sort of way, and that was it. Mistress Weatherwax was right, and Tiffany wished she
wasn’t.
‘Why did you and Miss Tick send me to her, then?’ she said.
‘Because she likes people,’ said the witch, striding
ahead. ‘She cares about ’em. 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. It’s sittin’ up all night with some poor old man who’s leavin’ the
world, taking away such pain as you can, comfortin’ their terror, seein’ ’em safely on
their way . . . and then cleanin’ ’em up, layin’ ’em out, making ’em neat for the
funeral, and helpin’ the weeping widow strip the bed and wash the sheets – which is, let
me tell you, no errand for the faint-hearted – and stayin’ up the next night to watch over
the coffin before the funeral, and then going home and sitting down for five minutes
before some shouting angry man comes bangin’ on your door ‘cos his wife’s havin’
difficulty givin’ birth to their first child and the midwife’s at her wits’ end and then
getting up and fetching your bag and going out again. .. We all do that, in our own way,
and she does it better’n me, if I was to put my hand on my heart. That is the root and
heart and soul and centre of witchcraft, that is. The soul and centre!’ Mistress
Weatherwax smacked her fist into her hand, hammering out her words. ‘The . . . soul.
. . and . . . centre]’
Echoes came back from the trees in the sudden silence. Even the grasshoppers by
the side of the track had stopped sizzling.
‘And Mrs Earwig,’ said Mistress Weatherwax, her
voice sinking to a growl, ‘Mrs Earwig tells her girls it’s about cosmic balances and stars
and circles and colours and wands and . . . and toys, nothing but toys!’ She sniffed.
‘Oh, I daresay they’re all very well as decoration, somethin’ nice to look at while you’re
workin’, somethin’ for show, but the start and finish, the start and finish, is helpin’
people when life is on the edge. Even people you don’t like. Stars is easy, people is
hard.’
She stopped talking. It was several seconds before birds began to sing again.
‘Anyway, that’s what I think,’ she added in the tone of someone who suspects that
they might have gone just a bit further than they meant to.
She turned round when Tiffany said nothing, and saw that she had stopped and was
standing in the lane looking like a drowned hen.
‘Are you all right, girl?’ she said.
‘It was me!’ wailed Tiffany. ‘The hiver was me! It wasn’t thinking with my brain, it
was using my thoughts! It was using what it found in my head! All those insults, all
that. . .’ She gulped. ‘That . . . nastiness. All it was was me with-‘
‘- without the bit of you that was locked away,’ said Mistress Weatherwax sharply.
‘Remember that.’
‘Yes, but supposing-‘ Tiffany began, struggling to get all the woe out.
‘The locked-up bit was the important bit,’ said Mistress Weatherwax. ‘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. And big pink balloons, too.’
‘Don’t,’ said Tiffany, shuddering.
‘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. It anchors you. Keeps you
human, stops you cackling. Just like your granny with her sheep, which are to my mind
as stupid and wayward and ungrateful as humans. You think you’ve had a sight of
yourself and found out you’re bad? Hah! I’ve seen bad, and you don’t get near it. Now,
are you going to stop grizzling?’
‘What?’ snapped Tiffany.
Mistress Weatherwax laughed, to Tiffany’s sudden fury.
‘Yes, you’re a witch to your boots,’ she said. ‘You’re sad, and behind that you’re
watching yourself being sad and thinking, Oh, poor me, and behind that you’re angry
with me for not going “There, there, poor dear.” Let me talk to those Third Thoughts then, because I want to hear from the girl who went to fight a fairy queen armed with
nothin’ but a fryin’ pan, not some child feelin’ sorry for herself and wallowing in
misery!’
‘What? I am not wallowing in misery!’ Tiffany shouted, striding up to her until they
were inches apart. ‘And what was all that about being nice
to people, eh?’ Overhead, leaves fell off the trees.
‘That doesn’t count when it’s another witch, especially one like you!’ Mistress
Weatherwax snapped, prodding her in the chest with a finger as hard as wood.
‘Oh? Oh? And what’s that supposed to mean?’ A deer galloped off through the
woods. The wind got up.
‘One who’s not paying attention, child!’
‘Why, what have I missed that you ‘ve seen . . . old woman?’
‘Old woman I may be, but I’m tellin’ you the hiver is still around! You only threw it
out!’ Mistress Weatherwax shouted. Birds rose from the trees in panic.
‘I know!’ screamed Tiffany.
‘Oh yes? Really? And how do you know that?’
‘Because there’s a bit of me still in it! A bit of me I’d rather not know about, thank
you! I can feel it out there! Anyway, how do you know!’
‘Because I’m a bloody good witch, that’s why,’ snarled Mistress Weatherwax, as
rabbits burrowed deeper to get out of the way. ‘And what do you want me to do about
the creature while you sit there snivellin’, eh?’
‘How dare you! How dare you! It’s my responsibility! I’ll deal with it, thank you so
very much!’
‘You? A hiver? It’ll take more than a frying pan! They can’t be killed!’
‘I’ll find a way! A witch deals with things!’
‘Hah! I’d like to see you try!’
‘I will!’ shouted Tiffany. It started to rain.
‘Oh? So you know how to attack it, do you?’
‘Don’t be silly! I can’t! It can always keep out of my way! It can even sink into the
ground! But it’ll come looking for me, understand? Me, not anyone else! I know it! And this time I’ll be ready!’
‘Will you, indeed?’ said Mistress Weatherwax, folding her arms.
‘Yes!’
‘When?’
‘Now!’
‘No!’
The old witch held up a hand.
‘Peace be on this place,’ she said, quietly. The wind dropped. The rain stopped. ‘No, not
yet,’ she went on as peace once again descended. ‘It’s not attackin’ yet. Don’t you think
that’s odd? It’d be licking its wounds, if it had a tongue. And you’re not ready yet,
whatever you thinks. No, we’ve got somethin’ else to do, haven’t we?’
Tiffany was speechless. The tide of outrage inside her was so hot that it burned her
ears. But Mistress Weatherwax was smiling. The two facts did not work well together.
Her first thoughts were: I’ve just had a blazing row with Mistress Weatherwax! They
say that if you cut her with a knife she wouldn’t bleed until she wanted to! They say that
when some vampires bit her they all started to crave tea and sweet biscuits. She can do
anything, be anywhere! And I called her an old woman!
Her Second Thoughts were: Well, she is.
Her Third Thoughts were: Yes, she is Mistress Weatherwax. And she’s keeping you
angry. If you’re full of anger, there’s no room left for fear.
‘You hold that anger,’ Mistress Weatherwax said, as if reading all of her mind. ‘Cup it in your heart, remember where it came from, remember the shape of it, save it until you
need it. But now the wolf is out there somewhere in the woods, and you need to see to
the flock.’
It’s the voice, Tiffany thought. She really does talk to people like Granny Aching
talked to sheep, except she hardly cusses at all. But I feel. . . better.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘And that includes Mr Weavall.’
‘Yes,’ said Tiffany. ‘I know.’
Chapter 10 The Late BLOOMER
It was an . . . interesting day. Everyone in the mountains had heard of Mistress
Weatherwax. If you didn’t have respect, she said, you didn’t have anything. Today, she
had it all. Some of it even rubbed off on Tiffany.
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, when people walk
away dazed, saying, ‘She actually said hello to me, very graciously! I will never wash