‘Is this where I learn about the witches’ school?’ said Tiffany. There was a moment of silence.
‘Witches’ school?’ said Mistress Weatherwax.
‘Um,’ said Miss Tick.
‘You were being metapahorrical, weren’t you?’ said Tiffany.
‘Metapahorrical?’ said Mrs Ogg, wrinkling her forehead.
‘She means metaphorical,’ mumbled Miss Tick.
‘It’s like stories,’ said Tiffany. ‘It’s all right. I worked it out. This is the school, isn’t it? The magic place? The world. Here. And you don’t realize it until you look. Do you know the pictsies think this world is heaven? We just don’t look. You can’t give lessons on witchcraft. Not properly. It’s all about how you are . . . you, I suppose.’
‘Nicely said,’ said Mistress Weatherwax. ‘You’re sharp. But there’s magic, too. You’ll pick that up. It don’t take much intelligence, otherwise wizards wouldn’t be able to do it.’
‘You’ll need a job, too,’ said Mrs Ogg. There’s no money in witchcraft. Can’t do magic for yourself, see? Cast-iron rule.’
‘I make good cheese,’ said Tiffany.
‘Cheese, eh?’ said Mistress Weatherwax. ‘Hmm. Yes. Cheese is good. But do you know anything about medicines? Midwifery? That’s a good portable skill.’
‘Well, I’ve helped deliver difficult lambs,’ said Tiffany. ‘And I saw my brother being born. They didn’t bother to turn me out. It didn’t look too difficult. But I think cheese is probably easier, and less noisy.’
‘Cheese is good,’ Mistress Weatherwax repeated, nodding. ‘Cheese is alive.’
‘And what do you really do?’ said Tiffany.
The thin witch hesitated for a moment, and then:
‘We look to . . . the edges,’ said Mistress Weatherwax. ‘There’re a lot of edges, more than people know. Between life and death, this world and the next, night and day, right and wrong . . . an’ they need watchin’. We watch ‘em, we guard the sum of things. And we never ask for any reward. That’s important.’
‘People give us stuff, mind you. People can be very gen’rous to witches,’ said Mrs Ogg, happily. ‘On bakin’ days in our village, sometimes I can’t move for cake. There’s ways and ways of not askin’, if you get my meaning. People like to see a happy witch.’
‘But down here people think witches are bad!’ said Tiffany, and her Second Thoughts added: Remember how rarely Granny Aching ever had to buy her own tobacco?
‘It’s amazin’ what people can get used to,’ said Mrs Ogg. ‘You just have to start slow.’
‘And we have to hurry,’ said Mistress Weatherwax. There’s a man riding up here on a farm horse. Fair hair, red face—’
‘It sounds like my father!’
‘Well, he’s making the poor thing gallop,’ said Mistress Weatherwax. ‘Quick, now. You want to learn the skills? When can you leave home?’
‘Pardon?’ said Tiffany.
‘Don’t the girls here go off to work as maids and things?’ said Mrs Ogg.
‘Oh, yes. When they’re a bit older than me.’
‘Well, when you’re a bit older than you. Miss Tick here will come and find you,’ said Mistress Weatherwax. Miss Tick nodded. ‘There’re elderly witches up in the mountains who’ll pass on what they know in exchange for a bit of help around the cottage. This place will be watched over while you’re gone, you may depend on it. In the meantime you’ll get three meals a day, your own bed, use of broomstick . . . that’s the way we do it. All right?’
‘Yes,’ said Tiffany, grinning happily. The wonderful moment was passing too quickly for all the questions she wanted to ask. ‘Yes! But, er . . .’
‘Yes?’ said Mrs Ogg.
‘I don’t have to dance around with no clothes on or anything like that, do I? Only I heard rumours—’
Mistress Weatherwax rolled her eyes. Mrs Ogg grinned cheerfully. ‘Well, that procedure does have something to recommend it—’ she began.
‘No, you don’t have to!’ snapped Mistress Weatherwax. ‘No cottage made of sweets, no cackling and no dancing!’
‘Unless you want to,’ said Mrs Ogg, standing up. ‘There’s no harm in an occasional cackle, if the mood takes you that way. I’d teach you a good one right now, but we really ought to be going.’
‘But . . . but how did you manage it?’ said Miss Tick to Tiffany. This is all chalk! You’ve become a witch on chalk? How?’
‘That’s all you know, Perspicacia Tick,’ said Mistress Weatherwax. The bones of the hills is flint. It’s hard and sharp and useful. King of stones.’ She picked up her broomstick, and turned back to Tiffany. ‘Will you get into trouble, do you think?’ she said.
‘I might do,’ said Tiffany.
‘Do you want any help?’
‘If it’s my trouble, I’ll get out of it,’ said Tiffany. She wanted to say: Yes, yes! I’m going to need help! I don’t know what’s going to happen when my father gets here! The Baron’s probably got really angry! But I don’t want them to think I can’t deal with my own problems! I ought to be able to cope!
‘That’s right,’ said Mistress Weatherwax. Tiffany wondered if the witch could read minds.
‘Minds? No,’ said Mistress Weatherwax, climbing onto her broomstick. ‘Faces, yes. Come here, young lady.’
Tiffany obeyed.
‘The thing about witchcraft,’ said Mistress Weatherwax, ‘is that it’s not like school at all. First you get the test, and then afterwards you spend years findin’ out how you passed it. It’s a bit like life in that respect.’ She reached out and gently raised Tiffany’s chin so that she could look into her face. ‘I see you opened your eyes,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Many people never do. Times ahead might be a little tricky, even so. You’ll need this.’
She stretched out a hand and made a circle in the air around Tiffany’s hair, then brought her hand up over the head while making little movements with her forefinger.
Tiffany raised her hands to her head. For a moment she thought there was nothing there, and then they touched . . . something. It was more like a sensation in the air; if you weren’t expecting it to be there, your fingers passed straight through.
‘Is it really there?’ she said.
‘Who knows?’ said the witch. ‘It’s virtually a pointy hat. No one else will know it’s there. It might be a comfort.’
‘You mean it just exists in my head?’ said Tiffany.
‘You’ve got lots of things in your head. That doesn’t mean they aren’t real. Best not to ask me too many questions.’
‘What happened to the toad?’ said Miss Tick, who did ask questions.
‘It’s gone to live with the Wee Free Men,’ said Tiffany. ‘It turned out it used to be a lawyer.’
‘You’ve given a clan of the Nac Mac Feegle their own lawyer?’ said Mrs Ogg. That’ll make the world tremble. Still, I always say the occasional tremble does you good.’
‘Come, sisters, we must away,’ said Miss Tick, who had climbed on the other broomstick behind Mrs Ogg.
‘There’s no need for that sort of talk,’ said Mrs Ogg. That’s theatre talk, that is. Cheerio, Tiff. We’ll see you again.’
Her stick rose gently in the air. From the stick of Mistress Weatherwax, though, there was merely a sad little noise, like the thwop of Miss Tick’s hat point. The broomstick went kshugagugah.
Mistress Weatherwax sighed. ‘It’s them dwarfs,’ she said. They say they’ve repaired it, oh yes, and it starts first time in their workshop—’
They heard the sound of distant hooves. With surprising speed, Mistress Weatherwax swung herself off the stick, grabbed it firmly in both hands, and ran away across the turf, skirts billowing behind her.
She was a speck in the distance when Tiffany’s father came over the brow of the hill on one of the farm horses. He hadn’t even stopped to put the leather shoes on it; great slices of earth flew up as hooves the size of large soup plates,* each one shod with iron, bit into the turf.
Probably about eleven inches across. Tiffany didn’t measure them this time.
Tiffany heard a faint kshugagugahvwwoooom behind her as he leaped off the horse.
She was surprised to see him laughing and crying at the same time.
It was all a bit of a dream.
Tiffany found that a very useful thing to say. It’s hard to remember, it was all a bit of a dream. It was all a bit of a dream, I can’t be certain.
The overjoyed Baron, however, was very certain. Obviously this – this Queen woman, whoever she was, had been stealing children but Roland had beaten her, oh yes, and helped these two young children to get back as well.
Her mother had insisted on Tiffany going to bed, even though it was broad daylight. Actually, she didn’t mind. She was tired, and lay under the covers in that nice pink world halfway between asleep and awake.
She heard the Baron and her father talking downstairs. She heard the story being woven between them as they tried to make sense of it all. Obviously the girl had been very brave (this was the Baron speaking) but, well, she was nine, wasn’t she? And didn’t even know how to use a sword! Whereas Roland had fencing lessons at his school. . .