A real witch can ride a broomstick, cast spells and make a proper shamble out of nothing.
Eleven-year-old Tiffany Aching can't.
A real witch never casually steps out of her body, leaving it empty.
Tiffany does.
And there's something just waiting for a handy body to take over. Something ancient and horrible, which can't die.
Now she's got to fight back and learn to be a real witch really quickly, with the help of arch-witch Mistress Weatherwax and the truly amazing Miss Level...
--"Crivens! And us!"
Oh, yes. And the Nac Mac Feegle -- the rowdiest, toughest, smelliest bunch of fairies ever to be thrown out of Fairyland for being drunk at two in the afternoon. They'll fight anything.
And even they might not be enough...
The average Feegle man (Feegle women are rare -- see later) is about six inches high, red-haired, his skin turned blue with tattoos and the dye called woad and, since you're this close, he's probably about to hit you.
* * *
The origin of the Nac Mac Feegle is lost in the famous Mists of Time. They say that they were thrown out of Fairyland by the Queen of the Fairies because they objected to her spiteful and tyrannical rule. Others say they were just thrown out for being drunk.
* * *
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.
* * *
Witches were a bit like cats. They 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.
* * *
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.
* * *
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.
* * *
They thought [witches] 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.)
* * *
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 mother say that all girls wondered what was out there in the world, so it was best to get it out of her system.
* * *
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.
* * *
...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.
* * *
...[the Nac Mac Feegle] 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 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.
* * *
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.
* * *
...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.
* * *
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.
* * *
...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 self-respecting Feegle would be sober on his wedding day.
* * *
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.
* * *
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.
* * *
Tiffany: "What does a research witch do?"
Miss Tick: "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--"
Tiffany: "I'm sorry, but I'm not going to help anyone chop up innocent frogs and bats."
Miss Tick: "Oh, no, she never kills any! She only uses creatures that have died naturally or been run over or committed suicide. Frogs can get quite depressed at times."
* * *
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!
* * *
He had mastered the first two rules of writing, as he understood them.
1. Steal some paper.
2. Steal a pencil.
* * *
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.
* * *
"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.
* * *
"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.
* * *
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.
* * *
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."
* * *
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.
* * *
"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."
* * *
Even if it's not your fault it's your responsibility.
* * *
Never lie, but you don't always have to be honest.
* * *
Never wish. Especially don't wish upon a star, which is astronomically stupid.
* * *
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 didn't want to look, but remembered that a witch is always inquisitive to the point of nosiness.
* * *
Tiffany never forgot that ride, though she often tried to.
* * *
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.
* * *
Tiffany: "Did you light these candles, Miss Level?"
Miss Level: "Yes. Let's get inside, it's getting chilly--"
Tiffany: "Oh, by magic."
Miss Level: "Well, it can be done by magic, yes. But I prefer matches, which are of course a lot less effort and quite magical in themselves, when you come to think about it."
* * *
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.
* * *
Some attempt had been made to make the room... jolly, as if being a bedroom was a jolly wonderful thing to be.
* * *
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, drink plang dyonnng, ding ploink.
* * *
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.
* * *
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.
* * *
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.
* * *
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.
* * *
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.
* * *
Miss Level: "When I was a child they thought I was twins. And then... they thought I was evil."
Tiffany: "Are you?"
Miss Level: "What kind of question is that to ask anyone?"
Tiffany: "Um... the obvious one? I mean, if they said 'Yes I am! Mwahahaha!', that would save a lot of trouble, wouldn't it?"
* * *
There was a small flock of goats... 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.
* * *
If you got excited [at goats], 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.
* * *
"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."
* * *
Most people... 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 [research] techniques that she hoped would mean life would be better for everyone (and, in the case of the aunts, often longer, too).
* * *
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.
* * *
Jeannie: "Wullie! Big Yan! Come quick! He willnae tak' a drink! I think he's deid!"
Rob Anybody: "Ach, this is no' the time for strong licker. My heart is heavy, wumman."
Jeannie: "Quickly now! He's deid and still talkin'!"
* * *
"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'."
* * *
Daft Wullie: "Whut was that about this geese Jeannie hit ye with?"
Rob Anybody: "Not geese, geas. 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."
Daft Wullie: "Well, they're big birds."
* * *
"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.
-- Volunteerism, Feegle style
* * *
"As for the rest of youse, we'll settle this the traditional Feegle way. I'll tak' the last fifty men still standing!"
-- More volunteerism, Feegle style
* * *
A Feegle liked to face enormous odds all by himself, because it meant you didn't have to look where you were hitting.
* * *
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.
* * *
It was a mad, desperate plan, which was very dangerous and risky and would require tremendous strength and bravery to make it work.
Put like that, they agreed to it instantly.
* * *
Miss Level moved in a twitching, living world of gossip, although Tiffany noticed that she picked up a lot more than she passed on.
* * *
Miss Level: "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 lard, ham, bacon and sausages turning up than a family could eat in a year."
Tiffany: "You do? What do you do with all that food?"
Miss Level: "Store it."
Tiffany: "But you--"
Miss Level: "I store it in other people."
* * *
"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?"
* * *
...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.
* * *
"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."
* * *
Tiffany: "It's very sad, him being all alone like that. Something should be done for him."
Miss Level: "Yes. We're doing it."
* * *
Tiffany: "It shouldn't be like this."
Miss Level: "There isn't a way things should be. There's just what happens, and what we do."
* * *
Tiffany: "Well, couldn't you help him by magic?"
Miss Level: "I see to it that he's in no pain, yes."
Tiffany: "But that's just herbs."
Miss Level: "It's still magic. Knowing things is magical, if other people don't know them."
* * *
"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."
* * *
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.
* * *
"Gentlemen." This was the voice of the toad; no one else would dream of calling the Nac Mac Feegle gentlemen.
* * *
[The gold] 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.
* * *
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.
* * *
"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.
* * *
"...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."
* * *
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.
* * *
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.
* * *
Petulia spent a lot of time trying to find out what other people thought so that she could think the same way.
* * *
...no one except other animals liked animals as much as Petulia.
* * *
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.
* * *
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.
* * *
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?
* * *
"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..."
* * *
When it comes to choosing between running and fighting, a Feegle doesn't think twice. He doesn't think at all.
* * *
Miss Level: "I"m a witch, you know. And if you don't stop struggling this minute I will subject you to the most dreadful torture. Do you know what that is? ...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."
Rob Anybody: "Ach, crivens, mistress, what a thing to taunt a body wi'! D'ye no' have a drop of mercy in you?"
* * *
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.
* * *
"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 Rob. "We reckon it was 'cuz o' the draughts."
* * *
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.
* * *
You couldn't doubt that a witch lived in [the house], 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.
* * *
...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.
* * *
...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.
* * *
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.
* * *
There were wands, mostly of metal, some of rare woods. Some had shiny crystals stuck on them, which of course made them more 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
* * *
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).
* * *
"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."
* * *
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.
* * *
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.
* * *
Miss Level: "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: "I think mebbe you've put yer finger on the one weak spot, mistress."
Miss Level: "Do you mean you charge in regardless?"
Rob Anybody: "Oh, aye. That's the plan, sure enough."
* * *
"We can get in or oot o' anywhere. Except maybe pubs, which for some reason we ha' trouble leavin'."
* * *
"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.
* * *
"Rob, we oughtae get one o' these [bathtubs] 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."
* * *
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).
* * *
...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..."
* * *
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.
* * *
Rob Anybody: "How many fingers am I holdin' up?"
Miss Level: "Five."
Rob Anybody: "Am I? Ah, well, ye could be right, ye'd have the knowin' o' the countin'."
* * *
"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 wuz breakin' it tae her gently! I did say 'wee bittie' twice, right?"
* * *
"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--"
* * *
Rob Anybody: "Aye, ma'am, we"s fairies from the land o'--"
Awf'ly Wee Billy: "Tinkle?"
Rob Anybody: "Aye, the land o' Tinkle, ye ken, and we found this puir wee--"
Awf'ly Wee Billy: "--princess."
Rob Anybody: "Aye, princess, who's been attacked by a bunch o' scunners--"
Awf'ly Wee Billy: "--wicked goblins."
Rob Anybody: "--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--"
Awf'ly Wee Billy: "--until the handsome prince turns up on a big white horse wi' curtains roound it an' wakes her with a magical kiss."
* * *
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?"
* * *
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".
* * *
"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.
* * *
"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.
* * *
"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!"
* * *
The [broom]stick shuddered, hung motionless for a moment, and then shot upwards trailing a noise very like:
Arrrrrrrrrgggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh...
* * *
If there's one thing a Feegle likes, it's knowing that wherever you strike you're going to hit an enemy.
* * *
"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!'"
* * *
Then one of the grandchildren 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."
* * *
...the owner [of The King's Legs] 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...
* * *
In a struggling, punching mass [the Feegles] 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.
* * *
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.
* * *
"Ye cannae die," he yelled. "But we'll make ye wish ye could!"
* * *
The Feegles had the advantage in most fights because they were small and fought big enemies.
* * *
More bits of memory landed in Tiffany's memory like red-hot rocks landing on a peaceful planet.
* * *
And this rock of memory was huge, a flaming mountain that'd make a million dinosaurs flee for their lives.
* * *
"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 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.
* * *
"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!"
* * *
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...
* * *
"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."
* * *
"She cares about [people]. 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."
* * *
"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."
* * *
"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."
* * *
...she's keeping you angry. If you're full of anger, there's no room left for fear.
* * *
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...
* * *
"Would she like a cup of tea? I've cleaned our cup!"
* * *
"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 five-mile 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."
* * *
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.
* * *
"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."
* * *
It was dreadful when your own thoughts tried to gang up on you.
* * *
The trouble was, explaining to a Feegle how dangerous things were going to be only got them more enthusiastic.
* * *
Miss Level had made them ham 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.
* * *
Granny Weatherwax: "I walk safely in my mountains."
Tiffany: "But aren't there trolls and wolves and things?"
Granny Weatherwax: "Oh, yes. Lots."
Tiffany: "And they don't try to attack you?"
Granny Weatherwax: "Not any more."
* * *
"Would you like some pickles?"
"Pickles gives me the wind something awful."
"In that case--"
"Oh, I wasn't saying no."
* * *
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.
* * *
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.
* * *
Petulia: "And, d'you know what? I saw a fairy in her garden! A blue one!"
Tiffany: "Really?"
Petulia: "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'."
* * *
Tiffany: "We haven't even had anything to eat!"
Granny Weatherwax: "I had a lot of voles last night."
Tiffany: "Yes, but you didn't actually eat them, did you? It was the owl that actually ate them."
Granny Weatherwax: "Technic'ly, yes. 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."
* * *
Granny Weatherwax: "Friend of yours?"
Tiffany: "Er... if she is, I don't deserve it."
Granny Weatherwax: "Hmm. Well, sometimes we get what we don't deserve."
* * *
"I notice you're limping a bit," said Tiffany.
"Do you, indeed? Then stop noticing!"
* * *
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.
* * *
...[The balloon] was followed by a long scream of rage mixed with a roar of complaint: "AAaargwannawannaaaagongongonargggaaaaBLOON!" 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.
* * *
There wasn't a fortune-telling tent [at the witch trials], because no fortune-teller would turn up at an event where so many visitors were qualified to argue and answer back...
* * *
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.
* * *
"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."
* * *
"But supposing I lose--"
"I never got where I am today by supposin' I was goin' to lose, young lady."
* * *
A witch deals with things, said her Second Thoughts. Get past the "I can't."
* * *
...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.
* * *
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 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...
* * *
"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 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."
* * *
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.
* * *
I WAS NOT EXPECTING A NAC MAC FEEGLE TODAY, said Death, OTHERWISE I WOULD HAVE WORN PROTECTIVE CLOTHING, HA HA.
* * *
"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.
* * *
Tiffany: "But... I thought there were rules!"
Granny Weatherwax: "Oh? Really? Did you sign anything? Did you take any kind of oath? No? Then they weren't your rules!"
* * *
"Do you know what a part of being a witch is? It's making the choices that have to be made. The hard choices."
* * *
Tiffany looked at the hat. It was very battered, and not extremely clean. If that hat could talk, it would probably mutter.
* * *
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... 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.
* * *
It's no fun trying to organize a field full of born organizers.
* * *
It was interesting to see how the crowd parted, all unaware, to let her through, like the sea in front a particularly good prophet.
* * *
Tiffany just lay flat on the [broom]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.
* * *
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.
* * *
"I see you're now wearing a shop-bought [hat], 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.
* * *
"And what was your plan to beat the hiver?" said Tiffany. "Please? I've got to know!"
"My plan?" said Granny Weatherwax innocently. "My plan was to let you deal with it."
"Really? So what would you have done if I'd lost?"
"The best I can," said Granny calmly.
* * *
Granny Weatherwax: "Your grandmother, did she wear a hat?"
Tiffany: "What? Oh... not usually. She used to wear an old sack as a kind of bonnet when the weather was really bad. She said hats only blow away up on the hill."
Granny Weatherwax: "She made the sky her hat, then. And did she wear a coat?"
Tiffany: "Hah, all the shepherds used to say that if you saw Granny Aching in a coat it'd mean it was blowing rocks!"
Granny Weatherwax: "Then she made the wind her coat, too."
* * *
Granny Weatherwax: "Rain don't fall on a witch if she doesn't want it to, although personally I prefer to get wet and be thankful."
Tiffany: "Thankful for what?"
Granny Weatherwax: "That I'll get dry later."
* * *
"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."
* * *
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.
* * *
There were no secrets from Granny Weatherwax. Whatever you said, she watched what you meant.
* * *
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.
* * *
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.
* * *
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 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.