Tiffany Aching Complete Collection, page 36
“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 dinna 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 dinna 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 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 disna 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 lived in beasts. The strongest beasts, ye ken, the ones 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 Rob. “We reckon it was ’cuz o’ the drafts.”
“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. “Dinna 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 dinna 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 she said—whut wuz it she said, Nearly Big Angus?”
“‘See me,’” Nearly Big Angus volunteered.
Miss Level 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 oour 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 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
The Matter of Brian
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 . . . her.
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 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 had the brains of a tree, it would have been puzzled.
If it had 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 anymore, 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 around 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 gotten 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 jewelry 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. Favorable 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 Mrs. Earwig.
“Not . . . exactly,” said Tiffany. “I work with Miss Level.”
“Oh, her,” said Mrs. Earwig, looking her up and down. “Green is a very dangerous color. 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 moons 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 feet and crescent-shaped cushions.
“Sit there,” she said. “I will tell Annagramma you are here. Do not kick the chair legs, 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 that 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 on 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. “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?” asked 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.”
