know!’
Miss Casement looked around for assistance and found none. ‘Oh well,’ she said,
helpless. ‘If you are sure, dear
‘Yes. I am. I shall use . . . a sausage!’ said Petulia, producing one from a pocket and
holding it up. There was another sensation.
Tiffany didn’t see the trick. Nor did Granny Weatherwax. Their gaze was like an
iron bar, and even Miss Casement instinctively didn’t step into it.
But Tiffany heard the squeal, and the gasp of amazement, and then the thunder of
applause. People would have applauded anything at that point, in the same way that
pent-up water would take any route out of a dam.
And then witches got up. Miss Level juggled balls that stopped and reversed
direction in mid-air. A middle-aged witch demonstrated a new way to stop
people choking, which doesn’t even sound magical until you understand that a
way of turning nearly-dead people into fully-alive people is worth a dozen spells
that just go twing! And other women and girls came up one at a time, with big
tricks and handy tips and things that went wheee! or stopped toothache or, in one
case, exploded –
– and then there were no more entries.
Miss Casement walked back into the centre of the field, almost drunk with relief that
there had been a Trials, and made one final invitation to any ladies ‘or, indeed, young ladies’ who might like to come forward.
There was a silence so thick you could have stuck pins in it.
And then she said: ‘Oh, well . . . in that case, I declare the Trials well and truly closed.
Tea will be in the big tent!’
Tiffany and Granny stood up at the same time, to the second, and bowed to one
another. Then Granny turned away and joined the stampede towards the teas. It was
interesting to see how the crowd parted,
all unaware, to let her through, like the sea in front a particularly good prophet.
Petulia was surrounded by other young witches. The pig trick had gone down very
well. Tiffany queued up to give her a hug.
‘But you could have won!’ said Petulia, red in the face with happiness and worry.
‘That doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t,’ said Tiffany.
‘You gave it away,’ said a sharp voice behind her. ‘You had it in your hand, and you gave it all away. How do you feel about that, Tiffany? Do you have a taste for humble pie?’
‘Now you listen to me, Annagramma,’ Petulia began, pointing a furious finger.
Tiffany reached out and lowered the girl’s arm. Then she turned and smiled so
happily at Annagramma that it was disturbing.
What she wanted to say was: ‘Where I come from, Annagramma, they have the
Sheepdog Trials. Shepherds travel there from all over to show off their dogs. And
there’re silver crooks and belts with silver buckles and prizes of all kinds, Annagramma,
but do you know what the big prize was? No, you wouldn’t. Oh, there were judges, but
they didn’t count, not for the big prize. There is- There was a little old lady who was always at the front of the crowd, leaning on the hurdles with her pipe in her mouth with
the two finest sheepdogs ever pupped sitting at her feet. Their names were Thunder and
Lightning and they moved so fast they set the air on fire and their coats
outshone the sun, but she never, ever put them in the Trials. She knew more about
sheep than even sheep know. And what every young shepherd wanted, really
wanted, wasn’t some silly cup or belt but to see her take her pipe out of her mouth as he
left the arena and quietly say “That’ll do” because that meant he was a real shepherd and all the other shepherds would know it, too. And if you’d told him he had to
challenge her, he’d cuss at you and stamp his foot and tell you he’d sooner spit the sun
dark. How could he ever win? She was shepherding. It was the whole of her life. What
you took away from her you’d take away from yourself. You don’t understand that, do
you? But it’s the heart and soul and centre of it! The soul. . . and . . . centre!’
But it would be wasted, so what she said was: ‘Oh, just shut up, Annagramma. Let’s
see if there’s any buns left, shall we?’
Overhead, a buzzard screamed. She looked up.
The bird turned on the wind and, racing through the air as it began the long glide,
headed back towards home.
They were always there.
Beside her cauldron, Jeannie opened her eyes.
‘He’s comin’ hame!’ she said, scrambling to her feet. She waved a hand urgently at
the watching Feegles. ‘Don’t ye just stand there gawping!’ she commanded. ‘Catch some
rabbits to roast! Build up the fire! Boil up a load o’ water, ‘cos I’m takin’ a
bath! Look at this place, ’tis like a midden! Get it cleaned up! I want it sparkling for the
Big Man! Go an’ steal some Special Sheep Liniment! Cut some green boughs, holly or
yew, mebbe! Shine up the golden plates! The place must sparkle! What’re ye all standin’
there for?’
‘Er, what did ye want us to do first, Kelda,’ said a Feegle nervously.
‘All of it!’
In her chamber they filled the kelda’s soup-bowl bath and she scrubbed, using one of
Tiffany’s old toothbrushes, while outside there were the sounds of Feegles working hard
at cross-purposes. The smell of roasting rabbit began to fill the mound.
Jeannie dressed herself in her best dress, did her hair, picked up her shawl and
climbed out of the hole. She stood there watching the mountains until, after about an
hour, a dot in the sky got bigger and bigger.
As a kelda, she would welcome home a warrior. As a wife, she would kiss her husband
and scold him for being so long away. As a woman, she thought she would melt with
relief, thankfulness and joy.
CHAPTER 14
QUEEN of the Bees
And, one afternoon about a week later, Tiffany went to see Granny Weatherwax.
It was only fifteen miles as the broomstick flies, and as Tiffany still didn’t like flying
a broomstick, Miss Level took her.
It was the invisible part of Miss Level. Tiffany just lay flat on the stick, holding on with
arms and legs and knees and ears if possible, and took along a paper bag to be sick into,
because no one likes anonymous sick dropping out of the sky. She was also holding a
large hessian sack, which she handled with care.
She didn’t open her eyes until the rushing noises had stopped and the sounds around
her told her she was probably very close to the ground. In fact Miss Level had been very
kind. When she fell off, because of the cramp in her legs, the broomstick was just
above some quite thick moss.
Thank you,’ said Tiffany as she got up, because it always pays to mind your manners
around invisible people.
She had a new dress. It was green, like the last one. The complex world of favours and
obligations and gifts that Miss Level lived and moved in had thrown up four yards of nice
material (for the trouble-free birth of Miss Quickly’s baby boy) and a few hours’
dressmaking (Mrs Hunter’s bad leg feeling a lot better, thank you). She’d given the black
one away. When I’m old I shall wear midnight, she’d decided. But, for now, she’d had
enough of darkness.
She looked around at this clearing on the side of a hill, surrounded by oak and
sycamore on three sides but open on the downhill side with a wide view of the
countryside below. The sycamores were shedding their spinning seeds, which whirled
down lazily across a patch of garden. It was unfenced, even though some goats were
grazing nearby. If you wondered why it was the goats weren’t eating the garden, it
was because you’d forgotten who lived here. There was a well. And, of course, a
cottage.
Mrs Earwig would definitely have objected to the cottage. It was out of a storybook.
The walls leaned against one another for support, the thatched roof was slipping off
like a bad wig, and the chimneys were corkscrewed. If you thought a gingerbread
cottage would be too fattening, this was the next worst thing.
In a cottage deep in the forest lived the Wicked Old Witch . . .
It was a cottage out of the nastier kind of fairy tale.
Granny Weatherwax’s beehives were tucked away down one side of the cottage.
Some were the old straw kind, most were patched-up wooden ones. They thundered
with activity, even this late in the year.
Tiffany turned aside to look at them, and the bees poured out in a dark stream. They
swarmed towards Tiffany, formed a column and-