story, said the hiver. The piece that's truly you. 'Well... yes. But you must
have that too. You know you say you're "us"- who is it saying it? Who is saying you're not you?
You're not different from us. We're just much, much better at forgetting. And we know when not to
listen to the monkey.' You 've just puzzled us, said the hiver. 'The old bit of our brains that
wants to be head monkey, and attacks when it's surprised,' said Tiffany. It reacts. It doesn't
think. Being human is knowing when not to be the monkey or the lizard or any of the other old
echoes. But when you take people over, you silence the human part. You listen to the monkey. The
monkey doesn't know what it needs, only what it wants. No, you are not an "us". You are an "I".'
I, me, said the hiver. I. Who am I? 'Do you want a name? That helps.' Yes. A name... I've always
liked Arthur, as a name.' Arthur, said the hiver. I like Arthur, too. And if I am, I can stop.
What happens next? 'The creatures you... took over, didn't they die?' Yes, said the Arthur. But we-
but I didn't see what happened. They just stopped being here. Tiffany looked around at the endless
sand. She couldn't see anybody, but there was something out there that suggested movement. It was
the occasional change in the light, perhaps, as if she was catching glimpses of something she was
not supposed to see. 'I think,' she said, 'that you have to cross the desert.' What's on the other
side? said Arthur. Tiffany hesitated. 'Some people think you go to a better world,' she said.
'Some people think you come back to this one in a different body. And some think there's just
nothing. They think you just stop.' And what do you think? Arthur asked. 'I think that there are
no words to describe it,' said Tiffany. Is that true? said Arthur. 'I think that's why you have to
cross the desert,' said Tiffany. 'To find out.' I will look forward to it. Thank you. 'Goodbye...
Arthur.' She felt the hiver fall away. There wasn't much sign of it- a movement of a few sand
grains, a sizzle in the air- but it slid away slowly across the black sand. 'An' bad cess an' good
riddance ta' ye!' Rob Anybody shouted after it. 'No,' said Tiffany. 'Don't say that.' 'Aye, but it
killed folk to stay alive.' 'It didn't want to. It didn't know how people work.' 'That was a fine
load of o' blethers ye gave it, at any rate,' said Rob admiringly. 'Not even a gonnagle could make
up a load o' blethers like that.' Tiffany wondered if it had been. Once, when the wandering
teachers had come to the village, she had paid half a dozen eggs for a morning's education on
***Wonders of the Univers!!*** That was expensive, for education, but it had been thoroughly worth
it. The teacher had been a little bit crazy, even for a teacher, but what he'd said had seemed to
make absolute sense. One of the most amazing things about the universe, he had said, was that,
sooner or later, everything is made of everything else, although it'll probably take millions and
millions of years for this to happen. The other children had giggled or argued, but Tiffany knew
that what had once been tiny living creatures was now the chalk of the hills. Everything went
round, even stars. That had been a very good morning, especially since she'd been refunded half an
egg for pointing out that 'Universe' had been spelled wrong. Was it true? Maybe that didn't
matter. Maybe it just had to be true enough for Arthur. Her eyes, the inner eyes that opened
twice, were beginning to close. She could feel the power draining away. You couldn't stay in that
state for long. You became so aware of the universe that you stopped being aware of you. How
clever of humans to have learned how to close their minds. Was there anything so amazing in the
universe as boredom? She sat down, just for a moment, and picked up a handful of the sand. It rose
above her hand, twisting like smoke, reflecting the starlight, then settled back as if it had all
the time in the world. She had never felt this tired. She still heard the inner voices. The hiver
had left memories behind, just a few. She could remember when there had been no stars and when
there had been no such thing as 'yesterday'. She knew what was beyond the sky and beneath the
grass. But she couldn't remember when she had last slept, properly slept, in a bed. Being
unconscious didn't count. She closed her eyes, and closed her eyes again- Someone kicked her hard


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on the foot. 'Dinnae gae to sleep!' Rob Anybody shouted. 'Not here! Ye cannae gae to sleep here!
Rise an' shine!' Still feeling muzzy, Tiffany pushed herself back onto her feet, through gentle
swirls of rising dust, and turned to the dark door. It wasn't there. There were her footprints in
the sand, but they went only a few feet and, anyway, were slowly disappearing. There was nothing
around her but dead desert, for ever. She turned back to look towards the distant mountains, but
her view was blocked by a tall figure, all in black, holding a scythe. It hadn't been there
before. GOOD AFTERNOON, said Death.

Chapter 12 Egress

Tiffany stared up into a black hood. There was a skull in it, but the eye sockets glowed blue. At
least bones had never frightened Tiffany. They were only chalk that had walked around. 'Are you-?'
she began, but Rob Anybody gave a yell and leaped straight for the hood. There was a thud. Death
took a step backwards and raised a skeletal hand to his cowl. He pulled out Rob Anybody by his
hair and held him at arm's length while the Nac Mac Feegle cursed and kicked. is THIS YOURS? Death
asked Tiffany. The voice was heavy and all around her, like thunder. 'No. Er... he's his.' I WAS
NOT EXPECTING A NAC MAC FEEGLE TODAY, Said Death, OTHERWISE I WOULD HAVE WORN PROTECTIVE CLOTHING,
HA HA. 'They do fight a lot,' Tiffany admitted. 'You are Death, aren't you? I know this might
sound a silly question.' YOU ARE NOT AFRAID? 'Not yet. But, er... which way to the egress,
please?' There was a pause. Then Death said, in a puzzled voice: ISN'T THAT A FEMALE EAGLE? 'No,'
said Tiffany. 'Everyone thinks that. Actually, it's the way out. The exit.' Death pointed, with
the hand that still held the incandescently angry Rob Anybody. THAT WAY. YOU HAVE TO WALK THE
DESERT. 'All the way to the mountains?' YES. BUT ONLY THE DEAD CAN TAKE THAT WAY. 'Ye've got ta'
let me go sooner or later, ye big 'natomy!' yelled Rob Anybody. 'And then ye're gonna get sich a
kickin'!' 'There was a door here!' said Tiffany. AH YES, said Death, BUT THERE ARE RULES, THAT WAS
A WAY IN, YOU SEE. 'What's the difference?' A FAIRLY IMPORTANT ONE, I'M SORRY TO SAY. YOU WILL
HAVE TO SEE YOURSELVES OUT. DO NOT FALL ASLEEP HERE. SLEEP HERE NEVER ENDS. Death vanished. Rob
Anybody dropped to the sand and came up ready to fight, but they were alone. 'Ye'll have to make a
door oot,' he said. 'I don't know how! Rob, I told you not to come with me. Can't you get out?'
'Aye. Probably. But I've got to see ye safe. The kelda put a geas on me. I must save the hag o'
the hills.' 'Jeannie told you that?' 'Aye. She was verra definite,' said Rob Anybody. Tiffany
slumped down onto the sand again. It fountained up around her. 'I'll never get out,' she said. How
to get in, yes, that wasn't hard... She looked around. They weren't obvious, but there were
occasional changes in the light, and little puffs of dust. People she couldn't see were walking
past her. People were crossing the desert. Dead people, going to find out what was beyond the
mountains... I'm eleven, she thought. People will be upset. She thought about the farm, and how
her mother and father would react. But there wouldn't be a body, would there? So people would hope
and hope that she'd come back and was just... missing, like old Mrs Happens in the village, who
lit a candle in the window every night for her son who'd been lost at sea thirty years ago. She
wondered if Rob could send a message, but what could she say? I'm not dead, I'm just stuck'? 'I
should have thought of other people,' she said aloud. 'Aye, weel, ye did,' said Rob, sitting down
by her foot. 'Yon Arthur went off happy, and ye saved other folk fra' being killed. Ye did what ye
had to do.' Yes, thought Tiffany. That's what we have to do. And there's no one to protect you,
because you 're the one who's supposed to do that sort of thing. But her Second Thoughts said: I'm
glad I did it. I'd do it again. I stopped the hiver killing anyone else, even though we led it
right into the Trials. And that thought was followed by a space. There should have been another
thought, but she was too tired to have it. It had been important. 'Thank you for coming, Rob,' she
said. 'But when... you can leave, you must go straight back to Jeannie, understand? And tell her
I'm grateful she sent you. Say I wish we'd had a chance to get to know one another better.' 'Oh,
aye. I've sent the lads back anyway. Hamish is waitin' for me.' At which point the door appeared,
and opened. Granny Weatherwax stepped through and beckoned urgently. 'Some people don't have the
sense they were born with! Come on, right now!' she commanded. Behind her, the door started to
swing shut, but she swung round savagely and rammed her boot against the jamb, shouting, 'Oh, no
you don't, you sly devil!' 'But... I thought there were rules!' said Tiffany, getting up and
hurrying forward, all tiredness suddenly gone. Even a tired body wants to survive. 'Oh? Really?'
said Granny. 'Did you sign anything? Did you take any kind of oath? No? Then they weren't your
rules! Quickly, now! And you, Mr Anyone!' Rob Anybody jumped onto her boot just before she pulled
it away. The door shut with another click, disappeared and left them in... dead light, it seemed,
a space of grey air. 'Won't take long,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'It doesn't usually. It's the
world getting back into line. Oh, don't look like that. You showed it the Way, right? Out of pity.
Well, I know this path already. You'll tread it again, no doubt, for some other poor soul, open


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the door for them as can't find it. But we don't talk about it, understand?' 'Miss Level never-'
'We don't talk about it, I said,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'Do you know what a part of being a
witch is? It's making the choices that have to be made. The hard choices. But you did... quite
well. There's no shame in pity.' She brushed some grass seed off her dress. 'I hope Mrs Ogg has
arrived,' she said. 'I need her recipe for apple chutney. Oh... when we arrive you might feel a
bit dizzy. I'd better warn you.' 'Granny?' said Tiffany, as the light began to grow brighter. It
brought back tiredness with it, too. 'Yes?' 'What exactly happened just then?' 'What do you think
happened?' Light burst in upon them. Someone was wiping Tiffany's forehead with a damp cloth. She
lay, feeling the beautiful coolness. There were voices around her, and she recognized the chronic-
complainer's tones of Annagramma: '... And she was really making a fuss in Zakzak's. Honestly, I
don't think she's quite right in the head! I think she's literally gone cuckoo! She was shouting
things and using some kind of, oh, I don't know, some peasant trick to make us think she'd turned
that fool Brian into a frog. Well, of course, she didn't fool me for one minute-' Tiffany opened
her eyes and saw the round pink face of Petulia, screwed up with concern. 'Urn, she's awake!' said
the girl. The space between Tiffany and the ceiling filled up with pointy hats. They drew back,
reluctantly, as she sat up. From above, it must have looked like a dark daisy, closing and
opening. 'Where is this?' she said. 'Urn, the First Aid and Lost Children's Tent,' said Petulia.
'Urn... you fainted when Mistress Weather-wax brought you back from... from wherever you'd gone.
Everyone's been in to see you!' 'She said you'd, like, dragged the monster into, like, the Next
World!' Lucy Warbeck said, her eyes gleaming. 'Mistress Weatherwax told everyone all about it!'
'Well, it wasn't quite-' Tiffany began. She felt something prod her in the back. She reached
behind her, and her hand came back holding a pointy hat. It was almost grey with age and quite
battered. Zakzak wouldn't have dared try to sell something like this, but the other girls stared
it like starving dogs watching a butcher's hand. 'Urn, Mistress Weatherwax gave you her hat,'
breathed Petulia. 'Her actual hat.' 'She said you were a born witch and no witch should be without
a hat!' said Dimity Hubbub, watching. That's nice,' said Tiffany. She was used to secondhand
clothes. 'It's only an old hat,' said Annagramma. Tiffany looked up at the tall girl and let
herself smile slowly. 'Annagramma?' she said, raising a hand with the fingers open. Annagramma
backed away. 'Oh no,' she said. 'Don't you do that! Don't you do that! Someone stop her doing
that!' 'Do you want a balloon, Annagramma?' said Tiffany, sliding off the table. 'No! Please!'
Annagramma took another step back, holding her arms in front of her face, and fell over a bench.
Tiffany picked her up and patted her cheerfully on a cheek. 'Then I shan't buy you one,' she said.
'But please learn what "literally" really means, will you?' Annagramma smiled in a frozen kind of
way. 'Er, yes,' she managed. 'Good. And then we will be friends.' She left the girl standing
there, and went back to pick up the hat. 'Urn, you're probably still a bit woozy,' said Petulia.
'You probably don't understand.' 'Ha, I wasn't actually frightened, you know,' said Annagramma.
'It was all for fun, of course.' No one paid any attention. 'Understand what?' said Tiffany. 'It's
her actual hat' the girls chorused. 'It's, like, if that hat could talk, what stories it would
have to, you know, tell,' said Lucy Warbeck. 'It was just a joke,' said Annagramma to anyone who
was listening. Tiffany looked at the hat. It was very battered, and not extremely clean. If that
hat could talk, it would probably mutter. 'Where's Granny Weatherwax now?' she said. There was a
gasp from the girls. This was nearly as impressive as the hat. 'Um... she doesn't mind you calling
her that?' said Petulia. 'She invited me to,' said Tiffany. 'Only we heard you had to have known
her for, like, a hundred years before she let you call her that...' said Lucy Warbeck. Tiffany
shrugged. 'Well, anyway,' she said. 'Do you know where she is?' 'Oh, having tea with the other old
witches and yakking on about chutney and how witches today aren't what they were when she was a
girl,' said Lulu Darling. 'What?' said Tiffany. 'Just having tea!' The young witches looked at one
another in puzzlement. 'Um, there's buns too,' said Petulia. 'If that's important.' 'But she
opened the door for me. The door into -out of the... the desert! You can't just sit down after
that and have buns! 'Um, the ones I saw had icing on,' Petulia ventured, nervously. 'They weren't
just homemade-' 'Look,' said Lucy Warbeck, 'we didn't really, you know, see anything? You were
just standing there with this, like, glow around you and we couldn't get in and then Gran-
Mistress Weatherwax walked up and stepped right in and you both, you know, stood there? And then
the glow went zip and vanished and you, like, fell over.' 'What Lucy's failing to say very
accurately,' said Annagramma, 'is that we didn't actually see you go anywhere. I'm telling you
this as a friend, of course. There was just this glow, which could have been anything.' Annagramma
was going to be a good witch, Tiffany considered. She could tell herself stories that she
literally believed. And she could bounce back like a ball. 'Don't forget, I saw the horse,' said
Harrieta Bilk. Annagramma rolled her eyes. 'Oh yes, Harrieta thinks she saw some kind of horse in
the sky. Except it didn't look like a horse, she says. She says it looked like a horse would look
if you took the actual horse away and just left the horsiness, right, Harrieta?' 'I didn't say


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that!' snapped Harrieta. 'Well, pardon me. That's what it sounded like.' 'Urn, and some people
said they saw a white horse grazing in the next field, too, said Petulia. 'And a lot of the older
witches said they felt a tremendous amount of-' 'Yes, some people thought they saw a horse in a
field but it isn't there any more,' said Annagramma in the singsong voice she used when she
thought it was all stupid. 'That must be very rare in the country, seeing horses in fields.
Anyway, if there really was a white horse, it was grey.' Tiffany sat on the edge of the table,
staring at her knees. Anger at Annagramma had jolted her to life, but now the tiredness was
creeping back. 'I suppose none of you saw a little blue man, about six inches high, with red
hair?' she said quietly. 'Anyone?' said Annagramma, with malicious cheerfulness. There was a
general mumbling of 'no'. 'Sorry, Tiffany,' said Lucy. 'Don't worry,' said Annagramma. 'He
probably just rode away on his white horse!' This is going to be like Fairyland all over again,
thought Tiffany. Even I can't remember if it was real. Why should anyone believe me? But she had
to try. 'There was a dark doorway,' she said slowly, 'and beyond it was a desert of black sand and
it was quite light although there were stars in the sky, and Death was there. I spoke to him 'You
spoke to him, did you?' said Annagramma. 'And what did he say, pray?' 'He didn't say "pray",' said
Tiffany. 'We didn't talk about much. But he didn't know what an egress was.' 'It's a small type of
heron, isn't it?' said Harrieta. There was silence, except for the noise of the Trials outside.
'It's not your fault,' said Annagramma in what was, for her, almost a friendly voice. 'It's like I
said: Mistress Weatherwax messes with people's heads.' 'What about the glow?' said Lucy. 'That was
probably ball lightning,' said Annagramma. 'That's very strange stuff.' 'But people were, like,
hammering on it! It was as hard as ice!' 'Ah, well, it probably felt like that,' said Annagramma,
'but it was... probably affecting people's muscles, maybe. I'm only trying to be helpful here,'
she added. 'You've got to be sensible. She just stood there. You saw her. There weren't any doors
or deserts. There was just her.' Tiffany sighed. She just felt tired. She just wanted to crawl off
somewhere. She just wanted to go home. She'd walk there now if her boots weren't suddenly so
uncomfortable. While the girls argued, she undid the laces and tugged one off. Silver-black dust
poured out. When it hit the ground it bounced, slowly, curving up into the air again like mist.
The girls turned, watching in silence. Then Petulia reached down and caught some of the dust. When
she lifted her hand, the fine stuff flowed between her fingers. It fell as slowly as feathers.
'Sometimes things go wrong,' she said, in a faraway voice. 'Mistress Blackcap told me. Haven't any
of you been there when old folk are dying?' There were one or two nods, but everyone was watching
the dust. 'Sometimes things go wrong,' said Petulia again. 'Sometimes they're dying but they can't
leave because they don't know the Way. She said that's when they need you to be there, close to
them, to help them find the door so they don't get lost in the dark.' 'Petulia, we're not supposed
to talk about this,' said Harrieta, gently. 'No!' said Petulia, her face red. 'It is a time to
talk about it, just here, just us! Because she said it's the last thing you can do for someone.
She said there's a dark desert they have to cross, where the sand-' 'Hah! Mrs Earwig says that
sort of thing is black magic,' said Annagramma, her voice as sharp and sudden as a knife. 'Does
she?' said Petulia dreamily as the sand poured down. 'Well, Mistress Blackcap said that sometimes
the moon is light and sometimes it's in shadow but you should always remember it's the same moon.
And... Annagramma?' 'Yes?' Petulia took a deep breath. 'Don't you ever dare interrupt me again as
long as you live. Don't you dare. Don't you dare! I mean it.'

Chapter 13

And then... there were the Trials themselves. That was the point of the day, wasn't it? But
Tiffany, stepping out with the girls around her, sensed the buzz in the air. It said: Was there
any point now? After what had happened? Still, people had put up the rope square again, and a lot
of the older witches dragged their chairs to the edge of it, and it seemed that it was going to
happen after all. Tiffany wandered up to the rope, found a space and sat down on the grass with
Granny Weatherwax's hat in front of her. She was aware of the other girls behind her, and also a
buzz or susurration of whispering spreading out into the crowd. '... She really did do it, too...
no, really... all the way to the desert... saw the dust... her boots were full, they say...'
Gossip spreads faster among witches than a bad cold. Witches gossip like starlings. There were no
judges, and no prizes. The Trials weren't like that, as Petulia had said. The point was to show
what you could do, to show what you'd become, so that people would go away thinking things like
That Caramella Bottlethwaite, she's coming along nicely.' It wasn't a competition, honestly. No
one won. And if you believed that you'd believe that the moon is pushed around the sky by a goblin
called Wilberforce. What was true was that one of the older witches generally opened the thing
with some competent but not surprising trick which everyone had seen before but still appreciated.
That broke the ice. This year it was old Goodie Trample and her collection of singing mice. But


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Tiffany wasn't paying attention. On the other side of the roped-off square, sitting on a chair and
surrounded by older witches like a queen on her throne, was Granny Weatherwax. The whispering went
on. Maybe opening her eyes had opened her ears, too, because Tiffany felt she could hear the
whispers all around the square. '...Di'n't have no trainin', just did it... did you see that
horse?...I never saw no horse!...Di 'n't just open the door, she stepped right in!... Yeah, but
who was it fetched her back?Esme Weatherwax, that's who!... Yes, that's what I'm sayin', any
little fool could've opened the door by luck, but it takes a real witch to bring her back, that's
a winner, that is... fought the thing, left it there!... I didn't see you doing anything, Violet
Pulsimone! That child... Was there a horse or not?... Was going to do my dancing broom trick, but
that'd be wasted now, of course... Why did Mistress Weatherwax give the girl her hat, eh? What's
she want us to think? She never takes off her hat to no one!' You could feel the tension,
crackling from pointy hat to pointy hat like summer lightning. The mice did their best with I'm
Forever Blowing Bubbles but it was easy to see that their minds weren't on it. Mice are highly
strung and very temperamental. Now people were leaning down beside Granny Weatherwax. Tiffany
could see some animated conversations going on. 'You know, Tiffany,' said Lucy Warbeck, behind
her, 'all you've got to do is, like, stand up and admit it. Everyone knows you did it. I mean, no
one's ever, like, done something like that at the Trials!' 'And it's about time the old bully
lost,' said Annagramma. But she's not a bully, Tiffany thought. She's tough, and she expects other
witches to be tough, because the edge is no place for people who break. Everything with her is a
kind of test. And her Third Thoughts handed over the thought that had not quite made it back in
the tent: Granny Weatherwax, you knew the hiver would only come for me, didn't you? You talked to
Dr Bustle, you told me. Did you just turn me into your trick for today? How much did you guess? Or
know? 'You'd win,' said Dimity Hubbub. 'Even some of the older ones would like to see her taken
down a peg. They know big magic happened. There's not a whole shamble for miles.' So I'd win
because some people don't like somebody else? Tiffany thought. Oh, yes, that'd really be something
to be proud of... 'You can bet she'll stand up,' said Annagramma. 'You watch. She'll explain how
the poor child got dragged into the Next World by a monster, and she brought her back. That's what
I'd do, if I was her.' I expect you would, Tiffany thought. But you're not, and you're not me,
either. She stared at Granny Weatherwax, who was waving away a couple of elderly witches. I
wonder, she thought, if they've been saying things like 'This girl needs taking down a peg,
Mistress Weatherwax.' And as she thought that, Granny turned back and caught her eye- The mice
stopped singing, mostly in embarrassment. There was a pause, and then people started to clap,
because it was the sort of thing you had to do. A witch, someone Tiffany didn't know, stepped out
into the square, still clapping in that fluttery, hands-held-close-together-at shoulder-height way
that people use when they want to encourage the audience to go on applauding just that little bit
longer. 'Very well done, Doris, excellent work, as ever,' she trilled. 'They've come on
marvellously since last year, thank you very much, wonderful, well done... ahem...' The woman
hesitated, while behind her Doris Trample crawled around on hands and knees trying to urge her
mice back into their box. One of them was having hysterics. 'And now, perhaps... some lady would
like to, er... take the, er... stage?' said the mistress of ceremonies, as brightly as a glass
ball about to shatter. 'Anyone?' There was stillness, and silence. 'Don't be shy, ladies!' The
voice of the mistress of ceremonies was getting more strained by the second. It's no fun trying to
organize a field full of born organizers. 'Modesty does not become us! Anyone?' Tiffany felt the
pointy hats turning, some towards her, some towards Granny Weatherwax. Away across the few yards
of grass, Granny reached up and brushed someone's hand from her shoulder, sharply, without
breaking eye contact with Tiffany. And we're not wearing hats, thought Tiffany. You gave me a
virtual hat once, Granny Weatherwax, and I thank you for it. But I don't need it today. Today, I
know I'm a witch. 'Oh, come now, ladies!' said the mistress of ceremonies, now almost frantic.
'This is the Trials! A place for friendly and instructive contestation in an atmosphere of
fraternity and goodwill! Surely some lady... or young lady, perhaps... ? Tiffany smiled. It should
be 'sorority', not 'fraternity'. We're sisters, mistress, not brothers. 'Come on, Tiffany!' Dimity
urged. 'They know you're good!' Tiffany shook her head. 'Oh, well, that's it,' said Annagramma,
rolling her eyes. 'The old baggage has messed with the girl's head, as usual-' 'I don't know who's
messed with whose head,' snapped Petulia, rolling up her sleeves. 'But I'm going to do the pig
trick.' She got to her feet and there was a general stir in the crowd. 'Oh, I see it's going to be-
Oh, it's you, Petulia,' said the mistress of ceremonies, slightly disappointed. 'Yes, Miss
Casement, and I intend to perform the pig trick,' said Petulia loudly. 'But, er, you don't seem to
have brought a pig with you,' said Miss Casement, taken aback. 'Yes, Miss Casement. I shall
perform the pig trick... without a pig!' This caused a sensation, and cries of 'Impossible!' and
'There are children here, you know!' Miss Casement looked around for assistance and found none.
'Oh well,' she said, helpless. 'If you are sure, dear 'Yes. I am. I shall use... a sausage!' said


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Petulia, producing one from a pocket and holding it up. There was another sensation. Tiffany
didn't see the trick. Nor did Granny Weatherwax. Their gaze was like an iron bar, and even Miss
Casement instinctively didn't step into it. But Tiffany heard the squeal, and the gasp of
amazement, and then the thunder of applause. People would have applauded anything at that point,
in the same way that pent-up water would take any route out of a dam. And then witches got up.
Miss Level juggled balls that stopped and reversed direction in mid-air. A middle-aged witch
demonstrated a new way to stop people choking, which doesn't even sound magical until you
understand that a way of turning nearly-dead people into fully-alive people is worth a dozen
spells that just go twing! And other women and girls came up one at a time, with big tricks and
handy tips and things that went wheee! or stopped toothache or, in one case, exploded- - and then
there were no more entries. Miss Casement walked back into the centre of the field, almost drunk
with relief that there had been a Trials, and made one final invitation to any ladies 'or, indeed,
young ladies' who might like to come forward. There was a silence so thick you could have stuck
pins in it. And then she said: 'Oh, well... in that case, I declare the Trials well and truly
closed. Tea will be in the big tent!' Tiffany and Granny stood up at the same time, to the second,
and bowed to one another. Then Granny turned away and joined the stampede towards the teas. It was
interesting to see how the crowd parted, all unaware, to let her through, like the sea in front a
particularly good prophet. Petulia was surrounded by other young witches. The pig trick had gone
down very well. Tiffany queued up to give her a hug. 'But you could have won!' said Petulia, red
in the face with happiness and worry. 'That doesn't matter. It really doesn't,' said Tiffany. 'You
gave it away,' said a sharp voice behind her. 'You had it in your hand, and you gave it all away.
How do you feel about that, Tiffany? Do you have a taste for humble pie?' 'Now you listen to me,
Annagramma,' Petulia began, pointing a furious finger. Tiffany reached out and lowered the girl's
arm. Then she turned and smiled so happily at Annagramma that it was disturbing. What she wanted
to say was: 'Where I come from, Annagramma, they have the Sheepdog Trials. Shepherds travel there
from all over to show off their dogs. And there're silver crooks and belts with silver buckles and
prizes of all kinds, Annagramma, but do you know what the big prize was? No, you wouldn't. Oh,
there were judges, but they didn't count, not for the big prize. There is- There was a little old
lady who was always at the front of the crowd, leaning on the hurdles with her pipe in her mouth
with the two finest sheepdogs ever pupped sitting at her feet. Their names were Thunder and
Lightning and they moved so fast they set the air on fire and their coats outshone the sun, but
she never, ever put them in the Trials. She knew more about sheep than even sheep know. And what
every young shepherd wanted, really wanted, wasn't some silly cup or belt but to see her take her
pipe out of her mouth as he left the arena and quietly say "That'll do" because that meant he was
a real shepherd and all the other shepherds would know it, too. And if you'd told him he had to
challenge her, he'd cuss at you and stamp his foot and tell you he'd sooner spit the sun dark. How
could he ever win? She was shepherding. It was the whole of her life. What you took away from her
you'd take away from yourself. You don't understand that, do you? But it's the heart and soul and
centre of it! The soul... and... centre!' But it would be wasted, so what she said was: 'Oh, just
shut up, Annagramma. Let's see if there's any buns left, shall we?' Overhead, a buzzard screamed.
She looked up. The bird turned on the wind and, racing through the air as it began the long glide,
headed back towards home. They were always there. Beside her cauldron, Jeannie opened her eyes.
'He's comin' hame!' she said, scrambling to her feet. She waved a hand urgently at the watching
Feegles. 'Don't ye just stand there gawping!' she commanded. 'Catch some rabbits to roast! Build
up the fire! Boil up a load o' water, 'cos I'm takin' a bath! Look at this place, 'tis like a
midden! Get it cleaned up! I want it sparkling for the Big Man! Go an' steal some Special Sheep
Liniment! Cut some green boughs, holly or yew, mebbe! Shine up the golden plates! The place must
sparkle! What're ye all standin' there for?' 'Er, what did ye want us to do first, Kelda,' said a
Feegle nervously. 'All of it!' In her chamber they filled the kelda's soup-bowl bath and she
scrubbed, using one of Tiffany's old toothbrushes, while outside there were the sounds of Feegles
working hard at cross-purposes. The smell of roasting rabbit began to fill the mound. Jeannie
dressed herself in her best dress, did her hair, picked up her shawl and climbed out of the hole.
She stood there watching the mountains until, after about an hour, a dot in the sky got bigger and
bigger. As a kelda, she would welcome home a warrior. As a wife, she would kiss her husband and
scold him for being so long away. As a woman, she thought she would melt with relief, thankfulness
and joy.

Chapter 14 QUEEN of the Bees

And, one afternoon about a week later, Tiffany went to see Granny Weatherwax. It was only fifteen
miles as the broomstick flies, and as Tiffany still didn't like flying a broomstick, Miss Level


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took her. It was the invisible part of Miss Level. Tiffany just lay flat on the stick, holding on
with arms and legs and knees and ears if possible, and took along a paper bag to be sick into,
because no one likes anonymous sick dropping out of the sky. She was also holding a large hessian
sack, which she handled with care. She didn't open her eyes until the rushing noises had stopped
and the sounds around her told her she was probably very close to the ground. In fact Miss Level
had been very kind. When she fell off, because of the cramp in her legs, the broomstick was just
above some quite thick moss. Thank you,' said Tiffany as she got up, because it always pays to
mind your manners around invisible people. She had a new dress. It was green, like the last one.
The complex world of favours and obligations and gifts that Miss Level lived and moved in had
thrown up four yards of nice material (for the trouble-free birth of Miss Quickly's baby boy) and
a few hours' dressmaking (Mrs Hunter's bad leg feeling a lot better, thank you). She'd given the
black one away. When I'm old I shall wear midnight, she'd decided. But, for now, she'd had enough
of darkness. She looked around at this clearing on the side of a hill, surrounded by oak and
sycamore on three sides but open on the downhill side with a wide view of the countryside below.
The sycamores were shedding their spinning seeds, which whirled down lazily across a patch of
garden. It was unfenced, even though some goats were grazing nearby. If you wondered why it was
the goats weren't eating the garden, it was because you'd forgotten who lived here. There was a
well. And, of course, a cottage. Mrs Earwig would definitely have objected to the cottage. It was
out of a storybook. The walls leaned against one another for support, the thatched roof was
slipping off like a bad wig, and the chimneys were corkscrewed. If you thought a gingerbread
cottage would be too fattening, this was the next worst thing. In a cottage deep in the forest
lived the Wicked Old Witch... It was a cottage out of the nastier kind of fairy tale. Granny
Weatherwax's beehives were tucked away down one side of the cottage. Some were the old straw kind,
most were patched-up wooden ones. They thundered with activity, even this late in the year.
Tiffany turned aside to look at them, and the bees poured out in a dark stream. They swarmed
towards Tiffany, formed a column and- She laughed. They'd made a witch of bees in front of her,
thousands of them all holding station in the air. She raised her right hand. With a rise in the
level of buzzing, the bee-witch raised its right hand. She turned around. It turned around, the
bees carefully copying every swirl and flutter of her dress, the ones on the very edge buzzing
desperately because they had furthest to fly. She carefully put down the big sack and reached out
towards the figure. With another roar of wings it went shapeless for a moment, and then re-formed
a little way away, but with a hand outstretched towards her. The bee that was the tip of its
forefinger hovered just in front of Tiffany's fingernail. 'Shall we dance?' said Tiffany. In the
clearing full of spinning seeds, she circled the swarm. It kept up pretty well, moving fingertip
to buzzing tip, turning when she turned, although there were always a few bees racing to catch up.
Then it raised both its arms and twirled in the opposite direction, the bees in the 'skirt'
spreading out again as it spun. It was learning. Tiffany laughed and did the same thing. Swarm and
girl whirled across the clearing. She felt happy and wondered if she'd ever felt this happy
before. The gold light, the falling bracts, the dancing bees... it was all one thing. This was the
opposite of the dark desert. Here, light was everywhere and filled her up inside. She could feel
herself here but see herself from above, twirling with a buzzing shadow that sparkled golden as
the light struck the bees. Moments like this paid for it all. Then the witch made of bees leaned
closer to Tiffany, as if staring at her with its thousands of little jewelled eyes. There was a
faint piping noise from inside the figure and the bee-witch exploded into a spreading, buzzing
cloud of insects which raced away across the clearing and disappeared. The only movement now was
the whirring fall of the sycamore seeds. Tiffany breathed out. 'Now, some people would have found
that scary,' said a voice behind her. Tiffany didn't turn round immediately. First she said, 'Good
afternoon, Granny Weatherwax.' Then she turned round. 'Have you ever done this?' she demanded,
still half-drunk with delight. 'It's rude to start with questions. You'd better come in and have a
cup of tea,' said Granny Weatherwax. You'd barely know that anyone lived in the cottage. There
were two chairs by the fire, one of them a rocking chair, and by the table were two chairs that
didn't rock but did wobble because of the uneven stone floor. There was a dresser, and a rag-rug
in front of the huge hearth. A broomstick leaned against the wall in one corner, next to something
mysterious and pointy, under a cloth. There was a very narrow and dark flight of stairs. And that
was it. There was nothing shiny, nothing new and nothing unnecessary. 'To what do I owe the
pleasure of this visit?' said Granny Weatherwax, taking a sooty black kettle off the fire and
filling an equally black teapot. Tiffany opened the sack she had brought with her. 'I've come to
bring you your hat back,' she said. 'Ah,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'Have you? And why?' 'Because
it's your hat,' said Tiffany, putting it on the table. 'Thank you for the loan of it, though.' 'I
dare say there's plenty of young witches who'd give their high teeth for an ol' hat of mine,' said
Granny, lifting up the battered hat. 'There are,' said Tiffany, and did not add 'and it's eye


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teeth, actually'. What she did add was: 'But I think everyone has to find their own hat. The right
hat for them, I mean.' 'I see you're now wearing a shop-bought one, then,' said Granny Weatherwax.
'One of them Sky Scrapers. With stars,' she added, and there was so much acid in the word 'stars'
that it would've melted copper and then dropped through the table and the floor and melted more
copper in the cellar below. 'Think that makes it more magical, do you? Stars?' 'I... did when I
bought it. And it'll do for now.' 'Until you find the right hat,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'Yes.'
'Which ain't mine?' 'No.' 'Good.' The old witch walked across the room and tugged the cloth off
the thing in the corner. It turned out to be a big wooden spike, just about the size of a pointy
hat on a tall stand. A hat was being... constructed on it, with thin strips of willow and pins and
stiff black doth. 'I make my own,' she said. 'Every year. There's no hat like the hat you make
yourself. Take my advice. I stiffens the calico and makes it waterproof with special jollop. It's
amazing what you can put into a hat you make yourself. But you didn't come to talk about hats.'
Tiffany let the question out at last. 'Was it real?'. Granny Weatherwax poured the tea, picked up
her cup and saucer, then carefully poured some of the tea out of the cup and into the saucer. She
held this up and, with care, like someone dealing with an important and delicate task, blew gently
on it. She did this slowly and calmly, while Tiffany tried hard to conceal her impatience. down
the cup and saucer. 'Child, you've come here to learn what's true and what's not but there's
little I can teach you that you don't already know. You just don't know you know it, and you'll
spend the rest of your life learning what's already in your bones. And that's the truth.' She
stared at Tiffany's hopeful face and sighed. 'Come outside then,' she said. 'I'll give you lesson
one. It's the only lesson there is. It don't need writing down in no book with eyes on.' She led
the way to the well in her back garden, looked around on the ground and picked up a stick. 'Magic
wand,' she said. 'See?' A green flame leaped out of it, making Tiffany jump. 'Now you try.' It
didn't work for Tiffany, no matter how much she shook it. 'Of course not,' said Granny. 'It's a
stick. Now, maybe I made a flame come out of it, or maybe I made you think it did. That don't
matter. It was me is what I'm sayin', not the stick. Get your mind right and you can make a stick
your wand and the sky your hat and a puddle your magic... your magic... er, what're them fancy
cups called?' 'Er... goblet,' said Tiffany. 'Right. Magic goblet. Things aren't important. People
are.' Granny Weatherwax looked sidelong at Tiffany. 'And I could teach you how to run across those
hills of yours with the hare, I could teach you how to fly above them with the buzzard. I could
tell you the secrets of the bees. I could teach you all this and much more besides if you'd do
just one thing, right here and now. One simple thing, easy to do.' Tiffany nodded, eyes wide. 'You
understand, then, that all the glittery stuff is just toys, and toys can lead you astray?' 'Yes!'
'Then take off that shiny horse you wear around your neck, girl, and drop it in the well.'
Obediently, half-hypnotized by the voice, Tiffany reached behind her neck and undid the clasp. The
pieces of the silver horse shone as she held it over the water. She stared at it as if she was
seeing it for the first time. And then... She tests people, she thought. All the time. 'Well?'
said the old witch. 'No,' said Tiffany. 'I can't.' 'Can't or won't?' said Granny sharply. 'Can't,'
said Tiffany and stuck out her chin. 'And won't!' She drew her hand back and fastened the necklace
again, glaring defiantly at Granny Weatherwax The witch smiled. 'Well done,' she said quietly. 'If
you don't know when to be a human being, you don't know when to be a witch. And if you're too
afraid of goin' astray, you won't go anywhere. May I see it, please?' Tiffany looked into those
blue eyes. Then she undid the clasp and handed over the necklace. Granny held it up. 'Funny, ain't
it, that it seems to gallop when the light hits it,' said the witch, watching it twist this way
and that. 'Well-made thing. O'course, it's not what a horse looks like, but it's certainly what a
horse is.' Tiffany stared at her with her mouth open. For a moment Granny Aching stood there
grinning, and then Granny Weatherwax was back. Did she do that, she wondered, or did I do it
myself? And do I dare find out? 'I didn't just come to bring the hat back,' she managed to say. 'I
brought you a present, too.' 'I'm sure there's no call for anyone to bring me a present,' said
Granny Weatherwax, sniffing. Tiffany ignored this, because her mind was still spinning. She
fetched her sack again and handed over a small, soft parcel, which moved as it changed shape in
her hands. 'I took most of the stuff back to Mr Strong-inthearm,' she said. 'But I thought you
might have a... a use for this.' The old woman slowly unwrapped the white paper. The Zephyr Billow
cloak unrolled itself under her fingers and filled the air like smoke. 'It's lovely, but I
couldn't wear it,' said Tiffany as the cloak shaped itself over the gentle currents of the
clearing. 'You need gravitas to carry off a cloak like that.' 'What's gravitarse?' said Granny
Weatherwax sharply. 'Oh... dignity. Seniority. Wisdom. Those sort of things,' said Tiffany. 'Ah,'
said Granny, relaxing a little. She stared at the gently rippling cloak and sniffed. It really was
a wonderful creation. The wizards had got at least one thing right when they had made it. It was
one of those items that fill a hole in your life that you didn't know was there until you'd seen
it. 'Well, I suppose there's those as can wear a cloak like this, and those as can't,' she


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conceded. She let it curl around her neck and fastened it there with a crescent-shaped brooch.
'It's a bit too grand for the likes of me,' she said. 'A bit too fancy. I could look like a
flibbertigibbet wearing something like this.' It was spoken like a statement but it had a curl
like a question. 'No, it suits you, it really does,' said Tiffany cheerfully. 'If you don't know
when to be a human being, you don't know when to be a witch.' Birds stopped singing. Up in the
trees, squirrels ran and hid. Even the sky seemed to darken for a moment. 'Er... that's what I
heard,' said Tiffany, and added, 'From someone who knows these things.' The blue eyes stared into
hers. There were no secrets from Granny Weatherwax. Whatever you said, she watched what you meant.
'Perhaps you'll call again sometimes,' she said, turning slowly and watching the cloak curve in
the air. 'It's always very quiet here.' 'I should like that,' said Tiffany. 'Shall I tell the bees
before I come, so you can get the tea ready?' For a moment Granny Weatherwax glared, and then the
lines faded into a wry grin. 'Clever,' she said. What's inside you? Tiffany thought. Who are you
really, in there? Did you want me to take your hat? You pretend to be the big bad wicked witch,
and you're not. You test people all the time, test, test, test, but you really want them to be
clever enough to beat you. Because it must be hard, being the best. You're not allowed to stop.
You can only be beaten, and you're too proud ever to lose. Pride! You've turned it into terrible
strength, but it eats away at you. Are you afraid to laugh in case you hear an early cackle? We'll
meet again, one day. We both know it. We'll meet again, at the Witch Trials. 'I'm clever enough to
know how you manage not to think of a pink rhinoceros if someone says "pink rhinoceros",' she
managed to say aloud. 'Ah, that's deep magic, that is,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'No. It's not. You
don't know what a rhinoceros looks like, do you?' Sunlight filled the clearing as the old witch
laughed, as clear as a downland stream. 'That's right!' she said.

Chapter 15 A Hat Full of Sky

It was one of those strange days in late February when it's a little warmer than it should be and,
although there's wind, it seems to be all round the horizons and never quite where you are.
Tiffany climbed up onto the downs where, in the sheltered valleys, the early lambs had already
found their legs and were running around in a gang in that strange jerky run that lambs have,
which makes them look like woolly rocking horses. Perhaps there was something about that day,
because the old ewes joined in, too, and skipped with their lambs. They jumped and spun, half
happy, half embarrassed, big winter fleeces bouncing up and down like a clown's trousers. It had
been an interesting winter. She'd learned a lot of things. One of them was that you could be a
bridesmaid to two people who between them were over 170 years old. This time Mr Weavall, with his
wig spinning on his head and his big spectacles gleaming, had insisted on giving one of the gold
pieces to 'our little helper', which more than made up for the wages that she hadn't asked for and
Miss Level couldn't afford. She'd used some of it to buy a really good brown cloak. It didn't
billow, it didn't fly out behind her, but it was warm and thick and kept her dry. She'd learned
lots of other things too. As she walked past the sheep and their lambs, she gently touched their
minds, so softly that they didn't notice... Tiffany had stayed up in the mountains for Hogswatch,
which officially marked the changing of the year. There'd been a lot to do there, and anyway it
wasn't much celebrated on the Chalk. Miss Level had been happy to give her leave now, though, for
the lambing festival, which the old people called Sheepbellies. It was when the shepherds' year
began. The hag of the hills couldn't miss that. That was when, in warm nests of straw shielded
from the wind by hurdles and barriers of cut furze, the future happened. She'd helped it happen,
working with the shepherds by lantern light, dealing with the difficult births. She'd worked with
the pointy hat on her head and had felt the shepherds watching her as, with knife and needle and
thread and hands and soothing words, she'd saved ewes from the black doorway and helped new lambs
into the light. You had to give them a show. You had to give them a story. And she'd walked back
home proudly in the morning and bloody to the elbows, but it had been the blood of life. Later,
she had gone up to the Feegles' mound, and slid down the hole. She'd thought about this for some
time, and had gone prepared- with clean torn-up handkerchiefs and some soapwort shampoo made to a
recipe Miss Level had given her. She had a feeling that Jeannie would have a use for these. Miss
Level always visited new mothers. It was what you did. Jeannie had been pleased to see her. Lying
on her stomach so that she could get part of her body into the kelda's chamber, Tiffany had been
allowed to hold all eight of what she kept thinking of as the Roblets, born at the same time as
the lambs. Seven of them were bawling and fighting one another. The eighth lay quietly, biding her
time. The future happened. It wasn't only Jeannie who thought of her differently. News had got
around. The people of the Chalk hadn't liked witches. They had always come from outside. They had
always come as strangers. But now here was our Tiffany, birthing the lambs like her granny did,
and they say she's been learning witchery in the mountains! Ah, but that's still our Tiffany, that


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is. OK, I'll grant you that she's wearing a hat with big stars on it, but she makes good cheese
and she knows about lambing and she's Granny Aching's grand-daughter, right? And they'd tap their
noses, knowingly. Granny Aching's grand-daughter. Remember what the old woman could do? So if
witch she be, then she's our witch. She knows about sheep, she does. Hah, and I heard they had a
big sort of trial for witches up in them mountains and our Tiffany showed 'em what a girl from the
Chalk can do. It's modern times, right? We got a witch now, and she's better'n anyone else's! No
one's throwing Granny Aching's granddaughter in a pond! Tomorrow she'd go back to the mountains
again. It had been a busy three weeks, quite apart from the lambing. Roland had invited her to tea
at the castle. It had been a bit awkward, as these things are, but it was funny how, in a couple
of years, he'd gone from a lumbering oaf into a nervous young man who forgot what he was talking
about when she smiled at him. And they had books in the castle! He'd shyly presented her with a
Dictionary of Amazingly Uncommon Words, and she had been prepared enough to bring him a hunting
knife made by Zakzak, who was excellent at blades even if he was rubbish at magic. The hat wasn't
mentioned, very carefully. And when she'd got home she'd found a bookmark in the P section and a
faint pencil underline under the words Plongeon: a small curtsy, about one-third as deep as the
traditional one. No longer used.' Alone in her bedroom, she'd blushed. It's always surprising to
be reminded that while you're watching and thinking about people, all knowing and superior,
they're watching and thinking about you, right back at you. She written it down in her diary,
which was a lot thicker now, what with all the pressed herbs and extra notes and bookmarks. It had
been trodden on by cows, struck by lightning and dropped in tea. And it didn't have an eye on it.
An eye would have got knocked off on day one. It was a real witch's diary. Tiffany had stopped
wearing the hat, except in public, because it kept getting bent by low doorways and completely
crushed by her bedroom ceiling. She was wearing it today, though, clutching it occasionally
whenever a gust tried to snatch it off her head. She reached the place where four rusty iron
wheels were half buried in the turf and a pot-bellied stove stood up from the grass. It made a
useful seat. Silence spread out around Tiffany, a living silence, while the sheep danced with
their lambs and the world turned. Why do you go away? So that you can come back. So that you can
see the place you came from with new eyes and extra colours. And the people there see you
differently, too. Coming back to where you started is not the same as never leaving. The words ran
through Tiffany's mind as she watched the sheep, and she found herself fill up with joy- at the
new lambs, at life, at everything. Joy is to fun what the deep sea is to a puddle. It's a feeling
inside that can hardly be contained. It came oul as laughter. 'I've come back!' she announced, to
the hills. 'Better than I went!' She snatched off the hat with stars on it. It wasn't a bad hat,
for show, although the stars made it look like a toy. But it was never her hat. It couldn't be.
The only hat worth wearing was the one you made for yourself, not one you bought, not one you were
given. Your own hat, for your own head. Your own future, not someone else's. She hurled the starry
hat up as high as she could. The wind there caught it neatly. It tumbled for a moment and then was
lifted by a gust and, swooping and spinning, sailed away across the downs and vanished for ever.
Then Tiffany made a hat out of the sky and sat on the old pot-bellied stove, listening to the wind
around the horizons while the sun went down. As the shadows lengthened, many small shapes crept
out of the nearby mound and joined her in the sacred place, to watch. The sun set, which is
everyday magic, and warm night came. The hat filled up with stars... Author's Note The Doctrine of
Signatures mentioned on page 90 really exists in this world, although now it's better known by
historians than doctors. For hundreds of years, perhaps thousands, people believed that God, who
of course had made everything, had 'signed' each thing in a way that showed humanity what it could
be used for. For example, goldenrod is yellow so 'must' be good for jaundice, which turns the skin
yellow (a certain amount of guesswork was involved, but sometimes patients survived). By an
amazing coincidence, the Horse carved on the Chalk is remarkably similar to the Uffington White
Horse, which in this world is carved on the downlands near the village of Uffington in southwest
Oxfordshire. It's 374 feet long, several thousand years old and carved on the hill in such a way
that you can only see all of it in one go from the air. This suggests that: a) it was carved for
the gods to see; or, b) flying was invented a lot earlier that we thought; or, c) people used to
be much, much taller. Oh, and this world had Witch Trials, too. They were not fun.




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