upV 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 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 Tiff any 11 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 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