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 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