Tiffany Aching Complete Collection, page 115
Tiffany had watched the dead before many times, of course—it was the custom for a departing soul to have company the night before any funeral or burial, as if to make a point to anything that might be . . . lurking: this person mattered, there is someone here to make sure nothing evil creeps in at this time of danger. The nighttime creaking of woodwork filled the room now and Tiffany, fully awake, listened as Granny Weatherwax began making sounds of her own as her body settled down. I’ve done this often, she told herself. It’s what we witches do. We don’t talk about it, but we do it. We watch the dead to see that no harm comes to them out of the darkness. Although, as Nanny said, maybe it’s the living you have to watch—for despite what most people thought, the dead don’t hurt anybody.
What do I do now? she thought in the small hours of the night. What’s going to happen tomorrow? The world is upside down. I can’t replace Granny. Never in a hundred years. And then she thought, What did young Esmerelda say when Nanny Gripes told her that her steading was the whole world?
She twisted and turned, then opened her eyes and looked up suddenly to see an owl gazing in at her from the windowsill, its huge eyes hanging in the darkness like a lantern to another world. Another omen? Granny had liked owls. . . .
Now her Second Thoughts were at work, thinking about what she was thinking. You can’t say you’re not good enough—no witch would ever say that, they told her. I mean, you know you are pretty good, yes; the senior witches know that you once threw the Queen of the Fairies from our world, and they saw you go through the gate with the hiver. They all saw you return too.
But is that enough? her First Thoughts butted in. After . . . after we have done what we need to do, I could just put on my number-two drawers and go home on my broomstick. I have to go anyway, even if I take on the steading. I have to tell my parents. And I’m going to need help on the Chalk . . . it’s going to be a nightmare if I have to be in two places at once. I’m not like a cat. . . .
And as she thought that, she looked down, and there was You looking at her, but not just looking—a penetrating stare of the kind that only cats can achieve, and it seemed to Tiffany that this meant: Get on with your job, there is a lot of work to be doing. Don’t think of yourself. Think for all.
Then tiredness was finally her friend, and Tiffany Aching had a few hours’ sleep.
The clacks rattled as the news of Granny Weatherwax went down the lines in the morning, and people who got the message faced it in their various ways.
In the study of her manor house, Mrs. Earwig* got the news while she was writing her next book on “Flower Magick” and there was a sudden sense of wrongness, of the world going askew. She put the right expression of grief on her face and went to tell her husband, an elderly wizard, trying to keep her joy hidden as she realized what this could mean: she, Mrs. Earwig, was going to be one of the most senior witches in Lancre. Perhaps she could get her latest girl into that old cottage in the woods? Her sharp face went even sharper as she thought how magickal she could make it look with the help of a few curse-nets, charms, runic symbols, silver stars, black velvet drapes, and—oh yes, the essential crystal ball.
She called to her latest young trainee to fetch her cape and broomstick, and pulled on her very best pair of black lacy gloves, the ones with the silver symbols stitched over each fingertip. She would need to Make an Entrance. . . .
In Boffo’s Novelty and Joke Emporium, 4 Tenth Egg Street, Ankh-Morpork—“Everything for the Hag in a Hurry”—Mrs. Proust said, “What a shame, but the old girl had a good innings.”
Witches don’t have leaders, of course, but everyone knew that Granny Weatherwax had been the best leader they didn’t have, so now someone else would need to step forward to generally steer the witches. And to keep an eye too on anyone prone to a bit of cackling.
Mrs. Proust put down an imitation cackle she had taken from her Compare the Cackle display, and looked toward her son Derek and said, “There’s going to be an argument now, or my name’s not Eunice Proust. But it will surely be young Tiffany Aching who gets that steading. We all saw what she can do. My word, we did!” And in her mind, she said, Go to it, Tiffany, before somebody else does.
In the palace, Drumknott the clerk hurried with the Ankh-Morpork Times to the Oblong Office where Lord Vetinari, the Patrician of the city, had been waiting for his daily crossword to arrive.
But Vetinari already knew the news that mattered. “There will be some trouble. Mark my words, I expect squabbling on the distaff side.” He sighed. “Any ideas, Drumknott? Who will rise to the top of the brew, do you think?” He tapped the top of his ebony cane as he considered his own question.
“Well, my lord,” said Drumknott, “the rumor on the clacks is that it’s likely to be Tiffany Aching. Quite young.”
“Quite young, yes. And any good?” asked Vetinari.
“I believe so, sir.”
“What about this woman called Mrs. Earwig?”
Drumknott made a face. “All show, my lord, doesn’t get her hands dirty. Lot of jewelry, black lace, you know the type. Well-connected, but that’s about all I can say.”
“Ah yes, now you tell me, I’ve seen her. Pushy and full of herself. She’s the kind who goes to soirees.”
“So do you, my lord.”
“Yes, but I am the tyrant, so it’s the job I have to do, alas. Now, this Aching young lady—what else do we know about her? Wasn’t there some bother the last time she was in the city?”
“My lord, the Nac Mac Feegles are very fond of her and she of them. They consider themselves an honor guard to her on occasions.”
“Drumknott.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“I’m going to use a word I’ve not used before. Crivens! We don’t want Feegles around here again. We can’t afford it!”
“Unlikely, my lord. Mistress Aching has them in hand and she’s unlikely to want to repeat the events of her last visit, which after all had no long-lasting damage.”
“Didn’t the King’s Head become the King’s Neck?”*
“Yes indeed, my lord, but it has in fact proved a welcome change to many, most of all to the publican, who is still getting wealthy because of the tourists. It’s in the guidebooks.”
“If she has the Nac Mac Feegles on her side, she is a force to be reckoned with,” Vetinari mused.
“The young lady is also known to be thoughtful, helpful, and clever.”
“Without being insufferable? I wish I could say the same of Mrs. Earwig. Hmm,” said Vetinari, “we should keep a careful eye on her. . . .”
Mustrum Ridcully, Archchancellor of Unseen University, stared at his bedroom wall, and cried again, and once he’d pulled himself together he sent for Ponder Stibbons, his right-hand wizard.
“The clacks confirms what Hex told you, Mr. Stibbons,” he said sadly. “The witch Esme Weatherwax of Lancre, known to many as Granny Weatherwax, has died.” The Archchancellor looked slightly embarrassed. There was a bundle of letters on his lap, which he was turning over and over. “There was a bond, you see, when we were both young, but she wanted to be the best of all witches and I hoped one day to be Archchancellor. Alas for us, our dreams came true.”*
“Oh dear, sir. Would you like me to arrange your schedule so that you can attend the funeral? There will be a funeral, I assume. . . .”
“Mr. Stibbons, schedules be damned. I am leaving now. Right now.”
“With respect, Archchancellor, I must tell you, sir, that you promised to go to a meeting with the Guild of Accountants and Usurers.”
“Those penny-pinchers! Tell them that I have got an urgent matter of international affairs to deal with.”
Ponder hesitated. “That is not strictly true, is it, Archchancellor.”
Ridcully riposted with, “Oh yes, it is!” Rules were for other people. Not for him. Nor, he thought with a pang, had they been for Esme Weatherwax . . . “How long have you been working for the University, young man?” he boomed at Stibbons. “Dissembling is our stock in trade. Now I am going to get on my broomstick, Mr. Stibbons, and I will leave the place in your very capable hands.”
And in that . . . other world, that parasite with its evil little hooks in the gateways of stone, an elf was hatching his plans. Plotting to seize Fairyland from the control of a Queen who had never fully recovered her powers after her humiliating defeat at the hands of a young girl named Tiffany Aching. Plotting to pounce, to spring through a gateway that—for a time, at least—would be gossamer-thin. For a powerful hag no longer stood in their way. And those in that world would be vulnerable.
The Lord Peaseblossom’s eyes gleamed and his mind filled with glorious images of victims, of the pleasures of cruelty, the splendors of a land where the elves could toy once more with new playthings.
When the moment was right . . .
CHAPTER FOUR
A Farewell—and a Welcome
Getting Granny Weatherwax’s corpse down the winding stair with its tiny little steps in the tiny little cottage the following morning was not helped by the big jug of cider that Nanny Ogg was emptying speedily, but nevertheless they got it done without a bump.
They laid Granny’s body carefully in the wicker casket, and Tiffany went out to the barn to fetch the wheelbarrow and shovels while Nanny Ogg caught her breath. Then, together, they gently lifted the basket into the wheelbarrow, and placed the shovels on either side of her.
Tiffany picked up the handles of the barrow. “Ye stay here now, Rob,” she said to the Feegle as he and his little band appeared from their varied hiding places and lined up behind her. “This is a hag thing, ye ken. Ye cannot help me.”
Rob Anybody shuffled his feet. “But ye are oor hag, and ye ken that Jeannie—” he began.
“Rob Anybody.” Tiffany’s steely gaze pinned him to the ground. “Ye remember the chief hag? Granny Weatherwax? Do ye want her shade to come back and . . . tell ye what tae do for ever and ever?” There was a group moan and Daft Wullie backed away, whimpering. “Then understand this: this is something we hags must do by ourselves.” She turned to Nanny Ogg, resolute. “Where are we going, Nanny?”
“Esme marked a spot in the woods, Tiff, where she wanted to be planted,” Nanny replied. “Follow me, I know where it is.”
Granny Weatherwax’s garden was cheek by jowl with the woodland beyond, but the journey felt a long way to Tiffany before they arrived at the heart of the forest, where a stick was pushed into the ground, a red ribbon tied to the top of it.
Nanny passed Tiffany a shovel and the two of them started digging in the cool early morning air. It was hard work, but Granny had chosen her place well and the soil was soft and friable.
The hole finally dug—mostly, it has to be said, by Tiffany—Nanny Ogg, sweating cobs (according to her), rested on the handle of her shovel and took a swig from her flagon as Tiffany brought the wheelbarrow over. They laid the wicker basket gently in the hole and then stood back for a moment.
Without a word being said, together, solemnly, they bowed to Granny’s grave. And then they picked up the shovels again and started to fill it back in. Ker-thunk! Ker-thunk! The earth built up over the wicker until all that could be seen was soil, and Tiffany watched it flow in until the last crumb had stopped moving.
As they smoothed the fresh mound of earth, Nanny told Tiffany that Granny had said she wanted no urns, no shrines, and definitely no gravestone.
“Surely there should be a stone,” said Tiffany. “You know how badgers and mice and other creatures can lift the earth. Even though we know the bones are not her, I for one would want to be sure that nothing is dug up until . . .” She hesitated.
“The ends of time?” said Nanny. “Look, Tiff, Esme tol’ me to say, if you wants to see Esmerelda Weatherwax, then just you look around. She is here. Us witches don’t mourn for very long. We are satisfied with happy memories—they’re there to be cherished.”
The memory of Granny Aching suddenly shone in Tiffany’s mind. Her own granny had been no witch—though Weatherwax had been very interested in hearing about her—but when Granny Aching had died, her shepherding hut had been burned and her bones had gone down into the hills, six feet deep in the chalk. Then the turf had been put back with the spot marked only by the iron wheels of the hut. But it was a sacred spot now, a place for memories. And not only for Tiffany. No shepherd ever passed without a glance at the skies and a thought for Granny Aching, who had tramped those hills night after night, her light zigzagging in the darkness. Her nod of approval had meant the world on the Chalk.
This spot in the woods, Tiffany realized, would be the same. Blessed. It had been a nice day for it, she thought, if there ever was such a thing as a good day to die, a good day to be buried.
And now the birds were singing overhead, and there was a soft rustling in the undergrowth, and all the sounds of the forest that showed that life was still being lived blended with the souls of the dead in a woodland requiem.
The whole forest now sang for Granny Weatherwax.
Tiffany saw a fox sidle up, bow, and then run away because a wild boar had arrived, with its family of piglets. Then there was a badger, paying no heed to those who had come earlier, and it remained, and Tiffany was astounded when creature after creature settled down near the grave and sat there as if they were domestic pets.
Where is Granny now? Tiffany wondered. Could a part of her still be . . . here? She jumped as something touched her on the shoulder; but it was just a leaf. Then, deep inside, she knew the answer to her question: Where is Granny Weatherwax?
It was: She is here—and everywhere.
To Tiffany’s surprise, Nanny Ogg was weeping gently. Nanny took another swig from her flagon and wiped her eyes. “Cryin’ helps sometimes,” she said. “No shame in tears for them as you’ve loved. Sometimes I remember one of my husbands and shed a tear or two. The memories’re there to be treasured, and it’s no good to get morbid-like about it.”
“How many husbands have you actually had, Nanny?” asked Tiffany.
Nanny appeared to be counting. “Three of my own, and let’s just say I’ve run out of fingers on the rest, as it were.” But she was smiling now, perhaps remembering a very treasured husband, and then, bouncing back from the past, she was suddenly her normal cheerful self again. “Come on, Tiff,” she said, “let’s go back to your cottage. Like I always says, a decent wake don’t happen by itself.”
As they made their way back to the cottage, Tiffany asked Nanny the question that had been burning in her mind. “What do you think will happen next?”
Nanny looked at Tiffany. “What do you mean?”
“Well, Granny wasn’t exactly the head witch . . . except that most people thought she was. . . .”
“There ain’t no such thing as a head witch, Tiff, you know that.”
“Yes, but . . . if Granny’s not here anymore, do you become the not-head-witch?”
“Me?” Nanny Ogg laughed. “Oh no, dear, I’ve had a very good life, me, lots of children, lots of men, lots of fun and, yes, as witches go, I’m pretty good. But I never thought of steppin’ into Esme’s shoes. Ever.”
“Well, who is, then? Someone’s got to.”
Nanny Ogg scowled and said, “Granny never said as she was better than others. She just got on with it and showed ’em and people worked it out for themselves. You mark my words, the senior witches will get together soon enough to talk about this, but I know who Granny would choose—and it’s as I would too.” She stopped and looked serious for a moment. “It’s you, Tiff. Esme’s left you her cottage. But more’n that. You must step into the shoes of Granny Weatherwax or else’n someone less qualified will try an’ do it!”
“But—I can’t! And witches don’t have leaders! You’ve just said that, Nanny!”
“Yes,” said Nanny. “And you must be the best damn leader that we don’t have. Don’t look at me sideways like that, Tiffany Aching. Just think about it. You didn’t try to earn it, but earn it you has, and if you don’t believe me, believe Granny Weatherwax. She tol’ me that you was the only witch who could seriously take her place, she said that on the night after you run with that hare.”
“She never said anything to me,” said Tiffany, feeling suddenly very young.
“Well, she wouldn’t say nothing, o’ course she wouldn’t,” said Nanny. “That’s not Esme’s way, you know that. She would have given a grunt, and maybe said, ‘Well done, girl.’ She just liked people to know their own strengths—and your strengths are formidable.”
“But, Nanny, you are older, more experienced, than me—you know lots more!”
“And some of it I wants to forget,” said Nanny.
“I’m far too young,” Tiffany wailed. “If I wasn’t a witch, I’d still just be thinking of boyfriends.”
Nanny Ogg almost jumped on her. “You’re not too young,” she said. “Years ain’t what’s important here. Granny Weatherwax said to me as you is the one who’s to deal with the future. An’ bein’ young means you’ve got a lot of future.” She sniffed. “Lot more’n me, that’s for sure.”
“But that’s not how it works,” Tiffany said. “It ought to be a senior witch. It has to be.” But her Second Thoughts then leaped up in her head, challenging her. Why? Why not do things differently? Why should we do things how they have always been done before? And something inside her suddenly thrilled to the challenge.
“Huh!” Nanny retorted. “You danced with the hare to save the lives of your friends, my girl. Do you remember being so . . . angry that you picked up a lump of flint and let it dribble between your fingers as if it was water? All the senior witches were there, and they took their hats off to you. You! Hats!” She stomped off toward the cottage, with just one parting shot. “And remember, You chose you. That cat there, she went to you when Esme up and left.”
And there the white cat was, sitting on the stump of an old birch, preening herself, and Tiffany wondered. Oh yes, she wondered.
