A Hat Full Of Sky - Terry Pratchett [8]
Tiffany had once asked her father about the look of the Horse, when they’d come all the way over here for a sheep fair, and he told her what Granny Aching had told him when he was a little boy. He passed on what she said word for word, and Tiffany did the same now.
“’Taint what a horse looks like,” said Tiffany. “It’s what a horse be.”
“Oh,” said Miss Tick. But because she was a teacher as well as a witch, and probably couldn’t help herself, she added, “The funny thing is, of course, that officially there is no such thing as a white horse. They’re called gray.”*
“Yes, I know,” said Tiffany. “This one’s white,” she added, flatly.
That quietened Miss Tick down for a while, but she seemed to have something on her mind.
“I expect you’re upset about leaving the Chalk, aren’t you?” she said as the cart rattled on.
“No,” said Tiffany.
“It’s okay to be,” said Miss Tick.
“Thank you, but I’m not really,” said Tiffany.
“If you want to have a bit of a cry, you don’t have to pretend you’ve got some grit in your eye or anything—”
“I’m all right, actually,” said Tiffany. “Honestly.”
“You see, if you bottle that sort of thing up, it can cause terrible damage later on.”
“I’m not bottling, Miss Tick.”
In fact, Tiffany was a bit surprised at not crying, but she wasn’t going to tell Miss Tick that. She’d left a sort of space in her head to burst into tears in, but it wasn’t filling up. Perhaps it was because she’d wrapped up all those feelings and doubts and left them on the hill by the potbellied stove.
“And if, of course, you were feeling a bit downcast at the moment, I’m sure you could open the present he—” Miss Tick tried.
“Tell me about Miss Level,” Tiffany said quickly. The name and address were all she knew about the lady she was going to stay with, but an address like “Miss Level, Cottage in the Woods Near the Dead Oak Tree in Lost Man’s Lane, High Overhang, If Out Leave Letters in Old Boot by Door” sounded promising.
“Miss Level, yes,” said Miss Tick, defeated. “Er, yes. She’s not really very old, but she says she’ll be happy to have a third pair of hands around the place.”
You couldn’t slip words past Tiffany, not even if you were Miss Tick.
“So there’s someone else there already?” she said.
“Er…no. Not exactly,” said Miss Tick.
“Then she’s got four arms?” said Tiffany. Miss Tick sounded like someone trying to avoid a subject.
Miss Tick sighed. It was difficult to talk to someone who paid attention all the time. It put you off.
“It’s best if you wait until you meet her,” she said. “Anything I tell you will only give you the wrong idea. I’m sure you’ll get along with her. She’s very good with people, and in her spare time she’s a research witch. She keeps bees—and goats, the milk of which, I believe, is very good indeed, owing to homogenized fats.”
“What does a research witch do?”
“Oh, it’s a very ancient craft. She tries to find new spells by learning how old ones were really done. You know all that stuff about ‘ear of bat and toe of frog’? They never work, but Miss Level thinks it’s because we don’t know exactly what kind of frog, or which toe—”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not going to help anyone chop up innocent frogs and bats,” said Tiffany firmly.
“Oh, no, she never kills any!” said Miss Tick hurriedly. “She only uses creatures that have died naturally or been run over or committed suicide. Frogs can get quite depressed at times.”
The cart rolled on down the white, dusty road, until it was lost from view.
Nothing happened. Skylarks sang, so high up they were invisible. Grass seeds filled the air. Sheep baa’d, high up on the Chalk.
And then something came along the road. It moved like a little slow whirlwind, so it could be seen