A Hat Full Of Sky - Terry Pratchett [30]
It seemed to be a world made up entirely of women, but occasionally, out in the lanes, a man would strike up a conversation about the weather and somehow, by some sort of code, an ointment or a potion would get handed over.
Tiffany couldn’t quite work out how Miss Level got paid. Certainly the basket she carried filled up more than it emptied. They’d walk past a cottage and a woman would come scurrying out with a fresh-baked loaf or a jar of pickles, even though Miss Level hadn’t stopped there. But they’d spend an hour somewhere else, stitching up the leg of a farmer who’d been careless with an axe, and get a cup of tea and a stale biscuit. It didn’t seem fair.
“Oh, it evens out,” said Miss Level, as they walked on through the woods. “You do what you can. People give what they can, when they can. Old Slapwick there, with the leg, he’s as mean as a cat, but there’ll be a big cut of beef on my doorstep before the week’s end, you can bet on it. His wife will see to it. And pretty soon people will be killing their pigs for the winter, and I’ll get more lard, ham, bacon, and sausages turning up than a family could eat in a year.”
“You will? What do you do with all that food?”
“Store it,” said Miss Level.
“But you—”
“I store it in other people. It’s amazing what you can store in other people.” Miss Level laughed at Tiffany’s expression. “I mean, I take what I don’t need around to those who don’t have a pig, or who’re going through a bad patch, or who don’t have anyone to remember them.”
“But that means they’ll owe you a favor!”
“Right! And so it just keeps on going around. It all works out.”
“I bet some people are too mean to pay—”
“Not pay,” said Miss Level, severely. “A witch never expects payment and never asks for it and just hopes she never needs to. But sadly, you are right.”
“And then what happens?”
“What do you mean?”
“You stop helping them, do you?”
“Oh, no,” said Miss Level, genuinely shocked. “You can’t not help people just because they’re stupid or forgetful or unpleasant. Everyone’s poor around here. If I don’t help them, who will?”
“Granny Aching…that is, my grandmother said someone has to speak up for them as has no voices,” Tiffany volunteered after a moment.
“Was she a witch?”
“I’m not sure,” said Tiffany. “I think so, but she didn’t know she was. She mostly lived by herself in an old shepherding hut up on the downs.”
“She wasn’t a cackler, was she?” said Miss Level, and when she saw Tiffany’s expression she said hurriedly, “Sorry, sorry. But it can happen, when you’re a witch who doesn’t know it. You’re like a ship with no rudder. But obviously she wasn’t like that, I can tell.”
“She lived on the hills and talked to them, and she knew more about sheep than anybody!” said Tiffany hotly.
“I’m sure she did, I’m sure she did—”
“She never cackled!”
“Good, good,” said Miss Level soothingly. “Was she clever at medicine?”
Tiffany hesitated. “Um…only with sheep,” she said, calming down. “But she was very good. Especially if it involved turpentine. Mostly if it involved turpentine, actually. But always she…was…just…there. Even when she wasn’t actually there….”
“Yes,” said Miss Level.
“You know what I mean?” said Tiffany.
“Oh, yes,” said Miss Level. “Your Granny Aching lived down on the uplands—”
“No, up on the downland,” Tiffany corrected her.
“Sorry, up on the downland, with the sheep, but people would look up sometimes, look up at the hills, knowing she was there somewhere, and say to themselves, ‘What would Granny Aching do?’ or ‘What would Granny Aching say if she found out?’ or ‘Is this the sort of thing Granny Aching would be angry about?’” said Miss Level. “Yes?”
Tiffany narrowed her eyes. It was true. She remembered when Granny Aching had hit a peddler who’d overloaded his donkey and was beating it. Granny usually used only words, and not many of them. The man had been so frightened by her sudden rage that he’d stood there and taken it.
It had frightened Tiffany, too. Granny,