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'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 case. Tiffany grabbed the pail, spat on her hand and rubbed out the chalked HELP ME - tried to rub it out. But her hand gripped the edge of the table and held it firmly, no matter how much she pulled. She flailed with her left hand, managing to knock over a pail of milk, which washed across the letters . .. and her right hand let go suddenly The door was pushed open. Both of Miss Level was there. When she pulled herself together like that, standing side by side, it was because she felt she had something important to say. 'I have to say, Tiffany, that I think -'
'- you were very nasty to Petulia just -'
'- now. She went off crying.' She stared at Tiffany's face. 'Are you all right, child?' Tiffany shuddered. 'Er . . . yes. Fine. Feel a bit odd. Heard a voice in my head. Gone now.' Miss Level looked at her with her heads on one side, right and left in different directions. 'If you're sure, then. I'll get changed. We'd better leave soon. There's a lot to do today.'
'A lot to do,' said Tiffany weakly. 'Well, yes. There's Slapwick's leg, and I've got to see to the sick Grimly baby, and it's been a week since I've visited Surleigh Bottom, and, let's see, Mr Plover's got Gnats again, and I'd better just find a moment to have a word with Mistress Slopes . . . then
there's Mr Weavall's lunch to cook, I think I'll have to do that here and run down with it for him, and of course Mrs Fanlight is near her time and,' she sighed, 'so is Miss Hobblow, again . . . It's going to be a full day. It's really hard to fit it all in, really it is.' Tiffany thought: You stupid woman, standing there looking worried because you just haven't got time to give people everything they demand! Do you think you could ever give them enough help? Greedy, lazy, dumb people, always wanting all the time! The Grimly baby? Mrs Grimly's got eleven children! Who'd miss one? Mr Weavall's dead already! He just won't go! You think they're grateful, but all they are doing is making sure you come round again! That's not gratitude, that's just insurance! The thought horrified part of her, but it had turned up and it flamed there in her head, just itching to escape from her mouth. 'Things need tidying up here,' she muttered. 'Oh, I can do that while we're gone,' said Miss Level cheerfully. 'Come on, let's have a smile! There's lots to do!' There was always lots to do, Tiffany growled in her head as she trailed after Miss Level to the first village. Lots and lots. And it never made any difference. There was no end to the wanting. They went from one grubby, smelly cottage to another, ministering to people too stupid to use soap, drinking tea from cracked cups, gossiping with old women with fewer teeth than toes. It made her feel ill. It was a bright day, but it seemed dark as they walked on. The feeling was like a thunderstorm inside her head. Then the daydreams began. She was helping to splint the arm of some dull child who'd broken it when she glanced up and saw her reflection in the glass of the cottage window. She was a tiger, with huge fangs. She yelped, and stood up. 'Oh, do be careful,' said Miss Level, and then saw her face. 'Is there something wrong?' she said. 'I ... I ... something bit me!' lied Tiffany. That was a safe bet in these places. The fleas bit the rats and the rats bit the children. She managed to get out into the daylight, her head spinning. Miss Level came out a few minutes later and found her leaning against the wall, shaking. 'You look dreadful,' she said. 'Ferns!' said Tiffany. 'Everywhere! Big ferns! And big things, like cows made out of lizards!' She turned a wide, mirthless smile onto Miss Level, who took a step back. 'You can eat them!' She blinked. 'What's happening?' she whispered. 'I don't know but I'm coming right down here this minute to fetch you,' said Miss Level. 'I'm on the broomstick right now!'
'They laughed at me when I said I could trap one. Well, who's laughing now, tell me that, eh?' Miss Level's expression of concern turned into something close to panic. 'That didn't sound like your voice. That sounded like a man! Do you feel all right?'
'Feel. . . crowded,' murmured Tiffany. 'Crowded?' said Miss Level. 'Strange . . . memories... help me...' Tiffany looked at her arm. It had scales on. Now it had hair on it. Now it was smooth and brown, and holding- 'A scorpion sandwich?' she said. 'Can you hear me?' said Miss Tick, her voice a long way away. 'You're delirious. Are you sure you girls haven't been playing with potions or anything like that?' The broomstick dropped out of the sky and the other part of Miss Level nearly fell off. Without speaking, both of Miss Level got Tiffany onto the stick and part of Miss Level got on behind her. It didn't take long to fly back to the cottage. Tiffany spent the flight with her mind full of hot cotton-wool and wasn't at all certain where she was, although her body did know and threw up again. Miss Level helped her off the stick and sat her on the garden seat just outside the cottage door. 'Now just you wait there,' said Miss Level, who dealt with emergencies by talking incessantly and using the word 'just' too often because it's a calming word, 'and I'll just get you a drink and then we'll just see what the matter is . . .' There was a pause and then the stream of words came out of the house again, dragging Miss Level after them and I'll just check o n . . . things. Just drink this, please!' Tiffany drank the water and, out of the corner of her eye, saw Miss Level weaving string around an egg. She was trying to make a shamble without Tiffany noticing. Strange images were floating around Tiffany's mind. There were scraps of voices, fragments of memories . . . and one little voice that was her own, small and defiant and getting fainter: You're not me. You just think you are! Someone help me! 'Now, then,' said Miss Level, 'let's just see what we can see-' The shamble exploded, not just into pieces but into fire and smoke. 'Oh, Tiffany,' said Miss Level, frantically waving smoke away. 'Are you all right?' Tiffany stood up slowly. It seemed to Miss Level that she was slightly taller than she remembered. 'Yes, I think I am,' said Tiffany. 'I think I've been all wrong, but now I'm all right. And I've been wasting my time, Miss Level.'
'What-?' Miss Level began. Tiffany pointed a finger at her. 'I know why you had to leave the circus, Miss Level,' she said. 'It was to do with the clown Floppo, the trick ladder and . . . some custard . . .' Miss Level went pale. 'How could you possibly know that?'
'Just by looking at you!' said Tiffany, pushing past her into the dairy. 'Watch this, Miss Level!' She pointed a finger. A wooden spoon rose an inch from the table. Then it began to spin, faster and faster until, with a cracking sound, it broke into splinters. They whirled away across the room.
'And I can do thisV Tiffany shouted. She grabbed a bowl of curds, tipped them out on the table and waved a hand at them. They turned into a cheese. 'Now that's what cheesemaking should be!' she said. To think that I spent stupid years learning the hard way! That's how a real witch does it! Why do we crawl in the dirt, Miss Level? Why do we amble around with herbs and bandage smelly old men's legs? Why do we get paid with eggs and stale cakes? Annagramma is as stupid as a hen but even she can see it's wrong. Why don't we use magic? Why are you so afraid?' Miss Level tried to smile. "Tiffany, dear, we all go through this,' she said, and her voice was shaking. Though not as . . . explosively as you, I have to say. And the answer is ... well, it's dangerous.'
'Yes, but that's what people always say to scare children,' said Tiffany. 'We get told stories to frighten us, to keep us scared! Don't go into the big bad wood help me because it's full of scary things, that's what we're told. But really, the big bad wood should be scared of us\ I'm going out!'
'I think that would be a good idea,' said Miss Level weakly. 'Until you behave.'
'I don't have to do things your way,' snarled Tiffany, slamming the door behind her. Miss Level's broomstick was leaning against the wall a little way away. Tiffany stopped and stared at it, her mind on fire. She'd tried to keep away from it. Miss Level had wheedled her into a trial flight with Tiffany clinging on tightly with arms and legs while both of Miss Level ran alongside her, holding onto ropes and making encouraging noises. They had stopped when Tiffany threw up for the fourth time. Well, that was then! She grabbed the stick, swung a leg over it - and found that her other foot stuck to the ground as though nailed there. The broomstick twisted around wildly as she tried to pull it up and, when the boot was finally tugged off the ground, turned over so that Tiffany was upside down. This is not the best position in which to make a grand exit. She said, quietly, 'I am not going to learn you, you are going to learn me. Or the next lesson will involve an axe!' The broomstick turned upright, then gently rose. 'Right,' said Tiffany. There was no fear this time. There was just impatience. The ground dropping away below her didn't worry her at all. If it didn't have the sense to stay away from her, she'd hit it... As the stick drifted away, there was whispering in the long grass of the garden. 'Ach, we're too late, Rob. That wuz the hiver, that wuz.'
'Aye, but did ye see that foot? It's nae won yet - oor hag's in there somewhere! She's fighting it! It cannae win until it's taken the last scrap o' her! Wullie, will ye stop tryin' to grab them apples!'
'It's sorry I am tae say this, Rob, but no one can fight a hiver. 'Tis like fightin' yoursel. The more you fight, the more it'll tak' o' ye. And when it has all o' ye-'
'Wash ootyer mouth wi' hedgehog pee, Big Yan! That isnae gonna happen-'
'Crivens! Here comes the big hag!' Half of Miss Level stepped out into the ruined garden. She stared up at the departing broomstick, shaking her head. Daft Wullie was stuck out in the open where he'd been trying to snag a fallen apple. He turned to flee and would have got clean away if he hadn't run straight into a pottery garden gnome. He bounced off, stunned, and staggered wildly, trying to focus on the big, fat, chubby-cheeked figure in front of him. He was far too angry to hear the click of the garden gate and soft tread of approaching footsteps. When it comes to choosing between running and fighting, a Feegle doesn't think twice. He doesn't think at all. 'What're ye grinnin' at, pal?' he demanded. 'Oh aye, you reckon you're the big man, eh, jus'
'cos yez got a fishin' rod?' He grabbed a pink pointy ear in each hand and aimed his head at what turned out be quite a hard pottery nose. It smashed anyway, as things tend to in these circumstances, but it did slow the little man down and cause him to stagger in circles. Too late, he saw Miss Level bearing down on him from the doorway. He turned to flee, right into the hands of also Miss Level. Her fingers closed around him. I'm a witch, you know,' she said. 'And if you don't stop struggling this minute I will subject you to the most dreadful torture. Do you know what that is?' Daft Wullie shook his head in terror. Long years of juggling had given Miss Level a grip like steel. Down in the long grass, the rest of the Feegles listened so hard it hurt. Miss Level brought him a little closer to her mouth. 'I'll let you go right now without giving you a taste of the twenty-year-old MacAbre single malt I have in my cupboard,' she said. Rob Anybody leaped up. 'Ach, crivens, mistress, what a thing to taunt a body wi'! D'ye no' have a drop of mercy in you?' he shouted. 'Ye're a cruel hag indeed tae-' He stopped. Miss Level was smiling. Rob Anybody looked around, flung his sword on the ground and said: 'Ach, crivensV The Nac Mac Feegle respected witches, even if they did call them hags. And this one had brought out a big loaf and a whole bottle of whisky on the table for the taking. You had to respect someone like that. 'Of course, I'd heard of you, and Miss Tick mentioned you,' she said, watching them eat, which is not something to be done lightly. 'But I always thought you were just a myth.'
'Aye, weel, we'll stay that way if ye dinnae mind,' said Rob Anybody, and belched.'
'Tis bad enough wi' them arky-olly-gee men wantin' to dig up oour mounds wi'oot them folklore ladies wantin' to tak' pichoors o' us an' that.'
'And you watch over Tiffany's farm, Mr Anybody?'
'Aye, we do that, an' we dinnae ask for any reward,' said Rob Anybody stoutly. 'Aye, we just tak' a few wee eiggs an' fruits an' old clothes and-' Daft Wullie began. Rob gave him a look.
'Er . . . wuz that one o' those times when I shouldna' open my big fat mouth?' said Wullie. 'Aye. It wuz,' said Rob. He turned back to both of Miss Level. 'Mebbe we tak' the odd bitty thing lyin' aboot-'
'- in locked cupboards an' such-' added Daft Wullie happily. '- but it's no' missed, an' we keeps an eye on the ships in payment,' said Rob, glaring at his brother. 'You can see the sea from down there?' said Miss Level, entering that state of general bewilderment that most people fell into when talking to the Feegles. 'Rob Anybody means the sheep,' said Awf'ly Wee Billy. Gonnagles know a bit more about language. 'Aye, I said so, ships,' said Rob Anybody. 'Anywa' . .. aye, we watch her farm. She's the hag o' oor hills, like her granny.' He added proudly, 'It's through her the hills knows they are alive.'
'And a hiver is . . . ?' Rob hesitated. 'Dunno the proper haggin' way o' talking aboot it,' he said. 'Awf'ly Wee Billy, you know them lang words.' Billy swallowed. 'There's old poems, mistress. It's like a - a mind wi'oot a body, except it disnae think. Some say it's nothing but a fear, and never dies. And what it does .. .' His tiny face wrinkled. 'It's like them things you get on sheep,' he decided. The Feegles who weren't eating and drinking came to his aid. 'Horns?'
'Wools?'
'Tails?'
